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George Lazenby 'returns' in "Diamonds Are Forever" (final two ch.) FINISHED (2007-17)
SirHilaryBrayOBE
Chez Hilly, Portsmouth
Well gang, a select band of you might remember from the old MI6 my 'Lazenby' Bond takes which were at the end of the day, just a bit of fun. Fleming would spin in his grave but there you go. Nowadays, fanfic is something I seem to use to kickstart 'serious' fare and thusly, here we are. Struck me it's been pretty much ten whole years since the 'original' Lazenby DAF on the old MI6 forum and some here asked for that back which sort of ended over a year ago.
I've never been entirely happy the older I get with what I did for that story. So, if I keep this going somehow, this anniversary edition will be tweaked and whatnot.
And yes, there are as what IMDB would call 'crazy credits' below.
Anyway gang. Enough ramble.
Hilly
TENTH ANNIVERSARY EDITION.
Inspired by the film and book of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, as well as elements of Ian Fleming’s You Only Live Twice and elements of the film “Diamonds Are Forever”
Music by John Barry
PROLOGUE
“1969”
The coast road out past Silveira in Western Portugal was ordinarily quiet even at the height of summer. With its stunning views of the Atlantic on one side and the Zambujal countryside on the other, the road was ideal for drivers on a honeymoon. Today, as the sun began to settle, the road was closed. Police cars –small little Austin’s imported at great coast from Britain- blocked the road in both directions leaving a mile long area between. On a ledge that jutted slightly over the rocky drop to the coast, sat a British racing green Aston Martin DBS. Such a car turned heads at the best of times, yet now it looked desolate. The windscreen was partially shattered, what had not broken away was dotted with bullet holes. The doors were open revealing the carnage inside. Bullet marks across the passenger seat for the most part, one in the rear window with blood and gore on the headrest of the passenger seat. An ambulance from Lisbon had pelted full speed the twenty plus miles told that they really had to hurry this time for the head of the Union Corse wished it.
One did not live long or live comfortably if they displeased the Capo.
The ambulance crew had only just removed the body from the passenger side having been made to wait by the police and Union Corse men. Instead the paramedics in this time had tried to comfort the young British man in the wedding suit. He had been immobile when they arrived, holding the head of the young brunette on his lap and weeping softly. His face contorted in that way when a man does not want to cry and yet has no control over his emotions. Sat in the ambulance on a wooden bench the man said nothing still. Just stared and stared to the point that one of the medics crossed himself reverently. When they went to get the body, the young man stood so that the stretcher could be placed on the bench and secured. The woman’s white wedding dress was stained with blood; her head had taken the brunt of the bullets that had spat angrily from the passing Mercedes. The dress and face was covered by the woollen blanket.
“James! My God, James!”
James Bond’s head snapped upright like a puppet’s whose master was tired of being gentle. Bond stepped out of the ambulance, for once not shrinking from the bearhug that Marc Ange Draco gave him. When they parted both men had tears in their eyes. Draco’s men stood back respectfully, by the blue Rolls Royce with the top down. “I’m sorry, Draco. They…got her.”
Draco’s eyes passed from Bond’s face to the ambulance behind. “Let me see her.”
“No,” Bond took him by the shoulders. “You can’t see her like that.”
“Stupido! I must,” Draco got past him and went into the ambulance. Bond looked to the men who a few weeks ago had taken him to Draco at knifepoint.
Mystery tour, hmm?
They regarded Bond solemnly this time. In fact they seemed sorry for him as he stood there by himself. A black Rolls Royce Ghost tore down the coast road from the southern barricade kicking up dust as it came. It was stopped by Draco’s car. Bond grunted as he recognised the diplomatic plates from the British Embassy in Lisbon. Still in their wedding finery, Bond’s boss M, M’s secretary Miss Moneypenny and the armourer –Major Boothroyd, a.k.a. Q, walked quickly to Bond. M took charge as he did at times like this, getting in before a tearful Moneypenny could mother Bond.
“We left just after you and were almost at the embassy when we were stopped by Draco’s men. The ambassador loaned us his car to get back here. What the hell happened, James?”
“Blofeld,” Bond said heavily nodding to the Aston. “We stopped to get rid of the floral arrangements. We were talking about children…”
Three boys, three girls…
Mrs Bond…shut up…and don’t eat it all at once.
“A car came down behind us, I should’ve realised something wasn’t right as it slowed down. Next thing I know the windscreen’s gone, I jumped in to chase and…she…” Bond turned away face tight with emotion again. Draco was coming out of the ambulance ashen faced. Reaching Bond and company he shook hands with M. “Admiral, I had hoped to see you under different circumstances. Especially so soon after the wedding.”
“My condolences,” M said quietly. “Marc Ange, I regret to say now that this is a matter that must be handled between the Portuguese police and SIS.”
“No, no! The Union Corse will help with this. Blofeld’s already taken enough of my men to his SPECTRE. I want revenge.”
M saw the look on Bond’s face during this outburst. His own face going red he pointed. “James, you can forget going off on a revenge matter yourself. This is the British Secret Service not some band of buccaneers!”
Bond shrugged. “Then you can have my resignation, sir. I’m going after Blofeld and putting an end to him once and for all.” He felt Draco’s hand on his arm.
“James, please, let me do this.”
“I loved Tracy, Draco. I’m getting Blofeld. End of discussion,” Bond walked to his car. Ignoring the mess on the passenger seat he opened his glove box. Returning a short time later he handed Bond his Walther PPK. “Sir, in lieu of the fact I have no formal identification associating me with the Service I give you my weapon.”
“James,” whispered Moneypenny eyes wide. Q shook his head sadly.
“Your licence to kill is revoked,” M said quietly looking at the gun in his palm. “I say that but you won’t listen. Your pass-codes will be revoked so you will have no access to SIS in London or anywhere else. You’re on your own, Doub…James.”
When he looked up Bond had already walked off with Draco to the blue Rolls. The ambulancemen were closing the doors shutting the late Teresa Bond from view and the police were bringing in a tow truck to take the DBS away for forensic study. As the Rolls tore away at speed M shook his head.
“God help you, James.” Closing his hand around the gun he nodded angrily. “All right you two, let’s get the Hell out of it. Back to London. We’ll leave Station P to look after this mess.”
EON and SIR HILARY BRAY PRODUCTIONS PRESENT a PETER HUNT FILM
George Lazenby as IAN FLEMING’S JAMES BOND 007 in
“DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER”
STARRING-
Lee Remick as TIFFANY CASE, Jimmy Dean as WILLARD WHYTE, Jack Lord as FELIX LEITER (by special arrangement with CBS Productions), Ursula Noack as IRMA BUNT and Telly Savalas as ERNST STAVRO BLOFELD
Featuring- Bernard Lee as M, Lois Maxwell as MONEYPENNY, Gabriele Ferzetti as DRACO and Sammy Davis Junior
Music by John Barry (title song sung by Shirley Bassey and reprise of We Have all the Time in the World by Louis Armstrong)
Directed by Peter Hunt
I've never been entirely happy the older I get with what I did for that story. So, if I keep this going somehow, this anniversary edition will be tweaked and whatnot.
And yes, there are as what IMDB would call 'crazy credits' below.
Anyway gang. Enough ramble.
Hilly
TENTH ANNIVERSARY EDITION.
Inspired by the film and book of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, as well as elements of Ian Fleming’s You Only Live Twice and elements of the film “Diamonds Are Forever”
Music by John Barry
PROLOGUE
“1969”
The coast road out past Silveira in Western Portugal was ordinarily quiet even at the height of summer. With its stunning views of the Atlantic on one side and the Zambujal countryside on the other, the road was ideal for drivers on a honeymoon. Today, as the sun began to settle, the road was closed. Police cars –small little Austin’s imported at great coast from Britain- blocked the road in both directions leaving a mile long area between. On a ledge that jutted slightly over the rocky drop to the coast, sat a British racing green Aston Martin DBS. Such a car turned heads at the best of times, yet now it looked desolate. The windscreen was partially shattered, what had not broken away was dotted with bullet holes. The doors were open revealing the carnage inside. Bullet marks across the passenger seat for the most part, one in the rear window with blood and gore on the headrest of the passenger seat. An ambulance from Lisbon had pelted full speed the twenty plus miles told that they really had to hurry this time for the head of the Union Corse wished it.
One did not live long or live comfortably if they displeased the Capo.
The ambulance crew had only just removed the body from the passenger side having been made to wait by the police and Union Corse men. Instead the paramedics in this time had tried to comfort the young British man in the wedding suit. He had been immobile when they arrived, holding the head of the young brunette on his lap and weeping softly. His face contorted in that way when a man does not want to cry and yet has no control over his emotions. Sat in the ambulance on a wooden bench the man said nothing still. Just stared and stared to the point that one of the medics crossed himself reverently. When they went to get the body, the young man stood so that the stretcher could be placed on the bench and secured. The woman’s white wedding dress was stained with blood; her head had taken the brunt of the bullets that had spat angrily from the passing Mercedes. The dress and face was covered by the woollen blanket.
“James! My God, James!”
James Bond’s head snapped upright like a puppet’s whose master was tired of being gentle. Bond stepped out of the ambulance, for once not shrinking from the bearhug that Marc Ange Draco gave him. When they parted both men had tears in their eyes. Draco’s men stood back respectfully, by the blue Rolls Royce with the top down. “I’m sorry, Draco. They…got her.”
Draco’s eyes passed from Bond’s face to the ambulance behind. “Let me see her.”
“No,” Bond took him by the shoulders. “You can’t see her like that.”
“Stupido! I must,” Draco got past him and went into the ambulance. Bond looked to the men who a few weeks ago had taken him to Draco at knifepoint.
Mystery tour, hmm?
They regarded Bond solemnly this time. In fact they seemed sorry for him as he stood there by himself. A black Rolls Royce Ghost tore down the coast road from the southern barricade kicking up dust as it came. It was stopped by Draco’s car. Bond grunted as he recognised the diplomatic plates from the British Embassy in Lisbon. Still in their wedding finery, Bond’s boss M, M’s secretary Miss Moneypenny and the armourer –Major Boothroyd, a.k.a. Q, walked quickly to Bond. M took charge as he did at times like this, getting in before a tearful Moneypenny could mother Bond.
“We left just after you and were almost at the embassy when we were stopped by Draco’s men. The ambassador loaned us his car to get back here. What the hell happened, James?”
“Blofeld,” Bond said heavily nodding to the Aston. “We stopped to get rid of the floral arrangements. We were talking about children…”
Three boys, three girls…
Mrs Bond…shut up…and don’t eat it all at once.
“A car came down behind us, I should’ve realised something wasn’t right as it slowed down. Next thing I know the windscreen’s gone, I jumped in to chase and…she…” Bond turned away face tight with emotion again. Draco was coming out of the ambulance ashen faced. Reaching Bond and company he shook hands with M. “Admiral, I had hoped to see you under different circumstances. Especially so soon after the wedding.”
“My condolences,” M said quietly. “Marc Ange, I regret to say now that this is a matter that must be handled between the Portuguese police and SIS.”
“No, no! The Union Corse will help with this. Blofeld’s already taken enough of my men to his SPECTRE. I want revenge.”
M saw the look on Bond’s face during this outburst. His own face going red he pointed. “James, you can forget going off on a revenge matter yourself. This is the British Secret Service not some band of buccaneers!”
Bond shrugged. “Then you can have my resignation, sir. I’m going after Blofeld and putting an end to him once and for all.” He felt Draco’s hand on his arm.
“James, please, let me do this.”
“I loved Tracy, Draco. I’m getting Blofeld. End of discussion,” Bond walked to his car. Ignoring the mess on the passenger seat he opened his glove box. Returning a short time later he handed Bond his Walther PPK. “Sir, in lieu of the fact I have no formal identification associating me with the Service I give you my weapon.”
“James,” whispered Moneypenny eyes wide. Q shook his head sadly.
“Your licence to kill is revoked,” M said quietly looking at the gun in his palm. “I say that but you won’t listen. Your pass-codes will be revoked so you will have no access to SIS in London or anywhere else. You’re on your own, Doub…James.”
When he looked up Bond had already walked off with Draco to the blue Rolls. The ambulancemen were closing the doors shutting the late Teresa Bond from view and the police were bringing in a tow truck to take the DBS away for forensic study. As the Rolls tore away at speed M shook his head.
“God help you, James.” Closing his hand around the gun he nodded angrily. “All right you two, let’s get the Hell out of it. Back to London. We’ll leave Station P to look after this mess.”
EON and SIR HILARY BRAY PRODUCTIONS PRESENT a PETER HUNT FILM
George Lazenby as IAN FLEMING’S JAMES BOND 007 in
“DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER”
STARRING-
Lee Remick as TIFFANY CASE, Jimmy Dean as WILLARD WHYTE, Jack Lord as FELIX LEITER (by special arrangement with CBS Productions), Ursula Noack as IRMA BUNT and Telly Savalas as ERNST STAVRO BLOFELD
Featuring- Bernard Lee as M, Lois Maxwell as MONEYPENNY, Gabriele Ferzetti as DRACO and Sammy Davis Junior
Music by John Barry (title song sung by Shirley Bassey and reprise of We Have all the Time in the World by Louis Armstrong)
Directed by Peter Hunt
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Comments
Almost a QOS start to this,and,as in that film,totally understandable...very Lazenby....
Ursula Noack is someone I don't know. Illse Steppat died not long after OHMSS was released and I pretty much googled "German actresses of the 1960s" and looking through images Fraulein Noack seemed to fit the bill. From what I see, she only ever worked in Germany.
It's harmless fun. I know someone on the old site once asked me and Bong why we bothered with such things but I find it helps in my mind alone to picture certain actresses etc, especially if this is billed as a movie (ish).
(PS. Another Tiff alternate was Ann-Margaret but having seen Viva Las Vegas and then Stagecoach, I wasn't sure. Be fun to go back in time and have it played out though).
Lumme, that sounds a better idea by far. I'd have loved a return of Draco had they gone down the revenge angle. Back in the old days I considered doing a Draco biopic showing how he met Tracy's mother and so forth but it was a bit beyond me.
He's definitely one of the more tragic Bond characters. He and Mr. White remind me of one another, two men who did bad things, but ultimately wanted the best for their daughters.
Good to see you again!
Nice job transporting us back to the familiar tragic scene. The immediate aftermath is well conceived.
My only concern is M's reaction to Bond. He's off in scolding mode too quick I think.
I think Bond's defiance and revenge lust kicks in too quick
The man is shattered, although it's M here that provokes him.
Draco is Draco. He's a bandit. An outlaw. There is no controlling him.
But I think the story, might ring more authentic if M could manage to spirit Bond away, followed by sober debrief, and a meeting the next day.
At this meeting, with some space achieved from the incident, then the what-to-do-about-it exchange, tense-filled or otherwise could take place.
But your story. Your call.
Just my feedback. We roll with what you kindly serve up. :)
M would have the role of busting him out of the fit he's in, as Bond would likely be doing a bit too much drinking and committing reckless acts of defiance spurred on by his rage-filled anger at Blofeld. The pair would come to a head, with Bond telling M he has to do this with or without his help, and because M won't allow his agent to go on a suicide mission, he axes him in his office and revokes him of his 00 status to do what he must, completely done with him. We saw in OHMSS that Bond was willing to go to any lengths to get Blofeld, and after the man killed Tracy, there was no going back. Bond wouldn't sleep, eat or drink knowing Blofeld was still out there somewhere, breathing.
Have you read YOLT book? I only ask, because I seem to recall that you said, you had read some Flemings but not all.
