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[ImTheMoneypenny]

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Ian Fleming's James Bond in

Destroying Angel

by ImTheMoneypenny

1. Two Birds

Only mad dogs and Englishmen would dare to be out of doors with the sun so high. It was the heat of the day. The air in the centre of the town was heavy and still. Not even the birds in nearby almond trees sang at that hour. The main boulevard of the sleepy town of Villajoyosa, so close to the sea, was drenched in the atomic brightness of the midday sun. The Spanish street was nearly desolate save one or two hapless white-skinned fools.

A young man lean and respectfully handsome moved hurriedly up the cobblestone street. He clung to the tall bright, stucco buildings around him hoping to find coolness in their thin, pale shadow. He wore an exceptionally white linen suit, and covered his head with a smart straw hat. He checked his wristwatch one more time, while crossing the street. So intent was he, on not missing his luncheon date, that the young man narrowly missed the only other man on the boulevard. “Pardon me.” the young man apologised crisply with a touch of impertinence.

The older man, a tall rotund figure in a lightweight tropical suit of a cream colour, dismissed the young man with an irritated grunt. He turned away from the younger fellow, and peered intently into the plate glass of a shop window. The younger man moved on with no more words. The older man scowled at his own reflection. The hard lined face with a near constant sour expression. His dark beady eyes never gazed without the flicker of suspicion. His ego, even now was smarting by the appearance of his once thick black hair as it had faded and thinned. He combed it back from his forehead in hopes of concealing the shiny scalp that showed through nonetheless.

The man took out his blue handkerchief, daubing his reddening sweat stippled forehead. He loathed the afternoon idleness of the locals, which brought him out in the open at that hour. The town was dead on the outside, but quite teeming with life inside. Indoors at the café’s and bars, smartly dressed pleasure seekers were taking lunches or finding respite in a cool cocktail. Others, no doubt were taking naps at that hour in their rooms with windows opened hoping for a sea breeze.

Those who were not indoors were crowded at the nearby beach splashing in the refreshing waters while others baked their pale skin to the golden consistency of freshly browned breads. Villajoyosa was a peaceful retreat. It bred complacency with its charmingly innocuous shops and houses, cheek to jowl in long strips. Buildings painted in gay colours broken up only by the modern cafes whose tables under blazing canopies were empty. Every so often, among the architecture, a palm tree would sway or burst of Spanish broom would cast dappled shadows.

Holidaymakers were drawn worldwide in flocks to Villajoyosa along the Costa Blanca, for its provincial simplicity, Moorish and Roman vestiges and the air that was fresh and smelled lightly of chocolate. There was calm for the nervous idle rich, while the rest came for sun and pleasure away from work, in this paradise for the weary and the wary.

Not but a few minutes after the noon hour had come to pass the older man caught sight of a girl exiting a dress shop. He tried not to look too hard. He’d seen her that morning and had been following her since. She was a brunette much in the style of the new First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy. Her stature was petite. Though a good deal of her face was covered by the parcels she carried stacked in her arms, and a pair of large white framed dark glasses, she gave an impression of youthful vibrancy and beauty.

Her dress was a simple white cotton affair, sleeveless with a square modest neckline. It was tailored to fit snugly against every gentle curve of the girl’s slim body, moving to and fro with the wiggle of her gait. The pencil skirt of the dress clung to her hips and stayed that close down to bare knees of her shapely legs. Her skin was curiously milky which made the man think she was Northern European like himself. As she approached, he deliberately placed himself in her way. “¡oh! ¡Señor, señor!” the girl exclaimed as she bumped into him. “Perdóneme por favor. I am sorry.” she apologised lowering her parcels. She spoke Spanish with an underlying accent the man could not sort out. It leant credence to his notion she was like him.

“My dear, it was my fault!” he smiled gamely as he put an arm out touching her shoulder. “Such shopping, silly girl.” he tutted. “Here, allow me.” he said with his native Swiss accent straining against his adopted touch of Spain. The girl let him take her armful of parcels.

“Oh! Stupid me, I forgot my purse in the shop.” the girl exclaimed laying a dainty white gloved hand on her cheek. “Would you be so kind as to look after my purchases while I retrieve it?” she asked smiling.

“Of course!” he readily agreed, but a bargain had to be struck. “However, my lovely, the favour must be returned. Have dinner with me?” the man proposed grinning widely. The plans he had for her were already forming in his head.

“Gracias, I will gladly join you.” she consented without hesitation. The girl had an ingenious child-like grin, which showed only her top row of pearly white teeth. “I won’t be but a moment.” she began to walk away.

“Say, what sort of package is this?” the man queried stopping the girl cold in her tracks. She turned. He was holding the smallest and heaviest box, wrapped in brown paper, by its string. “It makes noise.”

“A gift for my father. He is a collector.” the girl replied quickly.

“A time piece from Spain? Humph!” the man huffed. “It is like buying fine Champagne from Scotland.”

“I must get my purse, please. There is much Pesetas and Francs inside.” The girl hurried away. She felt the man’s eyes glued to her backside as she walked. He was preoccupied already, planning on how to get her into his room and keep her there.

The girl entered the cool darkness of the small plain dress shop. It smelled of mothballs and old fabrics. There was quickness in her movements. A suspension, a subtle waiting in her usually steady breathing. She promptly saw her purse sitting untouched on the glass top of the display counter by the register. “Señora, my purse?” she asked. The elderly woman behind the counter had the face of a crone, and the broken body of a woman of labour. She dressed plainly in dark clothes aside for a bright red lace shawl about her slight, brittle shoulders. Her grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She moved at a snail’s pace bringing the girl the white clutch bag. Though the girl was anxious to retrieve the item, she would not move from her place at the door where she had full view of the man on the pavement with the parcels.

“Here you are, señora joven.” the elderly woman came close to the girl holding her purse outwards towards here. Suddenly there was a loud bang, which ricocheted through the town. There was quick low rumble of the air that rattled the windows. A thick morbid plume of black smoke drifted lazily down wind. Smouldering strips of brown paper and fabric of a cream colour floated with embers and black specks of ash to the pavement. “Señora! A man, he just blew up!” the elderly woman had hastened her steps to the door. She clapped a hand over her mouth looking out of her shop window.

“What a curious thing to happen?” the girl replied with an undisguised lack of astonishment. She took her purse from the stunned old woman and opened it to make sure everything was still there. The girl followed the elderly woman out of the shop. Citizens and tourists alike filed out into the daylight to see the remains of the Swiss man. He lay on his back. His eyes were opened, fixed to the sky. His arms to the elbows were disintegrated as if he’d held the box with both hands. He had been laid open from neck to where his rotund belly had once been. A gaping hole looking more like ground meat. He was quite dead.

Not that the girl was going to go in for a closer look. She turned away from the crowd and walked in the opposite direction. She turned right at a deserted side street. At the very end of the street sat parked a cherry red Opel Rekord two-door saloon. The girl smiled demurely at the man in the straw hat and white suit behind the wheel waiting for her. As she approached, she could see him smiling back at her. She slipped into the bench seat on the passenger side with a contented sigh. “Sounds as if the plan went off with a bang.” the man said tossing the spent paper match, he’d used to fire up his cheroot, out the window.

“Down to the last tick.” the girl replied quite satisfied. She had not a trace of an accent outside London that is. Even though she spoke well, her diction was not as tonny as that of the man beside her.

“How long do you figure, M has been wanting a crack at this man, Hlasek?” the man, Alejo Durán asked. He took off his straw hat setting it between himself and the girl. Whilst his face was tanned, he had a strip of pale flesh where his hat sat between the middle of his forehead and his crown of thick black hair. His eyes were green like pieces of uncut jade. He spoke with the air of British respectability. Durán was Spanish on his father’s side and British on his mother’s, making him the only reliable choice for being the head of the sector in South Eastern Spain.

“Oh,” the girl began with a hum. She’d taken off her sunglasses exposing her sensitive, doe-like eyes the colour of Spanish olives, to the daylight. “I imagine this runs rather deep with the old man. Switzerland was lousy with spies during the war, men such as Yann Hlasek selling their secrets to the highest bidder. He, alone cost us many good men, Durán.” she finished. All while she talked, the girl had pulled her brunette wig off and dropped it on the seat. Beautiful pale blond hair was pinned neatly about her ears.

“So am I to congratulate you as a Single-O officially, Miss Everest?” Durán asked with a discernable trace of repugnance. Killing was men’s work everyone knew that. The girl, Miss Diana Everest smiled tartly plucking pins from her hair, and dropping them into her purse. “Shall I take you to dinner?” he added almost as an afterthought.

“I should be making my flight to Paris.” Diana answer distantly. Her hair was free laying over her shoulders. She removed her gloves and too put them carefully in her purse. “Damn!” she exclaimed bitterly. She was moving items around in her bag, pulling out her coin purse. “That damned old woman nicked my Francs. I better go get them.”

“Leave, it Everest. Besides you’re not wearing your disguise.”

“Honestly, I’ll need them if I’m having a stopover in France. No, I’ll get them back. She’s senile at any rate. I can bully them out of her.” she insisted.

“Everest, don’t be so bloody minded. You’re threatening your assignment! I’ll get you all the Francs you need, luv.” Durán called after Diana, but she was already out the door and towards the main street, carrying her little change purse. “Bloody stupid women.” Durán grunted sourly, though he could not complain too much about the view she gave as she was going.

When Diana Everest hung a right instead of going left back towards the shop, Durán’s mind lit up. The penny dropped with a clang. He turned looking at her purse. He tossed the wig to the floorboard snatching the purse up with both hands. He prised the brass clamshell clasp open tearing the two halves apart. The flash was intense, blinding and deadly. The explosion though small set Durán’s head, hands, and chest alight. Soon the flames would find the petrol line then the tank and the Opel would end in a bigger bang. There would be less of Durán than Hlasek.

“All the Francs I need, indeed. I’m sure that is what Hlasek offered you, Durán. Switzerland wasn’t the only place lousy with spies selling secrets to the highest bidder. . .” Diana muttered Durán’s eulogy as she walked. Durán certainly must have thought himself smart, having M do his dirty work by killing off his old pal Hlasek. He was not smarter than M, in fact.

Diana casually strolled to an Italian produced step-through motor scooter by Maicoletta, left under a palm tree. She tucked her coin purse, which was full of Francs, and a well made passport, into her brassiere before slipping a crash helmet on her head fastening it under her chin. Diana pulled the scooter upright and climbed aboard. She started the engine. “Two birds with one stone.” she mused, pointing the Maicoletta scooter towards the motorway leading to Alicante and its airport.

[ImTheMoneypenny]

2. The Lady for the Tigress

It was one of those rare dry and sunny winter days, in London, Everest liked best. The fine weather meant she could take her Triumph Tigress, the 250 cc four-stroke model, out to the office. Since the motor scooter had come back from the shop yet again, as constant repairs were a burden on all Tigress owners, she’d been itching to take it for a spin. Diana pulled the curtain back on her bedroom window, smiling at the pale plucky sun trying to fend off the clouds. She hoped it had enough strength for the day.

Though the day was bright and clear, it was still bitter. For getting to Regent’s Park, and ‘Universal Export’, without freezing, Diana employed a battery of wardrobe. First of all, she wore a camel coloured cashmere turtleneck sweater with a specially tailored navy pinstripe jacket over top. She had a matching pair of pinstripe trousers she picked up in Paris and had tailored to fit her as well. They fell in a clean straight line down her leg, and was quite flattering to her figure. As outerwear, she brought out her old bottle green duck canvas motorcycle duster, belted it tightly about her waist and strapped the tails to her legs. Diana had a warm knit scarf that fitted over her mouth and nose like a bright red muzzle. Then came the customary black leather gauntlets, goggles, and a crash helmet. On her feet, she wore black pointed toe boots with only the slightest of Cuban heels.

It was easier for Everest to put her gear on before leaving her small flat at St Winfried’s House, a women’s only building in Primrose Hill. She got the odd stares from the girls in their wool or fur overcoats, as she got into the lift but that was just fine by her. At least she was doing something exciting. Some of the women in the building whispered about her and none too subtly either. They gossiped about her slacks, her newly cropped Parisian style hairdo, and her penchant for motor scooters. They thought of her as a bit odd. She knew they could never be pleased. They had also gossiped about her choice to dye her hair a very light blond, her outrageous lacy French undergarments, as well as her inclination for many boyfriends, and skirts too high above the knee!

Diana kept her motor scooter in St Winfried’s unassuming little courtyard among the withered daffodils and morning glories, swathed in a bright pink tarpaulin made of waterproofed fabric. It was the only protected sensible place for the Tigress. Everest unwrapped the large pink parcel like an early birthday present. The near perfect shell blue paint gleamed in the morning sun. She took the scooter off its stand and climbed aboard starting the engine. While it warmed, she lit herself a cigarette. There was no affectation to her smoking. She was not precious, and did not hold a cigarette poised in a glamorous manner as most girls did. She’d learned to smoke watching her father and then her brothers. She was not choosy about her brand, until the Olivier tipped cigarette came out. She smoked those without knowing they were terrible on account that she figured an actor of such refinement wouldn’t steer her wrong. After the brand was no more she stuck with B & H, who’d made the Oliviers. It was as close to brand loyalty as she could get.

The engine was warmed and so Diana snuffed her cigarette out in the dirt of a potted plant. She replaced her scarf over her face, pulling the Tigress through the courtyard past the usual group of women on their way to the Tube station. Let them scoff. For all their high-minded notions of equality they’re still scared half to death to do anything that may cost them a husband. Everest herself had no such qualms. If a man couldn’t handle her she was better off without him. She could never make up her mind if she liked one man more than the next, at any rate. She was always looking for the greener pastures. And besides, the domestic scene never appealed to her.

Her ride though short should still prove to be enjoyable. Everest loved the feeling of the wind on a hot day. Even on a cold day it was better than being jammed up in the Tube or walking. Riding was much like being a bird flying on a wing and a prayer. It was just her and her machine against the armoured world and she loved it. However to be honest, as much as she adored her Tigress, Everest would throw it aside for a real motorbike. She’d taken a shine to them when she joined the WRAF as a courier. She missed the power, and speed, though the Tigress at top speed of 105km/h was nothing to sneeze at. Not to mention she pined for the agile manoeuvrability afforded by a motorcycle that was lacking in the feminine motor scooter where a girl’s legs stayed together forcing an upright, seated position like being on top of on a motorised chair.

If she’d had her druthers, she’d have never parted with her old Belgium 1926 Lady Rally motorbike. Though Lady used four-stroke engines by JAP and Blackburne, after 1927, hers had a two-stroke Villiers engine that had still been peppy after over thirty plus years. It was run down a bit, but just her size. It packed all the punch she loved. But the love affair was ended too soon. No doubt word had come back to her father, Sir Lewis Everest that his youngest and only daughter was gallivanting about London on a motorbike regardless of skirt or trouser. He was a man who had powerful friends and a position to uphold. Of course she knew that deep down he wanted only to protect her image as well. Either way, on her last birthday he presented her with the Tigress as a gift. Diana loved her father too much to disappoint him so she gave up the ‘Lady’ for the ‘Tigress’.

Diana Everest’s ride had been indeed for the most part pleasurable. She used the time to clear her thoughts. Anxiety built the closer she got to Regents Park, however. It was like the feeling she’d get walking to school as a girl. What was in store for her that day? Bouncing around the sections again? Perhaps she’d luck out and be in the action room. However she thought that was asking too much of fate. She’d most likely end up fetching tea for the real Double-O’s , or left minding the records desk while ol’ whatsisname was at lunch. M simply did not know what to do with her, perhaps. She could not honestly blame him for his vacillation, yet it left an acrid taste in her mouth just the same.

As she made her way on the final stretch of her journey, Everest was plagued with the self-doubt she attempted to quash regularly. It usually always centred around M. She did not want to offend him, nor disappoint him. He was like her father in that respect. She worried she’d done something wrong. Had she rubbed him the wrong way? She searched her mind for any circumstance that M would find grounds to use against her. I’m not flashy. I keep my private life out of the office. You could hardly call me reckless. I don’t wear earrings or high heels. Is it my hair colour? It must be the trousers. To a man of M’s age and class, they’re a sign of poor girls’ dress, unacceptable. Damn, why did I wear them today? Perhaps because he’s a friend of father’s he’s held back as to not be accused of favouritism. Her mind ran through the many scenarios possible. None quieted the fretfulness, and the fear of failure.

Rounding the corner she gave herself one last pep talk about how the day would change and she’d see M. He couldn’t deny that she’d made two kills. She got close, she delivered the death and that was that. M had to see it her way. If he would not see her, she would see him. As soon as Miss Moneypenny was in Everest was determined to get an appointment. Moneypenny was accommodating, sympathetic even. Surely she could make sure Diana got a few minutes of M’s time?

Everest parked the Tigress on the pavement. Her only recklessness was not to chain the scooter to the street lamp. If someone stole it, all the better, she’d get a real motorbike and look after it properly. Her father couldn’t blame her then. Everest shrugged casually taking off her crash helmet. Carefully she pressed a black velvet hair band over the top of her head. The band joined a fall to her new short hair, giving an illusion of straight blond hair to just past her shoulders, with full fringe over her eyes. The fall was made from real human hair and was a near perfect match. She’d expected that her new urchin haircut she acquired on a whim, passing Leonard of Mayfair’s salon one day, would not go over well with not only M but also everyone else, so she hid it. Everest patted her hair, untied the legs and waist of her duster and funnelled into the building with the rest of the morning arrivals.

[ImTheMoneypenny]

3. Mata Hari Was No Spy

“What do you think of her, 007?” M asked rather absently, staring out the window. Like the old sailor he was, M was no doubt searching for red clouds on the horizon.

“Sir?” Bond frowned. He sat in the chair before M’s red leather topped desk. His position was rather relaxed, an ankle propped over one knee. The jacket of his blue suit was unbuttoned. His knitted tie was a slightly askew black swathe down his shirtfront.

“Miss Everest. Your opinion of her?”

“Oh, well. . . She’s a fine agent, sir. A real bang-up girl as long as she keeps her wits about her.” Bond replied dutifully, his kind commentary however seemed to fall on deaf ears.

“She’s done it. . . She’s been successful with the two-” M paused. “Missions, I had sent her on. A Swiss spy, and. . . .” M trailed off. He’d picked up his pipe and began packing the bowl with tobacco.

“I should congratulate her.” Bond smiled not quite understanding. His candid grin evaporated as his eyes locked with the old man’s dispassionate gaze as M had turned around. Bond cleared his throat. His foot slipped down beside its partner on the carpet. He straightened his tie.

“What are your feelings towards the subject of a female Double-O?” the old man questioned more bluntly, taking his seat. He fooled with a match striking against the roughened side of the sterling matchbox, for his pipe.

“With all due respect sir, I said she was a fine agent but. . .” Bond began. He leaned forward in the chair. M raised his hand.

“I’m sure our opinions are in concurrence, 007.” There came a pregnant pause as M lit his pipe. Bond settled back in the chair tugging the edges of his jacket together. A ridiculous idea, what was the world coming to? “Tanner feels this is the way to go. I, on the other hand, find the notion of any woman with the desire for death dealing an aberration. It is unnatural.”

“They’re nurturers, sir.” Bond proposed. It was not as if he felt that Everest was incompetent, she was a fine field agent very good at assisting especially in a pinch. She was a versatile gusty little girl. Nevertheless, he could not fathom her want to carry out the brutal business of a Double-O.

“My thoughts exactly.” the old man conceded puffing smoke from the pipe. “Girls dress their poodles in baby clothes and parade them in prams. They look after the infirmed, the young, and the vulnerable.” he added which struck at the heart of the matter. “And what of their unpredictable temperament? Penchant towards silliness?” M grunted he was possibly thinking of one or two female agents in particular. “They fall in love.” he damned.

“Like Mata Hari.” Bond replied carefully.

“Mata Hari was no spy.” M retorted. “She was a stupid woman who fell in love with two equally stupid men. However, it does illuminate my point.” M said. The spectre of Vesper Lynd arose in Bond’s mind dissolving just as swiftly as she’d appeared. Bond quickly reminded himself of the scandal currently brewing unknown to the public. Secretary of State for War, John Profumo’s affair with a showgirl named Keeler. Another stupid girl in between two stupid men, one British and apparently one Russian. It was, luckily, under control for now.

“Well sir.” Bond ventured with calculated care. “Your mind seems quite made up without me.” There was no reply for the longest time. M swivelled his chair towards the window.

“That I cannot say for sure.” the old sailor watching the skies, finally replied. “Tanner has put to me the pros as well as the cons. His arguments for her granted are strong. She is innocuous. She easily disarms, makes a man want to look after her, am I correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Everest was able to convince two very intelligent and professional spies to accept an explosive and hold it, I might add, without hesitation.” M rotated his chair towards his desk long enough to tamp fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He lit it. Then, the old sailor shut out Bond yet again, turning away. “You’ve worked well with Miss Everest early on. Broke her in, did you?”

To this, once again, Bond cleared his throat. He nodded, shifting uncomfortably at M’s unfortunate choice of words. “That’s correct, sir.” he then chose his next words prudently. “That is to say, sir, she assisted me capably on two short assignments early in her career. I cannot venture to know how she would conduct herself alone on a mission.”

“Thank you for your candour, 007. . . I intend to make Miss Everest 005.” M announced. Bond made a low exhalation of breath. He wondered why M had bothered asking for his advice. Had the old man honestly taken all angles into consideration? As if he had read Bond’s thoughts, M’s chair pivoted slowly to face him. “I understand your apprehension. I have not come to this decision willy-nilly. I’d like you to assist her, or vice versa if you prefer. I have a mission for you both. You may leave for now, 007. I will see the both of you in my office after lunch.” M dismissed him.

Bond merely nodded his head as he got up from the chair. He made a half hearted attempt to take it all in with good humour. He wasn’t sure which bothered him more, a female Double-O, or being sidetracked on a little mission with her. He was set on getting after SPECTRE, catching the scent of Blofeld’s trail before it went cold. The last thing Bond needed or wanted, for that matter, was to baby-mind a junior Double-O through teething pains. He had had no such coddling. He left M’s office. As soon he was beyond the closed door, Bond ran his hand over his black hair and down the back of his neck. His other hand searched for his wide gunmetal cigarette case. He plucked a Morland Special from inside and lit it with his oxidised lighter.

“Trouble, James?” Miss Moneypenny asked as she drew a piece of creamy white stationary through her typewriter. Her eyes slid to the corner looking at him knowingly. Bond turned towards her forgetting she had been there.

“I’ll say there is. It’s the damnedest thing, Penny.” Bond came to the side of her desk. He leaned on the edge with his palms flat on the surface. He lowered his voice. “The old man’s promoting Diana Everest to a Double-O!”

“I know.” Moneypenny smiled tartly. That all-knowing sparkle flashed in her eye.

“Put that flea in his ear, did you?” Bond became wise. He straightened up and drew on his cigarette giving himself a pause.

“And why not, James? Our, er, enemies have had that over us for years. Why can’t we?” she argued the solid point. It had to have been the deciding argument levelled at M to wear him down.

“I’d suspect if given the chance you’d fancy my job?” Bond quipped. Moneypenny laughed in a neutral manner.

“Not on your life.” she replied.

“You little liar.” Bond smiled. “I’ve caught you daydreaming at the filing cabinet.” he added.

“Not of what you think.” she countered enigmatically with an almost cruel smirk. She’d had the last word this round. Bond, with a feigned affronted tilt of his chin crossed the room and called the lift. He hopped in giving Moneypenny a sprightly wave, as the doors closed. His mood to some extent had become more elevated than before.

He went to his floor and found his secretary, Mary Goodnight at her desk. She would return his flirtatious volleys correctly. However, he wished he had the mindset for it, but his mind was on other things. “Good morning Goodnight.” he cheered. She giggled in reply. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where Diana Everest is stuck in today, would you?” he asked passing the desk as if it were merely a spontaneous thought.

“I don’t know. I can check if you’d like?” she answered with a more professional air. She lifted the telephone receiver off its cradle. Bond nodded agreeably.

