by Ian Fleming
‘Correct.’
‘Your parents’ names?’
‘Ernst George Blofeld and Maria Stavro Michelopoulos.’
‘Also born in Gdynia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now your grandparents?’
‘Ernst Stefan Blofeld and Elizabeth Lubomirskaya.’
‘Hm, so the Ernst is something of a family Christian name?’
‘It would seem so. My great-grandfather, he was also Ernst.’
‘That is most important. You see, Count, among the Blofelds of Augsburg there are no less than two Ernsts!’
The Count’s hands had been lying on the green pad on his desk, relaxed. Now, impulsively, they joined together and briefly writhed, showing white knuckles.
My God, you’ve got it bad! thought Bond.
‘And that is important?’
‘Very. Christian names run through families. We regard them as most significant clues. Now, can you remember any farther back? You have done well. We have covered three generations. With the dates I shall later ask you for, we have already got back to around 1850. Only another fifty years to go and we shall have arrived at Augsburg.’
‘No.’ It was almost a cry of pain. ‘My great-great-grandfather. Of him I know nothing.’ The hands writhed on the blotting-paper. ‘Perhaps, perhaps. If it is a question of money. People, witnesses could be found.’ The hands parted, held themselves out expansively. ‘My dear Sir Hilary, you and I are men of the world. We understand each other. Extracts from archives, registry offices, the churches – these things, do they have to be completely authentic?’
Got you, you old fox! Bond said affably, with a hint of conspiracy, ‘I don’t quite understand what you mean, Count.’
The hands were now flat on the desk again, happy hands. Blofeld had recognized one of his kind. ‘You are a hard-working man. Sir Hilary. You live modestly in this remote region of Scotland. Life could perhaps be made easier for you. There are perhaps material benefits you desire – motor-cars, a yacht, a pension. You have only to say the word, name a figure.’ The dark-green orbs bored into Bond’s modestly evasive eyes, holding them. ‘Just a little co-operation. A visit here and there in Poland and Germany and France. Of course your expenses would be heavy. Let us say five hundred pounds a week. The technical matters, the documents, and so forth. Those I can arrange. It would only require your supporting evidence. Yes? The Ministry of Justice in Paris, for them the word of the College of Arms is the word of God. Is that not so?’
It was too good to be true! But how to play it? Diffidently, Bond said, ‘What you are suggesting, Count, is – er – not without interest. Of course’ – Bond’s smile was sufficiently expansive, sufficiently bland – ‘if the documents were convincing, so to speak solid, very solid, then it would be quite reasonable for me to authenticate them.’ Bond put spaniel into his eyes, asking to be patted, to be told that everything would be all right, that he would be completely protected. ‘You see what I mean?’
The Count began, with force, sincerity, ‘You need have absolutely no ...’ when there was the noise of an approaching hubbub down the passage. The door burst open. A man, propelled from behind, lurched into the room and fell, writhing, to the floor.
Two of the guards came stiffly to attention behind him. They looked first at the Count and then, sideways, towards Bond, surprised to see him there.
The Count said sharply, ‘Was ist denn los?’
Bond knew the answer and, momentarily, he died. Behind the snow and the blood on the face of the man on the floor, Bond recognized the face of a man he knew.
The blond hair, the nose broken boxing for the Navy, belonged to a friend of his in the Service. It was, unmistakably, Number 2 from Station Z in Zürich!
15 ....... THE HEAT INCREASES
YES, IT was Shaun Campbell all right! Christ Almighty, what a mess! Station Z had especially been told nothing about Bond’s mission. Campbell must have been following a lead of his own, probably trailing this Russian who had been ‘buying supplies’. Typical of the sort of balls-up that over-security can produce!
The leading guard was talking in rapid, faulty German with a Slav accent. ‘He was found in the open ski compartment at the back of the gondola. Much frozen, but he put up a strong resistance. He had to be subdued. He was no doubt following Captain Boris.’ The man caught himself up. ‘I mean, your guest from the valley, Herr Graf. He says he is an English tourist from Zürich. That he had got no money for the fare. He wanted to pay a visit up here. He was searched. He carried five hundred Swiss francs. No identity papers.’ The man shrugged. ‘He says his name is Campbell.’
