As it turned out, Bond never had to make a decision on the Committee’s final report.
He had complimented his secretary on a new summer frock, and was half way through the file of signals that had come in during the night, when the red telephone that could only mean M or his Chief-of-Staff gave its soft, peremptory burr.
Bond picked up the receiver. ‘007.’
‘Can you come up?’ It was the Chief-of-Staff.
‘M?’
‘Yes. And it looks like a long session. I’ve told Troop you won’t be able to make the Committee.’
‘Any idea what it’s about?’
The Chief-of-Staff chuckled. ‘Well, I have as a matter of fact. But you’d better hear about it from him. It’ll make you sit up. There’s quite a swerve on this one.’
As Bond put on his coat and went out into the corridor, banging the door behind him, he had
