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 Joanna, 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.

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.

Below, Buenos Aires looks peaceful, a city ready to start another day. Tiny cars move slowly along the Gral Pablo Riccheri. The runways of Ezeiza airport come into view and the undercarriage clanks as it is lowered for landing.

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 is mine.

Winding up the cream blinds admits morning sunshine that glances across the roofs of Westminster that are still damp after overnight rain. Today I have no need of either umbrella or raincoat as M insists that agents are collected by car, undoubtedly a device to ensure that we are never late for our 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 my 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 Canadian half-smile.

M’s office is on the eighth floor of the Whitehall Ministry of Defence building; 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 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 by 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.

Postscript for readers of Bond and Moneypenny blog

In December 2017 the writers, Stephen Twist and Andreea Vladan agreed to take up a writing challenge involving each of them penning episodes of a storyline set in Buenos Aires, reviving the famous characters of James Bond and Moneypenny.

The idea behind the challenge was to write together (frequently in the same room), but independently; in each episode setting challenges and traps for each other’s characters, allowing a story to unfurl without forward planning. For both rookie writers, the task called on new skills and was designed to stretch both our writing experience and imagination.

At the outset we had little concept as to how our characters would develop, save that Bond was now in his 60’s, retired (almost) from MI6 and in Buenos Aires to dance Argentine tango. Conversely, Moneypenny had not aged a day, remaining in her early 30’s, lively and in slight awe of Bond. No doubt this configuration owed much of its provenance to the ages of the writers themselves!

We did, however, want to include a host of characters based on our friends - when I we say ‘based’ we really mean ‘stolen’. Taking our friends’ names, we wove a little mystery into their fictional characters and frequently a touch of undeserved evil. It follows that none of those named in the blog bear any but a passing resemblance to the invented characters they inspired.

All good things must come to an end, and with our respective and increasing separations from Buenos Aires we concluded that the time was right for new writing ventures. Our love for our characters does mean that we shall be keeping this blog for posterity: not least because by choice we have taken Bond away from his historic misogyny, and Moneypenny from her subordinate eye-candy role. No doubt film producers will clamour for our services.

It remains to thank all of our readers - those who followed each episode and sent comments; those who occasionally dipped into the blog out of curiosity; and of course, those that lent us their names.

We wish our readers well. Do not delete the blog from your list of notifications or favourites. Who knows, Bond and a resurrected Moneypenny may return some day; and with your presence here, you will be the first to know!

Farewell to Buenos Aires

A thin sun lights a damp autumnal San Martin. The lattice doors of the Palacio Haedo lift clang closed as we start our descent to a bustling Av Santa Fe. Raul looks pensive.

"If you have forgotten anything, James, I will send it on to London", he says, more to fill the silence than to declare an intention. He knows that, in one leather bag, I have everything that I brought to Buenos Aires. And in his heart he knows too that I have left behind the thing most precious to me. He sees my strained, creased face, and feels my loss - a bereavement that goes down to the soul. 

As the lift clatters to a halt on the ground floor, Cleo, Raul's black cat, crosses purposefully on her way to the palacio kitchens. Horacio's eyes leave the flickering television in the attendant's lodge and he leaps up, rushing into the entrance hall. "Senor Bond, I going to miss you", he stutters with emotion, waiting for his hug.

A black and yellow radio taxi is standing in the street, its driver re-reading the news in Clarin. Raul opens the rear nearside door. "Have a good flight, James, and stay in touch won't you". There is another moment of silence before he adds, "you are the last of the old guard". A sweep of the second hand pushes time and urges the moment of parting.

And away, threading the morning traffic, the taxi windows wide open to admit the breeze bearing last early autumn scents of the barrio, then heading to the raised carriageway of Av 25 de Mayo that will zip out to Airport Ezeize - and beyond, over an Atlantic night, to a Heathrow dawn.

Farewells are bitter-sweet. The intrinsic sadness of leaving friends and familiarity is tempered by melancholy. Thoughts and feelings heighten, and I grasp for final memories. There remains but a glance across the roof tops of the city, and back - before the present unveils the changing picture of life's new challenges.

