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[volante]

Ian Fleming's James Bond 007

 

 

 

 

NEVER THE DEATH

 

By

Paul Taylor

 

 

 

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

Tensions rise following a cyber-attack upon Saudi Arabian oilfields
by the terrorist group ‘Complete Darkness’
When London is next targeted,
James Bond is dispatched to eliminate the threat.
Following his only lead Bond journeys to Japan.
Here he learns that the technological modern World
is soon to be threatened by a criminal genius.
Escaping certain death at the hands of Yakuza assassins,
Bond travels to Africa to foil a plot to start a nuclear war.
Bond’s task is simple, stop the cyber-attacks and prevent
World War Three.

 

 

 

 

 

PART ONE

Each day is full of gratitude
…and tomorrow one seeks hope
In the rising of the Sun

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Detour

DUNGUAIRE Castle, Galway, Ireland.
5 days to Complete Darkness

A sudden gust of wind picked up the slack in the Irish tricolour and the mighty flag billowed atop the pole cracking it like a whip. The man in the black woolly hat lowered his binoculars, and activated his ‘in ear’ communications devise.
    “Helicopter approaching from the North East - Out”
    Seventy five feet below the man in the tower’s vantage point the similarly attired recipient of the message began to scan the skies. After a moment he saw the machine. Instantly he mustered his men into action.
    “They’re coming, let’s prepare the welcoming committee”
    Two black clad men pulled on their helmets and started their Honda quad bikes. Their leader jumped onto the back of one and together they rode out of Dunguaire Castle.
    The 16th-century tower on the south-eastern shore of Galway Bay had witnessed many bloody battles over the centuries but the scars of conflict had been lovingly restored to an excellent condition over the past ten years. Normally the grounds are open to tourists during the summer, and the castle is thought to be the most photographed castle in Ireland, but not today.
    The two quad bike riders bisected the other armed guards patrolling the castle perimeter on their ride to the make shift landing site.

 

***

 

In the passenger compartment of the Westland WS-61 Sea King helicopter, James Bond reviewed the instructions on the screen of his iPad. The diversion on Bond’s journey from Glencoe to London was apparently only going to add one hour onto the journey time.
Fortunately Bond had eaten a hearty, if not too healthy breakfast at his home, as the thought of lunch at Vauxhall Cross had not filled him with delight.
    The Rolls-Royce Gnome engines dropped in pitch, and the Sea King, which was primarily designed for performing anti-submarine warfare missions, began to drop from the sky.
    James Bond pulled the rope handled wooden crate closer to him. The soft undulation of the landing gear hitting the ground told him he was once again back on terra firma.
The door was pulled open, and the two black clad helmeted aliens beckoned the passenger from the helicopter. James Bond jumped out. The two black clad guards pushed past him and pulled out the padlocked crate.
    They placed the crate on the ground. The lead guard gestured to Bond for the key.
    “I need to check it” His accent was East European.
Bond dropped the key into his hand
    “It’s all there”
Quickly he opened the crate and rummaged through the oil paintings which were rolled up within. The guard rummaged through them with the air of a man who knew absolutely nothing about oil paintings. Without finesse he stood up, slamming the lid shut back on the crate.
    “It’s all there, get the car” He spoke into his ear piece.
One of the other guards searched Bond and removed his gun. Neatly he tucked it inside his own black wax jacket.
    “Worried about something are we now?” His accent by contrast to his leader was pure Dublin.
    “You can never be too careful” Bond replied without looking at the man.
The Lead guard gestured for the helicopter to take off.
    “Okay you two take him up to the castle” The helicopter rose into the sky.
Bond was escorted over to the quad bikes. As the Sea King turned away, Bond noticed a car approaching across the fields. Bond slowed, delaying his journey to the castle.
    A sea green Land Rover Defender 110 pulled up on the ground recently vacated by the helicopter. The driver hurried to the back and opened the door so that the lead guard could load the crate into the back.
From the back of the quad bike Bond turned to look back at the action
    “That crate should be coming with me”
The lead guard waved them away. Above the roar of the engines he shouted after them
    “Change of plan” His laughter faded as the Sea King roared over them.
The two guards took Bond up the road and into the castle. Bond counted ten more mercenaries patrolling the grounds on the short bumpy journey.

 

***

 

Inside the castle grounds the quad bikes stopped and the engines fell silent. The guards and Bond dismounted. Bond pressed the wind button on his Omega Planet Ocean, sending a high pitch signal to their communications devises. Together the guards reached for their ears, trying to remove the ‘in ear’ devises.
    Bond overpowered the first guard with a punch to the solar plexus, but as he was disposing the first man the second guard ripped off his helmet, and pulled out the ‘in ear’ communicator. In one smooth movement he pulled out Bond’s own gun on him. Sadistically he aimed and pulled the trigger, but the Walther didn’t fire. The man looked down incredulously at the gun. Bond stepped in and twisted the gun from his hand.
    “I think you’ll find this is mine” Bond shot the guard with the gun fitted with a micro-dermal sensor in the grip so that only Bond could fire it.

***

 

