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f the Ministry of Home Security。 Or perhaps the Ministry of Home Security couldn't get the money out of the Ministry of Finance。 But it had always been the same … endless money troubles that resulted in missed chances； broken promises and waste of dangerous radio time。 It would make sense to have a clever financial brain somewhere outside Russia who could not only transmit funds to the centres but also； in this case； make profits large enough to run the SMERSH centres abroad without any financial assistance from Moscow。 Not only that。 On the side； Goldfinger was appreciably damaging the currency base of an enemy country。 If all this was correct； it was typical of SMERSH … a brilliant scheme； faultlessly operated by an outstanding man。 And that； reflected Bond as he roared up the hill into Chatham； putting half a dozen cars behind him； would partly explain Goldfinger's greed for more and still more money。 Devotion to the cause； to SMERSH； and perhaps the dangled prize of an Order of Lenin； would be the spur to pick up even ten or twenty thousand dollars when the odds were right or could be favourably adjusted。 The funds for Red Revolution； for the discipline by fear that was the particular speciality of SMERSH； could never be big enough。 Goldfinger was not making the money for himself。 He was making it for the conquest of the world！ The minor risk of being found out； as he had been by Bond； was nothing。 Why？ What could the Bank of England get him if every single one of his past operations could be exposed？ Two years？ Three？
The traffic was thinning through the outskirts of Gilling…ham。 Bond started motoring again； but easily now； not hurrying； following his thoughts as the hands and feet went through their automatic responses。
So； in'thirty…seven； SMERSH must have sent Goldfinger out With the belt of gold round his young waist。 He had shown his special aptitudes； his acquisitive bent； during his training in the spy school in Leningrad。 He would have been told there would be a war； that he must dig himself in and start quietly accumulating。 Goldfinger must never dirty his hands； never meet an agent； never receive or pass a message。 Some routine would have been arranged。 'Second…hand '39 Vauxhall。 First offer of ￡1000 secures'； 'Immaculate Rover； ￡2000'； 'Bentley； ￡5000'。 Always an advertisement that would not attract attention or correspondence。 The prices would be just too high； the description inadequate。 In the Agony column of The Times； perhaps。 And； obediently； Goldfinger would leave the two thousand pounds or the five thousand pounds gold bar at one of a long； a very long series of post…boxes that had been arranged in Moscow before he left。 A particular bridge； a hollow tree； under a rock in a stream somewhere； anywhere in England。 And he would never； on any account； visit that postbox again。 It was up to Moscow to see that the agent got to the hidden treasure。 Later； after the war； when Goldfinger was blossoming out； when he had bee a big man； the postboxes would no longer be bridges and trees。 Now he would be given dates and safety deposit box numbers； left…luggage lockers at stations。 But still there would be the rule that Goldfinger must never revisit the scene； never endanger himself。 Perhaps he would only get his instructions once a year； at a casual meeting in some park； in a letter slipped into his pocket on a train journey。 But always it would be bars of gold； anonymous； untraceable if captured … except for the tiny Z that his vanity had scratched on his handiwork and that a dull dog at the Bank of England called Colonel Smithers had happened upon in the course of his duties。
Now Bond was running through the endless orchards of the Faversham growers。 The sun had e out from behind； the smog of London。 There was the distant gleam of the Thames on his left。 There was traffic on the river … long； glistening tankers； stubby merchantmen； antediluvian Dutch Schuyts。 Bond left the Canterbury road and switched on to the incongruously rich highway that runs through the cheap bungaloid world of the holiday lands … Whitstable； Herne Bay； Birchington； Margate。 He still idled along at fifty； holding the racing wheel on a light rein； listening to the relaxed purr of the exhausts； fitting the bits of his thoughts info the jigsaw as he had done two nights before with Goldfinger's face on the Identicast。
And； Bond reflected； while Goldfinger was pumping a million； two million pounds a year into the bloody maw of SMERSH； he was pyramiding his reserves； working on them； making them work for him whenever the odds were right； piling up the surplus for the day when the trumpets would sound in the Kremlin and every golden sinew would be mobilized。 And no one outside Moscow had been watching the process； no one suspected that Goldfinger … the jeweller； the metallurgist； the resident of Reculver and Nassau； the respected member of Blades； of the Royal St Marks at Sandwich … was one of the greatest conspirators of all time； that he had financed the murder of hundreds； perhaps thousands of victims of SMERSH all over the world。 SMERSH； Smiert Spionam； Death to Spies … the murder Apparat of the High Praesidium！ And only M suspected it； only Bond knew it。 And here was Bond； launched against this man by a series of flukes； a train of coincidence that had been started by a plane breaking down on the other side of the world。 Bond smiled grimly to himself。 How often in his profession had it been the same … the tiny acorn of coincidence that soared into the mighty oak whose branches darkened the sky。 And now； once again； he was setting out to bring the dreadful growth down。 With what？ A bag of golf clubs？
A repainted sky…blue Ford Popular with large yellow ears was scurrying along the crown of the road ahead。 Mechanically Bond gave the horn ring a couple of short； polite jabs。 There was no reaction。 The Ford Popular was doing its forty。 Why should anyone want to go more than that respectable speed？ The Ford obstinately hunched its shoulders and kept on its course。 Bond gave it a sharp blast； expecting it to swerve。 He had to touch his brakes when it didn't。 Damn the man！ Of course！ The usual tense figure； hands held too high up on the wheel； and the inevitable hat； this time a particularly hideous black bowler； square on a large bullet head。 Oh well； thought Bond； they weren't his stomach ulcers。 He changed down and contemptuously slammed the DB III past on the inside。 Silly bastard！
Another five miles and Bond was through the dainty tele…world of Herne Bay。 The howl of Mansion sounded away on his right。 A flight of three Super Sabres came in to land。 They skimmed below his right…Hand horizon as if they were diving into the earth。 With half his mind； Bond heard the roar of their jets catch up with them as they landed and taxied in to the hangars。 He came up with a crossroads。 To the left the signpost said RECULVER。 Underneath was the ancient monument sign for Reculver church。 Bond slowed； but didn't stop。 No hanging about。 He motored slowly on； keeping his eyes open。 The shoreline was too exposed for a trawler to do anything but beach or anchor。 Probably Gold…finger had used Ramsgate。 Quiet little port。 Customs and police who were p