Alive and vivid with movement, part of a gay, happy little crocodile. But what a girl! In classic Bond fashion, Trigger is tall, willowy, with wind-swept, molten-gold hair falling to her shoulders. It’s a nasty job, but one that must be done well.Īdd in a liberal dose of class-tinged humour taking Captain Sender to the woodshed with his old school tie – in his case, Wykehamist – and his Civil Service background, Fleming adds in the truly believable to a mix of the somewhat plausible, and serves up a crackerjack story in 26 pages.Īs every story must have a romantic interest, so does The Living Daylights with Bond’s sniperscoped long-distance relationship with Trigger – unbeknownst at the time as just a girl in the orchestra. 308 calibre Winchester experimental target rifle to his briefing with M – whose head was sunk into his stiff turned-down collar in a Churchillian pose of gloomy reflection from the detailed description of Berlin – that glum, inimical city dry varnished on the Western side with a brittle veneer of gimcrack polish, rather like the chromium trim on American motor-cars to his snipers hole-up – smelling of cabbage, cheap cigar smoke and stale sweat Fleming’s own experiences as a spy come through loud and clear. From the shooting range at Bisley using a. This plethora of detail makes it hard to single out a representative scene, without delving into some potentially overworked and clichéd visual. The Living Daylights is a treasure trove of visual imagery and sharply defined minutiae of our favorite British spy, James Bond. I chose it as the subject matter because the very lack of detail and information made it more real and possible. A completely plausible scenario that may have taken place, not in the short story itself, but in Fleming’s own mind’s eye as he wrote this brilliant and tightly crafted thriller. So why, we ask, was an imagined scene from Trigger’s room chosen as the painting? Precisely because it was one of those unknown knowns. * Verderbt, Verdammt, Verraten (thoroughly ruined, damned and betrayed) If nothing else, it took his mind off the nervous perambulations and annoying musings of Captain Sender – his Number 2 of Secret Service Station WB (West Berlin). Its spectacular cover of a half-naked girl strapped to a bed was sufficient titillation for Bond on this unfortunate occasion. Bond would lie on his bed, engrossed in his German thriller – a dimestore paperback – Verderbt, Verdammt, Verraten* and lose himself temporarily in the trials and tribulations of the heroine, Gräfin Liselotte Mutzenbacher.
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When perched in his own snipers aerie at the corner of Kochstrasse and Wilhelmstrasse, he smoked, drank Dimple Haig and feasted on tinned food, eggs, bacon and toast. Code name: Trigger.Īnd where, we ask, is Bond? For two boring days, he was “killing time” with visits to museums, art galleries, the Berlin zoo, a film, espressos at Café Marquardt, walks around the lake, and a high tea consisting of a double portion of matjes herrings smothered in cream and onion rings, and two Molle mit Korn – the Berlin equivalent of a boiler maker and his assistant – schnapps, doubles, washed down with draught Löwenbrau. The assassin? Russia has put their best sniper on the job. If successful, he will end up not only dead, but strawberry jam. It’s to be a saturation job to take out British agent 272. Operation Extase has been given the green light. The sniper’s cover? Posing as a member of a Russian women’s orchestra. A cello and bow are complemented by the score from Alexandre Borodine’s Prince Igor – Polovetsian Dances, Choral Dance Number 17. Three of the thirty rounds of 7.62 millimetre ammunition await the deft hand of the sniper to load into the magazine.Ī burled walnut (made in Russia) cigarette case, open and filled, lacks only a match to light one of the calming tubes of nicotine.
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The weapon of choice – an AK-47 – lies at hand, cleaned, oiled, and ready to receive the sniper scope. A shot glass stands at the ready for a quick quaff…killing is such a thirsty and nasty business. With a nod to master Bond book illustrator, Richard Chopping – a Green Bottle fly perches on the label of a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka.