“I must express once again our sincere thanks, Signor Bond”, said the Comandante. His breathing in on the thin cigarette produced a faint hiss. Bond had declined the offer, saying he preferred his own brand.
“I am very glad you’re happy, Comandante”, said Bond.
“You have brought this unfortunate business to a successful conclusion after four years of failure at our end. Who would have thought the stolen gold to be inside a bus at the bottom of a mountain?”
Bond said, “Just luck on my part”.
The Italian waved a hand dismissively. “Luck, but no! How did you find it?”
“Well, I didn’t find the bus initially”.
“No, you found a trail of wrecked … how do you say? … Mini cars, yes, Mini cars on the way down the mountain and that led you to the bus”.
“Your Miss Caruso had been most helpful, gaining me access to the television records that showed the cars on the way to the bus”.
The Comandante nodded. “A most efficient young lady. I expect you will be travelling back to London tonight?”
Bond shook his head. “No, tomorrow. I’ll just take in a few of the sights tonight before I have to return”.
The policeman had little doubt which sights Bond was anticipating taking in.
“Then grazie once more, and addio”.
The efficient and very lovely Miss Caruso was waiting in the bar of Bond’s hotel. Bond ordered a white wine and a vodka martini, being very careful that the waiter understood the exact requirements needed.
“So, James”, she said in Italian once the drinks had arrived, “you will be returning tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so”, he said, “duty calls”.
“You cannot stay on here just a little longer?” Her finger touched his hand and they smiled into each other’s eyes.
“No, I can’t, it’s not possible.”.
“Perhaps I could … return with you?” she said. “I have always wanted to see London”.
They continued to gaze into each other’s eyes.
“That sounds like a great idea”, said Bond, “would you like to discuss it further in my room?”
Bond lay on his back, relishing the sensation of her generous breasts against him as she slept. It would be a simple matter to get her a ticket on the same flight as him. He’d have to pay for it himself, of course, there couldn’t be a record of her leaving on the Service’s accounts, but that wouldn’t be a problem.
The curtains moved slightly in the faint breeze, letting in more of the light from the street. A shadow slid into view at the window, holding a gun of some sort aloft. Bond harshly shoved his companion out of the bed and onto the floor, causing her to give a shrill shriek of surprise, while he reached under his pillow for his Walther PPK and rolled onto the floor on the other side of the bed.
Two holes appeared on the pillow his head had been occupying seconds earlier, then came the brief “phut” of a silenced gun. Bond got to one knee and aimed but the figure had disappeared.
Bond threw on some clothes and followed out to the veranda. It connected to a luscious garden and he instantly headed there. A rain of stone chips hit his face as another silenced shot came at him, then the other had started running through the garden with Bond in close pursuit.
The trees were short, clearly they hadn’t been there for long, but there were many of them making keeping track of his quarry difficult. Both of them raced uncaring through neatly tended patches of flowers, Bond with his gun in hand but saving his shots until he had a better target. A low wall loomed ahead and the attacker turned, seeking out Bond rather than waste ammunition. Bond took the opportunity to drop to one knee and fire, missing narrowly. His target turned and leapt lithely over the wall. Bond ran up as the sounds of his opponent’s scream faded away. He looked over the wall and could see the shattered body lying in the alleyway several floors below.
Back in their room Miss Caruso had finished dressing, a shame to Bond’s mind, but at this moment clearly the right thing to do.
“James! What happened?” she exclaimed, “did you get him?”
Bond said, “No, gravity did. I chased him through the garden next to us, but he must have forgotten it was a roof garden and tried to get away from me by jumping over a wall”.
“Oh, that is terrible. What shall we do now?”
Bond said, "You were saying something about wanting to see London, I believe. Let's go back to my place".
Miss Caruso's smile was like sunshine.
"That sounds wonderful. No-one will disturb us there".
“Wait”, Stacey said, “This is James Stock of the London Financial Times”.
Bond took a metaphorical deep breath before admitting something he almost never admitted to. “Actually, Captain, I'm with the British Secret Service. The name is Bond. James Bond”.
The Captain looked sceptical. “Is he?”
“Are you?” asked a confused Stacey.
“Yes”, said Bond firmly.
The Captain scoffed, “And I'm Dick Tracy and you're still under arrest”.
Bond had been standing with one arm near the fire engine’s external control panel, and at that he sent a blast of water straight into the policeman before grabbing Stacey and heading for the driver’s seat, yelling at her to get in. One of the firemen looked on disbelievingly.
“Hey, where's that guy goin'?” he said, “that ladder's unlocked”.
In the cab Stacey asked, “Is that true what you said about the British Secret Service?”
