Bond Movies 07 - Die Another Day

by Raymond Benson

  Bond suddenly found himself strapped to the torture table in agony. He didn’t know what was causing the pain. He squinted at the man with the Colonel Moon mask and demanded, ‘Who are you?’

  The man laughed and tore off the mask to reveal a completely blank face - smooth and fleshy, with no eyes, nose, or mouth - nothing. It was one of the most horrible images Bond had ever seen.

  He woke with a start, realised where he was and breathed deeply. As the dregs of the nightmare trickled away, Bond settled back into his hiding place and went back to sleep.

  06 - Stopover in Hong Kong

  Wet and bedraggled, James Bond climbed up a quay on the Kowloon side of Victoria Harbour and caught his breath. The mile-long swim from the South Korean military ship had been the most difficult part of his journey. The two days had passed relatively quickly and with no untoward events. As was his plan, Bond had hidden in storage rooms, but mostly he had stayed in a torpedo tube that had been surprisingly comfortable. When the ship arrived in the harbour, Bond simply went up on deck and dived into the warm, green water before anyone could stop him.

  Now that he was ashore, it was time to get things moving. Hong Kong had always been one of Bond’s favourite cities and this hadn’t changed after it returned to Chinese rule in 1997. Colonial life remained if one looked hard enough for it. It was a place dedicated to the pursuit of profit and pleasure.

  Bond walked from the quay to the Hotel Rubyeon Royale, one of the world’s top hotels. He had stayed there often and the manager was a friend. Occupying a prime location overlooking the harbour, the hotel was situated in the very heart of Hong Kong’s business and entertainment district. It was surrounded by well-tended gardens that had originally been modelled after landscapes in England and it displayed a striking mixture of Chinese and British design schemes.

  He went inside to the registration desk and said, ‘My usual suite please.’

  The supercilious clerk looked him up and down and said, ‘I’m sorry sir, do you have any luggage or ... credit card?’

  Before Bond could reply, a familiar voice interrupted. ‘Mister Bond! So good to see you. It’s been a long time.’

  A middle-aged Chinese man stepped out of the office and said to the clerk, ‘Open the Presidential Suite.’

  Bond shook hands with him. ‘Mister Chang. Perhaps you could send up my tailor. And some food.’ ‘The lobster’s good. May I suggest quail’s eggs, rice and sliced seaweed?’,

  ‘And if there’s any left, the ’61 Bollinger?’

  ‘And a barber?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Chang leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Been busy have we, Mister Bond?’

  Bond smiled and replied, ‘Just surviving, Mister Chang.’

  Three hours later, Bond put down his Philishave. He examined himself in the mirror and decided that the haircut he had received earlier wasn’t too bad. He looked almost like his old self. The bruises were still there, but he felt like a new man. There was a knock at the door. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Bond stepped out of the bathroom and walked past the bed, on which a fabulous array of new shirts were spread. He paused at the table in the sitting room, plucking a grape from the display that included fruit, caviar and champagne.

  Bond opened the door to find a gorgeous young Chinese girl wearing a terrycloth robe and carrying a gym bag.

  She batted her long eyelashes and said, ‘I am Peaceful Fountains of Desire. The masseuse. I come with compliments of the manager.’

  Bond took a second to take her in. ‘I’m sure you do.’

  He ushered her inside but checked her out as she put down the bag. The girl removed some oil from he bag, beckoned him into the bedroom and indicated the bed.

  ‘Face down, please.’

  Bond moved the shirts, then stepped close to her, smiling. He put his arms around her but she said, ‘I’m not that kind of masseuse.’

  Before she could pull away, Bond slipped his hand beneath her robe and pulled out a concealed Beretta.

  He held it against her and said, ‘I’m not that kind of customer.’

  ‘Please ... It’s for my own protection,’ she stammered.

