CRUSH
James Bond woke abruptly. He had been dreaming again about Tracy Draco, his murdered wife. Sunlight filtered past the curtains in his bedroom at Watson’s Hotel in Bombay. It was late fall, and the rain had faded. His room was elegant but unostentatious: off-white walls, grey carpet, Khajuraho sculpture photo above the bed. Bond withdrew his right hand from beneath the pillow, stowed his Walther PPK in the bedside table and locked it away. Wiping the perspiration from his face with both hands, he swung out of bed, went into the toilet and urinated noisily. He returned to bed and pondered the last two days.
M had sent Bond to Bombay to hunt Skarif, an assassin for the Pathan mafia. Skarif had murdered Wycliffe, the Head of Station in Bombay, in a recent attack. There did not appear to be a reason, but it required a response.
Bond had tracked the killerto Dharavi, a grim neighborhood in the southern part of the city. It was a rainy day. When he sighted Skarif, he was passing by the leather market’s drab stores. Skarif, a stocky man with a face which looked like it had been chewed, entered a store that contained an array of elegant belts and examined them idly. Bond sidled up to him and nodded to John Ambrose, another SIS agent standing a short distance away on the sidewalk. Suddenly Ambrose began yelling at a young woman nearby and waving his arms. Skarif turned to the noise. Bond pricked his wrist with a kunai knife and spun away. Skarif did not notice the wound.
The thallium poison Bond had injected was slow-acting and would probably be identified as some sort of cancer. The Pathan mafia would not know the reason for Skarif’s death but would suspect it. M had directed this action, a measured response to Wycliffe’s murder.
Years ago, Bond had been sent to Mexico City to choke off a drug pipeline and had killed a sicario hired to assassinate him. It was just prior to his encounter with Auric Goldfinger. He had felt little then and felt nothing now about this killing. After all the deaths he had caused, he thought a carapace had grown over his heart. He no longer cared. Tracy’s death had sealed the shell.
Bond turned to the woman lying next to him. She was sleeping on her stomach. He had met her in the Other Room bar. Blonde, voluptuous, she was an escort, and he had already paid her. He could not recall her name. When he smuggled up to her, she stirred.
“Chto?” she murmured. Then, “How?”
Bond frowned. All he needed was her warmth. He shook his head. But she flipped over, her large breasts settling, reached down and grasped his penis. She began to suck on his member gently. After a few minutes, he swelled, then erupted in her mouth. She rolled back, without a word, wiping her lips, sighing.
“Ya goloden”, she said.
Bond thought he might as well feed her something more than his semen. He phoned the hotel service. He said, “Scrambled eggs, with sausages. Marmalade jam on toast. Strong, black coffee. For two”.
In the sunlight from the window, the blonde had fallen back asleep.
************
In London, a few weeks later, James Bond rose early in his ground-floor flat in Wellington Square, Chelsea. It was a dark, rainy day outside. M had given him a holiday after the Bombay assignment. May, his housekeeper, had his breakfast already set out on his writing desk near the window, using the Minton china. A pile of mail lay beside the plate. Bond picked up a cream-colored envelope with the name embossed on it: William Plume. Somehow, the name was familiar. He slit the envelope with a letter opener. It read:
January 5, 1967
Dear Mr. Bond,
It is my hope that you may recall me.
We worked together on special projects during the last war. I was involved in propaganda. I believe you were a field officer.
I wonder if we might meet for lunch next week? I am a member of Blades, and you are invited as my guest. It is a matter of great urgency.
Thanking you in advance,
William Plume
Bond began eating his scrambled eggs as he thought back. After lying about his age to enter the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve in 1939, he had found himself recruited to participate in Operation Collar, a raid near Le Touquet. The action was a fiasco, but it brought Bond to the attention of the Naval Intelligence Division. He had worked for NID during the rest of the war and had met Plume on a few occasions. Bond remembered him as a slight, anonymous figure. He had not known what Plume had done.
Sipping his black coffee, Bond considered. Outside it began to rain heavily, and it thundered. It was his first instinct to ignore the request, because he was not one for getting together with people from the past. What was done was done. May entered, erect, thin. She asked Bond if he wished for anything else before she went about her duties. Smiling, he shook his head and thanked her. He added that he would play golf at the Royal Blackheath course later that day. The weather forecast was for only a brief storm.
