ah! churchill under the very thumb of Fu..guess that invasion of siam must have helped out a bit..
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(jaw hits floor). Churchill has been brainwashed by Fu!? That certainly isn't good. I take it his function will be to keep relations with Germany cold and thus divert attention away from the Pan-Asians. Or is there something even more sinister in the works?
Yes, yes being shocked that Churchill was brainwashed is all well and good, but that doesn't really concern me. More frightening is what Fu Manchu is cooking up in that laboratory on the Yellow River. What could be so important that it's even more valuable than the Secret Stronghold itself?
Churchill = Gold standard?
Secret base = A-bomb?
Mud season's end = Barbarossa?
I would be really concern if I was anyone but Fu Manchu itself!
Maybe the oil restrictions can keep him at bay *shakes fist*
I haven't had a lot of time playing HoI II but shouldn't improving your infrastructure help you with that issue?
Secret base = A-bomb?
Mud season's end = Barbarossa?
I would be really concern if I was anyone but Fu Manchu itself!
Maybe the oil restrictions can keep him at bay *shakes fist*
I haven't had a lot of time playing HoI II but shouldn't improving your infrastructure help you with that issue?
elbasto said:
The Gold Standard was reintroduced in 1924 with disastrous results, helping in ushering in the Great Depression. To help clarify that this is a plot that has already borne fruit, so to speak, I added this to the end of the post:
(Churchill) " ...was appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1924 under Stanley Baldwin and oversaw the United Kingdom's disastrous return to the Gold Standard, which resulted in deflation, unemployment, and the miners' strike that led to the General Strike of 1926. This decision prompted the economist John Maynard Keynes to write The Economic Consequences of Mr. Churchill, correctly arguing that the return to the gold standard would lead to a world depression. Churchill later regarded this as one of the worst decisions of his life."
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Park Kultury Metro Station, Moscow
Union of Socialist Soviet Republics
April 5th, 1940
Not uncommonly this late in the night, the metro station had appeared empty, but Zhao Chen was not surprised when, right after passing by one of the many pillars in the artfully constructed vestibule, he suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and a voice whispering a harsh command right into his ear:
‘Come peacefully, comrade!’
For some time now, he had expected the NKVD to discover his game and live up to it’s ruthless reputation by ignoring his diplomatic immunity. He was worried that they had chosen to arrest him at a time and place where there were no witnesses. Disappeared diplomats did not cause international incidents in the same way arrested ones did.
He tried to turn to face his captors, but was roughly held and also felt the barrel of a gun being pressed into his back.
‘Comrades, I have in my pocket a diplomatic passport giving me complete immunity against arrest! You are overstepping your authority!’ It was worth a try, even if Zhao didn’t have much hope.
‘Walk!’ the voice – still only one voice growled behind him, poking him with the gun. Zhao complied, and grew even more concerned if that was possible. To judge from the steps clicking against the stone floor, there was only a single captor. That meant an assassination, not an arrest. He decided to take his chances and fight back – he had after all been trained in Kung Fu and was somewhat proficient, if no master. He whirled, knowing that it was a rare person who could react quickly enough to pull the trigger of a gun pushing into ones back before it was knocked aside. To his chagrin, he found that he had knocked aside only a short piece of copper tube held in the left hand by his captor. The right hand was holding a tiny Beretta 418 automatic fitted with a silencer aimed right between his eyes. He was however even more surprised by the identity of his captor.
‘Mr Bond! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?’
‘Keep walking, Mr Zhao. I have found us a secluded little spot in one of the tunnels were we can have private conversation.’
‘No! I will not…’
Without a word, Bond struck him across the face with the copper tube, making blood spurt from his mouth. His vision swimming, Zhao held his face in astonishment.
‘Walk I said!’ Bond lent emphasis to his words by coking the hammer of his tiny gun. Zhao walked.
Soon, he found himself with Bond in a tiny alcove in the tunnel wall, less than twenty metres from the station platform. Bond had checked his watch before climbing down from the platform, somewhat assuaging Zhao’s fears about being run over by a train. Once in the grimy little opening, which was used to store some railway workers tools, Bond offered Zhao Chen a pair of handcuffs, which he was instructed to tie his arms up behind his back and around a thick ventilation tube fixed to the wall. Bond roughly pushed him to the dirty ground, staining his expensive coat with soot and dirt.
‘What is the meaning of this!’ Zhao Chen roared. ‘I have already given you your instructions, and whatever information Our Lady deemed fit to give you! What else do you want to know? There is no need for this!’
