The first 4 Chapters are done on the James Bond novel I began writing yesterday.
I'm having to much fun with it to stop now. It's only for fun, of course.
The working title is SPIDER'S TOUCH
Three in the morning in Paris spells trouble when you’re wounded, bleeding and the shadowy figure behind you is closing in.
Reaching the lights up ahead- a crowd of witnesses to your murder- is the last entry on the “To do” list for this wretched Saturday. Bentley thought this to himself.
Mathis Bentley wasn’t finished--not quite.
Yes, his cover was blown. No, he hadn’t a clue how or why--there was only one thing left to do. Plan B must activate and fast--if he could get it done before...
He suddenly glimpsed Veronica’s face outside the casino entrance and it emboldened him.
She would know what to do--if he could get close enough to signal.
Mathis heaved a deep breath and the stabbing pain fired up again.
The back of his shirt felt soaked in sweat and blood and his head was spinning with nausea.
At the end of the Great War, Mathis Bentley Jr. was spotted by the section of the secret service charged with acquisition of promising young men to serve Her Majesty’s intelligence branch as an agent.
His recruiter had connived him easily inasmuch as she could see he craved adventure to bolster his ego and ambition to make something of himself.
That first year, in between shuffling papers at a desk and lingering at the bar after lunch breaks, he began receiving urgent and peremptory instructions by telephone from a man he’d never met, barking details requiring discretion, accuracy, and haste.
His payment found its way into the account set up for him at the Royal Bank of Canada falsely attributed to a fictitious relative in Bristol.
These minor assignments emboldened the young man and encouraged him toward wild musings as to his value and career opportunities ahead. Naturally, he was being watched and judged by Regent’s Park with dark scrutiny as to his ultimate trustworthiness for something more delicate. Something ultimately fatal.
Another stab of pain as his pace quickened, interrupting his thoughts.
He made the decision--a change of plans--it might work or not; at least it was unexpected, he hoped.
Mathis Bentley pivoted into the black space between Le Petit Casino and an off-hours pharmacy just as his assassin caught up and jammed something rigid into the soft flesh of his spine.
At the same time, a rough voice rattled in his ear quietly and urgently.
“She will die too, Monsieur--if you take one more step.”
The young British secret agent swallowed hard and sucked in enough air to respond.
“I just pulled the pin on the grenade in my pocket. We’ll end this dance together.”
As he spoke, he spun around and grabbed the man’s wrist and stared briefly into those cold, dark eyes, with his own steel greys wide and triumphant.
“How about a dance with the Devil?”
The explosion ripped outward with a tongue of yellow and red flame as the two figures blew apart. Concussive waves rattled windows at the casino where Veronica stood pale and uncertain.
Her red lips trembled. She spoke but one word.
Then she let her head hang lower as she added knowingly,
She knew what she must do.
She reached into her clutch bag and found the business card:
James Bond Universal Exports.
Veronica Marie Antoinette scrambled back into the Le Petit Casino and made the phone call with trembling fingers. A rash had broken out on her neck and she couldn’t catch her breath. The hatcheck clerk scowled at her appearance.
She wondered nervously, then forced herself into a placid pose and worked a false smile into something more charismatic.
The clerk snorted a half smile and turned back to a small TV screen.
The back of Bond’s card shown two words printed by hand:
The line buzzed twice, followed by three metallic clicks.
A monotone voice answered, “State your business.”
Veronica spoke the two words clearly and waited.
Another metallic click followed...then, the ringtone sounded.
(Interrupting) “Just shut up and listen carefully. Do you have a pencil?”
Veronica scanned about her and remembered her clutch bag. She produced a gold automatic pencil and twisted the lead into view.
Back at the Bed and Breakfast, the slim brunette sat on the edge of her bed sobbing into her hands. Outside her second-floor window laughter bubbled up from the Bistro on the street below like chilled Bollinger, effervescent with gaiety. Paris’ September sky promised perfect weather for the romantic rendezvous planned for this evening.
