So, I figured I'd post it here.
My story takes place just after the Ian Fleming short story, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY, in which James Bond flies to Montreal, drives to Ottawa, meets a mountie, sneaks into the USA and kills a Nazi. It's quite a good story and you can read it here:
So, picking up from the last line of that story, here's FOREIGN SERVICE:
Bond picked up the tail as he passed through Pike River on route 7
heading north towards Montreal. A 1953 Chev, looking old and tired
but Bond could tell by the sound it made that the motor was finely
tuned and powerful. The tail was good, dropping out of sight for long
periods and never getting too close.
Behind the wheel of
his rented Plymouth Bond turned to the girl in the passenger seat and
said, “How’s the shoulder?”
The girl, Judy
Havelock, touched the bandage and smiled. “I’d forgotten all
about it.”
“It’s a nasty
wound.”
“It was nasty
business.”
“Yes,” Bond
agreed. It had been a nasty business just across the American border
in Vermont. He’d flown from London to Montreal on the new BOAC
Comet and driven to Ottawa where he’d met with an RCMP officer
who’d already been briefed on the assignment. The off-the-record,
personal assignment. An ex-Nazi looking to get out of Cuba before
Castro ran him out had murdered a man and woman who had refused to
sell him their Jamaican estate. M had been the best man at their
wedding and he’d given Bond a file marked, “For Your Eyes Only,”
with some details and the RCMP had finished the briefing and fitted
him out with a new Savage 99F, Weatherby 6 x 62, five-shot repeater
with twenty rounds of high-velocity .250-3,000. Bond had used eight
rounds to kill the three Cuban bodyguards.
In the mountains of
Vermont Bond discovered Judy Havelock with a bow and arrow. She was
quite good and very determined.
And she was the
daughter of the couple killed in Jamaica. She killed the Nazi with a
single arrow.
Bond said, “Hold
on,” and swerved the car sharply, turning off the main road and
then sharply again, coming to a stop between a two hundred year old
stone church and a small graveyard.
“James, what are
you doing?”
“Making a
confession.” He motioned slightly to the side door of the church
where a priest was just going in.
“What? Where are
we?”
“Saint-Sébastien.
Looks like a charming little town, I imagine they’ll have some very
good charcuterie. Fancy a picnic?”
“Well,
I am a little hungry.”
Bond
got out the car and said, “Wait here.” He walked a few steps to
the church and stood in the shade under large maple tree.
A
minute later the Chev came slowly prowling down the street and
stopped in front the Plymouth. A clean-cut young man got out and
walked towards Judy.
Bond
stepped up behind him and said, “Are you looking for me?”
The
young man turned around quickly and saw the Walther PPK in Bond’s
hand.
“Oh,
no, sir, Commander, you’ve got it wrong,” the young man said.
“I’m your escort.”
Bond
didn’t lower the Walther. “You are?”
“Yes,
sir, Colonel… Johns sent me. I escorted you to the border and
picked you up on the way back.”
“Is
that so?” Bond was impressed the young man managed to stay
undiscovered on the first leg of the journey, but of course,
following the route Johns had devised for Bond gave him an advantage.
“Colonel
Johns was hoping that maybe he could have a word with you. When you
get back to Montreal.”
“How’s
tomorrow,” Bond said.
“Fine.
Colonel Johns can call you at the Ko-Zee motel?”
“He
may have to leave a message with Andre at desk,” Bond said.
“It’s
less than an hour from here, sir.”
“I
may take the scenic route.”
The
young man nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“All
right then, on your way.”
Bond
watched the young man run back to his Chev, get in and head back to
the main road.
Judy
was leaning out the window then and she said, “Do you know where
this scenic route is?”
Getting
into the car Bond said, “I think I can find it.”
The
next morning Bond put Judy on a plane to London once he’d gotten a
firm promise from her to call her ‘uncle’ M and fill him in on
everything that had happened in Vermont.
Judy
said, “Should I tell him what happened in Montreal?”
“What
happened in Montreal?”
“Oh,
James.” Judy was still smiling as Bond drove off.
