My new James Bond novel

by TerryWalstrom 15 Replies latest jw friends

  • TerryWalstrom
    The first 4 Chapters are done on the James Bond novel I began writing yesterday.
    I'm having to much fun with it to stop now. It's only for fun, of course.


    The working title is SPIDER'S TOUCH

    (Chapter One)

    Three in the morning in Paris spells trouble when you’re wounded, bleeding and the shadowy figure behind you is closing in.
    Reaching the lights up ahead- a crowd of witnesses to your murder- is the last entry on the “To do” list for this wretched Saturday. Bentley thought this to himself.

    Mathis Bentley wasn’t finished--not quite.
    Yes, his cover was blown. No, he hadn’t a clue how or why--there was only one thing left to do. Plan B must activate and fast--if he could get it done before...

    He suddenly glimpsed Veronica’s face outside the casino entrance and it emboldened him.
    She would know what to do--if he could get close enough to signal.
    Mathis heaved a deep breath and the stabbing pain fired up again.
    The back of his shirt felt soaked in sweat and blood and his head was spinning with nausea.

    At the end of the Great War, Mathis Bentley Jr. was spotted by the section of the secret service charged with acquisition of promising young men to serve Her Majesty’s intelligence branch as an agent.
    His recruiter had connived him easily inasmuch as she could see he craved adventure to bolster his ego and ambition to make something of himself.

    That first year, in between shuffling papers at a desk and lingering at the bar after lunch breaks, he began receiving urgent and peremptory instructions by telephone from a man he’d never met, barking details requiring discretion, accuracy, and haste.
    His payment found its way into the account set up for him at the Royal Bank of Canada falsely attributed to a fictitious relative in Bristol.

    These minor assignments emboldened the young man and encouraged him toward wild musings as to his value and career opportunities ahead. Naturally, he was being watched and judged by Regent’s Park with dark scrutiny as to his ultimate trustworthiness for something more delicate. Something ultimately fatal.
    Another stab of pain as his pace quickened, interrupting his thoughts.
    He made the decision--a change of plans--it might work or not; at least it was unexpected, he hoped.

    Mathis Bentley pivoted into the black space between Le Petit Casino and an off-hours pharmacy just as his assassin caught up and jammed something rigid into the soft flesh of his spine.
    At the same time, a rough voice rattled in his ear quietly and urgently.

    “She will die too, Monsieur--if you take one more step.”

    The young British secret agent swallowed hard and sucked in enough air to respond.
    “I just pulled the pin on the grenade in my pocket. We’ll end this dance together.”

    As he spoke, he spun around and grabbed the man’s wrist and stared briefly into those cold, dark eyes, with his own steel greys wide and triumphant.

    “How about a dance with the Devil?”

    The explosion ripped outward with a tongue of yellow and red flame as the two figures blew apart. Concussive waves rattled windows at the casino where Veronica stood pale and uncertain.
    Her red lips trembled. She spoke but one word.

    Then she let her head hang lower as she added knowingly,
    “Oh, Mathis.”

    She knew what she must do.
    She reached into her clutch bag and found the business card:
    James Bond Universal Exports.

    (Chapter Two)


    Veronica Marie Antoinette scrambled back into the Le Petit Casino and made the phone call with trembling fingers. A rash had broken out on her neck and she couldn’t catch her breath. The hatcheck clerk scowled at her appearance.
    (Do I look that bad? )
    She wondered nervously, then forced herself into a placid pose and worked a false smile into something more charismatic.
    The clerk snorted a half smile and turned back to a small TV screen.
    The back of Bond’s card shown two words printed by hand:
    “Excalibur stone.”

    The line buzzed twice, followed by three metallic clicks.
    A monotone voice answered, “State your business.”
    Veronica spoke the two words clearly and waited.
    Another metallic click followed...then, the ringtone sounded.

    “This is Veronica M--”
    (Interrupting) “Just shut up and listen carefully. Do you have a pencil?”

    Veronica scanned about her and remembered her clutch bag. She produced a gold automatic pencil and twisted the lead into view.
    “Yes, continue…”

    Back at the Bed and Breakfast, the slim brunette sat on the edge of her bed sobbing into her hands. Outside her second-floor window laughter bubbled up from the Bistro on the street below like chilled Bollinger, effervescent with gaiety. Paris’ September sky promised perfect weather for the romantic rendezvous planned for this evening.

