Life Through A Lens

by chrisno1

The Blink Of An Eye - Story Four

LIFE THROUGH A LENS

The life of a double "O" agent of Her Majesty's Secret Service can hardly be called dull. It certainly has its mundane months, but the compensations of good pay, conditions and benefits were a reward that once tasted was rarely relinquished. Most agents had interests and hobbies outside their field of work. Some men have quiet unassuming past times; they are artists, writers, philatelists, lepidopterists, anglers, all manner of calm, solitary occupations. Others have families, although this is frowned upon as the life expectancy of a field agent is notoriously low. They will return from a weekend or holiday with tales of their children or the latest DIY disaster. Most agents, however, thrive on living near the edge and test themselves to their limit even during their private lives. With these men dangerous sports are popular, while late night gambling, drinking, fast women and even faster cars are often considered a necessary extravagance. Successive heads of the service have often tried to curtail the excesses of these agents, but they also understood that these men frequented mortal danger as a duty. If their self indulgence seemed a little over the top, their need to relax their minds and recuperate their bodies while not on duty was perceived as a necessary evil, as long as their sharpness and focus did not slip while working.

James Bond fell somewhere between the third and the first variety. He certainly drank hard and drove fast and was not unfamiliar with the charms of available ladies. But he also spent days reading the papers, tending to his beloved sports car, playing golf and, when abroad, indulging in his passion for water sports. Today was one of those in between moments, a relaxing day's golf on the beautiful old links at Deal.

Bond liked the Royal Cinque Port Club and Course. He had played there a few times, despite his first visit being an unsatisfactory one; in his youth Blacking, the seasoned pro at St. Marks, had entered him in the Halford Hewitt Public Schools Championship. Bond had finished a creditable seventeenth after two days and seventy two holes of hard toil during which he found the rough more than the fairways. He had been sitting in an even more respectable fourth, but in escaping from the deep greenside bunker on the par four twelfth he'd hit a despicable ten. That disaster lost him all impetuous, he never recovered and his final round was a bitter disappointment. Blacking had been philosophical in defeat; Bond was still a young man and with practice he could easily make a scratch professional or better. Bond felt it too, but his heart wasn't in it. A year later he enlisted in the Navy and embarked on a very different career.

Now Bond played his golf at weekends, work and weather permitting. His handicap was a good nine. It had to be to win a few-score pounds off the businessmen at Sunningdale and Walton Heath. Recently Bond had noticed his game going a little stale. The walk and the fresh air were always welcome after the stuffiness of the London office, but Bond found he was enjoying the camaraderie of the nineteenth hole more. The test of a course no longer held him enthralled and he looked forward to the expensive malt whisky, the smoked salmon sandwiches and the occasional long drinking bout with the members.

But Deal was a different challenge. Bond wasn't playing the uniform tree-lined inland courses he frequented, but a true seaside links. He recognised the artistry it took to negotiate the undulating barren fairways, the hazards, the unforgiving greens and the treacherous rough cut into the grasses on the sand dunes. The blustery wind and the changeable weather, sometimes all four seasons in a round, provided the icing on a testing cake. Today would provide a thorough examination of his skill and patience.

Although Bond was looking forward to playing the grand old course, his trip there wasn't all about golf. There was a social element to the occasion: Calum O'Shea, a member of the board at Bond's club was involved. He was a good natured, big drinking Irishman and during one of Bond's lazy sessions at the bar, he had sparked some interest while buying them a few strong vodka martinis. Initially Bond had rejected the invitation because, as he put it, "he didn't do charity." But Calum O'Shea, a self-made millionaire and something of a philanthropist, wasn't used to the answer "no" and he had insisted Bond attend the charity day.

"It's all a bit of fun, James," he explained with a florid, exaggerated arm gesture, "We'll be playing nine holes before and after lunch with a bunch of celebrities and a few pros. There'll be spectators too, paying a pretty good whack for the privilege of seeing all these famous names. It's a good business opportunity. They can look generous while indulging in some flattery of the stars."

"It doesn't sound like there is anything in it for me, Calum," countered Bond.

Ever the astute businessman, Calum chuckled. "Come on, James, think about it. Those celebs expect to be fed and watered, you know. Even the pros like a good spread. They get it for free of course, but it's good value for £250."

"That's a lot of money, Calum. Even for charity."

"So I'll stand you the two-fifty. I can afford it."

"Golf and a free lunch. I must say I'm tempted."

"Be tempted. And be careful. Most of my chums can't hold their liquor and it'll be embarrassing if none of us hits a shot after lunch – even you," Calum had a twinkle in his eye, "After all you wouldn't want to make an ass of yourself in front of Tom Watson would you?"

Bond almost kissed Calum's ruddy face. Trust the old devil to save the best until last, reeling him in before getting him hooked. Bond had admired Tom Watson for many years, a classic golfer who had been an unchallenged world number one before he succumbed to a horrid case of the "putting yips." Bond still remembered Watson's epic battle with Nicklaus on the final afternoon of The Open at Turnberry which was only resolved at the seventy second hole. He'd been lucky enough to witness it first hand and still remembered with a childish passion that enthralling contest and the gracious conduct of the two American's as they chased golf's greatest prize. There had been other great sporting moments of course; Bond always recalled the championship fights of Hagler, Hearns, Leonard and Duran, the Grand Prix victories of Lauda and Hunt, the flamboyant tennis of Federer and the cruel, exhausting triumphs of Redgrave and Pinsent. All glorious occasions. Yet none captured his heart like those three heady hours of intense golfing rivalry, so hot it matched the baking summer sun.

It wasn't quite so hot the Friday morning in August that Bond raced his reconditioned Aston Martin DBIII along the fast lane of the M20, recklessly ignoring the speed limit and undertaking the drivers who steadfastly stuck to the law. He'd passed the Maidstone exit by eight-thirty and made such good progress he was able to stop at Annie's Tea Rooms for a strong mug of coffee and a cinnamon tea cake, before the descent towards Folkestone and the coastal road that would take him to Deal. Soon, Bond saw the squat grey drum-shape of the Castle on the horizon, jutting out above the roofs of the terraced cottages that lined the short sea front drive through the town. Bond passed this Tudor landmark and headed through Deal and onto the aptly named Golf Road.

The white washed walls of the clubhouse were visible almost as soon as Bond left the town. The building sat majestically isolated at the tip of the golf course, overlooking the first tee and the eighteenth green. The course itself straddled two miles or so of dunes along the coast, so low and close to the beach that the sea had been known to flood the fairways.

The clubhouse, while large, wasn't a grand affair, functional at best, and Bond entered the mahogany panelled reception room with a sense of acute déjà vu. It was as though nothing had changed since his first visit here for the Hewitt Trophy. There was still a starchy Clubhouse Manager who raised eyebrows at him, but said nothing until Bond approached his polished, empty desk. The man never smiled once as Bond explained he was here for the charity event and gave his name. There was the smallest hint of a sigh as the man ticked his name on a list, stood up and asked Bond to follow him. They walked up the wood panelled staircase, covered with photographic memories, and Bond was ushered into the Jack Aisner Room, a formal lounge with hefty leather seats, a long bar and huge windows offering stunning views across the course and out towards the English Channel. Rumour had it that on a clear day you could see the French coast and the older members would raise a glass of Veuve Clicquot to the continent.

Calum O'Shea was already conducting introductions with his usual effervescent style. He caught Bond's eye and immediately beckoned him over.

"James! Great to see you. Give Denning your keys and he'll get your clubs up to the driving range. We're tipping up for some practice before the hoards arrive."

Bond didn't know who Denning was, but turned to see the disconsolate manager holding out his hand. Bond dropped his car keys into the man's palm and was about to say "It's the Aston Martin" when the man turned swiftly about and exited the lounge, as if it was somewhere he didn't want to be.

"Come on, James," enthused Calum, "Let me introduce you."

Bond did not consider himself to be easily star struck, but even he was impressed by the names that rolled past him. Of the professional golfers, Bond only recognised the Spaniard Canizarez; Watson and another American, the less well revered John Cook, had not yet arrived. The celebrities were an assorted crop of actors, entertainers and sports stars including the football pundit Alan Hansen, the ex-tennis player Tim Henman and the comedian Ronnie Corbett, who was entertaining a clutch of Somebodies and a boorish reality star called Clifton Something-or-Other. Bond seized a complimentary glass of champagne and tagged onto the fringe of this group before joining the slow exodus to the sanctuary of the driving range.

Bond hit a few impressive drives and attracted the attention of one of the lesser pros, a young man called Graham Wright. They shook hands and Bond introduced himself. Wright was a club professional who played the Challenger circuit, mostly in Britain and Ireland. He was aiming to get his full time tour card, having won two minor events. Pro-Am provided him with some regular income.

"These charity dos are always a bit hit and miss," said the young man, "Most of the amateurs are pretty poor. But you look good. What do you play off?"

"Nine. I used to be a three, but I don't play so often now," replied Bond, glad to find someone sensible to talk to. "Work commitments, you know. You've played these things before, how do they pair us up?"

"We just draw lots. We'll probably play in fours; a pro, a celeb and two of you guys. So if you're hoping to draw Tom Watson, sit and pray."

Bond smiled. He liked Graham, but the lad didn't seem ruthless enough for a professional golfer. The two of them shared some drives before everyone got distracted by the arrival of the star attraction. Even in retirement, Tom Watson still cut a commanding figure. He was all smiles, handshakes and politeness. Bond held back from the melee and watched as the great man gradually withdrew from the throng and hit a few practice strokes of his own. Graham whispered to Bond that Watson's follow through and shoulder turn was still as smooth as in his pomp. Bond could see that; the strike of the ball was true; it was the distance and direction that failed him now. There is nothing so agonising as the fall of the mighty, Bond mused.

That morning, Bond shared the company of a dull ex-Walker Cup player, an even duller rugby union forward and a cheerful but incompetent investment banker. Bond was comfortably home in three-over-par. He enjoyed playing in front of a crowd again, small as it was, even if only for the drive off at the first tee. The smattering of spectators was all there, cameras at the ready, to follow Tom Watson.

Lunch was a stand up buffet in the Dining Room, with lots of champagne on offer. The reality star had too much to drink, became more obnoxious by the moment and, having retreated to the lounge, he was advised not to make it out for the second round.