He
headed west taking the same route he’d taken to Ottawa only a
couple of days before but this time he turned off the highway only a
few miles from the airport and pulled into the parking lot of the
Royal Montreal Golf and Country Club.
The club house was
a large, stone building built to look stodgily important and to
withstand the long hard winters. There was a veranda around the front
and healthy-looking, casually-dressed women sat drinking coffee and
eating sandwiches.
Bond parked his
rented Plymouth and walked to the pro shop where Colonel Johns was
waiting, talking with an older man Bond took to be the resident
professional.
Johns saw him and
said, “Ah, Mr. James,” careful not to use a rank of any kind. “No
trouble finding the place?”
“None at all,”
Bond said. “Nice to have a destination with a street address.”
Johns smiled a
little and said, “Of course.” Then he turned to the man he was
standing beside and said, “Mr. James, this is Mr. Blake, the
professional here at the Royal Montreal. He’ll be happy to get you
fitted out for the round, any special requirements?”
“None at all.”
Blake held out his
hand and said, “Gareth here can take you through to the locker
room.”
Bond said, “Right
then, I’ll see you on the first tee in a few minutes.”
It was a clear,
crisp fall day and the course was in excellent condition. Colonel
Johns was a solid, if cautious golfer, preferring to lay up on
approaches when Bond would try for the green. More often than not,
though, there was no bite and Bond’s Penfield Hearts would roll off
to the fringe.
Johns never offered
advice about his home course but he did enjoy telling Bond a little
of the history of the place, how it had started out at a different
location, on Fletcher’s Field on the side of Mount Royal and it was
at that location in 1884 that permission was granted by Queen
Victoria herself for use of the “Royal” prefix.
Bond found it
almost quaint the way these colonists clung to the empire, possibly
more so than the English did themselves these days but there was
something a little noble in it and Bond was appropriately
appreciative.
When they finished
the round and shook hands on the eighteenth green, Bond squeaking out
a two shot victory, Johns said, “Perhaps I could buy you dinner?”
He motioned to the clubhouse and Bond said, “Alberta steaks?”
Johns smiled and
said, “And New Brunswick lobster, if you like.”
Bond said,
“Excellent.” He was wondering when Johns would get to the point
of the meeting and expected he’d have to wait until after dinner
when they were finally in front of the fireplace drinking port, but
the Canadian surprised him after the Caesar salads, saying “I’m
pleased that your trip has gone well.”
“So am I.”
“And I hope
you’re enjoying your time in Canada.”
“Most pleasant,”
Bond said.
The waiter arrived
at the table with the steaks. Neither Johns nor Bond had requested
lobster.
Johns said, “I
have a somewhat delicate matter and I wonder if I could impose on you
for some advice.”
“I would suggest
a little less of that HP sauce,” Bond said.
“Oh, yes, thank
you. Guess I was a little distracted.”
Bond took a bite of
his steak and said, “This is most excellent.”
“They do a roast
beef here on Sunday that’s also excellent, Yorkshire pudding,
delicious gravy, really quite good.”
Bond smiled and
hoped it wasn’t too patronizing.
“The thing is,”
Johns said, “I have a very small matter that needs a quick looking
into.”
“But none of your
men are available?” Bond said.
Johns looked
pleased and said, “Yes, that’s right, not available.”
“Has your
commissioner contacted M?”
“To be completely
frank,” Johns said. “In this matter I would prefer not to involve
my commissioner. At this point.”
Bond continued to
eat his New York cut, which was excellent, as he considered the
request. The RCMP commissioner had been very helpful when M had
contacted him with his off-the-record request and Colonel Johns and
been very helpful, getting Bond the Weatherby, and as it turned out,
an escort to the American border and back. But this was a surprise.
“This is a
delicate matter.”
“I hope it’s
nothing, of course,” Johns said. “It’s just, I was talking to
our American cousins and something was mentioned and now you’re
here so I thought maybe a quick look around would put it to bed and
no official action need be taken.”
“So it’s an
internal matter?”
Johns drank more of
his red wine and said, “If it’s a matter at all. I’m sure
you’re familiar with the Gouzenko affair?”
“Thirteen years
ago,” Bond said, “as the war was ending, Igor Gouzenko, a cipher
clerk with the Soviet embassy in Ottawa defected.”
