Based on Ian Fleming’s
A Secret to the Grave
Back Jacket Synopsis
A Korean oil tanker, hijacked by Somali pirates forces the closure of the Gulf of Aden. With only seven years of financially viable oil reserves remaining; the beguiled country of Yemen is fast becoming a troubled land.
Until the ransom is paid; a World starved of oil will continue to slide toward the brink of financial collapse.
Against this backdrop, James Bond and Government official Elizabeth Loverseed arrive in the claustrophobic environment of insecurity and fear; where foreign governments fight for investors and influence.
Their mission: to investigate the man responsible for the increased terrorist activities. Khaled Wazir, an arms dealer, reported to have amassed an imposing cache of weapons.
But the mission is compromised when an elderly man presents himself at the British Embassy in Sana’a, claiming to know a secret he will share only with the Ambassador.
The man, it would seem, holds the key to a sinister and ambitious plot destined to open the very gates of hell.
Will the secret be shared? Or will it be
a secret to the grave.
Can you keep a Secret?
If a teardrop held a secret
and it fell upon the ground
it would soak into the earth
and wait there to be found
and if you find that secret, you become it's lover.
You can never let it leave your heart
You can never tell another
But when a man knows a secret
and it burns upon his skin
he must tell it he must sell it
he must purge himself of sin
and if you keep that secret, you become it's slave.
You can never tell another soul
You must take it to the grave
The tiny light glowed green.
James Bond pulled the swipe card from the reader and opened the door.
In a single, violent movement he pushed the girl inside; following her through the entrance,
he slammed the door behind him.
She stood, rooted to the spot; un-moving, like a statue; her breath coming in noisy sobs;
Bond could see she was starting to shake. The shock was beginning to set in
“Can I get you a drink?” his voice was steady, reassuring.
From under her dark tousled hair an incredulous look spread across her face,
emanating from her deep brown eyes, and finishing on her full lips, which now drew back into an evil snarl
“No, no I don’t want a bloody drink. I…” she shook her head and began to back away, her delicate hands spread out in front of her body, forming a barrier between herself and Bond. Her retreat was only halted when she stumbled back into the bed.
She sat heavily, and dropped her head into her hands; Bond noticed her dark red nail varnish made her skin look even paler. Taking a deep composing breath she looked up sheepishly, from behind the curtain of hair which fell across her face
“Is it always like that?”
Bond wanted to say ‘why, how do you feel?’ but it was clear she was taking the experience badly
“Yes” he said quietly. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked at him; it began with a look of pity but quickly it turned to fear. Bond saw the revulsion in her eyes.
As a spy, she had yet to develop a poker face; this was; he decided probably the reason the mission had failed.
As he himself had been part of the decision to proceed he wanted to make the situation right; so he made a step toward her; as he did, she shrank away from him again and pressed her hands back onto the bed. Bond stopped;
their knees were touching “Listen to me; I know it’s hard to accept right now; but you need to know; if it’s a just cause, you can learn to live with what just happened”
Her mouth opened, but the words would not come to her; panic was just below the surface of her being.
“I had to do it…” Bond re-enforced his position, he was not looking for sympathy; he was just trying to snap her out of the shock. “….Or he would have killed you”
She pursed her lips, and looked at him. Silently the tears rolled down her cheeks; each one carrying a memory of the nightmare. Slowly she began to nod her head.
Bond moved away from her, and headed to the mini bar; he poured the brandy into a plastic glass, and handed it to her “Drink this” She accepted the brandy, and took a sip.
Bond made eye contact again “Now stay here; don’t open the door to anyone. I have to go back…”
She protested “…No. No James, please don’t go” She jumped up and melted into his arms.
The brandy spilt onto his jacket. She began to sob again. He held her shoulders and tenderly guided her back to the bed.
She looked at each of his hands in turn, their gentle power comforting her, guiding her; quickly she looked up into his blue eyes; searching for the answer to how those hands, that so recently had killed, could comfort in equal skillfulness.
