The Facts Of Death

by Raymond Benson

  My God, Bond thought. This was possibly the strongest man he had ever encountered.

  The big man was about to land another blow, but Bond responded quickly enough to roll to the side. Vassilis couldn’t stop his fist, so he hit the ground hard. Instead of hurting his knuckles, he made an impressive indentation in the dirt.

  Bond staggered to his feet and shook his head. He got his wits about him just as Vassilis got to his feet. Bond delivered a Nidan-geri double kick, in which he leaped into the air and slammed his left foot into Vassilis’s stomach, and then kicked the right one, the jumping foot, into his face. It barely fazed the bodybuilder. With a deafening growl, Vassilis reached out, grabbed Bond by the shirt, and like a wrestler, swung him around and around. He let go after four rotations, sending Bond flying across the dome into the brick wall. The man had done it as if Bond were made of paper.

  Before he could recover, Bond’s opponent was on him again. He picked up Bond from the ground, raised him high over his head, and threw him once more across the room like a beanbag.

  Bond landed hard on his back, sending painful sparks up his spinal cord and igniting every nerve in his body. In the dim light, he could see Vassilis searching for the gun. Bond could see it, three feet in front of him. He tried to roll toward it, but Vassilis jumped on his hand before he could grab it. Bond grunted in pain and pulled his hand away. Vassilis stooped down and snatched the gun.

  “Okay, you had your fun for today,” Vassilis said, grinning. “It is past your bedtime.”

  He aimed the pistol at Bond’s head.

  Bond kicked out with his foot and connected with the flashlight that Vassilis had left in the middle of the room. The light went out, plunging the dome into darkness. Bond rolled as the gun went off. The sound was amplified tremendously, the echo lingering for several seconds.

  “You will not leave here alive,” Vassilis said in the dark after the noise had died down.

  The only light coming into the room was from the open entrance, but the door’s silhouette was all that could be seen. It was all the way on the other side of the dome. Bond knew that Vassilis was somewhere between it and him. If he could lure the thug where he wanted him …

  “Over here, you overgrown lump of lard,” Bond said.

  He ducked out of the way as he felt the big man lunge for him. He felt a brush of air as Vassilis barely missed him. The room was so dark it wouldn’t have mattered if they had been wearing blindfolds.

  “Nice try, you rotter,” Bond said. “Now I’m over here.”

  He sidestepped Vassilis again, and they continued to play this bullfighting game in the dark for the next several seconds, until the big Greek became frustrated and angry. With every lunge he shouted something that sounded like an animal in pain.

  Bond maneuvered to the side of the room where the scaffolding held up the ceiling. His lack of shoes gave him an advantage now—his feet moved quietly over the ground, whereas Vassilis’s boots made loud crunching sounds. Bond reached out slowly and found one of the scaffolding supports. He carefully moved inside and under the scaffolding, keeping his hand on one beam.

  “Hey, fathead. Here I am,” Bond said.

  Vassilis roared like a beast. Bond slipped out under the beam and ran for the entrance to the tomb. Vassilis crashed wildly into the scaffolding, knocking it to pieces. There was a loud rumble, and then a crash as the stones in the ceiling fell. Vassilis screamed. Bond waited until the noise settled and it was completely quiet in the tomb. Bond groped for the flashlight and shook it. It flickered on, illuminating the now dust-filled chamber. Coughing, Bond held it close to the pile of rubble. Vassilis was completely buried by the heavy stones, but he could see part of the henchman’s arm sticking out from under a large rock. His head was somewhere farther beneath the rock, completely flattened. Bond tried to find the handgun, but it was buried along with its owner.

  Bond left the tomb and made his way back down the path to the Jaguar. Thankfully, the strongman had left the keys. Bond found the hidden catch beneath the dash that released the inflated air bag. He pulled it out of the passenger side of the car, then tugged on Nikos’s body and threw it to the ground. Bond found some loose change and a few drachmas in the corpse’s pockets, all of which would come in handy. Then he went around to the driver’s side and got in the car.

