Goldfinger

— Your share of Operation Grand Slam will make you a very rich woman, my dear.
— Why else would I be in it, Mr. Goldfinger?
— You'll retire to England, I suppose?
— No, I've spotted a little island in the Bahamas. I'II hang up a sign, "No trespassing," and go back to nature.

— Who are you?
— Bond. James Bond.

Now hear this, Goldfinger. Your luck has just changed. I doubt very much if the Miami Beach police would take kindly to what you're doing. Nod your head
if you agree. Nod! Good. Now start losing, Goldfinger. Shall we say, $10,000? No, let's be generous. Let's make it 15,000.

A martini. Shaken, not stirred.

— 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.

This isn't a personal vendetta, 007. It's an assignment, like any other and if you can't treat it as such, coldly and objectively, 008 can replace you. You've hardly distinguished yourself, have you? You were supposed to observe Mr. Goldfinger, not borrow his girlfriend. Instead of that, Goldfinger goes off to Europe, and it's only by the grace of God, your friend Leiter, and my intervention with the British embassy in Washington, that you're not in the custody of the Miami Beach police.

— Morning, Q.
— Good morning, 007. This way, please. My, we are busy this morning. It's not perfected yet.
— Where's my Bentley?
— Oh, it's had its day, I'm afraid.
— But it's never let me down.
— M's orders, 007. You'll be using this Aston Martin D85, with modifications. Now, pay attention, please. Windscreen, bulletproof. As are the side and the rear windows. Revolving number plates, naturally. Valid all countries. Here's a nice little transmitting device called a homer. You prime it by pressing that back like this. You see? The smaller model is now standard field issue, to be fitted into the heel of your shoe. Its larger brother is magnetic. Right. To be concealed in the car you're trailing while you keep out of sight. Reception on the dashboard here. Auto-visual. Range, 150 miles.
— Ingenious. And useful, too. Allow a man to stop off for a quick one en route.
— It has not been perfected after years of patient research entirely for that purpose, 007. And incidentally, we'd appreciate its return, along with all
your other equipment, intact, for once, when you return from the field.

— You are a clever, resourceful man, Mr. Bond.
— Why, thank you.
— Perhaps too clever. Twice our paths have crossed, let's leave it at that. I should think our first meeting would have convinced you.
— Oh, I see. You're worried about me not giving you a return game.

— Smuggling is an art, Mr. Ling. And art requires... In this case, the bodywork of my Rolls Royce is 18-carat gold. We dismantle it here, reduce the gold in this special furnace to ingots, which in turn will be released on the board and weigh approximately two tons. I make six trips a year to the continent in the Rolls Royce, Mr. Ling.
— It would be wiser to suspend your other activities.
— Now, Mr. Ling, please assure your principals Operation Grand Slam will have my undivided attention.

— This is gold, Mr. Bond. All my life, I've been in love with its color, its brilliance, its divine heaviness. I welcome any enterprise that will increase my stock. Which is considerable.
— I think you've made your point, Goldfinger. Thank you for the demonstration.
— Choose your next witticism carefully, Mr. Bond. It may be your last. The purpose of our two previous encounters is now very clear to me. I do not intend
to be distracted by another. Good night, Mr. Bond.
— Do you expect me to talk?
— No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die. There is nothing you can talk to me about that I don't already know.
— You're forgetting one thing. If I fail to report, 008 replaces me.
— I trust he will be more successful.
— But he knows what I know.
— You know nothing, Mr. Bond.
— Operation Grand Slam, for instance.
— Two words you may have overheard, which cannot possibly have any significance to you or anyone in your organization.
— Can you afford to take that chance?
— You are quite right, Mr. Bond. You are worth more to me alive.

— 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.

Bear with me, please! Fort Knox is a bank, like any other. Larger, better-protected perhaps, but, nonetheless, a bank. It can be, I think the expression is, blown. My plan is foolproof, gentlemen. I call it Operation Grand Slam. I have devoted 15 years of my life to it. Every detail has been scrupulously prepared. Every eventuality has been considered. We'll operate on a split-second schedule. Your organization, Mr. Midnight, brought the consignment of these canisters across the Canadian border. They contain Delta 9. An invisible nerve gas which disperses 15 minutes after inducing complete unconsciousness for 24 hours. Tomorrow at dawn, the flying circus of my personal pilot, Miss Pussy Galore, will spray it into the atmosphere. Once the population, including the military, has been immobilized, my task force, which Mr. Strap had his people smuggle across the Rio Grande from Mexico, will approach Fort Knox in motorized equipment along Bullion Boulevard which runs past the depository here, and intersects with Gold Vault Road. This fence surrounding
the depository, as Mr. Strap reminded us, is electrified. It will be dynamited. My task force will then move to the main entrance and demolish it.

— 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.