“It’s okay now, stay here. I won’t be long”
In reply she shook her head; her bottom lip began to tremble
“I’ve got to find out about his target”
She sniffed back the tears, and used the back of her hand to dry her face; colour was beginning to return to her cheeks “Sorry James, I’m okay now, I know you have to go”
She sat on the bed, Bond let go, turned slowly and walked away. At the door he looked back at her one more time,
his smile was reassuring. He left.
Alone, she began to cry again. She closed her eyes tight shut but her mind instantly began reliving the episode in a lurid slow motion of emotions. She lay back on the bed and balled her fists into the eyes to cut out the scene.
Pulling a different key card from his pocket, Bond walked along the narrow corridor. At a different door, without pause he scanned the card, and entered. This room was, unsurprisingly the same as when he had left; it felt colder now but looked the same. The body of the man lay slumped against the wall. The pinewood chair was upturned, close to the dead man’s right shoulder; its right rear leg snapped and lying on the floor, the blood was still sticky all around the ragged break.
Bond scanned the room; the girl’s blouse was shredded, but remained draped on the bed next to the ‘wire’ she had been wearing; this symmetrically was coiled on the very corner of the bed, poised to drop but frozen in time.
James Bond had been sent to Esbjerg, Denmark to assist in the withdrawal of an MI6 agent, from a terrorist cell. He only knew the girl by her codename “Goodnight”; and they had met only once; and that very briefly, at a nightclub. As an agent she was inexperienced but the girl’s spirit had swayed him to allow her one more chance at extracting the target information from the leader of the terrorist cell; before pulling the plug on the mission, and handing it over to the Anti terrorist squad. It was a decision he was now beginning to regret.
“Kreskas is travelling by boat?” Bond inclined his head, offering his ear, as if he’d misheard the comment, he found the statement incredible. The music throbbed and the people danced around them; unaware of the importance of their conversation. Goodnight gently shrugged her shoulders, and replied without a trace of irony “Do you think this means he intends to bring the explosives with him”
Bond was not convinced “That’s your call”
Goodnight’s answer was defiant “It must be something substantial for him to risk being compromised for the night”
Bond waited for a partygoer to move away from them. Goodnight looked at her watch “I have to leave now, but don’t worry; I’ll get the target information from him”
She lent in close and kissed his cheek “Don’t worry I’ll wear the ‘wire’; you might even enjoy listing in” then with a twinkle in her eye she was gone; weaving through the dancers.
Bond boarded the m.s. DANA SIRENA as a foot passenger. As the evening closed in around him, he stood on the rear observation deck and watched the cars drive aboard. Kreskas’s car was un-mistakable, and once again Bond was perplexed at the strategy of the terrorist. If his plan were to keep a low profile, then driving a bright red Mercedes SLS AMG was not the way to achieve anonymity.
Bond dropped his chocolate brown leather overnight bag on the cabin floor; then settled down on the bed to listen in to Goodnight’s ‘wire’ transmissions; he hoped she was going to be entertaining; otherwise the 17 hour journey back to Harwich was going to be as dull as ditch water.
One tedious hour later Bond had read every piece of information he could get his hands on; even the specification of the boat from the official operator’s brochure.
Length: 199.4 metres Speed: 22.5 Knots
Engines: 2 x Wärtsila 9L46C, 9450 kW each
Special Features: Private Lounge for the enjoyment of all Commodore De Luxe passengers
Minutes later Bond threw down the book, and decided to try out the Lounge. Attaching the earpiece he stood up and prepared to leave. He took one more look around his own Commodore cabin, and pictured where Goodnight and Kreskas were resting in theirs at that precise moment.
His cabin was identical to the one he was looking at now. Working with speed he checked the bedside drawers; nothing but the smell of new pine wood. Next was the wardrobe.
It’s interior revealed nothing but a solitary heavy black leather jacket, which hung from a wire hanger.
Bond searched the pockets, nothing. On the floor stood a dark brown Gladstone bag; Bond picked it up and laid it on the bed. It was locked. Bond went over to the body and searched through the pockets.
