if.themanwiththegoldengun-第4部分

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ne　of　my　best　men　at　me；　I　have　the　nerve　to　throw　him　back　at　them。　007　was　a　good　agent　once。　There's　no　reason　why　he　shouldn't　be　a　good　agent　again。　Within　limits；　that　is。　After　lunch；　give　me　the　file　on　Scaramanga。　If　we　can　get　him　fit　again；　that's　the　right…sized　target　for　007。〃
　The　Chief　of　Staff　protested；　〃But　that's　suicide；　sir！　Even　007　could　never　take　him。〃
　M。　said　coldly；　〃What　would　007　get　for　this　morning's　bit　of　work？　Twenty　years？　As　a　minimum；　I'd　say。　Better　for　him　to　fall　on　the　battlefield。　If　he　brings　it　off；　hell　have　won　his　spurs　back　again　and　we　can　all　forget　the　past。　Anyway；　that's　my　decision。〃
　There　was　a　knock　on　the　door　and　the　duty　Medical　Officer　came　into　the　room。　M。　bade　him　good　afternoon　and　turned　stiffly　on　his　heel　and　walked　out　through　the　open　door。
　The　Chief　of　Staff　looked　at　the　retreating　back。　He　said；　under　his　breath；　〃You　coldhearted　bastard！〃　Then；　with　his　usual　minute　thoroughness　and　sense　of　duty；　he　set　about　the　tasks　he　had　been　given。　His　not　to　reason　why！
　
　3
　〃Pistols〃　Scaramanga
　
　At　Blades；　M。　ate　his　usual　meagre　luncheon…a　grilled　Dover　sole　followed　by　the　ripest　spoonful　he　could　gouge　from　the　club　Stilton。　And　as　usual　he　sat　by　himself　in　one　of　the　window　seats　and　barricaded　himself　behind　The　Times；　occasionally　turning　a　page　to　demonstrate　that　he　was　reading　it；　which；　in　fact；　he　wasn't。　But　Porterfield　mented　to　the　head　waitress；　Lily；　a　handsome；　much…loved　ornament　of　the　club；　that　〃there's　something　wrong　with　the　old　man　today。　Or　maybe　not　exactly　wrong；　but　there's　something　up　with　him。〃　Porterfield　prided　himself　on　being　something　of　an　amateur　psychologist。　As　head…waiter；　and　father　confessor　to　many　of　the　members；　he　knew　a　lot　about　all　of　them　and　liked　to　think　he　knew　everything；　so　that；　in　the　tradition　of　inparable　servants；　he　could　anticipate　their　wishes　and　their　moods。　Now；　standing　with　Lily　in　a　quiet　moment　behind　the　finest　cold　buffet　on　display　at　that　date　anywhere　in　the　world；　he　explained　himself。　〃You　know　that　terrible　stuff　Sir　Miles　always　drinks？　That　Algerian　red　wine　that　the　wine　mittee　won't　even　allow　on　the　wine　list。　They　only　have　it　in　the　club　to　please　Sir　Miles。　Well；　he　explained　to　me　once　that　in　the　navy　they　used　to　call　it　the　Infuriator　because　if　you　drank　too　much　of　it；　it　seems　that　it　used　to　put　you　into　a　rage。　Well　now；　in　the　ten　years　that　I've　had　the　pleasure　of　looking　after　Sir　Miles；　he's　never　ordered　more　than　half　a　carafe　of　the　stuff。〃
　Porterfield's　benign；　almost　priestly　countenance　assumed　an　expression　of　theatrical　solemnity　as　if　he　had　read　something　really　terrible　in　the　tea　leaves。　〃Then　what　happens　today？〃　Lily　clasped　her　hands　tensely　and　bent　her　head　fractionally　closer　to　get　the　full　impact　of　the　news。　〃The　old　man　says；　'Porterfield。　A　bottle　of　Infuriator。　You　understand？　A　full　bottle！'　So　of　course　I　didn't　say　anything　but　went　off　and　brought　it　to　him。　But　you　mark　my　words；　Lily〃…he　noticed　a　lifted　hand　down　the　long　room　and　moved　off…〃there's　something　hit　Sir　Miles　hard　this　morning　and　no　mistake。〃
