The Secret Service is not what it used to be, for now there is no 00 Section. But habits die hard and hence I write this diary in invisible ink. When Ms Moneypenny telephoned that ‘M’ wanted to see me urgently on a matter of national importance, I was excited. Assignments have withered, my last one was the theft of quails’ eggs from Lincolnshire forest. But ‘M’ was cryptic. “Go to Buckingham Palace,” he ordered, “Her Majesty is waiting for you.”
Wow!...40 years back I was On Her Majesty’s Secret Service to flush out arch villain Blofeld from his Swiss hideout. My heart was beating fast when I met Her Majesty at the palace and flew in a helicopter to the Olympics inaugural ceremony. The trouble was that I had no briefing. What was I supposed to do? Was the Queen in some danger? Why hadn’t ‘M’ told me anything? But we in the 00 section know how to act to find out the truth. Deciding to investigate, I approached the Russian delegation which was getting ready for the march past. After the Cold War, there were reports about the disbanding of the dreaded SMERSH which caused me so much trouble in From Russia With Love. During those days, every Russian knew who Bond was but today at the Olympics no one bothered me and there were no raised eyebrows when I casually let slip the word SMERSH. Obviously, the Russians were not planning anything against Her Majesty.
But we in the 00 Section are not so easily defeated. If the danger was not from Russia, it could be from one of the smaller nations. There was tremendous excitement in Jamaica over Usain Bolt’s running. Then I remembered, Jamaica was a dangerous place where I had encountered Dr No and the dangerous Scaramanga who killed people with a golden gun. Scaramanga also had a third nipple. Since the Jamaican runners wore loose T shirts, it was not difficult to check this one out. Unfortunately, there was no one with a third nipple.
By now I was getting desperate. If there was anyone planning to harm Her Majesty where was he/she? The answer came in a flash. The Indian camp was agitated over the sudden appearance of a woman, dressed in jeans, who was merrily marching with their delegation. Everyone looked at her, no one said anything. My heart began to beat fast. How did the killer penetrate the Indian delegation? We all knew that the Indian security system was useless, but this was too much. I had to trap her and question her, even if that meant making love to her. Was this another Vesper Lynd? I straightened my tie, brushed my hair and approached her wondering if a lavish meal of Butter Chicken and Tandoori roti would soften her up. But by that time, Indian officials had surrounded her and it was made known she was part of Danny Boyle’s dancers. Now I was really tired and needed a drink. And her Majesty had flown back to the palace. All’s well that ended well.
The Mumbai-based satirist is the creator of ‘Trishanku’; E-mail your secret diarist: vgangadhar70 AT gmail.com