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#1 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 01 July 2009 - 07:59 PM

Discuss this story in this thread.



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!’
B)!’ 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...?’


*



#2 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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  • Location:Malta G.C

Posted 06 July 2009 - 08:04 PM

1
‘The Brotherhood of the
Golden Dragon’



James Bond glanced down at the green face of the dashboard clock. Twelve fifty-five in the afternoon. Another ten minutes and he’d be there.
Bond slowed the Aston Martin DBS V12 as he approached some traffic in Westminster. He had arrived back in London two nights ago and had spent that particular morning with the wife of a very influential Civil Servant head, making hot passionate love at his flat in Chelsea and it was half way through their wild act when the red telephone on his bedside locker had started to ring.
‘I’m not stopping,’ she had told him firmly.
Sarah Mansing was on top of him at that specific moment and Bond couldn’t help cursing as he reached for the receiver.
‘Don’t even think of it,’
‘James, is that you, darling?’ Miss Moneypenny’s voice sounded in his ear, cool and personal.
‘Penny,’ he answered. ‘Before you say anything, may I remind you I’m on leave.’
‘M wants you. Yesterday.’
His lover bent down and chewed on his ear then his neck, panting with burning bliss. ‘Oh, James, this is so wonderful, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Just hang up, will you...’
Bond ignored her and fought hard to stay focussed on the call.
‘What’s the rush, Penny?’ he asked.
‘Let’s just say he’s up in arms, James.’ Moneypenny told him.
Bond frowned. ‘But I sent in my preliminary report two days ago from Switzerland. I’m not an iron man. I need my rest, Penny. I’m not as young as I used to be you know...’
He looked up at the beautiful face of his lover as she rode him, her eyes glowing passionately, and he smiled that devil’s smile of his and winked playfully.
‘James, my heart is bleeding for you,’ came Moneypenny’s voice again, pulling him back down to earth. ‘But orders are orders, dear. Now get into your clothes like a good little boy and get that sexy bum of yours into your car. I’m giving you an hour.’
‘You’re a bloody slave driver, Penny, d’you know that. When I get there I’m going to put you over my knee...’
‘Promises, promises, James,’ she said and he could see her smile inside his mind. ‘And by the way, tell Mrs. Sarah Jane Mansing there that her husband left work ten minutes ago. He’s on his way back home. M thought you’d better be informed.’
Bond turned white at that.
‘Tell me you’re joking! And why the hell am I being watched?’
‘Colonel’s orders, James. Sir Markus Mansing will be at his flat in another twenty minutes so I’d watch it if I were you, lover boy. If he finds out you’re having an affair with his lovely wife...’
And with that she cut off.
Again Bond cursed and slammed down the receiver.
‘I thought your husband was working today.’
‘He is, James.’ Sarah Jane told him in a seductive whisper. ‘We’ve got all afternoon to enjoy this bliss.’
Bond cocked an eyebrow.
‘Why has he just left work then and is on his way home?’ he asked.
It was Sarah Jane’s turn to go white.
‘What?!’ she almost shouted it. ‘Oh my God!’
She was off him in a flash.
Bond sighed heavily and watched her get dressed hysterically in front of him.
He reached for a cigarette and lit it, his face quite flushed.
‘Are we still on for tomorrow night?’ he asked.
‘If I get home before Markus does,’ she called as she raced out of his bedroom. ‘Sorry about this, James. He doesn’t know I went out. I think he’s been suspecting lately. I’ll call you. Really, darling. Take care now...’
Bond’s lips formed a crooked smile.
He inhaled deeply on the cigarette and blew out thick grey smoke.
He heard the front door open and then shut again.
Bond got out of bed and padded across to the bathroom in his bare feet. His eyes were fairly red from a few Martinis too many the previous night. He filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, savouring its freshness and then grabbed a shower. As he towelled himself dry, he examined his face in the mirror and for once in a very long time rather liked what he saw.
As he dressed, it began raining outside and leaving his flat in Chelsea twenty minutes later wearing a dark blue Alpaca suit, a Sea Island cotton shirt, black tie and plain black shoes, it increased to a steady downpour...

* * *


James Bond arrived dead on time, the car disappearing inside the underground car park of the grey, plush, layered-cake-like building that was the headquarters of MI6.
He rode the lift up to M’s office, walked along the thickly carpeted corridor and came to a plane white door at the far end and went in.
M’s outer room was large and plainly furnished, with a desk in one corner on which stood a computer and several telephones.
Miss Moneypenny was bending over a filing cabinet and she looked up, a slight smile on her wide, intelligent face. She removed her spectacles with one hand and looked him over, a glow of welcome and something more in her bright green eyes.
‘Ah, there you are, James. You’re looking good, darling. Switzerland did for you, I see. Or was it little Miss Mansing’s finer touches perhaps. ’
She wore a plain white blouse and pink Charmian skirt from St Paul’s of Marketgrove which seemed to bring out her fine, sexy figure.
Bond grinned. ‘Penny, how many times have I told you, darling, that there’s only one person in my whole life!’
‘Oh?’
‘And his name starts with the letter M.’
Moneypenny sighed and sat down at her desk.
Bond sat on the edge, looking down at her. ‘So what’s going on?’ he asked. ‘What’s the Colonel got on his mind that can’t wait till tomorrow? I know I’m in deep waters because of what happened back in Switzerland but surely...’
‘You’ll have to ask him yourself, James. He had a meeting with the JIC this morning. Top secret and all, but it seems they’re breathing down his neck again. He’s been snapping at everyone, even me so I’d watch it if I were you.’
Bond nodded and got to his feet.
‘One of these days I’m applying for a desk job. Need an assistant, give me a call.’
Without waiting for a reply, he crossed to the far door, knocked once and opened it.

* * *


M was going through the file marked ‘Operation Pegasus’.
‘Sit down, Double O Seven,’ he said without looking up and Bond walked over to the chair across the desk from him and did as he was told.
‘You had clear orders to lay low and you failed to do so merely because you were ‘keen’ on seeing an old girl friend,’ the old man told him after a while and closed the file, discarding it in the out-tray.
He began filling his pipe with his good hand and when he was ready, he looked across at Bond, his eyes cold.
‘Everyone believes you jeopardised the whole operation, d’you know that?’
‘Those same people should ask themselves how the hell the bastard knew I was in Switzerland in the first place, sir.’
‘Because you were seen in that blasted hotel, Double O Seven!’ M retorted. ‘Obvious, no?’
Bond breathed in deeply to calm himself then shifted awkwardly in his chair.
‘My report clearly indicates that Black Fox knew we were planning an assault two days before our arrival there,’ he said. ‘Chauveau confirmed this. He...’
‘That’s not the point is it? The devils back at Whitehall want proof, man. Your theory that there are insiders in MI6 hasn’t been proven yet. Two Double O agents were killed though which means they’re going to want heads to roll. The Joint Intelligence Committee is up in arms and calling for your dismissal from the Service and you know what kind of pull they’ve got with the powers to be. In their opinion you botched the operation by breaking cover.’
Bond looked back at him firmly, feeling resentment, feeling like a man on trial.
The atmosphere in M’s office had indeed become rather tense and claustrophobic.
The Joint Intelligence Committee was ruthless and insensitive enough, he thought, more ruthless than any civilian equivalent. If anyone could come down hard on him and his own organisation it was them and they weren’t the type who resisted the scent of blood...
‘Then perhaps I should submit my resignation from the Service, sir.’ Bond told him finally. ‘I’m not going to accept blame for something I had no control upon. True, I did meet Gabriella Brunner that night but Black Fox knew we were planning to grab him even before I got to London for your briefing. My seeing the girl had nothing to do with the fact that he got wind of our coming. The root of the matter lies with the bastard having someone on his payroll, sir, someone high up. Chauveau told me under interrogation that they’d been watching the safe-house the whole day planning how to snatch me.’
‘And you presented the buggers with the perfect opening,’ M put in, his cold grey eyes narrowing. ‘If they had gotten hold of you...’
‘But they didn’t, sir!’ Bond protested.
‘Thanks to the fact that Chauveau and his men were amateurs, Double O Seven.’
‘True, sir, I was lucky.’ Bond swallowed hard and then continued. ‘However, JIC should concentrate their efforts in finding the insider. If they’re going to waste their time looking for some sort of scapegoat to cover-up a major security breach in this Service then they’ll have to look elsewhere, sir. As I said, I’d rather resign than be thrown out to the wolves.’
M leaned back in his chair and looked Bond closely, puffing on his pipe. ‘And what makes you think I’m going to let them do that, Double O Seven?’ he told him.
‘Sir?’
‘I’m not letting anybody throw one of my best men out to the wolves, Bond. True, they want me to suspend you pending further investigations and disciplinary action but I’ll be damned if I give in to the bastards. I’ve decided to send you away for a while, just until this thing blows over. I’ll handle the JIC and whatever else has to be done with regards to these insiders you say are on Black Fox’s payroll, but until I do I’d rather you be on assignment out of this country.’
Bond raised an eyebrow.
‘Assignment, sir?’
M nodded, his eyes steel. ‘Yamada Nakamuro. Ever heard of him?’
Bond shook his head. ‘Can’t say I have, sir.’
‘You would if you bothered clearing up the pile of paper work in your office instead of cavorting around with married women. Which reminds me, Double O Seven, I warn you that this Division won’t stand for any more ‘love’ scandals, especially if it involves one of its most senior officers and the wife of one of the most influential Civil Servant heads in this country. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I bloody well hope so, for your sake. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.’
There was a long moment of silence during which M let those words sink in.
‘However, back to this Nakamuro fellow. He’s better known in the Japanese underworld as Shiseido Kogane which loosely translated means Midas Gold, don’t ask me bloody why.’
M tossed him a colour photograph which Bond took and looked at closely. The man portrayed was rather tall for a Japanese. He was dressed in a finely cut beige suit, a white shirt open at the neck. The face was dark and clean-cut, hair blue-black. The eyes, almond shaped, were cold and dangerous, and astonishingly, Bond noted, the colour of pure gold...
‘Interesting,’ he said softly.
‘Born 1952, Tokyo.’ M continued. ‘Only son of mixed parentage, Italian and Japanese. Inherited his first million before the age of thirty six, now a multi millionaire and head of one of the biggest criminal organisations in Japan: The Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon. He’s rarely seen in public and when he is he’s always closely guarded by his personal bodyguards. His business involves drug smuggling, gambling, prostitution and extortion – on a grand scale I might add. You name it he does it, not to mention all the money he gives to fund some of the major terrorist groups popping up around the world today.’
It was then that M got up and crossed over to the drinks cabinet opposite. He busied himself opening a bottle of Scotch and poured two generous glasses and handed one to Bond.
‘Well, to cut a very long story short, a couple of weeks ago this Nakamuro fellow turned up in Italy and the Italian Secret Service uncovered some very disturbing information which was passed on to our CID, thanks to your old friend over there Roberto Grazianizi.’
Bond drank some of his Scotch.
‘Information, sir?’ he asked.
‘One of Nakamuro’s shipments of drugs will be leaving Italy sometime next month,’ M told him and puffed on his pipe. ‘Destination UK.’
‘I see.’
‘Now Sir Raymond Valance has asked for my help and I’ve accepted.’ M told him. ‘I want you to locate and stop that shipment from reaching its destination. Simple as that. I know its run-of-the-mill stuff, but until the Switzerland affair is over I want you out of JIC’s way. Clear?’
Bond nodded.
‘I trust Grazianizi will give me the relevant details when I get there.’
‘He’s already been informed you’ll be on the job.’
‘When do I leave?’
M looked sternly across at Bond.
‘Hope you haven’t made any plans for this week-end, James.’
‘As a matter of fact, sir, I haven’t.’

* * *


At eleven o’clock in the morning on Saturday, James Bond, dressed impeccably in a double breasted navy blue blazer, white shirt, light blue tie, charcoal grey trousers and plain brown shoes, sat in the depressing and surprisingly deserted departure lounge of Gatwick airport, staring down at a stiff Scotch and Soda, thinking of life and all its ugliness...
He raised his glass to his lips, at the same time stealing a glance across at the bearded man who’d been leaning against the wall for nearly an hour, staring out of the wide window overlooking the concourse of the airport terminal.
He’d noticed him before, earlier; had noticed his casual checks of the large silver clock high up on the wall directly opposite him. There was something about him that Bond didn’t like – something in the face, the eyes, his body language...
A lovely female voice announced from the loudspeakers in the ceilings that BA Flight KM 1326 to Rome would be loading at Gate 13 in one hour.
‘Passengers are kindly requested to have their passports and hand luggage ready for inspection by custom officials.’
Bond ignored the bearded man for now and knocked back the remaining Scotch, gesturing the barman for another, this time a double. He decided he would get drunk and then sleep it off on the plane.
Good idea, James me’ boy. Drown your life in the Scotch - the best way to sooth the pain and the ideal way to accept his life and all the bastard pain that came along with it.
Bond drowned his drink in one gulp.
Pain? What pain was that, old boy? The pain of having seen your colleagues sliced in half or cut up by a burst of automatic fire, or blown to pieces before your very eyes? The pain of guilt and the ugliness of living day by day as if things like that never happened?
James Bond was a dangerous professional killer and a spy. He’d been working for the Secret Service for more years than he himself could remember now and held that most secret number ‘OO7’; a number that signified an agent who had killed and is privileged to kill on active service when he wants and how he wants. The C.M.G made him one of the most highly decorated officers in the Double O Division, an award usually given only on retirement from the Secret Service and a measure of his worth.
He wasn’t a bad man, he observed of himself, but he was bloody ruthless and self indulgent, a man who enjoyed the fight, the action, the passion – not to mention the prizes. It was part of his profession to kill people. He had never like doing it and when he had killed, he had done so as well as he knew how. He killed as a soldier kills; in the field, destroying his enemies in the name of Queen and Country. The secret was to forget about it afterwards – to be cool about death as a surgeon. Regret was unprofessional; worse, it was a death watch beetle in the soul...
‘Shall I top up, sir,’ asked the man behind the bar.
Bond thought about it, eyes suddenly sad and distant, then shook his head.
‘No, thank you,’ he told him and then, ‘You know something?’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve cheated death so many times in my life that I’ve literally lost count,’ he told him, his speech slightly slurred. ‘The fact is though one of these days the bitch is bound to find out.’
The barman smiled amiably at him. ‘Well, sir,’ he said. ‘Just try not to be around when she does.’
And James Bond laughed at that, laughed wholeheartedly...


*



#3 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 20 July 2009 - 09:20 PM

2
‘The Italian Job’


Bond was feeling hot and stuffy after the flight and he had a bit of a hangover. Too much Scotch, he thought as he got out of the taxi. To make matters worse, after the biting cold of London, the warm air was rather overwhelming which added terribly to his headache.
He was welcomed immediately at the Hotel Mille Fiori because his reservation was made from the UK. After filling in his personal details (he was a representative of one of the UK’s biggest export and import companies: Universal) he ordered a Suzuki GSX R1000 and had given the sexy young clerk his international driving licence, requesting that it be delivered at once.
Certatmente, Signor Bond,’ she had said in one of the most alluring voices he’d ever heard. ‘Chiamero la nostra abiliamente motori: ‘Ital-Car’. Probabilmente sara qui nel’ ora. Se avrai bisongio di qualcosa altro, per piacere, non esitare a chiedere. Sonno al tuo dispozizione.
Bond gave her a charming smile.
Grazie, signorina. Sei molto gentile e carina.
He was then shown to a corner room on the fourth floor, the balcony overlooking the pool area and after standing outside smoking a cigarette, gratefully took off his UK clothes, now moist with sweat, and went into the shower. Turning the cold water full on, he stood under it for ten refreshing minutes, head bowed.
Now, feeling completely refreshed, he unpacked and slipped into a black Vellon and Reid T-Shirt, beige slacks and a beige jacket, looked in the mirror and went down and out to where the sleek black Suzuki was parked...

* * *



Rome was no doubt one of the most beautiful cities in the world, he observed as he sped through the narrow, cobbled streets. There was a very delicate blend of the ancient and the modern, and, as one of the few major European cities that escaped World War II relatively unscathed, central Rome certainly remained essentially Renaissance and Baroque...
Bond was to meet Roberto Grazianizi for dinner at a restaurant called Risato’s on the Via Delmare. He got there ten minutes early, an old fashioned place, very expensive but very popular with the Roman suitors.
Buona sera, signore, benvenuto. Siamo lietti di averti qui.
Ho un rezervazione nel nome di Boldman. James Boldman.
Ah, si. Il signor Boldman. Una tavola per due se non zbalgio. Seguimi perfavore.
He was shown to a table in the corner and asked for a Limoncella con molto giacio and sat back, looking around.
When Inspector Roberto Grazianizi finally appeared in the foyer, he was dead on time, a bull of a man, bearded and dressed smartly in a loosely fitting grey suit and blue shirt open at the neck.
He looked around and noticed Bond at the table, smiled and walked over.
He’d known Grazianizi for some time now, and their friendship went way back to the Aristotle Kristatos affair. Grazianizi had been the liaison officer assigned to Bond during that mission and after he had disposed of Kristatos by shooting the bastard between the eyes from fifty yards away, they had become quite close. The Italian had helped him get through all the red tape that had reared its ugly head in the aftermath and it was thanks to him that everything was filed and processed accordingly with all the relevant Italian Government departments concerned. Their paths had crossed throughout the years following that episode, during a couple of other missions Bond had undertaken, mostly espionage jobs against KGB agents operating in Italy.
Simply put, Roberto Grazianizi was reliable, a professional and most of all a damn good man...
‘My dear James, how good to see you again,’ the Italian said, offering his hand.
Bond got up and took it. ‘Roberto, you’re looking good,’ he told him. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Oh, I’ll have one of those, thank you.’
He ordered the drink from the waiter.
‘I heard you let the opposition get a bit too close to you, James.’ Grazianizi told him as he sat down. ‘Shot twice, Madonna mia! You are lucky to be alive, my friend.’
‘Very lucky,’ Bond said. ‘But as you Italians say: aqua pasata. What about you? How are things at GSNN?’
GSNN was the Italian equivalent of the British Special Branch.
Grazianizi leaned forward.
‘Not too good, James,’ he said with a wave of his left hand. ‘There are too many legal restrictions imposed on us nowadays. Everything is done by the book; the EU book. People like me are becoming semplicimente dinosawri. Tell you the truth I can’t wait till my time is up. Two years is all I have left e poi sarro libero di fare qualunque cosa che volgio.
‘And what exactly would that be, Roberto?’
Scriverre poesie e relasare con la piu bella donna in Roma, my dear James, or as you call it: the soft life.’
The waiter brought the drink over and they ordered the food: Tagliatelli Verdi con fungi e prosciutto with a Napolitano sauce made up of basil, garlic and ground Cummin.
With Grazianizi’s approval, Bond chose a Chianti and when the waiter retired with a satisfied smile, offered Grazianizi a cigarette, Risato’s being the only restaurant in Rome where one could enjoy smoking inside freely and without fear of legal consequences.
‘No thanks, I stopped using those years ago. Pessimo gusto, James. I prefer cigars myself.’
Bond smiled and Grazianizi produced a six by four coloured photo of a man getting into a taxi outside an airport arrivals terminal.
Insomma, let us get down to business now, my friend. That’s your man. Shiseido Kogane.’
‘Midas Gold.’
‘It was taken a month ago in Vienna.’
‘Creepy looking sod,’ Bond said softly and looked at the photo again, exhaling a stream of grey smoke slowly. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the golden eyes?’
‘Very strange feature indeed. Eye colors can range from the most common color, brown, to the least common, green. Rare genetic mutations however can lead to unusual eye colors: black, red, or in Nakamuro’s case, the appearance of gold.’
‘And what exactly have you got on him?’
‘Well, apart from the information I sent over to British CID, which I’m sure your Chief briefed you on, not much I’m afraid. In the law’s eyes he is just a rich Japanese business man who happens to be half Italian and who donates a lot of money to charity. Can you believe he had dinner with one of our ministers two nights ago; was even seen on television shaking the bloody fool’s hand as he left. The head of one of the largest criminal organisations in Japan with one of Italy’s most respected politicians. Ma che pazzo mondo, eh?’
‘Knowing something isn’t exactly proving it,’ Bond said. ‘However, apart from narcotics smuggling, what legitimate business is he actually involved in?’
‘He is CEO of an up-and-coming automotive company. Kogane Motors. It is becoming a well-recognized name throughout Italy at the moment with an aim of expanding throughout Europe.’
Bond blew out some smoke and took a long sip of his limoncello.
‘The tip of the iceberg no doubt,’ he said.
‘Absolutely. Politically Nakamuro is gradually becoming an asset to this country due to his immense wealth. As long as he stays far away from his own dirty actions, the politicians will accept him, socially. As I said he has donated millions to charity here. The government simply takes his money until he gets careless and slips.’
If he gets careless and slips,’ Bond put in.
‘Precisely, if he does they’ll be the first to spit on his grave, so to speak. But until then, he is still head of a legitimate business that is growing steadily and creating a lot of much needed jobs for the man in the street. For now my superiors consider him intocabile.’
‘Untouchable.’
Bond stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair.
Bravo,’ Grazianizi said. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s paid off the police, the judges and the politicians though but for Santa Maria’s sake, they all know he is a bloody drug baron!’
‘But they can’t prove it, Roberto, and when they can’t prove it the public don’t get to know about it and what they don’t know can’t hurt them, and finally the government that the people vote to power. It’s the same in the UK, believe me.’
Their food came and they began eating.
‘The fact is, James, Midas Gold, to give him his pathetic moniker, is no doubt using Kogane Motors as a front for his more explicit business venture – drugs. How he smuggled it into this country and how he’s going to get it out and into the UK is a mystery as of yet. What I do know is that the shipment is already here. Oh, and according to my source, we’re talking over half a billion dollars worth of drugs, James, so you can understand the gravity of our situation.’
Bond nodded solemnly.
‘Your source?’ he asked as he raised a fork of delicious Tagliatelli to his mouth.
Grazianizi sipped some wine.
‘A young lad. He used to work for SISMI, the Intelligence Service, before crossing over to GSNN. He didn’t uncover much unfortunately but he was convinced that the shipment is to leave Italy some time this month and that it’s location is the UK. After two months undercover, working as a sales representative at Kogane Motors, Italia Ltd, he was found dead. It was something out of Silence of the Lambs, but much worse if possible. The police found his almost unrecognizable nude body in his apartment after receiving an anonymous call. His hands and feet were bound with wire and his genitals stuffed in his mouth. Whoever killed him was an animale. No less.’
Grazianizi let the words sink in.
‘I was supposed to meet him at his apartment the night he was murdered but I didn’t get there on time. He had told me on the phone that he had vital information that would expose Nakamuro and his plans.’
Bond dabbed his lips with a napkin.
‘Information that went to his grave with him though,’ he said.
Si, sfortunatamente. His death sent the whole operation up in smoke which is why I called British CID. We need help on this one and fast. The rest you know.’
‘Who else apart from you knows I’m here?’
Grazianizi drank some wine.
‘Obviously my boss, yours, Sir Raymond Valance and both our Prime Ministers. Other than that, absolutely no one.’
‘It is imperative that we keep it that way.’ Bond told him.
‘Which goes without saying, James. As you know so well, the drug trade is a very dangerous machina and so too is Midas Gold. La Machina del Diavolo. I am sure he is playing with other dangerous people on this job. The Mafia, the Camorra and last but not least the Marcuzzi even, who knows? I have a feeling that they will be investing lots of money into his operation which means you are on very dangerous ground, my friend, e certamente non volgio la tua morte su mio cosciensa sai, so you may rest assured no one will know you even exist, let alone are here. As for official action however, believe me James, the more the police and the security services push, the more Nakamuro and his organisation go deeper underground, making their activities harder to follow than they ever were before. And if that happens, what we’re going to see from here on is the Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon becoming more structured, like the Sicilian Mafia and other European crime syndicates.’
Bond nodded.
This affair certainly sounded rather unpleasant, dangerous and very, very dirty.
He finished his food and drank a large amount of wine. Sitting back, thoroughly satisfied, Bond lit another cigarette.
‘So, Roberto, now for the one million dollar question,’ he said, the hint of the devil’s smile on his face. ‘Where can I find the bastard?’
Grazianizi took the menu and leafed through it.
‘You know, James, I really feel like some desserta. Do you fancy Melone and chocolate ice-cream?’
‘Not really. I’ll just have an espresso lungho and a glass of water please.’
The waiter came and collected their plates. Grazianizi ordered and then sat back, chewing silently on a wooden toothpick.
After a few moments, he produced a small USB Flash Drive.
‘Everything you need to know is on this, James,’ he said. ‘Names, dates, locations, pictures, the works. You also have my contact number and a list of names of people who might be able to help you when it comes to, how shall I put it, kitting up, yes? In the unlikely event of my sudden demise, you will also find the contact number of one my most trusted associates. Needless to say, whatever you need...’
Bond took the Flash Drive and placed it in his pockets.
‘Now then, carro amico mio. I am tired of speaking English for one night. Tell me how they got so close to you to have succeeded in putting two bullets inside you back in London. I’ve heard so many stories. And speak Italian, James. You’re becoming rusty in your old age.’
Bond smiled warmly and related the story...

* * *

It was later and there was a small square opposite the restaurant, used generally as a car park, and Bond and Grazianizi were now walking towards the Italian’s car. Via Delmare at that time of the night was simply mesmerising, Bond thought; the soft yellow lights from the street lamps emphasising the place’s mysterious and antique feel.
‘In Roman times this was one of the streets that crossed the ancient Via Flaminia and enabled people who crossed the Tiber to reach the the Pincio hill,’ Grazianizi told him as he relit his cigar. ‘You see that café over there, James; it is one of the most famous cafés in Rome. It was established in 1760, and attracted figures such as Stendhal, Goethe, Byron, Liszt and Keats to have coffee there.’
They reached the car, a white Fiat Punto and Grazianizi got the door open.
‘Well, my dear,’ he said. ‘I hope you find the information in that Flash Drive useful. Go through it thoroughly. Get your bearings, my friend, and tomorrow we shall meet again for lunch to discuss a course of action appropriate to the job at hand; the Italian job, eh? Quite apt, don’t you think?’
‘Quite. One more thing though.’
‘Go ahead, my friend.’
‘Enrico Colombo?’
‘The Dove?’ Grazianizi raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes. I was thinking of looking him up. Please tell me he’s still around. I may just need his help.’
Grazianizi smiled and put his key in the ignition. ‘Oh, that old scoundrel is still around all right, James,’ he told him. ‘Where you can find him though is beyond me. The last time I heard he was operating from Sicily. Still smuggling damned cigarettes, booze and diamonds from North Africa believe it or not, and at his wretched age.’
‘Some people never change.’
‘True. I’ll make some find-outs but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Thanks. Till tomorrow then.’
Buona notte, James. A domani.’
And with that, James Bond turned and crossed towards his bike opposite.
It was as he was half way across the street though that a ball of flame erupted from inside Grazianizi’s Fiat with one of the loudest bangs he’d ever heard.
The blast of the explosion knocked Bond forward violently, scorching his back as raging flames rose from the shattered car...


*



#4 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 29 July 2009 - 08:20 PM

3
A Game for Devils


Bond couldn’t believe what had just happened.
He turned onto his side and looked back at the burning wreck further on, horrified and still in shock, not to mention his whole head spinning wildly.
There was no way Grazianizi could have survived that, he thought desperately. As for himself, he was lucky to be alive!
Again he had cheated death, by an inch. How long could this go on for? How long was his luck going to run?
There was a painful buzzing in his ears and his back felt like hell.
He picked himself up though, brushing himself down. He swayed unsteadily as a couple of police cars and a fire engine screamed round the corner.
A handful of people had gathered on both sides of the street, watching the bonfire rage, looks of fear and astonishment in their eyes.
He cursed and made his way to the bike further on.
Bond couldn’t afford to be stopped. Not now. People had seen him with Grazianizi so he had to get out of there fast before the police got to him.
Once on the bike, Bond sped off as if the hounds of hell were after him, thinking of his dear friend and the horrible death he had just succumbed.
Restful bloody death! How sweet such a thought!
It was as he made his way along Via Dei Traviali that he suddenly noticed that he'd been fingered: A red Fiat Brava was now hot on his bloody heels...

* * *


The GSX-R1000 is what is called by motorists as a super bike from Suzuki's GSX-R series of motorcycles. It was introduced in 2001 to replace the GSX-R1100 and is powered by a liquid-cooled 999 cc inline four-cylinder 4-stroke engine. In 2006, Suzuki revealed a significantly updated GSX-R1000 for 2007 at the Paris motor show. The new bike gained 14 lb (6.4 kg) over the 2006 model which was due to its new exhaust system and new emissions regulations. To counter this significant weight increase, Suzuki improved its aerodynamics which was what had caught Bond’s attention.
For him it was simply the best means of transport to get out of rather sticky situations in places like traffic-congested Rome...

* * *


Bond sped down a through-road towards the North Centre of Rome. The Fiat Brava tried to close ground though, following him as he turned in and out graciously of the flow of oncoming traffic ahead; the stunning drone of the Suzuki’s 4-stroke engine simply exhilarating, a sexy beast in his hands.
The power of the Suzuki filled him up with an overwhelming excitement.
Thrusting down on the throttle he veered into Nomentano, striking a very dangerous left turn in the process rather than take the busier route towards the Modern Centre.
Let’s give the bastards a run for their money, he thought.
He was touching 90MPH now and as he reached the Vial Riccina and shot through some red lights, a couple of cars swerved and screeched to a halt to avoid him, crashing into one another.
The driver of the Fiat increased speed though, keeping onto him, desperate no doubt. He was closing in, Bond noted and whoever he was, was certainly an able driver, but then, so too was he and he manoeuvred the bike beautifully through the traffic on the winding road before him.
Luck, or the lack of it rather, had it that as he progressed on this road, the stream of traffic seemed to slow increasingly before him.
Bond’s brow creased.
There was a traffic accident further on.
A blue Ford Fiesta had collided with a white Mini Cooper as it was turning the corner of a street. The drivers were having it out with each other as they stood beside their vehicles waiting for the Carabinieri. There was shouting and the blast of horns from the impatient drivers waiting to proceed on their way.
Bond glanced over his left shoulder.
The Fiat wasn’t far behind now, leaving ample space between itself and the other cars; obviously to manoeuvre after their prey: Bond.
A game for devils, Bond thought and swung the bike around, speeding across the road and turning into a traffic roundabout the wrong way.
Cars screeched and veered to avoid hitting him, only to crash into other vehicles parked at the side. Horns blared and drivers shouted obscene insults as Bond again swerved in and out of the oncoming traffic.
Ma va fancullo, pazzo!’
Glancing back again, he saw the Fiat pushing hard, not relenting in its pursuit, the driver manoeuvring the car through the gauntlet of oncoming vehicles.
Whoever was after him was not afraid to go to the limits.
It was, however, as Bond approached Piazza Della Repubblica on the other side when his heart missed a beat:
Wrong turn, James!
Hundreds of people appeared before him as he came out of the wide alley into the mouth of the Piazza...
Indeed, luck was playing him for a poor sod that evening.
Bond pulled on the brakes and skidded to a screeching halt in front of a couple of nuns holding two placards that read ‘We love Papa’.
It was a Peace March, he observed, and there was no way he was going forward in this ocean of people.
It was eleven forty-five at night for God’s sake, he thought. Don’t these people have anything better to do?
The nuns looked at him crossly and he couldn’t help but give them a charming smile.
Pace nel Mondo!’ People chanted.
Viva Il Papa!’
Liberta nazionale e amore a tutto il mondo!’
No alla gwerra in Iraq!’
‘Bollocks!’ Bond hissed through clenched teeth.
Several Carabinieri just spotted him and made their way towards him, one of them speaking urgently into a portable VHF radio.
Time to go!
Bond skidded the bike through a 180 degree turn towards the oncoming Fiat speeding up the wrong way towards him. He revved the engine, gunning the bike to full speed, his eyes dangerous slits on his face. He saw the passenger, a bald Japanese man, lean out with what looked like an Uzi Sub-Machine gun in his hands.
Bond strangely stayed his ground and then automatic gunfire blasted out into the night and bullets ripped up the ground around the Suzuki’s tires, which was all that was needed to cause mass panic in the Peace March behind him.
Bond jumped off the bike and released the throttle and clutch, allowing the sleek black Suzuki to shoot off towards the oncoming vehicle.
There was a roar and loud bash as the Fiat swerved and hit the wall to avoid the looming projectile that was Bond’s bike.
He watched somewhat amused as the GSX-R1000 hit the Fiat head-on, causing considerable damage with a crashing bang. He then turned towards the open doorway of a large house on his left and darted inside and through what the Italians refer to as the antiporta...
He raced through a rather long hallway that led to a wide flight of stairs beyond.
Ma chi cazzo sei, sporco mayale filgio di puttana!’ screamed a voice from the living room on his left. ‘Polizia! Mama Mia, ma che fatte?!’
Again, Bond couldn’t help smiling as he made for the roof.
‘Awfully sorry!’ he called out and kicked open the door leading to the roof terrace.
The night air was cool as he ran outside. He could hear more shouting from downstairs. He dashed to the perimeter wall and looked down. Too high to jump, he thought and rushed over the low wall on his right, landing onto another roof.
Ecollo!’ someone shouted behind him.
Without second thought, Bond leapt over another wall onto the next roof terrace, crouching low. He found a narrow ledge that ran the length of the building and worked his way across to a thick drainpipe that ran down to the street below. Thankfully it held his weight as he edged on down. At one point Bond almost lost his balance but managed to cling on for dear life by a thread.
‘Stop this now!’ came a voice from above. ‘I will shoot you if you do not stop, bastardo!’
One of the Carabinieri who’d chased him inside the house was directly above him now and two bullets flew dangerously passed Bond’s head.
Warning shots.
Bond swallowed hard.
Having no other option but to jump the rest of the way, Bond let go of the pipe and hoped for the best. He landed heavily but continued to roll twice skilfully to break the fall. He then darted up like a bolt and shot forward down the street.
Fermatello!’
Bond ignored the voice and ran off.
He needed to find a crowd to blend into and lose whoever was onto him, be it Carabiniere or Japanese ‘shadows’.
There were hardly any people about, just a few loving couples, hand in hand, so he decided to drop the beige jacket.
Now in black T-Shirt, he stepped up his pace towards making his way north along the west side of Villa Boughese, Rome's dishevelled version of Central Park and ten minutes later he found himself soon crossing the Tiber River on Corso Francia going north until he turned west toward the Via del Foro Italico...
Bond was sweating profusely now as he rounded the corner.
If only he could find a bloody taxi!
Traffic was busy here, fast and rather aggressive even at this time of the night.
He needed a drink, one hell of bloody drink.
After all that excitment and danger, James Bond suddenly felt like a walking time-bomb ticking away...