At the stab of that thought, Veronica shook her head and moaned,
A sharp knock at the door interrupted, suddenly alerting her this rude noise was no room service delivery.
What should she do? Was she in any danger? Who knew about her?
The voice outside her door calmed her immediately.
“This is Bond. James Bond. Let me in Veronica. I can protect you.”
As she opened the door, immediately her eyes dropped to the pistol in the man’s hand, pointing at her belly. She gasped and instinctively covered her pregnancy.
“You’re not him. You’re not James Bond.”
The gold-plated antique 2 mm Kolibri pistol spoke three muffled words.
Smoke soon followed. As though Satan had spoken.
The priest she’d confessed to that morning had repeated the same words…
The body of Veronica Marie Antoinette fell just inside the door with a quiet thump.
The assassin glowered at the dead heap he’d made and sniffed absently, closing the door and setting about his business.
A half hour later, he let himself out.
A darkening pool of blood told him she hadn’t died instantly.
He pointed his pistol directly between her eyes and squeezed off a single shot.
The door clicked shut as acrid cordite smoke curled from the underarm holster of the man in the garish lame’ suit named Auric Goldfinger II.
"Revenge is a dish best served cold", he quipped, then smiled; gold teeth glimmered in the hall light.
Two weeks before, this memorandum had gone from Station P (Paris) of the Secret Service to M, head of this adjunct to the British defense ministries
Subject: Auric Goldfinger II Enterprises, Zurich Switzerland
A man claiming to be the heir of the Auric Goldfinger estate
Has won his case in court. Our man inside, Mr. Ling, has apprised this office the fellow is an imposter and that he is recommencing smuggling operations. Suggest you activate surveillance and contact.
Do not--repeat--do not use Agent 007. Employ unknown agent and task with forming a liaison with all proper cover, documents, etc.
In January (see documents appended below) imposter aka Auric Goldfinger II, purchased a chain of brothels known as the 'Cordon Jaune,' operating in Normandy and Brittany.
You’ll recall these were the same brothels which brought about the demise of Le Chiffre.
(Fate rebuked him with terrifying swiftness.)
Now, this pretender follows suit. The sooner we determine his plans the swifter we can intercede.
It is rumored this (sic) A.G.2 has poured funds into
Bribes of sufficient magnitude to affect the lifting of laws which impede his business.
We must discover the source of his funding and identify the corruption in total.
The Deuxieme Bureau unearthed several officers who may be compromised. Further, it does seem that the suspicions of Leningrad have been aroused as to Auric Goldfinger II Enterprises' penetration into Moscow and Minsk.
Our opposite numbers seek our help.
This, of course, may be a ruse to hide the machinations of SMERSH. All the more reason to use only fresh agents who are expendable as our canary in the coal mine.
In any case, we know that A.G. 2 has withdrawn one hundred twenty-five million francs from the treasury of his (sic) Father’s trade union (Rolls Royce works) and that he has taken a small villa Relais de Saux in the neighborhood of Lourdes for a week from a fortnight tomorrow.
There is to be a conference of “interested parties”, Egyptian and Iranians, whose identities have yet to be revealed. We suggest replacing the owner of villa Relais de Saux and his wife with our people.
Proposed Counter Operation:
We must contrive to expose this imposter and undermine confidence in his representations to foreign agencies.
This is left in your hands at your discretion as to the what, who, and how.
If your efforts prove unfavorable, the only alternative would be to place our information and our recommendations in the hands of the Deuxieme Bureau or of our American colleagues of the Combined Intelligence Agency in Washington.
Both of these organizations would doubtless be delighted to take over the scheme.
M looked up from the transcript and spoke aloud only to himself.
"Deuce difficult! Only one man for this job--regardless of what P. thinks."
M snatched his pipe off the ink blotter and sniffed it absentmindedly as he pressed the Intercom to Moneypenny.
“Contact Double-0-Seven immediately. Summon him.
“Yes, Sir,” Moneypenny answered.
