by Ian Fleming
Nash was looking at him. ‘Yes, I daresay it was a gas main,’ he said without interest.
A handbell tinkled down the corridor, coming nearer. ‘Deuxième Service. Deuxième Service. Prenez vos places, s’il vous plaît.’
Bond looked across at Tatiana. Her face was pale. In her eyes there was an appeal to be saved from any more of this clumsy, non-kulturny man. Bond said, ‘What about lunch?’ She got up at once. ‘What about you, Nash?’
Captain Nash was already on his feet. ‘Had it, thanks old man. And I’d like to have a look up and down the train. Is the conductor—you know...?’ he made a gesture of fingering money.
‘Oh yes, he’ll co-operate all right,’ said Bond. He reached up and pulled down the heavy little bag. He opened the door for Nash. ‘See you later.’
Captain Nash stepped into the corridor. He said, ‘Yes, I expect so, old man.’ He turned left and strode off down the corridor, moving easily with the swaying of the train, his hands in his trouser pockets and the light blazing on the tight golden curls at the back of his head.
Bond followed Tatiana up the train. The carriages were crowded with holiday-makers going home. In the third-class corridors people sat on their bags chattering and munching at oranges and at hard-looking rolls with bits of Salami sticking out of them. The men carefully examined Tatiana as she squeezed by. The women looked appraisingly at Bond, wondering whether he made love to her well.
In the restaurant car. Bond ordered Americanos and a bottle of Chianti Broglio. The wonderful European hors d’œuvres came. Tatiana began to look more cheerful.
‘Funny sort of man,’ Bond watched her pick about among the little dishes. ‘But I’m glad he’s come along. I’ll have a chance to get some sleep. I’m going to sleep for a week when we get home.’
‘I do not like him,’ the girl said indifferently. ‘He is not kulturny. I do not trust his eyes.’
Bond laughed. ‘Nobody’s kulturny enough for you.’
‘Did you know him before?’
‘No. But he belongs to my firm.’
‘What did you say his name is?’
‘Nash. Norman Nash.’
She spelled it out. ‘N.A.S.H.? Like that?’
‘Yes.’
The girl’s eyes were puzzled. ‘I suppose you know what that means in Russian. Nash means “ours.” In our Services, a man is nash when he is one of “our” men. He is svoi when he is one of “theirs”—when he belongs to the enemy. And this man calls himself Nash. That is not pleasant.’
Bond laughed. ‘Really, Tania. You do think of extraordinary reasons for not liking people. Nash is quite a common English name. He’s perfectly harmless. At any rate he’s tough enough for what we want him for.’
Tatiana made a face. She went on with her lunch.
Some tagliatelli verdi came, and the wine, and then a delicious escalope. ‘Oh it is so good,’ she said. ‘Since I came out of Russia I am all stomach.’ Her eyes widened. ‘You won’t let me get too fat, James. You won’t let me get so fat that I am no use for making love? You will have to be careful, or I shall just eat all day long and sleep. You will beat me if I eat too much?’
‘Certainly I will beat you.’
Tatiana wrinkled her nose. He felt the soft caress of her ankles. The wide eyes looked at him hard. The lashes came down demurely. ‘Please pay,’ she said. ‘I feel sleepy.’
The train was pulling into Maestre. There was the beginning of the canals. A cargo gondola full of vegetables was moving slowly along a straight sheet of water into the town.
‘But we shall be coming into Venice in a minute,’ protested Bond. ‘Don’t you want to see it?’
‘It will be just another station. And I can see Venice another day. Now I want you to love me. Please, James.’ Tatiana leaned forward. She put a hand over his. ‘Give me what I want. There is so little time.’
Then it was the little room again and the smell of the sea coming through the half-open window and the drawn blind fluttering with the wind of the train. Again there were the two piles of clothes on the floor, and the two whispering bodies on the banquette, and the slow searching hands. And the love-knot formed, and, as the train jolted over the points into the echoing station of Venice, there came the final lost despairing cry.
