CHOICE OF WEAPONS
Three weeks later, in London, March came in like a rattlesnake.
From first light on March ist, hail and icy sleet, with a Force 8 gale behind
them, lashed at the city and went on lashing as the people streamed
miserably to work, their legs whipped by the wet hems of their macintoshes
and their faces blotching with the cold.
It was a filthy day and everybody said so-even M, who rarely admitted the
existence of weather even in its extreme forms. When the old black Silver
Wraith Rolls with the nondescript number-plate stopped outside the tall
building in Regent’s Park and he climbed stiffly out on to the pavement, hail
hit him in the face like a whiff of small-shot. Instead of hurrying inside the
building, he walked deliberately round the car to the window beside the
chauffeur.
”Won’t be needing the car again today, Smith. Take it away and go home.
I’ll use the tube this evening. No weather for driving a car. Worse than one
of those PQ convoys.”
Ex-Leading Stoker Smith grinned gratefully. ”Aye-aye, sir. And thanks.” He
watched the elderly erect figure walk round the bonnet of the Rolls and
across the pavement and into the building. Just like the old boy. He’d always
see the men right first. Smith clicked the gear lever into first and moved off,
peering forward through the streaming windscreen. They didn’t come like
that any more.
M went up in the lift to the eighth floor and along the thick-carpeted
corridor to his office. He shut the door behind him, took off his overcoat
and scarf and hung them behind the door. He took out a large blue silk
bandanna handkerchief and brusquely wiped it over his face. It was odd, but
he wouldn’t have done this in front of the porters or the liftman. He went
over to his desk and sat down and bent towards the intercom. He pressed a
switch. ”I’m in, Miss Moneypenny. The signals, please, and anything else
you’ve got. Then get me Sir James Molony. He’ll be doing his rounds at St
Mary’s about now. Tell the Chief of Staff I’ll see 007 in half an hour. And let
me have the Strangways file.” M waited for the metallic ”Yes, sir” and
released the switch.
He sat back and reached for his pipe and began filling it thoughtfully. He
didn’t look up when his secretary came in with the stack of papers and he
even ignored the half dozen pink Most Immediates on top of the signal file.
If they had been vital he would have been called during the night.
A yellow light winked on the intercom. M picked up the black telephone
from the row of four. ”That you, Sir James? Have you got five minutes?”
”Six, for you.” At the other end of the line the famous neurologist chuckled.
”Want me to certify one of Her Majesty’s Ministers?”
”Not today.” M frowned irritably. The old Navy had respected governments.
”It’s about that man of mine you’ve been handling. We won’t bother about
the name. This is an open line. I gather you let him out yesterday. Is he fit
for duty?”
There was a pause on the other end. Now the voice was professional,
judicious. ”Physically he’s as fit as a fiddle. Leg’s healed up. Shouldn’t be
any after-effects. Yes, he’s all right.” There was another pause. ”Just one
thing, M. There’s a lot of tension there, you know. You work these men of
yours pretty hard. Can you give him something easy to start with? From
what you’ve told me he’s been having a tough time for some years now.”
M said gruffly, ”That’s what he’s paid for. It’ll soon show if he’s not up to
the work. Won’t be the first one that’s cracked. From what you say, he
sounds in perfectly good shape. It isn’t as if he’d really been damaged like
some of the patients I’ve sent you-men who’ve been properly put through
the mangle.”
”Of course, if you put it like that. But pain’s an odd thing. We know very
little about it. You can’t measure it-the difference in suffering between a
woman having a baby and a man having a renal colic. And, thank God, the
body seems to forget fairly quickly. But this man of yours has been in real
pain, M. Don’t think that just because nothing’s been broken…”
”Quite, quite.” Bond had made a mistake and he had suffered for it. In any
case M didn’t like being lectured, even by one of the most famous doctors in
the world, on how he should handle his agents. There had been a note of
criticism in Sir James Molony’s voice. M said abruptly, ”Ever hear of a man
called Steincrohn-Dr Peter Steincrohn?”
”No, who’s he?”
”American doctor. Written a book my Washington people sent over for our
library. This man talks about how much punishment the human body can
put up with. Gives a list of the bits of the body an average man can do
without. Matter of fact, J copied it out for future reference. Care to hear the
list?” M dug into his coat pocket and put some letters and scraps of paper
on the desk in front of him. With his left hand he selected a piece of paper
and unfolded it. He wasn’t put out by the silence on the other end of the
line, ”Hullo, Sir James! Well, here they are: ’Gall bladder, spleen, tonsils,
appendix, one of his two kidneys, one of his two lungs, two of his four or
five quarts of blood, two-fifths of his liver, most of his stomach, four of his
twenty-three feet of intestines and half,of his brain.’ ” M paused. When the
silence continued at the other end, he said, ”Any comments, Sir James?”
