The  Downfall  of  James Bond by Greg Travis

  Based on the characters created by Ian Fleming.

1. Spying at the Ritz.
2. Monday Morning with M.
3. Bonds Away.
4. Casino from Hell.
5. Midnight Lunch With Q.
6. Loose Ends & Royal Sins.

( Authors note: James Bond is to be played by Sean Connery)

Copyright: 9-20-1997.

 SPYING AT THE RITZ

EVEN THOUGH the KGB had disbanded, it raised it's ugly head once more. The mere fact that so many former KGB agents had relocated themselves to the Fairfax district of Hollywood was strange enough, but what disturbed James Bond was that some had joined other countries' intelligence agencies, while still others were recruited by SPECTRE. Namely one Henri Paul known to Double- 0-seven as Frenchie. While in Paris Bond had located Frenchie and had been following him for a week. So far it had been an uneventful stake out. Bond was determined, and knew he would slip up sooner or later.
   Bond had been drinking all day. He lit another Monaco Gold and motioned to the bartender for one more round. He hummed along with the song that drifted over the stereo,"Tall and tan.......I've never been with a girl from Ipa Nema" thought Bond. From his vantage point at the bar of the Paris Ritz Hotel, Bond had a clear view of the security office door to the left of the vast elegance of the reception desk.  In the seven hours since taking up this position, Bond had only seen the number 2 security man at the Ritz stick his portly head out once. He looked to his right and out walked his man from a back room. Henri Paul was an average, harmless looking man. Only Bond knew just how dangerous he really was. They had crossed paths twice before, Bond turned facing the opposite direction. Frenchie walked across the room and stopped directly behind Bond. He called for the bartender, "Yes, Chateau Neuf du Pape Domaine du Pere Caboche' 56." Frenchie didn't notice Bond and turned to another patron. The bartender placed his drink on the bar almost directly in front of Bond.
"Your wine, monsieur Paul" said the bartender.
  With his left hand Bond moved Frenchie's drink a little closer to the edge of the bar, simultaneously dropping in it a large dose of powdered Prozac from his secret flip top ring. If there was to be a show down, Bond knew this would give him the edge. Frenchie picked up his glass of wine and took a large long gulp. He could tell by Frenchie's smell that he had been drinking all day, but then again so had Bond. He glanced at Bond but made no connection. He finished his wine with one more quick swallow, then turned and walked out of the bar. Bond paid his bill and quietly followed Frenchie as he made his way through the crowded lobby to a back hallway leading to the restaurant kitchen. Bond watched as Frenchie entered the large crowded kitchen. He stepped up to the kitchen door and peered through the round porthole window. Frenchie was speaking to a beautiful young Chinese girl dressed in white chef's clothing. He turned, looked around suspiciously, then slipped some papers into the Chinese girl's coat. Frenchie gave her a pat on the shoulder, then disappeared into the steam and chaos of the large kitchen.

