by John Gardner
Brave words, Bond thought as he twitched at the rope, unhooking the grapple from high above him, reeling it in and telescoping the whole thing. Moments later he was hurrying across the road, heading for the half-demolished building.
Q sat patiently in the Rolls, around the corner from the ruins. He said nothing as Bond returned the collapsible grapple and took, in exchange, the signature gun. Then he simply said, ‘Good luck 007.’
Bond looked at Q for a long time. It was true, without this man, and those who worked with him in Q-Branch, he would have been dead years ago. ‘I take back what I said.’ He gave a hard smile. ‘You’re one hell of a field agent, Q. Get out now, while you can. I’ll see you back in London.’
Q did not reply. He merely put the window up and drove off into the night world of Isthmus City, leaving Bond to complete his work.
As he climbed over the ruins, looking for the best firing position, as low as possible, but with a clear view of the window, there was another short conversation, carried from the W9 under the chair arm in Sanchez’s apartment across to the Jabberwocky, and from there into Bond’s ears.
‘President Lopez is here, chief.’ It was Heller’s voice.
‘Hector,’ Sanchez said. ‘Please come in.’
‘There’s been a mistake with my money.’ This could only be President Hector Lopez. ‘Look at this, it’s only half the usual amount.’
A long pause, during which Bond found just the right place. An open space, with half a wall behind it, and rubble in front. He would be able to get a straight shot from the rubble, which he had begun to climb as he heard Sanchez’s voice.
‘My dear Hector. You were a little too quiet after I was arrested in the USA. You must remember that you’re only president for life, eh?’ The voice sent a chill down the back of Bond’s neck. He settled himself on the rubble and took out the pen into which he now slid two triple-A batteries. Clipping the pen back into place, he put it down with great care beside him. One press of the plunger and Sanchez’s window would disintegrate. Then one shot, and the Sanchez empire would begin to crumble. He settled into a comfortable aiming position, squinting through the small, night-enhancing telescopic sight. He could see Sanchez clearly, and Truman-Lodge. Windows gleamed along the entire length of the building’s top floor. Behind them figures moved. The oriental mission was having a good time. Well, he would soon put an end to that.
He was just swinging the sights back on to Sanchez’s apartment when he thought he caught a glimpse of someone familiar, framed for a second in a small window on the edge of the building, far right.
Bond focused on the window and his heart gave a leap. Two people were talking, waving arms in animated conversation. One was Heller. The other, he saw clearly, was Pam Bouvier. She had been too good to be true. Playing both sides against the middle, he guessed. Depression swamped him for a second as he watched Pam hand an envelope to Heller and then move out of vision.
His mouth hardened as he swept the sights back to Sanchez’s apartment. He had the cross-hairs smack on the man’s back, but knew that could change quickly once the window blew. Holding the rifle firmly in his left hand, he reached out for the pen, held it for a second, then pressed the plunger.
It was more of a crack than an explosion, but spectacular nevertheless. The window first seemed to become a sheet of flame, then a giant handful of diamonds which flew out, glinting and sprinkling their way down into the street.
He resighted, caught Sanchez clean in the cross-hairs, and squeezed the trigger. As he did so, something landed on top of him, the shot going wide and wild as Bond rolled to his right.
In a second he was on his feet, to find himself confronted by two human forms, both dressed in the familiar grey costume of the ninja. Bond stood his ground as the wail of police cars and fire-engines came floating at them from several blocks away.
The ninjas closed in.
12
BOTH SIDES OF THE STREET
Bond felt a heavy kick in his ribs, while a hand, like steel, crushed down on his right shoulder. He lashed out, rolling again and springing into the standing position, the skeletal rifle held in both hands across his body. Whoever the ninjas might be, he would only go for a kill if his life became truly endangered.
It was a wrong move, and he knew it almost immediately. This pair were deadly. One feinted to his right while the other leapt, in a high, hard kick which took the rifle straight out of his hands.
