Not too many moons ago, I submitted this story to an anthology of James Bond stories called LICENCE EXPIRED. You see, it’s funny because they copywrite on the literary James Bond expired in Canada, thus allowing them to publish a collection of shorts with James Bond and all the references and character that appeared in the Ian Fleming texts. Neat, huh? I penned the following story, which failed to reach the limelight. I was told it reached the final stages of cuts before getting the axe because it was just too similar to other accepted submissions. So it goes. I wrote about my disillusionment after receiving this rejection over on my other bl-g. Apparently that too is worth reading because a bunch of people shared and liked it without threat from me. Anyway, because I was rejected over there, I’ll just have to share the story with the lot of you. Without further adieu, here’s my James Bond shortie, entitled The Bulgarian Tumble.
The Bulgarian Tumble
a short story by James David Patrick
James Bond found the man’s stench unbearable. Bond had been sitting on the bench in Penn Station for more than three hours. He felt uncomfortable. Restless. The man had arrived only minutes before. Despite the his attire; a suit, offensively bereft of taste but neat, paired with softly scuffed wingtips; he emitted a musk of cabbage and wilted rose petals that reminded Bond, although less favorably, of the Carpathian wrestler he’d worked with on the Yugoslavian affair in ’55. Bond couldn’t move. He couldn’t draw attention to himself. There were no fewer than a dozen empty pews littered throughout the station. Traffic through Penn had declined in recent years, but the general bustle remained.
Bond’s vantage offered a clear line of sight to the newsstand pushcart with its clerk, a bald tent pole boasting a windblown comb over. The nervous clerk sputtered about his piles of newspapers and magazines, lining and straightening the same stacks that hadn’t since been touched. Bond’s brief respite in New York had been interrupted by chatter on the wire about the KGB operating a drop and swap out of Penn Station. The maze of connected tunnels and destinations made it an ideal place to exchange or pass along stolen goods and information. M had suggested that Bond should “pitch in while already idling about on the Queen’s dime.” A stakeout with a nightcap comprised M’s idea of a paid vacation.
Bond removed a pack of Beech Nut from his jacket pocket. He hoped the stringent peppermint would dull his sense of smell.
At fifteen after, a woman approached the window. She cinched her tan overcoat tightly around her waist, embellishing her waifish figure. Bond sat forward. The girl’s hands trembled as she motioned to the clerk and then at a stack of magazines. He handed her a copy of DIG Magazine. Elvis Presley on the cover. She pinned her dull, flaxen hair behind her ears, first one then the other, and scurried over to a waiting friend. They bounced and whispered and twittered over the quote-unquote musician on the cover. Starstruck teenagers. Bond relaxed. As he did, he felt something dig into his back. Hard. Narrow point. He guessed a Ruger. Mark 1. Maybe a Standard.
“Take whatever cash I have,” Bond said, but this wasn’t a matter of petty theft.
“In just one minute, a woman is going to step up to that newsstand,” the man said, clouding his latent accent. Flemish. Maybe Dutch. Whatever it was, he’d attempted to mask it by sounding vaguely like an American tough guy in the mold of Edward G. Robinson. “When she does, you’re not going to move. We’re going to sit here together. And then she’s going to leave, see, and we’re going to sit here some more, talking. Just like this if you like.” He paused. “And then I’m going to leave. But you’re not going to follow because I have three more friends waiting for you to move. I’m also quite sure they’ve neutralized your second. On the platform above, I expect. You don’t see anyone there because they’re ghosts too, just like you.”
Bond didn’t know whom they’d “neutralized” since he’d come alone, but he imagined some poor guy getting chloroformed and stuffed behind a decorative fichus tree because he had the misfortune that day of wearing an ill-fitting Chesterfield overcoat and looking up too often from his newspaper.
“I… I don’t know who you think I am,” Bond stammered, feigning nerves, “but I’m no hero. I manage an office supply company on 37th. If you allow me, I’ll reach into my coat pocket and offer you a card.”
“No need, spook, you peddler of lies.”
The way he said “spook” convinced Bond he was likely Dutch. The average Dutchman couldn’t handle passive-aggression. He’d never met one that could. Too direct, too matter-of-fact. They weren’t cut out for this line of work, this brand of nuance. Still, this one wasn’t in the business because he would have recognized Bond as something other than a spook. “Spook” applied to your average Company agent, but not British Intelligence.