  Bond stepped back around the corner as he saw the young Chinese girl exit
from the kitchen door. He followed her back towards the hotel lobby and watched her duck into the Ladies room. Bond waited a moment, then decided to find out what she was up to. He slowly and carefully opened the Ladies' room door. At first he saw no one. Then he noticed a pair of feet in one of the stalls. He had a gut feeling that she was Frenchie's Chinese connection, and those mysterious papers he gave her were probably British government secrets. He watched as she pulled her white cotton panties down around her ankles. It was now or never. With tremendous speed and power Bond kicked open the stall door. The girl gasped, as Bond grabbed her coat, picked her up and slammed her hard against the wall. She suddenly countered with a swift and serious kick to Bond's groin. He flew back out of the stall hitting the opposite wall, breaking loose a Kotex machine, then fell to the floor as kotex exploded everywhere. He looked up to see the Chinese girl go into a crane position known only to 5th degree black belts in Peking Kung Fu. She leaped off the toilette lid and flew into the air toward Bond with both feet positioned for a Double Dragon Toe Stab. Bond knew it well, he rolled to his right. The girl grazed his shoulder throwing her off balance. She hit the ground hard, then began screaming in Chinese, "You crazy pervert! Someone help me!"
  In a desperate attempt to make it to the door, she leaped over Bond. He instinctively grabbed the broken Kotex machine and hurled it at her with a force that surprised even himself. As she ricocheted off the machine, her head bounced off a marble sink, knocking her out cold before she hit the tile floor.
Bond jumped up and quipped, "I guess it's just not your time of month."
  He quickly grabbed the papers out of her coat. She looked so innocent with her little white panties still around her ankles. He noticed the girl had a tattoo on her inner left thigh. It was a beautiful design of a crane and a hummingbird. For Bond it was just another sign for members of the Wu - Tang Tong Gang.
   He exited the Ladies' room without so much as a scratch. Bond had been surprised by the girl's attack but dismissed it by thinking,
 "Thank God for Kotex, or I would have been a bloody mess."
   Bond glanced at the papers which were written in Chinese and French. A strange combination, it must be a code of some sort thought Bond. It was the evidence he needed to convict Henri Paul. Now all that was left to do was find him and quickly. Bond ran down the long hallway leading to the rear exit of the building. He heard voices. Then saw the back of  Henri Paul's head, with a blond man and a couple, all walking out the exit. By the time Bond ran to the door and opened it Paul and the group were in a Mercedes making their get- away. Bond saw a group of paparazzi on motorcycles. This gave him an idea.

   As one of the French paparazzi mounted his motorcycle he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. A split second later he was laying on the ground
unconscious. Bond had commandeered his Kawasaki Ninja 1100 and was in hot pursuit of Frenchie's Mercedes. Bond turned up the juice and brought the cycle up to just over seventy miles per hour. He finally spotted the Mercedes turning left onto the Rue Royale near the Place de la Concorde. Bond was gaining on the car quickly, and he noticed other paparazzi were also in pursuit. As to who else was in the car didn't seem important to Bond at this point. He was after Frenchie, and this time there would be no escape. Unlike his previous two attempts to bring Paul to justice, once in a brothel in Copenhagen, and two years earlier at a Petting Zoo in Prague.
  The Mercedes picked up speed along the Cours la Reine with Bond close behind. The other paparazzi were at least a half mile back. Had he seen me? Did he know I was following him? Bond wondered. Why else would Frenchie be driving so fast? Bond shifted gears into high. He purred along the right side of the Mercedes, both traveling at speeds of over eighty miles per hour. The mouth of a tunnel loomed ahead. It was the Pont l'Alma and Bond knew it well. For it was in this very same tunnel that Bond had his first brush with death. A crazy Paris taxi driver had almost flattened him and his bicycle when he was traveling across the continent in his youth. Bond remembered where all the twists and turns were.
  The male passenger in the back seat of the Mercedes glanced back at Bond then screamed at his driver.
"Faster, Henri faster! We still have one on our tail!"
Frenchie turned, "I'm going fast!"
"Not fast enough!  Please Henri she's tired of these fucking bastards. We want to go home in peace. Faster Goddamnit, faster!
The blond British body guard in the front seat turned back,
"With all due respect sir, I think we simply must slow down."
"He's right, this is crazy, we're coming to the tunnel," said Frenchie.
"I give you five thousand francs if you lose him in the tunnel!" offered the man.
"But, sir!" said the blond bodyguard.
"Do as I say! I boss, my car! Faster, Paul, faster! You work for me!"
Frenchie pressed the gas as he shouted "No, I work for your father!"
  The man in the back seat turned and whispered something to someone hidden in the long shadows of the deep rear seat. A voice is heard. A rather soft, loving female voice that silenced everyone else in the car.
"Trevor, it's okay, let them go fast, I have a headache".

