June 15, Brussels, Belgium 1881
Roger stepped into the bakery less interested in purchasing a loaf than simply getting out of the rain which had started light enough but which was now pounding so violently against the paving stones of the road that it sounded as if he had stepped into the middle of an African drum circle. The baker, a man who had at least two inches on Roger in height and the muscular build of one who is used to tossing around fifty pound sacks of flour as easily as if they were feather pillows, regarded Roger from the counter.
"Goedemiddag," Roger said, giving his Dutch an afternoon stroll. He had only been in Brussels a month and was still not wholly fluent in the language, often slipping into the more comfortable German he was accustomed to. Still there was no better practice than with store clerks who were quick to forgive a lapse and even quicker to forget a face in a large capitol city such as this. He continued in what was fairly smooth, if slightly overaccented Dutch, "I would like a loaf of brown bread, and a roll, please."
The baker nodded. Just then a man is a bright yellow rain slicker came bustling in from the outside. His face was deeply lined with a bronze hue from decades of sun and beaten raw from the wind. His white beard was streaked with grey. Underneath the coat Roger could see the telltale blues of the merchant sailor.
"G'day!" the man exclaimed roughly. "We're pullin' outta port tomorra' mornin' an we just found a whole mess 'a rats 'ave gotten into the bread an' spoil'd it all. Damned lazy ships cat. I'll need at least fifty loaves. Can't put it off any longer or we'll risk "
Roger knew he had now been wholly forgotten in the promise of this unexpected windfall.
"Where are you heading, sir?" the baker said in slightly roughened English.
"Where d'ya think? Back home to Australia! It'll be good ta' see the white sands of the bay again. You never find worser dregs or better mates than you will there. And that's not ta forget the wimmen. Ain't nothin' prettier than a shiela and a roasted rabbit to the eyes of a weary ol' seaman."
"You come from Australia? What brings you to Brussels?" the baker asked, not particularly attending to the answer as he went about prepping his counters as quickly as might be managed.
"Just a bit of trade from London. You're an Englishman, you understand." The man gave Roger a knowing wink. "There are things they sell in Brussels they don't sell anywhere else," he whispered conspiratorially to Roger.
"Yes... I am aware," Roger said. Yes, he was fully aware of exactly what the old sailor meant. It was precisely for this reason he had been sent to Brussels. For this reason his predecessor had been assigned. To look into allegations of a slave trade running not in Africans, but in destitute, painfully young British women promised good work and husbands in other lands and then impressed into prostitution upon their arrival to those gilded shores. "That must be quite difficult cargo to transport with a crew full of young men."
"You might suppose so, and I won't pretend a few of the men haven't sampled the goods, as it were, but most aren't particularly interested when there are perfectly fine grown wimmen. We've only had one real trouble. Man we picked up in Norwich, I think it was, maybe... fifteen years ago give or take. I don't exactly remember what year, it was so long ago."
"Must have been quite a bit of trouble if you remember him after all these years."
"Yeah, it was quite the thing, that's for sure. Some men, well you know, they get crazy bein' at sea for so long an' they see a young girl and it just turns their heads aroun'."
"So what happened?"
The old man waved Roger in, "Well, there was this girl, real pretty little thing, long blond hair, pale complexion, couldn't've been more'n twelve but that's not what her papers said an' that's all I needed to know. Headstrong, clever little thing. Well, she an a few of the other girls decided they would rather go on to Australia. Can't say I blame 'em. Girls in that trade have a better chance of attaining respectability in Australia than languishing in a brothel in Belgium until they are too old to draw the attention of the local men - they're lucky if the get eight good years here. Well, the man took a bit of a shine to her. Always treated her well, made sure ta give 'er a bit extra of his meal, chatted with her, nothin' to raise any concern about. He seemed like the perfect gentleman. At least until the day I found him in the hold with the girl slicing her up with one of the kitchen knives. She was starkers and almost completely black and blue but for where he had cut her. He had her bound and gagged and, well this was the strangest part," the man leaned in closer. "He had tied her wrists with a Catholic rosary - not one of those beaded types but the knotted kind. Well, she was pretty bad off, only lived for a few days after that. Wasn't much to do for it. Couldn't afford a scandal, wasn't worth it over a dead whore, so we threw the body overboard and let the man off at the first port we came to. There was somethin' very wrong with that one, I'll tell you that. Are you alright, sir?"
Roger's visage had paled markedly as the man's story went on. British prostitutes suddenly seemed his very last concern. "What was this man's name? Do you recall?"
The old scrimshaw pondered a moment before coming to it. "Hmmm... Charlie, I think we called him. Don't recall the family name, don't know if he even gave it. In this business it doesn't particularly matter who a man is, or was."
"Just one more question: what port did you drop this man at?"
"Hmmm... that would be Adelaide."
"Baker, might I have my order?" he called out.
The baker absently handed Roger a sandwich which was a far cry from the roll he had ordered.
"Well, it has certainly been an interesting conversation but the rain appears to be letting up, for the moment. I wish you safe travels and fair weather."
"You as well," the old man said with a tip of his yellow rain cap.
Early the next morning a tall, well dressed man with black hair cloaked in a naval blue pea-coat approached the deserted harbor through the fog coming off the sea. He ducked into the shipping office.
"Good day sir, I would like to book passage to Sydney, Australia for one, please, on the earliest possible ship."
"Very good," the clerk said. "And what is the name?"
"Bond. James Bond."