Final decisions

In the last episode you will recall that we were directed to go to Fundación Mercedes Sosa, Humberto Primo in San Telmo, formerly a religious institution, hospital, barracks and prison, now a cultural centre dedicated to South American culture and the memory of the renowned folklorique performer, Mercedes Sosa.

Raul steers the grey Falcon from Ave Ingeriero Huergo across stone sets into Humberto Primo to stop behind a queue of similar Falcons outside no 378. Norm and I are clearly the last to arrive.

Unlike the others, however, our journey across Puerto Madero had required total concentration.

"James", Raul directed sternly, "you have to listen carefully to what I am about to say. Do not interrupt me. You now have little time".

"Things are not what they seem. Susan Boothroyd isn't who you think her to be. She has infiltrated MI6 but her masters are Chinese. She works undercover for Chen Wenqing's SSA".

For a moment I froze not knowing what to believe. Did my friend Maria Cristina know this, and who was Cristina working for? What about Savident and Hammond; where did their allegiances lay? Was Mireille at risk? Who on earth was Sabrina? Finally, who attempted to kill Moneypenny and why?

Norm breathed out, "I knew it, James; all that bollocks about a transgender regional head of MI6. How could we have been so stupid?", adding, "and that why we have an attempt on Moneypenny's life".

"We need you both in there - that is the Fundacion I mean", continues Raul. "We must know what is happening, but if you take my advice, you will not stay too long". "Find some excuse to get away...any excuse...any way", he continues.

With that, the door to the Falcon swung shut and it disappeared west into the San Telmo traffic.

"Stay close and don't breathe", I ordered, "and Norm, don't say anything with that Northern Irish accent of yours", I added as I pushed him ahead of me. "If they ask I will say that you are my driver and you need a comfort break".

Those that know the Fundacion Mercedes Sosa will be familiar with the entrance straight from the street leading to an open cloistered courtyard. To the right is a visitors' information room and studio, straight ahead a passage leading deep into the recesses of the building.

"Senor, te estan esperando", says the security officer, directing us towards the chained-off area. Norm lifts the links and we pass through. The corridor is in partial darkness, the only light being that from the courtyard. We descend into the gloom.

The fifth door on the left is ajar, and voices sound from within. I step through, whilst Norm continues to the door recess for room six. As I enter I feel a new atmosphere, one of anxiety, laminated with the feint smell of sweat. Boothroyd is seated on the edge of the table, Maria Cristina to her right. Mireille looks downwards forlorn, whilst Savident and Hammond recline uneasily on wooden chairs to one side. As for Sabrina, there is no trace.

"Ah, Bond", says Boothroyd as I enter, "at last - and true to type, the last".

"It seems that Moneypenny may survive, but this marks the end of her time with the department, and I fear, the end of her career as a tanguera", continues Boothroyd. "As for the rest of you, the team is disbanded due to security concerns". "That will take effect immediately", she adds curtly, "your passes will be taken as you leave the building". "That is all".

At that moment there is an urgent rattle at the door. Norm appears in the doorway. "Chicos...atacado auto", he yells, hardly disclosing an Ulster note whilst waving at me to follow.

We race down the corridor and in tandem leap the chain rail. The security officer is in his room and unable to react as we run towards the door to the street. Visitors stand back and gasp. Outside waiting is the grey Falcon, Raul at the wheel.

"Let's go", urges Norm as the Ford cuts into the traffic and we race past Plaza Dorrego towards Bolivar.

On entering Av San Juan, Raul turns. "I am sorry to say, James, the news is that Moneypenny died an hour ago in the Hospital Britanico".

As we return to Puerto Madero in afternoon light, clouds have gathered ominously overhead. Raul's words pierce my heart like a knife. It cannot be possible. Moneypenny...she had everything to live for - tango, youth, life.

Tears trickle down my cheek. I feel numbed. The light fades; sound dims; the buildings either side close in. It is as if a spark has been extinguished without reason.

"Where to James", says Raul softly, "may I suggest Palacio Huedo and take stock there. Perhaps a cup of tea from Rosa?"