　M。　sent　for　his　bill。　As　usual　he　paid；　whatever　the　amount　of　the　bill；　with　a　five…pound　note　for　the　pleasure　of　receiving　in　change　crisp　new　pound　notes；　new　silver　and　gleaming　copper　pennies；　for　it　is　the　custom　at　Blades　to　give　its　members　only　freshly　minted　money。　Porterfield　pulled　back　his　table　and　M。　walked　quickly　to　the　door；　acknowledging　the　occasional　greeting　with　a　preoccupied　nod　and　a　brief　lifting　of　the　hand。　It　was　two　o'clock。　The　old　black　Phantom　Rolls　took　him　quietly　and　quickly　northwards　through　Berkeley　Square；　across　Oxford　Street　and　via　Wigmore　Street；　into　Regent's　Park。　M。　didn't　look　out　at　the　passing　scene。　He　sat　stiffly　in　the　back；　his　bowler　hat　squarely　set　on　the　middle　of　his　head；　and　gazed　unseeing　at　the　back　of　the　chauffeur's　head　with　hooded；　brooding　eyes。
　For　the　hundredth　time；　since　he　had　left　his　office　that　morning；　he　assured　himself　that　his　decision　was　right。　If　James　Bond　could　be　straightened　out…and　M。　was　certain　that　that　supreme　neurologist；　Sir　James　Molony；　could　bring　it　off…it　would　be　ridiculous　to　re…assign　him　to　normal　staff　duties　in　the　Double…O　Section。　The　past　could　be　forgiven；　but　not　forgotten…except　with　the　passage　of　time。　It　would　be　most　irksome　for　those　in　the　know　to　have　Bond　moving　about　Headquarters　as　if　nothing　had　happened。　It　would　be　doubly　embarrassing　for　M。　to　have　to　face　Bond　across　that　desk。　And　James　Bond；　if　aimed　straight　at　a　known　target…M。　put　it　in　the　language　of　battleships…was　a　supremely　effective　firing…piece。　Well；　the　target　was　there　and　it　desperately　demanded　destruction。　Bond　had　accused　M。　of　using　him　as　a　tool。　Naturally。　Every　officer　in；　the　Service　was　a　tool　for　one　secret　purpose　or　another。　The　problem　on　hand　could　only　be　solved　by　a　killing。　James　Bond　would　not　possess　the　Double…O　prefix　if　he　had　not　high　talents；　frequently　proved；　as　a　gunman。　So　be　it！　In　exchange　for　the　happenings　of　that　morning；　in　expiation　of　them；　Bond　must　prove　himself　at　his　old　skills。　If　he　succeeded；　he　would　have　regained　his　prevous　status。　If　he　failed；　well；　it　would　be　a　death　for　which　he　would　be　honoured。　Win　or　lose；　the　plan　would　solve　a　vast　array　of　problems。　M。　closed　his　mind　once　and　for　all　on　his　decision。　He　got　out　of　the　car　and　went　up　in　the　lift　to　the　eighth　floor　and　along　the　corridor；　smelling　the　smell　of　some　unknown　disinfectant　more　and　more　powerfully　as　he　approached　his　office。
　Instead　of　using　his　key　to　the　private　entrance　at　the　end　of　the　corridor　M。　turned　right；　through　Miss　Money…penny's　door。　She　was　sitting　in　her　usual　place；　typing　away　at　the　usual　routine　correspondence。　She　got　to　her　feet。
　〃What's　this　dreadful　stink；　Miss　Moneypenny？〃　〃I　don't　know　what　it's　called；　sir。　Head　of　Security　brought　along　a　squad　from　Chemical　Warfare　at　the　War　Office。　He　says　your　office　is　all　right　to　use　again　but　to　keep　the　windows　open　for　a　while。　So　I've　turned　on　the　heating。　Chief　of　Staff　isn't　back　from　lunch　yet；　but　he　told　me　to　tell　you　that　everything　you　wanted　done　is　under　way。　Sir　James　is　operating　until　four　but　will　expect　your　call　after　that。　Here's　the　file　you　wanted；　sir。〃
　M。　took　the　brown　folder　with　the　red　Top　Secret　star　in　its　top　right…hand　corner。　〃How's　007？　Did　he　e　round　all　right？〃
　Miss　Moneypenny's　face　was　expressionless。　〃I　gather　so；　sir。　The　M。O。　gave　him　a　sedative　of　some　kind；　and　he　was　taken　off　on　a　stretcher　during　the　lunch　hours。　He　was　covered　up。　They　took　him　down　in　the　service　lift　to　the　garage。　I　haven't　had　any　inquiries。〃