“I’ll be in my office.” he added. However, what he intended on doing he wasn’t sure. He certainly couldn’t discuss this with any of the other Double-O’s available. He thought he should call up Bill Tanner and give him the what for, except he thought it’d be out of line. Perhaps he was the one who had to reconsider his own thinking. Lady killers were ugly business. An unfair advantage by the enemy. He reminded himself of Rosa Klebb. Sitting down at his desk, Bond rubbed his shin absently thinking of her. Even Tatiana could have been a killer had she not been a pawn. It seemed unconscionable to willingly thrust a woman over such a dangerous line. That was the act of a neutered totalitarian empire, one who did not see men and women but comrades. He called to mind a phrase he’d heard once, dirty pool.

The noise of his phone snapped him from his daydreaming. Bond found the receiver on its cradle and picked it up, placing it up to his ear. “Yes, Goodnight?” he had forgotten his usual greeting.

“Miss Everest is working in the in Records today. Do you want me to ring down?”

“No, I think I’ll take a stroll. Thanks, Goodnight.” Bond put the receiver down and stood up. He adjusted his sleeves, pulling his cuffs past the edges of blue, and buttoned his jacket gazing all the while out the window. A professional air came over him as well. He turned on his heel and headed out of his office towards the lift.

The Records section was on the first floor. Bond found the whole area uncomfortably quiet even in the daytime hours. A library hush lingered heavily all around. It brought out the softest of sounds and amplified them three fold through the corridor. The heel of his left shoe squeaked. There were coins in his pocket that clicked together ever so subtly. His jacket rustled with the sway of his arm. Finally, he heard other noises, which took his focus from himself. The sound of paper slipping to the floor. A distant stifled giggle.

Bond found the office where the Records Duty officer was stationed. This day sitting at the desk was Diana Everest hands neatly folded over the blotter paper. Standing near said desk was the always bubbly, good looking and good natured Miss January Bliss. The girls were gossiping like a couple housewives over the garden wall. Miss Bliss had her arms filled with loose papers pressed to her ample breasts. The full-figured red head was a bigger flirt than any girl in the entire building was. How she managed not to get herself married off to the first officer who showed her enough encouragement, Bond didn’t know. Bond squared his shoulders approaching the doorway. “Hello Miss Bliss.” he grinned affably.

January Bliss turned towards Bond with silent surprise. Her hazel eyes were big and round with shock. She’d been caught shirking and knew it. Her full bee-stung lips were parted the tiniest bit. “I had better be getting back to my desk. Mr Bitters will be wanting these notes. See you around, Diana.” January blushed as she turned to Bond. “Commander Bond.” she eased past Bond turning her hourglass figure towards the lift. Her low heeled crocodile pumps shuffled over the linoleum and her hosiery made a sound as her thighs brushed together in her hurry.

“Hello, Bond.” Everest said. She had a cold way of simply calling him by his surname. Bond pulled his stare off Miss Bliss’ blissful backside and planted it on Diana’s rather angelic face. Perhaps it was the warm yellow glow of the reading lamp beside her that made her features look so virtuous. He knew from experience she was hardly the angelic type.

“Why Miss Everest do you ever rest?” Bond quipped leaning against the doorjamb. He folded his arms casually. Diana tilted her head curiously as if waiting for more. “So I suppose you know M-”

“Moneypenny rang me up a little while ago, said I was to have a meeting with M this afternoon. Now you turn up. Bond, you wouldn’t happen to know about all this, would you?” she got right to the point.

“Only a touch. Probably as much as you do. Why don’t you let me take you to lunch? My treat.” he offered. Everest smiled gamely with an ingénue’s blush. “It’s settled then. I’ll come and collect you.” he added.

“You know where to find me.” Everest replied. “The regular duty officer is sick, I’ll be here all day, well except. . .” her voice trailed off. “See you later, Bond.”

“See you later, Everest.”

[ImTheMoneypenny]

4. Pygmalion

Bond had arranged for lunch to be had at Scott’s of Mayfair in Haymarket. He’d lucked out on reservations as they had a last minute cancellation. Despite living in London all her life, Diana confessed to Bond, she’d never been. As they entered the front door, she was clearly in awe of the well-known restaurant. Arm in arm Bond led her through the main room. They were seated in a quiet corner away from the lunch crowd. Bond took the lead and ordered Scott’s famous dry martini for the both of them to start with. Then fresh oysters followed by grilled sole with whole wax beans. “So,” Diana said. She rested her chin on the palm of her hand. Her eyes peered inquisitively at him. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Does a fellow need a reason?” Bond countered. Everest crinkled her nose at him. “All right. . . Looks like you and I are soon to be off on a caper.”

“Oh.” Diana seemed crestfallen. She sat up straight, lowering her face, and letting her hand drop onto her lap. The waiter brought the martinis. She took hers immediately and drank solidly. “Could you bring me a whisky and Coca-Cola, please?” she asked the waiter upon finishing. He looked at Bond with an astounded expression before nodding and moving away silently. “So that’s all M wants.” she said with a sigh.

“You never know what the old sailor is up to. Take heart, at least you’re off desk duty.” Bond remarked taking up his martini. He didn’t play all his card though he could have. He felt he shouldn’t spoil the old man’s surprise. “It must be big though.”

“Why is that? Because you’re on it?”

“Well.” Bond was now the one who found himself blushing. He took a thoughtful sip of his drink, giving himself time to think. “M’s insisting on two of us. The last couple of times we worked together, you were already stationed in the area.” Bond was satisfied he’d made a good save.

“True.” Everest tilted her head again in that curious fashion. She brought out her packet of B & H and pulled a cigarette from the opening. Bond quickly lit it for her with his lighter.

“You’d better take that silly hair piece off before you set fire to it one of these days.” Bond teased. The girl immediately brought her hand up to the black velvet band.

“You can tell?” she gasped. Smoke spilled from her lips as she spoke. “It’s real human hair, very expensive. It’s supposed to be undetectable.”

“I’m sure no one else has noticed.” Bond assured. “I think you ought to get rid of it. I don’t want you chasing that hairball in a breeze when you should be chasing a bad guy.”

“I can’t come back from lunch not wearing it, people will wonder.”

“So first thing tomorrow, no piece.”

“All right. I’m trusting you, Bond. I don’t want M to sack me.” she warned.

“Trust me, Everest. Sacking you is the last thing on his mind.” Bond laughed. The waiter brought their oysters and Diana’s Whisky and Coca-Cola. “Now lets eat and forget all about the future.” Bond raised his glass.

“Hair today, gone tomorrow.” Diana mused as she clinked her glass to Bond’s. They settled into lunch in pleasant silence.

“Sarawak.” was the first word out of M’s mouth when Bond finally joined him and Diana after lunch.

“The country, sir?” Bond asked taking a seat though not his customary one. Everest was in that one.

“The very one. You, and 005. . .” M acknowledged Diana, who smiled brightly at Bond. She’d no doubt been informed of her status by M while Moneypenny detained Bond briefly outside the office. “Will be going there.”

“Sir, they have head-hunters.” Bond argued.

“Not for the last twenty or so years. Those silly Christian missionaries shamed them out of it, among other things. Still, now 007, I can see you’re about to interject so I will save you the trouble. You two will be going to get proper identification of an alleged SPECTRE Southeast Asian agent. He’s recently surfaced. I don’t think he was part of Operation Thunderball. We assume he’d quite possibly been a sleeper agent.”

“SPECTRE? Are you sure?” Bond felt his interest in the mission grow.

“Fairly. He may well lead us to Blofeld, or Blofeld may come to him. The man is certainly up to something.” M settled in his chair. He slid a red folder across his desk towards Bond and Everest. Bond was closest so he snatched up the file first. He wanted to see this SPECTRE man. “His name is Ángel Roxas Makisig, a Filipino we believe, possibly Moslem though we cannot say for sure.” As M spoke, giving the details he knew off hand, Bond looked through the thin, sparsely written file. The specifics were certainly lacking. How could they be so sure he was SPECTRE? They could not even give this Makisig chap a proper age, only estimating it between thirty-five or forty-five. Judging by his candid black and white photo photograph, he was either a hard living thirty-five year old or a forty-five year old who’d only lived somewhat fast. The man’s face was broad and angular surrounded by a short shorn dark hair. Small black almond shaped eyes. He had a flat sloping nose. The man’s skin was creased like tanned leather, with heavy folds about the mouth which was smiling broadly showing a mouthful of dark teeth. Bond grimaced. “He wears gold teeth. Capped, we assume. It’s a sign he is from a wealthy family. However, judging by the state of his gums, I doubt he looks after his treasured orthodontia.” M pointed out the man’s blackened gums.

“How awful.” Everest remarked with a shudder. Bond felt her looking over his shoulder.

“Indeed. . . I should warn you both, this man is unstable. He’s an avid chewer of betel palm nut. It’s a mild stimulant. There is however nothing mild about this man’s usage. He’s thought to be a mad man because of it. That is why it is imperative that we get a proper ID on Makisig and take him in if at all possible. Makisig has got himself quite the set up if our man is to be believed. Could do some damage if he is working for Blofeld.”

“Sir, I have to object. This situation is far too dangerous for 005.” Bond began. M raised his hand stopping him.

“If we are going to pull this off, I need you both. Our man there in Sarawak is using the cover of a Christian missionary. Two real missionaries happen to be leaving, a married couple. Once you land in Kuching, you’ll have approximately a week before another pair of real missionaries come in, also a man and wife. You two will slip in that week, and impersonate the couple, then once you get an official ID, get out. No one will be the wiser.” M instructed. “Miss Moneypenny is working on the arrangements as we speak. You both leave in the morning. Good luck. That is all.” M ended all further conversation with a tight smile. Diana stood up quickly. Bond obliged to rise with her and followed her. By the time Bond made it through the door, Diana was already in the lift with the doors closing. Bond stood back and whistled low. It was already a hell of a start to the mission.

“So much for the good time at Scott’s.” he muttered.

By sunrise the next morning, Bond and Everest were on their way. The two met at the ticket counter and exchanged the bare minimum of greetings. Bond had his one case. He’d dressed for the climates to come. A lightweight grey suit with his usual dress shirt and black casuals. Diana carried something akin to a knapsack one uses for hiking. She looked more as he was accustomed to her, aside from the short hair, Diana wore a simple Brooks Brothers white blouse open at the neck. A thick black belt over a pair of black slacks draped over square toed shoes with a silver buckle. There was little time to converse as they had a long day into night, and another day still, ahead of travelling and their plane was boarding.

Soon the two were settled side by side in first class on BOAC BA115 flight to Rome. Knowing Bond’s preference for the luxurious seating and quiet of the Comet over the new somewhat cramped Boeing 707’s, Moneypenny set up an absolute relay race of flights. From Rome, it would be BA796 flight to Beirut, from there Bahrain. At Bahrain, they would catch BA938 to Delhi and hopefully catch their breath along the way. From Delhi, they’d fly to Bangkok for an overnight rest, then a short jump over to Kuching, on the North Eastern coast of the island of Borneo, fresh as daisies.

They were still not talking. Everest had brought with her a tidy collection of magazines, which she pored over cover to cover over the next few hours. She’d held each magazine in front of her face only lowering it for another Coca-Cola, or her meal. The only time the two uttered anything close to conversation was when she granted Bond the use of one of her magazines or nudged him awake for meal service. The only good thing about the silent treatment was that he could be left alone with his thoughts and a cigarette if he so chose.

He’d let her sulk until they got to Rome perhaps even to Beirut if he wanted more peace and quiet. But after that, she’d have to come out of her pout and behave like a real Double-O. Silly girls. He thought to himself. This is why they should not be a Double-O, they get hurt feelings. He found himself sinking into her sulk and shook his head. He would not give into her mood, but he would snap her out of it if he had to. Why Everest was nearly thirty that was old enough to drop foolish games. But she was like that, given to sulks. In the past, she’d come close to him then pulled away as if they’d just met. She ran hot and cold. It was a constant game of catch as catch can with Diana. He’d kissed her once and that was all. She’d never let him get that close again.

“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll put you on the next plane to Beirut.” he finally threatened as the two sat at the bar of the air conditioned lounge of Bahrain International Airport on the island of Muharraq. They were both looking frayed at the edges. No doubt, their temperaments were pushed to the limit.

“I have nothing to say, Bond.” Diana lifted her chin defiantly. She turned to her drink, yet another blasted Whisky and Coca-Cola, no doubt heavy on the Coca-Cola, taking a deep drink.

“Of course you do, so lets hear it.” Bond countered taking his own drink of chilled Bacardi in hand.

“All right. How dare you try to get me taken off this mission.” she returned fiercely.

“I was only looking out for your safety.”

“Safety? More like your ego.” she huffed. “Everyone knows you’re on this SPECTRE kick just like with SMERSH. Can’t allow anyone else in on the fun, can you?”

“That’s your opinion.”

“It is.”

“Then you’re entitled to it even if you’re wrong.” Bond suggested coolly. “Now that you’ve had your say, and I’ve had mine, it’s done. We have to be a team on this or no dice.” Bond stuck out his hand. Everest looked down at it, then up at Bond. She took his hand firmly and shook it.

After the truce in Bahrain, the journey for Bond and Everest became far more pleasant. Diana had even left her magazines on her seat when they disembarked in Delhi. Instead, the two schemed the probabilities for tracking Ángel Roxas Makisig in carefully tailored conversations. These discussions always ended unresolved as because their knowledge of Makisig was so sparse nothing could be cemented. When they finally landed in Bangkok, the two were no more prepared than when the left London.

Moneypenny had certainly picked a winner with The Atlanta Hotel in downtown Bangkok on Sukhumvit Road. However, getting there was no small feat. It was a beckoning oasis for the two after leaving Don Mueang Airport. The sun was creeping over the edge of the city’s spires and burgeoning office and apartment buildings. There was a slight haze clinging to the air. The marathon may have been over for the most part, but Bond and Everest still had to get through the bustling noisy city at its awakening. Private cars, some buses, tuk-tuks, and the occasional motorbike, packed together like sardines on the road, made for an exhaust laden traffic jam that Bond and Everest were trapped in for an additional hour. There was an ever-present whiff of low humanity from the khlongs. Pedestrians moved among the traffic creating a scene of chaos to the observer yet had to be perfectly average to a local.

Surrounded by gardens and beautifully sculpted trees, The Atlanta, was a welcomed sight. Stepping into the quiet foyer decadent in its art deco furnishings of brilliant reds and teak was like entering the finest Parisian hotel of the fifties. The staff was clean, wearing unadorned white shirts and black trouser uniforms. They were well mannered and spoke very good English. The Atlanta’s founder a man called Henn, had his portrait in the foyer along with a portrait of his wife, a striking brunette. No doubt, their watchful eyes kept a keen eye on the place when they were not there. The Atlanta had a German restaurant, the Rheinterrassen open only to guests as well as a laundry service and the first swimming pool in Thailand, not that Bond and Everest would have the luxury of using any of it. Bond made note that should he ever be this way again, on pleasure, The Atlanta would be the place to stay.

Upon signing in as Mr and Mrs Goodbody, Bond found that they were to have a small one bedroom suite. The bellman lead them up the stone and wrought iron staircase, wrapping quite squarely around the corners of the foyer. Bond followed, smiling a little wondering if Moneypenny knew what she was getting into when she made the arrangements. Did she frown a little, or did she mind at all? Once inside the suite Bond found the joke had been on him. It was indeed a small family suite and the one bedroom had two twin beds side by side. Perfectly respectable. Still it was clean with a good view of the sunrise. There was a bathroom, and a sitting room.

"Gin khao ru yang?" the bellman asked. Bond fished in his pocket for a tip. The young man smiled and brought his hand to his mouth as if eating. "Gin khao ru yang? Have you eaten?" he asked.

“No, in fact and I’m starving. Scrambled eggs and bacon for two, a carafe of orange juice and one of coffee.” he ordered. The Bellman nodded his head. Bond gave him a good tip and the bellman left to fill their order.

“The first thing I want to do is the have a long cool bath.” Diana sighed carefully setting her knapsack on a chair. She stretched and ran her fingers through her hair. “Then I want to sleep.”

“I’ve order us some food, then we’re going to have to get cracking before we can sleep.”

“Get cracking? On what?”

“We’ve got to be prepared. I have no idea what we’re walking into and I need to know we’re on the same page.”

“Oh all right, but after my bath.”

“Don’t worry I ordered us plenty of coffee.” Bond smiled taking his jacket off. He loosened his tie and set about to unpack only what he needed to. Sadly, as he laid his case out on his bed, Bond knew there would be no time for sight seeing. He brought out his Walther PPK and extra ammunition, thinking how they’d have to miss the beauty that was the Prasad Phra Thepbidorn, or the intricately carved spires of the Gold Stupa. He emptied the cartridge of its bullets and repacked them. No having a look through the markets, or taking a canal boat trip. There was supposed to be some of the best golf courses as well. A shame he couldn’t stop by and play a round. No, they were heading straight out in the morning, no question. They had but a few hours to train.

“How long do you think the food will take?” Diana appeared in the doorway. She was towel drying her hair wearing only a plain men’s undershirt. The shirt clung gently to her damp body, as she stood bare legged and bare foot, apparently unaware of the affect. Her face was plain without one trace of make-up. Bond had to stop himself from staring. Free of the artificial, it was perhaps the most beautiful he’d ever seen the girl. He cleared his throat and went about taking his pyjama coat from his case for later.

“It should be any time. Put on some bottoms, would you? It’ll be hard to train with you like that.” Bond busied himself with his case. “I hope you brought a weapon. I have just the one.”

“I’m well prepared.” Diana smiled. She brought the knapsack to her bed. “A gift from Q Branch.” she smiled. “If there’s one thing you have to remember Bond, even today, a man never searches a lady’s bag. But to be on the safe side, they made up this.” She gently reached in the bag. There was a false side between the inside and where the shoulder straps attached to a stiff-board back support. From there she brought out a Beretta with the sawn barrel and skeletal grip he recognised as his former friend. Major Boothroyd had said it was a ladies’ gun.

There came a knock on the suite door. Their food arrived just in time. “I’ll get that. You put some trousers on, I can’t concentrate.” he joked turning towards the sitting room. The same bellman that he’d ordered from brought the trolley of food. Bond paid him another good tip and the lad left with a broad smile and blessing. Setting up a little dining area with two chairs on each side of the trolley, Bond uncovered the dishes and poured the coffee and juice. He reached in his pocket and took two Benzedrine tablets from a small bottle. “Here take one of these. They’ll perk you up.” he said giving one to Diana. She shrugged and took one drinking the orange juice.

“No bacon for me. I still have to watch my figure.” she said taking her seat. She put her portion onto Bond’s plate.

“You’re skinny enough.” Bond chided. He put one slice of bacon on her plate. She wrinkled her nose at him drinking more of the orange juice. Bond sat down. “I intend to turn you into a proper Double-O. Right after breakfast.”

“Well then I supposed I’d better eat that slice of bacon.” Diana replied.

“Yes, that’s lesson one.” Bond lectured.

As promised the lessons indeed begun. Bond first tested Diana’s stamina. She had to accomplish at least five press-ups. She was able to do six. Diana excelled at sit ups, the straight leg-lift and deep knee bends. She could touch her toes twenty times and run in place for ten minutes without breathing too hard. Her fitness was, no question, quite good. They practiced defence holds and come-alongs. These too she did reasonably well, though there was room for improvement. He had to keep his mind on the training when they practised attacks. He couldn’t let his mind stray at the natural scent of her skin, or the errant brush against her liberated breast, and hard nipple, under the thin veil of white cotton. Bond forced his thoughts to be strictly technical as they grappled on the sitting room floor. He found her combat techniques to be solid, however easily overwhelmed. Diana’s strength was in her legs more than her arms Bond discovered when she used them to wedge between she and he, from underneath and flung him upwards.

“Okay, again.” Bond ordered as Diana pulled her gun from a hip holster aiming for her reflection in the long mirror of the bedroom. “Again.” It was obvious she’d not been tested on her reflexes often enough and was a little wobbly at first. Her form was decent. She planted her feet firmly enough. They drilled for an hour before she could draw and fire in seconds with no snagging. He’d only wished they had time for actual target shooting. Finally, Bond had Diana take apart the Beretta and put it back together again. She did this several times before he was satisfied.

Bond looked at his watch. It was half past three when he’d finished cleaning the Beretta, his self bestowed reward for training Diana. He looked over and she was asleep on the settee. Her arm tucked beneath a throw pillow under her head. She looked like a child. Bond stood up and stretched. He thought about moving her, but decided against it. He did however take a sheet off her bed and put it over her. He took a cold shower put on his pyjama coat and went to bed himself.

[ImTheMoneypenny]

5. Tasmanian Devil

“Ah, you must be Mr Gideon and Agnes Goodbody.” welcomed a sandy haired man in white short sleeved shirt and khaki trousers, as Bond and Everest were climbing down from the supply plane at Kuching Airport. Bond supposed this man was whom M had referred to as ‘our man in Sarawak’. He had an athletic build and was about Bond’s height. He had a rakish grin and devilish blue eyes.

“The name’s Captain Peterson Blood. My friends call me Beau.” he stuck out his hand to Bond. “This way to our transportation.” he said leading them from the airport grounds. Their transportation was two grey Lambretta 48 II mopeds. “I hope one of you knows how to run these as my assistant Musa has already left for the valley of Batang Ai on foot.”

“Oh I do, Captain Blood. Shouldn’t be any different than a motorbike or a scooter.” Diana volunteered. She climbed on the small seat of the moped. Her legs bare to the thigh from swimming shorts were laid seductively on each side of the metal frame.

“I feel like piggy in the middle.” Bond said standing between the two motorised bicycles.

“Well now here’s a lesson I can teach. Hop on the rack behind the seat.” Everest encouraged. Peterson Blood took Bond’s case and attached it to the rack on his moped along with Diana’s knapsack. Reluctantly, Bond rolled the windcheater he wore during the flight, as a cushion and perched himself precariously on the narrow rack of the moped just above the back wheel. He was glad he decided to forgo formalities and wore a simple tropic-weight shirt, dark blue canvas jeans and rope soled shoes.

“It’s about three and half hours or so to where we’re staying. Along the way, we’ll take a break. The nice thing about these mopeds is should we run out of petrol we can peddle them.” Captain Blood’s encouraging words were less so as Bond saw the state of the shoddy roads ahead of them. He wondered how he was going to be able to hang on when he felt Diana’s hands take his and put them around her waist. He hadn’t embraced her in such a way for sometime. Since that time, she’d apparently stopped wearing a girdle on a regular basis. There was barely anything between him and the skin of her belly but a thin sheaf of an olive blouse. He kept his mind on that as the bumpy journey began.

There was quite a difference travelling at low speed on a moped through nature and driving through it in an automobile. As they’d reached the unpaved roads cut jaggedly into the lowlands, Bond found he could appreciate the scenery around him more as there was no steel and glass to insulate him. The sun was getting higher. The smells of nature rose up with the sun, not all of it bad. He detected honey-like scents of tropical flowers, and the freshwater sweetness of rainforest vegetation. There was also the hint of animals, and of dung. Occasionally, the mopeds would cross patches of blue shadow cast by the pierced canopy of trees. It was like swimming in the ocean with great pockets of warm and cool currents. The terrain was less smooth causing the moped to buck and spit dust up in the air. Everest was, as Bond found, proficient at controlling the machine. Her body was taut, every muscle flexed exerting her command over the wily bike beneath them.

Bond was not sure how long they had ridden before the only road was conveniently blocked by a youth on a small juvenile Asian elephant. The sluggish beast swayed to and fro as the young man gave a poor performance as not being able to master him. It was good enough time as any to stop. Lucky for the trio, there just happened to be a shack of a eating place, as Bond could not call it a restaurant nor café. It was a shack open on one wall from which the smell of cooking food was intoxicating. Steamed rice and some sort of meat searing on an open flame brought on instant hunger pangs. Bond climbed off the moped as soon as it was slowed down. He was stiff and sore. His flanks were numbed by the extended vibrations. “I’ll figure out that blasted thing, Everest, you take the rack.” he said as she joined him going towards the shack.

