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H A R R Y F A W K E S
M I D A S G O L D
Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do or die.
Lord Alfred Tennyson
And this one for Jacques I.M. Stewart
(The best Bond Fan Fic writer out there and an inspiration to other 'writers' like me)
and in particular for the CBn member who goes by the name of
Double-O-7
A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S
I would like to thank the three individuals who helped me research the events described in this novel and who helped me out with certain ‘aspects’ throughout its writing, even though this is a fan-fiction novel that will obviously never see the light of day as a market book.
I cannot and will not name these three individuals due to the nature of their work in the nasty and secret world of counter narcotics. They know who they are and, what's more, they are genuine James Bond fans too; hence their contribution to this story. In fact, I can safely say it was their idea in the first place, after having read The Moment Before You Die and Loneliness Is A Lover, that I try my hand at writing another, but this time with subject material provided by them.
In all truthfulness, therefore, I must admit that the plot is actually theirs.
Finally, once again, I am especially grateful to the CBn member known as MkB; and Major Mark Said AFM, one of the best pilots in the Army, for their help, patience and fantastic advice.
P R E L U D E
_______________
The Point of a Kill
They’d been searching for James Bond all over France for two days until they finally located him at a small villa overlooking Royale-les-Eaux. He had planned to spend the last few days of his leave there in the fine company of a very attractive French woman, but, thanks no less to the luck of the devil, he was urgently required back at headquarters.
A special plane was waiting at Dieppe Airport, a Cessna Conquest that would take off at 2100 hrs, and their orders were to make sure that it did so with him on board.
And no, neither of the two SIS agents who’d come for him knew what the hell it was all about...
The black helicopter that had picked him up from the airfield in Kent made the short flight to central London in less than the usual twenty minutes and it now flew over the Houses of Parliament and across the river towards Vauxhall, landing on the roof of the MI6 building.
Dressed in a navy worsted suit and black knitted tie, he passed the two armed C13 Anti Terrorist Police officers standing guard at the entrance and went through...
‘At long last.’ Bill Tanner said.
He’d come up to greet him.
‘Next time, could you kindly leave a contact number? M’s bloody furious, to say the least.’
‘What’s going on?’ Bond asked.
‘All in good time, James, all in good time.’
The Chief of Staff led him to the lift and they rode it down to the Situation Room where he met two other junior Double O agents who’d also been summoned by M.
‘Right, now that we’re all here I suggest you wait for the Colonel in the briefing room. He’ll be down shortly.’
It was about ten minutes later when M walked briskly in. He wore a charcoal grey pinstriped suite and blue silk tie and he crossed to the podium set in front of them, sitting down at a large desk and looking Bond rather hard in the eye.
‘Good of you to join us, Commander,’ he said severely. ‘I do hope you weren’t inconvenienced too much by my summons, handed out two bloody days ago!’
Bond stared at him with an unblinking gaze.
‘Sir.’
‘Considering the nature of our work, Double O Seven, one would expect a seasoned agent such as yourself to leave knowledge of your whereabouts with Ms Moneypenny at all times.’ M retorted and leaned back in the chair. ‘However, we’ll come back to that issue later. In my office.’
There was a long heavy silence and then M continued.
‘Now then for the reason why I’ve summoned you all. As you know fine well, for the past several months this division has been concentrating most of its efforts in hunting down all members of the organisation known as DOMINION. So far we’ve been successful in tracking down and eliminating twelve of them but unfortunately one particular member has managed to elude us.’
‘Codename Black Fox,’ Bill Tanner said. ‘Local and foreign stations, allied foreign secret services and Interpol have been engaged in a worldwide effort to find this man and apprehend him. However, not since Osama bin Laden has such a worldwide hunt proved unsuccessful given the workforce behind it. Every detective work, every scrap of rumour, every lead has unfortunately proved abortive. It’s as if the ex-US Secretary of State-turned-fugitive has vanished into thin air – up until two days ago, that is.’
M lit his pipe and blew out a dark grey cloud of smoke. ‘The bastard has finally been traced in Switzerland, gentlemen, and the Double ‘O’ Division has been given the specific task of organising his ‘demise’.’
‘Where exactly in Switzerland, sir?’ Bond asked.
Bill Tanner stood up and handed them each a thick file marked FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. He then moved over to the computer opposite and punched a key.
A photo, obviously taken by plane, of a group of mountains popped up on the screens on the video wall opposite.
‘Mont Ciel,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the highest mountain peaks in the Western Alps and ranges more than 12,000 feet.’
Bond took out a badly needed cigarette and lit up as Tanner went on.
‘According to our agent in the field, Black Fox spent millions several years ago building a lavishing Chalet on Mont Ciel, a place called Les Larmes de L’ange. Angel’s tears.’
Tanner punched another button and a particular spot on the photo magnified to show a long, low structure built on a narrow plateau slightly below the Mountain’s summit.
‘The Château is 9000 feet up and the only way to reach it is by helicopter. There’s a small landing pad here. Other than that our experts have deemed the place virtually inaccessible. As you can see it is also quite invisible to the human eye. The perfect hiding place I would say.’
‘Which is where you three come in,’ M said. ‘Your objective is to penetrate Les Larmes de L’ange and dispose of Black Fox before we lose him again.’
‘I thought the Americans wanted him alive.’ Bond said.
‘Contrary to popular belief, the Americans don’t run things around here and frankly, Double O Seven, I don’t give a damn what they think.’ M told him. ‘It was their fault the bugger got away in the first place. Ignored the information we provided them regarding his part in the THUNDERBOLT affair. They wanted to do it their way and with kid gloves thank you very much. If they’d listened to us Black Fox would be behind bars right now. As things stand Her Majesty’s Secret Service has marked him for death. Which, by the way, is why this is a deniable operation. Although the Swiss are going to close a blind eye and assist us ‘unofficially’ by allowing us to operate on their soil, I need not remind you that should anything go wrong you will be left out to dry.’
‘What’s new in that,’ Bond said under his breath and gazed through the contents of his file.
