The James Bond Anthology

7 | ‘FASTEN YOUR LAP-STRAP’

James Bond scraped the last dregs of yoghurt out of the bottom of the carton that said ‘Goat-milk culture. From our own Goat Farm at Stanway, Glos. The Heart of the Cotswolds. According to an authentic Bulgarian recipe.’ He took an Energen roll, sliced it carefully – they are apt to crumble – and reached for the black treacle. He masticated each mouthful thoroughly. Saliva contains ptyalin. Thorough mastication creates ptyalin which helps to convert starches into sugar to supply energy for the body. Ptyalin is an enzyme. Other enzymes are pepsin, found in the stomach, and trypsin and erepsin found in the intestine. These and other enzymes are chemical substances that break up the food as it passes through the mouth, the stomach, and the digestive tract and help absorb it directly into the blood-stream. James Bond now had all these important facts at his finger-tips. He couldn’t understand why no one had told him these things before. Since leaving Shrublands ten days before, he had never felt so well in his life. His energy had doubled. Even the paper-work he had always found an intolerable drudgery was now almost a pleasure.

He ate it up. Sections, after a period of being only surprised, were now becoming slightly irritated by the forceful, clear-headed minutes that came shooting back at them from the Double-O Section. Bond awoke so early and so full of beans that he had taken to arriving at his office early and leaving late, much to the irritation of his secretary, the delectable Loelia Ponsonby, who found her own private routines being put seriously out of joint. She was also beginning to show signs of irritation and strain. She had even taken upon herself to have a private word with Miss Moneypenny, M.’s secretary and her best friend in the building. Miss Moneypenny, swallowing her jealousy of Loelia Ponsonby, had been encouraging. ‘It’s all right, Lil,’ she had said over coffee in the canteen. ‘The Old Man was like that for a couple of weeks after he had got back from that damned nature cure place. It was like working for Gandhi or Schweitzer or someone. Then a couple of bad cases came up and rattled him and one evening he went to Blades – to take his mind off things I suppose – and the next day he felt awful, and looked it, and from then on he’s been all right again. I suppose he got back on the champagne cure or something. It’s really the best for men. It makes them awful, but at least they’re human like that. It’s when they get godlike one can’t stand them.’

May, Bond’s elderly Scottish treasure, came in to clear the breakfast things away. Bond had lit up a Duke of Durham, king-size, with filter. The authoritative Consumers Union of America rates this cigarette the one with the smallest tar and nicotine content. Bond had transferred to the brand from the fragrant but powerful Morland Balkan mixture with three gold rings round the paper he had been smoking since his teens. The Dukes tasted of almost nothing, but they were at least better than Vanguards, the new ‘tobaccoless’ cigarette from America that, despite its health-protecting qualities, filled the room with a faint ‘burning leaves’ smell that made visitors to his office inquire whether ‘something was on fire somewhere’.

May was fiddling about with the breakfast things – her signal that she had something to say. Bond looked up from the centre news page of The Times. ‘Anything on your mind, May?’

May’s elderly, severe features were flushed. She said defensively, ‘I have that.’ She looked straight at Bond. She was holding the yoghurt carton in her hand. She crumpled it in her strong fingers and dropped it among the breakfast things on the tray. ‘It’s not my place to say it, Mister James, but ye’re poisoning yersel’.’

Bond said cheerfully, ‘I know, May. You’re quite right. But at least I’ve got them down to ten a day.’