    At the stab of that thought, Veronica shook her head and moaned,
    “Oh, Mathis...why?”

    A sharp knock at the door interrupted, suddenly alerting her this rude noise was no room service delivery.
    What should she do? Was she in any danger? Who knew about her?
    The voice outside her door calmed her immediately.

    “This is Bond. James Bond. Let me in Veronica. I can protect you.”

    As she opened the door, immediately her eyes dropped to the pistol in the man’s hand, pointing at her belly. She gasped and instinctively covered her pregnancy.

    “You’re not him. You’re not James Bond.”

    The gold-plated antique 2 mm Kolibri pistol spoke three muffled words.
    Smoke soon followed. As though Satan had spoken.
    The priest she’d confessed to that morning had repeated the same words…
    ”A mortal sin.”

    The body of Veronica Marie Antoinette fell just inside the door with a quiet thump.
    The assassin glowered at the dead heap he’d made and sniffed absently, closing the door and setting about his business.

    A half hour later, he let himself out.
    A darkening pool of blood told him she hadn’t died instantly.
    He pointed his pistol directly between her eyes and squeezed off a single shot.

    The door clicked shut as acrid cordite smoke curled from the underarm holster of the man in the garish lame’ suit named Auric Goldfinger II.

    "Revenge is a dish best served cold", he quipped, then smiled; gold teeth glimmered in the hall light.

    2mm Kolibri.jpg

    (Chapter Three)


    Two weeks before, this memorandum had gone from Station P (Paris) of the Secret Service to M, head of this adjunct to the British defense ministries

    To: M.

    From: Head of P.

    Subject: Auric Goldfinger II Enterprises, Zurich Switzerland

    A man claiming to be the heir of the Auric Goldfinger estate
    Has won his case in court. Our man inside, Mr. Ling, has apprised this office the fellow is an imposter and that he is recommencing smuggling operations. Suggest you activate surveillance and contact.
    Do not--repeat--do not use Agent 007. Employ unknown agent and task with forming a liaison with all proper cover, documents, etc.

    In January (see documents appended below) imposter aka Auric Goldfinger II, purchased a chain of brothels known as the 'Cordon Jaune,' operating in Normandy and Brittany.
    You’ll recall these were the same brothels which brought about the demise of Le Chiffre.
    (Fate rebuked him with terrifying swiftness.)
    Now, this pretender follows suit. The sooner we determine his plans the swifter we can intercede.

    It is rumored this (sic) A.G.2 has poured funds into
    Bribes of sufficient magnitude to affect the lifting of laws which impede his business.
    We must discover the source of his funding and identify the corruption in total.
    The Deuxieme Bureau unearthed several officers who may be compromised. Further, it does seem that the suspicions of Leningrad have been aroused as to Auric Goldfinger II Enterprises' penetration into Moscow and Minsk.
    Our opposite numbers seek our help.

    This, of course, may be a ruse to hide the machinations of SMERSH. All the more reason to use only fresh agents who are expendable as our canary in the coal mine.

    In any case, we know that A.G. 2 has withdrawn one hundred twenty-five million francs from the treasury of his (sic) Father’s trade union (Rolls Royce works) and that he has taken a small villa Relais de Saux in the neighborhood of Lourdes for a week from a fortnight tomorrow.

    There is to be a conference of “interested parties”, Egyptian and Iranians, whose identities have yet to be revealed. We suggest replacing the owner of villa Relais de Saux and his wife with our people.

    Proposed Counter Operation:

    We must contrive to expose this imposter and undermine confidence in his representations to foreign agencies.
    This is left in your hands at your discretion as to the what, who, and how.
    If your efforts prove unfavorable, the only alternative would be to place our information and our recommendations in the hands of the Deuxieme Bureau or of our American colleagues of the Combined Intelligence Agency in Washington.
    Both of these organizations would doubtless be delighted to take over the scheme.

    Signed: P.

    M looked up from the transcript and spoke aloud only to himself.
    "Deuce difficult! Only one man for this job--regardless of what P. thinks."