‘I’m sure you’ll all appreciate the fact that we’ve got to move fast on this one, gentlemen. Time is against us. If Black Fox gets wind that we’re coming for him God knows where he’ll disappear to next. We might not be so lucky in finding him next time. Double O Seven?’
Bond looked up at the Colonel.
‘Sir?’
‘Well, what do you think, man? We haven’t got all night!’
Bond thought for a moment.
‘Skorzeny, sir,’ he said after a few moments.
‘What on earth does that mean?!’
‘Otto Skorzeny, sir. This whole thing reminds me of the Gran Sasso operation way back in 1943. After his arrest, the Italians imprisoned Benito Mussolini at Campo Imperatore Hotel, a ski resort in Italy's Gran Sasso, high in the Apennine Mountains. On 12 September, Colonel Otto Skorzeny led a team of crack paratroopers to rescue Mussolini in a high-risk military mission. Believe it or not, they crashed a couple of gliders into the nearby mountains then overwhelmed Mussolini's captors before they even knew what had hit them.’
‘Gliders, you say?’ M said and raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s right, sir. At first glance, I’d say they’d be our best bet to get inside Les Larmes de L’ange. Trying to approach by chopper would give the element of surprise away so we can eliminate that. As for a parachute jump, I don’t see the possibility. We’d still have to climb down to the Chalet which would be crazy considering such terrain. ’
Bond got up and crossed over to the video wall and pointed to the side of the Chalet. ‘We could land the hang-gliders in the dead of night on this flat piece of patch here,’ he said and looked across at the other two double Os, who nodded in agreement. ‘If we do our homework correctly the whole thing could go like a Swiss watch. We’d be in and out of there before Black Fox knows what’s hit him. I do admit it looks terribly small which means it’ll be very dangerous of course. To say the risk factor is extremely high would be an understatement, sir. Anything could go wrong, but...’
The Colonel smiled at that.
‘But who dares wins, right?’ he put in.
‘Something like that, yes, sir. Of course we’d have to go over the plan in more detail. There’s a big difference between theory and practice as you know fine well, sir. ’
‘Naturally,’ M said and nodded satisfactorily at Bond.
‘As for the Swiss allowing us to operate on their soil, one question still remains. How far exactly can we go with this without having them breath down our necks, sir?’
‘We have a list of people who’ll help us out on that so no worries there. Politicians, members of the Swiss Secret Service, Government Ministers, you name it. Nothing official, mind.’
M stood up and crossed to the door.
‘Get it done, Commander Bond, and leave the Swiss to me. I want a detailed report describing how exactly you’re going to put this thing together on my desk by nine this evening.’
‘Sir.’
‘Good luck, gentlemen.’
And with that, the Colonel and Bill Tanner left.
Bond stubbed his cigarette out and turned to the others.
‘Right,’ he said smiling. ‘Let’s get our heads together then shall we?’
* * *
At the foot of the Swiss Alps lies Valais, "the valley."
This fabled region is a year-round favourite with tourists, with spectacular skiing in the winter and superb hiking in summer. The Matterhorn, the Great St. Bernard Pass and Zermatt are the stars of the area, but glaciers, lakes, mountain paths, castle-churches and a wealth of resorts also beckon.
It was thirty-six hours later and they were now finally relaxing after a hell of a day of scheduling, groundwork and practice with the hang-gliders, brought into the country ‘clandestinely’ thanks to Q Section.
The gliders were unpowered and with near rigid wings made of strengthened canvas, impregnated with a high-powered, long lasting solution of de-icing fluid. They had tested them out in a remote area a couple of miles away from their safe house.
Bond and his men had launched themselves off the highest peak, spiralling down to land within a carefully marked and prescribed area.
The mountains surrounding the Valley were ideal for what they were trying to achieve. The breathtaking views of the lush ridges and the gentle weather conditions that day made fantastic conditions for training.
The gliders were extremely easy to manoeuvre and control and the great handling characteristics allowed them to search for rising columns of air.
Usually, embarking on such an operation however would consist of months of hard rehearsals and training but the fact was they only had twenty-four hours till ‘D-Day’.
The only thing left for them now was the last trial run first thing in the morning: launching themselves strapped to the hang-gliders from a CI30 at 25000ft.
If all went well, then they would pull the operation off the following night.
Rain or shine, Operation ‘Pegasus’ would be a go...
* * *
James Bond breathed in a deep breath of fresh, clean Swiss air and had never felt so good as he did then.
He looked down at the luminous dials of his Omega wrist watch.
1745.
Almost time for his next cigarette.
The planning of this operation was naturally directed towards the achievement of their objective and of getting off Les Larmes de L’ange alive. There was much scope and depth in the planning stages notwithstanding the relatively short time at hand to get the job done and nothing they could possibly foresee was left to chance with every feasible contingency carefully evaluated.
Still, no matter how well you planned...
Bond finally took out his gunmetal cigarette case, stuck one of his beloved Moreland Specials in the corner of his mouth, lit it with a gold lighter and blew out a stream of grey smoke.
It tasted wonderful.
They had spent the last evening in London drinking at a very expensive nightclub in the EastEnd (‘filling their boots’ as they called it).
They drank heavily and all three of them agreed that should this operation be their last one and they ended up dead on Les Larmes de L’ange, then so bloody be it – it would be one hell of a way to go!
It was Bond, quite drunk after downing God only knows how many dry Martinis, who had summed it all up beautifully in the end. At one point during the drinking spree, he had raised his glass at his colleagues and his eyes had said it all. They were cold, dangerous; somewhat fearless but with a slight suggestion of sardonic humour in them...
‘Gentlemen,’ he had said and they looked at him. ‘To the luck of the devil.’
He couldn’t have been assigned a better team, he reflected as he inhaled a deep lungful of smoke back at their comfortable safe-house in Valais.
The experts back at MI6 hadn’t exactly given Operation ‘Pegasus’ much for its chances of success and in the end it was his two partners who had backed Bond’s plan.
Lieutenant Paul Slade, 006, who was now watching TV inside and was Bond’s second-in-command on this job, had seven years service and sixteen kills behind him. He had joined from the Royal Marine Commandos, whilst ex-SAS 2nd Lieutenant Mark Stead, 005, at that moment on the sofa and engrossed in a Jacques I.M. Stewart novel, had been with the Division for four years now and had eight kills to his name.
