Christopher Wood - James Bond and Moonraker

Franco tipped his ribboned straw hat towards his eyes. ‘ Si, signore. ’ He was a tall, well-built young man with black curly hair and long-lashed eyes, whose innocence was all above the surface. Beneath his smooth olive skin he was as hard as tungsten. He worked for Station G, whose sphere of influence covered northern Italy from Turin to Trieste.

The day was cold and the tourists thin on the ground. Bond walked past the Libreria Vecchia and towards the brick mass of the Campanile, the paron de casa . Around him the footsteps echoed hollowly and he began to hear the perpetual ghostly murmur that circulates through the colonnades like the accumulated whispers of history. He paused to admire the mosaics in the romanesque arches of the Basilica and moved on towards the Clock Tower. The hour began to strike and the two fused bronze figures on the roof swung back their hammers and struck the great bell in turn. The pigeons rose and then quickly dropped to the paving stones in search of food. They glanced at Bond hopefully with heads cocked on one side, but soon perceived that he was not a man who fed pigeons. Wings drooping and eyes alert to any crumb or grain, they hustled aside to let him pass.

Bond studied the shops near the Clock Tower. Very near the Merceria archway he saw what he was looking for. A canopy bearing the name Venini Glass. Tucked away in one corner with a discretion that was unusual was the Drax symbol. Bond looked about him as he had done when pausing outside the Basilica and felt reasonably certain that he was not being followed. He stepped forward under the arcade and entered the shop. Ranging on every side were shelves piled high with multi-coloured glasses, jugs, bowls, vases and ornaments, all fashioned in glass.

A very pretty girl was quick to step forward. ‘Could I interest you in something?’

Bond found that his eye had unaccountably strayed to a glass model of a four-poster bed, and was quick to remove it. ‘I’m tempted to say yes immediately, but maybe I’d better take a look round.’

The girl smiled and made a graceful sweep with her arm. ‘Please, go anywhere you wish. You may visit the workshop if you like.’ She pointed towards the back of the shop and left Bond in order to pursue another customer.

Bond made his way down the aisles and decided that on the whole he preferred antique glass to modern. There were a few showcases displaying antique pieces that appeared to a layman’s eye to be worth a fortune. He passed them and paused in the doorway that led to the workshop. The light beyond was dim and the focus of attention inevitably became the furnaces and the glowing globules on the ends of the glass workers’ rods. The sweat glistened on the chests of two men stripped to their under vests who were expertly fashioning a complicated multi-handled squat vase with the aid of pincers that manipulated the molten strands of glass as if they were spaghetti. What they were doing captured the interest of a small group of tourists, one of whom was fiddling with his camera at a speed scarcely inferior to that with which the glass makers were working.

Bond crossed to the tourists and then found his attention straying to another man who was working away from the others in a remote corner of the workshop. He was blowing what at first glance seemed like glass phials. Bond watched, admiring the skill with which the man picked up a blob of molten glass and inflated his cheeks until they seemed to be stuffed with a couple of tennis balls. The globule quivered and suddenly expanded like a balloon. A deft twist and a tap, and the glowing glass cylinder joined nine identical shapes in a tray. Bond looked at them and experienced an immediate sensation of déjà vu . An identical, four-inch glass phial with a swollen neck had been illustrated on the engineering drawing. There was no mistaking the convex protuberances. As Bond watched, the craftsman put down his rod and carried the full tray to an open service lift. He laid it carefully on a shelf and pushed a button. The globes disappeared from view. Bond saw the man glance at him suspiciously as he turned, and so he quickly swung round and followed a sign above another of the doors that led into the workshop which read ‘Museum of Antique Glassware’.

Without looking back, Bond went through the door and along a dark brick and stone corridor that brought him into another showroom. Here there was none of the crush of the shop proper, and many of the exhibits were in glass cases. A girl in a beautiful but simple white cashmere suit was showing round a party of tourists. ‘... and this perfect bowl is the work of Bruno Venini, the founder of this establishment. Born in Padua in 1451, he came to Venice at the age of eighteen and, five years later, opened a small workshop on the island of Murano...’

Bond forgot about Bruno Venini as the party moved on to a second showcase and he saw who was detaching herself from the rear of the group. Holly Goodhead. Her hair hung loosely about her shoulders and she was wearing a thigh-length woollen jacket in red and blue stripes and wide navy blue trousers. She let the party draw ahead of her and then skirted some showcases to arrive at a door in the corner of the room. She glanced round quickly and Bond stepped back into the passageway. When he peered out she was opening the door and looking inside. Bond saw her head tilt. After a moment’s pause, she closed the door and rejoined the party, who were being informed that a fastidiously ornate model of a sailing boat would fetch over a million dollars were it ever placed on the market. The party moved out of the room with a chorus of respectful ‘oohs’.

Bond crossed swiftly and opened the door. He looked into a small courtyard with a flight of stairs going up to a heavily studded wooden door. There was a gateway with a wrought iron gate and beyond that a vista of green slimy wall with grey water beneath it. Bond closed the door thoughtfully and hurried in the direction that the party had taken.

Holly was walking across St Mark’s Square as Bond came up beside her, making an exaggerated gesture of astonishment. ‘Why — Dr Goodhead. What a surprise! ‘

Holly’s lip curled slightly. ‘I can only hope your presence here is a coincidence, Mr Bond. I dislike being spied on.’

‘Don’t we all,’ said Bond agreeably. ‘It makes me almost as piqued as having my brains scrambled on a sabotaged centrifuge.’

Holly’s tone was almost prim. ‘Really, Mr Bond, you appear to suffer from a persecution complex.’

‘Events tend to encourage it,’ said Bond drily. ‘Can I ask what brings you to Venice?’

Holly waved a dismissive hand at a photographer who was angling for a shot. ‘I’m addressing a seminar of the European Space Commission.’

Bond shook his head admiringly. ‘Heady stuff. I keep forgetting that you’re more than just a very beautiful woman.’

Holly stopped and faced him. ‘Mr Bond, if you’re trying to be ingratiating, don’t bother. I have more important things on my mind.’

Bond’s expression became serious. ‘They’re what I’d like to talk to you about. How about dinner this evening?’

Holly shook her head. ‘This evening I’m giving my address.’

‘Can you think of a reason why we can’t have a drink afterwards?’

Holly smiled a thin smile. ‘Not immediately — but I’m certain I shall.’

She started to walk away but Bond was quickly at her side. ‘The least I can do is escort you back to your hotel. The Daniell, I imagine?’

Holly’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have been spying on me.’

‘No, it’s the direction in which you’re walking. The Y.W.C.A. is the other end of town.’

Holly suppressed a smile as they passed the Ducal Palke and crossed the long bridge to the Riva degli Schiavoni. ‘I might ask you what you’re doing here. The 747 came down in Alaska, didn’t it?’