“That’s an interesting point, Mr. Bond,” Niki said. “The statuette at Dhekelia was that of Hera, the queen of the gods. This one was Poseidon. I wonder if that means anything.”
“I’m no ancient Greek scholar,” Bond said, “but I do know that Hera was a vengeful, jealous god.”
“What do you make of the numbers?”
Bond shrugged. “It’s a definite indication that these three acts were committed by the same group … and that there will probably be more.”
They had now reached two three-story white buildings of brick and plaster, some two hundred meters from the Helicopter Landing Site. The orange wind sock could be clearly seen blowing in the wind. The sound of an approaching Westland Wessex Mark II search-and-rescue helicopter was growing louder. They glanced up toward the sun and saw it descending from the sky, its silhouette resembling a humpback whale.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Niki said. She looked at her watch. It was just after noon. “Let’s meet in the mess at one? We can compare notes before we meet the base personnel at two. They will want answers.”
“Fine,” Bond said. “I’ll take a shower too. Perhaps we can go for a swim after the debriefing? And then maybe dinner?”
“You work fast, Mr. Bond,” she said with a slight smile.
He shrugged. “I leave in the morning.”
“We’ll see,” she said as they separated. Bond went up to the second floor of one building, normally occupied by a platoon. As he passed the showers, he noticed a sign on the door proclaiming that the plumbing was out of order. Bond turned and shouted to Niki, who was entering the barracks across the road.
“I need to use one of your showers! Mine are out!”
Niki waved and gestured for him to come over.
Bond had been assigned a room that was currently vacant, although bits of the kit of three soldiers were still there. The rooms were all alike—sparsely furnished with three cots, three cupboards, a sink, a ceiling fan, two strips of fluorescent lights, and a dozen posters on the walls of various popular pinup celebrities. He grabbed his open carry-on bag and made his way across the road to Niki’s barracks. Bare shouldered, she stuck her head out of her door as he passed by, and said, “You can use the next room. The showers are a few doors down. You go first, I can wait.”
“Why not join me? We could do our part in conserving Cyprus’s precious water supply.”
The door shut in his face.
Bond entered the room, removed his clothes, and threw his bag on one of the cots. He hadn’t brought much with him, as he knew that he would be on a plane back to London in the morning. As an afterthought, he had thrown in his swimming trunks and a diving utility belt that Q Branch supplied to agents normally working near water. Perhaps there really would be some time for that swim with the lovely Niki Mirakos….
Bond wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out of the room to the showers.
There were five shower stalls, two bathtubs and toilets. No one else was around. Bond dropped the towel and stepped into one of the stalls. He twisted the knob and turned on the hot water. It got warm very quickly and he felt the spray begin to wash away the sweat. As he reached for the soap the water suddenly turned cold. He ducked back and held his hand under the spray. Suddenly, the water cut off. In a few seconds, warm water burst out of the spigot. Bond chalked it up to poor plumbing on a military base and moved under the spray once again. When the water turned cold a second time, he became suspicious and stepped out of the stall. Immediately the smell of ammonia enveloped the room. Smoke funneled out of the stall as some kind of abrasive chemical poured onto the tiles on the floor.
Bond ran out of the room naked. He ducked into his temporary quarters, taking a few seconds to grab his swimming trunks and slip them on. He grasped the utility belt, which also held his new Walther P99 in a waterproof holster, and ran back outside. Niki, a towel wrapped around her shapely body, stepped out of her room in time to see him leap over the railing and gracefully land on the grass below in his bare feet. A couple of perplexed privates in uniform were standing beside a jeep watching him.
Paying no attention to them, Bond ran around the building in time to see a figure dressed in camouflage fatigues running away from the barracks toward the helicopter landing site. The Wessex that had landed earlier was still there, its rotor blades spinning. Bond took off after the running figure, who was wearing a gas mask and protective hood.