“Yes, I'm afraid it is. My real name is Bond. James Bond. You must take my word for it”.
“James! Look out!” Stacey pointed out ahead. A tall, lean man stood at the crest of a hill they were heading for. His right arm came up and pointed a large pistol straight at the fire engine. Bond swerved first right then left as the shots landed on them. My God, he thought, those are more like hand grenades than bullets.
The man didn’t flinch. Bond lost control and the machine went headlong into a lorry parked close by. Stacey fainted and Bond fell out of the cab as the door opened. He had learned many years ago to always carry a spare gun, which was fortunate since Captain Dick Tracy still had his main weapon, but his arm was numb from the crash and it fell to the ground just out of reach.
The tall, lean man approached and stood over Bond.
“I know what you're thinking”, he said, pointing his gun directly at Bond’s head. “Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, punk?
Bond slowly started to raise his hands. As the man began to sneer, Bond pointed his right arm directly at him and a dart flew from up his sleeve. Bond wasn’t sure if it would be one of the cyanide-coated or the armour-piercing varieties but was quickly answered as a small explosion sent the other flying backwards, stone dead.
“I’d call that a sudden impact”, sympathised Bond. “Now Stacey, wake up, let’s get out of here!”
The light burned, it burned into his eyes. Why had he fallen asleep and left the overhead light on? He’d be awake soon. A shame to have to wake from such a comfortable bed. He made to pull a blanket over himself only to realise there wasn’t one. Ill-temperedly he opened his eyes and tried to roll over.
The blast of light into his eyes made him shut then open them again rapidly, at the same time as the shock of pain from his back forced him to curl up rather than roll over. What the hell? He straightened and slowly opened his eyes again. The sun blazed into them, and he squinted and turned his head away causing another wave of pain to go through his body, though weaker this time.
He was lying on a beach with the sun burning down and no-one else around. How had he got here? His head was still adapting to the situation and trying to force it to remember details wasn’t going to be any use. He took a deep breath and forced himself up to his feet. Pain shot through various parts of his body but giving it time made that recess to a bearable level. He looked around and found what might be the answer to at least some of the questions sluggishly finding their way around his head. Where was he? Come to that, who was he?
The wreckage of a small plane lay on the sand, just where it met the sparkling blue of the water. Faint tendrils of smoke still emerged from the engine, but it was clear it had been there for some time. He walked over, being very careful with his movements. Two shattered bodies in the cockpit, nobody else to be seen. He guessed that he had been a passenger, and it looked like the only one. He poked around in the twisted metal and found a black suitcase which had been split open by the impact. The clothes looked his size, fortunately since he was currently wearing what amounted to rags, so he guessed it was his case. Sea Island shirts and casual trousers on top, with a tuxedo underneath which caused him to frown in puzzlement and also a passport which he opened. It seemed that his name was Bond. James Bond.
The October weather in London was filthy, with torrents of rain blown about by winds that made the trees bend. Bond looked out the window at the water running down outside while M stuffed his pipe with the evil-smelling shag Bond was surprised was still being made.
“You’ll remember Yevgeny Prigozhin, 007” said M without preamble.
“Of course, sir”, responded Bond, “he was the leader of the Wagner group, sort of Russian mercenaries. He led an uprising of his men and was heading toward Moscow about two years ago”.
“Yes, and all our sources say that Putin was terrified about this. Prigozhin had enough know-how and sufficient popularity to succeed in leading a rebellion against his regime. The Red Army knew that they wouldn’t stand a chance against the Wagner men and quite possibly would refuse to stand against them”.
“But then it all came to a rather surprising end”, said Bond, “the march stopped and Prigozhin was in talks with Putin via the Belarus government. He was on a flight between St Petersburg and Moscow when his plane was mysteriously shot down. All on board were killed”.
M said, “I suppose no-one should be too surprised at that”.
“Well, the Chief of Staff was”, said Bond. “He had bet me twenty pounds that Prigozhin would have fallen from a window”.
M gave Bond a sour look. “Prigozhin had a deputy, one Oleg Abramovitch. He quite sensibly disappeared around this time and has only recently turned up in Cuba. Havana, to be accurate. He has lain low, waiting for the smoke to clear, and only now has decided that he would like to come over to us”.
M passed over a photograph of a burly man with a shaven head and scars on both sides of his face, one high by the eyes and the other low by the mouth.
“Us? Not the Americans?”
“He feels that the current political climate there would not be to his favour”.
“You mean because of President Tr-“
“You know exactly what I mean, 007”, said M sharply. “Abramovitch feels that it is quite possible that he would be gift-wrapped and sent to President Putin almost immediately. Therefore he has decided to ask us for asylum”.