  As they headed into the tunnel, Frenchie pressed the gas pedal climbing to a dangerous speed of over a hundred miles per hour. James Bond twisted the grip throttle keeping within five feet of the Mercedes S280.
"Oh my God!" Frenchie exclaimed.
"What is it?" asked the body guard.
"It's Bond!" Frenchie frowned as he suddenly moved the car in Bond's direction.
Bond hit his brakes and dropped back behind the Mercedes.
"What are you doing?" yelled the body guard.
"I must take him out, he knows too much about me!" yelled Frenchie.
"Faster Henri, faster!" growled the man in the back seat.
  Again Bond pulled up along the right side of the Mercedes, Frenchie saw him in the rear view mirror. Just as Bond pulled up next to the car, Frenchie pulled the wheel to his right and tried to smash Bond against the tunnel wall. He squeezed his brake and dropped back. The car scraped the tunnel wall, just missing Bond, with sparks flying twenty feet in the air.
"My God man! Have you gone mad! Slow down!" yelled the body guard.
"Shut up, I know what I'm doing"! shouted Frenchie.
"What the hell is going on?" asked the man in the back seat.
  Bond knew he had to change his plan of attack. He dropped back one more time and waited. Both vehicles were now going at speeds of easily over a hundred and forty miles per hour. Bond shot up on the left side of the driver. He could see Frenchie through the driver's side window. He looked to his left and jumped when he saw Bond staring at him.
Bond yelled "Pull it over and stop!" motioning with his hand.
Frenchie shook his head. Bond pulled his bike up to the front of the Mercedes. Frenchie, determined to kill Bond, sped up, and boxed him in. Unable to reach his Walther PPK, Bond pulled a camera out of a leather saddle bag. He knew the flash would white out Frenchie's pupils, still dilated, from the wine and prozac cocktail. As the heavy Mercedes came dangerously close, Bond sped up and flashed Frenchie's face. The Mercedes swerved and just missed the tail end of Bond's motorcycle. Frenchie was now blind and out of control.
"I can't see shit!" screamed Frenchie.
"Watch out!" said the body guard..
"Slow down!" said the man in the back.

  With what sounded like an atomic blast the Mercedes crashed. Bond slowed down and looked back to see the car bounce off a support beam and into the westbound wall, then stop.
 "Smashing," he said to himself.
The car was totalled beyond belief. In a final irony the air bags on the driver's side inflated. It was unlikely anyone in the car had survived. Several other paparazzi were converging on the wreckage. It's best not to be seen, thought Bond. He turned and sped off into the warm Paris night unharmed.

MONDAY MORNING WITH M

BOND, back at London headquarters walked into M's office and sat down. He could tell M was upset. He lit a cigarette and waited. M  hung up the phone, and said,  "I just got off the phone with the Prime Minister. Do you realize the seriousness of your actions, double-0-seven?"
"Frenchie won't be selling British secrets to the Red Chinese again," Bond calmly stated, blowing out a large cloud of smoke.
"To hell with Henri Paul! You've somehow managed to kill the Princess of Wales, man!" M shouted.
"It was not my intention, but sometimes these things happen," said Bond.
"Not in my department they don't!" countered M.
Bond put his cigarette out in the ashtray, then said, " I had no way of knowing she was in the same car."
"What about the paparazzi?!" exclaimed M.
Bond smiled, "They could have been waiting for Madonna for all I knew."
"Exactly. You didn't have all the necessary information to go forward,"
Bond lit another cigarette explaining, "I knew Frenchie was driving the car. He tried to smash me against the tunnel wall."
He thought you were a paparazzi! injected M.
Bond shook his head, "No, he saw me. He knew exactly what he was doing."
M was about to lose his patience with Bond. "Your orders were to find him and watch him, not kill him!"
"I caught him passing government secrets to a Chinese girl, here." Bond said pulling some folded papers from his coat and placing them on M's desk.
M looked at the papers  "That may be so, but you should have cleared it with me first."

"There was no time." Bond whispered exhaling a lungful of smoke.
M studied the papers. "These aren't government secrets! It's a shopping list for groceries!"
With a knowing smirk Bond replied, "Respectfully sir, if you look closely you'll find it's in a secret code."
"I'll have Z branch look it over," said M.
"Yes, of course," mumbled Bond.
"May I ask what made you so dead set on killing this Paul fellow?"
Bond shrugged "Payback for the hand over of Hong Kong."
"Hong Kong? What in the devil does Henri Paul have to do with the hand over of Hong Kong?" asked M.
With a mischievous twinkle in his eye Bond said, "When Z branch brakes the code, we'll find out." He studied Bond's face and frowned. M pressed his intercom and called for Miss Moneypenny.
  Becoming bored Bond spotted a bottle of hundred year old Highland Mist on M's wet bar. "Mind if I make myself a scotch?" asked Bond. M looked up at him coldly, "Yes, I do mind, I'm not finished with you yet."
Miss Moneypenny entered the office and crossed to M's desk. Bond noticed
she was crying. She held a handkerchief over her nose avoiding eye contact with him. M gave her the papers saying, "Would you take this over to Z branch, Miss Monneypenny? Double-0-Seven seems to think it's some sort of secret code. See what they can make of it and have them call me as soon as they come up with anything." Miss Moneypenny took the papers, then walked out of the room without so much as a word to either one.
"What's gotten into to her, I wonder?"
M frowned at Bond's question.
"Poor girl," continued Bond.
M lit his pipe, then stood up and crossed to his wet bar saying, "I just don't understand this 007. You usually turn in a sterling performance, complete your missions with the utmost integrity, but now this....my God man when you screw up, you really screw up!"
"It was my understanding that the Royal Family was extremely disturbed by
the current escapades of the former Princess of Whales," stated Bond.
Pouring himself a scotch, M snapped "That may well be, but what business is it of yours?"
"Simply put, her majesty prefers not to jeopardize the monarchy by allowing Egyptian blood to mingle with the mother of the future King of England" said Bond as he drew another lungful of smoke.

M shook his head in disbelief. Bond continued, "I hope you've the good taste to keep this matter top secret."
M crossed back to his desk, "As it stands, only myself and a member of the Royal Family know of your involvement in this grievous tragedy.
"And would that Royal personage be the Queen?" Bond asked.
"No, double-0-seven," M said sharply.
"Prince Charles?"
"No."
"Prince Phillip?"
"No."
"Prince Edward?" persisted Bond.
"No!"
"Prince Andrew then?"
"No, double-0!" shouted M.
"Princess Anne?"
"No, no, no, if you must know, it's the Queen Mother!!
"The Queen Mother?" Bond raised one eyebrow with contempt.
Somewhat embarrassed, M said "I'm afraid so. She picked up the phone when I called Balmoral."
"Should we consider her a security risk?" asked Bond.
"The Queen Mother!? A ninety-seven-year-old woman!?" M snapped.
With a sinister look in his eye, Bond said "Should I?"
"No!" screamed M. "My God, man!" M paused and gathered his thoughts.
"For old times sake I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," said M.
Bond shrugged, "Yes, you're most likely correct, at her age what's the point really?"  M stood,  "As a sworn officer in Her Majesties' Secret Service, I find your demeanor appalling and inappropriate regarding this monumental tragedy!"   "But sir...."
M stopped him with his eyes "The entire British empire is in shock, all of London is grieving. All the world is grieving. Double-0-seven, why aren't you grieving?!" Bond thought for a moment, then said "It's rather like playing chess really, they got one of ours, and we got one of theirs."
M looked up at the ceiling "No Bond, you got both."
  Bond's voice became defensive, stubborn. "Well, sir, if you want to point fingers, try K branch in Paris, they knew of her visit, someone was obviously keeping me in the dark."

