Jim Hopkins: The name's Bond, Hemi te Bond, aka Double O Whitu

To honour the spirit of our anxious age, we proudly present a brief extract from Ian Whanua's thrilling new thriller ...

Goldfingers - the Handshake of Doom

Chapter 1 - Danger in the Dark

Scarcely daring to breathe, the taut, muscular figure inched across the huge room, eyes straining to detect any obstacles in his path.

But all he could see was the inky blackness that surrounded and enveloped and, yes, even threatened to swallow him and spit him out - like the pip of a well-chewed pipi.

Secret agent Double O Whitu felt a ripple of anxiety flit through his wincyette pyjamas as he took another blind and nervous step. Don't panic, thought Hemi te Bond.

He continued his deadly journey, balancing on the balls of his flinty feet and moving with the agile grace of a lithe rhinoceros. All he could hear was the soft whisper of his own breath. Well, that and the sound of 100 people snoring.

It had been three days since the great foreshore hui started and Bond still hadn't adjusted to sleeping in a big marae with a host of fellow subversives. One dusky maiden, yes. But a koha of kaumatua? No way.

More to the point, when his sodden bladder roused him from dreamless sleep at 3am, he still didn't know how to find the toilet. But find it he must or his cover would be blown - and his jammies seriously dampened.

Hemi stepped gingerly over the supine radicals on the floor. It would be so easy to eliminate them all, he thought. One burst from his trusty Tame Gun and the state was safe. Parekura Horomovie would hold his seat; Mayor Haggard wouldn't need to worry about terrorists blowing up his bridge (having suggested the idea in the first place); peace and love would reign again.

It's tempting, thought Bond. But no. There'd only be an inquiry.

Besides, his perilous trip was almost over. Soon, the urgent swelling in his manly loins would be just a ...

"Aaaarrggghhhh!" An anguished scream pierced the night as a white-hot shaft of pain shot through Bond's tense body.

"Wassamatta?" mumbled a heavily tattooed man who always slept with a McCahon painting under his pillow.

Hopping, clutching his foot in agony, Bond still dimly recalled his instructions. "If you want'em to trust you, you've got to speak their language." That's what HQ had said. Speak their language. And that's what he had to do now.

"Oh, it's nothing," moaned Bond. "I just stubbed my tohunga."

Chapter 2 - The Flashback

"Come in," roared an unfamiliar voice as Double O Whitu strode through the door.

"You're not Mother," rasped Hemi.

"Forget Mother," snarled the imposing figure, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sir Howard Morrison. "I'm Bro. But you can call me Cuzzy. I'm your new handler, Bond."

"Mmmm," murmured Hemi insouciantly, idly dropping a martini into his Speights. "If I'm going to be handled by anyone, I'd prefer it was Miss Moneydollar."

"Inflation's not the only thing that's changed round here," snapped Bro. "We've got new enemies to overcome. Especially the evil genius Goldfingers, architect of indigenous insurrection. Find him, Bond. And sink his wicked waka. My orders come right from the top."

"You mean ... ?"

"That's right, Bond. Heather Simpson."

Chapter 3 - The Thrilling Climax

So far so good, thought Hemi te Bond. The radicals weren't suspicious.

They knew him as angry activist Tino Rangitungatira; a tangata whenuist with impeccable credentials. Credentials which had not only gained him an audience with Tariana (rhymes with Tatiana - very KGB) after which he'd grubbed her phone - he was going to bug it but grubs seemed more ethnic - but also allowed him to infiltrate a mysterious hip-hop trust that planned to hangi the Prime Minister.

In fact, they were going to hongi and hangi her, which seemed like overkill to Hemi. But he'd passed the information on to Bro and the trust had had its funding cancelled and that was that.

And this was this. The big moment. At last, he was to meet his nemesis, the evil indigene Goldfingers. Hemi glanced nervously at his watch.

"It's one minute past 10," he said to his companion. "Maybe Goldfingers has gone for moko?"

The heavily tattooed man clutching a McCahon under his arm shot Bond a puzzled look.

"You know, a cup of tea and a ciggie," explained Hemi helpfully. But the conversation went no further.

"Haven't you heard, Mr te Bond?" sneered a familiar and sinister voice. "There's no smoking anywhere nowadays. Ha ha ha ha ha."

Hemi spun around to face his worst nightmare - the evil Goldfingers. But all he could see was a dim figure shrouded in shadows.

"Good morning, Double O Whitu," hissed Goldfingers. "Care for a handshake? Ha ha ha ha ha ha."

Suddenly, alarm bells rang in Bond's trained mind. He knew that voice. He recognised that manly physique. It was ... it was ... Yes. At last. He knew. Goldfingers was none other than the erstwhile Minister of Speeding Tickets - John Tama ... Tame ... Tami ...

"Hori?" inquired a second sinister voice that Bond also instantly recognised. It was his other nemesis, the Deadly Dr Don, still looking brash as he lurked in the gloom behind Goldfingers.

"So this is where you've been for the last few months," murmured Hemi. But why ...

"Are we working together?" inquired Dr Don, like some dastardly mindreader. "Let me explain, Mr Bond. You see, Goldfingers wants his old job back. And I want the job of the person who employs him. That makes us natural allies, wouldn't you say? Ha ha ha ha ha ha."

Hmmm, thought Bond, stroking his steely jaw. Wait till Bro hears about this ...