Outside the vacuum of the tiny room there sounded a confusion of echoing calls and metallic clanging and shuffling footsteps that slowly faded into sleep.
Padua came, and Vicenza, and a fabulous sunset over Verona flickered gold and red through the cracks of the blind. Again the little bell came tinkling down the corridor. They woke. Bond dressed and went into the corridor and leant against the guard rail. He looked out at the fading pink light over the Lombardy Plain and thought of Tatiana and of the future.
Nash’s face slid up alongside his in the dark glass. Nash came very close so that his elbow touched Bond’s. ‘I think I’ve spotted one of the oppo, old man,’ he said softly.
Bond was not surprised. He had assumed that, if it came, it would come tonight. Almost indifferently he said, ‘Who is he?’
‘Don’t know what his real name is, but he’s been through Trieste once or twice. Something to do with Albania. May be the Resident Director there. Now he’s on an American passport. “Wilbur Frank.” Calls himself a banker. In No9, right next to you. I don’t think I could be wrong about him, old man.’
Bond glanced at the eyes in the big brown face. Again the furnace door was ajar. The red glare shone out and was extinguished.
‘Good thing you spotted him. This may be a tough night. You’d better stick by us from now on. We mustn’t leave the girl alone.’
‘That’s what I thought, old man.’
They had dinner. It was a silent meal. Nash sat beside the girl and kept his eyes on his plate. He held his knife like a fountain pen and frequently wiped it on his fork. He was clumsy in his movements. Half way through the meal, he reached for the salt and knocked over Tatiana’s glass of Chianti. He apologized profusely. He made a great show of calling for another glass and filling it.
Coffee came. Now it was Tatiana who was clumsy. She knocked over her cup. She had gone very pale and her breath was coming quickly.
‘Tatiana!’ Bond half rose to his feet. But it was Captain Nash who jumped up and took charge.
‘Lady’s come over queer,’ he said shortly. ‘Allow me.’ He reached down and put an arm round the girl and lifted her to her feet. ‘I’ll take her back to the compartment. You’d better look after the bag. And there’s the bill. I can take care of her till you come.’
‘Is all right,’ protested Tatiana with the slack lips of deepening unconsciousness. ‘Don’ worry, James, I lie down.’ Her head lolled against Nash’s shoulder. Nash put one thick arm round her waist and manœuvred her quickly and efficiently down the crowded aisle and out of the restaurant car.
Bond impatiently snapped his fingers for the waiter. Poor darling. She must be dead beat. Why hadn’t he thought of the strain she was going through? He cursed himself for his selfishness. Thank heavens for Nash. Efficient sort of chap, for all his uncouthness.
Bond paid the bill. He took up the heavy little bag and walked as quickly as he could down the crowded train.
He tapped softly on the door of No7. Nash opened the door. He came out with his finger on his lips. He closed the door behind him. ‘Threw a bit of a faint,’ he said. ‘She’s all right now. The beds were made up. She’s gone to sleep in the top one. Been a bit much for the girl I expect, old man.’
Bond nodded briefly. He went into the compartment. A hand hung palely down from under the sable coat. Bond stood on the bottom bunk and gently tucked the hand under the corner of the coat. The hand felt very cold. The girl made no sound.
Bond stepped softly down. Better let her sleep. He went into the corridor.
Nash looked at him with empty eyes. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better settle in for the night. I’ve got my book.’ He held it up. ‘War and Peace. Been trying to plough through it
for years. You take the first sleep, old man. You look pretty flaked out yourself. I’ll wake you up when I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.’ He gestured with his head at the door of No9. ‘Hasn’t shown yet. Don’t suppose he will if he’s up to any monkey tricks.’ He paused. ‘By the way, you got a gun, old man?’
‘Yes. Why, haven’t you?’
Nash looked apologetic. ‘ ’Fraid not. Got a Luger at home, but it’s too bulky for this sort of job.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Bond reluctantly. You’d better take mine. Come on in.’