“And my part in this, sir?”
“You’re to make sure he stays alive until we have him securely in our custody. You’re booked on the 14.30 from Heathrow today”.
Bond managed, clumsily, to replace his torn clothing with some items from his baggage that had survived the crash. He also found a pistol tucked away in there, an old-fashioned Walther PPK. Newer models were around, and he found himself knowing that while they were technically more advanced he had managed to grow attached to this particular hunk of metal. It had saved his life more than once.
Speaking of which, he had no idea how he had managed to survive a crash that had killed the others in the small plane with nothing more than some aches and bruises. He looked in the wreckage for any food, but found nothing more than a litre-sized bottle of water. He took a small mouthful then examined the plane’s radio. As he had feared, smashed to pieces.
Sighing, he began to walk along the coastline carrying the water bottle. Surely he would find a settlement soon, he couldn’t be the only human around. How beautiful it was here, there must be other people. Perhaps fishermen? The beach was bordered by trees with occasional rivers running to the sea, but he didn’t think going into the trees would be a good idea- far too easy to get lost in there.
From the height and angle of the sun Bond reckoned it was about three in the afternoon. He had no idea how long he had been lying unconscious after the crash but he could feel his skin burning. He’d have to keep walking in the shade of the trees while keeping the coastline in view, and do it now.
As he walked he looked into the landscape. Ahead something different came into view and when he drew closer he could see it was a barbed-wire fence. Well, somebody must have put it there. A sign was hung on it just where the trees ended. A few steps more and he could read it. Bond’s Spanish was poor but “Keep Out” is discernible in most languages. Spanish- was he still on Cuba?
The memories came flooding back with that thought.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,111Chief of Staff
Just catching up with this…another exquisitely written piece…certainly looking forward to more…and I’m afraid I’ve no idea where this is heading either 🤗 which I’m quite glad of 😁
Havana had sunk to the borders of destitution since he had last been here, Bond thought. He remembered a bright vibrant city, the cheerful colours everywhere and the people enjoying their lives irrespective of how much money they had to spend.
Now the difference was saddening. Closed shops and tavernas wherever one looked, empty streets, and no more the cheerful sound of scooters filling the air. As he started looking for a taxi a statuesque redhead caught his eye. He walked over.
“In London October’s an autumn month”.
“While here in Havana we’re burning our butts off”, she said with an ironic look.
He smiled. ”Don’t blame me, I don’t know who thinks these things up”.
“I bet whoever it is has never had to say them in public. Maureen Wormold”. She held out her hand.
“James Bond”.
“Oh, I know who you are. Not exactly our lowest profile operative. Come on, I have a car over here”.
As they walked he said, “So I suppose you’re our woman in Havana, then?”
“Yes, it’s in the family, you see. They’ve been involved with the British Secret Service since the 1950s – can you imagine that?”
“Seems a long time… “ said Bond, suddenly finding his shoes very interesting.
“Yes, some people might find it hard to believe”.
Her car was a delightful Ford also from somewhere in the 1950s, but still in perfect working order. He decided not to ask her about it.
“Has Abramovitch been in touch?”
“Yes, I called him to say someone from London would be here soon. He demanded to know your name, then grunted at me saying he’d heard of you. You’re to call him once you get to your hotel and use the same recognition code we just used”.
She passed him the number to call.
His hotel was adequate and he didn’t feel the need to examine the bed for crawling creatures, but he was unenthusiastic about eating there.
He had contacted the number he had been provided with as soon as he had settled in.
“Hello?” The voice was unmistakably Russian.
Bond said, “In London October is an autumn month”.
“While in Havana we’re burning our zadnistas off”.
“Greetings, Colonel. My name is –“
“Let us save the names for the moment, Commander. It is Commander, is it not?”
“It is”.
“Which hotel are you staying at?”
“The Sevilla”.
“The Sevilla? Would the Inglaterra have been too obvious?” The Russian made a sound like a train coming to a halt, and it took Bond a moment to realise he was chuckling at his own joke.
“Something like that”, said Bond.
“All right. I will meet you in the bar in an hour”.
Bond had taken the first sip of his Rum Collins when Abramovitch entered, recognising him instantly. He sat down and ordered a beer.
“So, Bond, we are to travel together, eh? When do you think we should leave?”
“I was hoping tomorrow, there’s no sense in waiting”.
Abramovitch made that peculiar chuckling noise once more.
“Tomorrow? Do you not read the newspapers? Watch television?”
“I haven’t had much time to relax since I got here, Colonel Abramovitch”, said Bond, wondering what the Russian was driving at.
