Thanks, Sir Miles, and no I don't. Eon had a policy of not accepting submissions (you didn't ask them, they asked you) and I'd guess Amazon will be continuing with that.
(I did send them a song once called "Licence Revoked" 😄 which I'm sure they binned)
Lyrics? That was 40 years ago! All I remember is that I rhymed 'evoked" with 'spoke". There's a copy somewhere in the attic, but I'm not planning on going up any time soon.
There were surprisingly few mourners. James Bond stood, head bowed, thankful for the warmth of his Cardin overcoat against the chill of the autumn weather.
As the coffin was lowered Bond identified a weeping mother and father, probable brothers or brothers-in-law with their arms around inconsolable sisters, and only one other who was not an obvious family member. She was tall and slim, with her blonde hair making a contrast to all the black clothing around.
At the end of the proceedings, Bond walked at her side as they left the churchyard.
“She was too young”, he said, “far too young”.
“I know”, said the blonde through tears.
“Did you know Sylvia well?” asked Bond.
“Since we were at school. We still – I mean, used to play golf most Saturdays. Call me Amanda. My name was next to hers alphabetically, I was Ryde and she was Trench, so we spent a lot of time together and became friends”.
“Amanda Ryde”, said Bond slowly, “my name is Bond. James Bond”.
For the first time she looked at him closely.
“Oh, you’re James. She talked so much about you. You must have seen an awful lot of each other”.
“Yes, that’s true. Whenever I was in England, which sadly wasn’t often enough and will never be now. We met playing cards”.
And somehow we never got around to that game of golf the next day, he thought.
“Look, I don’t know the family and I really don’t want to go back with them for drinks”, said Bond, “would you like to join me for a quick one?”
Her lovely face gave its first smile since he had met her, acknowledging the gambit not unhappily, as they reached the gates of the churchyard.
“Yes, I think I’d like that”, said Amanda, “which car is yours?”
Bond began to indicate the Bentley parked not far away but was interrupted by the approach of two men. Tall, sturdily built, both wearing raincoats.
“Mr Bond?” said one of them, “would you come with us, please?”
Policemen are always policemen, thought Bond, and instantly recognisable as such. He turned to a confused Amanda.
“Look, I’m sorry but I have to go with these men”, he said.
Amanda got as far as “But -” before he cut her off.
“It’s all right, Amanda, Look, take this.” He thrust a card into her hand. “My number’s on the card. Call me in a few days, would you?”
He walked away between the two men, leaving her standing outside the graveyard looking after them.
He was led to a smart Rover, where one of them opened the door and indicated that he was to go inside. Bond found himself sitting next to a familiar face.
“Hello, Ronnie”, he said, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here”.
The Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard said, “And I wasn’t expecting to see you here, either. What’s the story, James?”
“No story. Sylvia Trench and I were lovers. Had been for a couple of years. When I heard that she was dead I wanted to go to her funeral and pay my respects. What does it have to do with Scotland Yard?”
“She was murdered”, said Ronnie Vallance, “found dead in her apartment by the cleaning lady about three days after she was shot”.
“Good God”, said Bond, “I hadn’t heard that, just that she had died. Do you have a suspect?”
“More than that. We know exactly who it was – well, one of the three who had picked her flat as a good place to hole up in. Bruce Reynolds, Ronald Biggs, Buster Edwards. My money’s on Biggs, but we haven’t caught them yet”.
The three names were instantly familiar. The Great Train Robbery had been a sensation, dominating the British news since it happened. Huge figures had been bandied around with no-one seeming to quite agree on exactly how much money had been stolen. The gang had been a large one, somewhere around fifteen members, and the names of either members or suspected members were in the press and media daily as they were run down and caught – except for the three Vallance had named. Every policeman in Britain was on the look out for Biggs, Edwards, and Reynolds and the talk was that they had managed to flee the country. Either that or were lying very low indeed. That they should have picked Sylvia Trench’s home to hide in, killing her in the process, set Bond’s teeth on edge and his blood boiling, but somehow he managed to keep his face unemotional and his voice quiet as he spoke to Vallance.
“Do we have any idea where they are at the moment?” he asked.
“Yes, we do”, replied Vallance, “but I want to make one thing perfectly clear first. This is not a vendetta, James. I know who you are and what you’re capable of, and I can understand your feelings. This, though, is a police investigation. We have rules and regulations which have to be followed. I want to see these three men, together with all their partners, stand in the dock and face trial for their actions. It’s my job to get them there and provide enough proof for them to be jailed, preferably for the rest of their lives. Are we clear?”