Anyway, what you describe above is kind of what goes down in the book.
i.e. Bond is non-functional as an agent, so M sends him to Japan on a diplomatic salvage mission.
Bond of course pals up with Tiger, and as fortune would have it, Tiger recruits him to eliminate the problem that is Shatterhand and his very uggers female consort.
I guess what @hilly though is trying to do is the OHMSS film follow-up via reworked DAF story.
But even in the DAF movie, we do meet a revenge bent, but very self assured Bond, but two years removed from the tragedy.
How he got from 1969 to 1971? There is a story there, I think.
As for DAF, I'm currently in the process of editing an analysis I did on the film that spends a lot of its time discussing Bond's behavior in DAF and how it can be attributed to him getting his revenge in memory of Tracy. I see it as a more direct sequel following on the heels of OHMSS than an adventure that happens two years after Tracy dies. It makes much more sense to me that Bond didn't sleep until he got to Blofeld's agents and made them give up the man's location just after the tragedy happened. I don't imagine the story unfolding too long after OHMSS's end because of this. Of course it has to be a tad longer than a few months after, to give Blofeld the time to kidnap Whyte and take over his empire in secret, and to get an idea of the diamond smuggling pipeline he wants to expunge.
When I have the analysis proofread, I can let you know if you'd like to read it. I realize you have a big soft spot for the film, and this recent watch opened my eyes to a lot that it does exceptionally well.
I agree,Remick has a certain quality and sophistication about her,and would have been interesting alongside Lazenby.
Raquel Welch is over-rated as an actress imo ...Lazenby needs a quality actress alongside him.
Well, yes, I was thinking more of her, shall we say, attributes :)
Hello Timmer, yes been a while :) I see what you mean about M and provoking Bond. I sort of hit the story like a horse out of the stable and as always my fingers, as someone once said of my writing, got ahead of my brain. I'll have a look at what I can do to tweak it.
Just an awkward thing to write really. Fanfic that is. Somebody at MI6 once said that I should spend my talents on real writing. I'm trying but there we go, I digress, ha. Sissilius I think...
Next chapter, set two years on, has gone to Cairo like in my original draft but we're not so far gone as to alter it. Would've been nice to have seen Lee and Lazenby do a scene as you describe.
In a nutshell. I think last time round I described the GL/DAF as 'our' DAF with Fleming's YOLT and something inbetween.
How he got from 69 to 71 is beyond me. He had to be doing something obviously.
Your relating of the immediate aftermath of the tragic scene is gold.
It picks right up and brings us back.
I always figured what we got in DAF, was Bond finally catching up to Ernst.
He was by this point long past grieving, thus back in full Bond swagger.
Mind you there is also, that Salz-Broc just wanted to quickly move beyond ending of OHMSS, and get Sean re-established.
@brady That treatment sounds real interesting.
I could see that sort of thing fitting.
Yes, indeed DAF is my personal favourite Bond film. I like it as a standalone film, but for series continuity, it probably wasn't the most satisfying follow-up to OHMSS, unless you've got a fresh take. hmmm
I'll be posting the analysis in the review section of the forums, and will let you know when it's there, if you're interested in reading it.
And your take does make sense. If I looked I might see some of it myself, now that you have brought up the angle.
I'm very much interested!
Apologies in advance.
----
PROLOGUE
“1969”
The coast road out past Silveira in Western Portugal was ordinarily quiet even at the height of summer. With its stunning views of the Atlantic on one side and the Zambujal countryside on the other, the road was ideal for drivers on a honeymoon. Today, as the sun began to settle, the road was closed. Police cars –small little Austin’s imported at great coast from Britain- blocked the road in both directions leaving a mile long area between. On a ledge that jutted slightly over the rocky drop to the coast, sat a British racing green Aston Martin DBS. Such a car turned heads at the best of times, yet now it looked desolate. The windscreen was partially shattered, what had not broken away was dotted with bullet holes. The doors were open revealing the carnage inside. Bullet marks across the passenger seat for the most part, one in the rear window with blood and gore on the headrest of the passenger seat. An ambulance from Lisbon had pelted full speed the twenty plus miles told that they really had to hurry this time for the head of the Union Corse wished it.
One did not live long or live comfortably if they displeased the Capo.
The ambulance crew had only just removed the body from the passenger side having been made to wait by the police and Union Corse men. Instead the paramedics in this time had tried to comfort the young British man in the wedding suit. He had been immobile when they arrived, holding the head of the young brunette on his lap and weeping softly. His face contorted in that way when a man does not want to cry and yet has no control over his emotions. Sat in the ambulance on a wooden bench the man said nothing still. Just stared and stared to the point that one of the medics crossed himself reverently. When they went to get the body, the young man stood so that the stretcher could be placed on the bench and secured. The woman’s white wedding dress was stained with blood; her head had taken the brunt of the bullets that had spat angrily from the passing Mercedes. The dress and face was covered by the woollen blanket.
“James! My God, James!”
James Bond’s head snapped upright like a puppet’s whose master was tired of being gentle. Bond stepped out of the ambulance, for once not shrinking from the bearhug that Marc Ange Draco gave him. When they parted both men had tears in their eyes. Draco’s men stood back respectfully, by the blue Rolls Royce with the top down. “I’m sorry, Draco. They…got her.”
Draco’s eyes passed from Bond’s face to the ambulance behind. “Let me see her.”
“No,” Bond took him by the shoulders. “You can’t see her like that.”
“Stupido! I must,” Draco got past him and went into the ambulance. Bond looked to the men who a few weeks ago had taken him to Draco at knifepoint.
Mystery tour, hmm?
They regarded Bond solemnly this time. In fact they seemed sorry for him as he stood there by himself. A black Rolls Royce Ghost tore down the coast road from the southern barricade kicking up dust as it came. It was stopped by Draco’s car. Bond grunted as he recognised the diplomatic plates from the British Embassy in Lisbon. Still in their wedding finery, Bond’s boss M, M’s secretary Miss Moneypenny and the armourer –Major Boothroyd, a.k.a. Q, walked quickly to Bond. M took charge as he did at times like this, getting in before a tearful Moneypenny could mother Bond.
“We left just after you and were almost at the embassy when we were stopped by Draco’s men. The ambassador loaned us his car to get back here. What the hell happened, James?”
“Blofeld,” Bond said heavily nodding to the Aston. “We stopped to get rid of the floral arrangements. We were talking about children…”
Three boys, three girls…
Mrs Bond…shut up…and don’t eat it all at once.
“A car came down behind us, I should’ve realised something wasn’t right as it slowed down. Next thing I know the windscreen’s gone, I jumped in to chase and…she…” Bond turned away face tight with emotion again. Draco was coming out of the ambulance ashen faced. Reaching Bond and company he shook hands with M. “Admiral, I had hoped to see you under different circumstances. Especially so soon after the wedding.”
“My condolences,” M said quietly. “Marc Ange, I regret to say now that this is a matter that must be handled between the Portuguese police and SIS.”
“No, no! The Union Corse will help with this. Blofeld’s already taken enough of my men to his SPECTRE. I want revenge.”
M saw the look on Bond’s face during this outburst. His own face going red he pointed. “James, you can forget going off on a revenge matter yourself. This is the British Secret Service not some band of buccaneers!”
Bond shrugged. “Then you can have my resignation, sir. I’m going after Blofeld and putting an end to him once and for all.” He felt Draco’s hand on his arm.
“James, please, let me do this.”
Bond ignored his father-in-law (ex?) as he coldly repeated his intent to resign. M equally cold, his face reddening by the second. “Damn you, this isn’t the time or the place, Bond. Get in the car.”
Something clicked in Bond at that moment, a lightning bolt amidst the storm of his confused grief. He straightened, almost saluted but caught himself. “Sir.”
Bond walked to the embassy car without another word, Moneypenny and Q went with him. M paused; he walked past the stricken Draco to the ambulance. Tracy’s wedding shoes poked from under the green blanket emblazoned with the hospital logo. He dipped his head.
“Teresa,” he murmured and turned to walk to Draco. “I’m sorry for your loss, truly I am. However, this is now a business between my people and the Portuguese authorities. Respectfully, you must not get involved.”
Draco smiled weakly. “I am sorry Miles, this is my matter also. You forget, I am the Capo. You also forget this is my territory.”
M nodded in understanding. He joined his people at the car. His last view was of the Draco people were of them clustered in a semi-circle behind the ambulance heads bowed.
**
SIS Headquarters, Regent’s Park London
Three days later
M’s pipe smoke had filled the room giving Bill Tanner the impression that Battersea Power Station had been parked at the desk. He politely coughed standing by the door waiting.
“Sir.”
“Sorry Chief of Staff, I was miles away,” M gestured to the side. “Open a window.”
“Sir,” Tanner said. M ran SIS as he had his sea-going commands and admiralty posting. Though Tanner had been Army he was often viewed by M as a midshipman. He waited after opening the window for M to speak. Ever since returning for Portugal, M’s mood had been on a knife-edge between fury and building fury (Tanner always considered M’s moods to be seasonal. The other side was restrained and barely furious). M put down his pencil reaching for a fresh match he struck it and re-lit his pipe. M regarded Tanner. “Send him in.”
Tanner went back to the door opening it. Bond stepped in closing the outer door swiftly. He wore a double breasted navy blue suit from Penton’s on Savile Row, his hair combed neatly but the traces of a beard showing. He stopped before the desk. Tanner though knowing how serious this was felt like telling James to announce his rank and serial number to M. “Have a seat, Bond,” M said gruffly.
Bond did so; Tanner went to stand behind the desk and to M’s right near the latest on-loan portrait from the National Gallery, Abbott’s 1797 portrait of Horatio Nelson.
“There’s been great consideration over the events of this week, Bond. I have even had the PM on the blower about this Blofeld matter. For one, we consider BEDLAM closed. Another is that the Prime Minister believes that your actions in Samuden are enough that you will not face serious reprimands for a while yet,” M tried to smile but nothing came. Bond was simply staring at him vacantly. “There was some talk of a medal but I talked him out of that.”
When Bond said nothing M leant back looking at him through the haze. He sat up suddenly. “Please step outside, Tanner.”
Tanner looked surprised, recovering he drew his feet together. “Very well, sir.”
Once Tanner had left and the double doors locked –on M’s command from his desk- M stood. He walked over to his window, the draught was somehow reassuring. A world sat outside this window. Out on the park, a group of men rode their horses down the edge.
“I lost my wife some time ago.”
Bond glanced sharply over at his chief. M never talked of his life outside of SIS or the Navy. The fact he had been married was surprising. On the quiet, few things were known about Admiral Sir Miles Messervy. “From cancer, not a gunman’s bullet. No gallant need for revenge. I was distraught for weeks, months, some would say I still am in my way. But I turned back to the Service, the Navy and buried myself in my work,” M had turned midway to Bond his pipe firmly clenched in the corner of his mouth hands shoved into the pockets of his grey suit. “So you must, it is the only way. You are the best man I have.”
“It’s kind of you to say sir but my mind is set. I have to go after Blofeld. If it takes months, if it takes years, I’ll find him.”
“This isn’t some damn wild goose chase, Bond!” M snapped. Ash sprinkled the floor, the first inklings of a volcanic eruption. “We’ll find Blofeld, SIS, not the Union Corse, not you, not even your friend Leiter. Oh yes, I imagine you would go after Leiter to help you.”
Bond growled low in his throat, he turned his head from M. “If you say so, sir.” He went on. “Sir, with respect, what happened with your wife –of which I’m truly sorry- is not the same here. Blofeld killed her and his toad woman, Bunt. He’s done enough without being caught and by now, sir, I think he’s earned his mark.”
“You’re making no sense,” M grunted going to his desk. He did not sit instead picking up a folder that Tanner had left him. Rifling through the pages he murmured: “Psychiatric assessment says that you are unfit for field duty.”
M had no truck for such things. He was of the age and generation to consider this mind stuff quite nonsensical. A man was a man –shellshock happened but other things did not. Yet this had been composed by Sir James Molony after a brief chat with Bond on the car journey from London Airport. M admired Sir James, the two often played bridge together at Blades and so he had to respect his opinion. “I’m suspending you from active field work. You will go to the monitoring floor and help Styles.”
Bond stood his face red. “Sir, I’m more than a damn cipher clerk. I can work in the field.”
“No.”
M’s thunderous expression and voice was enough for Bond to back off. For a moment all sorts of emotion crossed the agents face. M had seen enough of that in the second war. He tried to soften his voice. “James, you do need some rest. Take the week off.”
“Sir,” Bond said dully. He looked spent, as if the fight had gone out of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose closing his eyes for a moment. He saw Tracy’s head on his lap, the curls of her hair drifting around her lifeless face and heard the roar of the police bike approaching.
It’s quite all right…she’s just resting…
Opening his eyes Bond nodded and lurched towards the door. M stopped him with a brief snap of his name. “Sir?”
“Grief does things to a man that we would rather not accept or listen to. It makes us act irrationally and do things we would ordinarily not do,” M tapped his pipe into his ashtray finally sitting. He seemed quite old all of a sudden. “This can affect men like you. Revenge is something that we’re not in the business of.”
“Respectfully sir, I think we’ve done a fair amount of revenging for Her Majesty,” Bond smiled a little. His hand grasped the door handle firm enough that his knuckles shone white. “Certainly I’ve done my share already.”
“Do you think your Tracy would like to be avenged?” M said. “Would killing Blofeld matter?”
“It would to be me, sir. And to her.”
Just as Bond opened the door M spoke again: “James, remember the old Chinese saying that when setting out for revenge, first dig two graves.”
Bond nodded. “Thanks for the advice, a week off was it not?”
“A week,” M growled waiting for the door to close before he threw his pipe into the fireplace behind him. In the anteroom Bond did not pause leaving Tanner and Moneypenny staring after him. Moneypenny’s intercom buzzed, she reached for it flicking the switch: “Sir?”
“Moneypenny, is Tanner there?”
“I’m here, sir,” Tanner leant towards the intercom.
“Keep an eye on Bond, I strongly suspect he’ll ignore everything said in here and go off on his own. Suspend his licence to kill and SIS passwords, backup agents etc, etc. understood?”
“Crystal, sir,” Tanner leant back as the channel clicked off. “Bloody hell.”
“What’s happening, Bill?”
“End of the bloody world, Penny,” he went to leave pausing to get his hat. “And we have front row seats.”
Moneypenny reached for a fresh sheet of paper to feed into her typewriter. Automatically she went to work trying not to think of that broken man who had left before Tanner.
SUBJECT: 007
SUSPENSION OF LICENCE TO KILL EFFECTIVE FORTHWITH FOR INDETERMINATE TIME BY ORDERS OF M.
DOUBLE O SECTION TO MONITOR 007 WITH ORDERS RELAYED TO SINGLE O’S AROUND THE WORLD…
EON and SIR HILARY BRAY PRODUCTIONS PRESENT a PETER HUNT FILM
George Lazenby as IAN FLEMING’S JAMES BOND 007 in
“DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER”
STARRING-
Lee Remick as TIFFANY CASE
Jimmy Dean as WILLARD WHYTE
Jack Lord as FELIX LEITER (by special arrangement with CBS Productions)
Victor Mature as BERT SAXBY
Ursula Noack as IRMA BUNT
and Telly Savalas as ERNST STAVRO BLOFELD
Featuring- Bernard Lee as M, Lois Maxwell as MONEYPENNY, Gabriele Ferzetti as DRACO with Kenneth More as TANNER and James Robertson Justice as SIR JAMES MOLONY
Music by John Barry (title song sung by Shirley Bassey and reprise of We Have all the Time in the World by Louis Armstrong)
Directed by Peter Hunt
CHAPTER ONE
“Bedlam”
Two years later…
Cairo, Egypt
Farouk Al Khadi was traditionally unlucky. The casinos in Cairo knew this and still they let him come in. Permanently sweaty, always wearing a white suit that looked soiled and stank of sweat, the fez at a slight angle and the goatee stridden face finished with shades that hid the bloodshot eyes. The Medusa casino nestled in the midst of the city was not one of the best. It resembled what Americans called a dive and that was being generous. Right now it was full of Westerners in suits taking a break from their useless business convention as well as some locals who had nothing better to do. The staff was as downtrodden.
