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 James Bond- Mask of Gold

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PostSubject: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptyTue Mar 15, 2011 4:14 am

I was going to do this on the old place. I'm putting a placeholder out to a new piece of writing I'm working on. The story though with a vaguely serious plot is to have more of an adventure feel I hope, splashes of Cussler but not too heavy. Hopefully I'll get it going soon.

Hilly presents

Ian Fleming's James Bond OO7 in


(edited by Fae for funzies - added the title in)

Last edited by Hilly KCMG on Sun Aug 13, 2017 7:20 am; edited 4 times in total
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PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptyMon Mar 21, 2011 3:35 am

My preamble is brace yourself, to quote Shatner it'll be the worst thing you've read or the best thing you've read. A further apology to Fleming et al.

And the blocky nature...


Berlin, 30 April 1945

“Red Army positions are erratic. They could be the other side of the street right now.”
“Or behind us and the chancellery.”
“I’ll take the chancellery.”Instead of replying to that Sturmbannfuhrer Walther Mocke checked his watch. “We haven’t got long if we want to get out of here.”
Scharfuhrer Werner Tempe fingered the safety of his schmeisser. “I just want to get out of here.”
“Where’s your SS courage,” Mocke said mockingly. The two Waffen-SS men had been through it all together. Lucky to escape the carnage of the Eastern Front to fight on the Western Front and back as the two fronts collapsed at the gates of Berlin. Berlin could die for all he cared. Not least as a Nuremberger he despised the northern city but as a Nazi. Berlin had never been a party city despite being the Reichskapital. The SS major stood out from behind the front of his half-track gazing upon the makeshift barricade a few hundred metres away from the chancellery. The Russians couldn’t be that far by now. They had surrounded the city and despite futile efforts to keep an exit open to the west there was no German presence of note. The capital would die in a fury of blood and fire.
Mocke dropped to the ground as mortars thumped behind him exploding with dull thuds. Lifting his head he shoved the lip of his steel-helmet back seeing dusty olive-green uniforms scuttling across the ground. He went up on one knee firing with his mauser. On the half-track the few members of his truppe opened up on the attackers. The Russians were dealt with swiftly though at a cost of ammo. Between them now they had barely enough ammo to get out of Berlin. Mocke ran over to the fallen enemy soldiers. “Mongols!” he called over to the half-track. “Shock troops.”
“Shocking is one word,” Tempe said as he joined his commander. He began to check each body for anything of use. Hefting a British sten gun he scowled. “Advantages of having a wealthy ally.”
“Advantages of being a victorious ally,” Mocke corrected. “Anything else?”
“A few daggers.”
“Take them. Never know.”
“Sturmbannfuhrer Mocke!” a voice called. The SS Major turned seeing some new faces by the half-track. He and Tempe crossed back to see half a dozen Waffen-SS soldiers loading the half-track with ammunition crates. Instinctively he knew what they were. They definitely were not ammunition. Martin Bormann, the Fuhrer’s right-hand man was overseeing the process. Mocke snapped his feet together. “This is it, sir?”
“Yes. The fight must continue elsewhere. You know your orders of course.”
“Of course,” Mocke snapped to his men to get in. As they did so he said to Bormann, “All is lost?”
“Mostly. There is hope that fighting can continue after the war. You’re a realist it seems major.”
“I’m a loyal German sir but even I can recognise a lost war.”
“The Fuhrer is dead.”
Bormann’s words exploded like a mortar in Mocke’s mind. He composed himself well. “How?”
“Shot himself,” Bormann then smiled, “but he will have fallen at his post fighting the enemy.”
“Indeed,” Mocke lifted his arm. “Heil!”
“Good luck, major.”
Mocke clambered into the driver’s seat of the half-track. Beside him Tempe gave him a look. “What was that all about?”
“Tempe, in all the years we served how often have I told you everything?”
“Exactly.” Mocke threw the half-track into gear and with a lurch they were off. “We need to get out via the south out by Tannenberg.”
“Try Anhalter Station.”
“Risky, I thought they fell yesterday.”
Tempe shrugged, “It’s worth a shot Major.”
Shot was the wrong word for as the half-track veered south on the Unter der Linden it came under fire from Russians hiding out in the ruins of the buildings. Tempe banged on the partition hatch separating rear from the cockpit. “Choose your targets carefully.”
Precise bursts of machine-gun fire met those of the Russians. Mocke mashed his foot as hard as he could against the accelerator pedal. “This is going to be tougher than I thought.”
“You thought it wouldn’t be? Trying to get out of an encircled city to the south? Just why are we doing this? What’s in the boxes?”
“Remember our motto.”
