Ian Fleming, writer of the James Bond adventure stories, never envisioned in his wildest imagination that the movie industry would out-Bond him in proficiency of story product. In fact, even James Bond himself, apparently, cannot last without a change of, at last count, 5 1/2 IDs. Continuing his quest to destroy world evil for her majesty’s government while maintaining a heated hormonal attraction to the opposite sex, his suave, cool manner under fire (no pun intended) is the envy of every red-blooded male. Hopefully, the ‘next’ Macintosh OS will mirror James’ panache under fire and its own built-in cool.
He drove through Picadilly Circus fast. Fast was normal for him. The intricate pattern of traffic and its congestion did not cause him to ease up on the accelerator. The silver Aston-Martin growled with almost sexual pleasure as it hurtled past the statue of the Angel of Christian Charity. The driver was one of Great Britain’s super sleuths, James Bondi, agent 010. The Aston-Martin screeched to a stop outside of #10 Downing Street at a parking area designated ‘PM’. He cut off the engine as its 12 cylinders died in complaint and he twisted his large torso out of the front seat with the agility of a contortionist. He walked past the Queen’s Guard in his flaming red tourist uniform and through the door.
“Oh, James, thank God you’re here.” It was Miss Pennywise, personal assistant to M, the Inspector General of LTK. “Everyone is here and you are late.”
“Tut, tut, my dear,” he answered. He flicked his hand and there was a swish as his hat sailed across the immense foyer to land jauntily on a bust of the Queen.
“You-are-late,” Miss Pennywise scolded, emphazing each word. Then,with a glance at the final destination of his hat, she added with a smile. “And you haven’t lost your touch, either.”
“Pennywise! Confound it. Has he arrived?” M stood at the door to the inner sanctum, his face flushed with agitation.
“At your service, sir,” James spoke up immediately and passed quickly into the room. Inside was the PM and Agent Harry S. Nixon of the FBI. The PM, a nervous man, was pacing behind his massive oak desk while the FBI agent looked on in bemused detachment.
“It’s about bloody time,” M muttered through clenched teeth behind him. Then, with smiling cordiality, he patted James on the back, “Our absolute best man, sir,” he said, directing his words to the PM. The introductions were cordial yet curt.
“We have no time to lose,” the PM began. “One of the most monstrous conspiracies of modern times is happening under our noses, and it must be stopped. Do I make myself clear?” He looked around at the three men and sat down heavily into the soft leather of his chair. Before anyone spoke he turned to Nixon and added, “I just talked to the President a half hour ago and he is in agreement. You will be receiving confirmation directly from your superiors. In the meantime, M will brief you of our two governments concerted plan. Thank you, gentlemen, and good morning.” He nodded to M who led the two agents into an anteroom next to the PM’s office.
When they were seated at the small table, M said quickly, “We are taking Michael Soft down.” The silence was broken by Nixon who blew a soft whistle of amazement. Michael Soft was the richest man in the world. He had gained his billions by monopolistic practices in the software industry. The Nasdaq stock index worshiped him with the fervour of a demigod. His company, Monolithic Software, was presently under siege by American and EU anti-trust proceedings which threatened to break up the company into smaller units. This was only one of the possibilities. This new twist, the elimination of Michael Soft himself, was bound to cause much mayhem in the financial and secular world.
“Does this mean the standard LTK agenda?” James Bondi asked, coolly balancing on the rear legs of the Louis XIV chair. “And where does my friend, Mr. Nixon, fit into this intrigue?”
“That,” answered M, “is for both of you to decide. You are to work independently, but your goal is the same. Michael Soft is to be eliminated as quickly and as economically as possible. As to how,” he stopped midsentence, “that, too, is an interesting dilemma. However, you are both well-seasoned veterans and I am sure you will think of something. You should leave here separately and not be seen together in the future.”
“I’ll check with headquarters in Washington. James, I wish you luck. If you would like to make a wager on who gets him first, it might make it more interesting.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Bondi replied, “and I don’t bet on sure things.” Nixon left with a shrug through a special hidden panel in the wall. “Really, M, you should seal all these old priest holes. It makes a for a very drafty PM’s residence.”
“Agent 010, your remarks are spurious. It would be better if you saw Q in his labs below stairs. I understand he has some very interesting gadgets that may help you in the task at hand.” Bondi exited through the same panel door. He had been through this before and knew his way through the maze of passageways. After several turns and a flight of stairs down, he pushed another panel and entered the environs of Q and his starkly white Frankenstein laboratories.