Farouk sat at the roulette table helping himself to a cigarette. “Red five,” he said to the croupier. Naturally the ball bounced around and when it stopped it was red three. Farouk picked his cards and tried again. When the ball stopped next he earned himself a couple of pounds. Stroking his goatee he grunted: “Hit me.”
At that he was spun on his stool; he was slugged across the jaw –his cigarette disintegrated and his fez landed on the roulette wheel. People backed off –fights weren’t unusual at the Medusa so they stayed reasonably close all the same. Strong holds grab Farouk’s lapels.
“I was told you would know where Blofeld was.”
Farouk struggled, the result was that one hand was freed from his lapel and forced his head against the roulette wheel. “I…I don’t know!”
“Blofeld. A little Japanese man told me you would know. Before that a petite thing that soon got the point.”
“I don’t know any Blofeld!” Farouk gasped, he could just make out his attacker. Tall, slightly muscular, with black hair and beard wearing a white suit. His though was spotless.
“Ernst Stavro Blofeld. I shan’t ask nicely next time.”
“I…I…”
“All right, don’t burst a vessel,” the other said. He hauled Farouk to his feet, no mean feat owing to the Egyptian’s girth. “I’m just giving him some air.”
He was taken outside trembling harder with every second. Shoved down an alleyway away from the dusty main street he was forced to his knees. A second or two later a gun was pressed against the nape of his neck as his attacker stood behind him. “Blofeld, head of SPECTRE. Where is he?”
“If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
Farouk could tell that the man would. The voice alone was enough to convince him that his life was not worth anything. “What can you do to protect me?”
“Not much, I’m an independent operator,” the voice was muffled as if he was wiping his mouth. “I’d advise you to leave Egypt though.”
“Hmm, if I had the money.”
Farouk bowed his head after he said that. “Do your worst, Englishman. I have nothing to live for.”
The gun pressed harder. “Blofeld.”
Farouk sighed. God help him. “Nevada.”
The pressure relaxed a moment. “Nevada? USA?”
“Very same, my friend.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, that is the truth.”
Next thing Farouk knew the pressure on his neck had gone entirely. Something landed in the sand in front. He picked it up almost reverently. It was a bundle of at least five hundred pounds. When he turned the man was walking away. “Who are you?”
The man paused turning slightly. “The name’s Bond, James Bond and don’t spend it all at once.”
Then he was gone. Only then did Farouk tremble uncontrollably.
**
Bond returned to his hotel musing on this snippet of information. Nevada was a pretty interesting place for Blofeld to rump up in. Since Tracy’s death Bond had been all over the globe chasing down the slightest clue. Hong Kong, Japan, East Germany and so on and on and on…
He went to the underground garage where his mustard yellow DBS was parked. Bond covered his tracks well but knew that M probably had a fix on his location at any given time so the DBS (a personal extravagance) was worth it in its way. He put his money in the secret compartment trusting the car more than he did his room safe. He went to his room determined now to leave Cairo as soon as he was able. The hotel was fine enough, it had all the trimmings that Bond liked but it was on the low end of the price scale as Bond after all was trying to maintain a low enough profile. Walking down the burgundy carpet from the lift to his room he slowed his pace. Something did not feel right. He heard a radio playing tinnily from someone’s room, he heard murmuring of talking but there was something off. Bond unlocked his door kicking it open, he fell to one knee gun raised. Lights from neighbouring buildings cast sharp shadows across his room. The single bed, bathroom door –open, wardrobe…Bond slowly crept in rising as he did so. He went to the wardrobe just as the doors of it flew open and someone leapt at him. The pair went crashing onto the bed, Bond dropping his gun and struggling to hit the attacker. They rolled off the bed with a thump that appeared to shake the room. Bond ended on top, he got his hands around the throat of his attacker and squeezed.
“Damn…it…James…!”
Bond, surprised, let go which only earned him a hard punch to his face sending him flying. He lay there stunned as the other man stood. Light flooded the room followed by the sound of the door closing. The other swam into vision as he walked back and sat on the edge of the bed carefully massaging his throat. Blond, tall with creased features. Bond did not move as he rubbed his head. “006.”
Douglas Penbroke was ex-SAS and previously odds on favourite in the department to date the new secretary, Mary Goodnight. Such things were what made up social activity sometimes in the Double Oh section. Penbroke trained a gun on Bond almost apologetically. “Sorry, James that we had to meet like this.”
“Good to see you,” Bond sat up. His Magnum lay under the bed, no way he would be able to get it before 006 unapologetically blew him away. The hound upon the hare, Bond laced his hands behind his head bringing himself into a kneeling position. “Here for the pharaohs or just the Nile?”
“M is mighty ticked with you, Bond. You have no idea how much.”
“I can imagine. He did say have some leave.”
Penbroke scowled, he leant forward jabbing with his gun towards Bond. “This isn’t the time for jokes! I don’t know what the hell happened two years ago, I don’t care to know but you had orders and you broke them. Gallivanting around the world trying to find Blofeld and for what?” Penbroke produced a silencer which he carefully screwed onto his PPK his attention still on Bond. “All over the damn globe…Three killed in Peking, two in Hong Kong, a dozen injured between there and Sydney. Burning down the hotel in Bavaria and then blowing up the mobster yacht in New York. All for finding Blofeld? You’re an one-man wrecking crew.”
Bond did not react. Inwardly he thought about the past two years. Revenge was driving him all this way. Blofeld had led him to all those places and beyond. If Blofeld had gone to the moon, Bond would have followed. Every time he got close such as in Munich (when Blofeld’s henchmen set fire to the hotel just as Bond got into it), Blofeld got away. Those killed had been aligned to Blofeld or directly working for him. The mobster had gotten in Bond’s way, trying to play both Bond and Blofeld for money and leading Bond so far off course that Blofeld clean left the country before Bond could do anything. The girl Marie in Tokyo had led him to one of Blofeld’s contacts from the late Osato business front who resisted enough that after yelling “C-C-Cairo!” he soon met his former boss and Karin Dor wherever they were now. This led to Cairo and Farouk.
And capture.
“I was much more in line with a problem suitor. So what now?”
“Back to London. My orders are to bring you right to M himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got the chop now.”
Bond rose, at 006’s beckoning he turned and dropped his hands to have them bound. Penbroke stopped to get Bond’s case –a brief look through it showed a good tailor and two gadgets from Q Branch. “Tut, tut, James, M really will have your guts for garters. How did you get this lot?”
“A little old woman on the Portobello Market.”
Bond was shepherded out of the room with 006 beside him, the bound hands covered by Penbroke’s left arm. Just had to get to the car park and then they would be on the home straight. The lift was just bigger than a phone box with a rather tasteful portrait of King Tut on the back wall. Trim mirrors adorned left and right sides. Bond stood in front of 006 wiggling his fingers. “I have an itch, do you mind?”
“No fear, James, I didn’t come down in the last rain.”
The lift passed ‘1’ with ground floor to go before the car park level. Just as the lift lurched away from the first floor Bond lashed out with his right foot –kicking back like a damn donkey. 006 hit the rear side bouncing forwards whilst Bond leapt a fraction kicking out at the doors he launched himself backwards. They went down in a heap, the cheaply manufactured lift wobbled ominously but continued downwards. As Bond came he managed to smash his right elbow into Penbroke’s face. Penbroke came back at Bond shoulder charging him into the side. He then proceeded to punch Bond in the chest, Bond warded off some of the blows but not all. The doors opened on the basement level letting in the smell of petrol and dirt mingling together. Bond grunted with the force of another punch before he drove his knee up into 006’s groin. As his former comrade in arms fell out of the lift Bond strained at his binding. The strip of fabric had been done well but not well enough. Bond did not want to consider SAS men amateur but he was not impressed. Hands free, Bond raced out but was tackled by 006. They went down in a pool of dirty water that stained Bond’s suit in seconds. Nearby was Bond’s DBS. So close, so far. Bond tried kicking yet the pain in his chest from the punches was catching up with him. With a roar he broke the lock on his waist and stood. He appeared confused, frowning as the driver’s door of his DBS opened. Out stepped a man with black hair, slightly shorter than Bond, wearing a polo neck and black trousers. He aimed a Beretta squarely at Bond.
“Come on, James, let’s stop playing stupid buggers.”
Behind Bond, Penbroke stood bending at the waist wheezing. “You took your time.”
“I was waiting for you,” said 004 –an ex paratrooper whose small frame belied a quick mind and surprising strength. “Shall we go?”
Bond was placed in the passenger’s seat with 006 in the rear. 004 handcuffed Bond’s right arm to the window lever and his left to the headrest. Comfort was not a concern right now.
Less than an hour later, the DBS and the three men were on a BEA jet for London.
....
Although I found myself visualizing Connery as Bond, following the meeting with M.
I had been working with the Lazenby image until then.
For me, I guess the two actors are permanently grafted onto their respective movies.
I was trying to think of Bond and M after Bond returns from Switzerland (in OHMSS). For a novice I think Lazenby had a good rapport with Lee for what was needed.
No disrespect to Rog but Laz was a perfect Bond casting. He would only have gotten better.
He came back though as Bond in Return of the Man From Uncle 1983.
There is that at least.
CHAPTER TWO
“The Sky Fell”
M remembered, still, being present in the Admiralty bunker room during the hunt for the Bismarck. How after the sinking of the Hood the mood had been tense and sombre. Nerves were stretched by the knowledge that this powerful cruiser had been sunk with all but three lives and that the German beast remained out there, capable.
M felt that tension now. Quite odd but there it was. He was waiting in this room down in the sprawling basement complex beneath SIS HQ. Ingeniously spreading below the terrace of buildings of which SIS was one. M understood the nearby Bakerloo Line almost had to be rerouted until the government arranged a deal of some type to avoid complications. M paced back and forth in an anteroom with just a picture of the Queen on the wall for company. His pipe was empty, strict no smoking down here for one reason or the other. Something to do with Q Branch down the corridor.
Finally, the door to his right opened, a navy grey door out of which came Bond and a rotund man with a thick beard and red face. Bond carried on walking, leaving to wherever Tanner felt was best until all this was done. M glanced at the other man.
“Come my man, come,” Sir James Molony beckoned and took M into his office. In spite of the subterranean structure, the office felt light and airy, aided by colour and strategically placed air conditioning vents. Though Sir James’ actual residence was an office on nearby Harley Street, he had some touches of home here. A framed George Cross received for services rendered during the Blitz, a picture of his wife and children and some books on a shelf. “You may smoke, Miles.”
Sir James himself lit a pipe reclining a little in his chair. Few could call M by his name and Sir James was on a decidedly choice list. M gratefully puffed on his pipe. “All right, give me the cold facts.”
Sir James chuckled. “Okay, okay,” he sat up taking his pipe out and gesticulating with it. “Bond is cracked. I’m sorry but there it is. I know you don’t care for this mental jumbo but the facts are this: Bond is still suffering grief from the loss of his wife…”
“Two years, James…”
“And how long did you really take over your wife?” Sir James snapped and waved his hand shaking his head. “Sorry, that wasn’t meant to be so sharp.”
“No, no,” M looked down at his feet for a moment. “You’re quite right. But I wasn’t an agent…”
“No you weren’t,” Sir James put his pipe in the corner of his mouth. “Bond simply hasn’t processed it yet. He’s put it to one side. If you will, he’s put it into a dark corner of his mind like a cupboard and left the key in. Hence why he’s been buggering around the world trying to find this Blofeld.”
M exhaled sending blue smoke towards a vent that whisked it away like nothing. “We believe now, based on his report that Blofeld is in Nevada. Can Bond be trusted to go out there?”
Sir James chuckled again and shrugged. “Blunt instruments need sharpening sometimes, Miles. Bond seems lucid enough and yet he broke down twice during our talk. Mentions of his wife accompany a somewhat far off expression.”
“So, is he fit or not?”
“He is, and he isn’t.”
M scowled, he got to his feet pacing up and down like a caged animal. Sir James watched him coolly through his pipe smoke. M had a short distance to pace, his feet scuffed the rug Sir James had under his desk. Between bursts of smoke, M spoke in staccato bursts.
“I am considering sending Bond, as I say to go out to Las Vegas to investigate this lead that could or could not be Blofeld. You say he is all right, yet he is not. What. Good. Is. That?” M waved a hand cutting off any retort. “Bond is the best man for the job. If it IS Blofeld…”
“Then he will likely exact revenge on him. I’m sorry old man that I cannot be clear cut.”
“I won’t know until he’s out there is what you’re saying,” M said gruffly pausing in his pacing to look down at Sir James.
“More or less,” Sir James said with a twinkle to his eye.
“But revenge?”
“I would’ve thought that sometimes that was the best tool to use.”
“Not like this, not now.”
“Why not now?”
M shook his head, Sir James told M to sit down who did so after a moments pause. The angry heaving of his chest was the only sign he was alive, or else he appeared quite waxen in appearance. “Because the department is under pressure from governmental influences. You know that as much as I do. The Double-O Section could be removed entirely before long. Bond going off to Las Vegas on an Ahabesque mission is a perfect reason to close us down.”
“Do we know if it is Blofeld?”
“Yes and no. Certain events that have happened in the past few months are characteristic of Blofeld’s modus operandi. I doubt it is.”
“Man had to go somewhere.”
“Hmm,” M thought. He knocked out his pipe in the ashtray on the coffee table. “And I send 007 out to him?”
“If you’re calling him 007, then yes, by all means send him,” Sir James said earnestly.
M shook his head and looked through the haze of pipe smoke at Sir James Molony. “Damn you to Hell.”
Sir James laughed heartily and reached to knock out his pipe.
**
The taxi ride out from his Chelsea flat to Heathrow was done in a type of surreal blurring that Bond let happen. He had waved off Sir James’ offer of medication, preferring instead to pack Benzedrine tablets into his suitcase –for they had done enough in times past and he trusted them more than any concoction knocked up on Harley Street. After waiting for M to return upstairs, Bond was handed a slim dossier headlined ‘OPERATION HIGHJUMP’ which he read in the lift ride downstairs. M had said nothing other than a curt ‘good luck’ before Tanner walked Bond to the lift. Bond knew M was taking a gamble by sending him out to the States, he didn’t need Tanner to tell him that but the chief of staff did and was rewarded with a short retort that coloured his cheeks. The dossier talked of a billionaire named Willard Whyte who had suddenly, after a few years of anonymous reclusiveness at the head of his gleaming tower in Las Vegas, had become quite active in buying up diamonds in great number. The dossier featured photos of two men who worked for Whyte as apparent hired goons and finally, a redhead by the name of Tiffany Case that worked for a diamond company headquartered in Amsterdam.
All filtered into Bond’s thought process during that taxi ride. As did images of Samuden that fateful night when he sat on the edge of an ice rink, crammed with revellers, waiting for Bunt and her hired killers to find him. Then that pair of legs that appeared before him, the neat flick of the heels and his eyes travelling up:
“Tracy!”
