 |
| The Guardian |
James Bond sat at his desk, contemplating an easy day ahead. Perhaps a long lunch, then take the Bentley down to Sussex and, after a round of golf, some relaxation with Felicity. Or Fiona. Or...the red telephone buzzed and he was instantly alert.
"Right away, please". It was Miss Moneypenny, M's fearsome secretary. Bond snapped to his feet and made his way to the eighth floor.
"Morning, gorgeous" he began as he opened the door but she was tight-lipped "He's waiting, James". Bond shrugged and went straight in to the room beyond.
"Sit down 007". M, a half-smoked cheroot held absently in his left hand, gestured to the chair and Bond, without a word, knowing that something very big was up, obeyed. "Now then, 007, we have a crisis. Last night the entire kit of the England football team was stolen."
"Surely that's impossible" Bond blurted and M nodded "As heavily guarded as the crown jewels but nonetheless it happened. CIA are clamping down on the news but it will break in a day or so. We've got to get that kit back before then or God knows what may happen. Big match coming up. You know what might follow if we lose. Smithers at the Bank of England thinks there could be a run on the pound, or worse. Bond, you're on the next plane to Miami."
"On my way, sir"
-&-&-&-&-&-
The big black car rolled to a stop outside the airport terminal. Bond took a seat in the back and the car moved off at once, expertly driven through the heavy lunchtime traffic. Bond turned to the short man in the grey suit sitting beside him
"Good to see you again, Felix" he said. His old CIA partner Felix Leiter smiled "And you, you old bastard. Now I don't know what they told you, James, but this thing has got us beat. Who the hell would take such a risk for some soccerball gear? FBI have found the truck and we're going there right now"
-&-&-&-&-&-
The U-Haul truck was by the side of the road in a deserted industrial park, back doors open revealing the emptiness within. Forensic teams were working in and around it. Bond and Leiter looked it over.
"Anything?" Leiter asked the head of the unit. "Nothing sir, they just hijacked the truck, drove it here, used a jemmy on the doors and took everything. We're baffled"
Bond strolled around to the cab. His eyes narrowed and he reached in under the driver's seat.
"Felix, look at this"
"What is it James?"
"A book of matches. Marked 'Magumbo Club'. Know it?"
"I sure do, James. Hangout for every hoodlum and two-bit grifter in downtown Miami. Owner is a Mr Flobeld"
"Let's get over there. Pronto"
-&-&-&-&-&-
"So Mr Bond, we meet again". The man in the swivel chair was facing away from Bond as he and Leiter were pushed into the dark room at the back of the Magumbo Club, half a dozen guns held on them by the impassive, kilted and tartan-clad henchmen. It had been easy to penetrate the club and, while Leiter distracted the barmen with a simple conjuring trick, Bond had slipped into the corridor behind in search of clues, but it had been a trap.The henchmen were waiting for them.
"Again? We've met before?" Bond said, mind racing as he tried to think where he recognised the voice of the sinister club owner.
"We have, Mr Bond. I was going by the alias of Delflob then". Bond, his eyes narrowed, narrowed them further "Lledbof. Angus McCameron Partick Thistle Lledbof. The man who wanted to flood England with fake porridge. The man who tried to steal the stone of Scone by replacing it with a rock of Crumpet. I should have guessed. And these Scottish hoods - there was only one team that Scotland really worried about and stealing the England kit was the obvious way to unsettle them. You knew that, if they had to play in new boots, they would all get blisters."
"Precisely, Mr Bond. And I have also bet a considerable amount of money on England losing. Not only will I be well in with the SNP when they finally take power, but I shall be able to afford that little BnB just outside Arbroath that I have always wanted. But I'm afraid neither you nor Mr Leiter will be able to stay there. Ha ha. Ha ha ha"
Editor's note. The manuscript ends here. Did Bond escape? Did he manage to have a restful few days at the little BnB just outside Arbroath anyway? Did England win anything? Alas, we shall never know.
No comments:
Post a Comment