Roger Moore's 007 'returns' in "Hell's Delight"

Well gents in spite of myself I felt compelled to put pen to paper. I doubt I'll finish this, various factors are at work right now in my life but just a bit of harmless fun. I think my days such as they were on the old forum, for this kind of thing, are all but gone.

Pre-Titles

Vandenberg Air Force Base, California
Sometime in 1979

“I just don’t think you realise the gravity of the situation!”
“Oh, I think gravity was foremost on my mind, Freddie.”
“That’s Minister to you, Bond, after this little cock-up!”
“Cock-up is one word or two, for that.”
Minister of Defence Sir Frederick Gray gave a sound so explosive and exasperated, that James Bond had to turn away from him lest he exploded himself, with laughter. “Forgive me, my dust allergy is kicking in.”
Gray resumed his brisk walk from where he had met Bond at the foot of the ladder of Moonraker Five. The acrid Californian sun blazed upon Vandenberg with such abandon that Bond felt stifled. Following meekly, the CIA’s Holly Goodhead ducked her head as Sir Frederick gave her a look over his shoulder then to Bond: “I just don’t think…no, YOU don’t think what you’ve done! The Queen saw you…and, and Ms Goodhead…frolicking in space!”
“You know, Freddie, sorry –Minister, your bluster is almost endearing,” Bond grinned at him this time. Beyond the rapidly self-combusting British Minister, was a scrum of reporters clustered before a hastily erected podium. Beyond them, was the NASA shuttle that had landed hours ago with the Marines who had briefly made the sojourn up to the late Hugo Drax’s monstrosity in orbit. Were Bond to look to his left by five hundred metres, he would have seen what had become an escape capsule for the gigantic Jaws and his petite love, Dolly. Gray held Bond back a moment, Holly almost walking into them. “The President saw you two…two…well, in orbit and so you are now making a press conference…because you two are heroes! Her Majesty’s Government has quite enough on its plate without this!”
Bond, clad in his Moonraker uniform, stepped up to the microphone with Holly at his side and his arms folded.
“Commander Bond!” a voice that shortly identified itself as from the Times called out. “How does it feel being the first British man in space?”
“I am flattered, though it was never in my remit to be an astronaut,” Bond gestured to Holly. “You must credit Doctor Goodhead for her work on this.”
“But, you alone Commander, saved the Earth!” another voice persisted.
“I was merely the trigger, Holly here was the pilot. A firm hand on the thrust of the mission,” Bond smiled. Holly stepped forward a fraction.
“It was a joint effort,” she said softly. “Drax had to be stopped and we stopped him.”
“Mr Drax was a reputed businessman and entrepreneur, did he not survive?” a third voice asked.
“No,” Bond said deadpan, “he’s boldly gone. Poor chap didn’t have the heart for it you see.”
“What now, for you both?” the second voice –from the New York Post- asked shrilly.
“I am returning to Langley for debriefing and reassignment,” Holly said, she picked at her hair idly. “What career I had anyway.”
“I on the other hand will return to England,” Bond added.
“No more adventures?” the Post queried.
Bond stared frankly at the reporter. “No, but I you’ll find I always find myself rising to any occasion.” At that he took Holly by the elbow and led her away ignoring the barrage of questions and a red faced Sir Frederick.
“Poor man’s going to burst a vessel,” Bond said to Holly. Ahead of them a car with USAF decals on the doors pulled up sharply. “I have a feeling that’s our ride.”
“Where to, James?”
Bond opened the rear door for Goodhead. “Depending on what Felix has waiting for you at Langley, I think a visit to a delightful restaurant I know in Lake Tahoe.”
“Great, I love seafood.”
“Indeed,” he closed the door and went round the other side. Pausing only to look at the space shuttle he shook his head and joined her in the back of the Air Force car.
He had taken enough leaps for one year.

ROGER MOORE’S JAMES BOND 007 in

“HELL’S DELIGHT”

Starring
Kenneth More as ‘C’
Desmond Llewellyn as ‘Q’
Lois Maxwell as ‘MONEYPENNY’

Special appearances by- Richard Kiel as JAWS and Lois Chiles as HOLLY GOODHEAD

If you can find the time to write, please do. They feel like extra episodes to Bond's life that I'm catching up on.

'C' is interesting... Since Bernard Lee passed before FYEO?

I'll see what I can do but I have no plot right now I was leaning to a sort of Moonraker follow-up but that's too much even for Moore. I was thinking 'C' after reading that Kenneth More was supposedly lined up to step in for Lee for LALD owing to Lee's illness. Furthermore, More was friends with Sir Roger (both best men at each other's third weddings) and by 1973/78 he was still a competent actor (though his Parkinson's started in earnest around 1979/1980 so it's debatable here if he could've been in Bond).

Lee was scheduled of course to film on FYEO but died just before. So in my mind I sense this 'sequel' would be somewhere in 1980. It's iffy. I got carried by the idea of a PTS following on from Moonraker. One last OTT outing for Moore's Bond before the grounding of FYEO.

We'll see. My laptop's going in for an overhaul and I'm moving house soon, ha. It's all go.

Should be a fun one, Hilly. Please keep it going.

Hilly KCMG wrote:

I was thinking 'C' after reading that Kenneth More was supposedly lined up to step in for Lee for LALD owing to Lee's illness. Furthermore, More was friends with Sir Roger (both best men at each other's third weddings) and by 1973/78 he was still a competent actor (though his Parkinson's started in earnest around 1979/1980 so it's debatable here if he could've been in Bond).

Didn't know that. So was the character 'M' to have been retired and replaced with 'C', or were they to be the same character, just a change of codename and actor (but still playing Miles)?

FieldsMan wrote:

Hilly KCMG wrote:

I was thinking 'C' after reading that Kenneth More was supposedly lined up to step in for Lee for LALD owing to Lee's illness. Furthermore, More was friends with Sir Roger (both best men at each other's third weddings) and by 1973/78 he was still a competent actor (though his Parkinson's started in earnest around 1979/1980 so it's debatable here if he could've been in Bond).

Didn't know that. So was the character 'M' to have been retired and replaced with 'C', or were they to be the same character, just a change of codename and actor (but still playing Miles)?

I don't quite know to be honest. To be fair, this whole story and the idea of More being drafted in as 'C' is an invention of mine -assuming M is not quite retiring (or sadly, dead) in the run up to FYEO (it's of course not said in the film whether M is with us or not. The role left vacant owing to Lee's death). If Kenneth More had stepped in for LALD (and say TMWTGG to Moonraker) I'd say he'd have been M from the off. Personally, being a big fan of his, I can easily see him do the Bond apartment scene in LALD well (the door ajar to show his somewhat bemused if irritated expression when Bond answers).

He wouldn't have filled Lee's shoes, no one has, but I like to think he'd have made a good fist of it. Certainly would've given his career a timely if rather late boost, bearing in mind his illness came along 1979-81 and sadly claimed him much too early (68 years of age).

Blame my parents. Had they never watched all these old films when I was little, I'd not have gone down this route.

I really have no idea as you might tell from this chapter which sort of comes either side of three days without my laptop. Real life stuff has fudged my grey matter a little but hopefully, a plot will become evident in the weeks ahead.

--

Chapter One
“Battle Flags”