Bond looked Vallance straight in the eye. Vallance was perfectly correct, there were rules and regulations. Bond had no intention of following them.
“Yes, we’re clear” he said.
“All right”, said Vallance. “They’re in France”.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,064Chief of Staff
Biggs emerged from the Citroën and looked up at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Reynolds and Edwards followed and the three were guided through a discreet door next to a sign which read Centre International d'Assistance aux Personnes Déplacées – in English, The International Brotherhood for the Assistance of Stateless Persons.
They were walked quickly through an ordinary enough seeming office with people going about their business in accord with what the sign had indicated. In a corridor, one of their guides – or more likely guards, thought Biggs – produced a small box not unlike a transistor radio and pressed one of the buttons. A door slid open, and they were led inside.
It was a long room with a lower than expected ceiling. They were led to either side of a long table, Biggs and Edwards on one side while Reynolds was opposite them. The guards, for that was what Biggs had decided they obviously were, took up position at the top end where raised above them sat a man stroking a white cat. His face was concealed by louvres. A disembodied voice spoke to them.
“Sit down”.
The voice was soft but clearly to be obeyed. They sat, uncomfortably, staring at the louvres with only the suggestion of a face behind them.
“Why have you come here?”
The three train robbers swallowed and looked nervously at each other before Biggs felt he had to speak.
“We were going to be captured in London”, he said, his voice shaking slightly.
“Yes. I know”, said the voice. “It is quite evident that this is solely your problem. This organisation provided help in the planning of your robbery. What you have done and desire to do afterwards is none of SPECTRE’s concern”.
“We… we need your help”, said Edwards.
“What you need is your own affair. Are you asking that this organisation becomes further involved in this business by helping in your escape from the British police, and no doubt by this time, Interpol?”
“Yes”, said Reynolds, his confidence building. He couldn’t place the accent of the man addressing them, but he guessed French since they were in Paris, and he wasn’t going to let any Frenchman push him around. “We are asking for your help in leaving Europe, maybe going to South America”.
“You are already wanted on many charges. Apart from the robbery itself, you are wanted for gross bodily harm, the theft of vehicles, and other charges. To these you have recently added murder, one Sylvia Trench. The agents of the law will spare no effort and waste no time in taking you in charge. As well as being wanted men, you are dangerous men to anyone who helps you to evade justice”.
“We know all that”, said Reynolds, defiantly. “How much do you want?”
“It has not yet been decided if my organisation will choose to aid you”.
“Come on”, said Reynolds, “enough of that. How much do you want?”
There was a pause before the voice answered.
“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds”.
Biggs stared. “What?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Each”.
Reynolds started to yell now. “That’s my whole share! No way am I –“
The man behind the louvres lifted one hand from his cat and pressed a small switch. Reynolds’ body leapt into the air, sparkling, as electricity ran through him. He opened his mouth, perhaps intending to scream, but he had lost all control over his body by then and fell back down to the seat, silent. The chair slowly sank into the floor with its grisly cargo still smoking.
Edwards and Biggs had leapt to their feet, causing the guards to draw automatic pistols and keep them in place. The obscene smell of burning flesh filled the room. The voice spoke again.
“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds each. You may keep Reynolds’ share and split it between you. Are we in accord?”
Bond threw himself into the Frenchman’s embrace in the middle of the airport. He steeled himself for the inevitable kiss on both cheeks.
“Good to see you again, Rene”, he said, smiling broadly. Mathis seized his light case and headed off towards the nearest café, his smile as broad. Once there he ordered two Old Fashioneds and sat back expectantly.
“Old Fashioned? Not your drink, if I recall correctly”, said Bond.
“A man must move with the times, James. Though not you – you always look the same age, don’t you? And I have known you for twenty years”.
The drinks arrived and Bond took a grateful sip. It was made with rye, though he preferred bourbon, but it was still delicious.
“So, my friend, here you are en Paris. The delectable Miss Moneypenny did not contact my office to make arrangements, this time you simply called me by yourself. If I were a more suspicious kind of person I might think that you were on some sort of unofficial assignment, but of course that could never be the case”.
He looked innocently at Bond, who laughed.
“We’ve known each other a long time”, said Bond, “I wouldn’t dream of lying to you. Yes, I am here on what you might call a personal mission”.
He gave Mathis a brief description of what had happened and why he was here.
“So, the redoubtable M knows nothing of this?” said Mathis with a doubtful look. “I find that hard to believe”.
