I am speeding in an unmarked Mazda across a wind-whipped English airstrip with a beautiful girl and two former members of British Special Forces, when a red Ford Escort driven by a man in a balaclava rams into us from behind. ‘THREAT! THREAT! THREAT!’ shouts David, my driver, as the rogue car moves alongside and smashes repeatedly into our flank. Metal grinds, wheels smoke and squeal and then Graeme, the ex-soldier beside me, fires three ear-splitting rounds from his 9mm Glock. But the Escort is already steering its snout into our rear wheel arch, forcing us into a 40mph spin, and we are skidding, lurching and sliding towards another car and two more men in balaclavas, there are explosions, smoke billows, someone is screaming and I hope it’s the girl…
This was my first real taste of the world of James Bond. It lasted about 15 seconds and was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. It was part of a bespoke trip organised by Quintessentially Escape, a new division of the eponymous private members’ club and concierge service. The Bond lifestyle was chosen as one of the templates on the very sound assumption that most men – probably all men, deep down, even the Dalai Lama and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Elton John – fantasise about being 007.
It’s not surprising. As imagined by Ian Fleming in the 1950s, and then coolly incarnated on screen by Sean Connery in the 1960s, Bond became everything a man might want to be: unflappable, witty, deadly in combat, lethally attractive to women. He drives fast, eats well, dresses sharply and drinks, smokes and gambles with impunity. The myth wobbled a bit in the Roger Moore 1970s and Timothy Dalton 1980s before Pierce Brosnan reinvented Bond as a modern, insouciant action man. Now Daniel Craig has brought a new, hard-edged realism to the franchise and Bond is bigger than ever. The centenary of Ian Fleming’s birth – you could call it his big Double-O – is marked on 28 May with the publication of Sebastian Faulks’s Devil May Care, the first ‘official’ Bond book for years. This kicks off a riot of Bond-related celebrations that culminates with the release of Craig’s second film as 007, Quantum of Solace, in November. Quintessentially’s timing, like that of a Connery quip, is impeccable.
My Bond weekend began when I checked in to the penthouse of the Charlotte Street Hotel – great view of the Telecom Tower, no phone bugs, no tarantulas in the fruit basket – before meeting my handlers. David and Graeme have worked as soldiers and as private security contractors in Ireland and the Middle East. They provide security to ‘high-net-worth individuals and A-listers’. David, a trim and energetic Buddhist, says I can’t write about a lot of things they tell me, like details of covert operations, false identities, counter-espionage – and his and Graeme’s surnames. I have no problem with this because Graeme, a slight, baby-faced, soft-spoken Scot, gives me the distinct impression he could kill me with his thumb in 0.5 seconds.
They brief me on all I will learn – defensive driving, close-quarter combat, surveillance techniques – before a black chauffeur-driven Jaguar sweeps us out of London to Denham aerodrome, where the rotors of a black PremiAir AS355 Eurocopter are already turning. As Johnny the pilot buzzes us over BA’s new Terminal 5 and the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, I am awash with visions of knocking Spectre choppers out of the sky, like Connery in You Only Live Twice. These daydreams continue as we land next to the jumbo used for the aeroplane scenes in Casino Royale at Dunsford Aerodrome, and get into the Mazda. They last until they are shattered by the first crunching impact with the Escort.
Minutes later, I am standing by the ticking cars, the reek of burned rubber and hot oil smells strafing my nostrils, shaking the hand of Anthony, the bloke in the balaclava (turns out he’s a stunt driver, and mates with the man who performed the spectacular Aston Martin crash in Casino Royale). David tells me I’m going to learn all the techniques I’ve just experienced. Prime among these is the J-Turn. If you find yourself driving into trouble at speed, you pump the brake, reverse as fast as you can, wrench the wheel in a three-quarter turn to put the car into a reverse skid, drop into second gear as the nose swings round, and accelerate away. It’s tricky but exciting. I burn the clutch out of the Mazda (the cars cost about £250, from a breaker’s yard) but master it in a vast, white Volvo, leaving great, black rubber arcs on the tarmac as I skid it through 180°.
