There was a single black telephone on the desk. He picked up the receiver and at once Bond heard the soft crackle of the operator responding. ‘Dammi u commandu.’ Marc-Ange put the receiver back. ‘I have asked for my local headquarters in Ajaccio. We will have them in five minutes. But I must speak fast. The police may know my frequency, though I change it every week. But the Corsican dialect helps.’ The telephone burred. When Marc-Ange picked up the receiver, Bond could hear the zing and crackle he knew so well. Marc-Ange spoke, in a voice of rasping authority. ‘Ecco u Capu. Avette nuttizie di Blofeld, Ernst Stavro? Duve sta?’ A voice crackled thinly. ‘Site sigura? Ma no ezzatu indirizzu?’ More crackle. ‘Buon. Sara tutto.’
Marc-Ange put back the receiver. He spread his hands apologetically. ‘All we know is that he is in Switzerland. We have no exact address for him. Will that help? Surely your men there can find him – if the Swiss Sécurité will help. But they are difficult brutes when it comes to the privacy of a resident, particularly if he is rich.’
Bond’s pulse had quickened with triumph. Got you, you bastard! He said enthusiastically, ‘That’s wonderful, Marc-Ange. The rest shouldn’t be difficult. We have good friends in Switzerland.’
Marc-Ange smiled happily at Bond’s reaction. He said seriously, ‘But if things go wrong for you, on this case or in any other way, you will come at once to me. Yes?’ He pulled open a drawer and handed a sheet of notepaper over to Bond. ‘This is my open address. Telephone or cable to me, but put your request or your news in terms that would be used in connection with electrical appliances. A consignment of radios is faulty. You will meet my representative at such and such a place, on such and such a date. Yes? You understand these tricks, and anyway’ – he smiled slyly – ‘I believe you are connected with an international export firm. “Universal Export”, isn’t it?’
Bond smiled. How did the old devil know these things? Should he warn Security? No. This man had become a friend. And anyway, all this was Herkos Odonton!
Marc-Ange said diffidently, ‘And now may I bring in Teresa? She does not know what we have been discussing. Let us say it is about one of the South of France jewel robberies. You represent the insurance company. I have been making a private deal with you. You can manage that? Good.’ He got up and came over to Bond and put his hand on Bond’s shoulder. ‘And thank you. Thank you for everything.’ Then he went out of the door.
Oh my God! thought Bond. Now for my side of the bargain.
6 | BOND OF BOND STREET?
It was two months later, in London, and James Bond was driving lazily up from his Chelsea flat to his headquarters.
It was nine-thirty in the morning of yet another beautiful day of this beautiful year, but, in Hyde Park, the fragrance of burning leaves meant that winter was only just round the corner. Bond had nothing on his mind except the frustration of waiting for Station Z somehow to penetrate the reserves of the Swiss Sécurité and come up with the exact address of Blofeld. But their ‘friends’ in Zurich were continuing to prove obtuse, or more probably, obstinate. There was no trace of any man, either tourist or resident, called Blofeld in the whole of Switzerland. Nor was there any evidence of the existence of a reborn SPECTRE on Swiss soil. Yes, they fully realized that Blofeld was still urgently ‘wanted’ by the governments of the N.A.T.O. alliance. They had carefully filed all the circulars devoted to the apprehension of this man, and for the past year he had been constantly reconfirmed on their ‘watch’ lists at all frontier posts. They were very sorry, but unless the S.I.S. could come up with further information or evidence about this man, they must assume that the S.I.S. was acting on mistaken evidence. Station Z had asked for an examination of the secret lists at the banks, a search through those anonymous ‘numbered’ accounts which conceal the owners of most of the fugitive money in the world. This request had been peremptorily refused. Blofeld was certainly a great criminal, but the Sécurité must point out that such information could only be legally obtained if the criminal in question was guilty of some crime committed on Federal soil and indictable under the Federal Code. It was true that this Blofeld had held up Britain and America to ransom by his illegal possession of atomic weapons. But this could not be considered a crime under the laws of Switzerland, and particularly not having regard to Article 47B of the banking laws. So that was that! The Holy Franc, and the funds which backed it, wherever they came from, must remain untouchable. Wir bitten höflichst um Entschuldigung!
Bond wondered if he should get in touch with Marc-Ange. So far, in his report, he had revealed only a lead into the Union Corse, whom he gave, corporately, as the source of his information. But he shied away from this course of action, which would surely have, as one consequence, the reopening with Marc-Ange of the case of Tracy. And that corner of his life, of his heart, he wanted to leave undisturbed for the time being. Their last evening together had passed quietly, almost as if they had been old friends, old lovers. Bond had said that Universal Export was sending him abroad for some time. They would certainly meet when he returned to Europe. The girl had accepted this arrangement. She herself had decided to go away for a rest. She had been doing too much. She had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She would wait for him. Perhaps they could go skiing together around Christmas time? Bond had been enthusiastic. That night, after a wonderful dinner at Bond’s little restaurant, they had made love, happily, and this time without desperation, without tears. Bond was satisfied that the cure had really begun. He felt deeply protective towards her. But he knew that their relationship, and her equanimity, rested on a knife-edge which must not be disturbed.
It was at this moment in his reflections that the Syncraphone in his trouser pocket began to bleep. Bond accelerated out of the park and drew up beside the public telephone booth at Marble Arch. The Syncraphone had recently been introduced and was carried by all officers attached to Headquarters. It was a light plastic radio receiver about the size of a pocket watch. When an officer was somewhere in London, within a range of ten miles of Headquarters, he could be bleeped on the receiver. When this happened, it was his duty to go at once to the nearest telephone and contact his office. He was urgently needed.
Bond rang his exchange on the only outside number he was allowed to use, said ‘007 reporting’, and was at once put through to his secretary. She was a new one. Loelia Ponsonby had at last left to marry a dull, but worthy and rich member of the Baltic Exchange, and confined her contacts with her old job to rather yearning Christmas and birthday cards to the members of the Double-O Section. But the new one, Mary Goodnight, an ex-Wren with blue-black hair, blue eyes, and 37-22-35, was a honey and there was a private five-pound sweep in the Section as to who would get her first. Bond had been lying equal favourite with the ex-Royal Marine Commando who was 006 but, since Tracy, had dropped out of the field and now regarded himself as a rank outsider, though he still, rather bitchily, flirted with her. Now he said to her, ‘Good morning, Goodnight. What can I do for you? Is it war or peace?’
She giggled unprofessionally. ‘It sounds fairly peaceful, as peaceful as a hurry message from upstairs can be. You’re to go at once to the College of Arms and ask for Griffon Or.’
‘Or what?’
‘Just Or. Oh, and he’s Pursuivant as well, whatever that means. He’s one of the Heralds. Apparently they’ve got some kind of a line on “Bedlam”.’
‘Bedlam’ was the code name for the pursuit of Blofeld. Bond said respectfully, ‘Have they indeed? Then I’d better get cracking. Goodbye, Goodnight.’ He heard her giggle before he put the receiver down.