The man buried the gun further into Bond’s back just as a young woman approached the newsstand. She had dark hair, maybe a wig, and wore a high-waisted black coat. She handed the clerk a single folded bill. He glanced at the bill before stuffing it into his moneybox. The clerk handed her a folded, bulging newspaper from beneath his chair. The woman, still shielding her face from Bond’s view, shoved the item into her purse. She took a nervous step backward. Something fell from her arms. The item in question dropped like a brick. Was that a dead bird? As she bent down to pick up the item, she flashed her face for only a brief second. James choked on his gum and swallowed hard. The Ruger dug into his ribs, exacerbating the cough reflex. With a trembling start, the woman turned in the other direction and disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell leading to the Long Island train terminal. Her trail drowned by a flux of commuters rushing to make the 6:10.
“You did just fine,” he said and slapped Bond on the shoulder.
The Ruger disappeared; the cabbage stench lingered. James hurried to the newsstand. He dropped to his hands and knees, searching the ground beneath the clerk’s chair and table.
“Drop a nickel, friend?” the clerk asked.
Bond emerged from beneath the two-wheeled pushcart with a single white feather. “Did this feather come from the package you just gave the lady?”
“No. I… uh… I dunno. Why do you want to know? If it belongs to the lady it’s her business.”
Bond smiled.
“Oh, to me, it’s a trifle, a matter of no importance. But the real question is what’s it to you? And to you, it’s all about a little matter of treason. Aiding a known KGB associate.”
“How could that little bird be a red? And I certainly didn’t know she was…”
“Thank you,” Bond said. “You’ve been most helpful. A few friends of mine will be in touch.”
***
“That bitch has nerve,” Bond said.
Felix Leiter had arrived late, during the whiskey-hours of the morning as Bond fought against the pull of sleep. In his glass remained a finger of prohibition-era Johnny Walker Black. He had plans to finish his spirits and perhaps await the sun that each morning awoke his regular room on the top floor, the penthouse, of the St. Regis.
“I would have thought you’d have appreciated the news. She’s alive after all. I knew you—” Leiter caught Bond’s glare and dropped his thought mid-sentence.
Bond couldn’t read Felix’s candor. He measured that it had gotten lost somewhere on the road between work and pleasure. “It’s not allowed. It’s not healthy. Good news is appreciated, Felix. This is just news. And not for me. I’m not live bait anymore, writhing on her hook. Surely your agents would find more value in a SMERSH operation in Penn Station.”
“Now that she’s popped up on American and European soil M doesn’t think so. Interpol spotted her in Zurich last week. Probably the reason for the rug. She’s making an appearance here to grab attention. She’s a person of interest for both of our countries. Langley agrees. She’s not taking any special precautions to cover her identity. She boarded a plan for Amsterdam late last night.”
“Grab a stuffed bird in New York. Fly it to the Netherlands. This isn’t an Internationally-flavored high school scavenger hunt, Felix. I don’t have time to grab a baguette from a café in Paris and take a picture from the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
Bond brought the last of his whiskey to his lips. It rolled down the back of his throat and warmed him from the inside. He began to sweat. This wasn’t a game he wanted to play. He’d gone in willingly before, the best interests of Queen and country. The Spector was worth the risk, no matter how certain the trap, but this was a blasted bird. Trust wasn’t the issue. He already knew he couldn’t. After being released from British custody, Tatiana had been returned to the Soviet Union. Probably back to the KGB (only if they’d have her and offer her protection from the SMERSH operatives who’d want her dead). Tatiana Romanova was no delicate flower, but she also wasn’t a killer. Bond didn’t know what to make of her, not anymore. She made sense when she was just a pawn. Pawns he understood. Pawns were meant to be sacrificed. This one had survived. She stayed in the game.
“So. What’s inside the stuffed pigeon? Care to make any wagers?” Leiter asked. “We’ve brought the clerk into custody for questioning. Swears he doesn’t know anything about the pickup, but I’m sure he’ll provide more information when adequately persuaded. I’ve got twenty bucks on microfilm myself.”
