The Aerolíneas Argentinas Comet 4 jet airliner had just crossed the equator. Through the window, the vast expanse of silver blue Atlantic Ocean was changing, darkening, as the continent of South America loomed ahead. Soon the aeroplane would pass into Brazilian airspace and begin the long descent towards the River Plate basin, Argentina and an appointment with an unknown adversary.
The stewardess smiled cheerfully, awaiting his response.
James Bond had once told the Governor of Nassau that he would one day like to marry an airline stewardess, and that thought came back to him now causing a brief smile to interrupt his thoughts. The smile evaporated into melancholy as memories of his actual brief marriage came back to him. The young woman was puzzled by the expressions that flitted across her handsome passenger’s face but maintained her professional, enticing demeanour.
“Yes, I’d like that,” said Bond, and once again he offered that quick, charming half-smile. Aerolíneas Argentinas flew comfortable, regular flights, even if the planes were beginning to show signs of age. If the view outside the window was tinted with deepening apprehension, in first class at least there was always light from a brilliant smile and a pretty face.
***
Bond emerged from Ezeiza Airport and walked smartly to the taxi rank. Out of old habit, he took the third car waiting, told the driver his destination and sat back, sweltering in the unaccustomed heat. The driver spoke good English.
“So, you are here for business, yes, mister?”
“Just a holiday”, said Bond. “I wanted a few days break”.
“Still, I am surprised that you are here right now.”
“Oh? Why surprised?”
“Because of the football, senor! The World Cup!”
“Ah, I see. No, I’m not interested in football,” said Bond.
“Even when your country is playing host? They might win.”
“My country isn’t playing.”
“But you are English, Senor!”
“Someone might suppose that, but my country is Scotland. They never play in the World Cup.”
“Ah, Scotland,” said the driver happily. “The little men who grant wishes, the Guinness, the Saint Patrick’s Day, I know all that.”
Bond left him happy and gave him a large tip when they arrived at the Hotel Saffron. In return the driver gave him his card, one of a dozen that peeked out of the windscreen’s sun visor.
“You call me when you want to go somewhere, eh?”
“I will.”
Bond pocketed the card without looking at it. As the taxi departed, exhaust belching, Bond lifted his suitcase and entered one of Buenos Aires’s best-kept secrets. The Saffron was floored with Rosso Levanto marble, a luxurious warm red stone from Liguria in Italy. The pillars that lined the entrance and foyer were sleek Silver Shadow White, from Argentina’s own quarries, flawless in tone. The foyer was two storeys high and lit by a fabulous Delga diamond chandelier. The acoustics were such his footsteps rang with the clipped sound of a metronome.
His accommodation was an inauspicious affair on the fifth floor. Despite his tiredness, Bond made a quick recce of the room and its bathroom suite. It appeared not to be bugged. The Secretaría de Inteligencia del Estado, the Argentine secret police, had clearly not flagged that ‘Universal Exports’ was written on his visa. The doors to the small balcony were ajar and let in cascades of sound and waves of heat from the streets. A Latino band played in the restaurant across the street. The illuminated sign advertised Fernet y Coca-Cola, the fuel of every house party. Bond imagined his cab driver consuming vast quantities while watching the bloody World Cup.
The sun was setting, turning the sky orange. He closed the doors, pulled the curtains and switched on the overhead fan which rotated at a slow wit. Bond turned to unpack his battered Antler Attaché, a small, but roomy case provided by Q Branch that contained all the accoutrements for his work.
Three items were placed in the x-ray proof pouch: a tiny but powerful pocket transmitter, for emergencies, disguised as a battery operated Ferguson transistor radio; his trusty Walter PPK and holster; and a third newer piece of kit which resided in a small black cotton tie-string bag.
Bond cast the little package aside. The gadgets from Q Branch tended to get in his way. The briefing was even more terse than usual. The Colibri cigarette lighter which doubled as a camera was the nadir.
“You’ve got to be joking!”
“You always disparage my work, OO7,” the Quartermaster had scolded, “yet you use and destroy everything I ever give you. So, pay attention."
Major Boothroyd had held up what resembled nothing more than a hefty cigarette case. It’d probably take six Delectados, the fat, vanilla infused kind Raoul made in his factory in Cuba.
“I’ve got this cracking little gadget for you…”...
Bond did not unpack his clothes other than the suits he would need, which he hung in the wardrobe. He siphoned the equipment into the room safe. Finally, he ordered coffee from room service and a breakfast of figs, yoghurt and toast to be delivered at seven. They could get anything for you at the Saffron. After a ruthlessly disgusting Argentine coffee, he undressed to his underclothes, threw himself on the double bed and closed his eyes.
His reading material on the flight had not been the most stimulating. The business dealings of Notorio and the history of the corned beef industry had never been matters that had occupied his mind, but he did not want to be caught out at the exhibition hall tomorrow by a basic question. Before reading, he had assumed that the word “corn” had referred to the plant. Now, he knew that it referred to an amount of salt. He would have looked very foolish if he had got that wrong tomorrow. The words on the pages of the brochures flipped through Bond’s mind and he drifted into a deep controlled sleep.
This one is set at a more luxuriant pace, there is more exposition in the setting, characterisation and plot, it’s very Fleming-esque. I like it very much.
Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.
Well, I congratulate both of you for a very intriguing piece of work 🍸
But I hope Bond gets out of Argentina before they play England in the World Cup quarter final - Scottish or not, I don’t think the Argentine supports would care 😳🫣😁
The Expo Centre was close to the hotel, a few streets on from the Plaza de Mayo. Bond chose to walk. Anyway, he had told the taxi driver that he was on holiday and attending the Trade Expo would appear a strange thing for a man to do for pleasure.
Buenos Aires Trade Exhibition was printed on the huge banner outside the large, imposing modern-looking arena. For good measure, the banner was written in Spanish, German and English. Argentinian flags were placed decoratively on either side of the entrance. Bond entered, showed his invitation and was presented with a tabard and name tag. He began to peruse the elegantly placed desks, stalls and exhibits. As he expected, the majority of the businesses were affiliated to the coffee industry – coffee growers, coffee distributors, coffee exporters. He turned down several offers of a drink of their products and continued to wander the arena, appearing aimless, but all the while seeking the Notorio stand.
There is was, quite discreet, shovelled into a corner, and hard to spot as there was no sign above it and several interested parties were engaged in conversation with the reps, blocking the view of the two people who sat at the large, Formica topped desk.
Bond approached, hoping he was not going to be asked to sample their corned beef. A beaming young man of European extraction held up a tray and invited him to do exactly that, which Bond politely declined. Sitting at a table, inevitably drinking coffee, were Carl Devlin and Alexis Sebastian. He recognised them instantly from the photos in the files. For a moment, Bond thought she noticed him. Her eyes seemed to swivel, the brows arching a half-inch, intrigued. He looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. Christ, she was even more beautiful in the flesh than her photograph had implied.
The young man was talking, asking him something, but Bond smiled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I speak only English and German.”
He could see the heads of the couple jerk up sharply. The young man turned towards his superiors, but Devlin was already rising.
“Good morning,” he said. “I speak English. Can I help you?”
“Yes. Good morning to you. My name is David Somerset. I’m a representative of Universal Exports, based out of London. I don’t know if you’ve ever done any business with us …?”
Devlin shook his head. “No, I don’t recall doing any business with a company of that name. Universal, you say? What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to discuss your current export/import arrangements to the UK. Universal is looking to expand into South America. Perhaps we can make you a better offer.”
Devlin inspected his hands, the fingers briefly interlocking.
“That sounds most interesting, Mr Somerset.”
The phrase, lined with a Latin accent, spoken in English, still hinted at his German origins. Bond’s nerves twitched. His experience with several Germans, both during the War and during his time in the service did not endear them to him. The accent rankled.
“Would you like you join us?” continued Devlin.
He waved a hand at the table where Alexis Sebastian was sitting. A different young man produced a third chair from out of nowhere. Bond sat down, refusing coffee for what felt like the twentieth time since he had entered this hall. The German had already begun to talk.
“Let me introduce myself. I am Carl Devlin and this is my assistant, Alexis Sebastian. You may recognise I am of German extraction.”
“Yes. I detected an accent. And Miss Sebastian…?”
“Also. I prefer to have former countrymen working in my employ. It is good for security, discretion and efficiency, do you not think? There is so much rumour in the world at the moment.”
“I couldn’t say. As long as your operation is legal…”
“Do not let that concern you. We have all the appropriate authorisations for operating out of Argentina and on the world markets. I am sure Universal would find us most accommodating. Please, tell us what you have in mind.”
Bond nodded and began to outline the prospective arrangement he had prepared while reading the dry, boring background details on Notorio and their dealings. Devlin was attentive, making remarks and seeking qualification and clarity. Bond avoided providing any certainties. He noticed Alexis did no more than sit calmly, looking very cool and chic. She appeared close with Devlin, responding when he asked her opinion, but offered no questions of her own.
Eventually, Devlin said: “And may I ask, Mr Somerset, what is it about our company that attracted Universal to make us this offer?”
