Letter from Buenos Aires - no 2.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for your comments last week on my first letter from Buenos Aires. We may not always get it right but, as agents, Xiomara and I do try to focus in on the issues that could impact the world stage.
Let’s start with one that probably won’t. This week, ahead of the 2025 mid-term elections, Javier Milei launched his political party ‘La Libertad Avanza’. He was supported by his beautiful Presidential secretary, esoteric younger sister Karina. Head of Cabinet Guillermo Francos, Economy Minister Luis Toto Caputo, Security Minister Patricia Bullrich and Defence Minister Luis Petri were also there, as well as the Speaker of the Lower House, Martín Menem. Xiomara remarked on the absence of VP Victoria Villarruelle, no doubt still smarting from her exclusion last week from the Malvinas rapprochement between Diana and David. Might Victoria be on the way out?
Xiomara and I met for a coffee in Plaza Dorrego, then walked the half mile of Defensa to Av Brasil and Parc Lezama. Here the crowds were huge but good humoured, cheering when President Javier styled his government as ‘the best government in Argentine history’. He went on to compliment Toto for his economic reforms. He also had a message for the Kirchnerite ‘Kukas’ and their band of ‘corrupt journalists’ who seek to undermine his efforts, describing them as ‘new traitors who will be swallowed by the earth.’
On our return journey Xiomara fancied a curry, so we stopped by Buenos Aires agents’ favourite curry house run by Martyn and Gus, Mash at Defensa 1338.
Politics and football are never too far apart here in Buenos Aires. Whilst the game may have been invented by the British, its soul is definitely here in Argentina.
This week, following the filing of a security assessment, court N°3 in San Isidro, north Buenos Aires has permitted Diego Maradona’s corpse to be moved from Bella Vista Garden private cemetery to a fresh public location in Puerto Madero.
His daughter Dalma wrote, “We always knew that his place was with the people but also we understood that all security guarantees had to be given as a priority. What we want is that those who love him can go to show him their love.”
A leisurely stroll around Cemeterio Recoleta will educate you on the importance to the Porteños of shrines. Evita’s mausoleum is one of the most popular visitor attractions in the capital. Now that most charismatic politician will have competition from the most talented footballer. Xiomara wondered how much Dalma would be charging visitors?
On Thursday, Javier Milei’s finance minister, Diana Mondino expressed her excitement on hearing that the British Indian Ocean Territory of Chagos was to be handed over to Mauritius after sixty years of argument. She went on to suggest that this is how Argentina should ”recover the Malvinas” - by “concrete actions and not empty rhetoric”. “The Malvinas were, are, and will always be Argentine”, she added. Diana didn’t mention her tête-à-tête with David Lammy but a Presidential spokesperson chose to add “the renewed stage in the bilateral relationship (UK/Arg) will be characterised by dialogue and confidence building.”
Readers of the Bond-Xiomara story will recall that the tale centred around the growing (and troubling) relationship between Peru and China.
Cosco Shipping, a huge Chinese state-funded company, have this month almost completed a mega-port in Chancay, north of Lima, Peru at the cost of US$ 3.5b. It will be operational next month. This will bring the number of Chinese sponsored ports to 100 in over 60 countries. Chile is not well pleased, for its presence will devastate the viability of the smaller Chilian ports that have hitherto received Chinese imports.
It is disturbing to see the increasing stranglehold that China is attaining over South American countries. Chancay is yet another example. You may recall the Chinese space station in Neuquén Province here in Argentina. A loss of trade may turn out to be the least of Chile’s problems.
On a lighter note, one reader has asked about Giannina’s dog, Ghost. I can report that both Giannina and Ghost are doing well and still settled at Palacio Haedo, albeit sleep-deprived as the scaffolding comes down. If you see them walking together in Plaza San Martin, do give them a wave!
Letter from Buenos Aires
Dear Reader,
I received your message about delay in posting. I stand admonished! It is over eleven weeks since I posted my last episode of ‘Bond and Xiomara’ and you, my fourteen Substack readers, have been kept waiting too long for something more.
Rather than more, I thought you might prefer something fresh. By fresh, I mean a regular letter from Buenos Aires, not telling a story, but recounting my day-to-day movements here on behalf of Keir’s UK government. My boss, Richard (Moore) encourages greater openness from the service, and that permits me to write frankly about what is going on in the South Atlantic. There will, of course, be some detail I must keep from you, but I’ll give you clues as to when and what - if not why.
Xiomara and I have been kept busy recently. Let’s start with our last trip from Ezeiza (EZE) to New York (JFK) to safeguard our new Foreign Secretary, RH David Lammy. We were called on to oversee his meeting with Diana Mondino, Argentina’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, in which they discussed the Falkland Islands - or as Argentines prefer, Las Malvinas.
The aim of the meeting was ostensibly to sign a ‘South Atlantic Understanding’. It sounds posher than in reality, but now includes a monthly flight from Brasil’s Sao Paulo to the Islands, sorting out some over-fishing, and an initiative with the Red Cross relating to ‘the fallen’ - the remains of those who died in the 1982 conflict. The meeting was very much ‘beauty and the beast’. David (the beast) did well and behaved himself, avoiding calling anyone a ‘neo nazi’. It seems that Diana was too captured by the moment to notice David’s trainers. Xiomara sensed that the real reason of their meeting was less to do with the Falklands and more related to developing the UK/Argentine understanding sought by President Javier Milei. Given Xiomara’s connections, she should know.
Returning the following day to Buenos Aires, it quickly became apparent that the deal between Lammy and Mondino had tizzed Vice President Victoria Villarruel. It took her no time to Tweet her displeasure, unsurprising as her dad was a Malvinas colonel, albeit one who avoided allegations of human rights abuses.
Villarruel wrote, “Why? To be allowed to visit our Islands with a visa and passport? Do they think we are stupid? They obtain material advantages, concrete and immediate, while they offer us crumbs as an emotional consolation and weaken our possibility of negotiations.”
”It is unheard of that while the USA is offering us coastguard patrol vessels to protect our Argentine Sea from outer continental pillage, we are proposing to cooperate with the power that has usurped our territory and resources.”
“These are not words against our government, nevertheless it is inevitable that I should be outspoken about this agreement since it is an issue that reaches into each fibre of my identity and puts on line the standing interests of our Great Nation. But even as we are friends of everybody, first comes the Motherland.”
Milei was, as usual, incandescent with his VP, although he is yet to let on publicly or sack her. Xiomara suggested, as a precaution, we should monitor sales of chain saws!
In other news, probably on advice from Milei, on Thursday, BA Federal Judge Ariel Lijo ordered the Royal Spanish Academy Madrid to remove one of its definitions of the word “judío/a” (Jewish) “greedy or usurious.” Lijo, tipped as a future member of the Supreme Court of Argentina and liked by Milei, observed that it was “hate speech that incites discrimination on religious grounds.” Good decision, Lijo!
Also on Thursday, the National Institute of Statistics and Census released its report declaring that poverty in Argentina had risen to 52.9% of the Argentine population in the first half of 2024, up 11.2% from the second half of 2023. It went on to disclose that between December 2023 and June 2024, inflation reached 79.8%. Government observers here say that, whilst this sounds bad, it is better than the 90%, which would have happened but for Milei’s austerity policies. Whatever the case, reaching economic stability here in Argentina still seems an illusive goal.
Whilst Richard Moore has given UK agents a protocol for the use of artificial intelligence, it seems that Argentines lag well behind the western world with only 13% using AI regularly in their work. In the USA, Javier Milei met with both Zuckerberg and Musk to get some tips. Returning he observed that Argentina has cheap energy and a highly skilled workforce, putting it in an ideal position to lead in the field. He notes that Argentine data centres could be located in the south of the country for cooling. The hot news is our understand that he is working on deregulation to attract foreign investment, and here in the Capital Federal we can reveal a regional cybersurveillance initiative deploying algorithms on historic data to predict and prevent crime. From what I have heard it sounds more like Xi Jinping that Musk!
As the season turns, so does the weather. It is times like these that I am thankful for a posting in the southern hemisphere. Stay safe and warm wherever you are, and do click to follow.
Yours, James.
I received your message about delay in posting. I stand admonished! It is over eleven weeks since I posted my last episode of ‘Bond and Xiomara’ and you, my fourteen Substack readers, have been kept waiting too long for something more.
Rather than more, I thought you might prefer something fresh. By fresh, I mean a regular letter from Buenos Aires, not telling a story, but recounting my day-to-day movements here on behalf of Keir’s UK government. My boss, Richard (Moore) encourages greater openness from the service, and that permits me to write frankly about what is going on in the South Atlantic. There will, of course, be some detail I must keep from you, but I’ll give you clues as to when and what - if not why.
Xiomara and I have been kept busy recently. Let’s start with our last trip from Ezeiza (EZE) to New York (JFK) to safeguard our new Foreign Secretary, RH David Lammy. We were called on to oversee his meeting with Diana Mondino, Argentina’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, in which they discussed the Falkland Islands - or as Argentines prefer, Las Malvinas.
The aim of the meeting was ostensibly to sign a ‘South Atlantic Understanding’. It sounds posher than in reality, but now includes a monthly flight from Brasil’s Sao Paulo to the Islands, sorting out some over-fishing, and an initiative with the Red Cross relating to ‘the fallen’ - the remains of those who died in the 1982 conflict. The meeting was very much ‘beauty and the beast’. David (the beast) did well and behaved himself, avoiding calling anyone a ‘neo nazi’. It seems that Diana was too captured by the moment to notice David’s trainers. Xiomara sensed that the real reason of their meeting was less to do with the Falklands and more related to developing the UK/Argentine understanding sought by President Javier Milei. Given Xiomara’s connections, she should know.