*



#5 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

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Posted 09 August 2009 - 07:52 PM

4
As Good as Gold



Bond eventually got back to the hotel in one piece after having flagged down a taxi half way there. He stepped out of the car with his MDS L12 PDA in hand, pressing some numbers. Disappearing inside the hotel, an anonymous voice answered:
‘Universal Exports. Who’s speaking please?’
‘It’s Bond. Get me M.’
‘Your security code please?’
‘Corporate 85616007’
‘One moment, Commander.’
After a couple of moments the Colonel came on.
‘What is it Double O Seven?’
‘Grazianizi’s dead.’
Bond crossed over to the reception desk, took his key and proceeded upstairs whilst still on the phone. He avoided the lift for the simple reason that one never knew who exactly one would find once the doors opened.
‘How unfortunate.’ The Colonel told him.
‘Very. Car bomb outside a restaurant. Almost coped it myself.’
‘Nakamuro?’
‘The fact that I was chased by a couple of Japanese hit-men makes me think so.’
‘D’you think he knows who you are?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Our narcotics people are having the hell of a job back here. Seems there’s already a frenzy on the streets for his stuff. Word has spread like a bush fire that it’s even better than heroin.’
Bond reached his door and went inside.
‘Any word on the JIC?’
‘Apart from the fact that they want your head on a silver plate, no, I’m afraid not.’
‘Fine,’ Bond said. ‘I need a trace on somebody.’
‘Who?’
‘Man called Enrico Colombo. He’s most likely holed up in Sicily somewhere.’
‘Who is he?’ M asked.
‘Just somebody who might be able to help me. I’ve worked with him before on a similar job.’
‘I’ll see what Station ‘S’ can do. Anything else?’
‘Not really.’
There was a pause, then,
‘Good. But remember, Bond, no more cock-ups like Switzerland.’
And with that the Colonel cut off.
‘Bastard!’ Bond hissed and tossed the PDA onto the bed. He then got undressed and took a cold shower...

* * *


Later, smoking a cigarette outside on the balcony, towel around his waist, enjoying the cool night air, Bond dialled a local number and after a couple of rings a relaxed voice answered, the American accent heavy.
‘Jack, it’s James,’ he said. ‘James Bond.’
‘Oh, hiya James. How nice of you to call. Where are you?’
Bond smiled. ‘As if you didn’t know, Jack,’ he said.
‘Well let’s just say Langley informed me you were coming over. Something to do with ‘gold digging’ if I’m not mistaken.’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it. Any interest in the chap yourselves?’
‘It’s live and let live back here at the Anti Narcotics Division of the Italian CIA Station, James. As long as Mr. Nakamuro doesn’t set his ugly gaze on our patch, it’s everyman to his own unfortunately. We’ve got our own problems with the Colombians, the Russian Mafia and the rest of Europe and the God-damn world.’
‘Of course you have,’ Bond said. ‘How’s Kate?’
‘Last I heard she’d married a very rich Saudi oil baron or something.’
‘I had no idea you divorced.’
‘Yeah, well, cest la vie, James. An ugly affair but one I’m over. So, tell me, my limey friend, what can I do you for?’
Bond sat down on the chair in the corner and inhaled a deep lungful of smoke.
‘I had a little accident this evening and I can’t afford the bike I was using being traced back to me. I’m afraid I can’t touch home-base here so I thought I’d ask if you could give a hand. If I’m not mistaken, Jack, it would put us even, no?’
‘And where did this ‘little accident’ take place?’
Piazza Della Repubblica.’ He told him. ‘You’ll also find the local police have an a.p.p out on me. I confess I was a bit reckless.’
‘No problem, James. Consider the whole episode wiped clean, me ould son.’
‘You’d never make a convincing cockney, Jack, not in a million years. Thanks though and give my regards to Obama.’
‘When you’re done with ‘gold digging’, give me a call, James. I’ll let you buy me dinner at Francesco’s.’
‘You’re on, Jack.’
Bond hung up.
He then went inside and opened a bottle of Scotch from the drinks cabinet. Pouring a more than generous tot, he rammed it back then poured another, four fingers this time, and went outside again, bottle in hand.
Sitting there in the comfortable chair, gazing out into the night, he took a deep pull on the cigarette and blew out a long, dirty grey stream of smoke, thinking of Grazianizi and what he had told him back at the restaurant.
...the drug trade is a very dangerous machina and so too is Midas Gold, James. La Machina del Diavolo (The Devil’s machine). I am sure he is playing with other dangerous people on this job. The Mafia, the Camorra and last but not least the Marcuzzi even, who knows? I have a feeling that they will be investing lots of money into his operation which means you are on very dangerous ground...
Dangerous ground, Bond reflected. He’d been treading dangerous grounds all his bloody life!
Bond downed the Scotch and poured another. He looked at the glass in his hand. He’d been drinking a lot lately. Too much in fact. He breathed in deeply, feeling suddenly and strangely quite depressed. It must have been what M had said before hanging up:
...Remember, Bond, no more cock-ups like Switzerland!
So, he thought, the Colonel was still under the impression that it was his fault things got messed up back in Switzerland. True, the whole ‘Black Fox’ affair had been a right damn catastrophe and every time he went over it inside his mind the same hard question hit him full in the face – had he called it wrong?
Bond and his men had gone through with the storming of Les Larmes de l’Ange even though they were aware of the fact that Black Fox knew they were in Switzerland. In a way, that alone should have been reason enough for them to have played safe and call the whole operation off. Instead they had tried their hand, resulting in one hell of a mess...
His fault?
Bond lit another cigarette and noticed his hands were shaking.
He quickly swallowed the whiskey in one gulp.
Probably, he thought.
It was a total failure which he should have anticipated; a failure that would no doubt haunt him for the rest of his life, which meant he would have to shoulder the blame even if M did manage to get the JIC off his back in the end.
Whatever the outcome of the JIC’s inquiry, he knew he would have to resign once and for all from the Secret Service, and this time there would be no turning back.
Bond poured another Scotch.
Resign.
What a pathetic joke!

How many times had he resigned in the past just to be lured back to the life he loved so much, the life of a spy, at the drop of a coin?
But then again, he’d never been involved in such a grand fiasco before the so-called Black Fox debacle.
Why the hell was he thinking of resigning? he thought. He did what he had thought was best at the time. He had discussed all options available with Slade and Stead and even they agreed they had to go through with the bloody raid.
It was not his fault they had ended up dead!
Bond’s face darkened, his eyes becoming deadly slits.
What the hell had triggered this horrible mood? he asked himself.
Grazianizi’s death?
M’s bland warning?

Both.
Bond stood up and leaned on the railing of the balcony and ran a hand through his hair. As he drank some of the Scotch, he looked out into the night, a slight frown on his face.
After University he had joined the Royal Navy because he could think of nothing better to do with his life. He went on to the Special Boat Service where he obtained the rank of Commander and after a couple of years was placed in 030 Special Forces Unit, serving covertly in Iraq, Somalia, Iran, Libya and actively in Bosnia. Those were the days, he thought; his early days as a Special Forces Operative. One knew where one was then. One had a job to do and one did it, to the best of one’s knowledge and ability. There were no grey areas. No cloak and daggers. No J-I-bloody-C thirsting for his blood! After 030, he decided to try out the SAS which in itself was a blast of a time, but then after two years he decided to move on to RNR Defence Intelligence where he was sent on a couple of specialized courses studying languages at Oxford and Cambridge.
‘Big bloody mistake, James,’ he hissed.
Cambridge was where he had met that SIS recruiter who’d thought Bond was the perfect candidate for the world of espionage.
Must’ve been a bloody nutter, he reflected ironically. Look at me now!
Then again, he had no family and was going from one adventure to the other in the SAS, in search of that ultimate thrill; so SIS seemed the next best thing. He had ended up working at Section F where it was all about intelligence gathering then; Information, profiling, assessments, data processing - spying in the true sense of the word. A year after joining, Sir Miles Messervey summoned him to his office on the eighth floor of the Regent’s Park Headquarters. He wanted Bond to join his outfit. Said he’d been highly recommended and he could do with a man of his ‘talents’. It turned out he was the founder of what they then called the Double O Section and after going through the mandatory gruelling training, he gave Bond his first two jobs. He had to assassinate a Japanese spy in New York and a Norwegian double agent who betrayed two British agents to the Russians. After those two very messy affairs, Bond was given Double O status and from then on there was no turning back...
No turning back, Bond thought.
The road to hell, that’s what it was!
He had turned out to be nothing more than a paid assassin working for Her Majesty’s Government who had now become a bloody expendable embarrassment.
Why else had they given him this job?
What was it Colonel Jackson had said?
...I’ve decided to send you away for a while, Bond, just until this thing blows over. I’ll handle the JIC and whatever else has to be done with regards to these insiders you say are on Black Fox’s payroll, but until I do I’d rather you be on assignment out of this country.
And what an assignment, he thought.
Shiseido Kogane: the man called Midas Gold.
Had M given him this very dangerous and dirty assignment as an act of kindness to a condemned man? Was he expecting Bond to redeem himself by bringing Kogane and his shipment of drugs targeted for the UK down, to make good for the failure that was the Black Fox affair? Was he secretly hoping that Bond failed to ‘beat the clock’ so that the whole embarrassing 'cock-up', as he had so brilliantly put it earlier on, be buried with him once and for all?
As if coming to a decision, James Bond finished the whisky in another quick swallow and went back inside. He found the Flash Drive Grazianizi had given him moments before he was killed and inserted it into his PDA.
He went back outside and sat down again.
If it was finally his time to go down, Bond was determined he would do so with one hell of a bang, no matter what dangers awaited him on this assignment; and if, at the end of it all, it was death itself on the books, then so be it - death would be just as good as gold this time around...The screen of his PDA filled with data, taking hold of his thoughts.
A list of files spread themselves over the screen, each in little yellow folder icons with names – Nakamuro: Italy Assets; Nakamuro: Swiss Bank Accounts; Nakamuro: Profile and Info (Japanese SIS); and finally, Nakamuro: Informants and Operatives (GSNN & SISMI).
Bond clicked on the Profile and Info (Japanese SIS) file and, as he was about to start reading the information that appeared, he heard the sudden crash and bang of his door being kicked open...
He shot up and darted through the balcony doorway, coming face to face with two rather big Japanese heavies dressed completely in black; ugly and dangerous looking fellows and both brandishing extremely shiny Samurai swords!
Bonsowa-ru, Mister Bond,’ one of them growled in Japanese. ‘Dozo yoroshiku.’
Bond felt a strange coldness around him, as if somewhere, someone had just stepped over his grave...


*



#6 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

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Posted 17 August 2009 - 09:22 PM

5
The Acceptance of Death


‘...Dozo yoroshiku.’
It was a formal Japanese greeting and it took an eternity until James Bond’s mind started working again after the initial shock of coming face to face with these two katana wielding intruders. It now raced wildly, gearing his thoughts anxiously into finding any possible responses to deal with this sudden and unexpected attack...
The men standing before him had a deadly evil in their eyes, the razor sharp blades of their long curved samurai swords glinting in the room’s bright light and he knew then that whoever these men were, they had come here to kill him.
The man on his left smiled cruelly, revealing crooked and yellow teeth. He was broad, with thick shoulders and short, closely cropped silver hair and beard. The other was a big bull of a man, completely bald and with the face of a prize boxer, broken nose and all the scars to prove it.
It was as the bald Japanese man finally swung his katana that Bond made his move, hoping, of course, for the best. He plunged to one knee, pulse hammering, and extracted the Flash Drive from the MDS L12 PDA he was holding. In the blink of an eye, he tossed it safely under the bed, pressed the button on the slim PDA’s side and pitched it too, as the bald Japanese man came in towards him with a dreadful scream. Seconds later, the charge inside the PDA flashed deafeningly and brilliantly, blinding them both, except Bond who’d closed his eyes. The effect of the exploding PDA was similar to the SAS designed ‘Flash Bang’, with just enough noise and light to disorient the Japanese heavies and give Bond the opening he needed desperately. He darted up and rushed over and into the bald Japanese heavy who had mercifully stopped in mid-stride, shocked and disoriented. Spear-handing him violently in the throat, Bond grabbed his katana with his other hand and twisted round, ruthlessly swinging it wide over his head, the razor sharp blade hissing, and striking the bald man’s waist. The katana kept speeding as if through air and sliced him in half. Without wasting a second, he turned towards ‘Crooked-teeth’ who now seemed to be shaking himself out of his stupor. Bond rushed in to strike, once more swinging the katana full circle...
Too late though!
‘Crooked-teeth’ rapidly exchanged position and, with both hands gripping his own sword, blocked off Bond’s as it made for his chest. Smiling nastily, he twisted Bond’s sword away and swerved with striking swiftness toward Bond’s left thigh. Double O Seven leaped backward, dodging to the right and avoiding the blow that would have severed his leg by an inch.
Sonno-joiiii!’ ‘Crooked-teeth’ shouted.
Another rapid and violent strike came in and Bond side-stepped, this time plainly flustered, everything happening so fast that it was as if he was imagining it all. Their swords connected and ‘Crooked-teeth’ pushed in with dangerous ferocity. Upwards, sideways, downward, advancing. The sabres clashed and slashed viciously as the two men battled it out with great speed and brutal force. Bond was coming off worse and he was now sweating buckets as the fierce fight took them outside his room in the open hallway...
After several moments, ‘Crooked-teeth’ managed to corner Bond near the lift doors. He swung his sword in a dangerous arc that was aimed for his head but Bond ducked just in time, dropping to the carpeted floor. He rolled and leapt to his feet before ‘Crooked-teeth’s’ sword came whooshing down again. Bond backed away, dodging the sharp blade by inches, but his opponent kept on swinging, anticipating that Bond would have to dodge to the right now. ‘Crooked-teeth’ then countered his own direction and thrust, and Bond swerved deftly, re-engaging for all he was worth. There was another flurry of blows, swords colliding with hard intensity. Bond had no option but to advance into his opponent, just as his instructors had once taught him, a million years ago back at Hereford...
The Englishman’s swiftness and bearing was indeed remarkable, observed ‘Crooked-teeth’. He was no doubt a master!
Bond’s blade missed his opponent’s chest again. ‘Crooked-teeth’ had twisted away just in time and struck at Bond’s head. Double O Seven arched charitably to block the sword but it came down, fast, instead of upwards. It was more by luck though than judgement that he succeeded in meandering out of the sword’s path that in the end wounded him on his left arm just above his biceps. Another inch and second closer and his arm would have been taken off by the razor sharp blade. Bond cursed as ‘Crooked-teeth’ charged him again, blade raised. He forced the sword in another brutal arc and Bond slipped back, lurching backward. He bumped against the floor and blinked in horror at his opponent coming at him with brute force and determination. ‘Crooked-teeth’s’ blade slashed towards Bond but he astoundingly managed to edge sideways. The sword whacked up bits and pieces of red carpet and Bond, teeth clenched hard, swung his katana upwards, slicing his opponent’s torso from the lower right to the upper left. He severed ‘Crooked-teeth’s’ intestines, stomach and rib cage and after an initial moment of pure surprise, ‘Crooked-teeth’ dropped his sword, stumbled backward and looked down at Bond. The look of surprise in ‘Crooked-teeth’s’ almond shaped eyes suddenly changed to one of acceptance; the acceptance of death, Bond thought as he watched him jerk grotesquely and topple back dead...
James Bond, chest heaving and blood streaming down his left arm, lifted himself up and looked down at the severed body of the man he called ‘Crooked-teeth’. Swallowing hard, he felt physically sick.
Finally Double O Seven let his katana drop to the floor and he turned and raced back to his room, white as a sheet...

* * *


Bond filled the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. Looking into the mirror it was another man’s face that looked back at him. It was the face of a man on the edge and in pain, white as a sheet, eyes cold slits, and the skin pulled tight over the cheekbones. The fight had taken a lot out of him, not to mention his mind was now racing wildly with unanswered questions, making him feel more nauseous than he already was.
How the hell did they find him here? How did they know who he was? Was there a leak here in Italy? Or worse, did it come from his own outfit?
He quickly poured himself a Scotch and gulped it down to steady his nerves, knowing he had to get out of there fast. He went out into the bedroom, stepping over the bald Japanese man’s torso and organs that littered the carpeted floor, found a clean shirt and tore off a sleeve to make an improvised bandage for his arm. He had lost a lot of blood and would need stitches; but that would have to wait. Bond’s priority now was to get out of there fast and find somewhere safe to assess his current situation.
He got dressed – black slacks, comfortable shoes, white shirt and a black jacket. He then took some ‘essentials’ from his suitcase – passports, money, credit cards and the Flash Drive he’d already retrieved from under the bed – and giving one last glance around the room, went out, passed the remains of ‘Crooked-teeth’ and downstairs to the reception area...


* * *


Bond walked out of the hotel feeling considerably faint.
The man at reception, immersed in a large, pink newspaper called La Corriere Della Sera, didn’t even look up as he past the desk and proceeded outside into the cool night air which indeed felt terribly good after the claustrophobic nightmare of his blood drenched room.
Within ten minutes though, he knew that someone was following him.
It was his sixth sense, warning him of some unknown or approaching danger. He cursed and took the next turning off the main street. Something had gone terribly wrong and he had no idea what or how. His brows drew into two hard lines and his eyes became fierce slits as he pulled up the collar of his jacket, shoving the hand of his injured arm deep in its pocket. It was hurting like hell and he could feel blood dripping down to his fingers. So much for his improvised bandage. He took a right turn and walked around the block, coming out onto the main street, praying a taxi would pass by.
No such luck.
Heart racing, he glanced back and caught a glimpse of a rather tall Japanese man look back the opposite way and in that split second, Bond sensed a dangerous menace about him, an aura that strongly suggested he was undeniably a killer. Bond quickly changed direction again, travelling east to Vialle Lantini. It was now 0130 and he knew that confrontation would most certainly be to his disadvantage considering his current state. In fact, after what he’d been through back at the hotel earlier and the chase after Grazianizi’s cruel death, another fight would see the worst of him.
Lighting a cigarette with a shaking hand, Bond decided he needed somewhere crowded; somewhere where he could drop his pursuer and get the hell out of there.
Live to fight another day, he thought.
Eventually, he came to a nightclub called La Luna Piena situated just off the Via Tiberina. He went in, paid the fee at the small box office, glanced behind him once more, and then went down a long staircase, holding the railing with his good hand. Half way down he could hear 70s and 80s revival music, the sound’s volume becoming blazingly high the further down he went. He came out into an underground temple of sorts, a large inexplicable grotto of pure sin and Bond’s eyes took in the spectacle of the dance floor, crowded with semi naked youths agitating to the rhythm at play and the colourful beaming lights. Opposite where he now stood, was a large stage lit up at the base and raised higher than the dance floor itself and on which six opulent blonds, wet and gleaming with sweat, topless and wearing flimsy white underwear, danced sensuously above a raving sea of frenzied, blaring, clapping, stomping bodies. The place made other discotheques Bond had been to in his time seem like priggish little bingo halls, and he squeezed himself through the crowd ahead into a corner near the horseshoe bar, his back to the wall and frequently looking around for his Japanese ‘shadow’.
It was about ten minutes later when a lithe and graceful woman appeared and stood in front of him, smiling delightfully. She was tall with olive coloured skin, glowing chestnut eyes and long black silken hair, feathered at the sides of an exquisite face with sharp Roman features. Despite the pain in his arm, Bond couldn’t help noting her stunning body that exuded nothing but a powerful and raw sexuality. She wore tight faded jean shorts which left little to one’s imagination and a Marie Claire pink top that ended just above a striking belly button with an earring in it, and that accentuated her slender upper body and thrusting breasts.
Nothing hit the spot like Italian fashion and its feisty, feminine shapes, Bond observed and looked deep into her inviting eyes.
Another time, another place perhaps.
He turned away and looked around again for his pursuer...
‘If I am not mistaken you drink Vodka Martinis, Mr. Bond,’ she called out above the music. Her voice was smooth, throaty and accented, ‘Shaken, not stirred, yes?’
Bond looked at her again, gobsmacked to say the least.
Who the devil?
‘That depends who I’m drinking with, Ms...?’
‘Ysabelle Valentina,’ she told him. ‘I am Roberto Grazianizi’s, how do you say, work partner, yes?’
Bond’s eyes narrowed somewhat at that.
‘I followed you here from the hotel, Mr. Bond,’ she continued, moving in closer to him. ‘As for your Japanese friend, please don’t be offended but I took the liberty of disposing of him before you came down here. For now, you are safe.’
‘Well, Ysabelle, in that case I’ll have a double Scotch and Soda, no ice...’


*



#7 Harry Fawkes

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Posted 25 August 2009 - 10:19 PM

6
‘Rape Him’


Earlier on that day, a sleek black AS 356B3 Eurocopter took off from Villa Paruzio in Frascati at precisely 1415 and flew directly through the bright blue sky to Leonardo da Vinci airport in Fiumicino in just under thirty-nine minutes.
One of the passengers’s most trusted and loyal men was waiting beside a chauffer driven Bentley opposite the VIP landing pad further on. In his mid thirties, he had very long black hair, a strong jaw below high cheekbones and a pair of piercing black eyes that seemed to look at everything with dangerous disdain.
The passenger unclipped his belt and climbed down holding a light brown leather briefcase and the man with black eyes bowed as low as he could go as the passenger approached.
Konnishizu domo, sensei,’ he said with feeling.
Arigato, Kenso-san,’ the passenger answered, bowed back slightly and handed him the briefcase.
By three thirty p.m. they had cleared the traffic coming out of the airport and were now travelling fast towards Isola Sacra. The route the Japanese chauffeur was instructed to take guaranteed security against any possible assassination attempts on the passenger’s life.
Then again, he observed, who in God’s name would be crazy enough to even think of assassinating the man called Shiseido Kogane?

* * *


Yamada Nakamuro sat in the back seat of the Bentley looking out of the window at the flourishing shrubbery along the road.
Soon the driver would veer to the right and enter a long forested strip of Fiumicino greenery fifteen minutes from Kogane Motors. He was dressed in a finely cut dark blue suit and a plain white shirt, open at the neck. His face was dark and clean-cut, hair blue-black, combed back over his ears. His almond shaped golden eyes were cold and treacherous - evil.
He was a man who possessed an extraordinary appearance. There was, apart from the arresting golden eyes, something else out of the ordinary about him. His whole being was entrancing and he possessed an inner confidence that exuded a powerful animal magnetism; the sort of man one looked at twice upon seeing him for the very first time, after which, one knew fine well he was not a man to cross...
Born in the Yamanashi hills in 1952, Yamada Nakamuro was the unwanted son of an Italian Countess’ daughter, repudiated by her mother back in Rome for getting herself pregnant outside her own ‘society’ whilst on holiday in Japan, and a ruthless and loathing Japanese businessman who ran a pharmaceutical company on the threshold of insolvency. He had lived a cruel and unloving infancy, neglected by his mother and beaten regularly by his father who saw him as nothing but a kizuna, an encumbrance.
At the age of twelve his parents decided to send him away to boarding school in Yokohama. His father had taken to drinking and his mother had no time for him at all for she was more interested in the amount of lovers she took to bed behind her husband’s back than the needs of her son. They were killed, however, in a car crash in 1972 leaving Yamada with a one hundred thousand dollar gambling debt, compliments of his father’s love for the old Japanese card game called Uttegae Shicho, not to mention a burning hate that consumed his entire being for everything his evil parents had stood for.
To make matters worse, when Yamada returned to Yamanashi that year, to embark on an attempt at administrating his father’s dwindling business, he had found out that his father’s debt was owed to a man called Ishimeezu Kateshi, one of the most powerful Kaichos in Japan and who now, through default, owned Nakamuro Pharmatech; a fact that instantaneously led to Yamada’s ‘involvement’ with him and the Yakuza, the Japanese Mafia...
Now at the age of twenty two, Yamada was given a basic choice by Ishimeezu Kateshi: either work and kill for him when called upon to do so, or end up dead himself – at the hands of his men. Naturally, Yamada chose the former and as time went by he discovered, much to his surprise, that he had a talent of sorts at conspiring for the Yakuza chief. He ended up running most of his business and financial arrangements and when it came to the killing part of the job, he loved it. He found that by killing people in cold blood he was actually releasing all that pent up anger, hurt and cold hate he’d amassed throughout his troubled childhood into his victim. In fact, the handgun or sword he used during an execution actually felt like an extension of his very soul and the satisfaction he received in taking another man’s life with it was overwhelming; sexual even...
Young Yamada adapted to the Yakuza technique of criminality like a red hot knife sliding through butter and in the span of a few of years became Kateshi’s right hand man – his main enforcer or kanadzuchi: Hammer.
People started calling him Shiseido Kogane due to the fact that every business venture he embarked upon for his tatsujin generated money, lots of money.
‘You have King Midas’s touch of gold,’ Kateshi told him once. ‘Why else would the Gods have bestowed upon you such beautiful, golden eyes if you were not the reincarnation of the King himself?’
However, Yamada Nakamuro had his own dreams - dreams of becoming rich and powerful himself; dreams that were controlling him.
For starters, he could not stand the fact that he was a simple pawn in the hands of a dominant and greedy slug who reminded him so much of his evil father. Secondly, he felt, nay, knew, that he could do much better running Kateshi’s business himself. There were so many opportunities in the Yakuza world of crime that his boss was neglecting. The pig was too old fashioned to be daring and expand beyond what he already had. But to exploit such opportunities that were staring Yamada in the face for the taking, he would have to seize Kateshi’s crown for himself – something unheard of in the world of the Yakuza.
Killing ones’ own Kaicho was considered a sacrilege but notwithstanding the obvious consequences, the day came when he decided to take what he believed was rightfully his by fate; the voices in his head commanded him to, and on his twenty-ninth birthday, Yamada Nakamuro viciously executed Ishimeezu Kateshi during a dinner party at his luxurious home and in front of all the guests there, beating the old man’s head to a bloody pulp with a baseball bat and declaring himself Kaicho...
During his reign, Yamada became a man of great criminal brilliance and Kateshi’s men accepted him without hesitation for he had a power and malevolence within him; a power and malevolence that put the fear of the Gods into the hearts and minds of even the toughest warriors. One could only value and fear such evident power, for it was beyond doubt the ancient Yakuza way – strength, brutality and a cruel determination to succeed.
And those who did not convey him the respect he demanded were gunned down by his small but strong army of shienshay...
He made his first million out of prostitution, extortion and kidnapping a year after taking over and in next to no time Yamada began travelling, introducing his new Keretsu of crime in Shikoku, Kyūshū and the Ryukyu Islands. Although most of the other Yakuza groups and Kaichos resented him for killing Ishimeezu Kateshi, they could only admire his manliness, his hito ningen and it was in the mid seventies when a number of Oyabun chiefs devised for him another darker key to earn money, real money.
It was agreed that the narcotics trade was the new way forward for their organisations and they needed to import it from the USA on a large scale into Tokyo. They decided that someone like Yamada Nakamuro and his band of shienshay was what they needed to administer the stuff on the streets for them and it was this idea, of making more money, that filled Yamada with dreams of becoming even more powerful than he already was. On the other hand though, some Keretsus and Kaichos were horrified at the idea of hard drugs plaguing the streets of their beloved Tokyo. In those days, there were still Yakuza bosses, the older Kaichos, who were traditional and faithful to the shudan ouji: ‘the ways of the past’. They believed that the Yakuza was the Japanese only means of justice against the oppressions and corruptions of the West - the secret society of the old days who did not mind the killing or the concept of crime for business but drugs was considered to be the ultimate horror.
The outcome between Yamada’s organisation and these ‘opponents’ could only be Sensou – War.
Yamada gave a name to his organisation, Iisen shikaidouhou kin doragon - the Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon, and the people and the government of Japan soon began to fear it more than the Yakuza itself. It grew steadily throughout the years which made doors open wide for Yamada to associate himself with an impressive list of Japanese and European companies who soon began financing his criminal operations, mostly due to the pressure being applied by his own threats to destroy them. He became a multi-millionaire and one of the most feared men in Japan and in 1981 he left the land of the rising sun for Rome to establish links with the Mafia there.
When he returned, a year later, he was with wife. Fate had it that he had fallen in love with an Italian girl whilst over there and she was with child. Two months before she was expected to give birth, however, she was gunned down by two assassins who had broken into his villa in the hills and who worked for the opposing Kaichos. Though devastated, Yamada was quick to put such a cruel episode in his life behind him and look to the future. He was not the type of man to grieve for long but he did devise a plan to wipe out those responsible for his wife’s murder and in the span of three weeks all those who had openly opposed him and his ways were brutally assassinated in one savage strike across Japan.
It was after fourteen unsuccessful attempts on Yamada’s own life and increasing pressure from Tokyo’s authority, who considered him too powerful to live, when he decided to leave mainland Japan, a sort of self imposed exile, to the Kuril Islands where he has operated ever since...

* * *


...At precisely four p.m. the Bentley drove through the big iron gates in the high wall and proceeded passed the guard-room to Nakamuro’s own parking space beyond the main entrance. Kogane Motors stood opposite in white stone: two three-storey buildings over which towered the five-storey main complex bearing the words KOGANE painted in gold on its facade.
Nakamuro was ushered inside the main complex by two uniformed Japanese security guards who had bowed respectfully as he got out of the car followed by the man called Kenso. They walked past the reception desk and down the corridor, stopping before a door with STRICTLY AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY printed in black letters on a grey card. Kenso opened it for him and he walked through, the two security guards remaining outside.
Nakamuro found himself in an outer office with a desk, filling cabinets and various wall charts. The Japanese man who was seated behind the desk stood up promptly and bowed. He moved to open the door to the inner office for him and Nakamuro proceeded inside. A white-coated laboratory assistant with his back to him was busy studying some charts. Ignoring him, they walked over to an iron door at the far end of the room and Nakamuro produced a plastic card which he slipped into the small panel and tapped out his personal security code number and waited. After a moment the door opened.
It led through a short passageway then down a flight of steps to a long white tunnel which they passed into the main operations area. People in white coats were busy working on fifteen Kogane Swifts that hadn’t been spray painted yet and there was a busy hum of activity as they walked through this massive hall to a lift at the far end. He tapped out the nine letters on the panel and the doors slid open.
They rode the lift down to the fourth floor below ground level and when the lift finally came to a stop they made their way down the corridor. Two Japanese armed guards stood at either side of the door at the end. They were carrying Ingram sub-machine guns and were built like football players. Kenso opened the door for him and Nakamuro walked into a large, wide room decorated in pure white. It was lit up with bright wall lights and there was a long glass table, twenty feet in length, comfortable chairs placed around it. Three air conditioners hummed softly just below the high ceiling. There were four carafes of water and each place was set up for the meeting with red files, pencils and pens. Against the wall, to the right was a large black filling cabinet and there were no paintings except a very large map of the world hanging on the left wall...
Nakamuro moved to his chair at the end of the table and sat down, picking up a file and began reading. After a while he gave a slight self-conscious smile, closed it and took the receiver of the telephone beside him. The security officer operating the switch board answered immediately.
Hai, mai tatsujin?’
Haken okeru sate.’ Nakamuro ordered.
Hai.’