Bond stood by Moneypenny’s office window, the glass streaked with large droplets of rain –dashed against the window by the strong southeasterly that was bashing Regent’s Park. Even the reinforced glass seemed fragile and weak. Rattling in the frame like a frightened ghost. Bond wore a dark suit with navy blue tie and black shoes from his man in Chelsea. Behind him the whir of the electric typewriter stopped.
“He’s not dead yet, James.”
Bond lifted an eyebrow, without turning to Moneypenny he remarked sourly: “Rather poor taste, Penny, but no…no, he’s not dead yet.”
Bond’s mind travelled south to Gosport across the water from Portsmouth and a week past. Specifically to the old grey and red of the Royal Navy hospital at Haslar which sat away from Gosport’s waterfront and had been present for a few centuries. He forgot how he had been summoned and yet, summoned he had. Rarely for Bond, he took a train from Waterloo and was across to Gosport and the hospital within half an hour of landing in Portsmouth. Memories had come unbidden of his time as a younger man in his RNVR training. Scaling rigging of HMS Victory whilst a hoarse-voiced Chief Petty Officer screamed at him and his fellow trainees: “How else do you expect to command MEN, SIRS, if you can’t CLIMB!?”
At Haslar a matron right out of the early Carry On films, in the mould of Hattie Jacques, met him and took him to a private room buried within Haslar’s confines. In this room, with a window offering some glimpse of the Solent and Isle of Wight, was M. Or ‘Adm. Sir Miles Messervy, RN (Rtd)’ as the board on the end of his bed read. Bond had arrived in uniform (something that he had gone to great pains to accomplish –even when he had travelled to Faslane two years ago, over the microfilm business, a somewhat urgent dash to tailors in Mayfair was needed) and placed his cap under arm.
“Reporting for duty, sir.”
“Sit down before you cause a draft,” M had rasped with familiar irritability. Bond hid a smile as he sat by M’s side. M’s eyes were clenched shut, he wore surgical greens which were mercifully mostly hidden by the light blue sheets. “How’s the office?”
“Tanner is having more a slight nightmare, sir, nothing new there. We’re…,” Bond hesitated feeling foolish. “Shipshape, sir.”
“Good,” M opened his eyes –they were bloodshot and watery. “I daresay I won’t be returning anytime soon.”
“You…I…well, sir, I think you’ll be back before you know it,” Bond fidgeted on his chair.
“No, not this time. I’ve weighed anchor for the last time,” M managed a smile. Bond was surprised at how much the smile hurt him. “You will get…a temporary…,” M’s voice laboured –“temporary boss. Sir Michael Patterson.”
Bond frowned, though he was tempted to ask if it was a SIS rule that heads of department had to have forenames starting with M to get anywhere. “Name rings a bell, sir. Isn’t he the PM’s new favourite?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” M said quietly and looked squarely at Bond. “Michael is a good man, serious but fair depending on the action. He served in destroyers during the last war…good man…in a storm. Good…man.”
Bond leant towards M, not quite aware he was doing so. “Sir, is there anything I can do?”
“Just do your job,” M said with such sharpness Bond winced. “Make sure…you do.”
“I will, sir.” Bond reached out, putting a hand on M’s arm he went ahead: “Sir, there’s never been anyone I respect as much as you…I…”
Bond got no further; M patted the hand and pushed it away. Bond nodded –it was as close as he would get to his chief. “Will Sir Michael be in office soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
Bond stayed to talk about navy matters knowing that was something M would like –it was one reason why Haslar was his current mooring. The sea had never been far from M’s mind once out of the service and into SIS. The home in the Shires had been proof of that with his old CPO –Hammond- being there and all the navy regalia in the house. Then Bond took the train back and found himself brooding at Blades.
Moneypenny’s intercom box buzzed angrily. There was a pause and the light above the door went green.
“He’s ready, James.”
Bond said nothing go through the two sets of doors before entering the familiar office. Except it was a different man sat there. Actually, the man stood by the window, arms behind his back, hands interlaced. At seeing Bond, Sir Michael Patterson half-glanced towards him. “Take a seat, 007.”
Bond smoothly went to the desk, sitting down he felt like a child at school. Sir Michael moved to the desk after a pause, hesitating he sat down and stared at Bond. The face was pinched, as if sizing Bond up. Sir Michael had receding curly grey hair, dark eyes and wore a grey suit albeit with red tie.
“Your Moonraker adventure has had the department tied up in red tape up to its eyeballs. I would hope you’re not planning on going –shall we say, extravehicular- in your next assignment.”
Bond resisted the urge to groan. “No, sir,” he said brightly. “I am not intending on going anywhere…high up.”
“Quite,” Patterson said. He clasped his hands before him on the desk. “Sir Miles’ illness will not be used as a cover for slacking in this department. I have been keeping an eye on what has gone on and I’m not amused.”
Bond stirred, he found his voice irritable. “Sir, this department has been undertaking some difficult if somewhat urgent missions. I wouldn’t consider M’s illness to be cover…I take exception to that.”
The silence in the room was enough for the distant chiming of church bells to penetrate the office. Sir Michael regarded Bond for a moment before standing; he went over to the office window. “My words might have been out of turn; however, I believe that change is needed. Sir Miles has done valiant work, I’m honoured to think of him as a friend.
Bond cheekily did not consider that Sir Michael had friends nor indeed, even more-so did M have friends. Not as one other might have friends. M preferred his own company, perhaps saw people during his rare stints of leave away from SIS but otherwise had the Hammond’s and one might suggest, the likes of Bond, Moneypenny and Tanner. C, as Bond even more cheekily thought of him now, turned from the window hands in pockets. “Your record does you credit, Bond, few men have been able to face off the enemies you have and live long.”
“I have a coward’s taste for life,” Bond tried to joke. He saw it fell flat and also realised he was being self-deprecating for the sake of it. He ran a finger along an eyebrow absently. “I’ve managed so far.”
“Indeed, few men could be known to bartender’s all over the world and still live a secret agent’s life.”
Bond smiled at that. “I get by.”
“As that there are no assignments for the department. The recent foray into, well, Outer Space, has the PM quite concerned that the budget is being used in ways for which it was not intended,” there did seem some twinkle to those dark eyes. “Also, I have recalled 009 from his current assignment based on his failure to put down General Karlov in Cuba.
Karlov had been a Soviet general who had repeatedly been seen in Cuba advising the Cubans on methods of defence as well as giving intelligence about American missile defences on the contiguous USA. In a rare example of American request for help, Karlov was to be assassinated by 009 to put pay to any repeat of the Cuba Missile Crisis or worse. Bond could not fault 009 without knowing the facts. What Bond knew of Karlov, he knew the Russian general to be slippery.
“In that light, you are on leave. Try not to go too far,” a slight smile, “though Tanner has you on pager.”
Bond reflected upon this news with a twitch of the eyebrow. When C said no more he stood and refrained from saluting. “Good morning, sir.”
Bond hesitated at the door expecting a final word from C, yet with none coming he swiftly went into the anteroom pausing to gather his coat from the stand. He smiled at Moneypenny. “If he wants me, Penny, tell him I’ll be riding in the park.”
Moneypenny frowned. “Riding?”
Bond chuckled, he went to her desk leaning towards her. “I have a sudden yearning to ride horses in Hyde Park, fortunately I know someone in the Chelsea Barracks who could help me out with that,” he kissed her on the forehead and straightened. “Give my best to M when you see him.”
Moneypenny’s frown became polite surprise. “Oh? How did you know?”
Bond had reached the door which he deftly opened. “I know you all too well, Penny!”
From the garage in SIS Bond took his Lotus from the space allocated to him. It was the same white model that he had veritably punished in Sardinia two years ago during the Stromberg business. As he drove out towards Regent’s Park he was half tempted to drive into the boating lake there (though the depth of the lake was only a foot or two in places). Instead he opted to drive southwards in the direction of his Chelsea flat mulling over his meeting with C. Hard to gauge on this initial meeting, it was what in the navy would have been sizing the enemy up from its first appearance on the horizon. Sir Michael could either be a valuable ally or entrenched enemy depending on what went on in the days to come. Bond found it hard to believe he had no assignment. Most of his working week was admittedly office based, his weekends spent outside of London or overseas. On the quiet, few weeks of his year were ever spent on assignment. Such was the effect of a mission; he spent considerable time on leave.
He was half serious about riding in the park. Something he had done a few times before. It would be Hyde Park though as it had a dirt track that ran much of its perimeter including Kensington Gardens. Yes, he could go for a ride then have a bang up meal at Surrey’s in Eaton Square. A new place that had a promising menu and cheeky choice in wines.
As he drove down Edgware Road, Bond’s mind was admittedly focused on this and not the innocuous Volkswagen Beetle that was following him. It made neat work of the light traffic heading down towards Marble Arch, and beyond that, Park Lane. Just as Bond reached the famous spot where executions were carried out once upon a time, the Beetle charged into the lane to his right. Bond then noticed the car, took in absurdly the swinging dice in the car’s cabin and then swerved as the Beetle came in at him. Bond drove in front of a bus that slammed on its brakes (and its horn), swerving towards Marble Arch itself. The Beetle came in at him again, this time it connected, its chrome bumper denting Bond’s door. Bond gritted his teeth, he changed gears and accelerated between the white main arch of the Marble Arch scattering pigeons and some tourists alike. The Beetle pursued at great speed, something that surprised Bond. He then launched across a pedestrian crossing and into the park at Speaker’s Corner. Turning left he started down the horse track.
“Not quite the ride I had in mind,” Bond mused to himself. He flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror. The Beetle was bouncing wildly as it came down the sand track behind him. Bond freed his left hand from the gear stick, pressing a button on his dashboard which revealed a series of small electronic screens. Bond’s Lotus kicked up several lumps of sand and dirt as it tore down the track. Sirens rang tinnily in the distance. Bond kept his eye on the track for a moment then punched at a screen. The Lotus surged upwards on four metallic supports, bobbing like a top as it did so. The Beetle raced into the gap left, neatly fitting between the Lotus’ wheels. Bond waited, slowed a fraction, allowed the Beetle out ahead and returned the Lotus to its regular position atop its wheels. He shrugged. Q would be pleased that the addition to the Wet Lotus worked though he wouldn’t care for Bond’s believe it was pointless. Poor Q. Bond flicked the top of his gearstick which lowered his front number plate. Twin nozzles sprayed the Beetle with wet cement. The Beetle swerved crazily perhaps as a result of the driver trying to get Bond to pass him and thereby attack him.
Bond was not finished, taking the gamble that whoever was driving the Beetle was out to kill him, he accelerated hard. Bond’s number plate, still lowered, was shorn off and one of the nozzles destroyed as the sloped nose of the Esprit smashed into the Beetle’s rear. The Beetle bounced to the left, hitting the side of the track it improbably flew into the air shortly, crashing into the black railings lining Hyde Park. Bond came to a ragged stop, the Lotus slewing around to the right as he lost momentum. Bond had to get out of the passenger side which slowed him down enough to miss seeing the Beetle’s occupant get out of the wrecked car and inch towards the railings. A crowd was already forming chiefly from the Park Lane side of the railings. Bond caught the driver as he tried to climb the railings. It was no effort to get the short man down –blood covered the left side of his face, matting his sideburns and hair. His eyes were glazed.
“Who are you? Who are you working for?” Bond snapped automatically.
The man said nothing, instead his head lolled to the side and he collapsed upon the grass. Bond stood there uselessly over the body just as two Met Police panda cars came tearing up the horse track from nearby Hyde Park Corner. Bond was in the process of reaching for his MoD identification when he noticed something. Crouching he saw his would-be assassin had a tattoo on his right wrist. Just below the hand, Bond frowned for it seemed odd and then his frown became a slightly wider-eyed look of realisation. The words on the tattoo read ‘SMERT SHPIONAM’. Bond knew enough Russian to know it was ‘Death to Spies’.
SMERSH.
Bond’s eyebrow lifted in time with the arrival of constables from the panda cars. Noting the newcomers, Bond remarked:
“Poor man was lost. Luckily I was on hand to give him directions.”