  He backed up the Jaguar and sat there on the gravel road for a moment, catching his breath. The first thing he did was open the secret compartment where the Walther P99 was kept. He pulled it out and made sure the magazine was full of Teflon-coated, full-metaljacket bullets. Underneath the storage compartment was a shoulder holster made especially for the P99 by Walther. He started to slip it on, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, and decided against it. He put the gun back into the compartment, then took a look around the car. Vassilis had left a black notebook on the floor by his feet. Bond picked it up and looked inside. It was a diary. The last entry was the new day’s date and he could just make out the Greek words: “Number Two, Monemvasia, 11 A.M.”

  He took the cellular phone from its compartment and dialed Niki’s number. A sleepy voice answered.

  “Wake up, darling,” Bond said. “I need your help.”

  “James! Where are you?” she said.

  “I think I’m at the ruins in Mycenae. It’s so dark I can’t tell. The sun’s just beginning to come up here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I could use some shoes, but otherwise I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  He gave her a brief rundown of the events. He left out what had happened with Hera.

  “Wait, I didn’t get one part,” she said. “How did you get drugged, again? Where did you say you were?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Listen. I think there’s something happening this morning in a place called Monemvasia.”

  “I know it. It’s a medieval village on the east coast of the southern end of the Peloponnese.”

  “Can you meet me there today?”

  “I’ll leave right away. It will take me, uhm, four or five hours. Meet me at the entrance to the causeway between Gefyra and Monemvasia. Gefyra is the mainland village. They’re connected by a bridge.”

  “Right. Before you leave, see what you can dig up on a redheaded woman using the name Hera Volopoulos.”

  “Will do. Take care, James.”

  Bond backed out of the ruins and drove to the main highway, leaving the two dead bodies for the site caretakers to deal with.

  Before he got very far, Bond flipped a switch and changed the color of the car again. This time it went from red to a dark green. The license plate changed to a Greek registration.

  He utilized the road map feature of the GPS navigation system and made his way to the E-65, the main highway that led to his destination. He passed through Tripoli and stopped at a roadside café to buy some coffee and a roll. The proprietor, who spoke no English, noticed that Bond wasn’t wearing any shoes. He jabbered in Greek and gestured for Bond to wait a minute, then went into the back room and came out with three pairs of old shoes. Bond laughed and tried on the pair that looked closest to his size. Surprisingly, they fit snugly.

  “How much?” Bond asked.

  The proprietor shrugged and held up five fingers, meaning he wanted five thousand drachmas. Bond handed over a bill and thanked him. The proprietor saw the nice, shiny Jaguar that Bond got into, and kicked himself for not asking for more.

  Three hours later, Bond drove into Gefyra and parked near the causeway leading to what was commonly referred to as “the Gibraltar of Greece.” Monemvasia is a medieval town built on a rock which emerges dramatically from the sea off the east coast. It is topped by a fortress with a few scattered buildings at sea level.

  Docked off of the edge of Gefyra and just visible from Bond’s vantage point was Konstantine Romanos’s yacht, the Persephone.

  NINETEEN

  THE NUMBER KILLER

  BOND TUCKED THE WALTHER P99 INTO THE BACK OF HIS T
ROUSERS, LEFT the Jaguar parked out of sight near the causeway, and walked along the narrow streets of Gefyra so that he could get a better view of the boat. He ducked behind a wall and peered around.

  The Persephone was a new Hatteras Elite series 100 motor yacht, an impressive, hundred-foot-long white and black vessel with walkaround side decks. There were a few men dressed in black working with a hydraulic crane and loading material onto the boat. Bond saw Hera Volopoulos on the starboard deck, speaking with one of the men. She was dressed in a dark jacket and trousers.

  After a moment, she was joined on deck by Konstantine Romanos. He was “dressed for sailing,” in dark navy trousers, a white sports jacket, and a nautical cap. They spoke briefly. Hera nodded her head, then walked off the boat and down the plank to the shipside area of the dock. She spoke to a man at a forklift, then walked off the dock toward the causeway. The men continued loading crates onto the Persephone, and Romanos disappeared below.