They went in and Bond shut the door. He took out the Beretta and handed it over. ‘Eight shots,’ he said softly. ‘Semi-automatic. It’s on safe.’
Nash took the gun and weighed it professionally in his hand. He clicked the safe on and off.
Bond hated someone else touching his gun. He felt naked without it. He said gruffly, ‘Bit on the light side, but it’ll kill if you put the bullets in the right places.’
Nash nodded. He sat down near the window at the end of the bottom bunk. ‘I’ll take this end,’ he whispered. ‘Good field of fire.’ He put his book down on his lap and settled himself.
Bond took off his coat and tie and laid them on the bunk beside him. He leant back against the pillows and propped his feet on the bag with the Spektor that stood on the floor beside his attaché case. He picked up his Ambler and found his place and tried to read. After a few pages he found that his concentration was going. He was too tired. He laid the book down on his lap and closed his eyes. Could he afford to sleep? Was there any other precaution they could take?
The wedges! Bond felt for them in the pocket of his coat. He slipped off the bunk and knelt and forced them hard under the two doors. Then he settled himself again and switched off the reading light behind his head.
The violet eye of the nightlight shone softly down.
‘Thanks, old man,’ said Captain Nash softly.
The train gave a moan and crashed into a tunnel.
Chapter 26
The Killing Bottle
The light nudge at his ankle woke Bond. He didn’t move. His senses came to life like an animal’s.
Nothing had changed. There were the noises of the train—the soft iron stride, pounding out the kilometres, the quiet creak of the woodwork, a tinkle from the cupboard over the washbasin where a toothglass was loose in its holder.
What had woken him? The spectral eye of the nightlight cast its deep velvet sheen over the little room. No sound came from the upper bunk. By the window, Captain Nash sat in his place, his book open on his lap, a flicker of moonlight from the edge of the blind showing white on the double page.
He was looking fixedly at Bond. Bond registered the intentness of the violet eyes. The black lips parted. There was a glint of teeth.
‘Sorry to disturb you, old man. I feel in the mood for a talk!’
What was there new in the voice? Bond put his feet softly down to the floor. He sat up straighter. Danger, like a third man, was standing in the room.
‘Fine,’ said Bond easily. What had there been in those few words that had set his spine tingling? Was it the note of authority in Nash’s voice? The idea came to Bond that Nash might have gone mad. Perhaps it was madness in the room, and not danger, that Bond could smell. His instincts about this man had been right. It would be a question of somehow getting rid of him at the next station. Where had they got to? When would the frontier come?
Bond lifted his wrist to look at the time. The violet light defeated the phosphorous numerals. Bond tilted the face towards the strip of moonlight from the window.
From the direction of Nash there came a sharp click. Bond felt a violent blow on his wrist. Splinters of glass hit him in the face. His arm was flung back against the door. He wondered if his wrist had been broken. He let his arm hang and flexed his fingers. They all moved.
The book was still open on Nash’s lap, but now a thin wisp of smoke was coming out of the hole at the top of its spine and there was a faint smell of fireworks in the room.
The saliva dried in Bond’s mouth as if he had swallowed alum.
So there had been a trap all along. And the trap had closed. Captain Nash had been sent to him by Moscow. Not by M. And the MGB agent in No9, the man with an American passport, was a myth. And Bond had given Nash his gun. He had even put wedges under the doors so that Nash would feel more secure.
Bond shivered. Not with fear. With disgust.
Nash spoke. His voice was no longer a whisper, no longer oily. It was loud and confident.
‘That will save us a great deal of argument, old man. Just a little demonstration. They think I’m pretty good with this little bag of tricks. There are ten bullets in it—.25 dumdum, fired by an electric battery. You must admit the Russians are wonderful chaps for dreaming these things up. Too bad that book of yours is only for reading, old man.’