Abramovitch called for a waiter to bring him a newspaper and showed the front page to Bond.
“We are going to be visited by a lady called Melissa. She will be somewhere over, what is it in English, Category 5. A hurricane with winds over three hundred kilometres an hour. There will be no aeroplanes. Sit here, Mr Bond. Stay safe. We will talk about travel when this lady Melissa has passed over”.
The sun was slowly going down as the winds began inexorably to grow stronger. The lights had come on in the hotel bar, and Abramovitch had switched from beer to vodka though not as yet showing any effects. Bond stuck with rum, making them last as long as possible; he was not about to begin matching vodkas with as hardened a veteran.
“There is something special about being a soldier, a something without a name which unites men as nothing else does. Do you understand what I mean, Bond? You were not a soldier, were you?”
Bond started to speak but the Russian cut him off.
“No, no, that’s right, you were a sailor. Commander, that is a naval rank, is it not?”
“That’s right. In the Royal Navy, but it was some time ago now”.
“Still, a man does not forget these things. I joined the Red Army when I was a boy- I enlisted, I was not conscripted. I wanted to be a soldier because I could think of no better way in which I could serve my country. That was when the Red Army really was the Red Army. We were still the USSR, our army was glorious and feared and strong. Then what happened? The Wall came down, all the satellite states were free to do as they pleased – even the DDR went over to the West!- and our Republics all went their own way. Latvia, Azerbaijan, Ukraine- Ukraine! Don’t get me started on Ukraine!”
He ordered more vodka. Bond waved his hand to the approaching waiter to indicate no more rum for him.
“But it was there that I met Yevgeny. He saved my life, did you know that? We were in the Donbas and a Ukrainian sniper would have put a bullet through my head for sure, but Yevgeny pushed me to the side and shot him dead. With a revolver at a hundred metres, two bullets in his heart. That was before the Wagner group had become what it was to be, but he had my loyalty from that day. I would have followed him anywhere”.
“You were following him to Moscow, weren’t you?” asked Bond.
“I was! And many others were, too. We were sickened by what the Red Army had become. When Putin took charge the oligarchs made everything about money. The Army was hollowed out from the inside. Our tanks were never repaired, our ammunition was not kept up to the levels needed, our guns got old and rusty. All in the name of profit. For money. We had been the greatest army the world has ever seen and they turned us into a joke. Thirty years ago, maybe even twenty years ago, we would have walked over the Ukraine in a week. Nyet, in a day!”
He swallowed his latest drink in one gulp and signalled for more. The waiter, though beginning to look a little apprehensive, obliged.
“But now? The world laughs. A million of our soldiers killed. Putin talks and talks but Ukraine holds strong. The Red Army leadership were lacking- what is that English phrase I heard? Oh yes, “lions led by donkeys”. Indeed this was so! Prigozhin knew this could not last. He called all his senior officers together and asked us if we were willing to stand by him. To a man we said yes, and the great march began”.
“It caught the attention of the world”, said Bond.
“Of course! We were marching on Moscow until the generals offered to talk with us, to ask us what we demanded. Yevgeny had us pause our march, and that was the mistake. Within a week he was dead and it all fell apart”.
Abramovitch looked out of the window, his eyes glistening.
“Perhaps it may not have gone much further”, said Bond, hoping he was being comforting. “You would have had to face the Army at some point”.
“The Army? Ha! Conscripted boys who did not know one end of a rifle from another. We had been in battle. We knew how to fight. The Army would have run rather than face us if we had kept up the momentum”.
He sighed. “But, that is enough. We will not go to London tomorrow. Wait here, sit out the storm, and I will rejoin you. All right?”
Abramovitch got up and walked to the door, only slightly unsteadily.
Comments
🤣🤣🤣
1973
THE ROME AFFAIR
“I must express once again our sincere thanks, Signor Bond”, said the Comandante. His breathing in on the thin cigarette produced a faint hiss. Bond had declined the offer, saying he preferred his own brand.
“I am very glad you’re happy, Comandante”, said Bond.
“You have brought this unfortunate business to a successful conclusion after four years of failure at our end. Who would have thought the stolen gold to be inside a bus at the bottom of a mountain?”
Bond said, “Just luck on my part”.
The Italian waved a hand dismissively. “Luck, but no! How did you find it?”
“Well, I didn’t find the bus initially”.
“No, you found a trail of wrecked … how do you say? … Mini cars, yes, Mini cars on the way down the mountain and that led you to the bus”.
“Your Miss Caruso had been most helpful, gaining me access to the television records that showed the cars on the way to the bus”.
The Comandante nodded. “A most efficient young lady. I expect you will be travelling back to London tonight?”