Dangerous professionals, he thought, and nothing but the best.
* * *
That evening was free for all of them and he had decided, after much thought, to call an old girlfriend he hadn’t seen in years: Gabriella Brunner.
He suggested taking her out to dinner and it transpired that she had other plans evidently but, when it came to James Bond, she had said, such plans could and would be scrapped; no second thoughts.
‘Shall I book somewhere special, James?’ she had asked, her English perfect.
‘Hmmm, I was thinking of popping over to your place, Gabby,’ he had told her. ‘Not much time, you see. An in and out sort of thing if you know what I mean.’
‘That’s fine by me, James dear. And I like the way you say you’re on an in and out sort of thing. (He could see her in his mind smiling that lovely smile of hers). Sounds very sexy. Look, James, I’ll find a very quiet place I promise. No one will recognise you or even dare bother us. After dinner you can take me to heaven and back at my place. It’s been so long, my darling. Believe me, I’m dying to get you between my... sheets again, for want of a better word, but surely you can chance dinner before.’
Bond had smiled at that.
‘My name’s Peter Franks on this one. Remember that, darling. I’m in the diamond business on holiday from London.’
‘How exciting, Mr. Franks.’
‘I’ll show you exciting tonight, Gabby darling. Where shall we meet?’
‘The Hotel Beau-Rivage, Zermat. Say about nine?’
‘Fine, I’ll see you there then.’
And with that he hung up...
* * *
James Bond, apart from being a government-paid assassin and spy, unashamedly enjoyed the good things in life.
It most certainly came from partly being a bachelor, he observed of himself. He ate well and he drank well and smoked heavily (although he was trying to cut down again – nothing new in that, James, old boy) and when it came to women, what could one say?
That was a leisure he most particularly relished.
Fast driving, playing cards, making love and killing people – what more could a man want out of life; and Bond was an expert in all four!
He smiled that devil’s smile of his, then...
Was he out of his mind going out that evening? A voice asked inside his head.
Bond raised an eyebrow.
What the bloody hell had he been thinking?
Going out to dinner with a girl he hadn’t seen in several years? On the eve of one of the most dangerous missions he’d ever embarked on!
Bond swore violently to himself.
Then again, there was nothing to be done over that night so why bloody not?
James Bond finally flicked the cigarette away and decided to go for it.
He had no intention whatsoever of wasting what could be the last moments of his bloody life on this earth reading a damn book or worrying what could go wrong tomorrow night...
He turned decidedly and went inside to get ready.
He’d only be a couple of hours with dear Gabby.
Just enough time to...
* * *
Gabriella Brunner wore white.
Lithe and graceful, she was quite tall and sexy with chestnut skin, long black hair and stunning wide green eyes that always appeared to be smiling.
The hotel was located in the centre of Zermatt and high above the rooftops of the town.
The restaurant boasted a modern interpretation of the alpine surroundings and when they walked in the head waiter came over and greeted them affably.
He led them to a corner table beside the window and, although Bond despised women ordering his food for him, he allowed Gabby to do the honours.
‘Changing times, James,’ he said to himself. ‘Changing times.’
The waiter brought the wine, a bottle of Chateau Lafite, and after tasting it, James Bond nodded his satisfaction and sat back and gazed round at the other diners.
‘Are we safe, James?’ she asked, pulling him back down to earth.
Bond smiled.
‘Forgive me, Gabby, I’m just being cautious that’s all.’
‘Must be one of those nasty jobs you’re on.’
‘An understatement. Anyway, how have you been?’
‘Not bad, James. I can’t complain. Life is good most of the time and I have my painting to turn to when I get bored.’
‘And you’re still with that company? What’s its name?’
‘Zehnder Group.’
‘Hi-tech Electronics.’
‘Hmmm.’
Bond had met Gabriella by chance seven years ago during a cocktail party and buffet at the British Embassy there. He was on holiday and staying with the British High Commissioner, an old friend from his Eton days. He had glanced up casually during a boring conversation with some rich Italian businessman and had spotted her in the entrance and it was as if his breath went out of him, so beautiful was she. He had kept his eyes on her from then on and when the chance came he pounced in. She had come to the party with one of her Directors who seemed more interested in the idle chat and business talk than he was in her and at one point Bond noticed that she was being bothered by a young man who was quite drunk. He gave him enough time to make a thorough nuisance of himself and then moved through the crowd to her side.
‘There you are darling,’ he had said. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
She acted beautifully then, a real pro, and she took his hand and smiled that wonderful smile of hers.
‘I was wondering where you got off to, dear,’ she answered and the young man retired in confusion. ‘This chap was just about to offer me a drink but now that you’re back...’
Bond looked down at the young man.
‘Excuse me,’ he said sensing Bond was not the kind of man one wanted to mess with (It must have been the eyes, he had thought later) and when he walked off, they both burst into laughter. He took her hands and held them lightly, looking down into her eyes.
‘Sorry about that, I just couldn’t resist,’ he said and smiled that rogue smile of his which, in the end was all it took and she was his.
‘My name is Bond, by the way. James Bond. May I get you a drink, Ms...?’
‘Gabriella Brunner. My friends call me Gabby.’
‘That’s fine then because mine call me James.’
And with that he snatched two glasses of Champagne from a passing waiter and led her out to the balcony. They became good friends, amongst other things of course, and after that night he always made it a point to call her whenever he was in Switzerland...
‘What about you, James? How have you been? Haven’t you married yet?’
‘Absolutely not, dear,’ he said ruthlessly. ‘I’ve decided to give that thought up once and for all. It wouldn’t work you see. I’m a man of the world.’
She chuckled at that. ‘And no woman is going to hold such a man down, right?’
‘Unless of course she’s an air hostess.’
‘Oh, James, you’re incorrigible.’
‘I’ve heard that one before.’
‘Did I mention that it’s so good to see you again?’
‘No, but the feeling is mutual, Gabby.’