A Cheshire smile crept across her fulsome lips.
James Bond, with two Vodkas inside him, sat in the final departure lounge of Miami Airport and thought about the life and death of Mathis Bentley.
Bond’s profession was to kill people.
He had never enjoyed it and when it was ordered (or seemed necessary) he did it as well as he knew how and put it out of his head. As a secret agent who held the rare double-O prefix—the license to kill in the Secret Service—he was duty bound to be cool about death as any commander in a war must be. When it happened, it happened. Nothing was more unprofessional than indulgence in regret. Worse, it was the death-knell for competence.
Now this young fella, Mathis Bentley?
Bond had liked him instantly. He was competent, not overly curious, and neither eager to kill nor slack in carrying out orders.
M.B. reminded Bond of himself at that age. Except—there was an essential difference between the two men—M.B. was dead and Bond, last time he’d checked, was still alive.
It all came down to instincts.
The young agent had none—at least, none reliable enough to save him. What was it M had said?
“He trusted somebody for some reason or other and now I have to mail a letter off to his Mum.”
James Bond would never trust anyone.
The spy game is like a boxing match—never drop your guard and protect yourself at all times.
Bond shook it all out of his mind and gazed out at the ground crew on the tarmac. His plane would be arriving shortly.
He shot his cuff on the left arm and checked the Rolex Submariner face and nodded to himself. There was time for one more Smirnoff Red and bit of stretching of the legs before his flight.
It would be one of those miserable long flights where he’d never fall asleep and have to amuse himself with banter and flight attendants with slim hips and welcoming smiles.
James Bond brought a couple of books with him just in case boredom set in too soon. The latest Raymond Chandler and an old Eric Ambler he’d started twice and never finished in paperback nestled at the bottom of his attache’ case he’d kept under his knees.
Weighing in at 3.6 kg, Q Branch ripped out the careful handiwork of Swaine and Adeney to pack fifty rounds of .25 ammunition, in two flat rows, between the leather and the lining of the spine. In each of the sides, there was a flat throwing knife, built by Wilkinsons and the tops of their handles were concealed by the stitching at the corners. The handle of the case hid a compartment containing a cyanide death-pill, triggered by pressure at a certain point.
Its lid contained fifty golden sovereigns, which could be poured out by slipping sideways one ridge of welting. Inside the case was a thick tube of Palmolive shaving cream, whose top unscrewed to reveal the silencer for 007 ’s brown-gripped .32 ACP Walther PPK, packed in cotton wool.
Chandler and Ambler would approve, Bond thought with a wry smile.
He’d board with a special Diplomat exemption arranged by Felix Leiter. This would avoid embarrassing questions concerning onboard armory, of course.
Bond had spent five days snooping around Auric Goldfinger’s stables in Kentucky and checking with F.B.I. liaisons in Miami who pretended to help him, but who were, in fact under orders to make certain he got no cooperation at all. The Bureau still nursed a grudge that British Intelligence had done more to stop the theft of gold at Fort Knox than the F.B.I.
What was it M had told him at the briefing?
“Feign total belief in whatever bollocks they offer. Go your merry way. Ferret out any possible renewed interest on the part of organized crime to renew a link with Goldfinger’s supposed heir and report afterward to Station Z in Switzerland.”
Bond shook his head imperceptibly.
A son of Goldfinger—even a pretender to the throne, might stir bad memories and require careful planning. It was just bizarre enough to interest him. He hadn’t had much of anything to do lately at the office. Flirting with Moneypenny aside.
The loudspeaker announced his flight and off he went, stopping only to whisper in the ear of the young blonde attendant he recognized from the previous trip. She laughed and winked as Bond disappeared into the first class section of the Swiss-Air Lockheed Jet.
**
A small man with a bland, green umbrella made certain the airliner lifted off before he turned and walked over to the phone station and made a three-minute call—long distance, to Auric Goldfinger II Enterprises.
He nodded as he spoke and scribbled something in a small notepad.
The words included, “—with extreme prejudice.”