"And who would that someone be?" asked M.
"Paris K branch, a fox in the hen house. Check it out," Bond insisted.
"Yes, I'll do that,"  M picked up his pen and pretended to make a note.
"Good, will that be all sir?" Bond said as he moved forward in his chair.
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Then there's something else?" Bond asked.
"Yes, I'm not sure how to put this, let's have a scotch, shall we?" M suggested.
Bond moved forward, "Heaven's yes."
M poured two double scotches and slid one over to Bond.
Bond smiled at M, raising his drink slightly, "Cheers".
He downed the drink with one clean sip. Now relaxed, Bond made himself more comfortable. He crossed his legs and rested back in his chair.
"Well, you know what I heard about William and Harry?" said Bond.
M, reluctant to ask, "No."
"I heard they were laughing like the Menendez Brothers" Bond chuckled.
  M's mouth dropped as his telephone rang. His hand shook as he picked up the receiver. "Yes, Z branch, yes put them through." M glanced at Bond.
Bond straightened up in his chair and put out his cigarette.
"Yes, I see, apples, pears, bananas, yes fruits, I see. Yes, chicken, fish, beef, yes meats, I see. Yes, peas, carrots, zucchini, yes vegetables, I understand. Things you would find in a kitchen, perhaps? Yes, thank you Z branch." M hung up the phone, then looked up with an expression that Bond could never recall ever having seen before. After a long and almost unendurable silence, Bond finally said  "Well, did they break the code?"
M drew a hard bite from his now smoldering tobacco pipe and said "Yes James, it was exactly what it appeared to be. A simple grocery list." Bond glanced down at the floor and shifted in his chair.
"I'm afraid you've crossed the line on this one 007. I have no other choice but to terminate your duty, effective immediately," M stated matter-of-factly. Bond heard a thunder clap and glanced at the window to see rain drops hit the glass. He continued to stare at the window as M elaborated on the terms and conditions of his permanent retirement.

BOND'S AWAY

AS BOND walked out of M's office, he saw Miss Moneypenny still weeping at her desk."Sorry about the Princess, Moneypenny" said Bond. Moneypenny
looked up with tear soaked eyes and said " No, that's not it, I'm a close personal friend of Camilla Parker Bowles." Bond started to say something, then decided against it. He wanted to tell Moneypenny goodbye, but all he could do was blow her a kiss, then leave.
   He walked back to his London flat without a top coat, in the rain. All the while thinking how strange it had been. How could it be over? A career like his? Just like that? Bond remembered all the times he had escaped death and
destroyed the opposition, and for what?
  The passing years had taken their toll. He'd become cold and cynical, no
longer the good natured company man of years gone by. He opened the door to his flat and did the usual quick check behind doors and in closets. It was a habit that would be hard to break. But after what had happened it seemed silly to Bond.
  He stepped into the bathroom, undressed, and took an ice cold shower. Drying off, he poured himself a vodka on the rocks, then turned on the television. Bond had hoped to catch a game of football and relax, but on every channel, on every station, it was the same. And Bond had them all 2,467. Every cable channel in the world. All with the same story. Who's fault was it? The drunk driver, the paparazzi, or Dodi Fayed? He became bored with the coverage and flipped it off. After all, Bond knew exactly who's fault it was, but he was in denial.
  What if there was to be an inquest? Could he be the fall guy and not even realize it? There was only one person in the Royal Family who knew he was responsible. These thoughts troubled Bond. He paged Q with his XG-40 laser pager, left over from a previous mission. Bond thought if there was to be a fall guy, it wasn't going to be him. He finished his drink, walked to the bedroom closest, removed his tuxedo and laid it on the bed. The phone rang, it was Q. Bond arranged a midnight meeting, took another cold shower then drove to a private casino.

