THE BADDEST VILLAINS - James Bond Edition. Ian Fleming
the work. Won’t be the first one that’s cracked. From what you say, he sounds in perfectly good shape. It isn’t as if he’d really been damaged like some of the patients I’ve sent you – men who’ve been properly put through the mangle.’
‘Of course, if you put it like that. But pain’s an odd thing. We know very little about it. You can’t measure it – the difference in suffering between a woman having a baby and a man having a renal colic. And, thank God, the body seems to forget fairly quickly. But this man of yours has been in real pain, M. Don’t think that just because nothing’s been broken …’
‘Quite, quite.’ Bond had made a mistake and he had suffered for it. In any case M. didn’t like being lectured, even by one of the most famous doctors in the world, on how he should handle his agents. There had been a note of criticism in Sir James Molony’s voice. M. said abruptly, ‘Ever hear of a man called Steincrohn – Dr Peter Steincrohn?’
‘No, who’s he?’
‘American doctor. Written a book my Washington people sent over for our library. This man talks about how much punishment the human body can put up with. Gives a list of the bits of the body an average man can do without. Matter of fact, I copied it out for future reference. Care to hear the list?’ M. dug into his coat pocket and put some letters and scraps of paper on the desk in front of him. With his left hand he selected a piece of paper and unfolded it. He wasn’t put out by the silence on the other end of the line, ‘Hullo, Sir James! Well, here they are: “Gall bladder, spleen, tonsils, appendix, one of his two kidneys, one of his two lungs, two of his four or five quarts of blood, two-fifths of his liver, most of his stomach, four of his twenty-three feet of intestines and half of his brain.” ’ M. paused. When the silence continued at the other end, he said, ‘Any comments, Sir James?’
There was a reluctant grunt at the other end of the telephone. ‘I wonder he didn’t add an arm and a leg, or all of them. I don’t see quite what you’re trying to prove.’
M. gave a curt laugh. ‘I’m not trying to prove anything, Sir James. It just struck me as an interesting list. All I’m trying to say is that my man seems to have got off pretty lightly compared with that sort of punishment. But,’ M. relented, ‘don’t let’s argue about it.’ He said in a milder voice, ‘As a matter of fact I did have it in mind to let him have a bit of a breather. Something’s come up in Jamaica.’ M. glanced at the streaming windows. ‘It’ll be more of a rest cure than anything. Two of my people, a man and a girl, have gone off together. Or that’s what it looks like. Our friend can have a spell at being an inquiry agent – in the sunshine too. How’s that?’
‘Just the ticket. I wouldn’t mind the job myself on a day like this.’ But Sir James Molony was determined to get his message through. He persisted mildly. ‘Don’t think I wanted to interfere, M., but there are limits to a man’s courage. I know you have to treat these men as if they were expendable, but presumably you don’t want them to crack at the wrong moment. This one I’ve had here is tough. I’d say you’ll get plenty more work out of him. But you know what Moran has to say about courage in that book of his.’
‘Don’t recall.’
‘He says that courage is a capital sum reduced by expenditure. I agree with him. All I’m trying to say is that this particular man seems to have been spending pretty hard since before the war. I wouldn’t say he’s overdrawn – not yet, but there are limits.’
‘Just so.’ M. decided that was quite enough of that. Nowadays, softness was everywhere. ‘That’s why I’m sending him abroad. Holiday in Jamaica. Don’t worry, Sir James. I’ll take care of him. By the way, did you ever discover what the stuff was that Russian woman put into him?’
‘Got the answer yesterday.’ Sir James Molony also was glad the subject had been changed. The old man was as raw as the weather. Was there any chance that he had got his message across into what he described to himself as M.’s thick skull? ‘Taken us three months. It was a bright chap at the School of Tropical Medicine who came up with it. The drug was fugu poison. The Japanese use it for committing suicide. It comes from the sex organs of the Japanese globe-fish. Trust the Russians to use something no one’s ever heard of. They might just as well have used curare. It has much the same effect – paralysis of the central nervous system. Fugu’s scientific name is Tetrodotoxin. It’s terrible stuff and very quick. One shot of it like your man got and in a matter of seconds the motor and respiratory muscles are paralysed. At first the chap sees double and then he can’t keep his eyes open. Next he can’t swallow. His head falls and he can’t raise it. Dies of respiratory paralysis.’
‘Lucky he got away with it.’
‘Miracle. Thanks entirely to that Frenchman who was with him. Got your man on the floor and gave him artificial respiration as if he was drowning. Somehow kept his lungs going until the doctor came. Luckily the doctor had worked in South America. Diagnosed curare and treated him accordingly. But it was a chance in a million. By the same token, what happened to the Russian woman?’
M. said shortly, ‘Oh, she died. Well, many thanks, Sir James. And don’t worry about your patient. I’ll see he has an easy time of it. Goodbye.’
M. hung up. His face was cold and blank. He pulled over the signal file and went quickly through it. On some of the signals he scribbled a comment. Occasionally he made a brief telephone call to one of the Sections. When he had finished he tossed the pile into his Out basket and reached for his pipe and the tobacco jar made out of the base of a fourteen-pounder shell. Nothing remained in front of him except a buff folder marked with the Top Secret red star. Across the centre of the folder was written in block capitals: CARIBBEAN STATION, and underneath, in italics, Strangways and Trueblood.
A light winked on the intercom. M. pressed down the switch. ‘Yes?’
‘007’s here, sir.’
‘Send him in. And tell the Armourer to come up in five minutes.’
M. sat back. He put his pipe in his mouth and set a match to it. Through the smoke he watched the door to his secretary’s office. His eyes were very bright and watchful.
James Bond came through the door and shut it behind him. He walked over to the chair across the desk from M. and sat down.
‘Morning, 007.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
There was silence in the room except for the rasping of M.’s pipe. It seemed to be taking a lot of matches to get it going. In the background the fingernails of the sleet slashed against the two broad windows.
It was all just as Bond had remembered it through the months of being shunted from hospital to hospital, the weeks of dreary convalescence, the hard work of getting his body back into shape. To him this represented stepping back into life. Sitting here in this room opposite M. was the symbol of normality he had longed for. He looked across through the smoke clouds into the shrewd grey eyes. They were watching him. What was coming? A post-mortem on the shambles which had been his last case? A curt relegation to one of the home sections for a spell of desk work? Or some splendid new assignment M. had been keeping on ice while waiting for Bond to get back to duty?
M. threw the box of matches down on the red leather desk. He leant back and clasped his hands behind his head.
‘How do you feel? Glad to be back?’
‘Very glad, sir. And I feel fine.’
‘Any final thoughts about your last case? Haven’t bothered you with it till you got well. You heard I ordered an inquiry. I believe the Chief of Staff took some evidence from you. Anything to add?’
M.’s voice was businesslike, cold. Bond didn’t like it. Something unpleasant was coming. He said, ‘No, sir. It was a mess. I blame myself for letting that woman get me. Shouldn’t have happened.’
M. took his hands from behind his neck and slowly leant forward and placed them flat on the desk in front of him. His eyes were hard. ‘Just so.’ The voice was