Bond slipped into his seat in first-class just as the Eurostar was leaving Kings Cross. His phone rang.
"Is that you, Moneypenny?" he asked.
"Er, no, it's Justin, your line manager at work."
Bond snapped his phone shut. That was the coded signal he had been waiting for. The mission was on. As the train gathered pace through the Kent countryside, Bond strolled to the bar.
"Martini. Shaken, not stirred," he ordered.
"Crisps or nuts with that?" the barman replied.
There was a distinct chill in the air as Bond disembarked at the Gare du Nord. He pulled his coat tight to his chest as he made his way to customs.
"The name is Bond. James Bond," he said.
"That eez vair odd," the officer replied. "Your passport says you are Brian Finch." Bond smiled grimly; his disguise was holding up well.
Smiling nicely at several attractive women who seemed strangely uninterested in having sex with him, Bond shuffled his way towards the front of the taxi queue.
"The Georges V, my good man," he commanded. The driver turned to face him and Bond's eyes narrowed. "So you're back then, Scaramanga!"
"Look vous prat," the driver replied, "just because I'm a bit short and look oriental, it doesn't mean I'm a Smersh agent."
Bond checked in, took the lift to the second floor and headed to suite 217. He put his ear to the door. There was someone inside. Removing the Walther PPK from his Austin Reed jacket, Bond kicked open the door.
"Excusez-moi, monsieur," said the chambermaid. "Je suis just finishing preparing your room."
"Damn it," Bond thought to himself. "My cover is already blown. I need to get out of here."
He hailed another taxi, resisting the urge to kill a tourist who was travelling in the same direction, and headed for the Pompidou Centre, where he could lose any tail and merge with the crowds at the Gabriel Orozco exhibition. A message alert appeared on his iPhone. It was his bank letting him know his credit card had been used abroad. Damn. There would be no time for casual sex with French supermodels. It was M's way of letting him know he had to fly to Morocco at a moment's notice.
Several hours later, a distant figure caught Bond's eye as he strolled through Djemaa el-Fna, the main square of Marrakech. This looked like the ideal moment for a chase scene. He sprinted through the old souks, pushing people out the way, until his progress was halted by a large street vendor threatening him with a powerful carpet.
"You wanna buy kilim, Mistair Bond? I make you very good price."
Bond wasn't falling for that. It was clear the body of the murdered local station chief had been wrapped inside one of the carpets; he wasn't planning to join him.
"Er, no thanks," he said, dodging the man's entreaties. He looked up to see a Qantas jet flying overhead. It could only mean one thing …
A day later, Bond was poised precariously on the top of the Harbour Bridge. Surely there must be easier places to meet his nemesis in Sydney? He looked down to see a powerboat racing towards the ocean. The driver looked up and waved … Too late again, Mister Bond.
Back on street level, Bond took a cab to the airport. There was only one way he could save the world now … If he could get to the New York Met by 7 … The cab was caught in traffic in Manhattan but there was still a chance he could make it for the second act of La Bohème.
He flicked out the creases from his tuxedo and adjusted his bow tie, before knocking on the door of the presidential box.
"I've got a message from M that will prevent an attack on the UN building," he said.
"Gee thanks."
Bond made his excuses and left. Now was not the time to draw attention to himself. But the night was still young and the Golden Nugget casino beckoned.
"Put everything on red," he said, handing over a stack of 100-dollar chips, while for some strange reason he was still instantly resistible to the crowd of well-stacked women.
"Vingt, noir," the croupier announced. It was going to be one of those weekends …