Bond was paired with Graham in the afternoon, which made the second set of holes – the inward nine – much more enjoyable. Their nominal celebrity, the local MP, who Bond thought should really have been at Westminster, was also a keen golfer and the three happily swapped anecdotes as they played. Completing the foursome was a much older man, bearded, grey, thin and withered. His golf game was unsteady, he said, it spoiled a good walk; at his best he was cumbersome. He winced when hitting his drives and frequently stopped to take a lungful of air as they walked the course. He was polite, but aloof, as if he found the company stagnant. He introduced himself as Robert and clearly disliked being called anything else, failing to reply whenever Graham addressed him as "Robbie" or "Rob." Bond detected the trace of a lost accent underneath his rounded vowels.

At the 15th hole Bond executed an excellent recovery shot, hitting out of the rough with a little right hand draw, allowing the ball to dodge the big protecting bunker and run to the edge of the green.

The old man nodded, complimenting him. "You clearly play a lot, James."

"In my spare time. When I'm not at work. That sort of thing."

"And what sort of work do you do?"

The question sounded slightly loaded. Bond looked at the shallow features closely, quickly. For a moment he thought they looked familiar, but he couldn't remember the time or place when he'd met this man.

Bond replied, in an uncommitted off hand manner. "I work for the government."

The old man nodded. "Official secrets and all that?"

"Something like it, yes."

"I see," was the only reply, which seemed to close the matter.

Later on after Bond sank his final putt for another three-over-par, the old man patted his back in congratulations. He seemed genuinely pleased for Bond's success. "Well done, my boy. That's put you top of the board. I'm sure Calum's got a case of something for the winner in the lounge."

"I should hope so."

"Yes. And when we get back there, let me buy you a drink."

"There's no need," replied Bond, "I can have some more of that free champagne."

"No. I want to buy you a proper drink. Man to man."

Bond looked straight at the grey haired, slack skinned face. The tired eyes didn't plead, they ordered him to accept. It was the stare of a man used to giving instructions, a man of authority. It reminded Bond of one of his superiors, the first person he knew as M, an irascible old Admiral who always had a place in Bond's affections, despite their contrary views.

Bond washed up in the player's changing rooms and presented himself in the lounge, where Calum O'Shea proceeded to thank everyone involved, golfers, celebrities, amateurs, the club and so on, before announcing they had managed to raise five thousand much needed pounds. As the old man had suggested, for his winning efforts Bond received a case of the club's house wine, Chinon, an inexpensive, but tasty cabernet franc. More satisfying to Bond, he got to shake the hand of Tom Watson, who also handed him a signed golf ball and congratulated him on his score.

"Thank you," Bond said, "Perhaps we could share a round next time."

He said it in jest and the old pro's face lit up with the understanding. "The next time's the Senior's Open. I'm not sure you're old enough to qualify yet. Well done anyway."

Bond smiled and watched the now slightly hunched shoulders retreat through the lounge door and head towards the stairs. Bond turned back to the bar and ordered a double Balvennie over ice.

The old man appeared at his side. "Make that two. On my tab. Bring it to my table"

"Certainly, Mister Van Rennsburg."

Bond followed the man to a corner of the lounge and they sat on a big leather sofa that faced into the room, allowing the old man to view everyone and everything. Even in old age, Robert Van Rennsburg, the diamond industrialist whose personal fortune had been amassed through both legitimate and dubious means, was not going to be surprised by anyone. This conversation, Bond reflected, was private and if it was to be interrupted, the old man wanted to know about it in advance.

"You didn't look surprised when you heard my name," opened the old man.

"I've heard many names. And met many people. I have a feeling we've met before, Mister Van Rennsburg."

"Keep calling me Robert. It's shorter," said Van Rennsburg, "And yes, we have met before. I knew Admiral Sir Miles Meservy and occasionally he invited me for drinks at his club, Blades. You were there. Twice."

Bond nodded. The recollection was very slight. Sir Miles, the ex-Head of Service Bond had earlier thought of, used Blades to discuss an operative's private life or his health. There was usually dinner and a few hands of bridge. Sir Miles had retired and died some time back, so any meeting with Van Rennsburg would have been several years ago.

"I used to work for Sir Miles. He invited me there a few times."

"I know that, James. And I also know what kind of work you did for him. For the government. Not all the details of course, Miles would never be so indiscreet. But I can read between the lines. I knew where he worked and have some idea of the workings of Her Majesty's Secret Service."

He paused while their drinks arrived. "Indeed, I had some use for them myself when I pulled A.M.C. out of Rhodesia."

Bond recalled the affair. The Africa-Matopo Corporation had been one of Rhodesia's biggest industrial companies, a diamond mining and manufacturing conglomerate. The president of the new state of Zimbabwe had used government funds to buy millions of shares, enough to install his own puppet executive director. The puppet was assassinated while on safari in Botswana, allowing Van Rennsburg to seize executive control. He promptly withdrew the manufacturing side of the business to Britain, under his control, naturally.

"I remember the incident."

This was the only comment Bond felt inclined to make. He hadn't been involved in the operation, but it left a nasty taste in his mouth. He didn't consider Britain had received any long term benefit from the split and relocation of Africa-Matopo. Zimbabwe certainly hadn't. The only winner had appeared to be the tired old man sitting next to him, Robert Van Rennsburg.

"I can see you look a little disappointed, James. It is often forgotten that my family had owned part of A.M.C. for over eighty years. I wasn't going to let it be swallowed by an upstart general with designs of grandeur."

"I try not to let politics and big businesses bother me, Robert," Bond said matter-of-factly, "I work for the government, but the whys don't concern my department much. The hows do. I can't afford to have any allegiances. Except, perhaps, to friends."

Van Rennsburg sipped his whiskey and peered at Bond with those hard eyes. "And family."

"I don't have any."

"I do. In fact, it's my family I want to talk to you about," explained Van Rennsburg, "I may sound like a bitter old man, but life wasn't always like this. Things used to be very different. I'd married in middle age. My wife was young and beautiful, artistic. She was a well regarded photographer and we were the talk of the society columns," Van Rennsburg chuckled at the memory and took another sip from his glass. "I invested in a thousand acre estate outside Bulawayo; my servants were well paid and cared for. But everything changed so quickly. The order of my life, the sanctity of it, was disturbed fundamentally by the upheaval in Rhodesia. People consider me a racist, a bigot. But it wasn't their livelihood that was being destroyed. The greed of a small band of individuals would eventually take away everything my father and grandfather had built up. I knew at the beginning this was inevitable. If you take a look at my country now, you can see I was right. I am good judge of a situation and I saw no future in my country, only despair."

Despite himself, Bond had a pang of sympathy for this tired old man. Robert Van Rennsburg was a man in need of redemption. Something was eating away at his soul, something he needed to be purged of. Perhaps a misdemeanour far back in his life, a wrong he needed to right. It would be intriguing to find out.

"What about your family?"

Van Rennsburg ignored the question and looked at his watch. "Are you busy this evening?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"Come to my house for dinner. Seven o'clock."

Bond was about to object, but the old man raised his hand. "No, I insist. Anyway, it's too public here. I also have rather excellent claret."

Van Rennsburg attempted to get to his feet and visibly strained with the effort. His face creased into a scowl of annoyance. Bond stood up first, offering his arm to the old man, which was accepted. The old man put down his unfinished drink and fished in his jacket pocket. The hand re-emerged with an old fashioned calling card in it. He gave it to Bond.

"No need to dress. I live alone. Mrs Van Rennsburg died a few years ago."

Bond nodded. The old man winced again as he set off towards the exit, pausing only to shake the hand of Calum O'Shea, who was still orchestrating the social entertainment.

Bond looked at the address on the card. He had half planned to play the tables this evening, but the Van Rennsburg residence was on his way home. Bond decided he could have dinner with the old man and still make the gaming tables by midnight.

He shared a few words and one drink with Calum O'Shea, who tried to persuade him to stay for more drams of whiskey, but Bond's mind was elsewhere now, preoccupied with this curious old man. Bond drove steadily through the late afternoon traffic. He reached Tunbridge Wells in good time and switched on his Garmin Nuvi 250, the glitz free satellite navigation system he had recently invested in. Its maps were a little confusing, but the directions led him faultlessly to the Van Rennsburg residence, Old Parsonage House.

There was a long drive down an avenue of trees before the large white washed country house came into view. The building wasn't an original, that had been lost to time, although Bond wondered if the very front portico was from an old lodge, as it seemed incongruous amongst the very 1930s facade. The house was square; the only addition Bond could see being a conservatory that ran along one side and around the rear. The general standard of the upkeep, the exterior paintwork and such, was poor. Someone needed to show a little tender loving care to this country pile. There was a lot of money resting here, thought Bond, but no-one wants to spend it.

He presented himself at the door and a tall, thin black man, dressed in smart white trousers and shirt, but jacketless, answered the door. The butler's skin was stretched tight over his frame, making him look hawkish and mean. What remained of his hair was grey, almost white, and the tired brown eyes seemed to have the worry of the world about them. Once Bond gave his name, the butler smiled a big wide grin, changing his appearance and demeanour in an instant. He opened the door wide and ushered Bond inside.

"Oh, yes, sir. Hello, sir, Mr Bond," the butler almost tripped over his words in his enthusiasm, "Mr Van Rennsburg is very pleased to have you here. Very pleased. We all are. Well, me and Mrs Satchel, of course. We don't do so much entertaining now Amy is gone."

"Amy?"

"Mrs Van Rennsburg," said the butler, with a little hooded look, "You are on old friend of the family, Mr Bond?"

"A friend, yes," Bond smiled, "Not so old."

The butler smiled again and let out a low laugh. "Oh, I see. Well, Mrs Satchel and I will still be pleased to have you. You go through to the lounge and I'll help Mr Van Rennsburg to dress. He's not so capable these days."

The butler walked off, shaking his head a little, and still chuckling, Bond heard him mimic his reply: "Not so old!"

Bond smiled and wondered which door led to the lounge. The entrance hall was vast, with several doors on each side and a central stairway that turned to the right, doubling back on itself to reach the first floor landing. Everything was dark and wood panelled even the ceiling and floor. There was one door ajar and Bond took it, entering a plush sitting room, bedecked with Queen Anne furniture, all reupholstered in shades of green that matched the lawns outside the window. There was a beautiful photograph hanging on the far wall. Bond admired it at a distance. It was a safari-scape of lush grasslands and trees, framed under an eternal blue sky and punctuated at a distance by the grey domes of elephants. Bond stood closer and could see the detail in shadows, the reeds of grass so fine and close. The signature read A.V.R. and there was a serial number next it.

