Complete Works of Ian Fleming, page 133
CHAPTER SEVEN. THOUGHTS IN A D.B.III
Bond followed Colonel Smithers to the lift. While they waited for it, Bond glanced out of the tall window at the end of the passage. He was looking down into the deep well of the back courtyard of the Bank. A trim chocolate-brown lorry with no owner’s name had come into the courtyard through the triple steel gates. Square cardboard boxes were being unloaded from it and put on to a short conveyor belt that disappeared into the bowels of the Bank.
Colonel Smithers came over. ‘Fivers,’ he commented. ‘Just come up from our printing works at Loughton.’
The lift came and they got in. Bond said, ‘I’m not very impressed by the new ones. They look like any other country’s money. The old ones were the most beautiful money in the world.’
They walked across the entrance hall, now dimly lit and deserted. Colonel Smithers said, ‘As a matter of fact I agree with you. Trouble was that those Reichsbank forgeries during the war were a darn sight too good. When the Russians captured Berlin, amongst the loot they got hold of the plates. We asked the Narodni Bank for them, but they refused to give them up. We and the Treasury decided it was just too dangerous. At any moment, if Moscow had been inclined, they could have started a major raid on our currency. We had to withdraw the old fivers. The new ones aren’t much to look at, but at least they’d be hell to forge.’
The night guard let them out on to the steps. Threadneedle Street was almost deserted. The long City night was beginning. Bond said goodbye to Colonel Smithers and walked along to the Tube. He had never thought very much about the Bank of England, but now that he had been inside the place he decided that the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street might be old but she still had some teeth left in her head.
Bond had been told to report back to M at six. He did so. M’s face was no longer pink and shining. The long day had knocked it about, stressed it, shrunken it. When Bond went in and took the chair across the desk, he noticed the conscious effort M made to clear his mind, cope with the new problem the day was to fling at him. M straightened himself in his chair and reached for his pipe. ‘Well?’ Bond knew the false belligerence of that particular bark. He told the gist of the story in less than five minutes. When he had finished, M said thoughtfully, ‘Suppose we’ve got to take it on. Don’t understand a thing about the pound and bank rate and all that but everyone seems to be taking it damned seriously. Personally I should have thought the strength of the pound depended on how hard we all worked rather than how much gold we’d got. Germans didn’t have much gold after the war. Look where they’ve got in ten years. However, that’s probably too easy an answer for the politicians — or more likely too difficult. Got any ideas how to tackle this chap Goldfinger? Any way of getting closer to him, offering to do some dirty work for him or something like that?’
Bond said thoughtfully, ‘I wouldn’t get anywhere sucking up to him, asking him for a job or something of that sort, sir. I should say he’s the sort of man who only respects people who are tougher or smarter than he is. I’ve given him one beating and the only message I got from him was that he’d like me to play golf with him. Perhaps I’d better do just that.’
‘Fine way for one of my top men to spend his time.’ The sarcasm in M’s voice was weary, resigned. ‘All right. Go ahead. But if what you say is right, you’d better see that you beat him. What’s your cover story?’
Bond shrugged. ‘I hadn’t thought, sir. Perhaps I’d better be thinking of leaving Universal Export. No future in it. Having a holiday while I look round. Thinking of emigrating to Canada. Fed up here. Something like that. But perhaps I’d better play it the way the cards fall. I wouldn’t think he’s an easy man to fool.’
‘All right. Report progress. And don’t think I’m not interested in this case.’ M’s voice had changed. So had his expression. His eyes had become urgent, commanding. ‘Now I’ll give you one piece of information the Bank didn’t give you. It just happens that I also know what Mr Goldfinger’s gold bars look like. As a matter of fact I was handling one today — scratched Z and all. It had come in with that haul we made last week when the Redland Resident Director’s office “caught fire” in Tangier. You’ll have seen the signals. Well, that’s the twentieth of these particular gold bars that have come our way since the war.’
Bond interrupted, ‘But that Tangier bar was out of the SMERSH safe.’