“Taxidermy,” Bond spat, as if tuned to another conversation entirely. “Only a loathsome cut of man would make a living by preserving creatures, giving the appearance of youthful vigor for perpetuity.” Bond raised his empty glass, but tasted only disappointment. “Call down to the King Cole and fetch another bottle. Or pour the Campari over there that the Italian consulate gave me instead of his typically mediocre bottle of Chianti.” He pointed to the table inside the entryway.
Leiter fetched the bottle and added a splash of Campari to the bourbon remnants in Bond’s glass. The red liquor seared the back of James’ throat. “In Italy they call Campari ‘sangue del diavolo.’ They drink it to commemorate the execution of Valeria Messalina in 48 A.D. She was a naughty girl.”
“Nonsense. You’re making this up.”
Bond shrugged and pushed himself up from his chair. His entire body ached. His knees locked and a deep hip bruise courtesy of a Barbadian militiaman last week hobbled him as he traveled the short distance to the door of his suite. “That’s just what Mathis told me. Now go down and get a bottle of something we can drink properly,” he said as he opened the door.
Leiter nodded. “That job in Barbados wasn’t the sun and fun vacation you’d anticipated, I see.”
“On second thought,” Bond said, closing the door before Felix could step out. “You should stay. You can regale me with more stories about how I’m getting a bit worn at the edges from a few too many encounters with highly trained paramilitary personnel while we wait for the sun to come up. Just over these squat buildings here.” Bond pointed out into the dawn where the cityscape had just begun taking shape. “It’s the best part of my day.” Bond had something else to say, probably in defense of his adventures in Barbados, maybe about Tanya Romanova, but the thought escaped him.
***
Bond stepped off onto a quiet side street on the Lower East Side and entered the storefront labeled only “Tollefson – Ausstopfer.” Old Germantown felt no need for subtitles. Most of the original German immigrants had moved on to Yorkville and elsewhere, but this small outpost remained. A butcher advertised Thüringer Rostbratwurst in the fogged window next door. Dander suspended in the air made Bond’s breath catch in his throat until he adjusted to what felt like a violent shift in barometric pressure. The tittering cacophony of live birds mixed with the haunting screams of the dead ones, stuffed, mounted and hung from the walls and ceiling. The cooing warble echoed from all directions. Bond had just enough time to scan the room and realize that none of the birds before him now were alive. The cooing came from somewhere else in the shop.
“Hello,” Bond said.
“You are expected. Yes?”
“Tollefson?”
A man emerged, wiping his hands on a bloodstained rag. He had unusually lively eyes considering his advancing years and wrinkled, cobweb cheeks. Most men that age had given in to the specter of their impending demise. Their defeat showed in their eyes. He wore an apron stained and matted with the toxins of his trade. What unnerved Bond most about Tollefson was the man’s dreadfully cheerful way. Bond wasn’t a religious man, but he’d always found taxidermy to be an unholy practice.
“You must be James Bond. I’ve heard so very much about you, Mr. Bond. I must admit, I was honored that a man of your experience would go out of his way to visit me. I’m dying to hear about your travels through the Orinoco Delta.”
Bond sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tollefson but you’ve got the wrong James Bond. I just happen to share the name with a renowned ornithologist.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. James Bond… but you must get that a lot, the mix-up with the American…”
“No. Not once. Now if you’ll just take a look at this. I’m trying to identify the type of bird from which this feather came.”
Bond placed the white feather down on the wooden countertop. Tollefson first analyzed it against the light of the shop window, peering through the matted barbs with his naked eyes before placing the feather back down on the counter and hovering over it with a magnifying glass. He made a few soft “hmms” and sighs before leaning back, rather abruptly and replacing his magnifier in a black sack.
“Note the shallowly rooted rectrices along the base of the shaft. Pigeons can drop their tail feathers, like a salamander perhaps, when grabbed by a predator.”
“It’s a pigeon. A damned pest.”
“Oh no no no. Not just any pigeon. A Bulgarian tumbler.” He paused.
“Or a Varna tumbler, perhaps if you’re from Bulgaria,” Bond added. “Go on.”
“Very good, Mr. Bond.”
“I’m a voracious reader.”
“I sold a man a Bulgarian tumbler just this past week. He said he was a collector, but I’m not convinced a very knowledgeable one. A very fine specimen, like one I’d never seen. They’re quite rare in this condition, you know.”
“Did he have a Dutch accent by chance?”
“Yes! Yes he was, though he tried to cover up his accent by acting like maybe the actor James Cagney.”
