Under the table, Blofeld’s right hand came up off his thigh, found the knob, and pulled the switch.
The body of Pierre Borraud, seized in the iron fist of 3,000 volts, arced in the armchair as if it had been kicked in the back. The rough mat of black hair rose sharply straight up on his head and remained upright, a gollywog fringe for the contorted, bursting face. The eyes glared wildly and then faded. A blackened tongue slowly protruded between the snarling teeth and remained hideously extended. Thin wisps of smoke rose from under the hands, from the middle of the back, and from under the thighs where the concealed electrodes in the chair had made contact. Blofeld pulled back the switch. The lights in the room that had dimmed to orange, making a dull supernatural glow, brightened to normal. The roasted meat and burned fabric smell spread slowly. The body of No. 12 crumpled horribly. There was a sharp crack as the chin hit the edge of the table. It was all over.
Blofeld’s soft, even voice broke the silence. He looked down the table at No. 7. He noted that the staunch, impassive stance had not quavered. This was a good man with good nerves. Blofeld said, ‘Sit down No. 7. I am satisfied with your conduct.’ (Satisfaction was Blofeld’s highest expression of praise.) ‘It was necessary to distract the attention of No. 12. He knew that he was under suspicion. There might have been an untidy scene.’
Some of the men round the table nodded their understanding. As usual, Blofeld’s reasoning made good sense. No one was greatly perturbed or surprised by what they had witnessed. Blofeld always exercised his authority, meted out justice, in full view of the members. There had been two previous occasions of this nature, both at similar meetings and both on security or disciplinary grounds which affected the cohesion, the inner strength, of the whole team. In one, the offender had been shot by Blofeld through the heart with a thick needle fired from a compressed air pistol – no mean feat at around twelve paces. In the other, the guilty man, who had been seated next to Blofeld on his left hand, had been garrotted with a wire noose casually flicked over his head and then, with two swift steps by Blofeld, pulled tight over the back of the man’s chair. Those two deaths had been just, necessary. So had this death, the third. Now, the members, ignoring the heap of death at the end of the table, settled in their chairs. It was time to get back to business.
Blofeld snapped shut the gold vinaigrette and slipped it into a waistcoat pocket. ‘The Corsican section,’ he said softly, ‘will put forward recommendations for a replacement for No. 12. But that can wait until after completion of Plan Omega. On this matter, there are certain details to be discussed. Sub-operator G, recruited by the German section, has made an error, a serious error which radically affects our time-table. This man, whose membership of the Red Lightning Tong in Macao should have made him expert in conspiracy, was instructed to make his headquarters at a certain clinic in the south of England, an admirable refuge for his purposes. His instructions were to keep intermittent contact with the airman Petacchi at the not-far-distant Boscombe Down airfield where the bomber squadron is under training. He was to report at intervals on the airman’s fitness and morale. His reports have been satisfactory, and the airman, by the way, continues to be willing. But Sub-operator G was also required to post The Letter on D plus One, or three days from now. Unfortunately this foolish man took it upon himself to become embroiled in a hotheaded fashion with some fellow patient, at the clinic, as a result of which, and I need not go into details, he is now in Brighton Central Hospital suffering from second-degree burns. He is thus out of action for at least a week. This will involve an irritating but fortunately not a serious delay in Plan Omega. Fresh instructions have been issued. The airman Petacchi has been provided with a phial of influenza virus of sufficient strength for him to remain on the sick list for one week during which he will be unable to accept his test flight. He will take the first flight after his recovery and alert us accordingly. The date of his flight will be communicated to Sub-operator G and he will by that time be recovered and will post The Letter according to plan. The Special Executive,’ Blofeld glanced round the table, ‘will readjust their flight schedules to Area Zeta in accordance with the new operational schedule. As for Sub-operator G’ – Blofeld bent his gaze, one by one, on the three ex-Gestapo men – ‘this is an unreliable agent. The German section will make arrangements for his elimination within twenty-four hours of the posting of The Letter. Is that understood?’
The three German faces stood unanimously to attention, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘For the rest,’ continued Blofeld, ‘all is in order. No. 1 has solidly established his cover in Area Zeta. The treasure-hunting myth continues to be built up and has already gained full credence. The crew of the yacht, all hand-picked sub-operators, are accepting the discipline and the security regulations better than had been expected. A suitable land base has been secured. It is remote and not easily accessible. It belongs to an eccentric Englishman, the nature of whose friends and personal habits demands seclusion. Your arrival in Area Zeta continues to be minutely planned. Your wardrobe awaits you in Areas F and D, according to your various flight plans. This wardrobe, down to the smallest detail, will be in accordance with your identities as financial backers of the treasure hunt who have demanded to visit the scene and take part in the adventure. You are not gullible millionaires. You are the kind of rich, middle-class rentiers and businessmen who might be expected to be taken in by such a scheme. You are all shrewd, so you have come to watch over your investment and ensure that not one doubloon goes astray.’ (Nobody smiled.) ‘You are all aware of the part you have to play and I trust that you have studied your respective roles with close attention.’
There was a careful nodding of heads round the table. These men were all satisfied that not too much had been asked of them in the matter of their cover. This one was a rich café proprietor from Marseilles. (He had been one. He could talk to anyone about the business.) That one had vineyards in Yugoslavia. (He had been brought up in Bled. He could talk vintages and crop-sprays with a Calvet from Bordeaux.) That one had smuggled cigarettes from Tangier. (He had done so and would be just sufficiently discreet about it.) All of them had been given covers that would stand up at least to second degree inspection.
‘In the matter of aqualung training,’ continued Blofeld, ‘I would like reports from each section.’ Blofeld looked at the Yugoslav section on his left.
‘Satisfactory.’ ‘Satisfactory,’ echoed the German section, and the word was repeated round the table.
Blofeld commented, ‘The safety factor is paramount in all underwater operations. Has this factor received sufficient attention in your respective training schedules?’ Affirmative. ‘And exercises with the new CO2 underwater gun?’ Again all sections reported favourably. ‘And now,’ continued Blofeld, ‘I would like a report from the Sicilian section on the preparations for the bullion drop.’
Fidelio Sciacca was a gaunt, cadaverous Sicilian with a closed face. He might have been, and had been, a schoolmaster with communist leanings. He spoke for the section because his English, the compulsory language of the Special Executive, was the best. He said, in a careful, expository tone of voice, ‘The chosen area has been carefully reconnoitred. It is satisfactory. I have here,’ he touched the briefcase on his lap, ‘the plans and detailed time-table for the information of the Chairman and members. Briefly, the designated area, Area T, is on the north-west slopes of Mount Etna, above the tree line – that is to say between the altitudes of 2,000 and 3,000 metres. This is an uninhabited and uncultivated area of black lava on the upper slopes of the volcano more or less above the small town of Bronte. For the purpose of the drop, an area approximately two kilometres square will be marked out by the torches of the recovery team. In the centre of this area will be positioned a Decca Aircraft Homing Signal as an additional navigational aid. The bullion flight, which I estimate conservatively will consist of five Mark IV Transport Comets, should make their run in at ten thousand feet at an air speed of 300 m.p.h. Having regard to the weight of each consignment, multiple parachutes will be needed, and, owing to the harsh nature of the terrain, very careful packing in foam rubber will be essential. The parachutes and the packings should be coated in Dayglo or some phosphorescent paint to assist recovery. No doubt,’ the man opened his hands, ‘the SPECTRE memorandum of dropping instructions will include these and other details, but very careful planning and coordination by those responsible for the flight will be necessary.’