James Bond: The Authorised Biography (23 page)

I had not realized the role that Ian Fleming played in this. I knew, of course, that long after he left Naval Intelligence for journalism, Fleming had maintained his contacts with the secret-service world. What I didn't know was their extent, and how he acted as an unofficial talent scout for the department. I can see now that this would have been a role that suited him. He knew the top brass of the Secret Service personally, M. included, and the range of his acquaintanceship was quite phenomenal. He was a dedicated human catalyst, a great one for knowing exactly the right man for any job. This was one reason for his effortless success as a journalist – I can remember how he always knew the one key person for a story when he was writing his weekly column on the
Sunday Times
. He obviously used his talents in the same way for the Secret Service – particularly with Bond, although it must have taken all his skill and tact to organize.

One of the most exclusive dining clubs in London is the so-called Twinsnakes Club. Fleming has mentioned it, much to the chagrin of some of its more straightlaced members. It meets once a year, generally at the Connaught Hotel, and consists of the most distinguished members, past and present, of the British Secret Service. They dine extremely well and, when the port is circulating, one of their members reads a paper. The standard is traditionally high. In the past their numbers have included Buchan and Charles Morgan, as well as the heads of the profession. The famous story of
The Man Who Never Was
originated with a paper which was read here. This year it was Fleming's turn. He chose for his subject, ‘The ideal agent – a study in character’.

Fleming described a man called X. He was in his early thirties – good-looking, something of a womanizer, adept at games, tough, dedicated, socially acceptable. He had sufficient glamour to take him anywhere, and was the perfect man of the world. As Fleming said, ‘The grey-faced, anonymous operators that are now in fashion have their limitations. How can they hope to penetrate the topmost echelons of politics and commerce and society where the decisions matter?’

But at the same time, X was enough of an outsider to maintain complete integrity. He was what Fleming called ‘his own man’ – slightly cynical, entirely without social or political ambitions, and, of course, unmarried. ‘A red-blooded, resolutely heterosexual bachelor,’ was how Fleming put it.

In the discussion there was general agreement with Fleming's thesis – most of the argument was whether a man like X could possibly exist. M. in particular seemed convinced that he could not. Fleming heard him out, and then said quietly, ‘Oh but he does. You've even met him. His name is Bond.’

Even then Fleming must have done a lot of delicate persuading behind the scenes, for M. had not forgotten Washington. But two days later M.'s secretary, the cool Miss Moneypenny, rang Bond to say that M. would like to lunch with him at Blades. Slightly puzzled, Bond accepted, and, soon after, Fleming rang. He admitted having fixed the lunch, but said that he thought Bond should ‘make his number with the old fire-eater’.

‘I've had a word with him, and I think I've cleared up that misunderstanding over Washington. You have to make allowances you know. M.'s a Victorian. He was married – they were quite devoted – and ever since she died he's been faithful to her memory. Rather touching, but it means he's sometimes sensitive about sex and marriage.’

‘You're telling me,’ said Bond.

‘But he's a fascinating character. Extremely complex. Works like mad, of course, and a real hard nut. And yet a marvellous man to work for once you know him. Those who do won't hear a word against him.’

‘I'll believe you,’ Bond replied.

‘Oh, and a few words of warning. This time, when you meet him, don't admit to knowing any languages too well. M. has two phobias in life – men with beards and people who are fluent in foreign languages. On no account call him “Sir”.’

‘I wouldn't dream of it,’ said Bond.

‘And let him choose the wine.’

‘Oh God,’ said Bond.

*

It was uncanny to be back at Blades. Since that evening when he lost £80 to Bunny Kendrick, Bond had allowed his membership to lapse. But Prizeman, the hall porter, remembered him, welcoming him back as if it had all been yesterday.

‘Commander Bond. Nice to see you. Sir Miles is expecting you in the dining room.’

Whatever qualms Bond had at meeting M. again were lulled by the prospect of that splendid room. Here Robert Adam had approached perfection – his architecture still embodied an ideal of eighteenth-century calm and certainty. Against such a background the grimy subterfuges of the secret-service world appeared unthinkable. It was even hard for Bond to think of this solid gentlemanly figure in the dark blue suit as the antagonist of cruel and dedicated men in Moscow and Peking waging a war that never ceased.