‘Having said that, it’s so damned unfair, James.’
‘What is?’ he asked.
‘I try so hard to forget you when you leave that when I finally do you bloody pop back into my life again. You’re so damned unfair, you ruthless bastard!’
‘But then that’s the beauty of this kind of relationship, Gabby,’ he told her putting on a deliberate playful smile. ‘Believe me, you’d be terribly disappointed if you were to see me too often. You’d get tired of me. I’m what you said: a cold hearted bastard not worth dwelling into any longer than you should.’
She breathed in deeply as if giving up and took his hand, yielding a smile.
‘That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard,’ she said. ‘James Bond, the man who could have been but never was and never will be. Ah, well, I shall just have to content myself with what I’m lucky to get.’
They looked deep into each other’s eyes and there was an electrical excitement between them...
* * *
An hour later they left and drove back to her flat in Uri. It was raining and a strange fog crouched at the end of the street when they rushed up the steps.
The paintings on the walls of the sitting room were truly beautiful and Bond now standing before them, a glass of red wine in his hand, examined them closely.
‘You really do possess a gift, d’you know that?’ he called.
Gabby came out of the bedroom, brushing her hair.
She wore sexy and seductive lingerie that immediately played havoc on Bond’s senses. He looked down at her voluptuous body underneath the black sleepwear gown and matching open crotch thongs and strained his mouth from literally dropping open.
He swallowed hard.
‘You like, James?’ she asked and the smile in her eyes was so piercingly sharp that Bond had to breath in deeply to steady himself at the sight of this angel of sheer beauty before him.
‘Absolutely,’ he said and crossed the room to her and his lips drifted down to her open mouth. His hands went down and cupped her buttocks, squeezing. And then his hands were holding her head as he feasted on her tongue, his fingers running through her long back hair and then down her back. The excitement was overwhelming. His lips and tongue moved down to devour her neck then her breasts.
‘Oh, James...’
Bond smiled then lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around his upper thighs.
He looked into her eyes. They were misty with want.
He took her into the bedroom to the bed and gently lowered her down. He kissed her again with a violent passion and she arched her back as his fingers fondled her womanhood beneath the thongs.
Then he undressed and that blissful shock of burning pleasure shot through her entire being like an electrical bolt when he pushed himself inside her and she couldn’t help digging her nails deep into his back and crying out as he began riding her with deep, powerful thrusts.
Although James Bond called upon her once in a blue moon, Gabriella Brunner would make sure that tonight she would relish every single moment she had with him…
* * *
It was about three o’clock in the morning and Bond got out of bed and into his clothes. He looked down at Gabby asleep naked and the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. He would call her as soon as Operation ‘Pegasus’ was over and done with. He promised himself he would take a couple of weeks off from work, if of course he survived, and spend the time with her.
She definitely would be worth it.
Two weeks leave in Switzerland in the company of one hell of a beautiful woman such as Gabby was just the thing he needed...
He went out into the living room, called a taxi and as he was about to wear his coat he heard a faint movement behind the door.
Bond remained perfectly still and listened carefully.
Had it been his imagination?
The floorboards in the corridor just outside the door creaked and then soon after the doorknob was gently pulled down then up again as if someone was trying it...
Bond quickly recovered his Walther from his coat and checked the action, thumbing off the safety.
He then crossed the room to the darker side of the door.
He held his breath.
Could his cover have blown?
Had he been spotted back at that hotel by ‘Black Fox’s’ men?
His heart missed a couple of beats at that thought and then he heard the barely audible sound of scratching at the door.
Whoever was out there was picking the lock.
Beads of sweat appeared on Bond’s brow.
Two minutes later and he heard the soft click of the door opening and it was pushed slightly ajar as someone looked through...
* * *
A gloved hand holding a silenced pistol extended into the room and then the dark shadow of a man appeared. Bond snatched the man’s arm and pulled his body the rest of the way into the room, slamming him sideways up against the wall and driving a knee viciously into his groin. The intruder cried out and Bond violently brought the butt of his Walther into the side of his head. He went limp and his gun dropped to the floor, collapsing in a heap at his feet. Bond checked the corridor.
No one there.
But he knew there would be others, downstairs.
Back inside Gabby’s flat, Bond shut the door and quickly went through the man’s pockets and found a passport. It was French and identifying him as Jean-Luc Chauveau. Bond took his gun, a Makarov SD, and dragged him out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. He hurried to the window overlooking the street and looked out. It had stopped raining now and he could see a black Mercedes parked opposite Gabby’s Saab Griffin. Two thugs in black overcoats and wearing leather gloves, smoking cigars and looking thoroughly dangerous were standing near the Merc. Whoever they were, they were most certainly here for him and it wouldn’t be long before they realised something was amiss with their colleague and came charging in. On the positive side, however, these idiots were obviously amateurs, and way out of their league! The man called Jean-Luc Chauveau should have definitely considered working with more reliable sidekicks, Bond observed. Not only did they let him go inside to abduct him on his own and didn’t bother if he’d need a hand or two, but while he was at it they were out there in the street, smoking cigars and making themselves terribly conspicuous instead of hiding in the Merc or the building’s staircase!
Bad for them, good for him.
Bond crossed over to Chauveau, kneeled down and rammed the barrel of his Walther against the Frenchman’s cheek, drawing blood. He stirred in pain.
‘Argh,’ he cried. ‘You bastard!’
‘Who sent you?’ Bond hissed.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’
‘Who sent you after me?’
‘I don’t even know who you are!’
‘You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?’
Bond jabbed the muzzle into the French man’s temple.
‘Then again maybe one of your friends out there will be more cooperative, Jean-Luc.’
He thumbed the hammer back and his finger tightened over the trigger and it was then that Chauveau went white as a sheet in one split second.
‘Wait!’ he said quickly. ‘It was the American. I don’t know his name. We met two days ago. We were recommended to him by a mutual friend. He told us he would pay five hundred thousand Euros if we delivered you to him alive. That’s all I know. For God’s sake, monsieur, please believe me. ’
Two days ago?
Two days ago they were still planning this operation in London!
‘Where were you going to take me?’