Bond dived to catch the grey figure on his right, using his own foot, stabbing his leg from the knee in short sharp blows. The second kick caught the ninja in the groin, knocking him off his feet, his body doubled in pain. As he went down, so Bond turned on the other assailant, his eyes flicking this way and that looking for an escape route.
But the ninja on the ground had rolled, grabbing at the rifle which he now lifted, twisting his body and pointing the weapon directly at Bond. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened, so, for a moment, the attacker just lay there, fiddling with the weapon.
An old nursery rhyme, about he who runs away lives to fight another day, went through Bond’s mind. Normally he would always stand his ground, but this pair were really dangerous. They wanted him dead. The ninja who was still on his feet came at him, arm out-stretched in a series of jabbing blows, but Bond side-stepped, chopping at the figure’s shoulder, then leaping for the comparative safety of the mound of rubble he had so recently used as a firing point.
As he leapt, so the ninja on the ground lifted his arm. There was a low whooshing sound and a fine-meshed net was projected from the ninja’s sleeve, spreading and covering Bond, bringing him down like a snared animal.
He was aware of one of his assailants coming close to his body writhing in the net. He saw the rifle being raised, held like a club. Then there was a violent flash of light, a brutal pain in his head, followed by thick darkness.
Sense of smell was the first sign of life. Musty dampness slid into his nostrils; then pain returned: a numbing ache where the rifle had caught the back of his neck. He tried to move, and, for a moment, feared that he was paralysed. The fog cleared from his eyes and at last Bond realised he was in a sitting position, strapped to a chair. A naked light bulb swung from a rough, plastered, ceiling and he could make out that he was in some kind of cellar, with the grey-robed figures standing in front of him.
They both started to remove their head scarfs, revealing themselves to be a thin Asian whom Bond had never set eyes on, and Loti, the big Kwang’s girlfriend. A second later Kwang came down a flight of open stone steps. He carried the rifle and walked straight across to stand directly in front of Bond.
‘Now, who the hell are you?’
Say nothing, Bond thought, desperately trying to clear his head. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Jabberwocky, lying smashed to pieces. The climbing device lay next to it.
His mind began to work a little faster. Nowadays very few people could hold out under interrogation, for the methods were advanced and very sophisticated, be it simple drug-induced questioning, or the more terrifying experimental techniques which rely on complete disorientation so that the mind begins to believe that it has left the body entirely. These people would not have the equipment required for the latter skills. Their way would be pain, and, in the end, Bond knew that no man can hold out forever under constant agony.
As though matching his thoughts, the Japanese girl’s arm swung back, her hand cracking down over his cheek in a blow so hard that he felt, in his present condition, that his head had been broken from his body.
‘Be polite, and answer the man,’ she hissed, raising her arm to strike again, but Kwang caught her wrist.
‘Wait!’ he said. Looking at the gun, he removed the rounds of ammunition and checked that the weapon was empty. ‘His right hand!’ It was an order and Loti’s companion took Bond’s wrist, twisting it while Kwang forced the rifle into his hand, curling the forefinger around the trigger. He forced the finger back and there was a
click as the firing pin shot forward.
‘An interesting device. But what kind of man would be equipped with such a thing?’
‘James Bond!’ The voice came from the stone steps. Bond did not know how long its owner had been standing there, but he recognised it immediately. Trying to put a name to it, attempting to fit inflections to a face.
The figure moved, coming down the steps and walking into the light to stand next to Kwang. Only then did Bond know him. They had been on courses together; run training exercises, and been paired off in the innumerable training games that Bond’s Service deemed necessary to keep its few remaining field officers in peak condition.
‘Nick Fallon,’ he breathed. ‘Our man in Isthmus, I presume. As I also presume you’ve gone to the bad.’
‘Not me!’ Fallon said sharply, taking the rifle from Kwang. ‘This is experimental equipment. As far as I know it hasn’t been issued to anyone in the field as yet. Where did you get it, Bond?’
But Bond realised that he had already said enough. Too much even. He had disclosed that he was a member of the Service, as was Fallon.