The sound of footsteps on the floorboards in the hall drew Bond back and he cast a shallow glance over his shoulder in time to see Robert Van Rennsburg enter the room. He was dressed in corduroy trousers and a spotless white shirt. An old patterned cardigan hung loosely from his shoulders, his left hand was thrust deep into one of the pockets.

"Hello, James. So, Satchel put you in here. Sometimes I wonder about that man. But you can't get rid of him after fifty years service. He's worked for my family since he was six. He almost is my family." The last remark was said with a wistful air, as if it could be true.

Bond made a small gesture to the painting. "Your wife's work, Robert?"

"Yes. Do you like it?"

"Very much. The elephant walk crosses the plains of Zimbabwe, doesn't it?"

"Yes. When there were elephants. Amy adored the nature of Africa. She saw beauty in every creature. I saw them more as a challenge. Come on; let me show you my room."

Van Rennsburg's room was a trophy cabinet on a huge scale. Probably the biggest room in the house, its walls were lined with Van Rennsburg's kills. Bond wasn't an animal lover by any means, but there was a sombre beauty to African wildlife that touched a nerve. For all his ability to kill, Bond took no pleasure in man's extermination of other creatures. It saddened him to see the elephant tusks, the gorilla hands, the zebra and cheetah skins, the slightly creepy stuffed eagles and the photographs of gentlemen toasting the bloodlust they called sport. More to his taste were the individual gun cabinets each containing a rifle of a different age and styles, the pistol cabinets, polished swords, daggers and an array of traditional Zulu weaponry.

Van Rennsburg was already at an ornate battered tall boy, once used for travelling, but now doubling as a cocktail cabinet. "A drink, James? Caol Ila?"

"Yes, that'd be fine."

They shared the powerful tonic, a little sweet for Bond's pallet. He preferred the more robust, younger twelve year malt. Bond raised his glass towards the huge elephant tusks.

"Did you kill that beast?"

Van Rennsburg sighed. "I sense disapproval, James. Like most people my life is full of regrets. These are old memories, from a different era. One not so long ago, but different all the same. Even in the '50s and '60s there was a feeling that hunting was never going to end, that the bush concealed more than it gave up. Alas," He shook his head, the sentence falling away with the movement. "We kill all the things that make us happy. All the beautiful, wild things."

Bond downed the whiskey. "I've hunted myself, but mostly in the West Indies. Scuba diving and such, you know."

"Really? I had no idea," Van Rennsburg's face seemed to light up, all the concern drifted away as easily as it arrived; the good memories came flooding back. "Do you fish? I once caught a huge marlin off Madagascar..."

The two men had found some common ground. Bond too had caught marlin, and shark, and they swapped tales of sweat and success. Satchel announced dinner and they ate in the conservatory, which had the benefit of the evening sun to warm it. They ate slices of cold honey cured ham with pickles followed by a deliciously tender lamb shank cooked in red wine and peppers. As promised, Van Rennsburg offered an excellent Ausone '75, a rich, intense St Emillion that complimented the hefty flavours of the meat. For desert there was vanilla sorbet and forest fruits. Bond asked if he could smoke and like two Victorian gentlemen they settled into big arm chairs by the windows, smoking and taking glasses of port, a rare '63 Forrester.

Van Rennsburg had once owned a yacht and through dinner he had described how he and his crew sailed the Horn of Africa. Bond told amusing anecdotes of life on board a navy frigate and Van Rennsburg listened with a child's ear for a story, laughing at the tales of bored sailor's high-jinx or rapt by the thrill of combat. Bond had warmed to his host. He was good company, even if they didn't share similar views on everything. Occasionally Bond saw Van Rennsburg grimace or had to wait while he gathered breath. During a lull in the conversation, Bond asked him about it.

Van Rennsburg took a deep breath, seeming to shrink his chest into a tidy knot before exhaling long and hard.

"I'm dying, James," he said simply, "I've got a pancreatic cancer. I'm not expected to see out the New Year and I've given up the treatments. My time is spent."

Van Rennsburg paused. He took a sip of port and placed the glass on the table beside him. He looked Bond straight in the face, those determined eyes checking for a hint of mischief. Bond was stoic.

"What I'm going tell you, James, involves my private life. My very private life. I want you to find somebody for me. My daughter."

Bond was about to interject, but Van Rennsburg silenced him with a small movement of his hand. "We never had children. Amy and I were the happiest couple, but, soon after we married she had a car accident which resulted in a miscarriage. I don't know if the accident effected her physically in some way, or if her nervousness made her body reject a foetus, but over the next few years she miscarried three more times and after the last time, just before we moved to London, well, she decided we wouldn't try any more. She started to pour her energies into her photographs, her charity work. Our relationship, while it never became uncivil, was functional. Of course London was not the best place for a rich, physically lonely, late middle aged man. Let's just say the temptations were many. Amy was aware of my failings. She never said anything, but I knew it hurt. I think she may have seen it as a kind of punishment. Anyway, there was one woman, a young society sort called Annabel Constantine. We were together for a few years, on and off, but she wasn't really my type of girl, much too dominant. In the bedroom it was exciting, wild. Outside I found her tough and outspoken exterior unsuitable. Unfortunately this woman was as careless with her birth control as she was with her tongue. Some months after I ended our relationship she informed me she was pregnant with my child. I was at once shocked and elated. Imagine! Me, an old colonial misfit, fathering a child with a young wicked thing. It was both thrilling and frightening. At last I had the child I had craved, but with a person I had grown to loathe. Of course I offered to support her. She was gracious enough to accept the one off payment and the free health care for the birth, but she pointedly denied me access to my child, a baby girl. It was a huge wrench that affected me more than I knew. Amy knew my moods and she prised the truth from me. She knew about my dalliances, but this news seemed to devastate her, bringing back the memory of those failed pregnancies. She started a slow slide into depression and then dementia; all fuelled by paranoia and prescription drugs. If I had been a true bounder, I would have used my wife's unstable nature to commit further adultery, but as it was I was drawn back to her. The support she had offered me had to be returned now she needed me. It was a hard, painful few years before her suicide. It was almost a relief when she died."

"What happened to the mother and child?"

"There was some contact, not much; she wouldn't allow it. Anyway, three or four year's on, I read her obituary in the Telegraph. She'd died in a house fire in Richmond. The article was short. It said she had one daughter, Paige. I guess I could have made a move then if I wanted to, but Annabel had set up a trust fund with my money and her guardians packed her off to school in Switzerland."

Van Rennsburg swilled his glass, looking into it as if searching for an answer. "I don't know anything about her, James. My own flesh and blood. I'm dying and I want that. I want to say "Hello" and "How are you" and "I'm sorry" before I die. Is that a childish thing?"

"I don't judge people, Robert. I told you that. But this sort of thing isn't my line of work. A private investigator could do it just as well. Even the police. In fact, I have good contact...."

Van Rennsburg cut him short. "No. That's not what I want. I want someone who I can trust. Even the police can smell money and I don't want the story splashed across the newspapers. When I saw you today at the golf course, I recalled how highly Sir Miles used to talk of you, how much he trusted your judgement in every the situation. I want someone who won't let me down. Good or bad. And you can do that, James. I know you can."

Bond smiled at the thought of Sir Miles praising one of his officers, not at headquarters, but in the relative privacy of Blades. It would have been hard for him to admit, but he would have said it with pride and some unintentional irony. Tentatively he swilled the port in his glass and took a small sip, relishing the nectar on his tongue before he replied.

"I do have some contacts that may be able to help. But why do you want to meet this girl, Robert? What can you offer her after all this time?"

"There is no offer. I just want to meet her. Just once."

Bond set down the glass. He didn't like the job. It wasn't his game at all, but Robert Van Rennsburg was a desperate lonely, dying man. A rich man too, but someone who recognised his mistakes, regretted them and moved on. This wasn't a man seeking closure on the past; rather he wanted a last moment of wonder at the future. Against all his instincts, Bond nodded his head.

"All right. I'll do it. It might take a while, I do have a job to do, but I'm sure I can have a result for you in a few weeks.

The next morning Bond realised he didn't remember much of the journey home, a hazy alcohol fuelled fast drive into London. He hadn't made the tables, yet he'd made a few thousand accepting Van Rennsburg's offer of expenses in advance. If M found out about it he'd be hauled over the coals. Hot ones. The service frowned on moonlighting, although most agents utilised the service records and information departments to their own ends occasionally.

Immediately after breakfast, Bond booked a weekend in Royale-Les-Eaux, reserving a suite at the Hotel Splendide during the late season after the Arabs had gone and the French and Spanish old money returned to the famous old casino. He telephoned Dick at the Barn Garage to give the Aston Martin a full service – interior clean, new wheels, brake pads, exhaust, sparks, the works. Bond lunched at Fortnum's, where he also ordered, well in advance, an enormous Christmas hamper, and in the afternoon he went to Henry Poole, the bespoke tailors on Saville Row and got fitted for a classic worsted suit, bought three new pure cotton shirts and two silk ties. He dropped into Berry Brothers and Rudd and made enquiries about the year's vintages, eventually depositing on two cases of Chateau Lafitte. Back at home he bought an expensive pair of tickets to the first rugby international at Twickenham, in full knowledge 006 would bite his hand off to have them, and two stall seats for the revival of Cabaret that Penelope, his secretary, was always battering on about. Bond ate a light tea before spending the evening in Lotts, a wine bar near Chelsea Harbour, where he frequently exchanged tall tales with the regulars. It was only as he settled down for a good night's sleep that he began to wonder what the hell it was he'd got himself talked into.

Bond didn't feel able to discuss meeting Van Rennsburg with anyone at the service, so he passed off the various gifts he had purchased as the spoils from a night of fortune on the roulette wheel. Between reading the daily communications and catching up on some long standing reports and paperwork, Bond's mind drifted to the task he'd set himself. The girl wasn't a missing person, which ruled out using the missing person's bureau. Neither was she so conspicuous as to be easily traceable. There was, however, something that nagged at the back of his mind. He felt certain that somewhere in the distant past, he'd had something to do with Annabel Constantine. Not directly, or he would have remembered, but a brief meeting, a passing of hands or a smile at social function.

