The pain in his wrists came first. They were tightly bound behind him, tying him to a wooden chair. Bond opened his eyes, blinking hard at the pain in his head, and looked around. He was in a cellar of some sort. Packing cases were stacked against the walls. A single unshaded bulb hung from its wires directly overhead.
He was not alone. The cab driver sat against a wall, a toothpick jutting out from between his lips, and another man stood against the door with his arms crossed. There was the sweet stench of tobacco in the air. It came from only a few feet away.
Seated in front of Bond was a cheerful looking fat man. Tobacco smoke seeped from between the man’s teeth like dragon’ s breath. That was the vanilla scent Bond detected. It was wafted towards him by the fat man who was waving Bond’s passport casually in the air.
“So, you are awake, Mr ….” He looked at the passport. “ … Somerset. David Somerset.” He laughed. “Or whoever you are.”
Bond did nothing more than sniff and flex his bruised neck muscles.
“Oh yes, we know all about you Mr David Somerset with your fake passport – ” He pulled Bond’s Walter PPK from his inside jacket pocket and twirled it extravagantly in his massive fist “ – and interesting taste in luggage. Perhaps, you might care to tell me why an Englishman is here in Buenos Aires rather than at home, enjoying the football.”
The cab driver spoke excitedly. “He says he is not English, Roman. He says he is Welsh – you know, kilts and bagpipes”.
“Quiet, Estaban!” The fat man’s voice was like a whiplash. “I will do the talking.” The cab driver was going to object but a raised, flat flabby hand stopped him from opening his loud mouth. “And I will not thank you for using my name so freely.”
The cab driver mumbled something in Spanish that may have been an apology and tried to melt into the wall.
“I am here on holiday, Senor Roman,” said Bond. “The real question is why should you be concerned about that.”
“Because your holiday takes you into the circles of Carl Devlin. Or should I say Herr Leo Hubermann. It is well known that the man is a Nazi”.
Bond shrugged as best as a man tied to a chair can shrug. “I believe such men are not in short supply all over South America”.
Roman took a long suck on his cheroot and nodded to the burly man guarding the door. The man stepped speedily over and gave Bond a sharp backhander across his face. Even though he had had enough time to prepare for the assault, the force of the blow rattled Bond’s teeth. Painfully, he shook his head from side to side.
“You are pleased to make jokes, Mr Somerset?” said Roman. “Now, tell me who you are and what you are doing here.”
Bond’s thinking processes had been dulled by being knocked out. Coming round from unconsciousness was always the worst time for interrogation. They taught you that in the service manuals, but there was no substitute for the real thing and Bond had many experiences of genuine torture. The burly man’s blow did Bond a huge favour in snapping him out of reverie and back to something like his normal self.
“Why don’t we start with what you are not telling me, Senor Roman: that you are not with the Secretaría otherwise I would be in a prison cell not a cellar. And you are not CIA, who would never employ natives of whichever country they are currently ‘assisting.’ Which, after you openly revealed your knowledge of Leo Hubermann, leads me to conclude you are with Mossad.”
“Mossad?” Roman chuckled and wiped a thumb slowly across his bristling chin. “They can’t operate here. They try and the government keeps kicking them out. They work through proxy agents.”
“Are you a proxy agent, Roman?”
The fat man chuckled.
“Me? We are here to talk about you, Mr Somerset. Perhaps it is you who is a proxy agent. Or are you a weatherman?”
“A what?”
Bond paused, blinking under the fierce light. Somewhere, buried in the recess of his mind, he linked the threads of the conundrum. It was so obvious, he should have foreseen it.
“I’m no more a proxy agent than you are, Roman. Let me ask you: is the weather warm where you come from?”
The cheroot blazed red as Roman sucked in a breath. When he replied, he spoke slowly and carefully. “It is warmer than where you are from.”
“But sometimes a spot of rain – ”
Roman finished off the recognition code: “ – must fall to help the crops.”
There was a moment’s silence. Roman and Bond stared at each other. The tobacco smoke drifted slowly into the air. Roman smiled wide, gripping the cheroot between his teeth. He turned his head and barked a burst of Spanish. The burly man produced a knife and began to cut through the ropes holding Bond to the chair. Bond stood and stamped his feet while rubbing his wrists to get the circulation back.
“Please accept my apologies, Mr Somerset,” said Roman as he stood and offered his hand.
“It’s Bond. James Bond.”
Bond grinned and took Roman’s hand. The grip was firm. The shake sharp.
“James Bond? Really? I thought you had died.”
“Everyone says that.”
“News travels slow to Argentina.” Roman waved for some water and poured a glass was poured for Bond. “Here. Take this.” Next he held out Bond’s PPK. “And this.”
The water was cool and refreshing and stung as it slithered down Bond’s dry throat. He must have been out for a couple of hours. Roman was still talking, excitedly, like the cab driver.
“You know, I could have saved us both a lot of trouble if I had only asked you what company you represent.”
“Universal Exports,” replied Bond. “You should have checked my entry visa.”
“I don’t have access to the records. As you say, the Secretaría are not exactly friendly. Let me introduce myself. I am Roman Rojas. I work for Station A. These are my associates. Estaban you know and this is Thiago. Our Head Of Station did not mention that you would be here. If we had known, well, all this…”
“He wasn’t informed,” said Bond. “This was intended to be a very small scale and subtle operation.”
“Still,” continued Roman. “I would like to know why you are taking such a close interest in the activities of Carl Devlin.”
“He’s of intense interest to Mossad. That’s who I thought you represented.”
“And they are keeping watch on you. But we got to you first. This man Devlin, we know he is a war criminal. We know he wants to destabilise the government. That Charity Ball you attended? It was a front. A fundraiser for extreme political parties and rabble rousers. The bastards will have the Peronistas back in power if we are not careful.”
Roman paused and sucked on the cigar. His voice turned grave. “We also know that his associates in Argentina run a uranium mine. We believe Russian bound shipments of corned beef contain tins full of high-grade uranium ore. We’ve wanted access to Notorio’s shipments for years.”
“Devlin sounds a menace, Roman, but my job here is more concerned with his companion, Miss Sebastian.”
“Yes. We saw you with Miss Sebastian. An agent such as yourself, operating undercover, initiating an intimate relationship with Devlin’s mistress. Hm. However you describe it, Mr Bond, it is certainly of interest.”
“You can call me James, Roman.”
“Alright, James. So, tell me, you have made an arrangement with the delightful Miss Sebastian, yes? No, don’t answer that. I know it is true. We saw you. We heard you. If we are to impound Notorio’s cargo ships, the government needs evidence of illegal ore shipments. We’ve not been able to gather any. But perhaps…”
“We may be thinking along similar lines, Roman,” said Bond. “I was made aware of Mossad’s interest in Devlin. I thought it was purely as a war criminal, but it seems there is something bigger happening, something that may benefit all western countries.”
“And Miss Sebastian?”
“Alexis – Miss Sebastian – found out about the uranium ore also, which is why I need to lift her. And quickly.”
Bond paused and Roman sensed there was something troubling Bond.
“But…?”
“She can get me access to Devlin’s papers! The papers you need to impound the ships. I intended to get her away from Devlin as soon as I could, but she convinced me not to. You have doubly convinced me.” Bond put down the empty glass. “You and your team may be of some help. We’ll need to work and plan fast. I have to be at Devlin’s estate for 8pm.”
Roman laughed, his belly shaking. “I work fast with fuel. What do you say we discuss this with a beer?”
“Drinking? Now, there we can definitely find mutual agreement”.
Bond had become accustomed to the architecture in Buenos Aires resembling that of various styles native to Europe. He had not expected Devlin’s mansion to be in so flagrant a Gothic character that it could have been transported brick by brick from Munich or perhaps one of the smaller cities of Bavaria.
He was greeted at the door by a stiff-backed butler, who guided him to the elegant dining room whose centre stage was an expensively decorated table, long enough to seat twenty-a-side, but today only laid for ten, all places at the far end of the salon. A group of four men stood beside an enormous stone fireplace. A little further away, two well-heeled women were talking to a seated elderly lady, whose face was fixed in a permanent smile. Devlin had already detached himself from this group, Alexis on his arm.
He stepped forward, greeting Bond with caution.
“My dear Somerset, I am so happy you could come tonight.”
“How could I refuse so gracious an invitation?” said Bond.
“Alexis said she met you at the Polo Grounds.” Devlin’s tone was nothing more than coldly efficient. “I am so glad you could entertain her.”
“I wouldn’t call horse riding entertainment, Mr Devlin. More a pain in the backside.”
Devlin didn’t laugh. Or even smile. He snapped his fingers and a waiter stepped swiftly over, a tray with glasses on his outstretched arm. Bond accepted one at carefully concealed random. Dom Perignon again. It was as if Devlin had always been expecting him. During the exchange, Alexis remained aloof and silent.
“Now,” began Devlin, releasing Alexis from her position at his elbow with a fish-like swish of his arm. “Let me introduce you to some of my friends.”
Devlin led Bond over to the enormous stone fireplace. Flames crackled on a huge slice of a tree trunk. Coal fizzled. The small group of men that had gathered around the hearth were all of Devlin’s age. They all drank champagne and conversed in hushed tones and in German.
“My friends, this is Mr David Somerset,” said Devlin cheerfully, and in English. “He is here from Universal Exports, London, and wishes to do business with Notorio. I will allow you to introduce yourselves”.
Devlin backed off, leaving the four to reluctantly talk with Bond. He immediately recognised them from the Charity Ball. Their accents were borderline British but hints of Teutonic phrasing and tones could be heard if one was listening for them. Bond was. Introductions were made, and he could tell that they had been reading British newspapers before picking their current names. John, Paul, and George were common enough British Christian names – and Bond assumed they all thought Ringo just might stand out – unless one were wearing earmuffs. Bond carefully filed the names away for later research. The fourth, bald-headed man introduced himself as ‘Doctor Anderson’. He offered only a thin smile and touched Bond’s hand for the minimum time necessary for courtesy.
A gong sounded. Devlin asked his guests to be seated. Their places were marked with embossed name cards. Bond found himself seated with the ladies, all opposite the men. He would normally have enjoyed this scenario, but this time it felt as if the pleasure was a sort of punishment. Five pairs of German eyes watched him closely as he took his seat, and he found himself sitting next to the smiling elderly lady.
“Oh, you are from Somerset, then?” she said happily.
“Er, no, my name is Somerset, David Somerset, Senora …?”
“I am Leopoldine Devlin, Mr Somerset,” she announced.
Bond raised an eyebrow.
“I am Carl’s mother,” she continued grandly.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” said Bond. “And do you live in Buenos Aires, Senora?”