“I’ll see if I can fetch us some petrol for the bikes. We’ve done pretty well, we’ve another hour to go.” Blood said. He seemed not an ounce worse for wear. Though like Everest, and no doubt Bond himself, Blood was dusted a golden brown from the road. “Go have a seat. They’ll serve you. Stick to the rice and fish. And if they offer you anything bottled to drink, make sure it’s still sealed.” he warned before going around the side of the shack where a group of men sat on the ground smoking and shooting craps.

Bond and Everest took shelter in the shade of the shack. There was a low round table sitting on an old bamboo mat. As soon as the two sat down, a women of indeterminable age approached smiling. She gave them each hot wet cloth from a boiling pot to wipe their hands and faces. She wore only a band of colourful fabric tied over her small bosom, that exposed her flat stomach and smooth arms and neck, and a long dark sarong skirt. Her hair was thick and long, pulled back with a strip of cloth. Bond supposed that despite the age on her face she must have been young. Her prettiness had most likely peaked in her early teens. After that, children, perhaps a cruel husband now long gone, and a life of toil wore away all that was left of it. Her cheeks were high and wide apart. Her eyes small with not a lot of lash. Her full lips under an unusually flattened nose were regretfully unexciting. She was unfortunate to have been left with merely peasant beauty.

Bond looked around the room as not to stare at the proprietoress. A few absolutely naked children thin, and wide eyed, stared back at him from near the kitchen. He smiled at them waving. The children grinned and hid behind a table. An elderly woman, bundled under layers of clothing, sat at the table, which the children hid, singing some sort of song. Her eyes were heavy lidded and cloudy. Blind, she sat staring but not looking. Bond wondered if she knew anyone else was there. Perhaps she knew and thought herself entertainment such as a jukebox.

“Eken, eken. . . Fish, fish. Kudos eken.” Bond heard Blood talking to the younger woman. She held bowls in her hands. She smiled shyly showing her top row of surprisingly white teeth. She put the bowls down and went back to the fire. She prepared two more bowls and brought them to Bond and Everest. Blood joined them on the floor. The woman gave him a cloth and he wiped his hands and face. She then brought his bowl of rice and fish. “I’d like to think their meats are pork or perhaps water buffalo. But sometimes I wonder if it very well could be orang-utan or elephant at the very least.” Blood explained. The woman brought them glass bottles of Coca-Cola. “Sorry she doesn’t have anything stronger.” Blood said popping the cap from his bottle on the side of the low table.

“These will do very nicely.” Everest smiled. Bond felt as twinge of jealousy strike him as he noticed the flirtatiousness of her looks at the captain. He sullenly tucked into his meal. The sticky rice was somewhat bland. The saltiness of the hunks of fish made up for that and there was a hint of mild pepper. He tried to eat the fish with the rice as they were better together than apart.

“I tell you I’m ready to leave Sarawak.” Blood said scooping rice and fish into his mouth with his fingers.

“Why’s that?” Everest asked following suit.

“The age of the White Rajah is certainly over. There’s been a great deal of unrest among the people.” Blood spoke in low tones. “They want independence from Britain, naturally. This is just one island that is a powder keg, mark my words.” he warned. “I believe that our Makisig fellow is creating some of the tension. I couldn’t talk before because he’s got men all over this place. Makisig has been courting the old head-hunters, got some of them back to their old ways. He uses them as his bodyguards. He’s got a small man-made island smack in the middle of the Ai River with several buildings that don’t look like the longhouses around here. But that’s for later. . .” Blood censored himself darting his eyes about. He went back to eating.

“Where are you from, Blood?” Bond asked. He noted the man spoke very well, with no hint of a twang, but there was a wilderness in him that spoke of a life growing up outside Britain.

“Tasmania, in fact. My father was a British Anthropologist, gave me a taste for travelling among tribes, roughing it.” he smiled. “I once met a real fine English chap when I was working as a guide in New Guinea. I was impressed by his diction. He told me I was a good looking fellow, but that if I was to get anywhere in life I ought to speak well, so I that’s what I did.”

“Ever serve?” Bond questioned out of curiosity.

“I did briefly in the RAAF. They found I had an athletic heart, an enlarged heart to you and me, and put me on the ground permanently. Said they didn’t want me dropping dead in their plane. It didn’t sit right with me, naturally. They got tired of me making noise about it and threw me straight out.” Blood said with a bit of a laugh. “Story of my life.” he mused.

The trio were interrupted by a commotion on the road. A large canvas topped ex-military lorry was stopped by the boy and his elephant. Men dressed in green army uniforms with machetes were confronting them shouting words like ‘penu’ and ‘kebus’ none of which sounded good. They slashed the air with their blades and jabbed at the beast. The elephant reared up, and made great roaring-like noises as the boy who’s face was now filled with fear attempted to control his animal friend for real. “What are they saying?” Everest whispered putting her empty bowl aside.

“They’re threatening to make the elephant dead if the boy doesn’t move him.” Blood replied with a hard tone in his voice clearly not towards the girl but for the men.

“Should we intervene?” Bond asked. He too was beginning to feel the urge to teach those bullies a lesson or two. Machete or no machete.

“We should. But casually, non-threatening.” Blood agreed. The two men rose to their feet. Just as they did, two things happened. The boy was able to get his young elephant and himself to safety from the armed group, and secondly a small man opened the passenger side door of the lorry and dropped to the ground. “Wait, that’s him!” Blood whispered.

It was indeed the man from the file, Ángel Roxas Makisig. He was no taller than five foot five. His body was compact and strong looking. He, like his men, wore bottle green clothes as if in the service. His hair had grown out since the file photo, so it was thick about his head. Makisig wore dark tinted sunglasses. There was a tyrant’s smirk on his lips as he stood with a short tapering Circassian whip of stiff pointed black leather in one fist and the other planted on his hip. So, he was making himself a rebel leader, was he? Bond wondered. Was SPECTRE’s new goal to destabilise an entire country or was, as Blood suggested, Sarawak the first of a handful of powder kegs to blow up in order to keep Britain’s military distracted while they plotted something bigger?

Bond would have a chance to get a good look at Makisig as he was approaching the shack. The younger woman appeared afraid. Her children hid behind her skirt. The old woman stopped singing. The men who’d stood around outside appeared off the side of the long end of the shack’s opening. “Señora. . . I have warned you about that scheme of yours.” Makisig said tapping the young woman under the chin with the silver knob of his whip. He spoke slowly with a heavy Spanish accent.

“The girl only speaks Bidayuh and a handful of words in English.” Captain Blood said boldly, turning to Makisig. “She’s harmless. What’s a few dollars or pounds? She’s lucky to get that much in a week.”

“Ah! The holy words of the missionary man.” Makisig smiled. “You brought more with you, eh? God is not enough to protect you?” his words were tainted with sarcasm. Makisig walked closer to the trio. His face seemed to track Diana, as she got up quickly and stood beside Bond. “Who is this? How do these Dayaks put it? Ah, mun manuk begu.” he leered at Everest. A golden glint shone dully between his lips. “She is like the sun bird. Very pretty.” Bond felt Everest’s fingers dig into his sleeve. “Perhaps I may call on you to visit my home, have dinner with me one evening?”

“Any day but a Sunday.” Bond replied with a cool touch of sarcasm of his own. Makisig bowed his head courteously. As much as Bond had wanted to tangle with the man right then, he felt the timing was not right. There were too many innocents at risk. At any rate, he was supposed to be a missionary. Bond was forced, for the moment, to do the Christian thing and turn the other cheek.

“We shall not be strangers I hope.” Makisig said to Bond as he turned. He threw some notes from his breast pocket on the floor. The young woman fell on her knees and scrambled to pick them up. “I am not an uncaring man.” Makisig said to Captain Blood. “Tell the woman here is her money. Remind her to never block my way again or she shall be less one child and have plenty of tender elephant for her stew.” he warned. Then ignoring the trio Makisig walked out of the shack. He climbed into the lorry along with his men. The engine belched and the machine lurched forward up the road noisily until it disappeared.

“Well, there’s your man.” Blood exhaled, putting his hands on his hips.

“Indeed.” Bond agreed.

[ImTheMoneypenny]

6. Even the Garden of Eden Had A Snake
part 1.

The collection of long houses nestled among trees along the quiet Ai River was a sight for which Bond had not prepared himself. Coming around the crest of a hill, Bond found the sight pure fairytale. After the smog and grime of the small cities and shanty town villages, the greenness of the trees spread far and wide, were impossibly verdant. They made nests for the rectangular wooden shacks built up on short stilts. Flat broad palm leaves were like emerald blades cutting past him. There came once again the smell of honey flowers followed by the smell of meat smoking. He felt the freshness of the air in his lungs. The river beside them was wide, sparkling dimly in the sunshine. The rising jungles stretched as far as his eyes could see, pushing up against a vibrant blue sky. He had considered Jamaica the most beautiful place on Earth, until then.

“The Ibans will treat you well. I told them you’re only staying enough to learn the ropes from me then moving on. To avoid any etiquette gaffes with the natives, you’ll both be sharing my long house.” Blood offered. He carried Bond and Everest’s bags walking ahead. They passed a house that had a collection of human skulls hanging from bags made of dried reeds along a sort of covered veranda. They called attention to themselves by clattering in the gentle breeze. The trophies made Bond wince. “Don’t worry none of those blokes were ours.” Peter Blood elbowed Bond gently in the side. “In fact more of them are Japanese. Boy, Hirohito didn’t know what he was getting into when his men invaded here.” he added with a laugh.

As they moved through the village, more of the people, the Ibans, ventured out to see them. The children were mostly naked. Some who wore clothing wore very little. The young men were small and lean muscled showing off bared torsos and arms. The older men dressed almost conservatively, with thin white short sleeved shirts like those that Blood wore and baggy short trousers. They sat on the grassless dirt ground, smoking pipes and drinking, a few with loyal mutts beside them. Young girls on the brink of bloom giggled as Bond and Blood passed. They flashed their pretty brown eyes at the men. Their jet black hair pulled up in top knots. They, like the proprietoress of the shack eatery, wore the short white blouses that bared smooth stomachs and arms and long skirts. However, unlike that young woman, the petals of these girls’ beauty had not yet dropped off.

“There’s a good look for you, Everest.” Bond whispered as they passed elder women of the village who were nude from the waist up. There was nothing sensual in their nakedness. Their bodies were atrophied with paper skin, which was very dark brown and tattooed. Their bosoms hung low and empty from the generations they fed. The women had no expression on their faces except gloomy curiosity.

“Say, Peter. . .” Everest began. Bond felt that twinge again, this time as she referred to Blood by his first name. “When can we have a look at Makisig’s place?”

“As soon as you’d like, er, say what do I call you two? We don’t have to worry about your cover names in the village, they speak and understand, practically no English, and I feel rather silly calling you Gideon and Agnes.” Blood asked.

“It’s Bond. . . James-”

“Diana will do.” Everest interrupted Bond with a sly smile.

“Alright, Bond. . . Diana. . .” Blood smiled. “Here’s your home away from home.” Blood pointed to a smaller long house beside the water. The open side of the house faced the grand view of Ai River. There was the open main room, which looked more like one long hallway. Behind that were the private sleeping quarters in a row. “There’s a rain barrel for fresh water for bathing, though if you’re going to drink it I’d suggest boiling it and using a handkerchief as a filter. We don’t get enough purifying tablets up here. Better yet, I have a good supply of vodka. I keep bottles of the stuff sealed in an ice chest in the river. That way when I want a drink it’s always chilled. My room is down here.” Blood directed to the far end closest to the river. “I’ll leave you to make your own arrangements.”

“I’ll take this room. I’ll have a view of the sunrise.” Diana said commandeering the sleeping room in the middle of the long house.

“I’ll take this end, then.” Bond agreed unenthusiastically. He went to his room and found only the bare essentials, a bamboo mat on the floor with a mosquito net bundled up above it, and a small table with a brass lantern beside the mat. At the opposite end of the cramped room was a basin and pitcher straight out of the Victorian era. There was really no need to unpack as there was no place to put his clothes. He felt now he should always carry his PPK, on him, as not to let any children or a young man steal it. He’d readied the gun before leaving Bangkok. Using the Berns Martin Triple-draw holster, Bond secured his Walther in his trouser band. Bond let his shirt drop over the bulge. It did not appear out of the ordinary. He left his room set on having a look at Makisig’s river island.