  Bond felt cold. It had become windy, and the temperature was much cooler here than in Athens. He was also tired and hungry, but he felt that he was onto a breakthrough in the case. Should he try to sneak onto the boat or follow the woman? There was a score to settle. He moved away from the safety of the wall and followed the woman.

  Hera walked onto the causeway, crossed the strait, and headed toward the lower town of Monemvasia. Bond waited until she had passed the cemetery and gone through the main portal into the populated area. He sprinted across, and ran up the road to the town.

  When he stepped through the opening, Bond thought he had entered some magical place in another time. It was as if the little village had been hidden for centuries from the entire world. Facing this quaint pocket of antiquity was the rich blue sea, which spread out to the southeast. The narrow streets were walkways between the many tourist oriented souvenir shops, tavernas, and churches. There was even a former mosque from the time when the Turks occupied the town.

  Bond started looking for Hera. The village was quiet except for the folk music playing on a radio in the distance. The streets were a complex maze of stairways and narrow passages, and as he moved along the stone path he spotted Hera’s red hair disappearing around a corner ahead. He continued onward, moving like a prowling cat and staying close to the buildings in case he had to duck quickly into one of the shops. Along the way, small prune-faced old women sat in doorways and looked at him with curiosity.

  Hera stopped at a shop and bought some bottled water. Bond waited behind a corner, then moved on when she did. She soon entered the central square of the town, where she stopped briefly to stand and drink some of her water.

  What the hell was she doing? Bond wondered. Was she waiting for Vassilis to meet her here? Let’s get on with it!

  After finishing the bottle and tossing it into a rubbish bin, she turned and walked through a passage rising above the campanile of a large church in the square, then along the north side of another church. From there a path led uphill to the upper town. She started the climb up the zigzagging stone steps that took visitors to the upper town, which was virtually in ruins. All the way up to the summit of the rock, pieces of buildings still stood facing the sea—a wall or two here, a foundation and corner over there.

  Bond waited a couple of minutes before starting up after her. He crouched down and moved from ruin to ruin, waiting until he saw her climbing higher and higher. It was not an easy ascent. Only the fittest of tourists ever made it all the way to the top.

  Now that he was in the upper town, Bond felt totally alone. No one else seemed to be around except Hera. He saw her reach the top of the cliff and walk toward the twelfth-century Hagia Sophia, the church built on the ledge of the sheer cliff. It was the only building in the upper town that was complete and in use.

  Bond watched her go in the front door. It must have been the designated meeting place with Vassilis. It was close to eleven o’clock. He waited several minutes, then stealthily moved to the front of the church. He drew his gun and carefully pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  It was too quiet. He moved slowly around the perimeter of the nave and went into the diaconicon, the room behind the altar. Narrow, elaborately ornamented windows were set into the stone walls about six and a half feet up.

  Bond heard a creaking sound in the prothesis, the area on the other side of the altar. As silently as possible, he stepped through a portal into the other room. The glass in one of the windows was broken and the frame was open. Bond waited and listened. There was no other movement around him. Was he being watched?

  He tucked the gun back in his trousers, took hold of the window ledge, and pulled himself up to look out. A bit of ground was some twenty feet down below, but the church was extremely close to the edge of the cliff. He could just squeeze his shoulders out of the window to get a better view.

  A muzzle of cold metal poked him in the back of the neck.

  “I know you didn’t come here to pray, Mr. Bryce, but you had better start,” Hera said. The voice came from above his head. She was hanging upside down on a tension line above the window. The rope was attached to the roof of the church; she had simply climbed out of the window, pulled herself up, attached the rope to her belt, and waited for him to stick his head out the window. After spending a night with her, Bond knew that she was extremely agile.

  “Hand me your gun, carefully,” she ordered.

  “We really must stop meeting like this,” Bond said.

  “Shut up. Do it.”

  He did as he was told. She took the P99 and stuck it into her utility belt.