‘I’m not talking about yer wee bitty smoke. I’m talking ’bout this,’ May gestured at the tray, ‘this pap.’ The word was spat out with disdain. Having got this off her chest, May gathered steam. ‘It’s no recht for a man to be eating bairns’ food and slops and suchlike. Ye needn’t worry that I’ll talk, Mister James, but I’m knowing more about yer life than mebbe ye were wishing I did. There’s been times when they’ve brought ye home from hospital and there’s talk you’ve been in a motoring accident or some such. But I’m not the old fule ye think I am, Mister James. Motoring accidents don’t make one small hole in yer shoulder or yer leg or somewhere. Why, ye’ve got scars on ye the noo – ach ye needn’t grin like that, I’ve seen them – that could only be made by buellets. And these guns and knives and things ye carry around when ye’re off abroad. Ach!’ May put her hands on her hips. Her eyes were bright and defiant. ‘Ye can tell me to mind my ain business and pack me off back to Glen Orchy, but before I go I’m telling ye, Mister James, that if ye get yerself into anuither fight and ye’ve got nothing but yon muck in yer stomach, they’ll be bringing ye home in a hearse. That’s what they’ll be doing.’

In the old days, James Bond would have told May to go to hell and leave him in peace. Now, with infinite patience and good humour, he gave May a quick run through the basic tenets of ‘live’ as against ‘dead’ foods. ‘You see, May,’ he said reasonably, ‘all these denaturized foods – white flour, white sugar, white rice, white salts, whites of eggs – these are dead foods. Either they’re dead anyway like whites of egg or they’ve had all the nourishment refined out of them. They’re slow poisons, like fried foods and cakes and coffee and heaven knows how many of the things I used to eat. And anyway, look how wonderfully well I am. I feel absolutely a new man since I took to eating the right things and gave up drink and so on. I sleep twice as well. I’ve got twice as much energy. No headaches. No muscle pains. No hangovers. Why, a month ago there wasn’t a week went by but that on at least one day I couldn’t eat anything for breakfast but a couple of aspirins and a prairie oyster. And you know quite well that that used to make you cluck and tut-tut all over the place like an old hen. Well,’ Bond raised his eyebrows amiably, ‘what about that?’

May was defeated. She picked up the tray and, with a stiff back, made for the door. She paused on the threshold and turned round. Her eyes were bright with angry tears. ‘Well, all I can say is, Mister James, that mebbe ye’re right and mebbe ye’re wrong. What worries the life out of me is that ye’re not yersel’ any more.’ She went out and banged the door.

Bond sighed and picked up the paper. He said the magical words that all men say when a middle-aged woman makes a temperamental scene, ‘change of life’, and went back to reading about the latest reasons for not having a Summit meeting.

The telephone, the red one that was the direct line with Headquarters, gave its loud, distinctive jangle. Bond kept his eyes on the page and reached out a hand. With the Cold War easing off, it was not like the old days. This would be nothing exciting. Probably cancelling his shoot at Bisley that afternoon with the new F.N. rifle. ‘Bond speaking.’

It was the Chief of Staff. Bond dropped his paper on the floor. He pressed the receiver to his ear, trying, as in the old days, to read behind the words.

‘At once please, James. M.’

‘Something for me?’

‘Something for every-one. Crash-dive, and Ultra Hush. If you’ve got any dates for the next few weeks, better cancel them. You’ll be off tonight. See you.’ The line went dead.

Bond had the most selfish car in England. It was a Mark II Continental Bentley that some rich idiot had married to a telegraph pole on the Great West Road. Bond had bought the bits for £1,500 and Rolls had straightened the bend in the chassis and fitted new clockwork – the Mark IV engine with 9.5 compression. Then Bond had gone to Mulliners with £3,000, which was half his total capital, and they had sawn off the old cramped sports saloon body and had fitted a trim, rather square convertible two-seater affair, power-operated, with only two large armed bucket seats in black leather. The rest of the blunt end was all knife-edged, rather ugly, boot. The car was painted in rough, not gloss, battleship grey and the upholstery was black morocco. She went like a bird and a bomb and Bond loved her more than all the women at present in his life rolled, if that were feasible, together.

But Bond refused to be owned by any car. A car, however splendid, was a means of locomotion (he called the Continental ‘The Locomotive’…‘I’ll pick you up in my locomotive’) and it must at all times be ready to locomote – no garage doors to break one’s nails on, no pampering with mechanics except for the quick monthly service. The locomotive slept out of doors in front of his flat and was required to start immediately, in all weathers, and, after that, stay on the road.