Inside one of the well-furnished rooms in the castle a man heard the shot. His thick bushy wiry eyebrows raised as his senses heightened at the sound of the shot. Springing up from the lavishly upholstered green leather wing back chair he crossed the room to a large Jacobean desk.
    His thin brown fingers grasped the ornate brass handle, and he pulled opened a drawer in the desk and gently extracted a Beretta. With gun in hand he nervously went to the door, but the door flew open in his face.
    A Walther PPK pressed against his forehead. Bond pushed him back into the room
    "A Walther PPK, I only know of one man who carries that gun with such confidence. You must be James Bond" The man said fretfully, his thin winy Asian voice sounded like finger nails down a blackboard.
   "And you must be Tamerai Kahani. Put your gun down Kahani"
   "Of course. If I had known it was you, Mister Bond. I promise you I would never have…" He stopped talking and dropped the gun. The white teeth emerged from behind his thin lips.
   "Let’s cut the pleasantries shall we? Where’s the weapon?"
   “No weapons here Mister Bond; oh no” His hands opened at his sides, comically lifting the hem of his jacket. His dark brown eyes danced behind a false smile.
   “I’ve been told that you’re looking after some hardware for the Complete Darkness terrorist group”
   "Sorry Mister Bond the Alphanox is not here. It’s been moved on!"
   “I thought we had a deal?” Bond made a mental note on the word ‘Alphanox’
   "Ah! You need to know about the deal breaker" The eyelids blinked over the dark brown eyes.
Bond pushed the gun against Kahani’s forehead
   "Deal breaker?"
The unforgiving cold mouth of a gun pressed against the nape of Bond’s neck. Kahani raised his thick bushy eyebrows and gestured to behind Bond…
   “Meet the deal breaker Mister Bond”
Kahani picked up the Beretta from the carpet and pushed past Bond taking the PPK from his hand as he went past. “Thank-you” he said in a sing song tone. Bond turned to see a dark haired East European girl holding a gun at his face. Her piercing blue eyes were completely focused on her target.
    Kahani placed his hand upon the girl’s shoulder. The long thin dark fingers curled over the smooth silk material of her green jacket.
    “I’ve had a better offer from my good friend Kaija Kuld. I like her currency”
    “Pure gold” Bond translated the name from Estonian
    “Deal’s off Mister Bond. Hands off, please Mister Kahani” The girl hissed at them.
    “That’s a shame, I brought all the paintings you asked for” Bond watched as Kahani quickly removed his hand from the girl’s shoulder. It was clear their arrangement was not yet fully cemented. Room for Bond to negotiate. He pressed forward.
    “I’ll double the offer” Bond looked directly at Kahani; he wanted to understand just how far he could push the situation.
    “Off the top of my head Mister Bond I can’t think of any more old masters I’d like to hang on my walls” Kahani laughed awkwardly.
    “We could go through the paintings now…if you want” Bond angled his head.
    “Not to make you feel bad Mister Bond. But I’m going to take them all anyway”
    “Ah well at least my journey wasn’t a total waste then” Bond smiled sarcastically
Kahani and Kaija backed out of the room together.
    “Goodbye Mr. Bond” Kahani said as he wiggled his thin fingers. The heavy wooden door shut. And locked.
Bond instantly scanned the room, looking for an escape route. Quickly he went to the window. The bars on the window were new he tested the resolve. They had obviously been applied well after the 16th century, but were none the less a resolute deterrent to entering or leaving the castle by this route.
    Bond was about to move when from his vantage point high in the castle he saw Kahani and Kaija emerge from the castle and go down the dirt track to the sea green Land Rover. She walked like a model he bounded at her side like a playful puppy.
    As he watched their progress Bond carefully pulled a ‘cotton thread’ thin wire from the body of his wrist watch and wrapped the powerful explosives around each of the bars on the window.
    At the Land Rover Kahani opened the back door, and beckoned Kaija inside.
Bond continued to wrap the explosive wire around the bars. As he did so he observed Kaija casually lift her gun and shoot Kahani three times. Shocked Kahani stumbled forward and slid down her body. Kaija stepped backward and let the body fall.
    Bond stood back, and pressed the button on the watch. The bars exploded, and fell off; jingling and clanging on the floor. Bond opened the window and prepared to jump.
    At the Land Rover Kahani now lay dead on the floor. Oblivious to the explosion from the castle Kaija looked at the blood on her lime green silk jacket. With slow determination she stroked her finger in the blood; and then raised her finger to her lips. Her small pink tongue darted out and licked the blood. She shuddered, and then smiled sadistically. Only then did she look up at the window to observe Bond as he prepared to jump.
    Her eyes remained focused on Bond as she casually tossed the gun onto the back seat and tore the jacket from her body. With disdain Kaija held out her arm and dropped the blood soaked jacket over Kahani’s body.
    Kaija jumped into the back of the car. The engine roared and the wheels fought for grip as it drove away.
    Bond calculated his moment then jumped from of the window, down onto a passing guard, knocking him off his quad bike.
    "Mind if I borrow this?" Bond said to the unconscious guard, as he took the guard’s Uzi 9mm machine pistol, and climbed onto the quad bike. Bond engaged gear and rode off after the Land Rover. Bond took the quad bike high on the rise. It was the longer route, but he needed to keep his distance from the guards at the castle, there ineffective gunfire was falling well short. Bond climbed the rise. At the crest he scanned the horizon. For a second he thought he’d lost her then saw the Land Rover rushing through the trees of a copse, about two hundred metres away.
Bond opened the throttle and shot off after the Land Rover.
The quad bike took off over a small hillock, and then skidded through a muddy gully, the engine roared in his ears. Bond could see the Land-rover had turned away from the direction he’d first seen it going; he needed to follow it through the copse. The bike skirted the small copse until Bond could see some sort of pathway. Then, without hesitation he plummeted into the bushes. Bond opened the throttle. The branches whipped past his head. Bond jinked and twisted the bike, negotiating stumps and branch tangles, the bike took off. Bond went down a steep gully, then gunned the throttle to quickly climb up the other side. The quad bike roared over the top; landing in a squeal of brakes and tyres. The Land Rover was just ahead now. A quick flick of the brake light and the car turned once again, drifted away down a slope. Bond dropped a gear and swerved to follow.
    The Land Rover erupted from the trees, moments later Bond flew from the copse in pursuit. The land was open here; a gentle slope meandered away to the left, for about fifty metres, and then disappeared. Further away Bond saw the land rise up; he estimated the land on both sides met in a dip, possibly a river bed. Bond angled in behind the Land Rover. The driver side window opened and a spray of bullets from another Uzi machine gun filled the air with instant death. Bond tucked in behind the car. He could see the girl looking back at him.
    The odd outcrop of rocks to the right-hand side, but a deep ripple in the land to the left. Bond need to guess which side he should attempt to pass.
    “Going left” Bond gunned the throttle, and pulled along-side the passenger side of the Land Rover. The driver looked across at him and smiled sarcastically, lifting the Uzi again. Bond smiled back and raising his own gun shot him first. The Land Rover veered left. Bond dropped the Uzi and squeezed on the brakes. Together they slid down the steep bank. The car was going to topple over at any moment. Bond gunned the quad bike down the slope, angling away from the doomed car. The Land Rover careered down the bank and flipped over crashing over the rough ground.   The slope got steeper, and the car flipped over again finally coming to rest on it’s roof against a tree at the side of a fast running river. Bond slid the bike to a halt and rushed down to the crashed Land Rover.
    As the wheels revolved slowly in the air, flames were already growing from the grill and engine compartment. Bond smelt that the diesel tank had already ruptured. Now, there is a myth that diesel doesn’t burn like petrol. Bond knew that if you throw diesel on to a small flame like a candle the flame would go out because the mass of diesel would cool the wick and quench the flames.
But a tank full on a hot engine? Stand back. Once diesel starts to volatize at 200-300 degrees C, the vapors burn just as well as petrol vapors do. Bond knew he had only moments before the Land Rover exploded. He opened the rear door.
    Kaija hung from her seat belt. The crate had smashed through the rear seat, and now lay on the roof of the car. Bond pulled the crate from the car.
    “Can you move?” Bond asked the girl.
    “I can’t breathe” She whispered
The flames were now mixed with black oily smoke. The fluids in the engine were well and truly alight.
The floor and fuel tank had burst and diesel was dripping down into the rear compartment just a few inches from her body.
    “Let’s get you out” Bond crawled into the tangled mess of the Land Rover.
    “Help me” Her eyes were dull and filled with tears. Her forehead was gashed.
The stench of diesel filled the cramped compartment, the acrid black smoke cut out the light from the front of the car. Bond was in the middle of the cabin, he reached up to detach Kaija from the belt. Whilst his arms were fully extended Kaija brought the gun up into his chest, it’s cold mouth nuzzled into him. Her eyes suddenly began to burn bright, even angels have their wicked schemes.
    “Where do we go from here Mister Bond? Back to London for hours and hours of interrogation and then torture?”
   “It doesn’t have to be like that. Just tell me who you work for. Tell me what you know about Alphanox, and the Complete Darkness group. I’ll get you out of here then you can make your own way home”
    “What do you know of my home?” She spat, her eyes challenging him.
    “I think it’s pretty similar to mine” Their eyes met “We do things that other people can’t, and won’t do. Tell me what I need to know then get out of here”
    “You’ll let me go, just like that. I’m supposed to believe you?” Her eyes tried to seek the truth in Bond’s.
    “Make your mind up” He said calmly. The flames were billowing from the engine compartment, the pops and crackles spurred on the building heat of the fire, Bond felt the heat against his skin.
Kaija lowered the gun. Bond reached up and tried to lever the seat belt open. The buckle itself was twisted in the holder. Bond pulled on the belt, but the pretension was holding her tight. A loud bang from the engine resulted in a cascade of sparks. The movement rocked the upturned chassis, and deformed the ruptured floor even more. The droplets of diesel came down faster, and ran along the crack and began to pitter patter down upon Kaija’s shoulder. Her eyes sought an escape.
    “Hold me” Bond said urgently. He put his arms out. Kaija dropped the gun and wound her arms around him. Bond pulled at her body, but her injuries made her scream. Oblivious to her injuries Bond continued to pull her. The fuel was dripping constantly onto her neck and back.
    Her breath came in short heart felt pants, but he continued to pull. Then inevitably, the pain became too much. Bond eased her back, and let go.
    “I’m stuck” She whimpered. The smoke seeped in through the cracks in the windscreen. Kaija frantically looked around her small piece of hell. Instead of panic taking hold of her an inner calm descended over her. The fire had taken hold of the entire front half of the Defender.
    “You better go” she coughed, her eyes pleaded with him. The effort induced more pain; silent tears ran down her face. The first drop of diesel silently infused in her hair, as it touched her scalp her face betrayed the futility of his efforts.
    “Go now” She pleaded
    “No” Bond tugged at the belt with a renewed effort “Who’s behind this, what do you know of the Complete Darkness group. What is Alphanox?” His hands tore at the seat belt buckle.
    “I don’t know. The money appears in my bank account overnight. They appear to be able to bug any phone and hack any computer. No one is safe. No door can be locked. Even if you get me out of here they will come for me” She pleaded.
    “What is Alphanox?” Bond adjusted his hold upon her. He felt the diesel soaking through his sleeves and into his arms.
    “Truly I don’t know. I thought it was some kind of computer programme that infected other computers” The smell of the fuel filled the air.
    “A virus?” Bond saw more drops hitting her head.
    “At first I thought so, but it is something physical. Kahani was looking after it”
    “What was your part of the deal?” Bond hammered the seat belt mounting with the butt of her gun.
    “I was hired to kill Kahani” She saw the flames pouring into the front compartment.
    “Why?” Bond smashed the gun against the bolt, like a demented lumberjack.
    “Because he was doing a deal with you. He had the Alphanox here this morning”
    “But it was moved on” Bond said remembering Kahani’s own words
    “Yes. He thought he was going to be safe too” A pitiful smile crossed her face.
    “We can hide you” Bond interrupted her thoughts, and shouted above the effort of his movement. With all his strength he issued one more mighty blow. The bolt sheered and the buckle came free, Kaija dropped to the roof of the car. Bond held her, lowering her to the roof. Quickly he kicked open the door closest to the river and crawled out, his knees crushed against the tiny pieces of broken glass. It crunched like ice beneath him. Bond swivelled around in order to pull Kaija from the car. His hand reached out for her, his eyes urged her to move. A dull blue flame crept from in-between the front seats. The upholstery began to burn. If the flames ignited the fuel she would be gone in a second. Kaija saw the fire encroach.
    “Come on, I can pull you free” Bond urged
    “I don’t think you can”
    “We can protect you from these terrorists”
    “Complete Darkness? I don’t think so” In her hand she held a small silver cigarette lighter. Her thumb depressed the trigger. A small flame appeared. The fuel ignited.
    Bond leapt from his position, arching his back he shallow dived into the river as Kaija tossed the lighter into the rear compartment of the car. The Land Rover exploded in a ball of flame. Her scream was loud but very short lived.
    The cold enveloping water closed over his body. The shock brought him back to life. Bond began to crawl along the bed of the river, his hands brushing through the reeds and over the small river bed stones. Above him the ball of flames sucked at he air and lifted the water up to fill the void. The river’s current took him down river for about twenty meters. Bond surfaced and took a large gulp of air. He looked back at the inferno which had once been the Land Rover. The thick black smoke billowed from the wreck pushed upward by enraged orange flames.
    Slowly Bond crawled out of the river and lay on the bank. Low on the horizon the Sea King was making it’s way back toward him.
    Bond made the climb to the top of the bank, the wind chilled him. Grass and small particles of dirt whizzed around him as the Helicopter landed. Bond squinted against the whirlwind and made a fast crouched run across the space and flung himself into the body of the Sea King. He closed the door, and the rotors changed in pitch, the machine took off. Bond checked his watch he’d only been on the ground for twenty minutes.
    The Sea King made a slow lazy turn over the burning wreck of the Land Rover, and headed south east, toward London.

 

[volante]

Chapter 2
Ball and Chain

Cape Town, South Africa.
Pollsmoor Maximum Security Prison.
5 days to Complete Darkness.

 

“Nelson Mandela once described Pollsmoor prison as epitomizing Oscar Wilde's haunting line about the tent of blue that prisoners call the sky” prison governor Robert Courtney gesticulated elaborately at the patch of clear azure blue that hung above the south exercise yard.
    The large rotund face of the Minister of Defense, Nosiviwe Mapisa-Nqakula momentarily looked up, then smiled sympathetically back at him. Not impressed with his theatrics she set her head at a jaunty angle that said ‘lead on please’.
    “Pollsmoor is a maximum security prison with little means in the way of escape” the entourage entered the administration block. The chill of the air-conditioning took away the burn of the sun, and raised the blonde hair and goose pimples on Robert Courtney’s freckled arms.
Madam Mapisa-Nqakula dutifully nodded at the proud boast.
    “We also are very proud of our 100% none re-offend record” The sweat evaporated from his brow, this thin lips drawn back in a smile.
    “That’s because most of your inmates are in here for life, Mr. Courtney” Her furrowed brow hurt his integrity and wiped the smile from his face.
    “Some of South Africa's most dangerous criminals and roughest gangsters are held here, Madam Mapisa-Nqakula. You make it sound like a bad thing”
    “Not at all Mr. Courtney. I am simply stating a fact”. Her brows raised, willing him to respond.
Undeterred Courtney continued toward the hub of the admin block. His well-practiced speech continued…
    “The prison has a staff of 1,278 and the capacity to accommodate 4,336 offenders” Courtney was forced to halt as he realized he was walking alone, his guest of honour had stopped in her tracks. She looked at him with an air of disbelief. Courtney floundered at the sound of the words he hoped he would not have to respond to.
    “How many prisoners are there here today Mister Courtney?”
    “However today the current inmate population is just over 7,000”
    “Most of which are black?” Her voice was harsh.
Courtney avoided the direct answer, he dipped his shoulder and walked away, his voice lingered like a bad smell in the room
    “A figure which fluctuates daily. Most inmates are awaiting trial, which can take up to four years”
In an intense silence they entered the IT suite on the fourth floor of the admin block. The electronic whir of the fans buzzed through the air.
    “And finally our ‘Piece de resistance” The thin smile returned to Courtney’s face.
Madam Mapisa-Nqakula observed the twin banks of monitors that filled two of the walls, their screens relaying live scenes from all over the prison. In-between the two banks of monitors was a single large window which looked out upon the main courtyard. Everything smelled of pine disinfectant.
    “Here minister, is where you learn the secret of our success” Courtney pointed at the monitors, and then led the party between them.
    “CCTV?” Cynicism crept into her voice.
    “No. More than just TV. Much more than you can imagine. Some time ago the wardens could patrol only certain areas of the prison” He pointed to a screen that showed an inmate walking along a corridor. His finger traced around the convict.
    “Behind the steel doors the convicts themselves were in charge, they had their own hierarchy, their own laws. The death rate was alarming. In 1986, 28 prisoners went berserk and revolted killing 14 guards. Now the most vicious and violent of the gangs is called 28 in their honour. Here in the maximum security wing all the floors and walls are all constructed with an interlaced metal mesh” Courtney guided the minister to one of the men sitting at a desk top “Perhaps you would be good enough to provide a demonstration” Courtney did not refer to the man by name.
The young black man looked up at Madam Mapisa-Nqakula, he cleared his throat.
    “A magnetic field may be represented by a mathematical description of the influence of electric currents and magnetic materials. The magnetic field at any given point is specified by both a direction and a magnitude (or strength). The magnetic field is most commonly defined in terms of the Lorentz force it exerts on moving electric charges”
Madam Mapisa-Nqakula peered closer at the monitor, the key-board operator’s hands flashed over the keyboard. Suddenly the man on the screen stopped moving. He became literally rooted to the spot.
    “He has magnets in his boots” Courtney said triumphantly. He pushed a strand of blonde hair back in place.
    “Magnetic fields are produced by moving electric charges. In special relativity, electric and magnetic fields are two interrelated aspects of a single object”
    “It’s called the electromagnetic tensor” Courtney gestured for the man to continue
    “The split of the tensor into electric and magnetic fields depends on the relative velocity of the observer and charge. In quantum physics, the electromagnetic field is quantized and electromagnetic interactions result from the exchange of photons”
    “You mean they can’t move” The minister simplified the answer
    “The twenty first centuries answer to the ball and chain”
    “It’s barbaric” She straightened up, and sniffed the air.
    “No, it’s necessary to ensure that nobody escapes from here”
    “Can’t they just remove their boots?”
    “No” Courtney’s word had the finality of a hangman. “We are impregnable; no one can escape from here” His eyes shone above his thin smile.
    The alarm cut through his gloating. The man on the PC feverishly prodded the keyboard. Madam Mapisa-Nqakula watched in horror as more and more of the monitor screens filled with a stampede of inmates racing across the monitors.
Suddenly, beside them smoke seeped from the cooling vents on a desk top, the smell of burning plastic flooded their senses. In a brilliant shower of sparks a computer burst into flame.
The operators doused the fire with foam. Courtney and Mapisa-Nqakula looked on expectedly, their eyes fixed upon the action in the room. But the real danger was behind them. The whole room began to shake.
    The window filled with the descending form of a pale grey Mil Mi-17 helicopter. The noise from the engines drowned out all activities within the IT suite.
    The Mil Mi-8/17 is a medium twin-turbine transport helicopter that can also act as a gunship. To prove the fact the ‘50 cal’ frame mounted Barrett barked it’s death speech on the guards in the south tower. Masonry shattered and broke away from the body of the tower, the whole fabric of the wall crumbled under the onslaught of the gun. The tower began to collapse…
    “…The guns won’t respond” The man at the keyboard was shouting. Courtney looked at the monitor he was pointing to. The monitors showed that the computer controlled guns in the guard towers were resolutely pointing toward the ground. But it was another monitor that had now caught his attention.
    Courtney watched in horror as a thin man with over long steel grey hair strolled across the courtyard. He was bare foot, and the pale skin of his feet matched that of his hands and face, which was in stark contrast to his dark blue prison uniform. The jacket hung from his skeletal frame. Unable to look away, Courtney held on to the monitor with both hands as he watched the thin man calmly climb on board the helicopter.
    “Wilund” Courtney whispered. A drop of sweat ran down his cheek.
Behind Courtney, in real life the Mi-17 now rose in front of the window. The thin man with unruly steel grey hair could clearly be seen within the body of the machine. Courtney ran to the window, his palms pressed against the glass, behind him another computer exploded, and then another. The next moment saw all the monitors erupt like a volcano blowing it’s top, projecting razor sharp pieces of glass and plastic throughout the room.
    Nosiviwe Mapisa-Nqakula fell to the floor. Courtney was swept aside from the window. Within the body of the Mil the man known as Wilund smiled, and gently waved goodbye.
    Outside the electrified prison fence two units of the Special Task Force were thwarted by their own electronic gates. The code pads simply refused to give them access. In frustration they watched powerless as the helicopter rose into the blue sky.
Most government residences in South Africa are guarded by members of the division's Special Guard Unit. Today the divisions at Pollsmoor were all hand-picked volunteers, all were experts in handling hostage situations and other high-risk activities, but now all were powerless to stop the escape.
    With growing frustration they watched the Mil fade from view. Then without warning they were forced to duck for cover as the prison exploded, massive chunks of stone were propelled across the court yard. The police dogs barked in vain as the hole blown in the wall was soon filled with hundreds of fleeing prisoners. The men were armed with the most primitive of weapons, such as rocks and iron bars. Their revenge and lust for blood was soon satisfied as they overran the Special Guard Unit position.
Like a surfer riding the crest of a wave a dark blue Mercedes S class sped away from the prison. The car quickly outran the mob as they spilled out on to the long road to freedom. The twin plumes of dust kicked up by the car hung in the hot stale air.