CASINO FROM HELL

THE CASINO was dead. Only about ten or twelve patrons. Must be the bad weather thought Bond. He strolled over to the bar and ordered a vodka martini, "Shaken, not stirred."
  As he sipped the martini he noticed most of the clientele were dressed casual, jeans and T-shirts, too casual for Bond's taste. His favorite private casino was turning into a London version of Atlantic City.
Bond turned back to the bartender. " I said shaken, not stirred! "
"Stirred is the only way we make 'em now, mate," the bartender said slovenly.
"Well, that's a new one!" Bond said gruffly.
Bond walked across the casino to the Baccarat tables. He was greeted by a crusty older gentleman. "Can I help you sir?"
"Yes, I'd like to give it a go," joked Bond.
"Do you have a reservation sir?" asked the man.
Bond became serious, "I've been a member of this bloody club for years."
"Really, and you would be?" asked the man.
"James Bond."
"Bond. Bond. Oh yes, now I remember. Step right this way, Mr. Bond."  He showed Bond to an open seat at the only Baccarat game in play. The players were an odd international mix. A couple of drunk Spanish students, a rather overweight Russian woman with a mean face and two extremely old French ladies, but no beautiful girl.
"Two-hundred thousand pounds, " Bond said to the Croupier.
He checked with the floor manager.
"Bond credit good! " said the floor manager.
"Changing two hundred thousand!" said the Croupier, as he arranged the large stack of chips neatly on the table in front of Bond. He won his first hand with an eight.
"Beginners luck" joked Bond. Then he realized no one at the table spoke english.
The ill-mannered, loud-mouthed, foul-smelling, Russian woman violently cursed at each losing hand.Bond lost with a six then lit another Monaco Gold. Bond was thirsty and wanted a martini, but there was no waitress in sight.
"Is the waitress on break?" asked Bond.
"No," replied the Croupier. "She's on vacation, should be back next week."
Bloody hell, thought Bond.  The table was cold for everyone. Loosing again with an eight, Bond's famous luck was missing but he continued to bet heavily.
Banker, then player, the cards were erratic and unpredictable. Two hours later Bond was bust.

"I'm out of chips, I'll need more credit," said Bond.
The Croupier glanced at the floor manager, who shook his head "no."
"Sorry sir, thank you for playing sir," smiled the Croupier.
"Simply God damned delightful," Bond grunted in a huff as he stood up.
Bond felt a hand on his right shoulder. He turned around and saw the floor
manager. "I believe we have a small matter to discuss, Mr. Bond."
    Bond followed the manager into a dark room adjacent to the gaming tables.
"Please be seated," he said with cool politeness.
"Now, Mr. Bond, how would you prefer to settle your account with us this evening? Bond, stubbing out his cigarette said, "If you would loan me your pen, I'll write you an IOU."
"No, I'm afraid we cannot accept that," said the solemn floor manager.
"Well then, I'll write you a personal cheque."
"No sir, that will not do either."
Bond glanced at the door.  "Let me speak to one of the partners - Jake Rothman."
"Mr. Rothman sold his interest in this particular casino."
"Sharkey Weiss then."
"I'm afraid Mr.Weiss is deceased."
"Alright then, Boots Sullivan."
The floor manager blinked and said "Mr, Sullivan won't be in for another hour."  Bond shot out of his chair announcing,
"When Boots arrives, tell him I'll be at the bar." He opened the door and walked onto the gaming floor. Bond glanced around the casino. At every exit door now stood an overly large goon, watching him. With pocket change he stopped a cute Keno girl and purchased two cards. He then strolled over to the bar and sat down. He drank a glass of flat ale while he watched for his numbers on the Keno board. Knowing full well that Boots Sullivan hated his guts, and losing at Keno by one number on both cards, Bond decided to take action. He stepped off his stool and headed for the Gentelmen's room in the rear of the casino. On his way down the gold, silver and pink wall-papered hallway, he hit the fire alarm button, setting off a high pitched buzzer. In the ensuing confusion he slipped past one of the goons and ducked out the back exit. As Bond raced down the garbage-littered back alleyway, he thought,
 "They can forget about collecting that bloody debt!"