“Shall we say, M is not supposed to know anything about this”, replied Bond. “He can add two and two as well as anyone else, and has better access to all the facts than most. He will know by now, for example, that I am here in France”.
“And if he orders you to return?”
“I won’t receive any such order. Or, I won’t receive it in any way he cannot later deny”.
“Bien, let’s go. I’ll take you back to my place first”.
Mathis lived in a two-floor apartment, a bâtiment de plusieurs chambres. It was decorated in a manner that was expensive but tasteful, which could also be said of the lady he had staying there. Bond noted how the introductions had been polite though no names were exchanged; old intelligence agents had habits that died hard.
Once they were seated comfortably and the lady had discreetly retired to a different room, Mathis began by asking for more details.
“These three men you mentioned. You might tell me their names, if you please”.
“Ronald Biggs, Bruce Reynolds, and Ronald Edwards, known as “Buster” to all”.
Mathis looked at him sharply.
“Bruce Reynolds, you say?”
“That’s right”.
“A body was pulled out of the Seine last night. It was badly burnt by electrocution, almost unrecognisable, and all identifying papers had been taken. Fortunately, we were able to get impressions of the teeth and put them up on Interpol. The reply came back only an hour or so ago – Bruce Reynolds, one of the Great Train Robbers”.
Bond sat back, unaware that he had been leaning forward. So, one of his targets had been taken away. One of his jobs had been done for him.
“Do you have any idea who might be behind this?” he asked.
Mathis gave a very Gallic shrug. “This is not the first time such a thing has happened. We are aware, as no doubt your people are aware, that there is an independent organisation operating in our line of business but unattached to any particular country. One that is solely motivated by financial gain”.
“Of course we know about them”, said Bond. “They’re called SPECTRE – the Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terror, Revenge and Extortion. I’ve had a couple of run-ins with them myself”.
“So I have heard”, Mathis replied. “It is our belief that their headquarters are based in Paris, at least currently, based on the amount of electrocuted bodies we are fishing out of the Seine. Obviously the Bureau and the gendarmes are trying to track them down, but with no success so far”.
“I’m very interested in the other two names I gave you, Biggs and Edwards. Have you come across any trace of them?”
Mathis shook his head. “Nothing as yet, but if they are in France we will find them. Remember the case of the Jackal a few years ago, who was attempting to assassinate de Gaulle? We have practice in such affairs”.
Bond was keen to ask if Mathis and his people had covered the airports, the railways, and so on but did not want to insult his friend by suggesting that he didn’t know his business. Now all he could do was wait.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,064Chief of Staff
Very well written as usual…and an interesting story - looking forward to more 😁
Really, really good so far, the mixing of books, movies and historical events is fascinating, and then twisting those events to form a whole new story is just enthralling 👏🍸
150k in 1963 is worth 2.7 million nowadays.
Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.
Even in one of those rare heatwaves they got back home in England, thought a slightly drunk Buster Edwards, it’s never like this. The Acapulco sun burned down on him, lying almost naked beside the Olympic-sized swimming pool of the expensive hotel in which he and Biggs had decided to ensconce themselves at least for the time being. Lazily he reached out for the latest in a string of cocktails, the empty glasses lined up close by. This is the life, he thought, this is the life for me. No more miserable dreary mornings waking up to the constant grey of the poorer parts of London, no more penny-ante jobs raiding tobacconist shops for beer money.
Buster had used to be strictly small time, starting his criminal career off with trading dodgy meat on the thriving black market of the 1940s before moving on to stealing and selling cigarettes. His first really big job had consisted of being one of a gang who had lifted £62,000 from BOAC in 1962. Most of them had been caught, of course, but he had somehow gotten away only to soon find himself wrapped up in a certain bigger job involving a train and then having to run to get away from that. Still, he had managed to get himself a bit of cash out of it and was safe enough here in Mexico where the British plods couldn’t touch him.
The shadow of Ronnie Biggs fell upon him, a pouting blonde debauchee on his arm. “Hello, Ronnie”, Buster said, “wanna get a drink and join me here?”
Biggs had been more central than Buster to the train job, but he always told so many lies it was hard to know exactly how central that was. From long habit he looked around before answering, “Sure, why not?”
He waved at one of the waiters and ordered what he always ordered, beer. Not for him was Buster’s experimenting with the endless different cocktails they could have. Too sweet, was his opinion. He sat down next to Edwards, chasing the bikini-clad blonde away with a smack on the behind and a loud “Man talk”.
“You don’t wanna do that”, laughed Buster.
“Why not? It’ll catch on, you wait and see”.
