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From the Bahamas with Love
Bond tied the string of his blue swimming trunks, dropped his towel somewhere on the sand and strode towards the waterline. It was late June, early afternoon, and it was swelteringly hot on the Bahamas. When he entered the crystal-clear water, the temperature was just right—it cooled him off, but wasn’t so cold as to make swimming unpleasant. For a couple hundred yards seawards there were shallows, so there wasn’t much to be swam around in. Bond entertained himself by drifting on his back, looking at the clear blue sky. It was perfect.
Therefore, Bond was bored.
He paddled back towards the beach, taking a quick dive before he stood up on the shallow sandbank, smoothing back his blond hair as he trawled forwards, scanning the beach for the location of his towel, or someone nice-looking to talk to. As his gaze skimmed across the tree-line, his eyes caught those of a man with dark hair, wearing light khaki shorts and a polo shirt as brilliantly blue as the sea. Something in the man’s eyes arrested Bond’s progress, and he stared back confidently, almost aggressively. For a moment longer, the two men sized each other up, then Bond exited the water and approached the man, who had lain down next to a beach bag, leaning on his elbow, legs crossed.
“Hello there,” Bond said. “Would you mind rubbing some sunscreen on my back?”
“Why, not at all,” and the dark-haired man patted the patch of sand next to himself.
Bond dropped himself on his elbows, feeling grains of sand sticking to his wet skin. He smirked at the stranger and asked, “what’s your name?”
Bond heard the stranger chuckle briefly before the man pulled a bottle out of the bag and popped the cap off the sunscreen. He put a liberal amount of the cold cream on Bond’s back, and Bond had to suppress a shiver.
“Bond. James Bond.”
The smile fell from Bond’s face. With some effort, he managed to pull the corners of his mouth up again. His enemies had exposed themselves out in the open before, taunting him, but never quite so boldly before. “That’s interesting,” he ground out from between a clenched jaw.
The surprise on the stranger’s name seemed genuine, although it was hidden quickly by a mask of faint disinterest. “Why’s that?”
Maybe the sunscreen’s toxic, flashed through Bond’s mind. If such a large area of his skin had been covered already he was probably beyond help already. Any other avenues to pursue? He was only wearing his swimming trunks, and he couldn’t exactly have hidden a weapon in there. He was wearing his watch though, but it was a regular Omega Seamaster. In the good old days, Q-branch would hide an explosive or whatnot inside the mechanic of a watch, but not anymore. Still, if he’d unfasten the Omega and wrap it around his hand, he could deal some nasty damage by using it as knuckle-duster.
The stranger had pulled his hands back. Bond’s eyes glided from his face to the old-fashioned watch strapped around his tanned wrist. Maybe he should keep an eye on that. Then he saw that the stranger’s hands still faintly shone from the sunscreen. Perhaps it wasn’t toxic after all, then.
Bond re-discovered his voice. “That’s my name too,” he said, while attempting to maintain a pleasant expression.
There, that little hint of surprise, the slightly raised eyebrows, the opening up of the man’s face—to then be replaced by an amused look. Almost as if he had been trained, like Bond himself. He could be foreign intelligence, Bond realised. The stranger’s accent was undoubtedly English but slightly outdated.
This other ‘James Bond’ sat up straight, wiped his hands on his knees and said, “an intriguing coincidence. But perhaps,” he continued after a pause, “it’s not such an uncommon name.”
Bond rolled onto his side, taking up the stranger’s previous pose. “Are you holidaying here, Mr Bond?”
“No, I’m here on business, I’m afraid. And, please, call me James.”
Bond squinted slightly. “That must be quite the job, allowing you time to enjoy the sun and the sea… James,” he added grudgingly.
The stranger grinned, threaded his hands behind his head and lied back down. “I’ve the opinion that every man should take some well-deserved respite every now and then. Don’t you, James?”
“Please,” said Bond. “Call me Bond.”
The stranger pursed his lips briefly.
“Would you like to go for a drink?” Bond asked, jerking his head into the direction of the beach bar, about a hundred feet from where they were lying.
“I would like that very much,” said James, but his face betrayed some annoyance.
Bond smiled inwardly as he stood up and brushed the sand from his chest, elbows and knees. First move: his.
James tossed the sunscreen back into the bag, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and then the Bonds walked across the beach in silence, to the six-foot long bar with a little awning and five barstools. Once there, James ordered two vodka martini before Bond could say anything. Fine. The second move was the impostor’s.
“So,” Bond said as he sat down on one of the barstools, “what kind of business brings you here?”
The barkeep handed them their glasses, and they clinked them together before James responded. “My boss – someone very powerful – sent me here to establish relations with a Mr Antonio Barras.”
Bond’s innards went cold, either with the martini on the rocks or the casual name-dropping; Barras was the target Bond had been sent to investigate for links to a South American concern, which financed private armies and was about as corrupt as they came – MI6 wanted him to bring Barras in.
“Ah, Mr Barras. The banker.”
“Indeed.” James raised that eyebrow again. “You know him, do you?”
