THE BADDEST VILLAINS - James Bond Edition. Ian Fleming
eyes looked resentfully into M.’s. The licence to kill for the Secret Service, the double-0 prefix, was a great honour. It had been earned hardly. It brought Bond the only assignments he enjoyed, the dangerous ones. ‘No, I wouldn’t, sir.’
‘Then we’ll have to change your equipment. That was one of the findings of the Court of Inquiry. I agree with it. D’you understand?’
Bond said obstinately, ‘I’m used to that gun, sir. I like working with it. What happened could have happened to anyone. With any kind of gun.’
‘I don’t agree. Nor did the Court of Inquiry. So that’s final. The only question is what you’re to use instead.’ M. bent forward to the intercom. ‘Is the Armourer there? Send him in.’
M. sat back. ‘You may not know it, 007, but Major Boothroyd’s the greatest small-arms expert in the world. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. We’ll hear what he has to say.’
The door opened. A short slim man with sandy hair came in and walked over to the desk and stood beside Bond’s chair. Bond looked up into his face. He hadn’t often seen the man before, but he remembered the very wide apart clear grey eyes that never seemed to flicker. With a non-committal glance down at Bond, the man stood relaxed, looking across at M. He said ‘Good morning, sir,’ in a flat, unemotional voice.
‘Morning, Armourer. Now I want to ask you some questions.’ M.’s voice was casual. ‘First of all, what do you think of the Beretta, the .25?’
‘Ladies’ gun, sir.’
M. raised ironic eyebrows at Bond. Bond smiled thinly.
‘Really! And why do you say that?’
‘No stopping power, sir. But it’s easy to operate. A bit fancy looking too, if you know what I mean, sir. Appeals to the ladies.’
‘How would it be with a silencer?’
‘Still less stopping power, sir. And I don’t like silencers. They’re heavy and get stuck in your clothing when you’re in a hurry. I wouldn’t recommend anyone to try a combination like that, sir. Not if they were meaning business.’
M. said pleasantly to Bond, ‘Any comment, 007?’
Bond shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t agree. I’ve used the .25 Beretta for fifteen years. Never had a stoppage and I haven’t missed with it yet. Not a bad record for a gun. It just happens that I’m used to it and I can point it straight. I’ve used bigger guns when I’ve had to – the .45 Colt with the long barrel, for instance. But for close-up work and concealment I like the Beretta.’ Bond paused. He felt he should give way somewhere. ‘I’d agree about the silencer, sir. They’re a nuisance. But sometimes you have to use them.’
‘We’ve seen what happens when you do,’ said M. drily. ‘And as for changing your gun, it’s only a question of practice. You’ll soon get the feel of a new one.’ M. allowed a trace of sympathy to enter his voice. ‘Sorry, 007. But I’ve decided. Just stand up a moment. I want the Armourer to get a look at your build.’
Bond stood up and faced the other man. There was no warmth in the two pairs of eyes. Bond’s showed irritation. Major Boothroyd’s were indifferent, clinical. He walked round Bond. He said ‘Excuse me’ and felt Bond’s biceps and forearms. He came back in front of him and said, ‘Might I see your gun?’
Bond’s hand went slowly into his coat. He handed over the taped Beretta with the sawn barrel. Boothroyd examined the gun and weighed it in his hand. He put it down on the desk. ‘And your holster?’
Bond took off his coat and slipped off the chamois leather holster and harness. He put his coat on again.
With a glance at the lips of the holster, perhaps to see if they showed traces of snagging, Boothroyd tossed the holster down beside the gun with a motion that sneered. He looked across at M. ‘I think we can do better than this, sir.’ It was the sort of voice Bond’s first expensive tailor had used.
Bond sat down. He just stopped himself gazing rudely at the ceiling. Instead he looked impassively across at M.
‘Well, Armourer, what do you recommend?’
Major Boothroyd put on the expert’s voice. ‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ he said modestly, ‘I’ve just been testing most of the small automatics. Five thousand rounds each at twenty-five yards. Of all of them, I’d choose the Walther PPK 7.65 mm. It only came fourth after the Japanese M-14, the Russian Tokarev and the Sauer M-38. But I like its light trigger pull and the extension spur of the magazine gives a grip that should suit 007. It’s a real stopping gun. Of course it’s about a .32 calibre as compared with the Beretta’s .25, but I wouldn’t recommend anything lighter. And you can get ammunition for the Walther anywhere in the world. That gives it an edge on the Japanese and the Russian guns.’
M. turned to Bond. ‘Any comments?’
‘It’s a good gun, sir,’ Bond admitted. ‘Bit more bulky than the Beretta. How does the Armourer suggest I carry it?’
‘Berns Martin Triple-draw holster,’ said Major Boothroyd succinctly. ‘Best worn inside the trouser band to the left. But it’s all right below the shoulder. Stiff saddle leather. Holds the gun in with a spring. Should make for a quicker draw than that,’ he gestured towards the desk. ‘Three-fifths of a second to hit a man at twenty feet would be about right.’
‘That’s settled then.’ M.’s voice was final. ‘And what about something bigger?’
‘There’s only one gun for that, sir,’ said Major Boothroyd stolidly. ‘Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight. Revolver. .38 calibre. Hammerless, so it won’t catch in clothing. Overall length of six and a half inches and it only weighs thirteen ounces. To keep down the weight, the cylinder holds only five cartridges. But by the time they’re gone,’ Major Boothroyd allowed himself a wintry smile, ‘somebody’s been killed. Fires the .38 S & W Special. Very accurate cartridge indeed. With standard loading it has a muzzle velocity of eight hundred and sixty feet per second and muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty foot-pounds. There are various barrel lengths, three and a half inch, five inch …’
‘All right, all right.’ M.’s voice was testy. ‘Take it as read. If you say it’s the best I’ll believe you. So it’s the Walther and the Smith & Wesson. Send up one of each to 007. With the harness. And arrange for him to fire them in. Starting today. He’s got to be expert in a week. All right? Then thank you very much, Armourer. I won’t detain you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly out of the room.
There was a moment’s silence. The sleet tore at the windows. M. swivelled his chair and watched the streaming panes. Bond took the opportunity to glance at his watch. Ten o’clock. His eyes slid to the gun and holster on the desk. He thought of his fifteen years’ marriage to the ugly bit of metal. He remembered the times its single word had saved his life – and the times when its threat alone had been enough. He thought of the days when he had literally dressed to kill – when he had dismantled the gun and oiled it and packed the bullets carefully into the springloaded magazine and tried the action once or twice, pumping the cartridges out on to the bedspread in some hotel bedroom somewhere round the world. Then the last wipe of a dry rag and the gun into the little holster and a pause in front of the mirror to see that nothing showed. And then out of the door and on his way to the rendezvous that was to end with either darkness or light. How many times had it saved his life? How many death sentences had it signed? Bond felt unreasonably sad. How could one have such ties with an inanimate object, an ugly one at that, and, he had to admit it, with a weapon that was not in the same class as the ones chosen by the Armourer? But he had the ties and M. was going to cut them.
M. swivelled back to face him. ‘Sorry, James,’ he said, and there was no sympathy in his voice. ‘I know how you like that bit of iron. But I’m afraid it’s got to go. Never give a weapon a second chance – any more than a man. I can’t afford to gamble with the double-0 section. They’ve got to be properly