by Ian Fleming
His mind made up, Bond walked over to the bathroom door and knocked.
She came out and he took her in his arms and held her to him and kissed her. She clung to him. They stood and felt the animal warmth come back between them, feeling it push back the cold memory of Kerim’s death.
Tatiana broke away. She looked up at Bond’s face. She reached up and brushed the black comma of hair away from his forehead.
Her face was alive. ‘I am glad you have come back, James,’ she said. And then, matter-of-factly, ‘And now we must eat and drink and start our lives again.’
Later, after Slivovic and smoked ham and peaches, Tempo came and took them to the station and to the waiting express under the hard lights of the arcs. He said goodbye, quickly and coldly, and vanished down the platform and back into his dark existence.
Punctually at nine the new engine gave its new kind of noise and took the long train out on its all-night run down the valley of the Sava. Bond went along to the conductor’s cabin to give him money and look through the passports of the new passengers.
Bond knew most of the signs to look for in forged passports, the blurred writing, the too exact imprints of the rubber stamps, the trace of old gum round the edges of the photograph, the slight transparencies on the pages where the fibres of the paper had been tampered with to alter a letter or a number, but the five new passports – three American and two Swiss – seemed innocent. The Swiss papers, favourites with the Russian forgers, belonged to a husband and wife, both over seventy, and Bond finally passed them and went back to the compartment and prepared for another night with Tatiana’s head on his lap.
Vincovci came and Brod and then, against a flaming dawn, the ugly sprawl of Zagreb. The train came to a stop between lines of rusting locomotives captured from the Germans and still standing forlornly amongst the grass and weeds on the sidings. Bond read the plate on one of them – BERLINER MASCHINENBAU GMBH – as they slid out through the iron cemetery. Its long black barrel had been raked with machine gun bullets. Bond heard the scream of the dive-bomber and saw the upflung arms of the driver. For a moment he thought nostalgically and unreasonably of the excitement and turmoil of the hot war, compared with his own underground skirmishings since the war had turned cold.
They hammered into the mountains of Slovenia where the apple trees and the chalets were almost Austrian. The train laboured its way through Ljubliana. The girl awoke. They had breakfast of fried eggs and hard brown bread and coffee that was mostly chicory. The restaurant car was full of cheerful English and American tourists from the Adriatic coast, and Bond thought with a lift of the heart that by the afternoon they would be over the frontier into Western Europe and that a third dangerous night was gone.
He slept until Sezana. The hard-faced Yugoslav plain-clothes men came on board. Then Yugoslavia was gone and Poggioreale came and the first smell of the soft life with the happy jabbering Italian officials and the carefree upturned faces of the station crowd. The new diesel-electric engine gave a slap-happy whistle, the meadow of brown hands fluttered, and they were loping easily down into Venezia, towards the distant sparkle of Trieste and the gay blue of the Adriatic. We’ve made it, thought Bond. I really think we’ve made it. He thrust the memory of the last three days away from him. Tatiana saw the tense lines in his face relax. She reached over and took his hand. He moved and sat close beside her. They looked out at the gay villas on the Corniche and at the sailing-boats and the people water-skiing.
The train clanged across some points and slid quietly into the gleaming station of Trieste. Bond got up and pulled down the window and they stood side by side, looking out. Suddenly Bond felt happy. He put an arm around the girl’s waist and held her hard against him.
They gazed down at the holiday crowd. The sun shone through the tall clean windows of the station in golden shafts. The sparkling scene emphasized the dark and dirt of the countries the train had come from, and Bond watched with an almost sensuous pleasure the gaily dressed people pass through the patches of sunshine towards the entrance, and the sunburned people, the ones who had had their holidays, hasten up the platform to get their seats on the train.
A shaft of sun lit up the head of one man who seemed typical of this happy, playtime world. The light flashed briefly on golden hair under a cap, and on a young golden moustache. There was plenty of time to catch the train. The man walked unhurriedly. It crossed Bond’s mind that he was an Englishman. Perhaps it was the familiar shape of the dark green Kangol cap, or the beige, rather well-used mackintosh, that badge of the English tourist, or it may have been the grey-flannelled legs, or the scuffed brown shoes. But Bond’s eyes were drawn to him, as if it was someone he knew, as the man approached up the platform.
The man was carrying a battered Revelation suitcase and, under the other arm, a thick book and some newspapers. He looks like an athlete, thought Bond. He has the wide shoulders and the healthy, good-looking bronzed face of a professional tennis player going home after a round of foreign tournaments.