    M snatched his pipe off the ink blotter and sniffed it absentmindedly as he pressed the Intercom to Moneypenny.

    “Contact Double-0-Seven immediately. Summon him.

    “Yes, Sir,” Moneypenny answered.
    A Cheshire smile crept across her fulsome lips.

    “Straightaway, Sir.”

    (Chapter Four)


    James Bond, with two Vodkas inside him, sat in the final departure lounge of Miami Airport and thought about the life and death of Mathis Bentley.
    Bond’s profession was to kill people.
    He had never enjoyed it and when it was ordered (or seemed necessary) he did it as well as he knew how and put it out of his head. As a secret agent who held the rare double-O prefix—the license to kill in the Secret Service—he was duty bound to be cool about death as any commander in a war must be. When it happened, it happened. Nothing was more unprofessional than indulgence in regret. Worse, it was the death-knell for competence.

    Now this young fella, Mathis Bentley?
    Bond had liked him instantly. He was competent, not overly curious, and neither eager to kill nor slack in carrying out orders.
    M.B. reminded Bond of himself at that age. Except—there was an essential difference between the two men—M.B. was dead and Bond, last time he’d checked, was still alive.

    It all came down to instincts.
    The young agent had none—at least, none reliable enough to save him. What was it M had said?
    “He trusted somebody for some reason or other and now I have to mail a letter off to his Mum.”

    James Bond would never trust anyone.
    The spy game is like a boxing match—never drop your guard and protect yourself at all times.

    Bond shook it all out of his mind and gazed out at the ground crew on the tarmac. His plane would be arriving shortly.
    He shot his cuff on the left arm and checked the Rolex Submariner face and nodded to himself. There was time for one more Smirnoff Red and bit of stretching of the legs before his flight.
    It would be one of those miserable long flights where he’d never fall asleep and have to amuse himself with banter and flight attendants with slim hips and welcoming smiles.

    James Bond brought a couple of books with him just in case boredom set in too soon. The latest Raymond Chandler and an old Eric Ambler he’d started twice and never finished in paperback nestled at the bottom of his attache’ case he’d kept under his knees.

    Weighing in at 3.6 kg, Q Branch ripped out the careful handiwork of Swaine and Adeney to pack fifty rounds of .25 ammunition, in two flat rows, between the leather and the lining of the spine. In each of the sides, there was a flat throwing knife, built by Wilkinsons and the tops of their handles were concealed by the stitching at the corners. The handle of the case hid a compartment containing a cyanide death-pill, triggered by pressure at a certain point.

    Its lid contained fifty golden sovereigns, which could be poured out by slipping sideways one ridge of welting. Inside the case was a thick tube of Palmolive shaving cream, whose top unscrewed to reveal the silencer for 007 ’s brown-gripped .32 ACP Walther PPK, packed in cotton wool.
    Chandler and Ambler would approve, Bond thought with a wry smile.

    He’d board with a special Diplomat exemption arranged by Felix Leiter. This would avoid embarrassing questions concerning onboard armory, of course.

    Bond had spent five days snooping around Auric Goldfinger’s stables in Kentucky and checking with F.B.I. liaisons in Miami who pretended to help him, but who were, in fact under orders to make certain he got no cooperation at all. The Bureau still nursed a grudge that British Intelligence had done more to stop the theft of gold at Fort Knox than the F.B.I.
    What was it M had told him at the briefing?

    “Feign total belief in whatever bollocks they offer. Go your merry way. Ferret out any possible renewed interest on the part of organized crime to renew a link with Goldfinger’s supposed heir and report afterward to Station Z in Switzerland.”

    Bond shook his head imperceptibly.
    A son of Goldfinger—even a pretender to the throne, might stir bad memories and require careful planning. It was just bizarre enough to interest him. He hadn’t had much of anything to do lately at the office. Flirting with Moneypenny aside.

    The loudspeaker announced his flight and off he went, stopping only to whisper in the ear of the young blonde attendant he recognized from the previous trip. She laughed and winked as Bond disappeared into the first class section of the Swiss-Air Lockheed Jet.