The figure made it to the Wessex and climbed into the open door. The helicopter immediately began to rise just as Bond made it to the HLS. He leaped forward and just managed to grab hold of the trooping step, the metal attachment used as an extra step to assist soldiers entering or leaving the aircraft. The Wessex continued to rise, with Bond hanging on for dear life. Within moments, they were flying over the base toward the Mediterranean.
The door was still open, and Bond could see two camouflaged figures from his position. One was holding a gun to the pilot’s head. The aircraft had been hijacked!
The gas-masked figure he had seen earlier leaned out of the door and saw Bond hanging on to the trooping step. He pulled a large knife from a sheath, then squatted down closer to the floor of the aircraft. Holding on to the inside of the cabin with one hand, the figure leaned out with the knife in the other. He swung the knife across Bond’s knuckles, slicing the skin. Bond winced with pain but forced himself to hang on. The helicopter was a good two hundred feet above the ground. He would surely fall to his death if he let go. The assassin leaned out again, but this time Bond was ready. As the knife swung, Bond lifted one hand off the trooping step and grasped the piece of metal beneath the step mat fastened onto the helicopter. It wasn’t as good a handhold as the step itself, but it was shielded from the assassin’s knife. He then inched out onto the wheel axle and wrapped his legs around it. The killer would have to venture out of the aircraft to get him now.
As the helicopter flew over the RAF airfield at Akrotiri, the pilot was ordered to maneuver the vehicle wildly in an attempt to throw Bond off. The pain was almost unbearable, and the blood from the cuts dripped onto his face. But he hung on tightly. If only he could manage to keep hold until they got over the water …
The figure leaned out of the door again, this time holding an automatic pistol—a Daewoo, Bond thought. Bond swung his body up under the helicopter as the assassin fired at him. The bullets whizzed past him as he swung back and forth. Fortunately, the jerking movement of the helicopter spoiled the man’s aim and he shouted angrily back at the pilot.
The helicopter was now over the Mediterranean, flying south. The water below was choppy and rough.
The assassin did what Bond was afraid he might do: he crawled out onto the trooping step. Now that the chopper was flying level, Bond could be shot at point-blank range. He couldn’t see the assassin’s face behind the gas mask, but he knew the man was smiling in triumph. The assassin raised the pistol and pointed it at Bond’s head.
Bond used all of his strength to swing back underneath the trooping step and used the momentum to push himself away from the helicopter. In midair, he somersaulted so that his body ended up in the diving position. He heard the shot ring out above him as he soared down to the sea. The impact might have killed an ordinary man, but Bond’s graceful Olympic-style dive smoothly cut through the surface of the water.
He swam up for air and saw the Wessex continuing its trek southward. He looked at the shore, which was at least a mile away. Could he swim back? The water was very rough. It would be a challenge for even the strongest of swimmers. It was lucky that he had thought to take the utility belt.
While treading water, Bond unzipped the belt and removed two coiled rubber items which, when shaken, opened out to their proper size. They were portable flippers. He quickly placed them on his feet. Next, Bond removed a small can the size of a shaving cream container. Two long elastic bands allowed him to strap the can onto his back. A flexible tube uncoiled from the top of the can, and he stuck the end i
n his mouth. The can was a ten-minute version of an aqualung, which would be helpful in swimming through the choppy water. He hoped that the current wasn’t so strong that he couldn’t make headway toward shore.
Bond began the slow crawl toward land, thankful that he had brushed up on his diving skills a couple of weeks ago. He was also grateful that Major Boothroyd was indeed a genius.
He fought the sea as best he could, but it was a case of two steps forward, one step back. Still, he was an expert swimmer and extremely fit. An ordinary man might have drowned by now. Five minutes later, Bond estimated that he was about half a mile from shore. The air would last him another five minutes and then he would have to depend on short, deep breaths stolen from the choppy surface.
