Dr. NO BY IAN FLEMING

As the first flames showed in the upper windows of the bungalow, the hearse moved quietly from the sidewalk and went on its way up towards the Mona Reservoir. There the weighted coffin would slip down into its fifty-fathom grave and, in just forty-five minutes, the personnel and records of the Caribbean station of the Secret Service would have been utterly destroyed.

II

CHOICE OF WEAPONS

Three weeks later, in London, March came in like a rattlesnake.

From first light on March ist, hail and icy sleet, with a Force 8 gale behind them, lashed at the city and went on lashing as the people streamed miserably to work, their legs whipped by the wet hems of their macintoshes and their faces blotching with the cold.

It was a filthy day and everybody said so-even M, who rarely admitted the existence of weather even in its extreme forms. When the old black Silver Wraith Rolls with the nondescript number-plate stopped outside the tall building in Regent’s Park and he climbed stiffly out on to the pavement, hail hit him in the face like a whiff of small-shot. Instead of hurrying inside the building, he walked deliberately round the car to the window beside the chauffeur.

“Won’t be needing the car again today, Smith. Take it away and go home. I’ll use the tube this evening. No weather for driving a car. Worse than one of those PQ convoys.”

Ex-Leading Stoker Smith grinned gratefully. “Aye-aye, sir. And thanks.” He watched the elderly erect figure walk round the bonnet of the Rolls and across the pavement and into the building. Just like the old boy. He’d always see the men right first. Smith clicked the gear lever into first and moved off, peering forward through the streaming windscreen. They didn’t come like that any more.

M went up in the lift to the eighth floor and along the thick-carpeted corridor to his office. He shut the door behind him, took off his overcoat and scarf and hung them behind the door. He took out a large blue silk bandanna handkerchief and brusquely wiped it over his face. It was odd, but he wouldn’t have done this in front of the porters or the liftman. He went over to his desk and sat down and bent towards the intercom. He pressed a switch. “I’m in, Miss Moneypenny. The signals, please, and anything else you’ve got. Then get me Sir James Molony. He’ll be doing his rounds at St Mary’s about now. Tell the Chief of Staff I’ll see 007 in half an hour. And let me have the Strangways file.” M waited for the metallic “Yes, sir” and released the switch.

He sat back and reached for his pipe and began filling it thoughtfully. He didn’t look up when his secretary came in with the stack of papers and he even ignored the half dozen pink Most Immediates on top of the signal file. If they had been vital he would have been called during the night.

A yellow light winked on the intercom. M picked up the black telephone from the row of four. “That you, Sir James? Have you got five minutes?”

“Six, for you.” At the other end of the line the famous neurologist chuckled. “Want me to certify one of Her Majesty’s Ministers?”

“Not today.” M frowned irritably. The old Navy had respected governments. “It’s about that man of mine you’ve been handling. We won’t bother about the name. This is an open line. I gather you let him out yesterday. Is he fit for duty?”

There was a pause on the other end. Now the voice was professional, judicious. “Physically he’s as fit as a fiddle. Leg’s healed up. Shouldn’t be any after-effects. Yes, he’s all right.” There was another pause. “Just one thing, M. There’s a lot of tension there, you know. You work these men of yours pretty hard. Can you give him something easy to start with? From what you’ve told me he’s been having a tough time for some years now.”

M said gruffly, “That’s what he’s paid for. It’ll soon show if he’s not up to the work. Won’t be the first one that’s cracked. From what you say, he sounds in perfectly good shape. It isn’t as if he’d really been damaged like some of the patients I’ve sent you-men who’ve been properly put through the mangle.”

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