“My honour is loyalty. That doesn’t explain the boxes, Walther.”
Mocke shot him a sly look. “You’re getting cocky in your old age, Werner. Let’s just say that what’s in the boxes matters to any future Reich.”
“Future Reich…” snorted Tempe. “We failed, Walther. We failed and if we’re ever caught by the Russians we’ll have our curlies ripped out.”
“Worse than that I’d imagine. Remember what we did to those partisans in Letza.”
Tempe nodded. “Yes, I remember. One reason why we have to keep on going.”
On they went sluggishly all the while dodging marauding patrols of Russians. A couple of times they saw rape in process or theft from Germans. Beyond a few barrages from their guns they could do nothing. Orders were orders. Bavaria or nothing.
It was out past Anhalter Station that the attack of all attacks came. Two bazookas exploded either side of the half-track forcing Mocke into a slewing stop that ended with the nose of the vehicle buried in a demolished building. Seeing the Russians spew out to surround them Mocke flung open his door. “Everybody out!”
As soon as he leapt out he smashed a fist into the face of a toothless Russian felling him as surely as if he had hit him with an axe. There was no time to reach inside for his mauser. The Russian came back at him body-checking him into the open door of the half-track making him yelp with pain. Nearby Tempe was being kicked as he lay on the ground powerless after a thump to the head so hard his vision had doubled. Mocke was pushed up against the cab door again this time forcing it shut. Three Russians surrounded him one holding him by the neck. Mocke heard the sounds of a struggle in the lorry ending with a loud shriek then silence. An officer appeared from the ruins of a nearby building. He spoke perfect German.
“SS, you shall be killed immediately.”
“Why waste time?” croaked Mocke feeling his hand behind his back. He worked it down until he felt the hardness of his dagger.
“Don’t you want to plead for your life like so many of my countrymen did theirs?”
“I’d sooner kill you.”
No, no love was lost between the SS –in particular- and the Russians. Not when Einsatzgruppen followed the invading forces and killed thousands. Not when you did it what you had done on the Eastern Front in the name of Volk, Vaterland und Fuhrer. The officer stepped back as one of his goons brought one of the ammo boxes to him. They spoke in that blasted language of theirs until the officer shouted. The soldier dropped the box before hammering at it with his feet. The lid eventually popped off scattering to one side. The Russians surrounded the box like starved people round food. In the box glinted several bars of gold.
“Mein Gott,” groaned Tempe –the groan more from his injuries then the gold. “We’re gold smuggling.”
“More accurate the other way round,” Mocke grunted.
“Where are you taking this?” the officer said. When Mocke did not respond one of the soldiers holding Mocke pressed a bayonet against his throat. “Where?”
“The Fuhrer, in Munich.”
“Hitler’s dead, we heard it on the radio.”
“Don’t believe anything the radio tells you,” gasped Mocke. He inched his dagger out. Pressed this close to the half-track it was no easy measure. “The Fuhrer lives.”
The officer laughed and pointed to the box. An Oriental looking Russian picked it up eyeing the bars with joy. “We’ll take it. You all shall be shot…or castrated, then shot.”
Mocke took half a step forward into the grip on his throat but enough, just enough for him to pull out the dagger. It was the ceremonial dagger all got in the Waffen-SS. With his right hand he thrust it up into the soldier who had him by the throat. The dagger entered between the ribs twisting as Mocke took savage delight in the look of surprise on the man’s face. As Mocke did this Tempe and the others moved as one. The fighting that followed was learnt on the Eastern Front rather than here in Berlin. Blood spurted, limbs broke, even teeth were used to bite and rip at flesh.
Afterwards the SS men stood about the fallen Russians like vultures. Mocke bent to pick up the Russian officer’s gun. “Get that crate back in the truck. We need to go now.”
“Bentner brought it,” Tempe said pointing to the bloody remains of a sergeant near the building. He then fixed Mocke with a stare. “So, we’re gold smuggling for a dead man?”
“How do you know?”
“I overheard you and Bormann. What’s in it for us, Walther? We’re probably going to be dead soon.”
“Your pessimism is unfounded,” Mocke said going to the driver’s cab. “Get in Werner.”
They drove off down into the southern suburbs of Berlin. Along the way they encountered several Russian groups either pillaging or worse. Some attacked the half-track yet somehow the SS men got out of Berlin.
They never arrived in Munich or their intended target of the Obersalzburg. By the time the war officially ended on 8 May there had been no sign of them. Quite inexplicably the Nazi gold and the SS soldiers had vanished as if they had never been.
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PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptyThu Apr 14, 2011 8:57 am