And with that we thread through Av Independencia towards 9 de Julio and on to San Martin. My mind is like ice, my feelings frozen.

'What is left for me here in Buenos Aires?', I ask myself. But this time I do not have or hear an answer.

In which Bond beats a retreat to Humberto Primo 378

Mr Bond

Good day, dear reader. From my last episode, you will recall the sensational events at Monumento Al Plus Ultra by the Reserva Ecologica here in Buenos Aires. As the new Head of MI6 Ms Sue Boothroyd and Maria Cristina (M) approached the monument steps, Moneypenny was wounded by a single shot from a semi-automatic M1911 pistol. We told you of her urgent transfer to Hospital Britanico in Av Caseros, Constitucion; but that is where our account concluded.

Some thoughtful readers have inquired as to whether Moneypenny survived the shooting (her flashback stories to Berlin giving no clue on this issue). You need to know that she has. That which caused her to crumple into my arms on the monument steps proved to be a deep flesh wound, producing copious blood but not delivering death.

We were all present at that fateful time. Paul Savident, Richard Hammond, Mireille, Norm, Sabrina, Moneypenny, Bond, and of course, Sue Boothroyd and Maria Cristina. Also, almost unseen and unheard in the distance beneath the canopy of Jacaranda glinted the chromed spokes of a wheelchair and a drifted a haunting harmonica tango. 

As the ambulance left with Sabrina clutching Moneypenny’s hand, a cavalcade of Ford Falcons sped into Av. Dr. Tristán Achával Rodríguez. Ms Boothroyd and M had already reached the road and were ushered into the second car which turned into Padre M L Migone, disappearing from view and leaving the food vendors and late afternoon joggers staring in disbelief.

Savident took charge of our remaining group. “Our instruction in such circumstances is to go immediately to Fundación Mercedes Sosa, Humberto Primo 378. Take a car”. And with that our group split - Savident, Hammond and Mireille in the first Falcon, followed by Norm and me in the last car.

Imagine my surprise when, on sliding down into the rear near passenger side I glanced up to recognise the driver. “Raul, what on earth are you doing here?” Pushing his beaten straw hat to the back of his head, Raul (Palacio Haedo’s caretaking gardener and chauffeur) just smiled, “someone has to be looking out for you, old boy”, he replied.

Postscript

I should explain to the uninitiated reader the significance of the Ford Falcons. The first Falcons were produced in La Boca, Buenos Aires in 1962 and remained in production until 1991. Between 1976 and 1983 they were commandeered by the military regime death squads, arriving late at night or early morning outside homes where opponents of the regime would be spirited away to be ‘disappeared’. Between 11-30,000 citizens were killed. To this day, street pavings mark the buildings from which radicals were removed.

MP returns part 2/3

Moneypenny

I opened the front door and followed the music all the way up the stairs that lead to the milonga.  Two French doors opened onto a 1920’s typical Berlin café resonating with Troilo’s ‘Te aconsejo que me olvides’.  A man and a woman were talking, or struggling I to talk, should say.  I could tell instantly and he was Porteno, and hence spoke very little English, and she was German, and hence spoke very little Spanish. I stepped in to try to facilitate communication; Federico was a singer and had been invited by Madga, the milonga organiser, to sing tonight and they were trying to agree on the best moment for him to start his performance.

‘Gracias’ he said to me, to which I simply responded, ‘de nada’, and he was off.  He sang 4 songs, one tanda, and started with Di Sarli’s ‘Soñemos’, ‘Let’s dream’, Let’s dream that we are both free, let’s dream that tomorrow doesn’t matter…….ironically how most people in Buenos Aires live and deal with the day to day insecurities, dreaming and trying not to worry about tomorrow.   

When Federico finished singing, he walked over to where I was sitting and told me he had another performance tonight, but would love to see me again.  He gave me his card and said he was singing here again on Wednesday and could really use my help ‘translating’ for him again.   