Bond shook his head. “No, tomorrow. I’ll just take in a few of the sights tonight before I have to return”.
The policeman had little doubt which sights Bond was anticipating taking in.
“Then grazie once more, and addio”.
The efficient and very lovely Miss Caruso was waiting in the bar of Bond’s hotel. Bond ordered a white wine and a vodka martini, being very careful that the waiter understood the exact requirements needed.
“So, James”, she said in Italian once the drinks had arrived, “you will be returning tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so”, he said, “duty calls”.
“You cannot stay on here just a little longer?” Her finger touched his hand and they smiled into each other’s eyes.
“No, I can’t, it’s not possible.”.
“Perhaps I could … return with you?” she said. “I have always wanted to see London”.
They continued to gaze into each other’s eyes.
“That sounds like a great idea”, said Bond, “would you like to discuss it further in my room?”
Bond lay on his back, relishing the sensation of her generous breasts against him as she slept. It would be a simple matter to get her a ticket on the same flight as him. He’d have to pay for it himself, of course, there couldn’t be a record of her leaving on the Service’s accounts, but that wouldn’t be a problem.
The curtains moved slightly in the faint breeze, letting in more of the light from the street. A shadow slid into view at the window, holding a gun of some sort aloft. Bond harshly shoved his companion out of the bed and onto the floor, causing her to give a shrill shriek of surprise, while he reached under his pillow for his Walther PPK and rolled onto the floor on the other side of the bed.
Two holes appeared on the pillow his head had been occupying seconds earlier, then came the brief “phut” of a silenced gun. Bond got to one knee and aimed but the figure had disappeared.
Bond threw on some clothes and followed out to the veranda. It connected to a luscious garden and he instantly headed there. A rain of stone chips hit his face as another silenced shot came at him, then the other had started running through the garden with Bond in close pursuit.
The trees were short, clearly they hadn’t been there for long, but there were many of them making keeping track of his quarry difficult. Both of them raced uncaring through neatly tended patches of flowers, Bond with his gun in hand but saving his shots until he had a better target. A low wall loomed ahead and the attacker turned, seeking out Bond rather than waste ammunition. Bond took the opportunity to drop to one knee and fire, missing narrowly. His target turned and leapt lithely over the wall. Bond ran up as the sounds of his opponent’s scream faded away. He looked over the wall and could see the shattered body lying in the alleyway several floors below.
Back in their room Miss Caruso had finished dressing, a shame to Bond’s mind, but at this moment clearly the right thing to do.
“James! What happened?” she exclaimed, “did you get him?”
Bond said, “No, gravity did. I chased him through the garden next to us, but he must have forgotten it was a roof garden and tried to get away from me by jumping over a wall”.
“Oh, that is terrible. What shall we do now?”
Bond said, "You were saying something about wanting to see London, I believe. Let's go back to my place".
Miss Caruso's smile was like sunshine.
"That sounds wonderful. No-one will disturb us there".
THE END
At last we know what happened to Charlie Croker & Co.! Mixing Italian Job and LALD is ingenious 👏 🍸
Self preservation indeed 😁
Excellent idea 🍸
Thank you, gents.
The next one is a request from CoolHandBond.
SAN FRANCISCO 1985
“Wait”, Stacey said, “This is James Stock of the London Financial Times”.
Bond took a metaphorical deep breath before admitting something he almost never admitted to. “Actually, Captain, I'm with the British Secret Service. The name is Bond. James Bond”.
The Captain looked sceptical. “Is he?”
“Are you?” asked a confused Stacey.
“Yes”, said Bond firmly.
The Captain scoffed, “And I'm Dick Tracy and you're still under arrest”.
Bond had been standing with one arm near the fire engine’s external control panel, and at that he sent a blast of water straight into the policeman before grabbing Stacey and heading for the driver’s seat, yelling at her to get in. One of the firemen looked on disbelievingly.
“Hey, where's that guy goin'?” he said, “that ladder's unlocked”.
In the cab Stacey asked, “Is that true what you said about the British Secret Service?”
“Yes, I'm afraid it is. My real name is Bond. James Bond. You must take my word for it”.
“James! Look out!” Stacey pointed out ahead. A tall, lean man stood at the crest of a hill they were heading for. His right arm came up and pointed a large pistol straight at the fire engine. Bond swerved first right then left as the shots landed on them. My God, he thought, those are more like hand grenades than bullets.
The man didn’t flinch. Bond lost control and the machine went headlong into a lorry parked close by. Stacey fainted and Bond fell out of the cab as the door opened. He had learned many years ago to always carry a spare gun, which was fortunate since Captain Dick Tracy still had his main weapon, but his arm was numb from the crash and it fell to the ground just out of reach.
