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[Jim]

Just Another Kill

A Fan Fiction

By Jacques I. M. Stewart
This is a not for profit enterprise and is nothing more than a simple entertainment by way of fan fiction. All non-original characters and situations are copyright Ian Fleming Publications Limited and there is no intention asserted to the contrary. All original characters and situations are copyright the author.

7. Love is Blindness

Extracted from the preface to the first edition:

“…Yet, even though the DeveronTown riots are, in retrospect, properly analysed as more politically significant to Sycorax’s downfall, it is unsurprising that the meeting with B____ forty-eight hours before the vote is seen as more immediately – superficially – a reason for the damage that ensued.

“Even so, what the very presence of B____ suggests to the historian justifies reflection, as long as such reflection does not indulge itself in idle speculation about the role of the British Government in the subsequent affair. Naturally, one would be cautious about relying upon Sycorax’s own perceptions of B____ and his (implicit) mission; the reader will note that Sycorax was not averse to relentless suspicion, albeit one would hope that in reading these diaries, the same reader would understand that such suspicion, albeit invariably self-regarding and expressed in the most directly aggrandising of tones, was rarely delusional. Accordingly, the title of these volumes; hindsight permits us to consider that Sycorax was, if colourful, rarely utterly misguided.

“What is of especial interest is the manner of record of his meeting with B____. The lucid, almost detached narrative of the later years (in stark contrast – for example - to the flight from Mogadishu in 1949 or the killing of Benoit Lacercle in 1946) gives way to what the reader saw of the fledgling archivist; relentless self-promotion. It has been called by others (Rowton and Pearce, 1961) the determination to convince himself that he was persecuted. The comfort of the settled politician falls from him, and some of his anger must vent from that not being through choice. As the diaries progress, one will note that it is only in recollecting incidents when in fear or danger does Sycorax fall back upon this. Perhaps subconscious, he reverts to personal uncertainty and this method of reassuring himself.

“This suggests that the fear of B____ that he relates, both personal fear and the fear that all he had worked for was about to be taken away from him, was genuine.

“This editor, who worked on these incidents without the otherwise valuable assistance of Oliver Yates, is not naïve enough to believe that revealing the identity of B____ will not cause upset amongst those who would be troubled by it. One must, however, sound the note of caution at official hastiness to prevent such disclosure. Like all diarists, Sycorax tells us such that he wishes. One will note gaps in the narrative, maddening gaps which assume a greater knowledge on the part of a reader. Certainly, constant reference to “Archangel” without revealing what it is, could be frustrating. Someday the true story may be told. Until then, to complete such vital history as we must, this editor (perhaps against the wishes of his estimable colleague) would push for the revelation of B____. With such lacunae in the narrative, there is nothing gained by anonymity...”

Publisher’s Note to the first edition

(Geoffrey Banstead writes) Following the government injunction first granted on 15th March 1962 and upheld on subsequent appeal, and the delivery up of the original proofs of this work and the original journals, it is necessary that the other party to the conversation at the Featherstonehaugh property in April 1961 is identified only as “B_____”.”

Oliver Yates and J.M. Griffin LL.D., A Single Grain of Truth will feed the World: The Journals of Jabez Sycorax (1962)

Extracted from the preface to the second edition:

“…It would be trite to remind the reader of the history of these diaries…

“…The identity of “B_____ / J_____ B______” is unknown to anyone now. Without wishing to serve oneself rather than the record of events, this editor confirms that he did not view the original volumes nor the notes of his late colleague. However, further researches afforded to me, with the valued co-operation of the Foreign Office, suggest that B____ was indeed a (Callum) James Bewick, a dissolute British resident who disappeared at the time of the election in DIA. There is material beyond these diaries to suggest that this is indeed so. Even if there will be no certainty, there is now probability of the identity of “B____”.

“Regardless of the controversial history of this work, one hopes that it still stands as a valuable document and it is this editor’s humblest hope that the additional material regarding the Praetor’s childhood serves to assist the casual reader with later references.

“This second edition is dedicated to the memories of my estimable colleague Dr. Joseph Griffin and our publisher Geoffrey Banstead.”

Sir Oliver Yates and J.M. Griffin LL.D., A Single Grain of Truth will feed the World: The Journals of Jabez Sycorax (1963 2nd ed.)

April 10

Today I met the man.
His name is B____.
J____ B____.
I fear he is the man, the man who might kill me.

It is wrong to show fear. This I always tell the heir. Then the father of the heir must not betray that sentiment. I must not betray the heir.

This B____ is a villain. He is a Gaboon Viper of a man. His body suggests violence. His spat words are violence. He too will bite to poison the blood of my nation. As all snakes, he camouflages himself. Charity worker!

It is time for the snake eagle to fly!

As all snakes, he strikes. And I know – yes! I know – he is indeed violent. He has already left his mark on my country. Has he come to leave his mark on my fate?

His eyes flame cold fire, his mouth is the cruellest I ever saw. He is the worst type of Englishman. He has their arrogance and their cruelty and his presence makes no pretence of it. Yes! The worst type of Englishman; an honest one. Not for this B____ I think the comfortable life and the feigning of humility. Not for this Englishman the superficiality of fair play. This is the true conquistador Englishman, the one whose forefathers would pillage and destroy and plunder. The one who England with her tweed suits and fine lawns would rather forget; the one whose works have given England the luxury of her tweed suits and fine lawns. The one upon whom all England is truly built. The one who is unashamed of the exercise of her power and will exercise it for her without remorse, without reflection, without pity.

With pride.

This is a man for my country to fear. He is a bad man, a villain.

This is a dangerous man; no, not a man. A creature. Men may be reasoned with. This is an animal. This is an animal who will not think without being told what to think. Or even to think at all – yes! Just as a distempered dog must be ordered to behave, this B____ will have no reason, will indulge his ferocious instinct, without his reason being supplied to him by others. And who are those others? Is their reason itself beyond question?

This I would doubt. This I would doubt for they would be English. They would be the English who pretend their decency, itself the bitterest indecency as behind the artifice of fair dealing and concern, they pollute the free peoples with the hardest steel of their repression. Their failure in their refusal to understand they can only think themselves right, but not be right. Their failure in having to buy – and take – their respect from other nations, not earn it.

I have seen his work. The destroyed Lucas. Lucas whose mother knew mine. Lucas, whose face I can seen in the photograph of that marlin kill in the week before the Kellima Raid. Lucas, who lies even now in the garage of the Ruby, that beaming face of victory over the lake now wrenched from him, off him, by and because of this B____.

What is he, this man? Why is he here? It is an easy answer. They have sent him.

They have sent him for me.

The damp breeze teasing the grey, brittle grass and the sky promising violence in its blood-dripped gunmetal, James Bond followed the man across the hard, sparse plateau, its dried mud bleached fishbelly white by the sick morning’s dimmest light. Through his thin-soled shoes Bond felt the unwelcome caress of the rockbaked soil and, remembering the armed policeman walking behind him, wondered how long it would be before this ground enveloped the rest of him.

Yes, he thought, there had been many moments like this; in a life of last chances, they are its defining quality. But previously, a hidden weapon, or a vehicle to run to; something offering escape; here, there was nothing.

At all.

Albeit no shorter, Bond estimated that Sycorax was easily three stone heavier than him. And yet this was the muscle mass of the alley bruiser, not the indulgent flab of those laughingly described as “political heavyweights”. His grey cotton suit, cut in the Parisian fashion and just – but Bond suspected, deliberately - too tight across the powerful bull shoulders, was decorated with the obligatory absurd sash, a rich purple silk draped from left shoulder to right hip.

Here was the Emperor, thought Bond. Time for an audience. Time to touch the hem of the garment and be healed.

