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Ian Fleming's James Bond in
ANOTHER DAY'S WORK
A Short Story by Matt Raubenheimer
The sticky July heat made James Bond sweat from the moment he left the air-conditioned terminal building at Miami International airport. As he walked out into the bright sunlight, he put on a pair of sunglasses and looked for a taxi to take him to his hotel. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his gunmetal cigarette case, took one of his Morlands cigarettes and placed it between his lips. He then searched his pockets for his Ronson lighter. Before he could find it, a voice came from behind him.
“Excuse me, mister. Are you lookin’ for a lighter?”
Bond turned around. That Texan voice was unmistakable. “Felix, you sly old devil! How did you manage to creep up on me like that?”
Felix Leiter’s face broke into a crinkled smile as he shook Bond’s hand. “You must be looking for a ride. Come with me – you’ll like my new toy.” The new toy turned out to be an immaculately restored 1968 Shelby Mustang. The car was not elegant, but it no doubt had plenty of muscle – a typically American sports car. The car’s condition was immaculate, despite it being four decades old.
Once Bond’s baggage was put in the boot, they got into the car. Leiter’s face showed a look of pride as he sat behind the steering wheel. The big V8 engine roared into life and made a deep growl as Leiter pulled off. He may have been missing a hand, but over the years he had developed a great level of skill at using the hook on his right hand, so that he was able to drive with all the dexterity of a racing driver. Also, Leiter’s steel hook had been replaced with a far lighter, yet stronger titanium-alloy hand which allowed far more control than his simple old hook.
“They haven’t assigned us to work together again, have they?” Bond asked.
“You bet they have! They knew that you needed the help of somebody with skill and daring. And you don’t have to worry about my missing parts. I don’t even notice it anymore. Otherwise the CIA wouldn’t have taken me back, and I’d still be stuck investigating horse-racing scams and such like.”
“Well, old friend, I think we’re both getting to the stage when we’ll be over the top of the proverbial hill.”
“Speak for yourself, James.” Leiter said with a mischievous smile.
“You know what I think, Felix.” Bond paused for a few moments. “I think they just thought that this would be a simple job for a couple of old-timers like us. Nothing requiring the fitness and energy of one of those twenty-something year old agents.”
Leiter sighed deeply, almost in harmony with the deep sound of the engine. “The thing that scares me, is that you might just be right.”
Bond felt the need to change the topic of conversation. “So what is the plan then?”
“Well, tomorrow morning we’ll take a fast boat to Cuba. I borrowed it from a pal of mine. I’ll drop you on the north coast near the town, and then I’ll carry on cruising around, trying not to look suspicious. I might even do a bit of fishing. Obviously I’ll be in constant contact with you, so you can shout if anything goes wrong.”
Bond recalled the details of the operation from his briefing with M the previous day. It was a strange case, but fairly straight forward. Harold Richardson, a government official in the Caribbean, who occasionally passed choice pieces of information to M, had gone renegade in Cuba. He had always been a bit of a revolutionary thinker – too revolutionary for the government’s liking, and he was not renowned as the most reliable character, which was probably why he had been sent off to some stinking hot corner of Cuba – out of the way. Now, he had completely gone beyond the control of the government, and had become part of some religious cult. The foreign secretary had decided that he was destroying the good name of the British government and should be removed from the equation. “Try and get him to come quietly.” M had instructed Bond, but failing that she had said that force could be applied if necessary. The way Bond understood that was that he should be eliminated if he wouldn’t cooperate. As he thought about the task at hand, Bond hoped that it would not come to that. Even though it was his job, cold-blooded killing always left a bad taste.
The sun was just beginning to set by the time that Bond and Leiter reached the hotel where they would be staying. It was fairly ordinary, but comfortable, which was all that Bond needed. After checking in to their rooms, they went to the bar and ordered double bourbons. As they sat with their drinks, they both sat quiet contemplation as they considered the task before them.
“Don’t you think a death sentence is a little harsh for a fella who has got himself mixed up in some cockamamie religion?” Leiter asked, breaking the silence.
“I was thinking the same thing” Bond answered. “I have the impression that this isn’t just a simple case of dressing up and prancing around in colourful ceremonies. I’ve encountered some of these cults before, and they’re not just song and dance. But the way I see it, it’s just another day’s work, just another kill. I’m not going to stay up at night thinking about it. I stopped doing that a long time ago.”
After finishing their drinks, they proceeded into the hotel restaurant and had a simple meal of medium rare steak with chips and vegetables. Even though Bond enjoyed gourmet cooking, he still appreciated the basics. The steak was perfectly done, tender and juicy. After dinner, they each had another double bourbon and then retired to their rooms to get an early night.
