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.

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.

Bond recalled to Buenos Aires

Mr Bond

‘Well, that is an end of that’, I mutter as I glance half-spectacled over my copy of today’s Times. ‘Theresa is gone.  Without Brexit; and it seems she didn’t even get the trade deal from Macri at the G20’, I continue to myself. ‘But at least she got to dance tango with Gerry and Lucia in San Telmo!’

Readers will gather that several months have elapsed since I escorted Theresa and Philip May to their Argentine tango lesson in Balcarce just before the Buenos Aires G20. Perhaps my services may be needed again by Boris and his children Lara, Cassia, Milo and Theodore in June? After all, Argentine tango is also popular in Japan.

My muse is interrupted by the ringing of the phone, an ancient black Bakelite rectangle with a bell and a dial - like everything else in my Ormond Yard apartment, just past the brink of redundancy. “Bond, isn’t it time you got a mobile, old chap?”, says the voice. “Sorry to interrupt your retirement, but we have another little job, and there’s no one else who will go to there at such short notice”. There follows a pause. “You will, of course, be paid, plus club class BA flight 245 rather than the ship. Oh, and we’ll give you a brand new mobile phone”, the voice teases. “What’s more, if you are really good you can drive the Bentley and resume residence in the grace-and-favour apartment at Santa Fe, after all they’re just catching dust since you left Buenos Aires”.

This last offer sends my mind racing back to long, lazy, sun-filled days at Palacio Haedo, the department’s almost forgotten accommodation in Argentina’s Capital Federal. Built in 1860, it is one of the oldest buildings in the city. Untouched since 1923, the year Carlos Gardel recorded 'Mi Refugio', the apartment provides home from home antiquity with Ormond Yard, but with the added value of high ceilings and tall doors leading to shaded terraces tended by caretaker Raul and his cat Cleo. Somehow HM Government managed to get their hands on the top two floors in the 1950’s and as with the Malvinas, never relinquished their hold.

“So, what have you in mind?”, I ask casually, trying not to disclose my interest. “It’s the same as ever, old chap. New PM, so new trip to grab trade from Macri...or will it be Cristina’s mob if they get back in power?”.

With first rounds imminent in the Presidential campaign, former President Cristina Fernandes de Kirchner and Alberto Fernandez lead the current incumbent Mauricio Macri by four points. Here too the perennial division: whilst the West favours the economist Macri, the people remain seduced by Fernandez socialism. The only candidate that could topple both would be Evita, long dead, but always present in the Argentine heart and psyche.

“And who will I get to show around?”, I ask with a failed attempt at humour. “Will it be Johnson, Gove, Leadsom, Raab - or one of the other tailenders?”.

‘So, you’ll do it”, the voice cuts in curtly. “I’ll tell M that you’re in”, it continues. Then the phone goes dead.

I heave myself from the chair and walk to a rain-drenched window, with its ‘almost view’ over the roof-tops of distant Whitehall. ‘Now look what you’ve done, James’, I say to myself as I turn the brim of my old panama between my palms. But deep down I feel the bubble of excitement of a new challenge, a return to Buenos Aires, and of course, Argentine tango.

‘I wonder whatever happened to Moneypenny?’, I continue. And with that, a smile returns to my face for the first time since I left Buenos Aires.