Moonraker

M. put the white receiver back on its cradle and the scrambler button clicked back to the en clair position.



For a moment M. continued to look at the telephone as if in doubt about what had been said. Then he twisted his chair away from the desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.



There was silence in the room and Bond shifted in his chair to ease the pain that was creeping back into his body.



The same pigeon as on Monday, or perhaps another one, came to rest on the window-sill with the same clatter of wings. It walked up and down, nodding and cooing, and then planed off towards the trees in the park. The traffic murmured sleepily in the distance.



How nearly it had come, thought Bond, to being stilled. How nearly there might be nothing now but the distant clang of the ambulance bells beneath a lurid black and orange sky, the stench of burning, the screams of people still trapped in the buildings. The softly beating heart of London silenced for a generation. And a whole generation of her people dead in the streets amongst the ruins of a civilization that might not rise again for centuries.



All that would have come about but for a man who scornfully cheated at cards to feed the fires of his maniac ego; but for the stuffy chairman of Blades who detected him; but for M. who agreed to help an old friend; but for Bond’s half-remembered lessons from a card-sharper; but for Vallance’s precautions; but for Gala’s head for figures; but for a whole pattern of tiny circumstances, a whole pattern of chance.



Whose pattern?



There was a shrill squeak as M.’s chair swivelled round. Bond carefully focused again on the grey eyes across the desk.



“That was the Prime Minister,” M. said gruffly. “Says he wants you and Miss Brand out of the country.” M. lowered his eyes and looked stolidly into the bowl of his pipe. “You’re both to be out by tomorrow afternoon. There are too many people in this case who know your faces. Might put two and two together, when they see the shape you’re both in. Go anywhere you like. Unlimited expenses for both of you. Any currency you like. I’ll tell the Paymaster. Stay away for a month. But keep out of circulation. You’d both be gone this afternoon only the girl’s got an appointment at eleven tomorrow morning. At the Palace. Immediate award of the , George Cross. Won’t be gazetted until the New Year of course. Like to meet her one day. Must be a good girl. As a matter of fact,” M.’s expression as he looked up was unreadable, “the Prime Minister had something in mind for you. Forgotten that we don’t go in for those sort of things here. So he asked me to thank you for him. Said some nice things about the Service. Very kind of him.”



M. gave one of the rare smiles that lit up his face with quick brightness and warmth. Bond smiled back. They understood the things that had to be left unsaid.



Bond knew it was time to go. He got up. “Thank you very much, sir,” he said. “And I’m glad about the girl.”



“All right then,” said M. on a note of dismissal. “Well, that’s the lot. See you in a month. Oh and by the way,” he added casually. “Call in at your office. You’ll find something there from me. Little memento.”



James Bond went down in the lift and limped along the familiar corridor to his office. When he walked through the inner door he found his secretary arranging some papers on the next desk to his.



“008 coming back?” he asked.



“Yes,” she smiled happily. “He’s being flown out tonight.”



“Well, I’m glad you’ll have company,” said Bond. “I’m going off again.”



“Oh,” she said. She looked quickly at his face and then away. “You look as if you needed a bit of a rest.”



“I’m going to get one,” said Bond. “A month’s exile.” He thought of Gala. “It’s going to be pure holiday. Anything for me?”



“Your new car’s downstairs. I’ve inspected it. The man said you’d ordered it on trial this morning. It looks lovely. Oh, and there’s a parcel from M.’s office. Shall I unpack it?”



“Yes, do,” said Bond.



He sat down at his desk and looked at his watch. Five o’clock. He was feeling tired. He knew he was going to feel tired for several days. He always got these reactions at the end of an ugly assignment, the aftermath of days of taut nerves, tension, fear.



His secretary came back into the room with two heavy-looking cardboard boxes. She put them on his desk and he opened the top one. When he saw the grease-paper he knew what to expect.



There was a card in the box. He took it out and read it. In M.’s green ink it said : “You may be needing these.” There was no signature.



Bond unwrapped the grease-paper and cradled the shining new Beretta in his hand. A memento. No. A reminder. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped the gun under his coat into the empty holster. He got clumsily to his feet.



“There’ll be a long-barrel Colt in the other box,” he said to his secretary. “Keep it until I get back. Then I’ll take it down to the range and fire it in.”



He walked to the door. “So long, Lil,” he said, “regards to 008 and tell him to be careful of you. I’ll be in France. Station F will have the address. But only in an emergency.”



She smiled at him. “How much of an emergency?” she asked.



Bond gave a short laugh. “Any invitation to a quiet game of bridge,” he said.



He limped out and shut the door behind him.