***
M’s briefing on the matter had been the usual semblance of half-facts and assumptions massaged with the confidence of the moral right. Romanova had returned to the KGB after being exiled by the British. They had no evidence of further connections to SMERSH, however. Though she must have been of interest. Until this morning Bond had assumed she’d been executed. A failed SMERSH operative, even an unwitting one, couldn’t be left alive.
He’d finally pushed her out of his mind, assumed her dead. So much so that Bond had had repeated nightmares about pulling the trigger himself. She always appeared at the far end of the train station, alone. He’d shoot her once through the chest. But she wouldn’t fall. She would stand, perfectly still, her face unmoved. Though the visions remained, the waking repentance had lessened. Time and tide eroded all.
And now what was her gambit with the foul-odored Dutchman? Who was playing whom? As a person of interest she risked too much coming to New York and obtaining a piece of taxidermy from Penn Station. For all intents and purposes a piece of taxidermy that the Dutchman had already procured from Tollefson. If so, she was the mark. Microfilm, perhaps, as Leiter had suggested. Drivel. All of it. M and Leiter’s collusion would send him back into the hornet’s nest. M had become so desperate to make new headway into the KGB’s ranks after his willing connections had gone cold that he was willing to once again place Bond in the bear trap.
***
Bond landed in Amsterdam after a grueling flight from New York. The drinks had run dry by the time the plane had reached France and the puzzle was no more clear than when Leiter had barged into his room with hearsay about Tatiana Romanova’s nefarious activities for the KGB. Or SMERSH. He had to remind himself there was always that possibility, however unlikely. Skepticism only further pulled him toward expectation; the moving parts were too odd to be insignificant, too risky to be motivated by coincidence.
A woman matching Romanova’s description had purchased a ticket in Amsterdam for the Trans Europ Express into Germany. For two. Bond shaved in the bathroom at the airport and dressed in the drab, reddish-colored tweed jacket popularized by English academics. He combed his hair and applied a false mustache Q Branch had dispatched to him before departing New York. The payload had also included a similarly stuffed decoy pigeon. This specimen had been outfitted with a radio-transmitting tracking device and a small internal explosive. Just in case. The explosive could be detonated from Bond’s lapel pin, a gold bird (undoubtedly a wink from the quartermaster), with the simple voice command. A bit showy for Bond’s tastes. Bond purchased a black coffee, for maintenance only. The cup had been dredged from the bottom of a carafe long left dormant on the hotplate. He took a few sips and dumped the rest in a bin. Bond grabbed a taxi for the short fifteen-minute ride to the train station.
Bond boarded the train, handing over his papers.
The steward nodded. “Nice to have you on board the Rheingold, Mr…”
“Somerset. David Somerset.”
The clerk returned Bond’s papers and waved him on board.
Bond adjusted his mustache and found an empty table just inside the first dining car. Still early for dinner, he anticipated that most everyone on the train would have to pass through these doors. He placed his messenger bag, a burdensome and conspicuous piece of luggage on the floor beneath his table. He’d have never abided such an anchor had it not contained the servile pigeon. He’d hoped to complete the job before the train crossed into German territory at Rees, where he could disembark and return on the first train north. He had no taste for German food, wine or women. Though he had partaken of a glass of Liebfraumilch on occasion. He always found the company and Germany’s weather perversely glum, yet obedient in their predictability.
Bond grabbed a waiter’s attention. “Delord Armagnac. 1914. If you don’t have ’14, I’ll take a ’28 or a ‘37. If you don’t have any other pre-wars, I’ll settle for a ’42. But nothing later than ‘48.”
The waiter nodded. “I believe we have a fine Lannaud ’42 that will be to your liking. Anything to eat?” If he’d been annoyed by Bond’s drink demands he didn’t let on. They’d get along fine. Bond waved him away.
***
As the third Armagnac disappeared, Bond’s mind began to drift, the tension in his stomach washed clean by the oak-laden French brandy. He held up his empty glass for the waiter’s attention. Bond had been flipping through A Field Guide to Birds of the West Indies, looking the part of a man who’d board a train for Germany with only a satchel filled with literature and a tweed jacket. The material remained dry no matter how much he drank. Instead he returned to Tatiana Romanova. Tanya. He couldn’t even remember how he’d felt actually about her. Where did the line of duty end and pleasure begin? In the moment he thought he understood the difference. Now, with distance, three brandies and the epiphany that she wasn’t actually dead, he wasn’t so sure.
