James Bond Series 5 - From Russia With Love

Part One
THE PLAN
Chapter One
Roseland
The naked man who lay splayed out on his face beside the swimming pool might have been dead.
He might have been drowned and fished out of the pool and laid out on the grass to dry while the police or the next-of-kin were summoned. Even the little pile of objects in the grass beside his head might have been his personal effects, meticulously assembled in full view so that no one should think that something had been stolen by his rescuers.
To judge by the glittering pile, this had been, or was, a rich man. It contained the typical membership badges of the rich man's club–a money clip, made of a Mexican fifty-dollar piece and holding a substantial wad of banknotes, a well-used gold Dunhill lighter, an oval gold cigarette case with the wavy ridges and discreet turquoise button that means Fabergé, and the sort of novel a rich man pulls out of the bookcase to take into the garden–The Little Nugget–an old P. G. Wodehouse. There was also a bulky gold wristwatch on a well-used brown crocodile strap. It was a Girard-Perregaux model designed for people who like gadgets, and it had a sweep second-hand and two little windows in the face to tell the day of the month, and the month, and the phase of the moon. The story it now told was 2.30 on June 10th with the moon three-quarters full.
A blue and green dragon-fly flashed out from among the rose bushes at the end of the garden and hovered in mid-air a few inches above the base of the man's spine. It had been attracted by the golden shimmer of the June sunshine on the ridge of fine blond hairs above the coccyx. A puff of breeze came off the sea. The tiny field of hairs bent gently. The dragon-fly darted nervously sideways and hung above the man's left shoulder, looking down. The young grass below the man's open mouth stirred. A large drop of sweat rolled down the side of the fleshy nose and dropped glittering into the grass. That was enough. The dragon-fly flashed away through the roses and over the jagged glass on top of the high garden wall. It might be good food, but it moved.

James Bond Series 4 - Diamonds Are Forever

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James Bond Series 3 - Moonraker

M2
PART ONE: MONDAY
CHAPTER I
SECRET PAPER-WORK
THE TWO thirty-eights roared simultaneously.
The walls of the underground room took the crash of sound and batted it to and fro between them until there was silence. James Bond watched the smoke being sucked from each end of the room towards the central Ventaxia fan. The memory in his right hand of how he had drawn and fired with one sweep from the left made him confident. He broke the chamber sideways out of the Colt Detective Special and waited, his gun pointing at the floor, while the Instructor walked the twenty yards towards him through the half-light of the gallery.
Bond saw that the Instructor was grinning. "I don't believe it," he said. "I got you that time."
The Instructor came up with him. "I'm in hospital, but you're dead, sir," he said. In one hand he held the silhouette target of the upper body of a man. In the other a polaroid film, postcard size. He handed this to Bond and they turned to a table behind them on which there was a green-shaded desk-light and a large magnifying glass.
Bond picked up the glass and bent over the photograph. It was a flash-light photograph of him. Around his right hand there was a blurred burst of white flame. He focused the glass carefully on the left side of his dark jacket. In the centre of his heart there was a tiny pinpoint of light.
Without speaking, the Instructor laid the big white man-shaped target under the lamp. Its heart was a black bullseye, about three inches across. Just below and half an inch to the right was the rent made by Bond's bullet.

James Bond Series 2 - Live and Let Die

CHAPTER I
THE RED CARPET
THERE are moments of great luxury in the life of a secret agent. There are assignments on which he is required to act the part of a very rich man; occasions when he takes refuge in good living to efface the memory of danger and the shadow of death; and times when, as was now the case, he is a guest in the territory of an allied Secret Service.
From the moment the BOAC Stratocruiser taxied up to the International Air Terminal at Idlewild, James Bond was treated like royalty.
When he left the aircraft with the other passengers he had resigned himself to the notorious purgatory of the US Health, Immigration and Customs machinery. At least an hour, he thought, of overheated, drab-green rooms smelling of last year's air and stale sweat and guilt and the fear that hangs round all frontiers, fear of those closed doors marked PRIVATE that hide the careful men, the files, the teleprinters chattering urgently to Washington, to the Bureau of Narcotics, Counter Espionage, the Treasury, the FBI.
As he walked across the tarmac in the bitter January wind he saw his own name going over the network: BOND, JAMES. BRITISH DIPLOMATIC PASSPORT 0094567, the short wait and the replies coming back on the different machines : NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE. And then, from the FBI: POSITIVE AWAIT CHECK. There would be some hasty traffic on the FBI circuit with the Central Intelligence Agency and then: FBI TO IDLEWILD: BOND OKAY OKAY, and the bland official out front would hand him back his passport with a 'Hope you enjoy your stay, Mr. Bond.'
Bond shrugged his shoulders and followed the other passengers through the wire fence towards the door marked US HEALTH SERVICE.