Bond gave a small laugh.
“I work primarily as something of a freelance,” he said brightly. “To be frank it was your logo, Mr Devlin: Notorio, primero, ultimo y siempre carne de res. ‘First, last, and always beef.’ I did a little research and discovered that where your company is concerned those were more than just words.”
Devlin inspected his hands once more.
“I believe we may see eye-to-eye on many things, Mr Somerset.”
Alexis touched his arm and indicated something behind Bond, in the melee of guests. Devlin looked. Something attracted his eye and Bond turned, but couldn’t see what or who it was.
“Excuse me for a moment, Mr Somerset. I have some arrangements to make. Please, wait here with Miss Sebastian till I return”.
Bond wondered what sort of arrangements those might be. Devlin stood again and departed. Bond saw him beginning an animated conversation with a bald headed, slightly hunched old man. He squinted, but couldn’t look for long without attracting suspicion. He turned back and gave his full attention to Alexis.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee, Mr Somerset?” she asked.
“Very sure, thanks,” Bond replied. “You have a lovely accent, Miss Sebastian. Austrian, perhaps?”
“No, I am German.”
“Ach so, du bist Deutsche,” smiled Bond.
“I haven’t been there for many years,” she replied.
“I was in Austria quite recently, in the Alps. Very beautiful there. Lovely flowers, I like the Edelweiss.”
“I am sure it is very nice.”
She had replied amicably, but without reaction to his mention of Edelweiss. While Bond was thinking about what to say next, Devlin returned, his brow creased.
“Please forgive me, Alexis and I must depart. A labour problem.”
Alexis tugged at his arm. For a brief moment Bond thought there was alarm in her eyes, but the blue twin pearls calmly betrayed nothing.
“Carl, the Charity Ball?” she said hopefully.
“Oh, of course.” Devlin was suddenly all smiles. “Mr Somerset, our company is holding a charity ball this evening in the Hotel Saffron. You must join us.”
“Now there’s a coincidence,” said Bond. “That’s where I’m staying. Someone suggested the Leopoldine, but I’ve never heard of it.”
Devlin’s habitual smile switched to a grimace.
“Nor have I, Mr Somerset.” A more faltering version of his smile retuned in an instant. “I will have an invitation delivered to your room. Now, if you will excuse us, we must return to my offices. It was a pleasure to meet you and we will see you tonight at the Charity Ball, yes?”
“Yes. I am looking forward to it already.”
Bond’s remarks were said to Devlin, but he was looking at Alexis. Bond sensed his moment had passed. Not wanting to suffer more attacks of coffee drinking, he headed directly for the exit and took the same walk back through the busy plaza towards his hotel. He was pleased at the reaction his words had had on Devlin, but concerned that the word ‘Edelweiss’ had provoked nothing from Alexis. Her beauty had affected him more than he had expected and he found himself looking forward to seeing her again. She had suddenly become more than just the objective of an operation.
Amongst the hustle of the Argentinian capital, Bond didn’t see the figure of a burly, swarthy man come out from the shadows near the hall and follow him back to the hotel.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,059Chief of Staff
Bond freshened up in his hotel room. The showers in the Saffron were possibly the most powerful he’d ever experienced - deliciously hot, then sparkling cold. He lay on the comfy double bed, naked except for a blue Terry cloth robe, and thought about Alexis’s bow-shaped mouth, how delicious it might be to kiss it, and wondering why she’d not responded to ‘Edelweiss’.
Promptly at seven, he rose and ordered a plate of scrambled eggs on rye bread, toasted on one side, black coffee and a Vesper Martini from room service. “With a teaspoon of Kina Lillet,” he said. The drink, one Bond had invented himself many years ago and dedicated to a former lover – his mind closed down like a trap on the memories – had become a standard for some of Europe’s very best barmen in the continent’s very best hotels. He was pleasantly surprised to find the recipe had made it as far as Buenos Aires. He could probably thank Giuseppe Cipriani for that. Once tasted, the famous hotelier and restauranteur had insisted the Vesper went on the menu card.
Bond dressed in his Anthony Sinclair dinner suit, accepted the food and drink when delivered and ate quickly, tidily at the balcony table. Afterwards, he sat smoking a Morland’s and drinking the rasping cocktail, watching the traffic build on the avenue below as the sun declined behind the towers of the city. The big saloon cars abused the atmosphere, choking the air with fumes. It was the aroma of seedy power. As Bond watched, an elegant limousine pulled up smartly below and Carl Devlin, wearing full evening dress, stepped out. He turned and held out a hand to Alexis, who emerged shimmering in a layered, silver-threaded ballgown, a diamond tiara perched in her hair. The fawning hotel manager, who Bond had glimpsed briefly on his arrival, greeted Devlin personally.
There was more seedy power on display at the Crocus Ballroom. Bond flashed his invitation at the doorman and entered briskly through the revolving door. The Crocus was another of Buenos Aires’s well-kept secrets, marble pillared and dripping with gold and crystal excesses. The ballroom was sumptuous, with tiered seating leading from the polished oak floor to the exclusive booths tucked against the walls and corners. Everything was upholstered in crocus-blue velvet. A bit gaudy, considered Bond, but then the aesthetics of interior décor barely interested him.
He caught sight of Devlin and Alexis sitting at a large table near the edge of the dance floor. They were surrounded by a group of men and women he didn’t recognise. None of the faces were those from the Expo. These were older men, slightly distinguished. Their fair hair, often greying, and stout shoulders and chests hinted at Teutonic breeding. Bond wondered why they didn’t just unravel a Swastika pennant and drape it over the table. The drink of choice appeared to be champagne.
Bond took a glass from a passing waiter. Dom Perignon ’57. There was no faulting Devlin’s tastes in alcohol, assuming he’d paid for it and not the charity foundation. Slowly, carefully, Bond circled the ballroom floor, trying to catch Alexis’s gaze. Either she was deliberately avoiding him or she hadn’t noticed him at all. Neither option hinted at anything good.
The orchestra finished a Viennese waltz and as the couples retreated from the floor, Bond made his approach. He finished his glass of champagne, placed the empty flute on a busy table and strode directly toward Carl Devlin, forcing a smile to break his lips.
“Mr Devlin, wonderful to see you again.”
“And you also, Mr Somerset.” Devlin’s reply was as cool as Antarctic winter. He stood to politely shake hands. “You are just in time for the charity’s demonstration.”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps you didn’t read your invitation?”
“It said dancing. Food. And drink.”
“I am a leading benefactor to the Eva Peron Dance School. You may recall she started her career as a tango dancer for hire. The School seeks out the best prospects in Buenos Aires and educates them in both dance and traditional schooling. When they graduate we help them find opportunities on the stage and screen or in competition.”
“Very admirable.”
Bond noticed Alexis stand up from the table, leaving a pair of well-heeled ladies to their cigarettes. She glided towards Devlin and Bond, one hand extended.
“Has Mr Somerset made a donation yet, Carl?”
“My apologies,” said Bond. “I will speak with Universal Exports. I am certain we can arrange a substantial bank transfer. What would you say to twenty thousand?”
Alexis glowed.
“That’s very generous, Mr Somerset,” said Devlin. After a pause, during which his eyes shifted slowly from Alexis to Bond and back, he continued: “I hope the demonstration lives up to your donation.”
“Demonstration?”
“You may enjoy this, Mr Somerset”, continued Devlin. “Traditionally, the Argentine Tango was danced only by men. It is an aggressive dance designed to demonstrate a man’s ego, a form of fighting. Over women perhaps. Or cards. It was less fatal than a knife fight.”
“Or a war.”
“The slums of Buenos Aires never started a war, Mr Somerset.”
“When there are women involved, there is always a war,” said Bond blithely.
“That’s very philosophical, but you won’t see any death on this dancefloor. These students will dance in the old style. Mano-y-Mano. Come, you may learn something.”
“I expect I’ll learn that I have two left feet.”
Devlin raised his right hand dramatically above his head, millimetres away from being a Sieg Heil salute, and snapped his fingers once. Immediately, the band leader took up the baton and the orchestra started to play an exuberant, energetic tango. From the wings, a troupe of male dancers appeared, dressed in all black suits with white shirts and red braces. The suits were loose around the legs and shoulders, tapering to the waist, allowing movement and flow. Already Bond sensed a rhythm in each dancer’s walk, a glide and pause, not a stride and stop.
“They call the walk El Camino,” explained Alexis. “It’s the foundation of the dance. Now, watch.”
As the music came to a temporary halt, each man took their partner to hand, only the fingers touching, and then as the first beats thrummed out from the guitars a uniform swirl of movement erupted on the ballroom floor. The dancers moved with grace and precision, backwards, forwards, heads flicking and faces masked in concentration.
“This is La Base, the basic movements,” continued Alexis. “Without mastering these, the dancer has no hope of emulating the best.”
“You’re very knowledgeable,” said Bond. “Did you dance in Germany?”
“Not very much. I learned mostly here. I visit the dance school often.”
“Do you dance?”
“Yes. And I ride.”