---

Nice one, Hilly! The opening moments to the first line is probably moodier than any of Moore's moments in the films, but it was nice to picture him in that kind of scenario.

Intrigued to read more...

Thanks Fields. I'm not entirely convinced by this story yet. I realised after writing latest bits that I'm thinking more of Lazenby and the moodier tone isn't quite right for what is meant to be a sort of transition phase from Moonraker's out of the world stuff to FYEO's down to earth mood. Tends to be affected by my own mood, ha.

I actually had something else written for this chapter initially but redressed it. We'll see, laptop kinks aside, what else I can do.

Before I thrust ahead, I've edited our credits. A bit of fun and solidifying as we go...

Starring
Kenneth More as ‘C’
Desmond Llewellyn as ‘Q’
Lois Maxwell as ‘MONEYPENNY’
James Villiers- TANNER
Geoffrey Keen- SIR FREDERICK GRAY

Barry Foster- VALLANCE
Walter Gotell- GOGOL

Special appearances by- Richard Kiel as JAWS and Lois Chiles as HOLLY GOODHEAD

Music by Bill Conti (title song ‘Hell’s Delight’ by Blondie with Bill Conti)

---

Now, I'm sorry for this one, the tone is something I've striving for and you'll see what going in without a plot does for a man but I think I have a clue which will flourish in the next chapter.

CHAPTER TWO
“Caviar for Breakfast”

C was a little back in his chair at M’s desk, head upon his forefinger looking inquisitive as Bill Tanner read from a manila file cover.
“Vallance’s people at Special Branch found nothing out of the ordinary save for that tattoo, sir. The car had been brought five years ago by a Samuel J. White of West Brompton –needless to say the driver did not match Mr White’s description, as he was or is, ahem, a hippy of sorts. Mr White that is, sir…”
“I got that, Tanner,” C said irritably and straightened in his chair. “Nothing at all? No clues of any kind?”
“Car was clean, what Special Branch could comb from it, sir. Forensics says that our SMERSH friend’s tattoo was at least twenty years old. He was in his late thirties so too young to even be a SMERSH agent the first time round. He’s a perfect zero.”
Bond had been sat away by the window like a pupil due a thrashing by the headmaster. C had wasted no time in extracting Bond from Scotland Yard and spiriting him here to SIS. “Bond, when was the last time you dealt with SMERSH?”
“Many moons ago, sir,” Bond said carefully. “There was some rumour that Major Amasova was actually working for a distant relation of the old department. Otherwise, I thought it was disbanded not long after the war.”
“It was,” Tanner said stiffly. He snapped shut his file. “Whoever this man was was connected to SMERSH or maybe even SPECTRE. And he wanted you dead specifically, 007.”
“Thanks Bill, I knew he was after me for something beyond unpaid bills,” Bond stood going to C he passed Tanner with a cold look. “Sir?”
C looked up at Bond as if seeing him for the first time. “Well, 007?”
“I would like to go after whoever was behind this.”
“If it’s something to do with Soviet intelligence, the answer is no. You and Major Amasova might have, ahem, repaired Soviet-British relations then but we’re somewhat fractured right now. The development of our ATAC system, our new methods for resisting detection for our nuclear submarines and other matters are driving somewhat of a wedge between us. It’s almost like the postwar era. You going off after whoever was behind this might make things ten times worse.”
“James had somewhat of a specialty for this, sir,” Tanner remarked.
“My thanks to the peanut gallery,” C said dryly. He stood pressing his palms on the desk. “Where would you even start?”
“Our friend in the morgue,” Bond said. “With your permission, sir.”
C hesitated then nodded sighing as he did so. “Very well, 007. Find who did this and why. Remove them as you see fit.”
“Sir,” Bond nodded to Tanner, “Chief of Staff.”
C watched him go before sitting. “SMERSH,” he murmured. Shaking his head he reached for his phone. “Moneypenny, connect me with Vallance immediately.”
Bond in the meantime drove over to Westminster and Old Scotland Yard off Whitehall. With his regular Lotus now in the shop, he drove a Lotus arranged for 004 which had sports tyres and a red piping down the sides. Leaving the car in a sidestreet Bond threaded his way through the rat-warrens of Old Scotland Yard to reach the mortuary. It was not quite where he wanted to spend a day off and yet he was going have to. He was somewhat surprised to see the dour face of Assistant Commissioner Ronnie Vallance standing before the door though.
“Hello, Ronnie,” Bond said brightly. “I take it you’re not here collecting toll money.”
“No, I’m flaming well not,” Vallance growled folding his arms across his chest. The trenchcoat he wore half hid a grey suit which all combined to form the perfect image of a British copper from the movies. Vallance’s expression was devoid of humour. “I’ve had to abandon highly important work because of a phone call from some bonze at your department who’s filling in for M. Where is M, anyway?”
“Leave,” Bond suddenly did not find humour worth the effort. “You’re in a right mood.”
“Like I said, I had business that was more important. Your new boss wanted me here, doesn’t seem to trust you much.”
“Must be my looks,” Bond said side-stepping Vallance and entering the mortuary room. The body of the assassin was on an examination table dead centre of the room. The smell of disinfectant stung Bond’s nostrils, he swallowed at the sight of the body. In spite of all he had seen in his life, there was something faintly nauseating about this. A man of average height, bald and with round black spectacles wearing a doctor’s coat stood by the table clipboard in hand. “You must be Commander Bond.”
“Guilty.”
Vallance just nodded to the man who held a hand out to Bond. “I’m Hawkins, one of the coroner’s here at Scotland Yard. I’ve been working on your bod for the past few hours. Not often we get to help you chaps out. Not that often anyway.”
Bond smiled, he liked this man instantly. Clearly one who didn’t care for rank judging by how he accepted Vallance’s quiet acknowledgement of him. “What have you found out?”
“Not much, I’m afraid to say. Death was a result of the car crash, blunt force trauma to the back of his head,” Hawkins turned as if addressing the body. Bond stood beside him with hands interlinked behind him. “The tattoo is temporary or was meant to be, the ink is a week old designed to remove itself within a month.”
Bond peered at the tattoo frowning as he did so. “Elaborate ruse…I would suggest that SMERSH are not behind this,” he held a finger up straightening. “I know what you’re going to say Ronnie, and that was rhetorical. I know SMERSH are not behind this. Needless to say, someone is.” Bond walked around the table eyeing the body. “What does Mr Samuel White have to say, Ronnie?”
Vallance blinked, surprised. “The car owner? Someone tried to buy the car off him last week –sounded Russian he said. White didn’t like the look of him,” a snort, “quite a stretch coming from a dopehead.”
“Perhaps a visit is in order?”
“No. No point and why would the SIS bother?”
“Because it’s all we have. You never know what a drive might present.”
Vallance shook his head and headed for the door. “I’m going to regret this, I’m sure.”
“Now, now, Ronnie, where’s your sense of adventure?” Bond said cheerfully following. He paused to nod at Hawkins. “Thank you, Doctor. Keep it up won’t you?”

**

Bond’s Lotus made the journey to deepest darkest Brompton in half an hour. Samuel White’s house was in a row of buildings near Old Brompton Cemetery. Bond adjusted his tie as he followed Vallance up the short flight of steps to the front door. Vallance simply pushed the door open.
“Security somewhat lax in Brompton,” Bond said.
“Everything is you’ll find,” Vallance led the way up several flights of stairs in a building that was somewhere between fragile and unkempt in terms of appearance. Loud music greeted them at the top floor through a door left wide open. Bond instinctively put a hand to where his PPK was hidden under his coat and noticed that Vallance had drawn his service revolver. Stepping into the flat, the two men glanced about. The place was a tip, magazines scattered about, ashtrays overfilling, the smell of something quite fragrant and torn wallpaper. As they examined the room, the two men were startled by the sudden appearance of a man with shaggy hair and thick moustache.
“Hey, what you guys doing here?”
“Special Branch,” Vallance said crisply producing his ID from inside his coat whilst still holding the revolver in his right hand. “Mr White.”
“You’re here about the car again? I told you guys, I don’t know what was going on there.”
Bond had manoeuvred to the other side of the room by the window. He poked with a finger at detritus atop the windowsill. Two empty tins of caviar rattled noisily. “Quite high market for a hippy who I imagine is against this sort of thing,” Bond said airily.
“Man’s got to eat,” White snorted. “Besides, what does caviar have to do with being against capitalism?”
“Or room service,” Bond murmured taking in the room again. Vallance put his gun away. “Speak Russian, Mr White?”
“No.”
“This man who took your car was Russian, or we assume as such and he was keen on your car for some reason. Had you seen him before?”
“No!” White went to his sofa, kicking stuff aside he sat down. “You pigs are all the same. Guy’s a certain way and you prosecute him. I’ve never seen him before. I was looking to sell the car at one stage, not that I have to now, and I guess he was keener on it than others.”
Bond was finding this quite tiresome. There was no telling really just where this would go. If the assassin was a cipher, a nothing, than the investigation was cold. Quite frustrating. “I think we’ll leave it there, Vallance?”
“You didn’t say the car was for sell before, White,” Vallance was coldly staring at White from across the room. Vallance had that tone of voice reserved by most police, especially London police, for tricky suspects. “You’ve seen our friend before.”
There was a perceptible change in the hippy that Bond realised immediately. Gone was the edgy nervy man, now was one calmer and steely-eyed. “I wouldn’t know him from Adam, mate.”
Before either man could react, Samuel White launched himself from the sofa a gun in hand that he fired several times in what seemed like a blur. Bond ducked to his left as the window next to him shattered. The speed of the attack (the gun, he assumed, had been under the sofa cushion that White had sat on) was all too startling. Bond had dim acknowledgement of White passing through the window before he could turn around. Vallance rushed to the window hands on the sill amidst the shards and peered over the edge. “Bastard! Where did that come from?”
Bond looked out, White was spread-eagled across the bonnet of Bond’s Lotus. The odds of two cars being written off in a day was something he found quite unpalatable. “Something tells me our Mr White was part of this SMERSH business.”
“Sharp as a tack as always,” Vallance growled dusting his hands off. “Let’s get this mess looked at by the forensics boys and head back to the Yard.”
“I don’t suppose you have fare for a taxi?” Bond asked as they walked out.

