The James Bond Anthology

Bond frowned. He said: ‘It hadn’t occurred to me, sir. But I see what you mean. The rest only have to carry out orders. The admiral has to decide on the orders. I suppose it’s the same as saying that Supreme Command is the loneliest post there is.’

M. jerked his pipe sideways. ‘Same sort of idea. Someone’s got to be tough. Someone’s got to decide in the end. If you send a havering signal to the Admiralty you deserve to be put on the beach. Some people are religious – pass the decision on to God.’ M.’s eyes were defensive. ‘I used to try that sometimes in the Service, but He always passed the buck back again – told me to get on and make up my own mind. Good for one, I suppose, but tough. Trouble is, very few people keep tough after about forty. They’ve been knocked about by life – had troubles, tragedies, illnesses. These things soften you up.’ M. looked sharply at Bond. ‘How’s your coefficient of toughness, James? You haven’t got to the dangerous age yet.’

Bond didn’t like personal questions. He didn’t know what to answer, nor what the truth was. He had not got a wife or children – had never suffered the tragedy of a personal loss. He had not had to stand up to blindness or a mortal disease. He had absolutely no idea how he would face these things that needed so much more toughness than he had ever had to show. He said hesitantly: ‘I suppose I can stand most things if I have to and if I think it’s right, sir. I mean’ – he did not like using such words – ‘if the cause is – er – sort of just, sir.’ He went on, feeling ashamed at himself for throwing the ball back at M.: ‘Of course it’s not easy to know what is just and what isn’t. I suppose I assume that when I’m given an unpleasant job in the Service the cause is a just one.’

‘Dammit,’ M.’s eyes glittered impatiently. ‘That’s just what I mean! You rely on me. You won’t take any damned responsibility yourself.’ He thrust the stem of his pipe towards his chest. ‘I’m the one who has to do that. I’m the one who has to decide if a thing is right or not.’ The anger died out of the eyes. The grim mouth bent sourly. He said gloomily: ‘Oh well, I suppose it’s what I’m paid for. Somebody’s got to drive the bloody train.’ M. put his pipe back in his mouth and drew on it deeply to relieve his feelings.

Now Bond felt sorry for M. He had never before heard M. use as strong a word as ‘bloody’. Nor had M. ever given a member of his staff any hint that he felt the weight of the burden he was carrying and had carried ever since he had thrown up the certain prospect of becoming Fifth Sea Lord in order to take over the Secret Service. M. had got himself a problem. Bond wondered what it was. It would not be concerned with danger. If M. could get the odds more or less right he would risk anything, anywhere in the world. It would not be political. M. did not give a damn for the susceptibilities of any Ministry and thought nothing of going behind their backs to get a personal ruling from the Prime Minister. It might be moral. It might be personal. Bond said: ‘Is there anything I can help over, sir?’

M. looked briefly, thoughtfully at Bond, and then swivelled his chair so that he could look out of the window at the high summery clouds. He said abruptly: ‘Do you remember the Havelock case?’

‘Only what I read in the papers, sir. Elderly couple in Jamaica. The daughter came home one night and found them full of bullets. There was some talk of gangsters from Havana. The housekeeper said three men had called in a car. She thought they might have been Cubans. It turned out the car had been stolen. A yacht had sailed from the local harbour that night. But as far as I remember the police didn’t get anywhere. That’s all, sir. I haven’t seen any signals passing on the case.’

M. said gruffly: ‘You wouldn’t have. They’ve been personal to me. We weren’t asked to handle the case. Just happens,’ M. cleared his throat: this private use of the Service was on his conscience, ‘I knew the Havelocks. Matter of fact I was best man at their wedding. Malta. Nineteen-twenty-five.’

‘I see, sir. That’s bad.’