“Oh, no, too loud, too loud,” smiled the old lady. “I stay at Os Alpes Do Sol. It is very beautiful there. You must please come and visit me”.
“But of course,” said Bond. “I’d be delighted. Where is Os Alpes Do Sol?”
“In the countryside.”
Two waiters appeared, one carrying a ceramic soup terrine. While he held the huge, heavy dish with barely an ounce of effort, his colleague used a ladle to serve exactly half-a-bowl-full of gulaschsuppe. The heady aroma of cured beef and hot peppers curled at Bond’s nostrils. The chatter around the table fell away as the food was attended to. The old lady took no notice.
“My son has a lovely house here, don’t you think? I try to visit him here often”.
Bond unobtrusively looked around the other guests. He attempted to catch Alexis’s eye. She was seated beside the old lady, as a nurse might be. Devlin sat opposite her, a position that enabled him to keep eyes on his mistress, his mother and his unwanted guest.
“I am hoping to do some business with your son,” replied Bond cheerfully, defying the ringing silence.
“So! You are interested in corned beef?”
“No, I am afraid not, Senora, but I am interested in importing and exporting.”
The dowager suddenly beamed her biggest smile yet.
“I love port. It is much better than champagne, is it not?”
“Ah, er, yes, it can be most satisfying.”
She waved a waiter over and peremptorily ordered port for them both. Bond politely declined the offer to join her. He tasted the excellent soup. After a minute or so, as everyone ate, the noise level rose. Bond tried to listen in on the German dialogues, but couldn’t hear enough, thanks mostly to the old lady’s nattering.
“So, you are from Somerset, Mr David?” she asked.
The port arrived and she drained half the glass in a single mouthful. A trickle of ruby red residue trickled from the corner of her mouth. Alexis dabbed at the spillage with a napkin.
“Mother!” she admonished.
“It’s quite alright, dear. Mr David is a guest. From Somerset, no less, isn’t that right, Mr David?”
“Quite right.”
Bond was beginning to understand Leopoldine Devlin and her ailments. He happily consented that Somerset was indeed where he was from. The old lady continued to quiz him, repeating the same questions and phrases. Bond continued to respond. He wondered if this was some sort of test every new arrival at Devlin’s needed to endure.
The soup was taken away and replaced with plates of Argentinian veal, fried potatoes and red cabbage with onions. Despite its peasant appearance, Bond rather enjoyed the meal, its simplicity being its major favour.
“I live at Os Alpes Do Sol,” the dowager stated for what must have been the fifteenth time. “You must come and visit there. It is so very beautiful.”
“As beautiful as Somerset?”
“Ah, I love Somerset! I visited it many times when I stayed in England.”
“And when was that?”
“After the fall of the Fuhrer. We had to escape the Soviets, you understand. The British took us in, of course. The Queen. She is German, you understand, German. The Fuhrer. He should have been King of Germany.”
Her reminiscences were getting louder.
“Emperor of the German Empire! Overseer of All Europe! My son, Carl, – ”
Devlin had been occupied with his other guests. Now, attention attracted by his name, he assessed the situation quickly, tersely. His open palm slapped down on the table top with a loud clap.
“Mother, I think you are getting tired,” he said. “You should go to bed.”
He pushed his seat back and made to rise.
Alexis held up her hand, silently restraining him. The dowager lady scoffed.
“Oh nonsense Carl, I feel fine. Some more port – ”
“No, Mother, you must go to bed.”
Devlin snapped his fingers. Two of the butler staff, who had been stood beside the door – perhaps for just such an occasion, Bond wondered – quickly attended to the protesting dowager. Alexis calmly reassured her. Devlin, however, was more animated. He stood from the table and walked around the room to lend his stern assistance. It was only his immediate presence that ensured Leopoldine Devlin accepted her son’s instruction.
Despite the minor furore, everyone politely stood as the elder statesperson, accompanied by the host, exited the dining room. Bond took the opportunity to seat himself beside Alexis. The move did not go unnoticed by the other guests. There was a prolonged, strained silence bar the scraping of cutlery on plates.
“I didn’t think she was all that tired,” Bond said, easing the tension.
“Carl is very protective of her,” Alexis replied.
“She was talking about a place called Os Alpes Du Sol,” said Bond. “In fact, she invited me to visit her there.”
“It’s her favourite place,” said Alexis. “A villa in Brazil where Carl takes her on holiday. She doesn’t live there all the time.”
“Do you ever go there?”
“I have not. Carl uses it to entertain his friends. Apparently, we will go there for our own honeymoon.”
“That’ll be wonderful, I’m sure,” said Bond, adding in a hushed tone: “If you ever get married.”
“Don’t.”
Alexis blushed. Bond realised his mistake, realised the other guests could see her reaction even if they had not heard the exchange. She too knew the error was visible.
As Devlin re-entered the room, Alexis quickly turned away from Bond, offering a concerned glance at her fiancé.
“Is Mother alright?”
“Of course.” Devlin remained standing, half-way towards his own seat. He noticed the switch of seats Bond had negotiated. Staring at the now empty seat, he said slowly: “Is everything alright here, Alexis?”
“I was worried about Mother.”
“You look unwell.”
“I’m feeling tired, Carl. The heat in here. The champagne perhaps. I think I would like to go and lie down”.
“Nonsense, Alexis, you have our guest to look after. You are the best English speaker here. Who else can entertain, Mr Somerset?”
“I’m sorry, Carl, I don’t think I can.”
“Please don’t stay on my account,” interjected Bond, sensing Devlin’s rising suspicions. “Dinner’s almost finished. And it’s been a long day.”
“Yes,” added Alexis. “It has been a long day. I really must go.”
Alexis didn’t wait for Devlin’s permission. She stood up, quite abruptly, screwed up her napkin and then, nervously tossed it onto her plate. As she hurried away, Bond sensed rather than saw everyone’s eyes watching this dramatic display of disobedience.
“I expect I exhausted her at the Polo Club,” he said.
Devlin gave him a sharp, exceptionally cold glance. He seemed to want to follow Alexis, thought better of it and then returned to his seat. He lifted his champagne flute and took a small sip, all the while studying Bond over the rim of the glass.
“Quite,” he said.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,049Chief of Staff
“I expect I exhausted her at the Polo Club,” he said.
🤣🤣
I’m seriously running out of superlatives to praise this story 🤗
Bond moved quietly in the darkness of the gardens. The box hedges and ornamental pines that gave the mansion such a European identity surrounded the buildings, flanking the driveway and surrounding a series of freshwater ponds. The layout reminded him of Hampton Court maze, designed to confuse as well as decorate. He carefully and silently wound a way through the tall hedges approaching the east wing as Alexis had instructed.
His departure from dinner had received no more than a curt handshake from Devlin. The cool reception had turned rather frosty after Alexis feigned her sickness. As one of the butlers escorted him out of the dining room, Bond saw the five German men conversing in low tones. Dr Anderson was gesticulating wildly. The two women, whose names Bond had never learned, had joined them in the conference.
Now, Bond waited and watched as the final guests made their exits and one by one the lights inside the mansion went out. The only sound was his own breathing. He crept towards the exterior stairs which led to the cellar door and hid in the recess. A quarter of an hour had elapsed when he heard a series of grainy crunches on the gravel path. It was one of the staff. The boots stepped by the stairs without stopping. A few moments later there was a soft creaking and the cellar door opened a crack. A dim light shone from inside. Bond slipped down the last steps. Alexis showed her face and motioned for him to join her inside.
“James!”
“Are you sure no-one will come into your room and find you’re not there?” he asked.
His businesslike manner seemed to upset her.
“I told them all I would be taking sleeping pills and didn’t want disturbed till eight tomorrow.”
Her eyes were shining as she looked at him. He pressed his lips on hers, holding her body close. Now, her disappointment turned to surprise.
“James, do we have time for …?”
“You know I’d love to, but we can’t,” he said, kissing her again. “You have to show me Devlin’s study. And quickly. There are patrols outside.”
Without another word, she led the way from the cellar to a corridor near the dining room and onto the last door near a window. Alexis had a bunch of keys in her hand.
“The staff’s set. I took them from the pantry.”
She selected one, placed it in the keyhole and, gritting her teeth against a sound that never arrived, she unlocked the door to what proved to be a study. The drapes were pulled. The only light came from an illuminated fish tank which contained Siamese Fighting Fish. Books lined the walls and leather chairs were positioned around a large heavy table of dark wood. Seven champagne flutes were on the table and a half-drunk bottle of Krug champagne was sitting in a bucket of melting ice. Bond noted Devlin switched to a German brand when not in company.
“We can talk here. The room is soundproofed.” Alexis pointed across the room. “See that painting?”
Bond nodded. It was behind Devlin’s desk: Bergen’s oil of the famed battleship Bismarck, dreaded in World War Two by the British navy until its sinking in the North Atlantic in 1941.
“The safe is behind it, but I can’t help you get inside. I don’t know the combination”.
Bond had been prepared for this. He slid the painting aside to reveal the safe. He reached inside his jacket and produced a metal box festooned with coils of wire which led to a flat, circular attachment. He held the circular piece against the safe and it stayed there, evidently magnetic. A low hum emanated from the box. Numbers began to light up a series of small windows on the side of the box. Bond read them and turned the safe’s combination dial accordingly.
“That’s amazing,” whispered Alexis.
“Big in Japan, I believe. Everyone will be talking about this soon,” said Bond, opening the door with a grin.
Inside, he found large stacks of Argentinian bank notes, bundled by the thousand, but Bond’s attention was on the documents on the lower shelves.
“Turn on the lamp,” he said.
Flicking through the documents in the half-light, he could see these were almost all in German and concerned the movement of uranium ore from a mine in the Malargüe region to Notorio’s canning facility. They were to be placed in corned beef tins, each with a subtle mark to distinguish them from regular tins. This work was to be carried out at night by a separate team from the usual staff, who would know nothing about it. That would explain Dr Anderson’s panic when another team member took sick from radiation poisoning.
Bond quickly took out the Colibri camera and photographed all the relevant documents. He replaced them, was about to relock the safe, when he noticed a file marked Aufenthaltsstatus: immigration status. Taking it out he saw a series of official-looking papers, several relating to the people he had met over dinner. They were false identity papers granted by the Peron government in 1946 and beside them were the recipient’s original identification documents, all in Nazi black-and-white. Exactly the kind of details Mossad would be interested in. Quickly, Bond also photographed these, put them neatly back on the shelf and relocked the safe.
“Alexis,” Bond started, urgently, “I want you to come with me. I can’t protect you here. Not now. If you come, I’ll keep you safe from him.”
“I can’t, James. It’s impossible,” she said, biting her lip. “It would raise too many suspicions. Carl is already jealous after you kissed me at the Pony Club”.