[volante]

Chapter 3
More than money

 

MI6 HQ Vauxhall cross, London.
4.5 days to Complete Darkness.

Gareth Mallory, chairman of the intelligence and security committee entered M’s office. With the eyes of a predator and the grace of a dancer he honed in on M. Mallory nodded curtly to Bill Tanner then quietly smiled as he handed over the daily newspaper to M.
    “It would seem that cyber warfare is fast becoming the dominant element in every country’s military arsenal” Mallory sat down and crossed his legs. The silence hung like a thunder cloud waiting to burst.
    M threw the newspaper down on the desk, and steadied himself for his reply. Bill Tanner quickly closed the burgundy leather padded office door, hoping his action would cosset them all in a cocoon of temporary safety.
‘MI6 powerless’ the bold newspaper headline mocked them with the sensitivity of the information the lead story contained.
    “Experts would confirm that the intelligence…” Tanner began, but M silenced him with a look of finality. Kicking back his chair he stormed over to the window. As he spoke the glass steamed up from his passionate breath.
    “Judging from the news over the past day or so, everyone’s an expert” Sir John Green rested his palms against the window and studied a large tug boat as it strained to tow a heavily laden barge under Vauxhall bridge. Recently he felt his own position as head of MI6 seemed strangely similar. Now he was being squeezed by both the Foreign Secretary and the intelligence and security committee. The barge slid from view…
Mallory broke the uneasy silence…
    “Over the past few days there’s been a flurry of intelligence related to cyber warfare. Unfortunately the channel that transfers it is easily accessible to the news media”
    “Then what the hell are we paying our people at GCHQ to do?”
‘Touché’ thought Tanner although he said nothing. M continued…
    “It was the anti-virus firm Kaspersky that discovered Iran’s nuclear program had been under attack. Not our boffins in Cheltenham”
    “They’ll always be reasons; we just have to ensure they’re not excuses. I didn’t note any complaints when they gave us the Saudi intel…” Mallory gave a measured response.
    “…Oh yes we got on to the Saudi problem quickly enough. But only after the perpetrators told us when and where they were going to attack” M’s voice rose.
    “It was more than any of your field operatives were able to ascertain” Mallory countered. Gently he smoothed his hair back over his ear.
    “The Saudi oil fields were brought to a standstill, and even though Complete Darkness told us they were going to do it, we were powerless to stop it happening. Our intelligence actually thought it was an Iranian retaliation, and because of that, that’s where my field operatives were looking”
    “The first wave of intelligence was rather spurious” Confirmed Tanner
    “They even said the Iranians had given the virus it’s name ‘Flame’” M pointed back at the newspaper. His finger dabbed the headline.
    “Effectively it turns every computer it infects into a spy; The New York Times reported that yesterday! Then we thought it was the Stuxnet worm again” M said in a sarcastic mocking voice. He picked up the newspaper and shook it.
    “And what intelligence did we discover this morning?” M inclined his head, suggesting Tanner should give the known response. But M himself continued…
    “That Iran and the Saudis were both attacked by the same cyber terrorist group”
    “It is difficult to keep this information undercover Sir” Tanner tried to ease the problem.
Gareth Mallory lent forward, his hands spread before him.
    “When NATO held its latest International Conference on Cyber Conflict, it published everything. Now Malaysia is about to host its own conference on cyber warfare…”
M rushed in “…Then perhaps I should be asking them how to halt the threat that now faces Britain?”
    “I was going to suggest that we send someone to liaise with their experts”
M sat at his desk. Calm before the storm. He hit the intercom and spoke to his ever present PA.
    “Miss Moneypenny. Would you send Q in please?”
    “Yes sir” The upper class English accent breezed through the intercom.

 

A moment later Q entered the office. M held up the newspaper.
    “This must be about Complete Darkness” Q un-buttoned his thick Harris Tweed jacket. “I trust we are taking their threat seriously?” he said enthusiastically.
   “Yes we are” Mallory spoke confidently.
    “It would appear so Q. Please, can you explain to us what you know about this terrorist group?”
    “They’re using the latest weapon at their disposal”
    “That’s vague. Can you say what this terrorist group is really up to? Why would they attack Iran on behalf of the Saudis and then facilitate the retaliation. Surely there can’t be any longevity to their escapades if they continuously bite that hand that feeds them. Tell me this is just a fad” Mallory asked
Q looked to M for permission to reply. In response M lent back in his chair and steepled his fingers
    “Sorry Mister Mallory, but I don’t think it is just a fad. I believe there’s good reason for the rising interest in cyber warfare. After all, there are many appealing aspects to the Countries governing bodies. Instead of wreaking mass destruction and snuffing out human life, countries can attack virtual targets in cyberspace. An aggressor state does not need to expose its own troops to the dangers of conventional or unconventional warfare, thus avoiding casualties and spending millions. Let’s face it the difficulty Western societies have coping with casualties is immense…” Q paused to check that his audience agreed
    “…And since cyber weapons can be deployed anonymously from a distance, the aggressor doesn’t risk political fallout, let alone absorbing a retaliatory attack”
    “I can relate to that” Mallory melted back into his chair. His superior tone seemed to enrage Sir John.
    “That’s true, but what do they stand to gain?” By asking a simple question Tanner hoped to calm his boss down.
    “Stand to gain? They’re hackers… What do all hackers want? Like all craftsmen, hackers like to play with their new toys. In fact, that's an understatement. Good hackers find it unbearable to use bad tools. What do they want? They want to show off. They want to prove that they are better than us. That’s what they stand to gain”
    “How do we stop them Q?” M asked
    “Make it boring for them. Divert their attention. For god sake don’t fight them; they’ll just keep coming back trying to go one up against GCHQ. What we need to do is make the outcome useless. They'll simply refuse to work on projects with the wrong infrastructure. After all they are not trying to invade a country, they are just trying to get one over on other hackers” Q thought that everybody understood the premise.
    “They’re terrorists Q, not IT specialists for god sake” M bristled.
Q continued with the counter point “I disagree; cyber warfare seems so bloodless and ‘clean’ that there hardly appear to be any real ethical dilemmas with which politicians can grapple. There won’t be any votes gained on bringing these geeks to justice I can tell you”
    “So we just ignore them is that it?” M’s face was turning red.
Q shook his head; he crossed his legs and grasped his knee with his interlaced hands, rocking gently back and forth.
    “No. It’s another threat that we have to learn how to deal with, trouble is that as long as the public don’t seem affected by the attacks the government funding to combat it won’t be made available”
    “This isn’t about a moral philosophy concerned with limiting human casualties and physical damage. This is about destroying the economy of a nation. And, if we are to believe this ‘Complete Darkness’ group it’s our nation they are going to attack” Mallory allowed the comment to hang in the air, hoping to incite some motivation.
    “They want to steal more than money. The damage to the Saudi economy was minimal, but the devastation to the oil companies was huge. It’s those companies that dictate where the funding goes. Every oil company CEO will be arranging a golf tournament or a splash up dinner with their pet MP’s to discuss when they can increase the price of oil to the UK” M wiped his brow.
Q looked at Tanner his face showed concern for his boss
    “When warfare is waged using a piece of code against some intangible objects, without directly causing casualties or physical damage, the anthropocentric principles of Just War Theory hardly seem to apply” Q un-crossed his legs, his hands, now free from restraint began to flutter. Tanner continued the conversation
    “Nevertheless, it would be a mistake to claim that cyber warfare can be conducted without a consideration of its moral limits. For instance, if it knocks out electricity and the refrigeration necessary to protect supplies, even a modest cyber-attack could lead to starvation and the suffering of thousands of the innocent”
As Q spoke his eyes darted from M to Tanner, his hands moved in sympathy. Q always spoke quickly, but very clearly.
    “Or if a cyber-attack disables an air traffic control tower, it could lead to a plane crash and real deaths. And even if ‘only’ intangible targets are wiped out, it could have far-reaching consequences”
    “Exactly Q. Advanced economies, especially in fields such as business and property services, communications, finance and insurance, depend for their functioning and growth on information-based, intangible assets” Mallory added
    “That’s right; my good friend Tan Lim Tong of the University of Kuala Lumpur has estimated that in highly developed countries as much as 70 percent of GDP depends on intangible goods. An attack on these intangibles could result in a major economic crisis with potential lethal consequences. Therefore, it is absolutely imperative that the international community draft an up to date moral code”
    “Moral code my ass. We have intelligence that indicates your friend Tan Lim Tong is up to his scrawny cyber neck in this ‘Complete Darkness’ group”
    “Well he’s more of an acquaintance than a friend actually” Q responded.
If looks could kill M would have been responsible for Q’s death right then and there.
    “But he’s more likely to concede to a meeting with you than any of our other so called Western experts. Am I right?” Mallory asked
    “Probably” Q felt justified in his response.
    “Good, that’s why you’re going to the Malaysian conference” Mallory said. Q looked to M.
    “Yes, we would like you to go to Malaysia” M confirmed

