James Bond: The Authorised Biography

by John Pearson

  In July M. went on holiday. He was no better when he got back – in fact he was quite intolerable, snappy, bad-tempered, getting on everybody's nerves. Even the glacial Miss Moneypenny seemed to be finding him impossible. Bond found her in a state of near prostration after one afternoon non-stop with M. and took her out to dinner. She came gratefully and Bond took her to Alvaro's in the Kings Road, where he thought the pasta was the best in London. Over the spaghetti alle vongole Moneypenny told him all her troubles.

  ‘I'm really worried for him, James,’ she said. ‘I know he's difficult, but he's never been like this before.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Bond.

  ‘Actually losing all control. He's been nagging on at me, and then this afternoon he flew into a rage.’

  That cool naval presence in a rage? Bond hadn't thought it possible.

  ‘What was he like?’ he asked.

  ‘Terrifying. He started shouting and shoved all the papers off his desk. I simply fled.’

  Bond tried hard not to smile at the thought of the stately Moneypenny in precipitate retreat.

  ‘Perhaps it's the male menopause,’ he said.

  ‘He should have got over that by now. No, James, the odd thing is that this should have happened after his holiday. He was all right before he went, a little tense and snappy but nothing at all like this.’

  ‘Any idea what happened on this holiday of his. I don't remember hearing where he went.’

  She shook her head. ‘That's the strange thing about it. He was most anxious nobody should know where he was going, and told me to keep it to myself. In fact the forwarding address he left was for a Greek island called Spirellos.’

  ‘A bit different from his usual fishing trip to the Test,’ said Bond.

  ‘Perhaps he's in love?’ said Moneypenny, looking suddenly quite gentle.

  ‘Perhaps he is,’ said Bond. ‘For all our sakes I hope so and the lady soon says yes.’

  The idea of M. in love gained credence in the section. It explained everything, and everybody started to make allowances for M.

  But as Bond said to Mary Goodnight, ‘She really must be putting the old boy through the hoops. He's getting worse and worse.’

  Indeed he was. Bond heard that he was drinking heavily at Blades. And then, the next day, there was a worried telephone call from a friend in the Ministry of Defence.

  ‘What's the matter with your boss?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bond.

  ‘Yesterday he blew his top at the Joint Chiefs of Staff conference. Nobody knew why. It was most embarrassing. They were discussing possible subversion in the Secret Service, and he suddenly seemed to go berserk. Quite between the two of us, the Chief of G.S. asked me to have a word with you to see if there is anything on the old boy's mind. And could you just keep an eye on him?’

  ‘You've been pushing him too hard too long,’ Bond replied loyally.

  ‘Point taken. But that makes it all the more important that there shouldn't be anything unfortunate. We couldn't have the man crack up.’

  *

  M. cracking up! The idea was unthinkable. And yet the more Bond thought about it, the more possible it seemed. But what to do? M. was not the sort of man one could invite out for a drink and ask to share his troubles. He was a guarded unforthcoming man and Bond had no idea what went on behind that lined, distinguished-looking face. Nor had he any more idea about his private life. M. kept it rigidly apart from his work. Indeed, the more Bond started thinking about him, the more he realized just how little he knew about this man who ruled his life.

  Bond knew he had a house at Windsor, but at that time hadn't been invited there (nor for that matter had anyone else inside the section – M. made no pretence of being hospitable). Nor did Bond know about his friends. He'd never heard of any. It was almost as if M.'s life stopped entirely once his old black Silver Wraith slid away from the Regent's Park Headquarters in the evening. And as Bond realized, he really didn't want to know about M.'s private life.

  Fortunately Bill Tanner was now back from hospital (but off all alcohol and almost all the food the canteen had to offer). When Bond discussed the situation with him, he was emphatic that something must be done. But they both realized the problem – how can you start investigating the Head of the Secret Service?

  Bond tried to make a start next day. M.'s servant, Chief Petty Officer Hammond was in the office, and Bond made a point of talking to him over coffee in the downstairs canteen. Bond knew he was devoted to M. and was not surprised at the suspicion on his ruddy face as soon as he asked about him.

