Moonraker (James Bond - Extended Series Book 3)

by Ian Fleming

  25 ....... ZERO PLUS

  ‘ … TWO hundred dead so far and about the same number missing,’ said M. ‘Reports still coming in from the East Coast and there’s bad news from Holland. Breached miles of their sea defences. Most of our losses were among the patrol craft. Two of them capsized, including the Merganzer. Commanding Officer missing. And that B.B.C. chap. Goodwin Lightships broke their moorings. No news from Belgium or France yet. There are going to be some pretty heavy bills to pay when everything gets sorted out.’

  It was the next afternoon and Bond, a rubber-tipped stick beside his chair, was back where he had started – across the desk from the quiet man with the cold grey eyes who had invited him to dinner and a game of cards a hundred years ago.

  Under his clothes Bond was latticed with surgical tape. Pain burned up his legs whenever he moved his feet. There was a vivid red streak across his left cheek and the bridge of his nose, and the tannic ointment dressing glinted in the light from the window. He held a cigarette clumsily in one gloved hand. Incredibly M. had invited him to smoke.

  ‘Any news of the submarine, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve located her,’ said M. with satisfaction. ‘Lying on her side in about thirty fathoms. The salvage ship that was to look after the remains of the rocket is over her now. The divers have been down and there’s no answer to signals against her hull. The Soviet Ambassador has been round at the Foreign Office this morning. I gather he says a salvage ship is on her way down from the Baltic, but we’ve said that we can’t wait as the wreck’s a danger to navigation.’ M. chuckled. ‘So she would be I dare say if anyone happened to be navigating at thirty fathoms in the Channel. But I’m glad I’m not a member of the Cabinet,’ he added drily. ‘They’ve been in session on and off since the end of the broadcast. Vallance got hold of those Edinburgh solicitors before they’d opened Drax’s message to the world. I gather it’s a terrific document. Reads as if it had been written by Jehovah. Vallance took it to the Cabinet last night and stayed at No. 10 to fill in the blanks.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bond. ‘He kept on telephoning me at the hospital for details until after midnight. I could hardly think straight for all the dope they’d pushed into me. What’s going to happen?’

  ‘They’re going to try the biggest cover-up job in history,’ said M. ‘A lot of scientific twaddle about the fuel having been only half used up. Unexpectedly powerful explosion on impact. Full compensation to be paid. Tragic loss of Sir Hugo Drax and his team. Great patriot. Tragic loss of one of H.M. submarines. Latest experimental model. Orders misunderstood. Very sad. Fortunately only a skeleton crew. Next of kin will be informed. Tragic loss of B.B.C. man. Unaccountable error in mistaking White Ensign for Soviet naval colours. Very similar design. White Ensign recovered from the wreck.’

  ‘But what about the atomic explosion?’ asked Bond. ‘Radiation and atomic dust and all that. The famous mushroom-shaped cloud. Surely that’s going to be a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Apparently it’s not worrying them too much,’ said M. ‘The cloud is going to be passed off as the normal formation after an explosion of that size. The Ministry of Supply know the whole story. Had to be told. Their men were down on the East Coast all last night with Geiger counters and there’s not been a positive report yet.’ M. smiled coldly. ‘The cloud’s got to come down somewhere, of course, but by a happy chance such wind as there is is drifting it up north. Back home, as you might say.’

  Bond smiled painfully. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘How very appropriate.’

  ‘Of course,’ continued M., picking up his pipe and starting to fill it, ‘there are going to be some nasty rumours. They’ve begun already. A lot of people saw you and Miss Brand being brought out of the site on stretchers. Then there’s the Bowaters’ case against Drax for the loss of all that newsprint. There’ll be the inquest on the young man who was killed in the Alfa Romeo. And somebody’s got to explain away the remains of your car, amongst which,’ he looked accusingly at Bond, ‘a long-barrel Colt was found. And then there’s the Ministry of Supply. Vallance had to call some of their men yesterday to help clean out that house in Ebury Street. But those people are trained to keep secrets. You won’t get a leak there. Naturally it’s going to be a risky business. The big lie always is. But what’s the alternative? Trouble with Germany? War with Russia? Lots of people on both sides of the Atlantic would be only too glad of an excuse.’

