Number Two of Secret Service Station WB was a lean, tense man in his early forties. He wore the uniform of his profession-well-cut, well-used, lightweight tweeds in a dark green herringbone, a soft white silk shirt, and an old school tie (in his case Wykehamist). At the sight of the tie, and while they exchanged conventional greetings in the small musty lobby of the apartment, Bond's spirits, already low, sank another degree. He knew the type-backbone of the civil service... overcrammed and underloved at Winchester... a good second in P.P.E. at Oxford9... the war, staff jobs he would have done meticulously-perhaps an O.B.E.... Allied10 Control Commission in Germany where he had been recruited into the I Branch.... And thence-because he was the ideal staff man and A-one with Security, and because he thought he would find life, drama, romance-the things he had never had-into the Secret Service. A sober, careful man had been needed to chaperone Bond on this ugly business. Captain Paul Sender, late of the Welsh Guards, had been the obvious choice. He had bought it. Now, like a good Wykehamist, he concealed11 his distaste for the job beneath careful, trite12 conversation as he showed Bond the layout of the apartment and the arrangements that had been made for the executioner's preparedness and, to a modest extent, his comfort.
The flat consisted of a large double bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen containing tinned food, milk, butter, eggs, bread, and one bottle of Dimple Haig. The only odd feature in the bedroom was that one of the double beds was angled up against the curtains covering the single broad window and was piled high with three mattresses14 below the bedclothes.
Captain Sender said, "Care to have a look at the field of fire? Then I can explain what the other side has in mind."
Bond was tired. He didn't particularly want to go to sleep with the picture of the battlefield on his mind. But he said, "That'd be fine."
Captain Sender switched off the lights. Chinks from the streetlight at the intersection15 showed round the curtains. "Don't want to draw the curtains," said Captain Sender. "Unlikely, but they may be on the lookout16 for a covering party for 272. If you'd just lie on the bed and get your head under the curtains, I'll brief you about what you'll be looking at. Look to the left."
It was a sash window, and the bottom half was open. The mattresses, by design, gave only a little, and James Bond found himself more or less in the firing position he had been in on the Century Range. But now he was staring across broken, thickly weeded bombed ground toward the bright river of the Zirnmerstrasse-the border with East Berlin. It looked about a hundred and fifty yards away. Captain Sender's voice from above him and behind the curtain began reciting. It reminded Bond of a spiritualist sйance.
"That's bombed ground in front of you. Plenty of cover. A hundred and thirty yards of it up to the frontier. Then the frontier-the street-and then a big stretch of more bombed ground on the enemy side. That's why 272 chose this route. It's one of the few places in the town which is broken land-thick weeds, ruined walls, cellars-on both sides of the frontier.... 272 will sneak17 through that mess on the other side, and make a dash across the Zirnmerstrasse for the mess on our side. Trouble is, he'll have thirty yards of brightly lit frontier to sprint18 across. That'll be the killing19 ground. Right?"
Bond said, "Yes." He said it softly. The scent20 of the enemy, the need to take care, already had him by the nerves.
"To your left, that big new ten-story block is the Haus der Ministerien, the chief brain center of East Berlin. You can see the lights are still on in most of the windows. Most of those will stay on all night. These chaps work hard-shifts all round the clock. You probably won't need to worry about the lighted ones. This Trigger chap will almost certainly fire from one of the dark windows. You'll see there's a block of four together on the corner above the intersection. They've stayed dark last night and tonight. They've got the best field of fire. From here, their range varies from three hundred to three hundred and ten yards. I've got all the figures and so on when you want them. You needn't worry about much else. That street stays empty during the night-only the motorized patrols about every half an hour. Light armored car with a couple of motorcycles as escort. Last night, which I suppose is typical, between six and seven when this thing's going to be done, there were a few people that came and went out of that side door. Civil-servant types. Before that nothing out of the ordinary-usual flow of people in and out of a busy government building, except, of all things, a whole damned woman's orchestra. Made a hell of a racket in some concert hall they've got in there. Part of the block is the Ministry21 of Culture. Otherwise nothing-certainly none of the KGB people we know, or any signs of preparation for a job like this. But there wouldn't be. They're careful chaps, the opposition22. Anyway, have a good look. Don't forget it's darker than it will be tomorrow around six. But you can get the general picture."