And then…swaying gently to the rhythm of the man’s unstumbling, unwavering stride which pushed the insolent air itself from his path, from under the truncated left sleeve there swung that bone…

Bond did not know what he had genuinely expected of that, save a rather basic anticipation that it would be the whitest gleaming ivory, smooth and clean. Instead, it was a dull yellowbrown, seemingly – and repulsively – bloodstained and bloodveined, and as much of it as Bond could see was deeply pitted and cracked. As one imagines a python to be smooth and is surprised by the roughness of its scales, so this. For all the world, it could have been wooden. For all the world, Bond could have persuaded himself that a wooden arm would be less threat.

But plainly bone, the horn of some long-dead beast. Spitted along its greasy side, small brush hairs sprouted, like pigbristles. It was wretched, threateningly wretched. The evil curl at the tip brought to mind a dentist’s tool. Bond imagined that the whole thing smelled foul.

An image of the mutilation practice Tempest had described came to him; could it be that Sycorax used this bone for…?

Leave it.

Knowing that it would be futile to attempt anything even had he wanted to, Bond allowed himself the idle luxury of contemplating how one would bring Sycorax down. The chest was a hard barrel and the legs seemed thick, so this would not be a man easy to knock off his feet. How to escape the damage that left arm would cause? Have to come at him from his right, and yet Bond did not doubt that Sycorax would have compensated for his left side by making his other flank as strong as he could. The right fist, a medicine ball of grey-black leathery skin, seemed grotesquely bloated set against the straining suit and the other limb.

A powerful man, in every conceivable sense. The way the thin material of the suit seemed barely to restrain the undulations of the arms and shoulders; there was something of absurd exaggeration about it. But this was not a man to smile at, however emphatic in structure, however cartoonishly dressed.

And at no point did Sycorax look back.

As the strange little procession moved to where the boy sat on a large, flat stone, a single question troubled Bond. Why was Sycorax here?

Easy answer; he had come for him.

Bond contemplated the probable history. Fajeur, obstructed by the fire at the mountaintop, had headed straight back into DeveronTown to report; further debate about the body in the garage with a now determined and not entirely erroneous conclusion that Bond was responsible; and the decision taken: it would be Sycorax or no-one.

Was that how it had occurred? Or was this something far more innocent?

But it was hardly an accidental meeting. No sort of coincidence. It showed something of the man and, although Bond surprised himself at the thought, something not immediately disagreeable, that he would take the risk, come out here and…

And…?

Was it the man’s intention that Bond would be interviewed and then disposed of? The same for the girl, the Featherstonehaughs?

When Sycorax came to the boy, he stopped. The child, so absorbed in his teasing of the dog that he had not heard them approach, quickly raised his head in surprise. Bond, slowing his walk, assumed that this boy was the indulged Sycorax child of which Bewick had spoken.

And into the boy’s small, round eyes flooded the joy and pride of recognition. A great white smile burst into the tiny face as he saw that his father was there. Bond stood still and watched Sycorax extend his right palm and pat the boy’s dense, short black hair. Laughing gleefully, the boy joined the game, and started rubbing and patting the dog’s head in much the same way. As Sycorax became more playfully rough with his son, so his son did with the hound. Bond watched as the dog’s eyelids slowly drew back to reveal more white, the lips to reveal more black; well, it would probably serve the child right to be bitten, thought Bond. Alongside the boy’s laughter there was a dull growling, and although he could not be certain that this was not the tumbling thunderclouds above them, Bond felt in every onward second the inevitable attack. Would that precipitate further violence?

“Stop it.” He surprised himself. But there had been in the way Sycorax’s head had turned to the growling dog, and the slow raising of the bone arm, that had suggested to Bond that the animal would suffer upon the most innocent of instinctive bites.

Sycorax, still with his back to Bond, kept his hand on his son’s head, but lowered his left arm. The boy, from under the great grey-black palm, turned his face towards Bond, eyes of determined insolence fixed upon him. Bond met the stare, blandly. Then a rumble of thunder from Sycorax told the boy to let the dog go, and the child released his grip. The animal got to its feet and lolloped lazily past them, back towards the house.

Still with his hand on his son’s head, Sycorax lowered himself to the boy’s level. Bond watched the grotesque balls of muscle shifting in the suit as Sycorax came to his crouch. Until his father spoke, the boy’s attention remained on Bond. “Now, my son,” started the measured growl, so deep it hid any appreciable trace of accent. “Be brave and do not fear this man. Remember that I tell you not to show fear to the bad people who would destroy us. It is time for you to show that you are brave against them. Will you be brave?”

The boy looked at his father. “Yes, daddy.”

Sycorax released his hand from his son’s head, and reached into his jacket. The boy looked up at Bond with what Bond considered exaggerated confidence. Good boy, he thought. Yes, do what your daddy tells you.

Into the boy’s open hands, Sycorax placed a sheet of clean white paper and a stick of charcoal. “Now, my son. Go to that acacia tree. Look! High in the tree – what is that bird?”

“A hoopoe, daddy.”

“Good. Excellent. Now, go to the tree. Do not sit against it – why do I say that?”

“Fire ants!” said the boy, proudly recounting a past lesson.

“Indeed. But sit in its shadow. I must talk to this bad man. Do not fear for me. Do not think about it. Do not think of him as a bad man. Let not your mind keep such thoughts. Think of him as a guest in your country. Draw for him. It may make him less bad to see your picture. Do you understand?”

The boy looked down at the paper and charcoal, and then up at Bond. Still staring at Bond, he quietly replied. “Yes daddy. I do.”

“Good.” Rising, Sycorax kissed his son softly on the head. “Now go. Do not look back. I will make sure the bad man does not harm anyone.”

The boy turned, and clutching his paper and charcoal, ran from them. Sycorax, still with his back to Bond, as it had been throughout the ostentatious display of fatherly affection, pointed to a large, wide and smooth flat slab of grey rock, four feet tall and fifty yards from them. “We will sit there.”

The policeman’s gun pressing against Bond’s right kidney was unnecessary emphasis of the order.

He dared to rebuke the heir.

He protected the senseless dog above the boy, for he is too the senseless dog. He will protect those to whom he is closest in his base nature. He disgusts me. But I cannot let my disgust of him overshadow my fear. That would be unwise. I would treat him too confidently. I would be complacent. And then the dog will take advantage, the dog will bite.

He will not bite. I must assure that. He will not bite me. He will not bite the heir. He will not tear at the flesh of this country like the basest silver-backed jackal dog that he is. He will not attack and bring down this fledgling nation. I will not let him.

Is it right to have told him what I have told him? Is it right that he knows of Archangel? Will that protect my people from him? Yes; it was right. It was necessary to have him believe me. He must believe me. If he does not believe me, all shall be lost and this ten year fight will have been in vain. I cannot have him disbelieve. He needed to be tamed, he needed to learn. Only then can one have this creature’s trust. And if I, if my country, has his trust, can we then be protected, my people and I?

What alternative would there be?

To run with the jackal, one must smile more broadly. To dance deadly with the cobra, one must first show one’s fangs. It pains me to do it. It is not my nature. It cannot be my nature. But I cannot hope to deal with this animal without being of his nature. Because he is himself animal, he will see me as animal too! He would not understand me if I did not be the animal he expects me to be.

If I am not understood, I fail.

Bond took the silently offered cigarette packet. It would, he reasoned, be better to humour Sycorax and to maintain the cover. To refuse would have been hostile, and to be hostile would have been to raise suspicion. With the policeman sitting crossed legged three feet behind him, raising suspicion would not have been sensible. Thanking Sycorax for the book of Ruby Hotel matches, also presented without a word, Bond lit his first cigarette – Turkish, pleasingly viciously strong, recognisably a tobacco of the Syrian border – and contemplated the man’s left hand profile.

It was evident in his unblinking stare that Sycorax was expecting him to do this. Bond accepted the challenge. In the unhealthy shimmer of the pasty morning sun, the broad face, starting to run slightly to fat at the chin, appeared as blue-black as Bond’s bruising, save at the high cheekbones where, thinned by a series of four short but savagely deep, clawed scars, the man’s broken skin was the rusting maroon tinge of a young, fermenting Burgundy. When Sycorax sniffed upwards at the curling aromatic smoke, the movement of the cheek caused the scars to widen, like the mouths of hatchlings waiting for their worm. Just as with the left arm, there had been no indication of these wounds on the face looming from the roadside placards, Bond remembered. Why hide them? Too animalistic for the voting populace? Why then show the scars to him, Bond? Was this a display by an animal circling its prey? What was the man trying to suggest?

That he had fought beasts and won?

The nose was flat and wide, as if pressed back violently having charged hard with the head against an immoveable force. Sycorax’s eyes were large, the expansive whites beginning to betray nicotine induced dullness. Below the close cropped mat of grey black hair, spitted white like the wavepeaks of midnight’s ocean, rested the brow – no, not a brow; a crest - jutted outward, forward, and with a slight downturn at Bond’s end, like the peak of a station porter’s cap. It was solid bone, and Bond considered that all it lacked to complete the picture was a damned great horn sticking from the front of it.

For this was no man, reasoned Bond.

This was some force of nature, some beast; a charging, brutalising force willing to crash out of its way all those who stood up to it.

Could he stand up to it?

Slowly, seemingly satisfied that Bond had seen enough, the head turned towards him. In his curiosity, Bond noted that the right cheek bore no scarring. He felt the man’s gaze launch into him from under the great cliff of the brow. Instinctively, he looked away, down the valley, so vivid on the previous day but now washed an unhealthy grey undercoat.

He waited for the first rumble of thunder.

What could I do but sit with the man! I could feel his eyes considering me. Me!

Why is he doing this? Why is he circling? An answer too true; he is indeed a scavenger, waiting to see what flesh he can pick away at. Look at Lucas! Look at what happened to Lucas!

How does one start a conversation with such a man? Can a cigarette build trust? Has that worked? Will he remember that? Would the fate of my country hang upon a three shilling packet of cigarettes? Perhaps so! It would make me laugh were it not making me so very sad at the fragility of my people’s safety; that such a little thing, such a trivial thing, can keep them safe from harm, whereas a grand gesture is always deliberately misunderstood.

Is that what we have come to? Is this the world the heir must see?

And then it came. Accentless. Thundering. Deliberate.

“If you are who you claim, then take this as a story you can tell your English grandchildren in the years before you. How you met the saviour of Africa. If you are what I suspect you to be, and a reasonable suspicion given what you have done to my people, then it is even more important that you know what I tell you.”

Bond continued his stare at the valley. What could he focus on? Now…there, just beyond the thin waist-high line of barbed wire which he assumed marked the extent of the Featherstonehaughs’ land, a gaily coloured bird, a specie which Bond did not recognise, was pecking at a mound of what, to Bond’s eyes, had long been dead.

Keep cover.

Sycorax’s eyes he could feel hammering into his head. “Who do you suspect me to be?”

Silence.

The bird continued to peck away, undisturbed by the storm’s breaking threat.
Draining the cigarette of its goodness, Bond dropped the end to the ground and rubbed it into the soil. There was nowhere left to go but to turn back to Sycorax. Too long a wait for his response would work to confirm the man’s suspicion.

And Sycorax smiled.

Bond’s left side began its dull ache at the sight of the sharpened, white gleaming animal’s teeth. Wolf’s teeth. No, what was it they had in this part of the word? Jackals. Yes, that was it; jackalmouthed Praetor Sycorax.

“What I suspect you to be…hm! You come to this country, Mr Bond, mere days before the end of England here. You cause destruction, upset. You destabilise my people. This I suggest is not the activity of a man who brings charity to my land. You have given yourself away.”

“As what?”

“Killer. You have killed; I need not prove that. What I cannot prove but suspect is that you are a man who has to kill, rather than wants to kill. I would doubt that you want to kill me. What troubles me is that if you are a man who has to kill, is that more dangerous to me?

“A man who wants to kill might be less controllable, a madman, fulfilling some insanity, but then a man who wants to kill must also, at given times, not want to, to reign in his ambition. He has a choice. A man who has to kill is not prey to such thoughts. He is not a prisoner of his desires. He will kill without compunction.”

Bond said nothing, but pulled out and lit a second cigarette.

Sycorax continued. “But then, if a man who has to kill has little desire of his own, and irresponsibly, selfishly, leaves the decision to kill to be one made by others; who then are those others, Mr Bond? Who supplies you with the reason to kill, if you yourself have none? These are the questions I must ask you. These questions are why I sit here, with you.”

Bond shifted, turning more of his body to face the man. He regretted this move instantly; a classic interrogation signal, that to fidget suggests an attempt to distract. An attempt to hide the truth. “My name is James Bond of Universal Exports. On behalf of its board of trustees, I am supervising the transport of emergency medical supplies to the Eyelight clinic in Sengee.”

Sycorax’s smile broadened, and his eyes sang with pitying amusement. “You know as I well as I do, my friend, that that is no answer to those questions.”

Mock angrily, albeit genuinely irritated by the man’s condescension, Bond jabbed his right forefinger at Sycorax. “Look; first thing, I have enough friends. Second thing; that is the only answer I have to your questions.” He contemplated adding that if Sycorax did not want that answer, he should not ask those questions, but, considered that have been to confirm too much.

Better to stay silent, see what Sycorax thought he had and what he lacked, rather than filling in the blanks for him.

Sycorax’s smile dropped. “But you ignore the fact that a man lies dead, and because of you. Please save yourself the trouble of insulting me by denying that”

“Perhaps I wanted to kill him.”

“Perhaps?” The Devil’s grin, again. “Mmm. Perhaps.”

Bond ignored him. “And on your own basis, that means I acted on my own instinct. Trust me, Mr Sycorax: I have no instinct to kill you.”

“Or, if I am right, no orders to. Yet. And, as you ask, know this, please: I do trust you, Mr Bond.”

“I doubt it.”

Sycorax smiled. “No no no, please do not doubt it. What I say is true. An important thing my father once told me. Trust every man who knows you can kill him. Only those beyond your reach must stay beyond your trust.”

Bond slowly pulled the cigarette from between his lips. “The men who killed your father; did he trust them?”

Can I be certain that he is not who he claims? The face of Lucas suggests so, and it would be natural for the sort of creature I suspect him to be to try to misdirect me.

Yet his persistence throughout in his story must leave me with a doubt. It must. If I am to be rational; if I am to be a reasonable and just leader, I cannot strike out at him to rid myself of doubts. A younger man than I may take the chance, but I cannot chance the country on my suspicions of this B____.

I cannot.

Even if we must play a game, I will admit he plays it well. It is unwise not to show him respect. To dismiss him as irrelevant would be fatal. Again, these things I tell the heir and therefore I must be true to them.

I fear him for he is violent. I fear him also for his lack of respect - Italian Somaliland! I should have struck him down there! He is weakened and bruised; any man can see it! And his comment? Ignorance or deliberate? It matters not, but if he does not respect me, if I give him nothing to think about, he will not think twice about killing me. Even then, I have to wonder; is it his decision to make? Can I avoid him accepting the decision of others? Can that work? Has it worked?

Upon the heir’s life, it has to have worked.

I fear him more for his existence creates these doubts. These doubts are to test my quality as my country’s father. This B____ being here calls into question my ability, my judgment, my very right to run my country. I must rise above it.

I fear him for the possibility that I cannot.

Sycorax did not reply.

Got you, you bastard!, thought Bond. All this posturing, the preposterous notion of… what was it the man had said? “The saviour of Africa”?

Lunatic ideas. This playacting at new Empires! This was simply the son of a bloodthirsty two-bit general who probably got no less than what was coming to him. Now, to press it home, to give this arrogant idiot a taste of what the world thought of him. “I heard of your father, Mr Sycorax. I heard that he was a killer. Did he want to kill, or did he have to kill?”

No response.

Bond continued, “Italian Somaliland did not seem to benefit by him; why do you think this place will benefit by you?”

He wondered whether Sycorax would take the bait of the old colonial name. The man looked directly at him. “You miss the point, Mr Bond. And I want you to understand the point. It is important to me that you do.”

“So I can return home to England and tell everyone what a glorious thing your taking office is? Do you really anticipate that happening?”

“No. I am realistic. I appreciate that you may have a fixed idea of what my election will mean. If you are who you say you are, I expect that you have read it in your newspapers. Let us pretend that is where you read about my father. If you are who I think you are, then I expect you have been what you would determine to be “well-briefed”. But let us continue your illusion for the sake of argument. I read those newspapers too, Mr Bond, for I am most interested in your cricket matches. Do you find that surprising? That this bull elephant – and I quote your Daily Telegraph – has common, human interests? That this animal may have other appetites?”

Bond disliked cricket and said so.

In the almost despairing patience of father to wayward son, Sycorax continued, “Again, the point, Mr Bond. Please grasp it. Another thing said of me – and this time I recall it was from The Times – was in direct reference to my father. Doubtless well intentioned, it claimed that, with reference to my father’s history and then to my own position, a leopard can never change its spots. A curious thing to say. It is, of course, untrue. A leopard is born without spots. It does not bear those of its father, even if you would be told it does. Its spots, its protection, develop in response to its surroundings.”

“Is that how you see yourself, Mr Sycorax? A leopard? Come on; cut the poetry.”

“But, my friend, do not dismiss it so easily. Think on. I see you stare at that bird down there. Do you know what it is?”

“No.”

“That is a red billed hornbill, Mr Bond.”

“Is it?” Bond asked, drily.

“Indeed. And what is that it is eating, Mr Bond?”

“I expect that you’re going to tell me.”

“Quite so,” replied Sycorax, patently ignoring the sarcasm. “It is pecking at a dik dik, Mr Bond. A small antelope one finds up on these plains. Who knows how it died? Perhaps a lion? Perhaps one of these dogs, here. No matter. But what is of moment: the hornbill, Mr Bond, is not a carnivore. And yet see how it picks at the flesh. See the strips hanging from its beak. It has adapted. It has, in like manner, changed its spots. To survive. This is what will happen here; my people are adapting, and adapting to survive. We are changing our spots.”

“What if, Mr Sycorax, the bird cannot digest its change and suffers for it? Dies?”

“So be it; but it had the opportunity, taken freely. That is important. We all must do what we can to survive. What distinguishes us from animals is the manner in which we do it.”

Bond contemplated the end of his cigarette. Time to work on the cover story. “Thank you for the manifesto, Mr Sycorax; but remember that I’m only passing through your country. I don’t see why you had to come all the way up here to tell me this.”

Sycorax sighed. “I have told you why. I wanted to ask you questions. You are not answering them.”

“Help me with a question then, Mr Sycorax. How did you get that Rolls-Royce over those bridges?”

Sycorax snorted. “You ask a question like that! What a basic mind!” He paused, and it seemed to Bond as if the man was struggling to keep a hold of his temper. As if he were remembering superficial good manners. Curious. Sycorax smiled, without any great conviction. “Ah, so we continue with our games! Well, my friend, I have a barge. Simply a wide, flat platform. We float over the marsh. See again, though; I adapt, I change. That is in my nature. I have changed my spots, Mr Bond.”

He is vulgar. He is proud of his vulgarity.

I must repeat. To tell him of Archangel was right. He had to know.

He cannot do anything with the information. He thinks that knowing of it strengthens him. It does not. It weakens him; it burdens him for he cannot act upon it. The more it presses down upon him, the more he will have to give in to the urge I believe him to always be fighting. The urge to think.

The more he doubts himself, the more he will believe in me.

But am I right? What if he dismisses the thoughts and lets others make his decision? I cannot stop them making the decision. I do not have that power. What I have done today is to give him cause to question them.

Have I succeeded?

“Have you changed yours, Mr Bond?”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a dead man in the garage of the Ruby Hotel. You killed him, did you not?”

“Because he tried to kill me.”

“So you would not kill without good reason?”

“No.”

Sycorax smiled, satisfaction spreading. “That pleases me. Yet, I must ask myself, what do I make of my friend’s death? Do I announce to the people of DeveronTown that an Englishman came to the Ruby Hotel, killed one of my men? Would that not cause further upset?

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“Mr Bond, Mr Bond. I am a politician. I have no desire to see any more suffering than is politically necessary.”

“I saw DeveronTown, Sycorax. I saw the riots.”

“Indeed so, there are riots.”

Bond felt the start of the pain twinge as a gust of surprisingly cold breeze blew through the thin shirt. Damn! He had forgotten the pills. But it did remind him… “Who dug up the runway, Sycorax?”

“A most unfortunate incident. I grieve for your colleagues…of your charity.”

“A name.”

“I do not know. I am investigating. I would not want lawful visitors harmed.” Bond absorbed the word “lawful”. “Accordingly, I cannot start accusing people without proof of their ill-will. It would be very unwise to take any step without being sure of what I was doing.”

“Your friend Fajeur said the same thing. Party line?”

“Yes, I am sure Fajeur would be true to that. He remarked upon you to me. He said you had admirable, brave, strong qualities. He suggested he would like another meeting sometime.”

Yes, thought Bond, running his tongue along the raw crevices in his mouth. I bet he would.

Sycorax continued “…but I advised against it. For the moment. As I said, Mr Bond, no more suffering than is politically necessary. The riots are under control. I will tell you a certain truth now, Mr Bond. They have always been under control. It is an understanding between me and Joseph Gwembe. Neither of us truly wants outside interference in our election. Accordingly, the riots are sufficiently violent to dissuade any third party entering by force. Oh, that could only escalate the problem. Any other nation would be well advised, Mr Bond, to keep well away. It would upset the natural order of things.”

So, thought Bond, if that were true, we’re all being played for fools by all these bastards. Was that plausible?

“Accordingly, Bond, think with me here upon the death of Lucas. I would seek your view. If I told my people that you, an Englishman, had killed him, doubtless – and quite rightly – there would be fury. It may get out of control. Also, if I directly blamed you, or indeed the British Government, then that makes things easier for my opponent, Mr Gwembe. He can denounce the incident too. That could strengthen his support.

“Whereas, if I am to blame him and his followers, he would doubtless accuse me of lying but then one would expect him to suggest that, wouldn’t one? And I have cast sufficient doubt on his good faith that people are unlikely to believe him. And the riot would be unlikely to escalate beyond its current state. Would that not be the best solution? I think so.”

The voice dropped. “Be reassured James Bond, I have no personal desire to protect you and no personal desire to harm Joseph Gwembe. I like the man. He is brave, resolute. He is trying to win, as I am trying to win. For that I must respect him. In truth, I wish him no ill will. Again, speaking as a man and not a politician, my world, my people’s world, is not damaged by Joseph’s presence in it. I am not yet satisfied that I can say the same of you.

“However, what I do have personal desire for is improving my opportunity to lead my people, improving the opportunity for my beloved son to do the same, and if, although it would grieve me to do this, if it is more profitable towards my goal to blame Gwembe for my friend’s death than you, then that is what I will do. If, accordingly, it is more profitable to use this incident to wipe Gwembe off the surface of DeveronTown, rather than use it to avenge Lucas upon you, then that is what, with a heavy heart, I must do. Do you understand?”

Bond nodded. “Admirably pragmatic,” he said, softly.

“I believe so.” Again, sarcasm wasted.

If there is more to him than I fear, what then?

Can I trust Archangel to do his task? Why does this B____ create such doubt? Why should I not have confidence in Archangel?

No; Archangel is true to me. I must not have doubt there. If it comes to it, Archangel will do his task.

The click of a cocked revolver, from behind them.

Bond did not look around. Lighting the third cigarette, he muttered to himself “Same old story.”

Bond waited for the shot but it did not come.

Beside him, a rustling more than the stiffening breeze. He looked up to his left, the vice of the bruising on his neck beginning its well-remembered squeeze.

Mrs Featherstonehaugh.

Neither Bond nor Sycorax said anything. Both watched the pale old woman, paler still in the glimping light, walk past them, threefourfivesix steps, and stop. She did not turn to face them, but instead let the wind clutch at her shift and at her ice-white hair. The way the air rippled through both reminded Bond of the mainsail of a ship fighting a gale determined to tear it away.

A ship fated to sink.

“Mrs Featherstonehaugh,” rumbled Sycorax. Bond winced at the mispronunciation of the name; all the finery of the purple prose, the purple silk too, and yet here was a thug no better than the life he was vainly trying to disguise. Sycorax repeated his call.

The woman turned. She was beginning to shiver and Bond saw in an instant how the bleak reality of the day had aged her. Her skin seemed translucent and Bond felt sickened at the sight of the grey veins set into her, the dilapidated marble of a long abandoned palace. The way her nightshirt smothered her reminded Bond of how his aunt’s house had been in the weeks after her death; the furniture covered over, the atmosphere of being resigned to a future of uselessness, of abandonment.

She took four steps towards them, near enough that both men had to look up at her. Staring down at Sycorax, she said softly “Please, Mr Sycorax. Please leave here.”

Bond cursed the woman. Stupid, pointless thing to say! No doubt in her mind she had devised the plan as a good one, but this was so unutterably futile a gesture that Bond had to fight to prevent himself reaching for her, taking her by the shoulders and trying to shake or smack some reality into the damn fool bitch.

Instead, he let his fists clench and unclench, twice.

Sycorax stared at her. “In due course. In due course. Then you may eat your breakfast.”

The woman stood still. “You do not understand, Mr Sycorax. Leave here completely. Do you not see the damage you cause in this country?”

Sycorax smiled blandly. “That I cannot do. That I must not do.”

Mrs Featherstonehaugh turned to Bond. “All I wanted to do, Mr Bond, was to look down the valley.” Bond did not respond. “That was all I ever wanted. And now I have seen it enough. Why look back?” With that, she walked past them, and away.

With increasing pain, Bond turn to watch the small white figure, float ghostlike back over the grey plain to the small white house. He turned back to face the valley. From the corner of his eye, he was surprised to see Sycorax still gazed after the old woman.

Probably wondering how to kill her, thought Bond.

It is a tragedy what happened to those people.

But I could not prevent it. I do not have the power to prevent it. Such things are beyond my control. I cannot dictate a man’s action.

B____ will not see it that way. He will use it against me. Does it give him justification to do what I fear of him? How may it? How may it, to a reasonable man?

I forget; I dealt today with unreasoning beast.

The woman I respect for what she said. Honest and brave, she stood a clearer expression of what England wanted of me.

More honest than B____.

Honest and true she stood, all in white. What is it she reminded me of? A cloud? A cloud, yes. An old thundercloud, its power expired. About to dissolve in a new day’s fresh breeze.

“A most curious interlude,” said Sycorax as he turned his head back to Bond. “She has shut the door behind her. Perhaps she is in fear.”

“Can you blame her?” asked Bond, watching his grey smoke twist upward.

“I doubt, Mr Bond, that I am in any position to persuade her not to fear. People always fear what they cannot understand. What they refuse to understand. They perpetuate their own suffering. How do I prevent that? How can I?”

Bond breathed deeply the pungent air. “You could stop the demon-worshipping.” He stared ahead of him, without looking. “You never know, Sycorax. That might help.”

Sycorax snorted. “How can I prevent that either? If my people deserve their freedom, they deserve their freedom to believe that which they wish to believe!”

“You don’t appear to discourage it.”

“Again, a considered political compromise my friend. If I were to stamp it down, they would tear me apart. I have no personal desire to see the Astaroth cult revived, but to gain their trust I must, with regret, acquiesce in its rebirth.”

Bond did not believe him, saying so.

“Indeed, my friend, it is all a question of belief. If I am not threatened by the belief you express, which I am not, why should my belief threaten you? Be threatened by war and guns and knives, Mr Bond. Do not be threatened by a choice of thought.”

Bond watched the hornbill, sated, fly from its meal. “What do those symbols mean? The ones that were on the garage?”

“They are simply exhortations, Mr Bond. If you do not accept any truth in the nature of Astaroth, then you need not fear a drawing. You really need not, my friend. I did not fear the line of crosses on the road when ordering my man to drive over them. I see not one reason for you to fear. I do see that you might hate; I suspect that you use your hate to justify a fear. Do not mistake them, hate and fear. To combine them is the act of the cornered animal; in fear, it will strike in hate. In unreasoned hate, it will fear, and then hate further. Do not be the animal, Mr Bond. You cannot let hate and fear feed each other. There is only one solution for an animal such as that.”

“Which is?” said Bond, anticipating the reply.

“Such an animal has to be hunted and destroyed. It is not fit to be let loose.”

Bond flicked the cigarette end over his shoulder. A satisfying grunt told him he had indeed hit the guard with it. “Enough philosophy, Sycorax. You didn’t come all this way to deliver cheap homilies. What is it you want?”

“You have still not answered my questions. Hmm. Well, not directly. So be it. Perhaps you are indeed right, though you know it not. Perhaps it is time to be direct. Yes…First, then, know this. There is no conceivable way you can make use of what I am about to tell you. If you are who you claim, treat it as a fantastic tale. If you are who I think, understand that there is nothing you can do about it and simply continue on your journey. Then you must leave this hurting land without hurting it further. If you complete your task of charity and deliver your supplies, you may leave the country at the border with Kenya, up at Keekerok. There is an airstrip there. I see no reason to stop you. By then, it will be too late for you to prevent anything. If you remain after what you claim to be your job is over, then I will interpret that as an act of espionage and a direct personal threat. I will have you killed. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” Now, thought Bond, now we’re getting somewhere. Let him talk.

“I believe you. Now, there is a man. A Russian. His name is Sergei Korolev, but it is not so much his name as his function that is of importance. Korolev is a technician of the Soviet air force, Mr Bond.”

Bond did not recognise the name. He recognised well enough the stench of Russia. Unsurprising. Pathetically unsurprising.

“In two days’ time…” Sycorax trailed off.

“Yes?”

“In two days’ time, Mr Bond, the world will change.”

“I doubt that your election to high and mighty Caesar of this place will be seen as a world changing event…”

Sycorax smiled. “For the world’s sake, Mr Bond, hope now that you are correct. Let us continue in proper order, however. Only then will you decide whether it is right to hate, or right to fear.

“Consider my position, Mr Bond. This is not a wealthy country. Your people drained us of our resources. The British Empire was no more than a bloodsucking animal, a leech. I do not expect you to agree with that so do not express your disagreement for I have anticipated it. I have to do what I must to build an infrastructure. I will not get money from the British; that is evident. The Americans, again no. The Russians…”

Here it comes, thought Bond. Time for the standard politburo line.

“Spare me the red flag, Sycorax. Do you really think this country would be better off run by the Kremlin and not the Crown?”

“Immaterial. The Russians are merely convenient to me.”

Merely convenient to him? Bond stifled his sneer. Keep cover. “From what I read in the newspapers, I doubt they would see it that way.”

“Ah, but I have something they crave. What they crave is my knowledge of this country.”

Bond lit his fourth cigarette. “Sorry to burst a bubble, Sycorax, but I expect they will find that sort of thing out for themselves. Either before or after they drive their tanks through your Unholy Roman Empire.”

A grunt of patient amusement erupted from Sycorax. “Oh, Mr Bond, how simple and innocent is your view of the world! No, Mr Bond, my knowledge is what they crave, and what they need, and a good reason why this country will be left in peace. For I know where the gold is, Mr Bond. In a manner of speaking.”

“Don’t tell me; more rubies?”

“Oh no, Mr Bond. Richer than rubies. Considerably more practical.” Sycorax stopped, and looked at Bond. Bond assumed he was deciding whether or not to continue. “Well, my friend. I have decided you should know everything I think you should know. Do not ask why. So, where to begin? Four years ago, Mr Bond, UNESCO and UNDP undertook many geological surveys in this area, and in all countries that lie along the North Equatorial Fold Belt. A great exercise in investigating the agromineral potential of what they call the developing world. After all, Mr Bond, the overweight children of America and Europe can become more overweight if our land will grow their food.

“Accordingly, before the potential of the soil can be exploited, it needs to be carefully assessed, primarily for the phosphates that will engender life.”

“And this land has those, hence the gold you mention…”

“No, Mr Bond. Not at all. You assume too much. You can read the findings in the UNDP report, which true to its real function, only reports on those lands where the soil will sustain Western exploitation. Come see the truth of the United Nations. It fails, deliberately, to mention the countries whose potential for food yield is low. It fails, deliberately, to mention its findings of what was in our soil. Accordingly, Bond, our attempts to get assistance from the United States have failed. They do not see any advantage in lending us even one single shovel. The Russians have taken a more benevolent view. They promise to assist the development of our agriculture.”

Bond stared at nothing. “When those ploughshares turn into swords, you’ll find you can’t stop them taking over, Sycorax.”

“Mr Bond, Mr Bond,” Sycorax whistled with pity. “Do not think me so naïve. There is mutual advantage. What is in this country’s soil, what is in the soil beneath our feet, Mr Bond, are Bakouma phosphates. I know this. Few others do. It is not, because of the deliberately corrupt agenda of the United Nations, public knowledge. Do you know what has a high content in Bakouma phosphates? I assume not. Uranium, Mr Bond. Specifically, uranium-235. Do you know what that is used for?”

James Bond felt his stomach rise. Yes, he knew. And yes, he saw another good reason to have those riots; to stop prying eyes. He knew now why the Russians were involved in this speck of a country. “No.”

Sycorax looked at Bond. “Hmm. So, it has been here longer than all people. It stays in the soil for hundreds of millions of years. For all that time it has not found a use. And then! The Manhattan Project needs not my congratulation, but it has it anyway. All that power, from dust.”

Dust to dust, thought Bond. Man-made clouds. He swallowed softly to drown his rising sickness.

Sycorax paused, and smiled. “And so it would be unwise to grow America’s sweetcorn in it, would it not?”

Bond breathed deep, pretending that it was inhaling the sweetness of the tobacco. So! Ticking time bombs all round, this hellhole. The people. The so-called police. The so-called government. The ground itself. This rock. All sitting on a damn great nuclear bomb. And here come the friendly Russians with pockets of tainted roubles and some rusty tractors to help turn the soil over.

How could he stop this? Was it even worth considering how? Could he stop this? “Why tell me?”

“Even if you do not reciprocate, Mr Bond, I feel that honesty is a good policy. If you are what you claim, then the information is just a story and you cannot do anything about it. That you are suspicious about being told a story suggests to me that you are not all that you claim. If you are what I suspect, then true, is telling you a wise move? Think of it this way, my friend. If I do not tell you, will I have sewn seed of doubt in your mind? Will that make you persist in staying here, to return, to hamper me, in trying to find out more? That would not be ideal for either of us; not for me, because, my friend, you would be a significant distraction. And not for you, because although it might pain me to order it, you would have to be killed. So be it.

“So, to avoid any further questions, a calculated risk. How would you put it – “come clean”? I have nothing guilty to confess, for I have done nothing wrong. Perhaps you would not see it that way. And if you are, as I suspect, an agent for an enemy government, the nature of the information is such that in two days’ time, the world will know the information anyway. You are still nearly a day from your clinic. You would not have time to relay the information properly.”

“There is another option. You could just kill me.”

The birdmouths in Sycorax’s cheek gaped more hungrily scarlet at his grin. “Why would I do that? I am attempting democracy. I am no monster. It would not sit well for me to kill, or have killed, foreign aid workers. True, I cannot guarantee your safety in Sengee, do tread carefully, but you are presently living because I still have doubt about who you are. Cling on to my doubt, Mr Bond, for it is all that is keeping you alive. Treasure it. Do not do anything to remove all doubt, I exhort you.”

What use can he make of the information?

Even if he is my worst fear, in two days it will all be known? Why should I fear him knowing the truth, even if he keeps his own truth hidden from me?

Clouds rolled along the valley as the heavens whitened; to Bond, it was becoming difficult to distinguish the ground and the sky in the overwhelming greyness. Difficult to distinguish the truth of the situation from its appearance.

Was the man lying? To what end? Merely to threaten him? Although Bond’s instinct was to mistrust him, was that simply to fight the inevitable? There was a gruesome logic to what the man said; that Bond would stay to discover truth. An impossible brutality of sense, then, in what the man did.

“I would not want you to leave our meeting today, Mr Bond, believing that I have not heard you. I am proud that you fear for my people, in what you suggest the Russians will do. They will not do what you claim. No; perhaps I am too definite. Let me rephrase; I am trying to ensure that they will not do what you claim.

“You must understand, Mr Bond, that I am going to declare a new republic, a new dynasty for this country. I am declaring it not for my future, but for my beloved son. My heir and I, we have much to learn from the Caesars, indeed from your own Royal Family…and yet were they not the product of political compromise? To have a monarchy when there was no lineage, did your people not create one? A political convenience with Hanover, was it not? Look at what I am trying to create here, Mr Bond. A lineage stretching into decades, centuries. Why should I not have that opportunity? And why, then, should I subject that dream to such frailty by, as you suggest, letting the Soviet Union stamp me down? For my sake, for my son’s sake and the sake of his children yet to come, I cannot let that happen.”

“You might not be able to prevent it,” said Bond, sourly.

Sycorax grinned. The razor teeth grinding against each other, Bond felt each one digging into him. “I have some insurance. I have Comrade Korolev. No; again, my misfortune of bad expression. I have someone who knows the face of Comrade Korolev.”

“I don’t understand,” said Bond, not untruthfully.

“Neither would I expect you to. But I need you to, and now. Perhaps it will save both our lives that you do. Perhaps save many more. So. Let me say first, friend Bond, that you are not so very wrong to mistrust the Russians. But mistrust makes us all better negotiators, yes? And sometimes, it is better to negotiate without the other party knowing. The Russians, they come to openly negotiate with me. They recognise the inevitable victory. They wish to show goodwill. They send goodwill ambassadors.”

Bond remembered the reference Cremmer had made to the four Russians at the airport. What had their names been…?

“Chief among these is a young pilot, Gagarin. He is the important one. The other three are not of significance, but are his cover. Do you know why Gagarin is significant?”

Bond shook his head slowly.

“Hmm. In Russia, there is a place called Baikonur. I expect you have heard of it.”