“I heard he is giving a fundraiser tonight,” said Bond. “I’ve been hoping to make his acquaintance for a while, now.”
“Oh? Looking to invest?”
Bond only smiled conspiratorially.
James leaned back and sipped from his glass. “I’ve an invitation for the fundraiser. It states I can bring a plus one.”
“Would be a nice party to bring the wife to,” Bond said neutrally as he made a show of looking at James’s hands, on which there was no ring.
“Oh, I was thinking of something else entirely,” James said.
The fundraiser was held on a part of the beach that could be rented. Several big white tents had been set up, elaborately decorated with lights. There were tables and chairs on the sand outside the tents and ample places where someone could get a drink. Waiters threaded elegantly through the throngs of people, bearing plates with refreshments.
They had agreed to meet at 8.30 p.m. near the entrance to the cordoned-off strip of beach, both in tuxedo. Dusk was already falling when Bond approached James, who pulled the invitation out of his inner pocket. Bond recognised the cut of the other man’s jacket, because he was wearing a similar one. It left room below the left arm for a gun holster. He hid this recognisance by disguising it as an appraisal of James’s entire outfit. He wore the tux well. He looked… good. Bond told him.
James laughed. “As do you. Shall we?”
They entered the crowd, which must have numbered more than two hundred people. Shoulder-to-shoulder they made their way towards the bar furthest from the entrance, slowly, scanning the faces of the people around them, looking for Barras.
Bond was stopped by a hand on his waist. “Wait here,” James said in his ear, and went off to order drinks, while Bond was left to stand stupidly among people he didn’t know and who were staring at him. He smiled at them coldly until they looked away, then looked around, while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on his namesake. Once the man had gotten the advantage he had apparently decided to retain it. Bond felt it was time to change this uncomfortable situation.
So when James returned with drinks – “Bollinger? Really?” Bond said incredulously, to which James replied “Sante”– Bond stepped into the other man’s personal space and leaned in. “So, what’s your plan for taking out our friend Mr Barras? I hope you weren’t planning on putting a bullet through his head in front of all these people.”
To his credit, James appeared to remain completely calm, but Bond could feel him tense up, now that they were standing so closely together.
Good. Bond liked taking over the reins.
“Not through his head, my dear,” James replied eventually, “nor a bullet.” He pulled aside his jacket so that Bond could look into his gun holster, seeing something that resembled a blowpipe.
“Quite conspicuous, wouldn’t you think?”
“Never hurts to have an alternative, doesn’t it?”
Bond found himself squinting again. Something about that phrase rang a bell.
“So what’s your Plan A?” he asked as people around them suddenly all looked in one direction, and the murmurs and whispers picked up. Clearly, Barras had arrived.
“Follow him to his hotel, climb up the drain—”
“—the drainpipe that leads to the balcony of room 214—”
“—and then make my way across to the balcony of Barras’s room, 215. I see you’ve prepared as well.”
Bond opened his mouth to say something, but then the music faded and a woman beautifully clad in a silver dress introduced Barras to his receptive audience. He maintained eye contact with James for a moment longer before stepping back and turning towards the raison d’etre for the evening’s entertainment. In those few seconds of silence, the penny dropped: the phrase about alternatives was M’s.
“Dear friends,” Barras started. He wheezed and started to stoop. He wouldn’t be hard to take out. “I would like to thank you for gathering here tonight . . .”
They listened to the speech, applauded politely with the rest of the crowd, and sat out the rest of the evening, waiting for Barras to leave. They kept their distance, but after their third champagne Bond excused himself and approached the woman in the silver dress, who turned out to be Barras’s personal secretary.
Bond smiled and introduced himself with a fake name.
“I’m Arlington Beech, I represent Mr Barras’s financial interests in the Bank of Scotland.”
The woman smiled insecurely and nodded.
Not the response he’d hoped for. Best quickly get to business. “I wondered whether I—”
James turned up at Bond’s left shoulder and shook the woman’s hand.
Bond swallowed a few particularly insulting remarks and harrumphed. “This is my assistant—” James glared at him “—ah, uh, Mr—”
“Avington-Smythe,” said James with a smile as sweet as honey.
“St. John Avington-Smythe,” said Bond. “My assistant, as I said.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Mr Avington-Smythe? Oh, dear, you must’ve heard from uncle Bernie – how’s he doing? Is he still ill?”
James emitted a sound that started as a groan and turned into a clearing of his throat. “Wonderfully. He’s doing… just great.”
“Really? Has he recovered from his pneumonia?”
“Well, darling, I haven’t heard from him in a few days, I, ah—”
“Excuse me, miss,” Bond interrupted, watching his careful gathering of intelligence deteriorate into chaos. “I was wondering whether I might have the opportunity to speak to Mr Barras after the fundraiser.”
The woman – someone from the noble lineage of the Avington-Smythes, Bond presumed – shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Mr Beech. These types of events cost Mr Barras a lot of energy, so I’m sure you understand…” she tapered off with an apologetic smile.