 MIDNIGHT LUNCH WITH Q

DEEP in a dark back booth in the Duke of Earl, a twenty four hour eatery,
sat Bond and Q. "I find this all highly irregular Double-0-Seven. The word is you've been bounced," said Q.
Bond smirked. "Yes, well, that's why I need your help, Q. They've made me out the villain for doing something, at the time, I didn't realize I was doing."
"I'm not sure I follow," said Q.
"Nor do I," said Bond. "But I have to find out what it's all about, and if a few have to die, then so be it."  Q looked at Bond closely,
"I don't suppose you could tell me what your talking about?"
Bond shook his head, "It's top secret, better if you don't know a thing."
"I was afraid you might say that," said Q
A redheaded waitress with large hips appeared at the booth.
"You gents decided?" she asked. Q replied,
"Yes, I'll have the Pork Liver soup, a slice of Radish Pie, and a tray of chips."
"Very good, sir," said the red haired waitress. Then turning toward Bond,
"And for you sir?"
"I beg your pardon?" said Bond, as he looked up at the girl.
"Really, do try and pay attention James," whined Q.
"I'm sorry, what was the question?" said Bond, as he reached over and caressed the waitress's hand.
"Don't touch that," snapped Q.
"Well, it is quite lovely." said Bond.
"Your order James, the poor child is waiting," said Q.
"Oh yes, nothing for me, thank you. Perhaps another time, or another place" said Bond. The waitress was confused and walked away. Bond watched her hips sway as she strolled across the room.
"Nice equipment." said Bond.
"Really double-0-seven, must you be so forthright?" said Q.
Bond downed his drink and handed Q a small piece of paper, and said.
"Here's a list of everything I'll need." Q glanced at the list then looked up,
"Do you realize I could be prosecuted for giving you this!"
Bond smiled, "Of course, but you'll do it anyway, you wouldn't want M to find
out about the young boys in Tangiers."
Q slowly looked down at the table, defeated.

     It was now Friday. Bond had decided to stay out of sight until after the funeral. He had taken a room, under the name of Sir Charles James, at the Four Seasons Hotel. If this was a set-up, his London flat would be the first place they would look. The world wide media coverage made for a depressing week. This also made Bond's situation much more volatile than normal.
  Only three people knew his secret, M, who professionally had too much to loose. Trevor Rees Jones, the bodyguard. But Trevor's tounge had been severed, so he wouldn't be talking anytime soon. And one other. It was this one that troubled Bond. He knew that they would be harder to kill than Scaramanga, Goldfinger, and Blofeld all put together. There was a knock at the door. Bond opened it cautiously. It was a messenger, with a present from Q.

LOOSE ENDS & ROYAL SINS

  THE FORMER agent known as double-0-seven toted what appeared to be
an electric guitar case across Abbey Road. As he weaved his way through
the crowd that had gathered along Northumberland, he could smell the scent
of flowers in the air. There was a silent, humble dignity among the citizens  gathered hundreds deep along Whitehall. He finally reached his destination,
the Royal Museum across from Westminster Abbey. Bond steeled his nerve. He jaunted up the museum steps and entered the open doors. His footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the first floor. A right turn, then a left and up the first flight of stairs. A uniformed guard blocked his way on the second floor.
"Sorry, sir, the museum is closed today," cautioned the guard.
"Is it a holiday of some sort?" asked Bond.
"Closed for the funeral sir."
"Well your front doors are wide open" inquired Bond.
The guard put his hand under his chin.  "For your information, it's because the  grieving public may have use of the lavatories."
"Well...uh...then...uh...where is the lavatory?"
"First floor, sir."
Bond turned and stepped down the stairs. "Maybe the lift is working?" he thought as he continued down to the first floor. He rounded the corner of the first floor to the nearest lift. He tried it. No luck. Should he try another building? No, the "Olde Royal" was decisively the vantage point he needed. He spied some museum workmen loading medieval knights' armor onto a freight lift.