Bond’s eyes remained flint hard. ‘You’re very good, “Mr Zhao Chen”.’ He emphasised the name for irony. ‘Your “hiding in plain sight” act fooled me completely, I had you figured out as a bumbling amateur, and so must have the NKVD. I’m sure their surveillance of you must have gone lax after a while, everything you did was so obvious. Only they didn’t catch your real work, did they? You’re no field agent, you’re just drawing attention away from the real agents. In fact, you’re the Empire’s spymaster in Moscow. What were you originally, Si-Fan or a Chinese agent for the Kempei Tai?’
Zhao smiled. ‘The latter, before Our Lady took me into her service. Very shrewd, Mr Bond. But that’s hardly a reason for this… brutality, is it?’
Bond smiled without humour. ‘On the contrary. You see, a spymaster might well know things I need to learn, things that he would never tell willingly to an enemy agent… such as who is leading the Pan-Asian fifth column in America, and where he can be found. This would lead me to the Secret Weapon, without implicating the Lady of the Si-Fan.’
Zhao’s eyes grew wide. ‘I’m not telling you that! If it was found out I had ratted on…’ he suddenly clamped his mouth shut. ‘No mater how bad you had hurt me, I’d be tortured for days for speaking and then shot. The Si-Fan are ruthless.’
For an instant Bond eyes went soft with pity, but then his jaws were clenched in determination.
‘So am I.’
From a toolbox, he produced a blow-torch, a handful of rags and a pair of tongs.
‘Come on Zhao. Make it easy on yourself, speak. I can easily make the torture damage post mortem, no one would know the difference. You’d be serving Our Lady’s best interest, you know.’
The spymaster shook his head fiercley, his eyes bulging with terror. While the rumble of a train grew louder, Bond stuffed his mouth full of rags and ignited the blowtorch. What muffled sounds came through the rags were blotted out by the sound of trains thundering past, nothing was heard at the station. Zhao Chen’s horribly burned body was not found until a fortnight later by railway workers searching for the source of the bad smell that had began to trouble passengers at the Park Kultury Metro station. By then, Bond was long gone from Moscow and Zhao Chen’s information about Siwan Khan and his organisation already put to good use.
Union of Socialist Soviet Republics
April 5th, 1940
Not uncommonly this late in the night, the metro station had appeared empty, but Zhao Chen was not surprised when, right after passing by one of the many pillars in the artfully constructed vestibule, he suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and a voice whispering a harsh command right into his ear:
‘Come peacefully, comrade!’
For some time now, he had expected the NKVD to discover his game and live up to it’s ruthless reputation by ignoring his diplomatic immunity. He was worried that they had chosen to arrest him at a time and place where there were no witnesses. Disappeared diplomats did not cause international incidents in the same way arrested ones did.
He tried to turn to face his captors, but was roughly held and also felt the barrel of a gun being pressed into his back.
‘Comrades, I have in my pocket a diplomatic passport giving me complete immunity against arrest! You are overstepping your authority!’ It was worth a try, even if Zhao didn’t have much hope.
‘Walk!’ the voice – still only one voice growled behind him, poking him with the gun. Zhao complied, and grew even more concerned if that was possible. To judge from the steps clicking against the stone floor, there was only a single captor. That meant an assassination, not an arrest. He decided to take his chances and fight back – he had after all been trained in Kung Fu and was somewhat proficient, if no master. He whirled, knowing that it was a rare person who could react quickly enough to pull the trigger of a gun pushing into ones back before it was knocked aside. To his chagrin, he found that he had knocked aside only a short piece of copper tube held in the left hand by his captor. The right hand was holding a tiny Beretta 418 automatic fitted with a silencer aimed right between his eyes. He was however even more surprised by the identity of his captor.
‘Mr Bond! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?’
‘Keep walking, Mr Zhao. I have found us a secluded little spot in one of the tunnels were we can have private conversation.’
‘No! I will not…’
Without a word, Bond struck him across the face with the copper tube, making blood spurt from his mouth. His vision swimming, Zhao held his face in astonishment.
‘Walk I said!’ Bond lent emphasis to his words by coking the hammer of his tiny gun. Zhao walked.
