"We'll Always Have Paris"

A bit of fluff I thought up during my Brosnan-era music binge...

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Unknown location, North Korea, 2002

He could not say for sure whether it hurt anymore. The days had certainly blurred into one. One continuous nightmare without end. As before, he had been dumped into his cell, something out of a medieval castle. A small window with iron bars over it gave him some light. The cell was damp, both from the stone walls and floor as well as the latest bucket of ice cold water thrown at him. Was that before or after they took him out again? Probably before. Dragged between two soldiers who hauled him down the corridor and into a slightly larger room where that woman had him dunked head first into a trough of water –so cold, the ice was floating all over it. He gave her a smile as his head was pulled out, as much as was trying not to gasp for breath. He worked hard to regulate his breath. Any other time he might have tried his luck with her. Not this woman, not the ice queen.
Bond crawled into the corner of his cell. He had lost track as to how long he had been tortured or held prisoner total by the North Koreans. He knew at least that General Moon had made orders that he would be held here as long as possible or that even the Leader knew that Bond was here. Bond bowed his head as he sat cross-legged, ignoring the lancing pain that shot up his legs and arms. Gingerly he touched his chest, feeling the old and fresh scars. He then touched his chin, at least he tried, his fingers probed days old growth of hair. What would Moneypenny say if she could see him now? He looked like Robinson Crusoe.
The scars came from the scorpions the Koreans used on him and their efforts to remove the venom once Bond became delirious. When he was first brought in, the guards worked him over with punches and well aimed kicks. Then the scorpions, then the ice baths and the relentless disturbing of his sleep. Any other man would have cracked.
For the first time in a long time, Bond considered that this was it –the end of his life. At some point he would crack, would cave in and he had no cyanide pill to take. Surely at some point the Koreans would have him shot? Push him blindfolded into the DMZ’s minefield or something imaginative. Nothing would bring Moon his son back.
How do you intend to kill me now, Mr Bond?
It still stung him, that memory. For a brief second, confusion then anger and then fear coursed through Bond’s body and then in another second, he had tried to draw his gun and was grabbed by Moon’s men. So startled, Bond was almost about to lose his self-control when Moon’s men lined up to shoot him. His eyes had been wide, he looked about and then…
Bond groaned as he pressed against the cell wall. Closing his eyes he began his latest efforts to keep his heart rate down. Faces floated through his mind as he did so. Tatiana Romanova lying on the bed in the train, Tilly Masterson grinning at him as they tried to escape Goldfinger’s Korean goons, Major Anya Amasova’s hair unfurling as Stromberg’s men apprehended her, even Tracy –always Tracy and then…
Then…her…the one that got away. One, like Tracy, that had pierced his armour.
He let the shadows come for him then.

PART ONE- “Hold Your Breath and Count to Ten”

Zurich, Switzerland, 1990

James Bond sauntered into the hangar like room in the basement level of one of Zurich’s many banking buildings –Credit Zurich. Wearing a black tuxedo Bond took a drink from a passing waiter. A quick sip –yes, rather standard white wine. Bond made a face and walked away to the edge of the room. The basement was full of men in tuxes, women in cocktail dresses all crowding onto a floor not unlike a dancefloor. Lights flickered in some pattern, loud thumping music from a stage and thankfully, a bar. Bond put his drink down. The bartender came to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Martini. Shaken, not stirred.”
When he received his drink, Bond half-pushed against the bar regarding the men and women with faint disdain. In the year since he had returned to being a SIS agent, M had sent him on a succession of missions so minor that they were not even up to a single-O’s level. The assumption was that not only was Bond not to be trusted after the Sanchez business but was unready for any true mission. Hence coming to Zurich to find out where money was going. Companies in the City of London (the old square mile) were pocketing money from a seemingly anonymous source.
He was bored already. As far as he was concerned, it was a matter for the Treasury. Not Secret Intelligence Services.
“You look as happy as I feel,” said a voice from behind him.
Bond turned and felt his eyebrows rise. The woman –American judging by her accent- wore an ink-blue dress that emphasised her bosom, hugged her slender hips and exposed her legs via delicately cut slits. Her brunette hair was in a big style, cascading over her shoulders. Bond straightened. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Paris,” she said holding a hand out. “Paris McKenna.”
“Bond, James Bond,” he took the hand, gave it a gentle shake. “Quite some party.”
“I find it tiresome,” she said a little archly. Paris ordered a drink. Daiquiri.  She turned side on to him, playing with the rim of the glass. “So, what brings you to Zurich?”
“Business. I’m interested in…floating stock markets,” he winced inwardly. “What about you?”
“I live here. I work as a model.”
“Is that all?”
Paris gave him a sharp look. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Sorry, just I look at some of these women and I imagine…,” Bond drank his drink. Paris’ nostrils had flared; she was on the cusp of flinging her drink. “Something I said?”
“You’re quite the man, Mr Bond; I mean no one else would be so forthright, so fast.”
There was a hint of a smile to those full lips. Bond stepped a little closer, conspiratorially so. “What about you? Aren’t you as bold?”
“Not straightaway,” she sipped at the drink and pushed the glass away from her when she finished. Putting one hand on her hip Paris stared at him. “Yeah, I’m a model. I was a teacher but I got tired of it.”
“A young teacher.”
“That too. I went straight out of college, in New York. I wanted a change of pace. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Banking isn’t exactly eye-catchingly exciting.” She was looking at him in such a way that Bond wondered if she suspected already he was not exactly what he seemed. Perhaps M was right, Bond thought, he was not as sharp as he once was. “You strike me as someone that likes to push the envelope.”
“Sometimes I do. I think of myself as a troubleshooter,” he finished his drink and gestured to the people behind him. “This is not quite my scene, you might say.”
“I do hate modern music,” Paris grinned and sidled up to him. He could smell her scent, a rich French perfume. “What are you after then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What brings you to Zurich, really?”
“I’m looking to make some money,” Bond found his throat was tight. He resisted the urge to tug at his shirt collar. “My company in the City is looking to make a killing.”
“I’m sure there’s no lack of possibilities here,” she murmured and turned away, her back against the bar. Her chest heaved with a melodramatic sigh. “Money is so tedious.”
“What do you do besides modelling?”
“I walk around endlessly trying to find something new in Zurich,” she gave him a sidelong look. “Like bankers who are not quite what they seem.”
Bond decided he had had enough of this small talk. He took her by the arm and guided her across the floor, she had a bemused expression waiting for him to explain himself. “I do enjoy meeting unattached women, or attached, there’s a certain excitement to be had…”
They were getting funny looks as they cleared the floor and reached the doors. He asked for his coat and she did the same. “Where are we headed?”
“I feel like a drive.”
Outside they walked to Bond’s car. A metal-grey Aston Martin V8 Vantage. Q Branch had been somewhat reluctant to give him another car since the last Aston went sky high in Czechoslovakia so this was his own personal car. A slightly updated version of the car he destroyed. He was quite aware that he was effectively shirking his duties but he felt that this would be a minor diversion. They drove off and eventually reached the shores of Lake Zurich. Bond opened the door for her and arm in arm they reached a small jetty just along from a shorefront café.
“You don’t strike me as the romantic type,” Paris smirked. “What would your boss say when they realise you’ve left the party?”
“He won’t know,” Bond remarked. In the flickering lights of the shoreline he studied her face. She did not seem worried or afraid, for Bond had virtually marched her out of the building and across Zurich. There was something about her that excited him in ways he had not known in a while. She had not been swayed by the money around her, though she seemed to have the finest perfumes and high-quality clothes, there was no trapping of power about her. Her face was turned towards the beauty of Lake Zurich, even at night it shimmered under the shoreline lights. Bond went to kiss her, turning her face to his.
After they parted, she gazed up at him eyes twinkling.
“Your place or mine?”
He laughed. “I think…”

**

Bond stood at the sink in his hotel room’s bathroom carefully shaving. Since going rogue, shaving had become a major preoccupation of his. It was best to be clean shaven and not look slovenly after all. He thought of the night just gone and reflected that it had been for the best. It had been some time since he had had a passionate night with a woman. There had been a reckless abandon when they had returned to his room. Even her lovemaking demonstrated worldliness. He had left her in bed to get ready for the morning. A quick cold shower and then shave.
He saw Paris appear in the doorway, she wore a white hotel robe, plain and ugly yet on her it appeared majestic. She leant against the doorframe languidly, tugging a little at the collar of her robe she smiled sleepily. “Morning, James.”
“Morning,” he continued shaving with a slight smile.
“I took the liberty of ordering breakfast. It’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“Sounds good,” Bond did not mind breakfast in his room. Cut out the pain of sharing a dining room with other guests. Reminded him of childhood jaunts with his late parents to a Bed and Breakfast.
“Tell me, James, do you always sleep with a gun under your pillow?”
Bond paused, he almost nicked himself, his hand jumped slightly. Very slightly, only he knew that it was a startled reaction. He made an effort to continue. “You’ve lost me.”
From within the folds of her robe she produced Bond’s PPK. The gun seemed incongruous in her slender fingers. “Don’t bullshit me, James. I know guns when I see them and this isn’t a lump of coal I’m holding.”
Bond put his razor down, he studied his reflection. Good enough and then turned to face her. Gently he took the PPK from her. “Well, you had my safety off, so that’s one thing you don’t know.”
She slapped him. The sting was harder than that of his aftershave. Bond slowly turned his head back restraining the urge to roll his jaw from side to side. “Something I said?”
“You’re a smartass and I hate that in a man.”
“You didn’t hate it enough to go to bed with me.”
She puffed her cheeks out and made a sound halfway between a snarl and groan. “Damn it! You got under my skin and you’re still there. I never met a man quite like you and yet, right now, you’re like most guys. Just one with a gun under his pillow.”
Bond regretted the old trick he had of putting his gun under the pillow. Smaller guns had been better, like his old long since gone Beretta. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Paris.”
“Just who are you?” Paris’ tone brokered no room for Bond. Somehow he realised he could not lie to her. The words ‘Official Secrets Act’ came to his mind unbidden.
Bond walked slowly towards her. “I’m…I’m with the Ministry of Defence in London.”
“You’re a spy!” she snapped, more irritable than amazed.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Don’t get cute with me, James.”
“I’m telling you the truth, as best as I can. I can’t ever reveal who I am to anyone, not even a woman who I spent a night with. That you must understand.”
Paris gazed up at him, her jaw trembled then she embraced him. “I’ll believe you for now, James. Even if I find it a little unnerving that I slept on top of a gun.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “I can understand that.”
She parted from him. “So, you get to blow up stuff, that kind of thing?”
Bond clicked a tongue against his teeth and walked past her. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“You told me enough already…”
“Because…,” he gazed back at her and then went to get changed. “I’ve said more than I should.”
So it spun from that moment in the bathroom. Bond spent a further week in Zurich during which time he found where the City’s money was going. A Swiss-German businessman named Koch was not only pocketing money but funnelling some into ten of the City’s most famous and best companies. Bond found that Koch headed up a small organisation called Zurich Plus that somehow had made billions in such a small time with such a small set-up. At the same time, Bond and Paris’ affair strengthened. Much more than lovemaking, it became meetings, lunches and the rest. When it came for Bond to return home, she came with him. When Bond reported to M, Paris was waiting in the car across the road from SIS HQ. It was in danger of spilling into something more serious. It was already in that early stages of what he had had with Tracy. Walks in gardens, a kind of kiss-chase on a beach someplace before folding into a passionate kiss with her top wrapped over his head, or starry-eyed glances and smiles. Never again, he had told himself then and now it was happening again. James Bond had become a lovesick fool. One key indicator was when Bond left M’s office after returning from Zurich and he had not paused for the usual flirting with Moneypenny. Something that Moneypenny had picked up on but said nothing about. Even Tanner could not draw Bond on what was going on though he half suspected.
A week became a month, became two months.  During this time Bond’s status within SIS had returned almost to normal. His file, accessible only by M, had been amended to how it had been pre-Sanchez. As Bond sauntered out of SIS one day to go on official leave, M quietly remarked to Tanner that his ‘man was back in from the cold’.
Tanner, who was standing near the window, glanced outside in time to see Bond step into his Aston Martin and noted the brunette in the passenger’s seat as the car quickly drove off.
“For the moment, sir. For the moment.”

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Any particular tracks you suggest accompany what looks like somethings I might enjoy?

I didn't use any tracks per se. I'd say the obvious is "Paris & Bond", "The Last Goodbye" even "Kowloon Bay"- maybe if you had some of the more romantic tracks of Goldeneye even. This is set in 1990 after all. I imagine the Zurich place would've been whatever passed for music in 1990!

As for the opening, no music can accompany Bond's imprisonment.

There'll only be two parts to this. Just a short-ish story. The chronology is quite sketchy, so I looked at a couple of sites and going with my own take on it. We're operating between LTK and TND. Has to be long enough for them to have a romance and to part with time before TND by which point she's married Carver.

the conclusion, it's a bit sticky -I think the old Hilly is long gone.

Anyway- tracks referenced: City of Lovers (CR), Paris & Bond, The Last Goodbye and Driving to Paris (TND) and Skyfall instrumental. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGs5rhNpBI8

PART TWO- “Nothing More, Nothing Less, Only Love”

North Korea, 2002

They dumped Bond back by the cell door, purposely so that when they swung the door shut, it caught him in the ribs. Except he was so winded that the pain was dulled, numb even. He crawled into the corner once again, using his hands to pull himself as if he were scaling a cavern. Once in the corner, he managed to haul himself upright and breathed deeply.
Paris. The memories still hurt, still stung him like the scorpions they used on him here. Many of his women had affected him in some way. Pam Bouvier was his equal, and more. Anya also was his equal even if her politics was the opposite of his. Even Stacey Sutton had been quite exciting and yet…there was always Tracy. Hence the annual trips to her gravesite in southwest London. Or why he attended Marc-Ange Draco’s funeral the other year. She would never be gone.
Paris was gone. That he could not do anything about as with Tracy. It felt just as bad in its way. Reuniting with her all those years on and then losing her so soon after in such a way. One small chink in Elliott Carver’s mad scheme. One more woman that had paid the price for knowing Bond.
Bond closed his eyes, chin touching his chest and sighed.
There was always Paris.

Paris, France, late 1990

Bond knew this could not last forever as he and Paris walked down the banks of the Seine on a warm evening in the French capital. He mulled over the past few months and how everything had changed. M had sent him back into the field on two missions and both times Bond had managed to place Paris in such a place he was able to get to her quickly after the missions. At one point he almost abandoned the mission to visit her and then return.
Discipline, 007, he had thought, discipline.
They stopped by an old lighter boat that had been converted into a restaurant. Once it used to ply its trade inside major harbours like Portsmouth, Le Harve or wherever and now it was all lights and ablaze with diners having a good time. The naval man in Bond stirred a little, he felt like the old ship had been put to a misuse. He smiled, when he did he heard Paris’ voice from beside him.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing, I was just considering…,” he chuckled and put an arm around her waist. “I think food is in order.”
“I hope so, I’m famished.”
They boarded the boat and were soon sat towards the stern close to a billowing Tricolour that for some reason annoyed Bond quietly. His frown was again noted by Paris. “What is it with you tonight?”
“The size of this damn flag,” he whispered as their waiter approached.
“James!” she chided him. He was reminded, as he looked back at her, that she knew him well already. Surprisingly, she had taken to his occupation without any real qualms. There had been no talk about how he could often end up killing someone, or the job he did, or just what he did otherwise –it was unspoken and not needed. She was ideal in Bond’s mind.
So, did he love her?
Bond wondered. To any one, love was something special. Love was with a person who you, well, loved and could often be your equal, or in terms of beauty or…
Tracy. Tracy…
Would he ever be free of the memories? He did not suppose he ever would be.
As Paris and Bond ate, they talked. There was laughter; there was some serious moments of course.
“Will you ever leave the service?”
She asked so soberly that Bond almost laughed. It sounded weird to his ears somehow, that he would ever leave. “I don’t think I will just yet. I intend to go on for a little while yet.”
“Not even for a woman?”
He stared at her, then glanced away reaching for the half empty bottle of wine. He topped up his glass quickly and knocked it back sharper than one should a glass of wine. A small dinghy was being rowed downriver by a man in a beret –for a moment he was struck by the absurdity of the image. For a moment. He shook his head:
“I was prepared to do it, once…, that was a long time ago.”
“You wouldn’t now?” Paris emphasised the last word with her voice cracking. He looked to her, saw her eyes glisten, her bosom heave as she choked after the utterance. He reached to take her hands; initially she tried pulling away then relented.
“It’s…it’s complicated Paris.”
“What happened to you, James? Why won’t you ever fully open up?”
It never occurred to him that he had never ‘fully opened’ to her. Perhaps it was the agent that he was, that he always would be. He let go of her hands and sipped at his wine this time. “I can’t quit the service, not yet. I’m lucky to have been in the Double-O section as long as I have.”
Without giving her pause, he suddenly told her about Tracy. He spoke only a few minutes yet they stretched into hours it seemed. When he was done, there were tears on her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Some things are not easy.”
“I guess not,” she wiped at her eyes and drank her wine. “Oh James, no wonder…I don’t know what to say. You’ve carried that around for all this time.”
“Hmm,” Bond did not want this to become a depressing evening. The hope was that he would wine and dine Paris before they left, well, Paris. “It was a long time ago.”
That was all he could say. Paris pushed her plate to one side, she fished out a cigarette lighter and cigarette from her bag. Bond held the lighter for her and waved off her offer of a cigarette. As she exhaled the smoke, Paris grinned at him. “You sure do know how to show a gal a good time.”
“For you, I would do mostly anything.”
“Mostly?”
He smiled back. “Mostly,” Bond paused as the waiter returned. There was the removal of plates, the desert menu thrust at him, desert ordered and then after a little while more they left the dinner. Bond and Paris walked up the Seine; their hotel was near the Champs Elysees. Bond thought they would take a taxi soon. As they paused by the end of the Pont Neuf Bridge, Bond put an arm around her.
“I might be getting a modelling gig in Berlin soon,” she remarked as they looked into the waters flowing past. “I think I’ll take it.”
“If that’s what you want, you have to go with it.”
“Will you come?”
He avoided her earnest gaze. “I might not be able to.”
He could not quite imagine M’s face when he returned to the headquarters and requested to resign on account of Paris. Though many had left the SIS to get married. It was after all a preferable alternative to how some Double-Oh’s had left.
“I understand,” she huddled against him, protected against the breeze that was building. Bond squeezed her arm and gestured for them to walk off. They headed back towards their hotel. Along the way Bonds mind wandered, he had no idea where the future lay and yet, yet, he had an inkling. The walk back was brief, what followed in the hotel a little briefer and then there was the night. Bond was restless, he went to the balcony of the hotel room and watched the dawn. The city’s charms was lost on him as he stood there drinking coffee.
What are you thinking?
I’m thinking that an agent can only be preoccupied with himself.
Bond drained his coffee and returned into the room. Paris was sleeping, her chest ever so gently rising and falling beneath the covers. Bond changed into a grey suit with navy blue shirt and tie. He picked up his wallet, keys and was rising when Paris’ eyes opened. She slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes she focused on Bond.
“Morning already?” she groaned and pulled herself fully upright. “Where are you headed?”
“I’m…,” he walked to the bedside and kissed her on the forehead.
“I’ll be right back.”
Without questioning him, Paris watched as Bond strode out of the hotel room as if with a sudden purpose.
And out of her life, seemingly forever.

North Korea, 2002

It would have sickened Bond how easily it had been to walk from Paris, had he not been in absolute agony in his prison cell. As he regulated his breathing, he thought about what had come after that morning. A return to SIS like nothing had happened. He had considered leaving her a letter, writing or phoning her but the days became weeks, became months and then it had been a year. Somehow he had put distance between them in all senses and in doing so, had recovered. Recovered? He no longer felt as he had in those months with her.
In the summer of 1994 he found out, only via seeing Moneypenny reading a gossip magazine, that Paris had married the ever notable and prominent media baron, Elliott Carver in a ceremony in Hong Kong. She looked happy, a total contrast to the cold neutral expression on Carver’s.
There had come a new M the next year and the business with Alec Trevelyan.
He had no idea he would ever bump into Paris again, never mind in the course of a mission and then he knew, when he saw her, what he would feel upon seeing her again.
Love, remorse, depression.
Bond opened his eyes, he leant forward staring at his knees. Water was pooling around his feet. The leak into his cell had resumed. He was not sure whether it was the Koreans or just the age of this place. He worked his way away from the leak and lay on his side. They would come back for him soon and the pain would stay with him. They would work on him until he could not take more and maybe then he would find peace. Until then James Bond would live with his memories as well as hold onto some of them.

End.