by Ian Fleming
The dust settled. The diamond smuggler took his hand away from his eyes and watched the pilot climb down his small ladder to the ground. He was wearing a flying helmet and goggles. Unusual. And he looked taller than the German. The man’s spine tingled. Who was this? He walked slowly to meet him.
“Got the stuff?” Two cold eyes under straight black brows looked sharply out from behind the goggles. They were hidden as the man’s head moved and the moon caught the glass. Now there were just two round blazing white circles in the middle of the shiny black leather helmet.
“Yes,” said the man from the mines nervously. “But where’s the German?”
“He won’t be coming again.” The two white circles stared blindly at the smuggler. “I am ABC. I am closing down the pipeline.”
It was an American voice, hard and flat and final.
“Oh.”
Automatically the smuggler’s hand went inside his shirt. He took out the moist packet and held it out as if it was some kind of a peace offering. Like the scorpion, a month earlier, he sensed the raised stone above him.
“Give me a hand with the gas.”
It was the voice of an overseer giving an order to a coolie, but the smuggler stepped quickly forward to obey.
They worked in silence. Then it was finished and they were on the ground again. The smuggler had been thinking desperately. He summoned up the voice of an equal partner, the voice of someone who knew the score and had an equal control.
He peered into the patch of indigo blackness where the pilot stood with his hand on the ladder.
“I’ve been thinking things over and I’m afraid...”
And then the voice stopped and the lips drew back from the teeth in the open mouth, and the mouth began to make a noise between a snarl and a scream.
The gun in the pilot’s hand stammered three times. The smuggler said “Oh” in an obsequious voice. He pitched backwards into the dust and gave one heave and lay still.
“Don’t move.” The clanging voice came over the plain with the screeching echo of the amplifier. “You’re covered.” There was the sound of an engine starting up.
The pilot didn’t wait to wonder about the voice. He leapt for the ladder. The door of the cockpit slammed and there was the whirr of the self-starter. The engine roared and the rotor blades swung and slowly gathered speed until they were two whirlpools of silver. Then there was a jerk and the helicopter was in the air and climbing vertically straight up into the sky.
Down among the low bush the truck stopped with a jerk and Bond leapt for the iron saddle of the Bofors.
“Up, Corporal,” he snapped to the man at the elevation lever. He bent his eyes to the grid-sight as the muzzle rose towards the moon. He reached to pull the firing selector lever off ‘Safe’ and put it on ‘Single Fire.’ “And left ten.”
“I’ll keep feeding you tracer.” The officer beside Bond had two racks of five yellow-painted shells in his hands.
Bond’s feet settled into the trigger-pedals and now he had the helicopter in the centre of the grid. “Steady,” he said quietly.
‘Boompa.’
The spangled tracer swung lazily up into the sky just below the speed of sound.
Low and left.
The Corporal delicately twisted the two levers.
‘Boompa.’
The tracer curved away high over the rising machine. Bond reached forward and pulled the selector lever to ‘Auto Fire.’ The movement of his hand was reluctant. Now it would be certain death. He was going to have to do it again.
‘Boompa—boompa—boompa—boompa—boompa.’
The red fire sprayed across the sky. Still the helicopter went on rising towards the moon, and now it was turning away to the north.
‘Boompa—boompa.’
There was a flash of yellow light near the tail rotor and the distant bang of an explosion.
“Got him,” said the officer. He picked up a pair of night-glasses. “Tail rotor’s gone,” he said. And then, excitedly, “Gosh. It looks as if the whole cabin’s going round with the main rotor. Pilot must be getting hell.”
“Any more?” said Bond, holding the whirring machine in his sights.
“No, Sir,” said the officer. “Like to get him alive if we can. But it looks as if...yes, he’s out of control now. Coming down in great swoops. Must be something wrong with the main rotor blades. There he goes.”
Bond raised his head from the grid-sight and shaded his eyes against the blazing moon.
