Solo

himself an inch of brandy in a tumbler, took a gulp and then went into Bryce’s study, sat down at her desk and wrote her a brief note on a sheet of her writing paper.
     
Darling Bryce,
I have to go away suddenly, ‘on business’. You are too good for me and I could never make you happy. These few wonderful hours I’ve shared with you have given my life real meaning. I thank you from the depths of my heart and soul. Goodbye.
With my love, J.
     
    He finished his drink and weighted down the sheet of paper on her desk with his empty glass. She’d find it in the morning when she came down to look for him, calling his name. It was Sunday – they had made plans for Sunday.
     
    Bond closed the door softly behind him and slipped into the front seat of the Interceptor. He sat there for a while, running through his various decisions, his mind constantly returning to the horrific images of Blessing, dead at the hand of Kobus Breed. Perhaps what had happened in the garden had been nothing more than a Richmond burglar trying his luck, but Bond knew he couldn’t live with the possibility of Bryce becoming a victim – like Blessing – because of her association with him. He couldn’t put her in harm’s way – particularly if the harm was to be administered by a man like Breed.
    He started the engine – its throaty purr was so quiet he doubted Bryce would wake – and drove slowly out of her driveway, the gravel crunching under his wide tyres.
    There was a distinct lemony-pewter lightening in the east, heralding the beginning of the new day – a clear sky with no clouds. Bond turned the Interceptor on to the London road and put his foot on the accelerator, concentrating on the pleasures of driving a powerful car like this, trying not to think of Bryce and whatever dangers had been lurking out there in the darkness of her garden.
    He drove steadily homewards, his face impassive, his mind made up, an unfamiliar heaviness in his heart.
    He pulled into the square off the King’s Road and sat for a moment in his car, thinking, already half-regretting his act of spontaneous chivalry – of leaving Bryce unannounced, so suddenly, clandestinely in the night. She’d be shocked and hurt after the time they’d enjoyed together, and the love they’d made – she’d never think such an abandonment was done to keep her safe from the merciless savagery of Kobus Breed. All she knew about James Bond was his name – she didn’t have his address or telephone number. She’d never find him, however hard she cared to look. And where would
he
ever find someone like her again? he wondered, with some bitterness. That was the price he paid for the job he did, he supposed. Falling in love with a beautiful woman wasn’t recommended.
    Bond sighed. It was a calm and beautiful Sunday morning. Tomorrow was Monday and he remembered that M had said he had an ‘interesting’ little job for him. Life goes on, he thought – it was some consolation . . . He stepped out of his car into a perfumed, sunlit day and as he strolled towards his front door somewhere a spasm of church bells sounded and a gang of pigeons, feeding in the central garden of the square, clapped up into the dazzling blue of an early morning sky in Chelsea – and vanished.

IAN FLEMING
     
    Ian Lancaster Fleming was born in London on 28 May 1908 and was educated at Eton College before spending a formative period studying languages in Europe. His first job was with Reuters news agency, followed by a brief spell as a stockbroker. On the outbreak of the Second World War he was appointed assistant to the Director of Naval Intelligence, Admiral Godfrey, where he played a key part in British and Allied espionage operations.
    After the war he joined Kemsley Newspapers as Foreign Manager of the
Sunday Times
, running a network of correspondents who were intimately involved in the Cold War. His first novel,
Casino Royale
, was published in 1953 and introduced James Bond, Special Agent 007, to the world. The first print run sold out within a month. Following this initial success, he published a Bond title every year until his death. Raymond Chandler hailed him as ‘the most forceful and driving writer of thrillers in England’. The fifth title,
From Russia with Love
, was particularly well received and sales soared when President Kennedy named it as one of his favourite books. The Bond novels have sold more than sixty million copies and inspired a hugely successful film