* * *
At just after three A.M, Bond was woken by Leiter knocking on his door. He showered, then dressed in beige trousers and a pale blue, short sleeved, Sea-Island cotton shirt. Felix waited for Bond in the hotel lobby, and they left the hotel together. It was a fifteen minute drive in the Mustang to the dock where their boat was moored. The sun was rising by the time they reached the boat, which was sleek, long nosed, with a raised control deck and an enclosed cabin below. It was powered by two large diesel engines with gave it a top speed of almost fifty knots. The large rear deck was ideal for fishing from, and there were several rods laid down on the side of the deck. As they climbed aboard, Leiter proceeded into the enclosed cabin and Bond followed. Leiter handed him a Walther P99 with a silencer and two spare magazines. With the more stringent safety regulations it had become impractical for an agent to carry a weapon through airports, so where possible the foreign services and stations arranged the weapons of choice for travelling agents. Leiter then went to the upper deck and took the controls. Within a couple of minutes they were under way, and Bond went up to join his CIA partner.
“Should be there in about four hours.” Leiter said. ”Just relax for a bit.”
The breeze and sea air invigorated Bond and reminded him of his time in the Navy. He sat in one of the two chairs, and stared out to the horizon as the boat accelerated and began to skip over the top of the swells. By the time they were well clear of Miami, the sun had begun to shine with intensity, and Bond put on his pair of Persol sunglasses.
When the Cuban coast was in sight, Bond went below to change clothes. He put on a black wetsuit and put all of his equipment in a waterproof backpack. It contained his Walther, with extra magazines and a silencer, as well as a set of clothing which he would put on once he was ashore. The boat slowed down a few hundred yards from the shore. It was a bit of a risk landing in daylight, but the area looked secluded, so Bond felt that he was safe enough. The need to land by day was that it was Friday, and every Friday night, the cult had their weekly ritual ceremony. Bond’s aim was to reach the town where the ceremony was to take place by late afternoon. Leiter gave Bond a GPS which showed their current location and showed the destination. The colour display on the device showed that their current location was on the eastern end of the Bay of Matanzas. It was roughly sixteen miles as the crow flies, but the hilly terrain would no doubt necessitate a roundabout route to the main road. From there, Bond would walk along the road, and try to hitch a lift to the town. Bond’s Omega Seamaster watch also contained a GPS transmitter which showed his position on Leiter’s portable GPS.
Before Bond went over the side of the boat, Leiter shook his hand, “Best of luck, old friend. And keep in contact.”
“You just see to it that you don’t get up to mischief.” Bond winked at his friend, as he entered the water.
Leiter laughed as Bond swam away from the boar towards the shore. It was a swim of some two hundred yards, and it was made easy by the flippers, as well as the waves which carried Bond to shore. When he reached land, he removed his flippers and walked up the short area of beach, which ended at a steep, but short cliff. As he looked around, he could see an easy path up through the rocks. He turned around and looked out to sea. Leiter’s boat was speeding away over the horizon. Bond then stripped off the wetsuit and changed into the clothes which he took from his backpack. These were a pair of cream-coloured jeans and a thin blue cotton shirt with a white vest underneath. He then put on a pair of brown suede shoes. He hid the wetsuit and flippers amongst the rocks, and then scrambled up through a crack in the cliff, reaching the top in less than a minute. According to the GPS, he needed to walk about three miles west along the coast in order to find the road.
As he walked along the top of the cliffs which ran along the shore, he glanced at his watch and noted that it was now nearly eleven o’clock. He wanted to get to the town as early as he could. He continued to walk briskly and within an hour he found the road which ran from Matanzas, east towards the town called Santa Ana. The temperature was thirty-three degrees, and the sweat beads ran from Bond’s forehead as he walked in the heat of the midday sun. Few cars past Bond, but after several attempts, somebody finally pulled over and offered Bond a lift.
“Buenos dias. Santa Ana?” he asked the driver, who nodded his head. “Gracias.” Bond said as he climbed into the car, which was a mid-80s Chevrolet Impala Coupe. The bodywork was a little rough around the edges with several areas of bad rust, and there was no air-conditioning to relieve Bond of the heat, but nonetheless he was grateful for the lift.
As the driver, a middle aged man with greying black hair and a large bald patch, pulled off, Bond asked him “¿Hablas ingles?” meaning “Do you speak English?”