---

Vallance is someone I think could've been in an early Bond movie (Dr No/FRWL, even Thunderball or a pre-62 movie as he has that old copper feel, your Jack Hawkins of Gideon's Day/Long Arm for example). Barry Foster came to mind for a 1979/80 Vallance and I suppose I'm largely thinking of his brief turn in Battle of Britain as a fairly irritable Wing Co who has to teach Polish recruits ("SILENCE! In Polish!")

Will set some time at the weekend to read the latest chapter... Looking forward to it!

I'm having fun following this, Hilly. I always wanted to see your take on a Moore-Bond story. Even if this is the 'toning down' of Bond from the '70s to the '80s, don't forget to go big and have fun--this is Sir Roger, we're talking about.

Good to see Vallance pop up. Your scene is highly evocative of a old fashioned cop mystery so bravo you! He certainly wouldn't have felt out of place in a film tonally similar to Dr No. I suppose that if Fairbanks in TMWTGG was killed in London (instead of Beirut), there might have been an opportunity to bring the character to life. For all of TMWTGG's faults, Hamilton did create a unique atmosphere for the film, which, and could easily see Bond and Vallance visiting a nightclub to investigate Fairbanks death.

Thank you fellas. I've tended to watch my fair share of old movies with British cops so I guess it's all I know. I think he is like, Vallance that is, the chap who helps Bond out in Dr No from the police.
I think Vallance could've been a good character -trouble is there's no room for him really now, not unless he ends up as a Lastrade in Sherlock type.

I've just gotten my laptop back today so hopefully other chapters might fall into line soon enough. No idea the kinks Microsoft Office kicks up, ha.

Anyway, my thanks as always.

You're probably right. Vallance would probably be a non-entity as they've made Tanner nowadays.

CHAPTER THREE

“Death to Spies, Minister”


Fresh from Brompton Road, Bond was somewhat relieved to be heading up to the eighth floor having just gotten a tongue-lashing from Q about going through cars like toilet roll. Even Bond’s humour failed him as poor Q went through the litany of cars Bond had written off from the DB5 onwards.
This being said, he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him when he was ushered into M’s office by a sombre faced Moneypenny. Seated before M’s desk was KGB chief Anatol Alexis Gogol adjacent to Minister of Defence Sir Frederick Gray. Bond faltered.
“I seem to have the wrong office.”
“Hardly, 007. I believe you know Mr Gogol from previous assignments,” C said. Gogol rose a hand outstretched, that familiar line of a smile evident, the lights above glinting off his spectacles. “Comrade Bond, a pleasure as always. I see you have recovered from your extra-orbital activities.”
Bond cleared his throat wondering just how many people had seen his hijinks with Holly. “My back twinges sometimes. You’ll forgive me for wondering what’s going on.”
“It’s about that body, the second one stacked up next to the first from this morning,” Gray snapped. “My God Bond, you’re accident prone!”
“So I’m led to believe. Samuel White was not who he seemed, he was…”
“KGB,” Gogol interrupted sitting back down. “Acting rogue from the new head of Department Five, formerly SMERSH –General Karlov!”
Bond looked from Gogol to C, studiously avoiding Gray’s stare. “Sir, you’ll excuse me but isn’t that a tad neat?”
“You’d think so but frankly I’m losing trace of this day’s events,” C reached for a pipe which he tapped, unlit he held it. “Vallance has burst a vessel, Q is suffering some form of breakdown and I have the head of KGB in my office.”
Bond couldn’t help but smile at that. C sounded quite put out by the day.
Gogol laughed. “I assure you, Sir Michael, I have better things to do than come to London at a moment’s notice but this is of the gravest importance. It seems your failed assassination of Karlov in Cuba has sparked something in my countryman. Within hours of landing in Moscow he was summoned to the leader’s dacha outside the city. By the evening, Department Five had been reinvigorated and SMERSH returns…!”
“When was this? Only a few days ago I’m sure,” Bond said. “If that’s the case, I’m surprised at how swiftly the Soviet apparatus works…”
“We have our moments, Bond,” Gogol said humour gone like water down a drain. “Karlov is a shrewd man, shrewder than most.”
“SMERSH, what tosh,” Sir Frederick butted in with bluster. “This…this Down with Spies nonsense died in 1946!”
Bond chuckled. “Death to Spies, Minister,” he nodded to Gogol. “So, Karlov has my head in his sights. Why?”
“I believe he promised the leader proof of his dedication to the Soviet cause and that means your head.”
“I’m flattered. I’ll remember to buy a new hat lest his aims off.”
“This is no time for levity, Bond,” Sir Frederick said loudly. “There is a mission…”
“Quite,” C interrupted with some exasperation. “Bond, you’re to head Karlov off at the pass, as it were. With General Gogol’s aid.”
Bond laughed. “Sir, this is outrageous. The submarine business I could understand but this? No offence, comrade, but I’d sooner trust my tailor.”
Gogol shrugged. “No offence taken. I have the same view.”
“What about the fact that Karlov had the ear of the Soviet leader within hours and now Gogol’s here?” Bond was on the verge of something. He did not quite know what. This was at once the oddest day he had in a long time. C was watching Bond as if waiting for him to break. Bond backed away from the desk. “It doesn’t add up in my book.”
“The leader has frozen me out of his inner circle, something you might quite extraordinary,” Gogol rumbled rolling the syllables of each word delicately. “There is some fear that Karlov is agitating for my position. I have a certain amount of allies in the country to help.”
“Dandy,” Bond folded his arms. He went to stand by the window back to it taking in the three men.
“What I propose Commander Bond,” Gogol said shifting markedly in his seat to face Bond, “is this. That you come to Moscow and face Karlov.”
“Utterly absurd,” C said standing. “Do you honestly think that would work? This isn’t an old fashioned duel, Gogol. Bond is not some prawn in a game of chess. I will not have one of the Double-O’s used in this fashion.”
“Then I propose nothing if that is the case. I did not come to London on a goodwill mission! This whole escapade does not benefit either of our people. If Karlov is removed than perhaps we can carry on as before and not until then. Or at the very least, Commander, you have a head start.”
C rubbed at his eyes wearily, settling back into his chair he muttered: “Head start?”
“Karlov is coming for Commander Bond regardless. Would it not be therefore wiser, if he cannot come to Moscow, that he gets what you would call, a jump on Karlov?”
“This is so bloody preposterous,” C said. He waved a hand at Sir Frederick as the Minister of Defence began to bluster again. “One moment. Well, Bond?”
Bond unfolded his arms realising he had been clenching his hands into fists. “This is quite out of order, sir, with the greatest of respect.”
“I know Bond, but we can’t afford to lose you,” C winced. “It sounds quite trite I know. General Gogol…”
“I shall provide you with contacts before I leave London in a few days. I will be at the embassy,” Gogol smiled thinly. “I will stay to pay my respects at Highgate to Karl Marx’s tomb!”
“Hail, comrades,” murmured Bond to himself. He nodded once at C. “Sir, I’ll get going.”
“Before you go, 007, speak to Q. once you leave this building you’re on your own.”
Bond smiled. “Indeed I am, sir.”
After Bond left the other visitors eventually filed out leaving C alone. C pondered for a moment before reaching for the phone.
“Royal Navy Hospital Haslar, Moneypenny, please.” He hung up waiting for the call back.

Nice to see an update, Hilly. The plot thickens!

