Beyond The Call
By Ronson Starring Ian Fleming's James Bond - Agent 007
Chapter One
The morning sun poured down on the rush-hour traffic along the Thames Embankment, the bright rays reflecting from the water onto the clean façade of the MI6 building. The beige three-tone interiors of the new M's office appeared brighter in places as the sunlight came through the small neatly placed windows. The former British Army logistics man had being talking to the well dressed, dark haired man for some time now, occasionally stopping to push his always-slipping glasses back up his slightly red nose.
"And as you well know my predecessor ran a tight-ship here, something which I do, of course, wish to continue in the same fashion." His slightly bald and greying hair moved slightly as the air conditioning automatically adjusted itself in the rising summer temperatures' that had being gripping London.
"Of course," responded the well-suited gentleman.
"Well that aside," continued the new spy-master, "I've reviewed your file and everything seems to be in order, so thank-you for your time, 004."
"Thank-you Sir." The agent got up from the plush grey leather chair, turned, then headed through the sliding panel double doors. He continued through Miss Moneypenny's office into the executive foyer.
"So who does that leave Miss Moneypenny?" M's commanding tone spouted from the intercom on Moneypenny's desk, she flicked the return switch.
"003 and 007, Sir," replied the ever efficient secretary.
"Progress on either?" enquired M.
"003 is still recuperating in New Delhi."
"And 007?"
"He'll be in this afternoon Sir, he's just finishing up in Paris."
The Parisian Streets too were bathed in sunshine but the rush-hour had been and gone. Indeed it was the season of holiday in France and the tourist hotspots were brimming with life. Outside the Paris Hilton many concierges' and patrons could be seen handling luggage and paying due taxi fares. Suite 16 of the Hilton was both sumptuous and spacious, carefully decorated in sky-blue pastels with a crème/white trim. "It's nearly time," a pretty brunette, with her distinct French accent looked onto the street below through mini-binoculars.
"Two or three minutes perhaps," a distinctly English reply came from the other side of the room. James Bond stood in front of the body-length mirror tucking his white shirt into his grey trousers, following up by putting on his navy blue tie and shoulder holster.
"And when this is over we can spend some time together perhaps?" Asked the half-dressed French girl, her towelling robe slipping at the left shoulder.
"There's no perhaps about it," said Bond as he walked around the double bed towards the girl at the window, "no perhaps at all Lucille." He kissed her shoulder and corrected the robe.
"Should anything happen," Lucille looked up from the street and glanced towards an open laptop on the dressing table, "my password is pleasure."
"Of course it is," quipped Bond, "but this is just routine darling, you've nothing to worry about." He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out his Walther P99 he slipped it into his shoulder holster. "Besides, we'll be dining in London by tonight." Bond enthused as Lucille looked back onto the street below.
Then she saw them, Randolph and Edwin Tudor. "Time for action Commander!" exclaimed Lucille as she turned to Bond. He went over, gently kissed Lucille, grabbed his grey blazer from the back of her chair and headed for the door. "Don't forget your cue," Lucille picked up a three foot by two- inch square case that was propped against the radiator by the window.
"Thanks," said Bond as took hold of the case, "I'd be lost without you Lucille," the French girl blushed slightly then returned to her surveillance. "See you soon," called Bond as the door closed behind him. As he left the suite Bond observed the corridors of the Hilton; they were almost empty but for the pretty looking maid in her neatly pressed all- whites, her blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail; an arguing couple waiting for the elevator. Bond took the stairs, collected a copy of Le Monde from the lobby and headed outside. He immediately spotted the Tudors' chauffeur driven Mercedes saloon darting out in front of a tram and into the main highway.
Bond hailed a taxi, "Ou a monsieur?" asked the stubble-faced driver.
"Follow the Merc," Bond pointed as he got into the taxi, "we're going to Le Seniors Billiards Club."
