“Top(ish) Secret,” it read, and so did M, out loud. “Do you think the North African Desk is trying to be cute, Bond?”
Dropping into the single visitor’s chair facing M, James Bond crossed his legs. He stopped himself giving a little squeak as his inner thighs, once again, pinched his privates. “Perhaps I should dress to the left in future,” he thought before replying to M: “I wouldn’t trust that shower. Each one strikes me as being a man’s man, if you’re with me.”
M was. Personally, he had nothing philosophical against the more outré social lives of some at MI6 but, surely, by loitering in the St James Park loos on a wet Tuesday night in February to pick up off-duty Guardsmen, these chaps risked catching more than a cold? Intelligence gatherers needed to focus on, well, gathering intelligence not worrying about that burning sensation during urination.
A glance at the clock on the wall behind Bond’s head told M that his 7th best secret agent was late. “What kept you? Hopefully you weren’t giving Miss Moneypenny a quick how’s-your-father in the storeroom cupboard again.”
“Not since that accident when she knocked over a broom handle. Made my eyes water. No, I was at my Jermyn Street tailors, Swallow & Lovett, picking up some après ski kit.”
Folding back the cover page, M gave a smile as cold as a marketer’s handshake. “You won’t need a turtleneck sweater amongst the snake charmers and hawkers of Jemaa el Fna.”
Geography wasn’t Bond’s strong suit but it didn’t sound like an Alpine lodge in Gstaad.
“Marrakesh,” explained M.
“Ah,” said Bond, regaining his confidence, “near Minsk.”
Sighing, M continued the briefing. A criminal group called the Transvaal Cabal had based itself in the Moroccan city to facilitate plans to run guns, stashed amongst dates and spices, across the borders into the Western Sahara and Algeria to destabilise the governments.
“How dare they? Dates give me wind.”
“It’s the guns we're after.”
“Of course,” said Bond, trying to keep up with the giddy whirl of instructions and place names.
“Oh, and one more thing,” said M. “Hands off Miss Moneypenny, at least until she’s booked your flights.”
“Roger that.”
“Yes,” said M, tapping the Mac Baren embers into a glass ashtray,
“that’s what I’m afraid of.”
With a bump and a scream of engines in reverse thrust, the BEA Vickers Viscount made a three-point landing before taxiing towards the Marrakesh terminal.
After the chill of the cabin’s air-conditioning, the dry desert heat slapped Bond’s face as he descended the aircraft steps onto the tarmac. He was a man who could tolerate a slap, as long as it wasn’t too hard and was delivered by someone in suspenders – preferably a woman, although, given it was 1964, he had Swinging London on offer.
Through the runway’s shimmering heat, he made out a slight figure in a white cotton robe striding towards him, hand held out.
“Welcome to Marrakesh, Mr Bond. I’m Omar Sharif, your driver from the British Honorary Consulate.”
“Sawasdee khap, Sharif.” All these international assignments had taught Bond the advantage of conversing fluently with Johnny Foreigner.
“I think you’ll find that’s Thai,” said Sharif, plucking a leather suitcase from Bond’s hand before pitching forward onto the hot ground.
“Careful there, lad. It’s heavy. I’ve got half of Q’s arsenal stitched into the lining. And you’ll ruin your frock.”
“It’s a gandora …” began Sharif before realising Bond had lost
interest and was lighting a Morland of Grosvenor Street cigarette while
standing near a jet fuel bowser. “This way, Effendi, hurry!”
Dusted with dust, the black Mercedes careered through the Medina’s narrow streets, scattering stallholders and panhandlers, and splattering the odd wayward hen. In the backseat, Bond watched the scenery and the occasional shaken fist slipping past the car’s grimy windows.
“Damn’d unusual looking churches, eh, Sharif?”
“Actually, they’re …”
“Synagogues. Silly me. I know you Middle Eastern chappies and your new-fangled religions. All saffron robes, shaven heads and rice begging bowls in there, I fancy."
Another stamp on the accelerator sent the car forward, taking out two cyclists and a wide-eyed donkey. Ten minutes later, a screech of what remained of the brakes heralded the Mercedes’ arrival in an alley off the sprawling Jemaa el Fna marketplace. Locking the car then fixing a clamp to a front wheel, Sharif led Bond up steep stairs on the side of a drab building to a rooftop terrace: Le Grand Balcon du Café Glace. “نلقي نظرة على ذلك!” exclaimed Sharif, waving at the massive open-air marketplace below. Acrid smoke coupled with the aroma of roasting lamb entrails rose to meet them.