Soon, he found himself with Bond in a tiny alcove in the tunnel wall, less than twenty metres from the station platform. Bond had checked his watch before climbing down from the platform, somewhat assuaging Zhao’s fears about being run over by a train. Once in the grimy little opening, which was used to store some railway workers tools, Bond offered Zhao Chen a pair of handcuffs, which he was instructed to tie his arms up behind his back and around a thick ventilation tube fixed to the wall. Bond roughly pushed him to the dirty ground, staining his expensive coat with soot and dirt.
‘What is the meaning of this!’ Zhao Chen roared. ‘I have already given you your instructions, and whatever information Our Lady deemed fit to give you! What else do you want to know? There is no need for this!’
Bond’s eyes remained flint hard. ‘You’re very good, “Mr Zhao Chen”.’ He emphasised the name for irony. ‘Your “hiding in plain sight” act fooled me completely, I had you figured out as a bumbling amateur, and so must have the NKVD. I’m sure their surveillance of you must have gone lax after a while, everything you did was so obvious. Only they didn’t catch your real work, did they? You’re no field agent, you’re just drawing attention away from the real agents. In fact, you’re the Empire’s spymaster in Moscow. What were you originally, Si-Fan or a Chinese agent for the Kempei Tai?’
Zhao smiled. ‘The latter, before Our Lady took me into her service. Very shrewd, Mr Bond. But that’s hardly a reason for this… brutality, is it?’
Bond smiled without humour. ‘On the contrary. You see, a spymaster might well know things I need to learn, things that he would never tell willingly to an enemy agent… such as who is leading the Pan-Asian fifth column in America, and where he can be found. This would lead me to the Secret Weapon, without implicating the Lady of the Si-Fan.’
Zhao’s eyes grew wide. ‘I’m not telling you that! If it was found out I had ratted on…’ he suddenly clamped his mouth shut. ‘No mater how bad you had hurt me, I’d be tortured for days for speaking and then shot. The Si-Fan are ruthless.’
For an instant Bond eyes went soft with pity, but then his jaws were clenched in determination.
‘So am I.’
From a toolbox, he produced a blow-torch, a handful of rags and a pair of tongs.
‘Come on Zhao. Make it easy on yourself, speak. I can easily make the torture damage post mortem, no one would know the difference. You’d be serving Our Lady’s best interest, you know.’
The spymaster shook his head fiercley, his eyes bulging with terror. While the rumble of a train grew louder, Bond stuffed his mouth full of rags and ignited the blowtorch. What muffled sounds came through the rags were blotted out by the sound of trains thundering past, nothing was heard at the station. Zhao Chen’s horribly burned body was not found until a fortnight later by railway workers searching for the source of the bad smell that had began to trouble passengers at the Park Kultury Metro station. By then, Bond was long gone from Moscow and Zhao Chen’s information about Siwan Khan and his organisation already put to good use.
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Bond also has to learn that extracting information from beautiful women, using seduction instead of torture, is somehow far more effective. :nods:
Apparently being a british spy isn't only about drinking martini's and chasing beautiful women...
Great AAR btw!
Great AAR btw!
Or at least some help is on his way…cthulhu said:Looks like more work for the Shadow.
Deus said:
Darks63 said:
anonymous4401 said:
I’m basing Bond more on the character in Fleming’s books than on the movie one. Fleming’s Bond is much, much harder than his suave movie counterpart, brutal or even downright cruel. Intelligence is an ugly business, and episodes like these are among the ugliest.lifeless said:heh. nothing like brutality to get the point across
You’ve got that right, and welcome to the AAR! Have you been lurking for a long time?GoforitPanzer said:
Good guess!Korppi said:
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American Airways DC-3, somewhere over the Appalachians
United States of America
April 9th, 1940
About an hour into the New York-San Francisco American Airways flight “Mercury Service”, an obnoxious co-passenger thwarted Lt Commander James Bond of His Majesties Secret Service in his attempts to read the news.
‘Are you reading that?’ the man seated by the window of the DC-3 and next to Bond asked.
Bond looked up from his “New York Times” with an inner sigh. He had been engrossed in catching up with the latest developments in the war – every American bastion in the southern and central Pacific had fallen, Samoa being the last just the previous week. Now it seemed there had been a landing on one of the Aleutian Islands. The War Department made light of the loss, claiming the lost islands had little strategic value after the fall of Hawaii. Other prominent pieces of news had been the entry into the war of Guatemala and Venezuela, adding their not very considerable weight to that of Liberia on the American side. Most interestingly, Spanish Dictator General Francisco Franco Bahamonde had been making virulent anti-Pan-Asian declarations, citing alleged atrocities against the Philippinoes. Maybe hoping for a restoration of Spanish rule over the islands in case of an American victory, he seemed to be preparing the Spanish people for joining the war too.
