Fleming, Ian – From Russia with Love

Had they? Bond remembered just how much the eccentric angles of the story had aroused their curiosity. And vanity? Yes, he had to admit that the idea of this Russian girl being in love with him had helped. And there had been the Spektor. That had decided the whole thing–plain greed for it. He said non-committally: `We were interested.’

`Then came the operation. Our Head of Operations is quite a character. I’d say she’s killed more people than anyone in the world–or arranged for them to be killed. Yes, it’s a woman. Name of Klebb–Rosa Klebb. Real swine of a woman. But she certainly knows all the tricks.’

Rosa Klebb. So at the top of SMERSH there was a woman! If he could somehow survive this and get after her! The fingers of Bond’s right hand curled softly.

The flat voice in the corner went on: `Well, she found this Romanova girl. Trained her for the job. By the way, how was she in bed? Pretty good?’

No! Bond didn’t believe it. That first night must have been staged. But afterwards? No. Afterwards had been real. He took the opportunity to shrug his shoulders. It was an exaggerated shrug. To get the man accustomed to movement.

`Oh, well. Not interested in that sort of thing myself. But they got some nice pictures of you two.’ Nash tapped his coat pocket. `Whole reel of 16 millimetre. That’s going into her handbag. It’ll look fine in the papers.’ Nash laughed–a harsh, metallic laugh. `They’ll have to cut some of the juiciest bits, of course.’

The change of rooms at the hotel. The honeymoon suite. The big mirror behind the bed. How well it all fitted! Bond felt his hands wet with perspiration He wiped them down his trousers.

`Steady, old man. You nearly got it then. I told you not to move, remember?’

Bond put his hands back on the book in his lap. How much could he develop these small movements? How far could he go? `Get on with the story,’ he said. `Did the girl know these pictures were being taken? Did she know SMERSH was involved in this?’

Nash snorted. `Of course she didn’t know about the pictures. Rosa didn’t trust her a yard. Too emotional. But I don’t know much about that side. We all worked in compartments. I’d never seen her until today. I only know what I picked up. Yes, of course the girl knew she was working for SMERSH. She was told she had to get to London and do a bit of spying there.’

The silly idiot, thought Bond. Why the hell hadn’t she told him that SMERSH was involved? She must have been frightened even to speak the name. Thought he would have her locked up or something. She had always said she would tell him everything when she got to England. That he must have faith and not be afraid. Faith! When she hadn’t the foggiest idea herself what was going on. Oh, well. Poor child. She had been as fooled as he had been. But any hint would have been enough–would have saved the life of Kerim, for instance. And what about hers and his own?

`Then this Turk of yours had to be got rid of. I gather that took a bit of doing. Tough nut. I suppose it was his gang that blew up our Centre in Istanbul yesterday afternoon. That’s going to create a bit of a panic.’

`Too bad.’

`Doesn’t worry me, old man. My end of the job’s going to be easy.’ Nash took a quick glance at his wrist watch. `In about twenty minutes we go into the Simplon tunnel. That’s where they want it done. More drama for the papers. One bullet for you. As we go into the tunnel. Just one in the heart. The noise of the tunnel will help in case you’re a noisy dier–rattle and so forth. Then one in the back of the neck for her–with your gun–and out of the window she goes. Then one more for you with your gun. With your fingers wrapped round it, of course. Plenty of powder on your shirt. Suicide. That’s what it’ll look like at first. But there’ll be two bullets in your heart. That’ll come out later. More mystery! Search the Simplon again. Who was the man with the fair hair? They’ll find the film in her bag, and in your pocket there’ll be a long love letter from her to you–a bit threatening. It’s a good one. SMERSH wrote it. It says that she’ll give the film to the newspapers unless you marry her. That you promised to marry her if she stole the Spektor . . .’ Nash paused and added in parentheses, `As a matter of fact, old man, the Spektor’s booby-trapped. When your cipher experts start fiddling with it, it’s going to blow them all to glory. Not a bad dividend on the side.’ Nash chuckled dully. `And then the letter says that all she’s got to offer you is the machine and her body–and all about her body and what you did with it. Hot stuff, that part! Right? So what’s the story in the papers–the Left Wing ones that will be tipped off to meet the train? Old man, the story’s got everything. Orient Express. Beautiful Russian spy murdered in Simplon tunnel. Filthy pictures. Secret cipher machine. Handsome British spy with career ruined murders her and commits suicide. Sex, spies, luxury train, Mr and Mrs Somerset . . .! Old man, it’ll run for months! Talk of the Khoklov case! This’ll knock spots off it. And what a poke in the eye for the famous Intelligence Service! Their best man, the famous James Bond. What a shambles. Then bang goes the cipher machine! What’s your chief going to think of you? What’s the public going to think? And the Government. And the Americans? Talk about security! No more atom secrets from the Yanks.’ Nash paused to let it all sink in. With a touch of pride he said, `Old man, this is going to be the story of the century!’