There was a reluctant grunt at the other end of the telephone. ”I wonder he
didn’t add an arm and a leg, or all of them. I don’t see quite what you’re
trying to prove.”
M gave a curt laugh. ”I’m not trying to prove anything, Sir James. It just
struck me as an interesting list. All I’m trying to say is that my man seems
to have got off pretty lightly compared with that sort of punishment. But,”
M relented, ”don’t let’s argue about it.” He said in a milder voice, ”As a
matter of fact I did have it in mind to let him have a bit of a breather.
Something’s come up in Jamaica.” M glanced at the streaming windows.
”It’ll be more of a rest cure than anything. Two of my people, a man and a
girl, have gone off together. Or that’s what it looks like. Our friend can have
a spell at being an inquiry agent-in the sunshine too. How’s that?”
”Just the ticket. I wouldn’t mind the job myself on a day like this.” But Sir
James Molony was determined to get his message through. He persisted
mildly. ”Don’t think I wanted to interfere, M, but there are limits to a man’s
courage. I know you have to treat these men as if they were expendable, but
presumably you don’t want them to crack at the wrong moment. This one
I’ve had here is tough. I’d say you’ll get plenty more work out of him. But
you know what Moran has to say about courage in that book of his.”
”Don’t recall.”
”He says that courage is a capital sum reduced by expenditure. I agree with
him. All I’m trying to say is that this particular man seems to have been
spending pretty hard since before the war. I wouldn’t say he’s overdrawn-not
yet, but there are limits.”
”Just so.” M decided that was quite enough of that. Nowadays, softness was
everywhere. ”That’s why I’m sending him abroad. Holiday in Jamaica. Don’t
worry, Sir James. I’ll take care of him. By the way, did you ever discover
what the stuff was that Russian woman put into him?”
”Got the answer yesterday.” Sir James Molony also was glad the subject
had been changed. The old man was as raw as the weather. Was there any
chance that he had got his message across into what he described to himself
as M’s thick skull? ”Taken us three months. It was a bright chap at the
School of Tropical Medicine who came up with it. The drug was fugu
poison. The Japanese use it for committing suicide. It comes from the sex
organs of the Japanese globe-fish. Trust the Russians to use something no
one’s ever heard of. They might just as well have used curare. It has much
the same effect-paralysis of the central nervous system. Fugu’s scientific
name is Tetrodotoxin. It’s terrible stuff and very quick. One shot of it like
your man got and in a matter of seconds the motor and respiratory muscles
are paralysed. At first the chap sees double and then he can’t keep his eyes
open. Next he can’t swallow. His head falls and he can’t raise it. Dies of
respiratory paralysis.”
”Lucky he got away with it.”
”Miracle. Thanks entirely to that Frenchman who was with him. Got your
man on the floor and gave him artificial respiration as if he was drowning.
Somehow kept his lungs going until the doctor came. Luckily the doctor
had worked in South America. Diagnosed curare and treated him
accordingly. But it was a chance in a million. By the same token, what
happened to the Russian woman?”
M said shortly, ”Oh, she died. Well, many thanks, Sir James. And don’t
worry about your patient. I’ll see he has an easy time of it. Goodbye.”
M hung up. His face was cold and blank. He pulled over the signal file and
went quickly through it. On some of the signals he scribbled a comment.
Occasionally he made a brief telephone call to one of the Sections. When he
had finished he tossed the pile into his Out basket and reached for his pipe
and the tobacco jar made out of the base of a fourteen-pounder shell.
Nothing remained in front of him except a buff folder marked with the Top
Secret red star. Across the centre of the folder was written in block capitals:
CARIBBEAN STATION, and underneath, in italics, Strangways and
Trueblood.
A light winked on the intercom. M pressed down the switch. ”Yes?”
”007’s here, sir.”
”Send him in. And tell the Armourer to come up in five minutes.”
M sat back. He put his pipe in his mouth and set a match to it. Through the
smoke he watched the door to his secretary’s office. His eyes were very
bright and watchful.
James Bond came through the door and shut it behind him.
He walked over to the chair across the desk from M and sat down.
”’Morning, 007.”
”Good morning, sir.”
There was silence in the room except for the rasping of M’s pipe. It seemed
to be taking a lot of matches to get it going. In the background the
fingernails of the sleet slashed against the two broad windows.
It was all just as Bond had remembered it through the months of being
shunted from hospital to hospital, the weeks of dreary convalescence, the
hard work of getting his body back into shape. To him this represented
stepping back into life. Sitting here in this room opposite M was the symbol
of normality he had longed for. He looked across through the smoke clouds
into the shrewd grey eyes. They were watching him. What was coming? A
post-mortem on the shambles which had been his last case? A curt
relegation to one of the home sections for a spell of desk work? Or some
splendid new assignment M had been keeping on ice while waiting for
Bond to get back to duty?