    A small man with a bland, green umbrella made certain the airliner lifted off before he turned and walked over to the phone station and made a three-minute call—long distance, to Auric Goldfinger II Enterprises.
    He nodded as he spoke and scribbled something in a small notepad.
    The words included, “—with extreme prejudice.”
    (to be continued)
  • tiki

    Loving it!!

  • eyeuse2badub


    You are becoming such a good fiction writer that you are starting to rival those guys that wrote the Bible!

    just saying!

  • truth_b_known

    Well done, Terry!

  • TerryWalstrom

    Thank you for the encouragement. I had planned to do one chapter a day but was having too much
    fun to stop yesterday.
    I don't know why I made it serious. But I read all Ian Flemming's Bond books when I was a teen back in the '60s.
    I guess that ethos is inside me someplace.
    There have been so many parodies--they've been done to death. So--serious is the road for this one.
    We'll see how far I can get before it stops being fun.

  • TerryWalstrom

    of my James' Bond novel
    is finished.

    (Chapter Five)

    Guts for Garters

    Bond, summoned upon his return from Zurich, dreaded yet another briefing--especially in light of his failures there.

    Moneypenny had warned him in a whisper, ”Batten the hatches” which was their private signal that his Superior-M-the former Vice Admiral, was about to have his guts for garters.

    M was duly appointed to head of MI6 after his predecessor had been assassinated at his desk. With that sword of Damocles above his head at all times, he took his job dead seriously.

    On his best days, M was testy or gruff. On so-so days, stern and cold. However, on days such as this one, M was certain to be brutal, angry, and possibly threatening.

    Bond had snooped and called in favors-strictly out of curiosity to discover M’s salary,£2,056,819 annual. That would be added to his naval retirement, of course. This certainly indicated M could not afford the annual membership at Blades, the upscale private club for gentlemen it was rumored he frequented weekly for gambling and dining.
    Bond knew for a fact Blades was restricted in membership to 200 gentlemen able to demonstrate a minimum of £100,000 annual income.
    Bond had a private hypothesis--call it a hunch.
    The club’s owner was probably careered Navy who owed this retired Admiral a debt of some sort. Bond had bribed the wine steward and discovered a fact which made him chuckle gleefully.
    As a personal favor to M, the staff at Blades keeps a supply of cheap red wine from-(God help him)-Algeria on hand but does not include it on the wine list. M refers to it as "Infuriator" and tends only to drink it in moderate quantities unless he is in a very bad mood.
    James Bond swallowed hard and prayed to himself, “Please Lord--let him not have had Algerian wine for lunch.”

    He stepped through the door from the outside hall into Moneypenny’s office space.

    Evelyn Jane Moneypenny sat bolt upright at her desk.
    Bond knew she held the rank of second officer in the Women’s Royal Naval Service, but not until now--seeing her gloomy expression--did he salute her.

    Moneypenny was noted for giving a warm and friendly reception to senior officers who visited her office to view confidential papers. There was none of that to be had this day.
    Her official job description was the private secretary of M the head of MI6.
    Moneypenny, Bond knew, was cleared for Top Secret, Eyes Only, and Cabinet-Level intelligence reports, the last of which she was often required to prepare, and in some cases present.
    So, if the old girl had warned him he was heading into the abyss--Bond would take it with utmost seriousness.

    He snapped a smart salute which caused Moneypenny to pull her head back and scowl. Bond forced a grim smile.
    Her eyes squinted back at him like a schoolmaster about to expel an unruly layabout.

    The red light above the green baize door had switched green. Bond sniffed and squared his shoulders pushing his way through, reciting quietly to himself a line from The Charge of the Light Brigade.

    “So nice of you to join me, 007.”

    M was working his pipe-lighting routine with grim determination.
    He looked pale and worn. Above his stiff white collar and fumbled bow-tie, the lined sailor’s face shown black stubble, adding to the all-night look of his skin and clothes.

    Bond squinted hard as he stood awkwardly in front of M’s desk--awaiting the customary invitation to sit.

    “Quiet night, Bond?”

    M had his pipe working and he sucked three puffs from the stem with a measure of satisfaction. The man’s hard face turned toward his quarry as he stared silently for one long minute.
    James Bond tossed off an expression of indifference.

