THUNDERBALL: by Ian Fleming

The founder and chairman of this private enterprise for private profit was Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

6.

Violet-Scented Breath

Blofeld completed his inspection of the faces. As he had anticipated, only one pair of eyes had slid away from his. He had known he was right. The double-checked reports had been entirely circumstantial, but his own eyes and his intuition had to be the seal. He slowly put both hands under the table. One hand remained flat on his thigh. The other went to a side pocket and drew out a thin gold vinaigrette and placed it on the table in front of him. He prised open the lid with his thumbnail, took out a violet-scented cachou, and slipped it into his mouth. It was his custom, when unpleasant things had to be said, to sweeten his breath.

Blofeld tucked the cachou under his tongue and began to talk in a soft, resonant, and very beautifully modulated voice.

“I have a report to make to members about The Big Affair, about Plan Omega.” (Blofeld never prefixed his words with “Gentlemen,” “Friends,” “Colleagues,” or the like. These were fripperies.) “But before I proceed to that matter, for security’s sake I propose to touch upon another topic.” Blofeld looked mildly round the table. The same pair of eyes evaded his. He continued in a narrative tone of voice: “The Executive will agree that the first three years of our experience have been successful. Thanks in part to our German section, the recovery of Himmler’s jewels from the Mondsee was successfully accomplished in total secrecy, and the stones disposed of by our Turkish section in Beirut. Income: £750,000. The disappearance of the safe with its contents intact from the M.W.D. headquarters in East Berlin has never been traced to our Russian section, and the subsequent sale to the American Central Intelligence Agency yielded $500,000. The interception of one thousand ounces of heroin in Naples, the property of the Pastori circuit, when sold to the Firpone interests in Los Angeles, brought in $800,000. The British Secret Service paid £100,000 for the Czech germ-warfare phials from the state chemical factory in Pilsen. The successful blackmail of former S.S. Gruppenführer Sonntag, living under the name of Santos in Havana, yielded a meager $100,000— unfortunately all the man possessed—and the assassination of Peringue, the French heavy-water specialist who went over to the Communists through Berlin added, thanks to the importance of his knowledge and the fact that we got him before he had talked, one billion francs from the Deuxième Bureau. In round sums, as the Special Executive knows from our accounts, the total income to date, not counting our last and undistributed dividend, has amounted to approximately one and a half million pounds sterling in the Swiss francs and Venezuelan bolivars in which for reasons of prudence—they continue to be the hardest currencies in the world—we convert all our takings. This income, as the Special Executive will be aware, has been distributed in accordance with our charter as to ten per cent for overheads and working capital, ten per cent to myself, and the remainder in equal shares of four per cent to the members—a profit to each member of approximately £60,000. This amount I regard as a barely adequate remuneration for members’ services—£20,000 a year is not in accordance with our expectations— but you will be aware that Plan Omega will yield sufficient to provide each of us with a considerable fortune and will allow us, if we wish to do so, to wind up our organization and transfer our respective energies to other pursuits.” Blofeld looked down the table. He said amiably, “Any questions?”

The twenty pairs of eyes, on this occasion all of them, gazed stolidly, unemotionally back at their chairman. Each man had made his own calculation, knew his own mind. There was no comment to be extracted from these good, though narrow, minds. They were satisfied, but it was not a part of their harsh personalities to say so. These were known things that their chairman had spoken. It was time for the unknown.

Blofeld slipped a second cachou into his mouth, maneuvered it under his tongue, and continued.

“Then so be it. And now to the last operation, completed a month ago and yielding one million dollars.” Blofeld’s eyes moved down the left-hand rank of members to the end of the row. He said softly, “Stand up, No. 7.”

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