Bond got the general picture, and it stayed with him long after the other man was asleep and snoring softly with a gentle regular clicking sound. A Wykehamist snore, Bond reflected irritably23.
Yes, he had got the picture. The picture of a flicker24 of movement among the shadowy ruins on the other side of the gleaming river of light, a pause, the wild zigzagging25 sprint of a man in the full glare of the arcs, the crash of gunfire-and then either a crumpled26, sprawling27 heap in the middle of the wide street or the noise of his onward28 dash through the weeds and rubble of the Western Sector29. Sudden death or a home run. The true gauntlet! How much time would Bond have to spot the Russian sniper in one of those dark windows? And kill him? Five seconds? Ten? When dawn edged the curtains with gun metal, Bond capitulated to his fretting30 mind. It had won. He went softly into the bathroom and surveyed the ranks of medicine bottles that a thoughtful Secret Service had provided to keep its executioner in good shape. He selected the Tuinal, chased down two of the ruby31 and blue depth-charges with a glass of water, and went back to bed. Then, poleaxed, he slept.
He awoke at midday. The flat was empty. Bond drew the curtains to let in the gray Prussian day, and, standing well back from the window, gazed out at the drabness of Berlin, and listened to the tram noises and to the distant screeching32 of the U-Bahn as it took the big curve into the Zoo Station. He gave a quick, reluctant glance at what he had examined the night before, noted33 that the weeds among the bomb rubble were much the same as the London ones-campion, dock, and bracken-and then went into the kitchen.
There was a note propped34 against a loaf of bread: "My friend [a Secret Service euphemism35 that in this context meant Sender's chief] says it's all right for you to go out. But to be back by 1700 hours. Your gear [doubletalk for Bond's rifle] has arrived and the batman will lay it out this P.M. P. Sender."
Bond lit the gas cooker, and with a sneer36 at his profession, burned the message. Then he brewed38 himself a vast dish of scrambled39 eggs and bacon, which he heaped on buttered toast and washed down with black coffee into which he had poured a liberal tot of whiskey. Then he bathed and shaved, dressed in the drab, anonymous40, middle-European clothes he had brought over for the purpose, looked at his disordered bed, decided41 to hell with it, and went down in the lift and out of the building.
James Bond had always found Berlin a glum42, inimical city, varnished43 on the Western side with a brittle44 veneer45 of gimcrack polish rather like the chromium trim on American motorcars. He walked to the Kurfьrstendamm and sat in the Cafй Marquardt and drank an espresso and moodily46 watched the obedient queues of pedestrians47 waiting for the Go sign on the traffic lights while the shiny stream of cars went through their dangerous quadrille at the busy intersection. It was cold outside and the sharp wind from the Russian steppes whipped at the girls' skirts and at the waterproofs48 of the impatient hurrying men, each with the inevitable49 briefcase50 tucked under his arm. The infrared51 wall heaters in the cafe glared redly down and gave a spurious glow to the faces of the cafe squatters, consuming their traditional "one cup of coffee and ten glasses of water," reading the free newspapers and periodicals in their wooden racks, earnestly bending over business documents. Bond, closing his mind to the evening, debated with himself about ways to spend the afternoon. It finally came down to a choice between a visit to that respectable-looking brownstone house in the Clausewitzstrasse known to all concierges53 and taxi drivers and a trip to the Wannsee and a strenuous54 walk in the Grunewald. Virtue55 triumphed. Bond paid for his coffee and went out into the cold and took a taxi to the Zoo Station.
The pretty young trees round the long lake had already been touched by the breath of autumn, and there was occasional gold amongst the green. Bond walked hard for two hours along the leafy paths, then chose a restaurant with a glassed-in veranda56 above the lake and greatly enjoyed a high tea consisting of a double portion of Matjeshering, smothered57 in cream and onion rings, and two Molle mit Korn. (This Berlin equivalent of a boilermaker and his assistant was a schnapps, double, washed down with draught58 Lцwenbrдu.) Then, feeling more encouraged, he took the S-Bahn back into the city.
Outside the apartment house, a nondescript young man was tinkering with the engine of a black Opel Kapitan. He didn't take his head out from under the bonnet59 when Bond passed close by him and went up to the door and pressed the bell.