The tall, lean man approached and stood over Bond.
“I know what you're thinking”, he said, pointing his gun directly at Bond’s head. “Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, punk?
Bond slowly started to raise his hands. As the man began to sneer, Bond pointed his right arm directly at him and a dart flew from up his sleeve. Bond wasn’t sure if it would be one of the cyanide-coated or the armour-piercing varieties but was quickly answered as a small explosion sent the other flying backwards, stone dead.
“I’d call that a sudden impact”, sympathised Bond. “Now Stacey, wake up, let’s get out of here!”
Yes, I did request that Bond meet “Dirty” Harry Callahan, but I didn’t ask for him to be killed!! NOOOOOOO!!!!! 😂
I’m loving the way you’re tying in Bondian events with other movies, it’s excellent work 👏🍸
No doubt leaving Harry in a dead pool 👀
Another excellent crossover 👏🏻🤣
Thank you, gentlemen. No story ready for tomorrow, but one will no doubt appear later.
MELISSA
October 2025
The light burned, it burned into his eyes. Why had he fallen asleep and left the overhead light on? He’d be awake soon. A shame to have to wake from such a comfortable bed. He made to pull a blanket over himself only to realise there wasn’t one. Ill-temperedly he opened his eyes and tried to roll over.
The blast of light into his eyes made him shut then open them again rapidly, at the same time as the shock of pain from his back forced him to curl up rather than roll over. What the hell? He straightened and slowly opened his eyes again. The sun blazed into them, and he squinted and turned his head away causing another wave of pain to go through his body, though weaker this time.
He was lying on a beach with the sun burning down and no-one else around. How had he got here? His head was still adapting to the situation and trying to force it to remember details wasn’t going to be any use. He took a deep breath and forced himself up to his feet. Pain shot through various parts of his body but giving it time made that recess to a bearable level. He looked around and found what might be the answer to at least some of the questions sluggishly finding their way around his head. Where was he? Come to that, who was he?
The wreckage of a small plane lay on the sand, just where it met the sparkling blue of the water. Faint tendrils of smoke still emerged from the engine, but it was clear it had been there for some time. He walked over, being very careful with his movements. Two shattered bodies in the cockpit, nobody else to be seen. He guessed that he had been a passenger, and it looked like the only one. He poked around in the twisted metal and found a black suitcase which had been split open by the impact. The clothes looked his size, fortunately since he was currently wearing what amounted to rags, so he guessed it was his case. Sea Island shirts and casual trousers on top, with a tuxedo underneath which caused him to frown in puzzlement and also a passport which he opened. It seemed that his name was Bond. James Bond.
To Be Continued
PS If anybody guesses what is going on, please drop me a PM. No spoilers!
Intriguing 🤔 and no idea where this is heading…but looking forward to the next instalment 🍸
Good, I've caught your attention. Now just keep reading .... 😈
Very interesting story @Barbel .
Looking forward to part 2.
Thank you, @Sonero
Part 2 will be along very soon.
Part Two
The October weather in London was filthy, with torrents of rain blown about by winds that made the trees bend. Bond looked out the window at the water running down outside while M stuffed his pipe with the evil-smelling shag Bond was surprised was still being made.
“You’ll remember Yevgeny Prigozhin, 007” said M without preamble.
“Of course, sir”, responded Bond, “he was the leader of the Wagner group, sort of Russian mercenaries. He led an uprising of his men and was heading toward Moscow about two years ago”.
“Yes, and all our sources say that Putin was terrified about this. Prigozhin had enough know-how and sufficient popularity to succeed in leading a rebellion against his regime. The Red Army knew that they wouldn’t stand a chance against the Wagner men and quite possibly would refuse to stand against them”.
“But then it all came to a rather surprising end”, said Bond, “the march stopped and Prigozhin was in talks with Putin via the Belarus government. He was on a flight between St Petersburg and Moscow when his plane was mysteriously shot down. All on board were killed”.
M said, “I suppose no-one should be too surprised at that”.
“Well, the Chief of Staff was”, said Bond. “He had bet me twenty pounds that Prigozhin would have fallen from a window”.
M gave Bond a sour look. “Prigozhin had a deputy, one Oleg Abramovitch. He quite sensibly disappeared around this time and has only recently turned up in Cuba. Havana, to be accurate. He has lain low, waiting for the smoke to clear, and only now has decided that he would like to come over to us”.
M passed over a photograph of a burly man with a shaven head and scars on both sides of his face, one high by the eyes and the other low by the mouth.
“Us? Not the Americans?”
