M’s office was bluey-grey with hanging strata of pipe smoke and Bond’s eyes began stinging within two minutes of their meeting commencing. He must have been smoking all day, Bond thought, and usually that was a sign of trouble.
But M seemed genial – or at least the impenetrable mask he wore was genial. He had sat there without a word, attending to Bond’s narrative of events, puffing away on his pipe, with a nod and a smile from time to time, almost like an uncle patiently listening to his nephew recount the details of his school’s sports day.
‘And there you have it, sir,’ Bond said. ‘The scramble for Zanzarim’s oil is in full enthusiastic swing. I saw it with my own eyes – every oil company in the world wanting a piece of the action.’
‘And we’re at the head of the queue,’ M said, putting his pipe down and smoothing back his thinning hair with the palm of one hand. ‘Excellent,’ he said thoughtfully to himself, pursing his lips and tugging at an ear lobe. Bond knew the signs, it was not a moment to interject. M would speak in his own good time.
‘I should probably discipline you in some way, 007,’ M said finally. ‘For going solo in such a dramatic and headstrong manner – for vanishing like that. But I’ve decided that would be perverse.’
‘May I ask why, sir?’
‘Because – paradoxically, even astonishingly – you achieved everything that was asked of you. The war is over and Zanzarim is reunited. A little corner of Africa is at peace and has a bright, prosperous future. Thanks to your efforts.’
‘And we can acquire all the oil we need.’
M’s eyes sharpened.
‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, 007,’ he said. ‘Oil has nothing to do with us. We – you and I – are just naval ratings on the ship of state. We were given a task and we carried it out. Or rather you did all the hard work – I only put you forward as the right man for the job.’ He allowed himself a half-smile. ‘And it turned out I was correct. I know it hasn’t been an easy time for you but we’ll find a way of recognising that, James, don’t you worry.’
Bond noticed the deliberate use of his Christian name. The mood was mellowing again, but he wanted to make his point.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ Bond said. ‘For both of us.’
‘Us?’
‘The British and the Americans. We seem to be sitting pretty.’
‘And what could be wrong with that?’ M stood up, signalling that the meeting was at an end. Bond rose to his feet also, as M came round from behind his desk. ‘Don’t go there,’ he said, his voice leavened with delicate warning. ‘It’s not our affair. We’re servants of Her Majesty’s Government, whatever its political hue. We are part of the Secret Intelligence Service. Civil servants in the pure sense of the term.’
‘Of course,’ Bond said. ‘As you know, sir, je suis un paysan écossais – all this multinational, macroeconomic forward-planning is lost on me.’
‘He said, disingenuously.’
They both smiled and moved to the door, where M briefly rested his hand on Bond’s shoulder.
‘You did exceptionally well, 007. Did us proud.’
It was a significant compliment, Bond knew. And suddenly he saw how much had been at stake; how his obscure mission in a small African country had possessed a geopolitical resonance and fallout that he could never have imagined. That he would never have wanted to imagine when he had set out on it, he told himself.
M patted his shoulder again, avuncularly.
‘Come in and see me on Monday morning. I think I might have an interesting little job for you.’
No rest for the wicked, Bond thought.
‘See you Monday morning, sir.’
‘Any plans for the weekend?’
‘I have to return some lost property.’