James Bond Anthology (285 page)

Bond knew that M. had tendered his resignation after the Prenderghast case. This had involved a Head of Station with homosexual tendencies who had recently, amidst world-wide publicity, been given thirty years for treason. Bond himself had had to give evidence in that particular case, and he knew that the Questions in the House, the case at the Old Bailey, and the hearings before the Farrer Tribunal on the Intelligence Services that had followed, had held up all work at Headquarters for at least a month and brought about the suicide of a totally innocent Head of Section who had taken the whole affair as a direct reflection on his own probity. To get M. back on the track, Bond said, ‘About this stuff the Japanese are getting. Where do I come in, sir?’

M put both hands flat on the table. It was the old gesture when he came to the 64-dollar question, and Bond’s heart lifted even further at the sight of it. ‘There’s a man in Tokyo called Tiger Tanaka. Head of their Secret Service. Can’t remember what they call it. Some unpronounceable Japanese rubbish. He’s quite a man. First at Oxford. Came back here and spied for them before the war. Joined the Kempeitai, their wartime Gestapo, trained as a
kami-kaze
and would be dead by now but for the surrender. Well, he’s the chap who has control of the stuff we want, I want, the Chiefs of Staff want. You’re to go out there and get it off him. How, I don’t know. That’s up to you. But you can see why I say you’re unlikely to succeed. He’s in fief’–Bond was amused by the old Scottish expression–‘to the C.I.A. He probably doesn’t think much of us.’ M.’s mouth bent down at the corners. ‘People don’t these days. They may be right or wrong. I’m not a politician. He doesn’t know much about the Service except what he’s penetrated or heard from the C.I.A. And that won’t be greatly to our advantage, I’d say. We haven’t had a Station in Japan since 1950. No traffic. It all went to the Americans. You’ll be working under the Australians. They tell me their man’s good. Section J says so too. Anyway, that’s the way it is. If anyone can bring it off, you can. Care to have a try, James?’

M.’s face was suddenly friendly. It wasn’t friendly often. James Bond felt a quick warmth of affection for this man who had ordered his destiny for so long, but whom he knew so little. His instinct told him that there were things hidden behind this assignment, motives which he didn’t understand. Was this a rescue job on him? Was M. giving him his last chance? But it sounded solid enough. The reasons for it stood up. Hopeless? Impossible? Perhaps. Why hadn’t M. chosen a Jap speaker? Bond had never been east of Hong Kong. But then Orientalists had their own particular drawbacks – too much tied up with tea ceremonies and flower arrangements and Zen and so forth. No. It sounded a true bill. He said, ‘Yes, sir. I’d like to have a try.’

M. gave an abrupt nod. ‘Good.’ He leant forward and pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Chief of Staff? What number have you allotted to 007? Right. He’s coming to see you straight away.’

M. leant back. He gave one of his rare smiles. ‘You’re stuck with your old digit. All right, four sevens. Go along and get briefed.’

Bond said, ‘Right, sir. And, er, thank you.’ He got up and walked over to the door and let himself out. He walked straight over to Miss Moneypenny and bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She turned pink and put a hand up to where he had kissed her. Bond said, ‘Be an angel, Penny, and ring down to Mary and tell her she’s got to get out of whatever she’s doing tonight. I’m taking her out to dinner. Scotts. Tell her we’ll have our first roast grouse of the year and pink champagne. Celebration.’

‘What of?’ Miss Moneypenny’s eyes were suddenly wide and excited.

‘Oh I don’t know. The Queen’s birthday or something. Right?’ James Bond crossed the room and went into the Chief of Staff’s office.

Miss Moneypenny picked up the inter-office telephone and passed on the message in a thrilled voice. She said, ‘I do think he’s all right again, Mary. It’s all there again like it used to be. Heaven knows what M.’s been saying to him. He had lunch with Sir James Molony today. Don’t tell James that. But it may have something to do with it. He’s with the Chief of Staff now. And Bill said he wasn’t to be disturbed. Sounds like some kind of a job. Bill was very mysterious.’

Bill Tanner, late Colonel Tanner of the Sappers and Bond’s best friend in the Service, looked up from his heavily laden desk. He grinned with pleasure at what he saw. He said, ‘Take a pew, James. So you’ve bought it? Thought you might. But it’s a stinker all right. Think you can bring it off?’

