But Bond refused to be owned by any car. A car, however splendid, was a means of locomotion (he called the Continental “the locomotive”. . . “I’ll pick you up in my locomotive”) and it must at all times be ready to locomote—no garage doors to break one’s nails on, no pampering with mechanics except for the quick monthly service. The locomotive slept out of doors in front of his flat and was required to start immediately, in all weathers, and, after that, stay on the road.
The twin exhausts—Bond had demanded two-inch pipes; he hadn’t liked the old soft flutter of the marque—growled solidly as the long gray nose topped by a big octagonal silver bolt instead of the winged B, swerved out of the little Chelsea square and into King’s Road. It was nine o’clock, too early for the bad traffic, and Bond pushed the car fast up Sloane Street and into the park. It would also be too early for the traffic police, so he did some fancy driving that brought him to the Marble Arch exit in three minutes flat. Then there came the slow round-the-houses into Baker Street and so into Regents Park. Within ten minutes of getting the Hurry call he was going up in the lift of the big square building to the eighth and top floor.
Already, as he strode down the carpeted corridor, he smelled emergency. On this floor, besides M’s offices, was housed Communications, and from behind the gray closed doors there came a steady zing and crackle from the banks of transmitters and a continuous machine-gun rattle and clack from the cipher machines. It crossed Bond’s mind that a General Call was going out. What the hell had happened?
The Chief of Staff was standing over Miss Moneypenny. He was handing her signals from a large sheaf and giving her, routing instructions. “CIA Washington, Personal for Dulles. Cipher Triple X by Teleprinter. Mathis, Deuxième Bureau. Same prefix and route. Station F for Head of NATO Intelligence. Personal. Standard route through Head of Section. This one by Safe Hand to Head of M.I.5, Personal, copy to Commissioner of Police, Personal, and these”—he handed over a thick batch—“Personal to Heads of Stations from M. Cipher Double X by Whitehall Radio and Portishead. All right? Clear them as quick as you can, there’s a good girl. There’ll be more coming. We’re in for a bad day.”
Miss Moneypenny smiled cheerfully. She liked what she called the shot-and-shell days. It reminded her of when she had started in the Service as a junior in the Cipher Department. She leaned over and pressed the switch on the intercom, “007’s here, sir.” She looked up at Bond. “You’re off.” The Chief of Staff grinned and said, “Fasten your lap-strap.” The red light went on above M’s door. Bond walked through.
Here it was entirely peaceful. M sat relaxed, sideways to his desk looking out of the broad window at the distant glittering fretwork of London’s skyline. He glanced up. “Sit down, 007. Have a look at these.” He reached out and slid some foolscap-sized photostats across the desk. “Take your time.” He picked up his pipe and began to fill it, absent-minded fingers dipping into the shell-base tobacco jar at his elbow.
Bond picked up the top photostat. It showed the front and back of an addressed envelope, dusted for fingerprints, which were all over its surface.
M glanced sideways. “Smoke if you like.”
Bond said, “Thanks, sir. I’m trying to give it up.”
M said, “Humpf,” put his pipe in his mouth, struck a match, and inhaled a deep lungful of smoke. He settled himself deeper in his chair. The gray sailor’s eyes gazed through the window introspectively, seeing nothing.
The envelope, prefixed “PERSONAL AND MOST IMMEDIATE,” was addressed to the Prime Minister, by name, at No. 10, Downing Street, Whitehall, London, sw1. Every detail of the address was correct down to the final “P.C.” to denote that the Prime Minister was a Privy Councillor. The punctuation was meticulous. The stamp was postmarked Brighton, 8:30 a.m. on June 3. It crossed Bond’s mind that the letter might therefore have been posted under cover of night and that it would probably have been delivered some time in the early afternoon of the same day, yesterday. A typewriter with a bold, rather elegant type had been used. This fact, together with the generous 5-by-7 ½-inch envelope and the spacing and style of the address, gave a solid, businesslike impression. The back of the envelope showed nothing but fingerprints. There was no sealing wax.