Bond, not daring to use his naked fists against the needles, vaulted sideways over the desk.
Panting and talking to herself in Russian, Rosa Klebb scuttled round the desk, the remaining needle held forward like a rapier. Bond backed away, working at the stuck gun. The back of his legs came against a small chair. He let go the gun and reached behind him and snatched it up. Holding it by the back, with its legs pointing like horns, he went round the desk to meet her. But she was beside the bogus telephone. She swept it up and aimed it. Her hand went to the button. Bond leapt forward. He crashed the chair down. Bullets sprayed into the ceiling and plaster pattered down on his head.
Bond lunged again. The legs of the chair clutched the woman round the waist and over her shoulders. God she was strong! She gave way, but only to the wall. There she held her ground, spitting at Bond over the top of the chair, while the knitting needle quested towards him like a long scorpion’s sting.
Bond stood back a little, holding the chair at arms’ length. He took aim and high-kicked at the probing wrist. The needle sailed away into the room and pinged down behind him.
Bond came in closer. He examined the position. Yes, the woman was held firmly against the wall by the four legs of the chair. There was no way she could get out of the cage except by brute force. Her arms and legs and head were free, but the body was pinned to the wall.
The woman hissed something in Russian. She spat at him over the chair. Bond bent his head and wiped his face against his sleeve. He looked up and into the mottled face.
‘That’s all, Rosa,’ he said. ‘The Deuxième will be here in a minute. In an hour or so you’ll be in London. You won’t be seen leaving the hotel. You won’t be seen going into England. In fact very few people will see you again. From now on you’re just a number on a secret file. By the time we’ve finished with you you’ll be ready for the lunatic asylum.’
The face, a few feet away, was changing. Now the blood had drained out of it, and it was yellow. But not, thought Bond, with fear. The pale eyes looked levelly into his. They were not defeated.
The wet, shapeless mouth lengthened in a grin.
‘And where will you be when I am in the asylum, Mister Bond?’
‘Oh, getting on with my life.’
‘I think not, Angliski spion.’
Bond hardly noticed the words. He had heard the click of the door opening. A burst of laughter came from the room behind him.
‘Eh bien,’ it was the voice of delight that Bond remembered so well. ‘The 70th position! Now, at last, I have seen everything. And invented by an Englishman! James, this really is an insult to my countrymen.’
‘I don’t recommend it,’ said Bond over his shoulder. ‘It’s too strenuous. Anyway, you can take over now. I’ll introduce you. Her name’s Rosa. You’ll like her. She’s a big noise in SMERSH – she looks after the murdering, as a matter of fact.’
Mathis came up. There were two laundry-men with him. The three of them stood and looked respectfully into the dreadful face.
‘Rosa,’ said Mathis thoughtfully. ‘But, this time, a Rosa Malheur. Well, well! But I am sure she is uncomfortable in that position. You two, bring along the panier de fleurs – she will be more comfortable lying down.’
The two men walked to the door. Bond heard the creak of the laundry basket.
The woman’s eyes were still locked in Bond’s. She moved a little, shifting her weight. Out of Bond’s sight, and not noticed by Mathis, who was still examining her face, the toe of one shiny buttoned boot pressed under the instep of the other. From the point of its toe there slid forward half an inch of thin knife blade. Like the knitting needles, the steel had a dirty bluish tinge.
The two men came up and put the big square basket down beside Mathis.
‘Take her,’ said Mathis. He bowed slightly to the woman. ‘It has been an honour.’
‘Au revoir, Rosa,’ said Bond.
The yellow eyes blazed briefly.
‘Farewell, Mister Bond.’
The boot, with its tiny steel tongue, flashed out.
Bond felt a sharp pain in his right calf. It was only the sort of pain you would get from a kick. He flinched and stepped back. The two men seized Rosa Klebb by the arms.
Mathis laughed. ‘My poor James,’ he said. ‘Count on SMERSH to have the last word.’
The tongue of dirty steel had withdrawn into the leather. Now it was only a harmless bundle of old woman that was being lifted into the basket.
Mathis watched the lid being secured. He turned to Bond. ‘It is a good day’s work you have done, my friend,’ he said. ‘But you look tired. Go back to the Embassy and have a rest because this evening we must have dinner together. The best dinner in Paris. And I will find the loveliest girl to go with it.’
Numbness was creeping up Bond’s body. He felt very cold. He lifted his hand to brush back the comma of hair over his right eyebrow. There was no feeling in his fingers. They seemed as big as cucumbers. His hand fell heavily to his side.
Breathing became difficult. Bond sighed to the depth of his lungs. He clenched his jaws and half closed his eyes, as people do when they want to hide their drunkenness.
Through his eyelashes he watched the basket being carried to the door. He prised his eyes open. Desperately he focused on Mathis.
‘I shan’t need a girl, René,’ he said thickly.
Now he had to gasp for breath. Again his hand moved up towards his cold face. He had an impression of Mathis starting towards him.
Bond felt his knees begin to buckle.
He said, or thought he said, ‘I’ve already got the loveliest …’
Bond pivoted slowly on his heel and crashed headlong to the wine-red floor.
THE END
DOCTOR NO
Book 6
1 | HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR
Punctually at six o’clock the sun set with a last yellow flash behind the Blue Mountains, a wave of violet shadow poured down Richmond Road, and the crickets and tree frogs in the fine gardens began to zing and tinkle.
Apart from the background noise of the insects, the wide empty street was quiet. The wealthy owners of the big, withdrawn houses – the bank managers, company directors and top civil servants – had been home since five o’clock and they would be discussing the day with their wives or taking a shower and changing their clothes. In half an hour the street would come to life again with the cocktail traffic, but now this very superior half mile of ‘Rich Road’, as it was known to the tradesmen of Kingston, held nothing but the suspense of an empty stage and the heavy perfume of night-scented jasmine.
Richmond Road is the ‘best’ road in all Jamaica. It is Jamaica’s Park Avenue, its Kensington Palace Gardens, its Avenue D’Iéna. The ‘best’ people live in its big old-fashioned houses, each in an acre or two of beautiful lawn set, too trimly, with the finest trees and flowers from the Botanical Gardens at Hope. The long, straight road is cool and quiet and withdrawn from the hot, vulgar sprawl of Kingston where its residents earn their money, and, on the other side of the T-intersection at its top, lie the grounds of King’s House, where the Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Jamaica lives with his family. In Jamaica, no road could have a finer ending.
On the eastern corner of the top intersection stands No. 1 Richmond Road, a substantial two-storey house with broad white-painted verandas running round both floors. From the road a gravel path leads up to the pillared entrance through wide lawns marked out with tennis courts on which this evening, as on all evenings, the sprinklers are at work. This mansion is the social Mecca of Kingston. It is Queen’s Club, which, for fifty years, has boasted the power and frequency of its blackballs.