He withdrew two keys which were attached to the Mercedes Benz leather key fob. Back at the Gladstone bag, Bond opened the lock; and tipped the contents onto the bed
A change of clothes spilled out; Bond sifted through the small pile; then checked the bag; again nothing.
Bond gripped the car keys and decided to head down to the car deck, and check out the Mercedes.
There must be a reason why Kreskas had compromised himself with this mode of transport;
some reason why he needed to enter the country, where the customs would not be as thorough as at an airport.
He opened the cabin door and came face to face with one of the boat’s officers.
The young man’s hand was poised to knock; he dropped his hand and smiled at Bond
“Are you ready Dr Kreskas?”
Bond nodded and replied with a neutral “Yes”
The officer smiled; then made a move to go into the cabin “Can I fetch your bag Dr?”
Bond moved quickly and blocked his way “No, I’ll get it”
The officer coughed and suggested “You’ll need your coat as well, sir”
Bond closed the door behind him.
Moments later he was walking behind the officer wearing the black leather jacket and carrying the Gladstone bag.
The moon was up and illuminating the swell of the ocean. The wind whipped at him, and Bond was pleased that he had taken the officer’s advice to wear a coat. Three more of the crew had assembled on deck, waiting impartially as they congregated in the centre of the bow.
“Evening Doctor” one of the crew said, the other men all nodded, Bond returned their greeting. Off the starboard bow, lights twinkled from another ship. Bond looked around, and caught the eye of the young officer.
His question was answered before he spoke it.
“Not long now sir” The officer smiled reassuringly, rubbing his hands to promote the circulation.
From the right came a different type of light. This came low on the horizon; and it came in fast.
One crewman approached Bond, with a harness; the other man gently took the Gladstone bag, and dropped it into a net, attached to the webbing.
The source of the approaching light had a noise growing with it, and Bond soon recognized the silhouette of an approaching Sea King Air Sea rescue helicopter.
The crewman stepped away having completed attaching the harness to Bond. He gave the universal thumbs up sign.
The officer lent in close
“I’d just like to offer my appreciation of your actions sir. Well done” He stepped back and saluted him. It was a genuine gesture.
Bond shrugged his shoulders “It’s nothing”
The wind seemed to intensify its chill as it swirled around the small party. The noise rose to a crescendo as the Sea King hovered above them. The wire descended from the helicopter; all eyes were up turned toward it as it snaked down. Beyond the wire, Bond could see a man in a florescent uniform, leaning out of the body of the Sea King, and guiding the wire down, his other hand remained on the control of the winch.
The ferry pitched and fell away; as it rose the winch swung into view. The second crewman used a long pole to grab the wire, and pull it down. With swift well rehearsed efficiency they attached the winch to Bond’s harness.
The men stepped away and with a jolt Bond lifted up from the deck.
The wind assaulted Bond, instantly numbing his face; he ascended quickly away form the ferry, Bond looked down and watched the deck slip away beneath him, like a tumbling twirling leaf.
Moments later the helmsman pulled him into the body of the Sea King; here a second airman closed the door;
the noise dropped enough so that Bond could hear the pitch of the rotors change as the Sea King headed away.
“Welcome aboard Dr” The airman shouted, it was a Geordie accent
“We’ll have you at the target in less than ten minutes” The man un-clipped the harness
“Just sit back and enjoy the ride” he tapped Bond’s knee
“I will; thank-you” Bond sat back, although the vibration that coursed through his body made the reality of the comment very far fetched.
The helicopter’s radar pinged with a metronomic ring; as the pilot kept his focus on the pale halo of light, thrown out over a monotonous sea by the powerful light from the Sea King. He saw nothing more than the waves, with their frothy foaming crests above the black of the swells; then gradually he became aware of a darker shape on the horizon; he closed in at full speed. About a mile away the shape became a distinct silhouette of a large yacht. The pilot, pressed his microphone, and alerted the helmsman.
