The inquiry made Bond lose two planes to New York. By the time the police had put out the fire and had transported the bits of man and the bits of machinery and bomb casing to the morgue it was quite clear that they would have nothing to go on but the shoes, the number on the gun, some fibres and shreds of clothing, and the car. The car-hire people remembered nothing but a man with dark glasses, a driver’s licence in the name of Johnston, and a handful of fivers. The car had been hired three days before for one week. Plenty of people remembered the motor cyclist, but it seemed that he had no rear number plate. He had gone like a bat out of hell towards Baker Street. He wore goggles. Medium build. Nothing else.
Bond had not been able to help. He had seen nothing of the Volkswagen driver. The roof of the Volkswagen had been too low. There had only been a hand and the glitter of a gun.
The Secret Service asked for a copy of the police report and M. instructed that this should be sent to the Thunderball war-room. He saw Bond briefly again, rather impatiently, as if it had all been Bond’s fault. Then he told Bond to forget about it – it was probably something to do with one of his past cases. A hangover of some kind. The police would get to the bottom of it in time. The main thing was Operation Thunderball. Bond had better get a move on.
By the time Bond left the building for the second time, it had begun to rain. One of the mechanics from the car pool at the back of the building had done what he could, knocking out the remains of the Bentley’s windscreen and cleaning the bits out of the car, but when he got home at lunch time Bond was soaked to the skin. He left the car in a near-by garage, telephoned Rolls and his insurance company (he had got too close to a lorry carrying steel lengths, for reinforced concrete presumably. No, he had not got the lorry’s number. Sorry, but you know how it is when these things happen all of a sudden), and then went home and had a bath and changed into his dark blue tropical worsted. He packed carefully – one large suitcase and a holdall for his underwater swimming gear – and went through to the kitchen.
May was looking rather contrite. It seemed as if she might make another speech. Bond held up his hand. ‘Don’t tell me, May. You were right. I can’t do my work on carrot juice. I’ve got to be off in an hour and I need some proper food. Be an angel and make me your kind of scrambled eggs – four eggs. Four rashers of that American hickory-smoked bacon if we’ve got any left, hot buttered toast – your kind, not wholemeal – and a big pot of coffee, double strength. And bring in the drink tray.’
May looked at him, relieved but aghast. ‘Whatever happened, Mister James?’
Bond laughed at the expression on her face. ‘Nothing, May. It just occurred to me that life’s too short. Plenty of time to watch the calories when one goes to heaven.’
Bond left May tut-tutting at this profanity, and went off to look to his armament.
9 | MULTIPLE REQUIEM
So far as SPECTRE was concerned, Plan Omega had gone exactly as Blofeld had known it would and Phases I to III in their entirety had been completed on schedule and without a hitch.
