James Bond: The Authorised Biography (22 page)

With such an attitude to women it was not surprising that James Bond stayed resolutely single, especially as his habits were becoming more and more confirmed with age. His ‘cabin’ up among the roofs of the Rue Jacob possessed a monk-like quality, his mistresses were becoming more and more alike. They were all beautiful, all fairly young, and married or divorced. They enjoyed sex as much as he did but they all stuck by the unspoken rules of the game – pleasure but no extraneous demands, sentimentality but no sentiment, passion but no comeback from the world outside. Bond secretly preferred them to leave shortly after making love. (Since they generally had husbands, they invariably did.)

All this seemed satisfactory; had one met James Bond one might have congratulated him on having solved his problems and made the transition from war to peace better than most. He finally had money and success, work he enjoyed, a style of life most men would envy. But Bond was human and by that strange perversity that dogs all human beings, the very things that should have left him happy left him dissatisfied.

He loved settled families, especially with happy, well brought-up children – the Maddoxes, for instance. He used to visit them a lot, and ‘Uncle James’ became the children's hero. He always brought them presents, and remembered their birthdays. He used to tell them stories, show them card-tricks, carry them pick-a-back around the garden. People who saw him with them used to think what a splendid father he would make. He also admired faithful wives (indeed, deep down, they were the only women that he
did
admire). This was one reason why he fell in love with Maddox's wife, Regine.

Soon after his arrival he had attempted to seduce her. She had been perfectly good-natured about it, even taking care to protect his precious vanity.

‘Darling James,’ she said, kissing his hand before replacing it where it belonged, ‘you're too good-looking for me now. A few years ago it would have been different, but now …’

Bond tried to replace his hand. She firmly repelled it.

‘Besides, I'd probably just fall in love with you, and think what trouble that would cause.’

And so, instead of sex, they dined at Maxim's.

Within a day or two, Bond had convinced himself he was in love with her. The role suited him. It did not stop him chasing other women, rather the reverse. Depending on his mood he would be seeking consolation or revenge. But he had an air of sadness now which was irresistible – to everyone except Regine.

She remained resolutely what Bond used to call his ‘
Princesse lointaine’
. They were friends. She used to recommend him books to read and remind him when he needed a haircut. He bought her scent and told her all about his different women. It was the sort of friendship that would have gone on for ever – but for her husband.

There was something ironical about an old rake like Maddox becoming jealous of James Bond, especially when Bond was technically quite innocent. Perhaps Maddox understood this, perhaps he knew that mental infidelity was worse than any physical
affaire
. For several months Bond did not realize he knew. Then there was trouble.

Everything went wrong that summer. Bond had been going through one of his periodic hates against the French – their rudeness, narrowness and general meanness. There was a running battle with his concierge. Several assignments had been unsatisfactory, and suddenly Paris seemed impossible – crowded and hot and full of tourists. Maddox had been increasingly irascible. Bond began counting the days off to his holiday. Maddox was very much concerned with trouble in Algiers. The local nationalists were already starting their campaign against the French: the French were getting worried. There had been small-scale riots, bomb attacks and killings. Maddox, and many like him, saw them as portents of disaster round the corner. Much of the trouble was that already it was clear that the local
gendarmes
in Algiers could not contain the unrest. There had been raids on banks owned by the Syndicate. Several employees had been killed, but there had been no arrests. Then, in July, the manager of the main branch in Oran was gunned down and several million francs were stolen.

It was a disturbing case, seeming to create a pattern for the future. If it went unchecked there would be more killings, more armed robberies to finance the violence and subversion. Maddox was much concerned and visited Oran in person. When he returned he discussed it with James Bond.

‘The
gendarmerie
are useless. None of them realize that this is war. The only answer is attack.’

Bond was surprised at Maddox's vehemence – it was unlike him. Bond asked what he meant.

‘I mean that we must teach the Nationalists a lesson. In Oran I found out who was behind the raid – a man called El Bezir – a Communist and head of the local F.L.N. commando.’

‘You told the police?’

Maddox began laughing. Bond felt suddenly uneasy.

‘The police? James, you're getting softer than I thought. Since when have the police in Algeria done anything? I want you in Oran. I've a man there called Descaux. He has his orders and you'll work with him. I want this El Bezir man dealt with.’

For once Bond tried to duck the mission, but Maddox was insistent. When Bond reminded him that he was due to go on holiday, Maddox exploded. Finally, reluctantly, Bond said that he would go.

In fact he liked Oran. At this time it was relatively peaceful, and the city with its port, its great bay and the mixture of the French and Arab worlds was still part of the old North Africa. It had great atmosphere and charm. French legionaries from the Sahara lounged in the outdoor cafés of the Rue Maréchal Lyautey, sipping their Pernods and smoking their issue Bastos cigarettes. The Arab city of the kasbah seemed to Bond part of the oriental world that he remembered from his boyhood. The only drawback to the mission was Descaux.

Bond met him the first evening he arrived, and disliked him instantly. He was a strutting, loud-mouthed little man with thick eyebrows meeting above the nose. He talked a lot about ‘teaching the blacks a lesson’ and soon made it clear to Bond that this meant assassinating El Bezir. He had it all worked out. There was an empty shop beneath the flat where El Bezir was living. They would drive in at night, plant half a hundredweight of gelignite beneath the flat, set a short time fuse, then drive off.

‘You'll kill a lot of innocent Algerians,’ said Bond.

‘Innocent Algerians – are there any?’ said Descaux.

Bond's first reaction to Descaux was to fly back to Paris and resign. He was sickened at the idea of such squalid murder. Then he realized this was impossible. However he behaved now, he was implicated. Descaux would go ahead without him; when the gelignite exploded Bond would still be responsible for the deaths that followed. Suddenly he realized that Maddox must have known the situation when he sent him to Oran: then, for the first time, Bond felt angry.

