The rain spattered obliquely, like an unseemly bad joke, on the nondescript building, sitting crab-like over Regents Park. Behind the green baize desk sat a man with grim, damnably clear eyes, smoking a rare black cheroot. He studied the man pacing back and forth, a man rather dreaded by operatives in the British Secret Service, Sir James Molony.
M turned away from the dripping perspex to look squarely at the other man. 'Yes, I'm afraid I agree with you Sir James. Operator Barry Niven seems to be going the route 007 ran awhile back. Some bees in his bonnet about Commander 0077. Says 0077 has lost his touch in the blandishments department, can you believe that.'
'Well, M, I would tend to agree with Niven. Double O Seventy Seven does seem to think rather highly of his double-endendres, his parmesan juvenile so-called quips, not to mention his over-use of the third person, or his expertise in sherries, guns and women.'
M gave a rare laugh. 'Sir James, do I detect a hint of non-objectivity in your assessment?' SIr James grunted. 'No matter. But I've been reading your report. Hm, Niven is requesting to be assigned to Tehran Section, to serve in the Humour Police they have over there, an adjunct to their Dept. ICU. Thinks he may learn a thing or two to put Commander 0077 in his place.'
'That's a thought, M. But remember when you sent 007 to Tanaka? Magic 44, the impossible mission? Maybe Tanaka can do the same wonders with Niven.'
M blew smoke rings which read '0077'. Sir James belched suavely. 'Neat, that!'
M laid his dry palms down on the green baize. The air filled with electricity. He ticked the intercom. 'Moneypenny. Where exactly is Barry Niven?'
Moneypenny's sweet voice rasped through the speaker. 'Niven, sir? As in David?'
'No, just Niven. We know his name, but not his number.'
Sir James hissed. 'Careful, M. You may be catching the 0077 flu, if you take my meaning.'
Moneypenny continued, 'He's in Paris, sir. Sitting on a bench on the Champs.' She signed. 'Oh, Paris ..... wait. 0077 is there, too. With Miss Goldenthigh! Why, the ____!'
'Fine, then, Miss Moneypenny. Relay a flash so Miss Goldenthigh can intercept Niven, soonest.'
Sitting on the bench, Barry Niven was counting bees corpses. 'd**n Commander 0077! Ruined a perfectly good thread. All his fault, as usual. I'll gamble that it was him that played that last nine that beat dear Craig's four, whatever that means! Just like everything else that comes out of his pointy head.' He glanced sourly at the crowd. 'd**n Paris! Why do they have so many French around here? You'd think it was Lafayette all over again, silly twits. Be glad when I get to Tehran, that's where I can really learn the ropes of proper witticisms, instead of the blankey blank Hollywood comedy clubbing of 0077! Likely watches too much Jay Leno, or spending too much time with Leno's classic car collection, the two daft twits! Always talking about magneto whine like it was the baronet's pudding! Whatever that means. Steady, you don't want to lose your train of thought, or you'll wind up like 0077....'
An exotic golden girl appeared, her presence freezing even the nonchalant Frenchmen in her wake. All eyes zeroed in as she sat with a dancer's grace beside the man counting bees corpses. She crossed her legs, golden thighs glittering in the sunlight. She was carrying a slim Hermes case, extracting a plain green folder with a red diagonal stripe at the corner. The man glared at her.
Niven thought. Hmph. Probably one of those low class girls who always fell for the likes of bas***ds like 007 and 0077. d**n handsome juvenile dumbkofs! Hello, I've seen this one around headquarters. Oops, yes, I remember. Tried to use some of my famous witticisms. But seems she only buys the non-literati humour of mopes like 0077. Alright. See if I care about you and your golden thighs, shining discreetly below your, hm, short skirt. He finally spoke, 'Well, what do you want, d**n it?'
'Oh, well excuse me,' Miss Goldenthigh said airly. 'Just posting a flash from M. Here's your orders.' She stared at him for a second, and then her eyes lit up. Suddenly, Niven's mood changed. He was about to tell her a funny story he heard on Serbian radio last night, when he noticed she wasn't looking at her. He turned. Blast! It was Commander 0077, getting out of some green snub-nosed car, was it a Morgan? Hah, probably couldn't afford a Bentley, d**n miser! He waved cheerfully at the golden girl, who got up and ran to him, kissing him like the tart she was.
Niven turned morosely to the folder and opened it. 'Japan? What the ....? All those Japanese! And not a sense of humour in the bunch. Well, I'll show them how to laugh!' He sniffed as the couple climbed into the snub-nosed motorcar and did a racing change, even before thrashing into third gear, definitely a low-class driver. Probably thinks he's Nuvolari, idiot.
He then remembered the Thread. Oh, yes,
Octopushy. Bond tosses away his mustache to the sharkeys...... (No, no, you idiot! There were no sharkeys in
Octopushy!)