A Spy's Heart Never Bleeds
A James Bond Thriller
By Jacob Shaw
Part One-Blast from the Past
II. | ``Rheinländische Küche´´, Mr. Bond
James Bond's palate demanded more of the Kölsch, and he drank down the local brew without hesitation. He supposed that he'd started to drink less in his times, at least before visiting Bonn, Germany. Now it was the Bond of old, the man whose veracity for women was only equaled by his hunger for smokes and drinks. Bond remembered Shrublands, that quiet spa where the tempting allure of healthy living had made Bond rethink his position on life, and had caused him to become as much of a living machine as a working one. He had felt good, to be sure, with the diet and vegetables.
Only the life of a spy, particularly 'this' spy, demanded a bit more than the diets and non-nicotine cigarettes could provide. Bond had realized that he wasn't an alcoholic, not yet anyway, and until he absolutely lost the control over those dandy bottles, he would continue to drink. Matinees would be in order if he were in a completely high mood, and whisky if he was down in the dumps. It seemed these days, James Bond was down often. His treasured housekeeper, May, whom had looked after him for more years than Bond had fingers, had finally gone on and died, the poor woman. May, who had refused to called him sir, but instead added "-s" to ending of most the commanding words. She was perhaps the most precious woman he'd ever known, and he'd gone to the bat for her, taking off as much time as he could to be by her side in her final days. Damned life, it was never easy on the people who needed it to be.
Bond sat in Zum Gequetschten, a rather expensive, though highly lauded eatery. He had ordered Pfifferlinge (fried mushrooms and scrambled eggs), with a side of Rheinländische Sauerbraten´´ (a sweet-sour marinated veal stew served with apple sauce). The chef was sure taking his time cooking the stuff up, and in the boring minutes that followed the order, Bond had downed three small cylinders of Kölsch (he positively enjoyed the stuff), and upon seeing an American couple receive their food, and having realized that they had ordered three whole minutes after him, he ordered a fourth cup with a annoying grunt. The waiter took the remark to heart, and understanding that his tip was in jeopardy, immediately ran back to the kitchen to check the status of the order.
Two minutes later, his breakfast was served. The food came in healthy proportions, and it was far in excess of what Bond was sure he could eat, having downed the local brew. Damned Germany, it weighed on him. He hated the place; didn't enjoy being there one bit. The customs, the language, the people, they were so bloody different than good London, and while the British had made it his life to travel abroad, unlike with Japan, Russia, or even America, he'd never found solace in Germany. Never. It was his continual nemesis when it came to the missions, and though he was mostly successful there, everything seemed to come at more of a price.
Like his current mission. Not two days in Germany and already his eyes were heavy. It was a fatigue of the mind, and it showed on his face. Being in Germany was like wading through heavy mud; it was never easy, and it weighed on a person to the point of exhaustion. One particular annoyance was that Bond could never feel comfortable wearing his Brioni suits in Germany; the people simply stared too hard. So Bond had taken to wearing the silly attire that he saw around him, which mostly consisted of suede vests and tight slacks. Even his hats seemed out of style, and the result was a less than spectacular Bond who was walking the streets.
Walter M. Scott, head of Section 'G', had tried to quell Bond's un- enthusiasm for the country.
"These Germans have a rich history, James. They've been quite the silly people in the past, but they do have their history."
Rubbish, Bond recollected.
Bond looked at the food again. Now he wasn't hungry at all. He looked at his wristwatch and saw that he was only three hours until he needed to move. Good, he though to himself. The quicker he got this over with, the faster he could get back to London. He wanted to visit May's grave again, wanted to put another flower or two down on the resting place of his beloved second Mother.
Bond summoned his waiter. Now Bond's face was a mask of displeasure.
"I shan't be needing this, I'm afraid. Took to long to bring it I imagine, and I've lost my appetite." Bond said, looking squarely into the waiter's eyes.
"I'm sorry if you're evening has been less than satisfactory. I would be happy to bring you another round of Kölsch, on the house." The waiter said, in thick, broken English.
"Yes. Yes that would be fine. But none of these silly cups. I would rather fancy a pint. Could you manage that?" Bond asked sarcastically.
"Yes, sir. A pint, on the house, coming right up."
A pint of the Kölsch would be good on his half empty stomach, making it a full stomach of the good stuff. And damned if he would tip the waiter. That man was lucky that Bond didn't file a complaint. Bond just as soon let the mess go. In three hours he would be required to get serious again. And hopefully in six, he'd be back in the comforting arms of London.
As it turned out, Bond didn't tip the waiter. Two hours later, and he was less irritable, though he stilled tired of Germany. Bonn, the capital of the country, was just that: country. The expanse of country was hard on the eyes, and for those reasons alone; Bond didn't want to bother with the Stadtbahn (light railway) that flowed through all of Bonn. Thankfully, Bond wouldn't be required to ride the over-ground rails for his interlude with. Richter Steinhaue, but would instead, with the cooperation of Section G, be taking a more expressway en-route.
"Cheer up James. I have to live here all year round. You're almost like a child who's messed with the wrong bee hive." Section G head, Walter M. Scott said, chiding 007.
"In that analogy, you're quite right. Everyday I'm here, I feel the pricking on my back. How the hell do you endure, Scott?" Bond asked while sighing.
"James Bond, loyal servant of her Majesty, asking me how the hell I endure. How do we all? Because we're required to, that's how. How else could you explain all you've done, and why you've done it?"
"Yes, but I've only been here three days. You've been here a lifetime. I rather believe that you are living in a place suitably comparable to hell, and you can have it, Scott." Bond said.
They were in Stadtbahn station DT, which stood for Deutsche Telekom Station. In Station DT, the underground railways parted, going all over the countryside. The train they were after was the Stadtbahn out of Reinaue, which started above ground and connected with the DT station, and later went on to the station supporting the foreign ministry of Bonne, station Bundesrechnungshof/ Auswär tiges Amt. Station B/AT was solely for the members of the German Foreign Ministry. This secret line was run by railway systems in direct control of the Ministry, who had equipment to handle such a job. They used their command to separate the lines at Station B/AT, and civilian trains were shifted to separate, less stable lines, and the important trains, which carried their members, moved deeper under the ground into more prestigious stations that served all of Germany.
This was the secret railway used by the higher powers of Germany, and all members of the government were obliged to use the system. The system became known as the Iron Works, and secret as it's riders may have hoped it would be, Section G had knowledge of the secret rails, and even used them from time to time.
To do so, they used a Railway Slurp. The slurp was a typical Stadtbahn rail car that was tuned in to the Iron Works secret signals. These signals were only sent to, and received from, specified cars, and the slurps were set up to mimic the secret cars. Thus being so, as long as one had the schedules for the trains, one could ride to and from on the secret lines to anywhere in the country. One could even ride up into the basement of the Foreign Ministry.
In order to make use of the lines, and slurps, Section G had to construct a station of their own, a place where they could offload the undercover trains. It had been blazingly hard to do so under the ever watchful German eye, and it had been slow, hard work. It had, in fact, taken near three years to get underway, but when it was finally finished, it worked like a charm. Agents from Section G used the lines to spy on the Ministry, and they used the slurp system to track all trains and all members aboard them. As long as a person used the Iron Works, they could readily found.
Now, Bond was being asked to use the system in order to take out a man named Richter Steinhaue. Steinhaue was an ex-Section G secretary who was attempting to buy his way into the German government. Unfortunate for Section G, Steinhaue was planning to use the information of the Iron Works as his collateral. Section G was sure to loose a vast amount of power in the region with the loss of their Slurp system. The heads of the Ministry already knew about the system; phone taps had proved as much. Luckily, Steinhaue, being a semi-smart man, had not yet divulged the location of Section G's hindering system. He wanted in before he gave the goods, which was what he was preparing to do on that day, in half an hour's time.