  Noticing that her eyes kept darting to the full-length mirror that took up a large part of a wall, Bond pulled away but kept the gun trained on her. He picked up a heavy ashtray from the dresser and lobbed it at the mirror, shattering it Mr Chang and three heavies stood in a darkened room, surrounded by banks of recording equipment. Their shock gave way to embarrassment.

  ‘My,’ Bond said. ‘A room with a view. You think I haven’t always known you were Chinese Intelligence, Mister Chang?’

  The manager stepped into the room, now sullen -far from his usual grovelling self.

  ‘Hong Kong is our turf now, Bond.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t come to take it back.’

  With the gun, Bond directed the heavies towards the door. They looked at Chang, who nodded. After the men left the room, Chang asked, ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Just to help you settle a score. A terrorist named Zao killed three of your men recently. Get me into North Korea and I’ll take care of him for you.’

  Chang made a face, unconvinced. ‘What’s in it for you?’

  ‘A chance to reminisce. Zao has information I need.’ Chang was still unsure, but Bond surprised him by returning the Beretta. ‘Consider it a favour to your country. I’m ... working freelance on this,’ he said.

  ‘I, uhm, will have to ask Beijing,’ Chang said.

  ‘Do it. Now get out.’ Bond looked at Peaceful and said, ‘You too, unless you really want to give me a massage.’

  She pouted and joined an irritated Chang. Together they left the room.

  Bond decided to reward himself with a glass of his favourite vintage champagne. He was back in business.

  Later in the evening a large envelope was delivered to Bond’s suite. He was pleased to find that it contained a full dossier on Zao and a note from Chang that read, ‘Check out time is twelve noon tomorrow. Please be prompt.’ Bond took that to mean that his request would be granted.

  He poured another glass of Bollinger and redined on the couch with the dossier. He had pulled the curtains open earlier, revealing a magnificent view of the city’s splendid, colourful skyscape. The suite was on a floor high enough to escape the noise of the traffic, but low enough to take in the flashing neon that characterised Hong Kong at night

  Zao had an interesting background. Bom Tan T ing Zao, he was the eldest of six children. His father was North Korean but his mother was Chinese. There wasn’t much in the report concerning Zao’s childhood, save for the mention of an early arrest at the age of nine for setting fire to a South Korean Jeep. Since the act was viewed as somewhat patriotic, he was let off with a warning. His military service was distinguished, for he had excelled as a member of a Special Forces unit. This experience had taught him unorthodox methods of killing and going by the evidence in the file, he was alarmingly good at it. At the age of twenty-one, he was recruited into the Reconnaissance Bureau of the General Staff Department, an organisation responsible for collecting strategic operational and tactical intelligence for the Ministry of the People’s Armed Forces. The unit also boasted of infiltrating intelligence personnel into South Korea through tunnels under the Demilitarized Zone and by sea. Zao spent sue years working as a spy, but to all intents and purposes he was really a terrorist. At least fourteen incidents in South Korea were attributed to him, including three assassinations, six bombings and one kidnapping. When he was twenty-eight, he was discharged from the service and went to work as a freelance agent for various military groups. It was believed that he was still secretly employed by the Reconnaissance Bureau, which farmed him out to different factions within the armed forces for his expertise in guerrilla warfare and methods of intimidation. He practised the kind of tactics that would never be condoned by the Geneva Convention and because of this he was in high demand.

  A
sick character, Bond thought. His former boss, Colonel Moon, was not much better. What Chinese Intelligence knew about him was sketchy, too, except for the period of time Moon had spent in Great Britain. He had spent four years at Oxford before travelling to America to study at Harvard. Moon had enjoyed the reputation of having radical ideas that he hadn’t been afraid of expressing. He was asked to leave Oxford for ‘inciting unrest’. After his time at Harvard, Moon went back to North Korea and, with his father’s influence, quickly became an army officer. Once he was established as a colonel with his own legion of followers, Moon broke away from the more moderate path his father had taken towards bringing about peace between the two Koreas. The younger Moon supported a more aggressive stance and he was not above participating in criminal enterprises to fund his endeavours; trading arms for conflict diamonds, for example, so that he could then use the diamonds to buy his way into other areas of nastiness. No one really knew what Moon had been spending his wealth on, but intelligence sources feared that he was developing a nuclear or biological capability.