“James!”
“There’s men after me…have you a car?”
“BOAC, sir. Right on time.”
Bond nodded at the driver. He first got out with his suitcase then paid the driver. Bond made good time through passport control before spending half an hour in the first class lounge, smoking and drinking bourbon. When the time came for boarding, Bond joined the trickle to the air tunnel that linked Heathrow to the gleaming new Boeing 747 –one of eleven that had been brought by the airline and now getting her maiden flight. So new, that the aircraft smelt new and appeared to shine with it. The stewardess at the door smiled at Bond. He automatically flashed his boarding ticket, the smile grew.
“Welcome back, Commander Bond. We’ve missed you.”
Bond mumbled something as he walked on, then as he was about to enter first class he glanced back at the young woman. Shaking his head with a smile to his lips he went into first class. When the 747 began taxiing to its runway, Bond had reached into a rack by his side and produced the latest Playboy whilst sipping at his latest drink. By the time the jumbo jet had climbed to its cruising altitude –bound for New York (where Bond would change for a regional flight to Las Vegas)- the agent had fallen asleep.
To his fellow passengers and aircrew, the sleeping Bond seemed quite out of it and the look on his face suggested perhaps a neat, nice dream.
Yet, he dreamt again and again of alpine mountain-top retreats, avalanches and sheer bloody terror on skis. Occasionally, the last words of the file would dance into his dreams as if typed against his mind’s eye.
LICENCE TO KILL, RENEWED.
Over and over, night without end.
CHAPTER THREE
“The Whyte House”
A stiff neck plagued Bond in the cab journey from Las Vegas’ airport into the city himself. Bond was not quite enticed by what he saw; deciding early on that Las Vegas was clearly viewed best at night. A settlement clustered in the midst of the great desert that appeared ready to swallow the homes and entertainment buildings at a moment’s notice.
“There’s the Whyte House, buddy,” the driver said, elbow on the open window of his cab. Bond leant forward peering at the tall white edifice that clawed into the sky near Caesar’s Palace. The name Whyte was stitched down the column, presumably it lit up at night as did the entire building, Bond thought. At the forecourt entrance a valet came to help Bond with his bag. “Say, you’re travelling light, sir! Planning a short visit?”
“Oh yes, shoot in and out,” Bond said leading the way in. Inside the gregariousness was worse –Bond appreciated a good hotel and at that, a good gambling den but this somehow seemed outrageous to the point of rudeness. Whyte’s name was everywhere, as was indeed a huge portrait behind the front desk (with his name emblazoned below of course), the casino was entered directly from the lobby –the join was seamless. It all made Bond think of the Casino Royale and Royale itself. That grave with VESPER LYND RIP the simple inscription and the casino where twice he had lost in love. Bond told himself to get a grip. The flight out from New York had been the worse –a Delta 727 that had to make two stops at Chicago and San Francisco before it came out to Las Vegas. Bond suspected it was one of M’s Hercules Tasks for Bond.
“Hello there, sir, welcome to the Whyte House.”
The buxom blonde behind the desk gave Bond the full works –smile, eyes and irrepressibly good cheer as if to defy him to be a grouch. Ordinarily Bond, as he bent to sign his name in the ledger, would have checked her cleavage out. Or a discreet one-liner but all he did was give his name, sign the book and remark upon the portrait.
“Oh, yes, isn’t it something? That’s our founder.”
Whyte, if the portrait was right, was a tall man with auburn hair and a ready smile. The portrait showed him dressed in Texan wear with the Whyte House rising behind him.
“I’d say he had good taste in clothes,” Bond said and reached for his bag. She gave him his key with a slightly less cheerful smile. Making sure to tip the valet (who had stayed behind Bond all the while), Bond made his own way upstairs. Bond was billeted in Room 700 –another joke he was sure, probably Moneypenny. His expression softened as he slipped the key into the lock. Good old Penny. What would he do without her?
Bond put his bag down by the door, only foot inside the room. A quick glance showed a balcony (light curtains flapped slightly in the dry desert breeze), bar, doorway to the bedroom, another doorway to bathroom and…
Bond kicked open the door as far as he could get it in one single lash of his right foot. He dove into the room coming up quickly just as he heard the grunt from behind the door and saw it rebound off the luckless man behind it. Without hesitation he pulled the man by his left wrist, flinging him onto the floor past Bond where he crashed in a heap. Bond drew his Walther PPK, placed his foot on the man and aimed it. He was about to flick the safety when he saw who it was.
“Felix! Felix you mad idiot, I could’ve killed you!”
Wearing shades, Felix Leiter held his hands up weakly, wheezing for breath. “You got me, James.”
Bond put his gun away, stooping to help Felix up he asked him what was going on.
“Would you believe I just wanted to find a friend?” Felix removed his shades, the blue eyes showed his humour even if his face suggested he was mad as hell. “Instead, I get a door in my kidneys for my trouble.”
Bond shut the door and went to his bar. He studied the drinks. After a moments pause he began to pour bourbon. Felix wandered over eyebrows up. “Sorry Felix. I wasn’t expecting you. Though, were you really looking for a reunion or are you checking up on me?”
Leiter held his hands up. “Look, buddy, you think I like coming out to this place? I had two weeks leave in the Florida Keys to look forward to…”
Bond scowled. “Come on Felix, cut the soft soap. I’m tired and I’ve just about had enough.”
“All right, cool your jets. M phoned the Director personally to have me come out here.”
“Damn him,” Bond’s savagery of his statement surprised Leiter who took his drink carefully. Bond pinched his nose, closing his eyes for a moment he saw Tracy’s snow covered legs disappear from sight as Blofeld’s henchmen dragged her from the avalanche damaged valley. This department owes that girl a debt of gratitude!
Felix could see the troubled expressions on his friends face. “Look, this can wait, James. You only got here…”
“No, come on, let’s get some air.”
Bond turned the radio on before they went out onto the balcony. As one of Bond’s instructors –a former SOE agent in the war- had remarked: the old ways are the best ways. Bond leant on the railing looking over the swimming pool below and much of Vegas beyond the hotel grounds. “So what’s going on out here? The report seemed quite thin on the ground.”
“I’d say nothing at all. I read our own dossier which has little bits added by the local police etc. Two months ago, a branch of Whyte Industries is created –Diamond Whyte- and begins buying up huge stocks of the stuff. No one knows who is doing this or why. The name on most of the cheques are Whyte’s, the rest are subsidiary leaders he has in the company. Four weeks ago, Las Vegas Sherriff Department picked out of a lake the body of a man who had been hired by Diamond Whyte to assess the worth of these diamonds. Heinrich Metz.”
“Sounds like a German shoe polish.”
Felix chuckled, a short one. “Sure, except this guy did the same kind of job for the Nazis in Occupied Poland and managed to get sprinted out to Argentina and then here by the Kameradschaft. He worked on the level here for years. Respected and all that, in the field of his work. The theory is he got killed because he knew too much.”
“And he reached the end of his usefulness.”
“Right. So now everyone assumes Whyte is reaching the point where he’ll reveal himself to the world again. Personally, I don’t care. If you have that much money and want to stay anonymous, so be it.”
Bond half-looked at Leiter who finished his bourbon in two steady gulps. “Felix, what do we know about him?”
“Well, self-made billionaire from Dallas who made the big bucks in oil and other investments. A few years ago he was quite well known and seen –he did game shows, talk shows, you name it he was everywhere then round about three years ago he disappeared and became more of a legend for his reclusiveness than anything.”
“Three years?”
“Yep.”
Felix put his glass down on the balcony floor. “James, I know that look, there’s no way in Hell Blofeld is Whyte.”
“I’m not saying that. What if Blofeld managed to get out here soon after the Piz Gloria business and forced Whyte into isolation, taking over Whyte Industries in the process?”
“You’re nuts,” Felix immediately regretted saying that.
“Am I?” snapped Bond straightening. “The man didn’t just vanish into thin air, Felix! Where the Hell did he go to?”
Leiter stepped back from the railing. “James, calm down. We know Blofeld isn’t dead, just that it sounds crazy that he would take out Whyte. Why would he?”
“You know as well as I do that SPECTRE have certain ways of working. There is Exortion in there.”
“Still, taking out a Texan billionaire to do what? Buy bucketloads of diamonds just because he feels like it? For his lady friend?”
You feel the airsickness, Sair Hillary?
The blur of a toadlike face behind the flash of the machine-gun as it sprayed bullets at the Aston.
Has that old cow told you anything…
It’s all right, she’s just taking a rest…we have all the time in the world…
Bond brought himself back to the present tactfully. He tried to ignore the look of concern on Felix’s face. “Who knows, Felix, diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
“Right,” Felix sounded doubtful.
“Where is Whyte meant to be?”
Leiter jerked a thumb up. “Top floor, his penthouse. If he ever leaves it’s probably by his personal elevator right down to the basement and out. People have tried to get up there but only as far as the top floor. There’s no direct way for Joe Public to get in.”
Leiter gave his friend the once-over with his blue eyes and sighed to himself. Something was different about Bond. It was almost as if this was a shadow that was with Leiter. The real Bond was still in the front seat of a shattered DBS holding his wife. Felix cleared his throat. He nodded to Bond. “I’ll be going. I’m based at the Hyatt, Room 324. Don’t do anything.”
“Who, me?” Bond feigned innocence. Walking Felix to the door he turned to unpack. Just as he was setting up the usual basic tricks to catch interlopers, his bedside phone buzzed. He reached for it, hesitating before hearing a woman’s voice: “Mr Bond?”
“Speaking.”
“Front desk, sir. Thought you’d like to know a package has arrived for you. Part of it is waiting at reception.”
“Thank you,” frowning Bond put the receiver down. He shrugged. He took a cold shower, shaved and did press-ups before changing into a light blue suit. Feeling fresher, Bond took the lift down to the reception. Giving his name to front desk, the male receptionist went to the back before returning with an envelope. Bond thanked him, turned away and felt the envelope. The name on the envelope simply was ‘Mr Bond, Room 700’ so reception had already seen what it was. Bond tore the top off the envelope and tipped car keys into the palm of his hand. He saw the logo on the key and closed his hand over it.
“Excuse me,” Bond asked a passing member of staff carrying a tray of drinks. “Where is your garage?”
“Basement level, sir. You can use that elevator there…” but Bond was already on his way.
Feeling somewhat conspicuous, Bond was soon walking through the underground garage which was suitably air conditioned. Following signs that appeared to berth cars by room numbers he reached the end of the 650-700 berth to see his Aston Martin DBS. Bond paused in front of it, his legs felt like they were going to buckle. Walking down the left he gingerly touched the glass as if it would shatter to a heavier touch. Not a scratch was on the British racing green colour or fine bodywork. Indeed, the tyres appeared to be retrofitted for hotter climes and the paint had a gloss to it that added to the Aston’s allure. Coming back round, Bond opened the driver’s door and saw another envelope, this one sticking out of the glove box. Sitting down he opened the envelope.
James, I hope everything’s up to your usual high standard. M took some persuading to send the car in after you but he said he trusted you! Q Branch worked overtime to make sure she’s up to spec. Good luck!
Yours, Penny.
Bond smiled. Yes, indeed, what would he ever do without her? He slammed his door shut, started the engine and was soon roaring out of the garage. The car turned heads as it blazed down the Strip. That was as good as it got, for before long Bond was out in the desert.
**
Whyte Industries’ base of operations was a complex of sorts about twenty miles south of Las Vegas. A collection of sugar-cube like buildings, with one having a domed top, bunched together within barbed wire perimeters. Indeed, within a mile of the buildings wire fencing stretched in either direction for endless miles. Bond slowed down before then, stopping a good two miles up the road. If he was under surveillance, he first saw none and secondly, gave the impression of someone who doesn’t know he’s being watched. Folding his arms he leant against the Aston’s bonnet looking at the buildings. He could make out huge black initials ‘WW’ etched on one building from here. As he looked on, an eighteen-wheel truck powered out of the gates onto the road that ran up past Bond. It was painted white with ‘Willard Whyte Enterprises’ down the side. Bond watched it until it trundled past him, the driver not even registering Bond in the layby as if Aston Martin’s were part of the desert landscape. What wasn’t and what caught Bond’s eye, was the shining red Ford Mustang trailing the lorry by a few metres. Bond caught a glimpse of flaming red hair at the wheel and then it was past him. He quickly got into the Aston, revved the engine and executed a perfect turn, rear wheels slipping as it left the dirt and was after the Mustang in no time.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Tiffany”
Though it had followed the Whyte truck out, the Mustang did not follow it in. Certainly, the truck went one way and the Mustang another, turning into the city centre. Bond discreetly followed, winding up his window and switching on the air conditioning as he turned. It did not totally escape his mind the last time he followed a beautiful girl, how it ended up or what followed. Or that the car she drove had been instrumental in saving his life. Briefly it crossed his mind, what if that car was still in that Swiss barn?
The Mustang went into an open air car park near Caesar’s Palace. Bond parked just inside the car park entrance and got out after activating the security system. Thank God for Q Branch. Bond sighted the redhead walking quickly out of the second entrance of the car park. Taking a chance that she was the one driving the Mustang, Bond followed. From a distance, Bond noted that she wore a cream coloured jumpsuit with blue piping on the sleeves. Clearly this was the latest fashion though he was not so sure. She had a typically feminine walk, a sway that was both inviting and dangerous. Dangerous for being so inviting, Bond thought. After a few minutes she walked into a bar. Bond did not catch the name as he ducked in after her though he did stand on the periphery of the bar for a moment looking. Pictures of various stars lined the bar itself (all autographed) whilst in one corner a stuffed grizzly bear held a somewhat odd place of honour. It seemed a legitimate enough bar, though Bond wondered just how much the mob had to say about places like this. The girl was sat at the bar with a man with fuzzy grey hair who seemed somewhat put upon. Bond went to the far end of the bar. The bartender approached. “What’ll it be, friend?”
“Martini,” Bond murmured looking down the bar. “Shaken,” his eyes flashed to the bartender’s, “not stirred.”
“Right,” the bartender said drawing out the word, with a shake of his head he walked away. The grey haired man made his exit at this point which surprised Bond. It had only been a couple of minutes. Paying for his drink, Bond moved down the bar to where the redhead was examining a small diamond by holding it before her right eye.
“Looks quite pricey, from South Africa I’d wager. From the mines outside Johannesburg.”
The woman slowly lowered the diamond, glancing at him sceptically. “Oh, is it now?”
Bond sipped at his martini, not the best, not the worst. He put his glass to one side. “May I?” the girl gave him the diamond. “Yes, I’d stake my reputation on it, Miss…”
“Case, Tiffany Case. Mr…”
Bond handed it over. “Bond, James Bond.”
Of course he recognised her from the photo in the dossier, hence why he had followed but getting the confirmation verbally made it all the more worthwhile. “Do you work round here?”
Tiffany pushed back on the bar, sliding off her stool. “Sorry Mr Bond, I don’t know who you are but I’m legit. I’m not into this kind of business either.”
He whipped a hand out grabbing her by the wrist and drawing her in. “And buying up immense sums of diamonds for a recluse is the right kind?”
“Let me go,” she whispered harshly leaning in so as not to draw more attention to the bar, “you’re hurting.”
“I’ll do worse than grab you, if you don’t sit down.”
Tiffany hesitated then sat down rubbing her wrist. Bond called the bartender over. “My lady friend here will have a…”
“Orange juice.”