 

***

 

Miss Moneypenny was sitting at her desk when James Bond entered the office.
    “James, good to see you. I’ve just picked up an irate message from a very agitated man at the National Gallery. Is there anything I should know about the paintings we borrowed?”
Bond looked indignant and went around the desk to sit with Moneypenny
    “Nothing I can think of”
Moneypenny put up her hands to fend off Bond’s charm offensive
    “Oh no you don’t. You’re to go straight in”
    “What mood is he in?” Bond retreated around the desk
    “Um, let me think. Prickly”
    “Prickly?”
    “Yes, so save all your charm for him” Moneypenny gave an innocent smile
Bond stood at the door his hand on the handle. Suddenly he looked back
    “Don’t move. If I have any charm left when I come out of here, I’ll be using it on you. Maybe dinner tonight?”
As if she hadn’t heard the words Moneypenny continued to busy herself at the desk. Bond opened the door and entered, just as Moneypenny sarcastically said...
    “I can’t wait”

 

***

 

Q preened himself. He was going on a mission, a field mission.
    “What are my field objectives, sir?” He spoke directly to M
    “Establish if Tan Lim Tong is involved with Complete Darkness”
The hands fluttered like a bird’s wing, Q ran his tongue over his lips savouring the mission like a fine meal.
    “Then what?” He almost sang
    “Then nothing. If needed to, your field colleague will then take over; and do whatever is necessary to avoid this computer game spilling over into a real war. Remember the clock is ticking, we have just five days until our lights go out”
    “Is It Possible to Wage a Just Cyber-war?....” Bill Tanner asked
    “….I do hope not” James Bond walked into the office.
    “Oh no” Q instantly recognized his field colleague for the mission.

[volante]

Chapter 4
Loss of Heart

MI6 HQ Vauxhall cross, London.
4.5 days to Complete Darkness.

“Good afternoon 007” M checked his watch. The helicopter from Scotland must have broken the sound barrier to get him here in such a good time, diversion and all.
    “Bond” Mallory stood up and put out his hand “Gareth Mallory, chairman of the Intelligence and security committee, pleased to meet you”
Bond shook his hand
   “Mallory” Bond realized there wasn’t a vacant seat.
   “How’s the new house?” M had heard of the splendor of Spay Cast, the grand house in Scotland that had been left to Bond by the former head of MI6. Sir John had never been, but Barbara Mawdsley had always spoken about it in revered terms. M hoped Bond was not in some kind of gratuitous mourning after the death of his old boss.
    “It has promise”
Bill Tanner lent forward and offered his hand “007, good to see you again”
    “Hello Bill” Bond walked behind Q’s chair “Q”
    “007” Q made no movement, but his voice failed to mask the disgust he felt at having James Bond as his partner for the operation, his initial excitement had certainly suffered a loss of heart.
M tried to look deeper into Bond’s façade. Surely he must be feeling some kind of emotion? The face and body language said otherwise.
   Bond leafed through the operations document. Q simmered silently beside him. With a flourish Bond threw down the file.
   “Tan Lim Tong a friend of yours is he Q?”
   “More of an acquaintance actually” Q focused his attention on M. He tapped his finger on the file “There’s nothing in here that actually links Mr. Tong to this Complete Darkness group. I wouldn’t want us putting all our eggs in one basket surely there are other leads that 007 could pursue, whilst I interrogate Tan Lim”
Bond gave Q an incredulous look ‘interrogate?’ a wry smile passed across his face.
    “What information can you give us on this morning’s events?” M asked Bond
    “Tamerai Kahani was holding something called Alphanox” Bond looked for recognition but no one came forward, so he continued…
    “Kahani had indicated that he had something of great value to trade. I was sent to affect the trade. Unfortunately the real owners of Alphanox got there first”
    “The owners?”
    “Complete Darkness”
    “What’s Alphanox?” Mallory asked
    “We don’t know, but Kahnani contacted us to say he had information and hardware that could assist us in the event of a cyber attack. As Complete Dakness is an ongoing threat we thought it best to take action. 007 was sent to investigate” M replied.
    “Who’s Tamerai Kahani?” Mallory asked
    “Who was Tamerai Kahani? He’s dead. Whoever he took the weapon from wanted it back and him dead. They achieved both. The assassin was un-able to shed any light on her employers”
    “We’ll see what we can gleam after interrogation”
    “She too is dead”
    “Who was Tamerai Kahani?” Mallory demanded
    “Sri Lankan computer hacker. One of the ‘good’ ones” Q offered
Tanner’s phone interrupted the conversation, with a loud annoying shrill.
M lent forward in his chair “Q, with Kahani dead, and if you don’t think Tong is the leader of this Complete Darkness group; then I’m left looking for potential leaders somewhere else aren’t I. How many hackers are there in the world today that could organize this kind of operation?”
Q composed himself to speak… But Mallory interrupted “And would have the motivation to cause worldwide chaos?”
    “Granted there’s only a few. Besides Tamerai Kahani I’d say no more than four others”
Q pulled a small note book from his pocket “I took the liberty of jotting down their names. With a good hacker like Kahani everyone knows their name; their photos are always cropping up on the news. Whereas with a great hacker no one knows who you are” Triumphantly Q pushed the note book across the table…
    “Are these the other ‘good’ ones then?” Bond asked.
Q shook his head “No they are the greatest” He said sarcastically.
    “Name them will you Q?” M pushed the un-opened book back
    “Vladimir Levin, a graduate of St. Petersburg Tekhnologichesky University. A brilliant mathematician who masterminded a scam to trick Citibank's computers into spitting out $10 million dollars a month. He was arrested by Interpol at Heathrow Airport in 2011. However all charges were dropped when the evidence suddenly disappeared from their computers…” Q looked for an amazed reply. His audience sat, unmoved. Q continued…
    “Johan Helsingius, operated the world's most popular anonymous remailer, code name ‘Penet’. His home was raided in 2010 by the Finnish police after the Church of Scientology complained that ‘Penet’ was posting the "church's" secrets on the Net. Nothing was ever proven, and suddenly, and surprisingly the church backed off all criminal charges”
   “Linus Torvalds, A true hacker in the classic sense, Linus was a computer science student at the University of Helsinki 2010 when he wrote the operating system Linux. The software has proven to be tremendously popular with hackers all over the world. He is a true hacker genius…” Q looked for a question from his audience.
    “He got caught”
    “Only because he had a heart attack” Q sensed his defence of these hackers was being analysed. The assembled were silent.   “…and finally Connie Webb…”
    “What about Carl Wilund?” Bill Tanner interjected.
Q threw up his hands “Well yes of course the thin man would have been on my list; but there’s a perfectly good reason why he isn’t…” Q returned the book to his pocket.
    “…He’s languishing in a maximum security prison in South Africa” M completed the sentence; he cocked his head toward Tanner, silently enquiring why he’d asked the question which had such an obvious answer…
   “Not any more he isn’t. He’s just escaped from Pollsmoor, by helicopter”
M’s fingers danced over the keyboard. The painting on the wall opposite slid away to reveal a TV screen. The room was suddenly transformed, the ambiance electrified.
    “Let’s check the CCTV shall we Tanner?”
Bill Tanner took over control of the 3D screen, changing angles as the footage of the prison breakout began to run on the screen.
    “Do we have a trace on the helicopter, Bill? What do we know about this man, Q?”
Q looked up from his iPad. “Wilund 37 years old. South African national. Computer genius, first known by the screen name ‘Thin man’. Back in the day he worked for a large high tech computer chip company which supplied the World with micro chips used in everything from industrial robots through to missiles. After his arrest it was discovered that he was also moonlighting for himself. Each chip he manufactured contained a remote hacking devise. It became apparent that he had been responsible for modifying the chips. When they accessed his computer it also became apparent that he’d been responsible for deleting critical files from US Military operating systems, which shut down the US Army’s Military District of Washington network of 2,000 computers for 24 hours. After his arrest the Americans demanded his extradition. They accused him of hacking into 97 United States military computers over a 13-month period between February 2011 and March 2012, by this time he was thought to be operating under the screen name to Dark master…”
    “A touch theatrical wouldn’t you say?” Mallory offered “I thought these people wanted to remain anonymous?”
    “Anonymous? Yes and highly illusive. Dark master had been on the US’s most wanted list at the time of the 9/11 attacks. The day after 9/11 Wilund apparently posted a message on the George Bush’s personal PC stating: "Your security is crap". As America retaliated against the 9/11 attack Wilund deleted the weapons log at the Earle Naval Weapons Station, rendering its network of 300 computers inoperable and paralyzing munitions supply deliveries for the US Navy's Atlantic Fleet. The US authorities claim the cost of tracking and correcting the problems caused by the Dark master is over $5,000,000 to date. While not admitting that it constituted evidence of destruction, Wilund admitted leaving a threat on one computer” Q turned the iPad around to allow the group to see the message on the screen
‘US foreign policy is akin to Government-sponsored terrorism. It was not a mistake that there was a huge security stand down on September 11. I am the Dark master. I will continue to disrupt your terror regime at the highest levels’
    “The South African authorities have always tried to downplay Wilund’s involvement in the disruption of the US networks. The Pentagon responded to the refusal of Wilund’s extradition thus:
‘US policy is to fight these attacks as strongly as possible. As a result of Mr Wilund's actions, we suffered serious damage. This was not some harmless incident. He did very serious and deliberate damage to military and NASA computers and left silly and anti-American messages. All the evidence was that someone was staging a very serious attack on US computer systems. We have always been skeptical as to how independent this attack was’
    “Maybe Wilund had some home help?” Bond asked
    “Dark master, complete darkness? I don’t usually believe in coincidence 007, but I think his breaking out of prison right now promotes him to our prime suspect. However the breakout would negate the theory of home help” M interjected
Q cleared his throat “Shouldn’t 007 go directly to Cape Town. See if he can track down this Wilund character?”
In anticipation of a negative answer, all eyes were drawn to M. However James Bond had noticed something on the screen from one of the characters.
    “May I?” Bond tapped the keys to manipulate a different camera angle.
Bill Tanner was pleased to be away from the screen, he chipped in
    “We have the Helicopter on trace now”
Bond focused on one monitor from the film. It’s footage had captured the view after a camera had been dislodged from the prison wall. The videotape showed skewed footage of the crowd beyond the parameter fence. On the road behind the Special Unit soldiers, was a dark blue car. Bond’s finger tapped the key repeatedly so that the camera zoomed in on a face which had appeared through the open window at the rear of the car.
The face of Tan Lim Tong looked back at them…

 