Returning the following day to Buenos Aires, it quickly became apparent that the deal between Lammy and Mondino had tizzed Vice President Victoria Villarruel. It took her no time to Tweet her displeasure, unsurprising as her dad was a Malvinas colonel, albeit one who avoided allegations of human rights abuses.
Villarruel wrote, “Why? To be allowed to visit our Islands with a visa and passport? Do they think we are stupid? They obtain material advantages, concrete and immediate, while they offer us crumbs as an emotional consolation and weaken our possibility of negotiations.”
”It is unheard of that while the USA is offering us coastguard patrol vessels to protect our Argentine Sea from outer continental pillage, we are proposing to cooperate with the power that has usurped our territory and resources.”
“These are not words against our government, nevertheless it is inevitable that I should be outspoken about this agreement since it is an issue that reaches into each fibre of my identity and puts on line the standing interests of our Great Nation. But even as we are friends of everybody, first comes the Motherland.”
Milei was, as usual, incandescent with his VP, although he is yet to let on publicly or sack her. Xiomara suggested, as a precaution, we should monitor sales of chain saws!
In other news, probably on advice from Milei, on Thursday, BA Federal Judge Ariel Lijo ordered the Royal Spanish Academy Madrid to remove one of its definitions of the word “judío/a” (Jewish) “greedy or usurious.” Lijo, tipped as a future member of the Supreme Court of Argentina and liked by Milei, observed that it was “hate speech that incites discrimination on religious grounds.” Good decision, Lijo!
Also on Thursday, the National Institute of Statistics and Census released its report declaring that poverty in Argentina had risen to 52.9% of the Argentine population in the first half of 2024, up 11.2% from the second half of 2023. It went on to disclose that between December 2023 and June 2024, inflation reached 79.8%. Government observers here say that, whilst this sounds bad, it is better than the 90%, which would have happened but for Milei’s austerity policies. Whatever the case, reaching economic stability here in Argentina still seems an illusive goal.
Whilst Richard Moore has given UK agents a protocol for the use of artificial intelligence, it seems that Argentines lag well behind the western world with only 13% using AI regularly in their work. In the USA, Javier Milei met with both Zuckerberg and Musk to get some tips. Returning he observed that Argentina has cheap energy and a highly skilled workforce, putting it in an ideal position to lead in the field. He notes that Argentine data centres could be located in the south of the country for cooling. The hot news is our understand that he is working on deregulation to attract foreign investment, and here in the Capital Federal we can reveal a regional cybersurveillance initiative deploying algorithms on historic data to predict and prevent crime. From what I have heard it sounds more like Xi Jinping that Musk!
As the season turns, so does the weather. It is times like these that I am thankful for a posting in the southern hemisphere. Stay safe and warm wherever you are, and do click to follow.
Yours, James.
Danger over - for now!
Was the disposal of Dr Richard Alvarez and his partner Jay an unqualified success?
Norm had arranged for a fake ‘action log’ detailing our group’s movements to be leaked from the ‘Factory’ at locale 299 to the Chinese listening station situated in Bajada del Agrio, Neuquén Province. From there the information was passed to the National Directorate of Intelligence (Peru) and on to their agent Richard Alvarez. He had taken the bait, believing that Giannina would be unprotected and vulnerable at Salon Canning, no doubt to be disappeared.
Meanwhile, Lord Cameron together with Javier Milei and Diana Mondino had arranged for bar staff at Canning to be replaced by Argentine agents, and it was they who had removed Jay’s body via the kitchens into an awaiting van. Whilst our existence in Buenos Aires was clearly known, the identity of assassins remained obscure. Finally, you will be delighted to know that the Clarin headline came directly from a ‘Jaime Vínculo’ who purported to be a spokesperson for Milonga Parakultural.
The carrier drops us in Santa Fé for our return to Palacio Haedo via Marcelo Torcuato de Alvear. Thirty minutes later we are gathered in the roof garden, Norm straight from the shower and still drying his hair, Raul with two bottles of Chandon Brut, Xiomara spread out on a lounger and Giannina reunited with Ghost.
Dawn light creeps across the river Plata casting a morning shadow of General San Martin’s monument in the plaza below. The air is fresh. A flight of parakeets lands to squabble in the palms, drowning out the sweet song of the rufus-bellied thrush that sits habitually in an Acacia tree on the terrace.
‘What now?’ asks Giannina, who seems to have been soothed by Ghost’s attention. ‘Am I to go back to Hotel Duhau?’
Xiomara scowls. ‘Your MOD authorisation continues until M decides otherwise. For me, you stay a part of the team!’
‘Oh, and I will see if we can get a 00 canine code for Ghost,’ she adds. ‘Who knows, he too might need a licence to kill!’
Salon Canning
Salon Canning is the iconic venue at which you must, at least once in your tango journey, dance Argentine tango. It is where the old milongeros meet, fashionable tourists come to strut or gape, Portenos arrange their business deals between tandas, and where dreams of romance are made - or dashed.
It is approaching midnight and the orchestra rearranges in preparation for the dance exhibition. Tonight two famous tangueros are to perform and the room is packed with mature dancers and onlookers. Each table bustles and bulges. Waitresses squeeze between them with bottles of wine and sparking water. Around the walls stand and lean the late arrivals who failed to secure a seat.
From my regular seat at the back of the room one particular table catches my eye. Not because there is anything distinctive about it, but due to the identity of its occupants. Seated at the front against the floor is Maria Cristina, the matriarch of MI6’s Argentine unit. She wears a deep slit scarlet tango dress. With her fan she creates a much-needed breeze. To her right a younger woman takes photos with her miniature camera. Cecilia, you may remember, is the missing undercover agent who made her reputation in Palermo as Buenos Aires’ leading tango portrait photographer. Behind her sits Norm who as we know, was ordered to remain in Buenos Aires following Lord Cameron’s departure. He pours Champagne into four of five glasses with such deliberate care so as to avoid spilling a drop. Finally, for the moment, against the wall sits Raul, our trusted caretaker gardener from Palacio Haedo. Elsewhere he would have seemed totally out-of-place, but for once he has jettisoned his old jacket, boots and battered gardening hat, has slicked brylcreem through his grey hair and now looks every inch an old milonguero.
Yet at their table one seat remains vacant despite requests from adjacent groups to give it up. It awaits its occupant - and at the very moment the orchestra strikes up she arrives, slipping in silently, to fasten her tango shoes surreptitiously beneath the table. Save for an absent Hotel Duhau uniform, she is immediately recognisable. Giannina!
I will spare you details of the tango performance, save that the audience was enraptured. It was Golden Age tango danced by two of the last living aficionados of the milonguero style. Their exhibition concluded with bouquets of flowers for her, a bottle of Malbec for him, and many kisses to both from the organiser. As they depart the pista, the orchestra plays a tanda of D’Arienzo to capture the energy of the moment.
In Buenos Aires, to secure a dance in tango, a leader must execute a successful ‘cabeceo’. This involves a glance from the leader, and an almost imperceptible nod from the intended partner which signals her agreement to dance three consecutive songs of a tanda. The cabeceo must be finely tuned. Done skilfully it avoids an embarrassing refusal and the walk of shame by a rejected leader as he returns to his seat.
Gazing around I spy her. She stands by the doorway - tall, slim, young, wearing a tight-fitting suit, her jet black hair cascading down her back. Immediately my glance is rewarded by her mirada acknowledgment.
‘They have just arrived,’ she whispers as we enter the pista. ‘Over by the bar, do you see them James?’ The black wig and dark makeup has totally transformed Q’s daughter Xiomara from a blonde English rose into a sultry Latino.
On our approach, Norm takes hold of Giannina’s hand to lead her to the floor. They enter the pista just ahead of us. As we pass Maria Cristina, she leans forward to slip an unseen object into Xiomara’s hand.
Progress on a crowded tango floor is inevitably slow, and another song passes before we reach the bar. It is a moment of tension. We can see that the regular barman has disappeared, to be replaced by a stranger. Standing against the bar alongside his Peruvian partner Jay, is the recognisable figure of Dr Richard Alvarez. He steps forward towards Giannina, but simultaneously Xiomara leans towards him and there is a click from a camera in her hand. Without warning, Alvarez stumbles. Saliva drains from his mouth and he falls heavily into the pista. Dancers stop to stare with horror. A voice calls for assistance. A group gathers about his prone body. Jay moves forward attempting to force through the gathering crowd. Whilst attention is focused on Alvarez, Norm slips in behind Jay, lifts a blade to his throat and there is a flash of steel.
It is impossible to know what then transpired as we made our way out through the back of the bar into Maipu and into the blacked-out Argentine police personnel carrier. Maria Cristina heads off in a Ford Falchion. Giannina, comforted by Cecilia, looks shocked. Norm wipes his blade on a rag and Raul exclaims, ‘Xiomara, what the hell is with that camera?’
‘Oh, its something that daddy Q insisted that I had before I left Blighty - just in case.’ ‘You know what he is like with his toys. Daddy couldn’t resist putting that dart in a camera lens for safekeeping. His instruction was ‘if you need it, just point and shoot!’
Clarin newspaper: Monday 23rd April
Buenos Aires doctor dies of heart failure at Capital Federal prestigious milonga
In the early hours of Saturday morning Dr Richard Alvarez collapsed and died of natural causes whilst dancing tango at Salon Canning Milonga Parakultural. His partner, Jay Alvarez appears to be missing. A dark haired female who took a photograph of the incident is asked to come forward. Foul play is not suspected.
Norm has a plan
That M had addressed the letter to Xiomara came more as a shock than a surprise. Increasingly Xiomara had taken charge of events, and looking back to our initial meeting at London’s Savoy, it was clear that she was destined for the agency’s top spot. My job was to get her there.
With this transition from ‘control’ to support role came a sense of freedom from responsibility. It was as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders; yet undoubtedly a perilous future awaited Giannina, and those who held her fate in their hands.