“Alright,” said Bond. He picked up the bottle of Krug champagne. “That’s something to celebrate at least.”
Kissing Alexis once more, he poured them both a glass and they drank. It slaked their thirst and calmed their ardour.
“Listen, Alexis, I’ve had an idea.” She was about to object, Bond placed a finger to her lips. “Hear me out. Why don’t you feign being pregnant?”
“What?” she said, stunned.
“Early stages, obviously. It’ll tie in with your feeling unwell earlier. Normally you would phone your doctor, of course, but I want you to call this number.” Bond handed her a card. “It’s a friend of mine named Roman. He will come, in the disguise of a gynaecologist and take you to the hospital – and freedom.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t, I mean – ”
“It’ll be easier than you think. Trust me. Call that number in the morning.”
Bond kissed her again and they headed for the cellar. He gave Alexis a final swift goodbye kiss and slipped out and up the stairs. As the door closed behind him, he thought he heard a second noise, a light scraping. He paused. Nothing. Quickly he sprinted across the gravel drive and into the rows of box hedges. There it was again. Louder this time.
He stepped across the avenue and was caught in the sudden blaze of a white hot torch beam. A voice rang harshly out: “Halt!”
He threw himself to the left. A throwing knife hit the tree behind where he had been standing only a second ago. Bond raced through the trees, zigzagging as he went, aware the pounding footsteps behind were catching up fast. Then abruptly, they vanished. Bond didn’t dare stop and turn to see what had happened. He kept running between the hedgerows, heading vaguely for the exit. From nowhere, the assailant lunged at him, seeming to appear as if from the night itself. Bond was knocked off his feet and landed on his back, winded. It was the young man who had offered him corned beef at the Expo. He was leaning over Bond’s prone figure, drawing a second knife from over a shoulder. Bond’s knee viciously rammed into the man’s groin. There was a cry of pain. Bond’s left hand, taut like an axe, cracked into the exposed neck. The young man collapsed with a single pitiful groan. Instinctively, Bond grabbed the knife and thrust it directly for the heart.
Dammit.
Panting, Bond got to his feet and began to run again. It was only seconds before he reached the wall. He leapt, grabbed the top and pulled himself up and over into the quiet of the street beyond. Now, where was Estaban’s taxi?
A fat bald man in a dark suit was walking towards him. With calm equanimity, he wished Bond a lugubrious “Good evening” and kept walking.
Bond blinked. “And good evening to you,” he said.
A second later, he took to his heels and found the taxi and its driver waiting around the next corner.
***
Carl Devlin was in his night clothes, a dressing robe pulled tight. He wore plimsoles on his feet. The groundsman was fully dressed, as if always on alert even in the dead of night. It was cold in the darkest hours.
Devlin looked at the dead guard’s body without any emotion.
“Notify his family in the morning,” he said curtly.
Devlin turned and walked back to the mansion, taking the easiest route through the maze of hedgerows. Inside, he was about to ascend the stairs when a thought occurred to him. Nothing more than an inkling, but nonetheless…
The safe appeared not to have been touched. All the documents were in place, the combination untampered. The dial was even positioned back on the number 7 as he always left it. And yet…
The bottle of Krug champagne rested on the leather inlay of his desk. Slowly Devlin’s fingers interlocked and the tips touched his chin. He was certain the champagne had been left in the ice bucket. Around the base of the bottle a little puddle of condensation had formed. There were two flutes beside it, half-empty. One, he noticed, had a sheer ruby gloss on the rim. The exact colour of his fiancée’s lipstick. His favourite shade. The colour he had insisted she wore to the dinner party.
“It’s been three days,” said Bond. “I don’t like it.”
“Nor do I, James,” replied Roman. “Estaban reports a lot of activity around the mansion today. People leaving. He hasn’t followed them or else he can’t look out for Alexis.”
They were sitting in Roman’s local parrilla, an unremarkable place of small covers, cheap wine goblets and blue-and-white check tablecloths. The chef served lunches as hearty as anything Blades could throw at you. Heartier probably and steeped in fat. The steaks were enormous and bloody, and the big fries came cut rough, salty and crisp. The Malbec Origin was worth that of an expensive Claret but came priced for Beaujolais.
“But she hasn’t made an appearance, Roman,” continued Bond. “Maybe it’s time we took action, regardless.”
“Maybe it was the man you killed. It might have spooked them.”
“I think they were spooked enough already. That performance over dinner was simply bizarre. The Germans were supposed to be Devlin’s work colleagues. More like conspirators. They never once mentioned corned beef.”
Roman snorted.
“Good thing. Horrible stuff. Reminds me of the army.”
Bond raised an eyebrow. He sipped the strong gin and tonic, a pre-lunch drink which he found more palatable than the local coffee. Roman seemed to agree on that too.
“So, let’s say Alexis is being held there against her will,” the Argentine started. “You want to get her out. When would be the best time to do it? At night? At dawn? What?”
“At dinner,” said Bond after a brief moment of consideration. “The place is alive with guards, but Devlin and any of his guests will be in the mansion. The waiting staff too. So it would only be the guards we have to worry about.”
“Alright. Let me speak with Mateo.”
“No,” said Bond. “Don’t involve your Head of Station. This is supposed to be unofficial. I’m not supposed to be here, remember? What about Estaban and Thiago? They like their football. Men of the streets. Do they know some people who might be able to help us. Unofficially, as it were.”
Roman grinned and swallowed his G & T in a single swift gulp.
“I think so.”
***
Kitted all in black the nine men maraudered through the hedgerows, Bond half-ahead, almost leading the way. Estaban, a big Smith & Wesson clutched in his hand, was a half-pace further on. Roman and Tiago, being the largest, moved slower and held the rear. The armed party dodged between hedgerows, swiftly, silently. The handful of extra men came from the shanty towns. Supporters of River Plate, Estaban’s home team. Once they knew a pretty woman was in danger and that the danger was a cabal of Nazis, they needed no second invitation to arm themselves, blacken their faces and join the expedition. They carried typical weapons: machetes, hunting daggers, flick knives and knuckle dusters. Two of them possessed old Colt pistols.
Bond skirted the final box hedge. They had encountered no one.
A swathe of light suddenly bathed the arena. Searchlights on the roof of the mansion fanned out across the gardens, catching at shadows. The ominous rattle came almost as fast. Bullets started to cut through the air. Machine guns. More than one. Bond rolled onto the turf, sheltering in the hedges. One of the following group, a young man called Manuel, was caught in the crossfire and torn to pieces by the shots, his body dancing like a scarecrow in the wind before falling to the ground still twitching.
Bond instantly took aim at one of the coursing lights. One bulb shattered. All Bond’s firing did was attract attention to his whereabouts. The divots of exploding grass as the bullets inched closer stunned Bond into moving left. Estaban followed. A young man came running down the path. One of Devlin’s guards. Estaban cut him down with a single shot.
“The lights, Estaban,” ordered Bond.
“Yes. Yes.”
It took him three goes and the second light went out. Now, guards and housekeepers were pouring out of the mansion. Some form of chaos started to ensue as man fought man and bodies began to sink to the ground, injured or dying or dead. A machete was swung through the air. A hatchet clanged against it. A gun shot. A man fell from the mansion parapet, his body thumping on the drive like a bag of cement. Shouts. Screams. Victory. Death.
Bond inched his way around the line of trees and made it to the cellar steps where he had infiltrated the other night. He kicked in the lock and entered the basement. The bottles of wine stood on their racks. The hams hung on their hooks. It was quiet in the cool room. Nervelessly quiet.
Bond passed into the corridor above. The dining room was empty. It wasn’t laid for dinner. There was no sign of any guests. Only the fire glowed, casting a ghostly orange hue across the interior. Bond walked on, the PPK held out ahead of him, finger on the trigger anticipating the need to shoot and shoot first. He eased open the door to the study. Nobody. Silent. Dark. The curtains were pulled, shutting out even the moonlight. Bond switched on a side lamp. In its halo, he saw the open coffin resting on the big table in the centre of the room. He walked forward. His face fell.
Alexis Sebastian lay on the cushions. They’d dressed her in a beautiful ivory gown, probably what she was meant to have worn for her wedding. Alive she would have looked beautiful, vibrant and enticing, but rigor mortis had begun to set in and instead Alexis was pale, gaunt and frightened. The bastards hadn’t even closed her eyes. Bond reached out with his free hand and dragged the cold shutters down with his fingers.
“Was ist das?”
Bond spun on one heel. It was the butler. The man stood in the doorframe, almost blocking it, and an arm was raising, a gun clasped in the hand. The man was slower than Bond, uncertain. The Walther PPK cracked twice and the butler’s head snapped back as if struck by a hammer. He crumpled to the floor. Bond gasped, snatching at breath. He took a seat and stared at the coffin without reaction. There was a sudden ache in his chest.
The noise of the fighting began to dissipate. Roman entered the study, stepping over the butler’s corpse.
“Devlin’s not here,” he said. “What have we now?”
Roman stared into the coffin.
“Jesuchristo.”
Bond tapped the barrel of his gun thoughtfully.
“When I came to dinner, there was a crazy old woman here.”
Roman was surprised at his friend’s matter-of-fact attitude. “Yes, you told me,” he replied, “but – ”
“She kept talking about a holiday home. A place called Os Alpes Do Sol. The Southern Alps. Estaban said people had been coming and going all day. What if Devlin was one of them?”
“Where was this place?”
“Brazil.”
Roman stared at Alexis’s once beautiful, now peaceful face. Then he stared at Bond, whose eyes were like gunsights, pinpoint accurate, cold and hard. Very hard. And very cold.
“You want to follow him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,049Chief of Staff
Os Alpes Do Sol was a whitewashed, brick-built villa of immaculate taste situated on a hillside in the Mato Grosse du Sol, in a valley of lush verdant trees, trickling streams and a multitude of colourful flowers and chirruping birds.
The villa wasn’t enormous, but its living spaces were all open-plan and one wall was lined with glass doors which opened onto a veranda and the extensive flower gardens. However, despite the concessions to modern luxury, the architecture still held a certain brutalist texture that hinted at the legacy of its owner.
The villa was not as well-staffed as the mansion in Buenos Aires. Here only two local women, a chambermaid and a cook, were employed. Both had just been ordered to immediately vacate the premises. They did as they were told without objection. The bald-headed German who had arrived uninvited for lunch had the air of death about him and they didn’t like it.
The group of four male guests who congregated in the lounge area were dressed in formal, lightweight suits and ties. Outwardly, they may have looked relaxed, as if on a holiday or visiting neighbours for cocktails. Closer inspection however revealed they stood straight-backed, tall and steady. They had military bearings. They spoke in German.
Dr Anderson had been the last to arrive, his flight delayed for some last minute phone calls to the embassy. Despite the furore Alexis’s death had caused, Dr Anderson had managed to ensure Notorio’s business dealings still functioned. Just. It felt as if a net had suddenly been cast and was dragging them all, slowly and surely, to their doom. Dr Anderson was not about to let that happen. Too much of his life, his fortune, his dreams, were tied up in the shady dealings of Notorio.
“Devlin didn’t suspect her,” said one of the men.
“No one suspected her,” replied Dr Anderson. “In a way, Devlin was protected by his own stupidity. She couldn’t betray him without revealing herself and putting her life at risk. That now is exactly her fate. She was stuck in that engagement and this man Somerset provided her with a way out.”
Dr Anderson picked up his cup and saucer and drank carefully. It was ironic, he considered, to be drinking tea while discussing a British Secret Service Agent.
“Somerset is an alias used by a British spy well-known to our Soviet allies. They say he is called James Bond. He works for a branch of the British spy network called the ‘Double-O Section’.”
“If he is in Argentina, will it be safe for us to return?”
“Perhaps, soon. In the meantime we must take the initiative,” continued Dr Anderson. “Things are getting too far out of our control. The police have an arrest warrant for Devlin. It was foolish to not hide the woman’s body immediately. Devlin had exposed himself. And whatever she has done, it has exposed us also. The Argentinian government has impounded our cargo ships. The customs authorities are raiding our warehouses. Our local business managers are running scared.”
“They know nothing, Doctor, not enough.”
“Not enough is too close to enough. No. This is serious. The Soviets need the uranium urgently. They must have the missiles to maintain the arms race. They are currently seeking a diplomatic solution with the government. My contacts at the embassy assure me the Argentines do not wish to restrict our trade completely. It will be a few weeks, perhaps. In the meantime, the Soviets, with the approval of the government, have issued me an ultimatum which may smooth progress.”
“Which is?”
“There must be a new Managing Director of Notorio Corned Beef.”
The three men nodded. Another of them went to the veranda doors. He could see Devlin on the lawn talking to his mother. The batty woman was cheerfully singing. It was that damn American song, a bastardisation of an Austrian folk tune. Silently, he wondered if she would ever shut up.
“He’s outside, Dr Anderson. Now may be as good a time as any.”
The men walked slowly onto the veranda. One of them reached inside his jacket pocket and fingered the garotte wire he always carried, a habit he had started in extermination camps and never given up. After all, on occasions such as this...
“Carl!” called Dr Anderson.
The host looked away from his mother. He was smiling. Leopoldine often made him smile, even when she was being a nuisance. She’d been picking her favourite flowers this morning and messily putting them into a vase. Devlin’s smile vanished when he saw the cohort glaring at him. The cloud covered the sun and Os Alpes Do Sol was pitted into deep shadow.
“Carl, will you come in, please?” called Dr Anderson. “I wish to talk to you.”
To Be Concluded
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,049Chief of Staff
It's almost getting to the point to where I don’t want another day to come too soon…whilst that means another wonderful chapter of this story, it also means another day closer to the end - which I certainly don’t want 😕
Os Alpes Do Sol could only be approached up a single lane dirt track which wound its way up the side of a long valley. James Bond could see the villa perched on its promontory almost a whole hour before they arrived there. It was certainly remote and it was certainly beautiful.
The flotilla of cars, some official, some not, but all packed with officials, ground to a halt one after another on the oval driveway. There did not appear to be anybody at home. One policeman rattled the door knocker, to no effect. Bond shared worried glances with Roman.
“Don’t tell me this has been a wasted journey,” Roman said. “All that bloody paperwork. I swear the bloody Department of bloody Political and Social Order wanted me to answer everything in bloody duplicate.”
“It’s a good thing Brazil and Argentina are just about on speaking terms,” answered Bond, “or it might have been bloody triplicate.”
He walked around the side of the villa, followed by Roman and one of the police officers. There was an iron gate with enough tracing on it for Bond to climb over. He didn’t wait for anyone to follow.
The garden was laid out like an exhibit of the Chelsea Flower Show. Immaculate. Ordered. Bustling with colour. He walked past the abundant displays and up to the French doors which lined the rear of the villa. They were closed but not locked. He could see an old woman kneeling on the floor, shaking, wailing. There was a body next to her and the body was mutilated. Devlin’s blood soaked the plush carpet. His head was at a curious angle. Bond pushed the sliding door and entered the lounge. As he drew closer, he could see the head was almost severed from its shoulders. He stood for a moment, watching the scene. The dowager continued to sob and cry and shriek as if he wasn’t there.
Bond left her, went through to the lobby and opened the front door.
“There’s nobody here,” he said. “Nobody we can talk to anyway.”
Roman accompanied the first few policemen in.
“What’s that terrible noise?” he said.
Bond twitched. He led his friend back into the lounge and showed him the revenge meted out by one fugitive Nazi war criminal onto another.
“Dear God,” murmured Roman. “Who’s the woman?”
“His mother.”
“Jesuchristo.” Roman crossed himself.
Two policemen had managed to separate mother from son and sat her in an armchair, but she didn’t stop crying, the sound of her sorrow echoing in the tomb-like interior of the villa.
Bond almost had sympathy for her. Almost.
“There’s nothing for us to do here,” he said. “Come on, Roman, let’s go.”
“Yes, let’s. This is hell.
“And he probably deserves it.”
As Bond departed, his eye caught sight of a small turquoise vase sitting on the mantelpiece. The flowers must have been picked from the garden. The villa was too remote for delivery. Anyway, these flowers were not native to the Mato Grosse.
Ah, well, thanks for posting our collaborative story, @Barbel and I hope everyone enjoyed it. I know I enjoyed the process.
As I said to Barbel in DM, and just to affirm here, this was something of an experiment for me - as I usually work alone - and for Barbel too, I feel, as my writing style and my writing regime is dramatically different to his.
EDELWEISS has come out more like a short story Fan Fic than an Imaginary Conversation, that's more how I work than Barbel, but as I attest, the story is approx the length of one of Fleming's shorts, so I it fits in with the website theme at least!
I think it lacks the humour usually present on this thread - sorry, guys, I don't do much humour 🙂 - but I hope the drama compenstates.
A big thank you from me to all of you, and particularly @chrisno1 of course. As you say, it was very enjoyable and, I think, good experience for us both.
For anyone who doesn't know, Chris is the author of a series of books about his character Jon Drago which are well worth reading. Here's a link
A Part 2, @Sir Miles ....? Well as we all know, never say never but first I have to write down a story that's been growing in my head. It's called "The Prince Of Darkness" ....
No, not him!
And not him either!
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,049Chief of Staff
Bond opened the door to Miss Moneypenny’s office, then stood politely to the side to allow 004 to leave. They nodded politely at each other, Bond not showing any emotion while he mentally sighed. Someday.
Moneypenny smiled at Bond, an experience he always found enjoyable. For the thousandth time, he thought how seductive she would be were her eyes not so cool and direct and quizzical.
“You called?” he said, half smiling.
“Of course. You know I couldn’t bear to be away from you”, she said without ceasing for one second from putting fresh paper in her typewriter. Bond noticed an air ticket lying on her desk which she instantly covered with a folder.
“Oh come on, Penny”, he said, “at least give me a clue”.
“Not my place. M will tell you”.
“But you know where I’ll be going. I hardly think M would be running down to the nearest travel agent for a return ticket to ….?”
She didn’t rise to the bait, merely pressing a button on her intercom. A light flashed in reply and she pointed her arm to the door.
“In you go, James”.
M waved Bond to the seat in front of his desk and puffed on his pipe. He didn’t invite Bond to smoke.
“Ever hear of “Operation Fish”, Bond?” he asked.
“Something to do with the gold reserves, I think, sir”, said Bond.
“Quite right. There was a time in the early stages of the war when it looked very possible that Herr Hitler and his merry band would be invading us at any moment. As we know now, of course, that didn’t happen but the Government thought it best to take some precautions. The entire gold reserves of the Bank of England were shipped over to Canada, which had agreed to hold on to them for safe keeping for the period of the war, however long that would take.
Well, over the last few months they have been shipping it back to us – or perhaps I should say, shipping what’s left back to us”.
“What’s left?” asked Bond.
M took another puff on his pipe. “War is an expensive business, Bond. It’s not usually the first thought of the man in the street or even those of us in the Services, but it costs a frighteningly large amount of money. We had to borrow from the USA for the actual cash, and of course we had to pay for the munitions”.
“Of course. The financial side of things isn’t something that I’d been thinking about. More concerned with just winning the war”.
“Naturally, and that goes for me, too. Anyway, the Americans have been very friendly and generous with their terms, as we were with anything they had to have from us. Roosevelt and Churchill had a solid understanding”.
“Yes, I can’t imagine the Americans ever electing a President who would be so misguided as to antagonise America’s allies and strain their relationships before starting a war that could affect the world for years”.
“The gold has arrived in London after a sea journey protected by half the Royal Navy and most of the Canadian equivalents. On transferring it into the vaults it transpired that about £10 million pounds worth of the gold was missing. Checks were made at both ends, figures were counted and recounted and there was no mistake. Ten million pounds of British gold has gone missing”.
“That’s incredible, sir. What do the Canadians have to say about it?”
M pursed his lips. “They have been very polite and helpful, of course, but they have made it clear that no mistake has been made at their end and the missing gold is our problem. Hell of a time for us to be needing the money – the Government has big plans, such as a National Health Service, and every penny counts”.
“I take it you’re sending me to Canada, then, sir”, said Bond.
“Miss Moneypenny has your ticket. You’re leaving tonight”.
Comments
Chapter Seven
The pain in his wrists came first. They were tightly bound behind him, tying him to a wooden chair. Bond opened his eyes, blinking hard at the pain in his head, and looked around. He was in a cellar of some sort. Packing cases were stacked against the walls. A single unshaded bulb hung from its wires directly overhead.
He was not alone. The cab driver sat against a wall, a toothpick jutting out from between his lips, and another man stood against the door with his arms crossed. There was the sweet stench of tobacco in the air. It came from only a few feet away.
Seated in front of Bond was a cheerful looking fat man. Tobacco smoke seeped from between the man’s teeth like dragon’ s breath. That was the vanilla scent Bond detected. It was wafted towards him by the fat man who was waving Bond’s passport casually in the air.
“So, you are awake, Mr ….” He looked at the passport. “ … Somerset. David Somerset.” He laughed. “Or whoever you are.”
Bond did nothing more than sniff and flex his bruised neck muscles.