The sound of another helicopter grew nearer and its shadow blocked out the sun. Bond stopped swimming and treaded water. A Gazelle was directly above him, and a rope ladder was being lowered to him. He took hold of it and swiftly climbed up into the small, round helicopter. To his surprise, it was piloted by none other than Niki Mirakos. An RAF airman had manned the ladder.
“What kept you?” Bond asked.
“You said you wanted to go swimming!” Niki shouted over the noise. “I wanted to make sure you had a little time to enjoy yourself.”
The Gazelle pulled away toward the shore and back to Episkopi, passing two more Wessex helicopters heading out to sea in pursuit of the hijacked aircraft.
Back at the base, Bond and Niki learned that whoever it was wearing the gas mask had managed to attach a tank of cyanogen chloride to the water line. The chemical was classified as a “blood agent” because it attacked blood cells and spread quickly throughout the body. If it had made contact with Bond’s skin, he would have been a dead man. Investigators believed that this same assassin was responsible for the attack on the fire teams. More disturbing was that it was a blatant attempt on Niki Mirakos’s life.
That evening, the search-and-rescue personnel made their reports. The hijacked Wessex was found abandoned, floating in the sea about a hundred miles south of Cyprus. The saltwater flotation cans had been activated, allowing the helicopter to land on the water safely. The pilot’s body was found on board. He had been shot in the back of the head. It was surmised that the killer and his accomplice had somehow hijacked the craft and forced the pilot to fly them in and out of the base. It must have been met by a boat or a seaplane, for there was no trace of them.
After the briefing, Bond and Niki rode in her rented Honda Civic into town. They found a loud, festive restaurant, but managed to be seated at a small table for two in the back, away from the noise.
“How do you feel?” she asked. The candle on the table cast a glow across her bronze face.
“That fight with the sea today exhausted me, but otherwise I couldn’t be better,” Bond said. “I’m hungry, how about you?”
“Famished.”
They shared a Cypriot mixed grill—ham, sausage, and beef burgers—and halloumi, a chewy cheese, all grilled over charcoal. The house wine was Ambelida, a dry, light wine made from the Xynistri white grape.
“Why is it that Cypriot cuisine normally consists of an enormous amount of meat?” Bond asked.
Niki laughed. “I don’t know. We eat a lot of meat in Greece too, but not this much. Maybe it’s the reason for the high level of testosterone on this island.”
“Why do you think someone tried to kill you in the shower, Niki? That dirty trick was meant for you,” he said.
“I don’t have a clue. Someone obviously knew I would come to investigate. I’ve been on this case since they found your man Whitten. Maybe whoever’s responsible knew that. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can. When do you go back?”
“Tomorrow morning, same as you,” she said.
Bond settled the bill, even though she wanted to pay for her own meal. In the car on the way back to the base, he asked her if they would see each other again. She nodded.
“My middle name is Cassandra,” she said. “Believe it or not, I think I’ve always had the ability to see into people’s hearts, and sometimes into the future.”
“Oh, really?” Bond asked, smiling. “And what does the future hold for us?”
“We’ll see each other again at least once,” she said as they pulled into the front gate of the base.
After saying goodnight, he returned to his barracks room and slipped under the blanket of one of the cots. He was about to drift off to sleep when a knock at the door jarred him awake. “Come in,” he said.
Niki Mirakos, still wearing civilian clothes, stepped into the dark room. “I told you we’d see each other at least one more time. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were all right. You must be very sore after that fall into the sea.”
She moved closer to him. He sat up in the bed, about to protest, but she gently pushed him back down. She turned him onto his stomach and began to massage his broad shoulders.
“This will work out all the … uhm, how do you say in English … kinkies?” she asked.
Bond turned over onto his back and pulled her down on top of him. “The word is ‘kinks,’ ” he said, chuckling. “But I’ll be happy to show you what ‘kinky’ means….”
With that, his mouth met hers and she moaned aloud.