‘Not an earthly, I’d guess,’ said Bond cheerfully. ‘This man Tanaka sounds a tough nut, and I’m no great hand at diplomacy. But why did M. pick on me, Bill ? I thought I was in the dog house because of messing up those last two jobs. I was all set to go into chicken farming. Now, be a good chap and tell me what’s the real score.’

Bill Tanner had been ready for that one. He said easily, ‘Balls, James. You’ve been running through a bad patch. We all hit ‘em sometimes. M. just thought you’d be the best man for the job. You know he’s got an entirely misplaced opinion of your abilities. Anyway, it’ll be a change from your usual rough-housing. Time you moved up out of that damned Double-O Section of yours. Don’t you ever think about promotion?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Bond with fervour. ‘As soon as I get back from this caper, I’ll ask for my old number back again. But tell me, how am I supposed to set about this business? What’s this Australian cover consist of? Have I got anything to offer this wily Oriental in exchange for his jewels? How’s the stuff to be transmitted back here if I do get my hands on it? Must be the hell of a lot of traffic.’

‘He can have the entire product of Station H. He can send one of his own staffers down to Hong Kong to sit in with us if he likes. He’ll probably be pretty well off on China already, but he won’t have anything as high grade as our Macao link, the “Blue Route”. Hamilton will tell you all about that. In Tokyo, the man you’ll be working with is an Aussie called Henderson – Richard Lovelace Henderson. Fancy name, but Section J and all the old Jap hands say he’s a good man. You’ll have an Australian passport and we’ll fix for you to go out as his number two. That’ll give you diplomatic status and a certain amount of face, which counts for damn near everything out there according to Hamilton. If you get the stuff, Henderson will push it back to us through Melbourne. We’ll give him a communications staff to handle it. Next question.’

‘What are the C.I.A. going to say about all this? After all, it’s bare-faced poaching.’

‘They don’t own Japan. Anyway, they’re not to know. That’s up to this fellow Tanaka. He’ll have to fix the machinery for getting it into the Australian Embassy. That’s his worry. But the whole thing’s on pretty thin ice. The main problem is to make sure he doesn’t go straight along to the C.I.A. and tell ‘em of your approach. If you get blown, we’ll just have to get the Australians to hold the baby. They’ve done it before when we’ve been bowled out edging our way into the Pacific. We’re good friends with their Service. First-rate bunch of chaps. And, anyway, the C.I.A.’s hands aren’t as clean as all that. We’ve got a whole file of cases where they’ve crossed wires with us round the world. Often dangerously. We can throw that book at McCone if this business blows up in our faces. But part of your job is to see that it doesn’t.’

‘Seems to me I’m getting all balled up in high politics. Not my line of country at all. But is this stuff really as vital as M. says?’

‘Absolutely. If you get hold of it, your grateful country will probably buy you that chicken farm you’re always talking about.’

‘So be it. Now, if you’ll give Hamilton a buzz I’ll go and start learning all about the mysterious East.’‘
Kangei
! Welcome aboard,’ said the pretty kimono-ed and obi-ed stewardess of Japan Air Lines as, a week later, James Bond settled into the comfortable window seat of the four-jet, turbofan Douglas DC 8 at London Airport and listened to the torrent of soft Japanese coming from the tannoy that would be saying all those things about life jackets and the flying time to Orly. The sick-bags ‘in case of motion disturbance’ were embellished with pretty bamboo emblems and, according to the exquisitely bound travel folder, the random scribbles on the luggage rack above his head were ‘the traditional and auspicious tortoiseshell motif’. The stewardess bowed and handed him a dainty fan, a small hot towel in a wicker-basket and a sumptuous menu that included a note to the effect that an assortment of cigarettes, perfumes and pearls were available for sale. Then they were off with 50,000 pounds of thrust on the first leg of the four that would take the good aircraft Yoshino over the North Pole to Tokyo.

Bond gazed at the picture of three oranges (no! after an hour he decided they were persimmons) in a blue bowl that faced him and, when the aircraft flattened out at 30,000 feet, ordered the first of the chain of brandies and ginger ales that was to sustain him over the Channel, a leg of the North Sea, the Kattegat, the Arctic Ocean, the Beaufort Sea, the Bering Sea and the North Pacific Ocean and decided that, whatever happened on this impossible assignment, he would put up no resistance to his old skin being sloughed off him on the other side of the world. By the time he was admiring the huge stuffed Polar bear at Anchorage, in Alaska, the embrace of J.A.L.’s soft wings had persuaded him that he didn’t even mind if the colour of the new skin was to be yellow.

