Howard Moon: Secret Agent

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This is on a need-to-know basis.
Move over, Bond. The name’s Moon, Howard Moon.
And that is all you need to know…

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Chapter One

Contents

Chapter One

Howard Moon, secret agent, opened the heavy oak door and walked into the paneled confines of his chief’s office. His nerves were tingling; the static electricity from the new carpets was a constant problem.

“Thank God! There you are!” boomed a deep, fruity voice.

Behind a broad desk of dark wood, strewn with papers, a burly, well-coiffeured man was sitting, combing his moustache. A magnificent example of facial hair, mused Moon, something of an expert in the matter.

“I’ve been waiting all morning,” continued the bellow. “I’ll have the chicken mayo, go easy on the pesto. And hold the gherkins this time…”

Moon frowned.

“It’s Moon, sir. Howard Moon. You sent for me.”

The burly man waved a hand dismissively.

“Whatever. Take a pew, Moon. And if you want to take your jacket off—maybe loosen your tie a little—don’t stand on ceremony, man. I’d have no objections. I’ll be removing some garments myself later, no doubt. I find it helps to deal with pressure….”

Moon seated himself in a winged leather armchair opposite the desk and contemplated his boss. ‘B’ was by reputation a tough cookie, and rumoured to be difficult to get to know. Moon had only just worked out the quirks of ‘B’’s predecessor, ‘A’—himself a recent appointment—when the incumbent of the top post had changed yet again. Poor man, mused Moon. Too early a death, choked by his own tea and biscuits in this very room—what a way to go. There were undoubted dangers in their very secret service, but they did seem to be running through the alphabet a trifle quickly these days.

“B’ finished with the moustache and favoured Moon with a hard stare.

“Right. Tell me what you’ve found out about our target.”

Moon cleared his throat.

“Well, sir, I’ve had my best informant working on this. Mr Big is a self-made millionaire with a number of landed estates in various remote parts of Europe. Estates that seem to require a lot of building work most of the time. He’s not seen out much, and he has the aura of a mystic about him. But he’s fond of giving large parties at home for celebrities—MPs, musicians, actors, comedians and such like. Keeping his philanthropic profile high….”

“B’ splayed his hands on the desk and leaned over.

“What’s your lead?” he bellowed.

“Big’s made his money in confectionery and fancy baking, sir. He likes to pretend that he gives much of his profits to charity but I believe he’s stockpiling flapjacks for a nefarious purpose. All his recent shipments point to this. But what that purpose is, I’m not yet sure”

“Good work, Moon! We have suspicions that he plans a coup against this government. If he succeeds, there’s no telling where he’ll stop. It’s your mission to discover how the flapjacks are involved. There’s every likelihood his secret plans are stored at his Croydon mansion.”

Moon nodded gravely.

“Indeed, sir. And there’s a party there tonight. I intend to inveigle my way in and get sight of those plans.”

“I like your thinking, Moon.” ‘B’ clicked his fingers in a gesture of approval.

“This is deadly serious,” he continued. “Already we believe he has infiltrated this very organization to try to thwart our work against him. Penetrated our defences, and at the most secure, the most secret point…”

Moon looked shocked.

“Sir..! Not ‘A’’s biscuits….?”

“B’ dropped his gaze and sighed. “A terrible end…” he whispered.

Then he fixed Moon with a look of dramatic intensity.

“I’m sorry to say, Moon, that we may have a double-agent in our midst. Someone who is prepared to pervert themselves for an evil end, to bend their loyalties both ways…”

Moon rose, and stood proudly before his chief.

“They won’t last long, sir, whoever they are. We’ll get him. Or her. Or them. Depending on the circumstances.”

“Good man! That’s the sort of spirit I like to hear!”

“B’ rose and clasped Moon’s hand. His grip was strong as he pumped Moon’s arm in a generous handshake.

“The country needs brave men like you, Moon. Particularly those with deep, brown eyes like yours.”

He squeezed Moon’s hand hard in a manly gesture of camaraderie.