Wednesday

I was at the conference given by Vladimir Dimitrov, Ph. D, a well known and very accomplished genetics engineer.  He was working on some sort of artificially accelerated genetic mutation which would help humans better adapt to environmental and diet changes.  The Kremlin was selling it as Russia’s solution to global warming, which would allow humans to adapt to new environments, only instead of it taking hundreds of years, with countless deaths, this new research demonstrated that this could be achieved in as little as two generations. 

The conference was very well attended, scientists and politicians from all over the world were taking notes and exchanging business contacts, ‘this is the future, our very survival depends on it’, Dr Dimitrov argued.

‘Survival of those who have the means to afford it, he means’, said a voice coming from behind me.  ‘Richard’, I exclaimed, ‘of course the British would send their very best to be there today’,I added.  ‘I was about to say the same about Brussels, Miss Moneypenny, it’s a pleasure to see you, as always’, he responded.

The conference ended, and then begun lobbying from all sides.  ‘It’s almost pathetic seeing them running after each other like that, like pathetic little dogs.  Let us do the civilised thing and get a drink; champagne I believe is your poison my dear?’  Richard asked me.  ‘My afternoon poison. Yes’, I responded.

‘You know, Bond is back in Buenos Aires, and word has it he might soon need some help over there.  Things are happening in Argentina right now and it is vital that changes happen in the right direction’, said Richard while handing me a glass of Dom Perignon.  ‘And what right have we to determine the ‘right’ direction?  Isn’t foreign involvement what Britain is accusing Brussels of?’, I asked while sipping my cold bubbly.  ‘Let’s just say that in these matters we have two choices, to lead or be led, and frankly I know which side I prefer to be on, I guess you have to decide, my dear Moneypenny, which side do you want to be on?’, he responded purposely ignoring my comment about Brexit. 

And with that I decided it was time to get back to my Berlin penthouse and try to take all this information in.  Why had I been sent here? And why did I again feel like a pond in someone else's chess game? 

Then I suddenly remembered I had a milonga to get to!

Moneypenny from Berlin to Buenos Aires Part I

Moneypenny

Bond and Sabrina freeze and gaze at me in terror.  What happened? I feel lightheaded, everything is hazy; I feel as if I were floating above everyone.  I look down, onto the steps where my body lies, Bond is panicked as Mireille tries to calm him, Sabrina is motionless, petrified; I can’t make out where the others are; I’m just lying there motionless….

I have this overwhelming urge to float away…… To follow the breeze…. Go towards the sunlight…… but something pulls me back, faint in the distance, I hear Bond’s voice “You stay awake, you come back, do you hear me”, and abruptly the floating stops and I can feel a deep pain in my abdomen and a weakening of my body.

I close my eyes; darkness comes over me, and then, unexpectedly, a flicker of light appears in the distance;  I see myself; myself 6 months ago in Brussels, about to give my speech on health-care issues in the European Union and new regulations for the big pharma which have been dictating rather than following the rules lately. I’m back, back to that moment that started the chain of event that led me back here, that led me to this moment which might be my last.

6 months ago…..

I had left BA after the G20; after yet another encounter with my mysterious Argentine; after Bond; after Sabrina… when I had had enough of all of it.  I came back to Brussels, went back to work as if none of it had ever happened.

"Madame, madame c’est à vous de parler.  Andiamo!!! Presto!", said M Rasi, Guido I should say, the executive director of EMA, the European Medicine Agency, and my boss.  So I stood up and gave my speech, like I had many times before, on the importance of unity in the face of division, on the importance of our common goals, our strife for the people of Europe, and the world, to have the highest quality of medication to preserve, improve and prolong life….yes preserve, improve and prolong life…Yes all of those values, those values I used to believe in so strongly....before I knew any better.

"Hai fatto bene, come sempre", Guido told me.  "You think so?  We’re planning our move from London to Amsterdam; half of Europe is no longer European, you think talking about unity makes a difference now?" I responded in an almost irritated tone.  "Ah che passione!" he responded and paused as he looked directly into my eyes.  I knew that look all too well, he wanted something from me, and something I wouldn't really want to do.

