In his case it was only a boring routine, of course, but he disliked the idea of his dossier being in the possession of any foreign power. There would be some hasty traffic on the FBI circuit with the Central Intelligence Agency and then: FBI TO IDLEWILD: BOND OKAY OKAY, and the bland official out front would hand him back his passport with a 'Hope you enjoy your stay, Mr Bond.'īond shrugged his shoulders and followed the other passengers through the wire fence towards the door marked US HEALTH SERVICE. And then, from the FBI: POSITIVE AWAIT CHECK. BRITISH DIPLOMATIC PASSPORT 0094567, the short wait and the replies coming back on the different machines: NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE.

At least an hour, he thought, of overheated, drab-green rooms smelling of last year's air and stale sweat and guilt and the fear that hangs round all frontiers, fear of those closed doors marked PRIVATE that hide the careful men, the files, the teleprinters chattering urgently to Washington, to the Bureau of Narcotics, Counter Espionage, the Treasury, the FBI.Īs he walked across the tarmac in the bitter January wind he saw his own name going over the network: BOND, JAMES. When he left the aircraft with the other passengers he had resigned himself to the notorious purgatory of the US Health, Immigration and Customs machinery. There are assignments on which he is required to act the part of a very rich man occasions when he takes refuge in good living to efface the memory of danger and the shadow of death and times when, as was now the case, he is a guest in the territory of an allied Secret Service.įrom the moment the BOAC Stratocruiser taxied up to the International Air Terminal at Idlewild, James Bond was treated like royalty.

There are moments of great luxury in the life of a secret agent.

Live and let die ian fleming book