Bond hid the thought away and instead spent lunchtime and early evening in the records department, deep in the bowels of the MI6 building. Here resided an enormous, white washed brick walled library containing many thousands of original documents, some of vital national importance, others mere trivia. Bond was looking for some of the latter and got a raised eyebrow from the pretty librarian when he asked for access to the computer mainframe, which held the transposed microfiche of all the daily papers and magazines published in the United Kingdom since the mid-sixties. Armed with the girl's date of birth, he trawled back through the births, deaths and marriage columns, the personal message pages and the gossip columns. There was nothing, not a single mention of Paige Constantine; in fact there were hardly any Paige's at all. Bond scowled at the computer screen. His eyes were beginning to ache.

He took some insipid coffee from the dispensing machine and on a whim decided to look back at an episode from his own past. He researched Harper's and Queen and quickly found the article he wanted, a social piece about a blisteringly hot summer day at the Henley Regatta. Bond's paramour at the time had been the rather aristocratic Regina Fforbes-Carrington, a politician's daughter with designs of grandeur beyond her capabilities. They had embarked on an exciting few months of love, but it had dwindled once Bond had received orders from M and promptly disappeared for six weeks. Regina wasn't a particularly forgiving girl and there hadn't been a reconciliation. Bond clicked the cursor across the screen, turning the pages and smiled as he viewed images from a slice of personal history. There were shots of minor aristocrats, some earnest sportsmen, dozens of the well dressed upper classes and even more of the slightly tipsy champagne girls, equipped with hats and little summer dresses. And there, nine pages in, was a photograph subtitled "Regina Fforbes- Carrington and her new significant other Commander James Bond." She wore a white wrap around dress, belted at the waist, decent by an inch or two. Bond was decked in traditional morning dress, navy blue jacket with battleship grey waistcoat and trousers. They were smiling broadly, champagne flutes, hat and corsage in hand. It was good picture, lively and fun. Other than official and private photographs, this was, as far as Bond was aware, the only available image of him in existence. Inwardly, Bond smiled at how young he looked and ran his hand across his cheekbones and chin, feeling the day's stubble, the wear and tear of life.

He sipped his coffee and sat looking at the photo for some time, a wealth of good youthful memories passing through his mind. Those heady few months with Regina were good memories, despite the ending, with many faces and places, parties, late nights and beautiful mornings.

Daydreaming finished, Bond stretched forward to log off the mainframe, when he saw her. Standing in the gaggle of bodies behind Bond and Regina, over his left shoulder, there was a pretty looking golden haired girl in a red dress and matching hat, trimmed with a bow of black silk. Bond magnified the picture. It was pixelated, but he could make out the high cheek bones, the blue eyes and the radiant smile that would have enchanted an old boy like Robert Van Rennsburg. Yes. He was certain. Annabel Constantine had, at some time, been an acquaintance of Regina Fforbes-Carrington.

Bond didn't want to contact Regina directly. Even after many years, he didn't fancy her ire. He spoke to her brother Dominic, who once he remembered Bond, was enthusiastic about meeting. Bond suggested The Henry Addington near Canary Wharf, as it was close to Dominic's work place. They met on the Wednesday evening. Bond didn't waste too long on social niceties.

"I'm actually looking for someone, Dominic. An old friend."

"Really, old chap, who is it? How can I help?"

"Well, it's a bit awkward. Regina used to have a friend, Annabel Constantine. I know she died a few years back, but it's her daughter I'm looking for."

"Paige?" Dominic seemed a little surprised. "Why do you want to look for her?"

"You know her?"

"Not really. She's gone well off the rails, James. Better leave that one alone."

"What do you mean? Drugs?"

Dominic shifted uncomfortably. He was finding the conversation suddenly difficult. Bond detected it too. He emptied his glass and offered to buy another round. Their drinks came swiftly. Bond shook the ice against the sides of the tumbler, making it rattle.

"I'm not doing this for me," explained Bond. "Someone wants to speak to her. Might be of some help if the girl's in trouble."

Dominic sighed. "Regina and Annabel weren't that close, you know. We used to meet up for the skiing season, but she got a bit too much. She was like some sort of schizoid. And the booze didn't help. She was a big drinker. Killed her in the end."

"I thought she died in a house fire."

"That's what they say," snorted Dominic, "But she was probably pissed. That girl couldn't be stopped. She was hitting a bottle of vodka before lunch. Even her parent's disowned her; they bought her the house share and told her to get on with her life."

"What about Paige?"

"We weren't really in touch then. After the fire, she just sort of disappeared. Years later Regina's daughter met her at Felgates, but that was a bit weird. She insisted on being called Laura; not sure what that was all about. Rosie said she could be a right bitch and they never kept in contact. No-one did."

"Do you have any idea how to get in touch with her?"

"Not exactly. Try opening a newspaper. Or Hello."

Bond inclined his head a little. "I'm sorry. You lost me."

"She's in most of the papers everyday. Real party girl about town. Famous for being famous. Calls herself Gabriella."

Bond couldn't help his surprise. Even he hadn't been able to miss the impact on the celebrity circuit of "Gabriella." She was something of a notorious self publicist; a "lad's mag" pin-up, famous for her love of the camera, her frank interviews and her party going antics, which usually included vodka, Red Bull and short skirts. This was the sort of girl Bond was inclined to dislike. In his youth they called them tarts, these days the girls themselves seemed to relish calling themselves sluts.

The next day Bond telephoned Harvey Blackford at the Daily Mail. The service used Harvey indiscriminately to spread false rumour or gently report the truth. He was a man Bond felt he could trust, but he wasn't going to give him all the details. Over a pint in a Holborn pub, Harvey listened to the story. He could get the contact details for Gabriella's agency and was certain some of the freelance paparazzi had the girl's address. While they drank, Harvey made some calls on his mobile phone and within a few minutes Bond had a list of addresses and names. Harvey cautioned him against getting too excited.

"Frankly, James, the press love affair with this bird is dying. She's clipped her wings too often. The public want something more substantial than tits and ass – and that's all this girl's got left to offer. She's sold too many cheap tales for too much money. And she spends it like it'll never run out."

"Doesn't it bother you, Harvey?" questioned Bond, "You guys help create these girls, give them an illusion of a career, some sort of importance. Then when they've run out of scandal you just drop them. Like a stone."

Harvey shook his head. "If they want to live life through a lens, that's up to them. We'll give them the riches. But it'll only last while they can sell rags and mags. When they don't, it's bye-bye."

He waved a contemptuous hand and the two men sat in silence for a few moments. Bond ventured, "Do you think she'll actually want to meet Van Rennsburg?"

"Maybe. If there's money in it."

It was a pressman's reply, born out of years of experience. Bond was inclined to agree with him. He left their brief meeting with no illusions that another layer of veneer was being stripped away from Van Rennsburg's precious superficial expectations.

Bond tried the agency address first. The place was called 1stKlass and its entrance was nothing more than a door in an alleyway off Kilburn High Street. Bond had not made an appointment as he didn't want anyone to be prepared for his questions. He rang the push button once.

A young female voice asked if she could help. Bond said he had a meeting with Dee Dee. This was the name of the publicist Harvey had recommended he used. There was a pause.

"Dee Dee doesn't have any appointments today. Who's calling?"

"My name's James Bond. I'm an associate of Harvey Blackford, from the Mail."

There was another even longer pause, followed by a loud electronic buzz and an almost inaudible: "Come on up."

Bond did as he was told and entered the small atrium. According to the plaque, 1stKlass was on the second floor. Bond trod the stairs gently. They didn't squeak. The door was open to the reception room. It looked like it was always open. The room beyond was small and comfortable, leading off from it was a corridor lined with doors on the left and windows to the right. A bashful girl dressed in a variety of colours that matched her equally colourful hair sat behind the small desk. She looked nervously up at Bond as he stood in the doorway.

"Mr. Bond? Dee Dee will see you in a few minutes."

Bond thanked her and took a seat. There was a small coffee table with a pile of well thumbed fashion magazines sitting on it. Bond took one and absently flicked through it. Every photograph was beautifully composed. Every hair and crease seemed to be carefully positioned. Every exposed part of skin designed to titillate. Every smile looked like agony.

Bond tossed the magazine disdainfully back on the pile, sat back and smiled ruefully at the multi-coloured girl, who had been shyly inspecting him from under her fringe. The edges of her mouth twitched.

"What's happening in the fashion world?" he asked.

"We don't really do fashion," she said nervously, "More glamour, you know."

"Is that so?" Bond pretended to be interested. "Anyone really famous ever come here? I expect it gets pretty exciting sometimes."

The girl blushed and almost tripped over her words with excitement that someone was taking an interest in her. "Sometimes. There was a lot of fuss the other week. It was very exciting."

"What happened then?"

"The paps were about 'cause that girl from X-Factor was here. Mad."

"Yes. I'm sure. They can be quite a handful these paparazzi."

"You're telling me."

Bond leant forward, clasping his hands together. The girl was hardly out of her teens. "How long have you worked here?"

"Since I left fashion school. I'm just filling in, you know, till something better turns up."

"Well, I bet it does," stated Bond confidently, "I'm sure you're being wasted sitting behind that desk."

Bond's minor ego-massage worked wonders and the girls face lit up. She beamed a smile at him. Bond continued chatting to her to her about nothing in particular, asking questions about her hopes and ambitions. He wasn't interested in the answers. He wanted to gain the girl's confidence. Eventually, almost haphazardly, he asked: "Isn't that model Gabriella on your books? She's very famous. It must be great to meet someone like her."

"She doesn't come here much. Thinks she's too important, you know."

At that moment a door opened down the corridor and a woman's voice called out to the girl. "Sandy, send this Mr Bond in, will you, babe. And bring us coffee. Twice. Decaff. Milk and sugar."

Despite the "babe" the sentence wasn't said with any warmth. The voice cut to the girl's heart like an arrow. She almost jumped.

Bond stood up and gave the girl his most practised charming smile. "Sandy, I prefer my coffee black, without sugar, but with caffeine. Is that all right?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

Bond went down the corridor and entered Dee Dee's room. It was a plush office, but not one for an executive, merely functional. Dee Dee was a large woman who had seen better days. Her lips spoke of thousands of horrid kisses and her eyes stared out from painted lids. She was dressed in an expensive charcoal grey suit that would have been smart if it wasn't crumpled across her copious bosom and conspicuous belly. She looked harassed.

"Okay. Take a seat, Mr Bond."

Bond did as he was told.

"What did Harvey send you here for? He's a sly little bastard that one. You got some scoop you want to set up? Someone you need a girl for?"