“Excellent,” Bond said then looked squarely at her. The look in his eyes had been enough for Tiffany to sit down. “May I take a guess and say that you’re working for Whyte?”
Tiffany nodded, stopping her rubbing only to take the juice when it came. “Diamond Whyte Industries. It’s a relatively new sub-division.”
“I take it diamonds have not been your forte for long.”
She managed a smile. “Oh? You seem to know everything Mr Bond. I was born in New York, I wanted to be an actress like you do and instead I got a crummy set of cards in life. Somehow I ended up in diamonds. I’m quite good, so I’m told. I do most of my work at the moment in Amsterdam and your place, London.”
Bond sensed there was something hidden behind the ballsy façade. A bird with a wing down which made him think of Tracy and pretty much every girl he had known in his life. Pussy, Tania, Vesper –perhaps only Sylvia had been the exception in recent years.
“Have you met Whyte?”
A shake of the head. “No, no one has except for Bert Saxby since Whyte went quiet.”
“Who’s Saxby?”
“Runs the casinos for Whyte and most of his divisions. Meant to be his right hand man since the Texas days,” Tiffany eyed Bond for a moment. “Look, are you a cop? You sound British so I suppose you’re from Scotland Yard or something right?”
“No,” Bond smiled. “You could say I’m in law enforcement of a kind.”
“I don’t want any trouble. I need this job.”
“You won’t be, in fact you can be of great use to me.” Bond finished his drink. Wiping his lips he thought. “Where are these diamonds going?”
“I can’t say.”
“But they are going someplace?”
She hesitated, Tiffany fidgeted. “They are but that’s all I’m saying. It’s in Nevada, that’s as much as I can offer.” Clearly he was making her uncomfortable and not in a way Bond would have liked. “I should be going.”
“Let me help you,” he stood heading with her to the door. As he pushed it open she squeezed past. “I’m staying at the Whyte House.”
Tiffany paused, hair flicking over her eyes in a sudden breeze. “Who are you really?”
“A man out of time,” Bond murmured then louder: “A friend.”
Tiffany headed off without pausing to say much more. She did however keep looking over her shoulder as if Bond would madly pursue her.
I believe tears should be shared between friends…or lovers.
Bond headed back to his car. Turning the air conditioning up Bond drove out of the car park where he did not notice the squat Volkswagen that had pulled in across the road or the two men inside. One fat and small, the other a little thinner and taller. The fat man with a fine head of hair, the taller man bald with wiry spectacles. Bond drove off passing Tiffany as she reached the street corner where her flaming red Mustang was parked. He accelerated with a throaty growl of the DBS’ engine. The Volkswagen followed, cutting across lanes of traffic that was greeted with howls of horns from various cars.
Where was Whyte?
What was Blofeld up to if he was here?
How long did he have?
Questions that ran through Bond’s mind as he drove the short distance back to the Whyte House.
**
Bond changed into a dark suit after a cold shower and shave. He went downstairs to the casino where on a stage Sammy Davis Junior was finishing off his last number.
“…thanks to you all, you’ve been a captive audience, my favourite I might add!”
Bond played with a couple of chips at his table. His mind elsewhere. Tiffany could be quite useful to him and finding out what was going on at Whyte Industries. A man with short dark blond hair, narrowed brown eyes and wearing a creamy-brown suit with yellow tie drifted into Bond’s view next to the croupier. “Mr Bond?”
Bond eyed the man a little warily. “Yes?”
“Saxby, Bert Saxby,” the man’s voice was nasally. “Mr Whyte is honoured to have you here.”
“Oh?” Bond’s grip on the chips tightened. He leant back a fraction from the chair. “I wasn’t aware that I had fame enough to be honoured by.”
“Yeah, well, a friend told him.”
Tiffany Case? Bond wondered. It was debatable whether she would have gone direct to Whyte himself. Why not? A man asking questions about the business. Bond brushed the chips against his chest, feeling the reassuring shape of the PPK tucked in its shoulder holster. He laid the chips down noting the croupier’s nervousness. “How is Mr Whyte paying this honour?”
“By ensuring you have great luck tonight,” Saxby beckoned to his left and coming to the table came a buxom, bosomy brunette. She replaced the croupier with a smile. “Her name’s Plenty, Plenty O’Toole.”
“Indeed,” Bond ran his gaze over the figure and tossed the chips down. Saxby walked off, lingering a few metres away. He then went to where a row of slot machines were and reached to a phone hidden behind them. “Get me the penthouse.”
“So, Plenty,” Bond murmured as he lit a cigarette and perched it in his mouth. “Will I have luck tonight?”
“If Mr Whyte says you will, you will.”
She seemed a sweet girl, demure and surely without much original thought to her mind. Bond puffed on his cigarette aware of the two women sat next to him regarding him with curious looks. “Have you met him?”
Plenty appeared to hesitate as she dealt cards. “No, but I hear he’s a sweet guy.”
“Surely,” Bond remarked as he took a card and looked at it. “Hit me.”
His first card had been a five, this next one was a ten.
Those who stay on five, stay alive…
Please stay alive, at least for tonight.
Bond almost tore the card until he realised. Angrily stubbing his cigarette out he nodded curtly. “Again.”
Another ten.
It’s becoming quite the habit.
Stupido…stupido!
Where’s Ernst Stavro Blofeld?
Blofeld?
I might tell my future son-in-law.
Oculist…
Bond lurched to his feet assailed by the thoughts, he felt his eyes sting and he cursed himself. He left Plenty a tip and stormed away to the lifts watched all the while by Saxby who hurried over to the table. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, he just gave up,” Plenty stammered. “Am I trouble, Mister Saxby?”
“No kid, you’re okay. Just carry on then go back to Acorn Tree’s act.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bond made his room like a shipwrecked survivor would a shoreline. He made himself a scotch on ice and went into the bathroom. Stripping to his waist he washed. The cold water and then the scotch stung some reality into this agent. At one moment he stared at his reflection. Behind him ghosted the figure of Tracy, she wore pink bra and panties, leaning on the doorframe suggestively, her auburn hair down past her shoulders.
“Tracy,” he muttered.
He remembered now. It was during that whirlwind week he spent with her Portugal that ended with the trip to Switzerland and breaking into Gumbold’s office. A week full of chasing each other on beaches, walks in parks and Draco’s estate, horseriding and the rest. Tracy had started to loosen up, to –as Bond said- share the tears between friends or lovers. Bond had felt himself fall in love with her against every instinct in his body.
“Can we go to the beach? The sun is setting and I feel restless.”
“Dressed like that,” Bond chuckled as he continued shaving. Tracy made a sound of disapproval and wandered up to him. He felt her arms encircle his naked torso, she trailed a finger in the sink.
“Ooh, that’s ice cold! How do you survive?”
“Men like me survive on less,” Bond winced as he cut himself with the cut-throat razor. Tracy took his chin and turned his head towards her. “You’ll live.”
He kissed her and she pushed him away. “Your shaving foam tastes awful!”
As she turned away he slapped her backside playfully. “Let me wash up and we’ll hit the beach. I’ll bring champagne.”
“You really are decadent, James.”
“Yes,” he murmured to himself touching his face. There was no Tracy behind him. Bond dried himself, finished his drink and went to bed. He would hit Vegas tomorrow with renewed vigour. He sensed something was not right.
Bond’s senses must have been on high alert for as he slept through the veils of sub-consciousness he felt something on his pillow next to his face. As he opened his eyes he was dimly aware of a dark shape scuttle onto his chest and thus he felt spindly legs on his skin. He delicately reached for the bedside lamp and there it was on his chest, his eyes focusing on the dark shape. A scorpion! Bond froze, his body ran cold as if the temperature in the room had been released into space. The scorpion, with tail neatly curled, slowly explored his chest heading south. Bond’s left hand curled around the base of the lamp feeling the heat from the bulb. Grasping the lamp he slowly lifted it, the scorpion paused and turned to head back towards his neck. Bond swallowed, yet he could not swallow, he almost retched. Outside his room he faintly heard a woman laugh and a man join in. Bond wanted to leap out of bed. No, no…
The scorpion’s tail unfurled and that was when Bond moved like lightning. In one single motion he flung his chest out and his body to the left. He heard the scorpion hit the wall as he put both feet on the ground and then in another fluid motion, crashed the lamp down on the insect with such savagery the bulb disintegrated into pieces. Again and again he smashed the lamp down until suddenly weakened, he stopped. Bond sagged back against the bed, sweat running down his neck onto his chest. Getting up, he went to turn the main light on. Returning to his bedside he saw the mangled remains of lamp and scorpion. Retching in the bathroom Bond went to sit on his bed reaching for his phone.
“Main desk, how may we help Mr Bond?”
“I need a new room,” Bond said smartly. “I seem to have had a frightful bug problem.”
After a moments elaboration he hung up and went to get changed. It would give room service something to do at least.
Thank you kindly. I'm an old hand at this stuff if I say so. Not a perfect hand mind but an old one all the same, ha. That and it's been ten years since I first did this, so hopefully I can refine some of what I did in 2007.
“Follow, Follow (Me)”
Waking early in his new room, Bond showered, breakfasted and then drove out in his DBS. Nearing the Whyte complex he slowed and pulled into a gully just off the track that led up to the main gates. Getting out of the car, he walked up the side of the gully crouching low. There was no easy way of getting in- the perimeter was a long, unending line of barbed wire fencing with control towers at intermediate points. The main gate itself had a large hut and barrier, beyond that was the collection of sugar cube shaped buildings. Like an alien city amidst the barren desert. Wait, there came a truck. A sixteen wheeled beast that grunted and snarled as the driver thrashed it up the slight incline towards the main gate. Bond was off like a shot. He came down the gully towards the lorry cloaked by the dust and dirt that it was throwing up. He reached it as it slowed to a stop at the gate. Bond was dimly aware of the driver calling to the security guard.
“I’m late enough Mac, hurry it along!”
“Alright, alright. You’ve got a date or somethin’?”
Bond crawled under the rear of the lorry close to its group of wheels and hooked himself upon the frame of the trailer and held on for the mighty jerk that was bound to come once the lorry accelerated. When it did Bond was barraged by the dirt thrown up afresh. His torment was brief though. The lorry made a quick transit of the complex before entering a building –so denoted by the sudden cooling of temperatures around Bond and the artificial sound within. Bond put a foot down on a shiny white surface as the vehicle stopped. He hesitated as he heard the driver go over something and then there was silence as driver and others walked away. Bond ducked his head from behind the first of the rear wheels and saw no one. He also saw in the bright light that his suit was dirty as hell. He made a vague effort to dust himself down before heading across the hangar away from the truck. Reaching a door marked ‘ROCKET DYNAMICS’ he paused and then went through. The door flapped on its double hinges behind him as he headed down a sparkling corridor. Was everything to do with Willard Whyte so blazingly, well, white? No one came out to challenge Bond, though surely he was on closed circuit surveillance of some kind. He passed what appeared to be laboratories of some description each with men inside in green surgical coats. Bond stopped at one door peering in through a round portal at what looked to be a rocket. It was around six feet long, Bond deduced, with three fins at the base and a red nose. Along its fuselage was the word WHYTE –part of the fuselage was open and being examined by a few men.
“Excuse me, where’s your badge?”
Bond felt his heart skip a beat, he had actually let himself become too engrossed in the action beyond the door that he had not heard the approach of the man behind him. Slowly turning, right hand half raised as if in greeting but ready to jab at a throat, Bond smiled. “I’m sorry?”
The man had tousled brown hair, a genial expression and wore a white lab coat with a clipboard under his arm. He touched a badge –half green, half red- at his left breast. “Your radiation monitor. No idea how much radiation comes away in this place!”
“Oh,” Bond murmured. “I must have left it in my locker.”
“Been out for a run I see,” the man remarked taking in Bond’s clothes. He fetched out a badge from his pocket. “Klaus Hergersheimer, R Division. Come on in.”
Bond could not believe his luck or Hergersheimer’s gullibility. Perhaps if Bond had made it this far, he was therefore a genuine personnel member. He walked in after the other hands behind his back. A man with grey hair and a stressed expression snapped at Hergersheimer: “What do you want and who’s he?”
“I’m just checking up on you guys, make sure you have your monitors,” Hergersheimer said cheerfully. Waving his clipboard he produced a pen. “See that you have…”
“Him?” the grey haired man snapped again.
Bond lifted his head, chin tilted in faint challenge. “H Division.”
“Hmm,” the grey haired man did not seem convinced. Sweat beaded on Bond’s brow, he dabbed at it. Hergersheimer was noting something down on his board so Bond walked around the edge of the lab. Closer he could see that there were a pool of diamonds in the rocket’s exposed fuselage. “Curious, so the diamonds act as propulsion?”
“Yes, now go away, we are busy!” the voice had a German accent Bond noted. The name badge said ‘METZ’. If half wondered if this was one of Werner von Braun’s men who had been spirited away from Germany at the end of the war and ended up working for the Americans’ NASA and their space projects. V2’s to Saturn V’s, such was democracy. “I don’t like your face!”
“Shame, as it’s the only one I have,” Bond walked away and left the lab. Hergersheimer did the same. “H Division?”
Bond did not answer, instead he walked briskly and left the monitoring man behind. Assuming that the rocket division was a heftily sized department, than most of this base at Diamond Whyte was devoted to it with some devoted to whatever Whyte did outside of entertainment and rockets. But rockets? Willard Whyte was a man-made rich by oil and then supplementary enterprises. Bond’s mind raced ahead as he walked the labyrinth of corridors, sometimes passing personnel who stared at him with curious frowns. He reached for his gun in his shoulder holster, feeling the butt of it through the fabric of his sweat stained shirt he slowed his somewhat frantic walking. Reaching double doors he was about to open one when they both flew open. Tiffany Case walked directly into Bond, head down and intent on her walk.
“Why, Miss Case fancy meeting you here!” Bond beamed as he caught her by the arms halting her charge. Tiffany’s face peered up at him, realisation dawning.
“The guy from the bar…,” she tugged away. “What are you doing here?”
“Would you believe…”
Alarms began blaring, a frantic screeching that was instantly deafening. A somewhat automated sounding voice then announced: “Intruder in Rocket Division, intruder in Rocket Division. Security to Rocket Division!”
Bond drew his PPK then and took her by the arm. She tried to shrug it off but this time the grip was iron tight. “Hey!”
“Sorry Miss Case, I need you.”
As they turned as one, armed guards in navy blue overalls and orange tin helmets (a curious combination, thought Bond) burst down the corridor from where Bond had come from. “All right, buddy, hands up!”
“Yes, gentlemen,” Bond reluctantly let go of Tiffany who darted behind him eyes wide. Bond lifted his arms which included his PPK. As he was about to drop the gun, or appear to, he fired at the sprinklers above the guards. Water exploded over them making them distracted, one even dropped his sub-machine gun. Bond lowered his arms and took Tiffany again. “Come on!”
“I could lose my job, mister!”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something to tell Saxby,” Bond grunted leading the charge back through the double doors. “Where’s your car?”
“I didn’t come in by car, they drove me in today. There’s crew…”
“I don’t need the commentary,” Bond let her go and stood over her. “I’m sorry but we need to get out of here.”
Tiffany took in the man before her, the light stubble on his face, the slight podge to his belly that somehow seemed odd to her and the urgent, intense look in his eyes. “Who are you really?”
Bond looked about; alarms were pealing with greater sound now. Men’s voices could be heard down the corridors drawing near. Swearing under his breath Bond said to her: “I’m with the British Secret Service.”
Tiffany blinked. “Seriously?”
“You asked.”
