Midsummer Night's Doom
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Midsummer Night's Doom
A JAMES BOND ADVENTURE
fiction By Raymond Benson
Murder at a mansion west pajama party --
007 investigates with the help of the proprietor and two irresistible playmates
Painting by John Rush
James Bond Short Story, first published Playboy Magazine Collector's Edition January 1999, 45th Anniversary Issue,
Volume 46, Number 1.
Chapter 1
Five minutes into the briefing, M turned her chair to face him and asked, "What do you know about PLAYBOY, 007?"
James Bond blinked. "Ma'am?"
"The magazine, 007, how much do you know about it?"
Bond shrugged and said, "Only that some people have been known to read the articles, and that I need to renew my subscription."
M was not amused. Although she was opinionated and could speak freely about nearly anything, Barbara Mawdsley appeared to be somewhat embarrassed at the notion of a "men's magazine."
"I don't suppose you know Hugh Hefner, do you?" she asked. "You seem to have a lot in common with him."
Ignoring the implication, Bond said, "As a matter of fact, I met him once, in Jamaica. It was a long time ago and I doubt he would remember me. He was on a yacht with an entourage and a beautiful woman. PLAYBOY was scouting locations for a club and casino at the time. I was fishing with a Jamaican friend when they pulled up alongside our boat and Hefner invited us aboard for cocktails. He asked my opinion of choice spots on the northern side of Jamaica. I'll never forget the girl, she was one of his Centerfolds –-"
"Humph," M grunted, sounding much like her predecessor, Sir Miles Messervy. "It looks as if—-"
"I think her name was Donna Michelle," Bond continued, lost for a moment in a private reverie. He snapped out of it to ask the inevitable, "Why?"
"It's the bloody leak in the Ministry of Defense again," she said. "There is a river of information flowing out of there, and it's apparently changing hands at parties being held at the Playboy Mansion West, Hugh Hefner's home in Los Angeles."
"Why would Hefner be involved in something like that?" Bond asked.
"He's not. Mr. Hefner has claimed to be completely unaware, and he's almost certainly telling the truth. But there are many guests at those parties. We've had three reports of sensitive material showing up for sale on the black market that seem to link to the Playboy Mansion. The latest is a set of designs for a new class of infrared focal plane arrays, FPAs, as they're called. These new ones will be known as smart FPAs because they imitate human eye capabilities, such as focusing, visualization and processing."
"I've heard about them," Bond said. "They can preprocess data at the sensor itself in image-processing applications such as, oh, say, target detection, and then pass somewhat refined information to dedicated signal processors. They can make advanced military applications affordable because of significant reductions in size, weight and power consumption. I didn't realize the designs had been completed."
"Thank heaven you understand them, because I don't," she said, glancing upward. "Anyway, MI5 have handed over the investigation to us because they believe the designs were copied onto miniature microfilm and smuggled out of the UK to America."
"Do we know who did that?"
"Yes. Martin Tuttle."
"Martin Tuttle?" He had to think. "You mean the rock musician?"
"That's right. It seems Mr. Tuttle's former wife works at the Ministry. Or rather, she did, before she was arrested yesterday. You remember how public their divorce was a couple of years ago?"
"Not really, ma'am," Bond said. He remembered that the famous rock star from Clapham had married a girl from Glasgow, but the honeymoon had been spoiled by messy accusations of drunken orgies on the road. Bond couldn't care less. He wasn't a fan of rock music and he despised the rock star lifestyle.
"Tuttle's wife had been under suspicion for some time. Although the Tuttles·had publicly denounced each other, surveillance proved otherwise. They met on numerous occasions -- lunch together, that sort of thing -- and appeared to be perfectly cordial. Evidence was gathered. They had a pretty good swindle going between them. So she was arrested, just as Martin Tuttle hopped a plane from England to Los Angeles, where he currently lives. She confessed to supplying him with the documents that were missing over the past year. Apparently, he took them all to California. She claims the exchanges took place at the Playboy Mansion every few months, whenever there were elaborate parties. She claims she doesn't know who his contact is and we believe her. Tuttle doesn't yet know she has been arrested."