  ‘Sir Miles well? I'd say he has his ups and downs like all of us.’

  Bond said of course, but recently he'd felt that he was under some sort of quite unusual strain.

  ‘I couldn't say, Commander Bond. That's not my business.’

  Clearly Bond wasn't getting anything from him, but he did his best to tell the Chief Petty Officer that if he did feel anything was wrong with M. he could always get in touch with him or with the Chief of Staff.

  ‘Thank you, Commander Bond,’ said Hammond loyally.

  That same evening, Bond rang Sir James Molony.

  ‘Trouble with M? No, I've heard nothing, but I hope to God you're wrong. M. is the one man in Britain I'd not take on as a patient if you paid ten times my normal fee.’

  Bill Tanner also made inquiries – just as fruitlessly. But Moneypenny was thinking of applying for a transfer, and two days later there was another worried query from Bond's contact in the Ministry of Defence. And then, that evening, Hammond rang Bond at home. He and Mrs Hammond wanted to see him urgently. Bond arranged to meet them in a Windsor tea-shop early next afternoon.

  Mrs Hammond was the sort of wife who did the talking. She was a forthright little woman who began by telling the waitress exactly what she thought of her scones and strawberry jam.

  ‘Now, Commander Bond,’ she said as she condescended to accept a slice of cherry cake, ‘me and my husband are agreed that we should talk to you about Sir Miles, but on condition that not a word of this gets back to him.’

  Bond solemnly agreed.

  ‘For some time now, Sir Miles just hasn't been himself. He's off his food, and he's so snappy with us both.’

  Bond made sympathetic noises.

  ‘Particularly of a morning. Sir Miles has always been an early riser. Merry as a lark, and never any trouble. But lately he's been getting up late and missing breakfast. Hammond here has heard him talking in the night. It's our belief, Commander, that he's being blackmailed.’

  ‘Blackmailed?’ said Bond.

  ‘That's what I said, Commander.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Twice recently we've had this man phone – with a foreign accent.’

  ‘What sort of accent?’

  ‘Just foreign. Not nice at all. And afterwards Sir Miles has been just terrible.’

  Neither Bond nor Tanner had considered blackmail, but, as they realized, it was a possibility.

  ‘After all,’ said Tanner, ‘he is human.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Bond.

  ‘And there he is without a woman. He's just the sort to get himself involved with some cold-faced jezebel and then not know how to handle it.’

  ‘D'you think it's political?’ said Bond.

  ‘Let's just hope not, although it's quite a danger. Think what an enemy would pay for a set of compromising photographs of the head of the British Secret Service!’

  ‘I already have,’ said Bond.

  Bill Tanner and James Bond both realized that they were in a difficult position. Theoretically, their course was clear. They had a duty to inform the head of the security forces of their suspicions. But they knew quite well what this would mean. The Secret Service and Security were at daggers drawn. Think of the rumpus that would follow – and think what would happen if their suspicions were unfounded! Clearly they had to be a lot more certain of their facts before they could do this. Instead they both agreed that they would carry out their own inve
stigation. It was a risky business. If anything went wrong they would inevitably be blamed, but, as Bill Tanner said, ‘whatever the old devil has been up to, we owe it to him to do what we can to stop it going any further.’

  Bond agreed.

  As Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner had no difficulty tapping M.'s home telephone. It was a fairly routine operation in conjunction with the Post Office. The only problem was that officially M. had to see and approve all orders of this sort (and be prepared to justify them to the Home Office). His Chief of Staff for once made sure he didn't.

  At the same time, Bond began checking on all M.'s acquaintances. There was a younger brother, once an Oxford don and now retired. There were a few friends from the navy. There were, as far as Bond could see, no women in his life. He tried to find out more about M.'s holiday. He had apparently gone alone. Bond rang a friend in the Greek Embassy to ask about the island of Spirellos.

  Next day they had their first success. The phone-tap had worked. The mysterious caller with the foreign accent had rung up again and on the tape there was recorded the brief stormy conversation he had had with M. The man was saying he must see him. M. had told him to go to hell, and the man had said that that was fine and he must take the consequences.