Blood lead Bond and Everest down a small footpath towards the river’s edge. The dirt path wound gently down a slope, in no hurry to meet with the water. The heat was lessened in the thick of the forest. The air was still and heavily perfumed. They passed through an inert tableaux of fallen Dipterocarp trees, twisted vines, splattered with colour in the likes of an alien electric shade of pink blooms that look like exotic cocktail drinks, and wild fruits of orange, blood red, and purple. Overhead the giant living Dipterocarps protected the trio from the sun, although the green shelter was not as necessary. Before they left the long house Blood gave Bond a ‘wide awake’ hat, such as he was wearing. He thought Everest looked fetching in her safari hat with a leopard band. The beaver felt of her hat appeared dented and crimped in areas which told Bond she’d brought it in her bag. He mused that had it not been for her bosom and the heart shape of her full bottom, she’d have looked like a boy among them.

The lonely Bornean gibbons, far from sight, sang their distant whooping songs joined by barking deer and territorial chattering of giant squirrels. These were the sounds of small life. Frogs springing onto leaves, insect legs scratching against a tree limb, subtle cracking of florae as Bond imagined a clouded leopard tracked a Sambar deer, or perhaps even them from afar. Birds swooped through shafts of golden light and cackled as they perched. Lizards scurried under logs. This was a city unlike what most men would ever hear or see. “ We’re having a bit of a dry spell. Usually we’d be walking through mud and rain.” Blood said as the trio came to a clearing.

Here the river sprawled before them. Kingfishers scooped their prey from the murky green waters. Turtles were dark shadows under the surface. Fish darted in all directions. “It’s absolutely beautiful.” Everest gasped.

“I swim here every morning. I suggest if you want to keep an eye on our friend you do the same. For sake of appearing as missionaries we’d better keep our swimming costumes on when we’re here.” Blood said. “Now.” he pushed aside a large fan of fern and pointed towards a great black shape in the middle of the river. “There’s Makisig’s place. Could be swam to on the right evening. We could also go by canoe.”

“We’ll need a better look.” Bond said studying the outcropping of buildings on the tiny man-made island. They looked more like short arch roofed barracks made of black corrugated metal. There was a tall square structure directly in the middle of those. All of it encased in wire fencing topped with barbed coils. The fence practically ran flush with the steep jagged rock edges of the island as it had no beach to speak of. There was only one pier which had a large pontoon boat and several small canoes docked about it. Men in uniform with rifles, patrolled the corners and there was a guard tower of sorts at the far end. “Looks quite armed. Any thoughts?” he asked.

“You’re the Double-O’s.” Blood replied.

“How far have you been able to get?” Everest questioned standing between Bond and Captain Blood.

“Much farther at night time than the day unless it’s raining, that is.” Blood explained. “The watchtower has a beacon that illuminates this area every three minutes. The guards aren’t a disciplined lot. They tend to shirk at night only doing partial patrols leaving the watchtower guard to do the work. When it rains the guards tend not to want to get themselves or their rifles wet.”

“Our best bet is a night swim. I suppose.” Bond replied “How far exactly have you gotten during the night?”

“The water temperature can get a little brutal especially now during monsoon season. I’ve made it all the way to the island. Right up underneath in fact.”

“And?” Everest butted in.

“It’s really more of a platform. There’s metal scaffolding on legs that keeps the entire island above the waterline. I’ve been under every inch of the thing. No hatches or drains to wiggle into.”

“There’s always something.” Bond said squinting his grey-blue eyes against the sun, still staring at the island.

“I say we just do the proper thing.” Everest proposed. “Wait for an invitation and walk in through the front door.”

“I’m not sure we’ve got the luxury of time.” Bond replied.

[ImTheMoneypenny]

6. Even the Garden of Eden Had A Snake

Part 2

As night descended upon the jungle, lights arose in the village. A grand and dazzling fire glowed in a pit near the elder’s long house. A dressed bearded pig roasted under the flaming palm fronds, wafting upwards the perfume of tropical delicacies. For some reason however, the smell coupled with the clanking trophy skulls in the breeze unsettled Bond as he changed his shirt in his room.

This was the beginning of an elaborate celebration. The Ibans looking and behaving festive, moved from house to house collecting refreshments for the party which would be officially held in the long house of the elder. Bond and Everest were the honoured guests, though both had yet to arrive. Everest had gone off with the women, while Bond now joined Blood riverside on a less than official mission.

“This little shindig’ll spook ol’ Makisig’s men tonight.” Blood chuckled as he pulled on the rope which anchored his sunken ice chest to a tree.

“How’s that?” Bond questioned lending a hand with the wet hemp rope. The chest broke the surface. Both men dragged the wily box ashore.

Those men aren’t fools. In the past the Ibans only staged such a celebration when they’d taken a ‘prize‘, shall we say.” Blood made a cutting motion with his hand across his neck. “Little doubt, the men and Makisig will feel the urge to do a, er, head count.” a smile flashed across the Tasmanian’s face as the pun was not entirely accidental.

“Do you honestly feel safe among these people?” Bond asked. Blood popped the latches of the chest and wrenched it open. Inside was a collection of various bottles filled with colourless liquid submerged in murky river water.

“Like a babe in a cradle.” Blood assured. He began passing ice cold bottles to Bond. “Now I’m sure that many a long pig. . .” he chuckled at the euphemism. “Had been roasted on a spit by natives, but not by these blokes. They’re as gentle as lambs. They only take, er, took heads in defence.”

“Can’t say I feel as secure.” Bond admitted. Blood closed the lid of the chest.

“Trust me, Bond. We have nothing to fear of the Ibans.” Blood confidently latched the chest and kicked it back under the black water. He took a couple of the smaller bottles from Bond. It begged to wonder that Blood had become fond of the savages enough to see them as placid pets. Granted what Bond knew of head hunters was more the stuff of salacious sweats than factual accounts.

As Blood and Bond were welcomed into the long house of the elder, Bond felt perhaps his distrustful instincts towards the natives were more naively erroneous than Blood's affection. The elder was a gracious and quite pleasant man, small with silver hair and a creased brown skin decorated with faded intricate indigo tattoos. He conversed through Blood in Bidayuh never once speaking above a honeyed tone. He was eager to present the modern conveniences of his home, a manual sewing machine that Bond would have thought Isaac Singer crafted himself, and quite new wireless. Bond smiled encouragingly on these conveniences, to which the elder beamed with pride.

“Live here long enough and a spread such as this’ll seem like dinner at 21!” Blood mused as he and Bond sat cross-legged on the mat floor opposite the elder and his topless wife as a banquet was spread out between them. Bond looked over the dishes with anthropological interest. Heaps of fried durian paste cakes on china plates. Roughly carved slabs of pork, some pieces seared with spikes of bristle poking through, presented with what Bond was told was manok pansoh which appeared to be chicken stuffed into bamboo. There were also deep bowls of glistening noodles. Certainly here in the jungle, this meal was lavish. The elder offered Bond a regular drinking glass filled part way with yellowy rice wine. The wife placed before Bond a sampling of all the delicacies on one plate.

Simple foods done well often were the tastiest in Bond’s opinion. The steak of pig meat was so tender if nearly melted on his tongue. The noodles swam in a briny sauce of soy and pork drippings, which was both light on the stomach and heavy on flavour. The cakes, which Blood warned to be eat while drinking water as durian raises the body temperature, in deed had a warmth to them however not in spicy manner.

With his belly content and glowing, Bond was awash in pleasant feelings. The rice wine added to his smile a touch of giddiness. He could hardly contain his amusement when at last Everest made her fashionably late entrance. Lead in by young women she’d clothed in Western eveningwear Everest herself had gone native. She wore a pale golden paisley sarong that was fixed almost obscenely low on her hips. Bound across her breasts was a matching sash of silk. A simple gold chain hung around her throat and her hair was brushed away from her unmade face. A shame she found modesty now. Bond smirked drinking long from a full glass of Blood’s ice chest firewater.

The floorshow was about to begin. Bond was about to be treated to the savages’ cabaret. The wireless was switched on and soon discharged distorted Japanese popular music through a tinny speaker. The young women of the village attempted the herky-jerky modern dances of the West, no doubt taught quickly to them by Everest. They finished their inelegant convulsions amid polite applause. Smiling in a manner of pageant queens, they stood aside, now encouraging Everest in her Mata Hari undulations of the exotic.

Bond was reminded of fierce belly dancers watching Everest buck and twirl her body in primordial erotic gesticulations. Her hip pulsations, in particular, of the likes that would have raised the blood pressure of a caveman. They were certainly raising Bond’s blood. She was no missionary! Bond felt Blood’s sharp elbow nudge his ribs. The juvenile undertone of the gesture caused Bond to frown however only momentarily. He was hardly distracted. Bond was not alone, not a single man looked on with disinterest. Bond snatched a quick glance around when Everest turned her back. The elder clapped his hands to the music, smiling as if he were front row of the Folies Bergère. The elder leaned over to Blood and whispered in his ear. Blood eagerly nodded in agreement. “How’s that?” Bond asked quickly.

“The elder.” Blood began as he leaned himself closely towards Bond’s left ear. “Was praising that intoxicating ivory plain which lies between the mountains and the oasis.” he finished rather poetically Bond felt. It did not take much imagination as Everest wiggled her waist and hips, the teasing sarong flitting off her thigh, for Bond to gather the elder’s meaning.

Collapsing, at the end of her routine, beside Bond breathless, Everest gave him an ingenuous smile that was broad and some how made him feel guilty about the sweat on his brow. “How did you find my routine?”

“Inspirational.” Bond praised handing to Everest a tall glass of rice wine. “I doubt there’s an old warrior here who wouldn’t take a head for you.”

“Hear, hear.” Blood agreed.

The rest of the night blurred together in a kind of ecstasy Bond only felt at the best of social gatherings. Perhaps he’d had too much of Blood’s vodka but Bond was becoming enamoured of his hosts. He pitied them in fact. These were in deed gentle people, naïve as children. They were people of the earth, salted in sincere love and compassion. Easy pickings for the likes of Makisig and his men. They could easily slaughter village descending on them as hunters upon a toothless tiger in a cage.

However insistent in his words, Bond doubted the elder’s strength behind them. The old man appeared to respect Makisig referring to the man as Mun serah beraih, like a rice grain small but powerful. It was respect, which was ill granted obviously, as the elder frowned when he spoke of the man. He hung his head low recounting how Makisig had lured away his younger brother as well as several others of the village’s men who were loathed to give up their warrior ways. He then gibbered most highly of the white man. He boasted of knowing many, aiding them in a fight against the Japanese. He pantomimed an aeroplane with his arms and a large explosion. Blood hurried to translate the elder’s tale of taking in Allied airmen and teaching them to survive. The men became his friends. To Bond, his new friend, the elder swore an oath of loyalty and protection. Should Bond need an army, he would have them. Bond however took this drunken oath with a pinch of salt.

Despite Bond’s disbelief, it could not be helped that the oath turned the wheels in his mind. Because he’d dropped away in thoughts of strategy, Bond’s world became closed off to only his own planning. He was building a matchstick house in his mind. Spindly notions stacking gingerly into a structure. Soon these notions became fuzzier and flimsier. Perhaps it was the punch of 150 proof alcohol he’d been drinking like water. Bond stumbled arm in arm with Everest and Blood through the village. They made a good deal of noise clamouring into their long house.

“I’ll handle ‘im, Diana.” Blood slurred drunk on his own bathtub poison. He put his hands on Bond‘s shoulders. Bond shook them off, a cruel twist came to his mouth.

“No, I’ve put my brothers to bed after a night out. It’s woman’s work.” Everest kindly intervened. She lifted his arm gently. Bond felt her shoulder wedged up under his armpit. He pressed his weight against her. Everest guided Bond through the doorway, which grazed his head by only a centimetre as he’d ducked.

She laid Bond out, his back to his mat. In the manner of a mother or wife, Everest pulled off Bond’s shoes and let his legs drop. “Stay down.” she warned kindly as Bond rose up on his elbows. Her face, blue against the shaft of moonlight, was tantalisingly close.

