James Bond said patiently: ‘It’s really quite simple. I’m who I say I am. I’m doing what I naturally would do, and that’s report back to M.’
‘Quite. But you must realize’ (a sympathetic smile) ‘that you’ve been out of contact for nearly a year. You’ve been officially posted as “missing believed killed”. Your obituary has even appeared in The Times. Have you any evidence of identity? I admit that you look very much like your photographs, but you must see that we have to be very sure before we pass you on up the ladder.’
‘A Miss Mary Goodnight was my secretary. She’d recognize me all right. So would dozens of other people at H.Q.’
‘Miss Goodnight’s been posted abroad. Can you give me a brief description of H.Q., just the main geography?’
Bond did so.
‘Right. Now, who was a Miss Maria Freudenstadt?’
‘Was?’
‘Yes, she’s dead.’
‘Thought she wouldn’t last long. She was a double, working for K.G.B. Section 100 controlled her. I wouldn’t get any thanks for telling you any more.’
Major Townsend had been primed with this very secret top question. He had been given the answer, more or less as Bond had put it. This was the clincher. This had to be James Bond. ‘Well, we’re getting on fine. Now, it only remains to find out where you’ve come from and where you’ve been all these months and I won’t keep you any longer.’
‘Sorry. I can only tell that to M. personally.’
‘I see.’ Major Townsend put on a thoughtful expression.‘Well, just let me make a telephone call or two and I’ll see what can be done.’ He got to his feet. ‘Seen today’s Times?’ He picked it up and handed it to Bond. It had been specially treated to give good prints. Bond took it. ‘Shan’t be long.’
Major Townsend shut the door behind him and went across the passage and through the door marked ‘A’ where he knew that ‘Mr Robson’ would be alone. ‘Sorry to bother you, Fred. Can I use your scrambler?’ The chunky man behind the desk grunted through the stem of his pipe and remained bent over the midday Evening Standard racing news.
Major Townsend picked up the green receiver and was put through to the Laboratory. ‘Major Townsend speaking. Any comment?’ He listened, carefully, said ‘thank you’, and got through to the Chief Security Officer at Headquarters. ‘Well, sir, I think it must be 007. Bit thinner than his photographs. I’ll be giving you his prints as soon as he’s gone. Wearing his usual rig – dark-blue single-breasted suit, white shirt, thin black knitted silk tie, black casuals – but they all look brand new. Raincoat bought yesterday from Burberry’s. Got the Freudenstadt question right, but says he won’t say anything about himself except to M. personally. But whoever he is, I don’t like it much. He fluffed on his special cigarettes. He’s got an odd sort of glazed, sort of far-away look, and the “Scope” shows that he’s carrying a gun in his right-hand coat pocket – curious sort of contraption, doesn’t seem to have got a butt to it. I’d say he’s a sick man. I wouldn’t personally recommend that M. should see him, but I wouldn’t know how we’re to get him to talk unless he does.’ He paused. ‘Very good, sir. I’ll stay by the telephone. I’m on Mr Robson’s extension.’
There was silence in the room. The two men didn’t get on well together. Major Townsend gazed into the gas fire, wondering about the man next door. The telephone burred. ‘Yes, sir? Very good, sir. Would your secretary send along a car from the pool? Thank you, sir.’
Bond was sitting in the same upright posture, The Times still unopened in his hand. Major Townsend said cheerfully, ‘Well, that’s fixed. Message from M. that he’s tremendously relieved you’re all right and he’ll be free in about half an hour. Car should be here in ten minutes or so. And the Chief of Staff says he hopes you’ll be free for lunch afterwards.’
James Bond smiled for the first time. It was a thin smile which didn’t light up his eyes. He said, ‘That’s very kind of him. Would you tell him I’m afraid I shan’t be free.’
2 | ATTENTAT!
The Chief of Staff stood in front of M. ’s desk and said firmly, ‘I really wouldn’t do it, sir. I can see him, or someone else can. I don’t like the smell of it at all. I think 007’s round the bend. There’s no doubt it’s him all right. The prints have just been confirmed by Chief of Security. And the pictures are all right – and the recording of his voice. But there are too many things that don’t add up. This forged passport we found in his room at the Ritz, for instance. All right. So he wanted to come back into the country quietly. But it’s too good a job. Typical K.G.B. sample. And the last entry is West Germany, day before yesterday. Why didn’t he report to Station B or W? Both those Heads of Station are friends of his, particularly 016 in Berlin. And why didn’t he go and have a look at his flat? He’s got some sort of a housekeeper there, Scots woman called May, who’s always sworn he was still alive and has kept the place going on her savings. The Ritz is sort of “stage” Bond. And these new clothes. Why did he have to bother? Doesn’t matter what he was wearing when he came in through Dover. Normal thing, if he was in rags, would have been to give me a ring – he had my home number – and get me to fix him up. Have a few drinks and run over his story and then report here. Instead of that we’ve got this typical penetration approach and Security worried as hell.’
The Chief of Staff paused. He knew he wasn’t getting through. As soon as he had begun, M. had swivelled his chair sideways and had remained, occasionally sucking at an unlighted pipe, gazing moodily out through the window at the jagged skyline of London. Obstinately, the Chief of Staff concluded, ‘Do you think you could leave this one to me, sir? I can get hold of Sir James Molony in no time and have 007 put into The Park for observation and treatment. It’ll all be done very gently. V.I.P. handling and so on. I can say you’ve been called to the Cabinet or something. Security says 007’s looking a bit thin. Build him up. Convalescence and all that. That can be the excuse. If he cuts up rough, we can always give him some dope. He’s a good friend of mine. He won’t hold it against us. He obviously needs to be got back in the groove – if we can do it, that is.’
M. slowly swivelled his chair round. He looked up at the tired, worried face that showed the strain of being the equivalent of Number Two in the Secret Service for ten years and more. M. smiled. ‘Thank you, Chief of Staff. But I’m afraid it’s not as easy as all that. I sent 007 out on his last job to shake him out of his domestic worries. You remember how it all came about. Well, we had no idea that what seemed a fairly peaceful mission was going to end up in a pitched battle with Blofeld. Or that 007 was going to vanish off the face of the earth for a year. Now we’ve got to know what happened during that year. And 007’s quite right. I sent him out on that mission and he’s got every right to report back to me personally. I know 007. He’s a stubborn fellow. If he says he won’t tell anyone else, he won’t. Of course I want to hear what happened to him. You’ll listen in. Have a couple of good men at hand. If he turns rough, come and get him. As for his gun’ – M. gestured vaguely at the ceiling – ‘I can look after that. Have you tested the damned thing?’
‘Yes, sir. It works all right. But…’
M. held up a hand. ‘Sorry, Chief of Staff. It’s an order.’ A light winked on the intercom. ‘That’ll be him. Send him straight in, would you?’
‘Very good, sir.’ The Chief of Staff went out and closed the door.