M. was genial. The eyes were twinkling now. Reluctantly, Bond had to admit that he had a certain charm; he talked about his recent salmon fishing on the Test.

‘A Scot like you must know more about salmon than I do,’ said M.

‘Haven't fished for years,’ said Bond.

‘Oh no, of course. Golf's your game.’

Bond nodded. Somebody, probably the Chief of Staff, had been giving M. a swift run-down on his hobbies – Bond wondered how much else he knew. They chatted briefly about golf, although M.'s ignorance about the game was evident. Bond thought that, after all, he had a kindly face: if there was such a thing as a typical old-fashioned sailor's face, M. had it.

M. scanned the menu (without spectacles), and ordered soup and steak-and-kidney pie. After the talk of fishing on the Test, Bond was ready for the Club smoked salmon, but at the last moment something told him that it wouldn't be appreciated. He had the same as M.

‘And how about a little wine? I'm sure you have some preference.’

But Bond said, no, he'd rather have Sir Miles's choice. M., positively beaming now, ordered the wine waiter to bring out a carafe of his favourite Algerian, ‘the old Infuriator of the Fleet, you know’ (Bond wondered briefly who else at Blades could possibly have drunk it).

When it arrived M. brushed aside the wine waiter's suggestion that he ought to taste it. Instead, he filled their glasses, and then drank with gusto.

‘I think,’ said M., ‘it's time that you rejoined us.’

It all seemed very casual, rather as if M. were asking him to renew his membership of Blades.

M. clearly relished steak-and-kidney pie. Bond admired his digestion and the no-nonsense way he piled his plate. Most men of his age, he thought, would have been worrying about an ulcer or their arteries.

‘Fleming's not been giving you any idea what we have in mind for you?’ said M.

Bond felt the steely eyes were watching carefully. He shook his head.

‘As you have probably gathered, things have changed a lot since you've been away. The so-called “Secret War” we're fighting has been hotting up, in all directions. The opposition keep us on our toes, and we have had to regroup accordingly.’

Bond nodded. There was a silence broken only by the champing of M.'s jaws.

‘It's an unpleasant fact of life that in our business we sometimes have to kill our enemies. The opposition makes no bones about it. I take it that you've heard of Smersh?’

‘
Smiert Spionam
’, said Bond.

M. glanced up quickly.

‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Well as we know, for two years now they've run their training school outside a place called Irkutsk. They have a special course in what they are pleased to call “liquidation”. They also have a section specially devised to cope with all assignments which have a so-called “assassination element”. You'll have to read the dossiers on it back at Headquarters, but the point is that this is a threat which we must face. We can't be squeamish. A few months ago I formed a section of our own to deal with it. It's called the double-O section. I think it might suit you.’

‘You mean,’ said Bond, ‘that you want me to be part of our own murder squad?’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said M. gruffly. ‘That may be the way they do things over there. We don't, thank God. But we must be prepared. This is a crisis, and we're fighting for survival. We need men like you.’

Bond had promised to let Fleming know how the lunch went. Accordingly he went along to his office in Grays Inn Road to tell him.

Fleming's office was a funny place, more like a down-at-heel country solicitor's than an important London journalist's – partitioned off with reeded glass, an anteroom outside with Fleming's black felt hat, briefcase, and a copy of the
New York Review of Books
on the small table.

Bond told him of the 00 section.

Fleming nodded. ‘Yes, I know about it. Great news.’

‘But I can't take it.’

‘Can't take it?’

‘I've had enough of killing.’

‘But, my dear chap. This is ridiculous. You're being offered an lite position in the top rank of the Secret Service – something most agents would give their back teeth for. How can you think to turn it down?’

‘I've told you.’

‘And so you're willing to go on with the sort of wasted life you were living in the Seychelles? Bumming along, living from hand to mouth unless you find a fat rich widow you can marry. James, I hate to see you living in this way, it's no life for you. This is one thing you do superlatively well. You must continue. If you don't you're sunk.’