Xiomara waits for Giannina to leave the roof terrace with Ghost in tow. We sit in silence, only a low drone of traffic on Santa Fe disturbs the peace of the moment. A breeze rustles through the Jacaranda.
‘James, I have a job for you.’ My muse was broken by Xiomara’s voice. For once it sounds strained. ‘I want you to arrange a sting. We shall offer up Giannina for Alvarez. The question is, how best to arrange it without too much bloodshed? Sounds like a perfect task for you, James.’
My mind is immediately in a whirl. Giannina has been resident at Palacio Haedo, settled into house life and become part of the team. The thought of putting her at risk is both crazy and appalling. How would Whitehall ever approve such a plan?
______________
I am sitting half way along the right hand side of the glass shelf that runs the full length of Cafe Paulin, Sarmineto 635. The restaurant feels about twice the width of a railway carriage. And that is not where the similarity ends. Down the centre, the full length of the building is a narrow servery giving on to both the left and the right side of the cafe. Within the servery on a raised dais the waiters stand, dressed in olive cross buttoned tunics with floppy fawn hats. Each side of the servery are sheer glass shelves about a foot in width. These are the tracks. Below on each side are low counters against which fixed tall revolving stools swing. The one to my right I have saved with my copy of today’s Clarin.
He lets out a chuckle followed by a groan as he trips on the hidden step-down from the street. Even his laugh sounds straight out of Stranmillis, Belfast.
‘James, how on earth did you find this place,’ he exclaims as he rolls the paper, slips it into his pocket and claims his seat.
‘Oh, you know Norm, this is a great spot for coffee and cake after tango at Galerias Pacifico - you should try it once at least.’
Attentive readers will recall Norm as the agent charged with Lord Cameron’s protection. It is unclear why he was not withdrawn when Cameron left Buenos Aires.
‘Lean back, old boy, I just want to get a snap of this place without you corrupting my camera,’ he jests as a dish of olives spins from the servery along the glass shelf towards the hands of a waiter.
‘The fact is, Norm, I am a bit stuck. I know I can rely on you for a brain-wave. And this one will take a bit of cerebral working if we are not going to sacrifice our latest acquisition.’
‘You’re talking about Giannina, aren’t you Bond,’ he interjects. ‘Xiomara has already told me that she proposes an exchange. I guessed it would hit you hard old fella, especially after…er…Moneypenny…’ Norm’s voice trails off. He stares hard at me. I imagine he detects the way my lip twitches and sees my tightened grip around the Martini I am holding.
‘But don’t worry, James, I have a plan- of sorts. And guess what? I think you will love it.’
A letter from Whitehall
Decrypted message from the Joint Intelligence Committee of the United Kingdom to xxxx (classified).
An intelligence assessment prepared by the head of the Secret Intelligence Service working with the Foreign Secretary of the United Kingdom and the UK Joint Intelligence Organisation.
Currently GCHQ in partnership with the US National Security Agency (NSA) is conducting an intelligence gathering operation from Buenos Aires, Argentina. The local arrangement was facilitated by the UK Ambassador to Argentina, and authorised by Argentine President Javier Milei.
The focus of USA/UK intelligence relates to the People’s Republic of China’s Space Station situated in 200 hectares at Bajada del Agrio, Neuquén Province. Despite assurances by Chinese Foreign Affairs Commission to US National Security Advisor, the facility is suspected to be operated by the Chinese Ministry of State Security 国家安全部 (MSS) to effect active measures on cyber espionage.
SIS agent 003 Xiomara Smith-Cumming and her technical lead 007 James Bond have been deployed to Buenos Aires to support an intelligence operation for the China Office.
A current threat from the National Directorate of Intelligence (Peru) has been identified. A classified operator has located Peruvian operator Dr Richard Alvarez. Special authorisation is sought for the deployment of Argentine national Giannina Valdivieso as an aide to UK Security in handling this issue.
Security file is hereto attached.
____________
A week has elapsed since Xiomara persuaded our Argentine waitress to collaborate with MI6. We await authorisation from Whitehall. Back in the day, agents like me had free reign with operations. Now the Director General must personally authorise all special operations, taking into account legal parameters and ethical justification.
We are in the middle of an asado breakfast on the terrace of Palacio Haedo. Xiomara has just slipped a sausage to Ghost which he devours in one gulp. The lift clanks and the garden door opens to reveal Raul holding a letter.
It may seem strange to those that do not know the way of the Ministry of Defence. You would expect them to send an encrypted email or the like. But no, it is a typed letter in a manila envelope franked ‘MOD’. This way, only the recipient gets to read the content, and destroyed, the communication ceases to exist.
I reach out my hand. ‘Miss Xio, its for you,’ Raul says as he hands the envelope to her. Xiomara inspects the front and back before opening. Taking out one sheet of paper she glances at the content; and with that she holds it to the hot edge of the parrilla and it is consumed in flames.
‘We can go ahead, Giannina,’ she says, ‘welcome to our little band of soldiers.’
Giannina is given a choice
A strange turn of events. Lord Cameron in Buenos Aires as President Javier Milei’s guest, (despite the Falkland Islands or should I say ‘Malvenas’ issues), the USA and UK jointly spying on the Neuquén Chinese ‘Space Station’, and our heroes Bond and Xiomara apparently being hunted by Peruvian agents.
In the meantime, Gianniana, with her large dog ‘Ghost’, remains hidden at Palacio Haedo in downtown Buenos Aires.
We are now on the palace terrace overlooking San Martin, a fresh breeze rising from the river Plata rustling leaves along the roof-top garden. Ghost lies panting in the shade whilst Giannina stretches out on a lounger in the sun. He hand drops to a glass of limonada with ice chilling against a golden, sweet-scented Senna.
‘Did they say where they were going?’ asks Raul, his old straw hat perched forward across his brow, secateurs in hand.
‘Neither of them have shared anything, including their plans for my future,’ she replies with a tone of despondency rather than annoyance. ‘Mind you, not that I am complaining. This beats having to work an evening shift at Duhau.’
It is at this precise moment that Bond and Xiomara return. The palace lift clanks to a stop, trellis gates clatter, and their footsteps echo on the stone staircase leading up to the terrace.
‘James, we were just speaking of you,’ says Raul. Ghost stirs, momentarily lifting his head and flicking a tail before returning to his slumbers. ‘And I was asking when it would be safe for me to leave your paradise,’ adds Giannina, her tone suggesting reluctance rather than supplication.
‘Giannina, I have news for you. Mr Bond and I have just met with your President Milei and Deputy Mondino. They have a job for you, for which you will, of course, be rewarded.’
Giannina looks up, aghast at the thought that she has come to the attention of the Argentine President, but also, if we discern her response correctly, intrigued at the prospect of being noticed.
‘You can’t be serious,’ she replies, ‘they haven’t a clue who I am.’
‘But now they do, you see. You may be the only person who can save the Republic from Chinese infiltration. Save for Spain (since Javier Milei insulted the wife of their President) the Western World is backing Milei against the Chinese. But we have a problem - their Peruvian allies have become involved, and, as far as they are concerned, you alone know the identity of their two foremost agents.’
‘You have choices, Giannina, but neither of them are great.’
Xiomara continues, ‘one choice is a bit better than the other, for with that one you get our support and protection - and at the end of it a new, paid-for home. As for the other choice, it is just a question of time before they eliminate you.’
You will have heard the expression ‘turning grey’, but perhaps never witnessed it in real life. At this moment Giannina’s face becomes ashen, lifeless, despondent, unmoving. She looks up. ‘It sounds as if I have no real option, doesn’t it,’ she replies. ‘If I do as you ask, tell me about this house in Salta?’
The mission
Norm leads the way as we enter locale 299, passing the torn Argenper sign which hangs limply against blackened windows. Inside nothing has changed. The metal benches are still bolted to the floor, the counters strewn with disconnected cables and the encrusted paper coffee cup propped against the glass screen.
He taps in the digital code to access the main office beyond.
Whereas the room had been littered with redundant equipment, now the space is completely refurbished and transformed. Overhead monitors flash in soundproof booths. Banks of computer equipment stand by an opposite wall, the only remaining memory of the old office is the dated coffee machine.
Most booths are occupied by an agent. Towards the end of the room a huge screen shows satellite images of a complex of buildings alongside huge parabolic listening dishes.
‘Welcome to Bajada del Agrio, the Neuquén Province Chinese Space Station,’ says Norm. ‘That sixteen story antenna there has a 35-metre diameter dish aimed at deep space. It can look into distances over 300,000 km above Earth.’
‘This is why General Laura Richardson, head of the US Southern Command was so upset when she visited last month,’ says Cameron as he stares at the screen.
Now I had known of the alleged Space Station, but until now had never seen an image of it. The Argentine government under former President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner had negotiated a lease of the site with Chinese Premier Xi Jinping, to include a 20 kilometre exclusion zone. Until now not only did the outside world have no idea of the scale of the installation, but surprisingly, neither did the Argentine President.
‘How on earth was this put together so quickly?’ I ask, breaking Cameron’s concentration, meaning the room transformation.
‘Oh, that’s the power of the US dollar. Biden provided the funds for this set-up, the know-how and the stealth images; we provided the diplomacy with Milei,’ he replied. ‘And now agent Bond, its for you and Xiomara to prevent Peru’s President Dina Boluarte and her agents from derailing our little venture.’
‘So that’s where Dr Richard Alvarez and his little friend Jay fit in,’ continues Xiomara. ‘I wondered why they were involved. Its all to do with money and the future of South American politics.’
Cameron looks across at me. ‘Bond, when we are dealing with the Chinese, we broadly know our allies and adversaries; but here in Buenos Aires, with Peru involved, that task is considerably more difficult. Your task is to identify their interest and determine their purpose.’