    “Comme ci comme ça…”
    He’d barely begun his sentence when M let go a fusillade at him.
    After calling him every name in the book, M stopped himself and calmed momentarily with, “Sit down, 007”

    Bond sat and waited--not daring to speak until he determined what he’d done to deserve this dressing down.

    “I don’t happen to speak French, thank you. But that’s as close as I could manage to a proper reply.”
    M glared and turned sideways in his swivel chair, gazing nonchalantly out the window.
    James Bond’s mind raced back over the details of his assignment in Zurich. Everything had been routine the first day.
    On the second day, he’d set up an interview with Mr. Goldfinger II by passing himself off as Universal Export’s ‘fixer’--the man who could make a deal to suit any client.

    It was afterward, the third day when he’d discovered it had been a balls up-screw the pooch-disaster. It wasn’t Mister Goldfinger II he’d chatted with for two hours; it was a Russian agent pretending to be him.
    Then, home office contacted him with the news his liaison in Zurich was himself an Iranian imposter working with the Russians.
    What the bloody hell had gone wrong?

    Bond had been furious and demanded answers.
    A British secret agent made to look the fool--especially a man of his experience--was the sort of amateur blunder only an idiot could make.
    Before Bond could sort anything out--the summons to return nipped his answers in the bud. The flight back to London was booked second class seating--a strong message which rankled him no end.


    M turned back from the window and raised his hand an inch or two as if to point--then stopped.
    “Nevermind, I’ll read all about it in the report.”

    “Report, Sir? I haven’t written one as yet--I though I’d--”

    “Why would I want your report, 007? I’ve got a meticulously detailed log of your every move, every word spoken in Zurich, all provided to me by the C.I.A. right here!”

    “The C.I.A.--what do they have to do with--?”

    “Exactly the words I screamed in this office when the damned thing came down to my desk from...UPSTAIRS!”
    M’s eyes burned. His lips were pulled back, taut and grim. His nostrils were working as a quarter horse after a race.

    James Bond swallowed hard and let out a long, slow lungful of air.
    “Obviously we are the last of the Intelligence agencies to hear any of this Goldfinger story. No doubt, on purpose. They are jealous and have their knickers in a twist because of our previous success. I suppose we made them look pretty bad--and I…”

    “You think? You think? Let me tell you something, 007.
    It’s a black and white, gold plated guarantee we’ve been targeted by all the Intelligence services. None of that should surprise us in the least. What should, however, cause us to tuck our collective tails in utter humiliation is that WE LET THEM SUCCEED.”

    “You mean ‘me’. I let them get one over on me.”

    “Did you say, ‘One’? How about three?”

    Bond’s mouth hung open for a second. He counted in his head.
    “You mean the Russian, the Iranian, and--um…”

    M shook his head slowly side to side with disgust.
    “When you received an emergency call from the about-to-be-murdered Veronica, requesting your help...what did you do?”

    Bond’s face paled. He swallowed again.
    “I contacted my--I called Melina Havelock in Paris to rush over and get the girl to safety...Sir.”

    “Havelock has been dead for three months. She has been replaced by an imposter. Oh, and she is the daughter of an old friend of yours, Hugo Drax.”

    Bond’s eyes widened. He shook his head as if to shake all the contradictions and failures out of his hair.

    "Drax, Sir?”

    “Yes, red-haired Hugo Drax. Red-hair not unlike Auric Goldfinger’s red hair. Perhaps you were unaware they were fathered by the same man?”

    “That’s preposterous! Sir.”

    “As preposterous as you having your cock and balls handed to you? As preposterous as your country’s Intelligence service roasted on a spit?”

    James Bond heaved a sigh and leaned back in the stiff chair. The sweet, acrid pipe smoke nauseated him. Or was it the bollixed nightmare he found himself living at the moment?

    M’s voice softened.
    “Here’s how it is. We begin again. This time, fresh. We start from scratch. All available agents on deck. You pull yourself together and infiltrate this Goldfinger II's conference in France. This is a tangled skein and we need to find the loose tie that binds. Understand? Now get out of my office and deal only with me--understood?”