  M. paused and put a match to his pipe. ‘If the story holds,’ he continued reflectively, ‘we shan’t come out of this too badly. We’ve wanted one of their high-speed U-boats and we’ll be glad of the clues we can pick up about their atom bombs. The Russians know that we know that their gamble failed. Malenkov’s none too firmly in the saddle and this may mean another Kremlin revolt. As for the Germans. Well, we all knew there was plenty of Nazism left and this will make the Cabinet go just a bit more carefully on German rearmament. And, as a very minor consequence,’ he gave a wry smile, ‘it will make Vallance’s security job, and mine for the matter of that, just a little bit easier in the future. These politicians can’t see that the atomic age has created the most deadly saboteur in the history of the world – the little man with the heavy suitcase.’

  ‘Will the Press wear the story?’ asked Bond dubiously.

  M. shrugged his shoulders. ‘The Prime Minister saw the editors this morning,’ he said, putting another match to his pipe, ‘and I gather he’s got away with it so far. If the rumours get bad later on, he’ll probably have to see them again and tell them some of the truth. Then they’ll play all right. They always do when it’s important enough. The main thing is to gain time and stave off the firebrands. For the moment everyone’s so proud of the Moonraker that they’re not inquiring too closely into what went wrong.’

  There was a soft burr from the intercom on M.’s desk and a ruby light winked on and off. M. picked up the single earphone and leant towards it. ‘Yes?’ he said. There was a pause. ‘I’ll take it on the Cabinet line.’ He picked up the white receiver from the bank of four telephones.

  ‘Yes,’ said M. ‘Speaking.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, sir? Over.’ M. pressed down the button of his scrambler. He held the receiver close to his ear and not a sound from it reached Bond. There was a long pause during which M. puffed occasionally at the pipe in his left hand. He took it out of his mouth. ‘I agree, sir.’ Another pause. ‘I know my man would have been very proud, sir. But of course it’s a rule here.’ M. frowned. ‘If you will allow me to say so, sir, I think it would be very unwise.’ A pause, then M.’s face cleared. ‘Thank you, sir. And of course Vallance has not got the same problem. And it would be the least she deserves.’ Another pause. ‘I understand. That will be done.’ Another pause. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’

  M. put the white receiver back on its cradle and the scrambler button clicked back to the en clair position.

  For a moment M. continued to look at the telephone as if in doubt about what had been said. Then he twisted his chair away from the desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

  There was silence in the room and Bond shifted in his chair to ease the pain that was creeping back into his body.

  The same pigeon as on Monday, or perhaps another one, came to rest on the window-sill with the same clatter of wings. It walked up and down, nodding and cooing, and then planed off towards the trees in the park. The traffic murmured sleepily in the distance.

  How nearly it had come, thought Bond, to being stilled. How nearly there might be nothing now but the distant clang of the ambulance bells beneath a lurid black and orange sky, the stench of burning, the screams of people still trapped in the buildings. The softly beating heart of London silenced for a generation. And a whole generation of her people dead in the streets amongst the ruins of a civilization that might not rise again for centuries.

  All that would have come about but for a man who scornfully cheated at cards to feed the fires of his maniac ego; but for the stuffy chairman of Blades who det
ected him; but for M. who agreed to help an old friend; but for Bond’s half-remembered lessons from a card-sharper; but for Vallance’s precautions; but for Gala’s head for figures; but for a whole pattern of tiny circumstances, a whole pattern of chance.

  Whose pattern?

  There was a shrill squeak as M.’s chair swivelled round. Bond carefully focused again on the grey eyes across the desk.