The men and women of Section G are simply information collectors. They are not deft in the art of bloodshed, though they will kill a man if it need be. Her Majesty's Secret Service, quite pleased with the work being done by Section G, and wanting none of her key members to be soiled by the act of killing, decided to send in a man for whom death could elicit no more surprises.
That man was agent 007.
So Bond was being asked to slip aboard the incoming train, kill the secretary, and slip back off before the train reached Bundesrechnungshof/ Auswär tiges Amt.
A simple conquest, but a bit unwieldy, as Bond was soon to find out.
The problem was simply that Steinhaue didn't know he was being set up for the kill. He had no clue of it. Unknown to him, all of Section G was monitored by its head, Scott, and every phone in their homes as well. So they knew what Steinhaue was planning, but because they were absolved of the killing part, they needed a plan for someone else to be encased within the immediate company of Steinhaue and without raising suspicion just long enough for the target to be killed. Steinhaue, having intimate knowledge with the Slurp system, had gone on and signed out a train for himself, set up the workings, and was coming in on that train as they worked. It was a one-man cart, and Bond would need a way onto it.
"Of course, he won't be stopping here. That would be too easy, James." Scott chided.
"This is silly. Simply stop the car at this station, leave if you must, and I'll handle the rest. Why all this nonsense? The mission doesn't call for it." Bond said, staring at the wet suit in the corner of the office.
"Because it might not be as easy as that. This guy doesn't know we're on to him, but who's to say he doesn't have escorts anyway? Or a gun? We stop that train here and he could spread the lot of it with enough bullets to warrant an investigation. I have my orders, James. It must be done in between here and the capital office."
"How long do you suppose it takes to shoot a man? Really, this will be short work. Quick and to the point. Just make sure you have my passports in order." Bond said, becoming annoyed again. "And be bloody sure my pick-up is waiting."
"James, James. How you hate this country! And to think, I was sure 007 loved all the countries like he loved his women: as different as night and day, but each ever so sweet." Scott laughed a hearty laugh.
Bond was not in the least bit amused.
A James Bond Thriller
By Jacob Shaw
Part One-Blast from the Past
II. | ``Rheinländische Küche´´, Mr. Bond
James Bond's palate demanded more of the Kölsch, and he drank down the local brew without hesitation. He supposed that he'd started to drink less in his times, at least before visiting Bonn, Germany. Now it was the Bond of old, the man whose veracity for women was only equaled by his hunger for smokes and drinks. Bond remembered Shrublands, that quiet spa where the tempting allure of healthy living had made Bond rethink his position on life, and had caused him to become as much of a living machine as a working one. He had felt good, to be sure, with the diet and vegetables.
Only the life of a spy, particularly 'this' spy, demanded a bit more than the diets and non-nicotine cigarettes could provide. Bond had realized that he wasn't an alcoholic, not yet anyway, and until he absolutely lost the control over those dandy bottles, he would continue to drink. Matinees would be in order if he were in a completely high mood, and whisky if he was down in the dumps. It seemed these days, James Bond was down often. His treasured housekeeper, May, whom had looked after him for more years than Bond had fingers, had finally gone on and died, the poor woman. May, who had refused to called him sir, but instead added "-s" to ending of most the commanding words. She was perhaps the most precious woman he'd ever known, and he'd gone to the bat for her, taking off as much time as he could to be by her side in her final days. Damned life, it was never easy on the people who needed it to be.
Bond sat in Zum Gequetschten, a rather expensive, though highly lauded eatery. He had ordered Pfifferlinge (fried mushrooms and scrambled eggs), with a side of Rheinländische Sauerbraten´´ (a sweet-sour marinated veal stew served with apple sauce). The chef was sure taking his time cooking the stuff up, and in the boring minutes that followed the order, Bond had downed three small cylinders of Kölsch (he positively enjoyed the stuff), and upon seeing an American couple receive their food, and having realized that they had ordered three whole minutes after him, he ordered a fourth cup with a annoying grunt. The waiter took the remark to heart, and understanding that his tip was in jeopardy, immediately ran back to the kitchen to check the status of the order.