‘For God’s sake stop calling me “old man.”’ When there was so much to know, so much to think about, this was Bond’s first reaction to utter catastrophe. It was the reaction of someone in a burning house who picks up the most trivial object to save from the flames.
‘Sorry, old man. It’s got to be a habit. Part of trying to be a bloody gentleman. Like these clothes. All from the wardrobe department. They said I’d get by like this. And I did, didn’t I, old man? But let’s get down to business. I expect you’d like to know what this is all about. Be glad to tell you. We’ve got about half an hour before you’re due to go. It’ll give me an extra kick telling the famous Mister Bond of the Secret Service what a bloody fool he is. You see, old man, you’re not so good as you think. You’re just a stuffed dummy and I’ve been given the job of letting the sawdust out of you.’ The voice was even and flat, the sentences trailing away on a dead note. It was as if Nash was bored by the act of speaking.
‘Yes,’ said Bond. ‘I’d like to know what it’s all about. I can spare you half an hour.’ Desperately he wondered: was there any way of putting this man off his stride? Upsetting his balance?
‘Don’t kid yourself, old man,’ the voice was uninterested in Bond, or in the threat of Bond. Bond didn’t exist except as a target. ‘You’re going to die in half an hour. No mistake about it. I’ve never made a mistake or I wouldn’t have my job.’
‘What is your job?’
‘Chief Executioner of Smersh.’ There was a hint of life in the voice, a hint of pride. The voice went flat again. You know the name I believe, old man.’
Smersh. So that was the answer—the worst answer of all. And this was their chief killer. Bond remembered the red glare that flickered in the opaque eyes. A killer. A psychopath—manic depressive, probably. A man who really enjoyed it. What a useful man for Smersh to have found! Bond suddenly remembered what Vavra had said. He tried a long shot. ‘Does the moon have any effect on you, Nash?’
The black lips writhed. ‘Clever aren’t you, Mister Secret Service. Think I’m barmy. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be where I am if I was barmy.’
The angry sneer in the man’s voice told Bond that he had touched a nerve. But what could he achieve by getting the man out of control? Better humour him and gain some time. Perhaps Tatiana...
‘Where does the girl come into all this?’
‘Part of the bait,’ the voice was bored again. ‘Don’t worry. She won’t butt in on our talk. Fed her a pinch of chloral hydrate when I poured her that glass of wine. She’ll be out for the night. And then for every other night. She’s to go with you.’
‘Oh really.’ Bond slowly lifted his aching hand on to his lap, flexing the fingers to get the blood moving, ‘Well, let’s hear the story.’
‘Careful, old man. No tricks. No Bulldog Drummond stuff’ll get you out of this one. If I don’t like even the smell of a move, it’ll be just one bullet through the heart. Nothing more. That’s what you’ll be getting in the end. One through the centre of the heart. If you move it’ll come a bit quicker. And don’t forget who I am. Remember your wrist-watch? I don�
�t miss. Not ever.’
‘Good show,’ said Bond carelessly. ‘But don’t be frightened. You’ve got my gun. Remember? Get on with your story.’
‘All right, old man, only don’t scratch your ear while I’m talking. Or I’ll shoot it off. See? Well, Smersh decided to kill you—at least I gather it was decided even higher up, right at the top. Seems they want to take one good hard poke at the Secret Service—bring them down a peg or two. Follow me?’
‘Why choose me?’
‘Don’t ask me, old man. But they say you’ve got quite a reputation in your outfit. The way you’re going to be killed is going to bust up the whole show. It’s been three months cooking, this plan, and it’s a beaut. Got to be. Smersh has made one or two mistakes lately. That Khoklov business for one. Remember the explosive cigarette case and all that? Gave the job to the wrong man. Should have given it to me. I wouldn’t have gone over to the Yanks. However, to get back. You see, old man, we’ve got quite a planner in Smersh. Man called Kronsteen. Great chess player. He said vanity would get you and greed and a bit of craziness in the plot. He said you’d all fall for the craziness in London. And you did, didn’t you, old man?’