“What’ll be your disguise for tonight, then?”

“Oh, it’s black tie, sir, as usual…”

“Comme d’habitude, eh, Moon?” ‘B’ chuckled to himself. “And I’ll bet you look good in black.”

“B’ walked around his desk and passed Moon a slip of paper.

“Here’s your chit for your gadgets and weapons.” He delivered a friendly slap on the back.

“What will you be carrying underneath that suit tonight? Some hefty hardware, I should imagine….?”

“Just my usual equipment, sir,” rejoined Moon.

“B’ nodded thoughtfully. They walked to the door together, ‘B’’s arm resting at Moon’s hip in a brotherly fashion.

“This mission is vital for the safety of the country. I’m entrusting it to you, Moon. But you understand that I can’t assign you a partner? The fewer that know about this within our organisation, the less chance of fatal betrayals.”

“Quite, sir. I prefer to work alone in any case. I don’t like emotional complications in my work.”

“I know your attitude, Moon and it does you credit. Though it’s a sacrifice to be sure, to deprive yourself of human company, keeping your destiny in your own hands. Well, you only have to ask, man, and I’ll be right behind you. Be assured of that.” He paused.

“Except that if anything goes wrong in this little caper, the department will of course have to deny all knowledge of your existence….”

Moon nodded grimly.

“Of course, sir.”

“B’ gave Moon’s hip a final squeeze of solidarity.

“Good luck, Agent Moon. I only wish I were coming with you.”

As Moon left the suite of offices, ‘B’’s booming laugh could be heard echoing through the corridors. Such strength of character, he mused, to keep his spirits up in such desperate times for the service. Just another facet, perhaps, of the all-round enigma that was his chief.

He thought he’d enjoy working under this man.

Later that evening, Moon stood amongst the crowd of partygoers in a glittering orangerie. Contrary to his expectations, he was finding it difficult to tear himself away from Mr Big’s champagne reception. Glamour held no fascination for him. He had lost count of the number of parties that his job description had required him to crash, to use as a means of infiltrating some megalomaniac’s world-domination fantasy. Well, three actually, none of them complete successes, to be honest, especially the time he had had to dress as a cocktail waitress. The amount of tips he had received that night had been a disgrace, and had necessitated a fairly stiff letter to the head of HR (herself not an entirely easy woman to get along with).

But tonight he found his attention wandering. The stage had been set for some live music extravaganza. He found his gaze locked on the movements of one of the performers. It wasn’t his type of music, to be honest. A Ligeti string quarter, or a strong dose of John Coltrane, was more his thing this time of an evening. But whatever the style of music this was, it paled into insignificance compared with the sheer magnetism of the lead singer, gyrating across the stage clad in a skin-tight black cat-suit covered in spangles. He had commenced the set wearing a bowler, but the whole crowd had ignored him until he had summarily, and with superb judgment, cast it into oblivion. And now, tossing his raven locks, he held the whole crowd in his spell, Howard Moon included.

Moon drew closer to the stage, hypnotised by the show. He asked several of the glamorous women clamouring for his attention who this extraordinary person was. When he had convinced them that he could not, in fact, top up their martinis, nor did he have any of those delicious anchovies left, they told him that this was some warm-up act called ‘Noir’. Not that it made any difference to Moon, well-versed in seeing through disguises. He knew there was more to this ‘Noir’ than met the eye.

He saw the singer glance his way, and then saw that gaze return again and again throughout the song. Some innate subconscious mechanism prompted him to drag himself away, not get involved, and absorb himself in the mission for the evening. That, and the miniature alarm clock attached to his thigh. As he made his way through the crowd, picking up empty glasses as he went, he was only slightly conscious of a fracas on stage as ‘Noir’ was replaced by the main act for that evening. “Howard Moon” he told himself, “you can’t afford to get distracted….”

He paced carefully along the thickly carpeted corridor to where his research had told him Mr Big’s office was situated. That same research, from his best informant Bobby Fossil, told him that Mr Big would by this time be waiting in the orangerie for the headliners of the evening, a music parody double act, much admired amongst the chattering classes. The secret plans would be there for the taking.