“And brought a
hundred and nine documents, as all the papers helpfully pointed out.”
“I suppose he’s
a big reason we all have the jobs we have,” Bond said. “Gouzenko
showed the world how active Stalin was in counter-intelligence.”
“And the Soviets
no less so now.”
“I think I
understand your situation,” Bond said. “Have you got a starting
point?”
Relief swept over
Johns and he actually smiled. “I do. A woman.”
“You don’t
say.”
Bond had moved from
the Ko-Zee motel on the south shore to a room in the Laurentian Hotel
overlooking Dominion Square. In America Bond preferred to stay in
motels but Montreal had an old world feel and although the Laurentian
was nearly new and a modern design of flat steel and glass without
balconies or windows that opened it was in the heart of the city.
And the Laurentian
Hotel contained the Kiltie Pub, which James Bond entered after a room
service dinner of a surprisingly good cassoulet. He sat down in one
of the chairs made out of a barrel and got out his cigarettes.
The blonde woman
already at the table said, “Excuse me, I am waiting for someone.”
“And who might
you be waiting for, Olga?”
“I’m afraid
you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“You’re
not Olga Schmidt?”
She
looked at Bond in his old black and white hound’s-tooth tweed suit
and white shirt and thin black tie and said, “No, I’m sorry, I’m
not..” Her accent was a mix of German and Russian.
Bond said, “You’re
not still using Gerda Hessler, are you?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Bond.
James Bond.”
“Well, Mr. Bond,
whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken.”
“Am I? Who are
you, then?”
“You’re not a
policeman,” she said, “why is it any of your business?”
“Why would the
fact that your name is Gerta Munsinger be of interest to a
policeman?”
She was looking
around the bar, at the businessmen and their secretaries out for
drinks before they went home to wives and roommates or before they
did things they might regret.
The woman sitting
across the table from James Bond said, “I’m going to have to call
hotel security.”
“And tell them
what? That you’re a prostitute and your client is running late?”
She leaned forward
and whispered through gritted teeth, “You have no idea who you’re
dealing with.”
Bond stood up and
said, “No, I suppose I don’t.” He started to walk away and
added, “Have a wonderful evening, Miss, whatever you’re calling
yourself tonight.”
Outside on Peel
Street Bond watched a streetcar pass, the steel wheels grinding on
the track, and he stopped to light a cigarette. Then he crossed the
streets and walked into Dominion Square. It was dark already in the
early fall evening and the air was cool.
Bond stopped at the
base of a statue and looked up past the six-foot concrete base to the
greenish figure of a man, arms crossed, looking into the distance.
“It’s a
reproduction of the one in Ayr, near his birthplace.”
Bond didn’t take
his eyes off the statue. “What’s he looking at?”
“He’s looking
to the west,” the young man said. “To the infinite expanse of
western Canada that was opened up by the Scotsmen who financed the
railways.”
“So he’s not
looking into the hotel?”
The young man said,
“No, sir.”
Bond turned now and
said, “Still my escort, are you?”
“Colonel Johns
said you wanted to see me.”
“Yes,” Bond
said. “I’m going to go back across the street and into that bar
and have a Canadian Whiskey. I would like you to come and tell me
when Miss Munsinger leaves the hotel.”
“She hasn’t
left yet?”
“I expect her
client has paid for the full hour.”
The young mountie
looked a little flushed and said, “Oh, yes, of course.”
“Go on,” Bond
said, “get on your horse,” and he added, “so to speak.”
“Right sir.”
The young man dodged a streetcar and ran to the hotel.
Bond looked back at
Robbie Burns and said, “Keep an eye on him, will you?” Then he
walked slowly past the Sun Life building, once so proudly the largest
building in the British Empire, and went into the Rymark Tavern.
Johns had told Bond
about Gerta Munsinger, about how she had come to Canada from East
Germany three years previously after trying unsuccessfully to get
into the United States. In that short time she’d already managed to
acquire two members of the federal cabinet as clients. Colonel Johns
had begun an investigation but after a few months it was called off
by his superiors when no evidence could be found that Munsinger was
anything more than a prostitute.