The man came nearer. Now he was looking straight at Bond. With recognition? Bond searched his mind. Did he know this man? No. He would have remembered those eyes that stared out so coldly under the pale lashes. They were opaque, almost dead. The eyes of a drowned man. But they had some message for him. What was it? Recognition? Warning? Or just the defensive reaction to Bond’s own stare?
The man came up with the wagon-lit. His eyes were now gazing levelly up the train. He walked past, the crêpe-soled shoes making no sound. Bond watched him reach for the rail and swing himself easily up the steps into the first-class carriage.
Suddenly Bond knew what the glance had meant, who the man was. Of course! This man was from the Service. After all M. had decided to send along an extra hand. That was the message of those queer eyes. Bond would bet anything that the man would soon be along to make contact.
How like M. to make absolutely sure!
25 ....... A TIE WITH A WINDSOR KNOT
TO MAKE the contact easy, Bond went out and stood in the corridor. He ran over the details of the code of the day, the few harmless phrases, changed on the first of each month, that served as a simple recognition signal between English agents.
The train gave a jerk and moved slowly out into the sunshine. At the end of the corridor the communicating door slammed. There was no sound of steps, but suddenly the red and gold face was mirrored in the window.
‘Excuse me. Could I borrow a match?’
‘I use a lighter.’ Bond produced his battered Ronson and handed it over.
‘Better still.’
‘Until they go wrong.’
Bond looked up into the man’s face, expecting a smile at the completion of the childish ‘Who goes there? Pass, Friend’ ritual.
The thick lips writhed briefly. There was no light in the very pale blue eyes.
The man had taken off his mackintosh. He was wearing an old reddish-brown tweed coat with his flannel trousers, a pale yellow Viyella summer shirt, and the dark blue and red zig-zagged tie of the Royal Engineers. It was tied with a Windsor knot. Bond mistrusted anyone who tied his tie with a Windsor knot. It showed too much vanity. It was often the mark of a cad. Bond decided to forget his prejudice. A gold signet ring, with an indecipherable crest, glinted on the little finger of the right hand that gripped the guard-rail. The corner of a red bandana handkerchief flopped out of the breast pocket of the man’s coat. On his left wrist there was a battered silver wrist watch with an old leather strap.
Bond knew the type – a minor public school and then caught up by the war. Field Security perhaps. No idea what to do afterwards, so he stayed with the occupation troops. At first he would have been with the military police, then, as the senior men drifted home, there came promotion into one of the security services. Moved to Trieste where he did well enough. Wanted to stay on and avoid the rigours of England. Probably had a girl friend, or had married an Italian. The Secret Service had needed a man for the small post that Trieste had beco
me after the withdrawal. This man was available. They took him on. He would be doing routine jobs – have some low-grade sources in the Italian and Yugoslav police, and in their intelligence networks. A thousand a year. A good life, without much being expected from him. Then, out of the blue, this had come along. Must have been a shock getting one of those Most Immediate signals. He’d probably be a bit shy of Bond. Odd face. The eyes looked rather mad. But so they did in most of these men doing secret work abroad. One had to be a bit mad to take it on. Powerful chap, probably on the stupid side, but useful for this kind of guard work. M. had just taken the nearest man and told him to join the train.
All this went through Bond’s mind as he photographed an impression of the man’s clothes and general appearance. Now he said, ‘Glad to see you. How did it happen?’
‘Got a signal. Late last night. Personal from M. Shook me I can tell you, old man.’
Curious accent. What was it? A hint of brogue – cheap brogue. And something else Bond couldn’t define. Probably came from living too long abroad and talking foreign languages all the time. And that dreadful ‘old man’ at the end. Shyness.
‘Must have,’ said Bond sympathetically. ‘What did it say?’
‘Just told me to get on the Orient this morning and contact a man and a girl in the through carriage. More or less described what you look like. Then I was to stick by you and see you both through to Gay Paree. That’s all, old man.’
Was there defensiveness in the voice? Bond glanced sideways. The pale eyes swivelled to meet his. There was a quick red glare in them. It was as if the safety door of a furnace had swung open. The blaze died. The door to the inside of the man was banged shut. Now the eyes were opaque again – the eyes of an introvert, of a man who rarely looks out into the world but is for ever surveying the scene inside him.
There’s madness there all right, thought Bond, startled by the sight of it. Shell-shock perhaps, or schizophrenia. Poor chap, with that magnificent body. One day he would certainly crack. The madness would take control. Bond had better have a word to Personnel. Check up on his medical. By the way, what was his name?
