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H A R R Y F A W K E S
Writing as Ian Fleming
LONELINESS IS A LOVER
To the wonderful team and members of CommanderBond.Net
But in particular
for
MKB
Loneliness is a Lover
James Bond swung the Continental Bentley off the A329 from London and made his way down the narrow, twisting country lanes and roads between open farmlands and pinewoods towards Quarterdeck - the small Regency manor-house on the edge of Windsor Forest.
He glanced down at the dim green face of the dashboard clock. Six fifty-five. Another ten minutes and he’d be there. Bond slowed down and made an effort to take pleasure in the drive through what someone had once described as one of the last traces of memorials of what England once was...
He lit one of his Moreland Specials with the distinctive three gold rings and inhaled deeply. He had spent the whole day in his office going through the thick pile of dark red folders bearing the ‘EYES ONLY’ marking, bringing himself up to date with the various goings-on in the world of espionage but most of all wondering what was going to happen to him after being suspended for two weeks following the so-called ‘Trigger’ affair.
M, of course, had done his best to smooth things over with the Joint Intelligence Committee and the Director General of MI6 but he knew things were not looking good for him.
‘The fact is, Double O Seven, you had clear orders to exterminate ‘Trigger’ and you failed to do so merely because you were ‘keen’ on the bloody girl.’ M had told him back in his office overlooking Regent’s Park.
Bond tried desperately to defend himself but M cut him off abruptly.
‘You should have killed her, Bond. This whole wretched affair could cost you your Double O number.’
This time though Bond had stared back at him firmly.
‘That’s too bad, sir,’ he had said. ‘But as I told Captain Sender, the girl won’t be doing any more sniping. She probably lost her left hand…’
‘That’s not the blasted point is it? Your orders were to exterminate her and you didn’t. The Joint Intelligence Committee is up in arms and calling for your dismissal from the Service and I’m seriously considering giving in to them. For the time being though I’m going to suspend you for two weeks, pending further disciplinary action.’
Bond turned pale.
‘I understand, sir.’
And so Double O Seven left M’s office with a black cloud of uncertainty hanging over him.
Merry bloody Christmas! he had thought harshly as he had packed his things back in his own office three floors down.
He had decided, over a stiff Scotch and Soda back home, to spend the time-off refurbishing his flat by day, much to his housekeeper’s annoyance, and then gambling, drinking and having an affair with the wife of a very influential Civil Servant head by night.
However, the two weeks gradually passed and that morning, two days before Christmas, Bond had reported back to work determined not to give the bastards the satisfaction of seeing him ‘down’.
‘Win the lottery?’ his stunning secretary, Loelia Ponsonby had asked when he walked in.
Bond had slipped out of his coat. He wore a navy worsted suit, charcoal grey, and a thin black knitted tie.
‘I wouldn’t have come back to work if I had.’
‘Well, you look…sort of…happy, James, which is quite strange considering you hate Monday mornings at the office.’
He managed a smile. ‘Anyone who walks into an office and is greeted by one of the most beautiful secretaries ever to grace this horrible place would be happy, Lil. Besides, it’s supposed to be the season to be merry and all that other silly nonsense, remember?’
‘Which, as I recall, is the time of year you can’t stand.’
She took his coat and handed him the thick load of files.
‘Anyhow, these’ve been piling up since you left.’
‘Has M called?’ he asked.
‘No.’
Bond nodded and crossed to the inner door to his office.
‘Well, if they fire me I’ll thank them for it!’
And with that last comment he went in, closing the door behind him…
* * *
The top folder concerned his old enemy: Russia.
He settled himself down in his black leather swivel chair and carefully went through the detailed report before him. It was compiled by their cousins at Langley, the C.I.A. The Cold War seemed to be brewing up to new heights with the news that the Soviet Union had shipped some of its VRT112 rockets to North Vietnam. There were, Bond read, perhaps three goals to this move: first, to achieve a better strategic balance with the U.S; second, to protect the country from an American invasion which they probably believed was on its way; and third, to show Russia’s communist colleagues, particularly Mao Tse-tung, that they cared about the revolutionary movement abroad...
Bond sighed heavily and wondered how much America was acting on its discernment of danger from the U.S.S.R. Were those observations he’d just read as accurate and true as the Americans actually believed, or were they overstated by the hard politicians across the pond?