Bond couldn’t resist a smile. “Bicycles?”
“Good lord, no, Mr Somerset. Horses.”
“Of course. Do you prefer to ride side saddle or astride?”
Alexis said nothing. She pointed at the nearest pair of male dancers. “See? An ocho. A figure of eight. Very graceful. Danced backwards. Usually performed by the woman, of course.”
“That must take lots of practice.”
“Not as much as riding.”
Their eyes briefly, teasingly met. Then Bond turned to watch the display. The dancers were excellent, flamboyant and vibrant. The initial oddity of seeing men dancing with each other did not seem so peculiar under the lights of the Crocus Ballroom. As the drama of the routine increased and each partnership played out the will-they-wont-they relationship, their movements, flicks and kicks became more violent, brisk and robust. The audience was captivated. Other than the occasional exclamation – an “Oh” of excitement or admiration – the only sound was the pulsating throb from the orchestra and the sudden clap and snap of the tango shoes on the sprung loaded floor. Even Alexis’s commentary had ceased.
The crescendo of music and dance reached its climax in a sudden whirl of fury and partner pushed partner and the two separated, stalking away and stopping abruptly in a strident pose as the last notes hummed to silence. The audience erupted in applause, with whoops of congratulation and many bravos.
“I see your investment is well nurtured, Mr Devlin,” said Bond. “Perhaps Universal Exports should develop a similar charitable strategy.”
Devlin considered his reply for a little longer than was natural.
“I know some people who can help your company with that,” he said. “Very good accountants. Everything is tax deductible.”
“Yes. Perhaps. When we have a working business arrangement. You’d be amazed what’s deductible in my line of work.”
“Yes, I’m sure. And yes, let us wait. Tonight is for entertainment and leisure. Come, enjoy yourself.”
The orchestra was beginning to play another tune; Bond recognised a foxtrot.
“Perhaps Alexis would like to enjoy herself?” he ventured. “She said she attended the dance school. Perhaps I could…”
“Of course! She danced for the Kaiser when she was a child.”
Devlin seemed to think nothing of the suggestion. He gestured towards Alexis and she stepped forward, a thin smile of politeness on her lips. Bond led her onto the slowly filling dancefloor.
“Did you really dance for the Kaiser?”
“I was tiny.”
“And well connected.”
Bond took her in hand, his back straight, side on. He led with his left and she followed him effortlessly.
“Not as well connected as you, Mr Somerset.”
Bond was about to ask what she meant. Alexis beat him to the punch. “There are not many people from Universal Exports who would mention ‘Edelweiss’.”
“I thought you’d forgotten your own safe-word.”
“Of course not. Listen. I can’t be seen talking to you, to anybody, for long. Carl is extremely jealous.”
“Is there anywhere we can meet?” Bond completed an underarm turn and she spun into his embrace. “Somewhere more discreet than this?”
“The Royal Victoria Polo Grounds,” she replied instantly. “I have arranged to go riding there tomorrow.”
“When?”
“Two o’clock. After lunch.”
“I’ll meet you there.” Bond entered a toe-heel backward step. “What will you tell Devlin?”
“I will tell him you are charming and charismatic.”
“Is that wise?”
“No. But it’s true. You missed a step.”
Bond paused in his dance, almost flustered. He stepped away from her, offered a short bow and kissed the hand he still held. As he walked across the now crowded dancefloor he felt Alexis looking at him. The hairs on the nape of his neck crinkled. Someone else was watching him too. Carl Devlin, no doubt, his fingers interlocked, intrigued by this charming and charismatic Englishman.
As Bond exited the Crocus Ballroom a swarthy, chunky man watched him leave. He was dressed in a cheap dinner jacket and shirt with an outsized bow tie tickling his bristly chin. He rubbed that chin with a fat finger and scowled.
The Royal Victoria Polo Grounds were situated in the leafy suburb of San Isidro. It was an exclusive barrio, so far outside the city centre it was virtually in the countryside. The main streets were flanked with upmarket boutique shops. The stately homes hugged the shores of the Tigre Delta. Many were barriered with private guard posts and some homes shared gated compounds with their neighbours. There was a swish tennis centre, a beautiful park and even a sailing club.
Bond could have taken the train, but he fingered the cab driver’s business card in his pocket and decided to avoid the city’s infamously unreliable public services. The number connected him to a central office and he asked for Car No.7643.
“Estaban?”
“Si, Estaban.”
The operator did not sound certain. “Okay, Senor. Un momento.” Bond could hear an exchange of Spanish in the background. The operator returned. “Okay, Senor. Half-past-noon?”
“Excellent.”
Estaban arrived promptly, windows down, horn honking, full of the joys of football and possibly too much Fenet y Coca-Cola.
“We won, Senor! Two-nil versus Switzerland. The land of windmills and tulips and clogs. Ha! We show them some real men, how they play and fight, no?”
“If you say so.”
“Ermindo Onega. He plays for River Plate. My team. My team. And the scores the goal. Oh, how we show them Robin Hood guys. El Mas Grande. El Mas Grande.”
Estaban broke into song. Bond could only assume it was a tune of the terraces. Bawdy and offensive no doubt, but his Spanish wasn’t up to the task of interpretation. The sounds coming out of the cabbie’s mouth seemed to tell the story well enough.
When he finished the third chorus, Bond tapped him on the shoulder and handed over a large denomination note.
“What do you know about corned beef, Estaban?”
“Corned beef?”
“Notorio corned beef.”
“Pah! Nazi beef. Bastards. They pay bad wages. Bad conditions. Peron let all the Nazis in. Bastardo.” He spat out the open window. “I don’t like Peron. But I dislike the Nazis even more.”
Estaban dropped Bond at the top of the gravel drive. A uniformed doorman swept forward to open the rear door and saluted as Bond exited.
“Don’t wait, Estaban. I can find another cab back to the hotel.”
Estaban shrugged nonchalantly.
Bond passed into the lobby. There was a reception desk surrounded by saddles that hung on baton hooks screwed into the wall. The stirrups waved gently in the breeze.
“Buen dia. Hablas Inglés?”
“Si. Can I help you, Senor?” ventured the pretty receptionist, in very cultured English.
“I was looking for Senorita Sebastian. I understand she rides here at two?”
“Si, Senor. You are a little early.” She looked at his lounge suit. “And you are not dressed for the club. You are the Senorita’s guest?”
“Yes.”
“Then we must find a suitable uniform for you.” Her practiced eye looked him up and down. “Something not too tight, I think.”
Bond was allowed to choose riding jodhpurs, boots and a hat from the stores. The receptionist paid a little too much close attention to the fitting, he thought, but the experience was certainly memorable. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been dressed by a woman. His mother, possibly.
Alexis Sebastian arrived promptly at two. She came in her own car, a green Fiat 124 Sports Spider. The sound of its engine as it pulled into the car port seemed to alert everyone. Everyone male that is, guests included.
She was already kitted in a women’s flared riding britches, a close fitting top jacket over a high-necked but open-topped blouse and a black wide brimmed riding hat, augmented with two red ribbons. A third ribbon decorated her throat. Bond thought she looked stunning and so did most of the assorted members. She wafted past them all, swishing her riding crop against her boots with a snap, and made a bee-line directly for Bond.
“Hallo! Herr Somerset. Ich habe nicht erwartet, sie zu treffen!”
“I didn’t expect to see you either,” replied Bond, also in German. “I had the afternoon free. Last night, you mentioned riding and I thought it might be nice to renew my acquaintance with the saddle.”
She gave a lopsided smile. “You are in luck. This is my stables. I have a horse here. A beautiful mare called Donner. I will see if the stable boys can fix you up with her sibling, Blitzen.”
The stable boys were more than happy to oblige.
Bond realised why when he mounted and Blitzen attempted to throw him. Bond clung onto the pommel and the reins, digging his heels into the flanks. He rode out the sudden bucking with a grim fascination. It had been years since he last ridden a horse. The technique had not deserted him. When Blitzen realised this mount was not going to be thrown, she calmed down and whinnied appreciatively.
Alexis giggled.
“Come on, Mr Somerset, I won’t trick you again. You ride very well. But I don’t like to ride fast. I like to take things slowly. We will walk and trot.” She smiled and added in a whisper: “So we can talk.”
It was a beautiful, cool afternoon. The sun streaked through the box elders, the big verdant leaves dripping with moisture. The air was scented and alive with crickets. A butterfly followed the two horses as they trotted lazily along the track. The Royal Victoria Polo Grounds had access to bridle paths that ran along the shores. The wind whipped in the closer they got to the coast, catching at Alexis’s ribbons and her hair. Out of earshot of anyone else, they spoke in English.
“My name isn’t really David Somerset,” he told her eventually, after a long discussion about her life in Germany before the war. “It’s Bond. James Bond.”
She nodded and brought Donner to a standstill.
“I thought I recognised you. Your face appeared in a few service dispatches. They said you’d died.”
“A mistake.”
“A bad one.”
“Is being with Devlin a mistake too?”
“No. I don’t know. It’s got complicated.”
“How?”
