inbuilt dislike of cold murder, the feeling that this was not the predestined moment, the likelihood that he would have to murder the chauffeur also – these, combined with the softness of the night and the fact that the ‘Sound System’ was now playing a good recording of one of his favourites, ‘After You’ve Gone’, and that cicadas were singing from the lignum vitae tree, said ‘No’. But at that moment, as the car coasted down Love Lane towards the bright mercury of the sea, James Bond knew that he was not only disobeying orders, or at best dodging them, he was also being a bloody fool.