At half past nine, a woman entered the car from the door directly to James Bond’s right. By the time James had gathered and digested the raven, shoulder-length hair (clearly identifiable as a wig at this distance); slight, delicate shoulders and improbable figure, he recognized her immediately. He watched with the glass poised in front of his chin, obscuring his face. Sipping distance. She sat two tables way, her back towards him. Bond couldn’t hear the order she placed with the waiter. He couldn’t make out her voice over the din and rumble of the train.
He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the porcelain skin at the back of her neck when her companion arrived. He too entered from Bond’s rear. As he passed, Bond detected the familiar smell of Carpathian wrestler. The Ruger at Penn Station. Bond became acutely aware of the weight of the Walther PPK stowed in his shoulder holster beneath the tweed.
“Anything to eat?” the waiter asked the couple.
“On second thought, garçon” Bond said rather loudly, “I would like something to eat tonight.” The waiter hesitated before returning his attention to Tatiana and the man that smelled of cabbage, albeit more faintly tonight. Tatiana glanced over her shoulder, around the waterfall of black hair on her cheek. She hadn’t recognized him, not with the moustache and goddamned tweed. He shed the jacket, verified the placement of the mustache. “I said I’d like something to eat tonight.” Bond picked up the menu. “How’s the fish tonight?”
“It’s good,” said a matronly woman across the aisle. “Flakey. Just lovely.”
“Madam here says it’s excellent. I’ll have some.”
James Bond had made a minor but unnecessary scene in the middle of the dining car, a mistake made under the influence, but neither a woman he’d slept with nor a man who’d threatened his life had recognized him. He’d only challenged her skills as a field agent with a boorish, rudimentary wrapper and, as expected, they’d come up short. He’d been that close, close enough to pull the trigger and end this fiasco before it began. The KGB must have lowered their expectations for field agents to allow Tanya, a glorified file clerk, in their ranks. Bond took a deep pull of his drink, put the glass down and then opened up his messenger bag. He looked the pigeon in the eye; its dead, glassy-eyed state of permanence peered back. Before he could register the action, he found himself standing abreast of her table. He invited himself to join their party. Only then did he read a glimmer of recognition in Tanya’s gaze.
“I’m sorry I didn’t catch your… name,” she said. Her slight Russian accent emerged despite her conditioning.
“Where are my manners? David Somerset,” Bond said, extending a supinated palm. She placed her hand in his. He paused. She looked down at her glass of white wine. “Avian scholar on the road to Bremen. And you are?”
“Nikki de Boer. And this is my husband Mathias de Boer.”
Bond only then released her hand.
“De Boer?”
“Yes, de Boer,” Mathias said. “I come from a long line of Dutch de Boers.”
“Undoubtedly,” Bond added, sitting down next to Tanya without waiting for a formal invitation. “Are you having the fish?” he asked to Mathias. “Madame recommends.”
“Have I met you somewhere before? You seem quite familiar.” Mathias asked.
“Not unless you read the Birder periodicals, I’m afraid.”
“What a coincidence. It just so happens I am interested in the ornithological studies, actually, Mr. Somerset. I’m just returning from America with a prize specimen. A Bulgarian tumbler. I’m sure you’re familiar with the species. I wouldn’t need to bore you with my spot of hobbying.”
“Ah, a hobbyist. Derived from the term ‘hobyn’ which referred to a small horse or a pony. In fact—”
“Mr. Somerset,” Tatiana interrupted, “are you traveling for pleasure… or business?”
Bond smiled. “Clearly, I should think, this is not a voyage of leisure. No one travels the T.E.E. for leisure. Leisure and pleasure are more suited for the Orient Express, wouldn’t you agree, Miss. de Boer?”
“Mrs.”
“Of course. My apologies.”
Mathias stood. “Pardon me. I have to visit, I believe you British call it the water closet, but I’d love to discuss your writings further. I do hope you’ll stay for dinner.”
Bond nodded. After Mathias had departed, James slipped around the other side of the table to face Tanya. Neither spoke for many seconds, seconds that felt like an eternity.
