‘They’ve done everything they can,’ said M. ‘You probably saw in the papers that De Beers took on our friend Sillitoe when he left M.I.5., and he’s out there now, working in with the South African security people. I gather he’s put in a pretty drastic report and come up with plenty of bright ideas for tightening things up, but the Treasury and the Board of Trade aren’t very impressed. They think the thing’s too big to be handled by a lot of separate mining companies, however efficient they are. And they’ve got one very good reason for wanting to take official action on their own.’
‘What’s that. Sir?’
‘There’s a big packet of smuggled stones in London at this very moment,’ said M., and his eyes glittered across the desk at Bond. ‘Waiting to go to America. And the Special Branch know who the carrier is to be. And they know who’s to go out with him to keep an eye on him. As soon as Ronnie Vallance came across the story − it was leaked to one of his narks in Soho, to one of his “Ghost Squad” as he chooses to call it − he went straight off to the Treasury. The Treasury talked to the Board of Trade and then both their Ministers formed up to the P.M. And the P.M. gave them authority to use the Service.’
‘Why not let the Special Branch or M.I.5 handle it, Sir?’ asked Bond, reflecting that M. seemed to be going through a bad phase of mixing in other people’s business.
‘Of course they could arrest the carriers as soon as they took delivery and tried to get out of the country,’ said M. impatiently. ‘But that won’t stop the traffic. These people aren’t the sort that talk. Anyway the carriers are only small fry. They probably just get the stuff from a man in a park and hand it over to another man in a park when they get to the other side. The only way to get to the bottom of the business is to follow the pipeline to America and see where it goes to there. And the F.B.I. won’t be much help to us, I’m afraid. It’s a very small part of their battle with the big-time gangs. And it’s not doing any harm to the United States. Rather the reverse if anything. It’s only England that’s the loser. And America is outside the jurisdiction of the police and M.I.5. Only the Service can handle the job.’
‘Yes, I see that,’ said Bond. ‘But have we got anything else to go on?’
‘Ever heard of “The House of Diamonds”?’
‘Yes, of course, Sir,’ said Bond. ‘The big American jewellers. On West 46th Street in New York and the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. I gather they rank almost as high as Cartier and Van Cleef and Boucheron nowadays. They’ve come up very quickly since the war.’
‘Yes,’ said M. ‘Those are the people. They’ve got a small place in London, too. Hatton Garden. Used to be very big buyers at the monthly showings of the Diamond Corporation. But for the last three years they’ve bought less and less. Although, as you say, they seem to be selling more and more jewellery every year. Must be getting their diamonds from somewhere. It was the Treasury who brought their name up at our meeting the other day. But I can’t find out anything against them. They’ve got one of their biggest men in charge over here. Seems odd as they do so little business. Man called Rufus B. Saye. Nothing much known about him. Lunches every day at the American Club in Piccadilly. Plays golf at Sunningdale. Doesn’t drink or smoke. Lives at the Savoy. Model citizen.’ M. shrugged his shoulders. ‘But the diamond business is a nice, well-regulated sort of family affair, and there’s an impression that the House of Diamonds has an awkward look about it. Nothing more than that.’
Bond decided it was time to put the sixty-four thousand
dollar question. ‘And where do I come in, Sir?’ he asked, looking across the desk into M.’s eyes.
‘You’ve got an appointment with Vallance at the Yard in’ – M. looked at his watch – ‘just over an hour. He’s going to start you off. They’re going to pull in this carrier tonight and put you into the pipeline instead of him.’
Bond’s fingers curled softly round the arms of his chair.
‘And then?’
‘And then,’ said M. matter-of-factly, ‘you’re going to smuggle those diamonds into America. At least that’s the idea. What do you think of it?’
3 | HOT ICE
James Bond shut the door of M.’s office behind him. He smiled into the warm brown eyes of Miss Moneypenny and walked across her office into the Chief of Staff’s room.
The Chief of Staff, a lean relaxed man of about Bond’s age, put down his pen and sat back in his chair. He watched as Bond automatically reached for the flat gun-metal cigarette case in his hip pocket and walked over to the open window and looked down on to Regent’s Park.
There was a thoughtful deliberation in Bond’s movements that answered the Chief of Staff’s question.
‘So you’ve bought it.’