“Oh yes, we know all about you Mr David Somerset with your fake passport – ” He pulled Bond’s Walter PPK from his inside jacket pocket and twirled it extravagantly in his massive fist “ – and interesting taste in luggage. Perhaps, you might care to tell me why an Englishman is here in Buenos Aires rather than at home, enjoying the football.”
The cab driver spoke excitedly. “He says he is not English, Roman. He says he is Welsh – you know, kilts and bagpipes”.
“Quiet, Estaban!” The fat man’s voice was like a whiplash. “I will do the talking.” The cab driver was going to object but a raised, flat flabby hand stopped him from opening his loud mouth. “And I will not thank you for using my name so freely.”
The cab driver mumbled something in Spanish that may have been an apology and tried to melt into the wall.
“I am here on holiday, Senor Roman,” said Bond. “The real question is why should you be concerned about that.”
“Because your holiday takes you into the circles of Carl Devlin. Or should I say Herr Leo Hubermann. It is well known that the man is a Nazi”.
Bond shrugged as best as a man tied to a chair can shrug. “I believe such men are not in short supply all over South America”.
Roman took a long suck on his cheroot and nodded to the burly man guarding the door. The man stepped speedily over and gave Bond a sharp backhander across his face. Even though he had had enough time to prepare for the assault, the force of the blow rattled Bond’s teeth. Painfully, he shook his head from side to side.
“You are pleased to make jokes, Mr Somerset?” said Roman. “Now, tell me who you are and what you are doing here.”
Bond’s thinking processes had been dulled by being knocked out. Coming round from unconsciousness was always the worst time for interrogation. They taught you that in the service manuals, but there was no substitute for the real thing and Bond had many experiences of genuine torture. The burly man’s blow did Bond a huge favour in snapping him out of reverie and back to something like his normal self.
“Why don’t we start with what you are not telling me, Senor Roman: that you are not with the Secretaría otherwise I would be in a prison cell not a cellar. And you are not CIA, who would never employ natives of whichever country they are currently ‘assisting.’ Which, after you openly revealed your knowledge of Leo Hubermann, leads me to conclude you are with Mossad.”
“Mossad?” Roman chuckled and wiped a thumb slowly across his bristling chin. “They can’t operate here. They try and the government keeps kicking them out. They work through proxy agents.”
“Are you a proxy agent, Roman?”
The fat man chuckled.
“Me? We are here to talk about you, Mr Somerset. Perhaps it is you who is a proxy agent. Or are you a weatherman?”
“A what?”
Bond paused, blinking under the fierce light. Somewhere, buried in the recess of his mind, he linked the threads of the conundrum. It was so obvious, he should have foreseen it.
“I’m no more a proxy agent than you are, Roman. Let me ask you: is the weather warm where you come from?”
The cheroot blazed red as Roman sucked in a breath. When he replied, he spoke slowly and carefully. “It is warmer than where you are from.”
“But sometimes a spot of rain – ”
Roman finished off the recognition code: “ – must fall to help the crops.”
There was a moment’s silence. Roman and Bond stared at each other. The tobacco smoke drifted slowly into the air. Roman smiled wide, gripping the cheroot between his teeth. He turned his head and barked a burst of Spanish. The burly man produced a knife and began to cut through the ropes holding Bond to the chair. Bond stood and stamped his feet while rubbing his wrists to get the circulation back.
“Please accept my apologies, Mr Somerset,” said Roman as he stood and offered his hand.
“It’s Bond. James Bond.”
Bond grinned and took Roman’s hand. The grip was firm. The shake sharp.
“James Bond? Really? I thought you had died.”
“Everyone says that.”
“News travels slow to Argentina.” Roman waved for some water and poured a glass was poured for Bond. “Here. Take this.” Next he held out Bond’s PPK. “And this.”
The water was cool and refreshing and stung as it slithered down Bond’s dry throat. He must have been out for a couple of hours. Roman was still talking, excitedly, like the cab driver.
“You know, I could have saved us both a lot of trouble if I had only asked you what company you represent.”
“Universal Exports,” replied Bond. “You should have checked my entry visa.”
“I don’t have access to the records. As you say, the Secretaría are not exactly friendly. Let me introduce myself. I am Roman Rojas. I work for Station A. These are my associates. Estaban you know and this is Thiago. Our Head Of Station did not mention that you would be here. If we had known, well, all this…”
“He wasn’t informed,” said Bond. “This was intended to be a very small scale and subtle operation.”
“Still,” continued Roman. “I would like to know why you are taking such a close interest in the activities of Carl Devlin.”
“He’s of intense interest to Mossad. That’s who I thought you represented.”
“And they are keeping watch on you. But we got to you first. This man Devlin, we know he is a war criminal. We know he wants to destabilise the government. That Charity Ball you attended? It was a front. A fundraiser for extreme political parties and rabble rousers. The bastards will have the Peronistas back in power if we are not careful.”
Roman paused and sucked on the cigar. His voice turned grave. “We also know that his associates in Argentina run a uranium mine. We believe Russian bound shipments of corned beef contain tins full of high-grade uranium ore. We’ve wanted access to Notorio’s shipments for years.”
“Devlin sounds a menace, Roman, but my job here is more concerned with his companion, Miss Sebastian.”
“Yes. We saw you with Miss Sebastian. An agent such as yourself, operating undercover, initiating an intimate relationship with Devlin’s mistress. Hm. However you describe it, Mr Bond, it is certainly of interest.”
“You can call me James, Roman.”
“Alright, James. So, tell me, you have made an arrangement with the delightful Miss Sebastian, yes? No, don’t answer that. I know it is true. We saw you. We heard you. If we are to impound Notorio’s cargo ships, the government needs evidence of illegal ore shipments. We’ve not been able to gather any. But perhaps…”
“We may be thinking along similar lines, Roman,” said Bond. “I was made aware of Mossad’s interest in Devlin. I thought it was purely as a war criminal, but it seems there is something bigger happening, something that may benefit all western countries.”
“And Miss Sebastian?”
“Alexis – Miss Sebastian – found out about the uranium ore also, which is why I need to lift her. And quickly.”
Bond paused and Roman sensed there was something troubling Bond.
“But…?”
“She can get me access to Devlin’s papers! The papers you need to impound the ships. I intended to get her away from Devlin as soon as I could, but she convinced me not to. You have doubly convinced me.” Bond put down the empty glass. “You and your team may be of some help. We’ll need to work and plan fast. I have to be at Devlin’s estate for 8pm.”
Roman laughed, his belly shaking. “I work fast with fuel. What do you say we discuss this with a beer?”
“Drinking? Now, there we can definitely find mutual agreement”.
To Be Continued
An excellent twist Barbel.
This just keeps getting better 👏🏻
Much appreciated, guys, and I'm sure chrisno1 feels the same.
Chapter Eight
Bond had become accustomed to the architecture in Buenos Aires resembling that of various styles native to Europe. He had not expected Devlin’s mansion to be in so flagrant a Gothic character that it could have been transported brick by brick from Munich or perhaps one of the smaller cities of Bavaria.
He was greeted at the door by a stiff-backed butler, who guided him to the elegant dining room whose centre stage was an expensively decorated table, long enough to seat twenty-a-side, but today only laid for ten, all places at the far end of the salon. A group of four men stood beside an enormous stone fireplace. A little further away, two well-heeled women were talking to a seated elderly lady, whose face was fixed in a permanent smile. Devlin had already detached himself from this group, Alexis on his arm.
He stepped forward, greeting Bond with caution.
“My dear Somerset, I am so happy you could come tonight.”
“How could I refuse so gracious an invitation?” said Bond.
“Alexis said she met you at the Polo Grounds.” Devlin’s tone was nothing more than coldly efficient. “I am so glad you could entertain her.”
“I wouldn’t call horse riding entertainment, Mr Devlin. More a pain in the backside.”
Devlin didn’t laugh. Or even smile. He snapped his fingers and a waiter stepped swiftly over, a tray with glasses on his outstretched arm. Bond accepted one at carefully concealed random. Dom Perignon again. It was as if Devlin had always been expecting him. During the exchange, Alexis remained aloof and silent.
“Now,” began Devlin, releasing Alexis from her position at his elbow with a fish-like swish of his arm. “Let me introduce you to some of my friends.”
Devlin led Bond over to the enormous stone fireplace. Flames crackled on a huge slice of a tree trunk. Coal fizzled. The small group of men that had gathered around the hearth were all of Devlin’s age. They all drank champagne and conversed in hushed tones and in German.
“My friends, this is Mr David Somerset,” said Devlin cheerfully, and in English. “He is here from Universal Exports, London, and wishes to do business with Notorio. I will allow you to introduce yourselves”.
Devlin backed off, leaving the four to reluctantly talk with Bond. He immediately recognised them from the Charity Ball. Their accents were borderline British but hints of Teutonic phrasing and tones could be heard if one was listening for them. Bond was. Introductions were made, and he could tell that they had been reading British newspapers before picking their current names. John, Paul, and George were common enough British Christian names – and Bond assumed they all thought Ringo just might stand out – unless one were wearing earmuffs. Bond carefully filed the names away for later research. The fourth, bald-headed man introduced himself as ‘Doctor Anderson’. He offered only a thin smile and touched Bond’s hand for the minimum time necessary for courtesy.
A gong sounded. Devlin asked his guests to be seated. Their places were marked with embossed name cards. Bond found himself seated with the ladies, all opposite the men. He would normally have enjoyed this scenario, but this time it felt as if the pleasure was a sort of punishment. Five pairs of German eyes watched him closely as he took his seat, and he found himself sitting next to the smiling elderly lady.
“Oh, you are from Somerset, then?” she said happily.
“Er, no, my name is Somerset, David Somerset, Senora …?”
“I am Leopoldine Devlin, Mr Somerset,” she announced.
Bond raised an eyebrow.
“I am Carl’s mother,” she continued grandly.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” said Bond. “And do you live in Buenos Aires, Senora?”
“Oh, no, too loud, too loud,” smiled the old lady. “I stay at Os Alpes Do Sol. It is very beautiful there. You must please come and visit me”.
“But of course,” said Bond. “I’d be delighted. Where is Os Alpes Do Sol?”
“In the countryside.”
Two waiters appeared, one carrying a ceramic soup terrine. While he held the huge, heavy dish with barely an ounce of effort, his colleague used a ladle to serve exactly half-a-bowl-full of gulaschsuppe. The heady aroma of cured beef and hot peppers curled at Bond’s nostrils. The chatter around the table fell away as the food was attended to. The old lady took no notice.
“My son has a lovely house here, don’t you think? I try to visit him here often”.
Bond unobtrusively looked around the other guests. He attempted to catch Alexis’s eye. She was seated beside the old lady, as a nurse might be. Devlin sat opposite her, a position that enabled him to keep eyes on his mistress, his mother and his unwanted guest.