“James. Can I call you James?” He nodded and she continued. “James, let’s walk a while.”
They dismounted and led the horses by the reins. The flag butterfly fluttered between them, its sky blue wings as clear and clean as Alexis’s eyes.
“James,” she continued. “It isn’t that I like Carl. I don’t. I tolerate him. I have put myself in a very important position in his household. He needs me, perhaps more than he needs anybody.”
Bond listened. Her voice was cracking. It was as if she had to convince herself.
“But I slipped up. They found my communications equipment. That silly thing Q Branch gives all its foreign sleeper agents.” Bond looked puzzled. “You know, the stupid one-way communicator that looks like a transistor radio. It makes an awful racket. One day, when I was using it, one of the servants overheard the white noise, came in and offered to retune the radio. I told him not to bother, but old Pedro took it anyway, without my knowledge. The next thing I know, all hell has broken out. Carl was outraged. He said there was a traitor in his household. Of course, I thought it was me. But one of the guards had seen Pedro with the transistor radio. The poor old man was trying to fix Q Branch’s circuit boards and getting in a right pickle. He was too scared to tell them it was mine, or perhaps he was too loyal to me. I liked old Pedro. He disappeared. Later, I was told he died.”
“Died?”
“Killed.” Alexis shuddered. “Carl really is ruthless. He has a debonair exterior, James. He is efficient. He is ordered. He is practical. Even in his love, he is, well, regular, satisfying without being exciting. That’s his breeding, his mother’s family, the aristocratic side of him. That’s why he likes me. We bond over the old times neither of us remember. But then there is the darkness. The hard-nosed businessman, the brutal employer, the leader of the Leopoldine. I was shocked you used the word yesterday. It really struck a chord. On the way back to the estate, he was asking all sorts of questions about you. I couldn’t answer, of course. I said we hardly spoke, but Carl was certain we knew each other. ‘Before you met me,’ he accused, ‘before you came to Buenos Aires.’ He was quite mad with jealousy.”
Bond stopped walking and touched her elbow.
“Perhaps he ought to be,” he said.
“Oh, James. Don’t. Not yet. Not now. Carl already knows I lived in London before coming to Argentina. His mother recognised me from the Debutants Ball.”
“In ’52?” Bond was surprised. “That was years ago. I saw the pictures in your file. You’ve changed a lot. Grown up. You were pretty then. You’re beautiful now.”
He didn’t mind saying it, even though he knew it was unprofessional.
“Wait. You said it again: ‘his mother’. What’s she got to do with all this?”
“She lives on the estate. She didn’t come out with the initial exodus. She was too aristocratic. A few of the old families were still admired in British high society after the war. She lived in Mayfair for a few years before moving to South Africa. But she’s sick now and he asked her to join him here. I’m sort of her nurse, sort of her confidant.”
“A good cover.”
“I thought so. She was so happy when I told her about the engagement. It will break her heart when I leave.”
“You do want to leave?”
“More than anything.” Her words came quickly now, rushed by the excitement. “Getting engaged was my last chance, James. I had no way to contact the Service. The radio was my only outlet. I know from my time in the Translation Division that all the newspapers are read from all over the world. I knew Carl would publish a notice for inclusion in all the society columns. I took a chance that the service would read it.”
“Your hunch was right.”
“And I was right about another hunch. There is something very suspicious happening at Notorio. It was what I wanted to report on the day the radio broke.”
“Tell me.”
“People keep disappearing. You remember that emergency yesterday, why Carl was called away?” Bond did and said so. “That was because a workman had contracted some sort of disease. Not an infection. Symptoms of radiation. That bald headed man is Dr Anderson. He’s a scientist and I overheard them talking of it one night.”
“Alexis,” Bond said calmly, “you may be beautiful, but you are also brilliant and extremely brave. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through holed up in that wolf’s lair.”
Automatically, she reached for him and they embraced. He remembered she wasn’t as short as he expected when their noses battered each other. The intimacy made Alexis break the embrace.
“Let’s go back.”
They remounted and returned to the Polo Grounds at a brisk trot. The stable boys took the horses and Bond invited her onto the terrace for drinks. There was a polo match in session. Bond hated polo, but the late afternoon glow and the sound of mallet on ball was strangely romantic. It lightened his mood.
They sat on a low outdoor settee. He ordered two gin and tonics. As they sipped and made small talk for show, Bond inched closer to Alexis.
“Alexis, I need to talk business,” he said sternly, but with a smile. “You know how this is.”
“Yes, James.”
She leaned forward also.
“You said Devlin is jealous; that he has you watched all the time. Is anyone watching us now?”
“Yes. There is a man at the bar. He followed me here. He follows me everywhere.”
“But not riding?”
“He doesn’t like horses.”
“Does he report back to Devlin everything you do?” Bond asked, half-glancing towards the bar. There was a young, sturdy looking European man clinging to a tall glass topped up with lemonade. He was dressed in slacks and a sweater. His eyes were trained on Bond and Alexis. He didn’t even hide it.
“Everything.”
Bond moved closer. “Then let’s give Devlin something to be jealous about.”
I would recommend, after its finished, that you reread it as a single short story. If anyone is interested, and @Barbel and @Sonero agree, I can make a pdf and upload it onto Keep and Share where you can download it.
He kissed the left corner of her mouth. It was cool to his lips. She breathed a sigh.
“James. I wanted you to do that since the dance last night.”
“I know. You have a beautiful mouth.”
He kissed the other corner. Her lips opened and allowed him to kiss her properly. When they broke, her tongue lapped at his teeth.
“James, what can we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “Not yet. I’m putting you in a very dangerous position. I don’t like it, but I need to make Devlin mad at us. The madder he gets, the more likely he is to make mistakes.”
“I understand.” She caressed his mouth with her lips. “What can I do?”
“There must be some written evidence about what Dr Anderson is doing, why there is radiation poisoning. I need to break into Notorio’s head office.”
“You don’t need to do that, James,” she breathed, kissing him again, firmly. As her lips parted temporarily, she whispered: “Carl keeps all the most important documents in his house safe on the estate.”
“Does he now?” Bond replied. His hand moved to her thigh. He could see the young man embarrassedly studying his lemonade. “Perhaps I should pay you a social call?”
“You can do better than that. Come tonight. Carl is holding a dinner party. Dr Anderson will be there. Perhaps you can…”
Bond broke her suggestion with his mouth. “Break in? Yes. Afterwards. With your help.” He squeezed her thigh. “Pretend to be sick. Take some sleeping pills with you. When everyone has retired, is there a way you can let me in?”
“There is a cellar. The delivery hatches are at the rear.”
“Alright. I’ll find it. Alexis, when you pretend, you must be convincing.”
An idea was forming in Bond’s mind about how he could extricate Alexis from Devlin’s clutches. Before he could fully formulate it, she murmured: “James, kiss me again.”
He did. This time he wasn’t doing it for show. Alexis recognised his urgency, his armour, recognised she might lose control. She placed a hand on his chest, pushing gently, enough to make him cease.
“Now, we must make this convincing also,” she said quietly. “You need to have a proper invite to Carl’s estate or you’ll never get past the guards. I shall invite you to dinner. Nice and loud so our young friend can hear. You must come at eight. Carl is very prompt about dinner.”
After the ruse, and after Alexis had departed, the young man mere seconds behind, Bond went to the changing room to swap clothes. His mouth still tingled from the kisses. What a delicious mouth. He wanted to kiss it more. And often.
He asked the receptionist to call him a taxi and went onto the front porch to smoke a Morland cigarette. He was surprised to see Estaban’s car sitting in a parking bay, the ‘hired’ flag raised in the window. He walked over, smoking, brooding.
“I said I didn’t need you anymore, Estaban. What’s this all about?”
The man flipped the catch and opened the rear door. He leaned out of his window, baying in that sing-song tone he had: “Hey! Senor! You need a ride?”
The man’s turn of phrase and knowing leer disturbed Bond’s thoughts. Disturbed them too late. He just had time to see the shadows lurking beside the next car before the two men moved fast and hard towards him. Something exploded on the base of his skull and James Bond toppled head first and unconscious through the open car door.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,059Chief of Staff
Just caught up with the last two parts…loving this…it’s really well written and plotted 🍸
Comments
And from me, too. Plus thanks to @Sonero for his illustration.
Chapter Two
“Another drink, Mr Bond?”
The Aerolíneas Argentinas Comet 4 jet airliner had just crossed the equator. Through the window, the vast expanse of silver blue Atlantic Ocean was changing, darkening, as the continent of South America loomed ahead. Soon the aeroplane would pass into Brazilian airspace and begin the long descent towards the River Plate basin, Argentina and an appointment with an unknown adversary.
The stewardess smiled cheerfully, awaiting his response.
James Bond had once told the Governor of Nassau that he would one day like to marry an airline stewardess, and that thought came back to him now causing a brief smile to interrupt his thoughts. The smile evaporated into melancholy as memories of his actual brief marriage came back to him. The young woman was puzzled by the expressions that flitted across her handsome passenger’s face but maintained her professional, enticing demeanour.