“He feels that the current political climate there would not be to his favour”.
“You mean because of President Tr-“
“You know exactly what I mean, 007”, said M sharply. “Abramovitch feels that it is quite possible that he would be gift-wrapped and sent to President Putin almost immediately. Therefore he has decided to ask us for asylum”.
“And my part in this, sir?”
“You’re to make sure he stays alive until we have him securely in our custody. You’re booked on the 14.30 from Heathrow today”.
To Be Continued
Very good, and very Flemingesque (if it’s not a word it should be) 👏
I'm very flattered, thank you! The next part will be here soon.
Part Three
Bond managed, clumsily, to replace his torn clothing with some items from his baggage that had survived the crash. He also found a pistol tucked away in there, an old-fashioned Walther PPK. Newer models were around, and he found himself knowing that while they were technically more advanced he had managed to grow attached to this particular hunk of metal. It had saved his life more than once.
Speaking of which, he had no idea how he had managed to survive a crash that had killed the others in the small plane with nothing more than some aches and bruises. He looked in the wreckage for any food, but found nothing more than a litre-sized bottle of water. He took a small mouthful then examined the plane’s radio. As he had feared, smashed to pieces.
Sighing, he began to walk along the coastline carrying the water bottle. Surely he would find a settlement soon, he couldn’t be the only human around. How beautiful it was here, there must be other people. Perhaps fishermen? The beach was bordered by trees with occasional rivers running to the sea, but he didn’t think going into the trees would be a good idea- far too easy to get lost in there.
From the height and angle of the sun Bond reckoned it was about three in the afternoon. He had no idea how long he had been lying unconscious after the crash but he could feel his skin burning. He’d have to keep walking in the shade of the trees while keeping the coastline in view, and do it now.
As he walked he looked into the landscape. Ahead something different came into view and when he drew closer he could see it was a barbed-wire fence. Well, somebody must have put it there. A sign was hung on it just where the trees ended. A few steps more and he could read it. Bond’s Spanish was poor but “Keep Out” is discernible in most languages. Spanish- was he still on Cuba?
The memories came flooding back with that thought.
To Be Continued
Just catching up with this…another exquisitely written piece…certainly looking forward to more…and I’m afraid I’ve no idea where this is heading either 🤗 which I’m quite glad of 😁
I concur with Sir Miles, I’m also glad to not have any idea where this is heading. Super stuff!
Thank you both very much, gentlemen, Part Four will arrive later today.
Part Four
Havana had sunk to the borders of destitution since he had last been here, Bond thought. He remembered a bright vibrant city, the cheerful colours everywhere and the people enjoying their lives irrespective of how much money they had to spend.
Now the difference was saddening. Closed shops and tavernas wherever one looked, empty streets, and no more the cheerful sound of scooters filling the air. As he started looking for a taxi a statuesque redhead caught his eye. He walked over.
“In London October’s an autumn month”.
“While here in Havana we’re burning our butts off”, she said with an ironic look.
He smiled. ”Don’t blame me, I don’t know who thinks these things up”.
“I bet whoever it is has never had to say them in public. Maureen Wormold”. She held out her hand.
“James Bond”.
“Oh, I know who you are. Not exactly our lowest profile operative. Come on, I have a car over here”.
As they walked he said, “So I suppose you’re our woman in Havana, then?”
“Yes, it’s in the family, you see. They’ve been involved with the British Secret Service since the 1950s – can you imagine that?”
“Seems a long time… “ said Bond, suddenly finding his shoes very interesting.
“Yes, some people might find it hard to believe”.
Her car was a delightful Ford also from somewhere in the 1950s, but still in perfect working order. He decided not to ask her about it.
“Has Abramovitch been in touch?”
“Yes, I called him to say someone from London would be here soon. He demanded to know your name, then grunted at me saying he’d heard of you. You’re to call him once you get to your hotel and use the same recognition code we just used”.
She passed him the number to call.
His hotel was adequate and he didn’t feel the need to examine the bed for crawling creatures, but he was unenthusiastic about eating there.
He had contacted the number he had been provided with as soon as he had settled in.
“Hello?” The voice was unmistakably Russian.
Bond said, “In London October is an autumn month”.
“While in Havana we’re burning our zadnistas off”.
“Greetings, Colonel. My name is –“
“Let us save the names for the moment, Commander. It is Commander, is it not?”
“It is”.
“Which hotel are you staying at?”
“The Sevilla”.
“The Sevilla? Would the Inglaterra have been too obvious?” The Russian made a sound like a train coming to a halt, and it took Bond a moment to realise he was chuckling at his own joke.
“Something like that”, said Bond.