At a faux bistro metal table overlooking the square, they sipped heavily-sugared fresh mint tea from chipped glass tumblers while Sharif pointed out the sights – one in particular: the Transvaal Cabal. A few yards away, the Cabal members were crammed awkwardly around a circular table drinking lukewarm orange cordial and arguing over the lunch bill.
Sharif whispered descriptions, starting with the Chairman: Leonardo Duffy, aka Coldfinger, a bolshie-looking party in a black suit, possibly whipped up by a 24-hour-turnaround tailor Kowloon-side. He affected a Kabbalah bracelet and a moistened cigar stub. Adonis Van Graan, a carefully sculptured greying beard graced his chin; eyes as dark as sin sat either side of a patrician nasal bridge. Dickie Brand, his shaven head, black T- shirt fitted over another black T-shirt, and signature dyspeptic grimace had prompted his nom de guerre – Sour Man. Blade Cravings, bifocals perched raffishly on the end of a broken nose, had a reputation for taking bribes, barbiturates and, when visiting aged care homes, biscuits off the residents’ afternoon tea trays. Tom McArran, onetime editor of the Marrakesh Express newspaper before being fired for feigning he was planning a Michelin Star-style rating supplement featuring the city’s bordellos and then undertaking an intensive, cost-free sampling program. Chris “Numbers Man” Tagalog, described on his Interpol Wanted poster as a certifiable chartered accountant – with the law enforcement agency confirming it wasn’t a typo. Al “Twinkle Toes” Prance, given to practising optimised search and entry when frisking newcomers to the Cabal’s HQ. Madeleine Dubois, currently being hunted by France’s Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. She claimed to be Mauritian or Mauritanian depending on who’s asking. Mary Carberry, alleged to have at least three husbands on the go, one in Sydney, and known to barmen from Shanghai to Kinshasa for her opening line: “Usually I don’t drink alcohol but it’s been a difficult day.” And, finally, a crafty smirker who’d renamed themselves Greg Flyin after a penis implant in Bangkok – and now wore a buttock tattoo reading: “Pussy Nomore.”
With the dispute over the bill settled – Cravings picked up the tab while holding a dampened hanky to his new black eye – the gang separated, with only Duffy pausing to study the two nearby men. A moment later, he tiptoed away.
Lips atremble, face bright, the Riad El Fenn’s receptionist peered up at the tall, dashing guest.
“Don’t look so needy, my dear,” said Bond. “Frankly I’d never get any assignments finished if I bonked every eager beaver.”
“I was going to say you have a piece of mint leaf stuck between your teeth.”
Graciously he allowed her to carry his suitcase to his first-floor suite. Stepping through the doorway, Bond smelt a mix of old goat and sour grapes. The Walther PPK 7.65mm pressed against his Sea Island cotton shirt beneath his unstructured linen jacket gave him little comfort. Sitting in armchairs were Duffy, Van Graan and Cravings. Brand, wearing heavy work boots, lay on the bed, snoring gently – an empty bottle of complimentary Spéciale Flag pilsner gripped tightly.
“You booked into this place under your own name, Mr Bond," said Duffy. "You really must be more spy-like. Do you know who we …?
“The Transvaal Cabal, so called because you four come from Cabal.”
Van Graan was on his feet, tattooed knuckles raised. “South Africa!”
Bond appeared confused. “Sawth a·fruh·kuh? Never heard of it, old chap. Anywhere near Minsk?”
Flicking a Bic lighter under his cigar stub, Duffy inhaled, then blew a stream of smoke towards Bond. “I know what a worldly man like you secretly desires.”
“Fast cars and Chinese food!” Bond paused. “Or perhaps it’s Chinese cars and fast food. Either way, do you expect me to talk?”
“No, Mr Bond, I expect you to die.” Duffy stopped himself, looking apologetic. “Oops, sorry, it’s too early for that line. It should be: no, Mr Bond, I expect you to dine. To dine on chicken tagine with preserved lemon and olives while two belly dancers pleasure …”
Through the door burst Sharif, hot-heeled by a squad of Sûreté Nationale police, blowing whistles and pointing weapons.
Bond frowned. “I hope you’re not going to be a bore about this, Sharif. Duffy over here was just making an interesting offer.”
# # #
* Yes, yes, I know – copyright. But I’ll have a
chat with Ian Fleming later in Heaven.
Copyright 2021 GREG FLYNN