‘A safe house in Bonn. We were to keep you there until the American gave us further instructions where to deliver you.’
Bond’s mind was racing.
‘How were you going to receive those instructions?’
‘By phone. He told us he will call later on today.’
‘Which one of you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Which one of you is the American going to call?’ Bond spat.
‘Me.’
Bond smashed the butt of his pistol into the side of the man’s head again and he was out cold.
Bond then turned and moved quickly to the opposite end of the corridor where he looked out of the other window. The alley below was deserted as far as he could see. He slid the window open and climbed out onto the narrow ledge that ran the length of the building. He worked his way across to a drainpipe that ran down to the alley below. Relatively new, it held his weight as he clambered down the two stories to the ground where he produced the Walther and raced over to the end of the alley that came out into the main street where the other two goons were waiting...
* * *
Bond flattened himself against the wall and after a moment looked around the corner. They were still near the Merc and now looking slightly nervous. He calmly walked out towards them, keeping to the dark side of the street, shoulders hunched, head low and when they finally saw him and realised that it was their target who was moving towards them, it was too late. Bond heard one of them swear cruelly in French as he reached for his gun, his mouth dropping open in disbelief. Bond shot him twice between the eyes, the force of the shots lifting him off the ground and slamming him back against the pavement. The other darted round the car, also shouting something inexplicable and reaching for what looked like a 380 ACP Makarov pistol. Bond fired again, two times, the first hitting him in the back and shattering his spine, and, as he twisted round, the second in the throat...
* * *
The silence that followed the kills was indeed eerie.
He stood there, looking down at the two dead bodies, his face damp with sweat, strangely feeling calm though, the Walther now against his thigh.
‘Big boy’s rules,’ Bond said softly.
It became very cold and he took out a cigarette and lit one, looking up at the black sky.
After a few moments, he produced his mobile phone and dialled some numbers.
‘Yes,’ came the voice on the other end.
It was the Duty Officer back at Headquarters.
‘Double O Seven here. I need a quick status check on Black Fox.’
There was a moment of silence then,
‘Status is positive, Commander,’ returned the voice. ‘He’s still in his lair. We’re monitoring him day and night. Satellite position is fixed. Everything okay at your end?’
Bond pulled on his cigarette.
‘Not exactly. Has our eagle landed yet?’
‘Affirmative. They’re expecting you for a trial run at eight.’
‘Tell them we’ll be there in the next hour. From this moment onwards I’m moving things forward.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell the Colonel I’ll explain later.’
‘But...’
‘Just do as I said, Major. Tell them we’ll be at the take-off point in the next hour. Oh, yes, I also have one of Black Fox’s men who needs a baby sitter. Make sure he’s at the safe-house in half an hour. I’m taking him there now. ’
‘And who exactly am I going to send at this time of night?’
‘That’s your bloody problem!’
And with that Bond cut off. He then turned and went back into the flat...
* * *
It was bright and calm at seven in the morning, which suited them perfectly as they waited on the abandoned airfield just outside Valais. Take-off was set for eight and the plan was to reach drop-zone at around nine. Nobody in their right senses would expect a high risk operation at such a time which supplemented the element of surprise considerably. The only people who were in the ‘know’ now were M, Slade and Stead, and the C130 crew. Naturally, approaching Les Larmes de L’ange in broad daylight tripled the risk element but it was a chance they were going to have to take, especially considering the fact that Black Fox somehow knew Bond was in Switzerland...
The gliders were brought here in a white truck and loaded into the red and green C130 Hercules transport plane. They ran the whole length of the cargo bay and looked like huge black bats suspended from tracks in the ceiling, ending fifteen feet short of the cargo ramp. The three Double O agents were standing beside their silver Land-Rover smoking.
This was the lull before the storm.
They were dressed in black thermal jumpsuits, reserve parachutes, hi-leg boots, leather gloves and an assortment of weapons including Heckler and Koch MP5SD3 sub-machine guns, 357 Sig pistols with silencers, grenades, ‘flash-bangs’ and Sykes-Fairburn Commando knives, all firmly clamped onto black webbing covering their chests...
At seven forty-five Slade turned to Bond.
‘Well, Commander?’ he said.
James Bond took one last strong pull at his cigarette, dropped it to the floor and stepped on it.
He looked up at the sky then at his two colleagues and smiled.
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this wretched affair over and done with.’
* * *
The engines reached a blaring hurl and the Hercules staggered ahead as the propellers sliced the air. Soon after, it gathered speed hard along the long grey strip. Bond and his men waited, focussed on the trial ahead, the bellow of the wheels and engine thrashing in their ears. The plane jolted heavily as if it had hit a hefty bump and then they felt it haul itself into the air and embark on its ascent into the great banks of white clouds in a bright blue sky.
Vital information on wind strength and direction through the various heights right down to ground level would be coming in soon via a team on the ground equipped with the most sophisticated meteorological apparatus available. Such data would be fed into the navigator’s computer for the pilot to determine the exact points at which they would release their ‘load’.
Bond and his men sat, facing inwards on the hard metal benches. They were silent, inward-looking, their fear contained within them. This was a mission that would spare no risk. Getting to Simon Carter, the militant neo-nationalist American politician and last member of the secret organisation called DOMINION, was going to be akin to walking into the jaws of hell. But for Bond, this was going to be the ‘closure’ he’d been looking forward to for quite some time now. If the Anti Proton bombs stolen from CERN had exploded way back on that cloudy day in London, it would have had a thousand times the blast power of the fission bomb detonated over Hiroshima, if not more. It would have been a nightmare come true.
In James Bond’s book, that was reason enough for anyone to be marked for death and he was pleased that he’d been chosen for such a task...
* * *
It seemed like an eternity had passed when the jumpmaster in a heavy fur-lined flying jacket appeared through the fuselage.
‘Ten minutes from drop-zone, gentlemen,’ he shouted.
Bond and his men got up and strapped themselves into the light alloy framework attached to each set of the glider’s wings. The harnesses were specially designed with a quick release lock similar to those used on parachutes. They had been adjusted before take off and allowed for interchangeable hanging and sitting positions on the light frameworks.