    “Aye-aye, Sir.” Bond snapped a salute and instantly regretted it.
    M’s face flushed full as he pointed at the exit. Vesuvius was about to erupt and James Bond had no intention of being anywhere near when it did.

    He passed through M’s portal as Moneypenny looked up to speak, but Bond shook his head at her and pulled back.

    “Good luck--you’ll need it.” She shouted as the door slammed.

    What had M done to him, she wondered. What had he done to cause it?

    She whispered out loud, “The usual, I suppose.”
    Then, turned back to her crossword puzzle.

    Next Stop Chapter Six

  • TerryWalstrom

    By the way...this won't be an ACTUAL book book. I just finished the (above) additional chapter and more to come
    only because I need a daily impetus to make me write.
    My biography needs finishing and for some peculiar psychological reason, I can't make myself do it.
    James Bond is fun to write and the "other" is work.

  • TerryWalstrom

    (Chapter Six)


    “Genghis Khan ruled his Mongol empire with the help of his primary military strategist, Subatai--one of the most successful commanders in history. This was possible because of scouting and spying in advance of any invasion. He spent a decade sending spies into Europe, slowing gathering intelligence. Who was in charge? What were their weaknesses? Who were their enemies and friends? In short, he knew ahead of time exactly how each operative responded to pressure and was able to infiltrate and compromise their effectiveness in advance.”

    Auric Goldfinger II, paced back and forth, hands folded behind his back. His dark eyes turned now and again toward the very large man seated in front of him, expressionless but keenly alert.

    “You are my Subatai,” the red-haired figure whirled and pointed--giving a hearty laugh of genuine pleasure--”You work for me because you’re effective, brilliant, and dependable.”

    The man in the Eames lounge chair never blinked. He opened his thick lips to speak but stopped himself. Better to listen, he thought.

    “To state the obvious,” Goldfinger II continued pacing, ”foreknowledge is the knowledge of future events. To forecast the behavior of one’s opponents is to win before the battle has begun.”

    Auric Goldfinger II had widened his pacing into a circular pattern. He now stood behind the Eames chair and spoke toward the back of the neck of his audience of one.

    “A man who is loyal need not fear his master. Is this not true--in your experience, my Subatai?”

    The seated man sat silent and at ease for several seconds as the red-haired fellow behind him watched for signs of perspiration or restive movements.

    The ugly mouth formed the word and a deep rumble from inside his barrel chest released the word into the world like a single bat from the opening of a cavern.


    Goldfinger chuckled delightedly.

    “Not a word wasted!”

    He ran his pudgy, freckled fingers through his red-hair smoothing it gently, the way one pets a purring cat. Then, he nimbly strode across the gleaming golden floor tiles toward a black box on his desk in the middle of the room. Pausing with a smug grin, he lifted his eyebrows and the lid of the box simultaneously.

    “This is a special gift for you, my Subatai.”

    Auric Goldfinger gingerly lifted the gold-plated antique 2 mm Kolibri pistol from its mooring.

    “I've got a special place in my heart for this little darling.”

    Goldfinger gazed longingly at the gun as though it were a naked woman. He hefted it in his hand and dandled his head to the left and right awkwardly, unselfconsciously.

    “You enjoy--as I do--knowing things, hmm? Let me tell you about my Kolibri--shall I?
    Goldfinger began his circular pacing once more--all the while twirling the shiny pistol around his forefinger as though he were in a Wild West exhibition.

    “First off, the German word “Kolibri” means ‘hummingbird’. Mmm?”
    He circled behind the seated man and laughed at himself merrily humming.

    “It was designed by an Austrian watchmaker to be the smallest center-fire handgun which he duly patented way back in 1910.

    It has a muzzle velocity of 200 meters per second, and capable of penetrating 40mm of pine board.”

    The bulky man in the chair began to perspire.

    “The problem with this little darling is, of course, it is wildly inaccurate. It fits nicely in a ladies handbag for reassurance but it would hardly stop a mugger even at close range.”
    Goldfinger circled wide and made his way slowly back toward the chair...from behind again.

    “Now I’m rather fond of it as you can plainly see, but you might wonder why. But you see, I’m a bit of an expert on several things unusual and extraordinary, as you’ve no doubt gathered working with me these last four months. You might well be curious what possible value--other than collector’s fetish--this silly pistol might hold for a businessman with an outsized criminal brain-. Hmm?”