Kwang’s tone became more soft and coaxing. ‘James Bond, who ordered you to kill Sanchez?’
After a few seconds he replied, ‘It’s not official.’
‘Damned right it’s not bloody official!’ Fallon snarled. ‘You’ve turned rogue agent. I have M’s personal orders to get you out of here and back to London double quick.’
Kwang made a melodramatic movement, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘That’s all we needed, some idiot professional deciding to go freelance. You know what you’ve done, Bond?’ He paused, taking a deep breath. He had not expected an answer. ‘You don’t even know who we are, do you?’
‘You came in with a posse of drug dealers. I can only presume you’re one of them.’
‘Presume! Presume!’ Kwang shouted. ‘We’re Hong Kong Narcotics Agency, you bastard.’ His foot lashed out, kicking the chair over. The leather straps and restraining handcuffs did not give at all. Bond just lay there in considerable pain while Kwang ranted on.
‘For years I’ve been trying to set this up. I’ve lived cover for years. You know what that’s like, Bond? Living cover? Associating with evil? Having to handle drugs which you know might eventually end up in your own children’s hands and kill them? I’ve lived it for years, and, at last, we’ve set Sanchez up for the final kill. In a couple of days, unless your folly has undone everything, he’s taking me to the centre of his operation. When I get there I shall have the power to bust him once and for all. I’ll bust the whole damned lot of them, and close the thing down for good.’ He went on cursing.
It was Fallon who spoke next. Quietly and in anger, ‘Killing Sanchez alone would change nothing, Bond. Not a thing. His empire would remain intact. The real secrets would stay secrets, and one of his lieutenants would simply take over. There are plenty of them. Heller, for instance, even the German he has here – fellow called Braun. But more likely his main distributing agent, a man called Krest.’ He walked forward and pulled the chair upright again.
‘My God, I hope your little stunt hasn’t scared him off, or worse,’ Kwang sighed.
The full horror of his own folly was just starting to reach Bond. All he had thought of was revenge. Yes, he had wanted to smash Sanchez’s evil empire, but in reality, he had thought no further than Sanchez himself. M really did deserve his resignation, and he wondered how he could face his old chief if he could not, somehow, put matters to rights. ‘Take the straps and chains off,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll work with you. Together we can . . .’
‘Oh, no.’ Fallon’s voice was loaded with suspicion. ‘No, Commander Bond, you’re a loose cannon on the deck. I’m arranging to have you shipped straight back to London.’
In the short pause that followed, there came the sound of soft footsteps hurrying down the stairs. It was the thin Asian ninja. Bond had not even noticed he had left the cellar. The man was trying to say something, breathless and in panic, ‘Militia . . . Security Forces . . .’
‘Damn it!’ Fallon headed for the stairs, a pistol in his hand. As he did so, the chatter of a heavy machine gun sounded a long way off, though its results were nearer at hand, just above their heads.
The thin Asian was still gabbling. ‘They have armour . . . a tank . . . !’
A machine pistol materialised from somewhere. Kwang took it and headed after Fallon, but they had not reached the top of the grim grey blocks which made up the open staircase before there was a shattering explosion.
Bond’s ears rang and the place was covered in a pall of dust. A direct hit from some medium artillery piece, he thought. Before the knowledge of what was happening had settled in his mind, a second explosion followed the first and the roof was coming in. He saw Fallon’s body sundered by shrapnel; a beam broke almost above Bond’s head, one half falling, crushing the Japanese woman, Loti, who struggled, groaning under its weight.
Kwang had also been thrown off the steps. He lay on his back with blood pumping from a severed artery.
The second half of the beam gave way, landing close to Bond. Then the roof really came in, plaster, debris and bricks crashed down. He could hardly breathe for the dust and his body felt as though he had gone three rounds with Frank Bruno. He was aware of Loti pulling herself free of the beam; dragging herself over to the dying Kwang. He even thought Kwang spoke. ‘Don’t let them take you alive,’ he seemed to say.