The Hercules was losing height and the three Double O’s tightened the restraining straps around their knees.
‘Check equipment,’ Bond commanded.
They inspected each other, running over their gear and when the red light came on the jumpmaster signalled for them to move to the door. Each man then took the strop which was attached to one of the three cables that ran down the ceiling of the fuselage. The plane levelled out and there came the blast of the engines being choked back. Bond breathed in deeply as the cargo hatch opened. The bay was filled with noise, the clamour of engines and the rush of air filtering back through.
Standing in the framework of his hang-glider, Bond was the first to move forward, the black bat above him moving smoothly on the twin tracks of the rail and when the green light finally blinked on, the jumpmaster brought his hand down on his back.
‘GO!’ he shouted and Bond launched himself into space...
* * *
The air was stunningly cold and as he hurtled away, dropping for about 1,000 feet, he caught a glimpse of the white mountains and the snowy wastes below. It was breathtaking in its sheer magnificence. He felt the wings bite into the air and swung his body to reduce speed. He made contact with his men and in tight formation, they commenced the exhilarating glide towards Mont Ciel below.
At exactly 1000 feet above the mountain peak the three Double O agents brought their hang-gliders into the attack position, Bond taking the lead. The wind buffeted, becoming quite strong.
Hold her steady, he hissed through clenched teeth.
Les Larmes de l’Ange came into view and they swooped down towards that dizzy flat piece of patch alongside the helicopter pad that they were going to try and use as a landing point. There was no sound save the gush of wind on their wings.
Bond squinted his eyes at the grey triangle below.
By no reason on earth could that patch be called a landing zone, he observed and his heart missed a couple of beats.
How different it now looked from the pictures he’d studied back at MI6. To begin with it was a sloping shelf and as he swooped in, losing more height by the second, realised how studded it was with outcrop rock.
Bond swore violently and hurtled towards it, a primordial bird lunging in from above. The glider caught the air and Bond jolted roughly in the harness. He shifted his body to the left, decelerating further. The air here had thickened considerably and mercifully he now had greater control. He got downwind and quickly based himself for the final. At the correct angle he quickly winded up and brought the glider in for speed, rounding up dangerously near ground level. The fact was though he wasn’t facing into the wind so he pushed forward for all he was worth and braced himself as the glider finally stalled harshly on the ground.
Thank heaven for that, was his first thought as he pressed the quick release catch, making the harness spring open and it was then that Slade and Stead landed with loud thuds.
Three minutes maximum to get to Black Fox.
‘Right, lads, let’s be having the bastard, shall we!’ Bond told them and made their way to Les Larmes de l’Ange further on...
* * *
At the end of the grey path before them, Les Larmes de l’Ange suddenly appeared, breathtakingly suspended, impressive and somewhat dreamlike, fused into the side of the Mountain. As Bond unclipped his Heckler and Koch, he couldn’t help wondering who in hell’s name did Black Fox buy to allow the construction of such a lavishing building way up here, not to mention keeping it quiet for so long...
A tall blond man suddenly appeared from the front door as they approached, MI6 assault rifle slung across his shoulder, cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth. He froze, stupefied by the three apparitions before him, his mouth dropping open.
Stead had him then, a hand around his neck, the other over his mouth and he was dragged to the side.
James Bond walked up to him and pressed the HK’s muzzle into his chin, the devil’s look on his face.
‘How many inside the house?’ he said in a menacing whisper.
He hesitated and Stead increased pressure around his neck.
‘Come on,’ Bond told him. ‘How many?’
‘Six.’
‘Does that include Simon Carter?’
‘Yes.’
‘The others, where are they?’
‘Schulhardt is in the kitchen on the ground floor. He is preparing lunch. Carter is working in his study upstairs. The others, Barry, Marks and Flynn are either in the billiards room by the library off the main hall or the recreation room upstairs watching satellite television.’
Bond nodded. ‘Where were you going?’
‘To have a look outside, that’s all. Carter is nervous. He wants us patrolling the grounds every hour. He knows you’re coming for him.’
Bond looked at his colleagues.
‘How do we get upstairs from here?’
‘Through the main hall. There is a stairway on the right.’
‘Now listen and listen carefully,’ Bond told him. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that this sub-machine gun is silenced so I can put a couple of bullets inside you without anybody hearing a bloody thing.’
The man nodded.
‘Good, because I want you to show us the way to Carter’s study. One false move and you’ll be having breakfast with the devil. Move!’
* * *
The blond man crossed to the door, turned the handle and opened it, revealing a massive hall beyond. There was a granite floor, gleaming white, a log fire burning brightly in an open fireplace and an array of lush Swiss paintings under a vaulted ceiling. Simon Carter had spared no expenses where Les Larmes de l’Ange was concerned...
Bond and Slade fanned out and took up defensive positions on one knee to either side of Stead and the blond man as they crossed to the stairs, their eyes scrutinising ubiquitously.
The mayhem began, nevertheless, as the clock just above the mantelpiece to their left struck 0930 and a spray of bullets whacked into the walls and floor around them like several pneumatic drills going off at once.
‘So much for the element of surprise,’ Bond quipped as he darted for the stairs, head low, shoulders crouched, firing his Heckler and Koch in the course of incoming fire.
Slade on the other hand dived to his right and overturned a side-board for cover, then let off a burst of fire in the direction of their attacker who’d just appeared from a room adjacent.
Bond reached the main banister rail as bullets splattered into the woodwork and surrounding walls around him.
Slade cursed and hurled a ‘Flash Bang’ and when it went off, he darted over the side-board and dived for the stairs a few feet below Bond. The blinding flash and huge explosion had managed to disorientate the attacker considerably but he soon regained his senses and what he did next was probably a mystery to himself as much as anyone, for he ran out into the open, screaming like some wild animal and cut Slade down as the Double O agent was about to make for his position to finish him off...
Bond quickly emptied his magazine into the man, catching him in the chest and abdomen and he was thrown back dead against the wall. It was at this point that the blond man must have seen something that resembled some sort of an opening for him. He turned, delivering an elbow to Stead’s face and darted up the stairs. A moment later, a door opened on the opposite side of the corridor above them and two men appeared carrying handguns, looking confused.