“Yes, I’d like that,” said Bond, and once again he offered that quick, charming half-smile. Aerolíneas Argentinas flew comfortable, regular flights, even if the planes were beginning to show signs of age. If the view outside the window was tinted with deepening apprehension, in first class at least there was always light from a brilliant smile and a pretty face.
***
Bond emerged from Ezeiza Airport and walked smartly to the taxi rank. Out of old habit, he took the third car waiting, told the driver his destination and sat back, sweltering in the unaccustomed heat. The driver spoke good English.
“So, you are here for business, yes, mister?”
“Just a holiday”, said Bond. “I wanted a few days break”.
“Still, I am surprised that you are here right now.”
“Oh? Why surprised?”
“Because of the football, senor! The World Cup!”
“Ah, I see. No, I’m not interested in football,” said Bond.
“Even when your country is playing host? They might win.”
“My country isn’t playing.”
“But you are English, Senor!”
“Someone might suppose that, but my country is Scotland. They never play in the World Cup.”
“Ah, Scotland,” said the driver happily. “The little men who grant wishes, the Guinness, the Saint Patrick’s Day, I know all that.”
Bond left him happy and gave him a large tip when they arrived at the Hotel Saffron. In return the driver gave him his card, one of a dozen that peeked out of the windscreen’s sun visor.
“You call me when you want to go somewhere, eh?”
“I will.”
Bond pocketed the card without looking at it. As the taxi departed, exhaust belching, Bond lifted his suitcase and entered one of Buenos Aires’s best-kept secrets. The Saffron was floored with Rosso Levanto marble, a luxurious warm red stone from Liguria in Italy. The pillars that lined the entrance and foyer were sleek Silver Shadow White, from Argentina’s own quarries, flawless in tone. The foyer was two storeys high and lit by a fabulous Delga diamond chandelier. The acoustics were such his footsteps rang with the clipped sound of a metronome.
His accommodation was an inauspicious affair on the fifth floor. Despite his tiredness, Bond made a quick recce of the room and its bathroom suite. It appeared not to be bugged. The Secretaría de Inteligencia del Estado, the Argentine secret police, had clearly not flagged that ‘Universal Exports’ was written on his visa. The doors to the small balcony were ajar and let in cascades of sound and waves of heat from the streets. A Latino band played in the restaurant across the street. The illuminated sign advertised Fernet y Coca-Cola, the fuel of every house party. Bond imagined his cab driver consuming vast quantities while watching the bloody World Cup.
The sun was setting, turning the sky orange. He closed the doors, pulled the curtains and switched on the overhead fan which rotated at a slow wit. Bond turned to unpack his battered Antler Attaché, a small, but roomy case provided by Q Branch that contained all the accoutrements for his work.
Three items were placed in the x-ray proof pouch: a tiny but powerful pocket transmitter, for emergencies, disguised as a battery operated Ferguson transistor radio; his trusty Walter PPK and holster; and a third newer piece of kit which resided in a small black cotton tie-string bag.
Bond cast the little package aside. The gadgets from Q Branch tended to get in his way. The briefing was even more terse than usual. The Colibri cigarette lighter which doubled as a camera was the nadir.
“You’ve got to be joking!”
“You always disparage my work, OO7,” the Quartermaster had scolded, “yet you use and destroy everything I ever give you. So, pay attention."
Major Boothroyd had held up what resembled nothing more than a hefty cigarette case. It’d probably take six Delectados, the fat, vanilla infused kind Raoul made in his factory in Cuba.
“I’ve got this cracking little gadget for you…”...
Bond did not unpack his clothes other than the suits he would need, which he hung in the wardrobe. He siphoned the equipment into the room safe. Finally, he ordered coffee from room service and a breakfast of figs, yoghurt and toast to be delivered at seven. They could get anything for you at the Saffron. After a ruthlessly disgusting Argentine coffee, he undressed to his underclothes, threw himself on the double bed and closed his eyes.
His reading material on the flight had not been the most stimulating. The business dealings of Notorio and the history of the corned beef industry had never been matters that had occupied his mind, but he did not want to be caught out at the exhibition hall tomorrow by a basic question. Before reading, he had assumed that the word “corn” had referred to the plant. Now, he knew that it referred to an amount of salt. He would have looked very foolish if he had got that wrong tomorrow. The words on the pages of the brochures flipped through Bond’s mind and he drifted into a deep controlled sleep.
To Be Continued
This one is set at a more luxuriant pace, there is more exposition in the setting, characterisation and plot, it’s very Fleming-esque. I like it very much.
I agree with you, and all credit to Chris for that.
Well, I congratulate both of you for a very intriguing piece of work 🍸
But I hope Bond gets out of Argentina before they play England in the World Cup quarter final - Scottish or not, I don’t think the Argentine supports would care 😳🫣😁
Thanks, Sir M, and it's not impossible that the World Cup might be mentioned again ....
Chapter Three
The Expo Centre was close to the hotel, a few streets on from the Plaza de Mayo. Bond chose to walk. Anyway, he had told the taxi driver that he was on holiday and attending the Trade Expo would appear a strange thing for a man to do for pleasure.
Buenos Aires Trade Exhibition was printed on the huge banner outside the large, imposing modern-looking arena. For good measure, the banner was written in Spanish, German and English. Argentinian flags were placed decoratively on either side of the entrance. Bond entered, showed his invitation and was presented with a tabard and name tag. He began to peruse the elegantly placed desks, stalls and exhibits. As he expected, the majority of the businesses were affiliated to the coffee industry – coffee growers, coffee distributors, coffee exporters. He turned down several offers of a drink of their products and continued to wander the arena, appearing aimless, but all the while seeking the Notorio stand.
There is was, quite discreet, shovelled into a corner, and hard to spot as there was no sign above it and several interested parties were engaged in conversation with the reps, blocking the view of the two people who sat at the large, Formica topped desk.
Bond approached, hoping he was not going to be asked to sample their corned beef. A beaming young man of European extraction held up a tray and invited him to do exactly that, which Bond politely declined. Sitting at a table, inevitably drinking coffee, were Carl Devlin and Alexis Sebastian. He recognised them instantly from the photos in the files. For a moment, Bond thought she noticed him. Her eyes seemed to swivel, the brows arching a half-inch, intrigued. He looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. Christ, she was even more beautiful in the flesh than her photograph had implied.
The young man was talking, asking him something, but Bond smiled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I speak only English and German.”
He could see the heads of the couple jerk up sharply. The young man turned towards his superiors, but Devlin was already rising.
“Good morning,” he said. “I speak English. Can I help you?”
“Yes. Good morning to you. My name is David Somerset. I’m a representative of Universal Exports, based out of London. I don’t know if you’ve ever done any business with us …?”
Devlin shook his head. “No, I don’t recall doing any business with a company of that name. Universal, you say? What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to discuss your current export/import arrangements to the UK. Universal is looking to expand into South America. Perhaps we can make you a better offer.”
Devlin inspected his hands, the fingers briefly interlocking.
“That sounds most interesting, Mr Somerset.”
The phrase, lined with a Latin accent, spoken in English, still hinted at his German origins. Bond’s nerves twitched. His experience with several Germans, both during the War and during his time in the service did not endear them to him. The accent rankled.
“Would you like you join us?” continued Devlin.
He waved a hand at the table where Alexis Sebastian was sitting. A different young man produced a third chair from out of nowhere. Bond sat down, refusing coffee for what felt like the twentieth time since he had entered this hall. The German had already begun to talk.
“Let me introduce myself. I am Carl Devlin and this is my assistant, Alexis Sebastian. You may recognise I am of German extraction.”
“Yes. I detected an accent. And Miss Sebastian…?”
“Also. I prefer to have former countrymen working in my employ. It is good for security, discretion and efficiency, do you not think? There is so much rumour in the world at the moment.”
“I couldn’t say. As long as your operation is legal…”
“Do not let that concern you. We have all the appropriate authorisations for operating out of Argentina and on the world markets. I am sure Universal would find us most accommodating. Please, tell us what you have in mind.”
Bond nodded and began to outline the prospective arrangement he had prepared while reading the dry, boring background details on Notorio and their dealings. Devlin was attentive, making remarks and seeking qualification and clarity. Bond avoided providing any certainties. He noticed Alexis did no more than sit calmly, looking very cool and chic. She appeared close with Devlin, responding when he asked her opinion, but offered no questions of her own.
Eventually, Devlin said: “And may I ask, Mr Somerset, what is it about our company that attracted Universal to make us this offer?”
Bond gave a small laugh.
“I work primarily as something of a freelance,” he said brightly. “To be frank it was your logo, Mr Devlin: Notorio, primero, ultimo y siempre carne de res. ‘First, last, and always beef.’ I did a little research and discovered that where your company is concerned those were more than just words.”
Devlin inspected his hands once more.
“I believe we may see eye-to-eye on many things, Mr Somerset.”
Alexis touched his arm and indicated something behind Bond, in the melee of guests. Devlin looked. Something attracted his eye and Bond turned, but couldn’t see what or who it was.