M leaned forward in her chair. "We think Martin Tuttle is selling the material to the Russian Mafia," she said. "Our Afghanistan station intercepted coded messages from a syndicate in Moscow indicating they would soon have smart FPAs for sale."
"Where do I come in, ma'am?" Bond asked.
"SIS have arranged for you to be invited to a party, 007. You're to observe Mr. Tuttle and retrieve the microfilm, if possible. But we're more interested in finding out who his contact is, so try to catch him in the act."
Chapter 2
Leaving the office, Bond found Miss Moneypenny with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she prepared the envelope containing his paperwork.
"I know that look, Penny, and it means you'd like to say something naughty but won't," he said.
"If they're turning you loose at the Playboy Mansion, I think you had better have a chaperone," she said, looking at her calendar. "Oh dear, I'm not doing anything that night."
Bond smiled. "Penny, I'd love to take you, but it will probably be a bore. I expect it's nothing like what one imagines a PLAYBOY party to be."
"The invitation says it's a place where fantasy becomes reality."
"I have no fantasies. Is it black tie?"
"You have to wear pajamas."
"You must be joking."
"It's true. It's the annual Midsummer Night's Dream party, and everyone is required to wear nightshirts, pajamas or lingerie."
Bond groaned. "It all sounds terribly decadent and hedonistic."
"It sounds just your cup of tea," she gibed.
Bond snatched the envelope from her hand, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
Chapter 3
Playboy Mansion West is situated in the exclusive Holmby Hills area of Los Angeles, adjacent to Bel Air, Beverly Hills, UCLA and the Los Angeles Country Club. Bond drove his jaguar XK8 coupe to the imposing wrought iron gate at the bottom of a tree-lined drive off Sunset Boulevard and was greeted by a voice in a large rock on the driver's side. He provided his credentials, and the gate opened slowly. He drove through and was treated to a spectacular view of a marble frieze, a replica of a painting by Guido Reni displayed in the Rospigiosi Palace in Rome. The car made its way up the steep, curving drive that was lined with redwood trees and juniper hedges, ending at a circular drive with an ornate, flower-ringed marble fountain in the center. Busy valets signaled for Bond to stop. Even though he had arrived unfashionably early, there was already a queue of cars waiting to be parked.
Bond entrusted the jaguar to a valet and took a moment to gaze at the Mansion, a marvelous stone edifice in a 16th century perpendicular Tudor style. Bond thought he detected a Scottish influence as well.
"Mr. Bond?" A radiant blonde in her late 20s appeared through the open massive oak door. She was dressed in a white baby-doll slip dress, high heels and a smile. Bond thought she looked like an angel from heaven.
"I'm Lisa Dergan. Miss July 1998. I've been asked to greet you, give you
a brief tour and take you to Hef."
"I'm delighted," Bond said, taking her hand. Her bright-green eyes displayed an air of self-confidence and intelligence. He could easily get lost in them, he thought.
She led him into the Great Hall, a splendid foyer with a Botticini marble floor and hand-carved oak paneling. A beautiful antique chandelier hung over the room, and two sets of curved stairs guarded by 18th century greeting monkeys led to the second floor and balcony overlooking the hall. Bond noticed Dali and Matisse originals and asked, "How old is the Mansion?"
"It was completed in 1927. Hef is the third owner, not counting a brief period when it was a place where heads of state came to stay -- people like the king and queen of Siam, the king of Sweden and loads of others. I've been a visitor here several times, and I've learned all kinds of stuff about it."
Miss July 1998 took him into a living room, where clusters of people stood with hors d'oeuvres and drinks. The men were dressed in silk pajamas and robes, and the women were draped in lacy lingerie and other forms of transparent sleeping attire. The room was furnished with 17th century antiques, a Steinway grand piano and more hand-carved oak paneling.
"What did Mr. Hefner add to the existing property?" Bond asked.