I look towards Xiomara. We have already been exposed and targeted. Here is a task much greater than I could ever have imagined. Xiomara smiles.
‘No problem, David, James and I are on it!’
The factory
The thought that two British agents will put the life of an Argentine waitress at risk in a planned sting operation seems not to trouble either Javier Milei or his deputy, Diana Mondino. Perhaps they realise, but for Xiomara’s rescue, Giannina would already be dead. The sound of a cork pulled from another bottle of Malbec interrupts my musing, as does the sound of a Belfast accent coming from the pavement outside the restaurant. Within seconds, a figure appears in the doorway, sandy blond hair swept back from his forehead, his metal framed spectacles glinting under fluorescent light from the restaurant signs.
David Cameron looks up and calls out in recognition, ‘Norm old boy, over here if you will.’
Norm - agent K, was present at M’s meeting at the Savoy and was the trusted UK government operative who took charge of affairs at Fundación Mercedes Sosa following Moneypenny’s murder on the steps of Monumento Al Plus Ultra. M had told us that he would be returning to Argentina, but that she had ‘other plans’ for him without specifying their nature.
‘Meet Javier and Diana,’ Cameron says, gesticulating with a fork, ‘Norm is my field agent whilst in Buenos Aires. He will be working with Mr Bond - Xiomara is his handler. Norm flashes a smile and momentarily bows his head in recognition. Meanwhile, I struggle to re-set.
For the second time in two days I discerned that my role here in Argentina had shrunk. In the past I had always enjoyed my independence, setting my own pace. It was now more than clear that Xiomara was totally in charge of the operation and I was present to help take care of the detail, as I had at Duhau.
Xiomara turns to Norm, ‘how’s the factory?’ she asks. ‘They worked through the night and finished it this morning.’
‘The factory?’ I ask, to which Norm replies, ‘We’re to take Lord Cameron there as soon as he finishes his sabayon.’
Within minutes, three Ford Falcons pull up outside the restaurant. Cameron and Milei hug in parting, whilst Diana Mondino walks ahead to wait for the President in the first car. In the second car Norm rides up front with our driver, and David Cameron, Xiomara and I squeeze into the back. Behind us in the third car is Cameron’s security contingent, still holding on to my replacement FN FNX-45.
We set off down Salta to Libertad, somehow managing to avoid the afternoon traffic, then right at Viamonte, the car stopping short of the famous Galerias Pacifico centre. Crossing Tucuman, we continue on foot along pedestrianised Florida.
It is only at this point that I guess the location of ‘the factory’. Readers will remember my arrival in Buenos Aires and my detour through a deserted complex at Florida 537. Arriving, we descend the ramp to the lower level, ahead locale 299 still bears its torn signs declaring ‘Argenper’. Here the only sign of life is a diminutive figure in a shrunken wheel chair, a toy harmonica in his hands and Hugo Diaz’ eerie song, Milonga Triste echoing through the deserted halls.
A plan emerges
In the last episode, following the bomb blast at Hotel Duhau, our key players met together at a restaurant in Monserrat, Buenos Aires, no doubt to sort out any fall-out from the event.
As they chat, Xiomara acting as interpreter, it becomes clear that President Javier Milei is as confused about it as are Bond, Xiomara and the British Foreign Secretary. Milei pulls out his iphone and makes a call.
‘Can you get here now, Diana, I’ve got David Cameron, Bond and Xiomara Smith-Cumming here at Gogy’s. We need your help.’
It seems almost surreal- and you, dear reader, may wonder how the Argentine President, his deputy, a British Foreign Secretary and key members of the British Secret Intelligence Service come to share an asado and three bottles of high-altitude Catena Malbec in a back street café in Buenos Aires.
The fact is that, unlike in the USA or Europe, this is precisely how things are done in South America. Just as they love ubiquitous hugs in the street or the subte, Portenos prefer the informality of the kitchen to the pomp of a palace. A small cheer goes up from a group of workmen in one corner as Boca score for the third time, and Diana Mondino arrives.
When speaking of senior beauty we often imagine those that have artificially staved off from their faces, arms and necks the rigours of age, battling the inevitable onslaught of time. Mondino represents an entirely different presence. Her figure is trim, her face flawless with natural quality. Think: clever lawyer Alejandra Rodriguez, at 60 years the oldest contestant in the 2024 Miss Argentina contest, and you may understand!
Behind her walks Eugenio Pendas, Prince Philip to his Queen Elizabeth. He smiles graciously as he passes to join Cameron’s security contingent, knowing that it is not he that we need to see. Javier rises, an unusual twist by a President for his VP. But his response shows the real value of glamour at any age, and almost certainly her value to his presidency.
Once settled with a Fernet-Branca, Diana Mondino tells us precisely what we need to know. She explains how the impending arrival of MI6 agents was leaked by a junior member of staff at Casa Rosada. She speaks of ‘the dark forces’, by which she means supporters of Argentine presidents past, and their determination to stop the rapprochement between the Argentine and UK governments. She mentions the Malvinas as a Peronista guise to maintain dissent.
Looking directly into my eyes she informs me that she is aware that a bullet from my gun killed the bogus paramedic.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Bond, we have already replaced your FN FNX-45 Tactical with one of ours.’
My hand immediately moves to my shoulder holster, only to remember that on entering Parilla Nuevo Gogy I was asked by Cameron’s security posse to leave my firearm at the door.
At least now we know that our adversary is not the Argentine government. But beyond that, who are the forces of darkness? When may they strike again?
River Plate team score, but too late in the game against Boca Juniors and their efforts meet with but a groan from the workmen. Our group goes silent for a moment. Then Xiomara speaks.
‘I have a plan, but I don’t know whether you will like it,’ she says.
‘Go on anyway,’ Diana presses.
‘My dad, Mansfield - who you all know as Q - used to take me fishing. With the right bait we always caught our supper. I fancy a spot of fishing,’ she continued with a grin.
I looked across at her; Javier stopped chewing; David put down his glass; and it was left to Diana to ask the important question, ‘who have you in mind?’
‘The waitress from Duhau - Giannina. They want her out of the way and we currently control both the hook and the bait,’ she added without a moment of hesitation or a breath of emotion.
Milei looks up. ‘Then it is settled,’ he says. ‘Now pass me some riñón. Espionage always makes me hungry!’
Meeting the President
It is the morning of our second day in Buenos Aires. Xiomara has risen early and prepares a breakfast of medialunas and coffee. Way below the terrace, two figures walk towards Plaza General San Martin, Giannina leading her dog Ghost, with Raul struggling to keep up.
‘David is flying into Ezeiza today,’ announces Xiomara as she bites into a pastry. ‘He is concerned that we have got off to a bad start and thinks he needs to fix it,’ she continues. ‘You had better put on your best blazer; M says we are to meet him at 12 noon at ‘Gogys’.
Readers of our last tale will recall that Parilla Nuevo Gogy is the place where Philip May awaited the arrival of his wife, then The Right Honourable Theresa May PM, on her one-and-only visit to Buenos Aires2. Located at the corner of Avenida San Juan and Salta, ‘Gogy’ may not be the most salubrious of restaurants but sits conveniently alongside Av 25 de Mayo where it enters the city centre from the airport. Moreover, it serves the very best meat in the district.
‘David will love it - he keeps on about football,’ adds Xiomara, ‘Mind you, I am not sure he ever excused Maradona for ‘his hand of God!’
‘Yes, I remember the Gogy posters! If Lord Cameron likes football he will definitely approve of Gogys. Being an Aston Villa fan (or is it West Ham)3 he should be most at home there in his blue Boca Juniors strip.’4
‘Shall I call Raul back to drive us in the Bentley,’ I go on to ask, failing to account that within 24 hours of our arrival in Buenos Aires we had already faced an assassination attempt by showing out in public.
‘It’s half an hour by Av 9 de Julio,’ Xiomara states, ‘Nobody will notice us on the bus. We’ll get colectivo 100 to Lima.’
In truth, there is only one sensible way to get around Buenos Aires. You can call a taxi, but at peak times your journey will be painfully slow, sitting in queues of traffic then racing trucks for space at the lights. Subte offers an alternative, with lines that sort-of-connect beneath the sun-drenched streets. But the colectivo is both quick and cheap; and via Av 9 de Julio, the widest road in Argentina, the Metrobus is the perfect way to get across the city to Monserrat.
I stand by an open window holding a flexi-leather strap, whilst Xiomara has slipped into the one free seat alongside a large woman nursing bags of groceries. We race from stop to stop, passing Obelisco and the 1926 Chalet de 9 de Julio5, a perfect villa perched high up on the rooftops above Cerito.
Reaching Gogys, we find that Lord Cameron has beaten us to the restaurant, stripped off his jacket and is tucking into an asado comprising every type of beef. His security contingent sit at an adjacent table drinking Quilmes6. Gogy’s manager has his eyes glued to football on the television, barely registering that the UK Foreign Secretary is his sole diner.
‘Ah, Xio,’ Cameron exclaims, ‘Come here my darling and help me eat this beast.’ ‘Is that Bond with you? I hope he is behaving himself and teaching you well.’
Xiomara takes the seat to Cameron’s left and orders a bottle of Malbec. ‘David, thank goodness you are here. Did you say that Javier is coming to join us?’
Before Cameron can reply an old Ford Falchion pulls up outside the restaurant windows and a dishevelled figure wearing a black leather jacket and sporting wild hair levers himself from the rear nearside seat.
It is remarkable, but save for his driver, he is entirely on his own with not a trace of security presence. Perhaps he has sacked them? Maybe they have been caught by austerity cuts? Maybe, and more likely, is the fact that Javier Milei, President of Argentina, crazily enjoys anonymity when not performing on stage with a chain saw.