M threw the box of matches down on the red leather desk. He leant back
and clasped his hands behind his head.
”How do you feel? Glad to be back?”
”Very glad, sir. And I feel fine.”
”Any final thoughts about your last case? Haven’t bothered you with it till
you got well. You heard I ordered an inquiry. I believe the Chief of Staff
took some evidence from you. Anything to add?”
M’s voice was businesslike, cold. Bond didn’t like it. Something unpleasant
was coming. He said, ”No, sir. It was a mess. I blame myself for letting that
woman get me. Shouldn’t have happened.”
M took his hands from behind his neck and slowly leant forward and placed
them flat on the desk in front of him. His eyes were hard. ”Just so.” The
voice was velvet, dangerous. ”Your gun got stuck, if I recall. This Beretta of
yours with the silencer. Something wrong there, 007. Can’t afford that sort
of mistake if you’re to carry an oo number. Would you prefer to drop it and
go back to normal duties?”
Bond stiffened. His eyes looked resentfully into M’s. The licence to kill for
the Secret Service, the double-o prefix, was a great honour. It had been
earned hardly. It brought Bond the only assignments he enjoyed, the
dangerous ones. ”No, I wouldn’t, sir.”
”Then we’ll have to change your equipment. That was one of the findings of
the Court of Inquiry. I agree with it. D’you understand?”
Bond said obstinately, ”I’m used to that gun, sir. I like working with it. What
happened could have happened to anyone. With any kind of gun.”
”I don’t agree. Nor did the Court of Inquiry. So that’s final. The only
question is what you’re to use instead.” M bent forward to the intercom. ”Is
the Armourer there? Send him in.”
M sat back. ”You may not know it, 007, but Major Booth-royd’s the greatest
small-arms expert in the world. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. We’ll hear
what he has to say.”
The door opened. A short slim man with sandy hair came in and walked
over to the desk and stood beside Bond’s chair. Bond looked up into his
face. He hadn’t often seen the man before, but he remembered the very wide
apart clear grey eyes that never seemed to flicker. With a non-committal
glance down at Bond, the man stood relaxed, looking across at M. He said
”Good morning, sir,” in a flat, unemotional voice.
”Morning, Armourer. Now I want to ask you some questions.” M’s voice
was casual. ”First of all, what do you think of the Beretta, the -25?”
”Ladies’ gun, sir.”
M raised ironic eyebrows at Bond. Bond smiled thinly.
”Really! And why do you say that?”
”No stopping power, sir. But it’s easy to operate. A bit fancy looking too, if
you know what I mean, sir. Appeals to the ladies.”
”How would it be with a silencer?”
”Still less stopping power, sir. And I don’t like silencers. They’re heavy and
get stuck in your clothing when you’re in a hurry. I wouldn’t recommend
anyone to try a combination like that, sir. Not if they were meaning
business.”
M said pleasantly to Bond, ”Any comment, 007?”
Bond shrugged his shoulders. ”I don’t agree. I’ve used the .25 Beretta for
fifteen years. Never had a stoppage and I haven’t missed with it yet. Not a
bad record for a gun. It just happens that I’m used to it and I can point it
straight. I’ve used bigger guns when I’ve had to-the .45 Colt with the long
barrel, for instance. But for close-up work and concealment I like the
Beretta.” Bond paused. He felt he should give way somewhere. ”I’d’ agree
about the silencer, sir. They’re a nuisance. But sometimes you have to use
them.”
”We’ve seen what happens when you do,” said M drily. ”And as for
changing your gun, it’s only a question of practice. You’ll soon get the feel
of a new one.” M allowed a trace of sympathy to enter his voice. ”Sorry,
007. But I’ve decided. Just stand up a moment. I want the Armourer to get a
look at your build.”
Bond stood up and faced the other man. There was no warmth in the two
pairs of eyes. Bond’s showed irritation. Major Boothroyd’s were indifferent,
clinical. He walked round Bond. He said ”Excuse me” and felt Bond’s
biceps and forearms. He came back in front of him and said, ”Might I see
your gun?”
Bond’s hand went slowly into his coat. He handed over the taped Beretta
with the sawn barrel. Boothroyd examined the gun and weighed it in his
hand. He put it down on the desk. ”And your holster?”
Bond took off his coat and slipped off the chamois leather holster and
harness. He put his coat on again.
With a glance at the lips of the holster, perhaps to see if they showed traces
of snagging. Boothroyd tossed the holster down beside the gun with a
motion that sneered. He looked across at M. ”I think we can do better than
this, sir.” It was the sort of voice Bond’s first expensive tailor had used.
