Driver's Notebook: Spy vs. Spy
August 1, 2006
The blackberry vibrated, sending a surge of adrenaline into my bloodstream. With the e-mail came my mission: Steal into Prague undetected and penetrate the airtight set of the newest James Bond installment, Casino Royale, to see the only Aston Martin DBS in existence. I was going to spy on the world’s greatest spy.
Though whispers and innuendo had been circulating for months, no one had actually seen the new Bond car. Up until now, Aston Martin had released only a few vague sketches to whet the world’s appetite. I—and at least one other notable spy—would be among the first to see the replacement for the Vanquish. I set off to the Czech Republic to chase down the gentleman’s supercar.; function voidFunc() { } voidFunc();)
I arrived at Prague’s Ruzyne Airport and slipped through customs. I had no Walther PPK, no bespoke Brioni tux, no exploding pen or laser-equipped Omega Seamaster, no Q, no M—I was armed only with a pen, a notebook, and copious amounts of dark, Eastern European coffee. In fact, caffeine would be one of my few real tools in getting through this nonstop weekend in one piece. (Click image to enlarge)
Another was my driver, a silent Czech named Borivoj, who assured me that he would get me into the city undetected by avoiding all major highways. Soon the seemingly endless gray expanse of countryside gave way to the Baroque stone splendor that gives Prague its reputation as the most beautifully preserved of the old European capitals. As we glided along the banks of the Vltava River, I saw the moon rise above the towering stone fortifications of Prague Castle and watched as it cast an eerie, pale glow over the glittering fairy lights of the famous Charles Bridge.
We arrived at the Aria Hotel, just a cobblestoned block from the river. Nestled between the U.S. Embassy and a tiny teashop, this American-owned hotel is one of the chicest addresses in Prague. Each floor is themed according to a musical genre, and each room is dedicated to a different musician. I fell asleep the moment I heard the first notes of Estampes wafting from the flat-screen monitor by the bed in the Debussy suite.
The next morning I made a stealthy exit from the hotel into Borivoj’s waiting
black Mercedes S500 sedan. A snowy wind had blanketed the city overnight,
transforming this storied capital into a setting for a Gothic fairy tale.
Following a long and circuitous trip through the bleak, sparsely populated Czech
countryside, we were waved through the gates of Prague’s most famous film
studio—which consisted of an outcropping of 1960s Cold War modernist blocks set
roughly into a battered copse. Directed to the largest of these buildings, I
stood outside the hulking metal doors, which slid open with a sound like that of
a garbage can being dragged along the concrete. I entered and was instantly
enveloped in a damp, cool darkness with the smell of fresh gasoline and wet
concrete permeating the air—a gentleman’s perfume.
I could hear movement from somewhere in the vast dark expanse,
and instinctively reached for my shoulder holster, forgetting that I had armed
myself only with a 40-cent Bic. It was too late; there was nowhere to go.
"It’s what you’ve been waiting for," an echoing voice, unmistakably German, boomed from the darkness. I turned toward it, and Ulrich Bez, Aston Martin’s CEO, emerged from the shadows grinning like a hunter displaying his spoils. He made a signal and an electric buzz filled the warehouse like a swarm of bees as a concentrated shaft of light appeared from the ceiling.
advertisement
; function voidFunc() { } voidFunc();){kind=link}