  ‘That was the Prime Minister,’ M. said gruffly. ‘Says he wants you and Miss Brand out of the country.’ M. lowered his eyes and looked stolidly into the bowl of his pipe. ‘You’re both to be out by tomorrow afternoon. There are too many people in this case who know your faces. Might put two and two together when they see the shape you’re both in. Go anywhere you like. Unlimited expenses for both of you. Any currency you like. I’ll tell the Paymaster. Stay away for a month. But keep out of circulation. You’d both be gone this afternoon only the girl’s got an appointment at eleven tomorrow morning. At the Palace. Immediate award of the George Cross. Won’t be gazetted until the New Year of course. Like to meet her one day. Must be a good girl. As a matter of fact,’ M.’s expression as he looked up was unreadable, ‘the Prime Minister had something in mind for you. Forgotten that we don’t go in for those sort of things here. So he asked me to thank you for him. Said some nice things about the Service. Very kind of him.’

  M. gave one of the rare smiles that lit up his face with quick brightness and warmth. Bond smiled back. They understood the things that had to be left unsaid.

  Bond knew it was time to go. He got up. ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’m glad about the girl.’

  ‘All right then,’ said M. on a note of dismissal. ‘Well, that’s the lot. See you in a month. Oh and by the way,’ he added casually. ‘Call in at your office. You’ll find something there from me. Little memento.’

  James Bond went down in the lift and limped along the familiar corridor to his office. When he walked through the inner door he found his secretary arranging some papers on the next desk to his.

  ‘008 coming back?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled happily. ‘He’s being flown out tonight.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ll have company,’ said Bond. ‘I’m going off again.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She looked quickly at his face and then away. ‘You look as if you needed a bit of a rest.’

  ‘I’m going to get one,’ said Bond. ‘A month’s exile.’ He thought of Gala. ‘It’s going to be pure holiday. Anything for me?’

  ‘Your new car’s downstairs. I’ve inspected it. The man said you’d ordered it on trial this morning. It looks lovely. Oh, and there’s a parcel from M.’s office. Shall I unpack it?’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Bond.

  He sat down at his desk and looked at his watch. Five o’clock. He was feeling tired. He knew he was going to feel tired for several days. He always got these reactions at the end of an ugly assignment, the aftermath of days of taut nerves, tension, fear.

  His secretary came back into the room with two heavy-looking cardboard boxes. She put them on his desk and he opened the top one. When he saw the grease-paper he knew what to expect.

  There was a card in the box. He took it out and read it. In M.’s green ink it said: ‘You may be needing these.’ There was no signature.

  Bond unwrapped the grease-paper and cradled the shining new Beretta in his hand. A memento. No. A reminder. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped the gun under his coat into the empty holster. He got clumsily to his feet.

  ‘There’ll be a long-barrel Colt in the other box,’ he said to his secretary. ‘Keep it until I get back. Then I’ll take it down to the range and fire it in.’

  He walked to the door. ‘So long, Lil,’ he said, ‘regards to 008 and tell him to be careful of you. I’ll be in France. Station F will have the address. But only in an emergency.’

  She smiled at him. ‘How much of an emergency?’ she asked.

  Bond gave a short laugh. ‘Any invitation to a quiet game of bridge,’ he said.

  He limped out and shut the door behind him.

  The 1953 Mark VI had an open touring body. It was battleship grey like the old 4½ litre that had gone to its grave in a Maidstone garage, and the dark blue leather upholstery gave a luxurious hiss as he climbed awkwardly in beside the test driver.

  Half an hour later the driver helped him out at the corner of Birdcage Walk and Queen Anne’s Gate. ‘We could get more speed out of her if you want it, sir,’ he said. ‘If we could have her back for a fortnight we could tune her to do well over the hundred.’

  ‘Later,’ said Bond. ‘She’s sold. On one condition. That you get her over to the ferry terminal at Calais by tomorrow evening.’