“My dear I need you to go to Berlin, to attend a conference next Wednesday; given by a very influential Russian genetic engineer.  You’ll need to pay close attention; we think the Russians are trying to play God and are trying to create some sort of super Siberian humans along with mutated vaccines against their own new engineered biological weapons.  You need to take notes, talk to people, see who is there, who is interested, make friends." He said as he gazed at the speaker’s chair at the front of the auditorium.

“Anyhow, you leave tonight, and you will spend the week in Berlin.  You will stay at Hotel di Roma, in the center, near the university library.  It’s the only place you can get descent pasta, I will not have you eating German food for seven days straight! No one deserves that, not even the Germans!” He said as he burst out laughing at his own joke.

 

“One week, why one week if the seminar is on Wednesday?” I asked with a hint of annoyment, as if I had no life of my own and could just get up and go according to everyone whims and desires. “Perche e cosi.  All your things are ready, you just need to take the taxi to the airport and enjoy.  Antonella packed your things and whatever is missing you can just put on your expense report. Grazie mille cara mia."

So just like that I was off to Berlin on the 7PM flight.  9PM I arrived at hotel Roma, in the heart of Berlin, on the very spot which was the scene of the very infamous 1933 Nazi book burning.  No matter how much we move forward, Germany’s past will forever haunt her, like a shadow that follows you even on the sunniest of days.

“Welcome madame” said the concierge, “we are very pleased to have you with us, Pierre will escort you to our best room, on the top floor, for your stay with us", he continued.

Penthouse and a week in Berlin, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all I thought to myself, why was I complaining?

Pierre opened my door, placed my suitcase on it’s dedicated stand and handed me an envelope; “C’est pour ce soir, amusez-vous bien mademoiselle”, he said before disappearing. Why an Italian hotel in Berlin had a French speaking busboy, I wasn't sure, but it is why I love Europe and believe in her so profoundly. 

The envelope contained one handwritten note: ‘Das Kaffeehaus Dallmayr and bring your shoes. Grazie mille cara mia.’

The place was 3 blocks from my hotel, the coffee house of the Communication Museum of Berlin, I could hear the music from outside, and like it always does, it drew me in, like a firefly to light.

Does she survive?

Mr Bond: Important update

We met at 'Monumento Al Plus Ultra' against the entrance of the Reserva Ecologica on the eastern side of Buenos Aires where land meets La Plata. Savident, Hammond, Mireille, Norm, Sabrina, and Moneypenny were waiting for me on the steps just as the afternoon temperature dropped beneath the thick canopy of Jacaranda trees that borders the reserve.

The Jose Lorda sculpted monument commemorates a hydroplane flight across the Atlantic Ocean in 1926 from Madrid to Buenos Aires. This was a riverbank area from which over time the River Plata retreated from the popular bathing point where the statue still stands.

Maria Cristina (known as M) arrives with London's new Head of Service Sue Boothroyd; unconventionally but not unexpected from what we know of M's quirky transport choices.

It is the first time that I have encountered Ms Boothroyd, MI6's first transgender Head. She is Theresa May's last appointment before a new Prime Minister takes up residence in London's Downing Street. She is younger than I had expected, powerful, beautiful and smart, her blonde hair pulled into a pony tail. The two women walk purposefully and without urgency along the avenue towards our group. Paul Savident, Hammond and Mireille chat quietly to one side. Norm continues to snap photographs of Sabrina and Moneypenny. I  stand alone against the plinth.

When they reach a point twenty metres from the monument, Ms Boothroyd stops and turns. I can hear the sound of a phone as she reaches into her hand bag to retrieve her mobile. The distance is just too far away to hear her words. Almost immediately Moneypenny's phone rings out. She steps down from the marble steps to take the call. At the same moment a shot rings out, recognisable as from a single-action semi-automatic M1911 pistol.

Moneypenny stands for an instant but the phone drops from her hand. Within a second she crumples to the ground. For what seems an eternity no-one moves.