In the Rymark Bond
had a Canadian whiskey and decided he liked Montreal in the fall. The
days were getting shorter and there was no doubt the cold was coming
but he city seemed determined not to give in to the winter. The bar
was crowded and the mood was light.
Bond had told Johns
he could give him a couple of days if he wasn’t called back to
London right away and that shortened time frame was why he spooked
Munsinger. He wanted to see where she jumped.
Almost exactly an
hour and ten minutes after Bond had left the Laurentian Hotel his
young escort walked into the Rymark and said, “She got into a taxi.
My partner followed. She’s at another bar in another hotel.”
“She’s busy.”
“No sir, she’s
with a woman.”
Bond didn’t want
to tell the young man that stranger things can happen in the world so
he just said, “Which hotel?”
“The Mount Royal
sir. Just a few blocks. We can take my car.”
Fifteen minutes
later Bond walked through the faux-Polynesian archway into the Kon
Tiki restaurant and bar and found a seat at a table tucked away
behind a faux-palm tree in corner by the faux-bamboo pillars.
He had a clear look
at Gerda Munsinger in a booth against the far wall and it only took a
moment to see that she wasn’t meeting a client – male or female.
She was distressed. She was looking for help.
As for the woman
Munsinger was seeking help from, Bond could only see the back of her
head, her blonde hair falling to her shoulders and the hand in which
she held her cigarette.
Before Bond
finished his first Mai Tai Munsinger was settled down and looking a
little at ease and a few minutes later she stood up and walked out of
the Kon Tiki. No hug, not even a handshake.
A business
relationship.
Bond watched the
blonde order another drink and as the waiter made his to the bar Bond
motioned to him.
“Yes sir?”
“I’ll pay for
the lady’s drink.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bond got out his
cigarettes and lighter and watched the waiter take a lowball glass to
the blonde. She accepted the drink and then surprised by Bond by
standing up and walking towards him.
She said, “Mr.
Bond, you upset Gerda.”
“I’m sorry to
hear that,” Bond said. “But Gerda has a lot of people worried.
Please, join me?”
The blonde sat down
and said, “Thank you.”
“You have me at a
disadvantage,” Bond said. “I don’t know your name.”
She put her drink
down on the table and held out her hand. “Helen Dow.”
“You’re not an
associate of Miss Munsinger?”
“Oh no,” Helen
said, trying to appear shocked at the very suggestion but not doing a
very good job of it. “We’re just old friends.” She sipped her
drink and said, “And what is your interest in Miss Munsinger?
You’re not a police officer, you’re not even a local.”
“My concern is of
a professional nature,” Bond said. “And since you’re not a
business associate I don’t see how it would concern you.”
Helen laughed a
little and Bond began to feel that she was older than he’d first
thought, more late than early thirties.
She said, “I
hardly think you’re in the same business as Gerda.”
“Some of my
associates may be coming to Canada,” Bond said, “and they may
want to do some business with someone like Miss Munsinger.”
The smile faded
from Helen’s face and she looked serious. She said, “So, you’re
the advance man, what are your concerns?”
“The usual.
Discretion, professionalism.” He drank some of his mai tai.
“Experience.”
“Then I think
you’ll find Miss Munsinger and her associates will be ideal for
your associates.” She held up her glass in a toast and Bond did the
same.
There were lies
upon lies being told and accepted, which was Bond’s professional,
after all, but he wondered what this Helen’s profession really was.
Was the secret she was hiding simply that she was a madam? It was
possible, of course. For the moment Bond decided to accept that and
see if there was a reason to suspect more over the course of the
evening.
They
chatted for a while about Montreal, how the winter would be cold, of
course, but here would be excellent skiing in the Laurentian
mountains and the nightlife in Montreal would not be deterred.
“In fact,”
Helen said, “I hear the young man singing at the El Morocco tonight
is very good, a Mr. Tony Bennett.”
Bond said, “Perhaps
some investigation is in order?” and looked closely at Helen’s
reaction. He was sure he saw something.