  After a restful night and an exquisite breakfast Bond was refreshed and ready to go. He approached the front desk and found Chang back to his normal deferential self.

  ‘Ah, Mister Bond. I have a little something for you. To thank you for gracing us with your presence.’

  He lifted an elaborate Chinese box on to the counter. Bond opened it to find a passport, money and a freighter ticket to Havana.

  ‘Cuba?’ Bond asked.

  ‘It seems that Mister Zao has lost himself in Havana. ’ Chang smiled. ‘And here’s something else I thought you might be able to use.’ He placed an object wrapped in brown paper next to the box. Bond picked it up and immediately recognised the feel and weight of a Walther P99.

  ‘There are four magazines to go with it,’ Chang said.

  ‘I’m much obliged. I owe you one, Chang.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. When you see Zao, say goodbye from us.’

  Bond gathered his presents and said, ‘I’ll be happy to deliver the message.’

  07 - Jinxed

  Bond felt ambivalently about Cuba. The largest island in the Caribbean, once the jewel of the Spanish empire, Cuba has great natural beauty and still preserves many architectural treasures for the Colonial era. But unlike Bond’s beloved Jamaica, where even crime and political unrest cannot spoil the island’s vibrant way of life, Cuba - stifled by its lack of personal freedom - has a pervasive air of mistrust and suspicion. The only communist country in the western hemisphere is isolated from both the nearby United States and its Caribbean island neighbours: its closest ally is Russia, even though the latter has abandoned the communist way of life that originally brought them together. It is therefore a hotbed of intrigue and artifice — and a haven for spies and others who need to hide their activities from the world’s eyes.

  The trip from the Far East had been uneventful and frustrating. The freighter ride had taken far too long. Anything could have happened in that time. Zao might have left Cuba, M could have changed her mind about 007 and hell might have frozen over. Impatient and restless, Bond planned to waste no more valuable time once he got into the country. After leaving the ship, he paid a taxi driver to take him to the centre of the big city.

  Regardless of the political climate in Cuba, Havana was indeed beautiful perhaps the most attractive city in the Caribbean. Winston Churchill once said that he ‘might leave his bones there’, and that it was a place where ‘anything might happen’. Indeed, it was a city full of mystery, conspiracy and romance. The streets were full of dark-eyed sirens and men wearing Panama hats and white linen suits.

  He entered the cobbled paths of Habana Vieja, the oldest part of the city, where Ernest Hemingway once had a home not unlike the Hemingway House in Key West, Florida. It was a seductive area within fortified walls, full of Spanish Colonial buildings, convents, baroque churches and castles that reminded Bond of Madrid. As he moved along a busy long-decayed street that ran parallel with the harbour channel, the smell of tobacco wafted from his destination - a warehouse that bore the sign ‘Raoul’d Cigars’. He went inside, where Cubans were hard at work processing tobacco leaves on long tables. Beautiful young women rolled cigars on their inner thighs Very little light filtered in from the outside through slats in the windows. Bond approached the desk at the front of the factory and addressed the old man sitting behind it.

  ‘I’m here to pick up some Delectados.’

  The man looked surprised. ‘We haven’t made Delectados for thirty years.’

  Bond gave him a card. ‘Universal Exports. Check with your boss.’

  Shaking his head, the old man lifted an ancient telephone and made a call. He spoke in rapid Spanish as Bond looked around the room. The workers had taken a break and were participating in an afternoon karaoke session. One of the young girls was belting out a Caribbean tune, accompanied by an old battered ghetto blaster.

  The old man hung up and said, ‘Your passport, please.’ Bond handed it to him, then followed him towards some stairs. They went up two flights to the roof of the building, where another man sat at a table under the shade of a canopy. He was using an eyepiece to study the bejewelled handle of an antique knife. The Havana cityscape spread out behind him in all its glory.

