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On His Majesty's Secret Service (13)
Zoeller stood up, reaching into his jacket. “Shoot him,” he ordered. “Shoot the waiter.”

Bond threw the pot of coffee at Zoeller, who cried out in pain and fell over his chair as the hot liquid scalded him. Both thugs reached for their guns; Bond caught one by the wrist, grabbed his crotch with the other hand, and threw him bodily into his companion.

Miss Duessler recovered her composure and sat quietly, looking at Bond. Shouting inarticulately, Zoeller managed to draw his gun while dabbing his face and eyes with his sleeve. The two goons were collecting themselves, and the front door opened to reveal two more men in white tuxedos. Bond realized he had overstayed his welcome.

“Toast, sir,” said a voice at Bond’s elbow. It was the waiter he had originally displaced.

Zoeller cleared his eyes enough to see and frowned. “What?” he asked.

‘’The toast you ordered,” said the man nervously. “I hope it’s right this time.”

“I’ll get the marmalade,” suggested Bond, slipping away. The security men were unwilling to shoot him in front of a civilian; even Zoeller put his gun back inside lapel for the moment, but he looked daggers at the men at the front door, then jerked his head after Bond. They got the picture and followed.

Bond dashed into the kitchen, then recovered the receiver from the closet where he had stashed it. One of Zoeller’s goons looked into the room and raised his gun. Bond threw his tray like a discus and it caught the man in the neck; while he choked, Bond flipped it up and smashed the tray with his elbow, dashing the unlucky fellow’s head against the doorframe. Bond drew his revolver and looked down the hall into the kitchen. In the reflection of a stainless steel kitchen cabinet, Bond could see the other one of Zoeller’s hatchetmen lurking just around a corner. He would have to pass that man to reach the back door – a dangerous gauntlet.

Bond’s eye was drawn to a large tea urn just within view. Aiming carefully, Bond shot the urn at just the right angle. A thin stream of almost boiling water spewed out onto the hiding man, who screamed. Bond bolted down the hall and shot into the man as he ran past; he didn’t stop to see if he had hit the target, but no return volley followed him. He burst out the back door and ran for his car.

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I Miss Your Brains
The streets are crowded / but I’m alone
I’d give my left arm / to be back home
I’d give my right one too, if it would bring me you
…but it’s already gone
That pack of winos / were so deranged
And since they bit me / everything’s changed
My hunger’s very keen, my thoughts of you have been
…a trifle rearranged

I miss your shape, I miss your touch
I miss your love so awfully much
I miss your hands, I miss your feet
I miss the sound of your heartbeat
I miss your cries, I miss your call
But most of all…
…I miss your brainssss.
Whoa, I miss your brainssss.

I think of what we / had before this
Pandemic zombie / apocalypse
My loving feelings mesh with dreams of ragged flesh
…to kiss or eat your lips?
I know my heart’s one / and true command
Is to convince you / to take my hand
But from that blissful state, things would degenerate
…to something less well-planned

I miss your shape, I miss your touch
I miss your love so awfully much
I miss your hands, I miss your feet
I miss the sound of your heartbeat
I miss your cries, I miss your call
But most of all…
…I miss your brainssss.
Whoa, I miss your brainssss.

I know before I never thought too much about your skull
I never would have longed to peek inside
I think this change has let me see the whole you’s beautiful

I miss your shape, I miss your touch
I miss your brainssss so awfully much
I miss your hands, I miss your brainssss
I miss the sound of your brains SINGING
I miss your brainsss, brains brains brains BRAINSSS,
But most of all…
…I miss your brainssss.
Whoa, I miss your brainssss.
Oh, yeah, yeah yeah,
I miss your BRAINSSSSZZZZZsssZZs. Zz. Z.

On His Majesty's Secret Service (12)
Bond nailed the last of the lids back on the boxes and paused to catch his breath. He and Susan had been working for the better part of the morning. They had tidied up the mess in the storage area, concealing the bodies of Archie and his cohorts in a disused closet in another part of the building. They had anonymously called for the airbase mechanical crew to haul the wreckage of the tractors away (once Archie had been disposed of), and they had removed the remains of the roll-up door and boarded it over.

“I don’t get it,” Susan said as Bond carefully picked up the Monet painting and carried it to the same room where the bodies were hidden. “Why take away one thing?”

“Archie needs an excuse for his absence,” he explained. “When Zoeller comes back here, he’ll see the missing door and one missing painting, and he’ll assume that his servant got greedy, broke in, stole a valuable painting and slipped away. Zoeller won’t like it, but he won’t automatically abort whatever he’s doing either. And that’s what we need to ensure: that Zoeller sticks to his plan.”

Bond looked at his watch. “It’s close to noon,” he said. “Susan, you’ll have to do a little more work to earn your gold, because I can’t be in two places at once. I need you to put your eyes on the gold. Can you do that?”

“You mean my gold,” said Susan, “and yes. But how will I find it?”

“Zoeller spoke of a marina,” said Bond. “Any idea where that might be?”

“Sure, I know the place,” said Susan. “It’s on the Spree in the French zone. I’ve seen the sails from the air plenty of times. I guess Berliners like to sail boats on the river.”

“What I need you to do,” said Bond, “is go there and look for the biggest man you’ve ever seen. He’ll have a mask on his face. You find him, you’ll find the gold. But don’t let him see you.”

“Run down the masked man, find the gold – check,” said Susan. “What’re you going to do?”

“Well,” said Bond, “first I have to get my car out of the shop.”

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On His Majesty's Secret Service (11)
There was an open-all-night diner right there on the airbase. Bond and Susan B. Anthony ate, or rather Susan did, like a starving woman, and on Bond’s tab. Bond drank coffee but ate nothing.

“So let me get this straight,” said Susan around bites of hash and eggs. “You have no plane for me.”

“That’s right,” said Bond.

“But you do have a bunch of artwork. Like, paintings and sculptures and stuff.”

“Something like that, yes,” Bond said. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not one hundred percent certain exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Color me unimpressed,” said Susan.

“There is also, somewhere in this city, a largish quantity of Nazi gold,” Bond said.

“My color is improving,” Susan said. “How much gold?”

“Enough to buy you a plane, and a bigger plane to keep it in,” said Bond. “But I need your help. The art is being stored somewhere on the grounds of Tempelhof. Do you know where it might be?”

Susan scraped her plate clean and pushed back from the table, looking at Bond speculatively. “Russians held me in their stupid jail for twelve hours,” she said. “That was no fun.”

“Sorry,” said Bond. “But you didn’t tell on me.”

“No.” Susan sucked on her cheeks. “I’ll help you for a new plane, plus twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money,” said Bond. He wasn’t impressed, but if he didn’t sound impressed Susan wouldn’t like it.

“I hear art is worth a lot of money too,” said Susan. “At least to somebody. Not me.”

Bond forced himself to hesitate. “All right,” he said. “You’ve got a deal.” He shook hands with Susan B. Anthony.

“The passenger terminal,” said Susan. “The airlift has basically shut down the airport for passenger service. The departure terminals are too far away from the landing strips to be used for cargo, so they’re mothballed up. Good place to hide stuff that you don’t want anybody to mess around with.”

“Perfect,” said Bond. He paid, and the two left the café. They were watched by a man with binoculars. He was standing on the balcony of a lounge where off-duty pilots were allowed to rest before taking off on their return flight. The man was Archie, the pilot who had flown Bond and Weir into Berlin in the first place. He watched Bond and Susan disappear into the warren of the airport. Then he went back to his room and made a telephone call.

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In His Majesty's Secret Service (10)
Bond unpacked the shortwave radio set and tuned it to 11.56 mega-Hertz. “Alp-Uncle to Jungfrau, over,” he said into the microphone. “Come in Jungfrau, over.”

There was only a short wait. “Jungfrau here, over,” said a voice. The accent sounded Danish.

Bond took a deep breath. “Jungfrau, Alp-Uncle regrets to report that Heidi has fallen down the mountain,” he said. “Heidi has advised, however, that the lost sheep have been found and can be recovered. Alp-Uncle requests…”

“Just a moment,” the voice on the other end broke in. “Did you advise that Alp-Uncle has fallen down the mountain, over?”

“Negative,” said Bond impatiently. Weir’s body lay on the bed next to him. Bond had covered his face with the bedsheet. Disposing of the body was against protocol; MI-6 insisted on recovery and extraction wherever possible, especially in the case of double-oh agents.