    Goldfinger watched as a bead of sweat accumulated on his man’s brow. He grinned broadly at himself and nodded with satisfaction.

    “I’m guessing the suspense is killing you--ha ha--isn’t that a silly phrase? How could that happen in real life? Anyway...I love my darling pistol because it does not kill--right away. No--it inflicts damage, pain, and gives the person who has been shot several minutes to consider what he might have done to deserve such non-lethal punishment. Clear?”

    Goldfinger had inched around the man in the Eames lounge chair quietly and now stood directly to his left side. His blazing eyes bore in just within the peripheral vision of the large fellow whose eyelashes had begun fluttering. The man swallowed once and the muscles in his jaw tensed.


    Goldfinger searched the man’s face as though it were a treasure map. He grunted. Then he gave out an explosive laugh and returned the pistol to its box and closed the lid.

    He turned to face the audience of one.
    “This pistol will be our parting gift one day.”
    They each regarded the other quietly.

    “Now, tell me, what word do we have from our Chinese technocrats in Shenzhen?”

    The measured breathing of the Asian man subsided gradually. He had passed yet another of this strange gangster’s loyalty speeches.
    He knew what Goldfinger was capable of and the cruelty was a thing to be avoided at all costs.

    “This.” He removed a USB storage device from his inside breast pocket.

    Goldfinger retrieved and pocketed the offering, all the while staring into his man’s eyes to unsettle him further.

    “Very well. I have one more task for you today. James Bond. My father had dealings with him and I owe him a debt of gratitude. If this Bond fella hadn’t destroyed the old monster, I’d still be locked in that sanitarium in Basil. So, shadow him. Make it obvious. Preserve him from harm. He is essential to the great fortune to make ahead.

    The man in the Eames lounge chair nodded once and rose.
    He nodded again and took his leave. The back of his broad shoulders was soaked with sweat and as the door closed behind him he shook his head like a condemned prisoner who had been granted a reprieve.

    The giant Asian’s name was Oddjob, or rather his nickname-also the name of Goldfinger’s father’s bodyguard back in the day. Goldfinger was insane but it was the kind of insanity which made the right men filthy rich and the wrong men dead.


  • TerryWalstrom

    “This is the terror: to have emerged from nothing, to have a consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self-expression and with all this yet to die.”
    -Ernest Becker-The Denial of Death


    (Chapter Seven)


    Dr.Schönenberger’s voice sounded coarse, worn out, and excitable all at the same time. Edmund Schönenberger had been resident psychiatrist practicing professionally in Leysin, Switzerland for forty years. He spoke to Bond on the promise of anonymity. After assurances were proffered and accepted, the conversation had continued for nearly an hour. Bond held a list of questions he intended to cover but it proved mostly unnecessary. The man was on a crusade and not a shy bone in his body held anything back.

    “Over the 40 years that I have worked as a therapist, the majority of the clients I have known have been people subjected to forced psychiatric treatment. I can, therefore, claim to know the fields of psychiatry, justice and their ‘judgements’ inside out. The conclusion I have come to is that the strongholds of psychiatry have absolutely nothing to do with ‘care’, the law or justice – instead, they are nothing other than instruments of domination.”

    Bond steered the man around to specifics, namely the man presently calling himself Auric Goldfinger II. M had sent Bond Goldfinger’s file earlier that day.

    The doctor had begun by affirming the man’s presence and treatment against his will.

    “I have listened personally to the stories of well over 10,000 such people committed to mental institutions, and have taken hundreds through administrative and judicial habeas corpus proceedings – including almost precisely a dozen victims who were locked up for between 10 and 40 years. In the course of all these proceedings, I had access to both the clients’ testimonies and all files and --” Bond interrupted.

    “I’m on a tight schedule, Doctor. Could you confine your commentary to exactly one patient, Auric Goldfinger II?”

    “Yes, yes--I know. Sorry. That one is a special case. Special and --how shall I say it? Tragic. I know better than to sympathize, of course. As a young man, Auric Goldfinger the second had been committed against his will by his father--some kind of crime figure…”

    “I’m aware, Doctor, I ended his career as a smuggler.”