“Anyway, mate, I was just thinking”, said Edwards. “This kinda life here sure beats London, don’t it?”
“I don’t know, I’m beginning to think I might be missing home a bit”.
Buster laughed. “You’re joking, right, Ron, ain’tcha? Miss that freezing cold puddle and all that rain? Miss all the bleedin’ crowds on the buses and the trains? Just look around you here! This is better than a flat pint of slops down the local anyway you look at it, now ain’t it?” He waved his brightly-coloured drink to emphasize.
“The beer’s not the same here”, said Biggs. “Tastes thinner, it don’t satisfy the same, you know?”
“I don’t see that stopping you throwin’ it down your neck like it was going out of fashion”, scoffed Buster.
Biggs ignored his reply. “And a man can only take so much of being in the sun all the time”, he said.
“Well this man can take a hell of a lot more of that”. Edwards laid back down. “Wake me up when it’s time to eat”.
He closed his eyes and let out a satisfied sigh. As he was drifting into a doze he felt a shadow pass over his face, and he looked up. Nothing to see but a plane coming in to land at the nearby airport.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,064Chief of Staff
Good story this…and it’s moving along nicely…two little ‘Easter eggs’ in there too 😁
Alone with his thoughts, Bond stared out of the plane window as they flew over the Atlantic. It hadn’t taken long for Mathis to come to his hotel with what he called good news and bad news.
“We have found your two men, James. They naturally were using aliases but were recognised as they boarded a plane”.
“That’s wonderful, Rene, thank you very –“
“Please, let me finish, James. The flight was by Air Mexico to Acapulco. Mexico does not have extradition treaties with either France or Britain. There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry. They must have had some help arranging this – the passports, the bookings, and so on”.
Bond sighed heavily. “You can give me the names they were using and I’ll make my own way to Acapulco”.
“You know, of course, that your licence to kill will not be valid there. The Mexican government will not recognise such powers granted by the British one, unlike friendly nations such as ourselves. If you kill those men there the charge will be murder, plain and simple”.
“I know”, said Bond. “Look Rene, thanks for all your help and you can leave me on my own now. Just tell me the names”.
Mathis looked at his friend carefully, then passed him a slip of paper with two names written on it before quietly leaving. Bond memorised the names then burnt the paper in his ashtray.
The plane was coming in to land, and the pilot had instructed that all passengers should fasten their safety belts. Acapulco looked very beautiful, thought Bond, but there seemed to be an endless amount of hotels. He sighed. One disadvantage of being solo, going rogue as it were, was the lack of a support system. He would have a lot of enquiries to make and a lot of shoe leather to wear out.
Biggs woke up unexpectedly at what his clock told him was 1am. Normally he slept heavily every night, aided by several pints of beer, but not tonight. He took a second to come fully awake then realised there was a man standing between him and the door.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he croaked, his throat dry. Damn if his gun wasn’t in his suitcase. He should have been more cautious.
“Who I am doesn’t matter”, said the man. As Biggs eyes grew more aware in the light, he could see that the man had short dark hair, carelessly brushed so that a comma fell down over the right eye. There was a scar down his cheek. “What mattered to you, and to me, was a lady called Sylvia Trench”.
“Never heard of her”, said Biggs.
“I thought you might say that. You killed her, though, and that’s why I’m here”.
The man raised his right hand, and a gun barrel pointed straight at Biggs’ head. “It wasn’t me”, he yelled, sitting up in panic, “it was Edwards! He did it!”
The man didn’t move an inch. “I thought you might say that. He said the same thing, that it was you who killed her”.
Biggs stammered out “No, no” before there was a short coughing sound and he fell backwards with a bullet hole in his temple. The man quietly opened the door behind him and left. The airport wasn’t far, he thought. Time for a drink before the flight took off.
The End
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,064Chief of Staff
Comments
You have an amazing imagination, Barbel. No sane president would ever even hint at doing anything this crazy!
Like all the other stories in this thread, this one is imaginary. Of course.
Or forewarning 👀
A nicely written story, it’s great to see Bond in action here whilst Amazon get their finger out…have you got Stephen Knight’s number? ☺️
Thanks, Sir Miles, and no I don't. Eon had a policy of not accepting submissions (you didn't ask them, they asked you) and I'd guess Amazon will be continuing with that.
(I did send them a song once called "Licence Revoked" 😄 which I'm sure they binned)
Good story, very enjoyable 👏
Licence Revoked - lyrics, please 😁
Glad you liked it, thanks!