At the sound of his name, the man on the ground stirred. He lifted his head and looked wildly round the room. He had been badly battered about the face and head with a pistol or a cosh. His control was shot to pieces. When his eyes lit on the familiar face of Bond, he looked astonished, then, as if a lifebuoy had been thrown to him, he said hoarsely, ‘Thank God, James. Tell ’em it’s me! Tell ’em I’m from Universal Export. In Zürich. You know! For God’s sake, James! Tell ’em I’m OK.’ His head fell forward on the carpet.
The Count’s head slowly turned towards Bond. The opaque green eyes caught the pale light from the window and glinted whitely. The tight, face-lifted smile was grotesquely horrible. ‘You know this man, Sir Hilary?’
Bond shook his head sorrowfully. He knew he was pronouncing the death sentence on Campbell. ‘Never seen him before in my life. Poor chap. He sounds a bit daft to me. Concussed, probably. Why not ship him down to a hospital in the valley? He looks in a pretty bad way.’
‘And Universal Export?’ The voice was silky. ‘I seem to have heard that name before.’
‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Bond indifferently. ‘Never heard of it.’ He reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one with a dead steady hand.
The Count turned back to the guards. He said softly, ‘Zur Befragungszelle.’ He nodded his dismissal. The two guards bent down and hauled Campbell up by his armpits. The hanging head raised itself, gave one last terrible look of appeal at Bond. Then the man who was Bond’s colleague was hustled out of the room and the door was closed softly behind his dragging feet.
To the interrogation cell! That could mean only one thing, under modern methods, total confession! How long would Campbell hold out for? How many hours had Bond got left?
‘I have told them to take him to the sick-room. He will be well looked after.’ The Count looked from the papers on his desk to Bond. ‘I am afraid this unhappy intrusion has interfered with my train of thought, Sir Hilary. So perhaps you will forgive me for this morning?’
‘Of course, of course. And, regarding your proposition, that we should work a little more closely together on your interests, I can assure you, Count, that I find it most interesting.’ Bond smiled conspiratorially. ‘I’m sure we could come to some satisfactory arrangement.’
‘Yes? That is good.’ The Count linked his hands behind his head and gazed for a moment at the ceiling and then, reflectively, back at Bond. He said casually, ‘I suppose you would not be connected in any way with the British Secret Service, Sir Hilary?’
Bond laughed out loud. The laugh was a reflex, forced out of him by tension. ‘Good God, no! Didn’t even know we had one. Didn’t all that sort of thing go out with the end of the war?’ Bond chuckled to himself, fatuously amused. ‘Can’t quite see myself running about behind a false moustache. Not my line of country at all. Can’t bear moustaches.’
The Count’s unwavering smile did not seem to share Bond’s amusement. He said coldly, ‘Then please forget my question, Sir Hilary. The intrusion by this man has made me over-suspicious. I value my privacy up here, Sir Hilary. Scientific research can only be pursued in an atmosphere of peace.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Bond was effusive. He got to his feet and gathered up his papers from the desk. ‘And now I must get on with my own research work. Just getting into the fourteenth century. I think I shall have some
interesting data to show you tomorrow, Count.’
The Count got politely to his feet and Bond went out of the door and along the passage.
He loitered, listening for any sound. There was none, but half-way down the corridor one of the doors was ajar. A crack of blood-red light showed. Bond thought, I’ve probably had it anyway. In for a penny, in for a pound! He pushed the door open and stuck his head into the room. It was a long, low laboratory with a plastic-covered work-bench extending its whole length beneath the windows, which were shuttered. Dark red light, as in a film-developing chamber, came from neon strips above the cornice. The bench was littered with retorts and test-tubes, and there were line upon line of test-tubes and phials containing a cloudy liquid in racks against the far wall. Three men in white, with gauze pads over the bottoms of their faces and white surgical caps over their hair, were at work, absorbed. Bond took in the scene, a scene from a theatrical hell, withdrew his head, and walked on down the corridor and out into what was now a driving snowstorm. He pulled the top of his sweater over his head and forced his way along the path to the blessed warmth of the club-house. Then he walked quickly to his room, closed the door, and went into the bathroom and sat down on his usual throne of reflection and wondered what in God’s name to do.