"Not exactly. I'm trying to make contact with a woman called Paige Constantine," Bond paused to gauge any reaction. When he didn't get one he carried on, "I understand she calls herself Gabriella these days."

"What of it?"

Aggressive, thought Bond. Harvey was right to warn him of the agency. They wanted to keep secrets secret.

"It's a personal matter. I don't work for the papers. I'm an investigator. I'd rather the matter wasn't made public."

"An investigator?"

Now there was incredulity. Bond expected Dee Dee was probably wondering what "matter" could possibly be investigated about her client that hadn't been already. Bond had recently done a good deal of research about Gabriella; the girl was more of a sinner than most fallen saints.

The receptionist brought their refreshments. They didn't say anything as she set down the tiny tray carrying two steaming cups of coffee. It was pleasantly good. After she left, Dee Dee leaned backwards on her chair and placed her hands on the arm rests of her chair.

"Mr Bond, I appreciate you coming to see me," she said, although her tone didn't suggest it, "Gabriella is a huge asset to 1stKlass. She's a great model. A great role model to young people. But she is a very private person. My job is to protect her from the scum that want to fuck her up – the bastards in the news, the fly-by-nights, the hangers-on, the gold-diggers. Without me, she'd probably have a breakdown. I keep most of the shit off her doorstep so she can keep doing what she's good at: being herself and having fun. If you have any information about my girl, I need to know about it. If you don't want to tell me, you can turn around and fuck off now. "

Bond considered the ultimatum. He'd met many angry women, indeed he'd angered many in his time, but the fierceness of Dee Dee was deliberate. It was designed to frighten him, to put him off the scent. She was acting for her client's benefit. Bond's responsibility to Van Rennsburg involved privacy. While he trusted Harvey Blackford, he didn't trust this ranting self righteous publicist at all.

"If I tell you, my client would be most disappointed in me."

"Then you'd better disappear, Mr Bond."

Bond stood up to leave, replacing his half-drunk coffee cup on the tray. "I knew her mother once," he sighed, "Pretty lady, Annabel. Very troubled. Much like her daughter."

He had reached the door to the office when Dee Dee told him to stop. "Okay. Come back."

She gestured back to the chair, but Bond chose to remain standing. "Go on," he said.

Dee Dee's tone was a little more conciliatory, but only a little. "Listen, Gabriella doesn't like to talk about her mother. She's closed off that part of her life. She doesn't want people to know. They think she's an orphan, don't forget. It's an elaborate ruse she's spent years concocting. Dumb really. One day they'll find out, sure, but it doesn't have to be yet. I don't think she wants any family complications right now. Paige Constantine isn't important to her. Gabriella is. And that's how I want it to stay. It's what she wants."

Bond looked at her made up, impassive, heavy face. It was as set in stone as Ramses'. Bond didn't say anything. Dee Dee waited several seconds for a reply, but when it didn't come she shook her head. "I'm sorry," was all she said.

Bond exited the office and made sure he closed the door behind him. He strode down the corridor and into the office. The girl was all smiles when Bond appeared.

"That was beautiful coffee, Sandy. Thank you." He leant forward his hands on the desk, so his face came close to hers. "She's a bit of a dragon. Do you get lunch?"

Sandy nodded and Bond continued, "I'm going to be honest, Sandy, I really want information."

"What sort of information?"

"The kind your boss doesn't want me to know. I can make it worth your while," Bond took out his business card, marked with the logo of Universal Exports, and dropped it into her hand, taking care to caress her fingers as he did so. Smiling, he straightened up, turned toward the door and offered her a cheeky wink. "I'll be waiting."

The girl called him at one-thirty and they met in the Starbuck's on the main road. She was very nervous and Bond played the potential suitor to perfection, promising everything and nothing. He felt a pang of remorse over using the girl, leading her on, but he preferred this method than the difficult conversation he would have with a member of the press corps. Sandy, and by all accounts a lot of the models as well, clearly didn't like working for Dee Dee. She paid well, but treated her staff, colleagues and even her clients as if they were servants; nothing ever happened fast enough or well enough. The worst for Sandy was the aggravating telephone calls she had to deal with when models were booked but failed to arrive. Dee Dee was always happy to make a deal, but wouldn't pick up the pieces. 1stKlass probably had the most unreliable portfolio of models in the business; sometimes Sandy wondered why anyone hired them at all. Bond offered the appropriate sympathy before leading onto his own list of requirements. The girl could get phone numbers, but they would be mobiles, and Dee Dee's mantra to the girls was never to answer an unsolicited call. Similarly most address records were false or out of date; she knew that because she often had to change them. If Bond really wanted to meet Gabriella he'd be better off with her party schedule, which the girl admitted "isn't a fool proof document, but it's as good as most likely." Later that day Bond received an email, marked in pink with kisses, detailing the likely where a bouts of his quarry for the next three months.

Four evenings later, Bond found himself in Sirocco, a small London dance club. He'd already attempted to make telephone calls, but as predicted his calls went unanswered. There was no voicemail service. Next, he'd spent an evening chasing the elusive Gabriela around the bars of London and all he had to show for his efforts were several hefty bar bills and a fleeting glimpse of the girls' golden tresses as she dived into a waiting taxi. Tonight had to be different, so Bond was gate crashing the launch party for the new album by the girl group The Saturdays.

Bond was always surprised they still called these compact discs and downloads "albums." His own collection of vinyl originals by artists like Duke Ellington, Peggy Lee and Tony Bennett was small, but he considered them real albums. The records had a central theme, beautifully designed covers and informative sleeve notes. Of course, in time, Bond had switched to CDs, but the plastic containers with their silver discs and now, even worse, the anonymous memory chips disappointed him.

Almost as disappointing was the ease with which Bond slipped past the security, waving nothing more than an empty envelope onto which he had digitally printed the cover for the new album. His police services identification would probably have gained him entrance, but it would also have drawn attention to him. Bond didn't want that. There was already plenty of attention on Shaftsbury Avenue, as assorted free lancers jostled the pavement trying to get photographs of any likely star. Bond recognised nobody and assumed this was a bash for what was usually termed the "z-list" celebrity. Pedestrians had to cross the road to avoid the crush outside the club and three policemen were attempting to control the chaos as it spilled off the pavement into the busy street. Bond saw two bouncers and a concierge, who constantly referred to his clip board, cramped into a roped-off square of space outside the front doors. Bond recognised disorganisation when he saw it and he seized the first opportunity that came his way, latching onto a clutch of excitable mini-skirted and long legged girls by opening the door to their white stretch limousine.

It was a skill of the best agents to blend in with a crowd, however large or small, to effectively disappear even when in open view. The girls had provided Bond with the perfect opening to do just that. They were only too happy for the attention of this handsome older stranger who wore his Ventuno suit a little loose and had foregone a tie for an open necked COS shirt. He had a pleasant manner and an enticing if slightly cruel smile. One of the girls reached up and brushed back into place the comma of hair that had drooped over his forehead. Then, as the girls struggled to extract tickets from their clutch bags, the stranger waltzed straight through the foyer, flashing his own invitation.

The nightclub was dark, illuminated by strategically placed neon lighting and huge plasma screens that showed videos unrelated to the music. The decor was equally stark, being either black or a creamy white, and the upholstery was similarly coloured and a mixture of leather, glass and wood. There was a ballroom sized dance floor, at the end of which was a bare performing stage and to one side was a sectioned off VIP bar, which included the DJ booth. There was a mezzanine level above. The disco music was obnoxiously loud and no-one was dancing. From the clothes people wore Bond guessed they were either press hacks or competition winners. He wasn't early, but there wasn't much atmosphere, other than the stench of cheap cologne and over perfumed hairspray. These days there was no waft of stale tobacco to mask the odour.

Bond headed for the bar, waited impatiently and eventually ordered a double scotch over ice. The exclusively young staff all wore white t-shirts emblazoned with the same logo as Bond's fake invite. There was a lot of champagne being bought and some guests were sloshing it back with indecent haste. This was too much for Bond, who wished for the shady elegance of Ronnie Scott's or Smolensky's. He patrolled the club several times, exchanging snippets of shouted conversation with a selection of non-entities, but he failed to spot Gabriella.

Close to midnight the music faded away and an MC announced the main attraction of the evening. To a chorus of cheers and a low rumble of applause, the Saturdays took to the stage. The five girls were all perfectly toned and scantily clad. The music was equally slick and slight. The show lasted twenty minutes and five songs. Bond's interest in modern music was minimal. The singing was energetic and provocative; the girls responded to the flashing cameras with smiles, pouts and waves; Bond thought they sang off key. There was nothing accidental in the performance, which was all thrusting hips and exposed thighs. Bond yearned for a little seemliness. He edged back through the dancing crowd to the bar and ordered another double scotch from the curly haired barman who had already served him three times. The boy was cocky and Bond didn't like him, but they recognised each other.

"Seen anyone famous tonight, pal?" Bond tried to sound relaxed and familiar. It wasn't easy given his unfamiliar surroundings.

"Yeah, mate, loads. Why? You the press?"

"Sort of. Internet gossip. Seen anything hot?"

A shrug. "The Nuts girls are in the VIP. And that Gabriella's here. She's mates with the band – apparently," It was said with heavy sarcasm. The barman clearly didn't believe it; Bond gave him top marks for cynicism.

"Really? I didn't see her come in."

"She's in the balcony. Private. Got some bloke with her. Don't know where she picks 'em up from. Ugly fucker."

"How private's private?"

"What's it worth, bruv?"

Bond opened his wallet and showed it stuffed full of notes. The boy looked around him, and then gestured to the end of the bar. Bond slipped under the partition and for £100 was swiftly escorted up the back stairway and into the upstairs bar. Thankful that almost all the guests were watching the raunchy climax of the show, Bond ducked under the counter and took up a position leaning on the bar. There was even less atmosphere in the mezzanine, more watching and less dancing. The clientele here was older, respectful, unexcited. Among the corporate suits, Bond ascertained, were the associates, family and friends of the band. He also spotted Peter Stringfellow, the flashy owner of a lap dancing club, accompanied by his young wife, who if Bond's memory was correct, once worked as one of his strippers.

Bond walked slowly along the bar, scanning the silhouettes of the crowd. He realised why he hadn't seen Gabriella enter the club. The billowy blonde locks had gone and were replaced by straight, almost jet black hair, an unnatural colour that was striking, glistening when the light struck it. It was the blood red rose on her left shoulder blade that identified her.