“The Man from Antiquities”

London, some time ago

“Sorry James, he hung up again.”
“It’s alright Loelia. I’ve got nothing much to do.”
James Bond balanced the framed picture on his left knee whilst taking the nail from the corner of his pursed lips. He placed the nail in the small hole on the wall then hung the frame upon it by way of the string along the top. It was a rough job but then the picture he was replacing had been hung the same way by his predecessor. Sighing Bond went to his desk pouring a fresh Scotch into his tumbler he faced the previous occupant of that wall space. “Godspeed, sir.”
The portrait of King George VI stared impassively back. Bond went behind his desk assessing his inbox. When he was recruited into the SIS in the dying months of 1945 he had never assumed so much work would be paperwork. Then again he should not have been surprised. Bureaucracy was one constant that World War II had not removed. For a moment he was back near the Elbe with Jonathan McKnight and hundreds of thousands of German refugees herded ever closer to the river by the Soviets. No one would believe it even if it was made into a film with Richard Todd or Dirk Bogarde. Shaking his head Bond reached for his diary running a finger down the names in the back. Women –most married- he knew if he called would be free to see him. Just as he was about to call one married to a government minister the phone jangled. Pressing the speaker he answered curtly.
“He’s on now, James.”
The gruff voice that followed had been familiar to Bond now for just over five or so years. Few men had ever commanded Bond’s respect and few were trusted by Bond. “007 this M. This damned line is at best rubbish.”
Bond smiled. “You need me, sir?”
“Yes. Get your backside over to the British Museum immediately. Use the Montagu Place entrance and ask for Antiquities. I’ll be expecting you in fifteen minutes.”
Bond checked his clock. “Sir, even if traffic’s good it will take longer…”
But M had already hung up either that or the line had defeated him again. Bond shoved his inbox papers into his outbox and left giving Loleia Ponsonby instructions on incoming calls before riding the service lift into the basement level. Cutting through the back of Q Branch he reached his Aston Martin 15/98 in short order. The car was a convertible painted brilliant British racing green. Since getting hold of the car in 1945 he had upgraded it for ‘modern’ roads such as new headlights and indicators. Some minutes later he was bombing down the Euston Road weaving in and out of traffic as fast as the law allowed. This was not quite true, Bond pushed beyond the legal boundaries a few times as he slipped into Bloomsbury via Woburn Place. Curiously he got wolf whistles from students piling out of a campus of the University of London. An errant cyclist almost ended up as a bumper sticker when Bond sped round a bus to get on.
All in all Bond pulled up at the British Museum Montagu entrance fourteen minutes later. Entrusting the car under the watchful eyes of a museum guard he went inside. The place had never appealed to Bond largely out of a school trip as a child that had been a raging disaster. Bond found someone to call Antiquities. A few moments later Bond was upstairs being shown into a stuffy office overlooking the front of the museum on Russell Street. In one green leather armchair sat M smoking a cigar, on the corner of a desk was a white haired man who wore spectacles around his neck on a chain.
“Ah, 007 good to see you. Sixteen minutes.”
Bond said nothing advancing to shake the man’s hand. “James Bond.”
“Sir Bernard Daventry, head of Antiquities. Pleasure.”
“Sir Bernard used to be in SOE during the war. Worked in Egypt mainly.”
“Yes, so you see I’m no stranger to the tiptoe game.”
Bond sat down reaching inside his jacket for his cigarette case. At M’s nod he took a cigarette out. “Might I ask why I’m here, sir?”
“You may.”
Bond refrained from showing his displeasure. He still was very much the pupil to M’s teacher or at the very least, headmaster. There were others in the Double-O section that had been in SOE or the like during the war who also faced M with similar results. “All because you have three medals from the King, all because you have rescued countless children from Poland, all because you were the best of your field does not make you a good agent straightaway!” so had been the opening exchange with 004.
It was Sir Bernard who spoke next instead of M.
“About a fortnight back some strange occurrences happened near one of our digs,” the man paused explaining as an aside that with permission of the Soviets they were digging on Seelow Heights for relics –instead finding the bodies of the dead from the last days of the Reich. “I digress. One night our watchman was knocked out by someone, the next we found some of our equipment gone before eventually…”
“One of Station WB’s men was found half-buried on an excavation site,” M said with gusto. Clearly he was familiar with the older man’s digressions enough to interrupt.
“Station WB? Are we doing some snooping on the heights?” asked Bond whose experience of that battle started to creep into his memory.
“No. He was found with this in his mouth.” M picked up something the length of a man’s forearm wrapped in a cloth. Bond took it uncovering the item with intrigue. He was soon gazing upon a gold bar. “You see, 007, it’s quite something to force into one’s mouth.”
“I imagine some would have no problem,” Bond remarked coarsely. “Sir, what’s this…”
Again he was cut off.
“This man from WB bungled into something. What we don’t know but whoever it was had time to get ready. This is a warning of some kind from whoever owns that gold.”
Bond frowned. “Owns the gold?” he examined it closely seeing the swastika half covered in dirt. He scraped the emblem clean wincing. “I see.”
“We believe it’s from a haul spirited out of Berlin in the dying days of the war. It was never seen again. At least the men taking it were not seen again.”
“When do I go to Berlin sir?”
M smiled a little. “Not so fast, 007. Your mission I fear is a tad out of the ordinary. Find the rest of this gold and see it safely returned to Britain.”
“Why do we need it?”
“The economy could use a boost,” was the terse if unhelpful answer. “We need to make sure this is in the right hands.”
“My flight?”
“In the morning. See Tanner, he has the details.”
Bond got up expecting some final ‘Godspeed’ or some such yet none was coming. Sir Bernard went to his window lighting his pipe. “Miles, what happens if this chap jumps the fence?”
“He won’t. Bond is reliable.”
“You said he was in Berlin when it was going up in flames.”
“Doesn’t mean he’ll snap and turn Red,” M said picking up the bar. “Bond’s one of the best.”
He put the ingot down as if feeling the dead man’s remains on its surface.
Every faith in Bond…
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PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptyThu Apr 14, 2011 2:46 pm