Captain Sender was reassuring60. It was a "friend"-a corporal from the transport section of Station WB. He had fixed61 up some bad engine trouble on the Opel. Each night, from six to seven, he would be ready to produce a series of multiple backfires when a signal on a walkie-talkie operated by Sender told him to do so. This would give some kind of cover for the noise of Bond's shooting. Otherwise, the neighborhood might alert the police and there would be a lot of untidy explaining to be done. Their hideout was in the American Sector, and while their American "friends" had given Station WB clearance62 for this operation, the "friends" were naturally anxious that it should be a clean job and without repercussions63.
Bond was suitably impressed by the car gimmick64, as he was by the very workmanlike preparations that had been made for him in the living room. Here, behind the head of his high bed, giving a perfect firing position, a wood and metal stand had been erected65 against the broad windowsill, and along it lay the Winchester, the tip of its barrel just denting66 the curtains. The wood and all the metal parts of the rifle and sniperscope had been painted a dull black, and, laid out on the bed like sinister67 evening clothes, was a black velvet68 hood3 stitched to a waist-length shirt of the same material. The hood had wide slits69 for the eyes and mouth. It reminded Bond of old prints of the Spanish Inquisition or of the anonymous operators on the guillotine platform during the French Revolution. There was a similar hood on Captain Sender's bed, and on his section of the windowsill there lay a pair of nightglasses and the microphone for the walkie-talkie.
Captain Sender, his face worried and tense with nerves, said there was no news at the Station, no change in the situation as they knew it. Did Bond want anything to eat? Or a cup of tea? Perhaps a tranquilizer-there were several kinds in the bathroom?
Bond stitched a cheerful, relaxed expression on his face and said no thanks, and gave a lighthearted account of his day while an artery70 near his solar plexus began thumping71 gently as tension built up inside him like a watchspring tightening72. Finally his small talk petered out and he lay down on his bed with a German thriller73 he had bought on his wanderings, while Captain Sender moved fretfully about the flat, looking too often at his watch and chainsmoking Kent filter-tips through (he was a careful man) a Dunhill filtered cigarette holder74.
James Bond's choice of reading matter, prompted by a spectacular jacket of a half-naked girl strapped75 to a bed, turned out to have been a happy one for the occasion. It was called Verderbt, Verdammt, Verraten. The prefix76 ver signified that the girl had not only been ruined, damned, and betrayed, but that she had suffered these misfortunes most thoroughly77. James Bond temporarily lost himself in the tribulations78 of the heroine, Grдfin Liselotte Mutzenbacher, and it was with irritation79 that he heard Captain Sender say that it was five-thirty and time to take up their positions.
Bond took off his coat and tie, put two sticks of chewing gum in his mouth, and donned the hood. The lights were switched off by Captain Sender, and Bond lay along the bed, got his eye to the eyepiece of the sniperscope, and gently lifted the bottom edge of the curtain back and over his shoulders.
Now dusk was approaching, but otherwise the scene (a year later to become famous as Checkpoint Charlie) was like a well-remembered photograph-the wasteland in front of him, the bright river of the frontier road, the further wasteland, and, on the left, the ugly square block of the Haus der Ministerien with its lit and dark windows. Bond scanned it all slowly, moving the sniperscope, with the rifle, by means of the precision screws on the wooden base. It was all the same except that now there was a trickle80 of personnel leaving and entering the Haus der Ministerien through the door onto the Wilhelmstrasse. Bond looked long at the four dark windows-dark again tonight-that he agreed with Sender were the enemy's firing points. The curtains were drawn81 back, and the sash windows were wide open at the bottom. Bond's scope could not penetrate82 into the rooms, but there was no sign of movement within the four oblong black gaping83 mouths.
Now there was extra traffic in the street below the windows. The woman's orchestra came trooping down the pavement toward the entrance. Twenty laughing, talking girls carrying their instruments-violin and wind instrument cases, satchels84 with their scores-and four of them with the drums. A gay, happy little crocodile. Bond was reflecting that some people still seemed to find life fun in the Soviet85 Sector, when his glasses picked out and stayed on the girl carrying the cello86. Bond's masticating87 jaws88 stopped still, and then reflectively went on with their chewing as he twisted the screw to depress the sniperscope and keep her in its center.