Bond sat down. He just stopped himself gazing rudely at the ceiling. Instead
he looked impassively across at M.
”Well, Armourer, what do you recommend?”
Major Boothroyd put on the expert’s voice. ”As a matter of fact, sir,” he said
modestly, ”I’ve just been testing most of the small automatics. Five
thousand rounds each at twenty-five yards. Of all of them, I’d choose the
Walther PPK 7.65 mm. It only came fourth after the Japanese M-14, the
Russian Tokarev and the Sauer M-38. But I like its light trigger pull and the
extension spur of the magazine gives a grip that should suit 007. It’s a real
stopping gun. Of course it’s about a .32 calibre as compared with the
Beretta’s .25, but I wouldn’t recommend anything lighter. And you can get
ammunition for the Walther anywhere in the world. That gives it an edge on
the Japanese and the Russian guns.” M turned to Bond. ”Any comments?”
”It’s a good gun, sir,” Bond admitted. ”Bit more bulky than the Beretta.
How does the Armourer suggest I carry it?”
”Berns Martin Triple-draw holster,” said Major Boothroyd succinctly. ”Best
worn inside the trouser band to the left. But it’s all right below the shoulder.
Stiff saddle leather. Holds the gun in with a spring. Should make for a
quicker draw than that,” he gestured towards the desk. ”Three-fifths of a
second to hit a man at twenty feet would be about right.”
”That’s settled then.” M’s voice was final. ”And what about something
bigger?”
”There’s only one gun for that, sir,” said Major Boothroyd stolidly. ”Smith
& Wesson Centennial Airweight. Revolver. •38 calibre. Hammerless,
so it won’t catch in clothing. Overall length of six and a half inches and it
only weighs thirteen ounces. To keep down the weight, the cylinder holds
only five cartridges. But by the time they’re gone,” Major Boothroyd
allowed himself a wintry smile, ”somebody’s been killed. Fires the -38 S
& W Special. Very accurate cartridge indeed. With standard loading
it has a .muzzle velocity of eight hundred and sixty feet per second and
muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty foot-pounds. There are various
barrel lengths, three and a half inch, five inch…”
”All right, all right.” M’s voice was testy. ”Take it as read. If you say it’s the
best I’ll believe you. So it’s the Walther and the Smith & -Wesson.
Send up one of each to 007. With the harness. And arrange for him to fire
them in. Starting today. He’s got to be expert in a week. All right? Then
thank you very much, Armourer. I won’t detain you.”
”Thank you, sir,” said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly out
of the room.
There was a moment’s silence. The sleet tore at the windows. M swivelled
his chair and watched the streaming panes. Bond took the opportunity to
glance at his watch. Ten o’clock. His eyes slid to the gun and holster on the
desk. He thought of his fifteen years’ marriage to the ugly bit of metal. He
remembered the times its single word had saved his life-and the times when
its threat alone had been enough. He thought of the days when he had
literally dressed to kill-when he had dismantled the gun and oiled it and
packed the bullets carefully into the springloaded magazine and tried the
action once or twice, pumping the cartridges out on to the bedspread in
some hotel bedroom somewhere round the world. Then the last wipe of a
dry rag and the gun into the little holster and a pause in front of the mirror
to see that nothing showed. And then out of the door and on his way to the
rendezvous that was to end with either darkness or light. How many times
had it saved his life? How many death sentences had it signed? Bond felt
unreasonably sad. How could one have such ties with an inanimate object,
an ugly one at that, and, he had to admit it, with a weapon that was not in
the same class as the ones chosen by the Armourer? But he had the ties and
M was going to cut them.
M swivelled back to face him. ”Sorry, James,” he said, and there was no
sympathy in his voice. ”I know how you like that bit of iron. But I’m afraid
it’s got to go. Never give a weapon a second chance-any more than a man. I
can’t afford to gamble with the double-o section. They’ve got to be properly
equipped. You understand that? A gun’s more important than a hand or a
foot in your job.”
Bond smiled thinly. ”I know, sir. I shan’t argue. I’m just sorry to see it go.”
”All right then. We’ll say no more about it. Now I’ve got some more news
for you. There’s a job come up. In Jamaica. Personnel problem. Or that’s
what it looks like. Routine investigation and report. The sunshine’ll do you
good and you can practise your new guns on the turtles or whatever they
have down there. You can do with a bit of holiday. Like to take it on?”
Bond thought: He’s got it in for me over the last job. Feels I let him down.
Won’t trust me with anything tough. Wants to see. Oh well! He said:
”Sounds rather like the soft life, sir. I’ve had almost too much of that lately.
But if it’s got to be done… If you say so, sir…”
”Yes,” said M. ”I say so.”