* * *


While Yamada Nakamuro lit a long, slim cigar, ten men who had just filed through the door moved over to the chairs which were all marked with name cards and sat down silently. These men were the drug lords of Europe who had arrived separately in Italy three days ago: two from France, one from Germany, two Swedes, a Sicilian, a pair of Russians, an Englishman, and finally Nakamuro’s business partner in Italy: Massimiliano Rosolino.
Nakamuro inspected their faces carefully and when he spoke at last, his voice was quite ruthless, full of authority and power.
‘I am pleased to inform you all that the shipment is only twenty four hours away from finally reaching these shores,’ he said. ‘You have all read the detailed report supplied by my partner so I shall dedicate a few moments for any questions you may wish to ask before we proceed to conclude the deal.’
The German’s eyes met Nakamuro’s. There was the hint of hostility in them, he noted. He was short, blond and had a handsome refined face, marred only by a thin pale scar running alongside his left eye.
Nakamuro sat back in his chair and held his eyes in his as the German spoke,
‘We have been asked to put up twenty-five million euros each to finance this project, Mr. Nakamuro,’ he said.
Nakamuro nodded but said nothing.
‘Quite a considerable sum of money, wouldn’t you agree? Especially considering the fact that you want us to pay upfront and exclusive of yet the slightest indication of what your operation is all about or how you intend to penetrate the UK, of all places. In other words, while we would have paid up, the full mechanics of your operation will still remain a mystery. Why?’
‘The idea is to separate you all from the practical process of the operation as much as possible for the sake of security, Mr Reinstadt.’ Nakamuro told him. ‘The secret of success for ‘GOLDMINE’ will be the established infrastructure we build now, an infrastructure built on trust, gentlemen.’
He poured himself some water and drank some.
‘Bear in mind, the Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon is guaranteeing you all a sufficient profit amounting to provide each of you with a considerable fortune of over fifty million euros a year for three years. As you can see then, you are buying into my operation cheap but in the long run your profits will be exorbitant. And remmeber, the total risks will be mine and mine alone.’
There was silence and the eyes around the table were captivated, absorbed.
‘I can assure you, gentlemen, that ‘GOLDMINE’ is foolproof. You need a supply and distribution badly and my organisation can handle that fully. At this moment in time though, how I get it to your sellers in the UK and mainland Europe will have to remain my business. Having said that, you have my word that I can and will deliver.’
There was a soft murmur of approval after which the Englishman who sat opposite him said,
‘I must admit the degree of purity of the sample you sent us last week was absolutely stunning. The only match I found that could stand up to it in purity was Golan’s African White.’
‘And mine is half the delivery price, Mr Kennedy.’ Nakamuro told him, smiling.
‘True. However, I am sure I speak for all those present when I ask what guarantee can you give us with regards to continuity of delivery? You know the old saying, Mr. Nakamuro: Once you start them off...’
‘...You cannot afford to stop.’
‘Exactly.’
Nakamuro sat relaxed, sideways to the table, smoking the cigar and behind him the creepy man called Kenso stood absolutely silent and motionless, as if on guard.
‘I am fully aware of the consequences of failing to uphold continuity of delivery but again, I pledge my operation is completely solid.’
Silence. Then,
‘Are you aware that this year alone, the European Union pumped an estimated 2 billion euros into the counter-narcotics industry,’ asked one of the Russians. ‘How can we value your spirit that you can succeed where we have been thus far failing?’
‘True,’ Nakamuro said. ‘The EU’s new strategy has had a very harsh impact on your ‘trade’ so I do not blame your trepidation to invest in a project like mine, especially when this year alone, 95 percent of everything you smuggled in from the ‘Golden Crescent’ was picked up by the British and EU Anti Narcotics Squads. On the other hand though, I do not hesitate when I guarantee that my product will get through this ‘net’ and make your organisations flourish once more. I can only ask you to trust me though. Believe me, cooperation, mutual trust, ingenuity, not to mention modern thinking and a touch of audacity are what will make this succeed.’
Roger Marjory, a rather big man from Paris, produced a silver cigarette case, selected a cigarette and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Lighting it with a silver Zippo, he said,
‘You are an honest businessman and your reputation precedes you as being a man of your word, Shiseido Kogane. However, to raise such an amount of money and pass it on to you with nothing to take back in return is going to be very hard to say the least. My question is how soon would you require it?’
‘I am giving you three days, Monsieur Marjory. Beyond that, I will have to consider anyone who can’t raise the sum, out of our little circle.’
The man called Marjory smiled cordially.
‘I will do my best then, sir. Count me in.’
Nakamuro smiled back and bowed his head a little at the Frenchman in a sign of esteem.
‘Believe me, gentlemen, you must understand that for security’s sake it would be rather irresponsible for me to describe the complexities of this operation at this stage. Rest assured though that your investments will pay off. Big time. I am, as you all know, a serious business man and my word is, how shall I put it, as good as gold. ’
There was laughter around the table, heads nodding in approval.
One of the Swedes crinkled his eyes though and shook his head unenthusiastically.
‘And if we need more time to give the matter further consideration?’ he asked. ‘I mean you haven’t given us much to go on, Mr Nakamuro. Just words of assurance. I must consult my colleagues back in Sweden but without anything concrete...’
Nakamuro sucked air in through his teeth as if he was going to deliver bad news.
‘I am afraid the time for consideration and consultation is over, Mr Skellor,’ he said resolutely. ‘Before this meeting you had two days to tie up those preliminary aspects of this affair. You knew what was expected of you in advance, which is why I made certain you received the detailed report compiled by my partner at your hotel, for closer scrutiny. It is now a question of being either in or out. The choice is yours. But it must be made now. Once you join me there can be no turning back – that must also be understood. Anew, I shall remind you all that I guarantee one hundred and fifty million euros profit for each of you in the span of three years. What more is there to consider and consult given the fact that you are only investing twenty-five million in return? Surely it is a once in a lifetime deal that cannot be missed.’
Nakamuro’s golden eyes moved around the table and everyone seemed satisfied and most of all decided. He nodded once then spoke again,
‘Settled then,’ he said softly. ‘You are all aware of the roles you have to play in the next few days ahead and I trust that everyone is beyond prepared to accept the discipline and attention such a project requires. Before we press on, however, I would like to request your patience to sit through something that ought to give you a basic idea of how critical I value such discipline.’
He took the telephone and spoke,
‘Send him in,’ he said simply and replaced the receiver...

* * *


The man who walked into the room accompanied by two of Nakamuro’s men had sharp blue eyes and wore grey slacks and a black Armani sweater. He had brown tangled hair which was almost shoulder length and at some time or other his nose had been broken.
Nakamuro sat back in his chair and glanced up at him.
‘Smoke if you like, Salvatore,’ he told him. ‘Your mother? She is well?’
‘In poor health I am afraid, sensei. In fact I was at the hospital when these two men came for me.’
The newcomer looked around at the faces of the ten men seated at the table, watching him closely, and he felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead.
‘But you look quite well, dear.’ Nakamuro told him. ‘Greece seems to have done you good.’
‘Greece was fine, sensei, thank you.’
‘Tell me now, Salvatore, how long have you been working for this company?’
The man called Salvatore glanced nervously back at the two men behind him then at Kenso and he shivered involuntarily as he looked deep into his black lifeless eyes. Unsteadily, he looked back at Nakamuro.
‘Three years, sir,’ he answered softly.
‘As Human Resources Manager, correct?’
‘That is right.’
‘And you have served us well, yes?’
‘I have done my best.’
‘Do you recall a man called Luca Mendota?’
‘But of course, sensei. He was one of our best sales representatives. A very good man, I assure you...’
Nakamuro smiled, and his golden eyes became very, very evil then.
‘You think so, Salvatore,’ he said and looked down at the faces of his business partners who watched intently. ‘And were you aware of the fact that he was also working for the Italian Secret Service?’
A deadly silence dominated the room; a silence that seemed to last forever for the man called Salvatore.
Nakamuro stood up slowly and moved to the very large map of the world hanging on the left wall, his back to them, hands clasped behind him.
‘If you had gone through all the correct security channels available here then perhaps you would have found out. But you did not, for some reason or the other. You of all people know fine well that every man employed by this company should first be screened by Kenso here or at least one of his men.’
Another thundering silence.
Salvatore was on the verge of terror. He felt physically sick and had gone white as a sheet.
‘Please, sensei, they forced me to use him,’ he said softly. ‘I had no choice. I’ve been having problems at home, you see. They found out about my affair with an under-aged girl, a disgraziata. They threatened to tell my wife if I didn’t help them. They had photos of me with the girl...’
‘Enough!’ It was a whiplash that he almost felt physically.
‘You could have jeopardised everything you ignorant fool!’
Sensei!’
‘You disgust me!’
Nakamuro turned, crossed to the phone and took the receiver.
‘Tell Torosami he may come in now.’
Salvatore’s eyes were wide with fear.
‘Forgive me, sensei,’ he whispered, now shaking like a leaf. ‘Please forgive me!’
The door opened and they all turned as a giant of a man entered.
He was bigger than two Summo wrestlers put together, and ugliness in all its personification. He was Japanese, dressed in baggy grey suit and must have weighed at least thirty-five stone. He was a deaf mute and as he moved into the room, his red eyes fixed onto Salvatore...
Nakamuro said,
‘Allow me to introduce Torosami Suliman, gentlemen. Torosami, this here is Salvatore.’
Torosami smiled, revealing gold teeth.
Unhh!’ he grunted.
‘For the sake of God, sensei. No, please!’
‘Weakness is a disease that deserves no cure. An old yakuza saying.’
Nakamuro looked at the hulk of a man called Torosami and smiled warmly, as if to a loving pet.
‘Rape him.’
The two men behind Salvatore snatched hold of him from the arms and dragged him to the furthest side of the room. Torosami sauntered over to where they now held him. His big hands grabbed him from the hair and he turned him around so that his back was facing his front. The two men holding him pushed him forward, his head almost touching his knees and Torosami pulled down the Italian’s slacks with one solid jerk. He then had his own trousers down just as fast...
Nakamuro moved over to them.
‘My dear Salvatore,’ he said. ‘Today you are going to receive a hard lesson in life. Who knows though you may find you enjoyed it...’
It was then that the giant forced himself inside the Italian, his red eyes smoking.
Salvatore screamed.
Unhh!’ Torosami grunted like a wild pig and he rode the buttocks wedged between his powerful thighs, his ugly mouth slightly twitched into a dumb smile.
Nakamuro turned to the conference and smiled gaily.
‘Now then, where were we?’ he said. ‘Ah, yes. If you have no further questions we may now proceed with the detailed proposals and list of contracts you are all being asked to sign...’

*



#8 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 02 September 2009 - 04:17 PM

7
Ysabelle


Walking behind the girl, James Bond found that he couldn’t help but glance down at her perfectly curved derriere and the partially exposed, beautifully tanned cheeks below the cut of her very tight jean shorts...
Squeezing through the crowd and across to the bar, they finally found some legroom where they could talk over a drink; not that it was going to be easy communicating in this racket, but he wasn’t about to leave without first trying to find out what the hell was going on and who this God-send of a girl was...
‘You said you disposed of my Japanese friend,’ Bond said. ‘How?’
The girl produced an ivory flick-knife with an eight-inch razor sharp blade as if from nowhere.
‘I stabbed him in the back with this,’ she said nonchalantly, as if killing a man in cold blood meant absolutely nothing to her.
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’ Bond found himself asking, looking deep into her gleaming chestnut eyes and sensing a desire he rarely felt on first meeting a girl.
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘He was one of Nakamuro’s men, no?’ She told him straightforward and sipped some of her drink, looking around her casually.
‘You almost certainly saved my life then, Ysabelle, and for that I am truly grateful. But now I need to know what exactly your role in this affair is? You say you are Roberto Grazianizi’s work partner.’
‘That’s right.’ She looked back at him.
‘So how is it I know nothing about you but you seem to know everything about me?’
Ysabelle’s look became a zealous stare and then,
‘You are hurt,’ she said abruptly, startled. ‘There is blood on your hand!’
‘I’m fine,’ Bond lied curtly and knocked back the double Scotch. ‘I need you to answer my question though.’
‘Roberto gave you a USB Flash Drive tonight, before he was killed, yes?’
‘Perhaps,’ Bond said and noticed her brow crease, her eyes becoming suspicious.
‘You haven’t been through it yet,’ she growled.
Bond said nothing.
‘But surely Roberto mentioned something about me? I cannot believe he would not have advised you of my existence.’
‘He didn’t,’ Bond told her. ‘And I find it difficult to believe that he was the sort of chap to forget such a... stunning piece of information. But more importantly for now, how did you find me and what prompted you to make contact?’
She gave an impatient back-flip of her left hand.
‘As soon as I learnt that they had killed Roberto I decided to look you up. I thought you might need help. Apparently I was right. I also believe Roberto knew they were onto him, which is why he called me when he did.’
They?’
‘The Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon, naturalmente. Roberto asked me to watch out for you and try and assist you if and when you needed. That, Mr. Bond, was twelve hours ago. When I got to your hotel you were just leaving, which is when I noticed you were being followed by a man called Takashi Homurro. He is one of Nakamuro’s thugs. An animale. He’s been arrested a few times, for rape and drug pushing, but nothing ever stuck to keep him behind bars. I decided to intervene as I did because your ‘friend’ was just about to call for back-up, which I am sure you will agree would have made things rather difficult for you if he had, no?’
She looked down at his hand again and winced.
‘That looks bad, Mr Bond.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said and notwithstanding what she had just told him, recalled what Grazianizi had said on handing him the Flash Drive:
‘...Everything you need to know is on this, James. Names, dates, locations, pictures, the works. You also have my contact number and a list of names of people who might be able to help you when it comes to, how shall I put it, kitting up, yes? In the unlikely event of my sudden demise, you will also find the contact number of one my most trusted associates. Needless to say, whatever you need...
One of my most trusted associates, Bond repeated in his mind. Could Roberto have been referring to Ysabelle?
But why not tell him about her?
In the unlikely event of my sudden demise...
Grazianizi must have realised that death was closing in on him. Why else would he have said that?
Evoking another part of his conversation with him, Bond couldn’t help deciding that there was indeed something underhand about Ms Valentina, notwithstanding her ‘story’...
Who else apart from you knows I’m here?’ Bond had asked Grazianizi.
Obviously my boss, yours, Sir Raymond Valance and both our Prime Ministers. Other than that, absolutely no one.
Then it is imperative that we keep it that way.’ Bond had told him.
...Absolutely no one, other than the people Roberto referred to, was supposed to know he existed. So, how come this girl, not to mention the men who had tried to kill him earlier, knew?
Curiouser and curiouser, and very dangerous territory indeed, Bond reflected...
‘Look, Ysabelle, until I confirm what you just said is true I can’t trust you fully, thus far that is. Having said that though, I am going to use you to get out of here. Have you got a car?’
‘Yes, two blocks away.’ She told him. ‘Why?’
‘You’re going to take me to a pensione I know. It’s in Piazza Navona. The people who run the place are friends of mine. They’ll set me up until I’ve re-organised myself. As for your link to Roberto Grazianizi, true or not, we’re going to have to tackle that issue once there.’
She nodded.
‘Know this before we continue, Mr Bond. I have been working on the Nakamuro case for the past six months now and there is a lot I know that can assist you and your country in getting to the bottom of his operation here. You can either take what I have to offer or not. The choice is yours.’
Bond smiled.
Ysabelle Valentina was certainly a feisty one, he thought and then couldn’t help wondering how it would be in bed with her. She was exceptionally desirable and sexy and that fact alone played havoc inside his mind and on his ability to think straight...
He breathed in deeply and cleared those thoughts completely from his head...
‘I appreciate that, Ysabelle,’ he said. ‘Really I do. But you’ve got to understand that I’ve only just met you and that I have no idea if you’re working for the opposition or not. For all I know you might be here to lure me out into the open just for Yamada Nakamuro’s men to pounce on me. It’s a chance I’m going to have to take of course but can you blame me for not trusting you completely?’
She looked at him closely.
‘You are right,’ she said after a moment. ‘You are a professional and so am I. Once we get to this pensione you know, you will study the contents of the flash drive and all will be as it should be. Then we can talk ‘shop’ and put our minds together, yes?’
Minds and perchance bodies, Bond thought wickedly...
‘Good,’ he said.
‘Right, then.’ She drained her glass. ‘Follow me. We’ll leave through the emergency exit. It will take us out to the corner of Via Crispina. My car is not far from there.’
Bond nodded.
‘I’m all yours.’
And with that, he followed her through the wild sea of dancing bodies and flashing lights...

* * *


After a hell of a time pushing and struggling and being separated once, they finally reached the emergency exit, passed the dance floor and toilets and through a tapered corridor.
Bond watched Ysabelle use her ‘charm’ to convince the large doorman guarding it to let them through, which he did, and after a rather tense ten minute walk down Via Crispina, they were now ‘safe’ in her car, a 2008 silver Lamborghini Estoque Concept and driving up to Piazza Navona...
She had stopped at an all night Pharmacia to buy a few things for Bond’s wound and during the time she was inside, he went through the glove compartment.
The gun he found there was fully loaded, an M1911A1 Colt. Not exactly what he’d use himself but, as the old saying went, beggars can’t be choosers. He slipped it in the small of his back and waited for the girl, feeling somewhat better now that he was armed...
Ten minutes later and they arrived at the Piazza which, at that time of the night, was deserted and Ysabelle parked the car opposite Rome's most famous square. The Pensione Paradiso was located facing the Sant’Agnese Church; an old four storey grey-stone building. The landlord recognised Bond immediately from past times and, all smiles, let them inside. After taking down their particulars (Bond used the name Jonathan Bray whenever he stayed there), the old man showed them to a small room on the third floor with high ceiling, sofa and double bed and wide curtained windows with one of the most beautiful views of Rome he’d ever seen.
Finally alone, the girl called Ysabelle ordered him to sit down on the sofa, helped him out of his jacket and tended to his arm. She cleansed the wound with peroxide, carefully stitched it up and applied an antibacterial ointment; working with the practised skill of a professional nurse.
Bond was indeed impressed.
‘Here, take these now,’ she said and handed him a couple of pills. ‘The pharmacist gave them to me. They are antibiotic. I’ll get you a glass of water.’
She got up and crossed to the small bathroom.
Bond looked down at the pills and smiled softly.
Not on your life, he thought and slipped them into his pocket...
‘Tell me all about yourself, Ysabelle,’ he said when she reappeared. ‘I want to know everything. Who you are, where you come from, how you ended up working with Roberto; the works basically.’
She gave him the glass of water and watched him pretend to swallow the pills. She then sat down cross-legged on the bed after slipping out of her shoes.
‘What about the Flash drive and the information on it?’ she asked as if that was the answer to everything, which in a way, he thought, it was.
‘Well, without a laptop or a PDA system I won’t be able to access it, will I?’ he said. ‘No. That’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Right now I want to hear your story.’
‘Very well. To begin with, Mr Bond, I am a Carabiniere working for a unit called SIO.’
Bond produced his cigarettes, put one in the corner of his mouth, lit it and tossed the packet and lighter across to her.
Il-Servizio Speciale per Informazione e Operative Narcotici,’ he said. ‘The equivalent of the British Vice Squad.’
She caught the packet and took one.
‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘Well, a couple of years ago, I was given an undercover assignment by my superiors. A public corruption case. They needed someone ‘unknown’ and ‘enterprising’ from the police force to prove that a public official was accepting bribes in exchange for political favours and, if I may say so for myself, I turned out to be just the girl for the job.’
‘Why?’ Bond asked.
‘Because I was dying for something to, come si dice, spicen up my life. You see, I found standard police work to be quite boring. I longed for some real action and adventure, Mr Bond.’
‘The usual excuse for people like us,’ he observed.
‘I followed the politico for three weeks during which I was able to pick up all the evidence needed to prove his guilt. Maybe not the assignment I was dreaming of, but in the end it did make me realise what sort of job I really wanted to do. Undercover work.’
‘One of the loneliest jobs in the world,’ Bond said through a stream of grey smoke.
‘I don't know about that,’ she said softly. ‘I met the man I love working undercover, believe it or not.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, I applied to join SIO and was accepted. After eight months I was approached by Roberto. He had me attached to his division: the GSNN. He told me he was impressed with the undercover work I was doing on the streets of Rome, that he needed someone who looked like a street girl, you know una ragazza della strada.’ Again, the girl shrugged and pulled on the cigarette. ‘He wanted me to go into deep-cover for him, to use my connections and my sex to infiltrate a new drug ring he had his eyes on.’
‘A new drug ring?’
‘Yes. I had to find out all I could on a couple of Japanese criminals who had just started operating in Rome and were pushing a drug everyone was calling ‘Oro’.’
‘Gold,’ Bond said.
Ysabelle nodded.
‘It was popping up everywhere and very, very cheap. At first we thought this ring was part of the Japanese Yakuza but Roberto told us that the Yakuza hardly ever entered into alliances with any other foreign organised crime groups.’
‘Which is true. The Yakuza can be very traditional when it comes to outside influences and territories.’
‘Exactly. However, Roberto believed this small network belonged to another group and I was tasked with the job of finding out which one. With the help of a British undercover agent, I found myself going deeper and deeper into what turned out to be the spearhead body of the Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon. And believe me, Mr Bond, I had to come up with all kinds of tricks to deal with the cultura they were immersed into in order to penetrate their circo.’
‘Who was this British undercover agent?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She got up then and walked to the window overlooking the Piazza below.
‘Roberto told me that the British were sending you, they’re best man, to bring down Nakamuro’s organisation,’ she said, ignoring his question and ostensibly changing the subject. ‘He said if anyone could do it, then it was you, Mr Bond. He also told me about the Kristatos affair.’
Bond felt suddenly relieved. There could be no doubts now that she had told him nothing but the truth from the start. Only Roberto Grazianizi could have told her about Aristotle Kristatos and Bond’s involvement in that particular case. But then why keep her involvement in this affair a secret from him? And what the bloody hell was this about another British agent?
‘Roberto liked you a lot, Mr Bond. He had great respect for you.’
‘And I for him,’ he told her.
She turned towards him, her eyes glistening and then turned back to the darkness outside.
‘This British agent, Ysabelle,’ Bond said, breaking the silence. ‘Who was he?’
‘I spent six months with him in that circle and, as I said, we fell in love. Like me, he was a deep-cover agent and Roberto was his controller. Your MI5 had sent him over here as part of a joint investigation by Japan, Italy and the UK into this group's operation in Italy. Roberto had directed him to help me filter into the group, which he did beautifully. He introduced me to the others as his personal drug-addicted whore, Mr Bond. The dangers were colossal but we managed to watch out for each other as much as we could and together we gathered vital information for Roberto who in turn passed it on to his superiors. A month ago though, my British partner disappeared without warning.’
‘Where to?’
‘I tried to find out from the others but they wouldn’t tell me,’ she said. ‘I was devastated. He left no word of his whereabouts you see. I thought he was dead until two hours ago. I finally received a ciphered transcript from him.’
‘Go on,’ Bond said, completely absorbed by this story.
‘Did Roberto tell you that he also had a man in Nakamuro’s set-up in Fiumicino – Kogane Motors?’
‘Yes, but he was found dead in his apartment a few nights ago,’ Bond told her. ‘Roberto told me that he was convinced that a shipment of ‘Gold’ would be leaving Italy sometime this month. He was also convinced that the supply was already here, in Italy. Why?’
The girl crossed back to the bed and sat down.
‘Because he was wrong,’ she said and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside locker. ‘Nakamuro had a supply here, true, but he was distributing exclusively in Italy with the sole purpose of whetting people’s appetites. The actual supply destined for the UK and the rest of Europe arrives here in Italy from Japan in twenty-four hours time, on a ship called the 'Midnight Gold'.’
‘Now that is very important information,’ Bond said softly.
‘Yes. Which, to conclude, is the actual reason why I sought you out tonight considering Roberto was killed. And now, Mr Bond, I think you should also be made aware that your son is on board the 'Midnight Gold'.’
He sat there as if turned to stone, not fully understanding what she meant.
‘What are you talking about, Ysabelle?’ he said after a moment.
‘The British MI5 agent, the man I love, Mr Bond, is your son: James Suzuki.’
And with that, Bond felt a lump forming at his throat...




END OF PART ONE



#9 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

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Posted 16 September 2009 - 11:23 AM

P A R T T W O
_______________

Hell is
Forever Vacant




8
Reflections on the ‘Midnight Gold’


A cool, solid wind that came all the way from Jordan and Israel squalled out across the canal, driving the waves into whitecaps and bringing within it the fragrant and undeniably welcoming scent of land. The moon was full, casting a powerful crimson glow over the shoreline and on the black water itself.
He moved to the railing, standing there on the portside of the massive Japanese registered 15,000 tonne freighter ‘Midnight Gold’, rolling up a cigarette and gazing out at the marvel of it all; the pale outline of the arid coast of Ismaïlia faintly discernible beyond the darkness...
For almost eight months he had pretended to be one of them, a member of the Brotherhood, he reflected. He had lived their life, ate their food, slept in their beds and on their floors, made hard and exotic love to their gaishou, partied outrageously with them in the nightclubs of Rome, took their drugs even; but most significantly though, James Suzuki had succeeded in getting in on their crimes, their dealings, their clients, their sellers - placing himself strategically deeper and deeper inside the pipeline to end up here and now...
Here and now, he thought.
So much ground covered, so much experience gained.
But where, exactly, was he on this job? What precisely had he achieved during all this time...?
It had all begun three months after he joined MI5, the British Security Service.
He had started off working as a simple documentation clerk with SI2, Records and Processing, but thankfully was moved up after a couple of months to the elite ‘B’ Division, Overseas Control, an organisation responsible for coordinating Security Intelligence from mainland Europe and the Middle East.
He now found himself placed under the command of Major William Tallon, ex-MI6 and ex- Black Watch Regiment.
Tallon had served with his father in the Double O Section way back during the Cold War days under Admiral Sir Miles Messervey, and Suzuki reminded him so much of Bond.
Tall, six foot two; Suzuki was extremely handsome with close cropped black hair and eyes of the most vivid blue he had ever seen and a slight, ironic smile that seemed to permanently lift the corner of his mouth. Although he was half Japanese, it was only when you looked closer at him that he in fact seemed Oriental; his father’s stronger genes no doubt. His colleagues in ‘B’ Division measured him as a rather mysterious young man, exceptionally mindful of his appearance and with quite a dangerous look about him. Tough and very resourceful, he was also perceived to possess the devil’s charm when it came to women – another of his father’s traits, Tallon would sometimes observe with a smile...
At the outset, the Major assigned him field duties limited to trailing a number of Foreign Military Attachés round the country, from one boring commerce forum to another; and then to buying punchy drinks for potential Muslim and Irish informers or suspected terrorists in some London seedy pub or nightclub, trying to get something, anything, out of them that could be classed and measured as a potential national security breach...
Lightweight stuff for beginners. But then came this job; a bolt from the blue and indeed very welcoming. Well, at least it had seemed so at the time, he reflected as his mind drifted back to that fateful day...
He had been summoned up to the Major’s office on the third floor at Thames House where he was informed that he’d been chosen for a deep undercover operation codenamed: TROJAN.
‘Our Italian counterparts have discovered a potentially new drug ring that is setting up ‘shop’ in Rome with the intention of expanding not only to mainland Europe but to the UK too,’ The Major had told him over a cup of tea and biscuits.
Tallon, a rather distinguished Scotsman, tall, almost six three and very well built, went on to explain that 75% of his division’s time at the moment was taken up by cases involving drugs, the No. 1 international crime, and as the scale of the problem was so immense, the EU together with the UK was concentrating a hell of a lot of their resources in stopping this incredibly massive trafficking operation and the Whitehall Mandarins, their masters to be, wanted ‘B’ Division at the vanguard...
‘You know, it took the Mafia sixty years to build up enterprises generating 50 billion dollars a year in the United States, with heroin playing a major role. But, in only ten years, the leading European drug syndicates have succeeded in creating a European market worth almost 60 billion dollars; and rising.’
James Suzuki remembered that day clearly although it seemed a million and one years ago.
He had taken the leather chair that was on the other side of Tallon’s large glass desk and recalled asking himself if the excitement he was feeling then, was the same excitement his father had felt every time he was summoned up to his chief’s office, back at MI6; an excitement that was akin to a living thing, soaring inside his very being at the prospect of a dangerous and challenging adventure?
It was quite a plain and functional office – bright, a bit cold and impersonal with just a framed photograph of the Major’s wife and child, a large black LCD monitor behind in the centre of the white wall opposite and a large grey filing cabinet on the left.
‘Since 2008, we have had over 3,000 cases of narcotics penetrating from outside into the UK though. Wretchedly, crackdowns on drug use are having little effect. You see, increased operations by our Customs officials, Police and the Serious Organised Crime agency together with the French, Germans and Italians has not had any really significant effects in disrupting the European drug market. In fact, the UK’s market alone remains one of the most lucrative in the world, with the trade worth a hefty £5.3bn – a third of the size of the country's tobacco market and 41 per cent of the alcohol market, and all this despite the vast sums the goverment has spent on attempts to limit the damn supply.’
‘Quite alarming statistics,’ he had said.
‘And it gets bloody worse,’the Major continued. ‘Despite any significant drug and asset seizures and drug-related convictions in recent years, the market has proven to be extremely resilient. The people behind the trade are highly fluid and adapt effectively to government and law enforcement interventions, with half of their trade concentrating on two of the most addictive and destructive drugs out there.’
‘Crack cocaine and heroin.’
‘Precisely. Don’t get me wrong, we’re doing our best but we’re only picking up ten to fifteen percent of everything that’s smuggled in, and that’s if we’re bloody lucky. The trouble is there’s too much of the damned stuff. It comes in by air, sea and over land. Sometimes via central Europe, most of the time from Africa or the ‘Golden Crescent’. We’ve mannaged to put away a number of the so-called Mr Bigs not to mention bring down at least five major European drug organisations, yet, despite such a major joint intelligence operation with the other European countries, the fact remains we’re only stopping a small percentage. And now, to make matters worse, word is on the streets that a new drug is making its way in – this time direct from Japan.’
‘New drug, sir?’
‘They’re calling it ‘Gold’.’
‘And the Italians think that this drug ring you mentioned earlier is the supplier?’
‘That, James, is what we need you to find out. We want you to follow the trail and see where it ends. We’ve established a ‘crack’ in the wall so to speak and we’re going to try and squeeze you through it.’
‘Why me?’
‘Two weeks ago Special Branch arrested Taro Yakaetteshi, a British national of Japanese descent,’ Tallon told him and sipped his tea, looking at him long and hard.
‘I see, which makes me the perfect candidate – since I’m half Japanese.’
‘Not just that, James, I assure you. You come highly recomended by your instructors at Scotton High. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you were up to it.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Now then, Yakaetteshi was planning to go to Italy on his yacht the ‘Diamond’ in a couple of weeks time. Once there he was going to be contacted by someone working for a Japanese crime syndicate to discuss a smugling job to the UK that would pay rather sizeably.’
‘The Yakuza?’
‘Perhaps. We don’t know.’
‘Why exactly was Yakaetteshi arrested by Special Branch in the first place, sir?’
‘He’s a regular arms smuggler. He’s done quite a few runs to Ireland in the past, mostly to do with providing the Real I.R.A with weapons and explosives for their so-called cause. We’ve had our eyes on him for quite some time now but could never pull him in. Cut a long story short, he slipped up and was caught red handed with over one hundred thousand pounds worth of illegal arms and explosives destined for Dublin, stashed away neatly in his Yacht. Now, at first glance it seems this Japanese syndicate is moving its operation to Rome and whoever’s behind it wants him to supervise what they call a relatively safe ‘drug run’ for them. Obviously they’re going to test him out to see if he’ll deliver. According to Yakaetteshi they want to introduce a new designer drug to the UK – a designer drug that is supposedly totally undetectable and ten times superior than heroin and crack.’
‘So they obviously need established smugglers like him to move the stuff around for them until their market is set up and running. How did they come across the bastard?’
‘He was recomended by some Italians, Mafia probably, who he’s worked for in the past. The best part of it all though is that contact between Yakaetteshi and this group has always been made by phone, believe it or not.’
‘Then it’s a question of going into the pipeline acting as Yakaetteshi to estalish contact.’
‘ It’ll be dangerous, to say the least, but once contact is made it’ll only be a question of getting oneself deeper into the circle.’
‘You make it sound rather easy, Major.’
‘Which it bloody well isn’t. God only knows what could go wrong. If they ever found out there’s an undercover agent amongst them you’ll be tortured and no doubt shot. You’ll be completely alone appart from your controler and one of the worst things about it all if you’re succesful in penetrating the circle, is the loneliness you’ll face; the isolation. You won’t be working as part of a team and if it drags out there may come a time when you might just want to tell someone who you really are, about yourself that is. Believe me it has happened to the best of them, no doubt even to your father. Having said that, we’re pretty confident that you, James, are up to the job. There’s so much in your file that proves that but, and there’s a big bloody but, that was training, not the real thing so you’ve got to face the worst case scenario if you accept this type of job. It’s the bastard of a world I’d be sending you out to but I’ve no choice unfortunately. We need to establish what the hell this ‘Gold’ is and who the main supplier is, not to mention if it’s true that the stuff is undetectable. The Italian controller is a man called Roberto Grazianizi. We’ve worked with him before and he’s the best they’ve got, a very thorough man who leaves nothing to chance. I know this is a lot to ask of you, but...’
‘I’ll do it.’ James cut in and that was that.
His life as an MI5 undercover agent began...

