M. paused and put a match to his pipe. “If the story holds,” he continued reflectively, “we shan’t come out of this too badly. We’ve wanted one of their high-speed U-boats and we’ll be glad of the clues we can pick up about their atom bombs. The Russians know that we know that their gamble failed. Malenkov’s none too firmly in the saddle and this may mean another Kremlin revolt. As for the Germans. Well, we all knew there was plenty of Nazism left and this will make the Cabinet go just a bit more carefully on German rearmament. And, as a very minor consequence,” he gave a wry smile, “it will make Vallance’s security job, and mine for the matter of that, just a little bit easier in the future. These politicians can’t see that the atomic age has created the most deadly saboteur in the history of the world-the little man with the heavy suitcase.”
“Will the Press wear the story?” asked Bond dubiously.
M. shrugged his shoulders. “The Prime Minister saw the editors this morning,” he said, putting another match to his pipe, “and I gather he’s got away with it so far. If the rumours get bad later on, he’ll probably have to see them again and tell them some of the truth. Then they’ll play all right. They always do when it’s important enough. The main thing is to gain time and stave off the firebrands. For the moment everyone’s so proud of the Moonraker that they’re not inquiring too closely into what went wrong.”
There was a soft burr from the intercom, on M.’s desk and a ruby light winked on and off. M. picked up the single earphone and leant towards it. “Yes?” he said. There was a pause. “I’ll take it on the Cabinet line.” He picked up the white receiver from the bank of four telephones.
“Yes,” said M. “Speaking.” There was a pause. “Yes, sir? Over.” M. pressed down the button of his scrambler. He held the receiver close to his ear and not a sound from it reached Bond. There was a long pause during which M. puffed occasionally at the pipe in his left hand. He took it out of his mouth. “I agree, sir.” Another pause. “I know my man would have been very proud, sir. But of course it’s a rule here.” M. frowned. “If you will allow me to say so, sir, I think it would be very unwise.” A pause, then M.’s face cleared. “Thank you, sir. And of course Vallance has not got the same problem. And it would be the least she deserves.” Another pause. “I understand. That will be done.” Another pause. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”
M. put the white receiver back on its cradle and the scrambler button clicked back to the en clair position.
For a moment M. continued to look at the telephone as if in doubt about what had been said. Then he twisted his chair away from the desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.
There was silence in the room and Bond shifted in his chair to ease the pain that was creeping back into his body.
The same pigeon as on Monday, or perhaps another one, came to rest on the window-sill with the same clatter of wings. It walked up and down, nodding and cooing, and then planed off towards the trees in the park. The traffic murmured sleepily in the distance.
How nearly it had come, thought Bond, to being stilled. How nearly there might be nothing now but the distant clang of the ambulance bells beneath a lurid black and orange sky, the stench of burning, the screams of people still trapped in the buildings. The softly beating heart of London silenced for a generation. And a whole generation of her people dead in the streets amongst the ruins of a civilization that might not rise again for centuries.
All that would have come about but for a man who scornfully cheated at cards to feed the fires of his maniac ego; but for the stuffy chairman of Blades who detected him; but for M. who agreed to help an old friend; but for Bond’s half-remembered lessons from a card-sharper; but for Vallance’s precautions; but for Gala’s head for figures; but for a whole pattern of tiny circumstances, a whole pattern of chance.