The girl was taller than the others, and her long, straight, fair hair, falling to her shoulders, shone like molten gold under the arcs at the intersection. She was hurrying along in a charming, excited way, carrying the cello case as if it were no heavier than a violin. Everything was flying-the skirt of her coat, her feet, her hair. She was vivid with movement and life and, it seemed, with gaiety and happiness as she chattered89 to the two girls who flanked her and laughed back at what she was saying. As she turned in at the entrance amidst her troupe90, the arcs momentarily caught a beautiful, pale profile. And then she was gone, and, it seemed to Bond, that with her disappearance91, a stab of grief lanced into his heart. How odd! How very odd! This had not happened to him since he was young. And now this single girl, seen only indistinctly and far away, had caused him to suffer this sharp pang92 of longing93, this thrill of animal magnetism94! Morosely95, Bond glanced down at the luminous96 dial of his watch. Five-fifty. Only ten minutes to go. No transport arriving at the entrance. None of those anonymous black Zik saloons he had half-expected. He closed as much of his mind as he could to the girl and sharpened his wits. Get on, damn you! Get back to your job!
From somewhere inside the Haus der Ministerien there came the familiar sounds of an orchestra tuning97 up-the strings98 tuning their instruments to single notes on the piano, the sharp blare of individual woodwinds-then a pause, and then the collective crash of melody as the whole orchestra threw itself competently, so far as Bond could judge, into the opening bars of what even to James Bond was vaguely99 familiar.
"Moussorgsky's Overture100 to Boris Godunov," said Captain Sender succinctly101. "Anyway, six o'clock coming up." And then, urgently, "Hey! Right-hand bottom of the four windows! Watch out!"
Bond depressed102 the sniperscope. Yes, there was movement inside the black cave. Now, from the interior, a thick black object, a weapon, had slid out. It moved firmly, minutely, swiveling down and sideways so as to cover the stretch of the Zimmerstrasse between the two wastelands of rubble. Then the unseen operator in the room behind seemed satisfied, and the weapon remained still, fixed obviously to such a stand as Bond had beneath his rifle.
"What is it? What sort of gun?" Captain Sender's voice was more breathless than it should have been.
Take it easy, dammit! thought Bond. It's me who's supposed to have the nerves.
He strained his eyes, taking in the squat52 flash eliminator at the muzzle103, the telescopic sight, and the thick downward chunk104 of magazine. Yes, that would be it! Absolutely for sure-and the best they had!
"Kalashnikov," he said curtly105. "Submachinegun. Gas-operated. Thirty rounds in seven sixty-two millimeter. Favorite with the KGB. They're going to do a saturation106 job after all. Perfect for range. We'll have to get him pretty quick, or 272 will end up not just dead but strawberry jam. You keep an eye out for any movement over there in the rubble. I'll have to stay married to that window and the gun. He'll have to show himself to fire. Other chaps are probably spotting behind him-perhaps from all four windows. Much the sort of setup we expected, but I didn't think they'd use a weapon that's going to make all the racket this one will. Should have known they would. A running man will be hard to get in this light with a single-shot job."
Bond fiddled107 minutely with the traversing and elevating screws at his fingertips and got the fine lines of the scope exactly intersected, just behind where the butt13 of the enemy gun merged108 into the blackness behind. Get the chest-don't bother about the head!
Inside the hood, Bond's face began to sweat and his eye socket109 was slippery against the rubber of the eyepiece. That didn't matter. It was only his hands, his trigger finger, that must stay bone dry. As the minutes ticked by, he frequently blinked his eyes to rest them, shifted his limbs to keep them supple110, listened to the music to relax his mind.
The minutes slouched on leaden feet. How old would she be? Early twenties? Say twenty-three? With that poise111 and insouciance112, the hint of authority in her long easy stride, she would come of good racy stock-one of the old Prussian families probably or from similar remnants in Poland or even Russia. Why in hell did she have to choose the cello? There was something almost indecent in the idea of this bulbous, ungainly instrument between her splayed thighs113. Of course Suggia had managed to look elegant, and so did that girl Amaryllis somebody. But they should invent a way for women to play the damned thing sidesaddle.
