The James Bond Anthology

M. gave Bond a hard, sour look. He swivelled his chair sideways so that he could watch the high, scudding October clouds through the broad window. He reached out for his pipe, blew through it sharply, and then, as if this action had let off the small head of steam, replaced it gently on the desk. When he spoke, his voice was patient, reasonable. ‘As you can imagine, 007, I do not wish the Service to become involved in this drug business. Earlier this year I had to take you off other duties for a fortnight so that you could go to Mexico and chase off that Mexican grower. You nearly got yourself killed. I sent you as a favour to the Special Branch. When they asked for you again to tackle this Italian gang I refused. Ronnie Vallance went behind my back to the Home Office and the Ministry of Health. The Ministers pressed me. I said that you were needed here and that I had no one else to spare. Then the two Ministers went to the P.M.’ M. paused. ‘And that was that. I must say the P.M. was very persuasive. Took the line that heroin, in the quantities that have been coming in, is an instrument of psychological warfare – that it saps a country’s strength. He said he wouldn’t be surprised to find that this wasn’t just a gang of Italians out to make big money – that subversion and not money was at the back of it.’ M. smiled sourly. ‘I expect Ronnie Vallance thought up that line of argument. Apparently his narcotics people have been having the devil of a time with the traffic – trying to stop it getting a hold on the teenagers as it has in America. Seems the dance halls and the amusement arcades are full of pedlars. Vallance’s Ghost Squad have managed to penetrate back up the line to one of the middle-men, and there’s no doubt it’s all coming from Italy, hidden in Italian tourists’ cars. Vallance has done what he can through the Italian police and Interpol, and got nowhere. They get so far back up the pipeline, arrest a few little people, and then, when they seem to be getting near the centre, there’s a blank wall. The inner ring of distributors are too frightened or too well paid.’

Bond interrupted. ‘Perhaps there’s protection somewhere, sir. That Montesi business didn’t look so good.’

M. shrugged impatiently. ‘Maybe, maybe. And you’ll have to watch out for that too, but my impression is that the Montesi case resulted in a pretty extensive clean-up. Anyway, when the P.M. gave me the order to get on with it, it occurred to me to have a talk with Washington. C.I.A. were very helpful. You know the Narcotics Bureau have a team in Italy. Have had ever since the War. They’re nothing to do with C.I.A. – run by the American Treasury Department, of all people. The American Treasury control a so-called Secret Service that looks after drug smuggling and counterfeiting. Pretty crazy arrangement. Often wonder what the F.B.I. must think of it. However,’ M. slowly swivelled his chair away from the window. He linked his hands behind his head and leaned back, looking across the desk at Bond. ‘The point is that the C.I.A. Rome Station works pretty closely with this little narcotics team. Has to, to prevent crossed lines and so on. And C.I.A. – Alan Dulles himself, as a matter of fact – gave me the name of the top narcotics agent used by the Bureau. Apparently he’s a double. Does a little smuggling as cover. Chap called Kristatos. Dulles said that of course he couldn’t involve his people in any way and he was pretty certain the Treasury Department wouldn’t welcome their Rome Bureau playing too closely with us. But he said that, if I wished, he would get word to this Kristatos that one of our, er, best men would like to make contact with a view to doing business. I said I would much appreciate that, and yesterday I got word that the rendezvous is fixed for the day after tomorrow.’ M. gestured towards the files in front of Bond. ‘You’ll find all the details in there.’

There was a brief silence in the room. Bond was thinking that the whole affair sounded unpleasant, probably dangerous and certainly dirty. With the last quality in mind, Bond got to his feet and picked up the files. ‘All right, sir. It looks like money. How much will we pay for the traffic to stop?’

M. let his chair tip forward. He put his hands flat down on the desk, side by side. He said roughly: ‘A hundred thousand pounds. In any currency. That’s the P.M.’s figure. But I don’t want you to get hurt. Certainly not picking other people’s coals out of the fire. So you can go up to another hundred thousand if there’s bad trouble. Drugs are the biggest and tightest ring in crime.’ M. reached for his in-basket and took out a file of signals. Without looking up he said: ‘Look after yourself.’Signor Kristatos picked up the menu. He said: ‘I do not beat about bushes, Mr Bond. How much?’

‘Fifty thousand pounds for one hundred per cent results.’