Most kind. The plot is moving. Where is anyone's guess. See about this one

--

CHAPTER FOUR

“A Man Alone”

The British Airways Concorde rocketed across the heavens at an altitude of sixty thousand feet and travelling just over 1300mph. This far up the world seemed quite tiny, the curvature of the Earth quite apparent and even the veiled darkness of space hinted at.
Seated towards the front of the aircraft, Bond lay with his chair at a slight angle eyes on the cabin ceiling. Q had been calm when he talked with Bond after the Double-O came from M’s office. For once witticisms had been placed aside by both men. Not that Bond left with much of note. He found it difficult to prepare for this in spite of similarities to past missions. Like Scaramanga, he should have gone after Karlov rather than allowing this foolish chase to begin. But then Gogol was the weak link for Bond –as much as he perhaps had a begrudging admiration for the Soviet, Bond was not quite sure if he could be relied upon and indeed, if Gogol was under threat himself, how long he would be relied upon. What Bond did know was that the supposed hippy, Samuel White, was part of this errant ‘SMERSH’ venture. One last nugget of information before Bond left London.
Karlov.
Alexsandr Paulovitch Karlov.
Bond closed his eyes. A short man bristling hair, prematurely grey. Born 1949 in what the Soviets called Kaliningrad and had been German Konigsberg until 1945. Rapid advancement in promotion through the ranks first of the army then the KGB until last year when after his brief role in the Afghanistan invasion he was recalled to Russia for his ‘irregular activities’ (not specified). Then this year he commences a series of so-called counter-espionage raids designed to foil SIS and CIA activities. Hence why 009 came to be in Havana trying to kill Karlov. Bond understood from Tanner that the CIA and SIS had virtually tossed a coin to see who would do the deed as much as SIS later said it was doing a favour for CIA. Whatever the case Karlov had not been killed and now he was after Bond.
A man who was known to bartenders all over the world now had to become as anonymous as a grain of sand on a beach.
Bond woke with a jolt which timed itself to the moment Concorde’s wheels thumped the tarmac at JFK International. Glancing through the small windows, Bond felt a smile upon his lips. As much as he liked London, coming to New York always felt special and doing so on Concorde helped. Now, for the hard bit.
Bond was through customs like a breeze through a canyon, bedecked in grey trousers, white shirt and light black jacket. Buying a flat cap from a shop near Pan-Am’s desks (something Bond found surprising, surely the flat cap was a British occupation only?) he then brought a local newspaper and joined the throngs of people leaving the airport. An airport bus took people into New York itself. Bond pretended to read his newspaper glancing over the lip of it to take in his fellow passengers. A party of Pan-Am stewardesses chatted happily; sometimes stealing glances at Bond –there were two families, one bickering in German and at the front six nuns that somehow made Bond grin behind his paper. His grin faded when he considered if someone else here was one of Karlov’s people. If he could hide a sleeper agent as a hippy…
At the Port Authority terminal building Bond stepped out. He made his way quickly away from what looked to be a fairly hairy looking area to a car hire firm tucked off the busy street. The man inside looked quite like Danny DeVito’s Louie character from Taxi down to the growl he gave when he saw Bond. “And what are you supposed to be, bub, George Hamilton?”
“I’ll take that as a hello,” Bond said cheerfully. He laid a ten dollar bill on the desk noting the dead flies flattened on the wall. “Something small, something cheap and something now.”
The man crunched the bill in his grip. He looked about then stood, even then he was barely up to Bond’s chest. “007, as I live and breathe!”
“Ernie Weiss, one of the CIA’s best kept secrets.”
“Don’t I know it? Look at me. I used to be a spy.”
“I’m in danger of soon being able to say that. Without cutting niceties short, Ernie, I do need a car.”
Weiss’ eyes narrowed, he nodded quickly sitting back down. “Sure, sure. urgent mission and all that.”
“Something along those lines yes,” Bond checked his watch then outside. Weiss was indeed one of Felix’s best kept secrets. One of many secreted along the way to help when help was needed. The vague passphrase was obligatory in such situations. Though Bond had other ways of letting Weiss know who he was if that had not worked.
“Come out back,” Weiss said. “I have the perfect car.”
The office if shabby was nothing compared to the cramped lot out back that seemed no more than the size of a tennis court and yet filled with what appeared like hundreds of cars. None of the cars quite appealed to Bond as he squeezed between bumpers, following Weiss like a snake through crooks in a canyon. “Ernie, this had better be good.”
“I take it you don’t want something too obvious or else you wouldn’t have tried me. If the great James Bond comes to me for help I know it’s for a reason.”
“Felix has been spreading word of my legend again, I see.”
“Spreading something,” Weiss stopped craning his neck to look up at Bond. “Something like the matter of Kananga, Las Vegas, Bahamas…”
“Yes, well, you can stop it there. Felix knew what he was getting himself into each time.”
“Yeah, well like I said it was something,” Weiss pointed in front of him. “Here you are.”
Bond’s eyebrows lifted. The car was a Volkswagen Beetle, the white of its skin marred by brown-red rust at the edges of the doors, wheel arches and windows. The windscreen wiper was broken halfway, the rear window mottled by a crack and discolouration. The car even seemed to be leaning to its left. “Ernie, it’s a wreck.”
“It runs like a dream, trust me. Wanna try?”
Bond reluctantly opened the driver’s door, with some gusto, to climb in. keeping the door open he took the key that Weiss offered and slotted it home. It took two determined twists of the key for the car to splutter into life. Yet, into life it went and with a steady purr. The milometer showed nothing but zeroes, the fuel gauge dial flickered up and down. “This car…is alive, Ernie.”
“She has a charm. Wherever you’re going it’ll get you there. Where are you going?” Weiss waggled his eyebrows inquisitively.
“I have no idea,” Bond said simply leaning out to snare his bag handle in one grip. Weiss stepped closer to the car. His slight build meant it was no great effort.
“You surely know what’s going on, don’t you?”
“No,” Bond pulled on the door. Weiss stepped back whilst Bond awkwardly wound the window down. Looking up at Weiss he smiled. “I know where I’m going, good bye Ernie.”
Weiss waved a hand as the car thundered away covering him in black smoke.
“Maybe I was presumptuous in just how good a car that was.”

**

Feeling like a hermit getting the hell out of Dodge, Bond drove out of New York City –the roads freeing up as he got clear of the metropolis.
Where was he going?
Bond played with the radio dial on the dashboard, rewarded with static he gave up. In spite of its tilt, the Beetle was driving well. He just wished there was something better to think off than knowing some mad Russian was after him.
Or was there?
Shaking his head Bond rested his elbow on the lowered window and drove. Just out past Poughkeepsie he encountered a small town on the east bank of the Hudson that seemed to consist of a petrol station, motel and few other buildings. He assumed more of this town was hidden in the trees beyond. Turning off the state road he pulled into the petrol station forecourt where an old man shuffled out. Bond grinned at him, the very image of an old fifties movie attendant. The overalls, the dirty cap folded at the brim and the voice –it whistled at the end of each word. “Fancy your tank topped up, mister?”
“I su…yes, please,” Bond said cancelling the witticism. He fished out some notes. “Tell me, where’s the best place to stay round here?”
“That motel behind us there. Ain’t much to look at but not bad for the price.”
“And where is here? I seem to have gotten lost.”
The old man finished with the hose, hooking it up to one of the pumps. “This’d be Point Perfect. Population two hundred fifty-eight, last census.”
“Interesting,” Bond murmured paying the man he drove the Beetle around the side where it joined a pickup and two other Beetles. “Small world,” Bond remarked to himself. The reception of the motel had a picture of President Carter at a kilter by the door –judging by the bullet holes in the photo Carter was not liked much round here. A peeling map of the state hung behind the desk above small boxes for room keys. The man at the desk was chewing gum. He wore a checker-board pattern sweater, the combover did little to hide the baldness he was valiantly trying to hide.
“Good day, I’m looking for a room.”
“Just you?”
“Just me,” Bond was about to lay his hands down on the counter and thought about it.
“That’d be fifty bucks, mister.”
“Indeed,” Bond handed over the money. The man came round the counter after picking up a key. “If you come with me, sir.”
Bond wondered what the Hell he had let himself in for as they went past several rooms before reaching the end of the building where adjacent rooms formed a L wing to the motel. “Room 14, no cigarettes, no parties, no guests!”
Bond chuckled, his smile faded at the stern look he got. “Of course, no ahem, guests.”
The room quite frankly left a lot to be desired. Then this did seem to be something out of the film Touch of Evil so Bond let it slide. Waiting for the footsteps to fade he ran the customary rule over the room for anything out of the ordinary. Finding nothing he hauled his bag onto the bed and drew a chair up alongside. Rummaging through the bag he took out a sock that he had balled up. Unfurling it he emptied a handful of rounds into the palm of his hand. Counting them out he then opened a secret compartment in his bag to pull out a silver .44 Magnum. After Saint Monique, M had wanted the 44 left out of Bond’s armoury –Bond declared he had a certain feel for the weapon and it’d be a shame to part with it. He leant back in his chair loading the weapon. Headlights lit across his room before fading. Bond tensed, moving quickly to the door he waited. A car door opened, shut, footsteps came his way. A shadow appeared at the frosted window in the door. A bell rung.
Bond reached for the handle keeping a low profile. As he cocked the door open a fraction he said loudly: “I didn’t ask for room service.”
“Comrade Bond, I am her…” the voice did not get far as Bond flung the door open, whipped at a hand and brought the caller in at a rate of knots. They somersaulted into the bed where they lay stunned. Bond kicked the door shut training the Magnum on the woman (woman!?) where they lay. “All right, ‘comrade’, turn over and keep your hands where I can see them, I’m a nervous guest you might say.”
The woman turned over, her hair fell about in blonde waves, she quickly tugged her skirt to her knees and held her hands up. Her beauty was quite something. Bond though kept the gun aimed right at her throat.
“Either standards in the KGB really are slipping or your very careless for announcing yourself,” Bond walked forward a couple of steps. Carefully, he squatted to pat her down. “Comrade Bond indeed. Major Amasova you’re not.”
“I heard about you and Agent Triple X,” the woman said huskily. Her accent had Russian to it yet only a tinge. She sounded more American than Eastern European. She certainly shared Amasova’s sulky look of outrage. “Contorting with Western spy!”
“I think you mean consorting but yes, the premise is the same,” Bond found a Beretta which he palmed. “Who sent you?”
“Comrade General Gogol.”
“You found me easy enough.”
“Not hard, I followed from New York.”
Bond was quietly annoyed at this. He surely would have noticed someone behind him on the quieter roads out of the city. How did she get here? Not even Moneypenny had known where he was going once at Heathrow and she usually helped him get tickets at short notice. Had Gogol tailed him from the off? Or was Bond simply too predictable?
“All right, get up,” he pulled the chair from the bed and sat on it with his back to the door. She sat on the bed’s edge. “Who are you?”
“Agent XY –Major Josephina Karstov.”
“Hmm,” Bond lowered the gun. “And what did General Gogol task you with? Or was it General Karlov?”
Karstov’s eyes narrowed. “I did not come here to be made fun of, Bond.”
“Then why did you come?” Bond opened the chamber of his .44 rolling it once he slotted it home and carefully re-aimed it at the Russian. “General Karlov has a price on my head and you just happened to find me here. I wasn’t that careless.”
“You stopped, didn’t you?”
“A man can’t run forever,” Bond reached up to latch the door. “I can do this all night should it come to it. I would rather not.”
Karstov rubbed her hands together. She did seem on edge as if something was bothering her. Bond tried not to think more about that lest it take something away from what he was thinking anyway –that he did not trust her and that her reason for coming out here was less than suspect. “General Gogol ordered me out here from my assignment here in the United States. I followed from car dealership in Manhattan.” Bond must have reacted for she smiled. “Yes, we knew of this Ernie Weiss.”
“Score one for Russian intelligence,” Bond found he enjoyed the look of irritation on her face. “So you were sent to babysit me. I fear you have had a wasted journey, I’ll wish you good night.” Bond carefully swivelled off his chair standing just as a shadow appeared at the door that seemed to drown out the fading light outside. Karstov shrank onto the bed with sudden fear. The knock on the wooden frame shook the door entirely. Bond fancied he felt the floor tremble. Hesitantly he opened the door bracing himself for what lay beyond.