The driver replied “No.” As a result, the conversation on the way to Santa Ana was almost non-existent. Twenty minutes later, they arrived on the town’s main street. The winding road was lined with assorted shops and cafés – the architecture being a mix of quaint little colonial era buildings, which were looking rather worse for wear, and art-deco style buildings which Bond guessed dated from about the 1940s. Leading off the main avenue were various roads, mostly very narrow, which led through an eclectic mixture of houses of varying styles and designs.
The driver of the car pulled over and Bond climbed out, thanking the driver for the lift. He offered the driver some money for his troubles, which he gratefully accepted. Bond walked down the pavement which ran along the main street, keeping an eye out for any sign of his target. Before leaving London, he had studied photographs of Richardson, and knew that he should be able to recognise him easily if he saw him. As the main street seemed to be the only major road in the town, apart from the small back-streets, he decided that if he were to sit in one of the cafés which lined the street, he would be able to keep a look out for Richardson.
Bond entered a café, and ordered himself a double-bourbon, and also found himself unable to resist the temptation of a Cuban cigar. He bought a Montecristo cigar, and took it with his drink to one of the tables next to the pavement. After lighting the cigar with his trusty Ronson, Bond drew the smoke into his mouth, savouring the spicy, chocolate filled flavour of the Montecristo. There was something unmistakable about the taste and aroma of Cuban cigars that Bond felt could not be equalled. He sat, smoking and drinking for over half an hour without seeing any sign of Richardson, or indeed any European-looking person. As Bond took another sip of his third double bourbon, a grey Pontiac Grand-Am drove down the street. As it neared Bond, he spotted a silhouette which could only be Richardson. He had a plump face, and thinning hair on top of his head. As the car passed the café where Bond was seated, Richardson turned his head toward Bond, showing his facial features. As he saw Bond, his forehead became furrowed and his smile became a frown. Bond looked away, in order to avoid looking like he was watching Richardson, but as the car went around the corner, Bond downed the remains of his drink, got up from the table and proceeded to walk down the street in the direction in which the car had gone.
“Excuse me, signor. That man is a friend of yours?” one of the locals asked Bond.
Bond turned to look at the man, who was seated at a small table outside another of the local cafés. He looked roughly thirty years old, with short black hair and a well built body. He looked like a ex-soldier to Bond. “Well actually, he looks a lot like a friend of mine from school days. Harold Richardson.”
“Si, signor. That is Mister Richardson.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Bond said, with a sense of unease about the man.
“Yes. Take the second road on your left, and his house is number eleven.”
“Many thanks.” Bond said as he continued down the street. After walking for about thirty seconds, Bond glanced over his shoulder to where the man had been seated, and saw that the table had been vacated. His sense of unease deepened as he took the left hand turn into the road that the man had instructed him to take. As he walked down the narrow road, he counted the numbers of the houses as he passed them. “17 . . . 15 . . . 13 . . .” Just then, Bond heard light footsteps behind him, but before he could turn around, he felt a muscular arm clamp around his neck. Bond let out a gasp and the cigar dropped from his mouth as the arm put enormous pressure on his neck, forcing the trachea shut. As Bond struggled for breath, he tried to pull the arm away from his neck but to no avail. His assailant, who Bond assumed was the man that he had just spoken to, was extremely strong. Bond used his right foot to stamp on the man’s foot, but this had little effect. He then used his right elbow, and jabbed at his opponent’s solar plexus. This time the blow had a little more effect, and the grip on Bond’s neck loosened slightly, and he was able to turn around slightly and give his assailant a right handed blow to the jaw. It was not particularly effective, because Bond was unable to get much of a wind up to the punch. However, he had surprised his assailant with his fighting ability and he sensed that with a few more moves he could take the initiative in the fight.
The two opponents wrestled each other to the ground. Bond wished that he could get his hands on his Walther P99, but it was in his backpack, which by now had been ripped off in the fight. He managed to roll to his right, ending up on top of the other man. Bond tried to grab the man’s head, but his strong hands prevented Bond from doing so. With their hands locked together, as if arm-wrestling, Bond lunged forward with his head, and headbutted his opponent on the forehead, near his right temple. He groaned, and his grip on Bond’s hand weakened, allowing Bond to reach for his throat. Instead of trying to strangle him, Bond bashed his head on the road several times, which left him dazed and on the verge of unconsciousness. Bond ran over to his backpack, and in a few seconds, retrieved the Walther. As he walked to the man who lay sprawled on the road, he screwed the silencer onto the pistol. The man slowly came to his senses, then suddenly leapt to his feet once he realised his situation.
“Now just keep calm.” Bond warned in a stern voice. The man’s dizzy eyes looked towards Bond, and he nursed his aching head with his right hand. “This sort of thing shouldn’t be done in public. Why don’t we go back to your place for a bit of privacy?”