He stealthily entered the suite of rooms, feeling the tension throbbing, though that was not an unusual sensation for a secret agent. He made his way between the marble pillars, wafting clouds of incense, or something, away from his eyes as he went, moving steadily towards the wall safe he knew would contain the plans. He already had the combination, reliably provided by Fossil and ironically the same number as the local minicab firm. This was a piece of cake….

He swung back the frame of the Mona Lisa (the original, by the way; that was obvious) to expose the large knob of the safe. He flexed his fingers, steeling himself for some sensitive twiddling. But just as his hand reached out, so the light snapped on. Mr Big, all four foot eleven and a half inches of him, stood in the doorway, turban at a rakish angle.

“Grab him”, he said to one of his gorillas. Who actually was a gorilla.

Howard Moon felt his arms pinioned to his sides.

“So, Mr Moon…” began Big.

“Do you expect me to talk?” scoffed Moon.

“No, Mr Moon, I expect you whimper like a girl until all your important code words and secret thoughts are in my power,” said Mr Big, picking up a hookah pipe and puffing absently, as his gorilla wrenched Moon’s arms painfully backwards.

“Hey, Boss” said the gorilla “I finish this. You go see that special act you like. You know, music parody, funny songs, dorks in New York…”

“Nah,” said Mr Big, “very derivative. It’s lost its charm, if it ever had any. I’d sooner watch her Majesty’s finest secret agent squirm. Or failing that, this jerk-off. Get him ready, Bollo”

Moon felt his dress shirt ripped from his back. He momentarily worried about the hire fees until there, in his field of vision, were the pliers wielded by the fanatically dedicated gorilla. And he heard Mr Big snicker. He knew then he had more to worry about than Moss Bros.

“In your own time, Bollo…” said Big casually.

“No!” shouted Moon. “don’t kill me! I’ve got no end of secrets…..”

Suddenly from above a shape descended, swinging both ways from a cable, sinuous and lithe. It swung right and caught the gorilla a hefty kick under the jaw which laid him out flat, releasing Moon completely. Then on the backswing, the figure slammed into Big, who was lifted from the ground to connect with the wall safe, and subsequently collapse to the carpet, unconscious, his head protruding from the frame of a da Vinci masterpiece.

The figure hit the floor and righted itself.

“All right? Time we hot-footed it out of here.”

Moon grabbed the slim arm of his rescuer. It was the lead singer, Noir. He was even more captivating at close quarters.

“Why are you here?” he demanded. “What do you know about Mr Big’s operation?”

“Easy, tiger” purred Noir, tossing his raven hair and smiling seductively “Only that the ball-bag doesn’t pay much. I was just in here practising while those Kiwi gits occupied the stage. Everyone will be wanting a bit of a dance later. That’s when my moves will come into their own… I deejay too, by the way”

“Hah! Practising?” scoffed Moon, still holding Noir’s arm. Noir only drew closer. Moon could feel perfumed breath on his cheek.

“Well, the whole ‘fly by wire’ thing’s quite a crowd puller. Used it on lots of occasions. It really gets people going.”

He looked directly at Moon, who felt himself drawn into the depths of the magical blue eyes.

“I don’t trust you,” said Moon, feeling himself crumble at the sensation of a tongue flicking at his ear, and the stroke of a hand at his thigh. “I think you work for SMERSH!”

“Excuse me!” said Noir, pulling back slightly to favour him with a look of disdain. “As if. And anyway, I’ve never liked instant potato. Not something the seventies should ever be proud of.”

“So, what’s your angle?” Moon ventured, man of potential action at all times.

“Eager, aren’t you? All in good time. Besides…” He gave Moon a flirty look. I don’t even know your name.”

“The name’s Moon, Howard Moon,” came the reply. It was repeated often as both collapsed in a tangle and was eventually smothered in shag-pile carpet.