  With the utmost speed Bond donned one of the suits of armor. Unwittingly
the workmen completed their task, loading Bond on to the freight lift.
 " Bloody luck!" thought Bond as the larger man pushed "B" on the lift keys.
With his right hand, that was now gloved with a steel mace. Bond used a backhand strike that would have made King Arthur proud, knocking the workmen unconscious. Because there was no room in the lift for them to fall, they remained upright.
"Sorry, standing room only," Bond quipped as the lift doors opened onto the basement level.
"All out, I believe this is your stop." Bond said, shoving them out of the lift and sending them crashing onto the hard cement floor.
"Going up." Pressing the "R" button, the doors closed and Bond gracefully doffed the suit of armor. The lift doors opened to the tarred roof of the Royal Museum. Bond headed straight for the north wall. Reaching the wall he crouched low and opened the guitar case, revealing an Ingram .3008 Rifle, with a Digital Bosch & Lombe Holographic Laser Scope. He quickly assembled the .3008 and loaded the magazine with teflon flangeable rounds. Taking the caps off the scope, he shouldered the weapon, aligning the scope with his aiming eye. He turned on the Holographic Scope. Bringing his iris to the lens, he focused the three dimensional image. The first thing he saw was the Royal Rolls' limousines pulling up to the entrance of Westminster Abbey.
"Perfect," whispered Bond.
Queen Elizabeth was the first to grace the digital crosshairs of Bond's scope.
"What did you ever do for Diana? Turned your back on her didn't you?"
The digital image moved to Prince Charles.
"And this Bastard, how could you compare Camillia to Diana?"
Followed by Prince Phillip,
"Social climber."
Prince Andrew, The Duke of Marlborough, Lester their valet.
"All losers," thought Bond.
Finally after a long struggle to step out of the Rolls, out she came, walking slowly with a cane as the bells tolled. The Queen Mother!
What I'm I doing? She's so damn old. She can't remember this morning, much less what someone said last week. Besides, I sort of like the old girl, thought Bond. He lowered the .3008 rifle and thought about what was transpiring.
"But I can't take that chance."  He brought the .3008 up fast. Beading down on the Queen Mother's left eye, taking a slow deep breath, Bond positioned his finger on the trigger. He watched, waited, then suddenly he saw the Headlines: JAMES BOND SPLATTERS QUEEN MOTHER'S BRAIN ALL OVER ROYAL FAMILY!!!!

  Bond instinctively broke down the rifle and placed it back in the guitar case.
He quickly rode the lift down, then casually walked out of the building unseen.  After tossing the guitar case in a trash bin, Bond made his way through the sea of grieving mourners lining Whitehall. The masses were silent except for the sounds of weeping and the TV coverage of the Funeral that drifted from every TV in London, making it seem as if the sound came from the heavens. He crossed Horse Guards Road over to St. James Park. He suddenly felt a wave
of guilt engulf his entire body. He would have gladly given his life to save the Princess. Instead he took it from her. He stopped and almost shed a tear.
"Hey Mister!"
Bond looked up to see a buxom sun bleached brunette standing in front of him.
"Hey Mister, I just got into town on my scooter, what's going on? Who died?" said the cute girl with a funny foreign accent. Bond thought for a moment then looked into the girls eyes, "I suppose in a way, I did."
"No way man, you very much alive, good lookin' too."
"Oh really, where are you from?" asked Bond.
"Ipa Nema."
"So you must be the girl from Ipa Nema?" said Bond.
"Everything is closed, everyone is sad." said the girl.
"Yes, well, why stand around crying when we could go back to my hotel and
have caviar and champaigne."
"Super cool, man! We can take my Vespa, okay?" she said excitedly.
The spirited young girl then helped Bond onto the back of her Vespa,
"I've been traveling around the world on my motorscooter,  you like it?"
"It's lovely, how would you like to travel around the world with me, first class of course?"
"Wow! That sounds super cool man, only I don't know your name.  What's your name?"
"Bond, James Bond."
"Okay, James Bond, put your arms around me and hang on tight, here we go!"
Bond did exactly what the girl from Ipa Nema instructed as they drove down Bird Cage Walk and back to the Four Seasons.

THE END