Lyrics? That was 40 years ago! All I remember is that I rhymed 'evoked" with 'spoke". There's a copy somewhere in the attic, but I'm not planning on going up any time soon.
….AND THEN THERE WERE THREE
1963
Chapter One
There were surprisingly few mourners. James Bond stood, head bowed, thankful for the warmth of his Cardin overcoat against the chill of the autumn weather.
As the coffin was lowered Bond identified a weeping mother and father, probable brothers or brothers-in-law with their arms around inconsolable sisters, and only one other who was not an obvious family member. She was tall and slim, with her blonde hair making a contrast to all the black clothing around.
At the end of the proceedings, Bond walked at her side as they left the churchyard.
“She was too young”, he said, “far too young”.
“I know”, said the blonde through tears.
“Did you know Sylvia well?” asked Bond.
“Since we were at school. We still – I mean, used to play golf most Saturdays. Call me Amanda. My name was next to hers alphabetically, I was Ryde and she was Trench, so we spent a lot of time together and became friends”.
“Amanda Ryde”, said Bond slowly, “my name is Bond. James Bond”.
For the first time she looked at him closely.
“Oh, you’re James. She talked so much about you. You must have seen an awful lot of each other”.
“Yes, that’s true. Whenever I was in England, which sadly wasn’t often enough and will never be now. We met playing cards”.
And somehow we never got around to that game of golf the next day, he thought.
“Look, I don’t know the family and I really don’t want to go back with them for drinks”, said Bond, “would you like to join me for a quick one?”
Her lovely face gave its first smile since he had met her, acknowledging the gambit not unhappily, as they reached the gates of the churchyard.
“Yes, I think I’d like that”, said Amanda, “which car is yours?”
Bond began to indicate the Bentley parked not far away but was interrupted by the approach of two men. Tall, sturdily built, both wearing raincoats.
“Mr Bond?” said one of them, “would you come with us, please?”
To Be Continued
Excellent first part @Barbel i’m looking forward to where this leads 😁
Thes Conversations help shorten the wait for Bond26 for me.
Thank you, guys.
Chapter Two
Policemen are always policemen, thought Bond, and instantly recognisable as such. He turned to a confused Amanda.
“Look, I’m sorry but I have to go with these men”, he said.
Amanda got as far as “But -” before he cut her off.
“It’s all right, Amanda, Look, take this.” He thrust a card into her hand. “My number’s on the card. Call me in a few days, would you?”
He walked away between the two men, leaving her standing outside the graveyard looking after them.
He was led to a smart Rover, where one of them opened the door and indicated that he was to go inside. Bond found himself sitting next to a familiar face.
“Hello, Ronnie”, he said, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here”.
The Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard said, “And I wasn’t expecting to see you here, either. What’s the story, James?”
“No story. Sylvia Trench and I were lovers. Had been for a couple of years. When I heard that she was dead I wanted to go to her funeral and pay my respects. What does it have to do with Scotland Yard?”
“She was murdered”, said Ronnie Vallance, “found dead in her apartment by the cleaning lady about three days after she was shot”.
“Good God”, said Bond, “I hadn’t heard that, just that she had died. Do you have a suspect?”
“More than that. We know exactly who it was – well, one of the three who had picked her flat as a good place to hole up in. Bruce Reynolds, Ronald Biggs, Buster Edwards. My money’s on Biggs, but we haven’t caught them yet”.
The three names were instantly familiar. The Great Train Robbery had been a sensation, dominating the British news since it happened. Huge figures had been bandied around with no-one seeming to quite agree on exactly how much money had been stolen. The gang had been a large one, somewhere around fifteen members, and the names of either members or suspected members were in the press and media daily as they were run down and caught – except for the three Vallance had named. Every policeman in Britain was on the look out for Biggs, Edwards, and Reynolds and the talk was that they had managed to flee the country. Either that or were lying very low indeed. That they should have picked Sylvia Trench’s home to hide in, killing her in the process, set Bond’s teeth on edge and his blood boiling, but somehow he managed to keep his face unemotional and his voice quiet as he spoke to Vallance.
“Do we have any idea where they are at the moment?” he asked.
“Yes, we do”, replied Vallance, “but I want to make one thing perfectly clear first. This is not a vendetta, James. I know who you are and what you’re capable of, and I can understand your feelings. This, though, is a police investigation. We have rules and regulations which have to be followed. I want to see these three men, together with all their partners, stand in the dock and face trial for their actions. It’s my job to get them there and provide enough proof for them to be jailed, preferably for the rest of their lives. Are we clear?”