Tanner put down his phone and took over the control and fast forwarded the CCTV tape from the camera. The Mercedes S class sped away from the advancing mob.
    “Check the CCTV in the city center; find out where he’s gone” Mallory instructed
Bill Tanner entered the car’s registration number. Moments later the path of the car showed up on screen “He’s heading for the airport”
    “Get onto airport security, find Tong!” M pounded the desk.
Long moments passed slowly. Tanner’s phone squealed excitedly. He nodded and made confirmation noises, as he put the phone to his chest he confirmed.
    “His plane took off 35 minutes ago, Kuala Lumpur”
M turned to face Q and 007 “You two already have your instructions, I don’t see any reason to delay you now” M turned his attention to Tanner “Tanner, see what we’ve got in the area, don’t let that chopper out of your sight”
Q and Bond turned to leave, as they went through the door Bond said
    “Don’t forget your toothbrush Q”.
Tanner stood framed in the doorway, indecisive as to what to do.
   “Give us a minute will you?” Mallory addressed Tanner, and then remained silent until Tanner had left the office and closed the sound proof door. In the hushed silence and with the grace of a father Mallory addressed M.
   “The PM’s concerned”
   “Then he should have thought about the consequences of his cuts before tying my hands” M glared back
   “We think it would be beneficial if you were to take your vacation shortly”
   “A holiday?”
   “Leading to retirement” Mallory said quietly
   “And that’s what you think?”
   “New Year’s honors list would reflect your difficult decision”
   “So you can see into the future now can you Mallory?”
   “Yes”

[volante]

Chapter 5
The eyes of Apollo

Cape Town, South Africa
4.0 days to Complete Darkness

The helicopter pilot felt the bony hand clamp down on his shoulder, a pungent smell of sweat washed over him.
    “Thank you my friend” Wilund looked through the windscreen at the magnificent African vista that embraced the helicopter as it tore through the sky. The acacia tress seemed to lift their branches to the sky, as a beggar asks for charity.
    “We’re lucky not to have any other air traffic in the area” The pilot’s adrenaline was slowly returning to normal, after all it wasn’t every day you took part in a prison break-out.
    “I still have some friends” Wilund said in explanation to the empty skies
    “Friends in high places it would seem”
    “Yes, but also enemies. Some very nasty enemies, who will soon learn the error of crossing me” His fingers dug into the pilot’s shoulder.
    “If you’d like to take your seat again please”
    “How much longer will we be flying?” Wilund released his grip on the pilot. His hungry eyes devoured the rugged African landscape as it flowed beneath them. The vast grassy rolling hills which, without the luxury of water refused to grow crops to feed the nation seemed to welcome the escape.
    “No more than ten minutes. I take it you are looking forward to the reunion?”
Wilund’s laugh was dry and raspy “Yes, I’m looking forward to my first steps on African soil again; as a free man” Wilund ducked his head and returned to the body of the Mil.
    It was then that the pilot saw the flash from the ground. In lurid slow motion the missile snaked it’s way toward them, belching out a heaven long trail of smoke in it’s wake.

 

***

 

MI6 HQ, Vauxhall cross, London England.
3.5 days to Complete Darkness

 

One wall of the well-lit situation room was covered in photographs of possible prime cyber terrorist targets within the UK. When added to secondary targets the number was frightening. MI5 had already taken control of the defence operation. MI6 were solely in charge of the offensive. Satisfied that all the government-funded operation sites were safely behind high security firewalls Bill Tanner allowed himself the luxury of a yawn.
    Wilund’s escape had been facilitated almost 24 hours ago, and chief of staff, Bill Tanner had not slept since. He needed to focus, but there was another element to the operation. The altercation between M and Mallory had been disturbing to him. Tanner knew that the presence of Mallory had indicated that the cyber threat of ‘complete darkness’ was being taken very seriously by the establishment. If things did not work out as hoped, heads could roll.
    The opposite wall of the office was dominated by clocks, in the fashionable style that an international company shows the time in every country where they operate. The clocks on Bill Tanner’s wall were indicating the mission timelines. The first was counting down to Complete Darkness. Another showed the time elapse since Wilund’s escape.
    Two more showed the time convergence of Tan Lim Tong’s flight from Cape Town to Kuala Lumpur, and the time line of 007 and Q heading for the same destination. Tan’s name had come up on the South African Airways flight 7154 passenger list. Although he had a head start, Bond’s flight was shorter. Tanner estimated that 007 was currently no more than twenty minutes away from Tan.
Tanner rubbed his weary eyes, forcing himself on with the thought that he should make best use of the twenty minutes before 007 made contact at the PETRONAS Towers.


***

 

PETRONAS towers, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
3.5 days to Complete Darkness

 

Bond’s patience was wearing thin. The aesthetic distraction of palm trees and pagodas in the KLCC (Kuala Lumpur City Centre Park) failed to raise his spirits.
    “The proposed conference aims to enable researchers to build valuable connections between different inventors of digital applications” Q said.
    “Very good Q. Just get close to Tong. Arrange a private meeting, and we’ll see if we can make a valuable connection of our own” Bond smiled at the old man, and marvelled at his ability to wear tweed in this heat.
Q pushed through the revolving door. During the seconds he was alone in the entrance he mumbled to himself “Talk about a blunt instrument”
    Bond and Q walked through the vast steel and glass entrance hall. All around them people glided past intent on completing their own life task. The buzz of the Asian language was everywhere. After the white noise hiss of the fountains outside the entrance, the local flavour was a welcome change. Red coloured lights illuminated the space above them. Silk streamers floated in the warm air drafts that sucked the breeze upward into the neon blue interior of the mighty tower.
    Soaring to a height of 451.9 metres, the 88-storey twin structure is Kuala Lumpur's crown jewel. Majestic by day and dazzling at night, the PETRONAS Twin Towers was inspired by Tun Mahathir Mohamad's vision for Malaysia to be a global player.
Inspired by master architect Cesar Pelli, the internationally recognised building powerfully captures the nation's ambitions and aspirations in the first breath-taking glance. Each tower is designed in the shape of an eight pointed star, a prominent Muslim symbol, perfectly blended with the powerful shape of a Saturn five space rocket.
    Bond and Q rose the first 170 metres of the tower in an elevator built with a futuristic edge. Q furtively looked at Bond’s reflection in the mirrored walls. His Navy polo shirt barely concealed the man’s muscled body. The sleek line of his frame enhanced in light linen chinos. Q made a mental note to himself to review his Asisn wardrobe, should he ever need to visit the East again. The journey was fast and smooth but steeped in the time honoured ‘travel in silence’ tradition. At the forty first floor the doors sighed open on to the world's highest 2-storey bridge. The usually ‘packed with tourists’ Sky-bridge connects the twin towers with a style that is hard to beat. But today the glass lined bridge was eerily absent of life.
    The first half of the walkway was decked out like a Grecian Temple. Tastefully placed vivid green olive trees and, at regular intervals the un-seeing all seeing eyes of life size butter coloured stone statues of famous Greek gods.
    In stark contrast to the surreal décor two people stood just beyond the centre of the bridge. Beyond them the décor was at odds to the tranquillity of the pseudo Grecian temple. The trappings were those of a building site. The remnants of the equipment that had been used to transport the statues now lay in a chaotic tangle of rope and tarpaulins.
    The story of Malaysia's vision unfolded and slid by beneath James Bond as he walked amid breath-taking views of Kuala Lumpur along the aisle of Greek gods. As Bond and Q approached the couple in the centre of the Sky-bridge, they realized that the conversation was heated.
    As if by magic the external lights came on. Bathing the couple in bright neon light. The outside view somehow seemed to be enhanced. Without consciously assimilating it, Bond realized the conversation was in English, his eyes slid across to take in the heated discussion.
    “The conference welcomes papers, yes. But only on specific research topics”
    “That’s bullshit. Cyber Security, Data leakage, Data protection and Database forensics, when are you going to open your eyes to the potential that we have” The girl’s accent was neutral. Her face hidden by a curtain of soft blonde hair.
    “Researchers are encouraged to submit their work electronically. All papers will be fully refereed by a minimum of two specialized referees. Before final acceptance, all referees comments must be considered. Please take your papers…”
The man noticed Q and halted the conversation.
   “Major Boothroyd” he exuded
   “Tan Lim Tong” Q approached with a wide grin on his crinkly face. Tan was about ten years younger than Q; he was a compact fifty something Malaysian gentleman with spiky jet black hair, and the eyes of a professor. Bond recognized the face as the one he’d seen in the film from South Africa.
    The girl turned and took in Bond in a single sweep. A look of disdain passed across her dark eyes as she observed Bond smiling at her in return.
    In her neatly manicured hands, he noticed she held a neat brown paper package tied in legal fashion with coarse string.
Q and Tan embraced. Their words of welcome were lost on Bond. His thoughts were completely on the girl. Her features were more oriental than Malaysian, which meant that the hair was either dyed or a very good wig. Her demeanour gave a good indication that she would be a hard nut to crack. But instantly Bond knew he would relish the opportunity to try.
    Her nails were dark red, the same shade as the large ruby ring she wore on her finger.
As Tan Lim Tong and Q held each other by the shoulders, the girl sided stepped in between them and thrust the package into Tan’s chest. Instinctively he grasped it with both hands.
    “There do what you want with it” The girl turned on her heal and walked away, the click of her heals tapping a defiant beat as she hurried to the elevator.
    “How long before the first criminal is tried for Cyber-Crimes?” Q’s voice was enthusiastic.
The girl turned once to look back at the group she had left. She smiled sarcastically at Bond then hurried toward the elevator. Bond shook her from his memory, his thoughts returned to the job in hand.
    Q and Tan were walking and talking; they had climbed over the building equipment and were heading for the far end of the Sky-bridge.
    Bond began to follow them. To his right a single light appeared on the horizon. It looked no bigger than a speck of dirt. Bond kept the light in his periphery. The speck of dirt on the horizon grew larger.
    The file in Tan’s hands began to buzz. Both he and Q stood and stared at the package. Tan held the package at arm’s length and looked at it from all angles, the way a dog inspects a treat. Unexpectedly it began to vibrate. Suddenly it burst open, spraying him and the face of the statue of Apollo at his shoulder in a bright purple ink. It glowed.
    Q and Tan stood in shock. Bond began hurdled the equipment on the floor. A quick glance to his right was enough to understand the significance of the dye that had splattered on the Malaysian.
    “Q, get him off the bridge…It’s a drone”
The two men began to run. The dye was obviously impregnated with a substance which was resonating to a frequency which the drone’s signal could home in on.
    The light on the drone was much brighter now. Bond judged the distances and the time he had left. Q’s un-fit arms pumped in an uneasy rhythm as he and Tan sprinted for the elevator. The drone was almost in firing range.
    They reached the far end. Q hit the button. The down arrow lit up, plotting the downward journey of the elevator. From this distance he could not see how many floors it had to travel. Bond saw the tell tail puff of smoke as the missile was launched.
    The glass exploded as the MQ-9 Reaper drone zipped between the twin towers at over 200 MPH. The explosion knocked Bond off his feet. Razor sharp shards of glass flew through the air. The wind whipped the debris into a maelstrom of chaos.