‘Exactly. I’ve checked. All the other nineteen bars with the scratched Z have been taken from SMERSH operatives.’ M paused. He said mildly, ‘D’you know, 007, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Goldfinger doesn’t turn out to be the foreign banker, the treasurer so to speak, of SMERSH.’
James Bond flung the D.B.III through the last mile of straight and did a racing change down into third and then into second for the short hill before the inevitable traffic crawl through Rochester. Leashed in by the velvet claw of the front discs, the engine muttered its protest with a mild back-popple from the twin exhausts. Bond went up into third again, beat the lights at the bottom of the hill and slid resignedly up to the back of the queue that would crawl on for a quarter of an hour — if he was lucky — through the sprawl of Rochester and Chatham.
Bond settled back into second and let the car idle. He reached for the wide gunmetal case of Morland cigarettes on the neighbouring bucket seat, fumbled for one and lit it from the dashboard.
He had chosen the A2 in preference to the A20 to Sandwich because he wanted to take a quick look at Goldfinger-land — Reculver and those melancholy forsaken reaches of the Thames which Goldfinger had chosen for his parish. He would then cross the Isle of Thanet to Ramsgate and leave his bag at the Channel Packet, have an early lunch and be off to Sandwich.
The car was from the pool. Bond had been offered the Aston Martin or a Jaguar 3.4. He had taken the D.B.III. Either of the cars would have suited his cover — a well-to-do, rather adventurous young man with a taste for the good, the fast things of life. But the D.B.III had the advantage of an up-to-date triptyque, an inconspicuous colour — battleship grey — and certain extras which might or might not come in handy. These included switches to alter the type and colour of Bond’s front and rear lights if he was following or being followed at night, reinforced steel bumpers, fore and aft, in case he needed to ram, a long-barrelled Colt .45 in a trick compartment under the driver’s seat, a radio pick-up tuned to receive an apparatus called the Homer, and plenty of concealed space that would fox most Customs men.
Bond saw a chance and picked up fifty yards, sliding into a ten-yard gap left by a family saloon of slow reactions. The man at the wheel, who wore that infallible badge of the bad driver, a hat clamped firmly on the exact centre of his head, hooted angrily. Bond reached out of the window and raised an enigmatically clenched fist. The hooting stopped.
And now what about this theory of M’s? It made sense. The Russians were notoriously incompetent payers of their men. Their centres were always running out of funds — their men complaining to Moscow that they couldn’t afford a square meal. Perhaps SMERSH couldn’t get the valuta out of the Ministry of Home Security. Or perhaps the Ministry of Home Security couldn’t get the money out of the Ministry of Finance. But it had always been the same — endless money troubles that resulted in missed chances, broken promises and waste of dangerous radio time. It would make sense to have a clever financial brain somewhere outside Russia who could not only transmit funds to the centres but also, in this case, make profits large enough to run the SMERSH centres abroad without any financial assistance from Moscow. Not only that. On the side, Goldfinger was appreciably damaging the currency base of an enemy country. If all this was correct, it was typical of SMERSH — a brilliant scheme, faultlessly operated by an outstanding man. And that, reflected Bond as he roared up the hill into Chatham, putting half a dozen cars behind him, would partly explain Goldfinger’s greed for more and still more money. Devotion to the cause, to SMERSH, and perhaps the dangled prize of an Order of Lenin, would be the spur to pick up even ten or twenty thousand dollars when the odds were right or could be favourably adjusted. The funds for Red Revolution, for the discipline by fear that was the particular speciality of SMERSH, could never be big enough. Goldfinger was not making the money for himself. He was making it for the conquest of the world! The minor risk of being found out, as he had been by Bond, was nothing. Why? What could the Bank of England get him if every single one of his past operations could be exposed? Two years? Three?
The traffic was thinning through the outskirts of Gillingham. Bond started motoring again, but easily now, not hurrying, following his thoughts as the hands and feet went through their automatic responses.