Bond looked Vallance straight in the eye. Vallance was perfectly correct, there were rules and regulations. Bond had no intention of following them.
“Yes, we’re clear” he said.
“All right”, said Vallance. “They’re in France”.
To Be Continued
Excellent crossover story again 👏🏻
Amanda Ryde 🤭
This is excellent. I do love revisionist history storylines 😁
Glad you're enjoying it, gents, more soon.
Chapter Three
Biggs emerged from the Citroën and looked up at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Reynolds and Edwards followed and the three were guided through a discreet door next to a sign which read Centre International d'Assistance aux Personnes Déplacées – in English, The International Brotherhood for the Assistance of Stateless Persons.
They were walked quickly through an ordinary enough seeming office with people going about their business in accord with what the sign had indicated. In a corridor, one of their guides – or more likely guards, thought Biggs – produced a small box not unlike a transistor radio and pressed one of the buttons. A door slid open, and they were led inside.
It was a long room with a lower than expected ceiling. They were led to either side of a long table, Biggs and Edwards on one side while Reynolds was opposite them. The guards, for that was what Biggs had decided they obviously were, took up position at the top end where raised above them sat a man stroking a white cat. His face was concealed by louvres. A disembodied voice spoke to them.
“Sit down”.
The voice was soft but clearly to be obeyed. They sat, uncomfortably, staring at the louvres with only the suggestion of a face behind them.
“Why have you come here?”
The three train robbers swallowed and looked nervously at each other before Biggs felt he had to speak.
“We were going to be captured in London”, he said, his voice shaking slightly.
“Yes. I know”, said the voice. “It is quite evident that this is solely your problem. This organisation provided help in the planning of your robbery. What you have done and desire to do afterwards is none of SPECTRE’s concern”.
“We… we need your help”, said Edwards.
“What you need is your own affair. Are you asking that this organisation becomes further involved in this business by helping in your escape from the British police, and no doubt by this time, Interpol?”
“Yes”, said Reynolds, his confidence building. He couldn’t place the accent of the man addressing them, but he guessed French since they were in Paris, and he wasn’t going to let any Frenchman push him around. “We are asking for your help in leaving Europe, maybe going to South America”.
“You are already wanted on many charges. Apart from the robbery itself, you are wanted for gross bodily harm, the theft of vehicles, and other charges. To these you have recently added murder, one Sylvia Trench. The agents of the law will spare no effort and waste no time in taking you in charge. As well as being wanted men, you are dangerous men to anyone who helps you to evade justice”.
“We know all that”, said Reynolds, defiantly. “How much do you want?”
“It has not yet been decided if my organisation will choose to aid you”.
“Come on”, said Reynolds, “enough of that. How much do you want?”
There was a pause before the voice answered.
“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds”.
Biggs stared. “What?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Each”.
Reynolds started to yell now. “That’s my whole share! No way am I –“
The man behind the louvres lifted one hand from his cat and pressed a small switch. Reynolds’ body leapt into the air, sparkling, as electricity ran through him. He opened his mouth, perhaps intending to scream, but he had lost all control over his body by then and fell back down to the seat, silent. The chair slowly sank into the floor with its grisly cargo still smoking.
Edwards and Biggs had leapt to their feet, causing the guards to draw automatic pistols and keep them in place. The obscene smell of burning flesh filled the room. The voice spoke again.
“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds each. You may keep Reynolds’ share and split it between you. Are we in accord?”
The two robbers nodded vigorously.
To Be Continued
I’m loving this 😁👏🍸
Very nice 😁
Thanks, guys.
Chapter Four
“James!”
Bond threw himself into the Frenchman’s embrace in the middle of the airport. He steeled himself for the inevitable kiss on both cheeks.
“Good to see you again, Rene”, he said, smiling broadly. Mathis seized his light case and headed off towards the nearest café, his smile as broad. Once there he ordered two Old Fashioneds and sat back expectantly.
“Old Fashioned? Not your drink, if I recall correctly”, said Bond.
“A man must move with the times, James. Though not you – you always look the same age, don’t you? And I have known you for twenty years”.
The drinks arrived and Bond took a grateful sip. It was made with rye, though he preferred bourbon, but it was still delicious.
“So, my friend, here you are en Paris. The delectable Miss Moneypenny did not contact my office to make arrangements, this time you simply called me by yourself. If I were a more suspicious kind of person I might think that you were on some sort of unofficial assignment, but of course that could never be the case”.
He looked innocently at Bond, who laughed.