“Stay with me.” Bond smiled drunkenly. He took her wrist in one hand and the supple back of her neck with the other. He brought her down to him and kissed her hard. Everest wrenched her mouth away from his. She pushed him away laughing the affair off casually. She climbed to her feet.

“You have to earn that.” she stated. She reached down caressing the side of his face. Everest dropped the mosquito net between them. “Good night Mister Bond.” she wobbled towards the shadow of the doorway, melting into the mist beyond the net. Bond laid his head down and was gone.

Bond fluttered open his eyes. He squinted in the white heat of the sun. Before him spread a tableau of hot sands and a cold crashing surf. The foamy spray breaking against the shore flecked against his face, from where he sat in safety on a dry dune. The sky was a jewel like blue one only sees on the clearest days in Jamaica. Hardly was there a cloud to shade him.

He had no trace of a hangover in fact bond felt wonderful. He had a feeling of complete security along with a deeply seated happiness. He had no cares, no sense of the impending. There was no mission, no Secret Service. Bond felt as if he had neither past nor future only that moment. It was a grand feeling to be free of ghosts.

Blood gave a short grunting curse as he tripped on a tuft of brush, falling onto the dune with an embarrassing gangly thump. He looked up at Bond sheepishly. A strange gasp escaped the man’s lips as he groaned his way into a seated position at Bond’s side. “Bloody hell. . .” he moaned rubbing the back of his neck.

“Serves you right for deliberately getting me tight with that petrol you insisted was vodka.” Bond smirked. “All for a good cause I suppose.”

Bond’s smile became satisfactory in nature. His grey eyes watched Everest dance along the threatening tide. The waves rushed over her feet spraying her bare legs in white. She let out a cry as the massive wave came up upon her, sweeping her up and swallowing her. The wave lifted her body up before laying the girl gently on the wet sand with beads of sea foam speckling her nude sunburnt body.

“Bond!” Everest suddenly shouted. She covered her breasts with her arms rolling on her stomach. Her eyes were round, wide enough so that the green swam in white. “Don’t move!” The girl’s face was so tense, her tone so urgent Bond’s serenity was shattered. He suddenly became aware he was in a false world. Bond forced his eyes open drawing a deep breath. Pain ripped through his head from rapid consciousness.

“Don’t move, Bond. You’ve got a snake beside your head.” Everest warned. Blood appeared at her side with a lantern in one hand, and the other fixed to the back of his own head. The lantern’s glow brought to light the reality of the situation.

“It’s a Wagler’s Pit Viper. Venomous so stay cool, Bond. They are docile however they are also territorial.”

Bond lay quite still as this was not an unfamiliar experience. He slid his eyes to the left. Sure enough nestled against his ear and temple was the cold coil of a black, green spotted snake. If he stayed calm, the sleeping snake would as well. Bond breathed slowly, cautiously. He feared vibration or motion of his jaw should he speak would disturb the reptile. Bond figured his lack of reply would be forgiven.

“Shoot it?” Everest questioned. She ventured close. Sweat popped over Bond’s body. A cold streak passed through him. Blood took the girl by the elbow and held her back.

“Even a dead snake can strike.” Blood advised.

“We’ve got to do something Peterson. Anything.” Everest argued.

“Panicking certainly isn’t one of them, Diana.” Blood countered with authority. “This sort of snake is placid. For now, it is sleeping and relaxed. There’s been no rain for so long this little fellow doesn’t know what to do with himself. Now if Bond can extricate himself out of strike range, slowly at first he’s got a chance.”

Easier said than done. Bond thought. However, he knew Blood was correct. He had no choice but to manoeuvre away from the viper. Killing it was no fix-all, in fact trying to kill could complicate the situation further not to mention fatally. Bond exhaled. If he were a praying man, that moment would have been appropriate. First, Bond wiggled his toes and fingers. The motion went unnoticed by the snake. More confident, Bond slowly moved his feet under the hem of the mosquito net propping it open. “That’s it. Easy, Bond.” Blood encouraged.

Bond’s tiny movements again were going unnoticed by the viper. He slid his body downward the slightest degree. The coiled snake twitched ever so faintly. It was now a matter of out racing the snake’s lightening fast reflexes. Frustration came over Bond. He knew the moment he lifted his head from the snake it would be on point. Could he get away from it before it came after him? It is now or never. Bond steadied himself. He braced his hands to catapult himself at the proper moment. Bond rocketed his head and shoulders off the mat. He sprang off his hands and rolled out of the mosquito netting, out of the viper’s striking range.

All Bond could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. All he felt was the jolt that came from escaping death. As Bond pressed his shaking body against the far wall, he didn’t know if he’d been bitten or not. He checked his arms and legs finding no bites. As relief poured over him, Bond felt drained. His energy washed away leaving behind no pain.

“Thank God.” Everest sighed. She put her hand to her heart. Blood gave her the lantern and made for the snake with a wooden boat paddle. Far from slicing off its head, Blood merely pinned the snake’s broad head to the mat with the broad side of the paddle. Blood picked it up. The snake showed no signs of anger, and curled happily around Blood’s hand.

“Poor little bugger. Perhaps he thought he could get away with a little companionship for the night.” Blood announced as if it were a pussycat. “I’ll drop him out the doorway. I doubt he’ll grace us with his presence again.”

“You sure about that?” Bond asked warily.

“These snakes are ambushers. They aren’t seen a great deal.”

“So our new little acquaintance was put under my net intentionally.” Bond finished Blood’s thought.

“You think so?” Everest questioned.

“I’m afraid I agree.” Blood replied. “S’pose we should go have a word with the viper’s partner.” Blood motioned to Bond and Everest to follow him out of Bond’s room. Bond took the lantern from Everest. They stood in the middle of the main room. Blood tossed the snake out of the doorway. It flew towards either its freedom or death into the night.

“There’s his pal.” Everest pointed towards the doorway of her room. Bond raised the lantern lighting the entrance. Boots stuck out of a gauzy shroud of mosquito netting. A man was prone on the floor.

“He came up behind me and coshed me on the back of my head.” Blood explained. “Must have dropped the snake under your net, and gone after me before making it to Diana.”

“I awoke with that beast upon me, saying things I couldn’t understand. He might have been trying to abduct me. I’m not entirely sure. I smashed his head with my transistor radio.” Everest added. It was only then that Bond became aware that her blouse was ripped at the middle buttons. She had finger marks about her throat and the left hip of her cotton pants were torn.

Bond felt anger boil upwards evaporating any fear. Setting down the lantern he went to the unconscious man, grabbing him roughly by the boots. Bond dragged him from Everest’s room. He turned the man over pulling back the netting. “I’m afraid he’s really out.” Bond announced as he’d smacked the man’s face repeatedly to bring him around to no avail.

“Hang on, I know him. That is the elder’s younger brother. The one that went with Makisig.” Blood pointed out.

“Makisig is behind this.” Bond let the man drop to the floor.

“You don’t think he knows we’re. . .” Everest began. Bond raised his hand.

“This is a warning. “ Bond said. “At least for you and I, Blood.”

“And me?” Everest questioned meekly.

“You’ve got yourself an admirer.” Bond answered as a matter of fact.

“Looks like the honeymoon is over.” Blood remarked with a forced chuckle. “Well I for one don’t feel up to sleeping. I think I’ll sit and wait for our friend to awaken.” Blood tied hemp cords around the man’s hands and ankles. He sat down near the door and opened a bottle of vodka.

“I doubt we have any other option.” Bond agreed. He too sat by the door letting the cool night air sober him up. Blood passed him a cigarette. Bond struck a handy match on the door frame and lit up. Everest sat huddled close to him. Bond felt the urge to put his arm around her shoulder however, he stopped himself.

[ImTheMoneypenny]

7. Any Day But a Sunday

Dawn was breaking on the horizon. A tangerine blush cast over the long house. Bond lit a fresh cigarette. He’d been sitting there for sometime thinking. The grim return of day found the trio long sobered up. The three now sat in a spread out grouping. They had not spoken for quite a few hours. A choice had been made, and there was no need to speak of it now. It was imperative that the tenuous trust placed upon Bond and Everest, by the village had to be preserved. The trio determined that the events in the long house never occurred as far as the Ibans would know.

Their intruder, the elder’s bother, never regained consciousness. Either dead or comatose it no longer mattered. He was in the way and he had to remain missing. The man had been written off by his family at any rate. Should he never return, or perhaps even were he to surface some time from now, it would not make a difference to them. However if he were discovered dead in the long house, even Blood could not be sure the Ibans would not turn on the trio.

So there it had been decided just before the dawn those last moments they had spoken. Before even a hint of violet brushed the hilltops, Bond, Blood, and Everest had gone to their dark task. The men wrapped the body in a green canvas tarpaulin, binding it in rope. The trio and their package headed riverside. Bond and Blood hefted the bundle, while Everest carried two small anchors in a knapsack. River stones were slipped into any possible opening. Bond secured the anchors to the foot end of the bundle with several intricate knots. Pitilessly, and with no words between them, the three sank the intruder dead or alive under the water. Ghastly bubbles popped along the surface. If in fact, he were not dead, he would be within minutes.

Now as the sun was rising, the three sat in Blood’s long house unprepared for the day. Silence crowded them in. Every so often, they’d steal glances at one another. These were knowing looks. The luxury of time they believed they had a day or two before had run out perhaps before they even arrived in Sarawak. A plan had to be hastily pulled together. Bond’s mind had been calculating schemes all of which were fraught with the bastard called margin of error. Bond had the sinking feeling he was out gunned.

Bond cast his dead cigarette out into the jungle wishing for that precious day or so back. If they could have rallied aid in Kuching the situation would conceiveably be winnable. “Capt. Blood, send your man to Kuching. I’ll write a message for him to deliver to the Governor.” Bond instructed rising to his feet.

“I don’t suppose there’s a second part to your caper?” Blood’s face registered scepticism. He rose to his feet and retrieved a ledger and pen for Bond.

“We’ve not a lot of choices. We’ll stick to Miss Everest’s initial plan.” Bond explained.

“You mean?” Everest’s face appeared stunned. She gazed at Bond puzzled.

“We walk right in the front door, naturally.” Bond proclaimed. “Or rather swim.” he grinned callously. His eyes stared out through the pockets of blue between the trees towards Makisig’s island.

Slipping off her soft blue beach jacket, Everest kicked off her canvas shoes and prepared for her solitary swim in the Ai. The sun was a brilliant white disk high in the sky, heating the air to the temperature that the water no matter how warm would be refreshing. She kept a smile fixed on her face despite the turmoil going on inside her. No one broke into her room the night before. No one tried to kill them. She thought she would be sick as she scanned the river before her seeing that platform fortress of Makisig and the guards gathering for a better view of her red two-piece suit.

Gingerly avoiding the spot where they had sunk the intruder, Everest leapt into the water. The surface of the water was the temperature of blood. Deeper below, along the shaded riverbank the same water was cold as the grave. Everest had been a good swimmer all her life. She had an aunt in the country and Everest was a summer guest every year until she joined the WRAF. Even as an adult, on holiday, she would be found in the swimming pool rather than laying beside it. It was a solitary sport. There was loneliness in the water no matter how full of life. The water wrapped around the body. One never knew if the water like a jealous lover would let one free themselves of the embrace or be held until a bitter end.

Everest broke the surface very near Makisig’s island. She smiled up at the grouping of men near a high wire fence gathered to watch her. She swam around in a water ballet routine, on her back on her side. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand. She dropped herself under the water taking the moment to unsnap the back of her top. Up drifted the garment, while she pushed herself under the island’s platform feeling for openings. She found nothing as Blood had said they would. Her lungs began to ache. Everest swam fast to reach her suit top, seeing it floating above her head.

Her fingers poked through the river’s membrane scraping the air for the illusive garment. The girl’s eyes stung, painfully forced open wide. The red cloth was dangling over the water now, scooped up beyond her reach. Her face followed gasping like a newborn. “Ah-ha! Mun manuk begu.” Makisig was standing in the middle of a small flat bottom boat, swinging Everest’s swimming top over her head. She immediately covered herself reaching for her property. “What would your husband think?” he grinned showing off the dull gleam of golden caps, black with holes and chips.