So, in ‘thirty-seven, SMERSH must have sent Goldfinger out with the belt of gold round his young waist. He had shown his special aptitudes, his acquisitive bent, during his training in the spy school in Leningrad. He would have been told there would be a war, that he must dig himself in and start quietly accumulating. Goldfinger must never dirty his hands, never meet an agent, never receive or pass a message. Some routine would have been arranged. ‘Second-hand ‘39 Vauxhall. First offer of £1000 secures’, ‘Immaculate Rover, £2000’, ‘Bentley, £5000’. Always an advertisement that would not attract attention or correspondence. The prices would be just too high, the description inadequate. In the Agony column of The Times, perhaps. And, obediently, Goldfinger would leave the two thousand pounds or the five thousand pounds gold bar at one of a long, a very long series of post-boxes that had been arranged in Moscow before he left. A particular bridge, a hollow tree, under a rock in a stream somewhere, anywhere in England. And he would never, on any account, visit that post-box again. It was up to Moscow to see that the agent got to the hidden treasure. Later, after the war, when Goldfinger was blossoming out, when he had become a big man, the post-boxes would no longer be bridges and trees. Now he would be given dates and safety deposit box numbers, left-luggage lockers at stations. But still there would be the rule that Goldfinger must never revisit the scene, never endanger himself. Perhaps he would only get his instructions once a year, at a casual meeting in some park, in a letter slipped into his pocket on a train journey. But always it would be bars of gold, anonymous, untraceable if captured — except for the tiny Z that his vanity had scratched on his handiwork and that a dull dog at the Bank of England called Colonel Smithers had happened upon in the course of his duties.
Now Bond was running through the endless orchards of the Faversham growers. The sun had come out from behind the smog of London. There was the distant gleam of the Thames on his left. There was traffic on the river — long, glistening tankers, stubby merchantmen, antediluvian Dutch Schuyts. Bond left the Canterbury road and switched on to the incongruously rich highway that runs through the cheap bungaloid world of the holiday lands — Whitstable, Herne Bay, Birchington, Margate. He still idled along at fifty, holding the racing wheel on a light rein, listening to the relaxed purr of the exhausts, fitting the bits of his thoughts into the jigsaw as he had done two nights before with Goldfinger’s face on the Identicast.
And, Bond reflected, while Goldfinger was pumping a million, two million pounds a year into the bloody maw of SMERSH, he was pyramiding his reserves, working on them, making them work for him whenever the odds were right, piling up the surplus for the day when the trumpets would sound in the Kremlin and every golden sinew would be mobilized. And no one outside Moscow had been watching the process, no one suspected that Goldfinger — the jeweller, the metallurgist, the resident of Reculver and Nassau, the respected member of Blades, of the Royal St Marks at Sandwich — was one of the greatest conspirators of all time, that he had financed the murder of hundreds, perhaps thousands of victims of SMERSH all over the world. SMERSH, ‘Smiert Spionam’, Death to Spies — the murder Apparat of the High Praesidium! And only M suspected it, only Bond knew it. And here was Bond, launched against this man by a series of flukes, a train of coincidence that had been started by a plane breaking down on the other side of the world. Bond smiled grimly to himself. How often in his profession had it been the same — the tiny acorn of coincidence that soared into the mighty oak whose branches darkened the sky. And now, once again, he was setting out to bring the dreadful growth down. With what? A bag of golf clubs?
A repainted sky-blue Ford Popular with large yellow ears was scurrying along the crown of the road ahead. Mechanically Bond gave the horn ring a couple of short, polite jabs. There was no reaction. The Ford Popular was doing its forty. Why should anyone want to go more than that respectable speed? The Ford obstinately hunched its shoulders and kept on its course. Bond gave it a sharp blast, expecting it to swerve. He had to touch his brakes when it didn’t. Damn the man! Of course! The usual tense figure, hands held too high up on the wheel, and the inevitable hat, this time a particularly hideous black bowler, square on a large bullet head. Oh well, thought Bond, they weren’t his stomach ulcers. He changed down and contemptuously slammed the D.B.III past on the inside. Silly bastard!
