GOLDFINGER – JAMES BOND 007 by Ian Fleming

Bond gave a deep sigh and knelt and then stood slowly up. Dazedly he looked up and down the lighted plane. By the galley, Pussy Galore lay strapped in her seat like a heap of washing. Farther down, in the middle of the aisle, the guard lay spreadeagled, one arm and the head at ridiculous angles. Without a belt to hold him when the plane dived, he must have been tossed at the roof like a rag doll.

Bond brushed his hands over his face. Now he felt the burns on his palm and cheeks. Wearily he went down on his knees again and searched for the little gun. It was a Colt -25 automatic. He flicked out the magazine. Three rounds left and one in the chamber. Bond half walked, half felt his way down the aisle to where the girl lay. He unbuttoned her jacket and put his hand against her warm breast. The heart fluttered like a pigeon under his palm. He undid the seat belt and got the girl face down on the floor and knelt astride her. For five minutes he pumped rhythmically at her lungs. When she began to moan, he got up and left her and went on down the aisle and took a fully loaded Luger out of the dead guard’s shoulder holster. On the way back past the shambles of the galley he saw an unbroken bottle of bourbon rolling gently to and fro among the wreckage. He picked it up and pulled the cork and tilted it into his open mouth. The liquor burned like disinfectant. He put the cork back and went forward. He stopped for a minute outside the cockpit door, thinking. Then, with a gun in each hand, he knocked the lever down and went through.

The five faces, blue in the instrument lights, turned towards him. The mouths made black holes and the eyes glinted white. Here the roar of the engines was less. There was a smell of fright-sweat and cigarette smoke. Bond stood with his legs braced, the guns held unwavering. He said, ‘Goldfinger’s dead. If anyone moves or disobeys an order I shall kill him. Pilot, what’s your position, course, height and speed?’

The pilot swallowed. He had to gather saliva before he could speak. He said, ‘Sir, we are about five hundred miles east of Goose Bay. Mr Goldfinger said we would ditch the* plane as near the coast north of there as we could get. We were to reassemble at Montreal and Mr Goldfinger said we would come back and salvage the gold. Our ground speed is two hundred and fifty miles per hour and our height two thousand.’

‘How much flying can you do at that altitude? You must be using up fuel pretty fast.’

‘Yes, sir. I estimate that we have about two hours left at this height and speed.’

‘Get me a time signal.’

The navigator answered quickly, ‘Just had one from Washington, sir. Five minutes to five am. Dawn at this level will be in about an hour.’

‘Where is Weathership Charlie?’

‘About three hundred miles to the north-east, sir.’

‘Pilot, do you think you can make Goose Bay?’

‘No, sir, by about a hundred miles. We can only make the coast north of there.’

‘Right. Alter course for Weathership Charlie. Operator, call them up and give me the mike.’

‘Yes, sir.’

While the plane executed a wide curve, Bond listened to the static and broken snatches of voice that sounded from the amplifier above his head.

The operator’s voice came softly to him, ‘Ocean Station

Charlie. This is Speedbird 510. G-ALGY calling C for Charlie, G-ALGY calling Charlie, G-ALGY…’

A sharp voice broke in. ‘G-ALGY give your position. G-ALGY give your position. This is Gander Control. Emergency. G-ALGY…’

London came over faintly. An excited voice began chattering. Now voices were coming at them from all directions. Bond could imagine the fix being quickly co-ordinated at all flying control stations, the busy men under the arcs working on the big plot, telephones being lifted, urgent voices talking to each other across the world. The strong signal of Gander Control smothered all other transmissions. ‘We’ve located G-ALGY. We’ve got them at about 50 N by 70 E. All stations stop transmitting. Priority. I repeat, we have a fix on G-ALGY…’

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