James Bond Series 1 - Casino Royale

Casino Royale

CHAPTER 1 - THE SECRET AGENT
The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling — a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension — becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.
James Bond suddenly knew that he was tired. He always knew when his body or his mind had had enough and he always acted on the knowledge. This helped him to avoid staleness and the sensual bluntness that breeds mistakes.
He shifted himself unobtrusively away from the roulette he had been playing and went to stand for a moment at the brass rail which surrounded breast-high the top table in the salle privée.
Le Chiffre was still playing and still, apparently, winning. There was an untidy pile of flecked hundred-mille plaques in front of him. In the shadow of his thick left arm there nestled a discreet stack of the big yellow ones worth half a million francs each.
Bond watched the curious, impressive profile for a time, and then he shrugged his shoulders to lighten his thoughts and moved away.
The barrier surrounding the caisse comes as high as your chin and the caissier, who is generally nothing more than a minor bank clerk, sits on a stool and dips into his piles of notes and plaques. These are ranged on shelves. They are on a level, behind the protecting barrier, with your groin. The caissier has a cosh and a gun to protect him, and to heave over the barrier and steal some notes and then vault back and get out of the casino through the passages and doors would be impossible. And the caissiers generally work in pairs.

Emma by Jane Austen(10)

She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to
say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was
silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. At
last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
‘I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—
I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him.
My acquaintance with him has been but trifling.—And
even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet
turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I
have no motive for wishing him ill—and for her sake,
whose happiness will be involved in his good character
and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.’
‘I have no doubt of their being happy together,’ said
Emma; ‘I believe them to be very mutually and very
sincerely attached.’
‘He is a most fortunate man!’ returned Mr. Knightley,
with energy. ‘So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a
period when, if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses
ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize! What
years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has
before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the
disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for
her disinterestedness; every thing in his favour,— equality
of situation—I mean, as far as regards society, and all the
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Emma by Jane Austen(9)

‘I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should
not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot
morning. Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not mind it.’
He was gone long enough to have had a very
comfortable meal, and came back all the better—grown
quite cool—and, with good manners, like himself—able to
draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he
should be so late. He was not in his best spirits, but
seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself
talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over
views in Swisserland.
‘As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,’ said
he. ‘I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these
places. You will have my sketches, some time or other, to
look at—or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do
something to expose myself.’
‘That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You

Emma by Jane Austen(8)

‘You may well class the delight, the honour, and the
comfort of such a situation together,’ said Jane, ‘they are
pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not
wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to
any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in
wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or
three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I
am.’
‘And I am quite serious too, I assure you,’ replied Mrs.
Elton gaily, ‘in resolving to be always on the watch, and
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employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really
unexceptionable may pass us.’
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by
any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her
vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her
saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,

Emma by Jane Austen(7)

know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing;
but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their
being all sent away. She could not bear that her master
should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring.
He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure
not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would
be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were
sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so
Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I
would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it
for the world! He would be so very…. I wanted to keep it
from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it
before I was aware.’
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and
her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular
narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her
desultory good-will.
‘Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the
turning. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a
dark staircase— rather darker and narrower than one could
wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am
quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith,

Emma by Jane Austen(6)

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if they had understanding, should convince them that it
was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take
her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she
drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to
allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous
recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of
what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future.
She could think of nothing better: and though there
was something in it which her own heart could not
approve—something of ingratitude, merely glossed over—
it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?
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Emma by Jane Austen(5)

Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while
made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken
their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was
great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet,
from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but
was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her
notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every
occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such
that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of ‘Can it
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really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this
man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet
to me?—Absurd and insufferable!’— Yet he would be so
anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so
interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs.
Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings
with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed
terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort