George Lazenby- "The Man With the Golden Gun"

In times of old, when I was still at university (a time since referred to as the Happy Time), I punched out Lazenby in DAF and thence onto TSWLM. Don't know why, I guess I figured such nonsense could be tolerated. Folk on old MI6 asked or thought why didn't I do TMWTGG? The thought to myself was that it seemed pointless. It's not a favourite film or book and even 'Lazenbyising' it would not be worth the effort. But of late I tinkered with one whilst waiting inspiration to strike on 'something proper' writing wise.

maybe with this in mind:



Following on from events in the Lazenby Diamonds Are Forever, preceding those of the Lazenby The Spy Who Loved Me and incorporating elements of the short story “Forever Autumn”

This is for the gang of old MI6- 007Calbrit, Bong, Purple, Kitts, Agent Leiter etc who raved and reviewed.




George Lazenby in
THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN

ONE
“The Man from Long Ago”

An old joke in the SIS was that Mondays were always Hell.
It was never clear if this was because it was the traditional start of the working week or that on occasion, the world tended to enter some kind of crisis. So SIS did on this particular Monday. As crisis went, it started innocently (as some did) and was over fairly quickly (as few did). At this time SIS –few ever called it MI6 here- still resided in the anonymous Regent’s Park building out to the east of the great green space. Miss E. Twining still opened and disposed of the many flyers, letters, bills and so forth addressed to the various ‘companies’ that supposedly inhabited the building, such as Universal Exports Ltd.
Just after 8am a man entered SIS using a key few had the use of, for many of the inhabitants of the building had to either enter a keycode or buzz for someone in their section to let them in after having studied them on close circuit television cameras hidden above and to the side of the door. The man had shaggy black hair that extended almost to his shoulders, possessed a thick beard and a grey complexion. As he exited the lift on the ninth floor someone passing dropped their files as they recognised him. He strode down the corridor passing a few photographs of London scenes, turning left at the end down another corridor before reaching an anteroom. For a moment he stopped and made as if to toss a hat onto the adjacent hat stand.
Miss Moneypenny had been standing by the window thumbing view files when something made her turn round. When she did she dropped the files which clattered noiselessly whilst she screamed. The man did not seem to recognise her yet put a finger to his pale lips. The red door to her right opened quickly. Chief of Staff Bill Tanner looked first to her:
“Moneypenny, what the dev__” Tanner’s eyes widened then he grinned. “James!”
James Bond had seen better days, Tanner thought but it was a joy to see his old friend. The smile faded as Tanner saw Bond did not react. Well, not in the way Tanner hoped. Quite the opposite. Bond drew a gun, an old Webley handgun as those in the war had used within Special Operations Executive.
“James…,” Tanner began worryingly.
Bond fired hitting Tanner in the left kneecap. Moneypenny dove for cover behind her desk stifling a scream whilst her slender fingers reached for the alarm button under the desktop. Tanner hit the deck clutching his knee –fingers already covered in blood- tears streamed down his face though he did not scream or cry out. His war service had taught him the true threshold of pain.
“M,” was all Bond said stepping over Tanner and into the office beyond.
Inside the office the agent’s eyes settled on the painting over the fireplace behind the grand wooden desk. It was The Fighting Temeraire on loan from the National Gallery. For the man Bond sought had been of the Navy. Yet there was no sign of this man. Bond whirled as gas began to seep into the office from the four corners of the ceiling. The windows were suddenly blanketed by steel shutters and the office door was closed and locked by an electronic mechanism. Bond tried to fire at the gas emitters to no avail. He collapsed to his knees aiming the gun at his head. Before he could squeeze the trigger he went onto his side unconscious.
Watching on a monitor in his alcove escape room M had gone a shade of red after first going quite ashen. The sight of his chief of staff writhing on the floor and his best agent doing what he had done was infuriating if anything. He tapped out his pipe and pressed on his intercom.
“This is M. Hurry the clean-up. I want to know what’s happened.”
“Yes, sir,” squawked a voice from the eighth floor.
“And bloody get me out of this room!”

**

Moneypenny smoothed her skirt as she stepped into the buildings canteen that afternoon. As with any building, the place was abuzz with the news that James Bond had returned and then shot Tanner before presumably trying to kill M.
“I heard he finally had enough of the Old Man and wanted to bump him off,” a voice chortled.
“Really Guy, you are vulgar.”
“Just a joke Miranda.”
Moneypenny heard similar things as she collected her food and crossed the canteen. That Bond had returned just to get rid of everything. That his wife’s death had it seemed completely unhinged him. Moneypenny played the wedding in her mind. It had been beautiful. She felt tears prick her eyes as she recall Bond tossing her his hat which she caught clumsily after he had waved awkwardly. ‘Sorry to mess you about all these years but I still love’ it seemed to say.
“Penny,” said Loeila Ponsoby startling Moneypenny from her thoughts. Bond’s secretary was stood by her carrying a mug of coffee. “Can I sit?”
“If your legs can handle it,” Penny’s joked had the desired effect. Loelia must be going through a hell of her own right now. She had been Bond’s secretary for years. There had been talk that she would soon leave. Get herself married to someone with a fair bit of money and retire to a private life before eventually –like all do here- end up on the Queen’s Honours List ‘for services rendered in the Civil Service’.
“It’s awful what people are saying about James. I just can’t believe he would turn bad.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“To come all that way and shoot poor old Bill.”
Moneypenny sipped her coffee. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll be fine. He’s downstairs in the sickbay. They’ve saved the leg, he’ll have a stick for weeks but he’ll be fine. Apparently the shot wasn’t crippling enough…that sounds so funny. Almost like James was trying not to shoot him.”
“Ghastly business,” Moneypenny reached for her sandwich. She was not hungry. Her appetite had been lost in the office as she cowered under the desk.  After Bond had left the office to go into M’s she had crawled over to Tanner’s and covered his knee until help arrived moments later. Tanner had his eyes clenched shut. “Not James, not James…,” he had said over and over.
Just then there was a shrill whistling that went up and down over the internal address system. It was an old style naval tone to signal the start of a message. M’s gravelly voice echoed in the canteen.
“Miss Moneypenny, report to the basement level immediately.”
The line clicked shut. Typical M, thought Moneypenny as she stood feeling everyone’s eyes on her. She gave them all a glower. This was enough to turn heads. Ponsoby wished her luck as she darted out.
The basement level was quite expansive considering it was in prime Central London property and adjacent to one of Her Majesty’s parks. It was home mostly to Q Branch with testing facilities and labs. It was also home to the sickbay and adjacent facilities. Moneypenny found M stood in a monitoring room with a man she recognised. Average height, stocky with a grey beard.
“Miss Moneypenny, delighted to see you again.”
“Sir James,” she said. To M. “Sir?”
“Bond’s been studied and analysed since he was brought down here. Something happened to him on his return from America. Our Man in Los Angeles has gone to Nevada to make checks on Bond’s movements there until he left.”
As he spoke Moneypenny looked through two-way glass at an interview room. On the left side of the table sat Bond. He looked rougher than before. He was also shackled by his arms and legs to the metal chair itself bolted to the floor. One of the Single-O’s was stood by the door. No chances were being taken for a man who had been a Double-O licence to kill.
“Sir James,” said M gruffly.
“Of course,” said Sir James Molony. “When I analysed Bond after the business of his wife I saw he had had a breakdown. Nothing more. Pure and simple the man had had a collapse. Yet I saw he was well enough for a mission. At least I thought so. From what we know –such as Agent Leiter’s report- Bond was fractious during the mission in Las Vegas. Subject to self-doubt, to emotional outbursts and then finally, at that man Blofeld’s facility, he killed the man and had a complete and utter breakdown.”
M was silent, he shook his head slightly. The only sign he was there at all really was the pipe smoke that puffed in clumps.
“Bond,” Sir James continued, “appears to have had a mental block. How long would we wager he was in America?”
“A year,” said Moneypenny.
“Long enough for his memories to return and to return to normal. Bond being the man he is, he would not have done this. He’s been a Double-O long enough…”
“The best can turn, Doctor, as they did in the world wars!” growled M spilling ash on the floor. He took the pipe from his mouth. “Even James Bond.”
“No, sir, not Bond,” Moneypenny found herself saying. She felt her heart pound as she dared to challenge her boss. The Old Man. The man whom she acted as a buffer against the outside world. “James was coming home to work. He wouldn’t kill you, sir. No matter what happened to him.”
He cares for you, she didn’t say. Neither man would admit to it but Bond had a fondness for M and vice versa. M had allowed Bond certain freedoms that other bosses in the service and other services wouldn’t do. Such as on Operation Bedlam, giving Bond ‘holiday’ which excused Bond to go off to Piz Gloria to get Blofeld. Or in Russia to get the Lektor home whatever the case, however the way.
“Sir James, go in and do what you do.”
Sir James walked out of the monitoring room round a corner and after a pause into the interview room. The Single-O would stay by the door. Sir James Molony sat opposite Bond who did not meet his gaze.
“What happened, Commander, what caused you to do this?”
Bond kept his eyes down. He did not speak or even attempt to.
“Let’s try some word association,” Sir James smiled genially clasping his hands on the table.
“Duty.”
“England,” said Bond so quietly M had to strain to him even over the intercom.
“Security.”
“Hope.”
“Hope.”
“Dreams.”
Sir James paused the nodded. “Dreams?”
“Salvation.”
“Home.”
Bond’s eyes glazed over for a moment.
“Tracy.”
M cleared his throat glancing a moment at his secretary. Moneypenny gave nothing away.
“Home,” repeated Sir James.
“Skyfall,” Bond muttered then looked hard at Sir James. “There’s better things to do than chase me around with pointless exercises, Sir James.”
Molony grinned trying not to look at the mirror. Bond seemed different all of a sudden. “What happened in Nevada, James?”
“I wish I knew. It’s mostly a blur.”
Bond looked away to the two-way glass and sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. I failed you.” He looked back to Sir James. “I last really remember going into Blofeld’s compound and finding the bastard in the missile room. I killed him with my bare hands. I watched him until his eyes bulged and the breath left him. I killed him.”
Bond tested his cuffs and relaxed. “I could do with a cigarette.”
Sir James nodded at the Single-O who hesitantly came over and produced a cigarette which he lit and placed in Bond’s mouth. Bond nodded his thanks.
“You killed Blofeld?”
“And that bitch, Irma Bunt.”
“Then?”
“Nothing. Complete blank. I remember Tiffany on and off then the drive to the airport…”
As Bond spoke M went to a telephone. “This is M, I want the investigation on Bond’s last movements in America hurried up. He’s giving some info and I want it double-checked. I don’t care if you’re overworked, get it done!”
“…then nothing again.”
“You don’t remember coming into the building?”
Bond shook his head puffing on his cigarette. “No.”
“James, you…you, er, shot Bill Tanner and then went to kill M.”
Bond’s cigarette drooped then dropped entirely onto the table where it lay smouldering. Bond stared at Sir James. “I shot Bill?”
“He’ll be alright. You got him in the knee.”
“And…M?”
“I’m fine, Bond,” said M over the intercom. Bond looked about at the speakers and then smiled weakly.
“Reporting for duty, sir.”
“You have some nerve, some cheek after all that’s happened. Going AWOL after the Vegas mission. Shacking up with some woman in Lake Tahoe and then coming home trying to kill me! Your licence is revoked until further notice.”
In the silence that followed Bond shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Sir James got up and left the interview room but only Moneypenny remained. “I don’t think he’s under the influence of whatever it was that drove him here. We can still give him a chance.”
“I’m not the one that needs convincing,” Moneypenny said.
“And there’s the rub, indeed.”

Count me in as one of those who followed your Lazenby series at the old MI6. Very excited to see your take on TMWTGG.

thank you

Will we be getting regular updates on this one, Hilly? Looking forward to Chapter 2.

It depends. I'm kind of tinkering with it when other stuff is frozen. I've not thought much on it but I have much done into Chapter 3. I'm jigging the action to Japan, figuring out this Scaramanga. I daren't imagine Christopher Lee. If this TMWTGG is between my DAF and TSWLM I'd imagine this being set in 1972/73.
I'll see what I can do.

Ooh, a relocation to Japan...Perhaps in your version Scaramanga, not Blofeld, could oversee the Garden of Death?

Perhaps some inspiration?

If only, what might've been.

Any chance of seeing Chapter 2 in the near future?

unfortunately not at present, it's dead as a doornail. Unfortunately, inspiration is in non-fanfic at the moment. As a writer, I go where the wind blows me. Sadly.

this was done some months ago and the story remains stalled but somehow, much to my inner despair, I feel the itch to write Bond. I had an idea inspired by the Timur Vermes book "Look Who's Back" and had deleted my Sam Neill DAD re-write of late but who knows.

Never say Never

CHAPTER TWO

“Enemy Defined”

Bill Tanner tottered into M’s office still not used to his crutches. M was reading a file, wordlessly he gestured for Tanner to sit. Tanner did so dropping his crutches by the chair.
“Chief of Staff, this file is inconclusive.”
“Respectfully, sir, our man in LA did his job to the hilt. Bond’s movements are tracked almost to the minute from Lake Tahoe to the municipal airport nearby and then onto San Francisco International.”
“What about once he landed, here?”
“He came straight to SIS from Heathrow.”
“So he got hit on the…,” M’s grey eyes flicked to the open foolscap pages, “…flight out of San Francisco. Direct?”
“Aye, sir,” Tanner injected navy speak every so often. “Sixteen hours.”
“Full passenger manifest?”
“On it, sir.”
“How’s the knee?”
“Hurts when it rains,” Tanner managed a smile even if his boss did not. “Sir, James needs a second chance. I…”
M slapped the file shut with a hiss. “Damnit, Tanner, this is the service not the damned Salvation Army! There are no second chances. Bond has had his share of luck…I should never have let him go to Las Vegas.”
“But he got Blofeld. Operation Bedlam is over.”
“Blofeld’s body was never found.”
Tanner could not believe his ears. “Sir, Bond blew that place sky high. Lucky they’d find a fingernail never mind a body.”
M leant back in his chair smoking his pipe thoughtfully. “There are times when the buddy act between you and Bond goes too far.”
“I’m chief of staff and I know my people. Bond can recover…”
“For a man who shot you in the knee, you seem quite forgiving of him.”
“He wasn’t…himself.”
M shook his head. “Besides the Reds who would want to do this?”
“Blofeld’s allies, the Chinese, maybe even someone in America. There’s a huge list, sir.”
A few years ago one of the other Double-O’s, Bill Reilly 009, was ambushed in East Berlin by KGB agents revenging the loss of their boss three years earlier at the hands of 009. It was not unheard of for someone to get caught out this way. The loss of 009 had been hard to take all the same. There were a whole host of people who’d want M dead. One reason why M was protected on the grounds of his estate by members of Ronnie Vallance’s Special Branch.
The intercom buzzed. “Sir, a package has arrived addressed to you. It’s gone through the scanner. Seems harmless enough.”
M spoke dryly. “Bring it in, Miss Moneypenny.”
Moneypenny did so carrying a brown packaged box no bigger than one that could contain a cup. Tanner eyed it warily as he hobbled to his feet leaning on his good knee he took the package from her. “Best have someone from Q Branch come up here with a bag of tricks, Penny, just in case this is something that goes boom.”
They waited for someone to arrive, in this case it was Major Boothroyd himself. Pleasantries were spared as the man sometimes known as Q got down to examining the box. He used a stethoscope to listen to any ticking or mechanism for a bomb then after a moment he opened the box prompting both M and Tanner to express shock. He reached in and held aloft a single gold bullet. On the bullet were clearly inscribed ‘007’.
“So, a bullet for Bond,” M said without humour. “I don’t recognise the calibre.”
“At a guess I’d say it was custom, sir,” Q remarked he then pulled out a card and read aloud. “ ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A bullet for James Bond’.”
“Looks like you might be right, Tanner. Revenge for Blofeld.”
Tanner was eyeing the bullet which he had taken from Q. He rolled the bullet in his hand and muttered. “Sir, there is one man in the world who uses gold bullets.”
“Cut the airport novel dialogue, Tanner. There can’t be just one man…”
“But there is, sir,” said Tanner louder. “A man known as Francisco Scaramanga.”
“Sounds like a Spanish sauce, Tanner.”
Q gave a short laugh. “Tanner’s right, sir. We have had dealings with him before. 003 was killed in Panama City by golden bullets, specialised calibre like this one.”
“I thought 003’s death was by Redland.”
“Probably on their payroll,” Tanner explained shortly. “Sir, he wasn’t on the plane James took from Las Vegas. I’ve scrolled down it, the team’s looked at it and no one even remotely matching his known physical description is on it.”
“So we have a blank. Who would have drugged 007?”
“The list is endless,” Tanner sighed. He would have made a joke about jealous husbands and mad tailors but he thought better about it. It did not seem right. “Someone connected to Blofeld perhaps. Maybe Scaramanga knew Blofeld…”
“Yes, the old chums network!” snorted M. “This is the biggest load of bilge I have heard in a long time. But then this is the week for it,” M turned face enveloped in smoke from his pipe. Moneypenny, get me Sir James and have him come up here. Gentlemen, thank you. Tanner, trace every passenger on that flight. I don’t even care if one was a Lord of the Realm. I want to know who was on it and right down to the bare bones.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
When Sir James arrived he immediately lit a pipe joining M in recreating London’s smog of the 1950s.
“As the expression goes, let’s get down to brass tacks. In this short time, do you believe James Bond is adequately fit to serve Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”
Sir James took his pipe from his mouth sighing. “The only way to prove that is if he goes out into the field.”
“Like Las Vegas?”
“That was different. Bond had not been drugged…”
“We don’t know for sure if he was on the flight…”
Sir James cut across M’s bows like a motorboat before a destroyer. “Miles, Bond’s mental state is relatively fragile still. I believe he has turned a corner. The trauma he has experienced this time is a different one to the year where his wife was killed. This trauma is a release from that one.”
Not many people called M by his real name, few got away with it but Sir James Molony was one of them. “What are the chances of him snapping on the mission?”
“Slight. Bond will have a case to proof.”
M was against putting agents back into the field after such experiences. He had known a few who had suffered something bad and ended up cracking on the mission. Men in the first war who would run from the deck below as the ship was ablaze in battle. Men who would sob in their bunks at the fear of the day ahead.
“He’s one of my best…”
“And he will be again,” Sir James paused and puffed on his pipe. “Mission?”
M shrugged.
“Somewhere out East. Just foraging.”

Don't know why I didn't get the usual e-mail notifying me that you had posted an update. Nice to see some movement on this story.

Thank you. I dare say such was the length of inaction that email notifications stood up and went for a walk somewhere else.

Hilly KCMG wrote:

Thank you. I dare say such was the length of inaction that email notifications stood up and went for a walk somewhere else.

That must be the case!