“I am hoping to do some business with your son,” replied Bond cheerfully, defying the ringing silence.
“So! You are interested in corned beef?”
“No, I am afraid not, Senora, but I am interested in importing and exporting.”
The dowager suddenly beamed her biggest smile yet.
“I love port. It is much better than champagne, is it not?”
“Ah, er, yes, it can be most satisfying.”
She waved a waiter over and peremptorily ordered port for them both. Bond politely declined the offer to join her. He tasted the excellent soup. After a minute or so, as everyone ate, the noise level rose. Bond tried to listen in on the German dialogues, but couldn’t hear enough, thanks mostly to the old lady’s nattering.
“So, you are from Somerset, Mr David?” she asked.
The port arrived and she drained half the glass in a single mouthful. A trickle of ruby red residue trickled from the corner of her mouth. Alexis dabbed at the spillage with a napkin.
“Mother!” she admonished.
“It’s quite alright, dear. Mr David is a guest. From Somerset, no less, isn’t that right, Mr David?”
“Quite right.”
Bond was beginning to understand Leopoldine Devlin and her ailments. He happily consented that Somerset was indeed where he was from. The old lady continued to quiz him, repeating the same questions and phrases. Bond continued to respond. He wondered if this was some sort of test every new arrival at Devlin’s needed to endure.
The soup was taken away and replaced with plates of Argentinian veal, fried potatoes and red cabbage with onions. Despite its peasant appearance, Bond rather enjoyed the meal, its simplicity being its major favour.
“I live at Os Alpes Do Sol,” the dowager stated for what must have been the fifteenth time. “You must come and visit there. It is so very beautiful.”
“As beautiful as Somerset?”
“Ah, I love Somerset! I visited it many times when I stayed in England.”
“And when was that?”
“After the fall of the Fuhrer. We had to escape the Soviets, you understand. The British took us in, of course. The Queen. She is German, you understand, German. The Fuhrer. He should have been King of Germany.”
Her reminiscences were getting louder.
“Emperor of the German Empire! Overseer of All Europe! My son, Carl, – ”
Devlin had been occupied with his other guests. Now, attention attracted by his name, he assessed the situation quickly, tersely. His open palm slapped down on the table top with a loud clap.
“Mother, I think you are getting tired,” he said. “You should go to bed.”
He pushed his seat back and made to rise.
Alexis held up her hand, silently restraining him. The dowager lady scoffed.
“Oh nonsense Carl, I feel fine. Some more port – ”
“No, Mother, you must go to bed.”
Devlin snapped his fingers. Two of the butler staff, who had been stood beside the door – perhaps for just such an occasion, Bond wondered – quickly attended to the protesting dowager. Alexis calmly reassured her. Devlin, however, was more animated. He stood from the table and walked around the room to lend his stern assistance. It was only his immediate presence that ensured Leopoldine Devlin accepted her son’s instruction.
Despite the minor furore, everyone politely stood as the elder statesperson, accompanied by the host, exited the dining room. Bond took the opportunity to seat himself beside Alexis. The move did not go unnoticed by the other guests. There was a prolonged, strained silence bar the scraping of cutlery on plates.
“I didn’t think she was all that tired,” Bond said, easing the tension.
“Carl is very protective of her,” Alexis replied.
“She was talking about a place called Os Alpes Du Sol,” said Bond. “In fact, she invited me to visit her there.”
“It’s her favourite place,” said Alexis. “A villa in Brazil where Carl takes her on holiday. She doesn’t live there all the time.”
“Do you ever go there?”
“I have not. Carl uses it to entertain his friends. Apparently, we will go there for our own honeymoon.”
“That’ll be wonderful, I’m sure,” said Bond, adding in a hushed tone: “If you ever get married.”
“Don’t.”
Alexis blushed. Bond realised his mistake, realised the other guests could see her reaction even if they had not heard the exchange. She too knew the error was visible.
As Devlin re-entered the room, Alexis quickly turned away from Bond, offering a concerned glance at her fiancé.
“Is Mother alright?”
“Of course.” Devlin remained standing, half-way towards his own seat. He noticed the switch of seats Bond had negotiated. Staring at the now empty seat, he said slowly: “Is everything alright here, Alexis?”
“I was worried about Mother.”
“You look unwell.”
“I’m feeling tired, Carl. The heat in here. The champagne perhaps. I think I would like to go and lie down”.
“Nonsense, Alexis, you have our guest to look after. You are the best English speaker here. Who else can entertain, Mr Somerset?”
“I’m sorry, Carl, I don’t think I can.”
“Please don’t stay on my account,” interjected Bond, sensing Devlin’s rising suspicions. “Dinner’s almost finished. And it’s been a long day.”
“Yes,” added Alexis. “It has been a long day. I really must go.”
Alexis didn’t wait for Devlin’s permission. She stood up, quite abruptly, screwed up her napkin and then, nervously tossed it onto her plate. As she hurried away, Bond sensed rather than saw everyone’s eyes watching this dramatic display of disobedience.
“I expect I exhausted her at the Polo Club,” he said.
Devlin gave him a sharp, exceptionally cold glance. He seemed to want to follow Alexis, thought better of it and then returned to his seat. He lifted his champagne flute and took a small sip, all the while studying Bond over the rim of the glass.
“Quite,” he said.
To Be Continued
“I expect I exhausted her at the Polo Club,” he said.
🤣🤣
I’m seriously running out of superlatives to praise this story 🤗
Thank you, gentlemen 🍸
You're very welcome, Sir M, and I'm sure that's from us both.
Chapter Nine
Bond moved quietly in the darkness of the gardens. The box hedges and ornamental pines that gave the mansion such a European identity surrounded the buildings, flanking the driveway and surrounding a series of freshwater ponds. The layout reminded him of Hampton Court maze, designed to confuse as well as decorate. He carefully and silently wound a way through the tall hedges approaching the east wing as Alexis had instructed.
His departure from dinner had received no more than a curt handshake from Devlin. The cool reception had turned rather frosty after Alexis feigned her sickness. As one of the butlers escorted him out of the dining room, Bond saw the five German men conversing in low tones. Dr Anderson was gesticulating wildly. The two women, whose names Bond had never learned, had joined them in the conference.
Now, Bond waited and watched as the final guests made their exits and one by one the lights inside the mansion went out. The only sound was his own breathing. He crept towards the exterior stairs which led to the cellar door and hid in the recess. A quarter of an hour had elapsed when he heard a series of grainy crunches on the gravel path. It was one of the staff. The boots stepped by the stairs without stopping. A few moments later there was a soft creaking and the cellar door opened a crack. A dim light shone from inside. Bond slipped down the last steps. Alexis showed her face and motioned for him to join her inside.
“James!”
“Are you sure no-one will come into your room and find you’re not there?” he asked.
His businesslike manner seemed to upset her.
“I told them all I would be taking sleeping pills and didn’t want disturbed till eight tomorrow.”
Her eyes were shining as she looked at him. He pressed his lips on hers, holding her body close. Now, her disappointment turned to surprise.
“James, do we have time for …?”
“You know I’d love to, but we can’t,” he said, kissing her again. “You have to show me Devlin’s study. And quickly. There are patrols outside.”
Without another word, she led the way from the cellar to a corridor near the dining room and onto the last door near a window. Alexis had a bunch of keys in her hand.
“The staff’s set. I took them from the pantry.”
She selected one, placed it in the keyhole and, gritting her teeth against a sound that never arrived, she unlocked the door to what proved to be a study. The drapes were pulled. The only light came from an illuminated fish tank which contained Siamese Fighting Fish. Books lined the walls and leather chairs were positioned around a large heavy table of dark wood. Seven champagne flutes were on the table and a half-drunk bottle of Krug champagne was sitting in a bucket of melting ice. Bond noted Devlin switched to a German brand when not in company.
“We can talk here. The room is soundproofed.” Alexis pointed across the room. “See that painting?”
Bond nodded. It was behind Devlin’s desk: Bergen’s oil of the famed battleship Bismarck, dreaded in World War Two by the British navy until its sinking in the North Atlantic in 1941.
“The safe is behind it, but I can’t help you get inside. I don’t know the combination”.
Bond had been prepared for this. He slid the painting aside to reveal the safe. He reached inside his jacket and produced a metal box festooned with coils of wire which led to a flat, circular attachment. He held the circular piece against the safe and it stayed there, evidently magnetic. A low hum emanated from the box. Numbers began to light up a series of small windows on the side of the box. Bond read them and turned the safe’s combination dial accordingly.
“That’s amazing,” whispered Alexis.
“Big in Japan, I believe. Everyone will be talking about this soon,” said Bond, opening the door with a grin.
Inside, he found large stacks of Argentinian bank notes, bundled by the thousand, but Bond’s attention was on the documents on the lower shelves.
“Turn on the lamp,” he said.
Flicking through the documents in the half-light, he could see these were almost all in German and concerned the movement of uranium ore from a mine in the Malargüe region to Notorio’s canning facility. They were to be placed in corned beef tins, each with a subtle mark to distinguish them from regular tins. This work was to be carried out at night by a separate team from the usual staff, who would know nothing about it. That would explain Dr Anderson’s panic when another team member took sick from radiation poisoning.
Bond quickly took out the Colibri camera and photographed all the relevant documents. He replaced them, was about to relock the safe, when he noticed a file marked Aufenthaltsstatus: immigration status. Taking it out he saw a series of official-looking papers, several relating to the people he had met over dinner. They were false identity papers granted by the Peron government in 1946 and beside them were the recipient’s original identification documents, all in Nazi black-and-white. Exactly the kind of details Mossad would be interested in. Quickly, Bond also photographed these, put them neatly back on the shelf and relocked the safe.
“Alexis,” Bond started, urgently, “I want you to come with me. I can’t protect you here. Not now. If you come, I’ll keep you safe from him.”
“I can’t, James. It’s impossible,” she said, biting her lip. “It would raise too many suspicions. Carl is already jealous after you kissed me at the Pony Club”.
“Alright,” said Bond. He picked up the bottle of Krug champagne. “That’s something to celebrate at least.”
Kissing Alexis once more, he poured them both a glass and they drank. It slaked their thirst and calmed their ardour.
“Listen, Alexis, I’ve had an idea.” She was about to object, Bond placed a finger to her lips. “Hear me out. Why don’t you feign being pregnant?”
“What?” she said, stunned.
“Early stages, obviously. It’ll tie in with your feeling unwell earlier. Normally you would phone your doctor, of course, but I want you to call this number.” Bond handed her a card. “It’s a friend of mine named Roman. He will come, in the disguise of a gynaecologist and take you to the hospital – and freedom.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t, I mean – ”
“It’ll be easier than you think. Trust me. Call that number in the morning.”