‘I thought that would have been obvious.’ Bond said, affecting his most dryly arrogant upper class English, hoping to scare off the fool.
‘All right, just checking!’
The man, who was in his late fifties with a fairly big nose, salt-and-pepper hair and of somewhat portly build waited a few seconds for Bond to begin reading again before adding
‘But it’s a long journey, all of 17 hours. Time might feel shorter with some conversation perhaps?’
Bond’s head came up from the paper again, forcing a smile on his lips. ‘I don’t want to seem rude, but I’m really not one for social chatter. If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my paper and then go to sleep. All right?’
‘Oh, sure! Sorry if I bothered you!’ the man said.
Bond nodded, straining to maintain his smile and returned to Franco’s speech… although very briefly, as it turned out. A hand outstretched as for a shake pushed aside his paper.
‘My name is Dononvan, by the way. William Donovan, a simple lawyer from the Big Apple!’
Moaning internally over the prospect of having to stand this cretin for another fifteen hours or so, Bond carefully put down his newspaper and took the outstretched hand, forcing himself to be polite.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Donovan. I’m….’
‘Lieutenant Commander James Bond of His Majesties Secret Service.’ Donovan said without a trace of flourish. Bond could not help himself, his jaw fell open and a wave of ice ran through his body at the sight of Donovan’s suddenly cold, hard stare.
‘No introduction is necessary, Mr Bond’ Donovan said. ‘All I want to know is what the hell a British spy is doing playing in my back yard?’
‘Y-your back yard, Mr Donovan?’
‘The United States of America, Mr Bond. I’m sort of a problem-solver, you could say, to President Roosevelt and the United States of America are MY piece of turf. But let’s get back on track shall we? Just don’t get any funny ideas. Those brutes sitting in front of you, and on the other side of the aisle are my people too.’
Colonel William ”Wild Bill” Donovan
The indicated men, apparently half asleep in their flight seats were all muscular types in dark suits with bulging breast pockets. He was caught good and well.
‘I take it we’re colleagues then, Mr Donovan?’ Bond said. ‘Can you show me any kind of credential that you’re in fact working for the President of the United States?’
‘You've got some nerve, Mr Bond, asking ME for credentials when you’re the foreign spy caught in the act, so to speak. No, I don’t have that. Tell you what, I’ll tell you something I know, and you’ll tell me something I don’t. Tit for tat, and all that, eh? And call me Bill, everyone does.’
‘Go ahead… Bill.’ Bond agreed.
‘Great, James, just great! Here goes then: You’re working for Sir Denis Nayland Smith, head of Division FM, which is tasked with battling against Fu Manchu and the Si-Fan. That makes you an all right guy in my book, by the way. You were badly hurt in the attack on Lord Halifax just at the end of the war in Europe, but you seem to have made a full and miraculous recovery. You arrived to New York with a transatlantic clipper from Brest, France, not London. Two days earlier, you were with the Naval Attaché Staff at the British Embassy in Moscow. You do get around. And once here, did you take a rest after so long and exhausting a journey? No, you caught the first flight to the West Coast, even though you had just spent a few days in airplanes and trains. This tells me you’re in an awful hurry to get there.’
‘You know a great deal.’ Bond said, somewhat shaken. He had never suspected the Americans had such an effective counter-espionage.
‘As for my conclusions of all this’, Donovan continued, ‘It would seem to me you have uncovered some nefarious Si-Fan plot that needs to be stopped yesterday. It just so happens that I have also received some highly dubious hints from a disreputable source – which I trust implicitly – that one squint bastard called Siwan Khan is planning some kind of poison gas attack in that area. Would you by any chance happen to be tasked with stopping this, Mr Bond?’
‘You deserve a cigar, Bill!’ The Americans knew about the impending attack! But poison gas? No, that didn’t sound right.
‘Luckily for you and me both, Mr Bond, I happen to have a couple of Monte Christos on me. Here you go….’
After the short ceremony of lighting the Cuban cigars, and having cleared the preliminaries Donovan went to the point. ‘In the interest of Anglo-Saxon cooperation and all that crap, I’m going to allow your mission to continue. But you’ll report your findings to me on this number. In return I’m going to set you up with some people who’re already working this case for me. I can’t have you people running into each other, guns blazing, can I?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Some of them will be meeting you at San Francisco airport. I doubt you will need many introductions. The other one is somewhat secretive, and is running this show. I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually. Now, go back to your paper – I’m going to take a nap.’
