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.

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.

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.

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?”

Finding ‘C’ - the back story

Mr Bond

Dear Reader,

I must interrupt the story at this point before Mireille and I disembark the Manuel Tienda Leon bus into Buenos Aires, to tell you about ‘C’.

At the mention of her name, it all became clear. For good reason, few people on the planet knew about her. For a special reason, I was one of the few. And evidently, that was why I was here.

Recruited over a decade earlier in Buenos Aires by Maria Cristina (known in the department as ‘M’) with the help of M’s assistant Paul Savident, Cecilia was to become one of the UK government’s most important South American assets. When I was informed of my first posting to Buenos Aires, it seemed just one of those random places that the Ministry insists upon. After months trapped in Whitehall, I saw it as the dream job - for climate, wine, culture, and tango. Yet very soon it became clear why I had been sent. My task was to train ‘C’, the latest, and most talented MI6 acquisition in years.

My first meeting with ‘C’ was arranged to take place at Convento San Ramon Nonato in Calle Reconquista, behind the huge Bank of Argentina in downtown Buenos Aires. The convent is an oasis in the heart of the city, with shaded pavement cafes beneath the cloisters, surrounding sun-kissed terraces. During weekdays, lunch is served by ancient waiters at linen covered tables, away from the hubbub of city sounds. In the gardens whilst the bells of the convent are silent, you can hear the vibration of hummingbird wings as they flit from flower to flower. It is the one place in the city where meeting can be discrete and unnoticed.

Our first encounter remains a vivid memory. Approaching, a woman of both beauty and bearing, Spanish waves of black hair cascading down her back. Remarkable was her gaze, her penetrating dark brown eyes displaying immediate intelligence.

Cecila had trained as a psychologist, then turned to the camera to become Buenos Aires’ most fashionable portrait photographer. It was this combination of skills that had caught Savident’s eagle-eyed attention when visiting her gallery in Plaza Serrano, Palermo. Through her work, not only did she know and photograph Argentina’s leading politicians and influencers, but she had an immediate understanding of the working of their minds, delving into innermost thoughts, like an Annie Leibovitz, Dorothea Lange, Diane Arbus, or Yousuf Karsh.

Since then years had passed and ‘C’, as expected, had risen in the ranks to be one of the most useful, effective and charismatic agents in the field. And now she had suddenly disappeared.

The alarm was raised by her friend Norm Keilty, Northern Ireland’s international photographer. His emails had gone unanswered, texts unread and phone messages ignored. That traffic, or the lack of it, was picked up by MI5, and her loss became immediately evident.

As the coach pulls into the Tienda Leon guarded station and we prepare for our transfer, Mireille looks strained. “James, I know how this looks; I should have said something earlier. You should have been told”. There follows one of Mireille’s famous French pauses, “but we needed your support and assistance. The truth is, James, we know all about you and C, and how hard this will be for you”.

“You will be joined by Norm, Hammond and Moneypenny, if we can locate her. You are the team. Savident is your handler, and Raul and I will be available if you need support. We part here. Perhaps we may meet at the new Club Gricel if you have news?”

With that, Mireille stepped down from the coach, a fifty peso note imperceptibly exchanged hands with the coach driver, and she disappeared wheeling her case into the crowds of Retiro.

Finding ‘C’

Mr Bond 

BA flight 245, “We have an announcement”.

Entering Argentine airspace from Brasil, the cabin staff walk briskly down the aisles to spray DDT or perhaps less noctious insecticide. “It is required under regulation”,we are informed, “if you do not wish to inhale, cover your mouth and nose with a handkerchief”.

There follows the descent into Buenos Aires. In early morning sunshine the Boeing 777 circles the city, as it turns capturing views down to Puerto Madero and the wide river Plata estuary beyond. ‘Is that La Boca Juniors stadium?’, I ask myself, seeing the morning light glinting on glass and recalling secret walks there at dusk.