As the taxi motored through the busy mid-morning traffic Bond observed the saloon which was some four or five cars ahead of them. He had, at times, an almost clear view of the Tudor brothers; Randolph, the elder of the two was in his late fifties. A well educated man he had specialised in chemistry but was let down by his penchant for backing the wrong horse. Edwin, some 15 years younger than his brother had a huge passion for architecture, parting with many of his family heirlooms to pay for exquisite properties, most of which were in Mediterranean Europe. They looked similar; both well tanned with the same greying of the temples, though Edwin appeared somewhat more nervous or apprehensive than his brother, Bond thought. As well as their chauffeur their head of security, Glenn Thorpe, joined the two brothers. With his shaven head and facial scars he looked like his past, a former bare-knuckle fighter from London's East-End who'd impressed Randolph on a fight-card arranged by the older of the Tudors'. Bond watched as the brothers' Mercedes once again darted in front of a tram, this time to park in front of Le Seniors. "Here will do," said Bond as he leant forward towards the driver brandishing a 20-Euro note, "keep the change." He got out some 100 yards from the billiards club entrance and stood watching as the Tudors' and Thorpe went in.
The grandeur of Le Seniors matched that of the Hilton, Bond was impressed. "Nice, for a billiards club," Bond studied the reception area, cue case in one hand, his copy of Le Monde in the other. He tucked the newspaper into his right pocket and leant, left elbow first, on the reception counter. "The name's Bond, James Bond. I have a reservation." The young male receptionist tapped on his keyboard.
"Ah, oui monsieur Bond. But you have no partner?" the young lad looked up.
"No, I'm just here for some practice," replied Bond.
"I see," the receptionist smirked slightly looking into one of the shadowy corners of the reception, "Madame Cheri will show you to your room." An hourglass shadow moved across the oak-clad walls of the reception until Madame Cheri came into view, her green eyed gaze fixing on Bond. Her outfit was a combination of a stereotypical French maid and Can-Can girl. This didn't fuss Bond as he followed her gyrating hips up three flights of stairs to the private game rooms.
"A room with a view, as requested," said the hostess in her best attempt at natural sounding English. The huge oak door swung open revealing a full- size blue baize table at the centre of yet another oak-clad room.
"Perfect," responded Bond.
"And will that be all?" Madame Cheri's stern yet pretty features softened.
"That's all," said Bond as he gently placed several Euro notes into her cleavage, "just make sure I'm not disturbed." He shot a smirk at the girl; "I take my practice most seriously."
Once Bond was sure the hostess was gone he secured the door with one of the six red-leather lined chairs which were casually scattered around the room. He switched off the huge light fitting that hung above the billiards table. Then, without a second thought, the agent jumped up on the table and proceeded to unwire and remove the table light fitting, hood and all. He placed this onto the floor and jumped down. There was a pause for thought, then Bond pulled out the newspaper from his right pocket and lay the centrespread across the middle of the table. On top of this he placed one of the remaining red-leather chairs. Bond climbed back onto the table, then up onto the chair and started pushing one of the heavy, white, ceiling panels above him. The chair rocked slightly as he pushed on the ceiling panel, then he heard an awful tearing noise. He looked down uttering, "that's torn it," as he observed the not so immaculate table. "Oh well," Bond thought aloud and continued pushing through the panel. Once there was more than enough room for the agent to get into the hidden interior ceiling he once again jumped down from the table, this time collecting the black cue case he'd left on the chair blocking the door. Bond opened the case, unusually at one of the square ends, and pulled out something that appeared to look more like a fishing rod than a billiards cue. The rod like device was no longer than a foot in length, flat tipped at one end with a wire leading into the case at the other. Bond placed the rod on the table and tipped the case into his left hand. A coiled wire rolled out with a two- inch square box attached at the non-rod end. Bond put the box and coil into his right pocket and picked up the rod, placing its' flat tipped end also into his right pocket. He climbed back onto the table, then chair and this time into the interior roof.