Bond shrugged his shoulders, not really giving a damn if they did or didn’t. He picked up a red pen, ran his eye down the distribution list on the cover and signed the folder off as read, tossing it into his ‘OUT’ tray.
Good bloody riddance.
Unfortunately for Bond, this ‘ritual’ went on for the rest of the day which, although an indispensable part of a spy’s job, was dreadfully boring. At about two thirty, he took out his gunmetal cigarette-box and his gold lighter and lit his tenth cigarette that day. He then went and stood by the window.
What the hell was M waiting for to summon him, he thought as he glanced out.
Still five folders left to go through…
He tried focusing his thoughts on something else other than his pending future with MI6 and inevitably his thoughts turned to Christmas. Again this year he was not looking forward to it. He just couldn’t bear the absurd decorations, the tiresome smell of stuffing and roasting, the pathetic filling of bloody stockings and the cringing singing of carols in the streets; not to mention the false smiles of cheerfulness in the dreary hallways of MI6.
Bond swore that no matter what happened, he would either spend Christmas Day and New Years Day out and about at his usual haunts, getting thoroughly drunk, stinking drunk in fact, (mostly to drown the rotten grief he always felt at this time of the year) or else he’d simply drive down to his cottage in Kent and get away from it all.
Being alone would do him the world of good.
One thing was certain, since Tracy was killed he had grown to hate Christmas and New Year!
There were three telephones on Bond’s desk. A black one for outside calls, a green office telephone, and a red one which went only to M and his Chief of Staff. It was the red one that, at exactly 1500 hrs and six more cigarettes and four folders later, broke the silence in his room. It was M’s Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner.
‘He wants you to drive down to Quarterdeck for dinner tonight - seven thirty.’
‘Dinner?’ asked Bond. ‘What’s the old man up to, Bill?’
‘I’ve no idea, James. Just don’t be late.’
‘As if I’d bloody dare,’ said Bond crossly and hung up.
Ten minutes later and he was out of his office as if the hounds of hell were at his heels and driving the Continental Bentley back to his flat in the pleasant plane tree-lined square off the King’s Road in Chelsea to get ready.
M’s invitation could only mean one thing: the bastard was going for what everybody at MI6 called the ‘intimate chop’.
* * *
James Bond arrived at Quarterdeck dead on time.
He swung the clapper of the brass ship’s-bell and after a few moments Hammond appeared and greeted him like an old friend. He led him across the threshold and through the solid Spanish mahogany door of the study, where M usually received company.
There was a strong smell of old wood polish and leather in the rather large oblong room. It was carpeted and richly furnished, a silver chandelier from Bowman’s of Fleet Street hanging from the ceiling. Rows of books lined the wall on his left and there was a large Adams fireplace burning brightly in one corner, opposite which was a large mahogany desk, where M now sat writing. Behind the Chief of MI6’s elite Double O Section, hung two of his most cherished paintings: HMS Victory and HMS Queen during the battle of Trafalgar.
Sir Miles Messervey looked up and gave Bond a rare smile.
There it is, Bond thought, the pleasant smile of death for the condemned man.
‘Evening, James. Have a good leave?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ he answered slightly uneasy.
‘Take a chair then,’ he said and began filling his pipe.
Bond sat down in one of the armchairs across the desk from his chief.
‘Right, Chief Petty Officer Hammond, be a good man and go fetch the ‘old Infuriator of the fleet’ for us. We’ll have a glass and a talk before we settle down to eat, eh?’
The aptly named ‘Infuriator’ was actually M’s favourite Algerian wine.
‘Aye, aye sir.’
Hammond left them, closing the door behind him.
‘Mrs Hammond has certainly outdone herself this evening, James,’ M said. ‘Fine lobster cocktail, a light consommé with a chicken base, followed by a lovely rib of the most luscious beef I’ve ever tasted.’
M was trying hard to soften the blow, Bond observed.
‘Sounds delicious, sir.’
He reached inside his pocket, produced his gunmetal cigarette-box and his gold lighter and lit a cigarette.
M looked across at him, his clear grey eyes suddenly becoming somewhat cold.
Here it comes, Bond thought – the bloody axe!