"It was redesigned to his specifications. The tennis courts and pool were put in then, as well as the sauna, bathhouse and the one-of-a-kind Grotto and jacuzzi. You have to see it to believe it."
"Will you show it to me?" Bond asked.
"Later, perhaps," she said, blushing.
She took him through the rest of the ground floor, including the exquisite dining room where De Kooning's Woman hung over a marble fireplace and three 15th century French tapestries of lions hung above the sideboard. Bond was impressed by the manor. It was a palace fit for any king, and a warm, friendly atmosphere pervaded each of its rooms.
As they came back into the Great Hall, Bond noticed Hugh Hefner himself, talking with guests and holding a glass. Bond caught the scent of Jack Daniels. Hefner was wearing purple tailor-made silk pajamas and a smoking jacket. Two gorgeous young women, a blonde and a brunette, stood on either side of him. They were wearing next to nothing.
Bond loved pajamas, so he felt some kinship with his host in that respect. He had decided to wear a navy satin set, also tailor-made, covered by his beloved Hong Kong housecoat decorated in Chinese characters, which comfortably concealed his shoulder-holstered Walther PPK.
"Excuse me, Hef," Lisa said, stepping up to the group.
He turned to her and beamed. "Lisa!" he said, interrupting his conversation to give her a hug. "You look lovely."
"Thank you. May I introduce Mr. Bond?"
He held out his hand to Bond and said, "Hugh Hefner."
"Bond. James Bond." The handshake was firm and dry.
The founder and editor-in-chief of PLAYBOY looked fit and energetic and was taller than Bond had remembered. He carried himself with authority and dignity, yet also exhibited characteristics of playfulness and good humor.
"Welcome to the Mansion." He indicated the others standing near him. "This is my personal physician, Dr. Mark Saginor, and this is one of our great American singers, Mel Tormé." He introduced the two young women as Tracy and Sandy. Apparently Hefner had not one but two dates for the party.
"It's a pleasure to be here," Bond said, shaking hands with the others.
Hefner said, "Excuse me, I need to speak with Mr. Bond alone. Thank you, Lisa."
She smiled at Bond and said, "If you need anything else, just look for me. There's a lot more you haven't seen."
"Especially that Grotto," Bond said. Lisa wagged her finger at him as Hefner and Bond withdrew into the library. The library boasted a LeRoy Neiman original and a backgammon table designed especially for Hefner. An elegant bookcase built into the wall next to the fireplace held leather-bound volumes of every PLAYBOY magazine, dating back to 1953.
"The CIA came to see me today to tell me what you're here to do," Hefner said.
Bond nodded. He knew that Hefner would have been briefed. After all, if there were any threat of violence at a social event attended by 500 celebrities and Centerfolds, Hefner would know about it.
"If there's anything I can do, just ask," he said.
"Just try to relax and enjoy your party, sir," Bond said. "No one else knows of my real purpose here?"
"No one knows. Not even the security guards."
"Do you know if Martin Tuttle has arrived?"
"I haven't seen him. You know, there was always something I didn't like about that guy. I'm not sure why I kept letting him visit the Mansion. Some of our younger guests enjoyed having him around, I suppose. I always found him to be obnoxious."
"Do you have any idea who his contact might be?" Bond asked.
Hefner shook his head. "He knows a lot of people. Show business people."
"Such as?"
"Another musician, Chocky Day. A couple of film stars are in his circle."
"Is there anyone out of the ordinary coming tonight?"
"I would hope so, or it wouldn't be a party at the Playboy Mansion," Hefner grinned broadly. "But I know what you mean. We have some foreigners coming tonight. I'll ask Mary O'Connor, my personal assistant, to point them out to you. They're all in the film industry. I'm sure there will be dozens of people here tonight whom I've never met before. I suppose it could be anyone. Sorry."
"That's quite all right, you've been very helpful," Bond said.
Bond was fairly sure Hefner had not recognized him. Their encounter in Jamaica had been a long time ago.
Bond turned to go, saying, "I'd like to walk around the grounds to get a feel for the place before the big crowds arrive."