As the agent crawled he had to make sure he stayed on the panel support rafters, a penlight between his teeth was also becoming uncomfortable. He knew any excess weight would lead to the ceiling collapsing, which would ultimately jeopardise the operation. He kept crawling until he was next to the ceiling panel near the far wall in the private room next to his. Intelligence gathered by Lucille, who was incidentally employed by MI6 via the French authorities, had identified this room as the venue for a summit between the Tudor brothers and a Ukrainian industrialist, Yillvgenny Barakov. Bond took the penlight from his mouth and propped it against one of the upraised rafters. He then pulled the black box from his pocket and flipped its' lid. Inside there was a small ear-piece and a small, but thick, corkscrew like device. He put the ear-piece in and then placed the corkscrew in the centre of the targeted panel. Rather than a handle the corkscrew had a small red button on the top of the metalwork, Bond pressed it. There was a quiet whirring sound than a quick shot of air, a perfect hole had been left for the flat tipped rod which Bond promptly inserted, careful to make sure only the first inch or so went through the hole. Bond looked back at the box and pressed a small blue button that had been exposed after the ear-piece and corkscrew had been removed from it.
"Well James," Bond cheered at the voice of Lucille in the earpiece, "it seems we've got the Tudor boys, their security man, Barakov and three backs turned. "The French girl was observing all from her laptop which had a direct digital link to the small black box, the rod like device being camera and microphone combined. "They're talking about an event, the old Tudor says 56 hours, Barakov seems to nod in agreement, says they'll travel to collect the equipment tonight but they won't arrive until the day." Lucille was breathing heavily, smoking Bond thought. She continued, "someone's phone is ringing."
Bond could just about hear it, "Beethoven's Midi Symphony," he pondered.
"It belongs to Barakov, he's passing it to Thorpe." Lucille watched Thorpe's dumb frown, "Thorpe listened then said 'you have authorisation.' Now he's dialled off."
By Ronson Starring Ian Fleming's James Bond - Agent 007
Chapter One
The morning sun poured down on the rush-hour traffic along the Thames Embankment, the bright rays reflecting from the water onto the clean façade of the MI6 building. The beige three-tone interiors of the new M's office appeared brighter in places as the sunlight came through the small neatly placed windows. The former British Army logistics man had being talking to the well dressed, dark haired man for some time now, occasionally stopping to push his always-slipping glasses back up his slightly red nose.
"And as you well know my predecessor ran a tight-ship here, something which I do, of course, wish to continue in the same fashion." His slightly bald and greying hair moved slightly as the air conditioning automatically adjusted itself in the rising summer temperatures' that had being gripping London.
"Of course," responded the well-suited gentleman.
"Well that aside," continued the new spy-master, "I've reviewed your file and everything seems to be in order, so thank-you for your time, 004."
"Thank-you Sir." The agent got up from the plush grey leather chair, turned, then headed through the sliding panel double doors. He continued through Miss Moneypenny's office into the executive foyer.
"So who does that leave Miss Moneypenny?" M's commanding tone spouted from the intercom on Moneypenny's desk, she flicked the return switch.
"003 and 007, Sir," replied the ever efficient secretary.
"Progress on either?" enquired M.
"003 is still recuperating in New Delhi."
"And 007?"
"He'll be in this afternoon Sir, he's just finishing up in Paris."
The Parisian Streets too were bathed in sunshine but the rush-hour had been and gone. Indeed it was the season of holiday in France and the tourist hotspots were brimming with life. Outside the Paris Hilton many concierges' and patrons could be seen handling luggage and paying due taxi fares. Suite 16 of the Hilton was both sumptuous and spacious, carefully decorated in sky-blue pastels with a crème/white trim. "It's nearly time," a pretty brunette, with her distinct French accent looked onto the street below through mini-binoculars.
