To Live and Die - Chapter 3 / Pen Pushing

James Bond glanced down at his naked body and registered that the cuts and bruises around his abdominal area, from his last mission, were beginning to fade. He smiled at the thought of the headstrong Tiffany Case and went on through to the bathroom.

            Fifteen minutes later, in a pale blue silk shirt, navy trousers and jacket, he found himself sitting at the foot of his bed stroking Miss Trench’s elegant ankle.

            ‘James do you have to go? I haven’t seen you in eight months!’ she started, angrily.

            Although she wore a resting look of annoyance, Bond liked the position she was in, he continued to admire the long body under the thin sheets and the breasts that stood atop it before she awoke him from his daze by crying his name. 

            ‘Darling there are simply things that just aren’t done, and strolling into the office at an ungodly time is one of them.’

            ‘Ungodly time?’ Sylvia cried. ‘This is the second time they’ve paged you at half two in the morning, please, just come back to bed.  I shan’t be here when you return.’ He examined the brown eyes coolly as they fluttered in disappointment, the rose coloured lips, low cheek bones and high forehead. She was tremendously beautiful for an English girl, not that he didn’t think they were, but for a lady of leisure she had a certain sense of spirit uncommon in others. Of course, she knew this and could charm the birds from the trees but Bond was more of a hawk than a singing robin.

And so he slid into a pair of newly fashioned Oxfords and kissed the lady passionately on the mouth, slipping his hand under the pillow and removing his Walther unnoticed. He turned on his heel and headed for the door. He waved Ciao! and let it ease shut behind him. When he found himself outside in the cold he crossed the road, checking both ways, and bundled into the silver two door Aston Martin. The DB5 was a magnificent car, going from nought to sixty in 8.1 seconds, and Bond intended, due to the tone of Miss Moneypenny’s haste half an hour ago, to make full use of this fact that early morning across the vacant streets of Chelsea.

His mind went to the events of yesterday evening, leaving the office at a respectable time, driving down to the flat, getting ready for a light dinner at Scott’s with Sylvia and how their bodies had flung together with a certain wildness consistent with jungle animals at a feast.

Yet there were times, even at this moment, after making love to a woman of outstanding passion and beauty, that Bond’s mind returned to Teresa di Vincenzo – Tracy Bond. He envisioned her long brown hair, oval face, big beautiful blue eyes and longed to touch her once more. When he returned to his flat, he would make a point of arranging to visit Teresa and bid Miss Trench farewell with a spank.

Bond eventually came to his senses near Regents Park and drew up with a skid behind the tall building. He handed his car over to one of the plain-clothes drivers and lit a cigarette before walking round to the front. He leapt into the lift, it sighed shut, and he was taken to the top floor. Bond passed down the carpeted corridor and winked at the Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner as he crossed the man en-route to his office. He looked distressed. ‘He’ll see you now.’ was all that he said. Bond glanced back after Tanner, decided to shrug it off, and pushed open the door.

On his right sat M’s personal secretary, Miss Moneypenny, wearing red lipstick and a jubilant expression despite the hour.

‘Morning, Penny.’ Bond chirped.

She had a devil-may-care look about her as she glanced up from pushing her pen across a pad and smiled at him.

            ‘Hello James. You took your time.’ She smirked.

            ‘Why yes, you see I was busy doing what most of us bachelors do in the evening.’ He said.

            Miss Moneypenny raised an inquisitive brow. ‘And what would that be?’

            ‘I’ll show you if you promise to join me for a spot of breakfast.’ Bond said with a sardonic smile. 

            ‘Oh really James?’ she said coolly.

            ‘Of course, but first duty calls, I wonder what the old man wants me for anyhow.’

            There was a crackle on the intercom as his voice came through rather loudly. ‘Less of the old man if you’d please 007, I want you in here on the double.’ The voice sounded as miserable as usual but with a faint trace of humour.

            ‘Naturally sir,’ Bond said as he blew Miss Moneypenny a kiss of which she caught at her typewriter, mockingly. He opened the door and shut it behind him. The green light came on.

            M sat at his broad desk, lighting a pipe and gestured for Bond to sit on the other side of it. Bond walked over and sat himself down. M blew out some smoke and placed a hand on the red leather in front of him.

            ‘Been back long?’ he asked abruptly.

            ‘Not really sir, a few days,’ said Bond.

            ‘Fine, I apologise for the hour but it couldn’t be helped.’ M spoke without letting on any hint of the reason.

            ‘That’s fine sir, 007 reporting for duty.’ Bond smiled.

The old man raised an eyebrow and eyed his operative through the smoke.

            ‘I should bloody hope so after that whole palaver in Egypt.’

Bond shifted uncomfortably in his seat and scoured his mind for an excuse to get off the hot topic.    

            ‘What do you think of Baines?’ M asked, saving his operative the trouble.

            ‘008?’

M nodded, and invited Bond to smoke, seeing as he would never dare to ask his superior during a briefing. Bond plugged a Moreland between his lips and used a lighter which M had given to him on his wedding day, as it so happens.

            ‘Not the most confident of fellows, highly skilled and a stunning linguist. The man could talk his way from here to India.’

            ‘So right so far,’ M said gruffly. ‘Continue.’

            ‘He was to be my replacement the last time I was in Austria, on the Goldfinger case as it happens. He usually operates across Europe and very rarely crosses over to the right side of the Iron Curtain. From the look of him I’d take him for a bachelor although I’m not entirely certain. The last I saw of him was a few years ago at the briefing of Operation Thunderball. That of any use to you sir?’          Bond knew all this second-hand information offered nothing new to his boss, M knew every detail about his operatives, including Bond’s shadowed upbringing.

            ‘Perhaps, I just wanted to gather your opinion on the matter.’ M replied.

            ‘Matter? May I ask what this is all about sir?’ Bond asked.

            ‘Of course, we believe that Charles Baines is dead.’