“We’ve known each other a long time”, said Bond, “I wouldn’t dream of lying to you. Yes, I am here on what you might call a personal mission”.
He gave Mathis a brief description of what had happened and why he was here.
“So, the redoubtable M knows nothing of this?” said Mathis with a doubtful look. “I find that hard to believe”.
“Shall we say, M is not supposed to know anything about this”, replied Bond. “He can add two and two as well as anyone else, and has better access to all the facts than most. He will know by now, for example, that I am here in France”.
“And if he orders you to return?”
“I won’t receive any such order. Or, I won’t receive it in any way he cannot later deny”.
“Bien, let’s go. I’ll take you back to my place first”.
Mathis lived in a two-floor apartment, a bâtiment de plusieurs chambres. It was decorated in a manner that was expensive but tasteful, which could also be said of the lady he had staying there. Bond noted how the introductions had been polite though no names were exchanged; old intelligence agents had habits that died hard.
Once they were seated comfortably and the lady had discreetly retired to a different room, Mathis began by asking for more details.
“These three men you mentioned. You might tell me their names, if you please”.
“Ronald Biggs, Bruce Reynolds, and Ronald Edwards, known as “Buster” to all”.
Mathis looked at him sharply.
“Bruce Reynolds, you say?”
“That’s right”.
“A body was pulled out of the Seine last night. It was badly burnt by electrocution, almost unrecognisable, and all identifying papers had been taken. Fortunately, we were able to get impressions of the teeth and put them up on Interpol. The reply came back only an hour or so ago – Bruce Reynolds, one of the Great Train Robbers”.
Bond sat back, unaware that he had been leaning forward. So, one of his targets had been taken away. One of his jobs had been done for him.
“Do you have any idea who might be behind this?” he asked.
Mathis gave a very Gallic shrug. “This is not the first time such a thing has happened. We are aware, as no doubt your people are aware, that there is an independent organisation operating in our line of business but unattached to any particular country. One that is solely motivated by financial gain”.
“Of course we know about them”, said Bond. “They’re called SPECTRE – the Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terror, Revenge and Extortion. I’ve had a couple of run-ins with them myself”.
“So I have heard”, Mathis replied. “It is our belief that their headquarters are based in Paris, at least currently, based on the amount of electrocuted bodies we are fishing out of the Seine. Obviously the Bureau and the gendarmes are trying to track them down, but with no success so far”.
“I’m very interested in the other two names I gave you, Biggs and Edwards. Have you come across any trace of them?”
Mathis shook his head. “Nothing as yet, but if they are in France we will find them. Remember the case of the Jackal a few years ago, who was attempting to assassinate de Gaulle? We have practice in such affairs”.
Bond was keen to ask if Mathis and his people had covered the airports, the railways, and so on but did not want to insult his friend by suggesting that he didn’t know his business. Now all he could do was wait.
To Be Continued
Very well written as usual…and an interesting story - looking forward to more 😁
Thanks, Sir M.
It's just occurred to me that maybe I should have pointed out earlier that £150k was worth one hell of a lot more in 1963 than it is now.
Really, really good so far, the mixing of books, movies and historical events is fascinating, and then twisting those events to form a whole new story is just enthralling 👏🍸
150k in 1963 is worth 2.7 million nowadays.
Many thanks, CHB.
Chapter 5
Even in one of those rare heatwaves they got back home in England, thought a slightly drunk Buster Edwards, it’s never like this. The Acapulco sun burned down on him, lying almost naked beside the Olympic-sized swimming pool of the expensive hotel in which he and Biggs had decided to ensconce themselves at least for the time being. Lazily he reached out for the latest in a string of cocktails, the empty glasses lined up close by. This is the life, he thought, this is the life for me. No more miserable dreary mornings waking up to the constant grey of the poorer parts of London, no more penny-ante jobs raiding tobacconist shops for beer money.
Buster had used to be strictly small time, starting his criminal career off with trading dodgy meat on the thriving black market of the 1940s before moving on to stealing and selling cigarettes. His first really big job had consisted of being one of a gang who had lifted £62,000 from BOAC in 1962. Most of them had been caught, of course, but he had somehow gotten away only to soon find himself wrapped up in a certain bigger job involving a train and then having to run to get away from that. Still, he had managed to get himself a bit of cash out of it and was safe enough here in Mexico where the British plods couldn’t touch him.
The shadow of Ronnie Biggs fell upon him, a pouting blonde debauchee on his arm. “Hello, Ronnie”, Buster said, “wanna get a drink and join me here?”