Carrying his light suitcase into the arrival hall, James Bond suddenly found himself staring at the unfamiliar sight of a grinning Dr Henry Jones in a suit and bowtie, although still with his trademark fedora. He was standing next to an older bearded man in a silly little hat that seemed somehow more English than American.
Indy waved and grinned. ‘James! James my boy! So great to see you fit and well again! Come over here and give me a hug!’
Feeling surreal, Bond walked over to receive a bear hug from his eccentric progenitor. After the horror of Moscow, it felt good, more like coming home than any return to his bachelor’s apartment in Chelsea, and he hadn’t expected that. The old man removed his round glasses to dry out one corner of his eye with his hand, looking embarrassed. Bond found his appearance strangely familiar, although he was sure he had never seen him in his life.
‘James, my son’, Indy said, beaming with pride, ‘meet my father, Professor Henry Jones senior. Dad, this is James Bond, my son.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Bond!’ Jones senior said with a thick Scottish accent, raw with emotion.
It was almost too much for James, an orphan since the age of twelve. Tentatively, he hugged the old man. ‘Pleased to meet you too, granddad!’ he whispered.
Hearing that James’s accent, inherited from his father and imbued during his childhood in Edinburgh, was as Scottish as his own, Henry Jones Senior shone like a sun and again rubbed the corner of his eyes. ‘Well done, junior!’ he said, looking sideways at his son. ‘Well done!’
United States of America
April 9th, 1940
About an hour into the New York-San Francisco American Airways flight “Mercury Service”, an obnoxious co-passenger thwarted Lt Commander James Bond of His Majesties Secret Service in his attempts to read the news.
‘Are you reading that?’ the man seated by the window of the DC-3 and next to Bond asked.
Bond looked up from his “New York Times” with an inner sigh. He had been engrossed in catching up with the latest developments in the war – every American bastion in the southern and central Pacific had fallen, Samoa being the last just the previous week. Now it seemed there had been a landing on one of the Aleutian Islands. The War Department made light of the loss, claiming the lost islands had little strategic value after the fall of Hawaii. Other prominent pieces of news had been the entry into the war of Guatemala and Venezuela, adding their not very considerable weight to that of Liberia on the American side. Most interestingly, Spanish Dictator General Francisco Franco Bahamonde had been making virulent anti-Pan-Asian declarations, citing alleged atrocities against the Philippinoes. Maybe hoping for a restoration of Spanish rule over the islands in case of an American victory, he seemed to be preparing the Spanish people for joining the war too.
‘I thought that would have been obvious.’ Bond said, affecting his most dryly arrogant upper class English, hoping to scare off the fool.
‘All right, just checking!’
The man, who was in his late fifties with a fairly big nose, salt-and-pepper hair and of somewhat portly build waited a few seconds for Bond to begin reading again before adding
‘But it’s a long journey, all of 17 hours. Time might feel shorter with some conversation perhaps?’
Bond’s head came up from the paper again, forcing a smile on his lips. ‘I don’t want to seem rude, but I’m really not one for social chatter. If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my paper and then go to sleep. All right?’
‘Oh, sure! Sorry if I bothered you!’ the man said.
Bond nodded, straining to maintain his smile and returned to Franco’s speech… although very briefly, as it turned out. A hand outstretched as for a shake pushed aside his paper.
‘My name is Dononvan, by the way. William Donovan, a simple lawyer from the Big Apple!’
Moaning internally over the prospect of having to stand this cretin for another fifteen hours or so, Bond carefully put down his newspaper and took the outstretched hand, forcing himself to be polite.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Donovan. I’m….’
‘Lieutenant Commander James Bond of His Majesties Secret Service.’ Donovan said without a trace of flourish. Bond could not help himself, his jaw fell open and a wave of ice ran through his body at the sight of Donovan’s suddenly cold, hard stare.
‘No introduction is necessary, Mr Bond’ Donovan said. ‘All I want to know is what the hell a British spy is doing playing in my back yard?’
‘Y-your back yard, Mr Donovan?’
‘The United States of America, Mr Bond. I’m sort of a problem-solver, you could say, to President Roosevelt and the United States of America are MY piece of turf. But let’s get back on track shall we? Just don’t get any funny ideas. Those brutes sitting in front of you, and on the other side of the aisle are my people too.’