He had one hope, a man called Fauchet. Bond had known him briefly in the war when he was with the French Resistance. Now he was in Oran as head of the intelligence branch of the French
Sûreté
. He was a barrel of a man with small, shrewd eyes – a Corsican and very tough. Bond called him that night and asked certain questions. Fauchet promised the answers by next morning.

Bond realized the need for caution. Descaux was armed, and obviously suspicious. Next morning, when he called on Fauchet, he discovered why.

‘I've been onto Paris for you,’ said the Corsican. ‘They rang me back an hour ago. Quite a character, this friend of yours.’

‘They know him then?’ said Bond.

‘I'll say. Descaux's an alias of course. Real name is Grautz – German father, Belgian mother. During the war he worked with the Vichy secret police, and for the Gestapo. There's still a lot against him on the file – torture of suspects, murder of hostages, alleged involvement in the mass executions at Nantes in 1943.’

Bond looked grim. ‘And this man El Bezir?’

‘A nationalist, an intellectual, but something of a moderate.’

‘Any connection with the bank raid?’

‘Absolutely none. We've got two men inside who've just confessed. We've even got the money.’

Bond felt that he was beginning to understand.

‘What about this man Descaux?’ said Fauchet. ‘We'd better pull him in before there's trouble.’

‘No,’ said James Bond. ‘Leave him to me.’

Bond knew the cheap hotel where Descaux was staying. There was a garage at the rear. He had no difficulty entering, and in the old Citroën van he found the gelignite, the timing apparatus Descaux had boasted of. It was a primitive affair, but certainly sufficient to destroy a building. Bond was examining it when Descaux entered, with a gun.

Bond could have shot him first. He didn't, because he had other plans and there were things he needed to find out. Descaux disarmed him, tied him up – the knots were very tight – and then, methodically and lovingly, beat him up. Again Bond could have stopped him, but again he didn't. There was no other way of getting him to talk. Then, finally, when Bond's face was pulped and his body limp from kicking, Descaux stopped – the orgy over.

‘That was on orders from your boss,’ he said.

Bond mumbled some reply.

‘He really hates you. Still, you've yourself to blame, you stupid bastard. Playing around with his wife like that. You should have known better with a man like Maddox.’

Bond stiffened. Up to that moment he had never guessed the truth. Now that he did, everything was clear. Maddox had simply used the El Bezir affair to get even with him. The fact that the Algerian was innocent didn't matter. Maddox wanted Bond destroyed – and didn't mind how.

‘He's got it all worked out,’ said Descaux gloatingly. ‘You're going to take the rap for tonight's little caper. When our black friends are blasted to their Maker the evidence will point to you. He's a clever little man, your Mr Maddox. He's seen that I'm completely in the clear, but as for you the evidence would guillotine the President of France.’

Descaux opened the garage doors and climbed aboard the Citroën. Bond heard him backing out, then listened for the bang. He had already fixed the timing apparatus on the bomb and it exploded, as he knew it would, three minutes later. Descaux was killed, a lot of glass was shattered, and it took several hours to fill in the crater in the road. No one else was hurt.

But as for Bond the bitterness went deep. Fauchet looked after him, and helped clear up the case. Bond made sure that nothing backfired on Maddox. Bitter though he was, he couldn't have that on his conscience. Instead he cabled his resignation to Paris and asked a friend to close his flat and ship the Bentley back to Aunt Charmian. A few days later, when his face was healed, he left for Kenya. He was through with Europe.

For several months he stayed in Kenya. During this time he worked for an American who made wild-life films for television. Bond enjoyed it, but there was trouble with a woman. Nairobi was a small place. Bond moved again – first to Mombasa, and then, when the money started to run out, on to the Seychelles. Living was cheaper there. Girls were easy. Nothing worried him. He stayed here several months, bumming a living as he could. It was restful to have reached rock bottom and to be free of loyalties and duties. No one could use him or betray him. Bond was content.

It is hard to know how long he might have stayed here. Places like the Seychelles, dead-end paradises, seem to be full of potential James Bonds. For a while he helped a man prospect for treasure, then he worked for an American millionaire who was searching for rare fish. Fleming retold this episode, changing the time and names and certain key facts, in a short story which he called
The Hildebrand Rarity
.

It was a gruesome business. The millionaire was killed – to this day full responsibility for his death remains uncertain – and, for some while, Bond lived with his widow. She was rich. She loved him. And as Bond says, ‘I was past caring what I was by then. If I was a gigolo, at least I was paying for my keep.’

Then, once again, chance intervened; Ian Fleming arrived in the Seychelles. He was travelling for the
Sunday Times
and writing about the buried treasure of an eighteenth-century pirate. He said he was appalled to see how Bond was living. No one should waste their talents and their life like this. They talked a lot together and Fleming said that during the time that Bond had been away, there had been changes in the Secret Service. Why not come back?

Suddenly Bond found that he was missing London, missing the old life, and the excitement he had known. It was too tempting to resist. When Fleming travelled back to London, Bond came with him.

8

007 is Born

B
OND HAD ENJOYED talking about the Seychelles. Now that he had dealt with the scandal of the Washington affair he could apparently relax and during these few days we had slipped into one of his inevitable routines. We would meet every evening after dinner. Sometimes he brought Honey with him, sometimes not. (To my surprise, the two of them appeared to be becoming quite a cosy couple. I wondered if Bond realized.) And then, without much prompting, he would begin to talk. He liked to have his bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, and his cigarettes (I was relieved to see that he was off the de-nicotined Virginians and back on the Morlands Specials – one more good sign). He was becoming more precise and less self-conscious, particularly now that he began explaining how he made his prodigal's return to the Secret Service. It was an ironic story and he told it well.