  To Bond and Tanner this confirmed what they suspected. M. was clearly being blackmailed and, thanks to the Post Office, they had a lead to go on. Tanner had been able to get the call traced to an address in Kensington. It was a flat and it was owned by an Italian. His name was Del Lungo. He was a photographer.

  It was no time for too much subtlety – the stakes were too high for that. Tanner had his car parked underneath the office, and that evening, after dinner, he and Bond drove round to the small turning off the Cromwell Road where Del Lungo lived.

  At first they ‘cased’ the place. It was a typical Victorian block with a big front entrance and a mews behind. Del Lungo had a first-floor flat. A light was on. Bond and Bill Tanner waited. Just before midnight it went out.

  Bond was a skilful burglar. During his wartime training he had spent several weeks learning ‘breaking and entering’ from an old lag specially brought up from Dartmoor to instruct the members of the Secret Service. Bond had considerable talent in this direction, and it was not difficult to reach the back of Del Lungo's flat from the garage opposite. He hauled Bill Tanner up after him, then began tackling the window. It was a simple sash affair with a ‘burglar-proof’ catch. Bond cut a circle from the glass, lifted the catch, and they were in.

  Bond worked professionally. He and Bill Tanner both wore rubber gloves and silk stocking masks; as soon as they were in they cut the telephone. From then on the burglary was simple. The photographer was in bed with a woman. Bond switched the light on and Bill Tanner bound and gagged them. Then the real work started.

  There were three big filing cabinets in the studio that led off from the bedroom, and they were filled with negatives. Somewhere, presumably, among this mass of celluloid lay the few pictures that could destroy M.'s reputation and career. But there was no guide to where they were. There was no filing system. Every negative had to be examined.

  It was an interesting collection. The Italian was a press photographer who worked mainly for society magazines. There were a lot of very famous faces, and not only faces. For Del Lungo obviously ran a sideline in the sort of pictures people would pay a great deal not to have published. Bond says there were some real surprises: he rather wishes he had had more time to savour them.

  They had been working nearly four hours when they found what they were looking for. There were six negatives; by the look of them they had been taken by some sort of long-range camera. But even so, they were quite recognizably of M. He was on a beach. In some he was quite alone, and in others he was with people of both sexes. All were as naked as the day that they were born.

  ‘Oh my dear Lord,’ said Tanner. ‘What has the silly old buffoon been up to?’

  It was just after four when two figures climbed out of the first-floor window of the block of flats, slid down onto a garage roof, then disappeared into the shadows of a wall. Five minutes later, James Bond and William Tanner of the Secret Service were driving safely back to Chelsea. On the way they stopped at a telephone box and rang the police to tell them there had been a burglary at the photographer's address.

  ‘You know, I rather enjoyed our night's work,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Perhaps we should do it for a living,’ Bond replied.

  When they got back to his flat, they had a drink, turned in for three hours’ sleep, and woke to eat the biggest breakfast May could cook for them.

  Over breakfast they discussed the photographs. They were both embarrassed by them. The idea of M. in such a situation was so undignified that, as Tanner said, ‘it's as if you're looking at a picture of your parents.’ Bond nodded, and suggested that they ought to place the negatives in an envelope and post them straight to M. Tanner agreed.

  ‘Let's just hope,’ he said, ‘that once he gets them his temper improves.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Bond.

  But that wasn't quite the end of the story. Presumably M. got his photographs, and certainly he had no more phone calls from the man who took them. Bond's spot of burglary had saved the Secret Service from a squalid piece of blackmail. But two days later Bond discovered more about the pictures. They were not quite what he and Tanner had originally imagined.

  Bond was rung up by his friend in the Greek Embassy. He was apologetic for the time he had taken over Bond's inquiry.

  ‘Inquiry?’ said Bond.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Greek. ‘About that island called Spirellos.’

  ‘I'd clean forgotten about it,’ said Bond.