4 | DIKKO ON THE GINZA

The huge right fist crashed into the left palm with the noise of a .45 pistol shot. The great square face of the Australian turned almost purple and the veins stood out on the grizzled temples. With controlled violence, but almost under his breath, he intoned savagely:

I bludge, Thou bludgest, He bludges, We bludge, You bludge, They all bludge.He reached under the low table and then seemed to think better of it and moved his hand to the glass of
saké
, picked it up and poured it down his throat without a swallow.

Bond said mildly, ‘Take it easy, Dikko. What’s bitten you? And what does this vulgar-sounding colonial expression mean?’

Richard Lovelace Henderson, of Her Majesty’s Australian Diplomatic Corps, looked belligerently round the small crowded bar in a by-street off the Ginza and said out of the corner of his large and usually cheerful mouth that was now turned down in bitterness and anger, ‘You stupid pommy bastard, we’ve been miked! That bludger Tanaka’s miked us! Here, under the table! See the little wire down the leg? And see that wingy over at the bar? Chap with one arm looking bloody respectable in his blue suit and black tie? That’s one of Tiger’s men. I can smell ’em by now. They’ve been tailing me off and on for ten years. Tiger dresses ’em all like little C.I.A. gentlemen. You watch out for any Jap who’s drinking Western and wearing that rig. All Tiger’s men.’ He grumbled, ‘Damn good mind to go over and call the bastard.’

Bond said, ‘Well, if we’re being miked, all this’ll make sweet reading for Mr Tanaka tomorrow morning.’

‘What the hell,’ said Dikko Henderson resignedly. ‘The old bastard knows what I think of him. Now he’ll just have it in writing. Teach him to stop leaning on me. And my friends,’ he added, with a blistering glance at Bond. ‘It’s really you he wants to size up. And I don’t mind if he hears me saying so. Bludger? Well, hear me now, Tiger! This is the great Australian insult. You can use it anyways.’ He raised his voice. ‘But in general it means a worthless pervert, ponce, scoundrel, liar, traitor and rogue – with no redeeming feature. And I hope your stewed seaweed sticks in your gullet at breakfast tomorrow when you know what I think of you.’

Bond laughed. The torrent of powerful swear-words had started its ceaseless flow the day before at the airport – Haneda, ‘the field of wings’. It had taken Bond nearly an hour to extract his single suitcase from the customs area, and he had emerged fuming into the central hall only to be jostled and pushed aside by an excited crowd of young Japanese bearing paper banners that said ‘International Laundry Convention’. Bond was exhausted from his flight. He let out one single four-letter expletive.

Behind him a big voice repeated the same word and added some more. ‘That’s my boy! That’s the right way to greet the East! You’ll be needing all those words and more before you’re through with the area.’

Bond had turned. The huge man in the rumpled grey suit thrust out a hand as big as a small ham. ‘Glad to meet you. I’m Henderson. As you were the only pommy on the plane, I guess you’re Bond. Here. Give me that bag. Got a car outside and the sooner we get away from this blankety blank madhouse the better.’

Henderson looked like a middle-aged prize fighter who has retired and taken to the bottle. His thin suit bulged with muscle round the arms and shoulders and with fat round the waist. He had a craggy, sympathetic face, rather stony blue eyes, and a badly broken nose. He was sweating freely (Bond was to find that he was always sweating), and as he barged his way through the crowd, using Bond’s suitcase as a battering ram, he extracted a rumpled square of terry cloth from his trouser-pocket and wiped it round his neck and face. The crowd parted unresentfully to let the giant through, and Bond followed in his wake to a smart Toyopet saloon waiting in a no-parking area. The chauffeur got out and bowed. Henderson fired a torrent of instructions at him in fluent Japanese and followed Bond into the back seat, settling himself with a grunt. ‘Taking you to your hotel first – the Okura, latest of the Western ones. American tourist got murdered at the Royal Oriental the other day and we don’t want to lose you all that soon. Then we’ll do a bit of serious drinking. Had some dinner?’