First, a hug for David Cameron, then a hug and kisses for Xiomara who immediately engages him in rapid-fire Castellano. Javier seems flattered and rather than sitting in the empty seat to Cameron’s right takes his place alongside Xiomara draping a lazy arm along the back of her chair.
He greets Cameron, ‘Como estás boludo?’ then without waiting for a reply looks up to the TV screen, ‘Boca Juniors,’ he exclaims, ‘Perfecto!’
____________________
1 Clarin - Buenos Aires newspaper
2 Theresa May visited then President Macri in 2018, the only such visit since Tony Blair in 2001.
3 This is where in 2015 David Cameron blamed brain fog when he forgot which team he supported.
4 One of the more important Argentine football clubs of which President Milei was a voting member
5 Built atop a tall furniture store, this villa replica is easily missed, but once seen, never forgotten.
6 If you are tempted to drink beer in Argentina, then it must be Quilmes!
Giannina and Ghost
Back at Palacio Haedo, Xiomara is brewing Maté whilst I pace the room. Giannina, wearing one of the house robes, sits on the terrace alone, shaded beneath a canopy.
‘How are we to handle this’, I ask - meaning in truth that I have no clue what to do.
‘She knows what happened and who is responsible. Moreover, they know that she knows,’ Xiomara replies. ‘We need to video her account and move her for her own safety, as well as ours.’
Our return journey from the Duhau had not been without its problems. First was to depart the hotel unseen. Climbing across the high window ledge had given access to the enclosed courtyard, but options thereafter were limited - the kitchens, clearly in full-flow pending evening supper - or a gated corridor. The gate lock is a disc-detainer. Xiomara rummages in her small rucksack and produces a Sparrows disc pick. Tensioned, it takes her but eight seconds to set the six discs that separate us from the palace gardens and to exit via the double gates into Posadas. Hailing a passing black and yellow radio taxi, we head towards Callao, down to Libertador and back via Cerrito to Palacio Haedo.
Perhaps it is that I have been away from active service for so long, but I find myself totally reliant on Xiomara’s assessment, and unable to make a plan. With Maté and media lunas we step out to the terrace. Giannina is still in shock.
‘We suspect that the bomb was intended to kill us and not to harm you,’ Xiomara begins. ‘Javier Milei and Diana Mondino know that we are here in Buenos Aires, but we represent a foreign government service which is now a target,’ she continues. ‘From what you have told us, we think we know who may have planted it. You are the only living witness and that’s why we think you are in danger.’
It seemed to take several seconds for Xiomara’s words to sink in. Giannina looked desperate. ‘What am I going to do?’, she whispers.
‘If you leave now, they will trace you. Should you return to Duhau they will be waiting. Of course, if you wish to take that chance you are free to do so, but we have an alternative. Help us and we’ll help you.’
Giannina goes silent. There is now just the distant drone of traffic from Santa Fé below and the rustle of a breeze across the terrace garden.
‘What do you want me to do?…What about my apartment in Almagro…and my dog Ghost?’
‘We can take care of your apartment rent, and your dog can come here until other arrangements can be made,’ replies Xiomara. ‘But we need your testimony, and its best to record it now,’ she adds as she takes her iphone 15 Pro from her rucksack.
Giannina’s description of events leading to the bomb blast are recorded in detail - the bellboy pushing the bolero, a pink suitcase, and the strangers she had seen moments before.
After an hour, Raul arrives back at the Palacio. How he has made the journey to and from Almagro in such time is astonishing. On a long lead behind him trails Ghost, from his black nose, white to the inky black tip of his tail. On seeing Giannina he breaks away and bounds towards her.
‘Rosa got together what she thinks you will need,’ Raul says, more by way of apology than information, ‘And she is making a bed up for you down below.’
And with that, Ghost leading the way, Giannina departs. Xiomara looks across and nods, ‘James, less than 24 hours in Buenos Aires, a bomb, fake medics, one of them shot, a bellboy dead and now a guest that we cannot afford to lose.’
All is not what is seems
Her breathing steadies under Xiomara’s soothing hands, the blood that seemed to cover her uniform has clearly come from the dead bell boy who now lies frozen on the salon floor, and that from her superficial cuts ceases to flow. Within moments, as if from nowhere, paramedics arrive.
Xiomara looks up from where she kneels with Giannina.
‘I’m a doctor. She does not need to go to hospital,’ she orders, ‘Attend to the boy.’
My jaw drops. Surely it would be wiser to have the waitress checked at Accident and Emergency? What is Xiomara doing?
‘James, help these people with the boy. I will take Giannina to the bathroom,’ she continues.
It is only at this point that I glance down to the feet of the nearest paramedic. Nike trainers, with the trace of grey trouser leg appearing beneath the scrubs?
Xiomara has been ahead of me again. Whoever they may be, they are not wearing ESM Reeboks, standard issue for paramedics from Hospital Aleman.
As the male paramedic signals to his female colleague to follow Xiomara and Giannina, I intervene.
‘You heard what the doctor said, stay and attend to the boy.’
We are now surrounded by onlookers, Americans, Chinese families and Korean couples, seemingly jostling for a view of the drama. A Brazillian tourist offers to assist as peremptory, ineffectual steps are taken to resuscitate the dead youth.
I step away along the corridor leading from the salon, but hear footsteps following. I move quickly towards the restrooms, and slip behind a pillar. The lead paramedic comes into view carrying an object before him. He passes. I step out from my concealed position. Placing my 9mm supressed FN FNX-45 Tactical between his shoulder blades, I fire one shot.
In the distance a small dog barks and a Peruvian voice swears. The door to my left leads to the gents. From the hotel layout I figure that a courtyard beyond leads directly to the adjacent ladies powder room. I take the exit and close the door quietly behind me.
Drama at Duhau
Afternoon tea at the Duhau is special beyond belief. After you have experience it you will contend that teatime each day should start with Champagne served by a waitress. Standing alongside, she pours it deftly into two flutes, pale amber with slow bubbles, the bottle label momentarily concealed by a white serviette. After she departs I lift it from its cooler to read the brand.
Were it otherwise I would have returned the Champagne and demanded Bollinger, particularly as it appeared that the Foreign Office was paying the bill, but this Chandon Brut is superb. An assemblage of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, with flavours of citrus, creamy peach and apples. By rights exhaustion from a fifteen hour flight should be kicking in, but instead the Argentine-made Champagne creates a sense of euphoria.
Moments later our waitress, Giannina, returns with a tower of ceramic and chrome bearing the tiniest sandwiches and little cakes, pretty beyond description. Of the choice of tea I have reverted to an old favourite, Earl Grey, whilst Xiomara hovers a finger over the Rare Rose Petal before selecting a Japanese Genmaicha because she likes the name.
‘Now tell me Xiomara, why is Lord Cameron - David - paying the tab for our tea?’
‘Well, Mr Bond’…. I stop her at this point. ‘Please, it seems you have requisitioned my digs, so less of the ‘Mr Bond’ - try James, its easier and makes me feel less like your uncle.’
‘Okay James, it’s like this: my father, Q -to you, was at Eton with David, and he is my godfather. Just simply that. But, before you start making assumptions, that’s not how I got this job.’
Given my run-around through Argenper, narrowly avoiding discovery, compared with the simplicity and effectiveness of Xiomara’s gothic adventure, I realise that she has all of the talent and guile required of an agent. But nevertheless I still ask the question, ‘On that topic, how did you get the job?’
‘When I lived with mother in Canada, I was Justin’s deputy head of security. The youngest ever, as it happens. And before you ask, no I didn’t sleep with him. I certainly wasn’t the reason he and Sophie split.’
I grin, ‘Clearly you know all about me,’ I interject, ‘And your dad will have filled in the gaps; but whilst you are springing surprises, is there anything else I should know?’
‘I don’t think so - James, except perhaps that M has offered me 003 - in memory of Johanna, both of us having qualified as surgeons,’ she replies.
Suddenly, everything becomes clear. Whilst in London I had bemoaned the prospect of acting as nurse-maid to a young rookie agent, the reality was that M has appointed Xiomara as a skilled professional, to look after me. I glance up to see her smile and catch my craggy reflection on her Champagne glass.
The pianist slides from Sondheim’s ‘Anyone Can Whistle’ to Jerome Kern’s ‘Ol Man River’ as the salon starts to fill with Americans. Ahead, towards Posadas, summer sun glances over the hotel’s private gardens. A flight of Canary-winged green-grey parakeets race by towards the Palo Borracho. Our conversation is over.
Suddenly, the sound of a loud explosion bursts through the salon. Smoke pours in from the corridor outside and our waitress stumbles through the doorway, her hands and face covered in blood. People in the room scream. A returning bell boy runs in to stop suddenly, his body blackened, his arm severed. Within a fraction of a second he falls to the floor, never to recover.
‘Out of the way, I’m a doctor,’ Xiomara shouts as she springs to her feet and rushes to the waitress, her uniform soaked and torn.
‘What happened Giannina,’ says Xiomara, ‘what was that, what did you see?’ she asks.
‘It was a bomb,’ she whispers, ‘it was amongst the luggage…a pink suitcase,’ she continues.
For a second my blood freezes. As Xiomara holds her, Giannina’s breath becomes shallower. ‘I saw the person that put it there,’ she croaks, ‘he was with a younger man. He was carrying a small dog - a Chihuahua.’
I look straight at Xiomara and she returns the gaze. My mind flashes back to London and the Ritz Rivoli Bar where Richard Hammond had given me a classified file. ‘Richard Alvarez and Jay,’ I say so that only she can hear. ‘Yes, I know them. But how do they know we are here?’
In the next episode we will find out more about Dr Alvarez, and surprisingly, a little more concerning Giannina!