Here and now, he thought. How long ago was that meeting?
Nine months?
Ten?
He’d lost count.
So much ground had been covered, so much experience gained, so many principles compromised...
James Suzuki pulled on the cigarette and inhaled deeply, blowing out a thick stream of smoke into the warm night air.
During his preliminary investigating phase, he had found himself at the mercy of a group of Japanese criminal psychopaths who called themselves the Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon. They sought to have him test his nerve and prove himself worthy of their trust by any means necessary, from selling and ‘doing’ drugs, to small arms trafficking into Italy from Malta, stealing cars, driving getaway cars, and, in one shocking instance, shooting a suspected informer point blank between the eyes – the first time he’d ever killed a man in cold blood.
He closed his eyes at that memory; the pain of thinking about it was quite unbearable.
How much of himself, of his humanity, had he compromised to get where he was now?
He looked down at his hands.
They shook uncontrollably.
He then turned his thoughts to Ysabelle.
Dear sweet Ysabelle.
She had come into his life at a time when he had felt completely lost and damaged; a time when he didn’t even know who he was or what he had become anymore. She had helped him reach the surface, helped him re-establish the truth behind why he was doing what he had been sent here to do; and for that alone, for touching the depths of his heart and soul he truly loved her. Ysabelle had given him scope and purpose again which is why they had probably sent her into this hell he’d been living in for six wretched months of his life.
In his mind, he could see clearly her glowing chestnut eyes and was filled with peace and hope. Roberto, God bless him, had organised the ‘accidental meeting’ at a nightclub in Rome, for the Italian Inspector had grasped that James had lost himself completely to the twisted mind-frame of the man he was pretending to be: Taro Yakaetteshi. He had realised that he’d been staring into the well of evil for too long. He had seen it happen to others in similar situations. James Suzuki was lost and needed help badly so he authorised the planting of another agent – someone to get him back on track and Ysabelle was that someone...
James wondered what she was doing at that specific moment in time, if she was safe, where she was, who she was with.
‘What are you doing out here, Taro?’ came a rough voice from behind him.
James calmly turned around as the man called Janasau appeared on the companionway. He’d been drinking again and the smell, sourly sharp on the clean salt air, made James slightly sick.
‘Thinking,’ James told him simply and turned back to the darkness.
‘You look like death warmed up, d’you know that? You’ve been taking too much B), mate.’
‘What’s it to you?’ he snapped back.
‘Nothing. But know this, Taro, I’ve got my eyes on you. Always have, remember that. I never did trust you. You’re an ainoko; a niguro and people like you make me sick.’
James shrugged his shoulders.
‘That’s your problem,’ he told him.
The big man grinned and there was something nasty in his eyes. He clenched his fists, the knuckles turning white, his cheekbones twitching nervously.
‘And when you slip, you little prick, I’m going to be there, do you know that? I’m going to be there to make sure your head and balls are mine. You might have fooled the others you know, but you haven’t fooled me for one minute. I can see right through you. You’re a good actor but you can’t hide what is in your eyes. It’s there for all to see, Taro. I learnt that long ago on the streets of Tokyo, learnt to tell when someone is lying and believe me you’ve got it written inside those bastard eyes of yours.’
James Suzuki turned to look at him again, breathing in deeply and if anything was actually written in his eyes then it was a cold and dangerous gaze that could have put the fear of God into the very soul of the hardest of men.
‘You’re lucky I’m not in a killing mood tonight, otaku aka chijin. Now then, do yourself a favour and piss off before I slit your throat.’
The man called Janasau was just about to jump on him and rip him appart there and then but suddenly thought better of it. There was, ultimately, something about Taro Yakaetteshi, if that was his real name of course, that he just couldn’t put his finger on; something that made him fear him like no other man and thus he finally backed off.
‘My day will come, Taro, and when it does you’ll be screaming like a :tdown:ing whore in my hands, bitch.’
James flicked the cigarette away and watched him disappear inside.
Janasau Tawkae, he thought.
One nasty problem amongst a thousand others.
He sighed heavilly as the burden of the world seemed to befall upon him then.
The most urgent of them all however was that although he knew the shipment of drugs was indeed on board the ‘Midnight Gold’, he had not yet established exactly where it was being stashed and he looked down at the hundreds of steel containers below on the deck, stacked neatly on top of each other, each container with the words ‘KOGANE’ painted in bright gold letters on the sides.
Somewhere down there, he thought, but the question was: should he leave it to customs to find the damn stuff or should he try to establish its exact whereabouts whilst on the ship, at the cost of being discovered, tortured and killed?
Tomorrow night perhaps?
Should he risk it while the others were asleep?

James Suzuki turned then and decided to go back inside. He was badly in need of a another fix and it felt like burning hot coal inside his entire body; a screaming pain that engulfed his mind...
Just one, he assured himself, to help him sleep, that’s all.
After this nightmare was over and done with, he would have all the time in the world to 'get off' the stuff, with Ysabelle's help he could achieve anything; sweet Ysabelle...


*



#10 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

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Posted 23 September 2009 - 04:02 PM

9
The Dirty War


...And now, Mr Bond, I think you should also be made aware that your son is also on the Midnight Gold.’
He sat there as if turned to stone, not fully understanding what she meant.
‘What are you talking about, Ysabelle?’ he said after a moment.
‘The British MI5 agent, the man I love, Mr Bond, is your son: James Suzuki.’
And with that, he felt a lump forming at his throat...
James Bond felt cold; dreadfully cold and if he was asked to describe such a feeling, he probably would have done so by explaining that it felt as though all his energy had been drained out of him in one single moment, as if an uncanny force from beyond had suddenly absorbed his very life force...
He shivered as if somewhere, someone had just stepped over his grave.
‘Are you all right, James?’ Ysabelle asked, sensing the abrupt change in him.
Bond merely looked at her, not knowing what to say, his face a deathly pale.
It was a long moment before he spoke, and when he finally did his voice became coarse.
‘Why the hell wasn’t I informed?’ he said softly. ‘Why didn’t Grazianizi tell me that my son was involved in this bloody mess?’
‘He probably didn’t know he was your son,’ she told him. ‘A controller never gets personal with an agent, James. Not in assignments like this. The less the controller knows about the agent, the safer it is for both of them.’
It was Bond’s turn to get up and walk to the window.
‘But my boss knew,’ he said. ‘Of that I’m sure. The all knowing ‘M’. There’s no way on earth the bastard couldn’t have known.’
‘Then he has kept you on a need-to-know basis. Yet again, it is a question of protection for all parties concerned. You must bear in mind that James is a deep cover agent who just happens to be your son.’
Bond looked back at her and his eyes had become burning slits.
She was right of course and he of all people knew that. The fact was, it was his son they were talking about and he was involved in a very dangerous state of affairs here. There was no way he could avoid the hard hitting worry he now felt.
Ysabelle helped herself to another one of his cigarettes and Bond looked back out of the window but instead of his own reflection in the glass is all he could see was James’ face glaring back. He had fathered him while suffering from amnesia during a dark period of his life when he lived as a simple fisherman with Kissy Suzuki on a small island in Japan. Bond had left her in search of his identity, unaware that she was pregnant with their son. He had been sent to Japan after an emotional and nervous wreck due to his grief over Tracy’s death, to get his hands on a ciphering machine which could decode the most classified Soviet information. However, by pure fate Bond had stumbled upon the evil Ernst Stavro Blofeld hiding on a remote island in the south and the mission suddenly turned to one of bloody revenge. He had ended up almost dying himself after killing Blofeld, had it not been for Kissy who had fished him out of the water.
The last time Bond had seen her was a couple of years ago, a month before she had sadly passed away of cancer. He had flown to the States where she had moved with young James a few years back. Bond had remained at her side throughout the painful struggle, had held her hand the moment she had died. He saw her almond eyes inside his mind then; full of affection as they had looked up at him when, at long last, a peaceful death wrapped its warm arms around her frail body and took her away. It was during this unfortunate time, a love like he had never known before grew inside him for the boy.
He had originally found out about James from his friend ‘Tiger’ Tanaka who had called him one night previous to leaving the UK for Japan on another mission, three years after the Blofeld affair. At the outset, Bond had been reluctant to accept the responsibilities of being a father. In fact, he avoided it completely, preferring to hold himself entirely in the job he was in Japan for. This state of mind soon changed though after surviving brutal torture and almost being killed at the hands of a mad Yakuza criminal called White Viper. He came to the conclusion that his life needed a meaning and direction; a meaning and direction that could only be found through and in his only son. With Tiger Tanaka’s help Bond at long last traced Kissy to Tokyo.
He remembered the night he first met the boy.
James was four years old then and nothing short of being a delightful, little terror, full of life. As soon as he had set eyes upon him in the hallway of Kissy’s small apartment, he knew without a doubt in his heart that James Suzuki was indeed his. He spent three months living with them there and managed to convince her to accept his help in bringing the child up, if only through financial assistance. He put him through the best schools in Japan and then in the United States where Kissy decided to move. Bond had made sure they were not left for want and yes, he had tried hard to visit them frequently. His job obviously tied him down though and as much as he had wanted to, the visits soon became less and less - until the day he learnt of Kissy’s illness from a close friend...
Many years passed and Bond had lived through further adventures and dangers.
Still, he made certain his son was taken care of and after continuing his studies and working in a bank in the USA for a number of years, Bond convinced James to move to the UK to study there.
This decision, to have James closer to him, came after one of the worst moments in Bond’s life. A couple of years ago, he had been led to believe his son had been murdered by Fraulein Irma Bunt, Ernst Stavro Blofeld’s mad companion who had survived death at Bond’s hands in Japan, and the shock of it all had changed him radically. His thoughts went back to the day he had rushed into James’ apartment after flying out from London at his son’s request for help; the foul stench of death, the body in the middle of the floor in an advanced state of decomposition, all its features bloated. He recalled kneeling heavily beside what he believed then was his only son’s body and the pain was like a knife being twisted around viciously inside his heart. It was there and then that he had cursed himself for being the man he was; for not being the father he should have been all those years. He had cursed everything from God, life, the Secret Service and ‘M’, to Tracy, his parents who had died and left him at such a tender age, and last but not least his damned rotten egotism.
As luck would have it though, after recuperating in hospital subsequent to being shot in the leg by one of Irma Bunt’s men, Bond had discovered that the young man he had found in the apartment on that horrible day was not in fact his son and that James was still alive and well. The autopsy had established that the body Bond had found belonged to one of James’ close friends who worked with him at the bank. The unfortunate lad had been with James when Bunt had abducted him as he left work to go home and it had transpired that the evil bitch had just wanted to see Bond suffer, dreadfully, hence leaving the lad’s body in James’ apartment so that he would believe it was his own son. Bunt had wanted to taunt Bond cruelly and savagely and her unhinged plan after torturing Double O Seven at the warehouse situated near the Hudson River, was to kill young James in front of him. In the end, with the help of Special Agent Cheryl Haven and his old friend Felix Leiter, they managed to track him down being held captive by some thugs on a small boat not far away from the warehouse where Bond himself had been held. He had sworn on his life that never again would he let any harm come to pass his only son...
‘Never again,’ James Bond said softly to himself, closed his eyes and finally settled his thoughts once and for all.
After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, he turned around to look across at Ysabelle.
‘We need to rest,’ he said simply.
‘Yes, James. It has been quite a long and eventful night.’
She got up and crossed over to him, reaching out to touch his face softly.
‘Your son is a fine young man,’ she told him. ‘He is tough and intelligent. He can take care of himself.’
Bond nodded.
‘I’m sure he can. But I lost him once before you see and I swore I wouldn’t let that happen again. The fact that he’s mixed up in this dirty war has come as a hard shock that I just wasn’t expecting.’
‘I’m sure. But he’s not a child, James.’
He breathed in deeply and then smiled.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I’m just tired. We need to rest now. It’s been one hell of a night.’
‘Perhaps I should go, come back tomorrow.’
‘No. If Nakamuro knows about me then there’s a chance he now knows about your role in all this. You’re safer here. Don’t worry, you can sleep in the bed. The armchair’ll do for me and we’ll sort something better out tomorrow.’
She nodded and with that, they settled in to sleep...

* * *


Meanwhile, at 85 Vauxhall Cross, along the Albert Embankment in London, M was seated at his desk, working through the PM’s letter for the umpteenth time, when Bill Tanner came in carrying a couple of files.
‘All here, sir. Everything we have on Yamada Nakamuro. It’s not much but we’re waiting for the Japanese and ‘Five’ to send whatever they’ve got on him.’
‘Any word from Double O Seven?’ M asked him and Tanner knew that something was troubling the old man, the lines on the Colonel’s dark ruthless face and the tension in the grey-blue eyes told him so...
‘I’m afraid not. Apart from the signal Jack Davenport sent informing us of his telephone conversation with Bond earlier this evening, it seems our man has disappeared right off the map.’
M sighed heavily.
‘Which could only mean Nakamuro’s got him then.’
‘Knowing Bond, I doubt that very much, sir.’
Hmmm,’ M grunted. ‘What about the identities of the two bodies found at Bond’s hotel?’
‘The Italians are looking into it but I doubt they’ll be able to trace them back to Nakamuro of course.’
‘Any idea where Bond could be, Chief of Staff?’
‘Well, sir, we’ve managed to establish that he left his hotel in the early hours of the morning after ‘dealing’ with the two men sent to assassinate him, but to where exactly we have absolutely no idea. We’ve received word from Rome that another body, a Japanese male, was found outside a nightclub a couple of miles away from his hotel, stabbed in the back.’
‘Bond?’
‘I’d bet my life on it, sir.’
‘How in God’s name did they determine who Double O Seven is and where to bloody find him?’
‘He had dinner with Roberto Grazianizi just before he was killed. That was probably enough. Grazianizi was clearly being watched by Nakamuro’s men and Bond must have aroused their interest.’
‘His cover could still be intact then.’
‘To an extent, yes.’
M got up and walked to the log fire burning brightly opposite and stood there, looking down into the flames, then at the PM’s letter again.
‘What about his son?’ he asked after a while.
‘He’s gone off the map too, sir. In fact, it’s been a month since MI5 received any word from him.’
‘I see,’ M said and looked across at Tanner and there was something else in those all-knowing eyes. ‘Bond meeting Grazianizi in the open like that was rather reckless, Chief of Staff, don’t you think?’
‘Sir?’
‘I mean, what the bloody hell is wrong with Bond? What was the fool thinking? He should have known better for Christ sake. That’s the second time in a row that he’s jeopardised a mission by exposing himself.’
‘Second time, sir?’
‘The ‘Black Fox’ affair, man!’ M snapped. ‘He had clear orders to lay low and he failed to do so merely because he was ‘keen’ on seeing an old girl friend. Reckless, to say the blasted least.’
Tanner just stood there, looking across at the old man, trying to figure out what he was getting at.
‘It all boils down to the fact that our man Bond might just be getting too old for this job, Bill.’ M told him. ‘He’s been at it far too long now and he’s making too many mistakes of late.’
Tanner cleared his throat and spoke,
‘Having said that though, he appears to have gotten himself out of a very tough spot tonight, sir, what with those Japanese killers turning up on his doorstep. I wouldn’t call that the signs of a man too old or careless for his job. As for the Black Fox affair, his report did indicate...’
The Colonel looked at him reproachfully.
‘That’s not the point here, is it?’ he snapped again and turned back to look down at the flames as if trying to find a better excuse to hang Bond on. ‘How much can a man like him take before he realises its fine time to throw in the towel? How long has he been with this Division, Bill, hmmm? Twelve, thirteen years?’
‘Fourteen, sir.’
‘Well, there you are. What makes you think Double O Seven hasn’t reached the so-called dangerous years, eh?’
‘Sir, might I ask if this has anything to do with the meeting you had earlier with the Joint Intelligence Committee?’ Tanner said finally.
‘Unfortunately it has, Chief of Staff.’ He told him and it all came out then. ‘The Director has convinced the PM that Double O Seven has become something of a liability to the Service, not to mention his fellow officers in the field. Downing Street has officially demanded that I revoke Bond’s licence to kill and terminate his services forthright.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I wish I was. I received this half an hour ago.’
M handed him the letter, which he read and when he was finished Bill Tanner was stumped for words.
‘The bastards went over my head.’ M told him.
‘Surely they can’t do this?’
‘They can and they bloody well have. Commander Bond’s days with MI6 are finally over, Bill.’
‘After all he’s done for this country?!’
‘I have no choice. They’ve tied my hands up right and proper with that blasted letter.’
‘Sir, he’s being used as a scapegoat for the Switzerland shambles.’
‘Of course he is and there’s nothing I can do about it.’
Tanner was about to say something then thought better of it. In this situation, with the PM’s directives clearly stated in that letter, the old man was simply trumped.
‘I want you to get on the phone to head of Station ‘R’ and have him find Bond.’ M told him. ‘I want him brought in yesterday, no matter what. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll get onto it now.’
‘Good man.’
And with that, the Chief of Staff of the Double O Division turned and went out.
M stood there, at the fire place, the only sound that of the rain dashing against the window pane.
‘Bastards!’ he said softly.


*



#11 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

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Posted 21 October 2009 - 06:46 PM

10
No Mean Spy


...James Bond woke up at one in the afternoon and his mouth was terribly dry with too many cigarettes the night before, not to mention the excruciating pain in his arm.
He lifted himself out of the uncomfortable armchair, went into the bathroom and had a cold shower.
Fifteen refreshing minutes later and after rinsing his mouth with a sharp mouthwash, he lathered soap around his cruel jaw-line in front of the mirror above the sink, jutting his chin out, his deep blue eyes looking quite fatigued as his fingers pulled the skin taut across his cheekbone for the disposable blade; that damn boyish black comma of hair ever present above his right eye...
The night had passed slowly for him, he reflected as he shaved. It had passed slowly and above all quite uncertainly among too many questions screaming out for answers.

To the last fields of the universe untrod,
Where is no man, nor any earth, nor sea,
And the contented soul is all alone with God


Bond smiled and sluiced his face with cold water, got dressed and went back into the bedroom. Ysabelle was still fast asleep so he pulled a chair up in front of the window and sat down, smoking his first cigarette of the day, looking out at the crowded Piazza below.
‘What time is it?’ Ysabelle asked after what seemed an eternity of peace and quiet.
‘Two thirty,’ Bond told her. ‘Hungry?’
‘Famished,’ she said and got out of bed.
‘If you’d like to grab a shower, I’ll order some food.’
‘But with plenty of black coffee, please.’
Bond nodded and couldn’t help looking across at her voluptuous body as she stretched on her tip-toes, arms extended, and at the same time letting out a very innocent and sexy girlish sigh.
He then noticed, as she turned to make the bed up, that she had an exquisite tattoo on her back, between the shoulder blades and depicting a fiery dragon, crimson red, breathing out fire, it’s mouth open wide in rage, eyes black slits.
It was indeed a stunning piece of work and she must have gone through a couple of hours of pain to get it done...
Bond raised an inquisitive eyebrow as he turned back to the view outside.
Sonno curiosa, James,’ she said gathering her clothes off the floor. ‘What is your plan for today?’
‘Well, after you’ve eaten you’re going to pop outside to purchase a Lap-Top and some other essentials,’ he told her. ‘Once I’ve studied the data on Roberto’s flash drive we’ll see what we can come up with.’
‘Which means?’
He looked at her again.
‘Which means you and I will be holding what is called a council of war.’
She crossed over to the bathroom, pausing before going in.
‘You do realise that you are not going to find anything on that drive that will stand up in a court of law to put Nakamuro away behind bars, don’t you?’
Bond took a pull on his cigarette and blew out a long stream of grey smoke towards the ceiling.
‘Girl dear, who ever said anything about the law?’ he told her. ‘I’m going to assassinate the bastard and blow his shipment of drugs up to kingdom come. Why else did you think the British sent a man like me over?’
He then sat back and enjoyed his cigarette...

* * *


It was now eight in the evening and James Bond finally sat back in the chair and stretched, eyes red with weariness.
Going through Roberto’s files on the Lap-Top Ysabelle had bought earlier from a shop on the Via de Vialle was dreadfully tiring to say the least.
He’d been at it for the past two hours now non-stop while the girl lay on her front on the bed reading a fashion magazine and he now felt thoroughly hungry.
Bond got up and crossed to the window opposite, his arm aching painfully, hadn’t stopped aching all day.
At least now though it seemed he had all the information he needed to get back on 'track'. But first he would need to contact a man called Il Gattopardo - Giancarlo Berlucci - one of Roberto’s most trusted associates. He would require his assistance in ‘kitting’ up and locating Enrico Colombo. Wherever the hell that old scoundrel was, Bond could jolly well do with his help and he was sure the ‘Dove’ would jump at the opportunity to help Bond bring down a major drug baron like Nakamuro.
If he could find him in time that was.
Bond was joined by Ysabelle.
She took one of his cigarettes and lit it.
‘Have you found what you were looking for yet?’ she asked.
She passed him the cigarette and he took a long pull.
‘Roberto had a very good team working for him.’
‘I want to make sure he didn’t die in vein.’ she told him.
Bond looked down at her and there was something in his eyes.
‘Did you know Roberto had a daughter who died of a heroin overdose a couple of years ago? I remember him once telling me that if it took bending the rules of law to put men like Nakamuro away for good then so be it. He agreed entirely with the concept of what we in the trade call wild justice. The end would always justify the means.’
She looked out into the darkness beyond the window.
‘I never knew that, James,’ she said softly. ‘About his daughter, I mean.’
‘She was nineteen. Fell in love with a local pusher she’d met at University. As stories like hers go she was used by the bastard in the most horrible of ways and when she couldn’t afford to buy the stuff he was selling, he forced her to sell herself to his friends in order to pay for it.’
‘And Roberto knew nothing of this?’
‘Unfortunately the parents are generally always the last to know their children are hooked.’
‘What’s your point, James?’
‘I don't even know myself, Ysabelle,’ he said and crossed to the bathroom. ‘It’s time we had dinner. Now go and put on that nice frock you bought this afternoon while I grab a quick shower. Did I tell you they make a wonderful Pasta al’ Arancini here. ’

***


The waiter brought over a bottle of Vernaccia di San Gimignano, a wine that Bond had developed a particular fondness for throughout the years and after tasting it, he nodded his complete satisfaction and sat back and gazed at the girl.
They had gone downstairs soon after he had showered and changed his clothes, a plain white shirt and black trousers that she had bought for him that afternoon and they were now in the pensione’s small but beautifully decorated restaurant.
Bond had ordered for both of them – Melone ala tantarella with prosciutto followed by a delicious plate of homemade Pasta al’ Arancini.
They took the end table from where he could watch the door.
The food was provided with impeccable service and indeed turned out to be a true experience in Italian fare and three quarters of an hour later, there was a long moment of silence as they waited for the maître d' to clear their plates.
Ysabelle sipped her wine and looked closely at Bond.
‘Dessert?’ he asked.
‘I have a figure to take care of, Mr Bond,’ she said with a beautiful smile.
‘Of course you do.’
‘So tell me, James, you said you wanted to ask me a question.’
Bond finished his wine and a warm smile slid onto his handsome face.
'You said last night you’ve fallen in love with my son.’
‘That’s right. And he loves me, James. Very much. Does this cause you a problem?’
‘Not at all,’ he told her quickly. ‘I’m rather pleased in fact. Worried, to say the least, but very pleased for both of you.’
‘But?’
‘It’s your jobs, Ysabelle. You do realise your occupations are not the ideal basis a relationship can be built on.’
She looked thoughtfully at the remaining wine in her glass, then at him again and there was something hostile in her eyes.
Together they fell in deep love real fast, vowed to love each other, that they'd always last, no matter what,no matter what.But tell me, what can you possibly teach me and James about love that we don’t already know, eh? A ruthless Double ‘O’ killer like yourself, the same man who abandoned his only son for his job all those years ago? Please tell me, really, I am curious.’
Bond breathed in deeply, stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and looked down at his lighter as he toyed with it in his fingers and something passed across his eyes, pain, loneliness, anger even and then he looked at her again and he held her eyes in his for a long moment - taxingly.
He lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply.
‘The woman I loved was killed a long time ago,’ he said softly and let the words sink in.
‘The shot was meant for me but instead it caught her in the heart as we were driving off from our wedding reception. We were only married for a couple of hours, can you believe it.’
Ysabelle had gone white and with a certain anger in his voice, he continued,
‘What I wanted to say and this is probably the last time you’ll ever hear me say it is if you really do love each other enough then you’ll consider giving up your jobs for each other. It’s as simple as that. What people like us do, the dangerous world we live in, is a cruel and ugly place and know this Ysabelle Valentina - hell is forever vacant for people with jobs like ours, and that’s a fact. It’s what we call an occupational hazard of the worst bloody kind.’
She reached out then and touched his face, her eyes sad for she could feel a genuine and deep pain inside him that had not been there before.
‘I’m so sorry, James.’
‘Just think of what I said. For God’s sake I don’t want my son going through what I went through losing someone he loves when it could be avoided. Life is more than running around with a gun in your hand chasing the bad guys.’
‘I understand what you are saying.’
‘Now then, tell me, how did it happen?’
She stared at him.
‘Are you serious?’ she said. ‘Are you actually asking me how I fell in love with your son?’
Bond leaned back in his chair, now an animated look upon his face which brought back a smile on her own.
‘Don’t be shy, girl, this may well be the last time I ever get the chance to catch a glimpse into the love life of my only son,’ he told her. ‘The men we’re up against play for keeps and won’t stop at anything to stop me from achieving my aims. God knows how they found out about me but they did and that means that I could very well be on borrowed time here which is more the reason why I’d like to know who my son has his eye on and how she hooked him.’
Eye on? Hooked him?’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’
Ysabelle signalled the maître d' and ordered two double vodkas, straight.
‘Let’s do it over a drink then,’ she told him.
Bond stubbed out his cigarette.
‘I hope you realise that drinking vodka straight rots your brain.’
‘Great, because I suddenly feel like a teenager being interrogated by a big bad wolf.’
Bond laughed and he found that he indisputably liked this girl and, more to the point, his son had most certainly struck gold…
‘I’m just being a dutiful father, that’s all.' He told her. 'I'll have you know this is a whole new experience for me so start talking before this big bad wolf puts you across his knee.’
Again Ysabelle laughed and she did so sincerely.
‘You are definitely no mean spy, Mr Bond,’ she said. ‘Full of character and colour, I’ll give you that.’


*



#12 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

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Posted 24 October 2009 - 07:19 PM

11
Catch Your Death


The Japanese guards swung the iron gates back and the chauffeur-driven Princess was guided through towards the large house beyond.
Villa Paruzio personified the essence of opulence and power. It was a magnanimous and luxuriant 19th century patrician abode set in the heart of a vast estate of terraced green hills and lemon groves, located in the heart of the dazzling country side of Frascati...
The man called Midas Gold was not a fanatic regarding what he sometimes called ‘electronic’ security devices around his house, despite the pressures of his chief security officer to install them. No, he was too old fashioned and believed deeply that security would slack if every one of his men depended on ‘armchair’ technology.
There was nothing better than a well trained professional bodyguard to prowl ones’ home ground,’ he had once said. ‘Too many people depended on gadgets nowadays which ended up substituting man-power and the sharpness of man’s mind.
He had, however, agreed on installing two to three closed-circuit television sets, but nothing else.
The Princess came to a halt and the chauffer quickly came round to open the door and he got out, dressed in a flawlessly fitting Brioni evening suit.
Gurache,’ he said. ‘Do have the car ready for nine a.m. tomorrow.’
Yahari, shishou,’ answered the driver and bowed courteously as he walked off.
As Midas Gold reached the pillared porch further on, a servant came out of a doorway opposite and called out for him.
He paused for a moment and looked him over calmly.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘The man from the British Embassy is here, shishou. I tried calling you on your phone. He’s been waiting for over an hour.’
Nakamuro’s chilling golden eyes glared at him irksomely.
‘Tell Kenso that I will see him in my office in fifteen minutes.’
Hai!’ the man said and bowed as low as he could go as Midas Gold went inside...

* * *


His study was superbly furnished with wide windows at either end and Yamada Nakamuro now sat in a comfortable leather club chair, a glass of Scotch in one hand, a long slim cigar in the other and reading through some papers.
His personal bodyguard, Kenso Nagadeshi, sat crossed-legged on the leather couch opposite, taciturn and eerie as ever clad in black...
There was a soft knock on the leather padded door and a rather short, chubby man in his early forties walked in. His thinning hair was already grizzled at the sides and he had the look of a rather dull civil servant, to say nothing of being dressed like one...
‘You risk a lot coming here, Mr Edwards,’ Nakamuro told him sitting back in his chair. He took a long pull at the cigar and blew out a dark grey stream of thick smoke at the ceiling, nothing but arrogance and power oozing out of him. ‘What do you want?’
The man called Edwards stood in front of the desk, completely ignoring Kenso Nagadeshi, which Nakamuro boiled down to total trepidation.
‘James Bond has been recalled back to London,’ the Englishman told him. ‘You can call your men off.’
Nakamuro raised an eyebrow.
‘Why, pray?’
‘Killing him would cause us more trouble.’
Us, Mr Edwards?’
‘My role in this affair has gone too deep, Mr Nakamuro. We can both get damaged badly if Bond is killed at this stage.’
‘You sound like coward,’ Nakamuro spat. ‘First you take my money in exchange for information and now you are urinating in your pants like a helpless little child.’
Edwards couldn’t help gasping at the way he’d just been chastised.
‘May I remind you that it is not your head on the block if my superiors get wind of my involvement with you and your operation.’
Yamada Nakamuro slapped the table hard startling Edwards.
‘My head has been on the block since I was born, you insolent fool.’
Despite feeling very afraid now, Edwards wasn’t put off.
‘Let Bond leave this country unharmed.’
‘He killed three of my men.’
‘The fact that he took them on and won means you’re better off without them I would think.’
Nakamuro showed his perfectly white teeth and sucked in a mouthful of air.
‘I will forget you said that, Mr Edwards. One day, however, you will go too far.’
‘One day we’ll all be dead,’ he said staunchly. ‘Listen to me, Mr Nakamuro. Bond is British Intelligence. Killing him now will bring that organisation down on you like a tone of bloody bricks and believe me you wouldn’t want that. More to the point though, he is officially off your case. I’ve had it from reliable sources that…’
‘Oh, spare me this rubbish,’ Nakamuro spat again. ‘British Intelligence will simply replace him with someone else.’
‘Except…’
‘Except that I want him,’ Nakamuro told him very forebodingly. ‘Know this about me, Mr Edwards. I am a curious man. This Bond killed three of my men, three of my fiercest warriors and therefore I have now decided that I want to look deep into his eyes the moment before he dies at the hands of Kenso here. I want to look into his eyes to perceive and understand the form of dragon he harbours within him. It is said, Mr Edwards, that a man’s chief quality in life is his courage and James Bond has indeed bemused me with a courage and audacity I haven’t seen in many years. I desire to meet him and meet him I shall.’
‘It’ll blow up in my face, Nakamuro,’ Edwards persisted. ‘The local head of MI6 is out on the streets of Rome looking for him as we speak.’
‘We will find him before he does,’ Nakamuro told him. ‘Rest assured.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘We have established a connection.’
Nakamuro produced a colour photograph which he passed to Edwards. It showed a young woman at a party in a local nightclub, sitting down on a couch with a drink in her hand, talking to a young Japanese man.
‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘She works for the Italian Special Branch or whatever they call themselves and till a couple of months ago she was passing herself off as a drug-addicted whore and using Roberto Grazianizi as her controller. Thanks to a couple of my men’s inanity she very effectively infiltrated one of my networks in Rome and, now, according to my informers in the Italian Secret Service, she is with Bond supplying him with information about my organisation.’
‘Bad. Very bad.’
‘Perhaps. But this pretty connection will no doubt lead us to him.’
Edwards sighed heavily.
‘You can’t guarantee that though,’ he said softly, knowing fine well Nakamuro was not going to sway.
Yamada Nakamuro got up and went to a drinks cabinet against the wall, opened it and produced a bottle of fine Scotch whisky. He unscrewed the top and poured generously into his glass. He then turned and went to sit down beside Kenso Nagadeshi, unbuttoning his jacket.
‘Nothing is certain in life, my dear Mr Edwards, with the exception of cold death of course,’ he said and there was something very, very evil and cruel in those extraordinary eyes of his. ‘And believe me when I tell you that a cold death is what I intend serving Mr James Bond for crossing my path. As for the British Intelligence Service, let them come for me. I fear them not.’
The man called Edwards reflected for a while, then said softly,
‘Have it your way then, Mr Nakamuro. I give up. I warn you though you are making a grave mistake.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Edwards. I am a busy man and you have taken more than is reasonable of my time.’
Edwards stood there looking down at them, sitting there on the couch, and he felt a cold chill run down his spine. These two characters, he thought, were straight out of the pages of a gothic horror book.
He shivered suddenly.
‘Have it your way, Mr Nakamuro.’
And with that he stormed out.
Nakamuro placed a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder as the door behind Edwards closed shut.
‘He is falling to pieces it seems,’ he said. ‘Kenso my dear, kindly ensure that he catches his death tomorrow morning as he leaves for work. Nothing too harsh mind. Perhaps a broken neck will do nicely. Having said that, I will leave such a thing up to your better judgment.’
Kenso Nagadeshi looked at his master and smiled.
His white face and piercing black eyes that looked at everything with dangerous disdain would have even made the devil himself fear him at that particular moment in time, Midas Gold observed and pushed back the remaining Scotch, laughing out for no particular reason whatsoever…

* * *


Later, upstairs, Nakamuro opened the door to his bedroom.
Opposite on the double bed lay a young Italian, not more than nineteen years old and wearing nothing but white underwear, his skin olive coloured, lean and unblemished, a handsome lad, with crystal blue eyes and rather long blond hair and as Yamada Nakamuro walked in and slipped off his jacket, the Italian peeled off his underwear and smiled anxiously.
Midas Gold stood there, in the centre of the room, a hungry look in his golden eyes as he studied the lad like a lion considering its prey.
‘Master, may I have my fix now… please?’ the Italian said softly in good English.
Nakamuro swallowed hard, mouth quite dry and suddenly he turned bright red in the face. He breathed in deeply to steady himself, the excitement inside him overwhelming. He spoke, his voice wavering slightly.
‘No. I want you in your senses for what I have in store for you. Once I have had you, you may have your fix and more, much more, my dear.’
Nakamuro moved closer and undressed and in a couple of moments he had the young lad in his arms.
The Italian felt sick, physically and emotionally sick as Nakamuro kissed him hard, his hands exploring his warm body, but he dared not show his revulsion. This was the only way he could pay for his very expensive ‘habit’ but in his mind and heart, he cursed God, life and his friend, Mikella, for introducing him to the evil curse called Kogane...

* * *


In London, M sat in his office at MI6 headquarters working through some papers when Ms Moneypenny came in.
‘Anything for me?’ M asked.
‘Not much, sir. That business with Bond?’
‘What?’
‘Our information is he’s gone deep underground on the Midas Gold assignment and the chances of Head of Station R finding him are next to zilch.’
‘What’s Harry Chambers up to then?’
‘He’s on his case, sir. In fact, he’s out looking for him as we speak and he’s been going through everything we have on Bond in order to come up with something that may give him a lead but, hitherto…’
‘Well the PM is up my nose big-time so the sooner we get Double O Seven back over here the better. Couldn’t be worse, Ms Moneypenny. The Government wants him out and they're going to make the whole Black-Fox business public this time.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Of course they bloody well can! It’s the Government we’re talking about. And it’s all in the blasted name of transparency and open-government and all that other wretched nonsense.’
‘Well if you ask me I think it’s all quite unfair, sir. James has given everything for this country and this is how they repay him in the end?’
‘You don’t need to remind me. But we all have to follow orders and you’ve been working here long enough to know that fine well, Ms Moneypenny.’
Moneypenny nodded and turned to leave.
When she reached the door though, she turned back to M. She looked at him, hesitating, and he raised his eyes at her from the papers he was appraising.
‘What is it?’ he grunted.
‘Well, sir, I just wanted to tell you that…Well, the thing is, sir…’
M’s eyebrows came down at her annoyingly.
‘Come on, girl, spit it out,’ he said.
Moneypenny breathed in to summon up some courage.
‘Well, sir, this wouldn’t have happened in Sir Miles Messervey’s day. He would jolly well have told the PM what to do with the JIC’s recommendations and in no small way, I assure you. I am sorry, sir, but I felt I had to say that.’
The Colonel’s jaw tightened, his cheekbones flaring up, face red, but instead of exploding in a rage and chastising his personal assistant for what he saw as sheer insubordination, he simply took a deep breath and looked at her sombrely.
‘That will be all, Ms Moneypenny,’ he then said finally.
‘Sir.’
She turned and closed the door behind her leaving the old man in complete silence.
The Colonel sighed heavily and got up from his desk. He crossed to the window opposite and looked out. It was still raining outside, hard and driving, and it didn’t seem to want to stop. Lightning flashed angrily in the distance, illuminating the sky above Westminster.
He found himself thinking about what Moneypenny told him.
What she had said took guts, he thought.
Sir Miles Messervey, Bond’s former boss before his predecessor.
The Colonel had met him on various occasions and numerous times at Blades and had even worked with him once during the Falkland’s Conflict way back in 1982
- OPERATION: S P E A R H E A D.
And yes, Moneypenny was bloody right! Sir Miles Messervey was not the type of man any PM would have ever wanted to cross with something like this pathetic business regarding one of his men and that was a fact.
He thought about it for a long time.
Taking on the JIC was one thing. Taking on the Prime Minister, another...
Colonel Gordon Jackson swore softly under his breath and went back to his desk.

*



#13 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

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Posted 30 October 2009 - 07:59 PM

12
The Eyes of the Dragon



The lead he’d received half an hour ago from his American Embassy ‘source’ who worked in the Records Section there had certainly proved spot on, Julian Faulkes observed as he sipped some of his Gin and Tonic at a table in one of the Piazza’s outdoor cafes. The sky that morning was the colour of asphalt and there was a sudden chill to the wind that no doubt indicated the likelihood of rain later on. At nine thirty, Piazza Navona was already crowded with a huge number of tourists out to see what many nowadays described as the ‘crossroads of the world’, at least once in their lifetime before they died. They were all around the place, buzzing about like pesky little flies, flashing their cameras avidly as they called upon the Fountain of the Rivers, with the majestic dark brown obelisk rising up towards the sky, and the Fountain of the Moor, with the God of the Sea; or sat chatting in one of the many luxurious cafes over a cappuccino or Campari Soda, or simply stood in awe in the opulent and Baroque palaces there...
Faulkes was thirty five, a tall and extremely handsome man with light brown hair, dazzling bluish-green eyes and a razor sharp look to him in that dark blue expertly tailored suit from Savile Row; and when Commander Bond and the girl appeared in the doorway of the Pensione Paradiso opposite, he smiled to himself, lit a cigarette and casually made to read the Corriere della Sera as they crossed through the crowd towards the Fountain of Four Rivers...
Division ‘Five’ was that section of the British Embassy in Rome that dealt with MI6 agents operating covertly there on an assignment, supporting and providing unofficial assistance when and where necessary. On occasions such as this one, however, it was charged with locating agents like Bond and escorting them back to London for whatever reason they’d been called back.
Faulkes’ job with ‘Five’ consisted predominantly of smiling benevolently and mollycoddling other foreign Embassy staff and delegates stationed in Rome during official functions, in a stab at structuring a network of connections for possible future ‘use’ by his own Service. The routine life here in Rome integrating with the rich and powerful did have its returns though, Faulkes thought, and Samantha Harriet, his source at the US Embassy, was proof of that. Harriet was a sumptuous American bombshell who worked in Data & Records whom he had taken a very special liking to of late (which probably boiled down to the fact that she was a God send in bed), and it was thanks to her and the small US Intelligence Section there that he was able to track Double O Seven down...
Faulkes knocked back his Gin.
He had studied Bond’s file carefully last night and knew that, apart from being a very senior SIS Officer with a licence to kill, he was a very dangerous man and therefore would need to be treated with kid gloves.
Faulkes finally got up and left some small change on the table and it was just as he was about to make his way towards Bond and the girl that all hell broke loose...

* * *


Fifteen minutes or so earlier and James Bond was thanking the manager of the Pensione Paradiso for his generosity in taking him and the girl in at such short notice, and settled his bill using the Jonathan Bray credit card.
Looking strikingly handsome and cool that morning in beige slacks, soft leather moccasins, white shirt open at the neck and a navy blue Pasolini single-breasted jacket, Bond crossed the lobby and sat down on one of the comfortable leather armchairs and lit a cigarette while he waited for the girl to come down; the gun he’d taken from her car the previous night now reassuringly snug in the small of his back.
It was about nine ten when she finally came down the stairs and the transformation, Bond noted, from the ‘street girl’ she had been pretending to be to this, the fine and tailored look of an executive banker, was indeed awesome, to say the least. She now wore a white silk shirt, frills and all, and a greyish blue two piece Geiger Ramon suit that brought out her fine figure splendidly. She carried herself with comfortable and cool arrogance, as if she actually owned the world. Her olive coloured skin was radiant with freshness and her chestnut eyes were ever so brilliant as they looked his way and smiled at him delightfully. But it was the long black silken hair, feathered at the sides of that exquisite face with sharp Roman features that made his heart sink and he found himself literally breathless...
James Bond had woken up that morning with a start, realising that dawn was not far away. He had got up from the armchair he had slept in and had looked at his watch. It was five thirty and he had padded quietly to the bathroom where he washed, shaved and got dressed. By six o’ clock, it had started to get light outside and he checked the M19 Colt’s action, slipping it into the small of his back. Ysabelle was still asleep and Bond had boiled it down to the nine vodkas she had consumed after dinner. Her black hair was spread across the pillow, her beautiful face peaceful and he smiled.
Bond had taken the room key and went downstairs to the silent reception where he crossed the superbly lined floor to use one of the pay phones to call Giancarlo Berlucci. He had thought of calling M too but immediately dismissed that idea completely. Somehow Nakamuro’s men had located him to the Hotel Mille Fiori which could mean there was a leak somewhere; perhaps the same leak that had set off the ‘Black Fox’ debacle. Highly improbable, he thought, but most definitely possible.
No.
M would have to wait for the moment. He was not going to take chances this time around...
As he finally dialled the numbers he had memorised from the data on Roberto’s Pen-Drive, he could hear the kitchen staff preparing breakfast opposite and it was a couple of moments later when a sleepy and disgruntled voice answered in Italian:
Pronto, chi parla?’
‘Mr Berlucci? My name is Bond. James Bond. Roberto Grazianizi gave me this number and name to use if I required help.’
There was quite a long pause at that and which Bond had expected considering.
‘Unfortunately, Roberto is no longer with us,’ Berlucci told him at last.
‘I was with him when he was killed, Mr Berlucci.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I’d like to meet you.’
‘You are joking of course.’
‘On the contrary, I couldn’t be more serious.’
‘To end up in a ball of flames like dear Roberto? Mamma mia, the fool crossed the wrong people this time, Mr Bond, and I have no intention going down the same path as he.’
‘No harm will befall you. I guarantee it.’
Again there was a lengthy silence, then,
‘Roberto told me you would call. I am what they call a ‘fixer’, Mr Bond. In other words I provide information and hardware – at a very costly price that is.’
‘Just the sort of chap I need then.’
‘In that case I hope you can afford me. You will come to my office in Strada Republica in the north district at ten thirty. Number 13. We will talk and see what you require.’
Bond nodded once.
‘I need a safe house to lie low for a few days. Two at the most.’
‘I think that can be arraigned, Mr Bond. Money, after all, can buy everything – if the price is exact and sensible. But now, if you will excuse my impoliteness, I would like to catch another hour’s sleep perchance. I am sure you will agree that it is still fairly untimely to be talking commerce.’
‘Ten thirty then.’
‘Oh and please, Mr Bond, do make certain you are not followed. I take my life very seriously I warn you.’
Bond raised an eyebrow at that last and the man called Il Gattopardo, whatever the hell that meant, hung up...

* * *


Once back upstairs, he woke the girl up and called room service. He ordered breakfast for two: Scrambled eggs with four slices of wholewheat bread, with the finest butter and jam available, and black coffee, lots of it and very, very hot...
It was as they ate that Bond told her what was on the cards for them.
‘How can you trust this Berlucci despite the fact that you’ve never met him?’ she had asked sipping some coffee
‘I trust Roberto.’ Bond told her. ‘He wouldn’t have recommended him if he wasn’t one hundred percent trustworthy. I need him to sort me out. Going up against Nakamuro is going to require me ‘kitting up’ thoroughly and Berlucci is the man to turn to for that. I need weapons and plenty of explosives, not to mention a safe-house to operate from. ’
‘I see. So, what happens now?’
‘Well for starters you get dressed. I’ll wait for you downstairs. The appointment is at ten thirty. Strada Republica in the north district, which means you’ll be driving me there. You’ve got twenty minutes, give or take. Think you can cope?’
‘Twenty minutes? You’re too hard with me, Mr Bond. I’m a woman remember.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be a lady of the so-called profession. It’s what’s under the clothing that counts most. The rougher you look the better your cover, no?’
She smiled at him teasingly.
‘Not any more, James. I’m changing character you see. Your credit card took care of that yesterday. I am now your executive assistant, and I will look the part I assure you.’
‘That’s your call, Ysabelle. Just get cracking though before I bloody well fire you.’
And before going out, he flashed her a naughty smile and wink for good measure...
She thought of him for a long moment after he was gone. James Bond was one of the most fascinating men she had ever met; a charming man, who dangerously overwhelmed and excited her. He was cruel by nature, that much was obvious, but there was a sum of gentle caring there inside him too and the thought of him had now somehow imbedded into her mind, so much that last night she couldn’t stop wanting him, sexually. She had had to struggle with herself to refrain from trying to seduce him when they got back to the room after dinner. There was an ocean of experience and living profundity inside him which enticed her savagely. James Bond was a man most women would die for and she realised with much despair that the constant thought of him was definitely going to cause significant problems if she didn’t control it.
Ysabelle Valentina would have to tread very, very carefully with this one, she thought as she crossed to the shower. If she didn’t, she would end up falling madly in love with a man she could never have...

* * *


If there was one thing in James Bond’s career that had helped him stay alive throughout all these years as a spy for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, then it was most certainly his sixth sense - that sharp power of perception independent of his other five senses that a professional like him, who had led most of his life on the edge of danger, possessed and that warned him of grave danger when it was uncomfortably close by...
Bond grabbed the girl’s wrist as they approached the Fountain of the Rivers and pulled her in slightly behind him.
She was taken aback and looked up at him as if he’d just gone mad.
‘What is it, James? What’s the matter?’
Bond scanned the crowd before him, trying to pick out whatever it was that had triggered his ‘alarm’.
Blast, thought Bond angrily as he looked around. How on earth could they have found them here? What careless thing had he done for Nakamuro to have fingered them so soon? Could it have been the phone call to Berlucci this morning? Impossible!
‘James, what is it? You’re hurting my wrist.’
Bond looked down and realised he was clasping it hard.
But again, Bond asked himself, what the hell had triggered his unease?
Was it a face in the crowd? A noise? An unnatural movement?

Ysabelle blinked her eyes and from the corner, saw someone pounce towards them from within the crowd to her left and jump for Bond like some wild animal rushing in for the kill...

* * *


Ysabelle shouted out a warning that came too late and the assailant
delivered a terrible blow to Bond’s kidneys, fist like iron before he could react. He then kicked him in the groin, swiftly, and as Bond fell to his knees the assailant delivered a crashing knee into his face.Bond swore violently through the blood and pain and Ysabelle rushed in at the assailant, disrupting his aim as he was about to kick Bond in the head. Double O Seven seized the moment the girl had brought him and sprang up at the assailant as he turned back to push Ysabelle off him. Bond descended upon him like a thunderbolt, delivering a terrible blow to the stomach, knuckles extended. The assailant, a young Japanese male with shoulder length black hair and wearing skin tight black and yellow track suit, fell back with a cry and Bond’s left fist swung into his nose. The assailant curved promptly and quite unexpectedly, not put off by the blow that had broken his nose. He came in again fast and managed to grab Bond’s neck with hands of steel, squeezing hard, his sharp nails digging into Bond’s windpipe, drawing blood. Ysabelle jumped onto him another time from behind and tried pulling him off Bond amidst screams from the on-looking crowd there, but the assailant simply raised an elbow into her face and sent her back to the ground stunned. When he had released one of his hands to deal with the girl though, Bond had found the opening he needed and moved with the speed of a scorpion’s sting. His arm thrust up through the assailant’s forearm and broke the hold of his right hand. He then viciously thrust the side of his outstretched hand into his oesophagus. The assailant held his neck and gasped for air, backing off slightly. Again though, he was quick to regain and, face twisted in fury, he suddenly pulled out a knife with a six inch blade, adopting the classic knife pose, ready to strike Bond. The assailant was breathing heavily, eyes wide open, a mix of fear, confusion and anger in them whilst a couple of bystanders looked on in horror. He charged in then and Bond quickly side stepped and grabbed his wrist, twisting upwards then violently down and around. Bond rammed a knee into his face, sending the assailant flying backwards into a group of women looking on in stark terror. The knife fell to the ground and it was then that a rapid blast of bullets exploded the ancient stone of the Fountain of the Rivers behind them. Bond and the girl ducked intuitively and three people in the crowd around them fell down like rag dolls to the ground, their screams ghastly as they were struck, bright red blood gushing out of them. Pandemonium swept over Piazza Navona as people screamed and shrieked, dropping to the ground or racing in all directions away from the danger. Bond quickly grabbed the girl and pulled her close....

* * *


People were running all over the place, screaming at the top of their voices, some cursing, others shrieking for help. It was sheer terror and chaos which is obviously what whoever was behind this attack wanted.
‘The car,’ Bond shouted through the heaving crowd.
His mind raced wildly, heart pounding inside his chest, and his whole body was on fire with adrenaline. He produced his weapon and shot the assailant between the eyes as he rushed in again. Things had gotten well out of hand here, and there was no way he was going to deal with this situation with kid gloves on. If it took shooting his way out of here then so bloody well be it. He looked around, trying to establish another target. The thick mass of people had now turned into a human stampede and they were almost carried off amongst them. They tried to make their way to the car, shouting for people to get out of their way which considering such chaos was virtually impossible, and it was at that precise moment that another deadly burst of machine gun fire erupted from somewhere behind them, adding to the mayhem.
Four people were hit, their bodies riddled with bullets, blood everywhere. Bond caught a glimpse of the church of Sant’ Agnese twenty feet or so ahead and he dragged Ysabelle towards it, crouching down against further gunfire, his arm around her back, keeping her close to him...
‘Hang in there.’
‘James, I’m scared!’
The whole thing was bloody insane, he thought as he pushed and shoved wildly through the mass of bodies stampeding around them. He saw a man on his left, Japanese and dressed in a black and yellow track suit similar to the one the young assailant he’d fought just a few minutes ago wore. He was holding an Uzi sub-machine gun and moving in on them, looking up above the crowd, his head bobbing up and down frantically and struggling through the mass to get a clear shot at Bond.
Bond lurched to his right, letting the girl go for a moment and brought his own gun up in the classic two handed grip, eyes deadly and sure. Screams erupted once more from all around him when the gun was spotted and as soon as the crowd broke away from his path, he fired at the looming Japanese man, two quick bullets and dead on target; the first shot hitting him in the chest, causing the gun he was carrying to drop, whilst the second shot hit him square in the face, knocking him back dead in a dark cloud of red blood.
Ysabelle screamed out his name.
In the moment that Bond had disposed of the man in front of him another
assailant had jumped onto the girl from behind. Bond turned and made to
pounce on him as he dragged her off struggling, but then from the corner of his
eye he saw another figure on his right charge at him and the pistol in Bond’s
hand was knocked out of it when the figure hurtled into him, shoulders and head
down. Both men fell to the ground, his attacker on top of him.
This time he acted faster than he had earlier, the adrenaline and pain giving him the edge. He tucked his chin tightly into his chest as the new assailant pounded into him and then Bond violently forced the top of his head into the assailant’s jaw, cracking it instantly. He twisted free and the assailant spat out a gob of blood and broken teeth from his shattered mouth. Bond drove the heel of his foot into the base of the man’s nose, breaking it instantly. Bond got up and looked around for Ysabelle. There was no sign of her in this utter madness before him and his heart sank. He then saw, a few meters away from him, a young man dressed in Savile Row suit in hand to hand combat with another
Japanese aggressor. Whoever the fellow in the suit was he was doing a good job
helping Bond...
Commotion, screaming, pain, total disorientation.
Bond suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest.
Not that again, he thought, and turned white as a sheet.
Not now for God’s sake...
He could hear sirens in the distance. One mile away the most.
Breath evenly, he told himself. His heart wasn't what it used to be ever since he'd been shot just outside his flat that morning a million years ago.
Fight it, Bond, fight the pain!
And then, as he was about to chase after the girl in the direction he assumed
they’d taken her despite the vice like pain in his chest, he came face to face with the man called Kenso Nagadeshi who appeared through the rushing crowd
opposite, the white devil’s face on him, dressed completely in black. He was
smiling and there was nothing but evil there as he focused solely on Bond, his
opponent.
Bond assumed a defensive position, knowing a treacherous fighter when he saw
one. He could have sworn that Kenso bowed slightly and then, in a flash, loosed
such a furious side kick that Bond didn’t even have time to block it. He cried out as it plowed into his ribs but as he reeled back, he succeeded in bringing around an iron fist into the side of Kenso’s mouth. The Japanese man spat blood as Bond, not letting up, went in at him for all he was worth. He feinted to the left and, just as his Martial Arts instructor had taught him a long time ago, whipped out a flat hand to Kenso’s neckline. The Japanese fighter skilfully caught the oncoming blow at the wrist and expanded into a downward twist lock, at the same time expertly striking Bond behind the knee with his heel, overthrowing the Englishman backwards.
Bond lay there for a split second, gasping and dazed and then forced his head up only to take Kenso’s oncoming kick full in the face. Kenso extended his fingers like claws and jumped on top of Bond with an inhuman scream, grabbing his face with both hands. Kenso’s thumbs were now outstretched and found Bond’s eyes, pressing them hard into the sockets. He cried out and brought up his fists hard into the side of Kenso’s face. The Japanese man barked out a cold laugh, blood dripping onto Bond’s face from his mouth, shrugging the Englishman’s blows off, the look on his face that of pure evil as Bond struggled helplessly to break free from this lethal hold.
The pain in Bond’s head was excruciating as Kenso pressed harder at his eyes. He managed to lift a knee into his stomach, and then grabbed at Kenso’s wrists, wrenching his hands off him. Twisting his body heavily to the right, he managed to jerk him off to the side and Bond was up again. Kenso darted back up too with a sharp back flip and delivered a swift double scissor kick to the side of Bond’s head. He was sent flying again backwards. Kenso rushed in with a blur of fists to his face and chest. Bond parried the first couple of blows but a few caught him dead on. He staggered and then lunged back at him, grabbing Kenso in a deadly neck hold, squeezing hard for all he was worth. Kenso pushed forward, trying to unbalance Bond. The Englishman held on though and delivered a couple of hard blows to Kenso’s kidneys but then the Japanese man brought him up, feet first with a sharp hip throw. Bond twisted around in the air and fell flat onto his back. He could hardly move, winded badly. Kenso grinned down at him triumphantly as he was joined by two other Japanese men. There was no way Bond had the fight in him to take on the three of them. Bond was pulled up by the two newcomers, holding him between them. Kenso turned sideways in the classic position for a side-kick spring and there was something in his eyes, a deadly, sadistic look.
Yume sepotu doragone, Mr Bond,’ he said and whirled around completely, lashing Bond with a tremendous kick across the side of his face; and then there was only cold darkness as Bond fell unconscious, bright red blood trickling down his neck and front…

* * *


It was later, much later and Bond finally opened his eyes.
It was pitch dark and there was a sharp pain in his head and his mouth tasted of dry blood. He tried to move but couldn’t. He was sitting on a chair, stark naked, his arms and legs strapped tightly. He tried to work his mind and after a few moments it all came back to him; the men in the Piazza, the chaos, Ysabelle, and the evil on the face of the man called Kenso Nagadeshi.
What was it he had said before Bond lost consciousness?
Yume sepotu doragone.’
‘Dream of dragons.’
It was then that he heard a key turn in a lock behind him followed by the eerie creek of a door opening.
‘I am glad you have finally decided to join us,’ a voice said from behind him, calm, educated and with only a hint of a Japanese accent.
‘Where am I?’ Bond asked.
‘Well, from where I stand I would have to say you are in a very precarious position, forgive the pun.’
The light was switched on and Bond saw that he was in a room that was about twenty feet square, cold and absolutely bare, the walls pure white with the exception of the one he was facing. It was covered with a thick claret curtain.
‘Where’s the girl?’
‘She is here.’
Several moments of silence followed that and Bond shifted uncomfortably.
‘Who are you?’ he asked finally.
Yamada Nakamuro came around and smiled as he stood there, arms behind his back.
‘Call me Shiseido Kogane,’ he said.
So, Bond thought, at long last he was face to face with the man they called Midas Gold.
His first impressions were of girth, rigidness, height and arrogance. Yamada Nakamuro was at least three inches taller than Bond and very well built with broad shoulders and a hard face; but it was the deep-set eyes that were now fixed on him that amazed him - although he’d already seen them in the photograph M had shown him back in London. They were viscous twin pools of pure gold, blazing and brilliant, absolutely hypnotic and shaped like the eyes of a hawk...
‘Listen to me Nakamuro,’ Bond said at last. ‘Let the girl go. She’s not involved in this. I promise you she won’t talk once she’s out of here.’
Nakamuro’s eyes flashed.
‘But will you, Mr Bond? Talk, that is?’
‘Yes. I give you my word.’
‘Then let us begin with the first question. If you answer me I will let her go. If not, then she will suffer considerably.’
Another moment of cold silence fell, only the sound of an air conditioner humming somewhere in the ceiling.
‘I need to know who else has penetrated my organisation, Mr Bond. I have a very important shipment arriving and I need to know it will be safe.’
‘I’m your only worry, if that’s what you mean.’
Nakamuro shook his head slowly and moved up to Bond to stand looming dangerously over him. He then snapped his hand around Bond’s neck, squeezing hard. He leaned in closer and when he spoke it was in a whisper that was full of menace and madness.
‘Look into my eyes, Mr Bond,’ he said. ‘I was born like this, you know, born with the mark of Shiatsu, the golden dragon. My father once said that I was cursed but I knew deep down that I was in fact blessed; blessed by the Gods themselves. You see, Mr Bond, I look at the world and all that it holds within it in a much altered light than ordinary men do. I have the ability to see the truth in everything I look at and right now these eyes of mine can see that you are lying.’
‘I was sent over by British Intelligence to…’
‘Spare me the babble, Mr Bond.’ Nakamuro cut in, still inches away from Bond’s face. ‘I know why you were sent over here. It is not you that I am worried about, or the girl. It is the agent who has succeeded in penetrating my operation here that I need to get my hands on.’
Bond was choking for breath now and Nakamuro laughed quietly. He released his iron grip and stepped back to look down at Bond with that soul-piercing stare of his.
‘I can see that I was right about you,’ Nakamuro told him. ‘You have a spirit of fire, Mr Bond, which is going to make what I have in store for you a lot more fun.’
He clapped his hand once and behind him the claret curtain folded bit by bit to its left as if by some kind of magic. A wide glass window, about ten foot wide and five foot high was exposed, giving view to another room exactly the same as the one he was in now.
Bond’s heart almost stopped because of what he saw then, beyond the glass in the other room.
Ysabelle Valentina, shivering violently from utter fear, was hung, absolutely naked, upside down by her ankles on a rope that suspended her from the ceiling above, her hands tied behind her back. Standing beside her was a giant of a man, bigger than two Summo wrestlers put together, and ugliness in all its
personification. He was Japanese, dressed in baggy grey trousers and white shirt and was carrying what looked like a black leather cat-o’-nine-tails, with curved metal hooks tipping each lash. Bond reckoned he must have weighed at least thirty-five stone, and as the man called Torosami Suliman turned to face them, his red eyes fixed onto him and there was desire in them, as if Bond was a beautiful present just waiting to be opened...
A very cold chill ran down Double O Seven’s spine.
He felt physically sick then and almost vomited with sheer rage blistering inside him, overwhelming him completely.
And Nakamuro sensed this rage, could actually see the physical change taking place inside Bond.
His golden hawk-like eyes narrowed and he smiled that devil’s smile of his...
‘Mr. Bond, I shall ask you one last time,’ he said and his voice seemed a thousand miles away to Bond. ‘What is the name of the agent who has penetrated my operation here?’