‘Well I’m very glad to have you along. Probably not much for you to do. We started off with three Redland men on our tail. They’ve been got rid of, but there may be others on the train. Or some more may get on. And I’ve got to get this girl to London without trouble. If you’d just hang about. Tonight we’d better stay together and share watches. It’s the last night and I don’t want to take any chances. By the way, my name’s James Bond. Travelling as David Somerset. And that’s Caroline Somerset in there.’
The man fished in his inside pocket and produced a battered notecase which seemed to contain plenty of money. He extracted a visiting card and handed it to Bond. It said ‘Captain Norman Nash’, and, in the left-hand bottom corner, ‘Royal Automobile Club’.
As Bond put the card in his pocket he slipped his finger across it. It was engraved. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Well, Nash, come and meet Mrs. Somerset. No reason why we shouldn’t travel more or less together.’ He smiled encouragingly.
Again the red glare quickly extinguished. The lips writhed under the young golden moustache. ‘Delighted, old man.’
Bond turned to the door and knocked softly and spoke his name.
The door opened. Bond beckoned Nash in and shut the door behind him.
The girl looked surprised.
‘This is Captain Nash, Norman Nash. He’s been told to keep an eye on us.’
‘How do you do.’ The hand came out hesitantly. The man touched it briefly. His stare was fixed. He said nothing. The girl gave an embarrassed little laugh, ‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘Er, thank you.’ Nash sat stiffly on the edge of the banquette. He seemed to remember something, something one did when one had nothing to say. He groped in the side pocket of his coat and produced a packet of Players. ‘Will you have a, er, cigarette?’ He prised open the top with a fairly clean thumbnail, stripped down the silver paper and pushed out the cigarettes. The girl took one. Nash’s other hand flashed forward a lighter with the obsequious speed of a motor salesman.
Nash looked up. Bond was standing leaning against the door and wondering how to help this clumsy, embarrassed man. Nash held out the cigarettes and the lighter as if he was offering glass beads to a native chief. ‘What about you, old man?’
‘Thanks,’ said Bond. He hated Virginia tobacco, but he was prepared to do anything to help put the man at ease. He took a cigarette and lit it. They certainly had to make do with some queer fish in the Service nowadays. How the devil did this man manage to get along in the semi-diplomatic society he would have to frequent in Trieste?
Bond said lamely, ‘You look very fit, Nash. Tennis?’
‘Swimming.’
‘Been long in Trieste?’
There came the brief red glare. ‘About three years.’
‘Interesting work?’
‘Sometimes. You know how it is, old man.’
Bond wondered how he could stop Nash calling him ‘old man’. He couldn’t think of a way. Silence fell.
Nash obviously felt it was his turn again. He fished in his pocket and produced a newspaper cutting. It was the front page of the Corriere de la Sera. He handed it to Bond. ‘Seen this, old man?’ The eyes blazed and died.
It was the front page lead. The thick black lettering on the cheap newsprint was still wet. The headlines said:
TERRIBILE ESPLOSIONE IN ISTANBUL
UFFICIO SOVIETICO DISTRUTTO
TUTTI I PRESENTI UCCISI
Bond couldn’t understand the rest. He folded the cutting and handed it back. How much did this man know? Better treat him as a strong-man arm and nothing else. ‘Bad show,’ he said. ‘Gas main I suppose.’ Bond saw again the obscene belly of the bomb hanging down from the roof of the alcove in the tunnel, the wires that started off down the damp wall on their way back to the plunger in the drawer of Kerim’s desk. Who had pressed the plunger yesterday afternoon when Tempo had got through? The ‘Head Clerk’? Or had they drawn lots and then stood round and watched as the hand went down and the deep roar had gone up in the Street of Books on the hill above. They would all have been there, in the cool room. With eyes that glittered with hate. The tears would be reserved for the night. Revenge would have come first. And the rats? How many thousand had been blasted down the tunnel? What time would it have been? About four o’clock. Had the daily meeting been on? Three dead in the room. How many more in the rest of the building? Friends of Tatiana, perhaps. He would have to keep the story from her. Had Darko been watching? From a window in Valhalla? Bond could hear the great laugh of triumph echoing round its walls. At any rate Kerim had taken plenty with him.
Nash was looking at him. ‘Yes, I daresay it was a gas main,’ he said without interest.
A hand-bell 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’oeuvres 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.