The 1953 Mark VI had an open touring body. It was battleship grey like the old 4 1/2 litre that had gone to its grave in a Maidstone garage, and the dark blue leather upholstery gave a luxurious hiss as he climbed awkwardly in beside the test driver.



Half an hour later the driver helped him out at the corner of Birdcage Walk and Queen Anne’s Gate. “We could get more speed out of her if you want it, sir,” he said. “If we could have her back for a fortnight we could tune her to do well over the hundred.”



“Later,” said Bond. “She’s sold. On one condition. That you get her over to the ferry terminal at Calais by tomorrow evening.”



The test driver grinned. “Roger,” he said. “I’ll take her over myself. See you on the pier, sir.”



“Fine,” said Bond. “Go easy on A20. The Dover road’s a dangerous place these days.”



“Don’t worry, sir,” said the driver, thinking that this man must be a bit of a cissy for all that he seemed to know plenty about motor-cars. “Piece of cake.”



“Not every day,” said Bond with a smile. “See you at Calais.”



Without waiting for a reply, he limped off with his stick through the dusty bars of evening sunlight that filtered down through the trees in the park.



Bond sat down on one of the seats opposite the island in the lake and took out his cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to six. He reminded himself that she was the sort of girl who would be punctual. He had reserved the corner table for dinner. And then? But first there would be the long luxurious planning. What would she like? Where would she like to go? Where had she ever been? Germany, of course. France? Miss out Paris. They could do that on their way back. Get as far as they could the first night, away from the Pas de Calais. There was that farmhouse with the wonderful food between Montreuil and Etaples. Then the fast sweep down to the Loire. The little places near the river for a few days. Not the chateau towns. Places like Beaugency, for instance. Then slowly south, always keeping to the western roads, avoiding the five-star life. Slowly exploring. Bond pulled himself up. Exploring what? Each other? Was he getting serious about this girl?



“James.”



It was a clear, high, rather nervous voice. Not the voice he had expected.



He looked up. She was standing a few feet away from him. He noticed that she was wearing a black beret at a rakish angle and that she looked exciting and mysterious like someone you see driving by abroad, alone in an open car, someone unattainable and more desirable than anyone you have ever known. Someone who is on her way to make love to somebody else. Someone who is not for you.



He got up and they took each other’s hands.



It was she who released herself. She didn’t sit down.



“I wish you were going to be there tomorrow, James.” Her eyes were soft as she looked at him. Soft, but, he thought, somehow evasive.



He smiled. “Tomorrow morning or tomorrow night?”



“Don’t be ridiculous,” she laughed, blushing. “I meant at the Palace.”



“What are you going to do afterwards?” asked Bond.



She looked at him carefully. What did the look remind him of? The Morphy look? The look he had given Drax on that last hand at Blades? No. Not quite. There was something else there. Tenderness? Regret?



She looked over his shoulder.



Bond turned round. A hundred yards away there was the tall figure of a young man with fair hair trimmed short. His



. back was towards them and he was idling along, killing time.



Bond turned back and Gala’s eyes met his squarely.



“I’m going to marry that man,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow afternoon.” And then, as if no other explanation was needed, “His name’s Detective-Inspector Vivian.”



“Oh,” said Bond. He smiled stiffly. “I see.”



There was a moment of silence during which their eyes slid away from each other.



And yet why should he have expected anything else? A kiss. The contact of two frightened bodies clinging together in the midst of danger. There had been nothing more. And there had been the engagement ring to tell him. Why had he automatically assumed that it had only been worn to keep Drax at bay? Why had he imagined that she shared his desires, his plans?



And now what? wondered Bond. He shrugged his shoulders to shift the pain of failure-the pain of failure that is so much greater than the pleasure of success. The exit line. He must get out of these two young lives and take his cold heart elsewhere. There must be no regrets. No false sentiment. He must play the role which she expected of him. The tough man of the world. The Secret Agent. The man who was only a silhouette.



She was looking at him rather nervously, waiting to ‘be relieved of the stranger who had tried to get his foot in the door of her heart.



Bond smiled warmly at her. “I’m jealous,” he said. “I had other plans for you tomorrow night.”



She smiled back at him, grateful that the silence had been broken. “What were they?” she asked.



“I was going to take you off to a farmhouse in France,” he said. “And after a wonderful dinner I was going to see if it’s true what they say about the scream of a rose.”



She laughed. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige. But there are plenty of others waiting to be picked.”



“Yes, I suppose so,” said Bond. “Well, goodbye, Gala.” He held out his hand.



“Goodbye, James.”



He touched her for the last time and then they turned away from each other and walked off into their different lives.