When 008 walked into the party, more than just female heads turned to look at his handsome face. His broad shoulders and narrow hips were accented by the white dinner jacket and dark trousers. He was tall and had dark wavy hair. A pale scar accentuated his jaw line. He walked over to the bar and leaned next to his target, Viktor Kamchovski. The plump Russian was the chief financier of SMERSH. 008 stared Kamchovski in the eyes and introduced himself, "Bend, John Bend". The bartender wandered over and Bend pointed a strong finger at Kamchovski's glass. "I'll have what he is drinking...shaken, not stirred".
The bartender looked confused for a moment and gave a slight shrug as he poured champagne into a glass and set it along with a bowl of pretzels next to Bend. 008 grabbed a handful of the thin pretzel sticks and leaned nonchalantly on the bar. A beautiful woman in a very low cut dress was walking towards him. Bend tossed a pretzel into his mouth with cool athletic grace.
The pretzel stuck sideways in the back of his throat. Bend started making hacking and small retching sounds. Viktor Kamchovski turned and stared. Bend was thrashing his tongue in a frantic effort to dislodge the pretzel. His mouth was opening and closing like a fish on a river bank. Bend stuck a finger down his throat and finally broke the pretzel. He also dislodged and broke open the tiny cyanide capsule cemented behind his molar.
He fell to the floor, writhing in agony. Kamchovski leaned over the gasping agent and tore open Bend's immaculate dinner jacket and tie. "Do...you...expect...me...to...talk" John Bend struggled to whisper the words.
"No", intoned the Russian. "I expect you to die". He stated as Bend's face turned purple. " Unless the paramedics get here very soon". Kamchovski started chest compressions, but it was too late; 008 was dead.