  The test driver grinned. ‘Roger,’ he said. ‘I’ll take her over myself. See you on the pier, sir.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Bond. ‘Go easy on A20. The Dover road’s a dangerous place these days.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said the driver, thinking that this man must be a bit of a cissy for all that he seemed to know plenty about motor-cars. ‘Piece of cake.’

  ‘Not every day,’ said Bond with a smile. ‘See you at Calais.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he limped off with his stick through the dusty bars of evening sunlight that filtered down through the trees in the park.

  Bond sat down on one of the seats opposite the island in the lake and took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to six. He reminded himself that she was the sort of girl who would be punctual. He had reserved the corner table for dinner. And then? But first there would be the long luxurious planning. What would she like? Where would she like to go? Where had she ever been? Germany, of course. France? Miss out Paris. They could do that on their way back. Get as far as they could the first night, away from the Pas de Calais. There was that farmhouse with the wonderful food between Montreuil and Etaples. Then the fast sweep down to the Loire. The little places near the river for a few days. Not the chateau towns. Places like Beaugency, for instance. Then slowly south, always keeping to the western roads, avoiding the five-star life. Slowly exploring. Bond pulled himself up. Exploring what? Each other? Was he getting serious about this girl?

  ‘James.’

  It was a clear, high, rather nervous voice. Not the voice he had expected.

  He looked up. She was standing a few feet away from him. He noticed that she was wearing a black beret at a rakish angle and that she looked exciting and mysterious like someone you see driving by abroad, alone in an open car, someone unattainable and more desirable than anyone you have ever known. Someone who is on her way to make love to somebody else. Someone who is not for you.

  He got up and they took each other’s hands.

  It was she who released herself. She didn’t sit down.

  ‘I wish you were going to be there tomorrow, James.’ Her eyes were soft as she looked at him. Soft, but, he thought, somehow evasive.

  He smiled. ‘Tomorrow morning or tomorrow night?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she laughed, blushing. ‘I meant at the Palace.’

  ‘What are you going to do afterwards?’ asked Bond.

  She looked at him carefully. What did the look remind him of? The Morphy look? The look he had given Drax on that last hand at Blades? No. Not quite. There was something else there. Tenderness? Regret?

  She looked over his shoulder.

  Bond turned round. A hundred yards away there was the tall figure of a young man with fair hair trimmed short. His back was towards them and he was idling along, killing time.

  Bond turned back and Gala’s eyes met his squarely.

  ‘I’m going to marry that man,’ she said quietly. ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ And then, as if no other explanation was needed, ‘His name’s Detective-Inspector Vivian.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bond. He smiled stiffly. ‘I see.’

  There was a moment of silence during which their eyes slid away from each other.
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  And yet why should he have expected anything else? A kiss. The contact of two frightened bodies clinging together in the midst of danger. There had been nothing more. And there had been the engagement ring to tell him. Why had he automatically assumed that it had only been worn to keep Drax at bay? Why had he imagined that she shared his desires, his plans?

  And now what? wondered Bond. He shrugged his shoulders to shift the pain of failure – the pain of failure that is so much greater than the pleasure of success. An exit line. He must get out of these two young lives and take his cold heart elsewhere. There must be no regrets. No false sentiment. He must play the role which she expected of him. The tough man of the world. The Secret Agent. The man who was only a silhouette.

  She was looking at him rather nervously, waiting to be relieved of the stranger who had tried to get his foot in the door of her heart.

  Bond smiled warmly at her. ‘I’m jealous,’ he said. ‘I had other plans for you tomorrow night.’

  She smiled back at him, grateful that the silence had been broken. ‘What were they?’ she asked.

  ‘I was going to take you off to a farmhouse in France,’ he said. ‘And after a wonderful dinner I was going to see if it’s true what they say about the scream of a rose.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m sorry I can’t oblige. But there are plenty of others waiting to be picked.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Bond. ‘Well, goodbye, Gala.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Goodbye, James.’

  He touched her for the last time and then they turned away from each other and walked off into their different lives.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Courtesy of the Cecil Beaton Studio Archive at Sotheby’s