He dropped the clothing in front of Everest. Turning towards the shore as she wrestled into the suit. “Perhaps you should ask him?” Everest replied tartly.

“That is a grand idea, my dear. . . Since you are so close to my home, why don’t you stay for dinner? I will send a boat for your husband and our holy mutual friend. Come I insist.” Makisig reached his leathery hand out to Everest. She felt panic rise from her stomach to her throat. The boat had cut her off from shore. There was no way she could get passed him except to go under but then how long before the man behind Makisig with the rifle would shoot at her?

“Who am I to resist?” she smiled primly. Her trembling hand met with Makisig’s calloused, warm flesh. He pulled her easily from the water into the boat. Then it was a short blast of the motor to dock the boat at Makisig’s island. Unsure how to proceed from there, Everest could only follow as Makisig lead her through a guarded gate passed the ogling eyes of a dozen men, across the quaint lawn complete with a pagoda, and into a tall windowless building.

“I will have your husband bring you something suitable to wear to dinner. Until then, I have only this sampin.” Makisig snapped his fingers. One of his soldiers brought a sarong-like cloth made of blood red intricately embroidered songket to Everest. “Allow me.” Makisig unfolded the fabric and wrapped it around Everest’s body over her bosom and knotted it. The sampin fell just to the knee. “Not quite traditionally worn but it will have to do.”

“Thank you. It’s lovely” Everest smiled with reserve. Makisig kissed her hand.

“Now I have business that cannot wait. You will find my guest suite to your liking.” Makisig lead Everest down a narrow hall. The corridor was lined with golden patterned yellow wallpaper. The floor was carpeted.

At the end of the corridor as the great hall split into two wings, sat a small seating area. Two darkly varnished bamboo chairs upholstered with red velvet, faced one another. A green marble top table with a chess board to the left of the chairs. Potted ferns gave the setting an intimate quality cupping the chairs with their green encirclement. Everest had to stop, looking up behind the ferns to a large oil painting suspended high on the wall more like the icon of a deity than tribute. “Friend of yours?” she asked. To this Makisig smiled broadly.

“My dear, this is the greatest man ever to have lived! This man took a poor street urchin such as myself, and molded me into the impressive conqueror you see before you!” Makisig boasted his fist thumped his chest once but firmly. It was a rare moment that the man’s face was happily animated.

“Please forgive my ignorance, but who is he?” Everest knew exactly who it was, she needed only for Makisig to say it aloud. The portrait had been done to the very likeness. A once firm jaw line fatty but stern. The thin line of a mouth shadowed by a heavy squat nose. Long lashed eyes that stared into Everest’s soul were deep dark hollows surrounded by white. Black crew cut. The broad sturdy shoulders of a once powerful man now gone to pot. This was. . .

“Ernst Stavro Blofeld!” Makisig proclaimed. “A god among men! You have never heard of him? I would not expect you to I suppose. Nevertheless, he is a man who gets things done, my dear. One day everyone shall know his name. But never mind that for now. He is to me, both my employer and my mentor. I have built this palace in hopes that one day he shall do me the honour of a visit.”

“Fascinating. Do you, uh, expect him soon?” Everest batted her eyelashes. Makisig wagged his finger at the girl playfully.

“Some things never need spoken. He knows it is here and should he desire it, this would be his home, until then it is my home. Now, I really must be about my business. Samad, please take our lovely guest to her room.” Makisig ushered Everest towards the young soldier who’d followed at his heel like a loyal shepherd. “See to it that she has all her desires seen to.”

“This way.” the young soldier grunted, extending his arm to the wing opposite down which Makisig was headed. Everest breathed deeply as if for the first time. She set her eyes up at the portrait a final time before following the young Malaysian down another beautifully decorated corridor towards the guest room.

[ImTheMoneypenny]

8. Dominic Is Not a Man

“I see the guards gave you time to dress accordingly.” Everest said to Bond as she entered the sitting room of the prisoner suite from the elegantly decorated bedroom. She had redressed in the white blouse, thick belt, and black slacks of the beginning of their mission. “Could you have brought me shoes?” she queried. The last traces of the forest nymph Bond had taken a shine to were the clean but naked feet peeking bashfully from under the hem of her slacks.

“They were rather insistent I be quick.” Bond replied gently fanning his face and neck with an available delicately embroidered lace fan. He sat in an intricately carved bamboo chair upholstered in soft red velvet. Beside him was a heavy teak table burnished a reddish brown. The room appeared to have all the conveniences, wireless, television set, phonograph with a selection of classical and jazz recordings. There were gilded crown mouldings, and faux panels on the wall. The room was Oriental with a European flavour. There was something presidential about the suite, despite its lack of windows or comfortable air circulation. Lazily turning ceiling fans did little to resolve a pervasive stagnant warmth. His blue suit hung on him oppressively. He’d had left off his tie except the Makisig’s guards claimed it was bad manners for dinner.

“All right, so here we are in the belly of the beast. What have you got planned?” Everest leaned her buttock and thigh on the edge of the table beside Bond. “You do have a plan?”

“Well. That’s the thing. . .” Bond smiled sheepishly. Everest got up from the table. Standing with her hands on her hips her face registering exasperation.

“I gave you all that time and you haven’t come up with a single idea?” the girl admonished. Bond smiled casually this time. He rose to his feet and put his hands gently on the Everest’s arms.

“I didn’t say that exactly.” Bond used a placating tone. “Blood’s man is on his way to the Governor and Blood himself had gathered the available Ibans as a brigade. We have to buy him time. After dark they’ll invade. We just have to make sure they can get in unseen.”

“We’re the distraction?” Everest looked unimpressed.

“Something like that.” Bond squeezed her arms with his hands. She shook her head with disbelief. “Why don’t we take a pre-dinner stroll, my dear?” Bond turned the girl around dropping his left hand, leaving his right on Everest’s elbow.

The two crossed the room over the silent crush of carpeting to the ornate door that no doubt was heavy and dense as steel. Bond tried the door knob. It was firmly locked. He looked at Everest, nodding. She gave him an anxious smile and knocked on door daintily. The sound of the lock turning was almost immediate. The door opened and the face of a young Malaysian man stuck through the slim gap. “No leave.” the man said.

“I’m feeling a little claustrophobic in there, Samad. Couldn’t my husband and I take a little walk around? Please?” she smiled charmingly widening her eyes.

“General Makisig say no leave.” Samad insisted.

“That’s maybe true, but didn’t your General tell you I was to have my desires seen to? My desire is to have a walk with my husband. This suite is very stuffy.” Everest pressed. The young man looked confused. He closed the door for a moment. Then he uneasily swung the door open wide. Cool air greeted the two with a refreshing gust.

“You stay in wing.” Samad warned. Everest smiled at him. She reached up and pecked the young man on the cheek as she passed him by. Samad quickly came over lovesick. Bond nearly laughed out loud. Everest was most likely the first girl to ever kiss the lad.

“Well done.” Bond said under his breath.

“Thank you.” Everest replied.

“See we’re doing well with no plan.” Bond boasted. But it was to be short lived he knew. They would be lucky if they got very far. The two made it out of the wing to the chess table seating. The two pretended to sit and contemplate over the game of chess. The pieces were positioned in play. It struck Bond as a long distance game. Makisig at this end and someone else no doubt with an identical board, at the other. As they sat waiting for Samad to stop watching them from where he peeped around the corner, Bond barely cast his eyes on that blasted portrait of Blofeld.

“Has he stopped watching? Bond whispered. Everest moved only her eyes upwards gazing past Bond.

“He has. I guess I’m not pretty enough to make watching two people play chess seem all that interesting.“ she wrinkled her nose.

“Don’t sell yourself so short. Come on.” Bond rose quickly. He pulled Everest by the arm into the forbidden wing.

“Whatever Makisig is up to, it’ll be here. He said he had business to attend to and went this way.” Everest lead the way down opposing corridor.

The farther the two spies went the less ornate and luxurious the interior became. The corridor split into two with a short flight of concrete stairs before Bond and Everest. As there was no one there to stop them, Bond and Everest headed down the stairs. It lead to a series of tunnels spread out like fingers. Made of steel and poured concrete, the tunnels were spartan and very much a sort of bunker. The way was lit by series of plain wire caged bulb sconces dotting the walls. Bond and Everest took the main artery. There were more smaller tunnels and rooms along the way. It quickly became apparent that despite looking as if they were separate facilities, all the buildings of the platform were connected underground.

Cautiously Bond opened a water tight door at the end of the corridor. The seals were soft and quite new, so the door opened with hardly a sound. The two stepped out onto a balcony. Bond felt a deep pain in his gut as he stared out at the room partially submerged in water. He had visions of the Disco Volante. It only appeared that there was no way into the platform from underneath. There was a way in, it was not obvious but it was there, as the empty bay before them, just like the Volante, was a hull.

“What does this mean?” Everest looked at Bond clearly struggling comprehend. “There’s not a single guard, there’s nothing here.”

“There will be.” Bond replied coldly. He turned to Everest. “We’ve got to find Makisig. I’m afraid that Blood was right, Malaysian Independence is merely a distraction. They are planning something bigger.”

“But what?” Everest followed Bond as he darted out of the bay.

“I don’t know yet.” Bond admitted. The two went to the heart of the tunnels. They stood quietly for a moment. Bond was listening. His ears strained for any sounds. The scrape of a boot, perhaps a murmur. After what seemed like an eternity, there it came. The sound Bond hoped for. Makisig laughing loudly from the right tunnel. “Stay with me.” Bond whispered this time leading the way down the corridor.

Makisig must have been quite sure of his security. There were no guards positioned at the door of his study. He must have thought there was no one to hear his travelling voice as the door to his study was not closed tightly, merely drawn together. Bond crept to one side of the door and Everest the other intensely listening to Makisig having a conversation.

“I trust you will honour me with your presence soon?” Makisig asked quite loudly. A voice tinny and crackled replied, suggesting that the voice was being carried by a speaker.

“Perhaps, perhaps Ángel. There are only so many places a man can be. We are doing important work as of late, many irons in the fire. Should your operation come to fruition, I will gladly pay you a visit at my soonest convenience.”

“It will be a grand day, sir!” Makisig cheered. “Everything is moving along according to plan. England will be so busy trying to cool these savages’ tempers, they will not even notice my doings. We will leave for Jakarta soon. My men there have a ship ready. Dominic Aardvark will be easily taken advantage of, and whisked away to this facility before anyone will be wise.”

“Easier said than done, Ángel.” the voice warned. “Do not forget the lessons learned from Operation Thunderball.”

“Of course, of course. . .” Makisig’s tone became contrite. Bond imagined he’d lowered his head humbly before continuing. “I have taken the lessons to heart, sir. If I may offer a suggestion? Once Dominic Aardvark is in my, our possession, in the ransom call I believe we should not tell them our destination is Australia.”

“My dear Ángel.” the voice became tense. “The failure in Operation Thunderball had nothing to do with announcing the location of our intended strikes. It was in trusting the wrong facilitator. If we do not tell her she’ll lose a portion of her empire, why would Her Majesty care to pay us?”

“You are correct, Mr Blofeld of course. I was foolish to doubt you. My most humble apologies.”

Bond pulled Everest away from the door. His heart was pounding now as he searched his mind for any and all frames of reference to make sense of the conversation they’d over heard. What he did know was that Blood was absolutely correct about Makisig’s initial plan. But what did Dominic Aardvark mean? What did it have to do with Operation Thunderball and how would it lead to potential destruction of Australia? Bond stopped suddenly at the head of the stairs. Everest bumped into his back.

“What is it Bond?” Everest pleaded. Her fingers dug into the sleeves of his suit. Her breath was hot on his neck.

“Dominic. . . Dominic is not a man. . .” Bond came to realisation. “Dominic Aardvark. It’s code.” Bond wished he was not disconnected from England. Disconnected from the resources that would tell him exactly what Dominic Aardvark meant. However the wave of nausea that swept him told him that the only way Dominic could be similar to Thunderball was that it involved a stolen bomb. A weapon big enough to send panic through Australia and force The British Government to pay a ransom. Makisig was definitely the head of the operation, and so to stop him would stop whatever was about to happen from becoming a reality. “Lets get back to the suite.” he urged. “We’ve got get get a plan together.”