Very intriguing, Hilly. I look forward to reading more!
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PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptyFri Apr 15, 2011 12:03 am

thank you kindly, Lala. I'll have to see what I can do. :)
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PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptySun Jul 10, 2011 6:34 am

Re-reading Moonraker, TSWLM and OHMSS this past week or so gave me the unlikely energy to knock this chapter out. I lost my thread (creative that is, plot as well etc) and this is the outcome. I still think my fanfic Bond days ended if not with Where Angels Fear to Tread, with The Evil That Men Do..


“Sail the Summer Winds”

“Tickets for the clipper. You need the others for the stopovers in case you have a walkabout.”
Bond had driven smartly back to the headquarters going straight to the top floor. Bypassing familiar offices he went to one he rarely went to chiefly as its occupant always came to him. Miss Moneypenny glanced up from her typing flashing a smile at him.
“Hello James, here to see Bill?”
“My dear ‘Penny you know we call him Chief of Staff,” Bond said leaning a little against her desk. “Is he in then?”
“All day,” she answered pressing a switch on her intercom box. “Go on in.”
So Bond was handed the tickets marked BRITISH EUROPEAN AIR. Giving them the once over he saw he left from Marston field in Kent. The tickets had ‘vehicle cargo’ in the corners. “I can take the 15/98 then?”
“Unless you want to borrow one of our cars,” Tanner grunted lifting a hefty file. He flicked it open. “The usual guff about being careful of this opponent whoever it is. I do have a theory it might be someone connected directly with this missing gold. How else do they get their hands on it? Killing the nightwatchman was a good one, covers their tracks.”
“What’s the point of us getting involved really? Why not SHAPE, NATO…?”
Tanner cut across Bond’s bows quickly.
“We need the gold. Perhaps someone upstairs has a conscience about what they did or not do in the war. Getting it back into our hands would do some good somewhere. Now, draw out a weapon from Q Branch. Try to ditch the Beretta.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You’ve sprained your wrist already…
“I lived.”
“One day, James,” Tanner said tiredly. He leant back languidly in his seat reaching for a cigarette. Holding one between his fingers he rolled it back and forth. “Your latest psych test came back.”
Bond said nothing. He hated the damn things. Something new the service had brought in for agents just after the war. He belonged to a generation that did not like talking about feelings even if the psychiatrist had been a ravishing redhead. The sessions had ended after a week in which Bond felt he could have spent his time better.
“You’re edging towards borderline.”
“I’m broken up about it,” Bond said. “Those tests mean nothing. Every man in the Double-O section’s borderline I would’ve thought. If they’re referring to the war, that was nearly ten years ago Bill.”
“And people can have knock on for more than that,” Tanner said quietly. “My God man, considering what you did during that war…”
“Just drop it. Do I have the final green for the mission?”
“Sure. You’ll be on your own but Station WB is there if you need them. Local contact is the press secretary at the embassy.”
“Really?” Bond took the file in which there were hotel reservations and the like. Bond stood, shook Bill’s hand and with a smile at Tanner’s secretary went downstairs. At Q-Branch he kept his Beretta whilst picking up a Colt .45 with silencer as well as some other items that might do the trick if required. Major Boothroyd’s team had cleaned up the 15/98 after its brief journey out to the Museum and gave some of the ‘optional extras’ a tweak.