“Say again,” Bond said, enunciating each syllable clearly. “Heidi has fallen down the mountain. Alp-Uncle is still very much on the mountain and wants some bloody help, if you think you might get around to it. Over,” he concluded. The speaker spat static for a moment. Then a new voice came on the line. It sounded distinctly British.

“Please confirm once more, Alp-Uncle,” said the voice, which didn’t identify itself. “Did you say that Heidi has fallen…”

“Oh for pity’s sake,” inserted Bond. “Double-oh-one is dead, d’you hear? He’s gone.” He drew deeply on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the rapidly filling ashtray. Weir’s hand protruded from the sheet, hanging limply off the side of the bed.

“He’s just gone,” Bond repeated, his eyes completely empty.

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On His Majesty's Secret Service (9)
Zoeller and Stemmer peered at each other through the almost complete darkness of the hothouse. The wet sounds of Guk-Guk breathing erased any hope of hearing movement. Both men drew guns at the same time. “Spread out,” whispered Zoeller hoarsely.

A sharp hiss made Stemmer jump, and he cursed as water misted in his face. Somebody had turned the sprinkler system on, and jets of water generated a fine fog in the room. Stemmer barked orders at Guk-Guk, who lurched towards the front of the building. He grunted several times as he collided with planter boxes and low-hanging light fixtures, and then he was gone in the darkness.

Zoeller backed himself into a narrow gap between two large ferns and waited, crouched low, his Luger held in front of him. Only the gentle hiss of the sprinklers could be heard. Water trickled down the back of his neck. He began to grow impatient. Where was that giant of Stemmer’s? Why couldn’t he get the lights on? Zoeller craned his neck around the fern fronds but could see nothing. “Stemmer!” he whispered.

There was a rustling and a scrape as somebody crawled to the far side of one of the ferns. “Here!” came the quiet reply.

“I’ll shoot out the glass and escape,” Zoeller said. “Ambush anybody who follows.”

“Yes,” came the hissed reply. “Where do we meet?”

“We don’t meet, you idiot,” said Zoeller disgustedly. “Not until Schwangau. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

Eye glittered behind the fronds. “But the artwork?”

“We have no time for this discussion again,” said Zoeller, angry. He stood up from behind the fern just in time to see the butt of a revolver clout him between the eyes.

“We really don’t,” agreed Bond quietly.

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On His Majesty's Secret Service (8)
“Tell me, Doctor Stemmer,” Weir was saying, “what drove you to return to Berlin after your many years overseas?”

Bond adjusted the gain to hear the doctor’s accent better. He couldn’t place it; it could be Eastern European, but the consonant sounds were too clipped. He might be an Englishman. “I am a citizen of the world, my dear Mister Weir,” said Stemmer. “I go where there are new challenges to stimulate me. And I think you will agree that Berlin at this particular time is most stimulating!” There was general laughter from the foursome of Weir, Zoeller, Duessler and the doctor.

“Well,” said Zoeller, “I am grateful for a most enjoyable party you are hosting, my dearest Erma. But now I should like to conduct a little business.”

“I should like that as well,” said Weir. “I trust Erma has told you that I am a most avid collector of certain hard-to-find pieces?”

“She has,” replied Zoeller. “Fraulein Duessler has been kind enough to allow me to set up a showing here on her property – a very private showing, you understand. Invitation only.”

“Enough with the suspense, you naughty man,” said Weir saucily. “Show us the goods!”

“Yes, please!” added Erma. “You know I’m especially curious about a few items that have been in my family…”

“Not here; not in public,” said Zoeller in hushed tones. “Come, I hope I’ll have something to interest both of you.”

The group stopped talking, but the party noises amplified and then died away, indicating they were on the move. A door opened.

“Now this is curious,” said Weir. “An art installation outside the house?”

“We are using the hothouses,” said Zoeller. “Berlin is very dry this time of year; we cannot risk cracking the oils.”

“But you’re using the one with bottle-green glass to keep the worst of the sun away,” said Weir admiringly. Bond, in turn, admired the tour-guide running commentary.

A metal door creaked open, and Weir’s sharply indrawn breath was marked. Bond leaned forward.

“Ah,” said Zoeller delicately. “Pray don’t mind Guk-Guk. He helps me move the larger items.”

“Guk-Guk,” somebody, or something, rasped. It was a wet sound, like a fish struggling to breathe.

“I’m afraid Guk-Guk was wounded on the Eastern front,” said Zoeller softly. “That’s the reason why he keeps the bottom half of his face masked; his entire lower jaw was shot off. Don’t worry, he only understands Russian.”

“I’ve never seen a man that size,” whispered Weir.

“Yes,” inserted Stemmer, “he’s quite a specimen.”

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This evening I am outlining this story, which has grown in complexity. I will write another segment tomorrow.

On His Majesty's Secret Service (7)
“Good God,” said Bond, “what on Earth is that?”

“That,” said Weir, “is a Cadillac Series 60S Fleetwood Sedan. Came out this year.”

“I mean, is it a car?” asked Bond. He ran his fingers over the silky black finish. “It looks like one of those absurd American planes.”

“You’re referring to the fins,” said Weir. “Yes, I thought those were a bit much. Goodness knows what car designers are thinking, Bond. The point of it is, it’s a flash new car, and I can hardly masquerade as a ridiculously wealthy art collector without having a flash new car. Also, it’s been modified by Q Branch.”

“Now just a moment,” said Bond. “We’ve only been in town less than forty-eight hours.”

“Yes,” said Weir, smiling. “I had it sent on ahead. I thought we might need something like it. Also, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“Oh?” said Bond, leaning in.

“I really am a ridiculously wealthy art collector,” whispered Weir.

“I see,” said Bond. “Er, what sort of modifications have been made, then? I think I should know if I’ll be behind the wheel.” Bond looked very smart in his driver’s coat and cap.

“Machine guns forward, controlled by toggles here,” said Weir. “Concealed in the fins: directional lights to blind pursuit. Shaped charges in the front bumper behind a lead firewall; park the car up against a brick wall a foot thick and you can bring it down.”

“Really,” said Bond. “Must’ve cost M a fortune. I’m surprised he was willing to spend it on a single car.”

“Here’s another secret,” said Weir, winking. “If you want a really fancy toy, all you really need to do is tell Q that it’s a shame nobody has ever thought of making one before. Q will dismiss you out of hand, but then the wheels will start turning. A week later he’ll be showing you off the finished product, and the best part is, he’ll have convinced himself it was all his idea.”

“I shall have to try that,” said Bond. “Which fellow in Q Branch?”

Weir frowned. “They’re all named Q,” he said, “and they’re interchangeable.”

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On His Majesty's Secret Service (6)
Bond flashed Georg’s identification papers in front of Weir, who looked at them with interest. Weir gave a small nod, then moved on to interview several other passengers. When some of the Soviets came down the aisle, 001 spoke to them in Russian, crossly telling them he’d already taken care of that particular car, and they should go on to the next one to see if anybody had fallen through the cracks. Weir was extremely convincing, and Bond could find no flaws in his accent.

Bond opened his newspaper and pretended to read it. Weir took up station next to him, leaning against a wall of the train.

“How did you know where I’d be?” Bond asked, not looking at Weir.

“I didn’t know where you’d be,” Weir answered, inspecting his nails. “I only knew where you’d have to be if I were to be any help. So I went there, and here we are.”

“But there are many train crossings,” said Bond, confused.

“But you didn’t hit upon the train idea right away, did you?” asked Weir. “You went from foot crossing to foot crossing, moving east to west, until you realized they wouldn’t work. And that’s when you thought of the trains, right? It was natural that you would choose the closest train crossing to where you were when you had the idea.”

“Shrewd reasoning,” said Bond, impressed despite himself.

The train reached the first stop. Bond stood up, folded his newspaper the same way a dozen other Germans were doing, and stepped off the train. Just behind him, Weir hopped down from the train and threw his Soviet army officer coat and hat under the carriage. He had his dove-grey suit on under it, and he looked like a dapper fop again.

“This is why M is wrong,” said Weir professorially. “I don’t care how bloody the game is becoming, Bond. Violence may be a part of our game, but it’s only a small part of it. The most important attribute for a top spy isn’t marksmanship or fisticuffs; it’s knowing things, and knowing how to learn more. The very hardest problems we solve, Bond, is done without us ever getting out of our chairs.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bond innocently. “I like how you took care of the problem on the plane, sir.”

Weir put an arm across Bond’s shoulder. “Of course, delegating is also important,” he said genially.

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