Yes. There he was. Only about a thousand feet up now, the engine roaring and the great blades whirring uselessly as the tangle of metal pitched and yawed down the sky in long drunken staggers.
Jack Spang. The man who had ordered Bond’s death. Who had ordered Tiffany’s death. The man Bond had only once seen for a few minutes in an overheated room in Covent Garden. Mr Rufus B. Saye. Of The House of Diamonds. Vice-President for Europe. The man who played golf at Sunningdale and visited Paris once a month. ‘Model citizen,’ M had called him. Mr Spang of the Spangled Mob, who had just killed a man—the final one of how many others?
Bond could imagine the scene in the narrow cockpit, the big man holding on with one hand and wrenching at the controls with the other as he watched the needle of the altimeter dip down through the hundreds. And there would be the red glare of terror in the eyes, and the hundred thousand pound pocketful of diamonds would be just so much deadweight, and the gun which had been a strong right arm since boyhood would be no comfort.
“He’s coming right back to the bush,” shouted the Corporal above the clatter in the sky.
“He’s a goner now,” said the Captain, half to himself.
They watched the last bucketing lurches and then they held their breath as the aircraft, see-sawing wildly, gave a final tip to its nose and, as if the bush had been its enemy, made an angry dive through a twenty-yard curve and hurled itself and the threshing rotors into the stack of thorns.
Before the echoes of the crash had died, there came a hollow boom out of the heart of the bush followed by a jagged ball of flame that grew and billowed up into the air so that the moon was dimmed and the whole plain was bathed in an orange glare.
The Captain was the first to speak.
“Ouch!” he said with feeling. He slowly lowered his night-glasses and turned to Bond. “Well, Sir,” he said resignedly. “That’s just about that. ’Fraid it’s going to be morning before we can get anywhere near that lot. And then it’s going to be hours more before we can start raking about in it. And this is going to bring the French frontier guards along at the gallop. Luckily we’re on pretty good terms with them, but the Governor’s going to have a fine time arguing the loss with Dakar.” The officer saw a vista of paperwork stretching ahead. The prospect made him tireder than he already was. He was matter-of-fact. He had had enough for one day. “Mind if we get a bit of shut-eye, Sir?”
“Go ahead,” said Bond. He looked at his watch. “Better get under the truck. Sun’ll be coming up in about four hours. Not feeling tired myself. I’ll keep an eye out in case the fire looks like spreading.”
The officer gave a curious glance at this quiet, enigmatic man who had suddenly arrived in the Protectorate amidst a flurry of ‘Absolute Priority’ signals. If ever a man needed sleep.... But all this was nothing to do with Freetown. London stuff. “Thanks, Sir,” he said and jumped down from the truck.
Bond slowly took his feet off the trigger-pedals and sat back in the iron saddle. Automatically, with his eyes still on the leaping flames, his hands felt in the pockets of the faded khaki bush-shirt, borrowed from the Garrison CO, for his lighter and cigarettes, and he took out a cigarette and lit it and put the things back in his pockets.
So this was the end of the diamond pipeline. And the last page on the file. He took a deep lungful of smoke and let it out between his teeth in a long, quiet sigh. Six corpses to love. Game and set.
Bond put up a hand and wiped it across his dripping forehead. He pushed back the da
mp lock of hair above the right eyebrow and the red blaze lit up the hard lean face and flickered in the tired eyes.
So this great red full stop marked the end of the Spangled Mob and the end of their fabulous traffic in diamonds. But not the end of the diamonds that were baking at the heart of the fire. They would survive and move off again across the world, discoloured, perhaps, but indestructible, as permanent as death.
And Bond suddenly remembered the eyes of the corpse which had once had a Blood Group F. They had been wrong. Death is forever. But so are diamonds.
Bond dropped down off the truck and started walking slowly towards the leaping fire. He smiled grimly to himself. All this business about death and diamonds was too solemn. For Bond it was just the end of another adventure. Another adventure for which a wry phrase of Tiffany Case might be the epitaph. He could see the passionate, ironical mouth saying the words:
‘It reads better than it lives.’
FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE
Originally published in 1957.
Author’s Note
Not that it matters, but a great deal of the background to this story is accurate.
Smersh, a contraction of Smiert Spionam—Death to Spies—exists and remains today the most secret department of the Soviet government.
At the beginning of 1956, when this book was written, the strength of Smersh at home and abroad was about 40,000 and General Grubozaboyschikov was its chief. My description of his appearance is correct.
Today the headquarters of Smersh are where, in Chapter 4, I have placed them—at No 13 Sretenka Ulitsa, Moscow. The Conference Room is faithfully described and the Intelligence chiefs who meet round the table are real officials who are frequently summoned to that room for purposes similar to those I have recounted.
I. F.
PART ONE
The Plan
Chapter 1
Roseland
The Naked Man Who Lay Splayed Out On His Face Beside The Swimming Pool Might Have Been Dead.
He might have been drowned and fished out of the pool and laid out on the grass to dry while the police or the next-of-kin were summoned. Even the little pile of objects in the grass beside his head might have been his personal effects, meticulously assembled in full view so that no one should think that something had been stolen by his rescuers.
To judge by the glittering pile, this had been, or was, a rich man. It contained the typical membership badges of the rich man’s club—a money clip, made of a Mexican fifty-dollar piece and holding a substantial wad of banknotes, a well-used gold Dunhill lighter, an oval gold cigarette case with the wavy ridges and discreet turquoise button that means Fabergé, and the sort of novel a rich man pulls out of the bookcase to take into the garden—The Little Nugget—an old P. G. Wodehouse. There was also a bulky gold wristwatch on a well-used brown crocodile strap. It was a Girard-Perregaux model designed for people who like gadgets, and it had a sweep second-hand and two little windows in the face to tell the day of the month, and the month, and the phase of the moon. The story it now told was 2.30 on June 10th with the moon three-quarters full.
A blue and green dragon-fly flashed out from among the rose bushes at the end of the garden and hovered in mid-air a few inches above the base of the man’s spine. It had been attracted by the golden shimmer of the June sunshine on the ridge of fine blond hairs above the coccyx. A puff of breeze came off the sea. The tiny field of hairs bent gently. The dragon-fly darted nervously sideways and hung above the man’s left shoulder, looking down. The young grass below the man’s open mouth stirred. A large drop of sweat rolled down the side of the fleshy nose and dropped glittering into the grass. That was enough. The dragon-fly flashed away through the roses and over the jagged glass on top of the high garden wall. It might be good food, but it moved.
The garden in which the man lay was about an acre of well-kept lawn surrounded on three sides by thickly banked rose bushes from which came the steady murmur of bees. Behind the drowsy noise of the bees the sea boomed softly at the bottom of the cliff at the end of the garden.
There was no view of the sea from the garden—no view of anything except of the sky and the clouds above the twelve-foot wall. In fact you could only see out of the property from the two upstairs bedrooms of the villa that formed the fourth side of this very private enclosure. From them you could see a great expanse of blue water in front of you and, on either side, the upper windows of neighbouring villas and the tops of the trees in their gardens—Mediterranean-type evergreen oaks, stone pines, casuarinas and an occasional palm tree.
The villa was modern—a squat elongated box without ornament. On the garden side the flat pink-washed façade was pierced by four iron-framed windows and by a central glass door leading on to a small square of pale green glazed tiles. The tiles merged into the lawn. The other side of the villa, standing back a few yards from a dusty road, was almost identical. But on this side the four windows were barred, and the central door was of oak.
The villa had two medium-sized bedrooms on the upper floor and on the ground floor a sitting-room and a kitchen, part of which was walled off into a lavatory. There was no bathroom.