The man walked, somewhat out of balance, to number 11, and after a little effort he unlocked the door and walked inside. Bond kept his pistol aimed at the man’s head as he glanced up and down the street to make sure that there were no people watching. Satisfied that there was nobody, Bond followed the man into the sitting room of the house. “Cosy looking place.” Bond said. “Let’s have a chat.”
The man collapsed onto an old sofa, and Bond sat opposite him. The furniture and decoration of the house was in a state of disrepair. Bond noticed a bottle of Vodka on the sideboard and went to pour himself a shot. “I hope you don’t mind.” He said to his unwilling host, who shook his head feebly. Bond downed the Vodka, and then pointed his gun once again at the man. “What is your name?” he asked.
At that moment, the man began to cough and choke, and rolled off the sofa, writhing around on the wooden floorboards.
Bond was certain that it was just a ruse, and he walked over and kicked the man in the ribs. He groaned and coughed one more time. “I’m afraid that old chestnut won’t work on me” Bond said sternly. “Now I asked for your name. I expect an answer.”
“Bolivar.” He said angrily.
“What Bolivar?”
“Hector. Hector Bolivar.”
“And who do you work for? Mister Richardson?”
“Occasionally, he gives me work to do.”
“Such as?”
“I have underground contacts who are useful to him.” Bond kept the gun aimed at his head, and the look in his eyes was determined and cold-blooded, which convinced Bolivar to talk. Also, he was still in great pain from the kick to his ribs – he felt as though one of them was broken. His breathing was laboured and he wheezed between each sentence. “He also employs me as a bodyguard.” He continued.
“Why would he need underground contacts?” Bond asked.
Bolivar remained silent, which prompted Bond to kick his sore rib once again. Bolivar collapsed to the floor groaning in agony. Bond took two steps back so that he was out of reach, should he attempt to lash out at him. “The question still stands.” Bond said as Bolivar got up to his knees once again.
“He’s involved in many things. I have no idea what they all are, though.”
“And what’s this religious cult that he’s involved with?”
“He says that he has become fascinated by the occult and Caribbean religions during his time here. He began attending ceremonies, and is to be officially inducted into the cult this evening.” Bolivar then opened his mouth slightly as if to continue, but appeared to change his mind and then he remained silent.
“You were about to continue?” Bond asked, but Bolivar shook his head. “What does this initiation involve?”
Bolivar bit his bottom lip and shook his head. Bond then aimed the Walther between Bolivar’s kneeling legs and squeezed off a shot, which went through the wooden floorboards. Bolivar gasped and jumped to his feet. “Don’t go anywhere.” Bond warned him. “If you don’t tell me everything, then the next shot will be more painfully aimed – not to kill, just to cause pain. Now, I’m sure that you don’t want this to be any more painful than it needs to be. You made a good start, please continue.”
Bolivar knelt once again and said, “In order to be inducted, he has to kill an unbeliever.”
“Who?”
“Just a nobody. They usually kidnap orphans or street-children to be executed.”
Bond’s face broke into a frown of disgust. His mind was made up – Richardson deserved a death sentence. He wasn’t sure if M knew about this, but it seemed to justify her harsh orders. M had said to take time quietly if possible, however Bond now felt tempted to simply kill him. In addition there were the others affairs that he was involved in. Bolivar had claimed not to know much about them, and Bond sensed that he was being honest when he said that.
“Right, you’re going to take me there this evening. If you make one false move I’ll kill you, so don’t try anything silly.” Bond warned. He then found some rope in the house and tied Bolivar’s hands and feet, then passed the time by talking some more with him, and helping himself to the contents of the drink cabinet. Bolivar had informed Bond that the ceremony would take place at sunset, which would be between about seven-thirty and eight o’clock. Just before seven o’clock they left the house. Bond walked several paces behind Bolivar, with his hand in his pocket, ready to pull his Walther out at any moment. He had changed into clothes found in the house – a pair of black trousers and a black polo neck sweater. As they reached the outer sections of the residential area, they came across a forest. As they made their way through the Tropical Pine trees, the sound of bongo drums became audible. They crept through the undergrowth to the fringes of the cleared area which included a small cabin. Bond could see the gentle flickering of candlelight through the window, and on the front step a man appeared to be practicing with his drum. This was very useful, as the sound of the drums overpowered the sound that Bond and Bolivar made walking through the undergrowth.