*



#14 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 10 November 2009 - 08:12 PM

13
The Angel of Death


Julian Faulkes had heaved his way through the crowd, compelling the bystanders out of his way. He was tall enough to see over them but the more he pressed forward, the stronger the current of people pushed him back as the fight between Bond and the Japanese assailant built up before them all and everyone wanted to see what the hell was going on.
‘Move! Move out of my way!’ he shouted trying to get to Bond.
At some point, there came a rapid blast of bullets exploding the ancient stone of the Fountain of the Rivers opposite. Pandemonium swept over Piazza Navona then, with people running all over the place, screaming at the top of their voices. To the left, Faulkes caught a glimpse of a man in jeans and bomber jacket moving in towards Bond and the fact that he wasn’t panicking like everybody else simply said it all. He then saw him raise a hand that had been concealed in one of his jacket pockets and he was holding a pistol, silenced. Faulkes gritted his teeth and threw himself into him, head down, shoulders up to send him reeling backwards, pistol flying out of his hand. The man cursed as he slammed into some people behind him. He snapped forward to retrieve his gun but Faulkes was faster. He went in again and delivered a number of blows to his face. The man gasped, completely shaken as Faulkes battered him harder and harder, fists to his face and stomach, and then the man in bomber jacket was out cold. Faulkes got his gun which was lying on the floor a few feet away and as he turned to assist Bond, it was kicked out of his hand by the man called Kenso Nagadeshi. He saw the black evil eyes and the wicked smile and then came a series of devastating blows which Faulkes tried hard to deflect, striking back for all he was worth. Nagadeshi was an expert fighter though and Faulkes had no chance of winning even if he did manage to get in a couple of good blows to the face and kidneys. At one point, as if finally tiring of what must have seemed to him as child’s play, Nagadeshi, moving like a cobra striking its prey, double kicked him in the head, sending him flying back and down for the count...
Faulkes must have been out for several moments because when he finally came to, he saw a couple of men dragging an unconscious James Bond towards a silver Transit that had just screeched to a halt opposite. As soon as the two men bundled him into the back, the van sped off down the road towards Via Lenzo as if the hounds of hell were after them. Julian Faulkes cursed violently, picked himself up and ran to his own car parked further on in Strada Lotturna. He was determined not to lose Commander Bond, even if it meant requesting the Americans to track the Transit down by way of satellite. Whatever it was the he was caught up in, it was dead serious to be sure…

* * *


…Back at Villa Paruzio in Frascati, Double O Seven swallowed hard and his mouth had never felt so dry.
‘Don’t do this, Nakamuro!’ he hissed through clenched teeth but he could see that the devil was actually enjoying himself.
Nakamuro shook his head in disparaging regret.
‘I’m not doing anything, Mr. Bond,’ he said. ‘This is all down to you. Just give me the name and your companion will be freed.’
‘I told you, no one else has been assigned to your case other than me.’
‘You are a good liar. But enough talk. You necessitate a demonstration of my resolve and determination to get the truth you are holding out of you, and as much as it pains me, I can only say that what will follow next will all be on you and you alone.’
He nodded once to Torosami Suliman who simply flicked his bulky wrist and the whip struck like a lightning bolt between Ysabelle’s shoulder blades, slicing through her skin. The girl screamed and her body swung like a pendulum in a paroxysm of absolute pain.
Again, the tip of the whip struck, slightly lower than the first one and the fiery pain burned deeper, dark red blood flowing through the torn skin, down her back and neck and into her hair.
Bond found himself turning away from the sight, trying to block out her screams…
‘Beautiful,’ he heard Nakamuro say, his eyes not blinking once as he watched. ‘Simply beautiful.’
‘Damn you to hell, Nakamuro!’ Bond spat.
Nakamuro turned to stare at him, a disturbing look in his golden eyes as they burned into Bond’s own...
‘Hell is now, Mr. Bond,’ he said. ‘And it is you who is damned, my dear fellow. Now please, be quiet and enjoy the spectacle.’
The next thrash hit Ysabelle in the middle of the buttocks and her back curved violently upwards at the shocking bolt of pain and for a brief moment, as she dangled to and fro, Bond saw her face. It was a mask of horror and sheer agony, and the appalling scream that came out of her ripped him apart within. In a sudden burst of anger, James Bond pulled in vain against the straps that tied him down.
‘Save your strength, Bond,’ Nakamuro told him, still gazing at the girl. ‘You will need it in the next hour or so. Believe me.’
Bond lowered his head, eyes shut tight, trying hard to block out Ysabelle’s screams…

* * *


A year ago, the Italians had found a dead body in an abandoned warehouse just outside the city of Lazio. It took the police there three weeks to establish who the victim was, for the body was drastically decomposed. Six bullets were recovered from the skull, but the worst thing about it all was that the body itself was severed in two, with the head and torso found in a large plastic box inside the actual warehouse whilst the other remains, the ones’ that hadn’t been devoured by rodents and wild dogs, were found strewn around the large field outside. Using dental records and a gold wedding band, the Italians managed to determine that the unfortunate victim was an undercover Japanese anti-narcotics agent who had been working covertly in Italy inside one of Nakamuro’s drug rings. Someone back in Tokyo Anti-Narcotics Division had been on the bastard’s pay roll and had sold the agent out, resulting in his gruesome death…
James Suzuki closed his eyes at the horrible thought of what they had done to that poor man but his mind focused on what they would do to him if they ever found out that he was an MI5 undercover agent himself. He recalled Major Tallon’s fine words of warning, just before he had boarded his plane several months ago.
Remember, James, just get close enough to insert yourself under their skin, that’s all. Is all we need you to do is provide Roberto Grazianizi with some raw intelligence for their and our assessments. Get the bastards to trust you by all means, do anything they say even, but watch it, son. Don’t go charging in too deep, no matter how safe or well established you may feel. The further down you go, the more dangerous it’ll become - believe me. And remember, it’s easy to get carried away and lose your head, literally.
Fine words indeed, James thought as he finally got off his bunk in his small and rather cramped cabin. He crossed to the sink opposite wearing white vest and jeans, ran the tap and washed his face with cold water. The smell of diesel and the sound of the tanker’s engines was making him feel terribly sick.
Or was it that wretched stuff he was on?
Whatever the hell it was, he felt absolutely dreadful.
He slipped into a comfortable shirt and went out to find the others. Soon now they would be in Italy. Soon now, he would be in dear Ysabelle’s arms and perhaps this whole nightmare would only be a distant memory.
Oh God, how he missed her...

* * *


When the phone rang in his office at MI6 headquarters, M was just about to leave for lunch at Blades with an old friend. Grudgingly, he picked up the receiver and listened, a look of shock appearing on his face.
‘My God, man! When the bloody hell did this happen...? Why wasn’t I informed earlier...? What about Faulkes? He was assigned to pick Bond up... What the devil d’you mean on his own initiative...? Where is he now...? Good heavens above...! This is all I need with the JIC on my back…’
The Colonel slammed down the receiver and sat at his desk, face rather pale now. After several moments, he pressed a switch on the intercom and spoke.
‘Miss Moneypenny?’ he said.
‘Sir.’
‘Get me the bloody Chief of Staff now!’
‘Right away sir.’

* * *


Bill Tanner was having an early lunch in the canteen when Moneypenny finally traced him and informed him of M’s summons.
‘You’d better make it quick, Bill,’ she told him. ‘He sounded rather biffed.’
‘Double O Seven?’ he asked.
‘Well he was on the phone with Head of Station R a couple of moments ago.’
‘Right. Tell him I’m on my way up now.’

* * *


James Bond wanted to burst out of his body and through the glass window that separated their rooms and free Ysabelle from the brutal pain and torture she was suffering at the hands of Torosami Suliman. Her screams of help were driving him insane and again he tried closing his mind to it all.
How could he give up his only son? How could he choose his own blood over the girl? Losing James would be the end of him, the end of his life, and he dreaded such a thought. But what if she talked? What if she gave them his name? How long could she hold out to this horror without giving James up? Would she in the end?
Bond knew then that whatever they did to her and to him there was no way he was going to give this mad man what he wanted.
Nakamuro came close to Bond’s ear and spoke softly.
‘I will kill her. You must understand that. Her life is in your hands and your hands alone. And if her death doesn’t succeed in jolting you into submission then I will personally work on you, little by little. You will end up cursing the day you were born. let us step away from all this pain and talk of death then and just give me what I want. One name. That is all I ask.’
Bond remained silent.
He looked back at the girl.
The whip struck again and she screamed in pain.
‘The name, Bond,’ Nakamuro said. ‘Give me the name.’
‘There is no one else.’
Nakamuro bolted round and backhanded him hard across the face.
‘Liar!’ he screamed. ‘Tell me what you know of my shipment,’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
He slapped him again, harder.
‘What does the name Midnight Gold mean to you?’
Bond could feel and taste the blood in his mouth, dripping off his chin and onto his chest. Nakamuro nodded his head towards Suliman and the giant turned the girl around so that her front was facing them. Bond looked at her nakedness, her olive colored skin, her breasts, her womanhood and her face; her pain-stricken face, but all he could see was the devil’s rage. Dark red blood dripped to the floor in puddles from her ravaged back and he wanted desperately to call out to her, to give her courage, to tell her to stay in there; not to give up, but in the end he couldn’t even bring himself to speak.
Suliman finally flicked his wrist another time and the lightning bolt whip struck Ysabelle’s chest, just between her breasts this time, the skin shred open instantly, blood seeping through and dripping down to cover her face with a hideous red mask.
‘Where is your sense of compassion, Bond?’ Nakamuro asked him. ‘Where is your heart? How can you let such a beautiful creature yield to all this pain and violence. Shame on you.’
‘The girl has nothing to do with this.’
‘Incorrect. That girl is, like you, a spy. She infiltrated my Rome cell by duping some of my men into believing she was a high class whore. So please, do not insult my intelligence by telling me she has nothing to do with this.’
The next thrash hit her between the crotch, and amidst her nightmare screams Torosami turned and sneered.
Nakamuro raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
‘Bulls-eye, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Damn you!’
‘The name, Mr. Bond.’
Bond said nothing.
‘You are a hard man, I must say.’
He raised a hand as if to wave a signal and Suliman produced what looked like a medical amputation lancet which he placed at Ysabelle’s throat, pulling her head down and up viciously from her hair. The deaf looked Bond directly in the eyes.
‘He’s going to slash her throat open now,’ Nakamuro told him thoughtfully. ‘But you can stop him, Bond. Who of them is most important to you, the agent you are protecting or the girl here?’
Bond’s heart sank.
‘Very well, Bond. The angel of death has spoken. But first, I will ensure that facing her death the poor bitch will know that you did nothing at all to prevent her premature and cruel demise.’
Bond breathed in deeply to steady himself and finally spoke,
‘Kill her and I swear to you on all that I hold dear in this life that there won’t be one safe place on this planet where you could hide. Do you hear me, Nakamuro?’
The Japanese drug lord smiled coolly.
‘Brave words from a dead man,’ he said and with that, he went out leaving Bond alone in this cold, bare room…

* * *


It started raining and thunder roared in the distance, lightning flashing like some evil presence beyond.
The Midnight Gold was a thousand feet long, its dark red hull immersed deep in the black Mediterranean waters, laden with multihued steel containers that were loaded four high and ten across, eight rows from bridge to bow. Each box twenty feet long and nine feet high. Its tall superstructure, complete with ultra modern radar and satellite antennae, soared above them and James Suzuki estimated that there were about three hundred and twenty massive boxes on deck with probably three times that quantity below, in the hold. God only knew which of them actually concealed Nakamuro’s drug consignment. It was on the ship though. He just didn’t know where - none of them on the Midnight Gold did. Their job, the six men that Nakamuro had hand picked himself, had been to ensure the shipment arrived in Italy safely during its voyage from Japan, as it sailed through some of the most treacherous waters in the world. The cover they were using described them as members of a Japanese private security firm called IPSU. James had searched a couple of containers the previous night; had managed to open one of the doors. He had done so whilst the others were sleeping and whilst he was on his tour of ‘guard’ duty. Inside them, he had found that the containers sheltered Nakamuro’s Kogane Probe, a lavish two-seater open sports car with a very sleek body design and 600-horsepower supercharged AJ-V8 engine. He had gone over them, inside and out, with a fine comb but had found absolutely no trace of the drug; but that meant nothing of course. Nakamuro’s operation was so sophisticated that it even came with a money back guarantee for his investors and buyers, which in turn meant that he was using a broad range of advanced techniques to conceal it. Exactly what this process was, James had no idea but was absolutely resolute to expose it when the time came. Whatever new and innovative way Nakamuro was going to use to try and get his drugs on UK streets, James was going to get to the bottom of it all...

* * *


‘Have a beer and relax, Taro, we’re sailing through the Mediterranean for Christ sake and practically scotch free now. Money in the bank, young man, not to mention pussy galore on the books tomorrow night, eh?’
Four men were playing cards in the spacious recreation room on the eastern wing when he walked in after enjoying a cigarette outside. They were Sensaio Hatoni, Jahala Poashi, Kayai Komeko and Kenshi Kishiro ~ four of Yamada Nakamuro’s most trusted and feared men.
Poashi was a short man, about five foot four and built like a powerhouse. His almond shaped eyes were sharp, cruel, and his silver hair was close cropped. He had been an NCO in the Japanese Special Forces, and had seen much action during his twenty years with them. Kishiro, also ex-Special Forces, was in his late thirties and completely bald. His eyes were dark, wide and quite cold. He had a broken nose on a strong face with prominent cheekbones. Sensaio Hatoni was a giant though, over six three and in his early forties. He had spent ten years with the Japanese Police Force, the vice-squad to be exact, and had ended as a Sergeant. His face was bearded with an ugly puckered scar running down the side of his left eye down his cheek.
‘I’ll relax when I’m back on land tonight with a cold beer in my hand,’ James told the man called Kishiro and sat down opposite, grabbing a Playboy magazine. He didn’t say anything else, just sat back and pretended to read. Propped up against the wall behind the men playing cards were five sub-machine guns with silencers: Heckler and Koch MP5 SDs...
‘Where’s Janasau?’ Kishiro asked him after several moments, not looking up from his hand.
‘With the Captain,’ James said. ‘He’s on ‘watch’ tonight. Why?’
‘Well, I’d be careful with him, Taro,’ Kishiro told him. ‘He was mouthing you off this morning over breakfast. He’s somehow got it into his thick head that you’re some kind of undercover agent.’
James looked at him.
‘He’s a paranoid nutter.’
‘I’m just warning you, boy. I’ve known him for ten years and he’s the cruel devil himself when he’s got a bee in his bonnet. Just watch your back, is all.’
‘What did you do to piss him off then, eh?’ asked Komeko.
‘How the hell do I know? He’s been smoking too much blow, that’s what.’
James turned back to the magazine and he knew that he was going to have real problems with Janasau. Still, he would make sure that he gave the bastard no chance at all to get to him first when the inevitable eventually came to pass…

* * *


…Why did it have to end this way? She knew she was going to die, that much was sure. Why though? Why had she got involved in this wretched affair? What did she want to prove? Was it something to do with that bastard of a father of hers? Was it because he had never believed in her; never believed that she would make something out of her life? That she would end up a nothing like her mother, the woman she had never got to know, who had simply upped and left them when she was only three years old. Why the hell did she get involved in all this? It all boiled down to the fact that she was just another failure in life.
The fear and pain now was something she had never experienced before and she would do anything to change her situation now. Anything. The fact was it wouldn’t bother her one bit. Is all she wanted was to live and start a fresh life. She would give them what they wanted, give them James.
He would understand. Darling James would know she had no choice. These men were going to kill her after all and she did not want to die. She was too young. Why, for the sake of God, hadn’t she seen it coming? She had heard all the stories of what could happen if they ever found out about her. Roberto had cautioned her a million times before; but then and there, in the normal life she so cherished and had taken for granted, it had simply seemed so remote a thing to take seriously; as if such a thing as what was happening to her now, all this pain and torture, would never, could never, happen to her. She had believed like we all do most of the time that she was invincible…
The pain inside her body was indeed a living thing. It was as if burning rods were being stuck into her; and the blood, the taste of her own blood...
‘Please no more,’ she moaned.
‘Unghh,’ the monster grunted simply and smiled at her, smiled as if he knew that her time was almost over and reveled in that fact.
‘Please. I will do anything. Please, no more.’
He slapped her then, backhanded.
The tears streaming down her blood-masked face seemed to have no effect on this soulless monster before her and her heart and soul sank at the knowledge that death was close by.
Where was Bond?
Why wasn’t the he doing something?
Why wasn’t he saving her?
Please God, please! Let this nightmare end. I’m too young to die. I will give them anything for all this horror to end. Anything…
‘Tell me, my dear Ysabelle,’ a voice echoed inside her head. It was calm and gentle, soothing even.
She opened her eyes. Yamada Nakamuro – the devil himself.
He was standing beside the giant.
Release the pressure of the blade, please, I beg you. I can feel it digging into my neck.
I’m so scared. I have never been so scared in my life. I give up. Can’t you see. You’ve won. You’ve all won. I will give you anything to end this misery. I’ve failed. In the end you have proven that I am not up to it. Take the knife away please…
‘You’re colleague, Mr. Bond, refuses to cooperate, Ysabelle. He is a stubborn man but I know you are different. You are more intelligent than he. Do not let this unfortunate affair go on more than it already has. Be wise and give me what I want to know. It will all be a distant memory soon, my dear Ysabelle, I promise you. All this pain and horror will be a distant memory if you give me the name of the agent who has penetrated my organization.’
James, dear James.
She could see his handsome face inside her mind; his eyes, his lips and his beautiful eyes, smiling down at her.
In that instant she was with him again and they were making love. The way he touched her and made love to her set her on fire again and she remembered how she had been with him when they were together; the loveliness of him being inside her, the oneness. Oh, James, how can I betray you to these monsters? How can I not betray you? They are going to kill me if I don’t do as they say. Please forgive me, my love, but I am not the woman I thought I was...
‘Well, my dear? Who is the agent? Tell me and I swear you will live. You have my word.’
Ysabelle Valentina looked at Nakamuro through the mist in her eyes. She wanted tell him everything then, to show him that she was on his side and that she had made a grave mistake crossing him. She had learned from her mistake and she was now willing to help him. Just to make them stop.
James would understand.
He loved her.
He would realize that she had had no choice after he learned what they had done to her here.
‘Ysabelle, the name, dear?’
Ysabelle Valentina looked across at James Bond sitting naked in that chair in the other room, through the window opposite. James Suzuki was his son. The MI5 agent who was at that moment on the Midnight Gold returning to Italy was James Bond’s son. She was sorry for him.
But her survival was what mattered to her most.
She didn’t want to die.
Not yet. Not yet.
‘Ysabelle talk to me, darling. Give me the name or your throat will be cut from ear to ear…’
Her mouth opened but she wasn’t sure if the words she wanted to speak were coming out. She couldn’t hear herself. She didn’t know what she was saying. She just didn’t want to die.
Yamada Nakamuro listened carefully...

*



#15 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 30 November 2009 - 09:24 PM

14
Suliman’s Delight


He closed his eyes and wondered desperately, if not somewhat aberrantly rather, where it had all gone wrong in his life and what he had done to deserve what he was going through here and now - captured and bound to a chair by another raving bloody madman, just waiting there till he was done with poor Ysabelle; waiting in fear for whatever dark sufferings they had in store for him...
Had he not sacrificed enough of his life during his pitiful career as a Double O agent?
The evil he had fought all these years was surely the ancient Hydra from Lerna, beyond any doubt, and if any of its heads were severed another would grow in its place. Le Chiffre, Dr No, Hugo Drax, Goldfinger, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, the Laird of Mulcaldy, Count Von Glöda, Brokenclaw Lee, Lē Gerant, Amon Locke and Riesha Goethe and all the other demented bastards he had crossed during his time...
Were they not all heads of the same monstrous evil?
Had he not sacrificed enough fighting this Hydra and all that it represented, defending this life of ours, a life people out there took so much for granted? And for what for crying out loud?
What the hell did it all boil down to in the end?
The so-called boot in the B) for special services rendered, that’s what!
‘Thank you very much for everything you’ve done for Queen and Country, Commander Bond. Thank you for going to hell and back on more than one occasion, old boy, but we’re afraid we’ve decided you’re quite past your expiry date now and therefore, as such, you may jolly-well ‘about turn’ and march off to dillydally in Timbuktu and rot, you old sodding dinosaur you!
Pathetic!
He opened his eyes and seeing Ysabelle hanging there again, being beaten to a bloody pulp by that hideous monster called Torosami Suliman actually made him curse the day he had re-joined the Service after the Riesha Goethe affair three years ago; which reminded him: damn the bastard doctors who had kept him alive after he’d been shot outside his flat soon after the Prince William affair! Damn them all to hell, the rotten swines, for what was it Shakespeare had once written: ‘Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry!’
Bond cursed viciously.
Restful death, he repeated inside his head. Now that was a thought…
Beyond that glass partition only a couple of feet away from where he was now seated was the total sum of everything that had made him become what he was in life, and when Yamada Nakamuro finally turned towards him, there was a dark, cold look of pure undulating hate there.
Double O Seven now found himself looking into the opening of a dark, cold tomb, and he knew then, knew that Ysabelle had as a final point given the man they called Midas Gold his son on the proverbial silver :tdown:ing plate!
James Bond suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he braced himself for the advent of the worst state of affairs he would, in all probabilities, ever encounter...

* * *


High up in the building overlooking the Thames, M sat at his desk in his office, looking grey-faced with concern. Bill Tanner was there too, along with Major Tallon of MI5 who had come over from Thames House on M’s request.
‘When did it happen?’ Tallon had just asked.
‘Couple of hours ago according to Station R,’ M told him.
‘Witnesses reported Bond and a girl being manhandled into a black van and driven off somewhere outside Rome, most likely Nakamuro’s villa in Frascati. There was also a fierce firefight to make matters worse. Seven dead, three wounded.’
‘Which certainly puts my man in the thick of it,’ Tallon said for good measure. ‘That is, of course, if Bond knows about him.’
‘Well he wasn’t informed by us,’ M told him grumpily and
Major Tallon nodded.
‘I’m sure, sir. But we can’t discount the fact that Bond, at some stage, could have become aware of his son’s role in this whole mess. Perhaps Grazianizi told him. They did meet, just before the poor man was killed. Then there’s the girl you say they saw him with. Who’s to state she isn’t Ysabelle Valentina.’
‘Who the hell is Ysabelle Valentina, Tallon?’ M grumbled, waving his pipe impatiently.
‘Italian Anti Narcotics, sir. She worked with Suzuki for several months, deep cover in the same pipeline and they were definitely known to each other. Intimately, I might add. If it is her and she talks under duress, then we can regard operation TROJAN down the bloody drain.’
‘An understatement,’ M said and allowed himself a few moments’ thought, then got up and crossed to the window, looking out at the afternoon scene across the dark grey river.
Double O Seven had been in tight corners before; probably worse than this one, he thought, but he knew what to expect. He would never give up his son to that snake Nakamuro. The question was though: would this blasted Valentina girl?
‘What about raiding the villa and getting Bond and the girl out before they talk?’ The Major asked breaking the tense silence.
M turned to look at him.
‘What makes you think they haven’t talked already, William?’ Bill Tanner asked.
‘Precisely,’ said M quickly. ‘Besides, raiding Nakamuro’s villa won’t serve a damn thing in the long run. The risks for us if anything went wrong would be too consequential. No. I’m afraid the best course of action in situations like this would be to let things loll. If Double O Seven or this Valentina girl talk and James Suzuki is exposed, then we’ll have to pray the lad’ll handle it and take the necessary actions to destroy Nakamuro’s shipment.’
‘If, that is, he’s actually succeeded in locating it, sir,’ Tanner put in.
‘Obviously, Chief of Staff.’
M crossed the room and sat back down behind his desk. He began filling his pipe, regarding the two men before him long and hard before speaking.
‘The whole objective of operation TROJAN was for MI5 to find Nakamuro’s shipment and from then onwards one of my men deployed specifically to destroy it,’ he told them. ‘Clearly though, the whole thing has become a shambles of the worst kind thanks to this morning’s events.’
‘Which leaves us and TROJAN where exactly, sir?’ Tallon asked.
M sat back and blew out a cloud of dirty grey smoke.
‘Well I’d have thought that was obvious, Major Tallon, considering. We are now in the hands of luck...’

* * *


…In the meantime, back on the Midnight Gold, James Suzuki walked back into his cabin and crossed over to the small bedside locker opposite his bunk, producing a small foil packet. He opened it and looked down at the contents.
Iranian Snowflakes. What a beautiful name for it, he thought and sat down, his stare intense yet at the same time fairly distant...
He broke part of the drug into a small bottle of water and flicked his lighter, holding it underneath, then added some lemon juice. His eyes were now glowing as he watched the contents blend. He then inserted a small loose ball of cotton wool into the bottom of the hypodermic syringe and drew the solution. Rolling up his sleeve and pulling the small plaster that hid the open sore of pinpricks on his arm, he tied a tourniquet and carefully went for the vein, pushing hard.
Moments passed and the overwhelming warm flash at last drew in and James Suzuki found himself closer to God than he could ever imagine...

* * *


God don’t let them kill her, please!
Every muscle in Bond’s body tensed as he watched them through the window.
What the hell was this place anyway? Why the damn glass partition?
What was Ysabelle telling them?
Bond remembered when he was in a similar situation, way back during the Riesha Goethe affair when Amon Locke had slit Rachelle Sun’s throat, suddenly and so coldly, while he was strapped to two pillars by the wrists and ankles. Bond felt physically sick as the scene appeared inside his mind: Locke producing a razor sharp eight-inch bladed flick knife and grabbing Rachel’s hair, pushing her head back. The madman looking up at Bond and smiling insanely. Then the cutting of her throat from ear to ear, bright red blood gushing out of her carotid arteries. The sound that came out of her mouth was indeed horrific and it chilled his very soul.
Christ, Bond thought focusing on here and now. Don’t tell me it’s going to happen again…!
Torosami Suliman held the medical amputation lancet to Ysabelle’s throat, waiting for Nakamuro’s order. The silence and waiting was sheer torture in itself and James Bond tried to mentally command them not to do it. And then, Yamada Nakamuro said something to Suliman who took the knife away. They then turned and went out of the room and Bond let out a deep sigh of relief. Shortly after, the door opened and both men came into his room.
‘So, Mr. Bond,’ Yamada Nakamuro said and came round to face him. ‘Ms Ysabelle has given me what I wanted and I therefore repay her kindly with her life.’
Bond paled and his heart sank at that.
The girl had given James up to the devil. But then, could he blame her…?
‘She has disclosed some very interesting information, Mr. Bond.’ Nakamuro told him and it was all there in his eyes, the knowing. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it though. In a couple of hours time you will accompany me on a short flight out to my ship, the Midnight Gold, where I’m going to force you to witness a most brutal death, my dear fellow. I am going to chop your son up into very small pieces before your very eyes and then feed the bastard to the fish, piece by lovely little piece. As for you, my dear Bond. Once you’ve witnessed the whole thing you will then join him. Of that, you have nothing but my word.’
Torosami Suliman moved in beside Nakamuro and towered over Bond. He bent his head slightly forward and inhaled deeply, a frightful brute smelling his prey…
‘Ah, by the way, Mr. Bond, I don’t think you’ve met my personal bodyguard and odd job man. Allow me to introduce Torosami Suliman. The brute has expressed a desire to ‘take you’ before we leave for the Midnight Gold and I have decided to give him what he wants. ‘Take you’ as in bugger you that is, Mr. Bond. He likes men you see and the fact is he’s never had an Englishman before so it really is going to be a treat for him.’
James Bond was filled with an awful feeling of dread.
There would hardly be anything he could do to defend himself against this ugly hulk.
He had been in some very violent situations in his career, but this…?
Bond felt himself sweating hard and focused on what Nakamuro was saying.
‘I will therefore leave you now in Torosami’s most capable hands, Bond.’ He placed an affectionate hand on Suliman’s back. ‘And believe me, you’d be surprised at the number of men who have ended up enjoying what he has to offer so please do not be afraid. As for me, dear fellow, I will be watching from the other room.’
Yamada Nakamuro crossed to the door and just before he went out he said:
‘We call it Suliman’s delight by the way. Have fun. Both of you.’
And with that, he left, the door slamming shut behind him.
James Bond looked up at the giant’s ugly face and the fear inside him was devastating.
‘Unghh!’ Suliman grunted and leaned in closer to him, part of his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
‘Christ!’ Bond hissed as the monster licked the side of his face and neck…

* * *


‘What do you mean you don’t want us going in? We’re all set to storm the place. God knows what they’re doing to the poor sod in there and if we waste any more time we might be too late.’
Julian Faulkes was in the shadows of some trees just outside Villa Paruzio, talking to his boss on his cell phone, a Heckler and Koch MP 5 SD in his other hand, a pair of Sykes Binoculars hanging from his neck.
He shot a confused gaze across at his partner who’d arrived half an hour ago to assist him. He cocked an eyebrow.
‘May I remind you that we follow orders, Mr. bloody Faulkes,’ Harry Chambers was telling him sternly at that specific moment. ‘London wants us to stand down and stand down we shall. Just observe and await further orders. Nothing more, nothing less. Do I make myself perfectly clear on this? I’ll have you know young man that I’m already up to my neck in it all thanks to you and your reckless initiative so I’d watch it.’
Faulkes ran a hand through his hair, eyes becoming livid. He looked across at the villa then, desperately wanting to help Bond and he was just about to tell his boss to go stuff himself but decided to back off on that one. His chances of perhaps one day joining the Double O Division depended entirely on Harry Chambers’ recommendations...
‘I said do I make myself clear, Julian!?’ Chambers almost shouted this time.
Faulkes breathed in deeply to steady his rising anger then said,
‘Yes, sir. Perfectly.’
‘Good. And now there’s that issue of your unauthorized appeal to the Americans for the use of their TRW Satellite tracking system a couple of hours ago. I’d like you to explain why the hell you went above my bloody head on that one too.’
Damn! Faulkes thought.
Somebody back at the Embassy must have found out about Samantha’s involvement in all this and reported it to Harry.
Faulkes swallowed hard.
‘Uh, sorry about this, Harry, but I’m losing you,’ he said and winked at his partner. ‘You’re cracking up, old boy. Hello. There’s some interference. Harry? Hello? Are you still there, old boy? Harry?’
He switched off his cell phone and sighed.
‘Now that’s me on a fiver when all this is over,’ he said.
‘You do realize Harry’s not going to buy into that cock ‘n’ bull about interference.’
‘I’m afraid he won’t. But at least it’ll buy me some time.’
‘Your :tdown:, Julian, not mine. Remember that.’
Julian Faulkes shrugged and settled down to keep watch on the house…

* * *


What happened next was more down to James Bond’s fierce survival instinct and street fighting skills. As Torosami Suliman’s tongue came up from his neck to his left cheek, Bond wrenched open his mouth and bit the side of the hulk’s face, growling like a wild animal whilst he pulled at the skin between his clamped teeth, blood discharging down the side of his mouth.
The deaf mute let out a bizarre yelp and tore himself away from Bond’s teeth. He stumbled back and raised a hand to his face, blood spilling through his fingers, sheer surprise on his face.
Bond spat out a piece of torn flesh and blood and struggled helplessly against his restraints, all the time looking at Torosami Suliman with eyes that were fierce slits of wild fury. The deaf mute’s own red tiny pig eyes however glinted wantingly across at Bond whose naked body was shimmering with sweat.
Bond could tell he was aroused.
Suliman’s heavy breathing sounded like the sawing of wood and Bond fought hard against a sudden charge of nausea. Suliman then rushed in at him and one of the giant’s hands grabbed the side of Bond’s face. He was pulled up with ease and Suliman delivered a devastating punch, the thunderous blow knocking Bond backwards several meters towards the floor.
The giant piled in then, kicking Bond in the stomach and the head repeatedly as he lay there on his side. The worst thing about it all was that he couldn’t do anything to block the cruel blows. He felt drunk and moments later vomited, and just as he was about to drift into unconsciousness, the giant grasped him again from the head and left thigh, lifting him up into the air in one swift move, chair and all, above his enormous head.
Suliman then hurled Bond away unceremoniously and he hit the floor, the wooden chair receiving the blow first and splintering into pieces. The giant dived in at him, but Bond, notwithstanding the fact that the wind had been knocked completely out of his body, managed to roll clear so that Suliman landed flat on his front with a crash.
Suliman, despite his size and weight, turned fast though as Bond, now free from his restraints, slowly but surely got to his feet, visibly shaken and dazed. Suliman got an iron hand to Bond’s neck and another hand grabbed his hair violently. The monster then forced Bond’s head back brutally and as he started to choke, Bond actually thought the bastard was going to literally tear his head off. His eyes widened with sheer terror as he struggled to break free of Suliman’s iron grip but the more he struggled, the more the monster became aroused and pulled harder. Consumed with an aggressive passion, Suliman leaned in and licked Bond’s neck all over again, grunting with pleasure like a wild pig, his violent scented breath repulsive.
‘Unghh! Unghh!’
Bond wanted to scream out but he was choking as Suliman continued to pull his head back. And then the giant lifted Bond higher above his head and he had his mouth to his chest, licking and sucking, biting Bond’s nipples avidly.
Double O Seven slammed a knee into the monster’s stomach and chest but to no effect. Again and again, for all that he was worth, he slammed his knee harder and harder but Torosami Suliman was completely lost in his sexual desire.
Bond tried to hit out at his face but he was waning fast, the last bit of air inside his lungs seeping out of his clenched teeth. God almighty, to end this way! he found himself thinking in despair. Of all the wretched things that could have happened to him; of all the deaths he could have died…
Suliman finally sent him soaring through the air across the room and Bond landed with a crash on his back. He tried getting up but could hardly move. His whole body hurt as if he’d been knocked down by a three tone truck and his legs truly felt as if they were broken. He could even feel the blood seep through a gaping wound at the back of his head.
Get up, Bond! Get up and fight!
The world was spinning before his very eyes and he was sick again.
He couldn’t afford to let this bastard have his way with him though; if it was the last thing he would do in this rotten life of his he could not let Torosami Suliman rape him! Bond finally found the strength through the excruciating pain to crawl back against the wall behind him, a wounded and weak animal.
Meanwhile, Suliman sauntered serenely towards him, a cruel smile on his face.
In that split second Bond looked upon the evil monster with a cold fear he had never felt before in his life and he realized that his chances of getting out of this unscathed were damn bloody pitiable.
Suliman’s eyes were wide with excitement and there was a fleck of saliva at the open, panting mouth now.
And then through his dazed eyes, Double O Seven watched the deaf mute stop a few feet away and remove his clothes to stand naked facing him, his gigantic manhood copiously erect.
James Bond went white as a sheet as if his whole blood supply had been drained out of him...

