Mr Bond
Heathrow Terminal 5, the champagne bar, a dish of Balik smoked salmon, mozzarella and caviar, and glass of Lombard Grand Cru Brut Nature. At my feet, my possessions contained in one leather bag. In my lap, my trusted Panama. On the shelf to my right, the bill.
I glance at the Bremont. It has turned 2130 hours and BA flight 245 has blinked onto the overhead monitor for gate B46. I pay with notes. Now to start the long walk.
Ahead, a crowd is littered across the departure lounge. Some laze with their trainered feet across the bench; others wait expectantly as if for the arrival of a celebrity. British Airways staff trot and dive beneath barriers, preparing to perform their departure ritual. The countdown begins, first with wheelchairs and buggies, followed by the suits and shades, and finally the teaming public who scatter down the passenger boarding bridge as if their favoured seat depended on their earliest arrival.
Three of us remain. He, by his look, demeanour and case, must be a retired pilot. He seems in no rush to go anywhere. She has been motionless, but at the last minute stirs as feet clatter in the distance towards the plane. She turns and smiles. “Alors Bond, comment ça va?”
Mireille, what on earth are you doing here? I thought you were still in Buenos Aires?”.
Dear reader, you will recall that Mireille, a French Canadian agent with MI6, stowed away on the ‘Hanjin Buenos Aires’ in her bid for freedom. On board ship, for twenty two nights we had danced to old recordings from the Golden Age of tango - Canaro, Laurenz, Biagi, Troilo, Calo, d’Arienzo, Rodriguez, Fresedo, Demare. Once in Buenos Aires, she had disappeared to Palermo Soho, only to be seen from time to time dancing Argentine tango after midnight in the milongas of Canning or Villa Malcolm.
“James, they brought me back to Blighty to keep un oeil sur toi. I’m surprised that you haven’t noticed me before. I had to report your every move”. “And now, they want me back in Buenos Aires in readiness for the change of PM”.
“Does that mean that I am off the hook?”, I reply frowning at the thought that I have been followed in London for months without noticing. “Yes James, I gave you a good bill de sante with Hammond, although I definitely got grilling from his friend, that Paul Savident. He behaves like un espion, plutot q'un boss!”
I look at her momentarily and say to myself, ‘yes, he most certainly is a spy. And I sense, quite a dangerous one at that’.
Mireille disappears to starboard, and I settle into my club class couchette with the better class of blanket. It’s ‘no’ to more champagne, but a ‘yes’ to a Martini, even if it is stirred and the olive tastes rather like plastic.
Later, trays are cleared and the lights dim. From aft, the buzz of turbofan engines. From fore, the tinny sound of the inflight movie. And then 13 hours of fitful sleep before the descent into Ezeiza Airport, Buenos Aires.
To read more about Mireille in the story, do the word-search that you will find on the blog.
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