"Two or three minutes perhaps," a distinctly English reply came from the other side of the room. James Bond stood in front of the body-length mirror tucking his white shirt into his grey trousers, following up by putting on his navy blue tie and shoulder holster.
"And when this is over we can spend some time together perhaps?" Asked the half-dressed French girl, her towelling robe slipping at the left shoulder.
"There's no perhaps about it," said Bond as he walked around the double bed towards the girl at the window, "no perhaps at all Lucille." He kissed her shoulder and corrected the robe.
"Should anything happen," Lucille looked up from the street and glanced towards an open laptop on the dressing table, "my password is pleasure."
"Of course it is," quipped Bond, "but this is just routine darling, you've nothing to worry about." He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out his Walther P99 he slipped it into his shoulder holster. "Besides, we'll be dining in London by tonight." Bond enthused as Lucille looked back onto the street below.
Then she saw them, Randolph and Edwin Tudor. "Time for action Commander!" exclaimed Lucille as she turned to Bond. He went over, gently kissed Lucille, grabbed his grey blazer from the back of her chair and headed for the door. "Don't forget your cue," Lucille picked up a three foot by two- inch square case that was propped against the radiator by the window.
"Thanks," said Bond as took hold of the case, "I'd be lost without you Lucille," the French girl blushed slightly then returned to her surveillance. "See you soon," called Bond as the door closed behind him. As he left the suite Bond observed the corridors of the Hilton; they were almost empty but for the pretty looking maid in her neatly pressed all- whites, her blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail; an arguing couple waiting for the elevator. Bond took the stairs, collected a copy of Le Monde from the lobby and headed outside. He immediately spotted the Tudors' chauffeur driven Mercedes saloon darting out in front of a tram and into the main highway.
Bond hailed a taxi, "Ou a monsieur?" asked the stubble-faced driver.
"Follow the Merc," Bond pointed as he got into the taxi, "we're going to Le Seniors Billiards Club."
As the taxi motored through the busy mid-morning traffic Bond observed the saloon which was some four or five cars ahead of them. He had, at times, an almost clear view of the Tudor brothers; Randolph, the elder of the two was in his late fifties. A well educated man he had specialised in chemistry but was let down by his penchant for backing the wrong horse. Edwin, some 15 years younger than his brother had a huge passion for architecture, parting with many of his family heirlooms to pay for exquisite properties, most of which were in Mediterranean Europe. They looked similar; both well tanned with the same greying of the temples, though Edwin appeared somewhat more nervous or apprehensive than his brother, Bond thought. As well as their chauffeur their head of security, Glenn Thorpe, joined the two brothers. With his shaven head and facial scars he looked like his past, a former bare-knuckle fighter from London's East-End who'd impressed Randolph on a fight-card arranged by the older of the Tudors'. Bond watched as the brothers' Mercedes once again darted in front of a tram, this time to park in front of Le Seniors. "Here will do," said Bond as he leant forward towards the driver brandishing a 20-Euro note, "keep the change." He got out some 100 yards from the billiards club entrance and stood watching as the Tudors' and Thorpe went in.
The grandeur of Le Seniors matched that of the Hilton, Bond was impressed. "Nice, for a billiards club," Bond studied the reception area, cue case in one hand, his copy of Le Monde in the other. He tucked the newspaper into his right pocket and leant, left elbow first, on the reception counter. "The name's Bond, James Bond. I have a reservation." The young male receptionist tapped on his keyboard.
"Ah, oui monsieur Bond. But you have no partner?" the young lad looked up.
"No, I'm just here for some practice," replied Bond.
"I see," the receptionist smirked slightly looking into one of the shadowy corners of the reception, "Madame Cheri will show you to your room." An hourglass shadow moved across the oak-clad walls of the reception until Madame Cheri came into view, her green eyed gaze fixing on Bond. Her outfit was a combination of a stereotypical French maid and Can-Can girl. This didn't fuss Bond as he followed her gyrating hips up three flights of stairs to the private game rooms.
