"Certainly not public knowledge, sir." M and Tanner exchanged glances. "You have been living at a somewhat extravagant pace, 007,' said M, scowling.
Bond remained silent, waiting for the news to be laid on him. As he had thought, it was not good.
Tanner took up the conversation. "You see, James, there's been some talk. Gossip. People notice things and the word around Whitehall is that Commander Bond is living a shade dangerously - gambling, the new Bentley, er. . . ladies, money changing hands "So?" Bond was not going to make it any easier for them.
"So, even our gallant allies in Grosvenor Square have been over asking questions - they do, when a senior officer suddenly changes his habits."
"The Americans think I'm a security risk?" Bond bridled.
"Damned cheek." M rapped on the desk. "Enough of that, 007. They have every right to ask. You have been acting the playboy recently, and that kind of thing always makes them suspicious."
"And if they get touchy, then there's no knowing what thoughts are running through the minds of those watching from Kensington Gardens,' said Tanner with a forced smile.
"Rubbish,' Bond almost spat. "They know me too well.
They'll ferret out the legacy in no time - if they're interested.
"Oh, they're interested all right,' Tanner continued.
"You haven't noticed anything?" Bond's brow creased as he shook his head.
"No? Well, why should you? They've been very discreet. Not a twenty-four-hour surveillance or anything like that, but our people on the street have reported that you're under observation. Odd days, occasional nights, questions in unlikely places.
Bond swore silently. He felt foolish. Even at home, behave as though you "re in the field, they taught. Elementary, and he had not even noticed. "Where's this leading, then?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"To the dangle." Tanner gave a half-smile. "To a small charade, with you as the central character, James." Bond nodded. "Like I said, I'm going to be the bait.
"It seems reasonable enough." M turned his attention to his pipe.
"The situation is ideal . .
This time Bond did explode, voicing his feelings with some force.
It was the most stupid ploy he had ever heard of. No recruiting officer from any foreign agency would seriously consider him - and, if any did, their masters would put a blight on it in ten seconds flat.
"You're not really serious about this, are you?" he ended lamely.
"Absolutely, 007. 1 agree, on the face of it they'll steer clear of you. But we have to look at the facts - they are more than interested already .
"Never in a thousand years . . . Bond started again.
"We've already formulated the plan, 007, and we're proceeding with it. Do I have to remind you that you're under my orders?" There were no options, and Bond, feeling the whole business was sheer madness, could only sit and listen to the dialogue as M and Tanner outlined the bare bones of the scheme, like a pair of theatrical directors explaining motivation to a rather dull actor.
"At an appropriate moment we haul you in, said M with a sour smile.
"Enquiry in camera, counterpointed Bill Tanner.
"Making certain the Press are tipped off."
"Questions in the House."
"Hints of scandal. Corruption in the Service.
"And you resign."
"Giving the impression that, in reality, we've cast you into outer darkness. And if that doesn't lure the ambulance chasers, then there's something else in the wind.
Wait and do as I say, 007." And so it had happened - though not because of the ambulance chasers, as they had told him. Rumours ran along the corridors of power; there was gossip in the clubs, tattle in the powder rooms of government departments, hints to the Press, hints by the Press, even questions in the House of Commons, and finally the resignation of Commander James Bond.
IN THE MONTH before the Kruxator robbery Bond himself had been following a hedonistic routine. He stayed in bed until noon and ventured forth only in the evenings, to restaurants, clubs and gaming houses, usually with a pretty girl in tow. Since the Paymaster General's lamentable performance in the House, attempting to make light of certain scandals associated with one of the Foreign Office's field operators and to dismiss Opposition charges of a security cover-up, the Press had, perhaps surprisingly, hardly approached Bond again. He had no contact at all with his former employers. In fact, they went out of their way to avoid him. One evening he found himself at the Inn on the Park seated only two tables from Anne Reilly, the attractive and talented assistant to the Armourer in Q Branch. Bond caught her eye and smiled but she merely looked through him as though he did not exist.
Then, towards the end of April, around noon one mild, bright Thursday, the telephone rang in Bond's flat.
Bond, who had been shaving, grabbed at the handset, as though he would have liked to strangle the trilling.
"Yes?" he growled.
"Oh!" The voice was female, and surprised. "Is that 59
Dean Street? The Record Shop?"
"It's not 59 anything." Bond did not even smile.
"But I'm sure I dialled 734 8777 .
"Well, you didn't get it." He slammed the receiver back, irritated by what appeared to be a misrouted call.
Later in the afternoon, he telephoned his date, a favourite blonde stewardess with British Airways, to cancel their evening out. Instead of dinner for two at the Connaught, Bond went alone to Veeraswamy's, that most excellent Indian restaurant in Swallow Street, where he ate a chicken vindaloo with all the trimmings, lingered over his coffee, then paid the bill and left on the dot of nine-fifteen. The magnificent uniformed and bearded doorman gave him a quivering salute, then loudly hailed a cab. Bond tipped the doorman and gave the driver his home address, but at the top of St. James's he paid off the taxi and set out on foot, to follow an apparently aimless route, turning into side streets, crossing roads suddenly, doubling back on himself a number of times, loitering at corners, making certain he was not being followed.
Eventually, clinging to this devious routine, he ended up in a doorway near St. Martin's Lane. For two minutes Bond stood looking up at a lighted window across the road. At precisely ten o'clock the oblong of light turned black, then lit again, went black, lit and stayed on.
Quickly Bond crossed the road. He disappeared through another doorway, took a narrow flight of stairs, went across a landing and up four more steps to a door labelled Rich Photography Ltd. Models available. When he pressed the small button to the right of the lintel the chimes associated with a well-known brand of cosmetics ding-donged from far away inside. There were faint footsteps and the click of bolts being drawn.
The door opened to reveal Bill Tanner who nodded, indicating that Bond should enter. He followed Tanner along a small passage, its paint work peeling and with a cloying smell of cheap scent hanging in the air, and through the door at the far end. The room was very small and cluttered. A bed partially masked by a hideously patterned coverlet stood in one corner, and a mangy teddy bear lounged on a bright orange, heart-shaped imitation silk nightdress case. A small wardrobe faced the bed, its door half open, displaying a pathetic row of women's clothes. The tiny dressing table was crammed with bottles and jars of cosmetics. Above a popping gas fire, a print of The Green Lady looked down from a plastic frame upon a pair of easy chairs which would not have been out of place in a child's Wendy house.
"Come in, 007. Glad to see you can do simple mathematics." The figure in one of the chairs turned, and Bond found himself looking into the familiar cold grey eyes of his Head of Service.
Tanner closed the door and crossed to a table on which were set several bottles and glasses.