 

[volante]

Chapter 6
Parting of the waters

PETRONAS towers, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
3.5 days to Complete Darkness

James Bond got to his feet. As his hearing returned to normal he rushed to the chasm. As the dust blew away into the night sky all suddenly became as still as the statues along the bridge. The breeze cooled his skin. Bond took in the scene and was disturbed to see that he was quite alone, both men were gone.
    Across the void the elevator pinged with a single high pitch note that announced the opening of the door. Q appeared at the elevator door in the middle of the damaged entrance to the second tower. The two men stood on opposite sides of the yawning gap. Q scanned the damage, and then pointed behind Bond.
    “I can’t move. The lifts have been locked down; hopefully the girl will be trapped inside the other one”
    “Where’s Tan?” Bond could clearly see Q was alone in the elevator. Major Boothroyd slowly shook his head, and then he looked down under the bridge…
    “My god Tan’s alive” He pointed down below the sky-bridge.
Bond dropped to the floor and peered over the edge. Tan was wedged into the structure of the supporting girders, about eight stories below. With a laboured effort he reached out his arm, to secure his hold.
    Rope, he needed rope. Bond quickly scavenged the equipment he required from the pieces scattered around him. He picked up a length of rope and threw it around a statue; tying off the end he secured the other end around his waist. He ripped down a tarpaulin and folded it, stuffing it between his waist and the rope. As he walked to the edge of the broken bridge he played out the length in his hands.
    “It’s okay Tan, we’re sending down a rope for you, hang in there” Q shouted
    “Should be ok” Bond smiled at Q, and then began to climb down.
    “What the hell are you thinking of doing?”
    “I need to cover the dye on his body. It’s acting as a beacon for the drone” both men looked for the killer robot plane.
    About a mile away the drone made a lazy turn. Q looked back at Bond. The confused look gave way to one of alarm.
    “You must be joking; you’ll never make it down there in time”
Without a pause Bond jumped into the void.
    As Bond dropped he jack-knifed his body to ensure a swing took him into the tangle of debris. He smashed into the girders. Bond wedged himself above Tan. He began to un-furl the tarpaulin. The wind here was stronger, whipping at his body
    “I’m going to cover you in this, and then we’ll pull you to safety”
Tan looked terrified; he clung to the girder for dear life. The dye masked his face but not his fear. Being blown out of the sky by a missile was enough to shake the confidence of anyone. Below him a miniature version of life carried on. The sounds and smell of the city were as distant to Tan as the thought of getting out of this alive. The thought of being hauled out over the drop was enough to send him into panic.
    “No, don’t touch me” He used one hand to ineffectually brush Bond away.
    “Shut up”
Tan heard the threat in the voice. His throat constricted, his world began to spin. This may well be the man that MI6 suspected of being in charge of the ‘Complete darkness’ group; and his computer hacking skills may be second to none, but his bravery was deserting him fast.
   “Who was the girl?” Bond asked
Bond threw the tarpaulin over him, quickly tying the rope. Within the bundle Tan began to thrash wildly.
    “Tan talk to me, the girl that gave you that package who was she?”
    “I don’t know I’ve never seen her before…” He slipped from Bond’s grasp and fell. After a short fall the rope pulled him up sharp, his screams drowned out the approach of the death drone.
    “How did she know to find you here at the PETRONAS Towers”
    “I don’t know I’ve been here for the past two days speaking to many people about the conference. She was one of many that approach me” Tan wriggled at the end of the rope.
    “But you were arguing with her when we arrived”
    “Yes, because she wanted to give me hard copies. No one gives their work in hard copies anymore”
Without a target to lock onto the drone screamed past them. Bond leapt onto the rope, and began to climb up. Beneath him Tan struggled, the rope began to move, it didn’t take a genius to know that the rope would now be rubbing over the rough edge of the Sky-bridge like a hot knife through butter “Keep still” Bond shouted; but to no avail.
‘This better be worth it’ Bond thought to himself as he climbed the rope.
Tan continued to scream and thrash about. Slowly but surely he squirmed his way out of the tarpaulin. His arms flailed about in front of his face. Screaming in terror to find himself in such a precarious position. The thick, grey sheet un-ravelled and blew through the air into the tower, sticking to the smooth surface. In the distance over the city the drone made another lazy turn, and began to home in on the pair suspended beneath the bridge.
    James Bond climbed hand over hand up the rope. Beneath him Tan Lim Tong dangled at the end of the rope. The drone howled down upon them, then came the coughing death of machine gun fire. The kill pattern was devastating. For one memorable moment the rope went tight beneath him. Bond instinctively knew that Tan Lim Tong was dead. The next moment the rope went slack above him. James Bond began to fall.

 

The rope had been cleaved in half by the drone. Bond toppled backward and began a dream like decent. Almost immediately he  crashed into the tower, desperately searching for a hold. His body slid down the smooth structure. Then gravity began to tear him away from the smooth face of the tower, hopelessness washed over him. It was then that his hand touched the coarse material of the tarpaulin.
    Bond grabbed the material as his fall began to accelerate. He punched his hand into the cloth and brought it into his body. His foot brushed against the tower, this time he pushed off, twisting his body he plummeted earthward. Carefully he unfurled the tarpaulin, wrapping the corners around his wrists. Bond tucked his knees into this chest and somersaulted. Now he was upright, he allowed his arms to go above his head. The sheet billowed above him, like a sail. Immediately Bond felt the control take over his fall, he pulled his elbows down and began to slow. The air spilled from one side and then the other as Bond rocketed downward.    The formula for calculating the decent rate against the size of the parachute eluded him, but as he saw the dancing water fountains raising up to meet him Bond felt quietly confident he was going to survive the 170 metre fall. The water hit him, and the final 10 metres of the decent were lost in a frenzy of pain. Bond hit the bottom of the pool; he rolled and came up fast, breaking the surface.
    Sirens and screams were all around him; the explosion had brought chaos to the area, with thousands of people trying to vacate the towers.
Amidst the mayhem Bond’s mobile rang; he fought his way against the crowd
   “Bond” He said impatiently
   “Ah 007 Q here; I’ve set up base in the security suite…”
   “How the hell did you get down so quickly, you said the elevators were locked down?”
   “I over rode the security code, and went to the security room… I’ve located the girl if that helps”
Bond looked up at the devastation on the Sky-bridge. After his impromptu flight down to the ground Bond wished Q had informed him of his ability to override the lock down procedure.
    Police were herding people away from the building, Tan was dead, and they had no other leads but to track down the girl that had given him the package
   “It’s a consolation, I suppose. Where is she?”
   “Lower level. If you go to the main door, the security team are expecting you. Now, once inside go to the stairs on your left. Follow the signs for the aquarium. I’ll keep you posted. I’ll be able to monitor your movements from here through the GPS on your mobile”
Bond stood like a statue looking at his phone, and then he put it back to his ear.
    “Well what are you waiting for 007, get a move on”
Bond covered the ground at a relentless pace, his eyes focused on the entrance. Two security guards lifted the barrier to admit him. Without a pause Bond ran through the reception of the building and hurtled gracefully down the stairs. As he passed by the sign ‘Marine Display’ Q’s voice boomed from the mobile’s loudspeaker. He raised it closer to his ear again, to allow Q to guide him all the way to the target.
    “Next level down 007. Now then, that’s odd”
    “What?”
    “She’s stationary”
Bond jumped and skipped down the stairs at a frightening breakneck pace. Soon he arrived at the foot of the stairs. The scene was eerie and almost religious in it’s majesty. It was as if the sea had parted. The girl stood in the centre of thirty foot walkway between two giant forty foot walls of water held at bay by the glass front of the tanks. The lights inside the aquarium bathed the entire room in a pale green light. The rest of the light was created by ultra violet spotlights. Bond clearly saw why he had no need to run anymore. A security guard had his gun trained upon the girl. Carefully he produced handcuffs from his belt…
Bond spoke to Q one last time and then put down the mobile “I’ve found her”

 

The guard gestured for her to put out her hands. Obediently she complied. As the guard was about to slip the cuffs onto her wrist she slapped her palm down onto his hand, and forced his gun hand inward. Stepping forward she squeezed his fist closed, and his own finger squeezing the trigger; the shot was loud. The guard reached forward, but the girl was already on the move. His hand tore at the silk blouse, and it peeled away from her shoulder. She pivoted on the spot knocking the guard aside with a powerful side kick. Then slowly she backed across the room. Bond walked directly after her. Although she was naked from the waist up, her face was dignified. She made no attempt to try to hide her naked breasts from him; her hands were loose at her side.
Bond closed in upon her ‘She didn’t take the gun’ he thought, and that fact worried him. This wasn’t someone that was about to give up. This was a killer.
    She had nowhere to go; the silence became oppressive, pressing down on them. Reflective patterns of gently moving water played over her body, masking the inner most features of her face. She raised her left hand, knuckles facing forward. The ruby ring shone through the darkness, and as the ultra violet light hit it, it send shafts of light through the air, like a lightning bolt. She grasped the ring with her right hand and pressed the stone.
    Instantly the explosive devises detonated on both tanks. The glass walls began to splinter, the glass tore like silk. Only now did the girl turn and run. She ran fast. Her blonde hair billowed out behind her. Bond saw that she sported a large dragon tattoo on her back and shoulder. The beast curled and coiled across her shoulder and down her back, it’s black body poured through the flames on her skin.
   The fire exit opened to her touch and then she was gone, the door slamming behind her. Alone Bond stood in the centre of the aquarium. The water began to seep through the cracks. How long did he have? To go after her would be certain death. Bond ran forward toward the fire exit. The door was locked solidly. Bond lifted the mobile…
    “Q, can you see if you can un-lock the fire exit at the far end of the aquarium?”
    “Mmm, theoretically you shouldn’t be able to lock the fire exits through the computer system…oh yes. I see it seems that someone has”
    “Yes I know, can you unlock it” Before Q had time to respond and to the accompaniment of a loud explosion a torrent of foam swirled in the space behind him.
   “Q I need it now” The tsunami of water cascaded into the space between the two tanks.
    “I can’t gain access…007 do you hear me?” His decision made, Bond backtracked toward the stairs. The two torrents of water clashed in an angry maelstrom high above his head. The ensuing waterfall crashed onto the floor sealing the fire exit and instantly flooding the ground. ‘Good decision’ Bond thought to himself. The tidal wave broke over him; Bond’s legs were swept from under him. Moments later he was six feet under water. Bond began to swim toward the stairs. All around him fish swam in disarray, his hands palmed them aside; he remembered that there were over 5,000 species in the tanks.

    The shark brushed past him, it’s grey rubbery skin abrasive against his hand. In a heartbeat the shark jack-knifed it’s body and attacked. Bond smashed his fist into it’s snout, the animal turned away in shock, it made a lazy turn. Bond pushed again for the safety of the stairs, but the shark had distracted him, and he had missed the stairs. Still the water poured into the gap above him, forcing him deeper underwater. The bubbles disguised the shark as it tracked it’s prey. Bond kicked again, his legs thrusting him forward his arms performing a powerful breast stroke, the shark kept pace with him. The water swirled about him; the swell having hit the wall was now sloshing back, smashing into the water pouring down from the other tank. Bond had to make it into the middle of the maelstrom, where he hoped the current would propel him forward.
    His lungs were bursting when the torrent of water suddenly pushed him into the stairwell, the bow wave foaming and boiling as it squeezed upward, spewing him from its grasp. Bond stumbled up the steps. The wave broke and the water receded leaving a large silver fish floundering on the step beside him. The shark leapt from the water and took the fish into its mouth.
    “Bon appetite” Bond stood and smoothed down his sleeve.