“All right. I will meet you in the bar in an hour”.
Bond had taken the first sip of his Rum Collins when Abramovitch entered, recognising him instantly. He sat down and ordered a beer.
“So, Bond, we are to travel together, eh? When do you think we should leave?”
“I was hoping tomorrow, there’s no sense in waiting”.
Abramovitch made that peculiar chuckling noise once more.
“Tomorrow? Do you not read the newspapers? Watch television?”
“I haven’t had much time to relax since I got here, Colonel Abramovitch”, said Bond, wondering what the Russian was driving at.
Abramovitch called for a waiter to bring him a newspaper and showed the front page to Bond.
“We are going to be visited by a lady called Melissa. She will be somewhere over, what is it in English, Category 5. A hurricane with winds over three hundred kilometres an hour. There will be no aeroplanes. Sit here, Mr Bond. Stay safe. We will talk about travel when this lady Melissa has passed over”.
To Be Continued
A very apt storyline for my part of the world, at the moment ☹️
This gets better with each instalment 👏
I agree with @CoolHandBond - this just gets better 👏🏻
Thanks, guys.
Part Five
The sun was slowly going down as the winds began inexorably to grow stronger. The lights had come on in the hotel bar, and Abramovitch had switched from beer to vodka though not as yet showing any effects. Bond stuck with rum, making them last as long as possible; he was not about to begin matching vodkas with as hardened a veteran.
“There is something special about being a soldier, a something without a name which unites men as nothing else does. Do you understand what I mean, Bond? You were not a soldier, were you?”
Bond started to speak but the Russian cut him off.
“No, no, that’s right, you were a sailor. Commander, that is a naval rank, is it not?”
“That’s right. In the Royal Navy, but it was some time ago now”.
“Still, a man does not forget these things. I joined the Red Army when I was a boy- I enlisted, I was not conscripted. I wanted to be a soldier because I could think of no better way in which I could serve my country. That was when the Red Army really was the Red Army. We were still the USSR, our army was glorious and feared and strong. Then what happened? The Wall came down, all the satellite states were free to do as they pleased – even the DDR went over to the West!- and our Republics all went their own way. Latvia, Azerbaijan, Ukraine- Ukraine! Don’t get me started on Ukraine!”
He ordered more vodka. Bond waved his hand to the approaching waiter to indicate no more rum for him.
“But it was there that I met Yevgeny. He saved my life, did you know that? We were in the Donbas and a Ukrainian sniper would have put a bullet through my head for sure, but Yevgeny pushed me to the side and shot him dead. With a revolver at a hundred metres, two bullets in his heart. That was before the Wagner group had become what it was to be, but he had my loyalty from that day. I would have followed him anywhere”.
“You were following him to Moscow, weren’t you?” asked Bond.
“I was! And many others were, too. We were sickened by what the Red Army had become. When Putin took charge the oligarchs made everything about money. The Army was hollowed out from the inside. Our tanks were never repaired, our ammunition was not kept up to the levels needed, our guns got old and rusty. All in the name of profit. For money. We had been the greatest army the world has ever seen and they turned us into a joke. Thirty years ago, maybe even twenty years ago, we would have walked over the Ukraine in a week. Nyet, in a day!”
He swallowed his latest drink in one gulp and signalled for more. The waiter, though beginning to look a little apprehensive, obliged.
“But now? The world laughs. A million of our soldiers killed. Putin talks and talks but Ukraine holds strong. The Red Army leadership were lacking- what is that English phrase I heard? Oh yes, “lions led by donkeys”. Indeed this was so! Prigozhin knew this could not last. He called all his senior officers together and asked us if we were willing to stand by him. To a man we said yes, and the great march began”.
“It caught the attention of the world”, said Bond.
“Of course! We were marching on Moscow until the generals offered to talk with us, to ask us what we demanded. Yevgeny had us pause our march, and that was the mistake. Within a week he was dead and it all fell apart”.
Abramovitch looked out of the window, his eyes glistening.
“Perhaps it may not have gone much further”, said Bond, hoping he was being comforting. “You would have had to face the Army at some point”.
“The Army? Ha! Conscripted boys who did not know one end of a rifle from another. We had been in battle. We knew how to fight. The Army would have run rather than face us if we had kept up the momentum”.
He sighed. “But, that is enough. We will not go to London tomorrow. Wait here, sit out the storm, and I will rejoin you. All right?”
Abramovitch got up and walked to the door, only slightly unsteadily.
To Be Continued
Great work Barbel.
Looking forward to Part 6.
Keep it up!!!
Glad you like it, Sonero, and many thanks for the artwork.
You are most welcome @Barbel .