The twin exhausts – Bond had demanded two-inch pipes; he hadn’t liked the old soft flutter of the marque – growled solidly as the long grey nose topped by a big octagonal silver bolt instead of the winged B, swerved out of the little Chelsea square and into King’s Road. It was nine o’clock, too early for the bad traffic, and Bond pushed the car fast up Sloane Street and into the park. It would also be too early for the traffic police, so he did some fancy driving that brought him to the Marble Arch exit in three minutes flat. Then there came the slow round-the-houses into Baker Street and so into Regent’s Park. Within ten minutes of getting the Hurry call he was going up in the lift of the big square building to the eighth and top floor.

Already, as he strode down the carpeted corridor, he smelled emergency. On this floor, besides M.’s offices, was housed Communications, and from behind the grey closed doors there came a steady zing and crackle from the banks of transmitters and a continuous machine-gun rattle and clack from the cipher machines. It crossed Bond’s mind that a General Call was going out. What the hell had happened?

The Chief of Staff was standing over Miss Moneypenny. He was handing her signals from a large sheaf and giving her routing instructions. ‘C.I.A. Washington, Personal for Dulles. Cipher Triple X by Teleprinter. Mathis. Deuxième Bureau. Same prefix and route. Station F for Head of N.A.T.O. Intelligence. Personal. Standard route through Head of Section. This one by Safe Hand to Head of M.I.5, Personal, copy to Commissioner of Police, Personal, and these,’ he handed over a thick batch, ‘Personal to Heads of Stations from M. Cipher Double X by Whitehall Radio and Portishead. All right? Clear them as quick as you can, there’s a good girl. There’ll be more coming. We’re in for a bad day.’

Miss Moneypenny smiled cheerfully. She liked what she called the shot-and-shell days. It reminded her of when she had started in the Service as a junior in the Cipher Department. She leant over and pressed the switch on the intercom, ‘007’s here, sir.’ She looked up at Bond. ‘You’re off.’ The Chief of Staff grinned and said, ‘Fasten your lap-strap.’ The red light went on above M.’s door. Bond walked through.

Here it was entirely peaceful. M. sat relaxed, sideways to his desk, looking out of the broad window at the distant glittering fretwork of London’s skyline. He glanced up. ‘Sit down, 007. Have a look at these.’ He reached out and slid some foolscap-sized photostats across the desk. ‘Take your time.’ He picked up his pipe and began to fill it, absent-minded fingers dipping into the shell-base tobacco jar at his elbow.

Bond picked up the top photostat. It showed the front and back of an addressed envelope, dusted for finger-prints, which were all over its surface.

M. glanced sideways. ‘Smoke if you like.’

Bond said, ‘Thanks, sir. I’m trying to give it up.’

M. said, ‘Humpf,’ put his pipe in his mouth, struck a match, and inhaled a deep lungful of smoke. He settled himself deeper in his chair. The grey sailor’s eyes gazed through the window introspectively, seeing nothing.

The envelope, prefixed ‘PERSONAL AND MOST IMMEDIATE’, was addressed to the Prime Minister, by name, at No. 10, Downing Street, Whitehall, London, sw1. Every detail of the address was correct down to the final ‘P.C.’ to denote that the Prime Minister was a Privy Councillor. The punctuation was meticulous. The stamp was postmarked Brighton, 8.30 a.m. on June 3rd. It crossed Bond’s mind that the letter might therefore have been posted under cover of night and that it would probably have been delivered some time in the early afternoon of the same day, yesterday. A typewriter with a bold, rather elegant type had been used. This fact together with the generous 5-by-7½-inch envelope and the spacing and style of the address gave a solid, businesslike impression. The back of the envelope showed nothing but finger-prints. There was no sealing wax.