The drowsy luxurious silence of early afternoon was broken by the sound of a car coming down the road. It stopped in front of the villa. There was the tinny clang of a car door being slammed and the car drove on. The doorbell rang twice. The naked man beside the swimming pool did not move, but, at the noise of the bell and of the departing car, his eyes had for an instant opened very wide. It was as if the eyelids had pricked up like an animal’s ears. The man immediately remembered where he was and the day of the week and the time of the day. The noises were identified. The eyelids with their fringe of short sandy eyelashes drooped drowsily back over the very pale blue, opaque, inward-looking eyes. The small cruel lips opened in a wide jaw-breaking yawn which brought saliva into the mouth. The man spat the saliva into the grass and waited.
A young woman carrying a small string bag and dressed in a white cotton shirt and a short, unalluring blue skirt came through the glass door and strode mannishly across the glazed tiles and the stretch of lawn towards the naked man. A few yards away from him, she dropped her string bag on the grass and sat down and took off her cheap and rather dusty shoes. Then she stood up and unbuttoned her shirt and took it off and put it, neatly folded, beside the string bag.
The girl had nothing on under the shirt. Her skin was pleasantly sun-burned and her shoulders and fine breasts shone with health. When she bent her arms to undo the side-buttons of her skirt, small tufts of fair hair showed in her armpits. The impression of a healthy animal peasant girl was heightened by the chunky hips in faded blue stockinet bathing trunks and the thick short thighs and legs that were revealed when she had stripped.
The girl put the skirt neatly beside her shirt, opened the string bag, took out an old soda-water bottle containing some heavy colourless liquid and went over to the man and knelt on the grass beside him. She poured some of the liquid, a light olive oil, scented, as was everything in that part of the world, with roses, between his shoulder blades and, after flexing her fingers like a pianist, began massaging the sternomastoid and the trapezius muscles at the back of the man’s neck.
It was hard work. The man was immensely strong and the bulging muscles at the base of the neck hardly yielded to the girl’s thumbs even when the downward weight of her shoulders was behind them. By the time she was finished with the man she would be soaked in perspiration and so utterly exhausted that she would fall into the swimming pool and then lie down in the shade and sleep until the car came for her. But that wasn’t what she minded as her hands worked automatically on across the man’s back. It was her instinctive horror for the finest body she had ever seen.
None of this horror showed in the flat, impassive face of the masseuse, and the upward-slanting black eyes under the fringe of short coarse black hair were as empty as oil slicks, but inside her the animal whimpered and cringed and her pulse-rate, if it had oc
curred to her to take it, would have been high.
Once again, as so often over the past two years, she wondered why she loathed this splendid body, and once again she vaguely tried to analyse her revulsion. Perhaps this time she would get rid of feelings which she felt guiltily certain were much more unprofessional than the sexual desire some of her patients awoke in her.
To take the small things first: his hair. She looked down at the round, smallish head on the sinewy neck. It was covered with tight red-gold curls that should have reminded her pleasantly of the formalized hair in the pictures she had seen of classical statues. But the curls were somehow too tight, too thickly pressed against each other and against the skull. They set her teeth on edge like fingernails against pile carpet. And the golden curls came down so low into the back of the neck—almost (she thought in professional terms) to the fifth cervical vertebra. And there they stopped abruptly in a straight line of small stiff golden hairs.
The girl paused to give her hands a rest and sat back on her haunches. The beautiful upper half of her body was already shining with sweat. She wiped the back of her forearm across her forehead and reached for the bottle of oil. She poured about a tablespoonful on to the small furry plateau at the base of the man’s spine, flexed her fingers and bent forward again.
This embryo tail of golden down above the cleft of the buttocks—in a lover it would have been gay, exciting, but on this man it was somehow bestial. No, reptilian. But snakes had no hair. Well, she couldn’t help that. It seemed reptilian to her. She shifted her hands on down to the two mounds of the gluteal muscles. Now was the time when many of her patients, particularly the young ones on the football team, would start joking with her. Then, if she was not very careful, the suggestions would come. Sometimes she could silence these by digging sharply down towards the sciatic nerve. At other times, and particularly if she found the man attractive, there would be giggling arguments, a brief wrestling-match and a quick, delicious surrender.