It is half a kilometre from the plane to baggage reclaim, where the carousel is spinning cases through plastic strips. With my single leather bag, I pass by the feverish tourists and proceed to ‘Migraciones’. Already the queues for non-residents are snaking back towards the access routes. Unlike my arrival on the ‘Hanjin’, this time I have a UK government pre-registered visa in the name of Cpt Bond, recorded fingermarks and digital photograph. I follow aircrew along the restricted special visa lane and a surly immigration officer waves me through.

The next hurdle is the customs check. Those with special visas are shown no favour, but my bag slips easily from the scanner. Beyond is the final flight-side point before freedom, the currency exchange and taxi booking services hall.

Mireille is somehow already positioned at the Manuel Tienda Leon desk, speaking rapidly in a confusing combination of French and Spanish. “Oh, James, I’ve got your ticket. We’re getting the autobus”. Before I can complain, she pushes forward towards the electronic doors which open with a whoosh. Beyond are the familiar scents and sounds of Argentina. A press of drivers wait with cardboard signs, and families gather in groups with flasks and ‘Mate’. Children run, porters shout, and outside taxis hoot impatiently. And the heat - a wall of hot air gushes forward to melt the moment of arrival.

“Follow me, James, I really know what I am doing”, calls Mireille, without glancing behind her. Through the covered walkway, we arrive at the bus stop where she waves two tickets, logs her case and receives in exchange a raffle ticket numbered 006. “Climb aboard, James. This way we get the best entry to the Capital Federal”, she continues, as we sidle between the worn coach seats. “Slide that curtain back, James, don’t screen the sun; we don’t want to miss anything on the journey”.

The Manuel Tienda Leon coach pulls forward into a line of taxis, and jolts as it forces its way onto the departure road. A clock, which at one point told the time, hangs limply from its wires and swings against the dashboard. The driver breathes heavily and waves a fist at the driver of a pickup calling out ‘boludos’.

As we pass through the two motorway tolls, and the roofs of Boedo and Barracas stream to our right, Mireille turns abruptly in her seat.

“James, I haven’t levelled with you”. “You know I told you I was here for the change of PM. That is not true. And neither are you here for that purpose. The message M sent was simply to force your hand to come back to Buenos Aires”.

“What are you saying, Mireille? In that case, what on earth are we doing here?”

“James, we are here to find a missing agent. Our mission is called ‘Finding C’. And we are not to leave until it is done”.

Bond in for a shock at Heathrow

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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In which Bond and Moneypenny encounter problems at Plaza Dorrego

Mr Bond

There are some days when Buenos Aires is so hot and humid that San Telmo streets hum with the sound of the air conditioners which deposit their contents into large plastic bottles, or drip across scorching footways. Today is one of those days. Fortunately for me, a hint of breeze brushes the terrace to cool the skin.

On Sundays the milonga at Plaza Dorrego creeps into life at 1800 hrs, but most dancers arrive after later just as it starts to cool. The organiser, ‘El Indio’ Pedro Benavente is tall, slim and athletic, with long indian hair tied back into a plait. Following him, a collection of young tangueras vie for his attention. Significant amongst the local milongueros that frequent Plaza Dorrego is Don Bernabe, the grand master of the milonga. His age, a closely guarded secret, does not prevent him from dancing, and occasionally performing to the delight of the crowds that gather there.

Now early evening, I stand on the terrace overlooking Defensa. A tiny figure wheels into view and the sound of a harmonica rises against the walls of Geza Eckstein Sanjon de Granados Sa. The apartment buzzer sounds but over the intercom I hear nothing but the noise of market traders packing away their wares. When I reach street level, the figure and his chair has evaporated amongst the crowds, but tucked close to the door is a package - a shoe box wrapped in brown paper.

Returning to the apartment I slip my Georgian silver and mother of pearl pen knife through the string to open the box. ‘Exactly right - the perfect Comme il Faut seduction’, I say to myself.

