No time to drive

At two o’clock in the morning, the man on the opposite side of the card table rose abruptly and left. Bond swallowed the remains of his whisky and gathered up his considerable winnings. Pocketing the chips, he stood up and wandered to the front door of the casino in keen anticipation of some fresh air.

A burly attendant wished Bond a good evening as he held open a door. “Where’s Gianni?” Bond demanded of the man he couldn’t recall seeing before. “Brexit, Sir”, came the reply. “I hear he’s driving an HGV for Tesco.” Bond tossed a single chip to the doorman, ignoring the man’s comments about inflation, and strode out into the icy blast of Mayfair on an unseasonably cold winter night.

Stopping to consider how much he wished he hadn’t given up smoking, he glanced over the road at a shiny black Mercedes, its engine throbbing as it sent clouds of exhaust into the night air. Bond watched as its driver got out and hastily opened a rear door to a squat figure in a long black coat. The passenger turned and briefly looked in Bond’s direction before lowering his head and getting into the car. A thin smile broke out on 007's face as he remembered how his final winning hand had left the man visibly furious.

Opening the door to his Aston Martin DBS, Bond flicked a phantom cigarette into the gutter and took a seat behind the car’s imposing wheel. The four-litre, six-cylinder engine roared to life, and Bond slipped the car into gear and pointed its nose down a Knightsbridge empty of people but bathed in the glaring lights of shop window displays.

A short while later, the city gave way to the featureless dual carriageways that carried thousands of cars in and out of London by day, but which were now empty, except for Bond and the Mercedes that he cautiously trailed from a distance.

His mind drifted back to a highly enjoyable evening that had started with Beluga caviar and frozen vodka, followed by a fine Dover sole and an excellent bottle of Taittinger Blanc des Blancs. It had progressed with his success at the card table, and the humiliation of a man that Bond imagined would still be scowling in the deep leather seats of the car in front.

Most of all, Bond’s thoughts returned to the striking girl who had joined him by his side at the casino table, her proud bosom a welcome distraction from the task in hand. His eyes narrowed as he recalled her long fingers with polished red nails splayed on the green baize, and the curve of her naked back as it snaked its way to the natal cleft, the scooped back of a green satin dress preserving her modesty but giving little to the imagination.

Damn it, thought Bond, as he gripped the steering wheel even tighter and vowed to complete the job at hand so he could return to pursue the object of his desire before the sun came up.

With any luck they would have time together before she started her working day in the operating theatre at London’s leading children’s hospital. Bond looked forward to a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon after the assignation.

Pressing the accelerator more firmly, the Aston started to gain on the car in front. Given the lack of any other traffic on the road, it was clear by now to the driver of the Mercedes that he was being followed, and he responded by opening up his engine.

Soon both cars were doing well over 100mph as they roared along a stretch of single road with open fields on each side. Bond changed down a gear, blipped the throttle to maintain engine speed, and buried his foot on the throttle, the engine wailing in response. He started to gain on the Mercedes, and in a matter of minutes he was but a car’s length behind it. Bond’s grimace broke into a grin.

A sudden orange light on the dashboard and an unfamiliar ping broke his concentration, and he looked down in horror to see that the car was low on fuel. By the state of the gauge, it was running on fumes alone.

Bond weighed up the options. He couldn’t afford to let the Mercedes out of his view, but his own car would run out of fuel in a few miles. The calculations ran through his head as he continued to chase down the vehicle in front, and a cold sweat broke out on his furrowed brow. He brushed the question mark of black hair from his forehead and turned his knuckles further around the steering wheel.

The sight of a petrol station a few miles further on was a source of relief, even if it meant Bond would have many miles to make up if he was to catch his quarry before it reached the airport — and left England with top-secret plans that might secure the country’s foreign trade for years to come. Plans that were essential for a United Kingdom once again standing on its own. Plans that Bond suspected were stuffed in his target’s coat pocket.

The Aston Martin screamed into the empty garage forecourt and pulled to a brutal halt. To the sound of hot metal ticking, Bond leapt out of the car and urgently reached for a petrol pump. A voice came over the tannoy. “Sorry mate, no fuel. There’s a shortage, you know?”

Bond swore long and hard through gritted teeth, noticing the pumps wrapped in red and white tape. He ran up to the petrol station door, dismissing the poster that urged customers to wear a face mask, and pulled on the door handle. It was locked.

The attendant in the yellow vest behind the till motioned Bond to the night window. Bond lunged to the left and stooped in front of the safety glass to confront a fat man whose badge stated that his name was Eric Coldharbour and that he was happy to help. He had a round, fat face with piglike eyes, and he was squeezed behind his till and in front of a large poster of a white cat that read “IS CHEEZE?”

Leaning into the microphone, elbows resting on the night window transaction tray, Bond straightened his tie and demanded some fuel. “I’m on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. And I need some fuel NOW!”

“No can do, I’m afraid” came the matter-of-fact reply from Coldharbour. Bond hated jobsworths. He rolled his eyes and turned around to see the Mercedes’ lights disappearing into the distance.

Bond returned his glare to the attendant and paused for a moment. “Here. Take this”, he said, unclasping the Rolex that Q had given him only that day, dropping it into the tray and sliding it shut. “Just give me some damn fuel!”

Bond had defeated megalomaniacs set on the destruction of the world, and had terminated a global conspiracy of criminals, but in Coldharbour he seemed to have met his match.

“Keep your damn watch, 007”, said Bond’s nemesis with glee. “At this precise moment, the whole world is not enough for a litre of unleaded!”

“Do you expect me to walk, Coldharbour?” Bond demanded in desperation, fists banging against the safety glass.

“No, Mr Bond”, Coldharbour replied, pointing to a bike leaning against the wall.

“I expect you to ride!”