“Target in sight”
The decent was more delicate than the extraction; again the wind tore at Bond’s body, but he used the time to get his bearings; he identified the boat below as a well lit fifty foot motor yacht carrying a Mil Hermit helicopter on the rear deck. A circle of blue halogen lights beckoned him down. The Sea King made delicate movements above to position the decent in to the very centre of the lights, as he got closer he made out the shape of two crewmen, waiting to help him. The pitch of the boat became evident; and the winch stopped descending; the deck rose. Then with expert timing the winch began to play out as the boat began to drop. The two crewmen rushed forward and held Bond. One detached the harness and guided the winch away. The Sea King lifted.
The crewmen held Bond’s arms, but it was a pleasant assisting gesture; quickly they took him inside. The tinted glass doors slid closed and Bond suddenly felt very alone in this new quite environment. He watched the Sea King fade into the distance.
Both men took off their helmets.
“Welcome on board” the first crewman said; Bond thought the accent was Scottish.
He took the bag from the net and handed it to Bond; the other man, opened an internal door, and gestured for him to follow, Bond noticed his hands were covered in dark coarse hairs.
Bond followed the hairy man down the mahogany lined corridor, music was playing; he guessed it was coming from the cabin at the end. The crewman balled his hairy hand into a fist and knocked on the cabin door.
The door opened and the crewman extended his arm, gesturing for Bond to go in. The cabin was bedecked in an opulence usually associated with a palace; after the biting wind of the North Sea and the vibration in the Sea King, the warmth of the room seemed almost womb like. Sitting at a Louis 14th desk to the side of the cabin a grey haired man busied himself at a keyboard; with a smile he raised his head and turned to welcome his guest, the smile suddenly vanished
“Who the hell are…?”
Bond took two strides to reach him, his fist shot out and caught the man on the temple; he fell back, his arms outstretched, knocking into the desk; the chair was sent skidding across the floor; the man pushed down on the desk and sprang back at Bond; he brought up both fists in a typical martial arts guard, and yelled out the traditional Ki ai.
Bond kicked him hard in the solar plexus; the man doubled over and staggered back.
Bond followed him in and lifted his knee; connecting with the man’s chin. The music stopped.
Bond sensed movement behind him, he spun around as the hairy crewman entered the cabin; he took the scene in and began to draw his gun, Bond dived to the floor and rolling over drew his gun; his movement ended in a kneeling pose where he aimed and fired the Walther in a classic double tap; the noise was brutally loud in the cabin.
The hairy man fell back. At the door to his left another figure appeared; even in the heat of battle Bond recognized it as a female form.
“What a pleasant surprise” The woman known as Bee stood in the doorway; her voice was as silky smooth as the cream sheer silk dress she wore. She raised her arm, and rested her head against the door frame.
Bond began to get to his feet.
They had only met once before; in Finland, during operation Bombshell. Unfortunately the meeting had been curtailed when her then boss, Nathanial Skedar ordered his execution. Skedar was now dead; but Bond remembered her; remembered her beauty, he also remembered her boyfriend; an ex Foreign legionnaire come mercenary named Manic.
“Been busy?” Bond quipped, as he got to his feet, he checked beyond her alluring form, to see if she had been alone in the bedroom. Her perfume filled the air.
As they stood facing each other in the doorway, she looked at him
“I thought we’d seen the last of you at the lake”
Bond held her stare; her blue eyes sparkled like diamonds; and in that moment he understood who had been responsible for firing a rocket at his helicopter in Sweden. Slowly he nodded
“…and where is Mr. Manic?”
Before she could answer another crewman appeared at the door, shots rang out. Bee dived back into the bedroom shouting
“Be careful where you’re firing you crazy…” her words were cut off with the slamming of the door.
Bond returned fire; and the crewman dropped. He tried the bedroom door, but it was locked.
A siren began to wail.
Bond pocketed the Walther and left the cabin, picking up the Uzi automatic from the dead man at the door.
His plan was to make it up to the helicopter; but as more shots cannoned off the wall by his head, he thought that might be more difficult than first thought. He ducked down the next hatchway, and slid down the metal stairs.
Without a break, he ran along the companion way, his footsteps echoed, reminding him of a dinner gong.
The first door on the left was open; Bond entered and locked it behind him, he descended onto the lower deck.