Wearing my old dance shoes, I descend again the fifty two stairs to street level and make my way across Independencia towards Plaza Dorrego. I have left everything behind, save for a handful of pesos in my pocket and my apartment key clipped to my belt - the Bremont and leather wallet stored safely at the apartment. Plaza Dorrego welcomes those that travel light, and after our exploits of last night I do not relish a repeat loss.

The square is already crowded with visitors. On Sunday evenings it acts as a magnet for tourists that line three of its four sides to watch the dancers and take photographs for their memories. El Indio has just finished his demonstration performance to Angel Villoldo’s El Choclo, his a youthful partner’s fishnets catching the light from a string of coloured bulbs that hang from a plaza tree.

Moneypenny arrives with a swirl of energy. “Bond, let’s dance right now - its Miguel Calo with Raul Iriarte”, she calls above Cuando Tallon los Recuerdos, and she pulls me from my seat on the low wall. With that, we slip into the pista and execute a fast giro whilst waiting for a knot of onlookers to retreat to the steps. Tonight, for the first time since our return to Buenos Aires, Moneypenny dances with a lightness, almost a shallow breath, her short blonde hair catching the lights.

At the cortina, we return to the wall; and from beneath a planter I retrieve the box. “Imagine that, Moneypenny, it seems someone has left a present for you”, ‘Size six if I am not mistaken”, I continue with mock surprise. Lifting the lid, she takes out the Comme il Faut bag and squeals with delight. “Oh James, how thoughtful.” “But what is this?”, she adds, a frown crossing her face as she opens a note that has been slipped inside.

“Bond, you had better read this”, she stutters. “What is it….how did this get here….what does it mean?”

I look down at the note as she holds it out in her hand. The paper bears an MI6 letterhead and below, writing in thick italic nib. I glance up with concern. As I do so, I notice a wheelchair disappear into the crowd. Simultaneously, Richard Hammond appears ominously from the other corner. The Hugo Diaz cortina dissolves into a new tanda of Pugliese. But now dancing is the last thing on my mind.

Moneypenny

Richard ‘cabeceos’ me and before I can even react Bond says: “Go dance with him, be natural, don’t say anything, keep it casual and talk about the weather.” Richard and I embrace, the pugliese has already started so we don’t lose any time in idle chit-chat.  My dancing is horrid, I can’t hold my balance and as I go into my first ocho, my left shoe strap comes loose. I notice Bond across the pista reading the note, he seems worried but not surprised.

The first Pugliese of the tanda ends, “How nice to see you my dear, we did miss you at Casa Blanca in Sucre after you left”, Richard whispers in my ear.  “Yes, I had a lovely time as your guest, but I had to get back to Buenos Aires”, I respond as I break away from his embrace. His eyes are fixed on mine, “What a pity, but perhaps we will have another occasion to spend time together in the near future, I feel that we have much more to talk about Miss Moneypenny, in fact I’m rather sure we will see each other very soon”.  “It sure has been hot these past few days hasn’t it?” I suddenly utter not knowing what else to say; Richard ignored my sad attempt at changing the subject and whisks me back onto the pista. The tanda continues, ‘Una noche de Luna’ plays; Bond has picked up a slim blond and is circling around the dance floor as if nothing had happened.

The tanda ends and Richard disappears just as quickly as he had appeared; “Good job old girl”, Bond says to me. “If you say so, I’m not sure what happened there”, I answer as I try to get my strap to hook on; “He knows something, or there was something about the way he spoke to me.  I’m so fed up with all this mystery secrecy; what did the note say?” I ask Bond.

