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It was dead cold.
The Swiss panorama which the two men inhabited alone was covered in pristine white, the chill in the air raping their pores. Silently they marched, as if robotically, towards the lake at the bottom of the hill.
Beruga's hands were tied tightly behind his back. There was no escape for him. He would be left here in the middle of nowhere, his blood fouling the odd serenity of the snow, only to be found weeks later by some German tourist a frozen bloodied corpse.
It would be proper murder. Not the fake murder in books of questions, coroners and post mortems, but the sort where the local chief of police would take one look at the face, dust his hands together and suppress the inevitable investigation that would waste his precious funds. It would be textbook, a single shot in the head. Revenge, no doubt. Drugs, probably.
Bond held the end of his pistol to the back of Beruga's head at the flat section of his skull. It didn't have to be like this. Bond thought back to when he first met Beruga, in the small bar in Zurich. He had seemed perfectly reasonable then, someone with whom Bond could work, a professional. He had a wrinkled face, though he could not have been more than fifty. His eyes; a steel blue exposing a determination to win at whatever cost. They had talked about the mission, about the target, and Beruga had seemed then to share Bond's objectives. With his help Bond had tracked down O'Murphy and disposed of him. The mission had been a success.
But Bond had forgotten something important. Despite his own heritage, never trust the Swiss.
Beruga turned. As Bond had slipped the pill of benzedrine onto his tongue and washed it down with a shot of Smirnoff Blue Beruga's real motives became clear to him. After all of OO7's hard work he would get none of the credit. Yes, of course, that was Beruga's game all along. The scheming bastard would report back to his superiors who would then contact Regent's Park and knife Bond's career. It would be a hatchet job, simple as that.
OO7 needed this success. He needed the credit. He was not in favour, and his abilities and professionalism were being questioned. Hell, he was questioning them. He would wake up in the morning, hands shaking and with beads of cold sweat dripping off him. He would look at himself, staring at the mirror, ashamed that he was not what he once was.
Like a funeral procession they reached the lake.
'Lie down.' Bond ordered.
Beruga did. Bond was aware that Beruga would no doubt try and kick him as he tied his feet together and there was onlyone way to stop that. Out of his right jacket pocket he retrieved a silencer and attached it to his Walther PPK. Abruptly, without a single emotion evident on his face, he shot twice each in he knee. Beruga tried to scream, but the masking tape had silenced him forever.
Bond dragged the worthless bastard to the lake and forced his head under the calm water. The blue eyes stared up at him, as if begging for mercy, like a dog. But it was too late, and Bond held his face under the clear water until the skin took on the grey cloak of death.
Mission accomplished.