The events that followed fall seemingly into time-lapse. Norm steps back into the shadows followed by Savident, Mireille and Hammond. I rush forward to where Moneypenny is lying. She does not move. Her breathing is feint and rattling. A pool of blood creeps across the stone and she whispers indistict words in my ear. I turn to see the steel-clad dustcart depart into Rosario Vero Penazola.

Sabrina calls 107 for an ambulance and whilst waiting with her I instinctively seize Moneypenny's phone from where it had landed in the dust. Paramedics rush down the avenue. Arriving, they attempt to stem the flow of blood whilst delivering oxygen. Departing, they say that they will go to the Hospital Britanico in Av Caseros, Constitucion, and that Sabrina should accompany them.

I remain seated on the monument steps staring at my blood-stained hands. Distant at the reserve entrance I notice the glint of sunshine on the spokes of a wheelchair as it retreats into the shadow.

Nine of Ten

Mr Bond

That I should encounter Moneypenny in Buenos Aires would not be surprising. Visit the city and you will understand why immediately. The tiny electrical charge that surrounds all humans is somehow magnified here, and strangely transmitted. You may be walking in a crowded calle, only to have a friend or acquaintance approach or wave furiously from a passing collectivo.

But that Moneypenny should find me within two hours of touchdown was spooky. On meeting, her demeanour was even more unusual. Gone, the carefree, fun-loving tanguera; now a subdued young woman on whom her smile appeared strained.

“James, I haven’t got much time”, she said breathlessly. “Take this, it contains your instructions. Oh, and don’t be late!”

With that Moneypenny pushes a data card into my palm and disappears up the staircase into the crowds of Calle Florida.

The astute reader will recall from a previous chapter - ‘Bond Recalled to Buenos Aires’, the MI6 voice on the phone that made it perfectly clear that the Palacio Haedo apartment in San Martin and the 1960 Bentley S2 Continental came on the condition that I should carry the department’s phone with me at all times. In one demand I was propelled from the twentieth century into the twenty first, necessitating a return to Whitehall to collect my kit.

“Bond, you here again? I thought you were retired?”, had jabbered ‘Q’ as he opened a sealed case. “Now I have something to help you with your tango”, he continued with a laugh, “ask it anything...what is an ocho?....look, it makes Siri look like a child”. “And this is where you slot in your data card. No, Bond, don’t ask why you would need one of those; all will become clear”.

With that ‘Q’ had slipped the phone into my jacket breast pocket and spun on his heel. “See Bond, I have been practicing tango too,” he joked as he chasséd from the room.

Tracked by my phone? I inserted the data card and clicked ‘read’. ‘Reserva Ecologica Costanera Sud: Martes 1500 hrs para conocer a tus amigos, saludos, ‘B’. 

But why the ecology park? And who is this ‘B’?

Breakfast at the galleria seemed to lose its appeal. ‘There is no such thing as a free meal, or even a quiet one these days’, I thought to myself. It seemed no sooner than I had set foot in Buenos Aires than I was being set to work.

I enter the press of humanity in Calle Florida and continue my route north to Santa Fé, turning left before Plaza General San Martin. Ahead, Palacio Haedo is looking both tired and splendid, the last traces of repairing scaffold being removed. Behind the glass reception screen sits Diego, his eyes fixed on a television screen. “Senôr Bond, nice to see you back in Bueno Aires”, he says with a frowning smile. “Here your key”.

Thirty minutes later I return to the street to hail a radio cab. “Puerto Madero, Fuente Monumental Las Nereidas”, I say, so as not to reveal my true destination. The taxi chases along the new Paseo del Bajo cutting minutes from the journey.

For 33 years, 350 hectares of marshland has served the Portenos as their last remaining wilderness. This is the Reserva Ecologica, where rough tracks lead you past swamps skirted by large iguana, eventually to the banks of the La Plata estuary.

My phone pings. ‘Monumento Al Plus Ultra’, reads the message. I squint ahead into the sunshine. On the steps is a collection of familiar faces.

“James, good of you to join us”, calls a voice. Two groups stand informally around the monument. In one group, Savident smiles, Mireille traces a lapise on the marble flags and Richard Hammond blows a kiss in my direction. In the other, Sabrina scowls at my approach , and Norm photographs Moneypenny as she shrugs her knees. “So we are The secret seven”, I observe tallying a head count.