“See for yourself”, he responds and hands me the letter, a telegram more than a letter really, which reads:

‘Bond, the situation is grave, we are on the brink of war; they have managed to get vital information from the Argentine government. You must go to the rendez-vous point tomorrow, your local contact will meet you there as will agent 012. Keep the girl handy, we have reason to believe she can be of use to us, but do not tell her more than she needs to know. Goodluck. M ‘

“Why would you need me? This is absurd, I want no part of it”, I shout to Bond.  “Lower your voice Moneypenny, everything will be alright, you just need to play along”, he responds in a calm and contained voice. “We will dance after this milonga tanda”, he casually adds. However, before the end of the tanda, the music suddenly stops as the crowd, which was just seconds ago merrily twirling about the dance floor, falls into the deathening silence.  A man has collapsed, his partner kneeling over him trying to wake him.

“Alguien llame a una ambulancia!”, shouts a voice as everyone retreats to the side of the pista.  Before Bond can say anything, I grab the box of shoes and run off to Sabrina’s.

Moneypenny, the colectivo, and a stab in the dark

Mr Bond

I get the impression that Moneypenny thinks this is my first time - my virgin voyage. In the early days I introduced her to my maroon and cream Bentley Continental S2. She thinks that, and the radio taxi is all I know.

Since escaping the clutches of MI6, Raul has kept the Bentley hidden under dust covers beneath Palacio Haedo. There is also the little issue of my stipend. No sooner had I left London aboard the ‘Hanjin Buenos Aires’, than the ministry stopped my pay cheque.

The great thing about ‘el colectivo’ is the cost. When I first came to Buenos Aires I learned to say ‘ochenta’ as I boarded, receiving twenty centivos in change from my peso. Now I have one of those touch cards but with inflation am charged a resounding ten pesos.  

Moneypenny has already dashed to the back of the bus to claim two seats. It is approaching three in the morning, yet the atmosphere is carnival. Alongside, a group of revelers laugh and tease, ahead two lovers engage in a long kiss, whilst beyond grey clothed passengers, at the front sit two office cleaners and an eighty year old woman with her shopping trolley pulled into her side. What brings us here together on the colectivo?

We speed along Av San Juan towards San Telmo, shuttered shops and restaurants flashing past as we race the lights. Our bus driver has perfected the art - red-to-green as we approach without the slightest hint of braking, his progress only interrupted when forced to drop a passenger, after which he accelerates at break-neck speed to make up for lost time. At each stop we brace together to avoid sliding forward from shiny seats, and on departure bump our heads on the boarding behind.

Our colectivo swings left into Peru and heads down towards Independencia. The transition from bright San Juan to the dusky calles of San Telmo is stark. We alight between tall buildings that crowd both sides of the street. Recessed doorways lead to long passages, and further down to the hidden apartments of the bario. Two figures follow us, previously inconspicuously seated on opposite sides of the bus, unnoticed, but now walking quickly together.

I hear the sound of a blade, then of a snap. Before my hand can seize it, Moneypenny’s ‘Comme il Faut’ dance bag disappears into the darkness. “Oh my God”, she screams, but her voice is lost on the night air. We stand numbed in the moment. It was so sudden; so unexpected; we were so unprepared. 

“What was in the bag?”, I ask lamely, as if it could make a difference. “Just my shoes - fortunately not my best Katrinskis”, she adds. “But wait, I think my keys were there too”, she murmurs desperately checking her pockets. “They have gone”, she concludes, “and forty pesos which I saved from sharing your bottle of champagne”, she adds. 

“There is nothing to do now”, I reply peering forwards into a deserted street, “spend the night at Defensa - tomorrow is another day”, I continue, failing to account for the rising light in the east.

Moneypenny is pale, her normally lively face has become drawn. Without a word she reaches round to take my arm, snuggling close for comfort. Our footsteps tap in unison in empty streets as we walk in silence towards the lights.

Club Gricel - a fresh start, or the road to ruin?

Mr Bond

As soon as I uttered the words ‘Club Gricel’ to Moneypenny I regretted them. Sometime in the distant past presumably I had enjoyed an evening at Gricel, but now I struggle to recall when.