Yes, thought Bond. Yes, damn you, I’ve heard of it. Those reports skitting across the desk, the grainy photographs of nothingness supposed to represent missile facilities, but instead showing little more than tower blocks and ugly grassland. Baikonur, the great Soviet launch site and the greatest frustration to the West; that it did not appear to exist. “No.”

“Ah! Well, so be it. Hmm! Now, Mr Bond, if you are not what I think, take this as of mere interest. If you are what I suspect, take it as free information. Baikonur site is not in Baikonur. It is 250 miles to the southwest, at Tyuratam. Look for Leninsk, Mr Bond, on any such map to which you have access, and you will find it. Baikonur, Mr Bond, is a cosmodrome. And Comrade Gagarin of the Soviet Air Force is their cosmonaut. A brave man.

“I do not pretend to understand, Mr Bond, but while they are here, do you know what my Russian visitors do? They sit Comrade Gagarin in a tin box. The heat would be incredible. It sounds absurd. I told them this. This is where Comrade Korolev reveals his importance. He had to come over the border at Uganda, Mr Bond. Apparently, it would have been unwise for him to have been photographed appearing at any airport, for fear of abduction by…an enemy of his country. For Comrade Korolev is, albeit under the pretence of an aircraft engineer, the chief designer and engineer of the Soviet space programme, their Vostok mission. Perhaps you knew that? What does it tell us? That sometimes people are not what they appear to be.”

Less than subtle, thought Bond.

“So, Korolev insists that his lionhearted pilot, Yuri Alekeyevich Gagarin…” Sycorax carefully pronounced each syllable, but this time Bond did not know whether he was right or not, “…must experience extreme heat as well as extreme cold, for what must go up must also come down, yes? The experiment has apparently been conducted also in their Siberia, but Russia at this time of the year, it is so difficult to find heat, so…cultural exchange. Do you know what it suggests to me, Mr Bond?”

“No.”

“That the Russians do not know what to expect if they shoot this man into orbit. That they are guessing. This makes my pride for Gagarin even greater. That is true freedom; the freedom not to fear the future. Can all of us, lesser beings than Gagarin, experience the same freedom?”

Sycorax paused. Amongst all the rhetoric, this had been a direct question. Bond ground the cigarette into the clay with his heel and then looked up. “I expect not.”

“Then we must try our best, my friend. We must make our lives, not let others make them for us.”

Bond turned to Sycorax. “Look, friend, knock it off with the Christmas cracker mottos. Get to the point, then do as the old woman said. Leave.”

“Ah, you mean Mrs Featherstonehaugh.” To Bond’s appalled surprise, Sycorax pronounced it correctly. Fanshaw. The big man smiled unpleasantly. “An absurd way to spell such a name, but I gave her what she was looking for. That I was an uneducated thug, a beast…”

“Don’t tell me; we are not always what we seem to others to be.”

Sycorax lowered his head and stared at Bond darkly from under the granite brow. “Precisely. But, as you request, and as I must do more today than speak to you, no more interruptions will make this journey shorter, yes? So. There is only one way in which I will not win this election, Mr Bond. That is if I die. Indeed, I cannot lose this election, Bond. I can but lose my life. The polls will close on so significant a majority it will appear that it was simply a waste of time for Gwembe to have challenged me.

“So, how to protect myself and how to protect my people? Providence, and the soil of this country, lands Comrade Gagarin into my hands. I said a moment ago that in two days, the world will change. This is no lie, Bond. In two days’ time, with Comrade Korolev supervising, the Russians fire from Baikonur their Gagarin into history; perhaps into oblivion, but history nonetheless. Of what I know, the launch time is fifteen minutes after the last declaration of my election. I know this, for Korolev told me the time; how they love their vodka, these Russians! I know the time of the last declaration of my election for that is…arranged. Do not worry yourself about that, Mr Bond. The ballot boxes are already filled.”

Archangel is true to me.

All I told B____ of Archangel is true. I can but now hope that B____ believes me. If he does not, the world is lost.

All lost. In his hands and I fear he will let it run through his fingers like water. Or blood.

“Do not look so shocked, Mr Bond. That is how it is. And this is how it could be, if I am in any way prevented from taking power in my land. I have appointed an agent. His name…well, perhaps it is better not to say. But he is known to me as Archangel. Archangel is a Kazakh; he has no great love for the Russians, although he will work for them. He works for them on this grand project of theirs. To fire a man into the heavens, Mr Bond! And to beat the Americans to it! He approves of the Americans even less.

“To put it bluntly, Mr Bond, should I not be elected – and the only thing now preventing that is my death, which will not be voluntary I assure you – Archangel has my standing instruction to blow Vostok 1 from the sky. How he does this is his concern. I have not troubled myself to know. All I know is that he sits and waits in Elshubai, apparently 10 miles from the launch site. He waits for news. Ideally, Mr Bond, no news.

“Should bad news come to him, he will perform his task. And upon performing his task, lead the authorities straight to him. Having met the man, having persuaded the man, I know him to be prepared for this. For he is dying, Mr Bond. He has an inoperable cancer. He has been prepared for years. And when the Russians find him, the burning shell of their glory showering fire down onto them, they will find evidence enough to suggest American sabotage of their greatest endeavour.

“I have little doubt that the world would then be at war, or shortly afterwards.”

Bond felt sick, and plainly looked it as Sycorax continued: “You asked me to accelerate my tale, Mr Bond.”

Bond sucked the air. It stuck like glue into his spavined mouth. He felt as if he were choking. Swallow after swallow and the sensation would not pass.

God almighty! What was this madness?

“Nothing to say, Mr Bond?” The most gentle savage mockery in his voice, to Bond’s horror, Sycorax raised his left arm, thrust the bone down into the cigarette packet, puncturing the paper, and drew it away from Bond. This pantomime over, the big man calmly lit his cigarette and waited.

Finally, the left side of his neck bursting with pain and his head throbbing, Bond uttered “I don’t believe you, Sycorax. There’s nothing in it for you, or this fictional Archangel.”

“Tchah!” The snort was cruelly derisive. “No better than I expected. If you are what I suspect, then you have disappointed me greatly, Bond. For Archangel, there is greatness, either way. If I live, I have promised him a safe retirement and money beyond measure to his family. Think, Mr Bond; such money I can literally dig up from the ground! He, like I, sets great importance upon the futures of those he has fathered. He is a proud man, Mr Bond. If I die, he is guaranteed fame. What fame that is, Mr Bond, is upon who wins the subsequent war. Such is the true spoil of victory, James Bond; the winner writes the history books. As for me…do you believe in a god, Bond?”

Bond felt nauseous. “Do I need to?”

“All I would advise is that you pray that I am still alive to hear my glory.”

“I have no…desire to kill you, Sycorax.”

“If you are a man who has to kill, then your desire is an irrelevance.”

“Regardless of these bloody word-games Sycorax, think about this: if I am who you claim I am, what if it is not me who pulls the trigger? If you die before the election, but not at my hands, what then?

“Mr Bond, if I am dead, I will not be in a position to concern myself. If I die before I am elected, I take the world with me for if I am not elected, neither will my son be. Do you understand?

“I cannot prevent you being killed if it is someone else’s will.”

“I am sure the satisfaction of that thought keeps you sane, Bond. If I did not see you – no, the people behind you - as a considerable threat to my personal safety, Mr Bond, I would not have made this journey. I am not claiming that you and your people are the sole threat to my safety, I am not claiming that at all. But I anticipate I am working to counter a considerable risk. The risk will never be wiped out, I am not foolish enough to think that. But considerably lessened…I would live with that. And with that, I believe I will live.

“What if someone were to kill you after the election?”

“If it is a chance killing, it is a chance killing. If it is not…then that is an act of war against a sovereign head of state. If…if an outside force pulls that trigger or turns that knifeblade, I would anticipate that my new acquaintances in the Kremlin may react…poorly. All that will need to happen is a record of our meeting, Mr Bond. I keep records.”

“You cannot rely on a dying man, Sycorax. What if he sabotages the mission even if you survive?”

“He is like me, Mr Bond. He would not sacrifice his family for such personal satisfaction. He knows that I would destroy his family, starting with the youngest, the most innocent. I would make him watch that death, and each death thereafter. That is enough to make a man fear. As for the world, I would expose the plot. Not my side of it, naturally, but that I anticipated the plot during the cultural exchange. I will be particularly well-informed about it. I will emerge a great world peacemaker.

“Please, friend Bond, do not invite me to harbour doubts about Archangel. What I say is true, and he is true to me.”

“Then why not give a name to this Archangel?”

“Of what possible use could you make it, Bond? If I die, it would be better that you could not find him. If, as I expect will be the case if you are James Bond the charity worker, I live, then Archangel is an innocent man ill-deserving of any persecution.”

Bond hoped that it was the first drops of rain on his cooling skin that were causing him to shiver.

Sycorax took a long draw on his cigarette. “So, that is so. Such is the world, Mr Bond. It is as I have said. Those are Archangel’s orders. If I die before taking office, he destroys brave Comrade Gagarin and then…who knows? But why live in doubt, Bond?”

Bond let the nicotine swim through him before replying. Could this be right? No; it was too fantastic, too terrible to contemplate. To contemplate…what? His inability to change it? His utter impotence?

But if it were true, then…yes, the chessboard had just been turned inside out. The game was being played, certainly; but played by what all the Kings and Bishops had assumed were their pawns. If this were true, the pawns were in revolution.

Bond turned to Sycorax and waited for the man’s gaze to hit his. Quietly, slowly, Bond said “I don’t believe you.”

“My friend, you know that your belief in it is immaterial to its truth. None so blind as those who do not see; blinder still the man who refuses to see. Blindest yet the man who sees only his star shining in the sky whilst the ground at his feet falls away. Mr Bond, it is the truth. The truth does not require your approval. And let me help you here, my friend. Accept it as the truth and you will think, think sensibly, of how you stand in relation to it. You will be better able to react to it. Ignore it, or deny its truth, and you will be stumbling, hopelessly lost. Which would you prefer?

“Humour me, Bond. Take it as true, and we move on. I cannot do anything more to convince you of what I say, but that I have said it at all, and said it to you, a man who would kill those around me and, I suspect, eventually me; that itself should be conviction enough, no?

“Then those who would decide the fate of the world; they are us. We two, Mr Bond, are today the world’s most powerful men. Imagine that, my friend, that we, sitting on this rock, this bare stone in the heart of the lands from which all life sprang, we have the power to shape the world’s future. We need no armies, we need no weapons. There was no revolution. There was no putsch. Circumstance gave us this power. We two men, sitting here, are today the sum total of human achievement. This is what it has all been building towards. Everything has been tumbling forward to this quiet moment. So, we just need to make the right decision, do we not?

“And, indeed, if you are what I suspect you to be, then you are more powerful than I. For it will be at your decision where the fate of the world lies, Mr Bond. If you are ordered to kill me and you do, there will be war. It cannot be prevented. The blood of millions will be on your hands, Mr Bond. One little bullet can kill the world entire.

“Yet, now think further: if you are ordered to kill me and you do not, there will be no war. But you will have been ordered to kill me and will have disobeyed. And what does every master do to a disobedient dog? Do not reply hastily, my friend. Take your time to think of your answer.

“So, indeed, today I may have lied to you when I suggested we two had the world in our hands. That is not so. We are not of equal power. The world is yours, Mr Bond. You may have strived for many years for that. And now, you have it.”

“I don’t want it.”

Sycorax breathed heavily. To Bond, it sounded like a last dying sigh. Softly, sadly, the big man said “It is as I have said. None so blind, Mr Bond. None so blind. Do not deny your position. Please, do not be petulant. Do not be aggressive. Do not let your blind faith in yourself cloud you from your wider responsibility. You know that refusing to acknowledge your culpability for the next decision is no choice at all.”

His whole presence causes me to doubt.

Am I right? Am I right in what I have done?

But I cannot stop it now. Archangel is beyond my reach. Let us all hope that he never hears of me again.

But let me look at the heir, sleeping upon his bed. It is he for whom I do this.

So. I am right. I am true. I cannot doubt. Doubt is cancer. I will not let it eat me.

I fear I balance too many things. Is there one that can be beyond my control? No! All is within my reach. Such is the politician! But I must ensure this B____ does not put matters beyond my control. Then it will all tumble and the world is lost.

How long had they been here? One hour? Two?

Fat drops of rain robbed Bond of thinking of such comforting trivia. No; Sycorax had to be wrong.

Had to be.

“You may keep the cigarettes, Mr Bond. A present from the DIA.” The beaks in his chin spread vilely as Sycorax grinned. Bond stayed seated, cupping his cigarette against the weather, as Sycorax rose, a mountain of a man, now enlarged more by his story. “Goodbye, Mr Bond. I sincerely hope, my friend, that we never meet again.” With a not unpleasant grin, Sycorax bowed and turned.

Bond watched as the boy ran-skipped across the thin grass to his father, clutching his paper and charcoal. All of this, for that one child, thought Bond. If it were true.

If.

The boy tugged at his father’s left jacket sleeve – Bond noted the lack of trepidation at approaching the bone-arm – and patiently the large frame crumpled itself down to hear the little voice. Some whispered entreaty, agreement reached, and the boy started to approach Bond, folding his paper into half, then quarters, in front of him. As soon as Bond’s eyes met the boys, neither averted their gaze.

As if teasing a rattlesnake, the boy stopped a yard from Bond and, trembling, held out the paper. Unsmiling, Bond took it from the boy. As soon as his gift was discharged, the boy withdrew his hand sharply, bitten by the bad thing, and ran after his father who, with the guard behind him, was storming back to his Rolls-Royce. With his back twisted to watch them, Bond, deliberately not thinking lest his thoughts depress him, watched Sycorax and the boy climb into the back; an unmistakeable roar, a twist of dust and the car was gone, over the hill and back to the road.

Bond filled his mind with nothing, save the desire to be precisely what he had said; James Bond, of Universal Exports, supervising the charity’s work.

But there is desire and then there is reality. And which was Sycorax’s. Not a desire for war, surely. But a reality…?

It was ten minutes later that Tempest approached Bond. She had watched him sitting on the rock, facing the storm. Why did the man Bond not move? Where had the Featherstonehaughs gone? Why had they insisted she stay down here? Why did the man Bond still not move? When the rain hit him, and still he did not rise, she resolved that she had to go to him. Get him in from the cold. He would be no good to her or her patients with pneumonia.

He did not look up as she approached.

He was staring at the piece of paper.

She could see the rain running down his face; were those tears?

How bruised he was, still!

The piece of paper.

The pa…

She cupped her hands to her mouth. Was this the work of the child? A child had done this? Unmistakeable, even though the rain ran rivers through the charcoal dust; the mark of Astaroth.

It was only when the gunshot rang out that Bond reacted. Brought back into his depth by the recognisable comfort of sudden violence, he crunched the drawing into a ball and, throwing it aside, grabbed her roughly by the right wrist and sprinted for the house, and the world he knew.

I now decide I must persuade him further. I will send Fajeur to Sengee.

This B____ appears to fear him.

To do this; is this doubt? But I must use such strength as I have to.. I have to. Is it weak? What is my weakness? My love for the heir? Is love weakness or blindness?

Then what is hate?

Editors’ note. This is the last mention of B____. The reader with even a passing knowledge of modern history will know that the diaries end on 12 April 1961. The reader must draw his own conclusions. The editors would simply advise against jumping to the obvious one.