  ‘Perhaps you should go there for a summer holiday,’ said the Greek. ‘It's a nudist island, like the Ile de Levant off Toulon. It's very smart – lots of young girls, and I'm told it's very popular with old men like you.’

  And then Bond realized the truth. He should have guessed earlier. Ever since the Thunderball affair he had known of M.'s taste for health foods and nature clinics. What could have been more obvious than for him to have moved on to naturism? Bond only hoped that M. had enjoyed himself. But somehow he doubted whether he would be going back.

  15

  ‘The Bastard's Gone’

  HONEYCHILE GAVE A party. The beautiful white yacht, the flawless evening with the full moon rising, candlelight and good champagne, the island glittering against a phosphorescent sea – it should have been romantic. Instead that whole evening seemed unreal and quite extraordinarily sad. The telegram from M. had settled things. Bond was resigning from the Secret Service and marrying Honeychile. The party was to celebrate the fact.

  Honey had laid on all the guests, along with the champagne. There was a retired U.S. Army General (who had a speech impediment or was very drunk), a beetle-browed Greek millionaire with bright gold teeth, a recently divorced young actress and several distinctly baffled guests from the hotel invited, presumably, to fill the space. Most of them seemed like wakes attending a burial at sea.

  Bond was the only one who seemed entirely at ease. He wore a beautifully cut white dinner suit and had a presence to be proud of. It seemed absurd to think that this tall figure with the lean tanned face was in his early fifties. He was extremely affable, laughing and joking and cheerfully talking golf to the General – this in itself a notable ordeal. Was he really happy – or resigned? Or was this one more role that he was playing? What a strange, enigmatic man he was.

  Honey, for all her youth and nervous energy, was looking older now. She also seemed distinctly anxious; vibrant and restless as a yo-yo, chatting to everyone and flashing her extraordinary smile.

  ‘The smile on the face of the tiger,’ said a voice beside me. It was Sir William Stephenson who was benignly watching what was going on.

  ‘Well, she's succeeded – like the tiger,’ I replied.

  ‘I wouldn't be so sure,’ he said, ‘She's not the first one to have tried,
you know.’

  But if James Bond was harbouring doubts about his future, he was keeping them strictly to himself. I saw him smiling frequently at Honey. When I congratulated him he nodded and replied that he thought that he'd enjoy himself. This seemed an odd remark from someone on the eve of marriage.

  ‘You're really giving up the old life then?’ I said.

  The grey eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yes, I think so. All that's over. Time for a change. I'm getting on, you know.’

  ‘What are your plans,’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I've a great deal to catch up on. I really won't object to being out to grass. Between us we've a lot of friends around the world, and Honey's business interests will be taking up my time. I thought I'd even try my hand at writing. There's that book I started on self-defence. Fleming was very keen that I should finish it. He even suggested a tide.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Stay Alive! From now on that will be my motto.’

  But despite Bond's optimism about his future, the air of melancholy lingered. As I left the yacht somebody was playing the Beatles’ record, ‘Yesterday’. I noticed Bond was on his own and staring out to sea. An era suddenly seemed over.

  *

  He had promised to conclude his story whilst he and Honey stayed on in Bermuda to complete formalities for their marriage – ‘that will be my last task for the Secret Service’. (Honey apparently had wanted the invaluable Captain Cullum to give them a shipboard wedding. Bond had vetoed the idea.) He also said he needed to make his official resignation from the Service. This would apparently take a little time.

  ‘I want it all done properly,’ he said. ‘I'm not having anybody say that I left out of pique or that I've acted badly. I simply feel that the time has come …’

  He raised both hands and made a slight grimace. This morning his confidence seemed to have deserted him and his face looked haggard. He had come down to see me in my room and we were sitting, as we had on that first morning after my arrival, out on the balcony. Bond was in the bamboo chair. When I think of him today, this is how I picture him – the strange mask of a face outlined against the sapphire waters of the harbour. Below us in the hotel pool the everlasting honeymooners giggled and splashed and swam; a fat girl was astride a plastic duck; the pool professional bounded from the spring-board, jack-knifed, then speared his languid way into the water.