CHAPTER THREE

“Over the Top”

The Triumph motorbike’s engine growled, coughed once and echoed over the trees coated with a fine layer of snow. Its headlight swept a yellowy glare over the road sign ahead declaring –BASTOGNE 9km.
How many Germans got to see that sign during the Ardennes offensive of 1944, James Bond wondered hunched over the bike. He did not glance anywhere but the road ahead. His speed was too high for this road, especially after a heavy snowfall in which temperatures still were not above freezing.
“You don’t get many second chances in live, Bond or even a third chance, but you’re getting one now.”
When Bond was addressed by M it was in his office with Tanner at M’s side but also with three armed guards behind Bond. Bond, dressed in a finely tailored suit, was allowed to smoke. He smiled crookedly. “I guess I’m Single-Oh-Seven right now.”
M almost smiled but dismissed it. “Scaramanga, you know much about him?”
“Just what’s on file, sir. Believed to have come from a circus family, born around 1931 in…Czechoslovakia of all places. Yet, no definable accent. Gun for hire. Charges a million a kill, uses a golden gun with golden bullets…,” Bond trailed off as M carefully laid a golden bullet before him on the desk standing up. Bond picked it up noting the 007 scratched into it. “So, I’m next.”
“It would appear so, Bond, but you’re going out there before he gets you. So to speak.”
After M finished, Tanner spoke: “Japan, James.”
“Japan?” memories of old days came to him. Dikko Henderson, Kissy Suzuki, Aki and Tiger, of fake Volcano’s and geisha girls.
“Seems that Scaramanga has a base there but we don’t think it’s his main one. I did some checking and there was a woman on your flight who matches the description of one of his molls.”
Tanner laid a photo on M’s desk before Bond who craned his neck down to look. An attractive brunette with big hair, long legs and big…
“Her name on the flight manifest was Andrea Anders…”
“This smells of a trap. Why would she have drugged me and let herself be tracked to Japan and Scaramanga? He’s eluded most of the world’s police, sir, this isn’t right.”
“Your right,” said M through a haze of blue smoke, “but you must follow it up.”
That was that. As simple as that.
“Station J’s none the wiser,” said Tanner, “they have been tracking this for months and yet no one seems to have an idea where he could live. Japan’s not the biggest island or islands in the world and yet he’s vanished. Maybe another hollowed out volcano.”
Bond did not laugh. “When do I leave?”
“Monday. Pan-Am flight connecting in from New York.”
“Monday? That’s two days away.”
“You’re also joining NATO for a couple of days in Belgium,” Tanner started…
…Bond shook his helmeted head as he rounded a bend. He didn’t need testing and he didn’t need it in bloody Belgium. It was a country Bond had little time for. His time on secondment to the old SHAPE in Brussels had been dull were it not for the high dining and womanising.
Ahead he saw something glitter in the winter sun. Slowing a fraction he shifted his posterior on the bike’s seat and adjusted his grip on the handlebars of the Triumph. Ambush? Anyone in the countryside would have heard him coming. Then he saw it, somehow he saw it! A line of silver across the road about head height. An old, old trick and a damn dangerous one! Bond was going too fast, time was against him and distance was shrinking fast.
Bond swung the bars of his bike to the left; he felt the razor wire on his right arm as he slewed under it. The bike bounced off the short wooden post the wire had been dug into and away from it. Bond was already clear, tumbling through the snow and down a short ditch where he stopped. Grunting for breath Bond flipped the visor on his helmet up. He willed his breath to control itself. Reaching slowly for his gun –a Browning- he listened. The only sounds were the distant song of a bird and the cackling of his bike’s engine as it wound down. Bond thought a curse and edged to his left. He had the awful feeling they were right on top of him –whoever did the wire. They had to be near. What if they had taken out someone innocent? No…they’re here.
Bond carefully took off his helmet placing it down and shoved snow into his mouth so that his breath would not show as much. It was faint hope, he felt like he was a walking chimney with smoke coming from his mouth. He rose to a crouch just as something snapped behind him. Who would be so amateur?
He turned just as someone a motorcycle overall came at him. Bond dropped his Browning in time to grab the outstretched gun arm of the assailant with both hands. Wrestling Bond could not see the man’s face for he wore a ski mask. Bond nonetheless snapped the arm down hearing it break just before he rammed his knee into the doubled over figure’s head. Pivoting to get his gun Bond stooped just as a shot hit the snow where he had just been. Bond hit the snow hard and lay still.
“Threesome, hmm?” he said to himself. The shot had come from across the road. The wounded assailant next to Bond moaned and shouted. Bond took care of that by knocking him out with the butt of the Browning. He searched his assailant finding a hunting knife, some ammunition for a 9mm and the gun itself. He also found a wallet but it contained nothing but an empty pack of condoms. Bond arched an eyebrow. “Busy boy.”
Another shot slapped the snow sending a wailing up into the pines. Bond stood and vaulted over the ditch, running across the road towards the wire. The sniper went mad, bullets made soft thuds in the snow as Bond ran. He hit the snow hard wincing as pain shot up his leg. Looking along his body he saw he had hit a stone, a mighty big one actually. Bond was hidden from the sniper by the dip in the road here. Lifting his hand he pulled on the wire and jerked it down. Wrapping the wire a little around his wrists Bond crawled along the road for a hundred metres feeling his chest and crotch go numb then he was up and running into the copse of trees. He heard a tentative shot, the sniper feeling his way for Bond. Bond zig-zagged through the trees then sighted the sniper. Wearing camouflage slacks like the Finnish armed forces were keen on and wielding a modified Enfield rifle. Curious choice of weapon. Bond slowed down and approached from the rear. Then he was upon the sniper and ducking down to loop the wire under the man’s chin and jerking his head up.
“I yield! I yield. Bloody hell!” the voice was unmistakably British. Bond did not slacken his grip.
“Play by the rules or I’ll break your neck.”
“Alright, alright. Waterloo, code is Waterloo!”
Bond dropped the wire and the man who rubbed his neck. The ‘sniper’ rolled onto his back glaring up at Bond before standing. Bond had a slight smile upon his lips. “You take it seriously, 007.”
“When you’re being tested for service, you take it seriously 421,” Bond said with no trace of humour. He waited as 421 called to his friend across the way and soon another was trudging over with a hand to his head. “I’m sure you’ll tell M I did okay and pass me.”
“I’m not mad on your methods…”
“Pass me.”
“No need to beg,” 421 tried to make a joke but it failed. “You’re passed 007 but I’ll make a note of your recklessness.”
Bond put a hand on 421’s arm. “And that is why you’ll be stuck out here for the rest of your career. See you next year.”
He walked off to his motorbike.