“Right, well…,” she stopped as a door slammed open to their left. Helmeted figures were running pell-mell their way. “Come on, secret agent man!” she took him by the arm and led him down the corridor away from the security men. “I take it you came by car?”
“It’s by the gates.”
“Not very secretive, right?”
“If you have a better idea, now is the time.”
Tiffany took in the PPK he still held in one hand and nodded grimly. “All right, mister, you want action, now will be the time.”
She took off at a trot heading back the way they came, they turned right at a corner and went in what Bond assumed was a northerly direction. He pictured the security forces closing in from all angles. There was no way out surely. Passing through double doors they entered what seemed to be the facility’s operations base. Where deliveries were made, refuse was emptied (and collected) and material stored such as cages, trolleys and the like. Tiffany led the way to what appeared to be a golf cart. It had two seats and was painted white with the twin-W insignia of Willard Whyte with DIAMOND WHYTE emblazoned below. Bond looked at her. “You must be joking.”
“Seriously?”
Bond went to the back detaching a trailer full of garbage bags and climbed in with Tiffany. “Just how many companies does Whyte own?”
“A few –Diamond Whyte, Whyte Industries and Whyte Enterprises alone here.”
“Quite the melange of companies,” Bond remarked then twisted his neck as armed security ran into the loading bay. “Seems we have company.”
Tiffany floored the accelerator of the buggy, Bond was jerked back into his seat before he turned and fired off a shot. Tiffany winced. “Must you do that?”
“It’s that or we end up like Swiss cheese,” Bond leant out and took careful aim at gas canisters near the loading dock where an empty truck trailer sat. One shot was all that it took to explode a canister sending flames across the path of the approaching Whyte security men. Bond looked ahead as they swept through the loading bay doors and out into scorching sunshine. Passing the security gate at the main entrance in time –Bond shouted out to the stunned guard on duty: “We’ve nothing to declare!”
He then pointed: “Turn right at the gully, my car’s there.”
“I am definitely losing my job over this,” Tiffany told him.
“I think in the long run you’ll thank me,” Bond looked over his shoulder. A combination of sand buggies and Crown Victoria cars were coming through the main gate after them. A helicopter was lifting into the clear blue sky. They came upon the DBS just as Bond left it. Hurrying to get inside, they were soon speeding away in a curtain of dust and sand.
Back at the plant, Doctor Metz had been on the phone to Bert Saxby at the Whyte House. He had one eye on a monitor in his lab which showed through rippling waves, the man who had claimed to be from ‘H Division’. “You see him? You see him?”
“All right, Metz, I see him. Calm down,” Saxby drawled as he too took in the images in the penthouse at the Whyte House. “That’s our man all right. We’ll see some harm comes to him don’t you worry.” Saxby slammed home the white receiver and glanced across to the back of a silver egg-shaped chair. The occupant’s head could just be made out above the top. “That’s him, sir.”
“And the woman?”
“Tiffany Case, she’s our main diamond acquirer. Just back from Amsterdam.”
“The man…,” the voice trailed off and then acquired new strength. “Mr Wint and Mr Kidd know what must be done. They have failed me already once with their scorpion trick. Their shall not be a second case of failure.”
Saxby nodded sagely. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, Saxby, or you will be joining them in a termination of contract.”
**
Bond gained distance on the pursuers from the Whyte facility all but for the helicopter that managed to keep pace with the DBS as it closed in on Las Vegas.
“What does Whyte need all those diamonds for?”
“Beats me, I’m just the woman that gets the diamonds in.”
“Of course,” Bond over took a meandering pickup truck which sounded its horn at the DBS. “I saw those diamonds in one of those rockets. I don’t suppose you know anything about them.”
“No, I don’t!” Tiffany exploded, she was tired and stressed as it was. This whole episode had made things worse. Her nerves were frayed and that damn helicopter was worrying her. “Research and Development is nothing that I am involved in. I get the diamonds and I give them to the scientists.”
“Scientists. So, where did you come back from?”
“Amsterdam. We, er, have people that I see who come in from Africa.”
“South Africa?”
“One of them is,” Tiffany eyed Bond suspiciously. “How do I know you’re really for the British Secret Service?”
“I wouldn’t lie about that,” Bond said a little too lightly. He changed gears then nodded ahead. “Your friend Willard Whyte has powerful friends.”
Strung across the broad highway were half a dozen Las Vegas Sheriff Department cars with men leaning over front and rear of the cars all seemingly wielding shotguns. Tiffany glanced wide-eyed at him. “Are you stopping?”
“No.”
Bond accelerated aiming right for the middle of the blockade. Shots blasted out making Tiffany shriek and slide down in her seat. Bond gave a slight roar as the DBS slammed squarely at the blockade flying up over the cars after the collision and landing squarely on all four wheels. Putting a hand on the back of Tiffany’s head rest he reversed in a flash of squealing tyres and steam in a sharp one eighty scattering cops back over the hoods of their cars. Bond then changed gears, speeding off into the sprawling mass that was Las Vegas. Tiffany forced herself up. “Your car’s barely scratched.”
“Must be the detailing I had ordered.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were enjoying this.”
Bond smiled. “It comes from not growing up.” his smile became a scowl as he took in three cop cars speeding down the boulevard line abreast. “Hold on.”
Turning right, Bond drove up an alleyway that the DBS just about squeezed through. The leading police car got wedged in the alleyway creating a bottleneck of ruined squad cars. Bond swung left now heading towards the Strip. People were clustering on the sidewalks as the Aston Martin was joined in pursuit by the sheriff’s car itself –a black Ford with yellow piping and the sheriff’s badge embossed in gold relief on the doors. The DBS careened across four lanes and executed a neat figure of eight in front of a building ablaze with light even in the daytime sun as well as adverts for Sammy Davis Junior. Back towards the sheriff, Bond aimed the DBS at the squad car which was languishing having slightly stalled in its effort to cross lanes. Traffic already was bunching up either side of the two cars, horns blazed and there was some shouting from the roadside.
“Look out!” Tiffany cried as a black Mustang came at them from seemingly nowhere. Bond was dimly aware of two men in the front –little and large. Little was driving. Bond had this sneaky suspicion he had seen them both before. Bond pulled down on the wheel swinging the DBS to the right. The Mustang slammed into the rear left side of the DBS sending it back to the left and stalling dead. Tiffany’s heart was in her throat as the Mustang did an one eighty. “That’s Wint and Kidd!”
Bond, busy trying to get the car restarted looked up grunting. “Who?”
“They work security for Mr Whyte, hired goons for Saxby…”
Bond cut her off by cursing; he violently changed gears as the engine restarted. Putting an arm across Tiffany he reversed at speed, the Mustang closing in just as quickly. People on the sidewalk behind scattered like ten pins as the DBS came at them and onto the pavement. (“That crowd should discourage them!”) Crashing into a shopfront window, Bond changed gears again and accelerated away to the left. Slapping at the top of the gear stick, Tiffany saw that Bond had revealed a red button. Grimly, Bond pressed the button whilst jerking the stick to the right. Tiffany was surprised when the car emitted a burst of machine gun fire at the racing Mustang. The Mustang’s lights shattered, the driver’s window followed and then the whole car stopped. As for the sheriff, he had broken off pursuit when he saw the Mustang’s erratic driving and now was cursing at Bond as the DBS took off past him. Tiffany swore people were cheering the DBS from the casino front and waving at them.
“I think you got them.”
Bond said nothing and that chilled her as much as the whole episode.
**
Returning to the Whyte House against his internal feelings, Bond took Tiffany up to his room. He sat her down and went about making a drink. She watched him, there was that feeling again she had of a man on the edge. Before she had worked legitimately, she had long before not been so. Born into a broken home, she had fled the moment she became a teenager. If her mom’s friends were less than savoury than so were the people she moved with for the next few years. Brothels, doss houses, places without walls in some cases, she saw them all. She also saw men like James Bond. Broken, pushing on with some reason that was known only to them. It was a man like Bond who got Tiffany out of this doldrums of crime and vice. Set her on the road to diamonds, because after all diamonds were a girl’s best friend. It took a lot for the grimy redhead from the Bronx to become a reasonably refined, professional jet-setter.
Bond set a drink by her. Wordlessly he went to the window. Returning to her after a few moments he sat across from her. “Have you seen Whyte?”
“Like I told you, no,” she said carefully. Bond’s demeanour was frank enough to convince her not to mess about.
“He’s holed up in the penthouse?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a man I’m after, his name is Ernst Stavro Blofeld. He could be behind Whyte’s disappearance and why men are after me now…he…,” Bond looked away. Were those tears? She wondered.
“What did he do?”
For a moment she regretted it, Bond’s eyes when he looked to her flashed angrily. They also were wet and he wiped at them as he stood. Lurching like a boxer on the ropes.
“He killed my wife.”
Tiffany said nothing watching him as he went to the bar and poured a drink. A Martini she observed. Shaken not stirred.
“We were married barely an hour…,” Bond paused then sat down. “I’m going after him.”
“You are…”
Bond was restless, he knocked back his drink, leapt to his feet and went to the window. “I am because he’s Blofeld. He killed my wife; he’s behind all sorts of plots and evil…”
The words tumbled from Bond, almost manically until they stopped and Bond appeared to collapse. Tiffany put her drink down and rushed to him. She helped him into his bedroom and laid him on the bed. He had simply passed out, incredible. The knocking at the door interrupted her thoughts. Carefully she went out and called: “Who is it?”
“Who’s that?” a slight drawl and: “Open up!”
Not that she had to, the door vibrated to a bang then another and it popped open. A man with neatly combed hair and wearing a white suit walked in followed by two more in dark suits and wielding revolvers. She stuck her hands up automatically.
“Felix Leiter,” the man in white said. “And you are?”
“In deep trouble,” she replied.
CHAPTER SIX
“Things that Go Bump in the Night”
Felix stood by the bed hands on hips then looked to Tiffany. “He just passed out?”
“Like a light.”
“This is getting on my goddamn nerves,” Felix said to no one in particular it seemed. He brushed past Tiffany into Bond’s room proper. “All right, Dan. Get downstairs and keep a sharp eye out for that…, what did you say their name was?”
“Wint and Kidd.”
“Wint and Kidd,” Felix waved a hand dismissively. Dan left swiftly leaving the other behind who had just finished speaking on a phone. “Well?”
“There were several phone-calls from up top,” the other CIA agent pointed at the ceiling, “to Diamond Whyte as well as the Sherriff’s Department.”
Felix went to the bar and leant against it puffing his cheeks out. Coming over to the Whyte House after hearing about the debacle in town had seemed like a good idea at the time. Tiffany looked after him with accusing eyes. “Aren’t you going to do something to help him?”
“James? I wish that I could, lady. You have no idea what you got yourself involved in,” Felix reached behind the bar plucking a bottle of Jack Daniels out. He noisily splashed some of the liquor into two small glasses, dumped ice cubes in and went to hand one to Tiffany. He stood over her a moment then sat down adjacent to her. “James’ wife was killed two years ago. They had been married barely an hour, from all accounts no one had seen him happier and you know what, no one really expected him to settle,” Felix’s eyes took on a faraway look. He wished he had been there but it had all been so short notice, James had said. Getting away from Piz Gloria, hiding in Samuden until it was safe to get out, buying the ring and all the rest. Felix shook his head. “The man who did it was Ernst Stavro Blofeld, an arch-criminal. He’s been behind some fairly major things with his SPECTRE outfit.”
“SPECTRE?”
“Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion.”
“Oh,” Tiffany felt a little dumb. “So he killed his wife?”
“More or less, the trigger woman was this toad of a witch called Irma Bunt. Tracy was killed instantly. James went to pieces afterwards.”
“Two years though,” Tiffany flicked a look towards the open bedroom door. She wondered about this woman that had meant so much to Bond. She rubbed at her arm sub-consciously. “I am well in over my head like you said.”
“You can’t go back, not now, not until this is over,” Leiter drained his drink. He pointed to the other man. “Bob will look after you until that’s time.”
“I’m not being nurse-sat by some CIA agent!” Tiffany shouted. Coming to her feet she splashed her drink. “Look, mister, I didn’t want to get involved and yeah, well, I am now but I don’t want to be. Mr Whyte’s been a good employer and I need this job!”
“Has it even occurred to you that he might be dead?” Felix’s carefully worded delivery made Tiffany blink, she rubbed at her eyes. I’m so damn tired, she thought. “That no one’s seen Whyte in months?”
“He was always a private person, I guess.”
“Bull, Whyte was your typical Texan billionaire who made it big and sold it big. I’m sorry, Miss Case, your friend Whyte is probably dead and replaced by this Blofeld.”
She sat down head in hands. It was too much for her to consider. She had heard him on the phone though. She had spoken with Whyte, so how could he be dead or even under the influence of this Blofeld?
Felix made a face; he was not sure what else to do with her just yet. He had to let London know what had happened to James, maybe they would send another Double-O. He knew then what would happen: Licence to kill withdrawn, service status suspended, relegation to desk work.
Bob took Tiffany out of the room with a view to a safe house the agency had in the city. Felix remained, sitting by his friends bed he lit a cigarette and pushed a hand against his forehead wearily.
**
When Bond came to he had swam through endless illusions of Piz Gloria and those girls. Each of them had been apprehended upon arriving at their intended targets, just in time from when Bond’s information reached London. Yet, in these dreams, the girls –the Angels of Death- had taunted him, stalked him through the corridors of that godforsaken mountain top retreat. They had harried and harassed him into a room where Blofeld tortured him. So Bond woke bathed in sweat and eyes darting from side to side. He saw the ashtray on his bedside; the cigarette long extinguished and paused. Then he moved to his bathroom where he showered. The room was dark, lit from the nearby lights of the Strip and downtown Vegas. Bond therefore did not see the note that Felix had left him, propped against a fresh bottle of Bollinger on the counter top. He instead got changed into grey slacks and a grey long-sleeved polo neck top. If he had seen it, Bond would have read that Felix would come back in the morning and together they would go over their plans to get Blofeld. Felix had not wanted to leave his friend alone, yet he had to go to check on whether Whyte’s goons were moving in on Bond soon.
Bond went to the window a moment; standing on the balcony he felt the humid desert air press upon him. Turning, he looked up and deduced he was six floors below the penthouse. Bond stuck an arm out reading the watch face on his wrist in the lights from below. A splash in the swimming pool far below distracted him. A girl’s voice laughing.
Good morning, my name’s Bond, James Bond.
Get Blofeld, get Blofeld…
KILL Blofeld.
Bond went to his bed surprised to find his PPK in the bedside cabinet drawer, right next to the obligatory Gideon’s Bible. “Thou shall not seek revenge,” Bond murmured with a smile. He checked the PPK’s clip and decided that he had enough. Even in his current mental state, Bond knew enough that he was not storming the Alamo. This done, he left his room and headed for the lift. He reached it as the doors opened revealing a somewhat put upon operator and a gaggle of attractive, wealthy looking women. Seeing Bond one purred:
“Are you riding with us?”
“Do come!” another one called: “We’re heading to a party!”
“Sir?” the operator asked wearily.