“No, Bond, we are the nasty nine”, says Savident authoritatively, “we have been told to wait here for M and B”.

Maria Cristina (M) runs the government’s secret service operations in South America from her hidden office in Avenida Gral. Las Heras in Buenos Aires. “But who is this B?”, I ask, glancing around at the group.

“You’ve got to be joking, Bond”, replies Savident, “or you’re seriously out of touch, old man”. “B is the new Head of MI6, appointed yesterday by Theresa May as her last political act before her escape to obscurity”.

“So, this B, where’s he from?”, I continue.

“Not he, Bond…. She....our first transgender Ministry chief. And her name is Boothroyd”.

On cue, a shiny new dust cart pulls up at the end of the avenue, and from the side door descend two blonde women, M turning to lend a hand to the other as she steps down to the street.

At that moment, behind us, the haunting sound of a harmonica emanating from beneath the Jacaranda fades, as a tiny wheelchair disappears into the distance.

Jorge Luis Borges and Galerias Pacifico

Mr Bond

From the Tienda Leon bus station I can either wait for a taxi, or walk the twenty minute journey to Palacio Haedo in Santa Fe. The day is fair, and after 13 hours of long-haul flight, the stroll would be preferable to a shared taxi.

Skirting Luna Park I pace to Av Corrientes and ascend to the pedestrianised Calle Florida where I turn north. It is still early, but the street is already busy with traders. Voices call out ‘cambio, cambio’ advertising currency exchange. I tuck my leather bag firmly under my arm for security as I pass intersections and open doorways.

Crossing Lavalle, Florida 537 appears on my right, a gloomy 1960’s building designed as a mall, now accommodating but a handful of trading units. I descend the escalator (inoperable as long as I can remember) to the lower ground level, heading down the sloping ramp to Argenper’s office. Smoked glass doors give access a deserted seating area backed by screens to hide the tellers. It is early. I am a queue of one, and a voice calls ‘siguiente’.

Whilst the foreign office will arrange currency transfers, they track every transaction. So I prefer to access pesos myself, making funds transfers from my bank to the English company ‘Azimo’, who arrange for peso collection here at the Argenper kiosk.

For proof of identity I present my passport which is scanned and returned. Horacio’s eyebrows raise as I write my address, Santa Fe 690. “Isn’t that the ancient palacio? I thought it was boarded up for renovation?”

I reply that in Buenos Aires you have to get accommodation wherever you can, at which he smiles, handing me a large roll of notes that have drummed from the auto-counter and enclosed with an elastic band.

With cash tucked into my body-wallet, my mind turns to thoughts of breakfast. I know that Raul, Haedo’s caretaker, will be on his rounds, and Maria the housekeeper has Tuesdays off.

Galerias Pacifico at Florida, just before Av Cordoba is the ‘shopfront’ of the Centro Cultural Borges. Jorge Luis Borges 1889-1986 was a writer and thinker, sharing with Samuel Beckett in 1961 the first Prix International. He was an opponent of the Nazi fascism of Adolph Hitler, which he described as ‘a chaotic descent into darkness’; and of the Peronism of Juan and Evita Peron which he called ‘the lies of dictatorship...to conceal or justify sordid or atrocious realities’. He was above all else, a nationalist for Argentina, one who loved tango, writing, ‘el infinito tango me lleva hacia todo’ -  ‘infinite tango takes me towards everything’. Without doubt he would have approved of ‘Escuela Argentina de tango’, the famous tango school hidden away on the top floor of the building bearing his name.

The street-side Galerias Pacifico however, is the zenith of retail, and a few steps to the lower ground level leads the visitor to the food hall where breakfast can be whatever you wish it to be. This is now my destination.

As I descend the stairs a voice calls, “Bond, esperarme...wait for me”. I glance behind me to see a young slim, fair haired figure pushing through a crowd of tourists.

“Moneypenny, what on earth are you doing here? And how did you know that I was back in Buenos Aires?”