  Raoul hadn’t changed much. Bond guessed that he must be around sixty by now. He wondered if the man would recognise him. It had been a long time.

  The old man handed Raoul the passport and then drew a gun from a holster on his belt. He stood off to one side and watched his boss examine the passport. Raoul beckoned for Bond to sit in the chair facing the table. After a moment, he handed the passport back to Bond, considered him for a few seconds, then reached down to retrieve a box of cigars marked ‘Delectados’. Using the knife, he slit the bind and said, ‘I’d come to think the Delectados would never be smoked.'

  He removed a cigar and nipped the tip. ‘They are particularly hazardous for one’s health, Mister Bond Do you know why?’

  Bond completed the code by replying, ‘It’s the addition of the Volado tobacco. Slow burning. It never goes out.’

  ‘Just like a sleeper.’

  ‘Sorry for the rude awakening.’

  Raoul lit the cigar and took a drag. He exhaled and said, 'I'm not sure if I am happy to see you again, Mister Bond. It has been a long time.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You know, I always thought I would relish this. But now that I finally taste it, I find the flavour too strong.’ He took another puff and then said, ‘I love my country, Mister Bond.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you to betray your people. I’m after a North Korean.’

  Bond could see that this information was a great relief to Raoul, although the man remained guarded. ‘A tourist?’ Raoul asked.

  ‘A terrorist.’

  ‘One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.’

  ‘Zao has no interest in freedom.’

  Raoul stared at Bond for another moment, puffing on the cigar. He then said something in Spanish to the other man, who put away his gun.

  ‘Will you share a drink with me?’ he asked Bond.

  Bond nodded and Raoul pulled two glasses out of a drawer, along with an unmarked liqueur bottle. He poured the cloudy brown liquid and handed a glass to Bond.

  ‘I still have some friends in high places,’ Raoul said as he held up his glass.

  ‘Cheers.’ Bond smiled as he savoured the distinctive flavour of thirty-year-old Havana rum.

  Raoul unrolled an old map of Cuba and placed a lit candlestick on one end and a microscope on the other to hold it down on the table.

  The sun had set and the workers had gone home. Bond and Raoul had eaten dinner together. The tamales were highly spiced. They were made with freshly ground com with pieces of pork mixed in with the dough. These were complemented with hot Cuban bread, which was crispy on the outside and lightly textured on the inside. After several glasses of rum, the old cigar maker was in a good
mood. He excused himself, went into his office for an hour to make some phone calls and then beckoned Bond to join him in the cool, shady room that was crowded with bric-a-brac.

  ‘Favours called in, some dollars spread about - we find your friend is in Los Organos.’ Raoul pointed to the spot on the map. ‘Perhaps he is sick. There’s a clinic there, on an island.’

  ‘What kind of clinic?’

  ‘It’s run by a Dr Alvarez. He supposedly leads the field in gene therapy. You know, increasing the life expectancy of ... well, our beloved leaders and the richest Westerners. We may have lost our freedom in the revolution, but we have a health system second to none.’

  Bond glanced about the office and noted the delicate weighing scales and other antiques.

  ‘You don’t seem to have done too badly out of the revolution,’ he said.

  ‘We all have our ways of getting by. You’d be surprised how many government officials come to me for little reminders of the decadent times.’ ‘Nothing wrong with a little decadence.’

  Bond took a pair of binoculars off a shelf and blew the dust off of them. He peered through them and found that they were in perfect condition; the lenses just needed a bit of cleaning. Next to a faded map of nearby island San Monique lay an old book that caught Bond’s eye as well. He picked it up and saw that it was Field Guide to Birds of the West Indies by a respected ornithologist.

  ‘Mind if I borrow these?’ he asked Raoul.

  The cigar maker shrugged and nodded. ‘My sources tell me this Zao is very dangerous. I wish I could give you more help.’