Bond interrupted. “Perhaps there’s protection somewhere, sir. That Montesi business didn’t look so good.”
M shrugged impatiently. “Maybe, maybe. And you’ll have to watch out for that too, but my impression is that the Montesi case resulted in a pretty extensive clean-up. Anyway, when the PM gave me the order to get on with it, it occurred to me to have a talk with Washington. CIA were very helpful. You know the Narcotics Bureau have a team in Italy. Have had ever since the War. They’re nothing to do with CIA – run by the American Treasury Department, of all people. The American Treasury control a so-called Secret Service that looks after drug smuggling and counterfeiting. Pretty crazy arrangement. Often wonder what the FBI must think of it. However,” M slowly swivelled his chair away from the window. He linked his hands behind his head and leaned back, looking across the desk at Bond. “The point is that the CIA Rome Station works pretty closely with this little narcotics team. Has to, to prevent crossed lines and so on. And CIA – Alan Dulles himself, as a matter of fact – gave me the name of the top narcotics agent used by the Bureau. Apparently he’s a double. Does a little smuggling as cover. Chap called Kristatos. Dulles said that of course he couldn’t involve his people in any way and he was pretty certain the Treasury Department wouldn’t welcome their Rome Bureau playing too closely with us. But he said that, if I wished, he would get word to this Kristatos that one of our, er, best men would like to make contact with a view to doing business. I said I would much appreciate that, and yesterday I got word that the rendezvous is fixed for the day after tomorrow.” M gestured towards the files in front of Bond.
“You’ll find all the details in there.”
There was a brief silence in the room. Bond was thinking that the whole affair sounded unpleasant probably dangerous and certainly dirty. With the last quality in mind, Bond got to his feet and picked up the files. “All right, sir. It looks like money. How much will we pay for the traffic to stop?”
M let his chair tip forward. He put his hands flat down on the desk, side by side. He said roughly: “A hundred thousand pounds. In any currency. That’s the PM’s figure. But I don’t want you to get hurt. Certainly not picking other people’s coals out of the fire. So you can go up to another hundred thousand if there’s bad trouble. Drugs are the biggest and tightest ring in crime.” M reached for his in-basket and took out a file of signals. Without looking up he said: “Look after yourself.”
Signor Kristatos picked up the menu. He said: “I do not beat about bushes, Mr Bond. How much?”
“Fifty thousand pounds for one hundred per cent results.”
Kristatos said indifferently: “Yes. Those are important funds. I shall have melon with prosciutto ham and a chocolate ice-cream. I do not eat greatly at night. These people have their own Chianti. I commend it.”
The waiter came and there was a brisk rattle of Italian. Bond ordered Tagliatelli Verdi with a Genoese sauce which Kristatos said was improbably concocted of basil, garlic and fir cones.
When the waiter had gone, Kristatos sat and chewed silently on a wooden toothpick. His face gradually became dark and glum as if bad weather had come to his mind. The black, hard eyes that glanced restlessly at everything in the restaurant except Bond, glittered. Bond guessed that Kristatos was wondering whether or not to betray somebody. Bond said encouragingly: “In certain circumstances, there might be more.”
Kristatos seemed to make up his mind. He said: “So?” He pushed back his chair and got up. “Forgive me. I must visit the toiletta.” He turned and walked swiftly towards the back of the restaurant.
Bond was suddenly hungrier and thirsty. He poured out a large glass of Chianti and swallowed half of it. He broke a roll and began eating, smothering each mouthful with deep yellow butter. He wondered why rolls and butter are delicious only in France and Italy. There was nothing else on his mind. It was just a question of waiting. He had confidence in Kristatos. He was a big, solid man who was trusted by the Americans. He was probably making some telephone call that would be decisive. Bond felt in good spirits. He watched the passers-by through the plate-glass window. A man selling one of the Party papers went by on a bicycle. Flying from the basket in front of the handlebars was a pennant. In red on white it said: PROGRESSO? – SI! – AVVENTURI? – NO! Bond smiled. That was how it was. Let it so remain for the rest of the assignment.