Felix Leiter

Quarrel, if you see a dragon you get in first and breathe on him, you hear. With all that rum in you, he'll die happy.

— Interesting. Where were you measured for this, bud?
— My tailor. Savile Row.
— That so? Mine's a guy in Washington. Felix Leiter, Central Intelligence Agency.

— Crab Key begins to interest me. What else do we know about this Chinese gentleman?
— Nothing much, except his name. Dr. No.

— But what's on your mind? I'm on holiday.
— Not anymore, you're not. Signal from London.
— Might have known M wouldn't book me into the best hotel in Miami Beach out of pure gratitude.
— He asked us to keep an eye on him for you.
— Auric Goldfinger. Sounds like a French nail varnish.
— He's British, but he doesn't sound like it. Big operator. Worldwide interests, all apparently quite reputable. Owns one of the finest stud farms in the States.

— M here.
— Leiter, sir. It's about 007, sir. We picked up his homer signal. It's monitored into Friendship Airport, Baltimore, where he's just landed.
— Baltimore? Nice of him to let us know. Last we heard, he was in Switzerland.
— He came in on a private jet, ex-Geneva, registered to our old friend, Auric Goldfinger.
— Well, I'm glad he's making progress. Keep an eye on him for us.
— Their flight plan gives Blue Grass Field, Kentucky, as their final destination.
— Don't charge in on him and spoil anything, will you? He's evidently well on top at the moment.

— Three more ticks and Mr. Goldfinger would have hit the jackpot. Did you get him?
— Not yet, but he won't get far.
— And Pussy?
— She helped us switch the gas in the canisters. By the way, what made her call Washington.
— I must have appealed to her maternal instincts.
— Come on, James. Get aboard. You can't keep the President waiting.
— Special plane, lunch at the White House. How come?
— The President wants to thank you personally.