"By all means," Hefner said. "Wait, I have something I want to give you. You might find it useful."
He opened a cabinet next to the backgammon table and took out three objects. One was a Sheaffer Levenger exclusive Mediterranean fountain pen. It was made of beautiful blue translucent polymer with a jewel-like appearance, further enhanced by gold-plated rings and pocket clips. The other objects were a black device the size and shape of a cassette tape case and a small waxy thing that looked like an earplug.
"This is an ordinary fountain pen with a 14-karat-gold tip," Hefner said, handing it to Bond. "What's unusual about it is that it's also a CSS 600 UHF transmitter with a range of a thousand meters. The receiver will fit neatly in the pocket of your housecoat, and you can listen discreetly with this tiny earpiece. No wires are needed. It has two channels, but you'll need only one. If you can get the pen attached to Tuttle somehow, you'll be able to listen to everything he says."
Bond was amused and impressed. "Where did you get this?" he asked, taking the pen, receiver and earplug.
"People give me thingamajigs all the time," Hefner said with a smile. "My two greatest interests are gadgets and girls."
"I can relate to that."
Chapter 4
Bond surveyed the grounds, which were decorated with an Arabian Nights theme and entirely covered by connecting tents extending to the swimming pool, the Grotto and beyond. Bright colored flowers and fairy lights covered the hillside, bushes and trees, and by nightfall the effect was magical. There were bars at the pool and in the main tent area. Staph circulated with plates of rumaki, skewered Nile River shrimps, cold mussels stuffed with pine nuts and rice, Egyptian meatballs, grape leaves stuffed with lamb and phyllo puffs with spinach and feta.
Bond had heard the place described as a "Shangri-la where time stands still," and it was true.
An endless parade of California's elite began to arrive, and within an hour; the party was in full swing. A disc jockey provided music while guests danced to everything from big band to Fifties doo-wop to disco and rap. The sight of scantily clad women of all ages gyrating on the dance floor attracted a large group of spectators. Celebrities from all fields -- entertainment, sports, politics -- were among the guests. Bond recognized Tony Curtis with two lovely girls. He was introducing them to Robe
rt Culp as "Monday" and "Tuesday." ("The rest of the week couldn't make it," Curtis explained.) Bond noticed attorney Vincent Bugliosi in a heated discussion with writer Larry Gelbart. Jim Brown was dancing with his date. Hefner and his two girlfriends seemed to know everyone, and he was always greeted with enthusiasm and affection.
Bond noticed that the party was not without security. Several well-built men stood about, not so inconspicuously, armed with unconcealed Beretta Model 92F 9mm handguns.
He was scanning the crowd near the main buffet line when he noticed Lisa Dergan talking with another striking blonde who had just entered with a tall, handsome man in his 50s. Behind him was an even taller man, a beefed-up bodyguard. The blonde was in her mid-20s and had a wide face, clear blue eyes and a fabulous figure. She was wearing a black leather catsuit with a low neckline and open-lace sides from her arms down to her ankles. An impressive pearl necklace accented her cleavage. Her companion had short, curly hair, brown eyes and a swarthy complexion. He looked as if he had eastern-European Gypsy ancestry.
"Oh, there you are," Lisa said, beckoning to him. "Mr. Bond, this is my friend Victoria Zdrok, Miss October l994."
Victoria beamed and shook his hand. "How do you do?" She had a distinct accent that Bond placed immediately.
"What's a nice Ukrainian girl like you doing in a place like this?" he asked.
She gave him a sexy smirk. "Maybe I'm not so nice," she purred. "How did you know where I come from?"
"Oh, let's just say that Russia and her neighbors used to be one of my hobbies."
"Victoria was one of the first students from the Soviet Union to come to America to attend high school and college," Lisa said. "She finished college before she was 18 and now has a law degree and a master's in clinical psychology, is that right?"
"That's correct," Victoria said.
"Be careful," the man warned with a much thicker Russian accent, "she will prosecute you before you can say na zdoróvie." Bond placed him nearer to Moscow.