And so Bond finally rejoined the Secret Service. Thanks to M.'s interest he was earmarked from the start for service in the 00 section, but it was soon made clear to him that he had to earn this status. His record was impressive but he had to prove that he was still up to scratch. He also had to train in the most gruelling school for secret agents in the world. He had a lot to learn if he would catch up on the years that he had been away. But it was reassuring to be back. Once he had made the decision to return, he soon forgot his doubts, and, for the first time since the war, he had a sense of purpose and a job that he believed in. He also felt relieved at being back inside what Fleming called, ‘the warm womb of the Secret Service’. Loner though he was, Bond needed the security of an organization and a settled context for his life.

He had three months of hectic training – three months in which he worked harder than ever in his life before. First came the tests of his physique and basic skill in combat. Most of these took place in the extensive cellars under the ‘Universal Export’ building by the park beneath the remorseless eyes of the world's top experts in human stress and self-defence. At first he was stiff and felt his lack of training, but he knew his body could absorb the work, and within days he was feeling fitter than he ever had. The doctors testing him passed him as ‘fit for all assignments’. Then came the urgent days on the ranges checking him out for weaponry – small arms, machine-guns, rockets and the diverse tools of his appalling trade. He spent three afternoons with Richmall the armourer choosing the private weapon he would carry. The .32 Beretta was his own choice; its compactness, neatness and rates of fire appealed to him in preference to more cumbersome automatics. As Richmall said, ‘The main thing is to have a weapon you're at home with.’ Bond agreed.

Bond's mind was tested, and then trained as well. The preliminary tests were frightening and meant to be: periods of solitude to check his breaking point, sessions of interrogation by the hardest experts in the game, and, finally, the so-called ‘torture chamber’ where for three days and nights a succession of cold, faceless men set out to break him. The purpose was to discover his ‘pain threshold’ and then fix his ‘co-efficient of resistance’. Both were extraordinarily high.

After the first month, the emphasis was changed, and Bond spent several weeks at a house near Basingstoke learning the basic new technology of the secret war. There was a whole new expertise to master: cyphers and cypher machines, systems of drop-outs and controls, planning and methodology. The gadgetry of espionage was now formidable with electronics and computers on the scene.

During these weeks, Bond must have owed a lot to his inheritance from Andrew Bond. His mechanical aptitude was high; so was his mental stamina and concentration. He had the sort of brain that could absorb practical detail swiftly and, once again, his grades were excellent.

Then followed further weeks in London, weeks during which Bond stayed at an hotel in Bloomsbury and went before a succession of Civil Service boards. A few of them amused him – most of them were tedious, but as Fleming told him when he saw him, ‘The Civil Service is a sacred institution. You mustn't hope to hurry it’. Bond was patient, and was finally officially informed that he was appointed as a Grade V Civil Servant with attachment to the Ministry of Defence – normal pay-scale (£1,700 p.a. rising by increments to £2,150 maximum), pension benefits, and certain allowances ‘in the event of active service’.

Then and only then was he given his own permanent niche in ‘the Secret Service Vatican’ as he describes the Regent's Park Headquarters – a small, cream-painted fifth-floor office with a Grade V Civil Service dark brown carpet, a Grade IV Civil Service desk, and a shared secretary, the delectable Miss Una Trueblood. When Bond was given his official pass he felt that he had earned it.

Then came a period of virtual idleness. He had had no word from M., nor for that matter had he seen him since their lunch at Blades, but he began to settle in. It was a strange place. There was a total ban on talking ‘shop’ of any kind and also a clear taboo on any sort of gossip with his colleagues. Not that he saw many of them. He was aware of the inhabitants of other offices around him. From time to time he saw them – in the corridor, or eating in the staff canteen. They would nod as if they knew him, and usually that was all. The one exception was M.'s Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner. He was a humorous, wary man who seemed to guard the secrets of the whole department. Bond sometimes lunched with him. They found they had a common interest in cars – Tanner was proud of his elderly Invicta – and a common enemy in the department's head of administration, Paymaster Captain Troop, R.N. Retd.