Gabriella was a tall girl and her high heeled shoes raised her to almost six feet, as well as appearing to extend her already long legs even further. She stood with her ankles crossed, pinching her buttocks together, and held her head high and her back straight. She wore the smallest black off-the-shoulder dress and Bond detected no outline of lingerie underneath the taut fabric. Her breasts were not large, but upright and proud, shaped to the lines of her slim figure. The thin material of the dress exaggerated the curves of her chest, waist and hips. Her face was half covered by the long hair. Bond thought her body would look very beautiful naked. The barman was right about her companion, a balding middle aged executive type, who displayed the signs of too much extravagance in his girth and his blotchy complexion.

The show came to an end amid much whooping and applause. Bond thought he may have to wait another hour or so before making physical contact with the girl such was the crush around her and her entourage, which included several more willowy models with unsuitable men, but his chance arose much quicker. The girl detached herself from the main group, returning to one of the booths where she rifled through a bundle of bags, emerging with her own purse. A tall, swarthy man, possibly an Eastern European, was following her. He was a stranger to Bond, but clearly not to Gabriella, who engaged him in conversation. Bond recognised the sly signals of illicit activity. Without removing his eyes from the scene, he began to make his way across the mezzanine floor. He was a few paces away when the man produced the little bag of white powder and the girl started to dig in her purse.

Bond half-stepped between them, flashing his identification past the girl's face. He ignored the man completely. "I wouldn't take that if I were you. I'm not working, but some of my colleagues are."

The girl looked at him straight in the face. She was silent, weighing up the situation and Bond, who didn't smile. "You don't want to take the chance," he said assertively and then, for emphasis, "Do you?"

The girl nodded to someone behind him, her eyes giving an unspoken message. Bond allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder. The Eastern European man had vanished to be replaced by the hulking presence of a personal bodyguard. None too bright, considered Bond, a skinhead thug, who was too slow for his job.

"If you want a thank you," she said, "Thank you." Her voice was clipped, with a haughty tone to it that Bond recognised as the preserve of the rich and privately educated.

"I'd prefer to buy you a drink."

She peered at Bond, squinting a little in the half light. Bond couldn't tell if she was sizing him up or trying to focus drunken eyes; her breath smelt of coconut. Too much Malibu, no doubt, thought Bond. She looked around her and, seeing her escort preoccupied, gave a shrug of indifference.

Bond gently touched her elbow and guided her towards the bar. It was lighter here. The bright bulbs behind the bottle shelves cast a glow across their faces. She was an attractive girl, but not in a conventional way. Her cheekbones were too high and her face long, framed by conspicuous gold earrings. Her small pretty mouth sat above a chin that had a tiny dimple in it. Her lips were touched with just enough rouge, making them pout seductively as if waiting for a kiss. Her rounded nose had deep nostrils, the left one of which was pierced by a sapphire-tipped gold stud. She had painted her hand and toe nails the same deep azure. The blue matched the colour of her eyes, which she hid under lines of black mascara. Her skin had that false sun-kissed shade of manuka honey.

"What will you drink?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Are we celebrating? Perhaps some champagne?" Bond waved over the barman. "Two glasses of Kristal. The '99." It was a shocking choice, but Bond had seen everyone else drinking it. When in Rome, he decided.

"You needn't be so extravagant."

"That's all right. I rather like champagne." Their drinks arrived swiftly. Bond handed her a glass and tipped his own towards her. "And I ought to be celebrating. It isn't often I rescue a beautiful woman."

"Who are you?" she asked, "Do I know you?"

"I don't think so. My name's James Bond."

"And what made you want to rescue this particular beautiful woman?"

"I thought I knew you. Perhaps I've seen you in the papers."

She emitted a polite chuckle rather than a laugh. "You needn't be so obvious, James Bond. Everyone knows me from the newspapers."

"That's true. But I'm not here because you're famous. I wanted to ask you about Paige Constantine. I understand that's you."

There was instant suspicion. The girl sipped her drink and glanced up at him again. The drunken look became steady. The eyes were sharp and when she raised them, her stare penetrated its way into Bond's own, unsettling his thoughts. "What of it?"

"I'm an old friend of your mothers..."

The eyes blazed and Bond realised too late his mistake. "I don't have a mother!" she hissed, "I don't know what you are talking about!"

"I'm sorry. I must be mistaken. I thought...."

"Whatever you thought, you thought wrong. Who are you?" Bond didn't have time to answer. The girl slammed her glass hard on the counter. The contents split across her hand and she flicked it contemptuously at Bond. Champagne fizzed across his face. For a second Bond saw desperation as well as fire in her eyes.

"You'd better stay away from me! You don't know anything about me. You don't want to."

She turned abruptly away and returned to her group of friends. He had caused a minor stir and Bond was the subject of a few curious glances. He ignored them, despite feeling rather foolish, and spent a minute or so finishing his drink, after which he waited for the girl to look his way. He knew she would; something about the passion in her eyes had told him so. He chose that moment to make a deliberate, obvious exit, and felt her fierce gaze follow him across the floor and through the exit.

Over the next few days, Bond decided to utilise Harvey Blackford's list of contacts. He didn't get any information from the effeminate hairdresser, who was clearly more than happy to see him in his salon, the Fitness First gym or an ex-neighbour, who mumbled something about loud music and parties. Bond looked again at Sandy's list. There was a movie premiere that night, a spy thriller starring the actor Daniel Craig. Bond would have to sidle past security again, and avoid the cameras, but it was worth a shot.

It was another sweltering evening in London. Bond didn't know the etiquette for premieres and arrived too early. Bored, he slipped into the Radisson Hotel, which dominated the south side of Leicester Square. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a Vodka Martini, insisting on very little Martini with the thinnest sliver of lemon peel. The bar was all leather upholstery and vast vases of white orchids. It had a certain garish contemporary elegance and was very busy. Despite the breeze of air conditioning, Bond began to feel uncomfortably warm. It was going to be another night of short dresses. The paparazzi would be out in force. Bond mulled over how to access the cinema unobserved; M would not be pleased if his face appeared in a newspaper.

Bond nursed his way down a second cocktail, before standing to leave. As he did so there was a flash of a camera bulb. Taken by surprise, Bond whirled around in time to see a skinhead bodyguard dealing aggressively with the opportunistic snapper. There was going to be quite a scene as the interloper was determined not to surrender his camera, a small but powerful pocket digital, the kind the worst of the paparazzi used to get intimate, close pictures of their prey. Bond recognised the bodyguard immediately and, behind him, sitting in a booth and half hidden by orchids, he spied the head of jet black straight hair and the honey coloured face. Gabriella sat with the same balding executive Bond had seen before, watching the tussle with detached interest.

Bond inwardly kicked himself. So preoccupied had he been with his drink, he missed the gilt edged opportunity of contact with the girl. Bond strode purposefully forward and snatched at the photographer's wrist. The man cried out in pain as Bond took a vice like grip and the camera fell to the floor. The bodyguard swiftly picked it up. Bond wheeled the photographer away, ignoring his protests, shuffled him out of the bar and through to reception. At the front door he offered a gentle push to send the protesting man on his way.

Bond didn't have time to argue. "Just disappear," he said, "Be glad it's only your wrist."

When he returned to the bar the girl was making to leave. Behind her the bodyguard was crushing the camera under his foot. She wore a sheer skin tight red Lycra outfit of virtually nothing, cut to expose all the flesh it could without her being nude. Her legs were encased in matching knee high boots. The bald man was delicately holding Gabriella's hand, as if she was a precious flower. Bond felt certain she was more like the thorny rose tattooed on her shoulder.

She looked at Bond with the same hazy air she'd displayed at Sirocco. "Still rescuing girls, Mr Bond?"

"I seem to be making a habit of it."

"Stop it, then."

Bond stood aside for them to leave. The bodyguard acknowledged him with a nod. It was more thanks than Bond expected. He was more pleased the girl had remembered his name. She certainly hadn't been hostile. Clearly he had made an impression when they first met. Bond didn't feel he'd get anything extra from this evening, but perhaps all was not lost in his pursuit.

Bond waited a few moments and then followed them outside. He lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, calming his heightened pulse. He watched Gabriella striding towards the red carpet approach to the Odeon, where hundreds of fans were clamouring for photos or autographs. The bald man kept a discreet distance. Bond could see her already taking on a new persona, smiling broadly and waving. Her stride was confident. She laughed with the photographers, calling out the names of those whom she knew and teasing them. She posed theatrically, tossing her head and the long mane of black hair, thrusting her breasts and her backside. She looked like a mannequin come alive. It was a better performance than the one the Saturdays had given a few nights ago.

Bond turned back inside the hotel. A young female steward walked past with the remains of the camera in a dustpan. Bond stopped her and peered into the pan. There, amongst the debris, was the flash of copper he was looking for. He swiftly extracted the memory card, smiling and offered his thanks to the girl. Bond returned to the bar, where he ordered his third Martini of the night.

Later Bond took a taxi across the river to the MI6 building. The security guard was surprised to see him off duty, especially dressed so smart, and commented that he could be auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing. The MI6 computers had the download facility he needed to view the images on the memory card. Whoever the photographer was, he showed a high degree of interest in celebrities. There was a host of snap shots of the famous, amongst which were several indiscriminate shots of Gabrielle. Bond saw nothing particularly untoward, except that for each batch of photos, there seemed to be a different man alongside the girl. The photos were dated from the start of the year. He switched the computer off, sat back and wished for some nicotine. Sub-consciously he ran his finger down the spine of a Morland cigarette. So many men. And, although Bond was not a celebrity spotter, while some were famous many, like the balding man, were unexceptional types. Who were they and why were they with the gorgeous Gabriella?

Bond studied the girl's schedule. The appearances were neatly spread through the weeks and there was a brief two day gap every month. Bond nodded silently to himself. It was time for one of those insipid cups of MI6 coffee.

Bond telephoned Sandy, charm oozing in his greeting. She knew straight away who it was. Her voice sunk to a whisper. "Hi, James. How are you?"

Bond could almost feel her interest down the phone line. "I'm great. Listen, Sandy, I want to ask you something."

"Wait, James, one minute." Bond heard some rustling and movement. There were voices and laughter in the background, he could hear music and then the sound of a door squeaking open. "That's better."

"Where are you, Sandy?"

"In the pub toilets. I'm on date."

"Congratulations," Bond smiled to himself. Good girl, he thought, well done. He put on his most teasing tone. "Is he as good looking as me?"

She giggled. "Yes, but he's a bit younger. What do you want, James?"