“Next one,” Bond said with a smile and ignored the women’s pleas as the doors shut on them. Bond’s eyes took in the dial above the doors waiting for it to slip below ‘7’ he moved forward. Slipping his fingers inside the doors he began to prise them open, grunting with the effort he was surprised at how freely sweat poured into his eyes as he did so. Out of shape, out of time, 007, he told himself. After a moment or two of forcing them open, the doors smoothly rolled back. Bond rolled his sleeves up, glanced around and carefully stepped to the left and along a fine ledge that ran down the left of the lift shaft. Next to him, the various cables and levers moved as the lift continued its noisy trip to the ground floor. Bond stopped when the doors he had just parted closed on him plunging him into near darkness. Carefully, he flicked at his watch, the face illuminated with a green glow that was just enough for him to see. He waited. On the other side of the shaft there was a loud whirring noise as the other lift began to rise. Bond moved round the shaft, feet scudding small steps until he reached the other side just in time to step off onto the rising lift. It was a calculated risk assuming that the lift would actually move beyond the seventh floor. Certainly, it would not reach the penthouse. Whyte would doubtless have a separate lift shaft for that. Bond tensed, the lift started rising past the seventh. His nostrils filled with the smell of oil and machinery, propelling him up past the eighth. Glancing up he saw the top of the shaft, a light trickling in from some slant in the wall and then he was past the ninth. That left three more floors. As the lift shuddered to a stop at the tenth, Bond reached out and hoisted himself onto the cable and began putting his Royal Navy training to good use by shimmying up the cable. It was tough going, his ankles kept knocking together and there was substantial oil greasing the cable. Bond nonetheless kept hoisting himself up, one-two-three, one-two-three…
There was a ledge at the top just below some sharp looking objects which Bond ducked his head against. Putting one foot on the ledge Bond looked about, his right hand probing the dark space around him until he found a side that gave under his pushing. Humid desert air blasted him, adding to the sweat already pouring down his face. Bond aimed a punch which knocked out the panel entirely offering him enough of a gap to climb through. Outside he was perched on a slanting front with nothing to stop his fall other than the ground. From below he heard a mechanism whir and then a cheerful if measured voice:
“Tenth floor, ladies and gents, next stop will be the basement. Jerry Lewis performing an one off show…”
Bond rolled his eyes and then closed them. His heart was pounding in his ears, like gunfire at sea. He had a random thought of his gunnery training at HMS Raleigh –the shore establishment in Portsmouth. Another followed, HMS Rothesay firing hell for leather at Largo’s Disco Volante as he and Bond fought to the death.
What are you thinking?
I’m thinking that an agent can never be preoccupied with anyone but himself.
Bond opened his eyes, blinking against the sweat he moved along the sloping front seeing how smooth the slants were. They were grey, shiny and quite impossible to climb up.
“…next stop the ground floor then.”
Hadn’t he gone yet? Bond thought. Reaching to his belt he picked out an innocuous looking fountain pen. Aiming it upwards he pressed the top and was rewarded with a cool rush of air over him as the pen expelled a fine looking wire across the slants to just above them. Bond hooked the pen to his belt and tested the wire with one hand.
“Thank God for Q Branch,” he marvelled. Had Q been working his magic in the war, they surely would have won sooner. Bond began to rappel up across the slants, sweat pouring again as his shoes skidded on the smooth panelling. Far below cars were threading their way through the streets. Lights were everywhere, spreading in all directions until the darkness of the Nevadan desert claimed them. Bond felt quite alone. Once across the panels, Bond stepped up onto a ledge that he then realised was actually the top of the building. Incredible. The ribbed structure extending as far as the eye could see in either direction was the edge of the roof. So Whyte had no windows? Bond felt a tad stupid as he stood there, hand on hip and holding still the end of the wire. Just as he did this, he fell.
So sudden was this motion that his heart shot into his throat and he felt the urge to shout. The weightless feeling was brief, that moment one got in a lift or flying over a hill in a car at speed. He slipped between the edge of the roof down a shaft and was thrown onto a seemingly deep and endless leather chair. Gathering his breath, Bond reached for his PPK, he was surrounded by banks of monitors that all showed him from every angle.
“Now, now, good buddy, you’re a guest of mine. Put the piece away or I’ll take badly to it.”
The voice had come from a speaker behind Bond that made his ears buzz. It was Texan, the Dallas region Bond deduced. Whyte.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Mr Whyte.”
“Nonsense, fella, I know who you are. James Bond.”
A door swung open ahead of Bond. He cautiously got off the chair, sliding through the door and into a gleaming white room that appeared as big as anything. Directly ahead of Bond, where there were two steps descending, was a glass dome with a map of the continent USA across the bottom and various objects sticking out at various points. On closer inspection, a small replica of a rocket projected from Nevada. Bond still held his PPK and swung to his right, falling to one knee as something moved. Out of a room walked a cat –a white cat that meowed at Bond and disappeared behind a counter. Then came a figure, slightly stooped, a bald head, no earlobes and wearing a pastel coloured Chairman Mao suit. Bond stayed on one knee, his hand clenching the gun hard.
“Nothing to say, 007?”
“On your knees, Blofeld,” Bond grunted, each word a supreme effort to get out.
Ernst Stavro Blofeld laughed throatily arms apart. “Go ahead, Bond, shoot me like your wife was shot.”
It’s Blofeld! It’s…
Tracy!
Bond’s jaw clenched, his hand shook then he threw the gun away. “No, I want to kill you with my bare hands, Blofeld.”
“Of course you do.”
Bond did not notice the other person walking in from behind the counter until it was too late. Not until he was shot by a tranquiliser gun, feeling the prick of the dart in his thigh. Crumbling onto his back he hit his head on the edge of the glass dome. As consciousness ebbed from him he saw the toad-like shape swim into view at his periphery. The frizzy dull red hair, the crooked teeth, the smell of garlic on the breath as the shape bent towards him smiling evilly.
“Hello again, Sair Hillary, and good night!”
That was when Irma Bunt crashed her booted heel into his face hurrying Bond’s journey into oblivion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Whyte Out”
Felix’s mood was already black when he arrived at the Whyte House that morning (with a sizable detachment of FBI personnel from the local office –a proliferation of CIA would be hard to explain) and was blacker when he was told that Bond had checked out that morning.
“When?”
“About 9 o’clock,” the receptionist said a little intimidated by the dozens of FBI men who were fanning out on Leiter’s prearranged instructions. Leiter checked his watch, it was half nine now. “Did he say why?”
“No.”
There was something not right that was needling Leiter who doubled back to the cluster of men. “All right, get moving you look like a cadet review. No one leaves this building without being checked first.” Leiter went back to the desk. “Where’s Saxby?”
“Mr Saxby is out of office right now, I can leave a message…”
“No!” Leiter’s vehemence made the girl back up. “No,” he repeated softer. “I want him now.”
Felix took the lift up to the seventh floor and got into Bond’s room easy enough. There was his damn note to James on the side, there was luggage and the rest –so the receptionist was lying. Not well enough and clearly whoever was orchestrating things had not thought to clear Bond’s room of his luggage. Running a hand through his hair Leiter cursed and went to the telephone on Bond’s mini-bar. He got hold of the senior FBI man downstairs: “I want to get into the penthouse, we’re going in regardless of permissions and the rest, okay?”
“Sure, Leiter, I’ll come up with four of my boys.”
“I don’t care if you come up with Sammy Davis Junior himself, time is short!”
When Leiter hung up he saw Tiffany at the door. she wore a fetching blue jumpsuit that hugged her hips and emphasised her chest, her flaming red hair cascaded around her shoulders. Felix whistled low. “Miss Case, you surprise me with your appearance and if I might say so, there’s worse things to wake up to.”
“Hold the sauce, I’ve just had breakfast,” she growled.
“How did you get by the guys downstairs?”
“I have a room here, I stayed overnight,” Tiffany came into the room. “Where’s James?”
“Gone,” Felix said guardedly. She did work for Whyte and right now that meant nothing good in his book. “What were you after him for?”
“Just to see if he was okay, if that’s fine with you.”
She was a tiger, Felix figured. Little girl lost who would forever deep down be that fiery girl that had made a life for herself. Felix had seen enough in his life to know the sort. He also had done a quick check on Case and saw that her early life was murky to say the least. Felix returned to the bar, he poured a shot of whiskey and took a sip. Early in the day but his mood needed it. “How well do you know, Bond?”
“Not well,” she put her hands into her pockets eyes down. “He approached me in a bar down the road. Asked me about Whyte Industries and my job.”
“Hmm, well, we’re looking for him now because he’s gone,” Felix finished his drink. He stared at her hard. “They say he checked out. Saxby’s AWOL and now there’s you turning up.”
“I had nothing to do with it! I didn’t know he had gone,” she looked up sharply meeting the stare eye for eye she pointed a finger at him. “You could’ve done something to him for all I know.”
“Look…,” Felix started then sighed. He sat down on the white couch arms folded. This was a stupid scenario already. “James is dama…” he stopped when the senior FBI man from the local office burst into the room. Felix stood sighing. “Does nobody knock in this town?”
FBI local chief Bradshaw barely gave Tiffany a backward glance as he walked up to Leiter. “We’re about ready to get into the penthouse, figured you would want in.”
“Of course,” Felix walked past Tiffany telling her to stay put. He followed Bradshaw down the corridor. “Any word on Saxby?”
“Front desk said he was last seen going home during the night,” Bradshaw shrugged. “We’re running his plates through the Sheriff and PD. It’s possible that he’s gone to the Whyte facility that Bond went to.”
“Your men in position yet?”
Bradshaw shot Felix a look before they reached a fire exit door. “No, I didn’t think…”
“Damn it, you Bureau guys get slack in the desert don’cha?” Felix ignored the withering look he got in reply and went through the doors. To get to the penthouse level involved a short if twisting and turning journey to a short marble lined corridor that culminated with a set of silver doors (emblazoned with the WW logo) and a handful of FBI men. Bradshaw gave the men a double wave of his hands. “All right, fellas, go on in.”
Getting the door open took a minute much to Leiter’s increasing frustration. Once in the men spilled out across floor with its short stairs down to the main area. A desk was across the floor with three telephones on it as well as some contraption with reels of tape spooling. Leiter took in the map on the floor with miniature rockets, planes, etc. The Whyte empire was as sprawling as any empire was. From Maine to Florida, from Chicago to Baja and from Las Vegas to Seattle. Felix walked over the map whilst the FBI men went about searching the penthouse. It did not take long to realise Whyte was not here. Felix picked up one of the phones studying the strange looking contraption for a moment. He then pressed a button and spoke into the receiver: “This is Felix Leiter of the CIA.”
Except his voice came out sounding Texan. Bradshaw eyed Felix curiously. “You sounded just like Willard Whyte.”
“Indeed I did,” Felix said after pressing another button. Was it possible that Blofeld had controlled the Whyte empire from up here whilst imprisoning or even killing Whyte someplace else? If Blofeld could once crash a Vulcan bomber in the Bahamas than he could. Felix was about to say something when the phone rang. Lights began flashing on the contraption which showed the alphabet in bold fonts as well as numerals across the top. The tape began to whir. Leiter sat down. As soon as he opened his mouth a strained faintly Texan voice sounded: “It’s Saxby, we have to get moving. The FBI is all over the place.”
“You can say that again,” Felix said relieved that his voice came out as Whyte’s. Saxby though sounded suspicious, the panic in his voice fading away.
“What’s wrong? Are they there now?”
“They are, we have to move quick!” Felix looked up, Tiffany had followed them up here. Bradshaw was moving to stop her.
“Right, shall we kill Whyte now then?”
“I’ll take care of that personally.”
Saxby did not sound convinced when he spoke next. “Okay, what about the English guy?”
Felix’s eyes widened a fraction. So they did have Bond!
“That too,” Felix hung up. He could’ve asked questions but it would not have worked, not with Whyte’s voice. “They’ve got Whyte and Bond, we have to move though –I think our man Saxby will kill them before ‘I’ do,” Felix got up leading the charge to the door, he took Tiffany by the arm who protested: “You’re in this up to your neck now, Case. Where else outside of Vegas does Whyte have properties?”
“I only know of Whyte Industries –Diamond Whyte, Whyte Enterprises…”
“All right, we don’t need the full catalogue of names. Bradshaw, get everyone you can spare out there.”
“Sheriff and PD?”
“No, they’re likely on Blofeld’s payroll somehow.”
Minutes later, Felix was driving Tiffany’s red Mustang out towards the desert. There was a man down out there and he would need help anytime soon.
**
Ernst Stavro Blofeld had steeped his fingers together as he sat in a deep leather chair listening to Professor Metz’s frantic Germanic blubbering over the rocket project.
“It will take days to even get one rocket ready, sir!”
“We don’t have days, Metz,” Blofeld said coolly. He did not look at Metz, indeed the chair had been turned away from the German. Largely as Blofeld did not want to look at him, also so he could glimpse between the metal blinds to his left the warehouse below. A warehouse from roof to walls –half of the floor was covered in a mud pit. In the middle of it lay, buried up to his neck, James Bond. “Thanks to our friend down there, the world authorities will be breathing down our neck anytime. You have one day and one day only.”
The silver doors behind Metz parted to let in the tall and short double act that was Mr Wint and Mr Kidd. Blofeld had struck pay dirt –as Whyte would have said- by hiring these goons the moment he arrived in the States, fresh from evading Bond’s crazed clutches in Munich. Wint was the shorter of the two with a perpetual smile to his baby cheeks, a little fat and seemingly effeminate with a shocking taste in aftershave. Kidd was larger, taller, balder and bespectacled. The two were nonetheless, in spite of appearances and likely sexual preferences, absolutely deadly. Seeing them Metz went from bright red with emotion to white with fear.
“Oh, they’re not here for you, Metz,” Blofeld now turned his chair. “This time. Now go.”
Once he had left Blofeld dropped his hands from his contemplative position. “Yes?”
“The FBI and CIA have raided the Whyte House,” Wint said almost lyrically. “they are on their way out here now.”
“Saxby?”
“He was the one who found out, sir,” Kidd said.
“Where is Saxby?”
“On his way to kill Whyte. Whoever answered the phone at the penthouse used the voice synthesiser,” Kidd elaborated.
“Stop Saxby, we need Whyte…,” Blofeld smiled thinly. “We don’t need Saxby however. See that he comes to an end.”
“And Bond?” asked Wint with a hopeful tone of voice.
“Oh, I’ll deal with him personally. Now hurry, our enterprise can continue beyond this facility. Inform my…companion, Fraulein Bunt and see to it she gets out of here immediately.”
**
Three girls, three boys…
You persist in rescuing me don’t you?
It’s becoming quite the habit, Countess Teresa…
Teresa was a saint, my friends call me Tracy.
I can be a great deal more persuasive.
I’m sure you can.
It’s Blofeld! It’s…
It’s quite alright, we’re just taking a rest –you see, she’s tired and well, we have all the time in the world…just resting…it’s Blofeld…that bitch Bunt…she’s dead, oh God, she’s dead!
Bond swam towards consciousness like a deep sea diver would to the surface. Careful flicks, surging through the memories that had hit him like tsunami waves daily since that hot day in Portugal on the coast road. If only he had stayed in the car –then he would have been dead and not Tracy. Or if only he had noticed the Mercedes crawling down the road or if he had not stopped.
Bond opened his eyes, that were hard for they felt caked in clay. Sweat pooled on his eyelids, spilling down the bridge of his nose. He tried to move, realised he was encased in mud, so much of it –Bond moved his head a little. All he could see for ten feet in all directions was mud –steam rising from it like primordial ooze. Bond tried to kick his legs, they barely moved, panic formed in his chest and he fought. As he did so he was dimly aware of someone walking across the warehouse floor.
“It’s no use, Bond, you’re quite trapped.”
“Blofeld!” Bond grunted ceasing in his efforts. Sweat dribbled off his face making the mud steam into his eyes. “I’ll kill you!”