Two minutes later, his breakfast was served. The food came in healthy proportions, and it was far in excess of what Bond was sure he could eat, having downed the local brew. Damned Germany, it weighed on him. He hated the place; didn't enjoy being there one bit. The customs, the language, the people, they were so bloody different than good London, and while the British had made it his life to travel abroad, unlike with Japan, Russia, or even America, he'd never found solace in Germany. Never. It was his continual nemesis when it came to the missions, and though he was mostly successful there, everything seemed to come at more of a price.
Like his current mission. Not two days in Germany and already his eyes were heavy. It was a fatigue of the mind, and it showed on his face. Being in Germany was like wading through heavy mud; it was never easy, and it weighed on a person to the point of exhaustion. One particular annoyance was that Bond could never feel comfortable wearing his Brioni suits in Germany; the people simply stared too hard. So Bond had taken to wearing the silly attire that he saw around him, which mostly consisted of suede vests and tight slacks. Even his hats seemed out of style, and the result was a less than spectacular Bond who was walking the streets.
Walter M. Scott, head of Section 'G', had tried to quell Bond's un- enthusiasm for the country.
"These Germans have a rich history, James. They've been quite the silly people in the past, but they do have their history."
Rubbish, Bond recollected.
Bond looked at the food again. Now he wasn't hungry at all. He looked at his wristwatch and saw that he was only three hours until he needed to move. Good, he though to himself. The quicker he got this over with, the faster he could get back to London. He wanted to visit May's grave again, wanted to put another flower or two down on the resting place of his beloved second Mother.
Bond summoned his waiter. Now Bond's face was a mask of displeasure.
"I shan't be needing this, I'm afraid. Took to long to bring it I imagine, and I've lost my appetite." Bond said, looking squarely into the waiter's eyes.
"I'm sorry if you're evening has been less than satisfactory. I would be happy to bring you another round of Kölsch, on the house." The waiter said, in thick, broken English.
"Yes. Yes that would be fine. But none of these silly cups. I would rather fancy a pint. Could you manage that?" Bond asked sarcastically.
"Yes, sir. A pint, on the house, coming right up."
A pint of the Kölsch would be good on his half empty stomach, making it a full stomach of the good stuff. And damned if he would tip the waiter. That man was lucky that Bond didn't file a complaint. Bond just as soon let the mess go. In three hours he would be required to get serious again. And hopefully in six, he'd be back in the comforting arms of London.
As it turned out, Bond didn't tip the waiter. Two hours later, and he was less irritable, though he stilled tired of Germany. Bonn, the capital of the country, was just that: country. The expanse of country was hard on the eyes, and for those reasons alone; Bond didn't want to bother with the Stadtbahn (light railway) that flowed through all of Bonn. Thankfully, Bond wouldn't be required to ride the over-ground rails for his interlude with. Richter Steinhaue, but would instead, with the cooperation of Section G, be taking a more expressway en-route.
"Cheer up James. I have to live here all year round. You're almost like a child who's messed with the wrong bee hive." Section G head, Walter M. Scott said, chiding 007.
"In that analogy, you're quite right. Everyday I'm here, I feel the pricking on my back. How the hell do you endure, Scott?" Bond asked while sighing.
"James Bond, loyal servant of her Majesty, asking me how the hell I endure. How do we all? Because we're required to, that's how. How else could you explain all you've done, and why you've done it?"
"Yes, but I've only been here three days. You've been here a lifetime. I rather believe that you are living in a place suitably comparable to hell, and you can have it, Scott." Bond said.
They were in Stadtbahn station DT, which stood for Deutsche Telekom Station. In Station DT, the underground railways parted, going all over the countryside. The train they were after was the Stadtbahn out of Reinaue, which started above ground and connected with the DT station, and later went on to the station supporting the foreign ministry of Bonne, station Bundesrechnungshof/ Auswär tiges Amt. Station B/AT was solely for the members of the German Foreign Ministry. This secret line was run by railway systems in direct control of the Ministry, who had equipment to handle such a job. They used their command to separate the lines at Station B/AT, and civilian trains were shifted to separate, less stable lines, and the important trains, which carried their members, moved deeper under the ground into more prestigious stations that served all of Germany.