"Tell me more about these phone calls, Sandy. Why are the girls so unreliable?"

There was a pause. "They're just really busy. I think. Dee Dee always has these little schemes going on. The girls don't always get to every appointment."

"What little schemes, Sandy?"

"You know, parties for rock stars, private photo shoots, videos, that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing," repeated Bond, "Come on, Sandy, you're not naive. You know what Dee Dee's getting up to. These girls are escorts, aren't they?"

Sandy was silent for a few seconds, then she spoke nervously. "I don't want to get in any trouble. 1stKlass pays me well. I have loans and stuff to pay off. I don't want to lose my job."

Bond waited a moment. "You'll be okay, Sandy. I'm not out to wreck Dee Dee's little empire. But take my advice. Get out of there, fast. It's not good for you."

He hung up, angry. What the hell was he going to tell Robert Van Rennsburg? He owed the old man some sort of explanation, but he wouldn't like these answers. He wanted to leave the whole sorry saga alone. This was more a job for the vice squad. Again he wondered what on earth he'd got himself talked into. He went home via the Claremont and had some of the stiffest whiskies he'd drunk for years while losing five hundred on the turn of a wheel.

By the morning Bond had softened. When he telephoned Van Rennsburg, he offered a guarded account of his findings so far, leaving most of the sordid stuff out, but including all the mundane facts. Bond stressed he didn't think the girl was particularly interested in meeting anyone associated with her mother. Van Rennsburg offered to come with him if it would help. Bond hastily declined the offer. "Let me try again, Robert. I'll try to be more tactful."

Bond had ear marked one more possible opportunity to meet Gabriella, the winter show by the trendy fashion designers House of Holland. For the second year it was being held at Quaglino's and Bond was lucky enough to be on drinking terms with the maitre d'. Bond was pleased not have to dodge the assorted press outside the venue as he was ushered in through the kitchens. The music was as loud in here as it was in Sirocco. The fussily decorated tables had all been removed and replaced with a temporary foot-high catwalk stretching down the centre of the restaurant. The bright cream decor and the glass ceiling seemed remarkably subdued among the host of fashionistas filling the front rows. They included, Bond noted, Dee Dee, who looked like the lump she was amongst the slim stars. Of Gabriella there was no sign.

The show was predictably bizarre. House of Holland styled itself as so modern it hurt. But this year featured a series of retro designs, something that Bond seemed to feel suited the surroundings. Bond didn't care for fashion; it confused him. There were logo and slogan painted t-shirts, heavy army style trench coats, thigh high boots encased in fake animal skin, jumpers big enough for three people, stretch jeans without any buttons or flies and plastic raincoats. Bond lost interest almost as soon as the first of the beautiful models pouted at the bank of flashing bulbs. He was scanning the audience for a model of his own. Finally he saw her at the back of the restaurant. She was watching the parade from the cocktail bar, her face an impartial mask. There was a different man next to her. He was dark skinned, of African or West Indian abstraction. It took a few moments, but eventually Bond recognised him as the reality star he'd had the misfortune to meet at Calum's charity golf event. What was his name again? Bond mentally shook his head to decipher the memory. Clifton.

Bond made his way around the temporary tier of seats towards the bar. The music was blaring ever louder here and Bond winced under the aural onslaught. The girl was dressed in hipster jeans and a silver satin halter top, a pleasant surprise to Bond considering what he'd seen before. She looked more like the pretty every day women he normally saw than a goodtime girl out to attract attention. He didn't wait for a reason to meet Gabriella, but chose to approach her boldly, giving his best, most conciliatory smile.

"Hello," Bond said easily, "Another surprise."

The girl took a glance in his direction, without ever appearing to take her eyes from the catwalk display before her. "I'm sure. Are you following me, Mr Bond?"

"Certainly not. I admit our paths do seem to cross. I'm not remotely interested in you personally. I'm working for someone else. You just need to let me explain."

"Why should I do that?"

Bond sensed some agitation from her companion. There would be another scene if he wasn't careful. Not for the first time he considered his training with the service lacked the skill of social subtlety. Briefly, he thought about how to phrase it, but the words simply tumbled out. "There might be some money in it for you. If you want it."

She cocked her head towards him. She didn't say anything. The reality star looked across at Bond. He was a drinker, Bond knew that, he'd seen it at Deal, and he'd been on the sauce too much already tonight. The man's words were coherent, but slightly slurred in the drunkard's manner. "Why don't you piss off, dude? The bitch is mine tonight. You can't even afford her, you prick."

Bond felt his muscles tense. He was used to dealing with killers and assassins, whose words would wash across him. This was different. An insult from an upstart. He resisted the urge to deliver the lad a sharp cuff on the chin. There were too many people present, too many eyes, too many cameras. The time wasn't right, the object not worth the trouble. There was a shift in the girl's posture. She leant towards this Clifton-Creature, as if informing him where her interests lay; but her eyes swivelled towards Bond and betrayed her indifference.

The bodyguard's bulk arrived silently beside him. Bond cast him a glance. The edges of the skinhead's mouth formed a brief smile and Bond sensed the mutual respect. He'd seen how well Bond dealt with the photographer; he wouldn't want to fight. Instead the big man put his lips close to Bond's ear. "Time for you to go, Mister." Bond opened his mouth to object, but the big man carried on, whispering: "Trust me."

Bond went with the bodyguard towards the exit and the big man continued to talk. "You're a good man. Resourceful. These assholes. I hate 'em. Go to the Washington Hotel, Curzon Street. Room 28. Teach this idiot some manners from me, okay?"

Bond didn't wait for a second invitation. The Washington was a smart, functional four star hotel not far from Quaglino's. It was the kind of establishment Bond always believed was used for assignations of this sort. He bought an Evening Standard and sat in the bar, which had a view of the hotel lobby. Bond had read the paper from front to back and drunk three strong Martinis before he heard a tell-tale click-clack of high heels and a loud drunken, baying laugh that he recognised from two weeks ago. He gave no more than a second's glance to confirm Gabriella's arrival. She seemed to be as drunk as Clifton, or possibly, Bond suspected, high.

Bond waited ten minutes. He paid in cash for a bottle of the hotel's cheapest sparkling wine and asked for it to be sent to Room 28 with an ice bucket. Bond took the elevator upstairs and waited for the steward. When he arrived he took the wine, slipping the man a ten pound note, and said simply: "It's a surprise."

Bond wrapped on the door. "Service!"

He heard a startled and annoyed male voice. It seemed to be having a conversation with itself. Bond wrapped again and ducked his head a little so he couldn't be seen through the spy hole. Clifton's voice came through the door: "We haven't ordered anything, man."

"From the management. For Miss Gabriella."

"Okaaaay, tops, man. One moment, dude."

Bond heard the lock being shifted. The door opened half way, revealing an almost naked Clifton, a bath towel wrapped around his waist. Bond caught sight of the clear signs of arousal under the fabric. Clifton didn't recognise him. Good, thought Bond and launched himself into the room, forcing the startled man backwards. Bond slammed the door shut behind him.

"What the f~"

Bond hit him flush on the jaw with a short right jab. Clifton cried out, staggering back and nearly tripping over a pile of discarded clothes. Bond tidily placed the ice bucket on the tableau desk. Clifton stumbled forward, choosing to launch a counter attack, but Bond evaded his haymaker and wheeled around, the bottle raised in his hand. Clifton put up an arm to protect himself, but the bottle smashed into a thousand pieces as it exploded over his shoulder. He closed his eyes to protect them from the fizz and the glass. In those few moments of blindness, Bond hit him again, a swift upper cut that cracked the jaw and knocked out a gold front tooth. Blood spurted out of Clifton's mouth and he fell to the floor, emitting another yelp of alarm. Bond didn't care. His blood was up. He ruthlessly kicked out twice at the torso beneath him and it wailed once, then groaned in stifled agony.

"Stay there, you bastard," Bond, pumped up with the fight, turned to the king size bed, expecting to argue with Gabriella. But the girl, as beautiful in her nakedness as Bond had imagined, sat still and dumb, cross legged. Her bottom lip trembled and her body started to shake.

"Mum......"

Bond stopped. The girl seemed to be in some sort of trance. Booze? Drugs? Epilepsy? A kinky thing, like tantric sex? He passed his hand in front of her face and then touched her shoulder. Gabriella jumped and screamed. Her voice sounded like that of a child.

"Mum! No! Mum! Stop it! Stop it!"

She cried huge tears that ran down her cheeks like rivers, into her open mouth. Bond took hold of her shoulders and shook her, but the shouting continued. He slapped her, once, very hard across the face. The girl fell sideways, corkscrewing onto the bed. Her body continued to be wracked with huge sobs, but she stopped screaming.

Bond ignored the man, who was crawling across the floor towards the bathroom, and looked around the floor for the girl's things. Her hand bag was open on the desk, packets of unused contraceptives on the top. He put her tiny strapless shoes in it. There was a discarded bathrobe over the back of one of the chairs. Bond wrapped the girl in it, slipping her arms into the sleeves and pulling the cord tight. She didn't resist.

"Can you walk?" he asked, urgently. She barely nodded. Bond collected her clothes. He heaved her to her feet and walked her to the door. Bond cast a final threatening look at the frightened huddle that was Clifton, then took the girl out of the room and to the elevator. It wasn't the simplest of journeys through the lobby, but Bond got through it on energy and authority. The concierge got him a taxi in extra quick time.

Bond had no where to take her except his flat. By the time the black cab pulled up outside his residence on the little square just off the King's Road, the girl was fast asleep. He carried her up the stairs in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder, and prayed none of his neighbours, who were an awfully nosey lot, had seen them. Bond put her in his bed, removing the robe and tacitly admiring her naked body, before tucking her in under the single sheet. He telephoned the night watchman at the office. He wouldn't be coming to work tomorrow; a slight chill. As he did every night before he retiring, Bond took a quick look through the front window of his flat. Across the road Bond saw an unfamiliar silver Mercedes R-Class. A large figure was hunched awkwardly in the driver's seat. It looked like there would be two men having an uncomfortable night's sleep.

Bond woke up stiff from his sleep on the sofa. He showered, put on a fresh shirt and a pair of day old jeans. The Mercedes was still there. He went outside and approached the vehicle. Inside it sat the familiar bulk of the girl's body guard. He was already awake. The electric window smoothly descended as Bond approached.

"You're more loyal than I expected," said Bond, "Gabriella's fine. But she won't need your services today. Maybe not for some time."