***********
Bond sat in Scott’s, a restaurant on Mount Street in Mayfair, in a private diningroom, on a rare clear evening. The restaurant was an opulent but tasteful setting. The diningroom had lime green chairs, a white damask cloth on the table, paneled walls, a few paintings. Bond did not know the painters. Normally he preferred the right-hand corner table for two on the first floor. But he had requested a diningroom, so he would not be bothered. Stephen, his waiter, entered quietly and inquired whether he was ready to order. After Bond shook his head ‘no’, he withdrew.
Bond was due back to work at the Ziggurat, the SIS headquarters, in a week. He continued to decompress after Bombay. Sipping his wine, he thought about Tracy again. He set his glass down as a man came into the room. It was William Plume.
Bond had reconsidered Plume’s request for a meeting. Despite his misgivings, he had agreed to meet. To avoid any obligation, he stated that he would join him for a meal at Scott’s the following Wednesday. Years ago, Bond had been hired by Junius Du Pont to expose Auric Goldfinger cheating at cards. Now, he was curious about Plume’s contact. He imagined Plume had some sort of similar request in mind.
Plume was a thin, mousy man dressed in a blue, non-descript suit. He smiled uncertainly and said, “Commander Bond?” Bond nodded, and they shook hands, Plume grasping Bond’s hand only for a second. Bond gestured for Plume to sit, and he perched on a chair. After Bond said that he was ready to order, Plume nodded. Bond summoned Stephen and asked for a dressed crab and a Black Velvet. Plume ordered the Dover sole and a Puligny-Montrachet.
“I appreciate your willingness to speak to me, Commander”. Plume was sweating. “I recall our work together in the war. Though I was active only in propaganda, I knew you were an operative”.
Bond and Plume discussed some of the projects they had been involved with for Naval Intelligence. While they could only refer to those times loosely, to Bond’s surprise, he was impressed by Plume’s war. Plume, among other efforts, had worked on Operation Mincemeat, though it was not directly a Naval Intelligence project. Bond stared at him. “But that was Red Indians in the war. We were all active. I don’t do that anymore. I work for Transworld Consortium now”.
Plume replied, “Of course. I know.” and looked down at the table. Their meal arrived and was quickly set out. They began to eat. Plume said, “I work in publishing currently. I’m in touch with people from the war. I hear things”.
Bond glanced at him. Still sweating, Plume studied his food. Suddenly he said, “Commander Bond, have you heard of a man named Eddie Crush?” Bond shook his head. “Crush is a blackmailer. He is blackmailing me”.
Bond shrugged. He sipped his cocktail. “And?”
“I want you to stop him. I can’t go to the police. I think you can help me”.
Bond responded, “Sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about”.
Plume said, “Commander Bond, I am a homosexual. Crush is blackmailing me about my lover. He and I have been together now for twenty-five years. I know the blackmail won’t stop. I know I can go to prison. Homosexuality is still illegal, you know”.
As Plume dug into his sole, Bond studied him. Plume said, “Peterson and I met prior to the war. Like you, he was a Naval Commander. He was regular Navy, however. He was badly wounded during the Dunkirk evacuation. Recuperation took months”. He smiled. “We’re an old married couple now”.
Bond had a history of disdain for homosexuals. He had gloried in a brief affair with Pussy Galore, a lesbian, after the Goldfinger episode. However, that was a decade ago. He knew now the courage exhibited by many homosexuals during the war. And he suspected that not a few of them worked for the Secret Service. They were not the Cambridge Ring types, he knew.
Bond applied himself to his own meal. He heard a clink as Plume set his fork down. “I understand you were married, Commander Bond. I’m sorry your wife died. But perhaps you know why Peterson is so important to me”.
Bond did not respond.
*************
James Bond entered a club named Esmeralda’s Barn in Knightsbridge, off Wilton Place. It was another cloudy day in London. The club had a shabby front. Inside was a bar, constructed of barrels, and some tables and chairs. The room smelled musty, and it was dark.
Bond had decided to agree to Plume’s request. The meeting today was his first move.
Two big men sat at the bar. They were heavily muscled and had slicked-back hair. They stood and greeted Bond. Bond said, “You know who I am?”
