“Thank you,” he said to Wilcox.
Wilcox waved at him. “Nuthin’ to it. When the Union wants somethin’ done, it gets done, that’s all.”
The killer took a sip of his vodka and continued. “Now. It looks like the Union just did you a favor, right? Now you gotta do the Union one in return. That’s the way it works. We scratch your back, you scratch ours, you know.”
“I understand. We’ve been through all of this.”
“Right. I, uhm, need to check your tattoo. Orders,” Wilcox said, stepping behind the desk. “Stand up and turn this way.”
Essinger sighed, stood, and turned his head. Wilcox pulled a cylindrical object out of his pocket and hit a switch. A tiny light shone on the end.
“Look over my shoulder,” Wilcox commanded. The film producer did as he was told as Wilcox looked through the object into Essinger’s right eye.
“Look up.”
Essinger felt the slightwarmth fromthe light on the ophthalmoscope.
“I’m no eye doctor, but I think you have an infection,” Wilcox said. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”
“I sometimes get conjunctivitis,” Essinger said.
Wilcox switched it off and said, “Fine. It looks good. The procedure didn’t hurt, did it?”
Essinger shook his head and sat down. “No, that doctor of yours made me very comfortable,” he replied. “But I think you’re right. I need to go and see my own eye doctor. I probably have an infection again. My eyes keep watering.” He rubbed his eyes and squinted.
“Well don’t cry too much,” Wilcox said. “After our little job today, you should be able to rest easier.” He moved to the couch and sat down.
“So!” Wilcox said. “You’re one of us now.”
Essinger swallowed. “I amhonored,” he said with a touch of sarcasm.
“Le Gérant has a lot of faith in you. If the outcome of the project is a success, and it will be, I assure you, then the benefits for all of us will be pretty damn great.”
“I know.”
Essinger already knew the gist of the plot. In twenty-five words or less—a lot of people would die, and he was going to help kill them. That was it. That was the pitch.
He took a sip of his drink and reflected on this, all the while looking into Tylyn’s marvelous, cat-like eyes. She was so beautiful … how could she have left him? She was his treasure, his most valuable possession … Now she was gone.
The more Essinger thought about it, the more he felt angry. She was going to pay, like everyone else.
“Have you heard from her?” Wilcox asked.
Essinger was momentarily startled. “What?”
“Your wife. Have you heard from her?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Wilcox looked at Essinger and said, “Look, pal, she’s a part of this thing whether you like it or not. Now. Have you heard from her?”
“No. We’re to meet soon to discuss the separation and the socalled ‘ground rules’ for when we begin shooting.”
Wilcox could see that the man was in torment over the woman. He liked to push his buttons.
“Do you think she will divorce you?”
“She wouldn’t dare,” Essinger said. “Not yet, anyway. Not while there is a movie to be made. It’s a trial separation.”
“I thought I saw a photograph of her in the newspaper, or some magazine. She was with some rich guy from America. A producer or director or somethin’.”
Essinger sighed. “One of the benefits of a separation is that it entitles you to date other people without guilt.”
Wilcox was enjoying this. “She seems to like her new-found freedom. She doesn’t need you, you know. She’s independently wealthy, right? You know, I think she’s dating a lot of other people.”
“Would you shut up?” Essinger snapped.
Wilcox laughed. “That’s good! Jealousy is a perfectly healthy reaction.”
“What are you, my therapist?”
“No, but I’m just trying to point out that you shouldn’t have any doubts about what we’re about to do, that’s all.” Wilcox stood and went back to the bar to pour himself another drink. Then he went over to the desk and held out his hand. “Are we on the same page?”
Essinger took a moment before responding. He had given Tylyn a starring role in Pirate Island because it would be great for the picture. But he did it mainly because he knew that she wouldn’t dare divorce him before the movie wrapped. Wilcox was right. Tylyn was indeed dating again, modeling more than ever—her face and body seemed to be on every billboard in Europe. She was attracting the attention of every available bachelor in the world.
Essinger felt the rage building inside. He quickly slipped Tylyn’s photo back in the press packet and took a drink.
To hell with her, he thought. When this was all over, she would be dead.
Essinger turned to grasp Wilcox’s outstretched hand, and the deal with the devil was made.
FOUR
THE HYDRA
JAMES BOND STROLLED INTO HIS OFFICE AT SIS FEELING REFRESHED AND alert. In fact, he was fitter than he had been in two years. He had spent six months after the Gibraltar affair working hard to get back into shape. He had fully recovered from a serious head injury, improved his motor skills by doubling the repetitions in his daily workout routine, and sharpened his reaction time by participating in role-playing and puzzle-solving challenges offered by the firm.
When he got to his floor, he swiped his identity card and went though the sliding glass doors to the communal area shared by the various personal assistants. He was surprised by the presence of a young man sitting at the desk that had seen a succession of temporary secretaries since the death of his own assistant a while back. He looked to be about twenty-five, was tall and thin, had blond hair and wore glasses. Although he had a baby-face, there was something about the young man’s demeanor—and even in his eyes—that immediately struck Bond, even before the fellow spoke. Bond recognized the look, for this man had seen some life or death action somewhere.
