Casino Royale

Mr. Bond?

- (children sing "Frère Jacques") - Yes?

I'm Lieutenant Mathis of the Special Police.

These are my credentials.

They appear to be in order.

Come with me.

They used to say a good spy is a pure spy, inside and out.

Roses, Tanagra figurines and Debussy.

He plays Debussy every afternoon,

from sunset until it's too dark to read the music.

Stands on his head a lot, eats royal jelly.

Lets his intestines down and washes them by hand.

Something he learned during his sojourn in Tibet.

M, what gives?

I forgot to mention lions.

- (Russian man) Lions and more lions. - (American) We're surrounded by lions.

I did not come here to be devoured by symbols of monarchy!

I warn you, M, if this is a trap...

Calm yourselves, gentlemen. It's no trap, I assure you.

The lions are only curious. He has few visitors.

That I can believe.

A veritable Eden, is it not, gentlemen?

Eden without an Eve is an absurdity.

A good spy is a pure spy.

Not good. Great.

The greatest spy in history, gentlemen.

The true, one and only, original James Bond.

- The gentlemen are here, Sir James. - Thank you.

- My dear Bond. - My dear M.

Ransome, CIA, Sir James.

J-Junior cipher c-clerk in m-my day, weren't you, Ransome?

Yes, sir. JCC, class G, SIC to SCCT.

Uh... CIA, Washington DC.

Smernov, KGB, Sir James.

Ah, yes. L-Labor camp inspector.

Ikon 988, GPU, Siberian sector.

I remember your ch-chap Lenin very well.

First-class organizer, second-class mind.

Le Grand, Sir James. Deuxième bureau.

Promoted at last from the vice detail?

How incredibly well you look, James.

Time, my dear M, does not exist within these walls.

They ain't for real.

Yes, a far cry from our embattled world.

In my day, spying was an alternative to war.

The spy was a member of a select and immaculate priesthood,

vocationally d-devoted, sublimely disinterested.

Hardly a description of that sexual acrobat

who leaves a t-trail of beautiful dead women like blown roses behind him.

- You mean... - You know very well who I mean.

That b-bounder to whom you gave my name and number.

My dear James, when you left us we were a small service,

under-financed, ludicrously ill-equipped.

It was essential that your legend be maintained.

Without a James Bond 007, no one would have respected us.

Him and his wretched g-gadgets.

We must make use of the weapons of our time.

So I observe.

You, Ransome, with your trick carnation that s-spits cyanide.

You ought to be ashamed.

The Russians started it.

And you, Smernov, with an armoury concealed in your grotesque boots.

- (jangling) - Listen to them tinkle.

And you, Le Grand, with a different deadly poison

in each of your fly buttons.

And you, M, with your flame-throwing fountain pens.

Y-Y-You're joke-shop spies, gentlemen.

We are in the last half of the 20th century, Sir James.

- Even you have to face it. - Why should I, when I can face that?

Look at my garden. Out there, there is a black rose.

Not dark red, but black.

As a raven's wing at midnight.

I would not exchange one single petal

for anything your world has to offer,

including an Aston M-Martin with lethal accessories.

You have only contempt for the proletariat, Sir James. This we know.

If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd lost your faith in democracy.

You can break the glass, but you can't hold back the weather.

Things are bad.

I've lost 11 agents in the last fortnight, seven killed, four missing.

- Is my namesake among them? - He may well be tomorrow.

Eight of ours were given the works... two in the Pentagon.

- Sixteen. - KGB is depleted.

I cannot disclose exact figures.

The enemy has penetrated our most secret inner circles.

- He reads our very mind. - For all we know,

he has his eye on us now.

Are you quite sure he is not one or m-more of you?

- Oh, no, no. - Absolutely sure.

Until this danger is past, we must stand united in the defense of all spies,

great or small, regardless of nationality.

Calamity makes strange b-bedfellows, but why, in the strength of your unity,

do you disturb a gentleman in his retirement?

We need your inspirational leadership.

Please give us the benefit of your incomparable powers of deduction.

- For all freedom-loving peoples. - For the glorious socialist revolution.

If I may interrupt this flow of clichés,

it is now that time of day I have set apart for Debussy.

Can this be the man who won a Victoria Cross at Mafeking?

The hero of the Ashanti Uprising?