Bond’s intention now was to make it to the stern of the yacht; he knew the rear most area would provide a launching spot for either a speed boat, or at very least a jet ski.
Escape plan established in mind he ran along the narrow corridor; one more compartment to go.
As Bond entered the compartment he was shocked to see a mini submarine nestling in the bay.
The mini sub was the size of a city car, and resembled a cycling helmet; with the lid lifted it revealing a packed cargo hold. In the body of the sub, lay a number of wax wrapped sealed bundles. His curiosity roused,
Bond laid the Uzi on the bench, and took a screwdriver from a shadow board and set about attacking the first bundle.
The distinctive smell of C4 explosives drifted from the box. “Manic” he said to himself.
Bond removed the middle row of six bundles, and placed them neatly on the deck.
The area he had created in the sub was now big enough for him to lie in.
Bee had split the crew into two search parties; as the first group followed Bond’s decent; the second team positioned themselves outside; overlooking the rear deck. One of the crew had been dropped over the stern and was inching his way down to the rear launch doorway; the sea churned a white frothy mix beneath him; for below the surface the propeller turned; forcing the boat through the water. From his precarious position he waited.
Currently the launch door was sealed shut; but he knew that for Bond to escape this way he would need to open it.
The man sat in the rope harness waiting for his chance, dangling from the rope above the turbulent swell.
In order to launch the sub Bond needed to open the rear door; but to activate it he must first seal the bulkhead from the rest of the yacht. Bond went to the control panel; he depressed the switch, the bulkhead slid slowly across.
With only a couple inches to go, Bond made his move, but in that instant a rope snaked in and looped itself around his neck; the rope was pulled back, and Bond crashed back against the closing door. The door stopped moving,
Bond was trapped against the bulkhead, the rope securely fastened around his neck. Across the bay, the rear door now began to swing open, the sound of the waves and the cool of the night seeped in.
Bond was choking, he tried to worm his fingers under the rope, but it would not move.
Then as the moonlight filtered into the bay through the open door Bond saw the crew member executing his decent.
In that moment the man looked into the launch bay, and saw Bond; His hands let go of the rope as he went for his gun, quickly his hand eased inside his jacket, but the motion of the yacht and the tightness of the harness stopped him pulling it clear. He gritted his teeth. Looking up, he shouted “Drop me down”
His colleagues up above inched down the rope. The man realized there was just another foot to go; then Bond would be at his mercy. Bond couldn’t get enough movement in his body to reach his own Walther; so he stretched out his hand, reaching for the Uzi on the bench; but it remained tantalizingly just out of reach.
Bond concentrated on the rope, he got his fingers inside the noose, and put his foot back against the bulkhead, and pulled; his body strained against the rope, the veins stood out on his head. The door gave a millimeter, and the rope slackened; keeping one eye on the descending crewman, Bond got a better grip on the noose and pulled again, the rope burned against his skin. The door opened a further millimeter,
and then Bond felt the muzzle of a gun touch his back, it pressed against his spine; in that instant he dodged to the side, but he still felt the intensity as the bullet ripped past him; it tore through his jacket.
The crewman in the harness had now landed on the deck; quickly he undid the clasp, and began to draw his gun.
The bullet struck the door frames just a foot from his head. “Hey, stop firing, I have him” he shouted.
From behind the bulkhead Bond heard the sweet honey tones of Bee shouting
“Hold your fire, hold your fire; there’s enough C4 in there to blow us all to hell”
The fear of setting off the explosives was obviously more important than killing Bond quickly.
But the hiatus had gained Bond another couple of precious seconds; the crewman swaggered up to him; with a lazy movement he aimed his gun, but heeding the warning from Bee; approached Bond with the gun extended; his smile was cruel and thin.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got him” He screamed above the noise of the waves.
The bulkhead opened another inch; and fingers appeared at the gap, the door opened another inch as the hands began pulling the metal shield open. Their efforts were winning the battle of opening the door; but the hands that held the noose were beginning to lose balance.
With one last effort Bond jerked on the rope with one hand, and reached for the Walther with the other, his hand brushed against the butt.