* * *


The pain in his body was flowing through him in waves, threatening to plunge him into the complete darkness of a blackout. A pulse beat in the centre of his forehead as his fingers dug into the floor in terror. Suliman just stood there naked, a ghastly site indeed as he waited. Bond’s gaze then shot across to the pieces of wood that had been the chair he had been bound to, his only form of weapon and possible defense – if he could get to them that was.
He got up, slowly, expecting the monster to rush in any moment now and nail him, literally, but Suliman just stood there, undoubtedly savoring the moment.
Concentrate Bond!
If he wanted to survive this fight then he would have to buck-up his ideas and bloody strength and stiffen his resolve and tactic. The two things he possessed as an advantage over his opponent was intelligence and skill. He had to find the opening to use them.
Think, man!
If only he could get to those pieces of wood!
Torosami Suliman came in then, blood up and pumping wildly, a gigantic blob, and Bond found himself on the verge of laughing madly, so absurd was his situation. Bond ducked forward to meet him and struck out, his clenched fist catching the side of the giant’s face and then he quickly fell to his knees and jabbed an iron fist at the giant’s most vulnerable part – his groin. He grabbed them in his hand and squeezed hard.
It seemed to do the work, for Torosami Suliman groaned and fell forward over Bond, both his hands reaching for his injured part. Bond forced himself to his left and then forced his right hand down to chop the back of Suliman’s neck as he flipped back.
The giant landed heavily on his front, holding his groin with both hands, a strange look on his face, lips pursed, eyes raised to the ceiling. Was it delight he was feeling or pain? Whatever it was it was the moment for Bond to act as fast and as hard as he possibly could. He turned sharply, raised his thigh towards his own chest for more power and thrust and slammed it hard into the back of the giant’s head, sending him face down to the floor as he was about to get up again.
Bond turned hastily and darted to the pieces of wood a few meters away.
He picked one up and as he turned towards the man who wanted to rape him he found that Suliman was back in the game and speeding towards him, swaying unevenly, a look of complete rage and frustration on his face.
Bond let the brute come in yet again, his tree trunk arms outstretched to grab Bond’s shoulders. As Suliman rushed towards him like an express train, Bond quickly upturned the splintered point of the piece of wood which he now held firmly inside his hand at the side of his body and he brought it up with all the strength he could summon, upwards into the giant’s huge pot belly.
Double O Seven went down backwards with Suliman as he spat out dark red blood, curling up as soon as he hit the floor. He tucked both his feet into him so that, together with the scuttle of Suliman’s momentum, he lifted the giant upwards and off of him.
Twisting around, Bond then dived onto Suliman, the killer’s look upon his face. He reached for Suliman’s neck and dug his fingers into it, summoning all the strength he could muster and squeezing for all he was worth, sharp nails drawing points of blood as they broke skin.
Bond screamed out in a killing frenzy as he formed a stiff hook with the index and forefinger of his right hand, the thumb curled inwards towards the anterior jugular, and with one sharp jerk into Torosami Suliman’s neck followed by a stiff pull sideways and up, he tore out the monster’s throat.
Suliman squirmed on the floor, his pig-squeal choking out to a gurgle, both his hands to his neck in an attempt to stop the blood, his life, from gushing out.
Double O Seven rolled off him and watched him jerk violently about on the floor in a fit of spasms, a hideous display, his manhood still erect and that terrifying gurgling noise coming from his mouth, bright red blood gushing between his hands.
Bond looked up and across at Midas Gold then, who was watching from the other room. The Japanese drug lord swallowed hard, looking back irritably at Bond. After a few stirring moments, he nodded once solemnly, turned and walked out...
James Bond, covered in bright red blood and sweat, crawled back against the wall further on. He glanced at Torosami Suliman’s dead body and noticed he still had an erection.
‘Now that's ending it with a capital statement,’ Bond said softly and waited for Nakamuro and whatever the hell was coming next....

*



#16 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 23 December 2009 - 09:36 PM

15
A Death for a Life


James Bond, dressed back in his beige slacks, soft leather moccasins, white shirt and navy blue jacket, was in a horrifying state, and his bruised and bloody face was testament to that fact as two men ‘escorted’ him, hands tied behind his back, towards the helicopter beyond the villa’s pillared porch. He climbed in and one of the men strapped him up. Bond then sat back in the leather seating, closing his eyes...
He had always tried making it a rule never to regret anything in life and more importantly never to look back. Regret was an appalling waste of energy upon which one couldn’t build anything on and was only good for wallowing in. But the fact was, he truly felt that he was now on his way to what every agent in his profession called the ‘place of execution’.
He couldn’t explain it but he was filled with a strong sense of desperation, which in truth actually terrified him. Strange, he thought, considering the amount of other times he’d faced death during his time. Then again, the difference most likely was that this time it seemed that all his ‘escape routes’ appeared coldly and remorselessly closed off…
Bond opened his eyes as Kenso Nagadeshi and Yamada Nakamuro climbed in and sat on either side of him.
‘Comfortable, Mr. Bond?’ Nakamuro shouted above the noise of the engines firing up.
‘I’ll cope,’ he answered calmly.
‘Of course you will, Mr. Bond. Now just sit back though and relax. In another hour or so you’ll be with your son. A jolly family reunion and then nothing but a cold death for the both of you. How’s that for a fine ending, hmmm?’
Bond ignored that one and moments later the helicopter’s blades thrashed above them as they gathered momentum. A man outside gave the thumbs up sign and the pilot twisted the throttle grip on the pitch lever. The sleek black AS 356B3 Eurocopter rose gently and from his hiding place, Julian Faulkes watched it hanging there in the night sky, then fly off westward. He was then on his phone to Harry Chambers in a flash…

* * *


The Colonel had retired to bed early and was working on some files he had brought home with him in the comfort of his bed and the warmth of a burning log fire. He was just about to pack everything in when the phone on his bed-side locker rang.
‘Just received word from Harry Chambers in Rome, sir,’ Bill Tanner said on the other end. ‘It seems his man watching the villa witnessed Bond being loaded into a helicopter along with Nakamuro and one of his bodyguards.’
‘Where the hell are they taking him?’
‘We’ve asked the Americans if they’d help out on that. They’re establishing a satellite fix on the helicopter as we speak.’
‘Good. What about the girl?’
‘She’s still in the villa.’
‘Well, at least Bond’s still in the game though,’ M said. ‘If he plays his cards right he just might be able to salvage what’s left of this operation.’
‘Knowing Bond I’m sure he will, sir. If there’s anyone we can rely on to get the job done in such circumstances then it’s definitely Double O Seven.’
The Colonel could see where his Chief of Staff was going with that.
‘We’ve already had this conversation, Chief of Staff,’ he said harshly.
‘Sir?’ Tanner asked trying to feign innocence.
The Colonel sighed heavily.
‘I’ve tried everything to get the PM to change his mind about Bond’s termination – you know that Tanner. It is practically out of my hands so please stop throwing cloaked up insinuations for goodness sake. If Double O Seven survives the Midas Gold affair then he’s out and there’s nothing I can bloody well do about it.’
‘Scapegoats and planters, sir. Food for the politicians, that’s all.’
‘An unfortunate truth and reality of this day and age. Now then, is there anything else?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I’ll see you in the morning, Chief of Staff. Anything crops up call me.’
‘Very good, sir. Good night.’
The Colonel replaced the receiver and sat there, back against a couple of propped up pillows. His wife had gone away to their villa in the country three days ago with some friends and being alone had suited the Colonel fine. He looked back down at the last and most important file on his lap, the one marked “BLACK FOX”-TOP SECRET- FOR M’s EYES ONLY - Operation: FREELANCE.
The only practicable bloody option left to flush 'Black Fox' and his ‘mole’ in MI6 back out of the woodwork. A lot would be at stake on this one and if the whole charade failed, not only his but most certainly the PM’s head would roll hard. But then, he reflected more closely, that was a chance they had to take, even if it did mean putting Britain up for the taking!
M closed the file and put it away.
Double O Seven!
What was it he had said when the Colonel had put the whole thing towards him at Blades over dinner, just before embarking on this present mission?
‘Bait. You’re going to use me as bloody bait again. I’m getting tired playing worm on the hook, Colonel.’
M had smiled sorrowfully at him...
‘I understand, James, and for God’s sake don’t think I haven’t been where you are now. But you know as well as I do that it’s a dirty, unsafe world out there and somebody’s got to clean it up – once again it’s going to have to be you.’
Bond had sighed and as he was about to sip some of his Vodka Martini, had smiled softly.
‘Oh, well, freelance for the crown it’ll have to be then.’
‘So you’ll do it?’
‘If they hang me out to dry, yes.’
‘I’ll do my best to ensure that it won’t get to that. However…’
Poor man, the Colonel thought and finally settled down to sleep. The sooner Bond got back the better. The question was: was he going to survive the Midas Gold operation?
The Colonel bloody well hoped so!

* * *


The ‘Midnight Gold’ materialized out of the darkness beyond like some ancient dinosaur - strange, haunting; and as the helicopter circled above, James Bond looked out at the supercarrier and was certainly intimidated. The helicopter then flew in and hovered directly above the illuminated flat landing deck, effortlessly landing on the giant H in a wide circle painted in white on the stern end. It had taken them well over two hours to get here, a few miles off Sicily, and during which time Bond had slept most of the way, gathering what was left of his strength for ‘things’ to come. He watched the others remove their headsets and then got out with them. They were greeted by a middle-aged, powerfully built Japanese man with long silver hair tied up in a pony tail and who bowed and shook Yamada Nakamuro’s hand.
Konbanwa. Hajimema, Sumisu-san. Dozo yoroshiku.’
He was flanked by two grunty looking heavies who spelt danger if he’d ever seen it and Bond ignored them as they talked amongst themselves. He looked around, noticing the Italian flag at the bow, saw the words ‘KOGANE’ painted in bright gold letters on each side of the cargo boxes, and finally took in the magnificence of the immense ship. The tall superstructure towered above them further on in the darkness of the calm evening, beyond the rows of containers, white with black windows, ultra modern and straight out of a Science-Fiction film.
‘Behold, my dear Bond,’ Nakamuro said bringing him back down to earth. ‘Behold your final destination: the ‘Midnight Gold’ and the Mediterranean Sea. What a fine place to die, hmm?’
Bond looked across at him, eyes cold and foreboding.
‘Tell me, Yamada,’ he said. ‘Where have you stashed it up? Your drugs, I mean.’
Nakamuro’s face seemed to light up at that and Bond noticed the change immediately. It was as if the mad bastard had just been presented with a new bout of life.
‘Mr. Bond,’ he said and a look of complete rapture illuminated his golden eyes. ‘What a splendid idea you’ve just given me. Come. I will do better than tell you where it is. I will show you, my dear fellow, and then you will take my secret all the way to hell with you…’

* * *


Ysabelle now sat down on a double bed with fine satin sheets in one of the bed rooms upstairs. She was still completely naked, sopping wet with blood, face completely desolate. At least she was still alive though – if ever that could be a consolation after what she’d been through. The fact was she didn’t know what to do. Should she try and make it to the shower? She didn’t have the strength though and the more she moved around the more the pain overwhelmed her entire person. What was it the young man who had brought her to this room had said?
Clean yourself up. I will be back in half an hour.
He was Japanese, well built and had a dark rough looking face, not more than twenty-five or six. She had seen a gentleness in his eyes; as if he had genuinely felt sorry for her as he had helped her up the stairs to this room.
Perhaps she could convince him to help her, to take pity on her, help her escape. Ysabelle looked down at her shaking hands and then the door opened and he was back, the young Japanese man. She looked up at him and there was only desperate fear in her eyes. To think a couple of hours ago she had been flirting around with one of the most handsome men she had ever met – the father of the man she loved dearly. What had happened? What terrible thing had happened for them to have ended up here and now, in the hands of the devil himself?
He stood there in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed in black jeans and white shirt, hair slicked back and now with something else in his eyes. Anger?
‘I thought I told you to clean yourself up, you dumb bitch!’ he shouted and it felt like a whiplash.
She tried to speak but her mouth was too dry. He came in then, closing the door behind him. He walked up to her and stood there. Ysabelle looked up at him, pleading, a wounded and frightened animal. Her body trembled, fear and emotion mixed, powerful and overwhelming and then the young man viciously slapped her backhanded across the face, swiftly, without warning.
‘You are filthy!’ he screamed.
She had fallen back against the bed, her face stinging at the power of the blow. She curled up to protect herself, like a child asleep, knees tucked into her chest, face buried, sobbing passionately. Ysabelle Valentina had a sensuous body, he thought, and he wanted her badly, the ache inside his pants becoming too much to control. He would have to take her as she was, he thought, blood and all, even though Shiseido Kogane had left specific orders not to harm her further. As he got out of his clothes, he decided that she was more than worth the trouble. Besides, the master would never get to know. He’d make sure of that. The bitch wanted this, he thought as he pulled his pants down.
‘I want you to scream as loud as you can, woman,’ he said and was then on top of her, wrenching her hands away from her face.
She didn’t have the strength to fight. Her spirit had died back downstairs at the hands of that giant mute and Nakamuro.
God damn them all to hell!
Before she knew it, he was inside her then and his hardness felt like a red hot spike being plunged deep within, consuming her very insides into a raging fire. His hands found her neck then, as he pumped away, taking her violently and in the worst possible way. He squeezed her neck, moaning like a rabid animal, a glazed look in his eyes. She couldn’t breath. She was choking and the more she choked the more aroused and violent he became.At one point, he brought a savage fist into her face, breaking her nose, blood spurting out.
Please God!
Why is this happening to me?
Have they not had enough?

‘James! Please help me!’ she screamed.
She tried fighting him off but he was stronger than she was and his hands were back at her neck, squeezing the very life out of her. Her eyes started to bulge out as he pressed harder and a cold darkness crept in.
Was this death?
Was this my end?
How cruel!
Why?

And then she looked into the eyes of the man who was killing her and in that instant it all mercifully ended as the life inside her own eyes faded.
And then there was no more pain, just absolute oblivion…

* * *


James Bond followed Nakamuro to one of the containers further on, the armed men behind them watching vigilantly. Nakamuro was making no attempt at hiding his excitement as he opened the doors and his eyes were gleaming when the golden Kogane Probe was revealed. One of the men behind him shone a large powerful torch inside the box, lighting the place up fiercely.
‘Beautiful isn’t she, Mr. Bond,’ Nakamuro said. ‘The Kogane Probe, my masterpiece.’
‘I take it it’s in the car then,’ Bond said and stepped closer.
Nakamuro turned to look at him and smiled.
‘My dear James Bond,’ he said and winked. ‘It is the car.’
Bond arched a curious eyebrow.
‘Come, Bond. Come closer. Take a look at the future of drug smuggling.’
He stepped aside and Bond walked into the container, looking down at the lavish two-seater open sports car. The sleek body design was indeed impressive.
‘Tell me, what more could a drug dealer ask for? Together with this sexy car my drug comes with a six hundred horsepower supercharged AJ-V8 engine, a hands-free Sync communications system complete with features like air-conditioning, tilt steering wheel and an auxiliary audio jack for the stereo. Cruise control and satellite radio are on the options list of course.’
‘Naturally,’ Bond said scathingly.
‘Now then, look closer at the car, Mr. Bond, and you will realize how sophisticated my operation actually is.’
Bond examined the body more closely. After a few moments, his eyes widened. Nakamuro’s own eyes were shining with vision.
‘Yes, Mr. Bond. That's it. It is the body.’
Bond straightened and looked at Nakamuro, daunted.
‘Fabricated in my laboratories back in the Kuril Islands just off Japan, by the best chemists money can buy, Kogane is what is called a psychotropic.’
‘A man-made synthetic drug,’ Bond said softly.
‘That’s right. The paste produced is refined with a number of chemicals and mixed with resin that can be pressed into a hard shell in any mould you like. My idea was to spray-paint the stuff onto my Probes, Mr. Bond.’
‘Ingenious, I’ll say that for you. There’s no point in a Custom’s officer looking for a concealed compartment in a courier’s car when the car itself is the actual contraband.’
‘Similar tricks have been used before with heroin as a matter of fact.' Nakamuro told him, as if he was speaking to an old friend. 'It has been mixed with plaster of Paris to make crockery and has even been used to saturate clothes in, later to be removed in ordinary domestic washing machines. To be perfectly honest, I am not actually reinventing the wheel. The fact is, my drug, the drug you see before your own very eyes and which will enter your wretched country absolutely undetected, is much more cheaper than cocaine or heroin, not to mention gives a longer-lasting high. It is also much more easily manufactured and therefore much more readily available. I aim to make billions with it. Until recently, Mr. Bond, I concentrated on Japan and Russia in terms of trade but now I am moving heavily into Western Europe.’
‘Why use Italy as a point of entry?’ Bond asked.
‘Because of its broader-based links with the Mafia and other European drug leagues of course,’ Nakamuro told him simply.
Bond stood there taking it all in and after a couple of moments, Nakamuro said,
‘Well, Mr. Bond. Please tell me, what do you think?’
Bond breathed in.
‘That you’re going to have to be stopped, Nakamuro.’
Midas Gold laughed.
‘You and what army, Mr. Bond? As I said earlier, you will soon be taking my secret with you to your watery grave. Now then the tour is over, my dear fellow.’
He glanced across at Kenso Nagadeshi.
‘Take him to the library. I will join you all there with the others later.’

* * *


James Suzuki was in his cabin when the helicopter landed, lying down on his bunk, enjoying his high. He opened his blood-shot eyes with a start at the sudden sound of rotors thrashing above. He ran a hand through his hair, swinging his legs around to the floor. Had he imagined it, the sound of a helicopter flying in? He got up and crossed to the sink, washing his face with cold water. He got his jacket on and went out to check if he was hearing things. And there it was, a sleek black AS 356B3 Eurocopter settling on the landing deck beyond and when he saw who came out with Midas Gold, James Suzuki went white as a sheet.
Surely that wasn’t his father!
He rubbed his eyes and looked closer in disbelief.
Christ, it bloody well was!
James Suzuki raced back into his cabin and found his two guns. He slipped the Browning 9mm into the waistband of his jeans and taped the other, a Smith and Wesson .45 semi-automatic, to the inside of his leg above his ankle; just in case. He breathed in deeply to steady himself, a tight knot feeling forming up at the base of his stomach, and went out again to find the others, heart racing wildly…

* * *


The library was indeed a delicious affair to say the least, Bond thought when he was shoved unceremoniously through the door by Kenso Nagadeshi. It was furnished in fine Japanese antiques adequately fixed to the flooring and that probably dated back to the 17th century. The wall on his left was decorated with a number of paintings in the form of mounted screens and scrolls offering unique and breathtaking scenes from the Meiji period. The other wall was covered with weapons ranging from four 17th century bows and arrows which Bond knew to be called Yumiya, a couple of Muskets and knives and of course the traditional Katana and Wakizashi. In the centre of the remaining wall facing him behind a large glass desk was a red leather padded oak door that lead God knows where...
‘Any chance of a drink?’ Bond asked Nagadeshi and the smile in his eyes was roguish. ‘Make it a double Scotch, no ice, and we’ll call it quits.’
Nagadeshi just watched him, head slightly bowed, arms crossed, eyes embittered completely. The Japanese man then shook his head slowly.
‘Oh well, later perhaps,’ Bond said and turned to examine the mounted screens and scrolls.
It was about fifteen minutes later when Midas Gold came in and crossed to his desk.
‘So here we are, dear Mr. Bond,’ he said and sat back. ‘The end of your road. In a few moments your son will be brought here. He will be made to suffer in front of you and then I will personally kill you. But first, could you explain how you fathered a Japanese son. I’m curious you see. You intrigue me, Bond, which I must add is the only reason you are still alive dear fellow.’
Bond sat down on a leather chair facing Nakamuro, calmly crossing his legs.
‘What can I say?’ he said, deciding to change tact slightly. He would try and make a deal with this madman – for James’ sake. ‘I was in Japan at the time, a long time ago and I met a beautiful Ama diver.’
‘An Ama diver?’
‘That's right. She died a couple of years ago. Cancer, unfortunately.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Such is life. But, listen to me Yamada. Surely there’s something we can do about all this. You have me. I’m a senior officer in MI6. Let my son go and I’ll help you anyway I can. I swear to you. There’s no need to kill us. So we know about your operation. Fine. Just let my son go and I’ll make him swear not to do anything more about this affair. With me in your hands he’ll never report the matter back to his HQ. I’ve been considering joining the ‘private sector’ for sometime now to tell you the truth. I’m sure you could do with a man of my experience. What do you say?’
Yamada Nakamuro sucked in air between his teeth.
‘Ah, Mr. Bond,’ he said severely, shaking his head. ‘You ask too much of me. Why on earth would I even contemplate such a thing. You are worthless, my dear. Both of you are. The only reason I am here now on the ‘Midnight Gold’ is to ensure that nothing goes wrong when we reach Italy. In the meantime, I’m going to chop your son up into small pieces and feed the bastard to the fish.’
Bond pushed on, desperate now. ‘You know fine well there’ll be others like me no matter what you do to us, no matter what gruesome death you dish out. It’ll get worse for you, can’t you see that? Nothing will stop British Intelligence from trying to bring you down. But as I said, I could help you on that though. Help you fight them off. I know their ways, the men they’ll send out. I know how they work. You’d be mad not to take up my offer for God’s sake. This is a golden opportunity believe me.’
‘Perhaps, Mr. Bond. Perhaps. Alas though, I’m afraid my mind is set, my dear fellow. Besides, for your information I already have a senior British Intelligence officer working for me. How else do you think I succeeded in capturing you this morning, hmm? I was aware of your existence the moment you stepped off your plane on Monday.’
Nakamuro was interrupted by a sudden knock on the door.
Aya, Raikou sate!’
The door opened at that command and six men filed in, amongst them, James Bond noted, his heart sinking, was James Suzuki, his son...

* * *


He didn’t know what had woke him up. He just opened his eyes with a start.
A sound. Soft, barely audible. He held his breath, straining his ears. Just the rain tapping softly onto the windows. Then he heard it again and there was no mistake; someone was in the room. The Colonel froze. How many times had he thought of this moment, the moment death would lay her icy hands on him. Thank God his wife wasn’t here, God bless her. He didn’t know why but in that split second, he thought of his times as a young SAS Officer fresh out of the Grenadier Guards, dicing with death every time he was sent out on Special Operations. Oh, God, those were the days, he told himself. Parachuting out of planes into some God forsaken war torn country in the middle of the night. How many times had he fought and killed behind enemy lines, in some dark place or the other? Malaya, Borneo, South Arabia, Oman and Northern Ireland where he’d lost his arm. Oh, that wretched bomb. If only he could go back to that horrible rainy day in Derry and not pick up that damned briefcase. Just look the other way. God what a life, and to end like this...
The Colonel reached out for the lamp-shade and turned it on. There were two of them, dressed completely in black. They hadn’t even bothered to cover their faces and the worst thing about it all was that they were his own men – Double Os. How else would they have got in, passed the three MI5 security men outside watching his house. He sat up slowly and looked them both in the eyes. That’s it Gordon, he thought. Always look death straight on.
The tallest of the men moved closer, the most senior and a man called Nick Brown. He’d been with the Division for the past 3 years. The pistol he held was a Walther P99, and it was aimed for the Colonel’s head.
‘Why?’ the Colonel found himself asking gruffly.
‘Orders, sir,’ the man told him as a matter of fact. ‘I’m sorry. Really I am.’
‘Black Fox?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
The Colonel breathed in deeply to steady himself, not that he was scared mind. It boiled down to anger really more than anything. He was too old for fear and had seen too much of death in his wild days for it to have any effect on him now.
‘Well, Mr. Brown, you’d had better get on with it then.’
‘You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you, Colonel. You had to go on digging.’
‘That’s my job.’
The man laughed quietly at that.
‘Then let it be the death of you.’
Brown raised the gun.
‘One more thing,’ the Colonel said quickly.
‘What?’
‘Who actually sent you? Black Fox himself?’
‘Sir William Shaw.’
‘I should have known. How long has the bastard been working for him.’
‘Long before you took over the Division. This thing is big.’
‘DOMINION you mean?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Evidently it is.’
The man reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a silencer and he began screwing it on, a snug smile on his face. He didn’t get far though for the Colonel’s good hand came up suddenly from under the sheets clutching a silver Smith and Wesson Magnum, a weapon he always kept under his pillow from his Northern Ireland days and had slipped down beside his leg just before switching the on lights. His first shot fragmented the top of Brown’s skull, and his second took the man behind him between the eyes before he could let off his own gun.
In the following dead silence, the Colonel stayed there for a couple of moments longer, then got out of bed. He reached for the red telephone and was immediately answered by the duty officer.
‘This is M. Code black, Major. Get me Bill Tanner now.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Whilst he waited, he looked down at the two dead bodies littering his Persian carpet.
‘Idiots,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘You wouldn’t have lasted one bloody night in Belfast in the bad old days.’
‘Hello,’ came Bill Tanner’s voice on the other end of the receiver.
‘Ah, good, Chief of Staff,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I need you down here fast.’
‘Sir?’
‘I have two dead bodies that are at this moment soiling my wife’s best carpet and to make matters worse she gets back tomorrow.’
And with that Bill Tanner aged considerably at the other end…

* * *


‘My goodness,’ Nakamuro said and looked the men before him over one by one; looked deep into their eyes with an unblinking gaze. ‘I dare say you look like a bunch of terrified schoolboys gentlemen. Please relax. All of you.’
He stood up and moved around the desk. Bond just sat there. His heart was racing wildly inside his chest and he was short of breath. He broke out in a sudden sweat and the feeling of absolute dread was indeed overwhelming. He shifted rather nervously in the chair and looked across at the six men, at his son. Their eyes met, only briefly mind and then he knew what it meant to be in hell…
Yamada Nakamuro relaxed against the desk, facing them. lighting one of his long, slim cigars, he spoke again,
‘I have summoned you here to bear witness to what is about to happen gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It seems that a few months ago my organization was infiltrated by an agent working for the British Security Service and that agent is here now, amongst us.’
James Suzuki felt the whole world swallow him up, had felt it the moment he had set eyes on his father back outside his cabin earlier and the shock was like nothing he had ever experienced before in his life and no matter how many times one played with the thought of being ‘caught out’, the actual reality of it all was sickening to the core to say the least.
‘This man here is also a British agent,’ Nakamuro went on, gesturing towards Bond. ‘He is Commander James Bond of an elite group called the Double O Division. He even has a licence to kill, bestowed upon him by the British government to assassinate me and destroy everything I have worked for. How these agents have succeeded in penetrating the Brotherhood of the Golden Dragon is a dilemma that will trouble me long after the events that will take place here tonight are over. Suffice to say though I will leave no stone unturned to avoid any repetitions of such a breach in operation GOLDMINE’s security.’
Nakamuro took another long pull at the cigar and blew out a stream of dark grey smoke towards the ceiling.
‘Tezuyo Hasakeru, kindly step forward please,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Kyugo namadozo!

* * *


The man called Tezuyo Hasakeru blinked and his heart missed a beat. He did as he was told, a tall, wiry handsome man in his late thirties, his complexion slightly grey with pockmarked skin and thin lips. He bowed low in respect and spoke softly,
Soro ikanakutewa, Shiseido Kogane. Shimasu[/i].’
Nakamuro looked down at Bond.
‘My dear fellow, excuse me for saying but I fail to see any resemblance here,’ he said and a sassy smile crept across his face. ‘Are you certain that Ama girl you mentioned earlier was being truthful when she informed you that she was with your child?’
Bond was stooped for words. He fought to keep his mouth from literally dropping open and Nakamuro turned back to Hasakeru.
‘So, what do you have to say for yourself Tezuyo?’ he told him calmly.
Again, Hasakeru blinked. He had turned white.
‘I don’t understand, Shiseido,’ he said.
Dewa matta hesheko!’ he snapped. ‘Just allow me to tell you that your dear friend Ysabelle Valentina talked. She revealed everything to me.’
And then it hit the poor fellow like an oncoming express train. He’d been framed!
‘Shiseido!’ he called out desperately. ‘Wakanne no? This is a mistake! I am…’
‘Enough!’ Nakamuro shouted back fiercely.
Bond stole a glance at his son as it dawned upon him what had happened back at the villa. Ysabelle hadn’t given James up after all. The darling angel had given the bastard another name, the name of the man standing before them. How long this charade was going to last only God knew but for now it was buying him and his son some precious time, he thought.
Come on, James. I hope you’re taking all this in and thinking of a bloody escape plan. Wait for the opening lad! Wait and act. God please act!
Nakamuro crossed over to where a 17th century golden Katana hung on the wall opposite. He took it down and unsheathed it, the blade gleaming brightly in the light.
‘Shiseido, please!’ Hasakeru called out in desperate panic and made to move forward. ‘This is madness! I am being framed! My Mother and father are from Henko. I have never seen this man before in my life…’
‘Tell me, when did you join my organization, Tezuyo?’
Hasakeru looked back at the others pleadingly, a hunted look upon his face, then back at Nakamuro. He was on the verge of collapsing.
‘Eight months ago, master,’ he said as Nakamuro approached, the Katana in his right hand.
The man called Janasau glanced across at James Suzuki, a puzzled look in his eyes. Something was wrong here, he was thinking. He had known Hasakeru for the past eight years now and knew fine well that what their master was implying was not so. He didn’t know why but he didn’t say anything, probably because he was as shocked at what was going on as the others...
Nakamuro turned to look at Bond, something sadistic in his eyes then.
‘Mr. Bond, I am disappointed that your bastard son is still insisting upon this futile charade even now that I have placed all the cards on the table. He does you no honor, dear fellow. Mind you, he is the product of a bastard Niguro which is probably the reason why.’
And with that he twisted round, ruthlessly swinging the Katana wide over his head, the razor sharp blade hissing, and striking Tezuyo Hasakeru just above his biceps, taking off his left arm. The poor man gaped at the stump in disbelief as blood sprayed everywhere and then the Katana swirled in again in another brutal arc as he was about to scream. It struck the man’s neck and kept speeding as if through air and Midas Gold watched indifferently as Hasakeru’s head fell off his shoulders, blood gushing up from his severed neck.
They all watched in horror as the head hit the floor with a thump.
Nakamuro looked down at Bond again. Their eyes met and as he raised the Katana above his head to strike at Double O Seven, James Suzuki made his move...

