'Why?' I asked.
"Yes. He says you must somehow get him out of it." The Chief of Staff turned to James Bond. "Okay, James. Go ahead. Sorry you can't manage lunch. Come and have a gossip after M.'s finished with you."
He couldn't tell if the shots had been heard and he had no idea what opposition was left. His only plan was to shoot anyone who got in his way and somehow get to the garage and the marsh buggy. That was their only hope of getting away from the mountain and down to the coast.
That whoso drinks thereof is curs'd
The sharp explosion of the bulb and the blinding flash of light forced a quick scream out of the girl. She swivelled round.
Bond put his hand over the four fat plaques in his coat pocket and shouldered his way out of the crowd behind him and walked straight across the long room to the cashier's desk. "Three bills of five thousand and five of ones," he said to the man with the green eyeshade behind the bars. The man took Bond's four plaques and counted out the bills and Bond put them in his pocket and walked over to the reception desk. "Air mail envelope, please," he said. He moved to a writing-desk beside the wall and sat down and put the three big bills in the envelope and wrote on the front 'Personal. The Managing Director, Universal Export, Regents Park, London, N.W.1 England.' Then he bought stamps at the desk and slipped the envelope down the slot marked 'US Mail' and hoped that there, in the most sacrosanct repository in America, it would be safe.
He was utterly a prisoner, naked and defenceless.