Biggs had been more central than Buster to the train job, but he always told so many lies it was hard to know exactly how central that was. From long habit he looked around before answering, “Sure, why not?”
He waved at one of the waiters and ordered what he always ordered, beer. Not for him was Buster’s experimenting with the endless different cocktails they could have. Too sweet, was his opinion. He sat down next to Edwards, chasing the bikini-clad blonde away with a smack on the behind and a loud “Man talk”.
“You don’t wanna do that”, laughed Buster.
“Why not? It’ll catch on, you wait and see”.
“Anyway, mate, I was just thinking”, said Edwards. “This kinda life here sure beats London, don’t it?”
“I don’t know, I’m beginning to think I might be missing home a bit”.
Buster laughed. “You’re joking, right, Ron, ain’tcha? Miss that freezing cold puddle and all that rain? Miss all the bleedin’ crowds on the buses and the trains? Just look around you here! This is better than a flat pint of slops down the local anyway you look at it, now ain’t it?” He waved his brightly-coloured drink to emphasize.
“The beer’s not the same here”, said Biggs. “Tastes thinner, it don’t satisfy the same, you know?”
“I don’t see that stopping you throwin’ it down your neck like it was going out of fashion”, scoffed Buster.
Biggs ignored his reply. “And a man can only take so much of being in the sun all the time”, he said.
“Well this man can take a hell of a lot more of that”. Edwards laid back down. “Wake me up when it’s time to eat”.
He closed his eyes and let out a satisfied sigh. As he was drifting into a doze he felt a shadow pass over his face, and he looked up. Nothing to see but a plane coming in to land at the nearby airport.
To Be Continued
Good story this…and it’s moving along nicely…two little ‘Easter eggs’ in there too 😁
😄👍
Debauchee? Now where did you get that from? 😉😁 Love the GF reference, too.
Told you I'd be using it once you alerted us to its existence, and all I was waiting for was the right moment to come along.
Chapter Six
Alone with his thoughts, Bond stared out of the plane window as they flew over the Atlantic. It hadn’t taken long for Mathis to come to his hotel with what he called good news and bad news.
“We have found your two men, James. They naturally were using aliases but were recognised as they boarded a plane”.
“That’s wonderful, Rene, thank you very –“
“Please, let me finish, James. The flight was by Air Mexico to Acapulco. Mexico does not have extradition treaties with either France or Britain. There was nothing we could do. I’m sorry. They must have had some help arranging this – the passports, the bookings, and so on”.
Bond sighed heavily. “You can give me the names they were using and I’ll make my own way to Acapulco”.
“You know, of course, that your licence to kill will not be valid there. The Mexican government will not recognise such powers granted by the British one, unlike friendly nations such as ourselves. If you kill those men there the charge will be murder, plain and simple”.
“I know”, said Bond. “Look Rene, thanks for all your help and you can leave me on my own now. Just tell me the names”.
Mathis looked at his friend carefully, then passed him a slip of paper with two names written on it before quietly leaving. Bond memorised the names then burnt the paper in his ashtray.
The plane was coming in to land, and the pilot had instructed that all passengers should fasten their safety belts. Acapulco looked very beautiful, thought Bond, but there seemed to be an endless amount of hotels. He sighed. One disadvantage of being solo, going rogue as it were, was the lack of a support system. He would have a lot of enquiries to make and a lot of shoe leather to wear out.
Biggs woke up unexpectedly at what his clock told him was 1am. Normally he slept heavily every night, aided by several pints of beer, but not tonight. He took a second to come fully awake then realised there was a man standing between him and the door.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he croaked, his throat dry. Damn if his gun wasn’t in his suitcase. He should have been more cautious.
“Who I am doesn’t matter”, said the man. As Biggs eyes grew more aware in the light, he could see that the man had short dark hair, carelessly brushed so that a comma fell down over the right eye. There was a scar down his cheek. “What mattered to you, and to me, was a lady called Sylvia Trench”.
“Never heard of her”, said Biggs.
“I thought you might say that. You killed her, though, and that’s why I’m here”.
The man raised his right hand, and a gun barrel pointed straight at Biggs’ head. “It wasn’t me”, he yelled, sitting up in panic, “it was Edwards! He did it!”
The man didn’t move an inch. “I thought you might say that. He said the same thing, that it was you who killed her”.
Biggs stammered out “No, no” before there was a short coughing sound and he fell backwards with a bullet hole in his temple. The man quietly opened the door behind him and left. The airport wasn’t far, he thought. Time for a drink before the flight took off.
The End
Congratulations on another good story 🍸