But it was too late.
The bulkhead began to slide open.
The crewman now stood face to face with Bond and pushed the gun into his open mouth.
“There, there now; be a good chap and put these on” he said, holding out a pair of handcuffs in his other large fist
“Do you want him alive?” he asked, Bond noticed his name tag showed his name as ‘Phillips’
Bee answered “Yes, don’t risk setting off the explosives” her voice came from only a couple of inches away.
He nodded his head in confirmation but his eyes never left Bond’s
“But I can’t miss from here” he sneered, pushing the gun against his teeth.
Bond thrust forward with the screwdriver and stabbed the man through the heart; the thin smile dropped from his face.
As the attacker dropped to the floor, Bond reached out and took hold of the gun; reversing it through the gap he fired three shots in quick succession. The rope went slack, and Bond released himself from the noose.
The fingers disappeared and the door slammed shut with a satisfying clunk.
Bond looked down at the man, with the screwdriver sticking out of him
“Neither could I” said Bond with a catch in his voice; he rotated his head to free up his breathing.
The submarine slid back out of the hold and began to float away from the motor yacht.
“He’s here, he’s here” another crewman shouted. At the rail, the first man aimed his gun, but Bee held out her hand
“Wait” she screamed. She clutched the mobile to her ear
“Manic” she barked
“Oui mon chere” His voice was rich with suggestion
“Not now. Bond is here. He has taken the sub and the explosives”
Manic took the news that Bond was alive with surprising calm. He immediately reasoned that if Bond were alive and had taken Kreskas’s place; then Kreskas was probably dead. The mission was terminally compromised.
“Detonate the sub”
Bee’s strength was that she always did as she was told. She raised the detonator and pressed the button.
Eight meters to the rear of the yacht, the sea exploded in a rush of foam and a plume of water.
A ball of flame extended like a finger toward the dawn
“Goodbye Mr. Bond” she mouthed; Bee turned and with her hips swinging, returned to her cabin.
The Gulf of Aden.
Waiting for an answer as to why Manic had accepted the phone call during this dangerous part of their mission; the eyes of all five mercenaries were fixed upon him as he carefully pushed his mobile phone back into the webbing of his battledress. He raised both eyebrows, and sank his head into his shoulders “Ma famme” he said as way of explanation; the men all nodded in a resigned fashion; grunting and tutting to confirm they all understood. In unison they turned away from their leader, and focused to the horizon. The twelve foot long, black, zodiac rigid speed boat, continued to drift into the path of the giant oil tanker.
When the bows of the supertanker stretched up to block out the light, and the sound of the bow wave crunched like an avalanche, sending spray into their faces; Manic gave the instruction to start. With a palpable relief the mercury outboard engine fired up and the zodiac darted out of the way of the tanker as it bore down upon them.
Hugging the side of the giant vessel the speed boat zipped down, surfing the waves;
under the ten foot high letters Samho Dream.
The metal ladder was molded into the side of the tanker; it was their focus and the zodiac edged in toward it.
The first mercenary took hold of the ladder, and lashed the zodiac to it.
In silence Manic led four of his men up the ladder; the last man, waited at the foot. It took a little more than four minutes for them to reach the deck; the equivalent of an eight story building. Splitting in to two groups, the men headed back toward the bridge. The superstructure rose from the deck; another eight story tower-block climb faced them.
Movement up ahead; the Korean crewman, was taking a crafty cigarette; his mind on his first night out in America. Something caught his attention; he looked down along the deck that was the size of three football pitches.
Manic braced his pistol arm with his free hand; he fired two suppressed shots in quick succession.
The Korean fell back; hitting the deck with a hollow metallic ring; the lit cigarette still in his mouth. As Manic walked past the man, he stamped his foot down hard on the man’s face; crushing the cigarette against his lips
“They say smoking kills” he murmured to the next mercenary; the ex-legionnaire nodded in agreement.
The second team arrived at the communications cabin. The radio operator awoke with an Uzi 9mm pressed against his cheek, and a look of terror in his eyes.