‘Carl! Carl!’ the blond man shouted. ‘We’re under attack! The bastards are here! They’re here! It’s Bond!’
Bond changed clip and shot him in the back then loosed off another burst to keep their heads down.
Things were certainly turning sour, he thought.
Stead threw a ‘Flash Bang’ which sent the other men back into the room, slamming the door behind them.
‘Move!’ Bond shouted and started up the stairway fast, Stead leading, blood streaming down his nose.
They reached the landing further on and another man came out of a room at the far end, clutching an AK 47. He raised it to fire and Stead, faster though, loosed off a wild burst that drove the man diving for cover. Bond quickly tossed a grenade towards him and it exploded, killing him and blasting away most of the wall.
One of the men who’d disappeared behind the door earlier appeared again and fired a couple of rounds from his handgun, clipping the wall inches away from Bond’s head. He dived to the floor, rolled onto his side and sprayed along the corridor in the man’s direction.
The man in the doorway fired back and Bond saw him falling on one knee and getting back into aim. Bullets ploughed their way into the floor dangerously around Bond, ripping bits of carpet and wood up before him.
Now flat on the floor as well, Stead swung his gun round to fire through the banister, arching his HK slightly to the left and succeeded in hitting the shooter in the chest and head and after a spine-chilling cry, the man fell back dead.
They got up and darted along the corridor to the next room and as they were about to kick the door down, they heard shouting coming from the ground floor again.
They looked back.
Three steps at a time, another man raced up towards them firing a sawn-off shotgun in their direction. Stead brought his gun up and shot the advancing man as he reached the end of the stairs.
‘Numbers were a bit off, Commander,’ Stead shouted with a slight smile on his face. ‘Not to mention the fact they’re acting like bloody suicidal maniacs.’
‘Now that’s an understatement if there ever was one.’
Bond took up position at the side of the door, Stead on the other, and when he nodded Bond got ready to kick it open but as he did so two shots rang out from inside and the bullets burst through, whizzing passed his head.
‘Talking about getting through a gauntlet,’ he hissed and kicked the door open.
Again there was a shot but Bond dived to the floor, rolled and shot the firer in the head, blood and brains scattering across the carpet. Then as if from nowhere, another man darted towards him brandishing what looked like a bloody Samurai sword...
Bond looked up at an incoming boot and he was kicked violently in the head!
Stead cursed as his Heckler and Koch was kicked out of his hands before he could do anything. The Double O agent pivoted to his left, reaching for his 357 Sig pistol as he sidestepped the inward-bound glinting blade.
James Bond took a few moments to get up, dazed from the kick.
He aimed at the assailant with the sword who continued slashing towards Stead. Unexpectedly though, the swordsman shifted to the left and circled Stead, out of Bond’s aim, and then they were out in the corridor.
‘Aieeeka!’ screamed the swordsman.
He was fast, too fast and his movements were professionally coordinated as the polished steel of the sword hissed through the air around him.
‘Hayaaaaeee!’
‘!’ Bond hissed and went out after them.
He aimed along the pistol’s sights, sweat and blood pouring down his forehead. If only they’d stop blasted moving, stand still for God’s sake. But the two men didn’t, changing positions continuously, Stead dodging the blade for all he was worth and when the assailant did finally lunge into Bond’s sight and he fired, he saw the sword swing outwards one last time and then come in again towards its target, slicing Stead’s torso from the lower right to the upper right.
‘Arrgh!’
‘NO!!!’ Bond screamed and in a rage emptied his gun into the back of the assailant’s head...
* * *
Stead’s gun dropped to the floor and he looked down at his severed upper body, blood gushing out and severed organs spilling onto the carpeted floor.
He stumbled backwards, jerking grotesquely then and with one final, terrified look at Bond, he toppled back down the stairs dead.
Bond swayed unsteadily, chest heaving.
What a bloody complete mess, he thought desperately.
He leaned against the wall and steadied himself, breathing in calmly.
Dead man standing was all he could think about.
Dead man standing.
Bond swore and shook himself back into the game. He kicked at a couple of doors which opened into empty rooms, a burning rage inside him. There was one more room at the far end and as he reached it, two men appeared opposite, firing M16s in his direction.
He dropped to his knee, turning towards them, something close to evil in his eyes and reaching for his last grenade, he removed the pin and quickly hurled it.
‘Bon appetite,’ he said.
There was a thunderous explosion that again seemed to shake the entire place and Bond ducked as bits and pieces of stone, wood and a hot blast shot passed him.
There was a dull ringing in his ears when he finally got up and swaying slightly, he moved towards the door.
‘Carter!’ he shouted.
He kicked the door open and, gun in the classic two-handed grip, went forward into a luxurious air-conditioned room, large and spacious and magnificently decorated in silver satin and pure white.
There was a desk further on and a lush leather swivel chair. Behind the desk, on the wall, hung a large LCD 211 screen.
There was, however, no sign of the man called Black Fox!
* * *
Bond was about to go and look elsewhere when suddenly the LCD 211 came on and the face of Simon Carter filled the screen.
‘Ah, at long last, the intrepid Mr. Bond,’ Carter said smiling. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
Carter wore a light grey suit and his dark, wavy hair was brushed firmly into place. There was an air of arrogance about him, in his slate-grey eyes and from his left temple an ugly puckered scar ran along his cheek to the corner of his mouth and across what could only be described as a massive chin.
‘Please don’t look surprised,’ he said, his American accent heavy. ‘I knew you were coming for me the moment they sent those two agents out to look for you back in France four days ago. I have, I’m sure you’ve now realized, people everywhere. What the hell did your organisation think? That I was going to sit back and wait for you? Well, as you can see I’m tucked away safely miles away.’
Bond just stood there listening.
‘What a damn pity those imbeciles I hired to abduct you messed things up for me though, eh?’ he continued. ‘We’d be having this conversation facia a facia right now. You see, I’ve been dying to meet you, Mr. Bond. For starters, I’d really like to know how the hell you got out of Libya alive. Do you mind filling me in on that?’