The man nodded. He said, almost with regret: "Take care of her, sir. I couldn't." The window slid back up and the man drove away without a second look.

The girl didn't rouse until almost eleven. Bond heard her footfalls as she padded into the bathroom. He'd left a clean towel for her. Bond made a fresh coffee and waited for her in the kitchen. When she appeared she still wore the bathrobe, pulled tight around her, but nothing else, not even any make up. Bond thought she looked fresh and re-vitalised, although her body language was wary. He gestured to the seat opposite him and poured her some coffee. He pushed the milk jug and sugar bowl towards her.

After a long silence, she daintily she sipped the steaming brew. "Am I supposed to thank you?"

"That depends if I deserve to be thanked. I'm not entirely sure what I've done."

"Lost me some good money."

"No doubt," Bond paused, searching for words. "You had quite a turn last night."

"Did I? I don't really remember. How did I get here, James? It is James isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. But what do I call you? Gabrielle or Paige? Or is it Laura?"

"Or Susan. Sometimes even I don't know who I am."

"You do seem to have some troubles."

"I went to a doctor once. A specialist. He said I have multiple personalities."

She surprised Bond by admitting to her problem so easily. Multiple Personality Disorder was a rare psychological condition, an acute sickness, often, but not always, caused by childhood trauma. The major symptom is a person's ability to dissociate themselves from events, allowing alternate personas to materialise. Bond had probably witnessed such an event at the hotel. Gabriella may not have been the worst of sufferers, but M.P.D. would explain her erratic behaviour. Bond also wondered about her mother's behaviour. He'd read it could be genetic.

"Is that the reason for all the drink and drugs?" ventured Bond, "I read some of the stories about you in the papers. Are you trying to suppress it?"

Her face fell and she sunk her head into her shoulders. It was a resigned posture. Defeated, she grimaced in confusion. "Maybe. Yes. Probably. I don't know."

"Why were you calling for you mother last night?"

"I don't even know who my mother was. She died so long ago. I was a little girl." She looked at Bond with those sapphire eyes, wet with the onslaught of more tears.

"But you do remember something about her," said Bond, "You were calling for her, telling her to stop."

The tears started to come. "Please, I don't want to talk about it."

"But you have to talk to somebody, Gabriella, or you'll drive yourself mad."

"Aren't I already mad, James?" she asked desperately.

"I don't think you're mad," reassured Bond, "But you need professional help. And maybe a little time away from 1stKlass. And the camera lens. Time for yourself."

"But that's my life. That's who I am. It's who I've decided to be."

"I don't believe that," Bond said harshly, "I think you're lying to yourself. You're hiding the truth. You don't really care what happens to you, or what happened to your mother."

"Stop it." Her reply was quiet, shallow, afraid.

"Why, Gabriella? Why should I stop asking questions about Paige and Laura and your mother?" He leaned over the table, for effect, palms down, his face close to hers. He continued urgently, "There was a little girl crying last night and I want to know about her. Why was Paige calling for her mother?"

The girl sat back, scared. She wiped her wet cheeks with the sleeve of the bath robe. After another long pause, she took a deep breath and slowly started to talk.

"I was asleep upstairs in the little house by the river. And that bearded man came around, an older man. I knew it was him because they always shouted when he was there. He was something to do with Mum, a friend, a lover, maybe. He always wanted to see me, but Mum wouldn't let him. Twice he tried to take me away and they fought and I screamed so hard until Mum got me back. I was always frightened. This time they shouted so much and I was so scared for Mum. I hid at the top of the stairs where I could see. I didn't want anything to happen to her." The girl paused and Bond nodded encouragement. He handed her a clean tissue from his jeans pocket and she blew her nose, all the time looking at him. Her face began to take on its customary, vacant stare.

"She tried to make him leave, but they had another fight. She was trying to hit him with a bottle but he took it from her and then he hit her," Suddenly she cried out, her voice changing to the tone Bond had heard last night, high and child-like: "Mummy...."

Bond reached forward and clasped Gabriella's hand. "Go on."

"She'd hit her head. She was so still. I wanted to see her. So I came down the stairs. The man looked at me. He looked like a ghost. So pale. So shocked. I didn't say anything, but he said Mummy would be all right and I was to go to bed. I wouldn't go and he had to carry me upstairs, but I struggled and struggled. I was really scared for Mummy, but he shut the door and I couldn't reach the handle. I cried and cried and cried, but nobody heard me. And all the time it was getting hotter and hotter. And then there was smoke. And I was crying and coughing. I couldn't understand why Mummy wasn't there. It was all so dark. And then I was safe. In a room. A big white room with strangers in it. And cuddly toys. And flowers. And nurses telling me what a beautiful little girl I was. No one told me about Mummy and I didn't know where she was. I tried to ask about the man, but no one wanted to listen to me. I really tried. I really did."

"But you stopped trying?"

"Mummy didn't come back. No one was interested in me. I was sent to a horrible school. It was torture. I didn't want to be Paige any longer. She died in that fire."

The girl collapsed forward sobbing. The effort seemed to have exhausted her. Bond reached out a hand and soothed the girl's hair while her head and body shook with the sorrow and fear of a wretched memory.

After a long time, she calmed down enough for Bond to leave her alone. He made a call to Sir James Moloney. He was an old friend of Bond's, a semi-retired psychotherapist. The service used him to help recuperate shell shocked and doped agents. Bond had visited him often, for reassurance more than anything else. Sir James listened to Bond's brief story and, although it wasn't procedure, he said he'd find a room for her at the clinic. Bond trusted Sir James. There was no need to tell him this was a strictly private matter.

Bond took the girl down to The Park himself. Sir James was friendly and reassuring, offering tea and sandwiches in his big comfortable sitting room. He kindly asked Gabriella to repeat the story she had told that morning and the girl did so quietly, with none of the melodrama Bond had endured. With Sir James prompting, she revealed a little more, describing how Laura had helped her through a spate of bullying at school and how Katie allowed her to enjoy sex. Gabriella had started life at the beginning of her modelling career when she needed someone else to strip naked. After almost an hour, and sensing the strain was beginning to tell on the girl, Sir James stood up and ordered fresh tea and cakes.

Gabriella's case was not extraordinary, he concluded, and he could certainly help her. Multiple Personality Disorder was still a controversial subject, being a recent, culture-specific syndrome. Many experts considered it an extreme form of post traumatic stress. The vast majority of sufferers are female, possibly affected by sustained child abuse. The distinctive feature of M.P.D. was the emergence of alternate personalities, each one dissociated from the others and past events, and Gabriella certainly suffered from this. Her personalities were distinct individuals, with their own histories and habits, all unrelated to her true personality. Any stressful or traumatic experience triggers the re-emergence of the dissociated parts of her mind.

"This is quite normal," Sir James said, "But most curiously, my dear, you also seem to be living whole periods of your life as these 'alternates'. That is not so normal."

Bond was sitting next to the girl on a beaten up leather sofa. She looked more normal and more beautiful than he had ever seen her. The pretentions of glamour had gone and she sat simply, delicately, and prudently at ease, her long legs tucked underneath her. She listened intently to Sir James as he explained the long procedure ahead, how they will unravel her 'alternates', treating each one until they could be consolidated into a new integrated personality. She would be well looked after and safe at The Park. The secluded Georgian mansion was so secret, the girl wouldn't be disturbed here by any of the press or her associates, but it would be a long hard struggle. The girl seemed to recognise this and looked forlornly at Bond as he left her in Sir James' care. This was the best place for her right now, he knew that, and it wouldn't do to have him hanging around. Bond promised he would come back to see her and he meant it, but now there were other things on his mind.

Initially, he telephoned 1stKlass and was surprised to find it was Dee Dee who answered the phone. Sandy apparently had heeded his advice.

"What do you want now, Mr Bond?" Dee Dee said brusquely.

"I just wanted to tell you that Gabriella is taking a holiday." Bond got an earful of abuse. "No," he said, "I can't tell you where she is or when she will be back. It won't be any time soon. Goodbye."

Finally Bond drove down to Tunbridge Wells. It was another beautiful summer's day, much like the one Bond had enjoyed when he had first embarked on this saga. He cast his mind back to that fateful round of golf and how relaxed and at ease the celebrities had been. Bond wondered how many, like Clifton and Van Rennsburg, had secrets they kept hidden from the prying eyes of the press. Celebrities were not how Bond remembered them. He recalled again that halcyon day of golf between Watson and Nicklaus and thought how unspoilt it was. There was no sullying of reputations then. The public didn't clamour for scandal, while journalists and photographers didn't always provide it. The public seemed to own the rich and famous now; everything was in their interest. Nothing, it appeared, was in the interest of those under the camera's scrutiny.

Satchel answered the door to the lodge with a broad toothy grin, but it was wiped clean by Bond's stern expression. Van Rennsburg was in the conservatory, lighting a thin Puerto Rican cigar. Bond smelt the richness of vanilla amongst the tobacco. He sat down and declined a drink or a cigar. Van Rennsburg was looking older than when Bond had last seen him. His face was sunken, hollow, his beard unkempt. His chest heaved up and down with each breath, a procedure that seemed to be agonising for the old man.

"James, how are you? I hope you have some good news for me."

Bond thought about the evening he'd spent in this man's company, the stories they had shared and the offer that had been made. Bond should never have got involved. He looked at the dying face in front of him. How much longer did he have to live? Perhaps only a few weeks. The experts had told him he wouldn't see out Christmas. Was it guilt that had driven him to look for the girl? Did he want to admit to a killing? Perhaps he couldn't hide it any more. Bond didn't want to know. This wasn't only about Van Rennsburg anymore, it was about Paige Constantine or the woman she chose to become, the famous Gabriella who lived her life for the camera lens.

"I'm afraid I don't, Robert," Bond said with a resigned air. "I found the girl, yes. I met her three times. But she doesn't want anything to do with you."

Van Rennsburg nodded a little and sucked on his cigar. He gave a gentle "Aah" but made no other comment.

"I hope everything goes well for you," continued Bond, "I understand this is a hard time for you, Robert. I'm sorry I can't help you any more." He stood up to leave, but pointedly did not extend his hand in farewell.

Van Rennsburg looked up at him, the eyes flickered once. Bond thought there was a brief moment of recognition, similar to the one he'd seen on the golf course. "Did she say anything about me, James?"

"Yes," Bond lied, "She said you can go to hell. Or something worse."