Club Gricel is at La Rioja 1180, way out through Constitucion along Humberto 1st over Av Jujuy. From the outside it is unauspicious, announced only by a couple of tangueras smoking by the pavement door. After paying the entry fee at the tiny desk, a curtain pulls to reveal the salon, beyond which is the bar that sports Gricel’s famous neon sign.

The problem with Gricel is the people. I hasten to add that I have nothing against the aged, but there are times when Gricel makes the former El Arranque look like a kindergarten. And then there are the tourists, dancing wildly with the old milongueros as they flirt with death. This is Gricel’s lethal cocktail.

A plump waitress escorts me to my table hidden away in the corner from which I may observe the pista. A couple of ancient milongueros nod in my direction but tonight I have not the will for the big showy embrace, so pass at speed.

It is after midnight and true to form, Moneypenny has not yet arrived. As the champagne appears, one of the grand dames of the milonga catches my eye with her skilled mirada. The orchestra is Fresedo, perfectly complimenting her invitation. We navigate the floor, avoiding the stumbling steps of the infirm and the lane-changing of the tourists. The freshness of arrival at Gricel has evaporated in a single tanda. Returning to my table I sip from my wine glass, feeling the consoling energy of bubbles against my nostrils.

Moneypenny’s arrival, when it comes, has the air of a car crash to the ¾ rhythm of a vals. Tonight she seems breathless, as if she has run from Av San Juan.

“Calm down old girl and put your shoes on”, I venture, noting her sharp reproaching stare as I speak. For what seems an age, Moneypenny fiddles with her shoe strap, giving up as the lights lift to announce a performance.

Professional tango dancers in Buenos Aires make their living from exhibitions. Within the entrance charge most milongas boast a midnight performance from aspiring dancers. Sometimes, by luck or judgment, you will catch famous dancers and may witness a seminal moment. But generally aspiring hopefuls struggle to create something new, or a new definition of something old. Perfection eludes them, and their performances end with polite applause. Tonight, I stifle a yawn and resist the temptation to check my Bremont.

With the performance complete Moneypenny still struggles with her shoes, so I rise to accept a Russian tanguera’s mirada. She combines Kseniya Sobchak’s beauty with Putin’s assassination skills - the perfect match for Gricel’s pista chaos.

Only later do I notice that Moneypenny is no longer at our table. I glance across the salon to see her in his embrace. Moneypenny is like a moth to a flame. ‘So much for her escape’, I whisper to myself, ‘It seems that Moneypenny is not through with espionage!’

In which Bond and Moneypenny return to Buenos Aires

Mr Bond

If you want to know about life on a transatlantic cargo ship, you will have to book a cabin and experience it for yourself - the solitary times when the hum of engines and the creaking of decks provide the only company, the monotony as a day slips towards evening, long views to a watery horizon, and the moment that a new dawn arrives in the east with the rising sun.

After leaving Dakar in Senegal, accompanied by Mireille’s lively French Canadian chatter, twenty days slipped past quicker than expected. We met for breakfast, joined by Simon the miniature schnauzer, and the occasional member of the Filipino crew. In the evening we would watch the sunset across the western horizon and dance tango to orchestras of the Golden Age on deck. On lazy afternoons schools of dolphins would gather alongside to race the ship whilst flying-fish tore ahead of the bow, and keen eyes could spot turtles, sea snakes and the illusive shark.

As we enter the busy shipping lane on our approach to Buenos Aires, I join Captain Nick Compton on the bridge, his greying beard matching that of his ageing schnauzer. His deep baritone voice booms instructions to the first mate. At the horizon the city shimmers in summer heat. Soon, we make out the tall towers of Puerto Madero just to the south of commercial dock Darsena D. None of the quiet, sleepy restraint of Tilbury - voices call out and figures dart amongst the moorings. Within moments the dock erupts with activity, overhead cranes grind out above our port side, ropes are thrown by the Filipino crew, whilst lines of huge Argentine transporter trucks await, their swarthy drivers leaning nonchalantly in the shade.  