‘Let’s talk shop shall we,’ the old man said, leaning back in his chair. ‘The ‘Trigger’ affair. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that I’ve succeeded in keeping the wolves back at Whitehall at bay. Cost me an arm and a leg mind but I can assure you the coast is now clear.’
Well thank God for that.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘There is one condition, however.’
Bond raised an eyebrow.
‘You don’t mess up your next assignment.’
M let the words sink in then smiled dryly.
Was the old man sending him off on another mission?
Could he be so lucky?
‘My next assignment, sir?’ he asked
M nodded. ‘Yamada Nakamuro. Ever heard of him?’
Bond shook his head. ‘Can’t say I have, sir.’
‘Well he’s known in the Japanese underworld as Hamasatu Yoada: Silver Viper, don’t ask me why.’
M tossed him a colour photograph which Bond took and looked at closely. The man portrayed was rather tall for a Japanese. He was dressed in a finely cut dark blue suit, a white shirt open at the neck. The face was dark and clean-cut, hair blue-black. The eyes, almond shaped, were cold and dangerous. They were black slits under long thin brows.
‘Born 1920, Tokyo.’ M continued. ‘Only son of mixed parentage, French and Japanese. Inherited his first million before the age of thirty six, now a multi millionaire and head of one of the biggest criminal organisations in Japan: the Syndicate of the Snake. He’s rarely seen in public and when he is he’s always closely guarded by his personal bodyguards, ex-Yakuza goons and no less. His business involves drug smuggling, gambling, prostitution and extortion – on a grand scale I might add. You name it he does it, not to mention all the money he gives to fund some of the major terrorist groups popping up around the world today.’
It was then that Hammond appeared with the wine and placed a silver tray on M’s desk. He busied himself opening it and poured two glasses. He then retired and closed the door behind him. M looked across at Bond as he raised his glass to his lips. He took a sip and spoke again.
‘Well, to cut a very long story short, a couple of days ago the Japanese Secret Service uncovered some very disturbing information which was passed on to us, thanks to your friend over there Tiger Tanaka.’
Bond drank some of his wine.
‘Information, sir?’ He asked.
‘One of Nakamuro’s shipments of heroin will be leaving Japan sometime next month,’ M told him and puffed on his pipe. ‘Destination UK.’
Bond took a pull from his cigarette and blew out a stream of thick grey smoke.
‘I see.’
‘Now then, to begin with I want you to stop that shipment from reaching its destination,’ M told him. ‘Secondly, I want you do what you do best, James, and eliminate Yamada Nakamuro.’
Bond nodded.
‘I trust Tiger will give me the relevant details when I get there.’
‘Tanaka has already been informed you’ll be on the job.’
‘When can I leave, sir?’ There was a new edge to Bond’s voice; an excitement that was difficult to curb.
M looked sternly across at Bond.
‘Hope you haven’t made any plans for Christmas day, James.’
‘As a matter of fact, sir, I haven’t,’ he said.
‘Good.’ The old man finally got up. ‘Come on, son, let’s eat before Mrs Hammond starts brooding, shall we…’
* * *
At eleven o’clock in the morning on Christmas day, James Bond, dressed impeccably in a dark blue Saville Row suit, Sea Island cotton shirt, maroon tie and plain black shoes made for him by John Brown of Carver’s Street, London, sat in the depressing and almost deserted departure lounge of Gatwick airport, staring down at the stiff Scotch and Soda, thinking of what Tiger Tanaka had disclosed to him over the phone the previous night.
Bond had a son and he could hardly believe such incredible news.
What a blast from the past!
He raised his glass to his lips, at the same time stealing a glance across at the bearded man who’d been leaning against the wall for nearly an hour, staring out of the wide window overlooking the concourse of the airport terminal.
He’d noticed him before, earlier; had noticed his casual checks of the large silver clock high up on the wall directly opposite him. There was something about him that Bond didn’t like – something in the face, the eyes, his body language.
A lovely female voice announced from the loudspeakers in the ceilings that Flight 326 to Tokyo would be loading at Gate 13 in one hour.
‘Passengers are kindly requested to have their passports and hand luggage ready for inspection by custom officials.’
Bond ignored the bearded man for now and turned back to his thoughts.