What genius to be wasted in the service of a crumbling empire.

Why, at the height of his powers, did Bond decide to retire?

Mata Hari, my dear friend.

- What's the connection? - The woman in his life.

- I don't get it. - It was his painful duty...

to lure her across the Spanish frontier into France,

where we stood her in front of a firing squad.

He really loved that woman.

Well, James?

I'm sorry, old man, but what you ask is quite impossible.

Perhaps... this will change your decision.

My record speaks my loyalty. But no, not even for her, McTarry.

Sorry, James.

There's McTarry's signal. Stand by.

- Zero. - On.

- Fire! - Fire!

Up 200!

- (man) Authority to Control. - Go ahead.

Proceed with Smersh Plan B.

Sir James Bond is back, with his morals, his vows, and his celibate image.

We must destroy that image.

Riverbank to Control.

- (woman) Go ahead. - The target has just entered Scotland.

- M's castle to Control. - (woman) M's name is McTarry. Use it.

Plan B in operation.

McTarry Castle completely occupied, with only one change.

Agent Mimi is now M's widow.

Agent Mimi impersonating Lady Fiona?

Well, she has the best Scots accent.

And that's all that's left of the McTarry.

Your husband d-died as he lived, Lady Fiona.

In the service of Her Majesty.

I thought it would be my p-painful duty to impart the news.

How did you know your husband M... I'm sorry, McTarry... was dead?

- We were told. - Might I ask who told you?

- The Grey Piper. - The who?

Tell Sir James about the Grey Piper, lass.

Whenever a McTarry dies, he comes down from the mountain,

over the loch and through the heather,

playing the clan lament.

We always put a tappit-hen of usquebaugh outside the castle door.

- Tappit-hen? - A quart o' whisky.

- Is he a real p-piper? - We dinna ken.

But it's been the same one for 600 years.

- Naught else remains? - Nothing to s-speak of, I'm afraid.

It was found in a tree, 100 yards from where he stood.

Took off, as it were, and flew like a b-bird.

But whether it is an article of apparel

or an anatomical f-feature, that is the question.

Should it be given Christian burial? Just how p-personal is a toupee?

It can only be regarded as a "hairloom."

Eliza, put it with all the other relics of McTarry glory.

We all ken that our beloved McTarry of the Glen

was a different man in Whitehall.

But McTarry women never ask questions.

According to clan tradition, when the laird dies,

a black he-goat must be ta'en alive

off Ben Tarry by six barefoot virgins.

I myself slaughter it.

The daughters wrest the stomach out, and stuff it wi' entrails.

Bright entrails.

Sear it, boil it, and serve it up.

And... eat it?

- Warm reekin'. - Sounds d-delicious.

We start feastin' at midnight, washin' the haggis down wi' usquebaugh.

One gives strength to the limbs, the other fire to the blood for dancin'.

- Dancing? - The McTarry funeral fling.

"Argar, argar garar goru argar" it goes.

Most m-moving.

Ah, we dance till we fall in our tracks.

And after an hour's repose, the piper wakes us

to the tune o' "Awa' to the Grouse,"

and awa' we go to the memorial grouse shoot.

B-But surely the grouse are not in season?

Whenever a McTarry dies, the grouse come into season.

I'm Heather.

I'm Meg. Your bath's ready, Sir James.

- Thank you. - At the end of the passage.

- Very kind of you. - Let us help you out o' your duddies.

- No, thank you. I can manage m-my... - We always helped Daddy.

How many... of you are there? D-Daughters, I mean.

- Eleven in all. - Eleven? M-My word.

And how do the ages... Ho-ho-ha-ha!... run?

Who is the... How young is the youngest?

- Sixteen. - And the eldest?

- Nineteen. - You mean there are only...?

Ha-ha! Careful, that's my loose kneecap.

There are only three years between all... Ho-ho-ho!... 11 of you?

Some of us are adopted daughters.

I see. Ooh. Steady.

- Are there any m-men in the house? - Nane but the pipers.

My daddy only liked the lassies.

Your d-daddy really was a d-different man in Whitehall.

I'm testing the temperature of the water,

as I always did for my daddy.

He used to call me his little thermometer.

- (key falls to the floor) - Well? Get in.

- Get in? - Get in!

You're sure I'm not c-crowding you?

Get in.