Ahead of me, Compton addresses the migraciones officer in Castillano and nods in my direction. As I arrive at his desk he glances over half glasses momentarily before vigorously stamping my passport. “Bienvenido a Buenos Aires, Snr Bond. Tres meses”. Three months? Without the British government visa, it seems that I am now a tourist. It takes a moment to register. At first I sense a loss of status, ‘Cpt Bond’ it seems remaining somewhere on deck between London and Santos Itapoa. Then I realise what I have gained - the freedom to recover both life and identity from the department.

Mireille heads off to the leafy bario of Palermo, whilst my taxi takes me towards San Martin for the last time, stopping in Santa Fe just short of the grace-and-favour MOD apartment on the roof of Palacio Haedo. Raul is waiting alongside a large trunk bound with a leather strap. “James, let me give you a hand with this”, he greets, ”I think that’s the lot”, adding, “mum’s the word, but you know what, I am going to miss you, old boy”.

Minutes later, a half-open boot tied down with rope, the taxi leaves Raul standing on the footway, his hand raised in a half-hearted wave; and heads out on 9 de Julio towards San Telmo, ten minutes later cutting down the cobbles of Estados Unidos to turn back north to Defensa and my new home in the city.

Eva, the housekeeper, is there to greet me. “Mr Bond, here are your keys - and a spare set just in case you have a visitor”, she announces. “The terrace is upstairs, and beyond, the roof has fine views. Enjoy your stay”. And with that, she descends the fifty two steps to the street and disappears into the crowds of Calle Defensa.

San Telmo is one of the oldest barios in the city. A fresh start. I hang my Panama hat on the brass hook and look around me. ‘Coffee, I think’, I say to myself as I start to open the trunk, but within moments the buzzer sounds and a light pitched voice calls over the intercom, “Bond, are you there yet?”.

Moneypenny

‘Bienvenidos a Buenos Aires’, the signs say although there is nothing welcoming about crossing customs in Ezeiza Airport, they seem to consider everyone guilty until proven innocent, maybe they’re right now that I think of it.  As I step out the customs checkpoint, passed all the Tienda Leon ticket sellers, I notice Sabrina in the distance, she has come to pick me up. I won’t even ask how she knew I was arriving today.

“Welcome back, I’m glad to see you” she mutters nervously.  “Yes, I am back and don’t worry. If anything this trip has convinced me of one thing, there is no right or wrong side, the only thing I am sure of is that I want to go back to why I came here in the first place, for tango,” I say knowing it will reassure her, and at the same time not 100% convinced myself this was the end of everything else. Just as those creeped into my head I notice Richard Hammond and Paul in the distance walking to a taxi.

“Have you heard from James?”, I ask Sabrina.  “Yes I have,” she responds in a way that I know I had better not push for more information.

“Come, you must be tired, let’s go home. I’ve taken the liberty of moving your things from your apartment into my guest room; I’ve decided that you should live with me for a while.  You may come and go as you chose, no questions asked, but you will live with me,” she says affirmatively. “Alright, then I guess there isn’t much I can say then is there?,” I respond.

Sabrina’s hired limousine takes us to the streets of San Telmo where I would once again, start a new life.  The smell of Sabrina’s place was familiar and I unconsciously sigh with relief, feeling that I could give up the reigns to take time to breathe.  I make my way up to my room, when I notice a note near the telephone ‘Defensa 893 3C’. ’What could this mean’, I ask myself, but resolve to save that for later, for now all I wanted was a warm bath and a glass of Malbec.

“Everything is upstairs, go rest and we can chat later,” Sabrina says, adding as she hands me a glass of wine, “and I’ve missed you”.  

I open the doors to my new room. It was always ‘a little’ mine actually but now, dressed with all my possessions, it feels more official. As I open the closet I notice the red dress I had worn at Richard Alvarez’ party - along with all the other clothes from the Sucre suite. How had this happened?  Was I really out of all this? Bond! I knew I had to see him and said to myself ‘I must do it right now’.