Q shouted down from the top of the stairs…
    “You let her get away?”
    “Yes. Sloppy I know”
Tentatively Q came down the first few stairs. The water boiled in the caldron of the stairwell. The enormity of what Bond had just emerged from began to dawn upon him. Then in abstract nightmare vision Q saw the shark patrolling the area.
    “I’ll report in. We’ve got nothing to go on now, no leads” Q backed away from the water’s edge.
    “Well actually there is one” Bond looked back at the shark
    “What?”
    “Give me that note book of yours”
Q retrieved the book from his pocket.
    “I think someone’s starting to kill your list of master hackers”
    “Well if that’s the case we only have to wait three days to see who’s alive when Complete Darkness attack London” Q smiled sarcastically
    “Four names, three days. I’ve had worse odds…”
    “Where do we start looking?”
    “We? Sorry Q I’ll take it on my own from here. I need you back at HQ conducting the search”
    “Doesn’t have to be London, I can access the web from cloud storage from a lap top anywhere in the world”
    “Well let’s find you a lap top I need you to tell me where I can find these people?”
    “That’s easy, two are in Finland, one St Petersburg, Russia, and one in California. Although where Wilund is at the moment I couldn’t guess. Where will you go first?”
    “Japan”

[volante]

Chapter 7

Forewarned, Forearmed

 

MI6 HQ, Vauxhall cross, London England.
3.5 days to Complete Darkness


In desperation Bill Tanner turned back to his screen and re-ran the thermal image of the helicopter again as it made its escape. With the eyes of a weary gambler he watched the green blip again as it made its progress across the screen. The line was arrow straight without any interference or deviation right up until the moment it vanished.
    “Simply vanished.” He rubbed his eyes, sleep was seducing him. Then in an act of defiance he balled his hands into fists and slammed them onto the desk.
    “Are you sure the ‘SA double S’ (South African Secret Service) have no intelligence of military activity in the area?” he asked the assistant.
    “Yes sir, nothing,” the man replied softly.
    “Damn it, man, something must have put that chopper down. 007 come on, we need some answers,” he shouted. He urged himself to solve the mystery of the missing helicopter before M and Mallory had to be told they had lost Wilund.
    He re-ran the tape again. The fuzzy green helicopter image stared back at him. All the data that had been recorded and relayed from the tracking satellite was updating onto the screen. The telemetry graphs were simultaneously updating on a second screen. There was absolutely nothing else in the area. When the helicopter had disappeared, there was no trace of anything leaving the scene.
    As Tanner watched the recording a third screen was busy spitting out live information on the other names that Q had indicated could be involved in Complete Darkness. A new message caught his attention. Tanner paused the playback on Wilund’s helicopter escape. With the acquired skill of a speed reader, Tanner scanned through the message Interpol had just sent through. Their latest information on the whereabouts of Vladimir Levin was confirmed. Dental records had identified that his was the body retrieved two days ago from the river Neva.


***


L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon, Covent Garden, London.


Joël Robuchon is one of the world’s most respected chefs. He is the proud holder of numerous Michelin Stars. L’Atelier is part of his fabulous global brand with siblings in Paris, Tokyo and NYC. Step inside this formidable restaurant and you’ll soon see why. The ground floor is dressed in stylishly minimalist chic blacks and reds. Diners perch on tall leather stools to watch their own chef creating his magical culinary masterpieces. The equally stylish first floor is just as impressive but offers traditional seating, and private dining.
    “It really is quiet difficult to find the right words to describe just how good the food is here.” Otto Killman took hold of the red leather bound menu. The waiter gave a small bow and left the table.
    Killman wafted the menu in one hand as he reached for his flute of Krug Brut with the other.
    “Sure you won’t join me?” The bubbles danced and popped within the crystal. The feint fizzing sound was both soothing and intoxicating.
    “No, champagne is for celebration. I’m not here to celebrate…” The voice sounded a little out of breath, as if it were apologizing for being too loud.
    “…Every day is a celebration my friend.” Killman took a sip. He reveled in the taste. The accent was still noticeably Teutonic even though Otto Killman had been speaking English since he was a boy. For the past five years he had been a senior adviser to the Swiss global financial services company W.B.F&C
    World Bank Finance & Credit’s headquarters in Zürich, Switzerland were actually not too far from where Killman had been born sixty years before. But within that time he had travelled the world many times over, and become a multi-millionaire. An expert in investment banking, asset management, and wealth management services, Killman was a troubleshooter in the fullest meaning of the word. He had been hired by the most prestigious of banks and individuals of dubious means for private, corporate, and institutional clients worldwide.
    The hair a little greyer, the hairline a little higher these days, and the jowls a little fuller, but the energy was still there. The passion for the chase, the desire for the kill. Otto Killman was as much at home in the boardrooms of big business as he was in the casino at Monte Carlo. His business methods remained ruthless, his resources seemingly limitless, as was his knowledge of the next best investment. He was for all this a private man; an unquenchable thirst for influence often does that to a man in the shadows of power. In pursuit of his love for privacy his love for art had become all consuming. Tonight he wore a Swiss miniature enameled oil painted brooch on his tie. To some it may have made Killman look a little effeminate, but at two hundred and seventy five swiss francs, the tie pin was anything but.
    “Your call said urgent. This is hardly what I expected” Secretary of State for International Development Ronald Cambridge gave a slow shrug of his broad shoulders. He spoke with the air of a librarian chastising a noisy client in a library. His breathy voice carried no further than Killman’s ears.
    Killman returned the flute to the silver coaster. He opened the menu. Only his dark eyes were visible above the leather bound book of delights. Cambridge could see the mischief within them. Frustration began to build within his chest.
    “The pig’s trotter on parmesan toast with truffle, mushroom and tarragon. Mmmm, a delight to the palette..” His head dipped behind the book. “…and then there’s the beef and foie gras mini burger with crunchy chips.” He lowered the menu. “Heavenly, just heavenly.”
    With an air of resignation Cambridge attracted the waiter and simply pointed to his glass. With ease and grace, the waiter poured the champagne.
    “There, that’s more like it.” Killman buried his head back in the menu.
    Cambridge ordered the green Chartreuse soufflé, and quail stuffed with foie gras served with truffle mash. The Sommelier advised on the wine and food pairing.
The sound of silver knives caressing bone china fused with the aroma of the wonderful meal. The two men sat alone in the private dining room, only Strauss for company.
    “In three days, Britain is going to be hit by the worst disaster it has ever encountered.” Killman dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin.
    “Without my help, the austerity measures you will need to implement will likely stretch for the next fifty years.” He held back apprising Cambridge’s response. When it came it was guarded. He tried to add a tone of shock, but it just came out a little too melodramatic.
    “Are you saying you have information for me about the terrorists attempting to perpetrate this atrocity on the United Kingdom? The so called Complete Darkness group?”
   “Absolutely not. I’m offering help. When your computer systems go down in three days, one of my investors could help get you up and running in no time at all. I just want an assurance that you will bear that in mind when you award the contracts.”
    “Why would you think I would be in a position to award domestic IT contracts?”
    “Your Government has sustainability objectives to meet. I can assure you the environmental impact will be significant after the Complete Darkness attack. You will be influential in the decision to award the contracts.”
    “And if I don’t?” The food was starting to taste a little sour now.
    “Then we’ll be taking our investments out of the UK banks; along with 17,000 jobs. Explain that to your Prime Minister as he does a post disaster re-shuffle.”
    “If that’s supposed to be a threat, it doesn’t cut the mustard,” Cambridge hissed.
    “Then perhaps this will.” He tossed the iPad onto the table. Cambridge tapped the screen.
    ‘Even a regional nuclear war could spark "unprecedented" global cooling and reduce rainfall for years, according to U.S. government computer models.
Widespread famine and disease would likely follow, experts speculate.’
    “What’s this rubbish?” Cambridge said in hushed tones.
    “Read it.” Killman gestured for him to continue.
    “I don’t understand. What has this to do with the cyber-attack on England?”
    “Simple, let me explain. Very shortly, technology will be available that will enable certain people to hack into any country’s national defense computer. Put simply that means that should we…”
    “We?” Ronald Cambridge stiffened in his chair; the pitch of his voice seemed to frighten him. For a man who never spoke above a whisper the word was loud.
    “The royal we I believe you call it. That means that someone could hack into a military mainframe and turn what could be described as a little stand off into a major incident. Take for instance Syria and Israel. Someone pushing the buttons in their control room could soon escalate the conflict. One click of the mouse could necessitate both countries looking for international development and support from a major power for years to come…”
    “The existence of such software is pure speculation; nothing exists that could override the decision making capability of a government approved military computer.”
    “Not so. My investors assure me the software, they call it Alphanox will be available…soon.” Killman rolled his eyes.
    “No two countries would entertain getting that close to a conflict.”
    “You forget India and Pakistan. Korea, North and South. You overlook Iran and… well anybody really. But the ‘who’ is quite academic… unless of course you take in the ‘where’ factor. Now where this incident takes place is very important. That’s why England has been targeted for the next demonstration. And that my friend is why we are having this conversation. Please…” Killman gestured toward the iPad.
    “Continue to read the article.”
    ‘During the Cold War a nuclear exchange between superpowers was predicted to cause a "nuclear winter." In that scenario the nuclear explosions would spark huge fires, whose smoke, dust, and ash would blot out the sun for weeks amid a backdrop of dangerous radiation levels. Much of humanity would die of starvation and disease.’
    “This is just preposterous. Pure science fiction” Cambridge threw down the iPad; the champagne flute rattles on the coasters.
    “Not so my friend. Today the United States is the only standing superpower. Granted the nuclear winter is little more than a child’s nightmare. But nuclear war remains a very real threat between developing-world nuclear powers, such as India and Pakistan.”
    Cambridge felt the gore rise in his throat. “What are you suggesting?”
    “You know very well what I am suggesting. It is something that Governments have implemented many times before…”
    “War?” The whispered voice rose again.
    “Nuclear war. Just a small nuclear war. Now surely, the British government would want to be made aware of the possibility of a small nuclear war in some godforsaken little country.”
    “Ridiculous.”
    “Maybe so, but you should go and talk with whoever you need to talk to. All I am suggesting is that should a small nuclear conflict take place, it would be most beneficial to know where and when. You British are so good at charity and aid…and re-building. International development I believe you call it. How do you say, forewarned is to be forearmed.”
    “This is far and above anything that you suggested I might be useful to your investors for.”
    “And yet you are willing to take our gratitude…Now is the time for some of the favours to be returned. Please remember, all we are asking for is to be appointed as a supplier of choice when it comes to the rebuilding of your computer defense systems. We will take care of the rest. A speedy resolution to the UK’s problem will stand us in good stead for what is to come.”
    Cambridge leant across the table, his face set. “I cannot promise that I will be able to influence what you are suggesting.”
    Killman picked up the flute again, and made a mock cheers motion.
    “I’m sure you will be guided by your conscience.”
    “Just a small nuclear war you say?” Cambridge rubbed his knuckles against his cheek. Killman nodded in reply “You may even have an idea where in the world you would like it to be?”
    Cambridge lowered his voice even further. “…Are you saying we would we be able to influence where this conflict would take place?”
    “Yes, but of course…. To see what climate effects such a regional nuclear conflict might have, scientists from NASA actually modeled a war involving a hundred Hiroshima-level bombs, each packing the equivalent of 15,000 tons of TNT. That’s just 0.03 percent of the world's current nuclear arsenal. The researchers predicted the resulting fires would kick up five million metric tons of black carbon into the upper part of the troposphere.”
    The NASA climate models predict carbon would absorb the solar heat and, like a hot-air balloon, quickly loft it even higher, where the soot would take much longer to clear.” Cambridge looked nervously around him then sheepishly nodded in compliance.
    Calmly, Killman put the iPad back in his leather briefcase. He smiled as a father does to a stubborn child. Killman straightened his cuffs and brooch.
    “Very good. Let me have your ideas for the ‘where’ that you and your government might want this little conflict to happen. After all you don’t want that sort of mess on your own doorstep do you? I’m thinking somewhere that could bring in a number of natural resource benefits as well.”


***


MI6 HQ, Vauxhall Cross.