Could he have saved Campbell? Well, he could have had a desperate shot at it. ‘Oh, yes. I know this man. Perfectly respectable chap. We used to work for the same export firm, Universal, in London. You look in pretty bad shape, old boy. What the devil happened?’ But it was just as well he hadn’t tried. As cover, solid cover, Universal was ‘brûlé’ with the pros. It had been in use too long. All the secret services in the world had penetrated it by now. Obviously Blofeld knew all about it. Any effort to save Campbell would simply have tied Bond in with him. There had been no alternative except to throw him to the wolves. If Campbell had a chance to get his wits back before they really started on him, he would know that Bond was there for some purpose, that his disavowal by Bond was desperately important to Bond, to the Service. How long would he have the strength to cover for Bond, retrieve his recognition of Bond? At most a few hours. But how many hours? That was the vital question. That and how long the storm would last. Bond couldn’t possibly get away in this stuff. If it stopped, there might be a chance, a damned slim one, but better than the alternatives, of which, if and when Campbell talked, there was only one – death, probably a screaming death.
Bond surveyed his weapons. They were only his hands and feet, his Gillette razor and his wrist-watch, a heavy Rolex Oyster Perpetual on an expanding metal bracelet. Used properly, these could be turned into most effective knuckledusters. Bond got up, took the blade out of his Gillette and dropped the razor into his trouser pocket. He slipped the shaft between the first and second fingers of his left hand so that the blade-carrier rested flat along his knuckles. Yes, that was the way! Now was there anything, any evidence he should try and take with him? Yes, he must try and get more, if not all, of the girls’ names and, if possible, addresses. For some reason he knew they were vital. For that he would have to use Ruby. His head full of plans for getting the information out of her, Bond went out of the bathroom and sat down at his desk and got on with a fresh page of de Bleuvilles. At least he must continue to show willing, if only to the recording eye in the ceiling.
It was about twelve-thirty when Bond heard his doorknob being softly turned. Ruby slipped in and, her finger to her lips, disappeared into his bathroom. Bond casually threw down his pen, got up and stretched and strolled over and went in after her.
Ruby’s blue eyes were wide and frightened. ‘You’re in trouble,’ she whispered urgently. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing,’ said Bond innocently. ‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve all been told that we mustn’t talk to you unless Miss Bunt is there.’ Her knuckles went distractedly up to her teeth. ‘Do you think they know about us?’
‘Couldn’t possibly,’ said Bond, radiating confidence. ‘I think I know what it is.’ (With so much obfuscation in the air, what did an extra, a reassuring, lie matter?) ‘This morning the Count told me I was an upsetting influence here, that I was what he called “disruptive”, interfering with your treatments. He asked me to keep myself more to myself. Honestly’ – (how often that word came into a lie!) – ‘I’m sure that’s all it is. Rather a pity really. Apart from you – I mean you’re sort of special – I think all you girls are terribly sweet. I’d like to have helped you all.’
‘How do you mean? Helped us?’
‘Well, this business of surnames. I talked to Violet last night. She seemed awfully interested. I’m sure it would have amused all the others to have theirs done. Everyone’s interested in where they came from. Rather like palmistry in a way.’ Bond wondered how the College of Arms would have liked that one! He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’ve decided to get the hell away from here. I can’t bear being shepherded and ordered about like this. Who the hell do they think I am? But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you can give me the names of the girls, as many as you know, I’ll do a piece on each of them and post them when you all get back to England. How much longer have you got, by the way?’
‘We’re not told exactly, but the rumour is about another week. There’s another batch of girls due about then. When we’re slow at our work or get behindhand with our reading, Miss Bunt says she hopes the next lot won’t be so stupid. The old bitch! But Sir Hilary’ – the blue eyes filled with concern – ‘how are you going to get away? You know we’re practically prisoners up here.’