-

worried I was starting to hone Berkoff's Orlov I'm hoping to forge a different path. Whereas Orlov wanted war with the west, Karlov is quite focused on Gogol's job. I guess that's my thinking anyway.

So who've you got playing Agent XY in your mind's eye, Hilly?

No idea to be honest. Off the top of my head I can't think of any actresses of the time. Ingrid Pitt if it had been a few years before.

I see Catherine Schell as Karstov. Though it's wishy-washy as to the agent's inclusion.

--

CHAPTER FIVE

“Hell is Here, Hell is Here”

Bond’s gaze settled on a waist before travelling up, up and even further up. A sinking feeling rested in his stomach as he saw the face that grinned down at him. It was hard not to see the teeth or rather, the replacement for teeth –the mesh of steel that filled the mouth beneath the shark-like eyes and bulging forehead. Bond heard Karstov shriek. He debated sending a punch to the midsection of the beast before him until he recalled what had happened last time he did that on the Moonraker. Bond instead dipped his head in salute and grinned back.
“Small world.”
“It’s getting smaller,” Jaws remarked in a deep voice that inwardly startled Bond. “Mind if come in, I feel conspicuous as it is.”
Bond stepped back more out of instinct, Jaws ducked substantially to enter the motel room. He saw the woman on the bed and looked to Bond. “Guest?”
“KGB.”
Jaws’ smile (such as a smile on this man could be) lessened. He went to the woman grabbing her by the arm he lifted her bodily. Bond did nothing, watching with curiosity. With his free hand Jaws searched the woman producing from under her jumper a gun that Bond had missed. Jaws put her down with less than a delicate touch handing the gun to Bond. “I have a message: ‘Next time you buy a car, buy American and not from Weiss’.”
Bond’s expression briefly brightened. “Felix? How grand…wait, you’re…”
“CIA, now,” Jaws’ smile returned. “After I landed, the CIA spent hours debriefing me and offered me a job.”
“Just like that?” Bond said before going to sit down on the chair by the door. This simply was the strangest day he had had. The last he had seen Jaws was when the giant had helped Moonraker Five breakaway. Just as Bond bemoaned the day he was having, Karstov tried to leave. Jaws stopped her dead by stepping in front. “Why the rush?”
“If Gogol sent you, shouldn’t you stay?”
“It is dangerous, this whole area!” she shouted then looked up at Jaws. “This…thing makes it more-so.”
Jaws backslapped her across the face sending her onto the bed where she scattered Bond’s bag onto the floor. “Sorry, there’s some things I don’t care for.”
Bond stood. “She might be right though, Jaws. If you two have found me easy enough, I don’t hold much faith in Karlov’s men not being far behind.”
“Pack your things,” Jaws instructed Bond. “We’ll leave the girl.”
Bond gathered his bag. As they left the room he gestured to the girl. “We should bring her –if she is working for Gogol.”
“The risk is too great. There’s no telling who she really works for. Felix reckons that Gogol’s lost some power to Karlov.”
“Something doesn’t add up.” Bond backed away from Jaws a moment. Knowing the way the CIA was, employing Jaws was not that much of a stretch. “Where would we go?”
“Upstate,” Jaws said his gaze travelling away from Bond. “Time’s against us, if you’re right about Karlov.”
“I think I am,” Bond turned to address Karstov and found the Russian woman already heading across the forecourt to a black Saab 96. “Josephina!”
She faltered, half went towards him. “I shall follow you.”
“Leave her,” Jaws said. “We’ll go it alone. I’m not entirely convinced she’s on our side.”
“Détente indeed,” Bond said to himself recalling Stromberg’s words. He set off after Jaws, they began to pass the Beetle which gave Bond a curious pang of regret. Jaws’ car appeared to be a black pickup.
It was about right that the hailstorm of bullets caught everyone out. No one had really paid attention to the interstate traffic coming up along the Hudson into Point Perfect from either direction. Thus no one saw the black sedan that had crawled through the petrol station as if to top up its tank and then accelerate out into the motel’s forecourt. Bullets flew from the passenger side from front and back. Bond hit the deck, Jaws vanished behind the pickup. Coming up on one knee, Bond drew his .44 and trained it on the car that was somewhat casually driving along towards the road still firing. He fired once, the Magnum bucking violently back and upwards. Shot missed, Bond got up and ran back towards the Beetle. The attackers reversed, wheels letting off steam as they did so and squealing frantically. Without pausing to check on Jaws or the Russian agent, Bond threw open his car door and started the engine. Quickly slamming the door shut he reversed at speed straight past the attackers, the petrol station and out onto the road. Two cars came to a shrieking brake as Bond appeared ahead of them. Correcting his course lest he ended in the Hudson, Bond changed gears turned the wheel and headed south. No sooner had he done this than the attackers’ black sedan appeared in his rear-view mirror and closing rapidly. Bond searched his dashboard, opening the glove box with a punch he rummaged as he drove. Headlights danced in his vision as he gave up his search for anything that could help him. He did not fancy using the .44 in the car nor with its recoil. The attackers began to overtake skimming traffic heading the other way. Bond silently urged more out of the Beetle. He risked a look over to his left –in the dim light of the evening twilight he could make out four men –two front and two back- the two nearest to him appeared Eastern European in appearance. Bond smiled, he dipped his head in salute then swung his steering wheel to the left so hard it burned his fingers. The little VW clanged into the sedan with enough force for the driver of the other car to lose control momentarily and long enough for Bond to steer right onto a small bridge that spanned the river. The reappearance of the headlights behind him by a lorry’s length briefly dismayed Bond. Plunging off the bridge he turned right heading back north then left a few hundred metres along into pine tree laden landscapes. The Russians kept up with him, closing the gap all the while. Bond was getting a sore neck keeping an eye on them –what Battle of Britain pilots would have called the Messerschmitt Twitch.
After looking over his right shoulder once too much, Bond lost control of his Beetle. The little car flew off the road into the trees down a ravine, somersaulting once it came to an abrupt stop between trees. The attackers car slowed momentarily though surely not a pause enough to see the Beetle and carried on. Leaving behind the silence of the New York wilderness.