    “Pity you didn’t get to him earlier in view of collateral damage visited upon his son.”

    “Doctor Schönenberger, my sources inform me this patient, Goldfinger, is merely assuming the role of a disenfranchised son in order to inherit the father’s estate. Are you able to clarify?”

    The vocal sound on the other end of the line puzzled Bond for a moment. It then became clear. The doctor was arguing with somebody on his end.

    “Excuse me, Mr. Bond. Sorry about that. I’m retired now and my wife is very much against me violating my oath to protect confidentiality.She too is a psychiatric professional and --” Bond interrupted.

    “Doctor Schönenberger--two people and maybe others have been murdered by this former patient of yours. Anything you can tell me might prevent future loss of life--if you could see your way clear to--”

    “I shall do it! I can’t live with myself if I don’t speak. Ethics in Psychiatry is a very cynical boilerplate, I assure you.”

    “Thank you--please continue. You were saying?”

    “I dispute your sources who’ve misinformed you about Auric. He is the bastard child of the smuggler you arrested. Perhaps his given name at birth has misled investigators. His commitment papers say he is Jonathan Smyth. Obviously a fiction--and a poor one at that! At any rate, he wasted no time setting the record straight with the entire population of Leysin Sanitarium. He claims his heritage with a typical megalomaniac pride.”

    As the psychiatrist spoke, James Bond stood in a Red telephone booth a few blocks from Regent’s Park staring out at a large Asian fellow in a weird outfit who happened to be standing about a dozen feet from him--staring back.
    Bond muttered to himself, “Oddjob?”

    “How’s that--?”

    “Sorry doctor, I thought I saw somebody I know and his name came to mind. Please continue.”

    “Auric Goldfinger the second, as he refers to himself is a classic sociopath. Full-blown symptoms of grandiosity. About one in 150 people will meet the stringent clinical criteria for the disorder. That means hundreds of thousands of them are out and about in the population. The majority of them don't commit violent crimes, but they lead a sort of disorganized, nomadic life, and they tend eventually to end up in some sort of trouble.
    Auric is off the scale on malevolence, paranoia, no empathy, and violent fantasies that would curdle your blood if you were his doctor. Am I disturbing you, Bond?”

    James Bond was torn between continuing his phone interview and bursting out of the red booth and confronting the Oddjob impersonator scowling at him. He calmed himself and determined to acquire as much intelligence on this nutjob, Goldfinger Junior, as he could--and then take on the doppelganger of his old foe.

    “Um-no, not at all. I deal with this sort daily in my line of work. Please go on with what you were saying.”

    “I’d say you are mistaken if you think you know anything about this man--but, I could be wrong. You’re some sort of government policeman, right?”

    “Yes, something like that. Did he mention at any time what his ultimate goals are and how he’d go about achieving them?”

    “ That’s all he spoke of for years! He drafted an outline of Mein Kampf. Adolf Hitler’s roadmap of the maniacal takeover. Auric Goldfinger read Hitler, studied Genghis Khan, Stalin, all the dangerous men of history. He kept extensive journals, maps--it’s all there in his writings.”

    “Whew-I don’t suppose I could get my hands on them?”

    “When he was released under court order we were compelled to turn all his possession over to his attorney.”

    “I need that man’s name and location--can you help me?”

    “Well, I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do. Leave your number with me and I’ll get back.”

    Bond couldn’t believe what he’d just been told. Too good to be true.
    Then, a prickling sensation stopped him short. His intuition whispered in his ear: ‘You’ve been misdirected three times previous--why trust this man who claims to be a psychiatrist sworn to confidentiality who blurts out everything and puts you on to a road map of Goldfinger’s detailed planning?’
    James Bond heaved a heavy sigh. “Discipline double oh seven.”

    Remembering the faux Oddjob suddenly, Bond burst out of the red booth and headed toward ---? Gone.


  • Vanderhoven7

    Sorry, not a Bond fan. Will this one be book 4 for you Terry?

    BTW Thanks to the info you gave me weeks back, I just published my first book on Amazon as you suggested. It's on Kindle already and under review for the paperback edition.

    Good luck with this one.

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