Bond kissed her again and they headed for the cellar. He gave Alexis a final swift goodbye kiss and slipped out and up the stairs. As the door closed behind him, he thought he heard a second noise, a light scraping. He paused. Nothing. Quickly he sprinted across the gravel drive and into the rows of box hedges. There it was again. Louder this time.
He stepped across the avenue and was caught in the sudden blaze of a white hot torch beam. A voice rang harshly out: “Halt!”
He threw himself to the left. A throwing knife hit the tree behind where he had been standing only a second ago. Bond raced through the trees, zigzagging as he went, aware the pounding footsteps behind were catching up fast. Then abruptly, they vanished. Bond didn’t dare stop and turn to see what had happened. He kept running between the hedgerows, heading vaguely for the exit. From nowhere, the assailant lunged at him, seeming to appear as if from the night itself. Bond was knocked off his feet and landed on his back, winded. It was the young man who had offered him corned beef at the Expo. He was leaning over Bond’s prone figure, drawing a second knife from over a shoulder. Bond’s knee viciously rammed into the man’s groin. There was a cry of pain. Bond’s left hand, taut like an axe, cracked into the exposed neck. The young man collapsed with a single pitiful groan. Instinctively, Bond grabbed the knife and thrust it directly for the heart.
Dammit.
Panting, Bond got to his feet and began to run again. It was only seconds before he reached the wall. He leapt, grabbed the top and pulled himself up and over into the quiet of the street beyond. Now, where was Estaban’s taxi?
A fat bald man in a dark suit was walking towards him. With calm equanimity, he wished Bond a lugubrious “Good evening” and kept walking.
Bond blinked. “And good evening to you,” he said.
A second later, he took to his heels and found the taxi and its driver waiting around the next corner.
***
Carl Devlin was in his night clothes, a dressing robe pulled tight. He wore plimsoles on his feet. The groundsman was fully dressed, as if always on alert even in the dead of night. It was cold in the darkest hours.
Devlin looked at the dead guard’s body without any emotion.
“Notify his family in the morning,” he said curtly.
Devlin turned and walked back to the mansion, taking the easiest route through the maze of hedgerows. Inside, he was about to ascend the stairs when a thought occurred to him. Nothing more than an inkling, but nonetheless…
The safe appeared not to have been touched. All the documents were in place, the combination untampered. The dial was even positioned back on the number 7 as he always left it. And yet…
The bottle of Krug champagne rested on the leather inlay of his desk. Slowly Devlin’s fingers interlocked and the tips touched his chin. He was certain the champagne had been left in the ice bucket. Around the base of the bottle a little puddle of condensation had formed. There were two flutes beside it, half-empty. One, he noticed, had a sheer ruby gloss on the rim. The exact colour of his fiancée’s lipstick. His favourite shade. The colour he had insisted she wore to the dinner party.
To Be Continued
Barbel and chrisno1...this is top-notch work!
Bravo!
Simply wonderful 👏🏻
And lots of little nods and winks 😁
Thank you, guys, more very soon.
Chapter Ten
“It’s been three days,” said Bond. “I don’t like it.”
“Nor do I, James,” replied Roman. “Estaban reports a lot of activity around the mansion today. People leaving. He hasn’t followed them or else he can’t look out for Alexis.”
They were sitting in Roman’s local parrilla, an unremarkable place of small covers, cheap wine goblets and blue-and-white check tablecloths. The chef served lunches as hearty as anything Blades could throw at you. Heartier probably and steeped in fat. The steaks were enormous and bloody, and the big fries came cut rough, salty and crisp. The Malbec Origin was worth that of an expensive Claret but came priced for Beaujolais.
“But she hasn’t made an appearance, Roman,” continued Bond. “Maybe it’s time we took action, regardless.”
“Maybe it was the man you killed. It might have spooked them.”
“I think they were spooked enough already. That performance over dinner was simply bizarre. The Germans were supposed to be Devlin’s work colleagues. More like conspirators. They never once mentioned corned beef.”
Roman snorted.
“Good thing. Horrible stuff. Reminds me of the army.”
Bond raised an eyebrow. He sipped the strong gin and tonic, a pre-lunch drink which he found more palatable than the local coffee. Roman seemed to agree on that too.
“So, let’s say Alexis is being held there against her will,” the Argentine started. “You want to get her out. When would be the best time to do it? At night? At dawn? What?”
“At dinner,” said Bond after a brief moment of consideration. “The place is alive with guards, but Devlin and any of his guests will be in the mansion. The waiting staff too. So it would only be the guards we have to worry about.”
“Alright. Let me speak with Mateo.”
“No,” said Bond. “Don’t involve your Head of Station. This is supposed to be unofficial. I’m not supposed to be here, remember? What about Estaban and Thiago? They like their football. Men of the streets. Do they know some people who might be able to help us. Unofficially, as it were.”
Roman grinned and swallowed his G & T in a single swift gulp.
“I think so.”
***
Kitted all in black the nine men maraudered through the hedgerows, Bond half-ahead, almost leading the way. Estaban, a big Smith & Wesson clutched in his hand, was a half-pace further on. Roman and Tiago, being the largest, moved slower and held the rear. The armed party dodged between hedgerows, swiftly, silently. The handful of extra men came from the shanty towns. Supporters of River Plate, Estaban’s home team. Once they knew a pretty woman was in danger and that the danger was a cabal of Nazis, they needed no second invitation to arm themselves, blacken their faces and join the expedition. They carried typical weapons: machetes, hunting daggers, flick knives and knuckle dusters. Two of them possessed old Colt pistols.
Bond skirted the final box hedge. They had encountered no one.
A swathe of light suddenly bathed the arena. Searchlights on the roof of the mansion fanned out across the gardens, catching at shadows. The ominous rattle came almost as fast. Bullets started to cut through the air. Machine guns. More than one. Bond rolled onto the turf, sheltering in the hedges. One of the following group, a young man called Manuel, was caught in the crossfire and torn to pieces by the shots, his body dancing like a scarecrow in the wind before falling to the ground still twitching.
Bond instantly took aim at one of the coursing lights. One bulb shattered. All Bond’s firing did was attract attention to his whereabouts. The divots of exploding grass as the bullets inched closer stunned Bond into moving left. Estaban followed. A young man came running down the path. One of Devlin’s guards. Estaban cut him down with a single shot.
“The lights, Estaban,” ordered Bond.
“Yes. Yes.”
It took him three goes and the second light went out. Now, guards and housekeepers were pouring out of the mansion. Some form of chaos started to ensue as man fought man and bodies began to sink to the ground, injured or dying or dead. A machete was swung through the air. A hatchet clanged against it. A gun shot. A man fell from the mansion parapet, his body thumping on the drive like a bag of cement. Shouts. Screams. Victory. Death.
Bond inched his way around the line of trees and made it to the cellar steps where he had infiltrated the other night. He kicked in the lock and entered the basement. The bottles of wine stood on their racks. The hams hung on their hooks. It was quiet in the cool room. Nervelessly quiet.
Bond passed into the corridor above. The dining room was empty. It wasn’t laid for dinner. There was no sign of any guests. Only the fire glowed, casting a ghostly orange hue across the interior. Bond walked on, the PPK held out ahead of him, finger on the trigger anticipating the need to shoot and shoot first. He eased open the door to the study. Nobody. Silent. Dark. The curtains were pulled, shutting out even the moonlight. Bond switched on a side lamp. In its halo, he saw the open coffin resting on the big table in the centre of the room. He walked forward. His face fell.
Alexis Sebastian lay on the cushions. They’d dressed her in a beautiful ivory gown, probably what she was meant to have worn for her wedding. Alive she would have looked beautiful, vibrant and enticing, but rigor mortis had begun to set in and instead Alexis was pale, gaunt and frightened. The bastards hadn’t even closed her eyes. Bond reached out with his free hand and dragged the cold shutters down with his fingers.
“Was ist das?”
Bond spun on one heel. It was the butler. The man stood in the doorframe, almost blocking it, and an arm was raising, a gun clasped in the hand. The man was slower than Bond, uncertain. The Walther PPK cracked twice and the butler’s head snapped back as if struck by a hammer. He crumpled to the floor. Bond gasped, snatching at breath. He took a seat and stared at the coffin without reaction. There was a sudden ache in his chest.
The noise of the fighting began to dissipate. Roman entered the study, stepping over the butler’s corpse.
“Devlin’s not here,” he said. “What have we now?”
Roman stared into the coffin.
“Jesuchristo.”
Bond tapped the barrel of his gun thoughtfully.
“When I came to dinner, there was a crazy old woman here.”
Roman was surprised at his friend’s matter-of-fact attitude. “Yes, you told me,” he replied, “but – ”
“She kept talking about a holiday home. A place called Os Alpes Do Sol. The Southern Alps. Estaban said people had been coming and going all day. What if Devlin was one of them?”
“Where was this place?”
“Brazil.”
Roman stared at Alexis’s once beautiful, now peaceful face. Then he stared at Bond, whose eyes were like gunsights, pinpoint accurate, cold and hard. Very hard. And very cold.
“You want to follow him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
To Be Continued
Another rip-roaring episode, gentlemen 👏🏻
Looking forward to tomorrow’s episode already 😁
Just caught up with this story, thoroughly enjoyable 👏
Thank you, gentlemen.
Chapter Eleven
Os Alpes Do Sol was a whitewashed, brick-built villa of immaculate taste situated on a hillside in the Mato Grosse du Sol, in a valley of lush verdant trees, trickling streams and a multitude of colourful flowers and chirruping birds.
The villa wasn’t enormous, but its living spaces were all open-plan and one wall was lined with glass doors which opened onto a veranda and the extensive flower gardens. However, despite the concessions to modern luxury, the architecture still held a certain brutalist texture that hinted at the legacy of its owner.
The villa was not as well-staffed as the mansion in Buenos Aires. Here only two local women, a chambermaid and a cook, were employed. Both had just been ordered to immediately vacate the premises. They did as they were told without objection. The bald-headed German who had arrived uninvited for lunch had the air of death about him and they didn’t like it.
The group of four male guests who congregated in the lounge area were dressed in formal, lightweight suits and ties. Outwardly, they may have looked relaxed, as if on a holiday or visiting neighbours for cocktails. Closer inspection however revealed they stood straight-backed, tall and steady. They had military bearings. They spoke in German.
Dr Anderson had been the last to arrive, his flight delayed for some last minute phone calls to the embassy. Despite the furore Alexis’s death had caused, Dr Anderson had managed to ensure Notorio’s business dealings still functioned. Just. It felt as if a net had suddenly been cast and was dragging them all, slowly and surely, to their doom. Dr Anderson was not about to let that happen. Too much of his life, his fortune, his dreams, were tied up in the shady dealings of Notorio.