　〃Good。　Well；　bring　me　in　the　signals；　would　you。　There's　been　a　lot　of　tune　wasted　today　on　all　these　domestic　excitements。〃　Carrying　the　brown　folder；　M。　went　through　the　door　into　his　office。　Miss　Moneypenny　brought　in　the　signals　and　stood　dutifully　beside　him　while　he　went　through　them；　occasionally　dictating　a　ment　or　a　query。　She　looked　down　at　the　bowed；　iron…grey　head　with　the　bald　patch　polished　for　years　by　a　succession　of　naval　caps　and　wondered；　as　she　had　wondered　so　often　over　the　past　ten　years；　whether　she　loved　or　hated　this　man。　One　thing　was　certain。　She　respected　him　more　than　any　man　she　had　known　or　had　read　of。
　M。　handed　her　the　file。　〃Thank　you。　Now　just　give　me　a　quarter　of　an　hour；　and　then　I'll　see　whoever　wants　me。　The　call　to　Sir　James　has　priority　of　course。〃
　M。　opened　the　brown　folder；　reached　for　his　pipe　and　began　absent…mindedly　filling　it　as　he　glanced　through　the　list　of　subsidiary　files　to　see　if　there　was　any　other　docket　he　immediately　needed。　Then　he　set　a　match　to　his　pipe　and　settled　back　in　his　chair　and　read：
　
　FRANCISCO　（PACO）　〃PISTOLS〃　SCARAMANGA
　
　And　underneath；　in　lower…case　type：
　Free…lance　assassin　mainly　under　K。G。B。　control　through　D。S。S。；　Havana；　Cuba；　but　often　as　an　independent　operator　for　other　organizations；　in　the　Caribbean　and　Central　American　states。　Has　caused　widespread　damage；　particularly　to　the　S。S。；　but　also　to　C。I。A。　and　other　friendly　services；　by　murder　and　scientific　maiming　since　1959；　the　year　when　Castro　came　to　power　and　which　seems　also　to　have　been　the　trigger　for　Scaramanga's　operations。　Is　widely　feared　and　admired　in　said　territory　throughout　which　he　appears；　despite　police　precautions；　to　have　plete　freedom　of　access。　Has　thus　bee　something　of　a　local　myth　and　is　known　in　his　〃territory〃　as　The　Man　with　the　Golden　Gun…a　reference　to　his　main　weapon　which　is　a　gold…plated；　long…barrelled；　single…action　Colt　。45。　He　uses　special　bullets　with　a　heavy；　soft　（24　ct。）　gold　core　jacketed　with　silver　and　cross…cut　at　the　tip；　on　the　dum…dum　principle；　for　maximum　wounding　effect。　Himself　loads　and　artifices　this　ammunition。　Is　responsible　for　the　death　of　267　（British　Guiana）；　398　（Trinidad）；　943　（Jamaica）；　and　768　and　742　（Havana）；　and　for　the　maiming　and　subsequent　retirement　from　the　S。S。　of　098；　Area　Inspection　Officer；　by　bullet　wounds　in　both　knees。　（See　above　references　in　Central　Records　for　Scaramanga's　victims　in　Martinique；　Haiti；　and　Panama。）
　DESCRIPTION：　Age　about　35。　Height　6　ft。　3　in。　Slim　and　fit。　Eyes；　light　brown。　Hair　reddish　in　a　crew　cut。　Long　sideburns。　Gaunt；　sombre　face　with　thin　pencil　moustache；　brownish。　Ears　very　flat　to　the　head。　Ambidextrous。　Hands　very　large　and　powerful　and　immaculately　manicured。　Distinguishing　marks：　a　third　nipple　about　two　inches　below　his　left　breast。　（N。B。　In　Voodoo　and　allied　local　cults　this　is　considered　a　sign　of　invulnerability　and　great　sexual　prowess。）　Is　an　insatiable　but　indiscriminate　womanizer　who　invariably　has　sexual　intercourse　shortly　before　a　killing　in　the　belief　that　it　improves　his　〃eye。〃　（N。B。　A　belief　shared　by　many　professional　lawn　tennis　players；　golfers；　gun　and　rifle　marksmen；　and　others。）
　ORIGINS：　A　relative　of　the　Catalan　family　of　circus　managers　of　the　same　name　with　whom　he　spent　his　youth。　Self…educated。　At　the　age　of　16　（after　the　incident　described　below　under　MOTIVATION）　emigrated　illegally　to　the　United　States　where　he　lived　a　life　of　petty　crime　on　the　fringes　of　the　g