Within the hour Bond was bombing out of London down the A3 into Kent. He ran the Aston through its paces round sharp corners, overtaking lorries and cars until he neared Marston.
Over the continent in the cramped BEA jet Bond went to light a cigarette. When the stewardess appeared he smiled expecting some help.
“Sorry sir, but we don’t allow smoking on this flight.”
“I’ve always smoked on planes.” Except bombers, he thought wryly. There was not getting around this thus he signed himself to a tobacco free flight. Seeing Berlin underneath a couple of hours later ended any dour thoughts he might have had. Bond waited for something to go wrong. His first postwar visit to the city had been hairy.
“Ladies and gentlemen thank you for flying British European Air…”
Bond made his way off before everyone only carrying his holdall he made for the passport control at Gatow. The blonde on the counter gave him a bright smile her teeth incredibly white in the gloominess of the terminal building.
“Welcome to Berlin Herr Bond. Might I ask if your visit is business or pleasure?”
Last time Bond was here the Berlin Blockade had kicked off. Gatow saw planes land and take off within minutes if not seconds of the other. All to end up helping a Russian defect.
“Pleasure,” Bond said with a smile. Why not bend the truth a little? He was dressed casually though smartly thus not giving off too much of a serious air. The woman gave him his passport back, his bag checked already by a dour faced customs officer. Bond took the bag fully expecting it to be searched at his hotel when he was not there. He then was shown out to the side of Gatow where a young teen in overalls was dusting the nose of Bond’s 15/98 down. Seeing Bond he straightened a rag in hand.
“Wunderbar!” he pointed at the car with a smile that made Bond grin. Dumping his bag in the passenger seat Bond paused to hand the boy ten marks. Clearly it made his day. Bond settled into his car and blazed off into West Berlin. The city had improved in the few years since his last visit. Most of the bomb damage was repaired, there was a brighter feel even if the shadow of the war lingered.
Bond was staying at the Hotel Cherbourg just down Wilhelmstrasse not too far from the Brandenburg Gate. The hotel had been half demolished in the daily raids by the RAF and USAAF to the point that when the Russians came it was virtually just a few floors and a wall. Perhaps benefitting from being in the west it had been quickly repaired, refitted and appeared virtually as it had when opened in 1899. Bond was able to park in an underground garage where he retrieved his Colt from the glove box. In the boot he had a small suitcase which contained his other tricks under his (he thought) flimsy guise of a historian-at-large.
His room was on the top floor giving a good view out east. He spent little time here taking time only to unpack and take a cold shower. Dressed in a dark suit he took time to apply talc to the latch of his suitcase which he then placed under his bed and attach a hair to his bags zipper. For all the trickery, the old tricks remained the best.
Finishing off his appearance with his trilby he set out into West Berlin.
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PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptySat Oct 22, 2011 5:58 am

for reasons unclear, some inspiration struck on


“Black Stockings”