“Good morning,” Bond said.
The young man blinked and said, “Oh, hello. You must be Commander Bond.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’m Nigel Smith. I’m your new personal assistant.”
“Are you?” Bond shook his hand. The boy had a firm grip.
“Yes, sir. I was recently transferred out of the Royal Naval Marines. I had requested MI6, so they put me here. I understand you’ve been looking for someone for quite some time.”
Apart from his days in the navy, Bond had never had a male personal assistant before and he wasn’t sure that he liked it.
“That’s right, and no one’s worked out,” Bond said. “You’re not with the secretarial agency?”
“No, sir, I was placed here under orders. The Ministry. Sir.”
Was this M’s idea? Was she trying to punish him by giving him a male assistant? Was it some kind of message?
Bond sighed and decided to make the best of it. The young man seemed capable. And since Bond had some rather outdated views on relationships with women in the workplace, it was probably for the best.
“Are you experienced with this sort of thing?” Bond asked.
Nigel shrugged and said, “I’m a quick learner. I do all the usual things: computers, typing, filing, phone, dictation, copying, posting, message taking, and takeaway ordering. What I won’t do is fetch your tea, clean up after you or lie to your wife.”
“I’m not married.”
“I know. Just telling you how it is, sir. Actually I’m quite familiar with your CV, sir, and I must say that it’s a pleasure to be working for you.”
“Why were you transferred out of the marines?”
“Injury, sir. Bosnia. Got a piece of shrapnel in my back. Land mine. Lost a kidney. Was discharged on a medical, but I didn’t want to leave the business, so to speak.”
That explained the young man’s rather hardened exterior. He obviously had the discipline of a naval officer and some t
ough experience to go with it. Bond was beginning to like him.
“What was your rank?” Bond asked.
“Second lieutenant, sir.”
“Well, welcome aboard,” Bond said. “By the way, I detest tea.”
“I’m not too fond of it myself, sir.”
“And what do you drink, lieutenant?”
Smith shrugged. “A soft drink suits me just fine, sir. Now, I’ve left something on your desk that I’m sure you’ll want to have a look at. I know you’re on the Union task force. I brought some material the Ministry just received from Mossad concerning Le Gérant. I think you’re right, sir.”
“Right?”
“That you believe Le Gérant’s real name is Olivier Cesari.”
Bond was taken aback by Smith’s knowledge of the case.
“I’ve read your reports, sir,” Smith added.
“I see. Well, I’ll have a look at what you brought. And please stop calling me ‘sir.’ ”
“What would you like me to call you?”
Bond replied, “I’m sure you’ll be calling me all sorts of names before long, but you can start with ‘James.’ ”
Nigel smiled. “Very well, James. Call me Nigel. I’m sure we’ll get on fine.”
Bond nodded and slipped into his private office. Along with the usual memoranda and inter-office mail, there was an envelope and a videotape. Inside the envelope was the documentation for the tape, which had apparently been shot in the Rif Mountains of Morocco by a Mossad agent eight months ago.
He sat down and spent ten minutes catching up on bureaucratic paperwork and returning e-mails, then used the computer to open the most recent files on the Union. Thanks to his efforts, and to the endeavors of countless intelligence and law enforcement agencies around the world, a profile of the Union’s leader, Le Gérant, had been pieced together.
He was believed to be one Olivier Cesari, a blind man who was half-Berber and half-Corsican. His father, Joseph Cesari, had made a small fortune in the perfume business in France. It was possible that Olivier had been born in the Rif Mountains and was raised in the Berber culture there until he was eight. At that point, Olivier’s father came from Corsica and took the boy away from his mother. Olivier spent the next ten years with his father, living in both Corsica and mainland France. Olivier attended university in Paris, studied law and then economics, but after his graduation in 1970, no records of his subsequent movements exist. It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Joseph Cesari had been dead since 1973, a homicide victim in Paris. Bond noted that the man’s throat had been sliced, ear to ear. The senior Cesari’s estate passed to his son, and in 1975 everything was sold—for a lot ofmoney. Olivier Cesari was never present at the proceedings; it was all done through lawyers and private financial advisors. That was the last time anyone had heard a word fromOlivier Cesari.
Why was he hiding? Bond wondered. Where did he go?
When Bond was in Morocco on a recent operation involving the Union, the SIS contact in Tangier claimed that he had known Olivier Cesari in Paris, and that he was certain that Cesari and Le Gérant were one and the same. Bond believed him.
He pressed a button on the desk. The wall above the lateral filing cabinets slid open to reveal a television. Bond put the videotape in the VCR and sat back to watch.
It was an interview with a Berber tribesman, a man in his sixties. His head was wrapped in a bulky turban and he wore a jellaba. He spoke Berber, but subtitles translated the words into English.
The man told a fascinating story. He described a man of near-mystical powers who came to live with his people for a while, probably thirty years ago. He was something of a folk hero—a man who had at one time lived with the tribe, as a young boy, but who had gone to the West to make his fortune. When he returned successful and wealthy, he rejoined the tribe and lived as they did—in the mountains, in tents, away from splendor for a few more years. He was very generous with the money he had made in the West—he gave it away freely to those who performed services for him.