*



#17 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 03 January 2010 - 12:28 PM

16
That Last Mountain


He reached for the Browning and brought it up fast, at the same time rushing forward.
‘Nobody move!’ he yelled.
Which was all that was needed to catch everyone there on one foot more than they already were. Yamada Nakamuro stopped dead in his tracks and turned his head to James as he went to his father, keeping them all dangerously in his line of view. The Japanese drug lord was now staring at him in bewilderment and, keeping his gaze and gun trained on everybody there, James managed to release Bond from his straps.
‘What kept you?’ Bond said blithely.
‘The moment is everything, father,’ he told him.
Bond noticed that his son’s face was tense and he knew it wasn’t simply down to the present situation they were in. It was something more; something in his eyes.
James looked away from his gaze.
There were seven of them in all in the room and he knew if one of them reached for their own weapon, all hell would break lose. If they were going to make a run for it then it was going to have to be fast. Nakamuro’s men were not the type to stay pinned down for long...
‘So, Mr. Bond, it seems the girl played me,’ Nakamuro said finally, Katana still held above his head.
‘That’s right,’ Bond told him rubbing his wrists from the tightness of the cord.
Nakamuro gradually lowered the sword.
‘I swear to you you’ll never get off this ship alive,’ he hissed. ‘Both of you will die tonight, as planned. And as for that bitch Ysabelle Valentina, one call is all it is going to take for my men back at the villa to cut off her beautiful head. How’s that for comfort?’
James froze at that, a look of complete panic on his face. It was at that precise moment however that Janasau, loathing fire in his eyes, grabbed one of the men closer to him and lunged forward, using him as a human shield. He brought up his weapon as James, shaking himself out of the initial shock at what Nakamuro had just said, fired three shots at him, killing the unfortunate chap in front of Janasau stone dead.
In the ensuing madness, a burst of fire without restraint was let off and Bond and his son dropped to ground behind the glass desk, bullets flying everywhere, blasting the walls around them.
Kenso Nagadeshi threw himself onto Nakamuro, pinning him down to the floor to protect him.
‘Cover me!’ Bond shouted and darted to get the leather padded door open.
James let off a burst of fire as the remaining six men opposite dived for cover like a bunch of rats scattering.
‘Here!’ James tore the Smith and Wesson free from the inside of his leg and tossed it over to Bond who smiled.
Good thinking lad, he thought and as his son finally made it across to him, shot dead two of the men in the room. Bond then pivoted and arced his body to the side, just missing an explosion of a couple of bullets on the wall to his left from someone’s gun.
He dashed through the open door as soon as James was through himself and slammed it shut behind them. They found themselves in a wide hallway and broke into a desperate run down the corridor.
They weren’t even half way down when alarms shrieked all around them at a riotous volume and bullets exploded behind, splintering wood and pock-marking the metal bulkheads…

* * *


As they reached the center stairwell, Bond saw a lift on his right but knew their chances of survival lay with the stairs. Taking the lift would be suicidal considering it could be controlled and monitored, and Bond wasn’t about to take chances now that they had the upper hand.
‘The stairs!’ he called.
‘Right, but where to? Up or down?’
Bond paused to think.
If they went up to the wheel-house or main deck they would probably end up getting trapped there with no way-out whatsoever, which meant the only safest option would be down.
‘The lower deck,’ Bond snapped and they took the stairs three at a time.
‘We’re still about an hour away from Sicily,’ James told him as the footsteps and shouts behind them grew louder and louder above them. ‘If we jump ship they’ll use the launches to get us.’
‘Which means the Midnight Gold will have to sink tonight,’ Bond hissed.
‘Christ! And how would you propose to do that, father?’
‘I’ll tell you when I bloody well find out. Now shut up and run!’
Their pursuers would have no doubt grown in numbers by now and the rest of the crew were probably in on the chase too. They reached a small landing two floors down and which led to a short passageway that opened out into the mid section of the deck directly above the helicopter landing pad. They went through swiftly and ran silently ahead onto the aft deck, two sinister shadows in the darkness.
The sky was black velvet, cool, stars shining brightly about a full moon. Bond stopped to look over the railing, a clean drop into the black sea below, then at his son as he fought to catch his breath.
‘Listen to me,’ Bond said quickly. ‘I want you off this ship now.’
James looked at him as if he’d gone mad.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simple. I don’t want you getting hurt. Jump and leave the rest to me. I’ll find a way to sink this bastard if it’s the last thing I do. You swim as far away from the Midnight Gold as you can. You’ll make it, I’m sure. I’ll stay and keep them occupied for as long as I can.’
‘I’m not leaving you here.’
Bond’s eyes became black slits at his son’s obstinacy.
‘We haven’t got time for this, James. Just do as I say. Now!’
Suddenly there came the explosion of gunfire and a bullet ricocheted off a metal capstan with a loud clang. Bond darted into some shadows behind a steel mooring, gun ready in his hands. Another bullet potholed the metal just a few feet away from his head and he ducked as James dove in beside him.
‘I know this ship like the back of my hand,’ he persisted. ‘If you’re going to sink it, then you’re going to need me with you.’
‘Damn it, James!’ he spat. ‘You’re as hard headed as I bloody am.’
James fired a couple of shots into the darkness beyond, towards the form of two gunmen approaching fast from the other side.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, father,’ James said and darted towards an iron bollard to his left. ‘Come on!’
Bond swore between his clenched teeth and followed.
‘Runt!’ he spat amidst a burst of gunfire that indicated that he had been spotted…

* * *


The gunfire told them that there were about four or five men out there, in the darkness beyond, and the blasts were coming in like a storm from all directions. They fired back while running like mad, which didn’t do well for their aim but at least it kept their pursuer’s heads down for a couple of precious moments.
And a couple of precious moments is all they needed as James led him to a door marked ENGINE ROOMS AND PYLON STROP TETHERS. He yanked open the door and they ran through a narrow passageway until they reached a wide and steep set of metal stairs. Bond could hear the loud thrust of engines and generators that were operating far below, about six flights down, and providing power for the ship. Just the place to cause some damage or hide, he noted, not to mention the fact that Nakamuro’s men would be reluctant to fire on them down there for fear of hitting something hazardous.
As they descended, Bond could hear the gunmen further up. He resisted letting off a couple of shots. The fact was, ammo was precious at this stage.
They reached a narrow catwalk at the bottom of the stairs and James kept on running towards some more steps and down to one of four large generators there. When Bond reached him, James leaned out from behind it and shot two men descending the steps after them.
Bond sat down, back against the generator, knees up and fighting for breath, the noise down there raucous. He was sweating hard now and looked rather pale.
‘You alright?’ James asked him.
Bond nodded.
‘How many rounds left?’ he said.
‘Four, plus three extra clips.’
‘With my remaining six rounds, not very reassuring considering we’ll soon be surrounded.’
‘An understatement. We should have jumped.’
‘No.’
‘We still don’t know where the bastard is hoarding the drugs and how he intends to get it into the UK undetected. Sinking this ship won’t stop Nakamuro, father. I’ve failed to find out what he’s actually up to.’
Bond smiled.
‘He sprays the stuff onto the body of the cars he imports believe it or not. It’s fabricated in his laboratories back in the Kuril Islands. The paste produced is refined with a number of chemicals and mixed with resin that can be pressed into a hard shell in any mould they like. Nakamuro spray-paints it onto his Probes.’
James looked at him, mouth open.
‘Now that’s what I call innovative,’ he said.
‘The fact is one of us has to get off this ship alive in order to report back to HQ, James. That way they’ll be able to tackle the Japanese side and destroy his Kuril plant along with everything in it.’
There was a split second of silence and then someone fired in their direction, hitting the generator. James responded with another two blasts. There came a scream and the sound of a body crashing to the steel floor.
‘I hope they realize what they’re firing at,’ Bond said. ‘If I’m not mistaken those engines over there are 2500 LM Gas Turbines. On the other hand, it looks as though the casing is reinforced steel. It probably could withstand a couple of rounds to it without going up which doesn’t suit us considering we want them to blow.’
‘What do we do then?’
‘Any ideas?’ Bond asked.
James thought long and hard, looking around them, and after a few moments his face lit up.
‘What a bloody idiot!’ he spat.
‘What is it?’
‘Apart from the shipment of drugs, Nakamuro’s carrying a consignment of weapons. He’s going to sell them to a South Ossetian Separatist Group called Rushkeya Nektsh. Kalashnikovs, Draganfly XCFs, M16A2s, Anti-tank missiles. You name it, he’s got it.’
Bond looked at his son closely.
‘One anti tank missile at those tanks and this ship’ll go down like a tone of bricks,’ he said sanguinely.
‘The hold,’ James said. ‘He keeps them in the underside of the weather deck.’
‘Mr. Bond!’ came the voice of Yamada Nakamuro.
‘What do you want?’ Bond shouted back, more to play for time than anything.
‘You and you’re son are trapped down here.’
‘Why don’t you come over and we’ll discus it then,’ Bond told him.
He could hear Nakamuro laugh above the noise of the engines and generators.
‘I’m sure the first thing you’d do is put a bullet between my golden eyes, Mr. Bond.’
‘Well, you can’t blame me for trying can you.’
‘About that proposal you made earlier on, back in the library. On second thoughts, my dear fellow, I do believe I was a bit rash in waving it aside.’
Bond looked at his son and winked.
‘Too bad, Nakamuro,’ he called out. ‘You had your chance, old chap.’
‘You know you can’t last for long over there. At some point you will run out of ammo.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t count on that, Nakamuro. We have enough to last us quite some time.’
James moved closer to his father.
‘There’s an exit further on,’ he told him. ‘The stairs lead to the mid section. I could be back in fifteen to twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll keep them busy here.’
James handed him the Browning and the three other clips.
‘No!’ Bond snapped but James simply smiled and dashed forward beyond a metal cage, disappearing round a corner further on.
‘For goodness sake, Mr. Bond. Look at your situation. The odds are entirely against you.’
‘The story of my life.’
Bond slipped the Smith and Wesson into the waistband of his trousers, then changed the Browning’s clip and checked it’s action.
‘This is your last chance, Bond. Come out with your hands above your head and you have my word I will let your son go, as you requested. You have five minutes.’
Bond smiled that devil’s smile and leaned out, bringing the gun up in the direction of Nakamuro’s voice. He fired four shots which were actually intended as a show of force rather than anything else.
His reply was immediate and a burst of automatic fire blasted his surroundings which meant they actually didn’t care what they hit down here. Bad joss, he thought. As long as he sought cover behind this large generator though he could consider himself safe for now; unless of course Nakamuro’s men chose to storm his position Kamikaze style, which was something he really wouldn’t put beyond the mad bastards.
James Bond tightened his grip on the Browning and waited…

* * *


Although the ship’s alarm still raged on incessantly in the background, James heard the sound of approaching footsteps on the metal floor further on. Not daring to move from his position behind a heavy steel beam, he breathed in and held his breath. There were two of them and they had torches, the powerful beams illuminating the dark areas ahead of them. He waited, nerves on meltdown and looked down at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably.
Christ, he was falling to pieces.
The beam of the torch moved beyond his position as the two men past his position. His heart beat wildly and he actually tried to calm himself down for fear that they’d hear the thumping in his chest. When they finally had their backs to him, he swung out and jumped on the man closer to him, breaking his neck with one rapid twist of the head with both hands. As he fell to the floor and the other raised his Kalashnikov to shoot, James kicked the assault rifle out of his hands and lunged into him like a panther. Tackling him to the ground, he slammed a knee into his face. The man gasped and countered by rearing up aggressively. James brought his fist into his throat. The man struggled despite the pain James was causing him and, refusing to yield, brought a fist crashing into the side of James’ face. Then the man’s hands were at his neck and he was squeezing hard. James grabbed his wrists and twisted, trying to wrench his hands away. The man was strong, very strong and James brought up a knee into the man’s stomach, once, twice, and then at some point during the struggle, James’ right hand got hold of what felt like a dagger at the side of the man’s belt. He released it and brought it up. The man’s eyes reflected the flash of the daggers’ silver blade and that was the last thing he saw for James Suzuki thrust it down violently between his eyes…

* * *


Now armed with two Kalashnikovs, a dagger and torch, James made his way through a hatchway and up some steel stairs until he came to a dimly lit corridor. He followed it until he reached a steel door which gave access to another long and dark duct. Running as if the hounds of hell were after him, it took him roughly five minutes to get to the mid-section beyond. He paused for breath at some point and glanced at his watch, wondering how his father was holding out. His eyes were slits and beads of sweat dripped from his brow.
Come on, man, he told himself.
Move it!
He crossed to an opening and stepped into a large compartment, dark, cold, walls of steel. At the end was a steep flight of steps that led to a wide metal catwalk and once there he went through a door and along another brightly lit corridor that branched to the left.
Immediately up ahead he saw a door marked SHIP HOLD 4. He’d come here two nights ago, searching for Nakamuro’s damn drugs and had, purely by accident, stumbled upon this intricate weapon’s stash instead.
Each container had a label stuck to it with the contents listed down which, in the end, is how he had found out what they contained.
He yanked the door open and darted inside. He had unfortunately taken longer than he’d originally predicted and raced up to the wall on his left, grabbing the bolt-cutter. Crossing over to one of the containers, he snapped off the silver security lock and opened it. Inside was exactly what he was looking for. Grenades, SP15s, Kevlar breastplates and the most important of them all: two M47 Dragon anti-tank missile launchers complete with warheads.
He quickly stuffed what he could into his jacket pockets and took one of the Dragons, loaded it with one of it’s missiles and slung the beast across his shoulder. The damn thing was rather heavy and would no doubt slow him down.
James Suzuki then gave one last look around at the fifty or so other containers there, smiled softly at the irony of it all and ran back the way he had come…

* * *


James Bond was at that precise moment battling it out as best as he could and was void of any hope of his son making it back in time. There were simply too many of them and his ammo was running out, already down to the Browning’s last clip.
It was only a matter of time now until the bastards caught onto the fact that he was alone there and fanned out to attack his position from both sides.
The place of execution, he thought. That last blue mountain barr’d with bloody snow. It seemed the pilgrim had reached the end of his golden journey on this one and the fact was he didn’t care much about himself as much as he did his son. He should have thrown the idiot off the ship when he’d had the chance.
Bond was brought back down to earth by Nakamuro’s voice above the noise of the engines and generators.
‘This is becoming absolutely ludicrous, Mr. Bond,’ he called out. ‘What is your plan, dear fellow? To try and make it to Italy in the hope that the authorities will help you out here? Well, kindly note that I have ordered my Captain to turn the ship around. You see I have the upper hand, Mr. Bond. I can wait you both out. There will be no escape off the Midnight Gold tonight, no escape with the exception of death.’
Bond gritted his teeth, his heart pounding inside his chest.
Where the hell was James?

* * *


Nakamuro was up there on the catwalk, furious. All his plans had gone awry because of that bitch Ysabelle Valentina. God how she had played the very skin off his back! How could he have been so stupid, so gullible, so naive? There was a dangerous rage in his eyes now and his blood was boiling. He needed to satisfy that unbearable ache inside him to get even with Bond for what had happened tonight. He needed to do something and do it damn well fast because things seemed to be getting precariously out of control. The worst case scenario was if that meddling fool tried to destabilize the ship somehow. What was it Bond had said earlier when he’d asked the Englishman what he thought of his plan?
‘That you’re going to have to be stopped, Nakamuro.’
Nakamuro suddenly realized that he was sweating hard.
He looked around at his men, crouching there, waiting for the opening. There were at least eight of them left including Kenso Nagadeshi who was wounded in the leg.
He swore violently in Japanese, still holding the golden Katana in his right hand and he then intensified his hold on the emerald grip.
The yearning to soak the most honorable Shikuzu blade in Bond’s rank blood was uncontrollable to say the least…

* * *


Bond ducked fast as a hailstorm of automatic machinegun fire came in. He tried shifting the Browning towards the shooter to get a clear shot but he was concealed beyond the catwalk.
He then heard the loud clattering of footsteps behind him and he turned quickly. Further on, three men carrying short barreled Kalashnikovs clambered down some steps near a hatch on his right and darted for cover behind the generator opposite the supplementary exit.
He was now surrounded, all channels blocked off. He prayed James would appear, guns blazing, but that wasn’t to be. One man darted out towards him then, Kalashnikov firing wildly. Bond swore and fired three shots from the Browning. Two rounds hit the oncoming man full in the chest, the Kevlar vest he was wearing stopping the bullets dead-on though, but Bond’s third shot hit him in the face killing him instantly.
He decided to change positions then, things becoming unfortunately too close for comfort there. As another hailstorm of machine gun fire came in on him from both sides, he dove out from behind the generator, firing wildly the last few rounds he had in the Browning around him, and dashed for a narrow gap between two metal crates on his left.
He turned, pulled out the Smith and Wesson and came into aim fast in the classic two handed grip . He knew that it was just a matter of time now till Nakamuro’s men would realize that he was down to his last few rounds. Bond then noticed that a couple of shooters were shifting their positions too, positions relative to Bond’s stand. He heard shouts and screams from Nakamuro, orders being handed down in Japanese, panic, then more gunfire bombarded him.
Amongst the blasts hitting the walls and beams surrounding him, one of the rounds managed to hit him in the left arm, just above his elbow. At first he didn’t realize he’d been shot but after a few moments he could feel the blazing pain. He looked down indifferently at the thick red blood soaking his sleeve. Then from the corner of his eye he saw another man rush onwards towards him from behind one of the generators further on and Bond was again shot, in the right shoulder.
Trying to keep steady from the shock of it all, Bond fired desperately at him, missing completely though. He then realized what was happening. Nakamuro’s men were closing in on him for the kill...
James Bond smiled. Two bullets inside him and he was still bloody standing. What a shambles though, he thought. Pinned down with nowhere else to go except wait for the inevitable.
Death.
Where the hell had it all gone wrong?
Which part of this whole mess had been the cause of here and now?
It was obvious that the sum total of the Midas Gold mission had been compromised from day one; again down to an MI6 mole!
What miserable fortune!
Well, it had to happen one of these days, he decided thoughtfully. How many times throughout his career had he been faced with absolute death only to come out victor. He’d thought about that earlier before coming out here to the Midnight Gold; hell, had thought about it the morning he’d left the UK for Italy. What was it he had said to the barman at the departures lounge?
‘I’ve cheated death so many times in my life that I’ve literally lost count. The fact is though one of these days the bitch is bound to find out.’
He couldn’t have summed it up more beautifully.
The bitch had found out and was making a feast out of it!
How did he feel about it all though?
Was he scared?
No. Absolutely not. It didn’t bother him one small bit. He’d lived his life to the fullest and it couldn’t have been better and if that night he was going to end up drinking with the devil then so bloody be it! At least he would have died fighting…
Bond opened his eyes with a start, and despite the living pain inside him now, had a new life in them...
‘Bring it on, Nakamuro,’ he shouted out at the top of his voice. ‘Bring on whatever it is you’ve got you bastard!’


* * *


James Suzuki was panicking.
He’d taken longer than he had anticipated and knew his father couldn’t hold out for as long as he’d been away. Out of breath, he dreaded the next corner for fear of already finding him dead. Running out from the passageway onto the catwalk opposite, James then came face to face with nothing but chaos.
Nakamuro’s men were hammering Bond hard and, although James hadn’t yet spotted him, he brought his Kalashnikov up and fired down wildly at a couple of men located further on who were at that moment firing their own weapons straight ahead.
James produced a grenade, removed the pin and lobbed it down to add to the confusion, hoping for a break to get to his father’s position, wherever that was. The explosion rocked the whole place violently and deafened everyone there. He looked around, heart racing, and saw him between two crates opposite the generator they’d used earlier, kneeling there back against the wall, holding his gun in the classic two handed grip, a brave figure in the hell of it all.
He watched him fire two shots and hit a man charging towards him between the eyes, sending him flying back dead. James shouted out to him, then saw another two men on Bond’s left, just about to fire their weapons.
Bond got them in his sites, face concentrated, eyes slits, but he found that his gun was now out of ammo. James twisted and brought the Kalashnikov up fast, firing like a mad man, cutting them down instantly.
And then Bond saw him up there.
‘Do it, James!’ he called out to him. ‘Do it and get the hell out of here for Christ sake!’
James looked down at him as if he’d gone mad. There was no way he could leave his father down there in that mess.
James unslung the Dragon anti-tank missile launcher in order to set it up and from the corner of his eye he saw Yamada Nakamuro dart out of some shadows below and race over to where Bond was, screaming frantically, Katana raised above his head.

* * *


James dropped the Dragon and took up the Kalashnikov again, letting off a burst of automatic fire but the devil was too fast and was in at Bond’s position in a flash. Someone else fired an Uzi sub-machine gun up at James, pining him down.
He was just in time to watch his father stoop and go in pitching with a snarl at Nakamuro as he brought the sword crashing down. Bond packed into him hard and in the moment’s confusion, mercifully avoided the oncoming blade which in turn flung out of Nakamuro’s hands with the impact of Bond’s lowered shoulders.
Bond was then on top of him, bringing his fists down into his face for all that he was worth. Nakamuro managed to tuck a knee into Bond’s stomach though, lifting him upwards and sending him flying onto his back.
Nakamuro dashed up then and hurled himself at Bond lightning fast, landing several aimed blows to Bond’s face. Bond sauntered back, staggering, almost losing his footing and the Japanese drug lord grinned savagely at him, noticing his wounds for the first time, noticing that Bond was terribly weak.
Bond desperately glanced across to where he’d last seen James. There was a severe fire-fight taking place further on, with Nakamuro’s remaining men now all concentrating on pinning his son down up there on the cat-walk with no chance of letting up.
Meanwhile, Nakamuro lunged out at him again, roaring like a wild bear. They fell together, rolling hard and the struggle was fierce, no holds barred. Bond hit out at Nakamuro’s face, breaking open his nose and lips. Nakamuro’s claw like hand grabbed at Bond’s face as they got up, nails digging into his skin and left eye and they felt like steel hooks.

* * *


Bond fell backwards again and Nakamuro kicked him in the chest sending Bond slamming against one of the generators. Breaking into a fit of laughter, genuinely amused, Nakamuro came back in with a flying kick. Bond grabbed out at his ankle and twisted sharply. The Japanese lost his balance, toppling over with a shriek. Bond tried to seize the moment and sprang towards the Katana which lay only a couple of feet away but Nakamuro was faster and he pounced up, a fierce viper striking, knocking Bond violently to the ground.
Bond cried out in pain when he hit his head against the metal floor. Yamada Nakamuro was then on top of him in a blink and he had his hands to his neck.
He pressed down with his thumbs and for a moment both men looked into each other’s eyes and Bond understood then that he was actually looking into the eyes of his death.
In a last desperate struggle to survive James Bond’s fists battered into Nakamuro’s side but the Japanese drug lord didn’t feel a thing, so driven was he by a madness and loathing rage for the man he was now suffocating.
He pressed down harder and harder, all the strength he could summon behind his iron hold. Bond’s hands were then at Nakamuro’s face, his own fingers and nails tearing at the skin, trying to reach his damned eyes.
‘Die!’ Nakamuro hissed. ‘Die Bond!’
There was no way he was getting out of this one, Bond thought and as Nakamuro growled with pleasure, Bond’s blue-grey eyes rolled back in his head, face almost blue now.
He knew then that he had failed.
What exactly he had failed at though was a mystery to him.
Had he failed his country?
His son?
Himself?
Strangely he felt shame and that shame seemed stronger than the pain of being strangled.
But again, why shame, James?
Had he not done everything in his powers to get the job done?
Shame, my B)!
He coughed up blood as he choked and he managed to open his eyes again; just to see the monster called Midas Gold still hacking away cruelly at his life. He thought he heard two loud blasts then but he was probably imagining it.
A series of violent explosions deafened him and the whole world seemed to be on fire around him.
He couldn’t help smiling softly at the end of it all.
The end of it all, he thought calmly.
So this is how it was to be.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori was James Bond’s very last thought and then a furious darkness came plummeting down on him, swallowing him up once and for all…

* * *


James Suzuki managed to fire off a long burst in the direction of the men pinning him down.
Bullets pounded back at him, hitting the wall just inches away from his head, sparks flying. Their aim was getting too close for comfort, he noted, and there came another violent rupture of return fire.
This time, a round ploughed into his left arm and it felt like an invisible fist clobbering him. He breathed in deeply to steady himself, gritting his teeth at the sweltering hot pain.
He reached for the remaining grenade in the right pocket of his jacket, conscious then that his attackers were moving in on him, the sound of their approaching footsteps loud and clear.
James inched slightly to his right, careful not to expose himself too much. He removed the pin and leaned forward, lobbing it through the metal railings. The earsplitting explosion that followed actually seemed to make the ‘Midnight Gold’ tremble.
James rushed forward, firing wildly as he descended the steps three at a time, cutting the remaining gunmen down one by one.
There suddenly came another explosion, thunderous, as one of the four generators blew up without warning.
A thick piece of metal whizzed dangerously towards his head in mid-air and he ducked just in time to avoid it. And then he continued running to where he had spotted his father earlier on and a man emerged from some cover beyond, confused, pistol drawn.
James brought his Kalashnikov up waist-high and fired at him, several rounds hitting him square in the chest and although he was wearing a Kevlar, the impact was so powerful it knocked him backwards against a metal cage behind him.
James scooped up his gun, a Walther p99 and shot him in the head. Swinging the Kalashnikov over his shoulder, he darted to where Bond and Yamada Nakamuro had been fighting earlier on…


* * *


When James finally appeared, he found Yamada Nakamuro on top of his father with his hands to his neck. Bond was choking and James’ heart sank as he speedily raised the P99.
‘Nakamuro!’ he called.
The man called Midas Gold turned his head towards him and smiled a ghastly smile when he saw who had called him.
‘Too late you pathetic fool,’ he called. ‘You’re father is on his way to hell!’
James cursed and without apparently taking aim, shot Nakamuro three times in the head, blood and brain scattering on the metal floor, the force of the shots lifting him up off Bond and slamming him face down to the ground dead-ahead of him.
James dashed to his father and fell on his knees beside him. He grabbed him by his jacket and shook him roughly, face contorted in emotional pain.
‘Damn you!’ he cried out. ‘Don’t you dare do this to me!’
He waited for a response, his mind racing, sweat pouring down his brow.
He laid Bond back, quickly pinched closed his nostrils, sealed his mouth firmly with his own and breathed twice into Bond’s lungs.
James came up for air and moved in haste to Bond’s torso. He interlocked his shaking hands, found his sternum and pressed down hard thirty times, counting out loud.
As he did so, he looked down at his father’s face, eyes frantic.
‘Come on!’ he hissed. ‘Breath.’
Twenty seven.
And down...
Twenty eight.
And down....
Twenty nine.
And down...
Thirty.
And down...
Again he gave two powerful breaths.
Thirty more compressions, counting out loud, and then as he was about to give another two ventilations, James Bond finally gasped for air.
He opened his eyes with a start and broke out into a fit of coughing.
James pulled him up to his chest, holding him firmly against him.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he said, tears swelling in his eyes. ‘You almost hand me there, father.’
Bond looked up at his son, confused and disoriented.
‘What the hell happened? he said. ‘Where’s Tracy? She’s…’
Bond stopped talking.
His mouth was appallingly arid and he felt an unpleasant ache in his head. And then he remembered, the whole thing coming back to him in a blinding flash.
‘Nakamuro?’
‘Dead.’ James told him. ‘Listen to me, father, we haven’t got much time. We need to get out of here fast. Things are getting out of hand. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Bond was still trying to think straight. He felt as if he’d been knocked down by a bloody truck. He reached out and touched his son’s face.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked him, still not one hundred percent there. ‘It’s so good to see you, James.’
‘Me too, father. Now please let’s get the hell out of here before more of Nakamuro’s men get here.’
He helped Bond up and he swayed shakily.
‘Christ,’ he said and looked down at Nakamuro’s dead body, one arm around James for support. ‘The bastard almost killed me.’
‘He did kill you, father,’ James told him. ‘And remember, you only live twice so please be a bit more bloody careful next time around.’

* * *


They made their way up to where he had left the M47 Dragon anti-tank missile launcher.
Who knows, James thought. Firing the M47 into those gas engines just might sett off an inferno so immense that the Midnight Gold might sink after all.
But, then again, where would it leave them?
They reached the top of the steps and James shouldered the Dragon, looking through it’s electronic sight. He swallowed hard and got the main LNG tank between the target lines and after a moment’s hesitation, squeezed the trigger.
The short projectile shot out of the tube, slashing through the air with a tremendous whooshing sound and a fraction of a second later, hit the tank below.
The explosion was extraordinary indeed and the whole engine room was engulfed in a raging hell. There was a blistering white flash and a tremendous bang and Bond and his son were thrown back by the blast of it all, their eardrums pierced, senses stunned. In that moment of absolute horror, Bond felt himself fly through the air, his body thrown against the wall opposite whilst James was swept helplessly backwards to land headfirst further on.

* * *


When James Suzuki gradually came to, he pulled himself into a half-sitting position and drew up his legs.
He was totally disoriented.
He slowly pulled himself up and stood by the wall on the right, rubbing his head. He looked around for his father but the first thing to catch his attention was the raging inferno below.
And then he saw Bond picking himself off the floor opposite, nursing his arm and ribs where his jacket was torn. He could see blood dripping through his fingers.
As he went over to him though, Bond looked up and grinned.
‘Now that’s what I call a bang,’ he said. ‘If the bastard doesn’t go down with that then she’ll never sink.’
‘Which means we might not have much time to get off her, father. Best get moving.’
‘What did you say? I think I’ve gone deaf.’
There was another violent explosion and both men looked at each other, nodded, and rushed onwards down the narrow corridor, through the wide hatch and up towards the deck.
It took them at least twenty minutes to make it, during which there was a series of other explosions coming from below and the ‘Midnight Gold’ rocked violently each time, a wounded monster, and when they finally came out into the fresh night air through the wide door, they were both filled with a tremendous sense of relief.
They quickly made their way across to one of the safety points there and helped themselves to a Beaufort Life raft. They crossed over to the railings, threw it over the side and jumped into the water after it.
When they resurfaced, James grabbed hold of the raft and they swam with all their might away from the crippled ship.
They were at a considerable distance when James finally pulled on the cord on the raft’s packaging. Two CO2 cartridges hissed and the whole thing expanded.
James helped his father in before joining him and they lay there breathless and spent, the night air cold against their wet skins.
‘We made it,’ Bond said at last.
‘We were lucky.’
‘The luck of the devil,’ Bond said and there was a sparkle in his eyes. ‘Always.’
Both of them looked back then and saw most of the crew abandoning the ship. Moments later and the sky suddenly lit up brightly as a massive blast erupted from within the bowels of the Midnight Gold and ruptured up and outward in a thunderous explosion.
The ship bowed to one side and began to sink into the Mediterranean Sea...
James Bond sat back in the raft and looked closely at his son. There was pride in his eyes now and he smiled warmly across at him.
‘What do we do now?’ James asked him.
‘Well, it’s only a matter of time until the Italians send out their search and rescue teams for us. Is all we can do in the meantime is sit back and wait.’
‘And hope we don’t die of hypothermia or blood loss.’
‘We’ll survive, son.’
‘In the meantime then, perhaps you’d like to explain how you got involved in all this and, most importantly though, how the hell did Nakamuro get to find out about Ysabelle?’
Bond’s eyes suddenly saddened somewhat.
If Nakamuro had made that call back to the villa he mentioned just before they escaped from the library, then dear Ysabelle was as good as dead; and it all boiled down to her that both he and his son had survived death’s icy touch that night...
He breathed in deeply and told his son everything.

*



#18 Harry Fawkes

Harry Fawkes

    Lt. Commander

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Posted 05 January 2010 - 12:10 AM

E P I L O G U E
_______________

It All Ends Here



They were burying Ysabelle at the Cappella Adolorata just off the Via Gregorio, a sad but beautiful place, the chapel 16th century, gothic, with a tall stunning tower at its centre.
The rain was heavy that morning and rushed down from the heavens furiously but James Suzuki and his father, dressed in dark grey suits, didn’t seem to mind as they followed the procession from the small chapel to the graveside beyond; no one there did as it happens. It suited the mood perfectly.
An old priest was waiting at the graveside when the procession turned the corner, a brave show without an umbrella against the driving rain and James felt sick at heart, inside, deep, and whilst the priest began the rites for the dead, he remembered the times he’d spent with her, the love they shared, the fears, the passion and now life and all it’s ugliness had brought the woman he loved a brutal death, and it was all down to the man they called Midas Gold.
He mulled over of a verse from Thomas Moore’s ‘Pro Patria Mori’:

Yes, weep, and however my foes
may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree


…The coffin descended into the grave and the final prayer was said as thunder rumbled in the distance. James moved around to an old woman then, who was crying bitterly, Ysabelle’s mother.
Singiora Valentina - se forse che qualcosa che posso fare per te,’ he said softly.
The old woman looked up at him.
Grazie, sei molto gentile. Singior…?’
‘James.’ He told her. ‘Conoscievo la sua filgia.’
He wanted to tell her everything then, wanted to tell this old woman who he really was and what her daughter had meant to him; the plans they had made throughout. But, as things like this go, it wasn’t to be. There was no purpose now, to anything actually, and he simply turned and walked away, his father following.
Before going through the gates though, James Suzuki paused to look back one last time.
‘You know, father,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a life I lead anymore, is it?’
Bond breathed in deeply and looked around at the winged angels, the effigies of death beaming down at them amongst the pines and the gothic tombs there.
‘If it’s any consolation, son, it all ends here, in places like this, no matter what we do.’
And with that they walked out.
Julian Faulkes was waiting beside the car smoking a cigarette. He’d been assigned by the Embassy to take care of them for the duration of their stay in Rome, and Bond had taken an immediate liking to the fellow when they met two days ago back at the hotel Solaria. He’d recognized him from the fight in Piazza Navona when Ysabelle and himself had been captured that fateful day.
‘So what’s next on your books, father?’ James asked as they approached.
Bond lit a much needed cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘I’m going away again.’
‘Another job?’
Bond looked down at him.
‘You could say that,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be slightly different though this time.’
They reached the car and Bond got the door open for him.
‘Well don’t forget you’ve already used up one of your lives so whatever it is M’s sending you on, do be careful will you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve got the luck of the devil on my side, remember.’
They got in then and Faulkes drove off towards the city centre. Moments later however, a black Porsche emerged from a side street opposite and, staying well back, followed them.
In the passenger seat, Kenso Nagadeshi lit a long slim cigar and his piercing black eyes had death’s smile in them...




Author’s Note


In 1988, a suitcase made completely out of pure cocaine was seized at Madrid Airport. In April 1991, the Washington Post reported that the Spanish police had seized a shipment of bathtubs and washbasins from Colombia that were built with a mixture of fiberglass and several hundred pounds of cocaine paste.
A Spanish anti-drugs policeman was quoted as saying: ‘It’s the first time we have seen anything like this kind of subterfuge.’

_______________________________



Also by Harry Fawkes on CBn

NOBODY CHEATS DEATH
TROUBLESHOOTER
THE MOMENT BEFORE YOU DIE
SPEARHEAD
&
LONELINESS IS A LOVER




Roger Mulvaney
5 January 2010