**

First Class on the Pan-American Boeing 747 was virtually empty except for Bond and two Japanese businessmen who joined at London with Bond. Bond wore a grey suit offset by light blue tie and handkerchief in breast pocket pretending to read the Times. He re-read the same sentence a sixth time and laid the paper down. A small display above the door to the compartment read in ticker-tape fashion that their location was now somewhere over Asia. He had tried to sleep but he had a weird combination of images haunt him. Tracy, then Blofeld’s limp body after Bond killed him, then Tiffany out in Lake Tahoe as she looked after him. Then Tracy…
A stewardess in Pan-Am blue came up to him, she bent at the waist and gave him a white-toothed smile: “Are you okay, Mr Bond? Anything we can do?”
He was about to make a sly remark but held off. “Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred.”
The smile broadened. “Of course.”
Bond put the paper to one side fishing inside the magazine rack and finding Playboy he smiled and chuckled.
When the stewardess returned with his drink Bond had fallen asleep, the magazine lay on the floor unopened. She put the drink on his tray and quietly walked away.

This has the makings of something really good. Another strong chapter.

Thanks but enjoy these as you can. This forum could be sliding off the run soon.

Hilly KCMG wrote:

Thanks but enjoy these as you can. This forum could be sliding off the run soon.

What do you mean?

It's hard to say at the moment. Half believe the forum's dead, half will stay until the ship sinks...We'll keep plugging until the water washes over my feet.