“It’s a good gun, sir,” Bond admitted. “Bit more bulky than the Beretta. How does the Armourer suggest I carry it?”
“Berns Martin Triple-draw holster,” said Major Boothroyd succinctly. “Best worn inside the trouser band to the left. But it’s all right below the shoulder. Stiff saddle leather. Holds the gun in with a spring. Should make for a quicker draw than that,” he gestured towards the desk. “Three-fifths of a second to hit a man at twenty feet would be about right.”
“That’s settled then.” M’s voice was final. “And what about something bigger?”
“There’s only one gun for that, sir,” said Major Boothroyd stolidly. “Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight. Revolver. •38 calibre. Hammerless, so it won’t catch in clothing. Overall length of six and a half inches and it only weighs thirteen ounces. To keep down the weight, the cylinder holds only five cartridges. But by the time they’re gone,” Major Boothroyd allowed himself a wintry smile, “somebody’s been killed. Fires the -38 S & W Special. Very accurate cartridge indeed. With standard loading it has a .muzzle velocity of eight hundred and sixty feet per second and muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty foot-pounds. There are various barrel lengths, three and a half inch, five inch…”
“All right, all right.” M’s voice was testy. “Take it as read. If you say it’s the best I’ll believe you. So it’s the Walther and the Smith & -Wesson. Send up one of each to 007. With the harness. And arrange for him to fire them in. Starting today. He’s got to be expert in a week. All right? Then thank you very much, Armourer. I won’t detain you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly out of the room.
There was a moment’s silence. The sleet tore at the windows. M swivelled his chair and watched the streaming panes. Bond took the opportunity to glance at his watch. Ten o’clock. His eyes slid to the gun and holster on the desk. He thought of his fifteen years’ marriage to the ugly bit of metal. He remembered the times its single word had saved his life-and the times when its threat alone had been enough. He thought of the days when he had literally dressed to kill-when he had dismantled the gun and oiled it and packed the bullets carefully into the springloaded magazine and tried the action once or twice, pumping the cartridges out on to the bedspread in some hotel bedroom somewhere round the world. Then the last wipe of a dry rag and the gun into the little holster and a pause in front of the mirror to see that nothing showed. And then out of the door and on his way to the rendezvous that was to end with either darkness or light. How many times had it saved his life? How many death sentences had it signed? Bond felt unreasonably sad. How could one have such ties with an inanimate object, an ugly one at that, and, he had to admit it, with a weapon that was not in the same class as the ones chosen by the Armourer? But he had the ties and M was going to cut them.
M swivelled back to face him. “Sorry, James,” he said, and there was no sympathy in his voice. “I know how you like that bit of iron. But I’m afraid it’s got to go. Never give a weapon a second chance-any more than a man. I can’t afford to gamble with the double-o section. They’ve got to be properly equipped. You understand that? A gun’s more important than a hand or a foot in your job.”
Bond smiled thinly. “I know, sir. I shan’t argue. I’m just sorry to see it go.”
“All right then. We’ll say no more about it. Now I’ve got some more news for you. There’s a job come up. In Jamaica. Personnel problem. Or that’s what it looks like. Routine investigation and report. The sunshine’ll do you good and you can practise your new guns on the turtles or whatever they have down there. You can do with a bit of holiday. Like to take it on?”