“Ah, agent 010, I was expecting you. What do you think of this?” Before him, on the lab table, were three IBM think pads, each running a different version of Monolithic’s WordPro. “Watch what happens when I try to save the application on each machine,” said Q, barely able to control his glee. As the keyboard save command was entered, each unit crashed.
“Amazing. How did you do it?” Bondi asked, impressed.
“I did nothing,” Q chuckled, “Monolithic built it into the application. The only way to get it to work is to purchase the WordPro upgrade.” He chuckled again. “That upgrade has another built-in bug that does not allow you to transfer files. The transfer bug upgrade will be released shortly… for a price.”
“Well I’ll be bug****d! That’s a neat trick. Has no one caught on, as yet?”
“Of course, but it’s considered the price of doing business with Monolithic. Now here is what we propose to do to help you out. This vial contains a synthetic substance that induces alterations to the mind of the recipient. It is from the truth serum family but is much more potent and yet harmless to the body.”
Twenty-four hours later, Bondi was traveling through the the grandeur of the American northwest. He was headed for the small town of Ridgemount and the headquarters of Monolithic. His American-made, mid-size, Japanese automobile purred along quite adequately on eight cylinders less than he was used to. Pennywise had made all the arrangements for him. In fact, they had been completed weeks before. Only the final arrival date had been left unfilled until today. He pulled into the the main parking lot and minutes later was at the security desk. His contact name was Heidi Htzenbanger.
When she approached the reception area, she appeared to sway rather than walk toward him. Her languid body language was very sensual, and her blonde hair and flawless complexion added to her allure. She wore a dark suit tailored to accentuate her voluptuous figure. Her white open neck blouse was cut as low as the Monolithic dress code would allow, which was more revealing than the accepted standard. “No surprises here,” Bondi thought. “You get what see.”
“Mr. Bondi,” she said, extending her hand, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Your recommendations from our German office are outstanding.” She spoke with the little girl breathlessness that was somewhat passé and her head was tilted downwards so that, when she looked at him, her eyes were almost hidden by her long lashes. Her perfume was quite strong, but not strong enough to camouflage the fact that she was a heavy smoker.
“You must know many powerful and influential people, Mr. Bondi. I have been with Monolithic for five years and have never witnessed such a last minute reshuffling of appointments to accommodate a new visitor. Usually, it is Michael Soft who has the visitor wait to accommodate him”
They were in the elevator on their way up to the penthouse office suite. Heidi had turned to face him and their bodies were in close proximity. Her head was tilted down again and the smoldering eyes were watching him intently. He raised both hands and pulled her towards him and kissed her. She gasped at his roughness but did not object.
“Let’s just call this an abuse of power, shall we?” he said. At that moment, the elevator door opened into the sumptuous penthouse foyer.
“This is as far as I go,” said Heidi. “Michael Soft’s office is through the double doors in front of you.”
“Pity,” replied Bondi. “Are you speaking of the kiss or your escorting services?”
She did not answer, but pushed the down button and the elevator doors slammed shut.
He walked to the double doors, knocked twice and entered, not waiting for an acknowledgement. Floor to ceiling windows offered a breathtaking vista of the Cascade Mountains. Michael Soft was apparently enjoying the vista himself. His chair was turned away, so Bondi could not see his face. Bondi circled the large, uncluttered desk. A premonition of unease flooded his consciousness. Michael Soft made no movement. The large, thick lenses of his glasses were fogged up and it was hard to make out the closed eyes. The deep red slash of blood that dribbled from his mouth was the only indication that he was dead.
“Damn. This is Harry Nixon’s handiwork. He beat me to him. Well, perhaps it is only right that the FBI should be involved in his death. He was, after all, an American citizen.”
Suddenly, alarm sirens started to blare. Bondi slipped out of the office and made his way to the roof access. On the roof, he made contact with his helicopter backup. The sirens were deafening. Then, on the horizon, he saw the copter approaching. He relayed his exact location and waited patiently. The copter hovered then landed on the roof, and he jumped inside. Behind the pilot sat Harry Nixon.
“Sorry, Bondi, but this was our responsibility.” The helicopter jerked into motion and headed west towards the Pacific just as Monolithic’s security rushed onto the empty roof.
Ralph J. Luciani
ralph@mymac.com
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