Colonel William ”Wild Bill” Donovan
The indicated men, apparently half asleep in their flight seats were all muscular types in dark suits with bulging breast pockets. He was caught good and well.
‘I take it we’re colleagues then, Mr Donovan?’ Bond said. ‘Can you show me any kind of credential that you’re in fact working for the President of the United States?’
‘You've got some nerve, Mr Bond, asking ME for credentials when you’re the foreign spy caught in the act, so to speak. No, I don’t have that. Tell you what, I’ll tell you something I know, and you’ll tell me something I don’t. Tit for tat, and all that, eh? And call me Bill, everyone does.’
‘Go ahead… Bill.’ Bond agreed.
‘Great, James, just great! Here goes then: You’re working for Sir Denis Nayland Smith, head of Division FM, which is tasked with battling against Fu Manchu and the Si-Fan. That makes you an all right guy in my book, by the way. You were badly hurt in the attack on Lord Halifax just at the end of the war in Europe, but you seem to have made a full and miraculous recovery. You arrived to New York with a transatlantic clipper from Brest, France, not London. Two days earlier, you were with the Naval Attaché Staff at the British Embassy in Moscow. You do get around. And once here, did you take a rest after so long and exhausting a journey? No, you caught the first flight to the West Coast, even though you had just spent a few days in airplanes and trains. This tells me you’re in an awful hurry to get there.’
‘You know a great deal.’ Bond said, somewhat shaken. He had never suspected the Americans had such an effective counter-espionage.
‘As for my conclusions of all this’, Donovan continued, ‘It would seem to me you have uncovered some nefarious Si-Fan plot that needs to be stopped yesterday. It just so happens that I have also received some highly dubious hints from a disreputable source – which I trust implicitly – that one squint bastard called Siwan Khan is planning some kind of poison gas attack in that area. Would you by any chance happen to be tasked with stopping this, Mr Bond?’
‘You deserve a cigar, Bill!’ The Americans knew about the impending attack! But poison gas? No, that didn’t sound right.
‘Luckily for you and me both, Mr Bond, I happen to have a couple of Monte Christos on me. Here you go….’
After the short ceremony of lighting the Cuban cigars, and having cleared the preliminaries Donovan went to the point. ‘In the interest of Anglo-Saxon cooperation and all that crap, I’m going to allow your mission to continue. But you’ll report your findings to me on this number. In return I’m going to set you up with some people who’re already working this case for me. I can’t have you people running into each other, guns blazing, can I?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Some of them will be meeting you at San Francisco airport. I doubt you will need many introductions. The other one is somewhat secretive, and is running this show. I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually. Now, go back to your paper – I’m going to take a nap.’
****
Carrying his light suitcase into the arrival hall, James Bond suddenly found himself staring at the unfamiliar sight of a grinning Dr Henry Jones in a suit and bowtie, although still with his trademark fedora. He was standing next to an older bearded man in a silly little hat that seemed somehow more English than American.
Indy waved and grinned. ‘James! James my boy! So great to see you fit and well again! Come over here and give me a hug!’
Feeling surreal, Bond walked over to receive a bear hug from his eccentric progenitor. After the horror of Moscow, it felt good, more like coming home than any return to his bachelor’s apartment in Chelsea, and he hadn’t expected that. The old man removed his round glasses to dry out one corner of his eye with his hand, looking embarrassed. Bond found his appearance strangely familiar, although he was sure he had never seen him in his life.
‘James, my son’, Indy said, beaming with pride, ‘meet my father, Professor Henry Jones senior. Dad, this is James Bond, my son.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Bond!’ Jones senior said with a thick Scottish accent, raw with emotion.
It was almost too much for James, an orphan since the age of twelve. Tentatively, he hugged the old man. ‘Pleased to meet you too, granddad!’ he whispered.
Hearing that James’s accent, inherited from his father and imbued during his childhood in Edinburgh, was as Scottish as his own, Henry Jones Senior shone like a sun and again rubbed the corner of his eyes. ‘Well done, junior!’ he said, looking sideways at his son. ‘Well done!’
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It is funny since the first Bond was played by Sean Connery and the part of dr. Henry Jones was also played by Sir Connery. So it would be a unique meeting . Young Sean meets old Sean, both have thick Scottish accents.
I couldn't get that mental image out of my mind.
. Young Sean meets old Sean, both have thick Scottish accents.I couldn't get that mental image out of my mind.