CHAPTER FIVE
of my James' Bond novel
"SPIDER'S TOUCH"
is finished.
______
(Chapter Five)
Guts for Garters
Bond, summoned upon his return from Zurich, dreaded yet another briefing--especially in light of his failures there.
Moneypenny had warned him in a whisper, ”Batten the hatches” which was their private signal that his Superior-M-the former Vice Admiral, was about to have his guts for garters.
M was duly appointed to head of MI6 after his predecessor had been assassinated at his desk. With that sword of Damocles above his head at all times, he took his job dead seriously.
On his best days, M was testy or gruff. On so-so days, stern and cold. However, on days such as this one, M was certain to be brutal, angry, and possibly threatening.
Bond had snooped and called in favors-strictly out of curiosity to discover M’s salary,£2,056,819 annual. That would be added to his naval retirement, of course. This certainly indicated M could not afford the annual membership at Blades, the upscale private club for gentlemen it was rumored he frequented weekly for gambling and dining.
Bond knew for a fact Blades was restricted in membership to 200 gentlemen able to demonstrate a minimum of £100,000 annual income.
Bond had a private hypothesis--call it a hunch.
The club’s owner was probably careered Navy who owed this retired Admiral a debt of some sort. Bond had bribed the wine steward and discovered a fact which made him chuckle gleefully.
As a personal favor to M, the staff at Blades keeps a supply of cheap red wine from-(God help him)-Algeria on hand but does not include it on the wine list. M refers to it as "Infuriator" and tends only to drink it in moderate quantities unless he is in a very bad mood.
James Bond swallowed hard and prayed to himself, “Please Lord--let him not have had Algerian wine for lunch.”
He stepped through the door from the outside hall into Moneypenny’s office space.
Evelyn Jane Moneypenny sat bolt upright at her desk.
Bond knew she held the rank of second officer in the Women’s Royal Naval Service, but not until now--seeing her gloomy expression--did he salute her.
Moneypenny was noted for giving a warm and friendly reception to senior officers who visited her office to view confidential papers. There was none of that to be had this day.
Her official job description was the private secretary of M the head of MI6.
Moneypenny, Bond knew, was cleared for Top Secret, Eyes Only, and Cabinet-Level intelligence reports, the last of which she was often required to prepare, and in some cases present.
So, if the old girl had warned him he was heading into the abyss--Bond would take it with utmost seriousness.
He snapped a smart salute which caused Moneypenny to pull her head back and scowl. Bond forced a grim smile.
Her eyes squinted back at him like a schoolmaster about to expel an unruly layabout.
The red light above the green baize door had switched green. Bond sniffed and squared his shoulders pushing his way through, reciting quietly to himself a line from The Charge of the Light Brigade.
**
“So nice of you to join me, 007.”
M was working his pipe-lighting routine with grim determination.
He looked pale and worn. Above his stiff white collar and fumbled bow-tie, the lined sailor’s face shown black stubble, adding to the all-night look of his skin and clothes.
Bond squinted hard as he stood awkwardly in front of M’s desk--awaiting the customary invitation to sit.
“Quiet night, Bond?”
M had his pipe working and he sucked three puffs from the stem with a measure of satisfaction. The man’s hard face turned toward his quarry as he stared silently for one long minute.
James Bond tossed off an expression of indifference.
“Comme ci comme ça…”
He’d barely begun his sentence when M let go a fusillade at him.
After calling him every name in the book, M stopped himself and calmed momentarily with, “Sit down, 007”
Bond sat and waited--not daring to speak until he determined what he’d done to deserve this dressing down.
“I don’t happen to speak French, thank you. But that’s as close as I could manage to a proper reply.”
M glared and turned sideways in his swivel chair, gazing nonchalantly out the window.
James Bond’s mind raced back over the details of his assignment in Zurich. Everything had been routine the first day.
**
On the second day, he’d set up an interview with Mr. Goldfinger II by passing himself off as Universal Export’s ‘fixer’--the man who could make a deal to suit any client.
It was afterward, the third day when he’d discovered it had been a balls up-screw the pooch-disaster. It wasn’t Mister Goldfinger II he’d chatted with for two hours; it was a Russian agent pretending to be him.
Then, home office contacted him with the news his liaison in Zurich was himself an Iranian imposter working with the Russians.
What the bloody hell had gone wrong?
Bond had been furious and demanded answers.
A British secret agent made to look the fool--especially a man of his experience--was the sort of amateur blunder only an idiot could make.
Before Bond could sort anything out--the summons to return nipped his answers in the bud. The flight back to London was booked second class seating--a strong message which rankled him no end.
**
M turned back from the window and raised his hand an inch or two as if to point--then stopped.
“Nevermind, I’ll read all about it in the report.”
“Report, Sir? I haven’t written one as yet--I though I’d--”
“Why would I want your report, 007? I’ve got a meticulously detailed log of your every move, every word spoken in Zurich, all provided to me by the C.I.A. right here!”
“The C.I.A.--what do they have to do with--?”
“Exactly the words I screamed in this office when the damned thing came down to my desk from...UPSTAIRS!”
M’s eyes burned. His lips were pulled back, taut and grim. His nostrils were working as a quarter horse after a race.
James Bond swallowed hard and let out a long, slow lungful of air.
“Obviously we are the last of the Intelligence agencies to hear any of this Goldfinger story. No doubt, on purpose. They are jealous and have their knickers in a twist because of our previous success. I suppose we made them look pretty bad--and I…”
“You think? You think? Let me tell you something, 007.
It’s a black and white, gold plated guarantee we’ve been targeted by all the Intelligence services. None of that should surprise us in the least. What should, however, cause us to tuck our collective tails in utter humiliation is that WE LET THEM SUCCEED.”
“You mean ‘me’. I let them get one over on me.”
“Did you say, ‘One’? How about three?”
Bond’s mouth hung open for a second. He counted in his head.
“You mean the Russian, the Iranian, and--um…”
M shook his head slowly side to side with disgust.
“When you received an emergency call from the about-to-be-murdered Veronica, requesting your help...what did you do?”
Bond’s face paled. He swallowed again.
“I contacted my--I called Melina Havelock in Paris to rush over and get the girl to safety...Sir.”
“Havelock has been dead for three months. She has been replaced by an imposter. Oh, and she is the daughter of an old friend of yours, Hugo Drax.”
Bond’s eyes widened. He shook his head as if to shake all the contradictions and failures out of his hair.
"Drax, Sir?”
“Yes, red-haired Hugo Drax. Red-hair not unlike Auric Goldfinger’s red hair. Perhaps you were unaware they were fathered by the same man?”
“That’s preposterous! Sir.”
“As preposterous as you having your cock and balls handed to you? As preposterous as your country’s Intelligence service roasted on a spit?”
James Bond heaved a sigh and leaned back in the stiff chair. The sweet, acrid pipe smoke nauseated him. Or was it the bollixed nightmare he found himself living at the moment?
M’s voice softened.
“Here’s how it is. We begin again. This time, fresh. We start from scratch. All available agents on deck. You pull yourself together and infiltrate this Goldfinger II's conference in France. This is a tangled skein and we need to find the loose tie that binds. Understand? Now get out of my office and deal only with me--understood?”
“Aye-aye, Sir.” Bond snapped a salute and instantly regretted it.
M’s face flushed full as he pointed at the exit. Vesuvius was about to erupt and James Bond had no intention of being anywhere near when it did.
He passed through M’s portal as Moneypenny looked up to speak, but Bond shook his head at her and pulled back.
“Good luck--you’ll need it.” She shouted as the door slammed.
What had M done to him, she wondered. What had he done to cause it?
She whispered out loud, “The usual, I suppose.”
Then, turned back to her crossword puzzle.
______
Next Stop Chapter Six