**

“Easy pal, you took a tumble. Keep still…”
“I’m fine…,” Bond growled low in his throat. His vision rotated end over end, sparkling lights and then the sound of machinery filled his senses. He was swaying, side to side which made him nauseous. As his vision focused he saw a thickset man in EMT fatigues at his feet and another just visible leaning over him. as he tried to sit up, Bond made up the road he had been on and trees, nothing but trees. Actually, no, there were emergency vehicles –one ambulance and two police cars (New York State cars) blocking the road. One of his rescuers held Bond down. “You had a nasty accident, buddy, you best stay still!”
“I’m fine I tell you!”
“What’s the trouble here?” asked a woman’s voice. Bond craned his neck to see to his right a woman in a sheriff-like uniform and hands on hips. “Mister…”
“My name’s…,” Bond hesitated for a moment. “Stock, James Stock. London Financial Times.”
“Well, Mr Stock, you’re not only a long way from London but you crashed your car down that there ravine. Best let these guys have a look at you before you get going.”
Bond was placed in the back of the ambulance where the paramedics checked on him. No sign of Jaws, no Karstov and importantly, no attackers. The sheriff climbed into the ambulance perching at the doorway with a notepad. In the light of the cabin Bond made out her dark hair and a slender build. “Am I permitted to know the name of my interrogator?”
She smiled. “Sergeant Natasha Brand, New York State Police. Local area commander for Point Perfect.”
“Well, sergeant, how was I found? I barely remember anything.”
“Couple of hours ago someone reported a collision or suspected accident. Saw lights go off the road from a mile back. By the time they got here, there was nothing to see except the signs of impact in trees up by the road,” Brand tapped her pencil against the pad eyes on Bond. “Reports of gunfire up at Point Perfect and down here. Wouldn’t have anything to do with that would you?”
“No,” Bond said cheerfully. His mind ran things over –the 44 might have been thrown clear of the Beetle. If his bag was recovered it would not show anything out of the ordinary to the layperson. “I was heading to Albany looking for a story.”
“I didn’t think the Financial Times would have that sort of interest in Albany.”
“Wherever there’s a story, I go,” Bond rubbed at his head. This was not quite what he wanted to go. Perhaps he had been knocked about more than he’d care to admit. One of the medics gave a short grunt.
“You’re fine, you do have a small concussion so try to get some rest before you move on.”
“Thank you.”
“Point Perfect has some rooms available,” Brand said. “You can come into the station to answer questions.”
Bond did not fancy a return to that town so soon. “Maybe somewhere else.”
Brand watched him then made some notes. “I’m sure somewhere is free if you don’t fancy the motel where the shooting happened. Biggest thing to happen round these parts since the Revolutionary War I bet.”
Bond climbed out of the ambulance letting Brand put him in the passenger seat of her squad car. Perhaps there was something about his expression that made the police officer nod at him as she climbed in: “Relax, you’re in the hands of the NYSP now.”
“I feel reassured already,” Bond said. As she reversed out of the crime scene, Bond glanced to the left and saw the wreckage of the Beetle being hauled up using a chain attached to the other NYSP car’s bumper. The car was crumpled up to the windscreen which itself was gone. Bond returned his look ahead.
“Looks like you had a close shave,” Brand said as she changed gears.
“I think you could say that. For now.”

---

word is that Jaclyn Smith was going to be in the Bond film after TSWLM but lost out/turned it down when what would've been FYEO became Moonraker. In my mind she's a fit for the copper (though that being said Kate Jackson, if we go the Charlie's Angels route would've been better).

A thrilling chapter, Hilly. Jaws joining the CIA is a stroke of brilliance. And I wonder where you got the NYSP copper's name from?

Nice casting ideas, too!

Just catching up, Hilly (I'm up to A Man Alone). I'm enjoying it. I like the heavier Soviet focus, and is frankly bizarre that a hippy is caught up in it all (which is a plus, in my book).

I was half hoping that - when introducing this Russian spy - it would have been Pola Ivanova, since they knew each other from another mission, and of course, tying it into Sir Rog's era. But I suppose you are anyway - Rog did have a way with the ladies that other Bonds didn't.

Also, whether you care to change it or not, I believe female Russians end their names with the 'a' suffix. For example (and using our second lead Bond girl in Tanya), the masculine form would be Romanov, but the feminine form is Romanova.

Thanks chaps, and yes Fields the hippy is a bit odd but I think, in my mind I'm trying to bridge the gap of 'out of this world' stuff that Moonraker kicked us to and the 'back to reality' with FYEO. Hence why I went a bit Inspector Gadget with the Lotus early on. Quite frankly, it's all a bit in the air where this goes such as the appearance of hippies and so forth. Sort of picture Bond when he meets Colombo and the look on his face after the mention of the countess. Ha.

I didn't think about Pola though it would've made it better. Part of me keeps thinking of Fleming's TSWLM and to a point, his FYEO short story. And part of me dwells on this all befitting Lazenby. I weave humour into stuff most times but when I set out to visualise Sir Roger, it all falls down.

Ah yes, thanks for pointing me to the 'a' suffix. I dare-say I'll try when and if she reappears. As I say I have no idea where we're headed right now.

Well, I'd been itching to get going and here it is. Hardly memorable but I was told once my writing is such that screenwriting is more my aim. I've been 'using' tracks from John Barry's Moore tenure (though "Runaway" is one of my favourite non-Barry tracks for Moore)...if you're in the mood, though they don't quite fit the action the most used so far are: "Bond Look Alike/The Palace Fight/009 Gets Knife & Gorbinda Attacks/Arrival at the Island of Octopussy/Yo-Yo Fight and Death of Vijay" from Octopussy

"Bond Arrives in Rio/Boat Chase/Bond meets Goodhead/Cable Car Fight/Corinne Put Down" from Moonraker

"Wine with Stacey" from Bond Back in Action 2 (this combines Wine with Stacey/Snow Job/Fanfare)

plus the 1977 version of OHMSS theme tune.

---

CHAPTER SIX

“Assault on Point Perfect”