The night club was
on Closse Street, across from the Forum which was filled with fifteen
thousand people at a professional wrestling match. Many of those fans
came into the El Morocco when the match was finished and Helen
squeezed up to Bond and said, “It’s too crowded.” She took his
hand and led him outside and into a cab.
Helen’s apartment
wasn’t far, a few blocks east and just north of Sherbrooke, a main
street through downtown lined with big old houses that had been
converted into office buildings with boutiques on the ground floor.
Bond had no doubt
Helen would be discrete, professional and experienced. And he was
right. But he didn’t get the sense that Helen had worked her way up
in the profession. His knowledge and understanding of prostitutes was
a little more than professional, it was with a Parisian prostitute
that Bond had first been with a woman when he was a teenager. It
hadn’t gone well. Over the years Bond’s work took him into many
situations where he dealt with prostitutes and he had become much
more sympathetic towards the women personally. In fact, he saw many
similarities in their professions, more than just pretending to be
someone you’re not and keeping secrets.
And that’s why he
was even more suspicious of Helen. He knew, of course, that she was
taking him to bed as a professional courtesy but he had a nagging
suspicion that there was more to it than just looking for business
for herself and her associates. He couldn’t help but think she was
overselling it.
When Helen fell
asleep Bond got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. The apartment
was on the ground floor of a three-story red brick building, a row of
apartment buildings lining Mountain Street and the base of Mount
Royal. Bond went into the small bathroom and looked through Helen’s
toiletries, finding the usual make-up and headache pills, hairspray
and what the advertising business was now calling ‘feminine hygiene
products,’ but no prescription medication. There was a small window
in the bathroom, not big enough to for a person to fit through, and
besides, it led to an enclosed shaft.
The kitchenette was
clean and neat and the living room looked like a picture in a
magazine. Like a picture in one of the magazines spread out on the
end table by the couch. Bond picked up a magazine looking for the
subscriber mail tag but didn’t see one. He felt the apartment was
certainly lived in, but nothing in it was personal. He walked quietly
back into the bedroom and saw Helen still sleeping. He went to the
closet and looked through the clothes. There was more than one size
of dresses in similar styles. He looked down at the shoes and boots
and again, there were at least three different sizes but similar
sizes.
It felt like a safe
house. A place that might be used by any agent of MI6 who was in
town. Another similarity between the two professions.
Turning to leave
Bond’s foot caught on something on the floor of the closet. A metal
loop like a handle on a steamer trunk. He bent down and moved the
shoes and boots aside.
He held the latch
and pulled it up, opening it like the hatch on a submarine.
“Well, well, what
have we here?”
Bond climbed down
the ladder. At the bottom was a narrow hallway. A long one. It went
for about twenty feet and then made a turn. Bond walked slowly. There
was light but it was dim. After the turn was a longer, straight
section and then another turn.
And then another
ladder.
The hatch at the
top of the ladder was locked.
Bond counted his
steps back through the tunnel, making a note of where the turns came
and at what approximate angle. He climbed the ladder back into
Helen’s apartment, got dressed silently and slipped out the front
door.
Across Mountain
Street Bond saw buildings belonging to McGill University. He
remembered a man from naval intelligence who’d gone to McGill and
told stories about a camp in Canada during the war, a place where
espionage was practiced. No one believed the man that such things
happened in Canada.
Bond walked down
Mountain Street to Sherbrook and turned right. On Sherbrooke he
passed the Museum of Fine Arts and then turned right onto the next
street. The sun was just coming up and the city was still asleep. The
streets were empty.
Halfway up the
block, almost the same distance up as Helen’s apartment, Bond
stopped in front of a black iron fence. Behind the fence was a fairly
large, three-story sandstone building. On the gate was a gold plaque
with the letters CCCP across the top.
And under those
letters were the words: Consulate of the Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics.
Bond said, “Oh
Helen, how could you.”
He walked back to
Sherbrooke Street and figured he was about a dozen blocks from the
Laurentian Hotel. There was a little traffic but so early in the
morning he didn’t see any taxis so Bond decided to walk. As he
passed the Ritz Carleton Hotel he was thinking that he would wait a
couple of hours and then call Colonel Johns in Ottawa and let him
know that Gerda Munsinger was indeed a Soviet spy. Johns could
certainly take it from there.