This was the secret railway used by the higher powers of Germany, and all members of the government were obliged to use the system. The system became known as the Iron Works, and secret as it's riders may have hoped it would be, Section G had knowledge of the secret rails, and even used them from time to time.
To do so, they used a Railway Slurp. The slurp was a typical Stadtbahn rail car that was tuned in to the Iron Works secret signals. These signals were only sent to, and received from, specified cars, and the slurps were set up to mimic the secret cars. Thus being so, as long as one had the schedules for the trains, one could ride to and from on the secret lines to anywhere in the country. One could even ride up into the basement of the Foreign Ministry.
In order to make use of the lines, and slurps, Section G had to construct a station of their own, a place where they could offload the undercover trains. It had been blazingly hard to do so under the ever watchful German eye, and it had been slow, hard work. It had, in fact, taken near three years to get underway, but when it was finally finished, it worked like a charm. Agents from Section G used the lines to spy on the Ministry, and they used the slurp system to track all trains and all members aboard them. As long as a person used the Iron Works, they could readily found.
Now, Bond was being asked to use the system in order to take out a man named Richter Steinhaue. Steinhaue was an ex-Section G secretary who was attempting to buy his way into the German government. Unfortunate for Section G, Steinhaue was planning to use the information of the Iron Works as his collateral. Section G was sure to loose a vast amount of power in the region with the loss of their Slurp system. The heads of the Ministry already knew about the system; phone taps had proved as much. Luckily, Steinhaue, being a semi-smart man, had not yet divulged the location of Section G's hindering system. He wanted in before he gave the goods, which was what he was preparing to do on that day, in half an hour's time.
The men and women of Section G are simply information collectors. They are not deft in the art of bloodshed, though they will kill a man if it need be. Her Majesty's Secret Service, quite pleased with the work being done by Section G, and wanting none of her key members to be soiled by the act of killing, decided to send in a man for whom death could elicit no more surprises.
That man was agent 007.
So Bond was being asked to slip aboard the incoming train, kill the secretary, and slip back off before the train reached Bundesrechnungshof/ Auswär tiges Amt.
A simple conquest, but a bit unwieldy, as Bond was soon to find out.
The problem was simply that Steinhaue didn't know he was being set up for the kill. He had no clue of it. Unknown to him, all of Section G was monitored by its head, Scott, and every phone in their homes as well. So they knew what Steinhaue was planning, but because they were absolved of the killing part, they needed a plan for someone else to be encased within the immediate company of Steinhaue and without raising suspicion just long enough for the target to be killed. Steinhaue, having intimate knowledge with the Slurp system, had gone on and signed out a train for himself, set up the workings, and was coming in on that train as they worked. It was a one-man cart, and Bond would need a way onto it.
"Of course, he won't be stopping here. That would be too easy, James." Scott chided.
"This is silly. Simply stop the car at this station, leave if you must, and I'll handle the rest. Why all this nonsense? The mission doesn't call for it." Bond said, staring at the wet suit in the corner of the office.
"Because it might not be as easy as that. This guy doesn't know we're on to him, but who's to say he doesn't have escorts anyway? Or a gun? We stop that train here and he could spread the lot of it with enough bullets to warrant an investigation. I have my orders, James. It must be done in between here and the capital office."
"How long do you suppose it takes to shoot a man? Really, this will be short work. Quick and to the point. Just make sure you have my passports in order." Bond said, becoming annoyed again. "And be bloody sure my pick-up is waiting."
"James, James. How you hate this country! And to think, I was sure 007 loved all the countries like he loved his women: as different as night and day, but each ever so sweet." Scott laughed a hearty laugh.
Bond was not in the least bit amused.