Point Perfect appeared a little better when seen in the daylight. Bond stood at the window of his hotel room in what turned out to be the town’s sole hotel as such. He vaguely remembered being checked in with Natasha Brand guiding him and then oblivion. Try as he might sleep was not held off and he woke at dawn to find himself in the hotel. After a cold shower and shave, he changed into the clothes from last night which had presumably been washed by the staff and left whilst Bond was asleep. Their crispness was refreshing. Bond saw Natasha Brand walk up to the hotel from where he stood and tensed for her arrival. He had to be moving or at least find a way to take the stand against Karlov and his goons. Bond stroked his chin thoughtfully before turning from the window. He came downstairs to meet Brand who lifted her eyebrows in acknowledgement. “You look better.”
“Thank you, that’s the best compliment that I have heard in some time. I assume we’re resuming our debrief?”
“Yeah, it’s best we get it out of the way. What there is to my department in the town are doing forensics at the motel,” she hooked her fingers into her gun belt.
“I think better after some orange juice and breakfast,” Bond beamed at her and looked about –out past the reception desk was a doorway to a dining area. “I think through there is a safe bet.”
Sat down, Brand took off her cap and coat. Bond gauged her to be in her late thirties. She did not wear makeup which Bond found pleasing. The notepad made reappearance once the orange juice had been laid down at their table.
“Old Ned, who runs the pumps by the motel, said he saw four men in a car drive through and attack people at the motel,” Brand was looking at her notes. She flicked hazel eyes up at Bond. “Three people he said, were shot at. Two men and a woman.”
“Perhaps they burned a hole in the carpet.”
Brand’s nose wrinkled. “It’s not funny.”
“Apologies.”
“One giant man, one slight man and the woman appeared to be young…,” Brand tailed off tapping her pencil on the pad thoughtfully. “Ned said that one took off in a Beetle.”
“Ned has rather keen eyes.”
“Your Beetle, Mr Stock,” she spoke delicately and yet it sounded quite an indictment. “Quite the coincidence.”
“Must have been after an insider tip for the stock exchange,” Bond said casually. He reached for his juice. “I don’t know what you’re driving at.”
“Something doesn’t add up. This shooting in Point Perfect then your car in a ravine and you with it. No point in denying you were even there, Mr Stock –if that’s who you really are. You were quite keen on getting away last night.”
“Needs must,” Bond sipped at the juice and put the glass back. He could sense her growing frustration at him. Bond was also aware that his cards were all but used up. “I happen to be accident prone.”
“That’s why men were shooting at you from a car and chasing you? I don’t know what your game is, mister, but it’s giving me a headache!” Brand slapped her pencil down giving Bond a glare that he actually found discomforting. “I have barely any resources in this town and what I have is swarming over the motel picking shells out of woodwork. I have a motel owner who wants extortionate amounts just to repair his ‘brilliant workplace’, a gas station owner who wants money for the scars in his tanks and local EMT’s who think that this is the Gunfight at the OK Corral and jokes are well and dandy!” She wagged a finger. “It’s not funny, just isn’t.”
“I can appreciate why you would feel this way,” Bond said after a moment. There was a clatter in the reception area that filtered through to the dining room. Someone being clumsy. “As things goes, this is a relatively normal day for me. However, you’re in danger of getting caught up in something that is beyond your understanding –“
Bond caught sight of the Kalashnikov held in the hands of the attacker as it was reflected in the open door of the dining room. He dove for the ground hauling Brand with him. Her shouts of protest were drowned out by the opening up of the AK-47, the attacker spraying the room. Fake potted plants flew off tables; cutlery was sent spinning, glasses disintegrated under the withering fire. On the floor Bond and Brand shouldered over their table. Brand snatched her gun from her belt and squeezed off a round.
“What the Hell?” she groused ducking back behind the table. “Friends of yours?”
“Subscribers to my newspaper!” he shouted above the din. Risking a look he saw that there were two men, both edging into the room and apparently not bothered by the noise they were creating. Bond padded his hands around the floor; they gripped a knife which he flung at the attackers. It pinged off one of the AK-47’s and away, the firing faltered. Bond grabbed Brand by the arm and propelled her towards the kitchen doorway. Gunfire traced their steps, rising every second up towards them. They ran through the kitchen, Bond every other step pulling things out into the path of the attackers including an oven which jerked on its plug into the path of the attackers splashing grease over the floor. Outside, Brand led the way to her squad car. Her steps slowed when she saw the body of a man on the ground halfway between her car and the hotel. “Keep moving!” Bond snapped pushing her on towards the car.
“That was Larry Philmore, one of my staff!”
“I fear Mr Philmore got in the way it seems.” They climbed into the squad car, Brand twisted the key. Nothing happened. The engine spluttered after the second go –Bond could see the attackers leaving the hotel, moving slowly. They were a good few hundred metres away. Brand snatched at the radio. “Brand to headquarters, come in, over.”
Static greeted the police chief prompting Bond to get moving. He got out of the car heading to the trunk. Flipping the lid he reached for the first thing and swung around gauging the attackers’ distance. Still far enough for this to work. The squad car’s engine protested as Brand twisted the key whilst trying the radio with her free hand. Bond aimed the flare pistol carefully, one eye closed. He fired sending a red flare whooshing across the car park. The flare struck one of the attackers square in his chest and exploded. Bond glanced away, running to the passenger door he said urgently: “Get out! The car’s useless.”
Brand hesitated then swung open the door, she saw the mess Bond had left and handed him a shotgun from the boot. “Keep hold of that, looks like you could use it. We’ll head to headquarters and then go from there.”
Bond said nothing, he held a palm out. With a slight look of irritation she slapped a handful of cartridges into his hand. “Just who are you really?”
“My name is Bond,” he loaded two cartridges and snapped the shotgun together giving her a look. “James Bond. British Secret Service. Those men belong to a rogue KGB general. We don’t have much time. Let’s go.”
Nodding to herself, Brand paused. “Brilliant. This is the weirdest day.”
“I know the feeling,” Bond said a few paces away gun lowered. He turned to her. “I don’t know the way.”
Brand sighed and hurried ahead of him. “We should check the hotel…”
“I’m willing to bet we’ll find more bodies there. These men aren’t playing by the rules this time.”
“Why are they after you? What’s going on?”
“It’s a long story. We need to get to your HQ and then I can call for help.”
“Next street over on the right.”
The town struck Bond as being quite deserted even for a small place. It could be that some had seen what was happening and was staying inside. That, or everyone simply was away at work somewhere such as Albany, Poughkeepsie and beyond. If Bond thought this strange than the police station flagged up caution. There was one police car in front of the building, the precinct building looking like a town house had windows and doors open. Bond readjusted his grip on his shotgun as they closed in on the front entrance. “Do you usually leave it like this?”
“Sometimes, in the warm weather.”
Except it was not warm, far from it. Brand kept her revolver trained ahead of her in a two handed grip. They slipped inside fine enough, their footsteps sounding hollow on the linoleum floor. The front desk of the precinct house had a succession of items on it, all rather neat and untouched. A picture of Brand was on the wall by the door with the legend ‘Your Local Police Chief’. “Very candid,” Bond said.
“Yeah, sure,” Brand was looking around. Holstering her gun, she went behind the front desk. Bond followed her into a small office where she stopped. The body of a man in State Police uniform lay under a desk with neatly drilled bullet holes across his forehead. “Oh, Jack.”
Bond did not reassure her, knowing full well it was useless and that Karlov’s men had done this as they had at the hotel. He went to a desk, putting the shotgun to his shoulder he lifted a receiver and held it to his ear. There was no dial tone. Dropping the receiver Bond brought the shotgun from his shoulder. “Natasha, we need to get out of here. The people that did this are still here.”
“What? How do you know?” she mumbled, expression dazed.
Footsteps thudded across the ceiling, vibrating the panels hard. Bond pumped the shotgun with gritted teeth heading for the front desk. “I’d say we have a pest problem.”
Bond crouched behind the desk waiting a few seconds until he leapt up. A bald man stood on the steps, frozen with sudden surprise. Bond’s shot flung the attacker onto the steps and then forwards. The roof echoed to the sound of someone backtracking. Bond ran back in watching the roof then fired. The noise was as thunderous in the confines of the office. The panel he hit was sprinkled with buckshot, the steps above appeared to grow singular until going quiet. Bond went to Brand, taking her by the shoulder he shook her. “Keep an eye on the front!”
“Sure…sure…”
Bond left her, going upstairs he emptied the shotgun of spent cases and reloaded. Harshly pumping the gun ready, Bond walked through a rec room and found the other attacker –also bald- on the floor near where the shotgun blast had hit him from below. Bond cautiously went through the man’s coat and trousers. All he found was a pack of matches from a motel in New York City. Both men looked similar to those that attacked Bond at the motel and indeed, the hotel earlier. Perhaps the bald heads were a statement of this renewed SMERSH. Some kind of uniform. Bond glanced up when he heard glass breaking downstairs. Going to a window he was able to see two more bald attackers coming down the road then the report of Brand’s service revolver. The attackers went scurrying for cover behind road furniture. Bond retrieved an AK-47 from the man here. Going to the window he sprayed a hail of bullets down upon the forecourt then, with that spent, he hurried downstairs with shotgun in hand. Brand was by a shattered window, crouching with her revolver. “They started down Fifth Street like they were going grocery shopping.”
“They’re quite clearly fearless,” Bond remarked. He looked at her. “Are you okay?”
“Sure, sure. My team’s been killed by Russian agents, I have a British Secret Agent in my precinct house and my town’s under siege,” she gave a watery smile. “Aren’t you?”
“I’ve had better days,” Bond risked a look. One of the Russians was running across the forecourt for the shelter of the remaining squad car. “Stay here!”
Bond went to the other window adjacent to the front door. He had a clear shot on the attacker as he hid behind the NYSP car. Bond went to smash the glass yet it held firm, wobbling in spite of his effort. “Gunproof glass, how novel,” the attacker on the other side saw this and drew a handgun which he began popping off at Bond. The glass shattered, covering Bond in pinpricks and forcing the agent to go down. “Not that gunproof,” Brand called to him as she took aim and fired.
Bond’s shotgun lay across the floor, skidded as it had on the ground when Bond hit it. Trying to go for it was fruitless as the other Russian still across the road opened up with his AK-47. The small precinct house appeared to drown in the din of the noise that now befell it. Bond’s eyes met with Brand’s, they were now clear and focused. The shock of what had happened in Point Perfect was easing. Bond had seen that look in many eyes in his lifetime. It was resolution.
In a break in firing, Natasha lifted herself onto one knee and took careful aim. She fired twice across the road, her bullets pinging off the USPS mailbox. Bond took advantage of this to retrieve his shotgun. Just as Bond moved away, the front door imploded, wobbling off its hinges as the closest attacker to the precinct came barging in like a bull. Brand drove into the attacker without hesitation. In a move not unlike one to be found in the NFL, she wrestled the Russian to the ground. Clasping her hands together she smashed them down on his head, once, twice and again. The attacker went limp, spreading on the floor arms and legs akimbo.
“From Russia with love,” she said to Bond.
Bond rolled his eyes as he scrambled to his feet. “We still have our other friend across the street. That we know of!”
“What do we do? I’m betting that the squad car out front has been rendered U/S by these people…”
More gunfire raked the building prompting Bond to shoulder her to the floor and cover her with his frame. She pushed him off scooping up her revolver and running outside. Firing across the forecourt she took cover behind the car. Bond shook his head. “Madness,” he was about to join her when there came the sound of more gunfire. Except this sounded from a different source. Bond looked out the shattered window to see a grey sedan blaze past the mailbox and swerve onto the precinct forecourt. As it did so, the other attacker fell dead from behind the mailbox dropping his AK-47. Bond picked up the shotgun and went outside. He trained the gun on the car as it stopped, bumper inches from him. Out of the driver’s side, rather carefully, came Jaws. His silver teeth glinted at Bond.
Bond forced a smile. “The prodigal son returns.”
Brand slowly joined Bond by his side, her gaze riveted upon the giant. “Who’s this?”
“An old friend. Jaws, this is Sergeant Natasha Brand of the New York State Police.”
Jaws dipped his head. “Charmed. We should get going.”
Bond climbed into the back of the sedan and Natasha the front as Jaws then floored the accelerator. Bond leant forward. “What happened to Karstova?”
“I don’t know. After the shooting started we went separate directions. You, entirely!”
“I had a detour in mind,” Bond said.
“No idea the amount of trouble this has caused.”
“I have some idea.”
They drove hours, Bond deduced they actually were heading further north. They were probably closer to Canada than New York City now. When they saw a sign saying ‘SYRACUSE, NEW YORK’ Brand groaned. “I’m so far out of my jurisdiction.”
Jaws drove down to the Lake Ontario shoreline where the lights on the opposing shoreline denoted that Prince Edward, Canada. Stopping in front of a warehouse, Jaws led the way inside. The warehouse actually was home to offices and rooms that filled it for the most part. Going into the first of these offices Bond put his hands to his hips.
“Q!”
SIS’ armourer looked up from his work –a table covered in various pieces of equipment- with that familiar look of irritation. “007.”
“What the Hell are you doing here?”
“I came out on C’s orders,” Q said exasperatingly. “It seems you need every help you can get, 007.”
“Hmm,” Bond said feeling childish. He was about to joke when Felix Leiter walked into the room. “Felix.”
“Thanks Jaws, I’m glad you got James here eventually,” Felix drawled. He went up to Bond smiling ruefully. “Once again I bail you out.”
“I had some help,” Bond gestured to Brand.
“Sorry you’re involved in this sergeant…”
“Brand,” she managed a little staggered by the turn of events. Felix gave Bond a familiar look of ‘what have you done?’ and turned. “Come on, we have things to talk about.”
“And that children,” Bond murmured to Brand, “is the end of the first chapter.”