According to her story, she was involved both romantically and perilously with the same Cmdr. Dion Griffin of this organisation. Shortly after I consulted with Cmdr. Griffin, (who offered little amplification other than a wry grin), a dusty packet of photographs arrrived on my desk addressed in his hand.
"Afternoon with an Operative" is now presented for the first time with photographs taken that day. The manuscript has been edited only for Official Secrets Act violations and is honest in its reverie.
We haven't spoken, feeling so comfortably warm and sated by the lush jungle and sumptuous blueness of the sea. We've been languidly driving like this for a few hours, stopping only for a cold Red Stripe as the mood and thirst hits us. But now we're getting closer.
We consult the only just recently new but now tattered Tourist Bureau Map of the Island of Jamaica.
It is around here somewhere, but it's not mentioned on the map. Dion checks too, placing the warming Red Stripe between his legs so he can keep one hand on the steering wheel and bring the map closer with the other. We both know that our elusive destination is not on paper, but we search anyway, for clues.
It seems appropriate that locating Ian Fleming's island home, Goldeneye, should entail some sort of sleuthing effort – cold, calculating, deductive reasoning. That, or just asking someone for directions. I'll leave you to guess which method we choose. But now we have arrived . . .