“What are you doing here, James?” Tanya said. He remembered her fits of petulance fondly. “And what is that ghastly rug on your face?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Tanya. Or is it Nikki? Are you with the KGB today? Or maybe NEFIS. But why they’d care about us is beyond me. We generally just give it to them. No need for misdirection with carrier pigeons. Oh, it doesn’t really matter. This is how this is going to work. You’re going to turn the pigeon over to me and give up the names of your contacts. KGB or otherwise. We’ll go back to New York and you’ll have to deal with those luddites in the C.I.A. But I could probably persuade them to leave you in MI-6 custody in London. With me. Come back with me, Tanya.”
Tanya grabbed Bond’s wrist. “Keep your voice down.”
“Of course.”
“I’m not working anymore.”
“Of course not.”
“I did move on… Netherlands Intelligence got me out of KGB in exchange for some outdated silo locations. New identity. New everything.”
Bond wanted to argue. Nobody moves on. Nobody just leaves SMERSH or the KGB. He didn’t believe a word of it. The waiter brought his fish. He stared into Tanya’s blue eyes, searching for the weakness she’d showed him during their brief stint as Mr. and Mrs. Somerset on the Orient Express. He found nothing but the cold distance of a woman he never actually knew. Was she out? Was she telling the truth? Or was this just another elaborate ruse meant to draw him out into the open? Embarrass a Western intelligence organization and undermine their principals. What about the gun at Penn Station? The Ruger square in his back.
Bond had had enough. “Come off it. I was at Penn Station that day. The day you retrieved the pigeon from the clerk, the newspaperman. I saw it for myself. That guy,” he gestured in the direction Mathias had departed, “held a gun in my back and mistook me for a spook. Who’s the mark here?”
For all Bond knew he might have been the mark.
Tanya shook her head. “You’ve got it all wrong. I already had the bird. I—we,” she corrected, “we bought it from the taxidermists earlier. I bought a newspaper at the station. The bird fell from my bag. And Mathias had been watching a bunch of, how do you say, those noir films that day. A double feature. He was having fun with you. He’d never seen an American movie. Humphrey Bogart. He told me about you. Of course he didn’t tell me about the James Bond but he told me about the fun he had with some office supply salesman. Universal Exports Office Supplies, perhaps?”
Bond said nothing. He was done reasoning with this woman who, now cornered, still refused to take the easy way out. Go back to London. He could promise her a future now. Not like before. It had been impossible then with tensions so high. They remained there, again locked in silence until Mathias returned. He made a prosaic comment about the shift of seating and then sat down with his arm draped around Tanya. Did he even know her real name?
“Now, how about those harrowing stories of ornithological intrigue?” Mathias asked.
Bond placed his copy of A Field Guide to Birds of the West Indies by James Bond on the table. He then removed the dupe pigeon from his satchel. “A gift,” he said. “For the young couple. It was meant to accompany me to Bremen, but I think it’ll go to better use with you. You can have a breeding pair. But now I’m sorry, but I must take my leave. I’ve got an early morning ahead of me. It was very nice to meet both of you.”
***
Early the next morning, right after dawn, the Rheingold stopped at Dusseldof. Bond disembarked with a lighter load. He dropped the crude messenger bag into the nearest receptacle along with the mustache and some of the skin from his upper lip. Once the train had started to move out of the station and back down the newly post-war industrialized railway between Dusseldorf and Koln, Bond took a seat on a bench. Now with the train out of sight, he pinched the lapel pin on his tweed jacket.
“Cher ami,” he said.
A distant pop followed, echoing through the terminal, a balloon bursting. This was followed by the screech of brakes and the ringing of alarms. James Bond removed the jacket and folded it over the back of a bench. Someone, other than he, might want the ratty thing. Charity for the greater good. Said person might even enjoy the tiny bird-shaped lapel pin. If Mathias had been the mark, mission accomplished. The girl, well, she knew better. Or at least she should have understood the consequences of accepting a gift from a killer.
He looked up. At the far end of the train platform he saw a woman dressed in a dark overcoat, standing alone. Shoulder-length hair held her face in shadow. They held the moment. His fingers touched the grip of the Walther. Bond blinked once. Twice. And then she was gone. Had she actually been there or had it been more denial and self-preservation? Had he been right to leave the pigeon? Neutralize the variables. How much of Tanya’s story, her cover, her life as Nikki van der Boer had been true? Bond decided he didn’t actually care. The ghosts would come either way.