From his side Captain Sender said, "Seven o'clock. Nothing's stirred on the other side. Bit of movement on our side, near a cellar close to the frontier. That'll be our reception committee-two good men from the Station. Better stay with it until they close down. Let me know when they take that gun in." - "All right."
It was seven-thirty when the KGB submachinegun was gently drawn back into the black interior. One by one the bottom sashes of the four windows were closed. The coldhearted game was over for the night. 272 was still holed up. Two more nights to go! - Bond softly drew the curtain over his shoulders and across the muzzle of the Winchester. He got up, pulled off his cowl, and went into the bathroom, where he stripped and had a shower. Then he had two large whiskeys-on-the-rocks in quick succession, while he waited, his ears pricked114, for the now muffled115 sound of the orchestra to stop. At eight o'clock it did, with the expert comment from Sender-"Borodin's Prince Igor, Choral Dance Number 17, I think."-who had been getting off his report in garbled116 language to the Head of Station.
"Just going to have another look. I've rather taken to that tall blonde with the cello," Bond said to Sender. "Didn't notice her," said Sender, uninterested. He went into the kitchen. Tea, guessed Bond. Or perhaps Horlick's. Bond donned his cowl, went back to his firing position, and depressed the sniperscope to the doorway117 of the Haus der Ministerien. Yes, there they went, not so gay and laughing now. Tired perhaps. And now here she came, less lively, but still with that beautiful careless stride. Bond watched the blown golden hair and the fawn118 raincoat until it had vanished into the indigo119 dusk up the Wilhelmstrasse. Where did she live? In some miserable120 flaked121 room in the suburbs? Or in one of the privileged apartments in the hideous122 lavatory-tiled Stalinallee?
Bond drew himself back. Somewhere, within easy reach, that girl lived. Was she married? Did she have a lover? Anyway, to hell with it! She was not for him.
* * *
The next day, and the next night watch, were duplicates, with small variations, of the first. James Bond had his two more brief rendezvous123, by sniperscope, with the girl, and the rest was a killing of time and a tightening of the tension that, by the time the third and final day came, was like a fog in the small room.
James Bond crammed8 the third day with an almost lunatic program of museums, art galleries, the zoo, and a film, hardly perceiving anything he looked at, his mind's eye divided between the girl and those four black squares and the black tube and the unknown man behind it-the man he was now certainly going to kill tonight.
Back punctually at five in the apartment, Bond narrowly averted124 a row with Captain Sender because, that evening, Bond took a stiff drink of the whiskey before he donned the hideous cowl that now stank125 of his sweat. Captain Sender had tried to prevent him, and when he failed, had threatened to call up Head of Station and report Bond for breaking training.
"Look, my friend," said Bond wearily, "I've got to commit a murder tonight. Not you. Me. So be a good chap and stuff it, would you? You can tell Tanqueray anything you like when it's over. Think I like this job? Having a Double-O number and so on? I'd be quite happy for you to get me sacked from the Double-O Section. Then I could settle down and make a snug126 nest of papers as an ordinary staffer. Right?" Bond drank down his whiskey, reached for his thriller-now arriving at an appalling127 climax-and threw himself on the bed.
Captain Sender, icily silent, went off into the kitchen to brew37, from the sounds, his inevitable cuppa.
Bond felt the whiskey beginning to melt the coiled nerves in his stomach. Now then, Liselotte, how in hell are you going to get out of this fix?
It was exactly six-five when Sender, at his post, began talking excitedly. "Bond, there's something moving way back over there. Now he's stopped-wait, no, he's on the move again, keeping low. There's a bit of broken wall there. He'll be out of sight of the opposition. But thick weeds, yards of them, ahead of him. Christ! He's coming through the weeds. And they're moving. Hope to God they think it's only the wind. Now he's through and gone to ground. Any reaction?"
"No," said Bond tensely. "Keep on telling me. How far to the frontier?"
"He's only got about fifty yards to go," Captain Sender's voice was harsh with excitement. "Broken stuff, but some of it's open. Then a solid chunk of wall right up against the pavement. He'll have to get over it. They can't fail to spot him then. Now! Now he's made ten yards, and another ten. Got him clearly then. Blackened his face and hands. Get ready! Any moment now he'll make the last sprint."