Another five miles and Bond was through the dainty teleworld of Herne Bay. The howl of Manston sounded away on his right. A flight of three Super Sabres came in to land. They skimmed below his right-hand horizon as if they were diving into the earth. With half his mind, Bond heard the roar of their jets catch up with them as they landed and taxied in to the hangars. He came up with a crossroads. To the left the signpost said RECULVER. Underneath was the ancient monument sign for Reculver church. Bond slowed, but didn’t stop. No hanging about. He motored slowly on, keeping his eyes open. The shoreline was too exposed for a trawler to do anything but beach or anchor. Probably Goldfinger had used Ramsgate. Quiet little port. Customs and police who were probably only on the look-out for brandy coming over from France. There was a thick clump of trees between the road and the shore, a glimpse of roofs and of a medium-sized factory chimney with a thin plume of light smoke or steam. That would be it. Soon there was the gate of a long drive. A discreetly authoritative sign said THANET ALLOYS, and underneath: NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS. All very respectable. Bond drove slowly on. There was nothing more to be seen. He took the next right-hand turn across the Manston plateau to Ramsgate.
It was twelve o’clock. Bond inspected his room, a double with bathroom, on the top floor of the Channel Packet, unpacked his few belongings and went down to the snack bar where he had one vodka and tonic and two rounds of excellent ham sandwiches with plenty of mustard. Then he got back into his car and drove slowly over to the Royal St Marks at Sandwich.
Bond carried his clubs to the professional’s shop and through to the workroom. Alfred Blacking was winding a new grip on to a driver.
‘Hullo, Alfred.’
The professional looked up sharply. His sunburned, leathery face broke into a wide smile. ‘Why, if it isn’t Mr James!’ They shook hands. ‘Must be fifteen, twenty years. What brings you down here, sir? Someone was telling me only the other day that you’re in the diplomatic or something. Always abroad. Well, I never! Still the same flat swing, sir?’ Alfred Blacking joined his hands and gave a low, flat sweep.
‘Afraid so, Alfred. Never had time to get myself out of it. How’s Mrs Blacking and Cecil?’
‘Can’t complain, sir. Cecil was runner-up in the Kent Championship last year. Should win it this year if he can only get out of the shop and on to the course a bit more.’
Bond propped his clubs up against the wall. It was good to be back. Everything was just the same. There had been a time in his teens when he had played two rounds a day every day of the week at St Marks. Blacking had always wanted to take him in hand. ‘A bit of practice, Mr James, and you’d be scratch. No fooling. You really would. What do you want to hang around at six for? It’s all there except for that flat swing and wanting to hit the ball out of sight when there’s no point in it. And you’ve got the temperament. A couple of years, perhaps only one, and I’d have you in the Amateur.’ But something had told Bond that there wasn’t going to be a great deal of golf in his life and if he liked the game he’d better forget about lessons and just play as much of it as he could. Yes, it would be about twenty years since he had played his last round on St Marks. He’d never been back — even when there had been that bloody affair of the Moonraker at Kingsdown, ten miles down the coast. Perhaps it had been sentimentality. Since St Marks, Bond had got in a good deal of weekend golf when he was at headquarters. But always on the courses round London — Huntercombe, Swinley, Sunningdale, the Berkshire. Bond’s handicap had gone up to nine. But he was a real nine — had to be with the games he chose to play, the ten-pound Nassaus with the tough cheery men who were always so anxious to stand you a couple of double kümmels after lunch.
‘Any chance of a game, Alfred?’
The professional glanced through his back window at the parking space round the tall flag-pole. He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t look too good, sir. Don’t get many players in the middle of the week at this time of year.’
‘What about you?’
‘Sorry, sir. I’m booked. Playing with a member. It’s a regular thing. Every day at two o’clock. And the trouble is that Cecil’s gone over to Princes to get in some practice for the championship. What a dashed nuisance!’ (Alfred never used a stronger oath.) ‘It would happen like that. How long are you staying, sir?’
‘Not long. Never mind. I’ll knock a ball round with a caddie. Who’s this chap you’re playing with?’