The first time he’d been to Japan he had been an emotional and nervous wreck due to his grief over Tracy’s death. M had sent him out there to get his hands on a ciphering machine which could decode the most classified Soviet information. However, by pure fate Bond had stumbled upon Ernst Stavro Blofeld hiding on a remote island in the south and the mission suddenly turned to one of bloody revenge. He had ended up almost dying himself after killing Blofeld, had it not been for Kissy Suzuki who had fished him out of the water.
He remembered her almond eyes, the snub nose and petalled mouth, the rosy tinted skin on a golden background - the colours of a golden peach. The last time Bond had set eyes upon her was just before he had left the island to find his own country and his own people, after living there with her without memory for a year.
He remembered her pushing the small boat down the pebbles into the water and had waited, at her usual place in the stern, for him to get in and for his knees to clasp hers as they always did. She had smiled into his eyes and he remembered the sun shining on his back. It had been a beautiful day…
If only she had told him then...
A smile touched his lips and eyes as he sipped his drink and thought of his son, the son he had never yet laid eyes upon. Except, now that fact was about to change.
Bond knocked back the remaining Scotch and it suddenly occurred to him that he was no longer alone in this cruel and bloody world. What was it someone had once written?
Loneliness becomes a lover, solitude a darling sin.
Bond had always been alone, thanks to his profession as a government assassin. He was essentially a lone wolf and although there had been many companions, usually during the course of a job, he had always ended up alone again. The fact was though he had always liked it that way, being alone and loneliness had indeed become his lover, wrapping her gentle arms around him, making him feel safe in his own cruel world full of death.
But he was never going to be alone again now!
His thoughts turned to dear Tracy.
He didn’t know what had triggered it off but it hit him just the same, hard, that wretched feeling of depression bubbling up inside his stomach.
It wasn’t long before he could hear his own voice inside his mind - the ghost of his voice that is - taking him back to that night, three Christmases ago, when he had proposed to her.
‘Tracy, darling. I love you. Will you marry me?’
‘You mean that?’ Tracy had asked, her lips trembling.
‘Yes, I mean it. With all my heart…’
Bond brought himself back down to earth and swore violently. He took a sip of his drink.
If only they had had the chance to start a family.
If only…
His mind drifted off to that crystal clear New Years Day in the British Consul General’s drawing room. They had got married at ten-thirty in the morning and by a little after twelve he became a widower.
He saw Tracy again, this time a crumpled mass over the stirring wheel of their car, with blood oozing from the wounds made from Blofeld’s bullets....
‘And then people ask me why the hell I hate Christmas!’ Bond said softly to himself and gulped down the remaining Scotch.
He gestured the barman for another, this time a double, and lit a cigarette, pulling at the thick, soothing smoke as if it were his last intake of air in this cruel and cold life.
He decided he would get drunk after all and then sleep it off on the plane.
Good idea, James me’ boy. Drown your life in the Scotch - the best way to sooth the pain and the ideal way to look at life and all its bastard ugliness.
Marriage and family! What a pitiful joke!
He had always thought that if ever he married it would be to an air hostess, so what in heavens name did Tracy have that had made him change his bloody mind? What did Tracy have that his other conquests didn’t?
Gala, Tiffany, Tatiana, Honeychile, Kissy, Domino, Pussy and last but not least poor silly little Viv.
So many of them, so much love and passion shared.
So what was it that had caused Bond to propose to Tracy that night? Could it have been relief and gratitude for having saved him from Blofeld’s men and sure-death at the foot of that mountain? Or was it the possibility of that one million pounds Draco had offered him?
Bond looked down at the Scotch in front of him.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray and drowned it in one gulp.
‘Shall I top up, sir,’ asked the man behind the bar.
Bond thought about it, eyes sad and distant, then he thought of his son again and shook his head.
Looking forward to seeing him made Bond's mood lighten considerably.
There was now a hint of hope in his life...
‘No, thank you.’ He told him and got up.
‘Merry Christmas,’ the barman called to him as he walked away.
He turned.
‘Yes,’ James Bond said. ‘I do believe it's going to be.’
*
IAN FLEMING’S
JAMES BOND
WILL
RETURN
____________
________
__
_
HARRY FAWKES
AUTHOR OF
NOBODY CHEATS DEATH
SPEARHEAD
TROUBLESHOOTER
THE MOMENT BEFORE YOU DIE