man: the spirit of the miser, the mind of a drunkard . . . they are more precious to them than life itself.’
How true, he thought. His mind, the mind of an adventurer, had been lost to him and now was refound. More precious to him than life itself.
3
THERE’S A PORPOISE CLOSE BEHIND ME
In M’s office, high on the ninth floor of that faceless building overlooking Regent’s Park, James Bond had just threatened to resign.
‘Resign?’ M shouted. ‘What d’you mean by resign? People don’t resign from this firm. People are jailed, shot, keel-hauled, fired, put on the back burner, but they do
‘Then I’ll make history by being the first.’ Bond’s whole being had rebelled, and this personal rebellion was, he felt, long overdue. ‘I still have some authority over my own life. I can take early retirement from the Royal Navy, then thumb my nose at this Service. Once out I’ll be a free agent.’
‘There’s no such thing as a free agent.’ M’s eyes were like ice and his tone was a blizzard.
‘All right, sir, I’ll enumerate the problems.’ Bond took a deep breath and looked the Old Man squarely in the eye. ‘I’ve asked you a dozen times why my name has not yet been removed from the active Navy duty list and returned officially to Foreign Office attachment.’
A year before, Bond had been returned to the active duty list in the Royal Navy with his rank upgraded to captain. As soon as the mission was ended he had been told to report back for duty with his old service, but the correct procedure had not been carried out. No orders had been issued taking him from the active list. As far as the Royal Navy was concerned, he was their man and not working for M and the Secret Intelligence Service.
‘Is that all?’ M snapped.
‘No, sir, it isn’t all. Since the last business I seem to have been placed on hold. My time’s squandered here. Nothing to do, nothing to occupy my mind. It’s as though you’ve put me out to grass.’
M made a little tilting motion with his right hand. ‘When the time’s right, 007, there’ll be plenty of work for you.’
‘Like sending me to a health farm? You did that once and look what happened.’
‘No, health farms are out.’ M’s mouth clamped shut, his lips forming a straight grim line. ‘Listen to me, 007, and listen well. Europe – the world come to that – is at a crossroads. What with the wind of change blowing among the Eastern Bloc countries, and
‘In this situation, I cannot have men about me whose minds have lost their edge, just as your mind’s lost its edge, James. I’ve kept you on the active Naval list just in case. And I want you sharp as a dagger, smart as a whip.’ It was then that M added the lines Bond was to remember in his hotel room in Victoria, British Columbia. ‘You need to get away for a rest, James. Go off to California. They’re all mad there, so you’ll be in good company.’ He had said it without a smile or trace of levity.
It was dark by the time he got to the Fairmont Hotel, high on Nob Hill. He had just made a Horizon Air flight out of Victoria, clearing customs and immigration at Port Angelis and going on to Seattle where he connected with an Alaska Airways flight to San Francisco. It was dusk as they let down towards SFO International and the mist had already rolled in across the Bay, so that the Golden Gate bridge looked like a half-submerged gigantic liner with her twin superstructures visible above the murk.
During the limo drive to the Fairmont, Bond took in the lights and atmosphere distinctive to the colourful city of Saint Francis – by day a bustling, thriving tourist-ridden place, and by night a city full of life and activity, some of it dangerous. He had not been here for several years, though he had fond memories of staying at the Mark Hopkins just across the street from the Fairmont, and of a day out in Muir Woods among the aged huge cathedral of redwoods. There had been a girl with him then but, for the life of him, Bond could not now recall her name.
There was one message waiting for him. The short, typewritten note said simply:
‘Mandarin’ was M’s favourite crypto, for it was by way of a small in-joke among the intelligence community, Mandarins being the collective name applied to all high-ranking civil servants working in their secure government jobs in London’s Whitehall. Governments rose and fell but the Mandarins went on for ever.
So M was already here, somewhere, and Bond began to sense some new and dangerous activity could well be waiting for him. He unpacked rapidly, took a shower and called room service for eggs Benedict and a half-bottle of Tattinger, then he dressed in dark slacks and one of his favourite Sea Island cotton rollnecks. Just before he left England, Bond’s annual order of a dozen of these had been delivered to him from John Smedley & Co., the only firm who made decent rollnecks of this kind. On his feet he wore comfortable moccasins, made for him and regularly shipped to England by Lily Shoes of Hong Kong.
He ate the eggs and drank the champagne in silence, then switched on the television. Carson was doing all the usual old jokes with his guests of the evening, Art Buchwald and a starlet of uncertain age. The humour and bonhomie, Bond thought, was all rather forced and vulgar; his tastes were a shade more sophisticated. He watched for five minutes and then consigned the images to oblivion with the remote control, knowing that he was in an extraordinarily restless mood. He was also very wide awake and would not be able to sleep for some hours. He paced the room for a time, then walked out on to the balcony from which he had a splendid view of the city. There was a dampness in the air, as there so often is in that city, and he shivered, briefly recognising the temptations rising within him. He of all men knew that there were parts of the city that were gaudy and downright unsafe at night, yet the lights were drawing him like a magnet.
He went inside, closed the windows and put on his short grey suede jacket. This might be his last chance of unrestricted action for some time. So, taking the elevator, Bond went down into the hotel lobby and out into the night, walking briskly down the hill and turning left on a path that would take him into Chinatown.
Within ten minutes, he knew that someone was following him.
First it was just a feeling born of immense experience of such things. Around him, the nightlife seethed. Garish neon signs beckoned the unwary and, as he moved deeper into Chinatown, more sordid aspects of the city at night were blatantly displayed – girls for sale along the pavements, scantily dressed, watched over by shadowy figures who lurked in doorways or in full view leaning against buildings. At every intersection, he also caught sight of the dealers who did not have to hassle as much as the whores, for their clientele was ready made. The market for crack cocaine, straight heroin, and even grass was secure. Sometimes a car would pull up near the kerbside, its occupant calling low to ask if he wanted some action. For ‘action’ read ‘crack’, ‘ice’, or even ‘speed’. The results of the dealers’ work could be seen everywhere in drawn faces, empty or wild eyes. The atmosphere took on a more dangerous, almost tangible, feel the further Bond went, fending off girls and dealers who approached him with monotonous regularity.
He turned left into an alleyway, took ten paces and then turned back, going on to the street again, glancing to his right as he did so. He saw, among the many people along the sidewalk, one man falter in his stride, eyes flicking from left to right as he recovered himself and carried on walking. Caucasian, Bond noted, mid-thirties, clean-shaven, well-built, around a hundred and forty pounds, brownish hair brushed straight back, casually dressed in well-cut jeans and a denim jacket with soft grey leather Sperry Topsider shoes. The jeans were probably Levi 501s and the glance to the left and right could mean that he was working with a team. Remember the shoes, Bond told himself. If it was a well-trained team they would change positions, even clothes, but they seldom had time to alter their shoes.
Bond quietly recited a couple of lines from
‘Will you walk a little faster?’ said a whiting to a snail,
‘There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.’