Yes”, one of them responded. “You’re Bond. You work for the Secret Service as a hitter”.
Bond nodded. The men were Reggie and Ronnie Kray. They headed the Firm, one of the toughest gangs in London. They were twins. Ronnie was bigger. Because Bond had met them in the nightclubs around town, he had a nodding acquaintance.
Bond asked, “May I sit?” After Reggie Kray nodded, they sat down at a table. The Krays studied him. “Do you know Eddie Crush?” The twins glanced at each other.
Reggie nodded. ‘Right. Blackmailer. Skin is yellow due to a case of jaundice that never left him. Regular eyes, he’s a white bloke. Looks like a snake. Most blackmailers don’t use violence. But when in doubt, he uses an axe”.
Bond frowned. The Krays apparently knew him well.
‘How can we help you, Mr. Bond?” asked Reggie. Ronnie remained silent throughout their talk. Appearing bored, he fiddled with a drink.
“A friend of mine is being blackmailed by Crush. I want to make it stop. You know my relationship with Her Majesty’s government. But this is personal. I need a cover. I want to tell him I work for the Firm”.
The Krays looked at each other and burst into laughter. Bond waited them out. He said, “This is on my own cuff. I can’t involve the Service or, as I have in the past, other police agencies, like Special Branch”.
Reggie said, “What’s in it for us? We don’t work with coppers”.
Bond replied, “I will owe you a favor. Not the Service, however”.
A thin man wearing a trilby hat, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, entered the club. He walked over to the Krays and Bond. Reggie muttered, “Jack, we’re busy. We’ll talk later. Meet us the Fort at 6 PM”. The man shrugged and left the building.
Ronnie spoke for the first time. “I think this is a load of shite”. He looked at Reggie. “Working with the plods”. He gave a loud, derisive snort.
Reggie frowned. “Mr. Bond, perhaps you could tell us more about your friend?”
Bond shook his head. He was reluctant to supply details about Plume. Finally he said, “The man is a homosexual. His name doesn’t matter. He doesn’t deserve this”.
Ronnie sat up, grinning. “He’s a fruit? I’m a fruit!” Surprised, Bond stared at him. Ronnie laughed and clapped Reggie on the shoulder. “Well, I say we help Mr. Bond out!”
Reggie said, “My brother is enthusiastic, Mr. Bond. Let me speak to him, and we will be in contact”.
*************
The greyhounds burst from the starting boxes at White City stadium. They darted down the track, their bright jackets spotlighting them. Bond watched, fascinated. He had never been to a greyhound race. It was a sunny day with a few clouds and a slight breeze. Before him, stretched the grey and white stadium with its brown track and green infield.
Bond raised his binoculars and picked Eddie Crush out of the crowd below. Reggie Kray had been correct. Crush was bright yellow but with Caucasian eyes. He had a duck’s-arse haircut and a slight moustache. He was dressed as a spiv: trilby hat, long jacket, pegged pants, garish tie. He leant over the railing, a racecard in his right hand.
Bond lounged for a time, watching the races, still with interest. Occasionally he checked on Crush. Crush remained at the railing. Bond ducked into the Olympic Enclosure, a new restaurant, and ordered a glass of Prosecco, poor man’s champagne. He had acquired a taste for it, to his surprise, while on assignment in Naples a few years ago. In the past he would have lit up a Simmons cigarette with the three gold bands. But after his experience at Shrublands, he gradually reduced his intake. Now he had given up smoking altogether. Bill Tanner, his best friend at the office, told him that he did not believe it had been possible. But it impaired his effectiveness as an agent. So he was done with it. Through the restaurant’s window, Bond looked for Crush. Crush was gone from the railing.
Bond emptied the glass and left the restaurant. Suddenly he caught sight of Crush ahead of him on the esplanade. He followed him at a distance, watching. When Bond arrived at the track, he had picked out a storeroom. Crush neared the room. Bond dashed forward, grabbed Crush by the shoulder and shoved him into the open bare room. He slammed the door shut.
Crush stumbled forward and fell to his hands and knees. He scrambled away, then rose and faced Bond. Bond said nothing. Crush barked out, “What the fuck!” Bond stepped forward and shoved him again, and Crush fell back onto the floor.
Bond said, “Mr. Crush, my name is Secretan, James Secretan. You are bothering a friend of mine. His name is William Plume. I want you to stop immediately. The consequences of not halting will be extreme”.
Crush rose slowly. He brushed his suit down. His yellow face assumed an ugly look. “Secretan? Don’t know that name. Plume can’t run a roadman in on me. It won’t work. I can take care of myself”.
Bond smiled. “I will end you, Crush, if I need to. But you can check, too. I’m with the Firm, Reggie and Ronnie Kray’s gang. You fuck with me, you fuck with them”.
Crush shook his head. He shrugged and stalked out of the room.
**********
James Bond loomed over the figure in the bed. It was dark in the room. In the middle of the night, in the rundown block of flats in the East End, he had slipped over a backyard wall and through a second story window. Bond kicked the man in the buttocks. The man sat up abruptly, shouting. Crush yelled, “What the bloody hell?” He scrambled back on the bed.
Bond said, “It’s been two days, Crush. What’s your answer?” He kicked Crush again.
Crush focused on Bond, then rubbed his yellow face. He responded, “Yeah, yeah, I checked around. I know who you are with. I’ll bloody well stop. Fuck off….”
Silently Bond turned and vanished from the room.
***********
James Bond parked his Aston Martin DB5 in the vast car park next to the White City Stadium. Because he wanted something more anonymous, he had traded in his Bentley a year ago for the Aston Martin. Bond purchased a ticket and slipped into the racetrack. Overhead the sky was grey, a typical London day.
Two months had passed. Bond had returned from an assignment. He had been tasked with stopping an operation to smuggle drugs into southeast England, especially around Brighton. A Greek criminal named Xan Colorphon, who was missing his left arm and right leg, had organized the smuggling. Working closely with Interpol in France, Bond completed the mission, though it meant Colorphon had lost another limb. Now Bond had been given another holiday. Intrigued by the dog races, thinking about them while on assignment, he had wanted to return.
Bond found a bookmaker with a chalkboard in mid-stands and placed a bet on Shady Parachute. The bookmaker’s clerk made out a betting slip. Bond found a seat in the Olympic Enclosure restaurant and ordered Prosecco again. He looked out the windows and over the pale expanse of the stadium. A weekday, the stands were sparsely filled.
Bond focused on the races, making an occasional bet, using a young runner for the bookmakers. The Prosecco made him slightly drunk. The sky cleared gradually, the clouds disappearing. Over time he won a few bets. Bond thought back to the last time he had been at the track. He had felt good about assisting Plume. Plume had offered to pay him, but Bond had turned him down. To his surprise, a chink had appeared in his shell regarding Tracy Draco. Odd that it should come from two men who loved one another. When Bond was flying back from France, it came to him. He had felt suddenly lighter.
At the end of the afternoon, Bond made his way out of the Olympic Enclosure restaurant and the White City Stadium and back to his car. The sun was shining now. Bond climbed into the Aston Martin. As he settled in, he noted a sudden shadow to his right. Instinctively he shifted to his left. An axe veered down, denting the steering wheel.
Eddie Crush screamed, “I seen you come in the track! You ain’t with the Firm! Fucking with me! Jack the Hat told me! He seen you at the Barn!”
Crush raised his axe again. Bond flipped open the door, banging against Crush. He straightened and side-stepped the axe, slipping past Crush to the right. Bond thrust his left arm around Crush’s arms, trapping them. He wove his right arm through to Crush’s right arm, twisted and forced him to drop the axe. Crush broke free, whirled and smacked Bond in the face hard, forcing him to step back. Bond bent suddenly, grabbed Crush’s legs and dumped him onto his back.
Panting, Bond gazed down on Crush, then around the car park. No one was nearby. With no hesitation, Bond stomped on Crush’s face, driving his nose and the bones surrounding it back into his brain. Crush died instantly. A crazy thought crossed Bond’s mind: he really looks like a snake now that his nose is gone.
Bond re-entered his car. For a long moment, he stared out the window. Crush lay crumpled on the tarmac, his yellow face mashed in, an empty suit, like the Mexican sicario so many years ago.
James Bond did not care, suddenly. He started the Aston Martin DB5 and drove away. He thought, after all, no chink in the shell for me.