The cabin cast a large shadow over most of the clearing, so the drummer started a fire which illuminated the area very well. Bond crouched down lower as he feared being seen in the glow of the fire. A few minutes later, five figures emerged from the cabin, and the drumbeat began again. One of them was Richardson, and four elders of the cult formed around him. As he knelt on the floor, the elders raised their hands in the air and chanted a prayer of some kind. The fire sprayed sparks into the air, which were caught by the gentle breeze and made vivid patterns across the shadowy forest. After two minutes of chanting the elders returned into the cabin, leaving Richardson alone in prayer.
At this moment Bond felt that Bolivar was now a liability, and he knocked him unconscious with a well placed blow to the base of the neck. Bond then moved swiftly into the middle of the clearing and came up behind Richardson, clamping his hand over Richardson’s mouth. “Come quickly.” He said sternly. “Make a sound and you’re dead.”
Bond then dragged Richardson into the forest, and went about one-hundred yards into the trees, before he threw him to the ground. He aimed the Walther at Richardson’s head, and was about to squeeze the trigger when Richardson said “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m from the Secret Service, with orders to kill you.” Bond deliberately omitted the fact that his orders were to take him alive if possible.
Richardson coughed as if choking on something; and his face was one of utter disbelief. Bond continued, “You’re a disgrace to your country, Richardson. You were going to kill a child in that ceremony. Why?”
Richardson’s face then became one of anger, “Because,” he said, emphasising the word, “frankly I’m sick and tired of the attitude that we, as the so-called civilised, are somehow superior to these people. Frankly, this religion has far more going for it than the supposedly superior religion of Western Christendom.”
“And that justifies murder?”
“Religion has been used to justify murder for millennia. It was used by the Christians during the crusades, or have you forgotten that little historical item?”
“None of this makes murdering an innocent orphan justifiable. Also, your friend, Mr Bolivar told me that you are involved in many shady dealings. I don’t know any details but I suspect that the head of SIS does, otherwise she wouldn’t have sent me. You’ve disgraced your country, betrayed your government. Don’t you feel any shame?”
Bond clearly touched a nerve with Richardson – his shoulders sank and he had a look of misery. His mouth curled downwards, and he appeared as if he was about to break down into tears as he realised that it was over.
Shouting voices began to sound from the clearing, and Bond saw the yellow beams of flashlights coming through the trees. They seemed to be shouting Richardson’s name angrily, as if they saw his vanishing as an insult to the cult. Bond suspected that they were now after Richardson’s blood. When Bond looked back at him, he saw that he had indeed broken down to tears, but he was now holding a pistol in his right hand. It must have been concealed in the waistband of his trousers. Bond raised his pistol to fire at him, but before he could do so Richardson put his pistol to his head and said to Bond, “Please. Allow me.” He pulled the trigger and his temple appeared to explode in a flash of blood, smoke and fragments of skull. The lifeless figure slumped into the undergrowth, and was momentarily illuminated by the flashlights of the elders. Bond turned and ran out of the forest towards the town, hoping that this black clothing would keep him from being seen.
* * *
It was four hours later when Bond swam out to meet Felix Leiter on the boat at the same place where he had been dropped off. He had signalled to Felix to pick him up, and had then run the entire distance from Santa Ana to the edge of the bay and their rendezvous. By the time he had swam to the boat and hauled himself aboard, his energy was utterly spent.
“Tough day?” Leiter asked.
“Just another day’s work.” Bond replied.
“So he’s dead?”
“Yes. But he took care of it himself – saved me the dirty work.”
“You look like you could do with some refreshment, James. All I’ve got aboard is beer. I hope that is okay?”
“It sounds great. Give me anything cold and wet, as long as it isn’t seawater.”
An hour later, as they were heading back to Miami at fifty knots, Bond called M. It was now early morning in London. “It’s done.” He said simply. “He did the job for me, though.”
“I’m glad that he saved you an unpleasant task, 007. I suppose you were wondering why we gave you permission to kill him.”
“Well, I saw the ceremony. He was going to kill an orphan as part of his initiation, but is there more to it than that?”
“I’m afraid that might have turned out to be one of many such offences. He began a child-slavery racket a year ago. Apparently he was just doing it for pocket-money. He was also involved in drugs, tobacco smuggling, anything which offered a bit of quick cash. In addition he was mentally unstable. He had rehabilitation, and we thought he was over it. It was decided that Cuba was a quiet, out of the way sort of place where he wouldn’t be able to cause any mischief. I guess we were wrong. It was our mistake, I’m sorry that it became your problem.”
“No apologies. It’s my job.”
“But Bond, do take a few days leave before coming back.”
“With pleasure.” Bond said, before hanging up the phone.
He then sat back on one of the chairs on the deck of the boat, and lit himself another Montecristo cigar. “Just another day’s work.” He whispered to himself.
The End - James Bond Will Return