Simultaneously the two teams burst onto the bridge; after a quick burst of automatic gunfire the crew slumped to the floor. Manic strode on to the bridge and faced the Captain “Time to raise the Skull & Crossbones”
Back in the cabin Bee removed her waterproof coat; and gathered her hair, smoothing it back over her head, her skin was puckered into goose pimples, she opened the bedroom door, and Bond pulled her inside; before she could scream, he clamped his hand over her mouth.
He snapped the handcuff over her wrist, and then pulled her across the chair; looping the second cuff around the leg, and fastening the second cuff to her other wrist.
As she stood on tip toes she looked back at Bond, her eyes were wide open, like those of a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car. Bond hoisted the Uzi, and went to the door.
“Surely you’re not going to leave now?” she implored.
Bond looked at the taught stretched outline of the curves of her body
“I’m afraid so; seats are going to be at a premium on that Hermit”
“What?” she sounded confused, Bond laughed
Bee frowned, and Bond continued “When this little tub sinks; the seats are going to be a premium on the Hermit helicopter”
“You’d leave me to die?” She screamed at him.
Bond shook his head “You’ll think of something”
Bond climbed into the Hermit. The high pitch whoosh of the engine, reached its climax and the helicopter lifted off the deck. At about one hundred meters, he lifted the detonator, and depressed the switch.
He had expected to see the yacht erupt in a ball of flame, but there was nothing of the sort, no explosion, no muffled crump from the explosives that he had removed from the sub. Unable to help it, Bond smiled to himself
“Clever girl, I knew you’d think of something”
MI6 agent Goodnight walked dream like through the Harwich customs hall.
Every eye seemed to be on her. Every guilty footstep echoed, like a hiss of hatred.
Her mind was in turmoil. Her lower lip trembled.
Bond had not returned to the cabin, and she had no doubt he was dead. The only doubt she did have now was the state of Kreskas, could he have survived Bond? Or were there other terrorists on board. Either way, she knew she had to get to London, and the quickest way from Harwich was by train; as soon as she got through here she would cross to the train platform. She looked up from beneath her eyelashes, the queue of foot passengers was moving quickly now. Almost there, just a little longer to keep her nerve.
“Just one minute Miss” the customs officer called, he held out his stubby hand for her passport.
Slowly, so that her hand did not shake, she handed it to him. The officer scanned the passport and waited for the boarding and history details to come up on his screen.
He glanced at the young frail looking girl in front of him. Goodnight smiled back, trying to flutter her eyelashes.
His brow furrowed “Can you confirm who you were travelling with, Miss?”
Goodnight felt her throat contract, in a little girl lost voice, thick with emotion she replied
The customs officer raised his right eyebrow in an unwitting imitation of Elvis Presley
“And I understand you had a car?” Goodnight felt the panic rise, but she had rehearsed her lines
“I’m not feeling too well, I decided to take a little walk” she inclined her head back toward the ferry.
The officer looked back at her but did not smile
Then his attention went past her, and outside onto the road
“No matter Miss, looks like the Doctor’s here now. You can’t mistake your car”
Goodnight turned to see the scarlet red Mercedes Benz pull up outside the customs building; even at idle, the engine sounded aggressive.
From somewhere in the distance she heard the officer speak; dreamlike she turned back toward him; he held out her passport
“Thank you Miss, have a nice day”
Goodnight took the Passport, her mind was racing, her heartbeat pounded in her ears,
‘Kreskas wasn’t dead, that’s why Bond didn’t return” she left the customs post and began to walk toward the passenger door of the car; she was drawn toward it.
If this was going to be it; let her go out in style; she threw back her shoulders.
Six feet away from the car she lost her nerve and stood stone still, her legs frozen.
Then the adrenalin shot through her body as suddenly both gull wing doors began to rise; expecting a bullet from Kreskas’s gun at any second, Goodnight bent at the knee and peered into the dark interior of the Mercedes Benz.
Drawing a sharp intake of breath she gasped “You?” her hand flew to her heart
“You were expecting someone else?” asked James Bond