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available in the concert hall? Too elaborate? Too fantastic? Probably.
But there had been no doubt about the girl. In the sniperscope, Bond had even
been able to see one wide, heavily lashed, aiming eye. Had he hurt her? Almost
certainly her left arm. There would be no chance of seeing her, seeing how she
was, if she left with the orchestra. Now he would never see her again. Bond's
window would be a death trap. To underline the fact, a stray bullet smashed
into the mechanism of the Winchester, already overturned and damaged, and hot
lead splashed down on Bond's hand, burning the skin. On Bond's emphatic oath,
the firing stopped abruptly and silence sang in the room.
Captain Sender emerged from beside his bed, brushing glass out of his hair.
Bond and Sender crunched across the floor and through the splintered door into
the kitchen. Here, because the room faced away from the street, it was safe to
switch on the light.
"Any damage?" asked Bond.
"No. You all right?" Captain Sender's pale eyes were bright with the fever
that comes in battle. They also, Bond noticed, held a sharp glint of
accusation.
"Yes. Just get an Elastoplast for my hand. Caught a splash from one of the
bullets." Bond went into the bathroom. When he came out, Captain Sender was
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sitting by the walkie-talkie he had fetched from the sitting room. He was
speaking into it. Now he said into the microphone, "That's all for now. Fine
about 272. Hurry the armored car, if you would. Be glad to get out of here,
and 007 will need to write his version of what happened. Okay? Then over and
out."
Captain Sender turned to Bond. Half accusing, half embarrassed he said,
"Afraid Head of Station needs your reasons in writing for not getting that
chap. I had to tell him I'd seen you alter your aim at the last second. Gave
Trigger time to get off a burst. Damned lucky for 272 he'd just begun his
sprint. Blew chunks off the wall behind him. What was it all about?"
James Bond knew he could lie, knew he could fake a dozen reasons why. Instead
he took a deep pull at the strong whiskey he had poured for himself, put the
glass down, and looked Captain Sender straight in the eye.
"Trigger was a woman."
"So what? KGB has got plenty of women agents and women gunners. I'm not in the
least surprised. The Russian woman's team always does well in the World
Championships. Last meeting, in Moscow, they came first, second, and third
against seventeen countries. I can even remember two of their names Donskaya
and Lomova. Terrific shots. She may even have been one of them.
What did she look like? Records'll probably be able to turn her up."
"She was a blonde. She was the girl who carried the cello in that orchestra.
Probably had her gun in the cello case. The orchestra was to cover up the
shooting."
"Oh!" said Captain Sender slowly. "I see. The girl you were keen on?"
"That's right."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I'll have to put that in my report too. You had clear
orders to exterminate Trigger."
There came the sound of a car approaching. It pulled up somewhere below. The
bell rang twice. Sender said, "Well, let's get going. They've sent an armored
car to get us out of here." He paused. His eyes flicked over Bond's shoulder,
avoiding Bond's eyes.
"Sorry about the report. Got to do my duty, y'know. You should have killed
that sniper whoever it was."
Bond got up. He suddenly didn't want to leave the stinking little smashed-up
flat, leave the place from which, for three days, he had had this long-range,
onesided romance with an unknown girl an unknown enemy agent with much the
same job in her outfit as he had in his. Poor little bitch! She would be in
worse trouble now than he was! She'd certainly be court-martialed for muffing
this job. Probably be kicked out of the KGB. He shrugged. At least they'd stop
short of killing her as he himself had done.
James Bond said wearily, "Okay. With any luck it'll cost me my Double-O
number. But tell Head of Station not to worry. That girl won't do any more
sniping. Probably lost her left hand. Certainly broke her nerve for that kind
of work. Scared the living daylights out of her. In my book, that was enough.
Let's go."
THE PROPERTY OF A LADY
It was, exceptionally, a hot day in early June. James Bond put down the dark
gray chalk pencil that was the marker for the dockets routed to the Double-O
Section and took off his coat. He didn't bother to hang it over the back of
his chair, let alone take the trouble to get up and drape the coat over the
hanger Mary Goodnight had suspended, at her own cost (damn women!), behind the
Office of
Works' green door of his connecting office. He dropped the coat on the floor.
There was no reason to keep the coat immaculate, the creases tidy. There was
no sign of any work to be done. All over the world there was quiet. The In and
Out signals had, for weeks, been routine. The daily top secret SITREP, even
the newspapers, yawned vacuously in the latter case scratchings at domestic
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scandals for readership, for bad news, the only news that makes such sheets
readable, whether top secret or on sale for pennies.
Bond hated these periods of vacuum. His eyes, his mind, were barely in focus
as he turned the pages of a jaw-breaking dissertation by the Scientific
Research Station on the Russian use of cyanide gas, propelled by the cheapest
bulb-handled children's water pistol, for assassination. The spray, it seemed,
directed at the face, took instantaneous effect. It was recommended for
victims from 25 years upwards, on ascending stairways or inclines. The verdict
would then probably be heart-failure.
The harsh burr of the red telephone sprayed into the room so suddenly that
James Bond, his mind elsewhere, reached his hand automatically towards his
left armpit in self-defense. The edges of his mouth turned down as he
recognized the reflex. On the second burr he picked up the receiver.
"Sir?"
"Sir."
He got up from his chair and picked up his coat. He put on the coat and at the
same time put on his mind. He had been dozing in his bunk. Now he had to go up
on the bridge. He walked through into the connecting office and resisted the
impulse to ruffle up the
16
inviting nape of Mary Goodnight's golden neck.
He told her "M." and walked out into the close-carpeted corridor and along,
between the muted whizz and zing of the
Communications Section, of which his Section was a neighbor, to the lift and
up to the eighth.
Miss Moneypenny's expression conveyed nothing. It usually conveyed something
if she knew something private excitement, curiosity, or, if Bond was in
trouble, encouragement or even anger. Now the smile of welcome showed
disinterest. Bond registered that this was going to be some kind of a routine
job, a bore, and he adjusted his entrance through that fateful door
accordingly.
There was a visitor a stranger. He sat on M.'s left. He only briefly glanced
up as Bond came in and took his usual place across the red-leather-topped
desk.
M. said, stiffly, "Dr. Fanshawe, I don't think you've met Commander Bond of my
Research Department."
Bond was used to these euphemisms.
He got up and held out his hand. Dr. Fanshawe rose, briefly touched Bond's
hand and sat quickly down as if he had touched paws with a Gila monster.
If he looked at Bond, inspected him and took him in as anything more than an
anatomical silhouette, Bond thought that Dr.
Fanshawe's eyes must be fitted with a thousandth of a second shutter. So this
was obviously some kind of an expert a man whose interests lay in facts,
things, theories not in human beings. Bond wished that M. had given him some [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]