  “Now slowly move back inside the church. Keep your hands up.”

  Bond squeezed back through the window and jumped to the floor. Before he had time to run for it, Hera had lowered her body down on the line and was aiming her gun at him through the window. It was a Daewoo that looked vaguely familiar.

  “Turn around and put your nose and palms against the wall behind you,” she said. He did. In less than two seconds she performed a smooth maneuver of pocketing the gun, twisting her body upright on the rope, thrusting her legs through the window, and hopping to the floor. She retrieved the Daewoo and pointed it at Bond.

  “I assume that since you’re here and Vassilis isn’t, Konstantine’s cousin isn’t with us anymore. Konstantine isn’t going to like that. All right, start walking out. I’m right behind you. We’re going down to the lower town. No stupid moves—I’m very good with this gun,” she said.

  He turned and looked at her. There was something very familiar now about her shape and her stance with the gun.

  “The Number Killer … a woman,” Bond said.

  “Oh, you realize we’ve met before, Mr. Bryce? Or should I say Mr. Bond?” she said with a smirk. “It’s too bad I didn’t get you in Cyprus. Too bad for you. Now it will just make your ugly death that much more enjoyable. For me. But Konstantine would like to have a little talk with you first. You wouldn’t want to miss a talk with Konstantine, would you? It’s your chance to find out what all this is about, right? I know you’ll cooperate. Now march.”

  They went back into the nave. Bond said, “So what was the other night about, Hera? Are you a praying mantis who eats the male after she mates?”

  Hera found that image flattering. “I never thought about it that way,” she said.

  Bond turned around slowly and brought his face close to hers. “Or did you want to go to bed because you really are attracted to me.”

  She held the gun to his temple. “Back off and get those hands up,” she said.

  Bond leaned in and whispered, nuzzling her ear. “You don’t mean it. You know we were good together. Now why don’t you forget this nonsense and join me.” He kissed her neck, but his hand was an inch from the Walther P99 in her belt.

  “If you so much as touch your gun, I’ll blow your brains out. I don’t care if Konstantine does want to see you first.” Bond froze. “Now put your hands up and step back.”

  Still not moving his arms from around h
er, Bond sighed audibly and said, “Very well. If that’s the way you want it.” He made an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders as he brought his arms up and away from her back. That shrug was enough to throw off Hera’s concentration, for Bond snatched her wrist with a lightninglike strike with his left hand. The gun was knocked away from his head, but it discharged loudly into the ceiling. Bond grabbed her arm with his other hand and with both hands attempted to control the weapon. Hera coolly brought her knee up hard into his left kidney. Bond was momentarily frozen in pain. Hera took that second to strike him hard on the back of the head with the Daewoo. He bent over and fell to the floor.

  Niki Mirakos drove her Camry at close to ninety miles per hour down the E-65 and twice had to radio policemen with her credentials. She got to Gefyra at just around eleven o’clock, and was going down a side street to find a place to park when she saw the green Jaguar. Could it be … She pulled over and parked near it. There couldn’t be that many Jaguar XK8s in Gefyra—Bond must have changed the color again. She got out and walked toward the bridge. He was nowhere in sight, but the Persephone was docked in full view. Aside from two men walking on the decks, there seemed to be no one else about.

  She had punched up the records on Hera Volopoulos before leaving Athens. According to the Greek Secret Service files, Volopoulos was suspected of being a trained soldier working eight years ago for the Greek Cypriot militant underground. She had been linked to an arms-smuggling racket in Cyprus before it was broken up by the Cypriot police. There was nothing else on file, except that she was last seen in Cyprus two years ago.

  Niki knew that organized crime on Cyprus was big business. Because of its strategic location in the Mediterranean, the island was a convenient stopping place and temporary safe haven for smugglers, terrorists, arms dealers, thieves, prostitutes, pimps, and other forms of low life. Several factions of underground criminals developed on Cyprus during the last thirty years. Part of her training in the Greek Secret Service included extensive study of the Cyprus situation.