Bonds walked into M’s ante-room, nodded with insouciant sensuality at Miss Europenniless, and strode confidently into the G7 leader’s office. Sitting to one side was an immaculately tailored French dummy he recognised instantly as the infamous Elysee Porg, Slick Narcozy.
Merkel swung her chair round to reveal an unemotional expression so flat, along with her hair it gave the G7 boss the air of a road-kill hedgehog.
“Sit down, Bonds,” she began, “You will recognise Agent Narcozy, no doubt.”
The two men shook hands uneasily.
“The name’s Bonds,” said 009.6 (according to the latest CPI data) “German Bonds. Good to meet you, Narcozy”.
“Call me Cosy,” the Frenchman sniffed.
“You sent for me M,” asserted the spy.
“Jawohl,” Merkel answered, “Slicky my little Schnitzel, brief Mr Bonds please.”
The Frenchman leaned forward, and fell off his chair. Recovering quickly, with a nervous giggle he brushed himself down, and paced the room in clumsy, staccato steps – a miniature Clouseau scoping out the dire situation they faced.
“A madman has taken over the Central Bank,” he began, “and is refusing to play along with our…..little scheme. He was supposed to say no to the Daegos and the Eyeties, but now he is saying yes.”
“So it isn’t Dr No?” asked Bonds.
“No. He was our yes-man always saying no,” Narcozy explained. Bonds frowned.
“Then you know it’s not No?”
“Yes and no,” Slick replied, “Remember – he runs the European Central Bank: so it isn’t no, and it isn’t yes, although it should always be no and never yes, only now he’s said yes, and that’s no good.”
Bonds froze as he heard Narcozy’s account of bewildering duplicity.
“Oh no,” he whispered, “You don’t mean…not The Cliche?”
“Exactement,” confirmed the Elysee spy, “Reine-Claude Cliche. A very dangerous man. I think we may have…..underestimated him.”
Bonds looked at the G7’s top two spooks, and leaned back in his chair.
“And what,” he asked, “Of the British?”
Merkel laughed the sort of laugh that suggested she needed more help with her laughing training. Narcozy merely shrugged, offering a casual answer.
“The Rosbifs? They are On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, busy denying their covert links to the terrorist leader Rupe Hacker. Agent Ozspawn is fully engaged in terminating Monetary Committee traitors. While his boss Camoron also faces allegations of a Colombian nature….”
Bonds raised an eyebrow. Narcozy coloured slightly and sniffed noisily.
“Whatever,” Bonds observed, “I believe in live and let die. And the Americans?”
This time, M’s face stiffened. Being already flat, the stiffening gave it an air of petrified sole on a roadkill hedgehog.
“Ach, the Schwarze,” she snarled, the dead face suddenly gyrating, “What does he know, this Irishman O’Charmer? He is incompetent. Even the IMF agent Goldfinger is now at large, peddling his illusory Safe Haven.”
“So I see,” said 009.6, ” But why hasn’t Bin B’Nanka intervened to cut him down to size…”
“BECAUSE ZEY ARE FINISCHED!” yelled the Fuhrerine, her suddenly animated eyes like popping out like two chapel hat-pegs protuding from a petrified sole lying on a roadkill hedgehog, “NOW, ONLY ZE GERMAN VILL VILL SUCCEED!”
M became calm once more, but Narcozy wore a puzzled expression.
“Who are these Vill-Vill?” he asked, “Why was I not informed about them?” Bond winced in the knowledge that, while the world held its breath, he was dealing with a obsessive Osti Hausfrau and a Hungarian powdered nose. The world, he noticed, had taken on a deep purple hue of late. He spoke once more, his manner still calm.
“What is it precisely you want me to….?” he began to ask – but before he could finish, the Frenchman hurried towards a side door, reaching into his pocket.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “I must use your bathroom….but fear not! You are right, M! And if you are, then France is behind you all the way.”
“Put ze seat down afterwards,” M shouted after him, turning towards Bonds with a confiding air. “These French – pah. Where they fall down is in their toilets.” Bonds nodded in silent agreement.
The Head of section G7 blinked at 009.6, her ample forearms resting on the large, polished desk.
“You must eliminate the Cliche,” she insisted.
“How can I do that?” asked Bonds, “This is a Cubby Broccoli film.” Merkel glared at her favourite spy.
“You only live twice,” she hissed, “So make zem both count. With Cliche gone, the Mediterranean Club will sink forever into the sea. Then victory will be ours….for tomorrow never dies.”
“And then?” he asked, knowing there must be more. Her back rigidly straight, she leaned backwards, a smile punctuating her face such that she resembled a Speak Your Weight machine made from starched cod and flat hedgehog falling backwards.
“And then, you must terminate Goldfinger,” she replied.
“The man with the golden gun?” Bonds asked.
“Naturlich,” she said, her eyes twinkling like bling on a Speak Your Weight machine made from starched cod and flat hedgehog slumped against a shopping centre wall, “and then Geli Merkel and German Bonds will create a new Reich to last for a thou….”
Her voice trailed away as the bathroom door reopened, admitting a reinvigorated Slick Narcozy.
“Ahzatissomuchbetter,” he gabbled, “Now Bonds. Yourmissionistopropupmybanks, oui?”
“Of course,” lied Bonds, “Of course”. Slick nodded in a disturbingly vigorous way.
“Excellentexcellententent,” he cackled, “And so…what is my role in this grand plan?”
“To remain a supporter of everything I say,” she replied, “and ensure that anyone with original ideas is….sent to the Russian Front.”
This time it was Bonds who smiled: it was an ironic twist on From Russia with Love: he had to admire the way in which Narcozy had neutralised both Dominant Sex-Karno and Pristine Canard in one fell swoop. But by now, the Frenchman’s twitches were twitching. To Bonds, it looked like a ghastly twitch’s brew.
“Oui,” he said, “But…arhem, we must be….discreet. I cannot pull too many blagues like that. You’ve no idea how much the litte Standard & Poors arrangement cost. It was more than Carla earns in a month. In fact, I ‘ad to borrow the money off…”
“Yes, correct,” Merkel interrupted, fearful of Slick’s tendency to talk with his nose full, “So, my little stormtrooper – off you go.”
The French agent skittered from the room, chattering and laughing as he slammed the door behind him. M wrinkled her thin lips.
“I pray he never needs his nose rebuilding,” she observed, “The cost would make the Greek bailout seem like tipping a waiter at Bilderberg.” Bonds smiled seductively. He knew that the boss of G7 had a passion for many things unsuspected by the voters. But when it came to German Bonds, it was the real thing for Geli Merkel.
His smile turned to a frown as they returned to business.
“Longer term, of course,” mused M, “There is the question of our friends in the Far East. Tell me Bonds, why are they so interested in South Africa do you think?” Bond gave a half-smile.
“Because diamonds are forever,” he quipped. Ignoring the joke, Merkel stood up, her eyes now fixed on the one true object of her desire.
“Not all that glistens is gold, Liebschen,” she purred, “but clearly the Chinese want more and more of it.”
“All the easier with which to buy our cars, meine Fuhrerine,” said Bonds, “and once our beloved euro is worth one tenth of a Yuan after the ClubMed implosion, the Chinese will be buying every Mercedes we can make….”
“Ja,” Merkel agreed breathlessly as she leaned over Bonds, like a Speak Your Weight machine made from starched cod and flat hedgehog leaning forward dangerously, “and every last one made for nothing by the slave workers of ClubMed….I tell you my little noodle, this is much safer than Blitzkrieg….”
“Indeed,” said German Bonds, making his escape, “Which is why I must see off the Cliche in Frankfurt….”
“I love it when you talk duty to me,” she said, sinking back into her chair.