His activities had been curtailed on his first day owing to fatigue that snuck up on Bond to his irritation. Next morning he breakfasted alone in the Cherbourg’s dining room giving the staff something to chatter about.
He took his car out to the Seelow Heights. Though this was a few years before the Berlin Wall sprung up Bond still had to pass into the Russian Zone. He showed made-up papers done by the department. The Russian looked Bond over then searched the car. Like the young German mechanic the Aston had a clear effect on the soldier who hitched up his rifle.
“Davoi, davoi!”
Bond roared off hoping he gave the Russian a blast of his exhaust smoke. He still found the assignment a little bewildering. Then again he should be lucky to get such a mission for in theory a Double-O had little to do over the course of a year. Indeed, last week he had been in and out of the gunnery range in the basement of HQ. One day he was sure he would beat that damned machine.
The Seelow Heights had been the scene of one of the worst battles in the war, or at least the precursor to one of the worst battles. Here the offensive had begun and here German boys died in their droves. Bond put that to one side motoring up to a hill with a smattering of tents pitched. Even as he came to a stop Bond could see people at work –mostly teenagers- in trenches with the various paraphernalia of archaeology. His arrival had been noticed.
A young woman with long black hair, full lips, slender legs on display from a thigh-length skirt and long black stockings that just ended at the skirt strode towards him. Her clothes bore dry and wet mud, her hair containing bits of the stuff as if she had been face first into the muck.
“Can I help you?”
Faint accent there, Bond thought. American? Quite possibly.
“Bond, James Bond. I’m from London.”
The woman gave him the once over a faint wrinkling of her nose finishing the search. “Come a long way just to bother us.”
Bond took his hat off. “Charmed. I’m a historian of sorts. Didn’t the university get in touch? I was hoping to look at some of the battlefield artefacts you’ve found.”
“Abby Cardigan,” she held a hand out which he took gently. “I’m one of the team leaders here helping to find remnants from the battle. From Harvard.”
“So you’re here for artefacts?”
“I’m writing a book on the Battle of Berlin,” Bond lied with a faint smile to his face. “You’ve come a way for this.”
“So be it,” she turned away so he followed. He got the impression of why she was here.
“I heard in the press that someone died here last week.”
“Yes…,” her voice faltered, “Bill Tedder, he was a forensics expert. Just vanished one afternoon out by the trees up the hill. Found him…”
Bond could not see her face yet heard her gulp loudly. “It was awful.”
“I’m sure,” Bond murmured. He reached inside his jacket taking out a cigarette case. The slight dent on it reminding him of old friends. Another time, another place. He took one out turning to offer.
Bond lit it with a wary smile. “I understand that a gold bar was left. Do you know anything about that?”
“Gold’s not my specialty,” she said indifferently.
“Quite. Mind if I look about, get a feel for the place?”
“Be my guest.”
Bond wandered away from her towards where the body had been found. Station WB had been keeping a low profile in recent months after an extraction mission went awry. The section had been totally redrafted, people brought in from Vienna and Moscow to organise the mess left behind. Thus, it seemed a little odd that someone from WB would have been snooping into anything. Yet they had and the end product was that he had been killed. The man had been killed in one of the trenches dug to analyse the remains of the soldiers from 1945. Bond clambered down into one of these flicking his cigarette away.
He doubted that whoever had placed the gold had kept the stash itself here in Berlin. It had to be with whoever had spirited it out of Berlin ’45. SS, M had said, so…
“Bavaria,” he said to himself. The gold bar had been of hundreds, its wealth important to whoever held it. Bond scrambled out of the hole dusting his trousers off and heading to his car. Passing Abby Cardigan he gave her a smile and the once over.
“Got some material. Enough for a chapter.”
Clambering into his car he blazed off back to West Berlin.
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PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptySat Oct 22, 2011 5:59 am

“Curiouser and Curiouser”