“Excuse me for a moment, Mr Somerset. I have some arrangements to make. Please, wait here with Miss Sebastian till I return”.
Bond wondered what sort of arrangements those might be. Devlin stood again and departed. Bond saw him beginning an animated conversation with a bald headed, slightly hunched old man. He squinted, but couldn’t look for long without attracting suspicion. He turned back and gave his full attention to Alexis.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee, Mr Somerset?” she asked.
“Very sure, thanks,” Bond replied. “You have a lovely accent, Miss Sebastian. Austrian, perhaps?”
“No, I am German.”
“Ach so, du bist Deutsche,” smiled Bond.
“I haven’t been there for many years,” she replied.
“I was in Austria quite recently, in the Alps. Very beautiful there. Lovely flowers, I like the Edelweiss.”
“I am sure it is very nice.”
She had replied amicably, but without reaction to his mention of Edelweiss. While Bond was thinking about what to say next, Devlin returned, his brow creased.
“Please forgive me, Alexis and I must depart. A labour problem.”
Alexis tugged at his arm. For a brief moment Bond thought there was alarm in her eyes, but the blue twin pearls calmly betrayed nothing.
“Carl, the Charity Ball?” she said hopefully.
“Oh, of course.” Devlin was suddenly all smiles. “Mr Somerset, our company is holding a charity ball this evening in the Hotel Saffron. You must join us.”
“Now there’s a coincidence,” said Bond. “That’s where I’m staying. Someone suggested the Leopoldine, but I’ve never heard of it.”
Devlin’s habitual smile switched to a grimace.
“Nor have I, Mr Somerset.” A more faltering version of his smile retuned in an instant. “I will have an invitation delivered to your room. Now, if you will excuse us, we must return to my offices. It was a pleasure to meet you and we will see you tonight at the Charity Ball, yes?”
“Yes. I am looking forward to it already.”
Bond’s remarks were said to Devlin, but he was looking at Alexis. Bond sensed his moment had passed. Not wanting to suffer more attacks of coffee drinking, he headed directly for the exit and took the same walk back through the busy plaza towards his hotel. He was pleased at the reaction his words had had on Devlin, but concerned that the word ‘Edelweiss’ had provoked nothing from Alexis. Her beauty had affected him more than he had expected and he found himself looking forward to seeing her again. She had suddenly become more than just the objective of an operation.
Amongst the hustle of the Argentinian capital, Bond didn’t see the figure of a burly, swarthy man come out from the shadows near the hall and follow him back to the hotel.
To Be Continued
Absolutely cracking stuff 👏🏻
👏🍸
Thanks, guys, much appreciated.
Chapter Four
Bond freshened up in his hotel room. The showers in the Saffron were possibly the most powerful he’d ever experienced - deliciously hot, then sparkling cold. He lay on the comfy double bed, naked except for a blue Terry cloth robe, and thought about Alexis’s bow-shaped mouth, how delicious it might be to kiss it, and wondering why she’d not responded to ‘Edelweiss’.
Promptly at seven, he rose and ordered a plate of scrambled eggs on rye bread, toasted on one side, black coffee and a Vesper Martini from room service. “With a teaspoon of Kina Lillet,” he said. The drink, one Bond had invented himself many years ago and dedicated to a former lover – his mind closed down like a trap on the memories – had become a standard for some of Europe’s very best barmen in the continent’s very best hotels. He was pleasantly surprised to find the recipe had made it as far as Buenos Aires. He could probably thank Giuseppe Cipriani for that. Once tasted, the famous hotelier and restauranteur had insisted the Vesper went on the menu card.
Bond dressed in his Anthony Sinclair dinner suit, accepted the food and drink when delivered and ate quickly, tidily at the balcony table. Afterwards, he sat smoking a Morland’s and drinking the rasping cocktail, watching the traffic build on the avenue below as the sun declined behind the towers of the city. The big saloon cars abused the atmosphere, choking the air with fumes. It was the aroma of seedy power. As Bond watched, an elegant limousine pulled up smartly below and Carl Devlin, wearing full evening dress, stepped out. He turned and held out a hand to Alexis, who emerged shimmering in a layered, silver-threaded ballgown, a diamond tiara perched in her hair. The fawning hotel manager, who Bond had glimpsed briefly on his arrival, greeted Devlin personally.
There was more seedy power on display at the Crocus Ballroom. Bond flashed his invitation at the doorman and entered briskly through the revolving door. The Crocus was another of Buenos Aires’s well-kept secrets, marble pillared and dripping with gold and crystal excesses. The ballroom was sumptuous, with tiered seating leading from the polished oak floor to the exclusive booths tucked against the walls and corners. Everything was upholstered in crocus-blue velvet. A bit gaudy, considered Bond, but then the aesthetics of interior décor barely interested him.
He caught sight of Devlin and Alexis sitting at a large table near the edge of the dance floor. They were surrounded by a group of men and women he didn’t recognise. None of the faces were those from the Expo. These were older men, slightly distinguished. Their fair hair, often greying, and stout shoulders and chests hinted at Teutonic breeding. Bond wondered why they didn’t just unravel a Swastika pennant and drape it over the table. The drink of choice appeared to be champagne.
Bond took a glass from a passing waiter. Dom Perignon ’57. There was no faulting Devlin’s tastes in alcohol, assuming he’d paid for it and not the charity foundation. Slowly, carefully, Bond circled the ballroom floor, trying to catch Alexis’s gaze. Either she was deliberately avoiding him or she hadn’t noticed him at all. Neither option hinted at anything good.
The orchestra finished a Viennese waltz and as the couples retreated from the floor, Bond made his approach. He finished his glass of champagne, placed the empty flute on a busy table and strode directly toward Carl Devlin, forcing a smile to break his lips.
“Mr Devlin, wonderful to see you again.”
“And you also, Mr Somerset.” Devlin’s reply was as cool as Antarctic winter. He stood to politely shake hands. “You are just in time for the charity’s demonstration.”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps you didn’t read your invitation?”
“It said dancing. Food. And drink.”
“I am a leading benefactor to the Eva Peron Dance School. You may recall she started her career as a tango dancer for hire. The School seeks out the best prospects in Buenos Aires and educates them in both dance and traditional schooling. When they graduate we help them find opportunities on the stage and screen or in competition.”
“Very admirable.”
Bond noticed Alexis stand up from the table, leaving a pair of well-heeled ladies to their cigarettes. She glided towards Devlin and Bond, one hand extended.
“Has Mr Somerset made a donation yet, Carl?”
“My apologies,” said Bond. “I will speak with Universal Exports. I am certain we can arrange a substantial bank transfer. What would you say to twenty thousand?”
Alexis glowed.
“That’s very generous, Mr Somerset,” said Devlin. After a pause, during which his eyes shifted slowly from Alexis to Bond and back, he continued: “I hope the demonstration lives up to your donation.”
“Demonstration?”
“You may enjoy this, Mr Somerset”, continued Devlin. “Traditionally, the Argentine Tango was danced only by men. It is an aggressive dance designed to demonstrate a man’s ego, a form of fighting. Over women perhaps. Or cards. It was less fatal than a knife fight.”
“Or a war.”
“The slums of Buenos Aires never started a war, Mr Somerset.”
“When there are women involved, there is always a war,” said Bond blithely.
“That’s very philosophical, but you won’t see any death on this dancefloor. These students will dance in the old style. Mano-y-Mano. Come, you may learn something.”
“I expect I’ll learn that I have two left feet.”
Devlin raised his right hand dramatically above his head, millimetres away from being a Sieg Heil salute, and snapped his fingers once. Immediately, the band leader took up the baton and the orchestra started to play an exuberant, energetic tango. From the wings, a troupe of male dancers appeared, dressed in all black suits with white shirts and red braces. The suits were loose around the legs and shoulders, tapering to the waist, allowing movement and flow. Already Bond sensed a rhythm in each dancer’s walk, a glide and pause, not a stride and stop.
“They call the walk El Camino,” explained Alexis. “It’s the foundation of the dance. Now, watch.”
As the music came to a temporary halt, each man took their partner to hand, only the fingers touching, and then as the first beats thrummed out from the guitars a uniform swirl of movement erupted on the ballroom floor. The dancers moved with grace and precision, backwards, forwards, heads flicking and faces masked in concentration.
“This is La Base, the basic movements,” continued Alexis. “Without mastering these, the dancer has no hope of emulating the best.”
“You’re very knowledgeable,” said Bond. “Did you dance in Germany?”
“Not very much. I learned mostly here. I visit the dance school often.”
“Do you dance?”
“Yes. And I ride.”
Bond couldn’t resist a smile. “Bicycles?”
“Good lord, no, Mr Somerset. Horses.”
“Of course. Do you prefer to ride side saddle or astride?”
Alexis said nothing. She pointed at the nearest pair of male dancers. “See? An ocho. A figure of eight. Very graceful. Danced backwards. Usually performed by the woman, of course.”
“That must take lots of practice.”
“Not as much as riding.”