Bond was off-hand. ‘Oh, I’ll manage somehow. They can’t hold me here against my will. But what about the names, Ruby? Don’t you think it would give the girls a treat?’
‘Oh, they’d love it. Of course I know all of them. We’ve found plenty of ways of exchanging secrets. But you won’t be able to remember. Have you got anything to write down on?’
Bond tore off some strips of lavatory paper and took out a pencil. ‘Fire away!’
She laughed. ‘Well, you know me and Violet, then there’s Elizabeth Mackinnon. She’s from Aberdeen. Beryl Morgan from somewhere in Herefordshire. Pearl Tampion, Devonshire – by the way, all those simply loathed every kind of cattle. Now they live on steaks! Would you believe it? I must say the Count’s a wonderful man.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Then there’s Anne Charter from Canterbury and Caresse Ventnor from the National Stud, wherever that is – fancy her working there and she came up in a rash all over whenever she went near a horse! Now all she does is dream of pony clubs and read every word she can get hold of about Pat Smythe! And Denise Robertson …’
The list went on until Bond had got the whole ten. He said, ‘What about that Polly somebody who left in November?’
‘Polly Tasker. She was from East Anglia. Don’t remember where, but I can find out the address when I get back to England. Sir Hilary’ – she put her arm round his neck – ‘I am going to see you again, aren’t I?’
Bond held her tight and kissed her. ‘Of course, Ruby. You can always get me at the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street. Just send me a postcard when you get back. But for God’s sake cut out the “Sir”. You’re my girl friend. Remember?’
‘Oh, yes, I will – er – Hilary,’ she said fervently. ‘And you will be careful, getting away I mean. You’re sure it’s all right? Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, darling. Just don’t breathe a word of all this. It’s a secret between us. Right?’
‘Of course, darling.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh lord! I must simply fly. Only ten minutes to lunch-time. Now, can you do your trick with the door? There shouldn’t be anyone about. It’s their lunch-time from twelve till one.’
Bond, out of any possible line of vision from the eye in the ceiling, did his trick with the door and she was gone with a last whispered goodbye. Bond eased the door shut. He let out a deep sigh and went over to the window and peered out through the snow-heaped
panes. It was thick as Hades outside and the fine powder snow on the veranda was whirling up in little ghosts as the wind tore at the building. Pray God it would let up by night-time! Now, what did he need in the way of equipment? Goggles and gloves were two items he might harvest over lunch. Bond went into the bathroom again and rubbed soap into his eyes. It stung like hell, but the blue-grey eyes emerged from the treatment realistically bloodshot. Satisfied, Bond rang for the ‘warden’ and went thoughtfully off to the restaurant.
Silence fell as he went through the swing doors, followed by a polite, brittle chatter. Eyes followed him discreetly as he crossed the room and the replies to his good-mornings were muted. Bond took his usual seat between Ruby and Fräulein Bunt. Apparently oblivious to her frosty greeting, he snapped his fingers for a waiter and ordered his double vodka dry Martini. He turned to Fräulein Bunt and smiled into the suspicious yellow eyes. ‘Would you be very kind?’
‘Yes, Sair Hilary. What is it?’
Bond gestured at his still watering eyes. ‘I’ve got the Count’s trouble. Sort of conjunctivitis, I suppose. The tremendous glare up here. Better today of course, but there’s still a lot of reflection from the snow. And all this paperwork. Could you get me a pair of snow-goggles? I’ll only need to borrow them for a day or two. Just till my eyes get used to the light. Don’t usually have this sort of trouble.’
‘Yes. That can be done. I will see that they are put in your room.’ She summoned the head waiter and gave him the order in German. The man, looking at Bond with overt dislike, said, ‘Sofort, gnädiges Fräulein,’ and clicked his heels.
‘And one more thing, if you will,’ said Bond politely. ‘A small flask of schnapps.’ He turned to Fräulein Bunt. ‘I find I am not sleeping well up here. Perhaps a nightcap would help. I always have one at home – generally whisky. But here I would prefer schnapps. When in Gloria, do as the Glorians do. Ha ha!’