James Bond felt the sweat pouring down his face and neck. He took a chance and quickly wiped his hands down his sides and then got them back to the rifle, his finger inside the guard, just lying along the curved trigger. "There's something moving in the room behind the gun. They must have spotted128 him. Get that Opel working."
Bond heard the code word go into the microphone, heard the Opel in the street below start up, felt his pulse quicken as the engine leaped into life and a series of ear-splitting cracks came from the exhaust.
The movement in the black cave was now definite. A black arm with a black glove had reached out and under the stock.
"Now!" called out Captain Sender. "Now! He's run for the wall! He's up it! Just going to jump!"
And then, in the sniperscope, Bond saw the head of Trigger-the purity of the profile, the golden bell of hair-all laid out along the stock of the Kalashnikov! She was dead, a sitting duck! Bond's fingers flashed down to the screws, inched them round, and as yellow flame fluttered at the snout of the submachinegun, squeezed the trigger.
The bullet, dead-on at three hundred and ten yards, must have hit where the stock ended up the barrel, might have got her in the left hand-but the effect was to tear the gun off its mountings, smash it against the side of the window frame, and then hurl130 it out of the window. It turned several times on its way down and crashed into the middle of the street.
"He's over!" shouted Captain Sender. "He's over! He's done it! My God, he's done it!"
"Get down!" said Bond sharply, and threw himself sideways off the bed as the big eye of a searchlight in one of the black windows blazed on, swerving131 up the street toward their block and their room. Then gunfire crashed, and the bullets howled into their window, ripping the curtains, smashing the woodwork, thudding into the walls.
Behind the roar and zing of the bullets, Bond heard the Opel race off down the street, and, behind that again, the fragmentary whisper of the orchestra. The combination of the two background noises clicked. Of course! The orchestra, that must have raised an infernal din1 throughout the offices and corridors of the Haus der Ministerien, was, as on their side the backfiring Opel, designed to provide some cover for the sharp burst of fire from Trigger. Had she carried her weapon to and fro every day in that cello case? Was the whole orchestra composed of KGB women? Had the other instrument cases contained only equipment-the big drum perhaps the searchlight-while the real instruments were available in the concert hall? Too elaborate? Too fantastic? Probably.
But there had been no doubt about the girl. In the sniperscope, Bond had even been able to see one wide, heavily lashed129, aiming eye. Had he hurt her? Almost certainly her left arm. There would be no chance of seeing her, seeing how she was, if she left with the orchestra. Now he would never see her again. Bond's window would be a death trap. To underline the fact, a stray bullet smashed into the mechanism132 of the Winchester, already overturned and damaged, and hot lead splashed down on Bond's hand, burning the skin. On Bond's emphatic133 oath, the firing stopped abruptly134 and silence sang in the room.
Captain Sender emerged from beside his bed, brushing glass out of his hair. Bond and Sender crunched135 across the floor and through the splintered door into the kitchen. Here, because the room faced away from the street, it was safe to switch on the light.
"Any damage?" asked Bond.
"No. You all right?" Captain Sender's pale eyes were bright with the fever that comes in battle. They also, Bond noticed, held a sharp glint of accusation136.
"Yes. Just get an Elastoplast for my hand. Caught a splash from one of the bullets." Bond went into the bathroom. When he came out, Captain Sender was sitting by the walkie-talkie he had fetched from the sitting room. He was speaking into it. Now he said into the microphone, "That's all for now. Fine about 272. Hurry the armored car, if you would. Be glad to get out of here, and 007 will need to write his version of what happened. Okay? Then over and out."
Captain Sender turned to Bond. Half accusing, half embarrassed he said, "Afraid Head of Station needs your reasons in writing for not getting that chap. I had to tell him I'd seen you alter your aim at the last second. Gave Trigger time to get off a burst. Damned lucky for 272 he'd just begun his sprint. Blew chunks137 off the wall behind him. What was it all about?"
James Bond knew he could lie, knew he could fake a dozen reasons why. Instead he took a deep pull at the strong whiskey he had poured for himself, put the glass down, and looked Captain Sender straight in the eye.
"Trigger was a woman."