Arriving back in West Berlin Bond drove to a building not far from the Tiergarten simply marked ‘Associated Presses’. He fumbled for his cover ID and went inside. The blonde at the front desk smiled.
“Gutentag, Mein Herr.”
“Gutentag, James St. John Smythe, Times London. I would like to see the editor for World News.”
“One moment, please,” the secretary picked up the receiver dialling the number swiftly. She spoke softly and then looked up repeating the cover name. Hanging up she smiled again, “He’s on his way.”
A few moments later a tall man with thinning hair wearing a pinstriped suit arrived from a stairwell entrance.
“James, good to see you.”
“Sorry for the lack of an advance call, Peter.”
Peter Marsh nodded, “Best we went to my office.”
Thus they proceeded in the lift to the sixth floor offering some good views of the Tiergarten. In the office littered with various press mementoes Peter Marsh appeared to relax.
“Not everyday one gets a Double-Oh in one’s office.”
“I wouldn’t be in touch otherwise but I need some information on the gold,” Bond said. He produced his cigarette case to the Station WB section chief who took a Turkish cigarette with a thin smile. In return the section chief poured two brandies bringing them over he lit the cigarette and sat down.
“What do you need to know?”
“Who took it out of Berlin in 1945?”
“This shipment was taken out by the Waffen-SS on Martin Bormann’s orders. Supposedly the esteemed Bormann was acting on Hitler’s say-so though by the 30th April Hitler was on his way out in all kinds of ways. The man himself commanding the group was SS-Major Walther Mocke.”
“Name rings a bell.”
“Butcher of Misk just outside Russia, November 1941. Several other acts not least though some so-called heroic ones. Honoured by Hitler with the Knight’s Cross and there at Arnhem when the paras dropped into the laps of the 9th and 10th SS.”
“So he was assigned with getting the gold out?”
“Task was to get it down to the so-called Redoubt in Berlin. I guess they were setting up for a Fourth Reich. None of the important names made it though did they?”
“Not even Bormann,” chuckled Bond lighting a fresh cigarette, “true then he died fleeing the bunker?”
“Definitely but we’re keeping the myth he made it to Argentina like everyone else.”
“That is a good point, Marsh. The gold should’ve been taken out of country then shouldn’t it? Argentina, Paraguay et al…”
“You’d have thought but it’s my belief that it’s still here in Germany. The thing is I reckon that the SS scum are living on their gold but none of them have cropped up in public life. It’s almost like Mueller, the Gestapo chief, we know he’s alive but where?”
“No one matching their description has ever been seen?”
Bond leant back in his seat blowing rings at the ceiling fan. So, the gold was meant to go to Bavaria but vanished en route. The SS at the Redoubt likely never saw an inch of it. No trace of the carriers were found, no trace of them in Germany. Yet a gold bar shows up in West Berlin, why? Possibly to bring Bond out here. It’s happened before, agents lured out by the oddest ways by someone wanting to change sides. What would a SS man whose gone under since 1945 want though?
“Your man must have stumbled on something.”
Marsh looked away for a moment then regarded Bond once more, “You could say that. He was a good man but shouldn’t have been up there. We wanted to keep tabs on this Seelow dig as a way of watching the Russians. It’s possible the SS men had come back for some bars they left behind.”
Bond stood holding a hand out, “Thanks for the help.”
“If you need anything else pass the word.”
“Of course.”
When Bond left the building he turned right then right again stopping at a newspaper vendor to buy a copy of the Times. As he read the front page he managed to see out of the corner of his eye someone stop at the corner. Bond lowered the paper and walked that way. He passed the man on the corner clipping him on the arm and saying in perfectly accented German:
“My apologies, absolutely clumsy.”
“Fine, sir,” said the man dipping his hat though looking pale.
Bond hurried to his car and drove off. Curious, he thought. Back at his room he went about checking. Pulling his suitcase out he saw the hint of a smudge on his lock. No fingerprint, whoever looked was a little bit of a pro. The hair on his bags zipper was gone.
“Nice to know some things don’t change in Berlin,” he mused then went to have a shower.
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James Bond- Mask of Gold Empty
PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold EmptySun Aug 13, 2017 1:49 am

As I wind down on Hell's Delight I'm debating on reviving this (in light of no serious projects in the real world)...or Die Another Day, which I was going to re-write and seems quite prescient at the moment.
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James Bond- Mask of Gold Empty
PostSubject: Re: James Bond- Mask of Gold   James Bond- Mask of Gold Empty

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James Bond- Mask of Gold
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