Their eyes briefly, teasingly met. Then Bond turned to watch the display. The dancers were excellent, flamboyant and vibrant. The initial oddity of seeing men dancing with each other did not seem so peculiar under the lights of the Crocus Ballroom. As the drama of the routine increased and each partnership played out the will-they-wont-they relationship, their movements, flicks and kicks became more violent, brisk and robust. The audience was captivated. Other than the occasional exclamation – an “Oh” of excitement or admiration – the only sound was the pulsating throb from the orchestra and the sudden clap and snap of the tango shoes on the sprung loaded floor. Even Alexis’s commentary had ceased.
The crescendo of music and dance reached its climax in a sudden whirl of fury and partner pushed partner and the two separated, stalking away and stopping abruptly in a strident pose as the last notes hummed to silence. The audience erupted in applause, with whoops of congratulation and many bravos.
“I see your investment is well nurtured, Mr Devlin,” said Bond. “Perhaps Universal Exports should develop a similar charitable strategy.”
Devlin considered his reply for a little longer than was natural.
“I know some people who can help your company with that,” he said. “Very good accountants. Everything is tax deductible.”
“Yes. Perhaps. When we have a working business arrangement. You’d be amazed what’s deductible in my line of work.”
“Yes, I’m sure. And yes, let us wait. Tonight is for entertainment and leisure. Come, enjoy yourself.”
The orchestra was beginning to play another tune; Bond recognised a foxtrot.
“Perhaps Alexis would like to enjoy herself?” he ventured. “She said she attended the dance school. Perhaps I could…”
“Of course! She danced for the Kaiser when she was a child.”
Devlin seemed to think nothing of the suggestion. He gestured towards Alexis and she stepped forward, a thin smile of politeness on her lips. Bond led her onto the slowly filling dancefloor.
“Did you really dance for the Kaiser?”
“I was tiny.”
“And well connected.”
Bond took her in hand, his back straight, side on. He led with his left and she followed him effortlessly.
“Not as well connected as you, Mr Somerset.”
Bond was about to ask what she meant. Alexis beat him to the punch. “There are not many people from Universal Exports who would mention ‘Edelweiss’.”
“I thought you’d forgotten your own safe-word.”
“Of course not. Listen. I can’t be seen talking to you, to anybody, for long. Carl is extremely jealous.”
“Is there anywhere we can meet?” Bond completed an underarm turn and she spun into his embrace. “Somewhere more discreet than this?”
“The Royal Victoria Polo Grounds,” she replied instantly. “I have arranged to go riding there tomorrow.”
“When?”
“Two o’clock. After lunch.”
“I’ll meet you there.” Bond entered a toe-heel backward step. “What will you tell Devlin?”
“I will tell him you are charming and charismatic.”
“Is that wise?”
“No. But it’s true. You missed a step.”
Bond paused in his dance, almost flustered. He stepped away from her, offered a short bow and kissed the hand he still held. As he walked across the now crowded dancefloor he felt Alexis looking at him. The hairs on the nape of his neck crinkled. Someone else was watching him too. Carl Devlin, no doubt, his fingers interlocked, intrigued by this charming and charismatic Englishman.
As Bond exited the Crocus Ballroom a swarthy, chunky man watched him leave. He was dressed in a cheap dinner jacket and shirt with an outsized bow tie tickling his bristly chin. He rubbed that chin with a fat finger and scowled.
To Be Continued
@Barbel The pleasure was all mine.
Beautiful writing by chrisno1 and Barbel...I am enjoying this story very much.
Bravo!
I’m looking forward to seeing where this goes…but I’m in no hurry to get there…fabulous stuff 🍸
I’m getting really involved in this 👏
Thanks very much, guys, and I'm sure that goes for chrisno1 as well.
Chapter Five
The Royal Victoria Polo Grounds were situated in the leafy suburb of San Isidro. It was an exclusive barrio, so far outside the city centre it was virtually in the countryside. The main streets were flanked with upmarket boutique shops. The stately homes hugged the shores of the Tigre Delta. Many were barriered with private guard posts and some homes shared gated compounds with their neighbours. There was a swish tennis centre, a beautiful park and even a sailing club.
Bond could have taken the train, but he fingered the cab driver’s business card in his pocket and decided to avoid the city’s infamously unreliable public services. The number connected him to a central office and he asked for Car No.7643.
“Estaban?”
“Si, Estaban.”
The operator did not sound certain. “Okay, Senor. Un momento.” Bond could hear an exchange of Spanish in the background. The operator returned. “Okay, Senor. Half-past-noon?”
“Excellent.”
Estaban arrived promptly, windows down, horn honking, full of the joys of football and possibly too much Fenet y Coca-Cola.
“We won, Senor! Two-nil versus Switzerland. The land of windmills and tulips and clogs. Ha! We show them some real men, how they play and fight, no?”
“If you say so.”
“Ermindo Onega. He plays for River Plate. My team. My team. And the scores the goal. Oh, how we show them Robin Hood guys. El Mas Grande. El Mas Grande.”
Estaban broke into song. Bond could only assume it was a tune of the terraces. Bawdy and offensive no doubt, but his Spanish wasn’t up to the task of interpretation. The sounds coming out of the cabbie’s mouth seemed to tell the story well enough.
When he finished the third chorus, Bond tapped him on the shoulder and handed over a large denomination note.
“What do you know about corned beef, Estaban?”
“Corned beef?”
“Notorio corned beef.”
“Pah! Nazi beef. Bastards. They pay bad wages. Bad conditions. Peron let all the Nazis in. Bastardo.” He spat out the open window. “I don’t like Peron. But I dislike the Nazis even more.”
Estaban dropped Bond at the top of the gravel drive. A uniformed doorman swept forward to open the rear door and saluted as Bond exited.
“Don’t wait, Estaban. I can find another cab back to the hotel.”
Estaban shrugged nonchalantly.
Bond passed into the lobby. There was a reception desk surrounded by saddles that hung on baton hooks screwed into the wall. The stirrups waved gently in the breeze.
“Buen dia. Hablas Inglés?”
“Si. Can I help you, Senor?” ventured the pretty receptionist, in very cultured English.
“I was looking for Senorita Sebastian. I understand she rides here at two?”
“Si, Senor. You are a little early.” She looked at his lounge suit. “And you are not dressed for the club. You are the Senorita’s guest?”
“Yes.”
“Then we must find a suitable uniform for you.” Her practiced eye looked him up and down. “Something not too tight, I think.”
Bond was allowed to choose riding jodhpurs, boots and a hat from the stores. The receptionist paid a little too much close attention to the fitting, he thought, but the experience was certainly memorable. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been dressed by a woman. His mother, possibly.
Alexis Sebastian arrived promptly at two. She came in her own car, a green Fiat 124 Sports Spider. The sound of its engine as it pulled into the car port seemed to alert everyone. Everyone male that is, guests included.
She was already kitted in a women’s flared riding britches, a close fitting top jacket over a high-necked but open-topped blouse and a black wide brimmed riding hat, augmented with two red ribbons. A third ribbon decorated her throat. Bond thought she looked stunning and so did most of the assorted members. She wafted past them all, swishing her riding crop against her boots with a snap, and made a bee-line directly for Bond.
“Hallo! Herr Somerset. Ich habe nicht erwartet, sie zu treffen!”
“I didn’t expect to see you either,” replied Bond, also in German. “I had the afternoon free. Last night, you mentioned riding and I thought it might be nice to renew my acquaintance with the saddle.”
She gave a lopsided smile. “You are in luck. This is my stables. I have a horse here. A beautiful mare called Donner. I will see if the stable boys can fix you up with her sibling, Blitzen.”
The stable boys were more than happy to oblige.
Bond realised why when he mounted and Blitzen attempted to throw him. Bond clung onto the pommel and the reins, digging his heels into the flanks. He rode out the sudden bucking with a grim fascination. It had been years since he last ridden a horse. The technique had not deserted him. When Blitzen realised this mount was not going to be thrown, she calmed down and whinnied appreciatively.
Alexis giggled.
“Come on, Mr Somerset, I won’t trick you again. You ride very well. But I don’t like to ride fast. I like to take things slowly. We will walk and trot.” She smiled and added in a whisper: “So we can talk.”
It was a beautiful, cool afternoon. The sun streaked through the box elders, the big verdant leaves dripping with moisture. The air was scented and alive with crickets. A butterfly followed the two horses as they trotted lazily along the track. The Royal Victoria Polo Grounds had access to bridle paths that ran along the shores. The wind whipped in the closer they got to the coast, catching at Alexis’s ribbons and her hair. Out of earshot of anyone else, they spoke in English.
“My name isn’t really David Somerset,” he told her eventually, after a long discussion about her life in Germany before the war. “It’s Bond. James Bond.”
She nodded and brought Donner to a standstill.
“I thought I recognised you. Your face appeared in a few service dispatches. They said you’d died.”
“A mistake.”
“A bad one.”
“Is being with Devlin a mistake too?”
“No. I don’t know. It’s got complicated.”
“How?”
“James. Can I call you James?” He nodded and she continued. “James, let’s walk a while.”