Bond reached inside one of his pockets and took out a cigarette and lit it. He was trying to remain calm which was damn right difficult considering that everything they’d just been through, the deaths of his men, had been all for nothing.
‘MI6 were monitoring our plane live via satellite,’ he said when he blew out the smoke. ‘When they spotted that MIG you sent out to intercept us, my boss made a couple of phone calls to his Libyan counterpart. The MIG was called off.’
Carter laughed out.
‘Good God, Mr. Bond, but you give new meaning to the word luck, you know that?’ he told him. ‘Good on you! I’m impressed, especially with the way MI6 disabled the Anti Proton bombs with just seconds to spare. Talking about life on the edge, eh? Which of course leads me to the reason why I’m popping in on you like this. I want you to take a really good look at this face, Mr. Bond, and remember it because it’s the last time you’ll ever see it. D’you know why? Because by tomorrow night I’m going to have a new one. Total face transplant is what they call it nowadays and for two million dollars I’m getting the full works. A whole new face and a whole new identity, Mr. Bond, which’ll obviously get all you dogs off my back once and for all.’
Bond watched Carter raise a glass of Scotch to his lips and take a sip.
‘As for DOMINION, you all think you’ve destroyed us, don’t you? But you haven’t, you know. DOMINION is alive and well and I’m now in charge and when you least expect it we’re going to come down on you all like the wrath of God for what you did to us. It won’t be long till you hear from us again. I assure you that. And please, if you survive Les Larmes de l’Ange today, which I doubt, give this message to all concerned that DOMINION has just gone into hibernation, that’s all. The day of reckoning will come sooner than you all think. Goodbye, Mr. Bond.’
‘Wait!’ Bond snapped.
Carter looked at him through the screen, a look of amusement in his eyes. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘You said if I survived today.’
Carter glanced at his watch.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I forgot to tell you that a high explosive bomb will go off in exactly sixty seconds from now and wipe Les Larmes de l’Ange off the face of the earth.’ Carter smiled one of the most evil smiles Bond had ever seen in his life. ‘Remember these words, Double O Seven. Remember them and remember my face, the face you destroyed: From hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Now then, as they, Mr. Bond, civediamo bello.’
And then the screen went blank.
A sporadic beeping sounded from somewhere inside the room, loud, sharp.
Sixty bloody seconds!
Horrified, James Bond turned and raced out of there as if hell itself was at his heels...
* * *
Bond didn’t actually jump down the stairs – he flew down them.
With bursting lungs, he shot outside and made for the piece of patch alongside the helicopter pad further on. He tried estimating how much time he had left but somehow he couldn’t bloody well think straight. Almost slipping, he saw the orange helicopter beyond and pushed himself harder. It was as he reached the hang-gliders though that the first explosion came from deep within Les Larmes de l’Ange behind him, almost throwing him forward flat on his face.
There was another explosion seconds after and a raging flame, thick black smoke and debris spewed fiercely from inside the Chalet.
Bond felt the ground beneath his feet rock violently like an underground eruption and his heart sank. There wasn’t enough time to get into the glider’s harness, he measured, so eyes dark slits and holding his breath, Bond kept on running towards the cliff’s edge just meters away, as fast as he possibly could, and it was as he dived into the space beyond that the narrow plateau below Mont Ciel’s summit blew up into a ball of crimson fire, with rubble bursting up and out with one of the loudest blasts he’d ever heard...
* * *
James Bond hurtled towards the earth, along with God only knows how much debris, rock and ice from the massive explosion, twisting and turning wildly through the cold air.
He was alive, was his first thought; his second: for how long though. He screwed up his eyes against the whiplash of the wind as the world spun fast before him - mountains, sky, snow, earth and large bits and pieces of rock and ice - the wind screaming inside his ears and the fear of being hit in mid air absolutely overwhelming.
Bond tried to gain control, balance himself out as he fell wildly.
He twisted his upper body to the left and then clawed at the wind, fighting to adopt the spread eagled position, with his body’s centre of gravity at stomach level.
As he did so, his mind strangely took him back to that night with Slade and Stead, in that nightclub back in London, just before coming out here.
What was it he had told them?
To the luck of the devil!
And what luck, he thought.
Thankfully, he succeeded in arching his back and placing his legs and arms outstretched so that air pressure was finally uniform. Far below him through the white clouds he could now see a patch of brown, green and white.
The world belongs to the enthusiast who keeps cool.
Why did Bond think that?
Who had said that?
Ah, yes. William McFee, the writer.
Bond used to adore reading his books when he was a child. Great Sea Stories of Modern Times. A wonderful book and rather strange he should think of it now.
How bloody appropriate, James! He told himself.
Bond’s hand grabbed the ripcord of his reserve parachute and pulled down hard. For the first twelve seconds though nothing happened and Bond couldn’t stop swearing but then he felt the reassuring tug at his harness and his legs fell below him as his black canopy deployed.
‘Thank God for that,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
He now floated easily down, the sun which had just appeared from behind a white cloud glowing brightly, the earth far below as he drifted between the blue sky, majestic mountains and the earth below. He looked up and carried out his main canopy check, making certain it was deployed correctly, still praying he wasn’t hit by the falling debris. There was only the sound of the wind humming in the rigging as he quickly assessed his drift, pulling down on the lift-webbs, the green, white and brown cold ground not far below. Bond brought his knees and feet together and then the earth jumped up to greet him. He hit the ground with a terrible thump and rolled over twice violently. Turning onto his back, he pressed the quick release catch making the harness spring open and when he finally stood up, he looked up at Mont Ciel and smiled grimly.
‘Indeed,’ he said softly to himself. ‘The luck of devil.’
He stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lit it and inhaled deeply and stayed there smoking for a long while, enjoying the fact that he was still bloody alive.
When he was finally ready, he sat down on a rock, produced his mobile phone, dialled some numbers and waited.
‘Gabby?’ he said after a few moments. ‘It’s me, James Bond. I need a small favour, darling. You wouldn’t mind picking me up, would you...?’
*