“Devlin didn’t suspect her,” said one of the men.
“No one suspected her,” replied Dr Anderson. “In a way, Devlin was protected by his own stupidity. She couldn’t betray him without revealing herself and putting her life at risk. That now is exactly her fate. She was stuck in that engagement and this man Somerset provided her with a way out.”
Dr Anderson picked up his cup and saucer and drank carefully. It was ironic, he considered, to be drinking tea while discussing a British Secret Service Agent.
“Somerset is an alias used by a British spy well-known to our Soviet allies. They say he is called James Bond. He works for a branch of the British spy network called the ‘Double-O Section’.”
“If he is in Argentina, will it be safe for us to return?”
“Perhaps, soon. In the meantime we must take the initiative,” continued Dr Anderson. “Things are getting too far out of our control. The police have an arrest warrant for Devlin. It was foolish to not hide the woman’s body immediately. Devlin had exposed himself. And whatever she has done, it has exposed us also. The Argentinian government has impounded our cargo ships. The customs authorities are raiding our warehouses. Our local business managers are running scared.”
“They know nothing, Doctor, not enough.”
“Not enough is too close to enough. No. This is serious. The Soviets need the uranium urgently. They must have the missiles to maintain the arms race. They are currently seeking a diplomatic solution with the government. My contacts at the embassy assure me the Argentines do not wish to restrict our trade completely. It will be a few weeks, perhaps. In the meantime, the Soviets, with the approval of the government, have issued me an ultimatum which may smooth progress.”
“Which is?”
“There must be a new Managing Director of Notorio Corned Beef.”
The three men nodded. Another of them went to the veranda doors. He could see Devlin on the lawn talking to his mother. The batty woman was cheerfully singing. It was that damn American song, a bastardisation of an Austrian folk tune. Silently, he wondered if she would ever shut up.
“He’s outside, Dr Anderson. Now may be as good a time as any.”
The men walked slowly onto the veranda. One of them reached inside his jacket pocket and fingered the garotte wire he always carried, a habit he had started in extermination camps and never given up. After all, on occasions such as this...
“Carl!” called Dr Anderson.
The host looked away from his mother. He was smiling. Leopoldine often made him smile, even when she was being a nuisance. She’d been picking her favourite flowers this morning and messily putting them into a vase. Devlin’s smile vanished when he saw the cohort glaring at him. The cloud covered the sun and Os Alpes Do Sol was pitted into deep shadow.
“Carl, will you come in, please?” called Dr Anderson. “I wish to talk to you.”
To Be Concluded
It's almost getting to the point to where I don’t want another day to come too soon…whilst that means another wonderful chapter of this story, it also means another day closer to the end - which I certainly don’t want 😕
Bravo 👏🏻
Really, @chrisno1 should be thanking you for those kind words as well as me, but thanks from me meantime.
Yes, thank you @Sir Miles
Chapters 9, 10, 11 & 12 are my fav chapters, where the atmosphere darkens.
I hope, as well as the OO7 eggs, you are seeing the allusions to my fav thriller movie of all time...
Epilogue
Os Alpes Do Sol could only be approached up a single lane dirt track which wound its way up the side of a long valley. James Bond could see the villa perched on its promontory almost a whole hour before they arrived there. It was certainly remote and it was certainly beautiful.
The flotilla of cars, some official, some not, but all packed with officials, ground to a halt one after another on the oval driveway. There did not appear to be anybody at home. One policeman rattled the door knocker, to no effect. Bond shared worried glances with Roman.
“Don’t tell me this has been a wasted journey,” Roman said. “All that bloody paperwork. I swear the bloody Department of bloody Political and Social Order wanted me to answer everything in bloody duplicate.”
“It’s a good thing Brazil and Argentina are just about on speaking terms,” answered Bond, “or it might have been bloody triplicate.”
He walked around the side of the villa, followed by Roman and one of the police officers. There was an iron gate with enough tracing on it for Bond to climb over. He didn’t wait for anyone to follow.
The garden was laid out like an exhibit of the Chelsea Flower Show. Immaculate. Ordered. Bustling with colour. He walked past the abundant displays and up to the French doors which lined the rear of the villa. They were closed but not locked. He could see an old woman kneeling on the floor, shaking, wailing. There was a body next to her and the body was mutilated. Devlin’s blood soaked the plush carpet. His head was at a curious angle. Bond pushed the sliding door and entered the lounge. As he drew closer, he could see the head was almost severed from its shoulders. He stood for a moment, watching the scene. The dowager continued to sob and cry and shriek as if he wasn’t there.
Bond left her, went through to the lobby and opened the front door.
“There’s nobody here,” he said. “Nobody we can talk to anyway.”
Roman accompanied the first few policemen in.
“What’s that terrible noise?” he said.
Bond twitched. He led his friend back into the lounge and showed him the revenge meted out by one fugitive Nazi war criminal onto another.
“Dear God,” murmured Roman. “Who’s the woman?”
“His mother.”
“Jesuchristo.” Roman crossed himself.
Two policemen had managed to separate mother from son and sat her in an armchair, but she didn’t stop crying, the sound of her sorrow echoing in the tomb-like interior of the villa.
Bond almost had sympathy for her. Almost.
“There’s nothing for us to do here,” he said. “Come on, Roman, let’s go.”
“Yes, let’s. This is hell.
“And he probably deserves it.”
As Bond departed, his eye caught sight of a small turquoise vase sitting on the mantelpiece. The flowers must have been picked from the garden. The villa was too remote for delivery. Anyway, these flowers were not native to the Mato Grosse.
Edelweiss.
THE END
Ah, well, thanks for posting our collaborative story, @Barbel and I hope everyone enjoyed it. I know I enjoyed the process.
As I said to Barbel in DM, and just to affirm here, this was something of an experiment for me - as I usually work alone - and for Barbel too, I feel, as my writing style and my writing regime is dramatically different to his.
EDELWEISS has come out more like a short story Fan Fic than an Imaginary Conversation, that's more how I work than Barbel, but as I attest, the story is approx the length of one of Fleming's shorts, so I it fits in with the website theme at least!
I think it lacks the humour usually present on this thread - sorry, guys, I don't do much humour 🙂 - but I hope the drama compenstates.
Thanks for reading.
I really enjoyed this excellent story by @chrisno1 and @Barbel.
It is as if Paul Cezanne and Piet Mondrian painted a landscape together.
An amazing collaborative effort.
Wishing you gentlemen the best.
I agree that this was very much a short story, and absolutely riveting. I certainly think your styles @chrisno1 & @Barbel complimented each other 👏🏻
And there’s more than enough left open to facilitate a Part 2 😁
Again, congratulations gentlemen on a wonderful story 🍸
This was a superb story, you collaborated very well, and I think the two different styles melded together perfectly 👏
I picked up on a few Easter Eggs along the way and doubtless missed a few too.
🍸🍸
A big thank you from me to all of you, and particularly @chrisno1 of course. As you say, it was very enjoyable and, I think, good experience for us both.
For anyone who doesn't know, Chris is the author of a series of books about his character Jon Drago which are well worth reading. Here's a link
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Back-Devil-Jon-Drago-Adventures-ebook/dp/B0BXJTVMV2?ref_=saga_dp_bnx_mbl_dp
A Part 2, @Sir Miles ....? Well as we all know, never say never but first I have to write down a story that's been growing in my head. It's called "The Prince Of Darkness" ....
No, not him!
And not him either!
🤣
😂
Looking forward to this 😁
The Prince of Darkness
THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS
1947
Chapter One
Bond opened the door to Miss Moneypenny’s office, then stood politely to the side to allow 004 to leave. They nodded politely at each other, Bond not showing any emotion while he mentally sighed. Someday.
Moneypenny smiled at Bond, an experience he always found enjoyable. For the thousandth time, he thought how seductive she would be were her eyes not so cool and direct and quizzical.
“You called?” he said, half smiling.
“Of course. You know I couldn’t bear to be away from you”, she said without ceasing for one second from putting fresh paper in her typewriter. Bond noticed an air ticket lying on her desk which she instantly covered with a folder.
“Oh come on, Penny”, he said, “at least give me a clue”.
“Not my place. M will tell you”.
“But you know where I’ll be going. I hardly think M would be running down to the nearest travel agent for a return ticket to ….?”
She didn’t rise to the bait, merely pressing a button on her intercom. A light flashed in reply and she pointed her arm to the door.
“In you go, James”.
M waved Bond to the seat in front of his desk and puffed on his pipe. He didn’t invite Bond to smoke.
“Ever hear of “Operation Fish”, Bond?” he asked.
“Something to do with the gold reserves, I think, sir”, said Bond.
“Quite right. There was a time in the early stages of the war when it looked very possible that Herr Hitler and his merry band would be invading us at any moment. As we know now, of course, that didn’t happen but the Government thought it best to take some precautions. The entire gold reserves of the Bank of England were shipped over to Canada, which had agreed to hold on to them for safe keeping for the period of the war, however long that would take.
Well, over the last few months they have been shipping it back to us – or perhaps I should say, shipping what’s left back to us”.
“What’s left?” asked Bond.
M took another puff on his pipe. “War is an expensive business, Bond. It’s not usually the first thought of the man in the street or even those of us in the Services, but it costs a frighteningly large amount of money. We had to borrow from the USA for the actual cash, and of course we had to pay for the munitions”.
“Of course. The financial side of things isn’t something that I’d been thinking about. More concerned with just winning the war”.
“Naturally, and that goes for me, too. Anyway, the Americans have been very friendly and generous with their terms, as we were with anything they had to have from us. Roosevelt and Churchill had a solid understanding”.
“Yes, I can’t imagine the Americans ever electing a President who would be so misguided as to antagonise America’s allies and strain their relationships before starting a war that could affect the world for years”.
“The gold has arrived in London after a sea journey protected by half the Royal Navy and most of the Canadian equivalents. On transferring it into the vaults it transpired that about £10 million pounds worth of the gold was missing. Checks were made at both ends, figures were counted and recounted and there was no mistake. Ten million pounds of British gold has gone missing”.
“That’s incredible, sir. What do the Canadians have to say about it?”
M pursed his lips. “They have been very polite and helpful, of course, but they have made it clear that no mistake has been made at their end and the missing gold is our problem. Hell of a time for us to be needing the money – the Government has big plans, such as a National Health Service, and every penny counts”.
“I take it you’re sending me to Canada, then, sir”, said Bond.
“Miss Moneypenny has your ticket. You’re leaving tonight”.
To Be Continued
Up to date as usual @Barbel 😁
And at least we had a navy in those days 😳