TWO
A DAY IN THE CITY
THE BEGINNING OF NOVEMBER BROUGHT A BONE-CHILLING RAIN TO LONDON, and it looked as if winter would come very early this year. Gray days always made James Bond feel a little melancholy himself. He stood at the bay window of the sitting room in his flat off the King’s Road in Chelsea, looking out at the square of plane trees that occupied the center of his street. The trees had lost their leaves, which made the scene even more dreary. If he hadn’t been on call, Bond would have flown to Jamaica to spend a few days at Shamelady, his recently purchased holiday home on the north shore of the island. After returning from Cyprus, however, M had given him strict orders to remain on call. The business of the terrorist attacks was far from over.
“Yer watchin’ the time—sir?” came the familiar mother hen voice behind him. May, his elderly Scottish housekeeper, was his cook, maid, and alarm clock. The way she pronounced “sir” came out as “suh.” Apart from Bond, she would never call anyone else “sir” except for royalty and men of the cloth.
“Yes, May,” Bond said. “I won’t be late. I’m not expected for another hour or so.”
May gave her obligatory ‘Tsk … tsk … tsk …” and said, “I don’t like to see you this way—sir. Yer hardly touched your breakfast. ’Tisn’t like you.”
She was right. Bond felt the malaise that never failed to plague him when he was “on call” or between assignments. He always became restless and bored.
Bond sighed heavily and moved away from the window. He sat down at the ornate Empire desk and stared at the room around him. The white and gold Cole wallpaper was terribly out of date, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t changed a single thing in his converted Regency flat since he moved in many years ago. He disliked change, which was one of the main reasons he had remained a widower since the death of his only bride.
Bond managed a smile when he reflected back to an evening he’d had a few weeks ago at his favorite club, Blades. He’d been having drinks with Sir James Molony, the Service’s staff neurologist, who jokingly accused Bond of being so obsessive about details and set in his ways that he walked a thin line between sanity and sociopathy.
“Look at you, James!” Molony had said. “You were painfully specific about how you wanted that martini made. No one does that except someone who’s obsessed with minutiae. You don’t want just any martini, you want your martini! A Bic lighter won’t do for you! It’s got to be a Ronson lighter and nothing else! You’ve got to have your tobacco made specially for you, because you have to smoke your cigarettes! I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re wearing the same kind of underwear you wore as a boy.”
“As a matter of fact, Sir James, I am,”
Bond replied. “And if you get any more personal than that, I’ll have to ask you to step outside.”
Molony chuckled and shook his head. “It’s all right, James.” He finished his drink and said, “Given the life you’ve led and the work you do for our good government … it’s a small wonder you’re not already in the madhouse. Whatever it takes to keep you on this side of the line, then so be it.”
Bond was brought back to the present when May entered the room with a cup of his favorite strong coffee from De Bry in New Oxford Street. “I brought you somethin’ to perk you up—sir,” she said.
“Thank you, May, you’re a dear,” he said. He took the cup and set it down in front of him. He liked his coffee black, with no sugar.
Bond stared at the pile of mail he needed to go through. It was one of his least favored activities. May stood at the doorway watching him with concern. Bond looked up at her. “What is it?”
“Tsk … tsk … tsk …” was all she said; then she turned and left the room.
Bond took a sip of the coffee and felt it warm him up a little. The piece of correspondence now on the top of the pile had somehow got buried under other papers when it arrived. It was an invitation to a dinner party at the home of Sir Miles Messervy, the former M. The party was that night, to be held at Quarterdeck, his home near Windsor Great Park. Bond supposed he would go, although it would be full of people he really didn’t want to meet. There would be the usual crowd of Sir Miles’s parliamentary friends, retired Royal Navy officers and their wives, and colleagues from SIS whom he saw every day anyway, but he did enjoy seeing his old boss from time to time. Since Sir Miles’s retirement as M, he and Bond had developed even more of a mentor-pupil relationship than they had had when the old man was in charge. A more apt description was perhaps that of a father-son relationship, and it had lasted.
The Facts Of Death Page 2