![]() "The vampire spy stood on the balcony and lit a cigarette with a Ronson lighter, flame reddening his forceful face. He exhaled smoke and looked down on Beauregard. His quizzical smile exposed a prominent fang. "The name's Bond," he said, with a slight Scots roll. "Hamish Bond" "Good morning, Commander Bond," Beauregard said. "Welcome to the Eternal City." The new-born took a cursory look across Parco di Traiano, taking in the ruin of Nero's Golden House (one of Rome's many monuments to megalomania) and the jagged edge of the Flavian Amphitheater, the Colosseum. Beauregard noticed with sadness that Bond was not taken with the scenery. Duty ought not blind one to the view. Indeed, it was the duty of those in their shared profession to pay attention. Though travelling under his naval rank, Bond was out of uniform, dressed as if for baccarat at Monte. His white Savile Row dinner jacket was perfectly cut, loose enough to suggest to the observant the possibility of a shoulder holster. Beauregard knew exactly what this man was, even what was in the holster. A Walther PPK 7.65mm, worn in a Berns-Martin Triple-Draw, clip of eight lead-jacketed silver bullets. Nasty thing. The breeze played with a stray comma of Bond's black hair. Smoke tore from his cigarette, a handmade Balkan-Turkish blend with three gold bands. Too distinctive for a fellow in his line, too memorable. Those custom gaspers suggested an attitude. Here was a vampire who knew how to shrug in a dinner jacket without rucking the collar, wore shirts of sea island cotton and could draw a pistol as easily as he pulled his Ronson from an inside picket. One would think he wanted to make an impression, to strike a pose for the gunsight. Charles Beauregard hoped he had never been like this." from |
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