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 detected 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.’