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Jewish World Review July 6, 2010 / 24 Tamuz 5770 Licensed to kill time (or: Whatever became of good old 007?) By Lewis Grossberger
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
1.
James Bond tensed as the man he knew only as Grobodnik walked toward him.
Something was off. Something was not right. Suddenly, Bond knew. Grobodnik--not his real name, of course--had with him a small child, a girl about eight years old. Bond's hand moved stealthily toward his Walther PPK automatic but before he could grasp it, Grobodnik spoke.
"Hello, Vassily. You remember my daughter, Ludmilla?"
Bond shifted uneasily on the park bench. This was not in the playbook. He would have to improvise.
"Hi, Ludmilla," he said. The girl nodded shyly.
"I had to pick her up from school," said Grobodnik. Her mother had a dental appointment. Now what have you got for me?"
Bond looked around to make sure no one was listening. He took a coded document from his pocket.
Grobodnik looked it over. He whistled.
"How did you get this?"
Bond shrugged.
"A lot of digging. A lot of legwork. Some Googling."
"The location of all the Apple stores in Moscow," said Grobodnik. Our superiors will be pleased, Vassily."
2.
"What'll it be?"
"An iced decaf mocha latte," said Bond. "Shaken, not stirred."
Bond looked around the Starbucks. His eyes gazed dully at the chess match on the wide-screen TV. Bialiakov and Klechnoi were heading for another draw. A vast sense of ennui crept over him.
He was tired of Russia. He was tired of being called Vassily. He was tired of his wife and kids and their kids, tired of working as a change clerk in a booth at the Moscow subway, tired of fitting in, behaving like everyone else.
Most of all he was tired of never traveling to exotic locales, never playing baccarat in glamorous casinos, never bedding gorgeous younger women who were later found murdered and never having exciting car chases or karate fights with assassins from SMERSH or the KGB. It was so long ago he had done these things he could barely remember them.
The barista gave him his drink and Bond sat down at a table whose previous occupant hadn't bothered dumping his trash.
Bond had screwed up and he knew it. He should have gotten out of MI6 back in '91 when the budget was cut and the Soviet Union went down and and M died of cirrhosis and that sinister evil genius who was plotting to magnetize the Eiffel Tower, lift it in the air and plunge it into Mount Etna---what was his name again? Dr. Globerucker?---decided to retire from entrepreneurial megalomania and go to work for Goldman Sachs. The spy game had changed.
Everything had changed.
Bond fondled his Walther PPK. He hadn't fired it in years. It wasn't even loaded. This way it wasn't as heavy to lug around all day.
How he would love to slip up behind the barista and break his neck with one lightning-quick move. But why was he torturing himself this way? What was the point? You couldn't turn back the clock.
Bond reached for the copy of Pravda on the table and turned to the obit page. It reported that Jason Bourne had committed suicide.
A tear fell into his Styrofoam cup.
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© 2009, Lewis Grossberger |
Arnold Ahlert | |||||||||||||