As he turned onto
Peel Street Bond saw a green delivery truck from a bakery, POM –
Pride of Montreal, stopped in the curb lane. Immediately he turned
around and headed back towards Sherbrooke.
But there was a man
walking towards him with a gun in his hand who said, “Get in the
truck, Mr. Bond.”
“You should have
put some bread in there,” Bond said. “Something to at least give
it the smell of a bakery truck.”
“Get in.”
The back door of
the truck was open and another man was standing beside it holding
another gun.
Bond climbed into
the truck and said, “A croissant would be nice.”
The door slammed
and the truck drove off.
It was dark and
empty. If the truck had ever been used for bakery deliveries it was a
long time ago and it had been thoroughly cleaned. More likely, Bond
figured, there were so many green POM trucks on the streets of
Montreal this one could be driven around without ever drawing
suspicion.
For a few miles
Bond concentrated on the speed and turns of the truck so he could
later determine the route, but after a few dozen stops and starts and
even more turns he stopped keeping track. All he knew for sure was
that they were no longer on the island of Montreal as they had driven
over the metal grates that had been added to the old railroad
Victoria Bridge for automobile traffic.
After that Bond sat
down on the floor of the truck and worked on keeping himself from
being thrown into the walls as they careened around corners and
stopped too suddenly. He felt they’d been driving for about forty
minutes when the truck slowed down to a crawl and he heard voices
speaking Russian in the cab. Then the truck stopped, someone got out
and a minute later the truck drove for another twenty or thirty feet
and stopped.
Probably drove into
a barn, Bond figured, and when the back door of the truck opened he
realized he was wrong.
They were in a
small airplane hangar.
Bond said,
“Thoughtful of you, gentlemen, but I don’t mind flying
commercial. I know I complained about the new Comet, but I don’t
think your crop dusters here will make it across the Atlantic.”
One of the Russians
had a gun in his hand and he said, “Get out.”
Bond climbed down
from the bakery truck and looked around the hangar. There were two
small planes, Cessna 172 Skyhawks, and a couple of other trucks, both
with New York state license plates. Now Bond was thinking that they
likely took the same route south that he had taken himself only days
earlier. It made complete sense to him that the Soviets would use
Montreal as a base of operations where they could easily slip across
the border into the United States. He wondered how much of the
operation would be news to Colonel Johns and the Mounties.
“Why did you
follow us and steal this plane, Mr. Bond?”
As the Russian was
speaking Bond saw his rented Plymouth drive into the hangar and he
said, “Do the good people at Hertz know you’ve taken their car?”
The Russian
motioned with his gun and Bond walked slowly towards one of the
Cessnas. As he crossed the hangar he took a look at some very
sophisticated electronic equipment along the far wall. It looked like
the control room for a Sputnik launch.
At the end of the
console Bond saw what looked like the control panel and rudders from
one of the Cessnas. The man sitting at the controls turned and said
something in Russian.
The man with the
gun said something in reply and the only words Bond could make out
were, “Gagarin,” which he figured was the man’s name, and
something about getting back to work.
Then Bond was
clubbed over the head and everything went black.
When he came to,
Bond was in the Cessna.
Alone.
A
quick look around and Bond figured the plane was at about twenty-five
hundred feet and flying steady over thick forest.
The Skyhawk was a
four-seater and Bond was in the back. The plane banked slightly and
Bond saw the rudders moving on their own and the rectangular steering
wheel turning.
He said, “Remote
control,” out loud in the cockpit as he climbed over the seats to
the front. He grabbed the wheel but couldn’t move it. “I hope you
can fly blind, Gagarin,” Bond said.
Then he remembered
that a Cessna would have emergency parachutes under the seats and he
reached for one but came upon a solid metal box. He got down on his
knees in front of the seat and tried to pry open the box but he
couldn’t find a seam. The plane banked again and descended a couple
of hundred feet and then leveled out.
Below was still
nothing but forest and ahead in the distance Bond could see
mountains, likely the green mountains of Vermont but as he had no way
of knowing how long he’d been unconscious they could also be the
Laurentian Mountains in Quebec or even the Appalachians.