Bond inclined his head. “Crystal clear.”
“He will retire to his hotel after the event. I could try to schedule an appointment with Mr Barras for later this week?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” said Bond. “Thank you so much for your time. Excuse us.” He grabbed James tightly by the elbow and escorted him as far away from the woman as possible. “Fucking idiot,” Bond hissed quietly when they were definitely out of earshot.
“St. John? Really?”
“Avington-Smythe?”
James considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough.” He paused for a moment. “At least we learnt he will return to his hotel after the fundraiser.”
“Something I could have learnt without your untimely interference,” Bond said through his teeth.
James looked over Bond’s shoulder, then grabbed him around his waist. “Quick. Kiss me.”
“What?” Bond spluttered.
James had already leant in.
With a split-second left to make his decision, Bond went in without any further reflection, full-force, as was his wont, and pressed his lips against the other man’s.
After a second or two, James pulled back. “Come on,” he whispered, and pulled Bond towards him, then slung an arm around his shoulder, and they walked out of the tent, into the dark.
“What was that good for,” Bond asked.
“Barras’s secretary was approaching, surely to ask more probing questions about dear uncle Bernie.”
“And this was the most low-profile solution you could come up with.”
“Mm. Pressure of the moment, you understand.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“I think Barras is leaving,” James said.
“Let’s go.”
They managed to arrive discreetly at the parking lot. “We’ll take my car,” they said in unison.
“We’re not bloody driving an Aston Martin DB5,” Bond protested. “Way too conspicuous.”
“Oh, and an Aston Martin DBS V12 is a common car, you mean. I understand.”
“Plenty of supercars around here,” Bond shrugged. “Not so many old-timers. Come on.”
They followed Barras’s car at a safe distance, past Congo Town, to an expensive hotel near The Bluff. Its rooms looked out over the beach and the sea. It was truly dark now, and constellations twinkled calmly in the night, obscured by a solitary cloud here and there. The waxing moon reflected off the sea. The temperature was blissful, and the mosquitoes had left when dusk gave way to night. Despite the boredom, he might take a few days off, Bond reflected – after this assignment, just to enjoy the summer here. It might do him some good. His eyes flickered to his companion. Boredom could be alleviated by the presence of interesting people. All of this only provided that M would give him time off, which in its turn would depend on how he and James would settle this entire matter.
“I’ll just enter the hotel,” said James, after they had let the car be driven away by a valet. “You go around and climb the drainpipe. If there are any guards at his door I’ll distract them.”
“Why do I have to do the physical labour,” grumbled Bond.
“When you got out of the water this afternoon, I got quite a good look… This should be a piece of cake for a man of your physique.”
Bond wanted both to accept and rebuke the compliment, so eventually he just closed his mouth, and walked away, to the back of the hotel. He waited for a moment to give James the time to enter the hotel and climb the stairs to the second floor. Then he looked at the drainpipe, sighed, and started climbing.
Once he arrived at the balcony of room 214, he took a moment to catch his breath, then pressed himself against the wall between the two balconies. He froze when he heard voices coming from 215, then realised it was just a radio. He continued and dropped down onto the balcony.
He had a good view of the room, with a bed against the left wall, a few armchairs and a sofa in the middle, and a bathroom door to the right, which was closed, but wisps of steam were emerging from the cracks at the top and bottom of the door.
Another sound, from the direction of the door this time. There was still music coming from the bathroom, so Bond carefully made his way across the soft carpet to the door that should lead to the hotel’s hallway. Just when he got there, it clicked open, and he saw James standing outside, a lockpick in his hand.
Bond made a gesture conveying confusion. James shrugged and tucked the lockpick back into the heel of his shoe. They closed the door behind them and walked to the door to the bathroom, taking up position; Bond on the left, James on the right.
Then the music was switched off, the door opened, and Antonio Barras, only wearing a towel around his waist, emerged from the steam. “What—” he started before James swatted him on the back of the head, then Bond kneed him in the solar plexus, and Barras went down. James hit him on the head once mroe, and the banker went out.
The two men looked at each other. “That went well,” said Bond.
“Almost too easy,” said James.
“What now?”
“Well, my people will come to extract him at six a.m. I sent them a radio signal of this location when we arrived.”
“Ah. So have I.”
James shot him a look. “Well, then M will receive two messages, surely.”
Bond cracked a smile. “You figured it out too.”
“Contrarily to what M might think, I’m not an idiot.” James paused. “You know…”
“Hm?”
“We could also worry about this… later.” He quirked one eyebrow, and jerked his chin towards the comfortably-looking king-size bed.
Bond huffed, then grinned. Then he realised James was serious. “Let’s say I agree to… postpone our discussion. What do we do with Barras?”
“Tie him up in the bathroom, of course.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“Alright.”
So it was that M, section head of MI6, found two of her double-o agents in bed together at six a.m. the following morning, with the corrupt banker she came to extract still lying unconscious in the bathroom, the morning sun peeping through the open balcony doors, and the cold, salty air blowing in from the sea.