The letter, equally correct and well laid-out, ran as follows:

Mr Prime Minister,

You should be aware, or you will be if you communicate with the Chief of the Air Staff, that, since approximately 10 p.m. yesterday, 2nd June, a British aircraft carrying two atomic weapons is overdue on a training flight. The aircraft is Villiers Vindicator o/nbr from No. 5 R.A.F. Experimental Squadron based at Boscombe Down. The Ministry of Supply Identification Numbers on the atomic weapons are MOS/bd/654/Mk V. and MOS/bd/655/Mk V. There are also U.S.A.F. Identification Numbers in such profusion and of such prolixity that I will not weary you with them.

This aircraft was on a N.A.T.O. training flight with a crew of five and one observer. It carried sufficient fuel for ten hours’ flying at 600 m.p.h. at a mean altitude of 40,000 feet.

This aircraft, together with the two atomic weapons, is now in the possession of this organization. The crew and the observer are deceased and you have our authority to inform the next-of-kin accordingly, thus assisting you in preserving, on the grounds that the aircraft has crashed, the degree of secrecy you will no doubt wish to maintain and which will be equally agreeable to ourselves.

The whereabouts of this aircraft and of the two atomic weapons, rendering them possible of recovery, will be communicated to you in exchange for the equivalent of £100,000,000 in gold bullion, one thousand, or not less than nine hundred and ninety-nine, fine. Instructions for the delivery of the gold are contained in the attached memorandum. A further condition is that the recovery and disposal of the gold will not be hampered and that a free pardon, under your personal signature and that of the President of the United States, will be issued in the name of this organization and all its members.

Failure to accept these conditions within seven days from 5 p.m. G.M.T. on June 3rd, 1959 – i.e. not later than 5 p.m. G.M.T. on June 10th, 1959 – will have the following consequences. Immediately after that date a piece of property belonging to the Western Powers, valued at not less than the aforesaid £100,000,000, will be destroyed. There will be loss of life. If, within 48 hours after this warning, willingness to accept our terms is still not communicated, there will ensue, without further warning, the destruction of a major city situated in an undesignated country of the world. There will be very great loss of life. Moreover, between the two occurrences, this organization will reserve to itself the right to communicate to the world the 48-hour time limit. This measure, which will cause widespread panic in every major city, will be designed to hasten your hand.

This, Mr Prime Minister, is a single and final communication. We shall await your reply, every hour on the hour G.M.T., on the 16-megacyle waveband.

Signed

S.P.E.C.T.R.E.

The Special Executive for Counterintelligence,

Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion

James Bond read through the letter again and put it carefully down on the desk in front of him. He then turned to the second page, a detailed memorandum for the delivery of the gold. ‘North-western slopes of Mount Etna in Sicily ... Decca Navigational Aid transmitting on ... Full moon period ...between midnight and 0100 G.M.T. ...individual quarter-ton consignments packed in one-foot-thick foam rubber ... minimum of three parachutes per consignment ... nature of planes and flight schedule to be communicated on the 16-megacycle waveband not later than 24 hours before the operation ... Any counter measures initiated will be considered a breach of contract and will result in the detonation of Atomic Weapon No. 1 or No. 2 as the case may be.’ The typed signature was the same. Both pages had one last line: ‘Copy to the President of the United States of America, by Registered Airmail, posted simultaneously.’

Bond laid the photostat quietly down on top of the others. He reached into his hip-pocket for the gunmetal cigarette case that now contained only nine cigarettes, took one and lit it, drawing the smoke deep down into his lungs and letting it out with a long, reflective hiss.

M. swivelled his chair round so they were facing each other. ‘Well?’

Bond noticed that M.’s eyes, three weeks before so clear and vital, were now bloodshot and strained. No wonder! He said: ‘If this plane, and the weapons, really are missing, I think it stands up, sir. I think they mean it. I think it’s a true bill.’

M. said, ‘So does the War Cabinet. So do I.’ He paused. ‘Yes, the plane with the bombs is missing. And the stock numbers on the bombs are correct.’