Christopher Wood - James Bond and Moonraker

Holly shook her head. ‘They do nothing for you.’

Bond held a blotter in front of his face and tapped the top of the spectacles as if ruminating on something. There was an almost inaudible hiss. and a dart scarcely larger than a thorn was embedded in the blotter. ‘They’d do less for me if you were wearing them,’ said Bond. He pressed the side of a powder compact and a wicked-looking blade flicked out. ‘You do have some rough toys.’

‘A girl has to look after herself these days,’ said Holly.

Bond smiled grimly. ‘I know Third World armies that aren’t this well equipped.’ He pulled apart a lipstick holder to reveal what looked suspiciously like a miniature detonator and explosive charge. The cylinder of a Zippo lighter was divided so that not only could it light a cigarette but squirt Mace in the face of an attacker.

Bond shook his head. ‘I bet you pulled the arms off all your dolls.’

‘I never had any dolls,’ said Holly. ‘I always used to be out on the streets with a catcher’s glove.’

‘With a baseball bat, more likely,’ said Bond. He pressed one of the clasps on the side of the handbag and a telescopic aerial began to glide silently into the air. There was a subdued crackle of static electricity and the second clasp glowed with the numbers of radio bands.

Bond tossed the handbag on to the bed beside its contents. ‘I’ve seen this equipment before, Holly, and it wasn’t in Macy’s.’ He paused for a moment before he crossed to a drinks trolley. ‘It was being developed by the C.I.A. An old friend of mine, Felix Leiter, gave me a sneak preview.’ Bond turned his back to throw some ice cubes into a glass and top it up with Chivas Regal. ‘I think you probably know him.’ There was no reply from Holly. ‘Because it occurs to me that the C.I.A. placed you with Drax. Correct?’

He waved a hand towards the trolley in invitation. Holly shook her head. ‘Correct.’ Her face softened into a conciliatory smile. ‘Could it be that this is the moment for us to pool our resources?’

Bond studied Holly over the top of his glass. It was the first time he could remember her smiling like that. So warm. So guileless. So insincere. He put down his glass. ‘That might have its compensations.’

Holly took a step towards him so that she was close enough to be touched. Her long silk gown could have been tied tightly across her low-cut nightdress but it was not. Bond drew her to him and kissed the corner of her mouth gently. His eyes were still suspicious.

‘You think I’m trying to hide something, don’t you?’ said Holly.

Bond raised his eyebrows and suppressed a smile. ‘Yes and no,’ he said drily.

Holly watched his eyes warily circling the room. ‘Haven’t you done enough detective work for one evening?’ She broke away and started replacing the contents of her handbag.

Bond caught a glimpse of his battered face in a mirror and smiled ruefully. ‘I am tempted to call it a day.’

Holly smoothed down the counterpane seductively and placed her bag on a bedside table. She crossed to Bond and winced as she saw his hand. ‘You’d better let me take a look at that.’ She unfolded his fingers one by one and examined the deep cut across his palm. ‘I’ve got something in the bathroom.’

Bond smiled. ‘As long as it’s not in your handbag.’ He rested his nose against her hair. ‘I suppose you’re right, Holly. We would be better off working together.’ She tilted back her head to look at him and he closed his free hand over hers. ‘Détente?’

Holly nodded. ‘Agreed.’

‘Understanding?’

Holly twisted her head quizzically. ‘Possibly.’

‘Co-operation?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Trust?’

Her mouth came up to his fast. ‘Why do you have to talk so much?’

Four hours later, Bond lay naked beneath a sheet, feeling Holly nuzzling into his shoulder. She let out a small contented sigh and draped an arm across his chest. Bond drove a tiger from his loins and stretched out a furtive right arm. His Rolex Oyster Perpetual, glowing in the darkness, told him that it was time to leave. He slid from the bed, gently replacing Holly’s arm on the warm sheet. Holly made another contented noise and burrowed into the pillow. Bond suddenly thought how vulnerable she looked and pulled the sheet up about her shoulders. His clothes lay mingled with hers and a shaft of moonlight played on the label of the woollen jacket that had caught his eye in the glass shop: ‘Victoria Bevan, Handmade Knitwear. Great Shelford, Cambridge, England’. Dr Holly Goodhead obviously cast her net wide in the pursuit of excellence. Bond felt a pang of nostalgia as he looked down at this link with a country that meant more to him than any other in the world. England in winter matched the bleak asperity of his spirit, yet an immediate return was out of the question. His only lead directed him to more tropical climes. He breathed in the cool night air and briskly pulled on his polo-neck pullover. There were five hours to daybreak and he had work to do. Holly permitted herself another sigh as she shifted her position to take full advantage of the warm space left by Bond and listen to the sounds of him dressing. There was a nearly inaudible exhalation as he pulled on his shoes, and she heard a floorboard creak as he moved to the door. The handle turned. A pause, a click. The door was shut again. Holly lay still and listened for several seconds. ‘James?’ Her voice was bruised and plaintive. She raised herself on one elbow and looked around. There was no sign of Bond lurking. Quickly she sat up and brushed the hair from her face before picking up the telephone. She waited, irritably flicking at the tip of her nose. Nobody would have believed, looking at that serious, composed face, that an hour before she had been indulging in the most passionate lovemaking of her life.

The ever-hopeful voice of an Italian night porter sounded on the end of the line. ‘ Si, signora? ’

The voice was as cold as that of a mid-western Baptist schoolmistress making her first trip east of the Great Lakes. ‘Send up somebody for my bags... At once, please.’

A thin net of rain fell on St Mark’s Square as Bond turned up the collar of his Aquascutum raincoat and waited respectfully on the less brisk pace of M and Frederick Gray. It was a few hours after he had left Holly’s suite and the more than prompt arrival of both his secular bosses was decidedly an embarrassment of riches. He was reminded of Gray’s immortal lines:

How happy could I be with either,

Were t’other dear charmer away!

‘This had better be good, Bond,’ snapped Gray. ‘There was a late sitting last night and I hardly had time to clear my mind of that damned division bell before your message came through.’

M felt it necessary to intercede on behalf of his protégé. ‘007 doesn’t usually press the panic button unless it’s serious, Minister.’

Gray uttered a noncommittal grunt and looked round the square. Small groups of armed carabinieri lurked in the archways with as much self-effacing discretion as Italians are capable of mustering. ‘I take it you’ve covered everything with our Italian friends?’

Bond nodded briskly. ‘Yes, sir. It’s all been taken care of.’ There was a slight edge of disdain to his voice which suggested that he was not overfond of Frederick Gray.

Gray either did not notice or did not care. ‘Poor devils. I expect they’re doing this kind of thing in their sleep these days.’ The tone was pious and complacent. It intimated that the Moro kidnapping could never have taken place in Britain. If pressed for an opinion, Bond would have been less optimistic.

The façade of the Venini Glass shop loomed up, with a few ,early morning sightseers peering in inquisitively. The police, wrapped in their heavy blue overcoats, nudged them back with their elbows. An inspector stepped forward and saluted. Bond addressed him in Italian and the three Englishmen moved into the shop, leaving the two plain clothes men who had flown in with Gray and M standing at the doorway. The beautiful shop assistant who had greeted Bond on his first visit thrust herself forward and unleashed a volley of excited Italian. Bond nodded to one of the policemen who drew her aside, still protesting.