To her left there was a noise of tinkering and by swivelling her half-closed eyes in their sockets, which made the pain in her head much worse, she saw the figure of Krebs bent over an electric generator on the floor. Beside it there was a small petrol engine and it was this that was giving trouble. Every now and then Krebs would grasp the starting-handle and crank it hard and a feeble stutter would come from the engine before he went back to his tinkering.
«You dam’ fool,» said Drax in German, «hurry up. I’ve got to go and see those bloody oafs at the Ministry.»
«At once, mein Kapitän,» said Krebs dutifully. He seized the handle again. This time after two or three coughs the engine started up and began to purr.
«It won’t make too much noise?» asked Drax.
«No, mein Kapitän. The room has been soundproofed,» answered Krebs. «Dr Walter assures me that nothing will be heard outside.»
Gala closed her eyes and decided that her only hope was to feign unconscious for as long as possible. Did they intend to kill her? Here in this room? And what was all this machinery? It looked like wireless, or perhaps radar. That curved glass screen above Drax’s head that had given an occasional flicker as Drax fiddled with the knobs below the dials.
Slowly her mind started to work again. Why, for instance, was Drax suddenly talking perfect German? And why did Krebs address him as Herr Kapitän? And the figures in the black book. Why did they nearly kill her because she had seen them? What did they mean?
Ninety degrees, ninety degrees.
Lazily her mind turned the problem over.
Ninety degrees difference. Supposing her figures had been right all the time for the target eighty miles away in the North Sea. Just supposing she had been right. Then she wouldn’t have been aiming the rocket into the middle of France after all. But Drax’s figures. Ninety degrees to the left of her North Sea target? Somewhere in England presumably. Eighty miles from Dover. Yes, of course. That was it. Drax’s figures. The firing plan in the little black book. They would drop the Moonraker just about in the middle of London.
But on London! On London!!
So one’s heart really does go into one’s throat. How extraordinary. Such a commonplace and yet there it is and it really does almost stop one breathing.
And now, let me see, so this is a radar homing device. How ingenious. The same as there would be on the raft in the North Sea. This would bring the rocket down within a hundred yards of Buckingham Palace. But would that matter with a warhead full of instruments?
It was probably the cruelty of Drax’s blow across her face that settled it, but suddenly she knew that somehow it would be a real warhead, an atomic warhead, and that Drax was an enemy of England and that tomorrow at noon he was going to destroy London.
Gala made a last effort to understand.
Through this ceiling, through this chair, into the ground, The thin needle of the rocket. Dropping fast as light out of a clear sky. The crowds in the streets. The Palace. The nursemaids in the park. The birds in the trees. The great bloom of flame a mile wide. And then the mushroom cloud. And nothing left. Nothing. Nothing, Nothing.
«No. Oh, no!»
But the scream was only in her mind and Gala, her body a twisted black potato crisp amongst a million others, had already fainted.
CHAPTER XIX
MISSING PERSON
BOND SAT at his favourite restaurant table in London, the right-hand corner table for two on the first floor, and watched the people and the traffic in Piccadilly and down the Haymarket.
It was 7.45 and his second Vodka dry Martini with a large slice of lemon peel had just been brought to him by Baker, the head waiter. He sipped it, wondering idly why Gala was late. It was not like her. She was the sort of girl who would telephone if she had been kept at the Yard. Vallance, whom he had visited at five, had said that Gala was due with him at six.
Vallance had been very anxious to see her. He was a worried man and when Bond reported briefly on the security of the Moonraker, Vallance seemed to be listening with only half his mind.
It appeared that all that day there had been heavy selling of sterling. It had started in Tangier and quickly spread to Zurich and New York. The pound had been fluctuating wildly in the money markets of the world and the arbitrage dealers had made a killing. The net result was that the pound was a whole three cents down on the day and the forward rates were still weaker. It was front-page news in the evening papers and at the close of business the Treasury had got on to Vallance and told him the extraordinary news that the selling wave had been started by Drax Metals Ltd. in Tangier. The operation had begun that morning and by close of business the firm had managed to sell British currency short to the tune of twenty million pounds. This had been too much for the markets, and the Bank of England had had to step in and buy in order to stop a still sharper run. It was then that Drax Metals had come to light as the seller.
Now the Treasury wanted to know what it was all about—whether it was Drax himself selling or one of the big commodity interests who were clients of his firm. The first thing they did was to tackle Vallance. Vallance could only think that in some way the Moonraker was to be a failure and that Drax knew it and wanted to profit by his knowledge. He at once spoke to the Ministry of Supply, but they pooh-poohed the idea. There was no reason to think the Moonraker would be a failure and even if its practice flight was not successful the fact would be covered up with talk of technical hitches and so forth. In any case, whether the rocket was a success or not, there could be no possible reaction on British financial credit. No, they certainly wouldn’t think of mentioning the matter to the Prime Minister. Drax Metals was a big trading organization. They were probably acting for some foreign government. The Argentine. Perhaps even Russia. Someone with big sterling balances. Anyway it was nothing to do with the Ministry, or with the Moonraker, which would be launched punctually at noon the next day.
This had made sense to Vallance, but he was still worried. He didn’t like mysteries and he was glad to share his concern with Bond. Above all he wanted to ask Gala if she had seen any Tangier cables and if so whether Drax had made any comment on them.
Bond was sure Gala would have mentioned anything of the sort to him, and he said so to Vallance. They had talked some more and then Bond had left for his headquarters where M. was expecting him.
M. had been interested in everything, even the shaven heads and moustaches of the men. He questioned Bond minutely and when Bond finished his story with the gist of his last conversation with Vallance M. sat for a long time lost in thought.
«007,» he said at last, «I don’t like any part of this. There’s something going on down there but I can’t for the life of me make any sense out of it. And I don’t see where I can possibly interfere. All the facts are known to the Special Branch and to the Ministry and, God knows, I’ve got nothing to add to them. Even if I had a word with the PM, which would be damned unfair on Vallance, what am I to tell him? What facts? What’s it all about? There’s nothing but the smell of it all. And it’s a bad smell. And,» he added, «a very big one, if I’m not mistaken.
«No,» he looked across at Bond and his eyes held an unusual note of urgency. «It looks as if it’s all up to you. And that girl. You’re lucky she’s a good one. Anything you want? Anything I can do to help?»