Then the dusty cellar was full of people. Sanchez screaming at Kwang, ‘Who sent you? Who are you?’ and Heller shaking his head and saying the word ‘Cyanide’.
Then some kind of soldier swam into Bond’s vision. He heard a shout, and saw both Sanchez and Heller standing above him, but out of focus.
For the second time in a few hours, the thick blackness of oblivion covered him as he dropped into a silent world of monsters, demons and all kinds of horrors.
Light poured on to his closed eyelids, and the scent this time was of flowers. Bond even thought he could feel a gentle breeze on his face. In the distance there was music. Not his kind of music. Not the jazz he so enjoyed. This was something else. Mozart perhaps?
For a few moments he wondered if he was dead, and should that be so, then he had been wrong about life. At last he plucked up courage to open his eyes. The room was large and pleasant. He could see his tux on a hanger, looking torn, dirty and bedraggled. His trousers were in an electric press, while his shirt, neatly laundered, lay on a chair nearby with the rest of his clothes.
Gingerly, he touched his body, running his hands all over it. He felt bruised, but everything appeared to be there. He moved arms and legs. All there and in working order. Gently he raised himself up. He lay between silk sheets and indeed there was a breeze, soft from the sea. A pair of French windows were open and the thin drapes stirred like dancers.
He put his feet on the floor, with no ill effects, just a little dizziness as he stood up and the memory of the last twenty-four hours returned. The smashing of Sanchez’s window; the abortive assassination attempt. Kwang, Loti and Fallon. The truth. He had really screwed up badly. Once more he heard the crash of the shells hitting the building, saw the bodies and the blood.
A towelling robe lay across the foot of the bed. Bond put it on and noticed the initials FS embroidered on the pocket. Taking deep breaths to clear his head, he walked through the French windows, out on to a patio and stopped, looking in complete disbelief.
The patio ran along a wall until it almost disappeared, so that it seemed to merge into the horizon of the sea. The view almost glowed in white. White plaster camels knelt by concrete palm trees, while deep couches were set at intervals near great marble slabbed tables. It was a relief to look over to the sea, deep blue, sparkling in sunlight.
Ahead, stone steps led into what appeared to be dense greenery. Still taking things gently, as his head had an illusory tendency to detach itself from his body, Bond went down the steps.
The
dry stone walls on either side were covered in unbelievable blossom and flowers: flora that Bond had only seen in Kew Gardens. The steps went down a long way, the walls slowly disappearing with dense and beautiful bushes taking their place as the ground flattened out into a maze of paths and walks.
The garden was magnificent. Ferns and plants grew on either side of twisting paths, which led to open spaces, fringed by cypresses and other conifers. He passed through at least three of these open spaces, each sporting a water garden, large irregular pools, with great lily-pads and huge flowers. Small turtles scurried away from the edge of the pools and there was the scent of jasmine mixed with the more subtle aroma of herbs.
At last, he reached a path hedged by fern and roses, great archways blossomed above his head, and nearby he could hear more water. Coming out of the rose garden, Bond found that he was standing on a mossy bank, looking up at a rocky rise of ground down which a man-made waterfall splashed into a bubbling stream. In the rocks more flowers bloomed and he wondered what kind of mind could create such a wonderful garden, yet also be responsible for the plaster camels and concrete palm trees.
Turning right, he came upon another wide, low flight of steps. Above the steps a house seemed to rise, grey-white reaching high up the side of another rocky slope. At the top of the steps he found himself in a huge, open room. Pillars supported a roof entwined with flowers, and there were sliding doors which could seal off and close the room which was decorated in a style that could only be dubbed Hollywood Moorish. A wide swimming pool snaked around the room, and could be crossed by small bridges.
At the centre, Lupe Lamora lounged on a white couch, a table beside her laid out for lunch. As she saw him, her eyes lit up and she beckoned: little agitated butterfly strokes of her fingers. He crossed one of the bridges and went towards her.