The tribesman described the man’s powerful charisma, how he could persuade any of them to do something. The fact that he also paid very well didn’t hurt. Eventually he organized groups of loyal followers to do his bidding. Then … one day, he left, just as mysteriously as when he arrived.
The people from the Rif who knew him called him “The Blind Prophet,” for he had an uncanny ability for sight when he physically couldn’t see. The man was blind, the tribesman explained. Yet, he could move around easily in places he had never been before, somehow sensing the placement of objects around him. He was able to identify people he knew simply by their being in close proximity to him. He had prophetic dreams that he described to the tribe.
After the man went away the last time, “The Blind Prophet” became a legend among their people. They still hope that he will return some day.
Bond switched off the tape and returned to the computer. That explained where Olivier Cesari went when he disappeared from Paris. He went back to Morocco to see his mother and live with her people once again. But for how long? Just a few years? Probably no more than five, Bond guessed. Then, Cesari left again, and that’s where the trail ended. That meant that the last known appearance of Olivier Cesari was at least twenty years ago. If this “Blind Prophet” really was Le Gérant, what had happened to him in the intervening years? According to what historical records they had on the Union, the organisation was taken over by Le Gérant within the last ten years. What was he doing during the ten years before that?
Bond wanted more information on the Cesari family. He punched in a password that allowed him into the database that MI6 shared with the DGSE. Bond searched through the files until he recognized Mathis’ coded identity number on something filed two months ago. He opened it and found that it concerned the fire at the Côte d’Azur Studios in Nice—something Bond had tried hard to forget. The investigation had slowed to a standstill, but the French police had cleared studio owner Léon Essinger of any criminal activity regarding illegal arms. The French government had been forced to issue a public apology to Essinger. Mathis had noted that Essinger received a substantial payoff from an insurance company to help rebuild the damaged sections of the studio—so much, in fact, that major renovations were being performed on other parts of the lot as well.
Bond picked up the phone and punched in the number to Mathis’ direct line. After several pips, the line was switched over to an assistant, who informed Bond that Mathis was away on leave and had been gone for two months. Bond left a message for Mathis to contact him, hung up, and then dialed Miss Moneypenny.
“Penny, dear, can you fit me in this afternoon?” Bond asked when Moneypenny answered.
“I suppose we’ll never know unless we try, James,” she said, suppressing a laugh.
“Look here, you naughty girl, I wanted to have a word with M.”
“Oh, James, do you really think I’m naughty?”
Bond laughed. “Penny, you have a knack for cheering me up. When I retire and am old and arthritic, will you marry me?”
“In a heartbeat, James,” Moneypenny said. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Well, I don’t plan on retiring any time soon, so don’t get yourself worked up.”
“Oh, I know better than to do that. Now, what can I do for you?”
“M. Can she spare a few minutes?”
“She’s locked away in her office but she’s already mentioned that she wants to have a word with you. Why don’t you come up at three o’clock?”
“Thanks, Penny. I’ll be there.”
He hung up and smiled. The on-going flirtation he had with Miss Moneypenny was sometimes worth every bit of the hell he went through for Her Majesty’s secret service.
M looked up from a report that was marked “For Your Eyes Only.”
“Come in, Double-O Seven,” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine, ma’am, thank you.” He closed the door be
hind him and sat in the black leather chair across from her desk.
“And how’s the new assistant working out?” she asked.
“I’ve only just met him, but fine, so far,” he replied.
“Good, then I assume he can stay where he is?”
So he had been right about it being M’s idea! Bond smiled and played the game. “He seems efficient enough.”
“Very well. I’ll have Miss Moneypenny contact the Ministry. I suppose it’s late enough in the afternoon—would you like something to drink?”
“If you’re having something …”
She swiveled in her chair and poured two small glasses of Scotch and handed one to him. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“Probably not much. I think I just wanted a sympathetic ear,” Bond replied. “I’m very frustrated with the lack of progress with the Union.”
She nodded. “I can understand that. I’m frustrated too. We all are.”
“What’s happening with Yassasin?” he asked.
Nadir Yassasin, one of the Union’s top commandants and its strategist, had been sitting in an English prison since the Gibraltar affair.
“Still awaiting trial, I’m afraid,” she said. “Hasn’t said a word. Interrogation is fruitless.”
“I’d like to have ten minutes alone in a cell with him. I guarantee to make him talk.”
“I’m sure you could, but that’s not possible. Funny how once you’ve become a prisoner you seem to have more rights than the common person. They protect that man better than if he were Winston Churchill. At any rate, I’m glad you brought this Union business up. I think it’s time that you move on. I can’t afford having my best people floundering. I’ve decided to give you a new assignment.”
Bond sat up. His pulse sped up automatically, a near Pavlovian reaction to the word. Perhaps he did need to get away from all of this academia and get back into the field, but he didn’t feel that the time was right.
“Ma’am? A new assignment? Do you think—?”
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