Blofeld watched bemused as Bond went frenetic with madness. He knew better than anyone what psychotic rage was and there it was in Bond. He was actually quite fascinated by Bond now. All these years of chasing and fighting each other. “We’re quite alike Bond and yet not,” he stopped at the edge of the floor holding a Mauser in one hand. “Who knew in defeating you, all I had to do was kill your wife.”
Bond had gone slack with the effort of his rage. The mention of Tracy did not spark any reaction this time. Bond had bowed his head, chin touching the mud. “Just get it over with,” he mumbled.
“Damn you, Bond, you could at least try. I always saw killing you as being fantastically dramatic and you make it an anti-climax!” Blofeld was distracted by sounds from outside the warehouse. Mr Wint flew into the warehouse, impossibly light on his feet.
“The FBI are here! The security forces are fighting them!”
“Calm down you fool,” Blofeld looked back to Bond and aimed his Mauser. “Goodbye, Commander, say hello to Mrs Bond…”
An explosion from outside roared through the side of the warehouse scattering debris everywhere. Blofeld was knocked to his feet; with wide eyes he saw through the hole in the wall the remains of a tanker and flaming ruins of a Kenworth rig. Inexplicably, Blofeld fled after Wint. He would assume that Bond would die in a case of friendly fire.
Felix Leiter drove the Mustang at the wall where sustained fire from his men had destroyed the outrigger. Tiffany let out a sharp yelp as the wall of the building loomed before the nose of the car. Around them, Felix’s scratch force were heavily engaged by Whyte security but were already making ground. The Mustang hit the wall close to where the initial explosion had rent a hole and so it was like slicing through paper. However, the pit of mud was almost immediately behind the wall and Felix was thus forced into a hard right turn, the car slewing round and the wheels bouncing along the floor stopping neatly on the edge of the mud. Felix wasted no time in kicking the door open and running onto the mud, it took a few steps for him to start to go down such was his blind need to get Bond out of there. His friend looked in bad shape. Felix thrashed out to Bond and began to haul him up by hooking his arms under Bond’s. Tiffany had recovered from the shock of what was happening to stand at the edge of the pit. She got down flat on her stomach as Felix ended up all but shoving Bond towards the edge. Bond seemed quite out of it, his lips moved slowly yet no sound came. She dipped her arms in and helped pull Bond out. It took a few minutes during which time both Felix and Tiffany ended up as sweaty as Bond looked. He was naked save for underpants, his body a dark red like overdone steak. She was shocked by the scars on his torso and legs. Just what had this man done in his life?
“James, can you hear me pal?” Felix knelt over Bond slapping at his arms. “Come on man, come to your senses!”
“James, it’s Tiffany,” she said gently. Bond’s eyes, screwed shut, opened, he blinked sweat away. His eyes focused. “Tracy?”
“God’s sake,” Felix said though deep down he was relieved. Somebody came haring through the hole earning Felix’s sudden draw of his Colt 44. Hands flew up as the young FBI agent shouted: “Don’t shoot! Mr Leiter, sir, Mr Bradshaw says they’ve found Willard Whyte.”
“Situation under control?” Felix asked not even lowering the gun.
“Some resistance, light but it’s coming together, sir.”
“Stay here, get an ambulance and have Bond taken back to the Whyte House until we have an idea of what’s going on,” Felix stood. “You stay put, Tiffany, don’t come after me.”
He need not have worried, Tiffany drew close to Bond and stayed there until help arrived. Felix followed the line of battle across the grounds of the facility taking in the cube like buildings and the lunar feel this place had. Reaching one such building on the northern fringes of the grounds, Felix slipped through an open door and stopped. For a start there were two women on their knees with hands behind their heads and under the guns of two of Bradshaw’s men who looked put out. The women were both muscular, like East German athletes and both breathing hard but not showing a sweat. “What in Sam Hill?”
“They were protecting Mr Whyte apparently,” Bradshaw said coming over to Felix. That was when Felix saw the Winnebago like trailer that was set back from the entrance, in fact it was two trailers put together. “Took four of us to subdue them.”
“This day’s getting weirder by the minute.”
Felix went over to the trailer, stopping when he saw a grey-haired man lying across the entrance. “We got here just as Saxby turned up, started popping off like it was the Alamo. We had no choice but to take him down.”
“And Whyte?”
“Haven’t gotten to him yet.”
Felix went in through a door that was hermetically sealed from the outside. It was like Whyte had to be kept away from the elements no matter what. The inner door slid open with a hiss. Felix stepped inside blinking –a swimming pool was across from him, a huge one, there was a patio to the right of it, there was a veranda. “Is this a trailer or have I stepped into the fourth dimension?”
“Well good buddy you’re in my retreat,” a voice drawled. A tall gangly brown haired man walked onto the veranda and came down to Felix. He hesitated. “CIA?”
“And FBI,” Bradshaw added.
“What the Hell’s goin’ on here!”
Felix held his hands up. “Felix Leiter, CIA. You’ve had the world worried, Mr Whyte. You’ve been a recluse for three months.”
Whyte frowned. “What are you on about? I’ve been here all the time. Some recluse!” I’ve been stuck down here for three months unable to run the company,” Whyte sat down in an armchair rubbing his forehead. “Saxby put me in here reckoning there was talk of war or something stupid. Then it became this case of me being needed to stay out of the way so that the company could recover. Me being seen to be on holiday would do some good.”
“Did anyone else see you, Mr Whyte?”
“No. Just Saxby.”
Felix quickly explained all that had happened to a rapidly surprised looking Whyte. Whyte’s subsequent cursing was livid and blue.
“...you mean I’ve been seen to be smuggling diamonds in for weapons manufacture!”
“Yes,” Felix said simply.
“Goddamn it!” Whyte was on his feet. “I need to get back to Vegas. Assuming it’s there of course.”
“Last time we checked,” Bradshaw provided. “And Saxby.”
“I’ll fire his ass when I getta hold off him.”
At this point they reached the fallen Saxby by the entrance and this made Whyte chuckle. “Well, they got you in the end, Bert.”
“With me upstairs that should prove easy enough.”
Whyte did not seem surprised at the rest of the facility and the state it was in. Perhaps Diamond Whyte had been proceeding along without Blofeld changing much to the actual facility, Leiter assumed. He took Whyte to Tiffany’s Mustang and piled the man in.
“I’m heading back to the Whyte House, make sure this place is locked down,” Leiter told Bradshaw.
“Still think that there’s this Blofeld guy lurking about?”
“Yeah,” Leiter grunted stepping into the car. “I do.”
“Goin’ Down”
Tiffany was at loggerheads after returning with Bond to the hotel. She was tired, her body ached and all she wanted to do was get out of Las Vegas. Instead, the CIA kept her here and not only that, took her to the penthouse. Here Willard Whyte was sat at his desk watching with a blank expression the CIA men going hither and thither. Seeing Tiffany he brightened.
“Well, if it ain’t my gal Tiffany Case.”
“Mr Whyte, I’m glad to see you.”
“I’m glad to be here,” she stood by his desk as he spoke. “I see at least one person stayed loyal to me.”
“You betcha,” Tiffany tried to smile. It was hard, more so when Felix Leiter came up to them from across the floor.
“Looks like Blofeld infiltrated your empire quite perfectly, Mr Whyte. My men have a list of operations and orders ‘you’ made.”
Whyte grunted with irritation. “I wish I knew to God how he did that.”
“The moment you were taken out to the facility, Blofeld must have moved in,” Tiffany murmured not quite sure if she believed her own theory. Certainly, to those working for Whyte, there had been no discernible difference. One moment Whyte was the all-seeing face of his business, next he had become this recluse that directed things –supposedly- from the penthouse.
“And you believed it?”
“He used your voice, sir.”
“Damn right he did, that low good dirty crossin’ saboteur,” Whyte drawled. A reached for a pack of cigarettes –Lucky Strikes and offered her one. Tiffany gratefully took one and waited for him to light hers before his own. He flicked an irritated look at Leiter. “So, he’s doing what exactly Mr CIA man?”
Leiter with considerable patience breathed out. “Looks like he’s building rockets with which I imagine he’ll ransom world governments with. The diamonds that Ms Case has been acquiring will be used to power the rockets –they run on a special matrix similar to what the Nazis were working on at the end of the war with their V2’s.”
“Metz,” Whyte said coming out as a curse. “When I hired him for our Rocket Department, I knew about his past. He was a reformed man! If you can believe that. The Nazis were another life; he was now a committed pacifist. So he was in cohorts with Blofeld?”
“Looks like it, whether or not he was before you disappeared is another matter, Mr Whyte,” Leiter checked his watch. “We need to find out where Blofeld is hidden.”
“Anywhere,” Whyte stood from his desk. He went down to his map standing over it like a conqueror, hands on hips and a face with a dark expression to it. “Anywhere.”
The lift doors beyond opened drawing Whyte’s attention. In walked Bond wearing a white suit with red tie and handkerchief visible. Tiffany felt relief flood through her to see him. His face was quite pale, ruddy redness filled his nose and chin as if he had been part-baked. He walked stiffly though there was enough of his familiar gait there.
“Mr Whyte this is James Bond,” Felix said hesitantly. “James is with the British Secret Service.”
“Really?” Whyte drawled and thrust a hand at Bond. “Pleased to meet you, I’d not ask how you’re here because quite frankly I have no idea what’s going on.”
“That makes two of us,” Bond shook his hand firmly. “Felix.”
“Blofeld hasn’t gone far…,” Felix stopped catching himself. “Doc said you weren’t fit for anything.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll stay in a bed whilst Blofeld is out there,” Bond caught Tiffany’s gaze and smiled thinly. “Tiffany.”
Felix went down to his friend taking him by the arm he took him to one side. “What the Hell are you playing at? You’re in no shape; the doctor said you have…”
“I don’t care what he said and if I had Mongolian flu!” Bond snapped. “I have to get Blofeld.”
“You don’t. This is my operation now, James. Sorry, but that came from Langley. Your M knows too.”
Bond stepped back quite surprised. So M did not have faith in his abilities after all.
Resignation from Her Majesty’s Secret Service –when you’re done, kindly present it to that monument in there.
Sir, I beg leave to resign…
Resign.
Blofeld!
Bond felt his moment slipping away. He half turned, gaze briefly travelling over the map that he stood next to. The various points from coast to coast, Canada to Mexico. Onwards until he turned fully away. “Okay, Felix, you win. I’ll pack and head back to London.”
“James…,” began Tiffany starting forward.
“Sorry to lose you, James,” Felix cut across Tiffany and nodded tightly at Bond. “I’m sorry…”
“Save your apologies.”
After Bond had gone there was awkwardness to the air that was hard to dispel. Whyte sucked in his breath and expelled it with a wheeze. “A good man.”
“Yeah, the best,” Felix muttered. He saw that Tiffany was leaving as well and shrugged. “Mr Whyte, we need you to start phoning people. We need to shut Blofeld down before he does whatever he is planning.”
“I gotcha,” Whyte went back to his desk. “What a damn mess.”
**
Tiffany caught up with Bond at his room. “Hey, wait! You can’t really be going, not after all this.”
“Leave me alone, Tiffany, it’s done with. Felix’s word is his, well, bond. It’s done with.”
Bond had slipped into his room leaving her standing there at the doorway. She put her hands in her pockets watching him. There was something about him now that she could not quite explain. There was an aura that suggested something was not quite right. Bond also did not seem to be packing, merely he was collecting bits from around the apartment.
“You’re not leaving are you, like you told Felix.”
“Whatever made you think that?” Bond reappeared from his room a gun in hand. He checked the chamber before pocketing it.
“Because this is personal for you. You want to get this guy Blofeld because of your wife and you won’t stop until you do.”
Bond was before her in a flash. “You don’t know what it’s like –I could’ve saved her, I could’ve stopped Blofeld at Piz Gloria but I didn’t and she’s dead!” Bond’s eyes appeared bright and feverish, they were also wet and she stepped back in spite of herself. All the same she jabbed him with a finger. “I do know what it’s like, James, I’ve seen enough guys like you burned out and desperate for vengeance. Guys down on their luck, guys who felt they had missed the bus on their chance to get even. You think you have the corner on grief! Wait until you come from the wrong side of the tracks, pal!”
This appeared to do the trick. Bond relented. He paced the room like a caged tiger. “I’m sorry, Tiffany, I still need to go after Blofeld.”
“You said you were going home.”
“We both know I’m not,” Bond paused then went to make a drink. She watched as he dedicatedly made a Vodka Martini (shaking it furiously and pouring after). He invited her to have a glass which she did even though it was pre-noon. That was when she noticed the stubble on his face which surprised her. Either the fact she just noticed or that it was there alone.
“What does Whyte have in the desert?”
Tiffany blinked with surprise, she was not expecting questions.
“Diamond Whyte, you’ve been there.” Maybe Bond really was losing his mind, she thought.
“There was one on the map further north than Diamond Whyte. A rocket was over it so I assumed it was Rocket Department.”
“Hmm,” just what could she say? Tiffany searched her mind for that map upstairs. The Whyte empire sprawled beyond the contiguous United States and with it, there were many, many properties and holdings but one on top of Diamond Whyte? She could not quite think clearly, not with Bond’s intense stare on her. She turned away from her arms across her chest. “I don’t know any place in the desert.”
“Then, I’ll go and have a look myself. Whatever Blofeld’s planning must be stopped.”
“What if he’s not doing anything?”
“He is,” Bond said with conviction. In the reflection of the windows she could see Bond finish his drink and take his gun out. He carefully checked the chamber once more before taking his jacket off and putting on a holster. All this done, he continued speaking. “Blofeld is an evil man, he will be working on something you can rest assured.”
“How do you know?” Tiffany was tired. The events of the past couple of days had exhausted her. She was not even sure if she would have a job by the end of all this. She had effectively worked for this Blofeld guy for months.
“In 1965 he hijacked a Vulcan bomber so he could take hold of a nuclear bomb and hold the world hostage. There was a massive manhunt to find the bomb and his operatives. I was sent out to the Bahamas to stop him. Then that business about the American and Soviet rockets five years ago, I was sent to Japan to investigate and squared up against him then. He was not above killing his own people then with his pet piranhas. Then, two years ago, he tried holding the world ransom with the threat of chemical warfare. Again, he was not above bringing down a mountain to try and kill me,” Bond stopped.
Tracy, head for the trees!
Sir, this department owes that girl a debt of gratitude.
Draco, can I interest you in a little demolition job?
Tiffany heard no more other than the hotel room door slamming shut. She turned quickly, ran to the door and opened it in time to see the elevator doors closing on Bond. She hightailed it to the penthouse in time. Felix was about to stop into Whyte’s personal elevator. Seeing Tiffany he put a hand out to stop the doors closing: “What is it?”
“James, he’s gone!”
“I know, he’s going home.”
“No, he’s gone to find this Blofeld guy!” Tiffany explained everything as best as she could and finished breathlessly, “he says this guy’s evil.”
“He is,” Felix said simply. “Sorry, Mr Whyte, I have to take care of this. Don, you go with Mr Whyte and stick close to him.”
In this time Tiffany had gone to the map and scoured the area around Las Vegas. There, about thirty miles north of Diamond Whyte and a few more miles away from the delightfully named Sugar Bunker was a small rocket and the words ‘WHYTE SPRINGS’ imprinted beneath. Felix joined her, she pointed to the map: “That is where he’s heading.”
“Knowing James he’ll have a headstart. Come on Tiffany, we need to hurry.”
**
Using his DBS Bond drove out into the desert at speed, passing as he did a small flotilla of FBI cars heading back to Diamond Whyte. The sun was setting, temperatures were steadily dropping. Bond was racing against time, and himself.