"A room with a view, as requested," said the hostess in her best attempt at natural sounding English. The huge oak door swung open revealing a full- size blue baize table at the centre of yet another oak-clad room.
"Perfect," responded Bond.
"And will that be all?" Madame Cheri's stern yet pretty features softened.
"That's all," said Bond as he gently placed several Euro notes into her cleavage, "just make sure I'm not disturbed." He shot a smirk at the girl; "I take my practice most seriously."
Once Bond was sure the hostess was gone he secured the door with one of the six red-leather lined chairs which were casually scattered around the room. He switched off the huge light fitting that hung above the billiards table. Then, without a second thought, the agent jumped up on the table and proceeded to unwire and remove the table light fitting, hood and all. He placed this onto the floor and jumped down. There was a pause for thought, then Bond pulled out the newspaper from his right pocket and lay the centrespread across the middle of the table. On top of this he placed one of the remaining red-leather chairs. Bond climbed back onto the table, then up onto the chair and started pushing one of the heavy, white, ceiling panels above him. The chair rocked slightly as he pushed on the ceiling panel, then he heard an awful tearing noise. He looked down uttering, "that's torn it," as he observed the not so immaculate table. "Oh well," Bond thought aloud and continued pushing through the panel. Once there was more than enough room for the agent to get into the hidden interior ceiling he once again jumped down from the table, this time collecting the black cue case he'd left on the chair blocking the door. Bond opened the case, unusually at one of the square ends, and pulled out something that appeared to look more like a fishing rod than a billiards cue. The rod like device was no longer than a foot in length, flat tipped at one end with a wire leading into the case at the other. Bond placed the rod on the table and tipped the case into his left hand. A coiled wire rolled out with a two- inch square box attached at the non-rod end. Bond put the box and coil into his right pocket and picked up the rod, placing its' flat tipped end also into his right pocket. He climbed back onto the table, then chair and this time into the interior roof.
As the agent crawled he had to make sure he stayed on the panel support rafters, a penlight between his teeth was also becoming uncomfortable. He knew any excess weight would lead to the ceiling collapsing, which would ultimately jeopardise the operation. He kept crawling until he was next to the ceiling panel near the far wall in the private room next to his. Intelligence gathered by Lucille, who was incidentally employed by MI6 via the French authorities, had identified this room as the venue for a summit between the Tudor brothers and a Ukrainian industrialist, Yillvgenny Barakov. Bond took the penlight from his mouth and propped it against one of the upraised rafters. He then pulled the black box from his pocket and flipped its' lid. Inside there was a small ear-piece and a small, but thick, corkscrew like device. He put the ear-piece in and then placed the corkscrew in the centre of the targeted panel. Rather than a handle the corkscrew had a small red button on the top of the metalwork, Bond pressed it. There was a quiet whirring sound than a quick shot of air, a perfect hole had been left for the flat tipped rod which Bond promptly inserted, careful to make sure only the first inch or so went through the hole. Bond looked back at the box and pressed a small blue button that had been exposed after the ear-piece and corkscrew had been removed from it.
"Well James," Bond cheered at the voice of Lucille in the earpiece, "it seems we've got the Tudor boys, their security man, Barakov and three backs turned. "The French girl was observing all from her laptop which had a direct digital link to the small black box, the rod like device being camera and microphone combined. "They're talking about an event, the old Tudor says 56 hours, Barakov seems to nod in agreement, says they'll travel to collect the equipment tonight but they won't arrive until the day." Lucille was breathing heavily, smoking Bond thought. She continued, "someone's phone is ringing."
Bond could just about hear it, "Beethoven's Midi Symphony," he pondered.
"It belongs to Barakov, he's passing it to Thorpe." Lucille watched Thorpe's dumb frown, "Thorpe listened then said 'you have authorisation.' Now he's dialled off."