Palacio Duhau
Xiomara sings as she unpacks, that broken song that arrives and departs in little waves of concentration and forgetfulness. It reminds me of Moneypenny’s first visit to Haedo, save that the protective feelings I had towards Moneypenny are replaced by a sense of anxiety in relation to Xiomara.
It is quite irrational, for being Q’s daughter she has provenance stamped all over her. Perhaps it is her dynamic, so different from Moneypenny’s vulnerability, projecting an aura of confident strength tethered to uncompromising will.
Within minutes she emerges and calls out to where I lounge on the patio, ‘Where’s the coffee, Mr Bond.’
‘If Rosa has been there should be some in the cupboard'.’
‘What’s this Kopi Luwak stuff?’ ‘Oh, is smells foul - it must have been here for years.’
‘Skip that’, I reply, ‘is there nothing else?’
‘Just some dregs - looks like Talisker or something’, she continues. ‘Yes, that’ll do’, I reply.
Three hours from touchdown we are sitting under a Buenos Aires sun drinking Scotch. The terrace overlooks Plaza General San Martin and on towards the Torre Monumental, formerly the Torre de los Ingleses, one of the many gifts from Great Britain to Argentina.
Another great gift between our nations was a ritual rather than a building; and it is not long before Xiomara, tiring of the afternoon heat, suggests that we adjourn for afternoon tea at Palacio Duhau.
‘What! You must be joking, M will have a fit if she sees the name ‘Los Salons de Piano Nobile’ on our expense sheet’, I exclaim. ‘She took weeks to get over Moneypenny and I dining at the Alvear.’
‘Don’t fret, Mr Bond, it won’t be on MI6 expenses - David told me to put it on his.’
From our first meeting in Whitehall I knew of Xiomara’s association with Lord Cameron, but hardly imagined that we might skip the Ministry’s meanness for the Foreign Office’s tab.
Xiomara has changed into a dress and I have donned a tie. We arrive a little after five o’clock. The pianist has started with an adventurous Astor Piazzolla for drama, but will eventually slip back to a soporific Stephen Sondheim for the tourists. Our sharp-suited waitress leads us to a table over by the terrace doors, selected by Xiomara so as to avoid both music and sun simultaneously.
‘Yes, the full works’, she orders, ‘And may we have the Champagne upgrade,’ she adds, whilst examining her manicured fingernails under the salon lights.
A surprise awaits
How interesting, since Bond’s previous departure from Palacio Haedo in 2018, that his MI6-leased apartment has remained unoccupied. In fact everything about it is exactly as it was left. You may recall that Moneypenny’s observation was that it looked like a museum. The radiogram remains against one wall, a collection of old vinyl records pushed untidily beneath. Somewhere on a shelf in the cupboard will be the empty box of Belgium pralines discovered by Moneypenny and the dregs of a bottle of Talisker single malt. A voile curtain lifts gently in a breeze from the open patio, allowing access to a shaft of sunlight illuminating the column of dust that hovers in the centre of the room.
‘What kept you, Mr Bond’, calls a voice from the roof garden. And there, in the doorway, stands Xiomara.
‘And how did you get here? I thought you were off to Palermo?’ I ask displaying my incredulity. ‘A detour for a little shopping at Galeria Bond Street, would you believe? I thought you might like a stick-on tattoo? I told the Japanese tourists that they just had to go there, and promptly lost them amongst the Goths.’
Everything became clear. Arguably the best location in Buenos Aires in which to ‘disappear’ is the Galeria at Santa Fe 1670. Entering from the street you could never anticipate the labyrinth that lies behind, beneath and above. A maze of corridors leads between studios buzzing with needles, tiny shops and flights of steps before decanting via the exit into Rodrigues Pena. The hoards of chain-jangling Goths on the back staircase make it impossible to follow.
‘Clever girl’, I say condescendingly, but secretly astounded and impressed by her initiative. ‘How did you know where to go? And, for that matter, how on earth did you get in here past security?’
‘Elementary, Mr Bond, I just did my research and found somewhere with a charming name: Bond Street - it seemed to make sense, just a short stroll away via Plaza Libertad. And of course Horacio downstairs is a total push-over for an experienced woman on a mission,’ she adds with a provocative smile.
The thing that now troubles me, however, is Xiomara’s intentions. Is she planning to take over my Haedo apartment? Am I to be consigned to the sofa, or forced out to the Hotel Alvear?
‘Don’t worry Mr Bond,’ she says recognising my look of consternation, ‘I’m not stopping….at least not for too long,’ she continues. And with that she calls for Horacio to help her with her suitcase and disappears into the bedroom.
‘What kept you, Mr Bond’, calls a voice from the roof garden. And there, in the doorway, stands Xiomara.
‘And how did you get here? I thought you were off to Palermo?’ I ask displaying my incredulity. ‘A detour for a little shopping at Galeria Bond Street, would you believe? I thought you might like a stick-on tattoo? I told the Japanese tourists that they just had to go there, and promptly lost them amongst the Goths.’
Everything became clear. Arguably the best location in Buenos Aires in which to ‘disappear’ is the Galeria at Santa Fe 1670. Entering from the street you could never anticipate the labyrinth that lies behind, beneath and above. A maze of corridors leads between studios buzzing with needles, tiny shops and flights of steps before decanting via the exit into Rodrigues Pena. The hoards of chain-jangling Goths on the back staircase make it impossible to follow.
‘Clever girl’, I say condescendingly, but secretly astounded and impressed by her initiative. ‘How did you know where to go? And, for that matter, how on earth did you get in here past security?’
‘Elementary, Mr Bond, I just did my research and found somewhere with a charming name: Bond Street - it seemed to make sense, just a short stroll away via Plaza Libertad. And of course Horacio downstairs is a total push-over for an experienced woman on a mission,’ she adds with a provocative smile.
The thing that now troubles me, however, is Xiomara’s intentions. Is she planning to take over my Haedo apartment? Am I to be consigned to the sofa, or forced out to the Hotel Alvear?
‘Don’t worry Mr Bond,’ she says recognising my look of consternation, ‘I’m not stopping….at least not for too long,’ she continues. And with that she calls for Horacio to help her with her suitcase and disappears into the bedroom.
Bond is back in his beloved Palacio Haedo
Readers of our previous tales will recall the majesty of Palacio Haedo as it was in Moneypenny's days...ancient, crumbling, clanking, dusty, and chaotic in a sedentary way.
Inside, the lift is its first indicator of antiquity. You probably thought that elevators with lattice doors and mesh sides through which like a caged canary you watch the ascent to higher floors, had been discontinued for ever. Here in Buenos Aires this is not the case. Those familiar with the city will know that Portenos prefer the mesh to the tomb.
I pull the concertina door closed with a snap, press a large green button and the lift mechanism jolts into a slow ascent as if an elderly lift operator was hauling it arm over arm. At each floor I sense it will to stop for breath before continuing, but somehow it manages to keep going despite grinding noises from its motor. On reaching the fourth floor it stops five centimetres above floor level before dropping a fraction and releasing the door lock.
Horacio has called ahead using the Ministry's internal system of wires and bells which for historic reasons have survived. Raul awaits on the landing. His shock of grey hair is more unruly than ever. Having come down from the roof garden he wears the old straw hat that somehow has survived years of summers. His fingers, soil stained, are those of a true gardener, quick and searching. Most prominent is his smile, a face creased by the sun over decades of southern hemispheres seasons. He holds out a welcoming hand as I struggle with my flight bag.
'Welcome back, James, I knew you would return some day', he says as he switches to the ubiquitous Porteno greeting, the hug. 'It's been a long time. But you don't look a day older!', he continues before releasing me from his grasp.
The palacio, still supposedly occupied by the Administracion de Parques Nacionales and Bibliotica Francisco Moreno, has been under renovation for what seems like years. Shrouded in scaffold and sheeting, it disappeared from view, to re-emerge in 2024 spendour.
However, the fact that the lift finished at the fourth floor and an unnoticed door opened onto a wooden staircase leading to the roof, concealed the existence of a roof-top apartment, historically leased to the UK government. Whilst the remainder of the building was restored, the top floor rooms and roof garden remained exactly as they were left in 1923.
Rosa, the maid, clearly has not visited in a while. The staircase is dust-covered, marked by gardener's shoe soles and cat paw prints. But dusty shade gives way to a flood of Buenos Aires sunshine as we exit onto the terrace. Beyond lies the apartment. But what surprises will await there?
Bond makes his way to Palacio Haedo - the long way.
I rest my leather flight bag on a row of metal seats bolted to the floor by Argenper when they occupied the office, and enter the keypad code to open a small door positioned between two tinted security windows. It leads to a counter surmounted by computer brackets and disconnected camera cables. Wires lay across the floor and an empty encrusted paper cup stands against the screens. Beyond the counter is yet another digitally protected door that leads to the main office.
This room suggests that Argenper left in a hurry. Redundant office equipment has been left behind together with a working kitchen - kettle, toaster and coffee machine; and a small furnished rest area. I seize a discarded Clarin baseball hat from a peg outside the bathroom and make my way to the rear door, pushing the security bar open and allowing it to slam behind me. A dark corridor and staircase leads up to the ground floor. There I cross a enclosed courtyard and exit into San Martin by Edificio Arg-Group.
As a young agent my first posting was to Buenos Aires, and this office was a front for the Secretariat. PM James Callaghan wanted information on the Argentine military junta that from March 1976 until December 1983 controlled the Presidency. In these years nearly 9,000 political activists, the ‘Desaparecedos’, were disappeared by the Argentine government. Margaret Thatcher was elected UK Prime Minister in May 1979, by April 1982 Britain was at war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands and I was withdrawn from the field.
Now, it seems, Lord Cameron (David) has been pestering M to return British agents to Argentina. Newly elected President Milei - the one wielding the chainless chain saw - has taken on the left-wing socialists, the Peronistas, the Cristina Kirchner lunatics, the unions and the poor with a view to making Argentina great again. David pledged his support, talking of swapping banking for beef (in which we clearly get the best deal). Rishi wanted to know about the Chinese space station in Neuquén Province and the floating nuclear power station(s) of Rio Gallegos. And so it is our job to find out what exactly is going on!
Palaceo Haedo comes up suddenly as you walk from the east. At first you will think it just a tower - slim and delicate, trapped between Alvear and Santa Fe. As you get close you see it in its full architectural majesty and antiquity. Just months ago the tarpaulins and scaffold came down to reveal restored magnificence. A bonus for Buenos Aires - but a loss for the likes of me who loved it for its shambolic decrepitude.
Somehow, nobody really knows why, Horacio has retained his job as lodge attendant. He spots me on his new screens before I enter the building, ‘Senor Bond, you back!’, he calls as he extricates himself from his swivel-rocker and rushes from his office.
‘Yes, Horacio, they have sent me back to check on you’, I quip. He smiles. I wonder whether he has understood either the words or the humour. But he is pleased.
As I cross the hallway to the lift a black cat races across my path.
‘Is that Cleo?’ I shout. ‘Yes, Cleo, he too is old…es catorce!’ Horacio responds.
As I open the lattice doors to the vintage lift clack open, I wonder to myself what exactly Horacio was trying to tell me?
In the next episode Bond renews his friendship with Raul and tours the new estate.
Bond and Xiomara arrive in Buenos Aires
Fifteen and a half hours later we circle the river Plata to catch morning light and place the plane’s moving miniature shadow over the old docks of Buenos Aires’ Puerto Madero.
Xiomara looks dazed after broken sleep, interrupted when the Boeing 777 engines struggled for updrafts in turbulent electrical storms over the Atlantic, and not eased by Club Class travel, the best that Savident would authorise despite Q’s protestations that his daughter deserved better.
Q has, however, managed to fix his daughter’s luggage by hacking into the British Airways web and authorising strict priority. Stateside, a pink suitcase bearing a diplomatic seal is guarded by a young Porteno. Xiomara retrieves her smartphone from her rucksack and pings a matching code to a device held out by the youth. Now identified, he leads us both through passport control, following in the steps of flight staff pulling their little wheeled cases.
Arriving at Ezeiza, there is one special moment that must be explained. It comes as the electric doors open from the calm of flight-side into the chaos of the arrivals hall. Signs are raised, voices call out, families greet and hug, children dart, drivers stand around with gourds of Mate that they sip from steel bomillas. The slow sepia film from the far side now becomes a technicolour slide-show of flashing images. You have arrived in Argentina!
But, dear reader, I cannot leave you standing in the heat of the arrivals hall despite its fascination. Xiomara mutters something about a remise, but I push her to the front of the Manuel Tienda Leon queue. ‘She wants two tickets for Retiro… cash in pesos’, I growl.
New agents always make the mistake of believing they are invisible. In reality, their every travel move has been tracked - their flight booking, the credit card payment, the plane manifest - then the remise car that has been strategically arranged by the host government.
We are now walking along the covered walkway to the Leon coach stand. A clerk checks us off on his wind-torn departure sheet and issues a raffle ticket as receipt for the pink case that he stows beneath the bus.
Leaving Ezeiza airport for the city is always a crush, but the aggressive coach drivers prevail over the cabs. We move out onto the east-bound dual carriageway, past farm houses, villas and shanty towns, along the elevated section of Au 25 Mayo, down into Constitucion, through Av Paseo Colon to the coach station at Madero. This is the point at which we may shed our identity.
The guard allows only coaches and selected private hire taxis to enter the Tienda Leon compound. It is here that we make the switch. I decline the little grey car that would take me and a Dutch tourist a seven minute drive to the micro centre, whilst Xiomara, dragging her pink case, climbs into a people carrier with four Japanese travellers to head for her apartment in Palermo Soho. Both vehicles exit the compound, Xiomara trying to speak Japanese, and the lone Dutch tourist wearing his new folding panama hat.
Checking around me, I set of at brisk pace to Lavalle, cutting across Plaza Roma, and along Tucuman and into the pedestrianised Av Florida. But instead of turning north towards Haedo, I turn south to Florida 537, a yawning down-at-heel shopping complex, replete with broken escalators and boarded frontages. My destination is locale 299 which bears a torn sign reading ‘Argenper’ and another reading ‘Propiedad para Alquilar’. Reaching above the door I feel for the padlock key. The chain drops with a clang. Eerily, I hear behind me the faint sound of a harmonica echoing through the empty mall, and as I close the door a tiny wheelchair descends the ramp.
In the next episode, Bond heads on to Palacio Haedo, his new home in Buenos Aires.
The lull before the storm
Alone on my return journey I take the direct route via William IV and Orange Street to Jermyn Street, entering Ormond Yard by the Duke of York. Before leaving the Savoy I had opened Hammond’s envelope to discover a British Airways ticket for a 10pm flight the following evening. I realise that this will be my last springtime stroll before arriving to a southern hemisphere autumn.
The leather travel bag rests in accumulated dust on top of the wardrobe. Its cabin size is perfect and will hold everything I need to take. I fold spare underwear and socks between two shirts and reach for my toilet bag containing a Geo F Trumper razor, cologne and toothbrush. Then I spy the trusted, 1996 Minolta TC-1 that somehow I had never had the heart to return to Q’s predecessor. ‘Analogue film, untraceable and small enough to slip into a jacket pocket’, I mutter to myself as I consider whether to pack the folding Panama.
I spend a moment to glance around my small apartment. Low ceilings and small windows add to its dingy, dated and worn appearance. Perhaps I should have hired a cleaner, or had a wife? The black Bakelite phone with a dial and silent bell is like everything else here, just on the brink of redundancy. I run a finger along the spines of a single shelf of books, each copy saved to denote a year, or mark a stage of life. In the morning when I depart, the less comfortable suit, two remaining shirts, a pair of handmade shoes and half-empty bottle of Talisker single malt will remain as sole witness to my having lived here.
After a fitful night’s sleep I rise early to breakfast on Mr Barrick’s game pie at the Red Lion at the end the Yard, then for Argentine pesos to the bank in Jermyn Street and finally, the newsagents to stop the papers.
‘When will you be back, Mr Bond?’ asks the owner. ‘I really don’t know’, I reply, ‘It all depends on Scottish Referendum Fellowship funds’, I add inscrutably as I turn to leave.
Mireille arrives by limousine at 6 pm prompt, far too early for a Heathrow journey that should take but an hour.
‘Your cologne suggests to me that you are going on a date’, she observes playfully.
‘What, Mireille, are you coming too?’ I retort. But I see in her response that this time she will not escape London for Buenos Aires.
Out through Hammersmith on the Great West Road, and beyond Chiswick we pick up the M4 leading to the dreaded London Orbital and the airport. We sit in silence, with just the occasional exchange, Mireille knowing not to ask or to fuss. Her driver’s pass allows us to escape the airport charges, slipping through on a priority route to arrive directly outside the terminal. Grabbing my bag I flip my flight jacket against the cold rush of early evening air and proceed through the electric doors to terminal five.
In the next episode, Bond arrives in Buenos Aires after a sixteen hour flight. Who or what will await him there?
'Have we a deal, Bond?'
Richard Hammond quickly slips his nail file into his pocket. Paul Savident closes his iPad. Norm wanders across to the table. Q and Xiomara appear to be in a lively mood, sitting side-by-side at one end.
‘This is just as I imagined it’, she says to her father, ‘all cloaks and daggers’.
M looks remarkably relaxed, and for once, not at all irritated by the banter.
‘Right, straight to business. Bond, we want you to return to Buenos Aires with Xiomara. Cameron has asked for her to be your number 2 in place of Moneypenny. She speaks Spanish like a Porteno, can count - so she will manage the expenses - and she can handle a 9mm Glock.’
I sit transfixed. Is it now my task to nursemaid this child? Am I to train her up simply to take over my job?
‘I know what you are thinking, Bond’, M continues, ‘yes she is young and relatively inexperienced, but we need someone - how can I put this - a little more ‘dope’, if you get my meaning?’
I look down at my cuff links and drop my glance further to my black leather Jermyn Street Loakes. Perhaps I am near, or even beyond my sell-by date?
‘If it is any consolation, James, you will have the Haedo apartment whilst you are there. Oh, and by the way, Raul hasn’t been rumbled so he will meet you at Ezeiza in your beloved Bentley S2 Continental.
Dear reader, it is best at this stage that I tell you a little about Buenos Aires, just in case you feel left behind.
Palacio Haedo was built in 1860, and restored in 1923 , making it one of the oldest buildings in Buenos Aires. It retained all of its original features as befitting a national historic monument - including its ancient plumbing and heating. For my previous visits to Buenos Aires, this had been the grace-and-favour apartment provided by His Majesty’s government. Raul was its gardening caretaker, supported by Cleo his black cat.
When workmen moved in to restore the building in 2022 it was expected the Malvinas-obsessed government of Alberto Fernandez & Cristina Kirchner would repossess the whole building for the Administration of National Parks; however Lord Cameron managed to persuade their chain-saw wielding successor, Javier Milei, to discretely forget the British presence on the top floor - and it seems, miss the Bentley Continental bearing British plates hidden under a dustsheet in an underground garage.
‘Have we a deal, Bond?’ continued M, almost without stopping either for breath or indeed for an answer.
‘Then what are the rest of you here for?’, I ask.
‘Norm will travel with you to Buenos Aires, but we have other work for him, so he won’t be under your feet. And of course, Paul and Richard will be your handlers.’
The prospect of returning to Argentina’s capital to enjoy asado at the Olivos Military Club, and drink coffee at Palermo’s street cafes, was at the forefront of my mind as M turned to leave. So too was the draw of nights-into-mornings dancing Argentine tango to Golden Age orchestras in the milongas of Buenos Aires.