"So what? KGB has got plenty of women agents-and women gunners. I'm not in the least surprised. The Russian woman's team always does well in the World Championships. Last meeting, in Moscow, they came first, second, and third against seventeen countries. I can even remember two of their names-Donskaya and Lomova. Terrific shots. She may even have been one of them. What did she look like? Records'll probably be able to turn her up."
"She was a blonde. She was the girl who carried the cello in that orchestra. Probably had her gun in the cello case. The orchestra was to cover up the shooting."
"Oh!" said Captain Sender slowly. "I see. The girl you were keen on?"
"That's right."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I'll have to put that in my report too. You had clear orders to exterminate138 Trigger."
There came the sound of a car approaching. It pulled up somewhere below. The bell rang twice. Sender said, "Well, let's get going. They've sent an armored car to get us out of here." He paused. His eyes flicked139 over Bond's shoulder, avoiding Bond's eyes. "Sorry about the report. Got to do my duty, y'know. You should have killed that sniper whoever it was."
Bond got up. He suddenly didn't want to leave the stinking140 little smashed-up flat, leave the place from which, for three days, he had had this long-range, onesided romance with an unknown girl-an unknown enemy agent with much the same job in her outfit141 as he had in his. Poor little bitch! She would be in worse trouble now than he was! She'd certainly be court-martialed for muffing this job. Probably be kicked out of the KGB. He shrugged142. At least they'd stop short of killing her-as he himself had done.
James Bond said wearily, "Okay. With any luck it'll cost me my Double-O number. But tell Head of Station not to worry. That girl won't do any more sniping. Probably lost her left hand. Certainly broke her nerve for that kind of work. Scared the living daylights out of her. In my book, that was enough. Let's go."
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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hood
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rubble
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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Oxford
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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11
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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12
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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13
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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14
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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15
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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16
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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17
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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18
sprint
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| n.短距离赛跑；vi. 奋力而跑，冲刺；vt.全速跑过 | |
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19
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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20
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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21
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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22
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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23
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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24
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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25
zigzagging
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| v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的现在分词 )；盘陀 | |
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26
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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27
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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28
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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29
sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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30
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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31
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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32
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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33
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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34
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
euphemism
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| n.婉言，委婉的说法 | |
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36
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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37
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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38
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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39
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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40
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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41
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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42
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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43
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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44
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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45
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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46
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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47
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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48
waterproofs
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| n.防水衣物，雨衣 usually plural( waterproof的名词复数 )v.使防水，使不透水( waterproof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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50
briefcase
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| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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51
infrared
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| adj./n.红外线(的) | |
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52
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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53
concierges
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| n.看门人，门房( concierge的名词复数 ) | |
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54
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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55
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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56
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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57
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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58
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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59
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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60
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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61
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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62
clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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63
repercussions
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| n.后果，反响( repercussion的名词复数 )；余波 | |
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64
gimmick
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| n.(为引人注意而搞的)小革新，小发明 | |
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65
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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66
denting
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的现在分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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67
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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68
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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69
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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70
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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71
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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72
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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73
thriller
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| n.惊险片，恐怖片 | |
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74
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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75
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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76
prefix
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|
| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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77
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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78
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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79
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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80
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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81
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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82
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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83
gaping
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|
| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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84
satchels
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| n.书包( satchel的名词复数 ) | |
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85
Soviet
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|
| adj.苏联的，苏维埃的；n.苏维埃 | |
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86
cello
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| n.大提琴 | |
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87
masticating
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| v.咀嚼( masticate的现在分词 )；粉碎，磨烂 | |
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88
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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89
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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90
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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91
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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92
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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93
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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94
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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95
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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96
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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97
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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98
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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99
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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100
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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101
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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102
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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103
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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104
chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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105
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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106
saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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107
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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108
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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109
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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110
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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111
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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112
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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113
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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114
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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115
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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116
garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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118
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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119
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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120
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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121
flaked
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| 精疲力竭的，失去知觉的，睡去的 | |
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122
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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123
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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124
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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125
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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126
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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127
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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128
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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129
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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130
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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131
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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132
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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133
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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134
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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135
crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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136
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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137
chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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138
exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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139
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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140
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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141
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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142
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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