M. threw the papers down on his desk. His pipe had gone out and he now slowly lit it again. He tossed the spent match accurately over his shoulder into the fire. He put his hands flat on the desk and said – and there was an unusual kindness in his voice – ‘Well, you were pretty lucky to get out of that one, James. Didn’t know you could ski.’
‘I only just managed to stay upright, sir. Wouldn’t like to try it again.’
‘No. And I see you say you can’t come to any conclusions about what Blofeld is up to?’
‘That’s right, sir. Haven’t got a clue.’
‘Well, nor have I. I just don’t understand any part of it. Perhaps the professors’ll help us out this afternoon. But you’re obviously right that it’s SPECTRE all over again. By the way, your tip about Pontresina was a good one. He was a Bulgar. Can’t remember his name, but Interpol turned him up for us. Plastic explosives expert. Worked for K.G.B. in Turkey. If it’s true that the U2 that fellow Powers was piloting was brought down by delayed charges and not by rockets, it may be this man was implicated. He was on the list of suspects. Then he turned free-lance. Went into business on his own. That’s probably when SPECTRE picked him up. We were doubtful about your identification of Blofeld. The Pontresina lead helped a lot. You’re absolutely sure of him, are you? He certainly seems to have done a good job on his face and stomach. Better set him up on the Identicast when you get back this evening. We’ll have a look at him and get the views of the medical gentry.’
‘I think it must be him, sir. I was really getting the authentic smell of him on the last day – yesterday, that is. It seems a long time ago already.’
‘You were lucky to run into this girl. Who is she? Some old flame of yours?’ M.’s mouth turned down at the corners.
‘More or less, sir. She came into my report on the first news we got that Blofeld was in Switzerland. Daughter of this man Draco, head of the Union Corse. Her mother was an English governess.’
‘Hm. Interesting breeding. Now then. Time for lunch. I told Hammond we weren’t to be disturbed.’ M. got up and pressed the bell by the fire-place. ‘’Fraid we’ve got to go through the turkey and plum pudding routine. Mrs Hammond’s been brooding over her pots and pans for weeks. Damned sentimental rubbish.’
Hammond appeared at the door, and Bond followed M. through and into the small dining-room beyond the hall whose walls glittered with M.’s other hobby, the evolution of the naval cutlass. They sat down. M. said, with mock ferocity, to Hammond, ‘All right, Chief Petty Officer Hammond. Do your worst.’ And then, with real vehemence, ‘What in hell are those things doing here?’ He pointed at the centre of the table.
‘Crackers, sir,’ said Hammond stolidly. ‘Mrs Hammond thought that seeing as you have company …’
‘Throw them out. Give ’em to the schoolchildren. I’ll go so far with Mrs Hammond, but I’m damned if I’m going to have my dining-room turned into a nursery.’
Hammond smiled. He said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ gathered up the shimmering crackers and departed.
Bond was aching for a drink. He got a small glass of very old Marsala and most of a bottle of very bad Algerian wine.
M. treated his two glasses as if they had been Château Lafitte. ‘Good old “Infuriator”. Staple drink for the fleet in the Mediterranean. Got real guts to it. I remember an old shipmate of mine, McLachlan, my Chief Gunnery Officer at the time, betting he could get down six bottles of the stuff. Damn fool. Measured his length on the wardroom floor after only three. Drink up, James! Drink up!’
At last the plum pudding arrived, flaming traditionally. Mrs Hammond had implanted several cheap silver gewgaws in it and M. nearly broke a tooth on the miniature horseshoe. Bond got the bachelor’s button. He thought of Tracy. It should have been the ring!
21 | THE MAN FROM AG. AND FISH.
They had coffee in M.’s study and smoked the thin black cheroots of which M. allowed himself two a day. Bond burnt his tongue on his. M. continued with his stories about the Navy which Bond could listen to all day – stories of battles, tornadoes, bizarre happenings, narrow shaves, courts martial, eccentric officers, neatly-worded signals, as when Admiral Somerville, commanding the battleship Queen Elizabeth, had passed the liner Queen Elizabeth in mid-Atlantic and had signalled the one word ‘SNAP’! Perhaps it was all just the stuff of boys’ adventure books, but it was all true and it was about a great navy that was no more and a great breed of officers and seamen that would never be seen again.
It was three o’clock. A car’s wheels scrunched on the gravel outside. Dusk was already creeping into the room. M. got up and switched on the lights and Bond arranged two more chairs up against the desk. M. said, ‘That’ll be 501. You’ll have come across him. Head of the Scientific Research Section. And a man called Franklin from the Ministry of Agriculture. 501 says he’s the top on his subject – Pest Control. Don’t know why Ag. and Fish. chose to send him in particular, but the Minister told me they’ve got a bit of trouble on their hands, wouldn’t tell even me what it is, and they think you may have run into something pretty big. We’ll let them have a look at your report and see what they make of it. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The door opened and the two men came in.
Number 501 of the Secret Service, whose name Bond remembered was Leathers, was a big-boned, rangy man with the stoop and thick spectacles of the stage scientist. He had a pleasant, vague smile and no deference, but only politeness, towards M. He was appropriately dressed in shaggy tweeds and his knitted woollen tie didn’t cover his collar stud. The other man was small and brisk and keen-looking, with darting, amused eyes. As became a senior representative of a Ministry who had received his orders from his Minister in person and who knew nothing of Secret Services, he had put on a neat dark-blue pin-stripe and a stiff white collar. His black shoes gleamed efficiently. So did the leather of his fat brief-case. His greeting was reserved, neutral. He wasn’t quite sure where he was or what this was all about. He was going to smell his way carefully in this business, be wary of what he said and how far he committed his Ministry. Of such, Bond reflected, is ‘Government’.
When the appropriate greetings and apologies for disturbed Christmases had been made, and they were in their chairs, M. said, ‘Mr Franklin, if you’ll forgive my saying so, everything you are going to see and hear in this room is subject to the Official Secrets Act. You will no doubt be in possession of many secret matters affecting your own Ministry. I would be grateful if you would respect those of the Ministry of Defence. May I ask you to discuss what you are about to hear only with your Minister personally?’
Mr Franklin made a little bow of acquiescence. ‘My Minister has already instructed me accordingly. My particular duties in the Ministry have accustomed me to handling Top Secret matters. You need have no reservations in what you tell me. Now then’ – the amused eyes rested on each of the other three in turn – ‘perhaps you can tell me what this is all about. I know practically nothing except that a man on top of an alp is making efforts to improve our agriculture and livestock. Very decent of him. So why are we treating him as if he had stolen atomic secrets?’