They dismounted and led the horses by the reins. The flag butterfly fluttered between them, its sky blue wings as clear and clean as Alexis’s eyes.
“James,” she continued. “It isn’t that I like Carl. I don’t. I tolerate him. I have put myself in a very important position in his household. He needs me, perhaps more than he needs anybody.”
Bond listened. Her voice was cracking. It was as if she had to convince herself.
“But I slipped up. They found my communications equipment. That silly thing Q Branch gives all its foreign sleeper agents.” Bond looked puzzled. “You know, the stupid one-way communicator that looks like a transistor radio. It makes an awful racket. One day, when I was using it, one of the servants overheard the white noise, came in and offered to retune the radio. I told him not to bother, but old Pedro took it anyway, without my knowledge. The next thing I know, all hell has broken out. Carl was outraged. He said there was a traitor in his household. Of course, I thought it was me. But one of the guards had seen Pedro with the transistor radio. The poor old man was trying to fix Q Branch’s circuit boards and getting in a right pickle. He was too scared to tell them it was mine, or perhaps he was too loyal to me. I liked old Pedro. He disappeared. Later, I was told he died.”
“Died?”
“Killed.” Alexis shuddered. “Carl really is ruthless. He has a debonair exterior, James. He is efficient. He is ordered. He is practical. Even in his love, he is, well, regular, satisfying without being exciting. That’s his breeding, his mother’s family, the aristocratic side of him. That’s why he likes me. We bond over the old times neither of us remember. But then there is the darkness. The hard-nosed businessman, the brutal employer, the leader of the Leopoldine. I was shocked you used the word yesterday. It really struck a chord. On the way back to the estate, he was asking all sorts of questions about you. I couldn’t answer, of course. I said we hardly spoke, but Carl was certain we knew each other. ‘Before you met me,’ he accused, ‘before you came to Buenos Aires.’ He was quite mad with jealousy.”
Bond stopped walking and touched her elbow.
“Perhaps he ought to be,” he said.
“Oh, James. Don’t. Not yet. Not now. Carl already knows I lived in London before coming to Argentina. His mother recognised me from the Debutants Ball.”
“In ’52?” Bond was surprised. “That was years ago. I saw the pictures in your file. You’ve changed a lot. Grown up. You were pretty then. You’re beautiful now.”
He didn’t mind saying it, even though he knew it was unprofessional.
“Wait. You said it again: ‘his mother’. What’s she got to do with all this?”
“She lives on the estate. She didn’t come out with the initial exodus. She was too aristocratic. A few of the old families were still admired in British high society after the war. She lived in Mayfair for a few years before moving to South Africa. But she’s sick now and he asked her to join him here. I’m sort of her nurse, sort of her confidant.”
“A good cover.”
“I thought so. She was so happy when I told her about the engagement. It will break her heart when I leave.”
“You do want to leave?”
“More than anything.” Her words came quickly now, rushed by the excitement. “Getting engaged was my last chance, James. I had no way to contact the Service. The radio was my only outlet. I know from my time in the Translation Division that all the newspapers are read from all over the world. I knew Carl would publish a notice for inclusion in all the society columns. I took a chance that the service would read it.”
“Your hunch was right.”
“And I was right about another hunch. There is something very suspicious happening at Notorio. It was what I wanted to report on the day the radio broke.”
“Tell me.”
“People keep disappearing. You remember that emergency yesterday, why Carl was called away?” Bond did and said so. “That was because a workman had contracted some sort of disease. Not an infection. Symptoms of radiation. That bald headed man is Dr Anderson. He’s a scientist and I overheard them talking of it one night.”
“Alexis,” Bond said calmly, “you may be beautiful, but you are also brilliant and extremely brave. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through holed up in that wolf’s lair.”
Automatically, she reached for him and they embraced. He remembered she wasn’t as short as he expected when their noses battered each other. The intimacy made Alexis break the embrace.
“Let’s go back.”
They remounted and returned to the Polo Grounds at a brisk trot. The stable boys took the horses and Bond invited her onto the terrace for drinks. There was a polo match in session. Bond hated polo, but the late afternoon glow and the sound of mallet on ball was strangely romantic. It lightened his mood.
They sat on a low outdoor settee. He ordered two gin and tonics. As they sipped and made small talk for show, Bond inched closer to Alexis.
“Alexis, I need to talk business,” he said sternly, but with a smile. “You know how this is.”
“Yes, James.”
She leaned forward also.
“You said Devlin is jealous; that he has you watched all the time. Is anyone watching us now?”
“Yes. There is a man at the bar. He followed me here. He follows me everywhere.”
“But not riding?”
“He doesn’t like horses.”
“Does he report back to Devlin everything you do?” Bond asked, half-glancing towards the bar. There was a young, sturdy looking European man clinging to a tall glass topped up with lemonade. He was dressed in slacks and a sweater. His eyes were trained on Bond and Alexis. He didn’t even hide it.
“Everything.”
Bond moved closer. “Then let’s give Devlin something to be jealous about.”
To Be Continued
It certainly does.
Do keep reading one-and-all.
I would recommend, after its finished, that you reread it as a single short story. If anyone is interested, and @Barbel and @Sonero agree, I can make a pdf and upload it onto Keep and Share where you can download it.
Fine by me.
Thank you @chrisno1 for considering my opinion.
I only made the artwork...the real hard work was done by you and Barbel.
As Sir Sean would say...
Might I add...
I am very impressed by this excellent story that you and Barbel have written.
It is simply sublime.
Thank you @chrisno1 & @Barbel for your dedication.
You're very welcome, Sonero. This is a longer story than usual and I'm sure I speak for Chris when I say we're very happy it is being enjoyed.
Looking forward to Chapter six.
Excellent artwork again @Sonero
Thank you for the kind words.
The chemistry is working well, gents, excellent stuff 🍸
Much appreciated, CHB, more very soon.
Chapter Six
(Continued from yesterday)
He kissed the left corner of her mouth. It was cool to his lips. She breathed a sigh.
“James. I wanted you to do that since the dance last night.”
“I know. You have a beautiful mouth.”
He kissed the other corner. Her lips opened and allowed him to kiss her properly. When they broke, her tongue lapped at his teeth.
“James, what can we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “Not yet. I’m putting you in a very dangerous position. I don’t like it, but I need to make Devlin mad at us. The madder he gets, the more likely he is to make mistakes.”
“I understand.” She caressed his mouth with her lips. “What can I do?”
“There must be some written evidence about what Dr Anderson is doing, why there is radiation poisoning. I need to break into Notorio’s head office.”
“You don’t need to do that, James,” she breathed, kissing him again, firmly. As her lips parted temporarily, she whispered: “Carl keeps all the most important documents in his house safe on the estate.”
“Does he now?” Bond replied. His hand moved to her thigh. He could see the young man embarrassedly studying his lemonade. “Perhaps I should pay you a social call?”
“You can do better than that. Come tonight. Carl is holding a dinner party. Dr Anderson will be there. Perhaps you can…”
Bond broke her suggestion with his mouth. “Break in? Yes. Afterwards. With your help.” He squeezed her thigh. “Pretend to be sick. Take some sleeping pills with you. When everyone has retired, is there a way you can let me in?”
“There is a cellar. The delivery hatches are at the rear.”
“Alright. I’ll find it. Alexis, when you pretend, you must be convincing.”
An idea was forming in Bond’s mind about how he could extricate Alexis from Devlin’s clutches. Before he could fully formulate it, she murmured: “James, kiss me again.”
He did. This time he wasn’t doing it for show. Alexis recognised his urgency, his armour, recognised she might lose control. She placed a hand on his chest, pushing gently, enough to make him cease.
“Now, we must make this convincing also,” she said quietly. “You need to have a proper invite to Carl’s estate or you’ll never get past the guards. I shall invite you to dinner. Nice and loud so our young friend can hear. You must come at eight. Carl is very prompt about dinner.”
After the ruse, and after Alexis had departed, the young man mere seconds behind, Bond went to the changing room to swap clothes. His mouth still tingled from the kisses. What a delicious mouth. He wanted to kiss it more. And often.
He asked the receptionist to call him a taxi and went onto the front porch to smoke a Morland cigarette. He was surprised to see Estaban’s car sitting in a parking bay, the ‘hired’ flag raised in the window. He walked over, smoking, brooding.
“I said I didn’t need you anymore, Estaban. What’s this all about?”
The man flipped the catch and opened the rear door. He leaned out of his window, baying in that sing-song tone he had: “Hey! Senor! You need a ride?”
The man’s turn of phrase and knowing leer disturbed Bond’s thoughts. Disturbed them too late. He just had time to see the shadows lurking beside the next car before the two men moved fast and hard towards him. Something exploded on the base of his skull and James Bond toppled head first and unconscious through the open car door.
To Be Continued
Just caught up with the last two parts…loving this…it’s really well written and plotted 🍸
On tenterhooks for the next part 😁
And I thought Esteban was a good guy...
(Shakes head in disbelief...)
Many thanks, gentlemen, and @Sonero just keep reading ....