Whatever mountains
they were, Bond expected the plan was to crash the plane into one of
them.
He ran his hand
along the stem of the steering wheel looking for the point the remote
control motor took over but couldn’t find anything.
Then Bond heard a
sound, an engine coming up behind and he turned to see plane
approaching. He thought it might be one of the Viscounts that Colonel
Johns said were used in the area by druggers and white-slavers but as
it got closer Bond realized it was smaller than that and
single-engine.
He took off a shoe
and smashed the glass cover off one of the dials on the panel, Then
he ripped away the needle and got the chrome backing, a piece about
three inches in diameter.
As the small plane
got closer Bond realized it was a Hawker Fury, almost the same as the
Sea Fury he’d flown himself in the navy. He hoped it was another
one of Colonel Johns’ patrol planes like the one that took the
aerial surveillance photos of the ranch where von Hammerstein had
been in Vermont.
Catching the sun,
Bond used the piece chrome to flash out Morse code, a quick SOS until
he received a wing tip from the Fury. Then Bond sent out a longer
message, “Can you give me a lift?”
He opened the door
of the Cessna and waved.
The Fury flew
underneath, coming up as close to the Cessna as the young pilot dared
and Bond jumped.
He landed on the
body of the Fury just ahead of the cockpit and immediately began to
slide off. He got one hand onto the edge of the cockpit just behind
the windshield and held on. The Fury was already descending away from
the Fury and when it leveled off Bond was able to climb into the
second seat behind the pilot, a young man who turned to look back at
Bond and said, “I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker at two
thousand feet before.”
“I appreciate
it,” Bond said. “I hope I won’t take you too far out of your
way.”
“You don’t want
to go back to that ranch in Vermont, do you?”
Bond said, “No,
thank you.” So it was the same plane Johns had sent to do the
reconnaissance.
As the Fury banked
and began to turn back towards Montreal there was a small explosion
in the distance and Bond saw the ball of fire that was the Cessna
high up in the mountain.
A few months later,
in February, Bond met with M to go over his final report of the
business in America with Auric Goldfinger and when that business was
concluded M said, “A shame about the business in Canada.”
Bond said, “Some
lingering effects, sir?”
“Yes,” M said.
“Of course, the Soviets had deeply infiltrated the Canadian
research. We were able to salvage a little bit of the remote control
technology, Q was quite excited, especially by the range of the
connection.”
Bond said, “I
see,” but wasn’t particularly interested in the details.
“The real shame,
I suppose,” M said, “is the plane the Canadians were working on,
the Arrow. The Soviets had completely infiltrated the operation.”
“That’s a
shame, sir.”
“Yes, well, the
whole thing’s to be scrapped now,” M said. “We’re bringing
one of the prototypes over here, much of it looks promising.”
“I’m glad to
hear that.”
“Yes, well, I’m
sure you are.” M began to move files around on his desk. “The
RCMP commissioner asked me to thank you for your help, James.”
Bond was standing
up then and he said, “My help, sir? Was I ever in Canada?”
“Not as far as I
know,” M said. Then he looked up at Bond and said, “And I want to
thank you for… well, for what happened in Vermont.”
“I’ve never
been to Vermont, either,” Bond said.
“No, of course
not.”
Bond lingered by
the door, looking for something to say. M had been very conflicted by
the vigilante justice, by sending Bond to Vermont to kill von
Hammerstein and Bond knew the old man was still having trouble
reconciling a personal vendetta – von Hammerstein had killed two of
M’s closest friends after all – and the professional work but
Bond had no such trouble.
“I’ll be
escorting Judy Haverstock back to Jamaica,” Bond said. “She will
be continuing to run her parents’ estate.”
“That’s good,”
M said. Judy Haverstock’s parents, the victims of von Hammerstein.
“You’ll make sure she has the proper local security?”
“I will, sir.”
“Well, then, off
you go.”
Bond had the hint
of a smile. “Yes sir.”
Then it was off to
winter in Jamaica. It was possible it might take the entire month of
February and maybe even March to find the proper local security for
Judy Haverstock.
THE END