‘Here’s your tickets, James’, says Richard with a flick of his grey-blond curls, as he drops a manila envelope on the table. ‘We thought you would want them ‘old school’ darling, rather than digital.’
Q hobbles off after M, leaving me alone with Xiomara.
‘It will be like old times, but different, Mr Bond’, she says to break the silence. ‘And it may be your last chance to dance tango?’ she adds as she pushes her smart phone into her little rucksack and gets up to leave.
In the next episode Bond is given a few tips by Q and prepares to depart the UK for Argentina.
Bond is called in by M for a new assignment
At Ormond Yard there is a lift of sorts but being so incredibly slow nobody seems to use it, preferring instead the back stairs. That’s probably also because the building comprises only four floors, and the tiny top apartment has always been mine.
Winding up the cream blinds admits morning sunshine glancing across the roofs of Westminster, still damp after overnight rain. Today I have no need of either umbrella or raincoat as M insists that agents are collected by official car, a device to ensure that we are never late for appointments. I have brushed off my best Savile Row suit, bought as a pair two decades earlier, and found an appropriate silk tie to lift the pin stripe.
A double blast from a car horn tells me, not only that the car has arrived, but that the driver must be my old ministry colleague. You will recall Mireille from our earlier exploits in Buenos Aires, her Quebecois French undiminished despite years living in London working for the ministry. ‘Bonjour, James, ca vas?’
As my few readers will know, I am neither the most cheerful person in the morning, nor the most loquacious, but Mireille’s infectious smile lifts my mood.
‘You know, Mireille, I could have walked from the flat to the MOD in twenty minutes, and I expect you are going to trundle me round St James’s, Pall Mall and Cockspur Street to get there.’
None of the ‘trundling’ if you don’t mind, James, I’ll have you know that we have a new Vauhall flotte.’...‘And you’ve got the right route, but the wrong destination’, she adds with a half-smile.
M’s office is on the eighth floor of the Ministry of Defence building in Whitehall; but true to type, it seems that she has arranged our meeting instead at the Savoy Hotel in the Strand. Mireille will drive to the Strand entrance. M, however, will no doubt walk by the back streets to Savoy Place where she will slip in through the staff door, just as she did at Bar Notable Los Laureles in Buenos Aires.
Vollam, Savoy’s head doorman, instructs me to go straight to the Sorcerer room on the first floor, hidden away in the hotel’s beating heart. It is themed in scarlet and black, dominated by a large circular table surmounted with an elaborate chandelier. Everything about the room speaks of M, her tastes, her authority, her transition, and her sense of danger.
As I enter M is standing by the window looking down into Savoy Court. ‘Did you know Bond that this is the only road in London where we must drive on the right?’
At the table sit Paul Savident and Richard Hammond, the former checking figures on a spreadsheet, whilst the latter files a broken nail. With his back to the fireplace stands Norm, international photographer, the government’s principal agent in Northern Ireland. Behind me I hear voices, raised, but not in argument. They are the type of voices that you may hear frequently in grand hotels, raucous with a slight upper-crust polish. As they approach, their identities become clear:…Q… and his daughter, Xiomara.
‘Well, its like the old days…almost’, I say, immediately regretting my comment. Could Xiomara’s presence ever make up for the missing Moneypenny? My mind flashes back to the ‘Monumento Al Plus Ultra' at which Moneypenny met her death from a single-action semi-automatic M1911 pistol. I cough to clear my throat, ‘Good morning, M; good morning everyone - how nice to be back!’
In the next episode, Bond gets his instructions for his next assignment. What will that be? And will this be initiation for Xiomara?
Post Revival
One of the many delights of story telling through a blog is that our tiny handful of readers must wait for the next episode. A downside for new readers is that the story is back-to-front. Of course there is that little link on the left that will give you the composite story in chronological order, so all is not lost. I would urge those coming to the Bond and Moneypenny for the first time to consider starting from the beginning if they would like to know how the story, and the characters developed.
For the moment, my friend, co-writer of Moneypenny, is engaged in a busy professional and social life and has little time to write her part. Having the urge to become a famous writer, this will undoubtedly change. But for the time being, it is just me, Bond....and perhaps due to Q's insistence, his energetically ambitious daughter Xiomara?
Moneypenny died by gunshot wound on 17 November 2019, and Bond returned to London. As this is a revival of that story, I have included here our first episode again, so that readers may settle back into the tale.
Bond is present at a Whitehall lockdown party when he is introduced to Q's daughter, Xiomara. You will already have gathered that she has many of the attributes that were displayed by Moneypenny in our last story, but with very different flaws. She is young, energetic, beautiful - but gone is Moneypenny's naivety, to be replaced with a measure of headstrong recklessness. The writer expects that this will make Xiomara more accessible to our younger readers.
Before we continue with the story, let me congratulate you, my dear reader, for persisting with our blog. You are one of a small band of dedicated, discerning readers, for which I (and Andreea) thank you.
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'Bond, Bond old boy, over here if you please, quick as you can.'
Without effort Q could be the most irritating, intrusive and demanding colleague. His mind worked so fast that, save for M, few could keep up with him.
'What appears to be the matter Q', I asked, listening nervously for the sound of a smoke alarm, or sight of Boris's former Chief of Staff.
'I want you to meet someone, James. This is Xiomara. Isn't she beautiful Bond? Well so she should be - she is my daughter, and she has decided to keep the family tradition going by joining the department'.
Standing to his left, Xiomara luckily bore few genetic traces from her father. She was slim, with a neat blonde bob and sparkling eyes that reminded me a little of Moneypenny. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Bond', she said in a vaguely French accent, and with that she held out a delicate hand in greeting.
'I don't believe it, Q, where has she been all of this time?', I asked, convinced that this was one of his usual jokes and that she was just another of the latest MI6 recruits.
However, rather than holding back in Q's presence, Xiomara was totally forthcoming. 'I was caring for my mother in Canada but daddy said I should come over and get a proper job. And here I am'. 'Now get me a Martini if you would Mr Bond. Daddy says that I have a lot to learn, and I should start now before you disappear from the field.
Whilst, of course, flattered that Xiomara considered my experience as an agent had any current relevance, I was not too sure how to take her comment about 'disappearing from the field'. Did she know something that I didn't? Was M about to call me back to her office on the 8th floor to present me with a watch, assuming that convention still persisted in the ministry?
But the energy of her laughter and beaming smile told a different story, one of collaborations yet to come, perhaps a new start following a dreary pandemic.
'I don't suppose you have ever been to Argentina?' I questioned, absurdly casting my mind back to morning coffee at street-corner cafes with Moneypenny. 'Well, actually, no as it happens, Mr Bond. But I expect you will have seen M's latest docket?'
Of course, I had not. Being away from the ministry, albeit just a seventeen minute walk from my apartment in Ormond Yard, I was totally out of the loop. My days had been spent exploring the antique shops of Burlington Arcade and sipping Constans' excellent Martinis at the Ritz's Rivoli bar. In fact I had not set eyes on a docket for three years.
'What does it say, this docket?' I asked, attempting to sound casual, but being inwardly intrigued.
'Its about Lord Cameron's recent visit to meet President Javier Milei. David wants us back there on a trade mission.'
Two facts brought a lump to my throat. First that Xiomara appeared to be on first-name terms with the Foreign Secretary, but more important, that a plan was afoot for my return to active duty in Buenos Aires.
'Have you ever danced Argentine tango?' I inquired casually.
'No, but I am sure you can teach me that as well', she rejoined.
In the next episode, Bond prepares for departure to Buenos Aires, and we hear a little more about Xiomara.
Revival
Mr Bond
After the fatal assassination of Moneypenny at the Monumento Al Plus Ultra, Reserva Ecologica in Buenos Aires, Bond said farewell to Argentina on 17 November 2019, and assiduous readers of this blog will know that this brought to an end that tale.
It was left to Raul, resident caretaker at Palacio Huedo, San Martin, to inform Bond of Moneypenny's death earlier at Hospital Britanico. Broken hearted, he returned his Ormond Yard apartment in Westminster, his life in retirement enlivened only by the occasional invitation to a Covid-covert garden party in Whitehall.
It was at one such event during lockdown that Bond was to meet the department's latest recruit. And this is how it happened.
--------------------------
'Bond, Bond old boy, over here if you please, quick as you can.'
Without effort Q could be the most irritating, intrusive and demanding colleague. His mind worked so fast that, save for M, few could keep up with him.
'What appears to be the matter Q', I asked, listening nervously for the sound of a smoke alarm, or sight of Boris's former Chief of Staff.
'I want you to meet someone, James. This is Xiomara. Isn't she beautiful Bond? Well so she should be - she is my daughter, and she has decided to keep the family tradition going by joining the department'.
Standing to his left, Xiomara luckily bore few genetic traces from her father. She was slim, with a neat blonde bob and sparkling eyes that reminded me a little of Moneypenny. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Bond', she said in a vaguely French accent, and with that she held out a delicate hand in greeting.
'I don't believe it, Q, where has she been all of this time?', I asked, convinced that this was one of his usual jokes and that she was just another of the latest MI6 recruits.
However, rather than holding back in Q's presence, Xiomara was totally forthcoming. 'I was caring for my mother in Canada but daddy said I should come over and get a proper job. And here I am'. 'Now get me a Martini if you would Mr Bond. Daddy says that I have a lot to learn, and I should start now before you disappear from the field.
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Mr Bond After the fatal assassination of Moneypenny at the Monumento Al Plus Ultra, Reserva Ecologica in Buenos Aires, Bond said farewell to...
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In December 2017 the writers, Stephen Twist and Andreea Vladan agreed to take up a writing challenge involving each of them penning epi...