    “Are they sure it’s him?” M rubbed his hand across his forehead.
    “Yes,” Tanner replied.
    M thought long and hard on this latest piece of news. To contemplate the meaning of Interpol’s information would form a new direction to the investigations. He took a deep breath.
    “Good at least that takes Levin off the list of suspects. Anything on the others?”
    “Only other information is on Torvalds. They traced him to an apartment block in Helsinki. Got his address from the serial number of his pacemaker.”
    “Good, he has a weakness let’s try to exploit it.”
    As M made the declaration Tanner was advised of the attack on the PETRONAS towers.
    “Something just in from Kuala Lumpur, sir.” He flicked the page on the screen to show the incoming visuals. The fire was small and localised within the tower, the Sky-bridge was hanging in tatters, and the mayhem in the streets was newsworthy.
    “Looks like 007 has made contact.”
    M looked at the footage; he rubbed his hand across his mouth.
    “007 may have his hands full for the moment. Better contact Q.”
    Before Tanner could press the send button, his phone burst into life.
    “Yes.” After a short conversation he put down the phone.
    “That was South African secret Service, they just found the helicopter.”
    “Damn, that means we’ve lost Wilund.”
    “On the contrary, sir, Wilund’s body was in the wreckage.”
    “Dead?”
    “Very.” At that moment Tanner’s phone burst into life.  “It’s Q.”
    “Can you flick over to channel 6 Bill?” Q’s voice sounded urgent. Tanner switched stations. The TV began to re-play the helicopter escape from Pollsmoor.
    “We don’t need to see this again? Where are you Q? What is the status on Tong?”
    “I’m afraid you’re going to need a new prime suspect.”
    “What the hell as 007 done now?” M shouted.
    “Not him this time, M. Now pay attention.” The screen showed the familiar sight of the prisoners beginning to spill from the prison.
    M looked at Tanner. The intent was un-mistakable. Together they watched the film. The film cut to the view from the dislodged camera. The focus zoomed in onto the Mercedes S class’s darkened windows. All the windows were shut. Tanner’s mouth began to open as the car sped off. Q’s voice woke them from their trauma.
    “As you can see someone did a little editing on the film that we saw. We don’t think Tong was ever in Cape Town.”
    “I take it Tong is dead?”
    “Yes. Blown from the sky-bridge by a US drone. 007 believes someone is going to take out the rest of the hackers that I indicated on my list of potential Complete Darkness leaders. He advises we put a security blanket over them.”
    “Could be right. Levin was found dead a couple of days ago, and Wilund’s body has just been discovered in the wreck of his helicopter. Seems a military defence station went off line as the chopper flew over. A ground to air missile was launched and brought down the helicopter, all on board were killed,” Tanner explained.
    “This Complete Darkness group do have access to some very sophisticated gadgets,” Q mused.
    “Where’s 007 now?” M asked.
    “We think it’s better I don’t tell you over an open line.”
    “For God’s sake, Q, this is MI6” M lent on the desk.
    “With the greatest of respect, sir. Whoever is behind this has already fooled MI6 into believing Tong was mixed up in the Complete Darkness activity. They are clever enough to plant evidence on our system. They hacked the airline computer without any trouble, and as you can see their video editing skills aren’t too bad, either.”
    “Why did they want us to go after Tong?”
    “With the greatest respect, I believe he was the bait to get me into the open. The names on the list, plus Tong and Wilund could only be added to, if my name were on it.”
    “And now you’re over the other side of the world” Tanner added.
    “At least you have 007 to protect you” M interjected.
    Q thought it best not to tell them that Bond was already on a plane to Tokyo.
    “Absolutely. I feel as safe as houses. Now are we going to put some surveillance on the others?”
    “What for?” M’s Irish accent was particularly strong.
    “To protect them…”
    “Sorry, Q. I mean why are they being killed off. And if they are what concern is it to us?”
    “Whoever is behind the Complete Darkness group they will know that only a few people would be on hand to thwart their plans.”
    “So they’re killing off the opposition?”
    “Killing off those that could help us if we got hold of them, yes.”
    “Help us do what?” M answered his own question. “Help us to stop their scheme, or help us to find the Complete Darkness group?”
    “Mmmm, compelling thought. Either would be enough to sign their death warrant,” Q said.
    “Then your idea about surveillance needs to be re-thought. We need to bring these people in, protect them.”
    “Their skills could be invaluable when combating Complete Darkness,” Tanner added.
    “Is someone forgetting about me?” Q said quietly.
    “You and 007 are pinned down…wherever you are. We need to get hold of…”
    “…Johan Helsingius, Linus Torvalds and Connie Webb.” Tanner handed over a list.
    “The first two are in Finland. Mr. Webb will be a little harder to find,” Q said.
    Bill Tanner began making arrangements for the Helsinki station to pull in Helsingius and Torvalds.
    “Mr. Webb? I thought Connie was short for…” M mused.
    “No, sorry, M, I told you these people come from a very secretive collective. Connie is short for Constantine. It was the screen name used by our friend when he worked in Silicon Valley.”
    “Q, you’re not making sense. Do we know who this person is or not?”
    “Not, I’m afraid. Our friend was on the payroll of six blue chip companies in Silicon Valley. However, no one there has ever heard of him, let alone seen him. He simply hacked into their data bases and put himself on the payroll. Webb is the surname he used. We think it’s just an extension of the WWW dot web.”
    “Oh hell.” M ran his hands through his hair. “I’m going to have to tell Mallory.”
    “I could relay the events if you wish sir?” Tanner offered.
    “It’s okay, I have to do it. You see Mallory will be taking over from me when I go on vacation.”
    “Vacation?” Tanner’s look of bewilderment turned to sadness as he read between the lines.

[volante]

Chapter 8

Marked Men

 

Tokyo, Japan.
3 days to Complete Darkness
 

 

Centuries ago in the days of the Shogun. Japanese feudal law would mark their criminals with tattoos to distinguish them from the rest of the population.
    The highly visible tattoos originally took the form of a black ring around the arm. More rings were added as convictions increased.
    The recipients became known as marked men, and as such were widely discriminated against in their districts.
    To escape the attentions they drifted to villages on the outskirts of the major settlements.
    Sadly the marks also identified the criminals to each other. The men were drawn together, and eventually formed and organized into mafia-style gangs known as ‘Yakuza’. As their power and reputation grew, the marks became symbols of fear.
    Worn proudly as symbols of status and dedication, Yakuza tattoos have evolved into magnificent, multicolored full-body masterpieces.
    Today's many Yakuza factions are patriarchal in nature and dominated by male activists, however recently women have become integral parts of Japan's gangland society.
    Wives and mistresses of top Yakuza figures often undergo extensive tattooing themselves.

***

Studio Muscat, Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan.

James Bond stepped out of the taxi into the dazzling hypnotic light show that is Tokyo. The buzz of traffic pressed in upon him. Quickly he paid off the taxi. The alien street signs gave no indication to the needle that he was looking for in this vast neon haystack. The orderly flow of people parted before him and soon he found his goal, and entered the tattoo parlour Studio Muscat. The bright lights and garish designs on the walls belayed the intense craftsmanship that was being undertaken. A young Japanese man stopped his work, to look at the foreigner who had just walked in. The sound of the tattoo gun fell silent. The young girl on the table twisted her head to view the stranger; instinctively she clutched the towel closer to her breast.
    “Konbanwa,” the artist said, although Bond could not see his mouth move behind the white surgeon’s mask that he wore.
    “Konbanwa, watashi wa sagashiteimasu Yuko Asao” (Good evening, I’m looking for Yuko Asao), Bond replied.
The electric blue curtain swished back to reveal a beautiful Japanese woman. In her late twenties her body was petite and delicate. Her western clothing comsisted of dark blue figure hugging Levi jeans and a swan white tee shirt. Her hair was very black, cut in the traditional bob with a fringe that covered her eyebrows. The face was round but the pronounced cheekbones made her beauty legend. Her dark enchanting almond eyes were liberally covered in black mascara and eye liner, giving her a bold and dramatic look tinged with a sophistication that comes naturally to confident woman.
    “How can I help you?” The accent charming and the infliction humble, the sing-song voice was full of charm, and conveyed the utter politeness that is synonymous with the Asian woman.
    “I’m interested in an authentic Japanese tattoo.”
    The buzz of the tattoo gun started again, and the girl on the table returned to her magazine.
    “Finding the right Japanese Tattoo Design can be quite daunting, Mr?”
    “Bond…James Bond.”
“I am Yuko Asao.” She held out her hand, and took in the man before her. Bond wore a dark grey suit, white shirt and black tie. She recognized that his eyes were the bluest she had ever seen.
    “I’m told you’re the best.” Bond shook her warm hand, it trembled like a bird.
    “I do have many skills it is true, to which are you referring?” Her smile revealed perfect teeth.
    “The dragon tattoo.” Bond looked deep into her dark eyes, hoping to gauge the response.
    “The Japanese Dragon Tattoo is a very beautiful and colorful in design and very symbolic.”
    Yuko Asao moved to the back wall of the studio. She opened the door and took Bond through to her own private work studio. The walls were adorned with brightly coloured pictures of tattoo dragons. Q had certainly done his homework.
    “There are some 6,000 different designs, so you will have no trouble finding what you want.”
    “It’s not for me.” His smile lingered.
    “Shame. A friend then? A man or woman?”
    “A woman.” Her reaction was not what he expected…
    “Mmmm that excites me…”
    “Don’t get too excited, she already has the tattoo.” Her own smile vanished.
    “Why are you here Mr. Bond?”
    “I’m hoping you can assist me in identifying the woman.”
    “Many women have dragon tattoos, and for many reasons.” Her tone was much more formal now. She busied herself with a pile of photographs. Bond wondered if her change in tone had come about because she was not going to make any money by creating a new tattoo, or that she was being asked to identify someone.
    “The reason here would be dark, maybe even tribal?”
    “Interesting. Dragon origins are steeped in myth and folklore. This adds to the appeal of the tattoo.”
    “Why would someone want to adorn themselves in such a way?” Bond plucked the photos from her hand.
    “Besides for just the pure pleasure? Many Yellow cabs adorn themselves in such a way” (she used the derogatory term used by foreigners to describe a Japanese woman who will easily have sex with someone she has just met).
    “I don’t think this woman sells sex.”
    “In Japan sex industry, girls offer absolutely everything imaginable for sex. For the person and for the reason, the dragon can represent good and evil.” Yuko Asao ran her hand over Bond’s chest. Another side of her personality was beginning to emerge. Bond had encountered women who would and could and did use their bodies either to extract information or hide information from another. Bond decided that the beautiful Yuko Asao knew exactly the type of woman that would wear such a tattoo. ‘Well done Q’ he thought.
    “The woman I’m looking for falls into the last category.”
    “The attraction, apart from its stunning beauty is that it represents good luck and is seen as the source of wealth.” She began to undo Bond’s tie. Smoothly she pulled it from his collar.
    “For the individual?”
    “For to whoever she belongs. I think you understand?” Her hands went to his shirt buttons.
    “I thought the Japanese dragon represented freedom.” Bond let his finger rub her arms.
    “There are different types of freedom; some call it independence that is very important for a Japanese woman. I think you will agree a very attractive quality for a lady.”
    “Go on.”
    She unbuttoned Bond’s shirt, spreading it open. Her finger tips lightly rubbed his chest.
    “I love a blank canvas…Describe the dragon, it’s position, it’s colours.”
    Bond held Yuko Asao by the shoulder and effortlessly spun her around. His hands ran down the front of her tee shirt. Gently he pulled it from her jeans. She lifted her arms. Bond pulled the shirt from her. He reveled in the gloriousness of her back. A golden koi carp was leaping over a violet peony. The body of the fish arched and twisted to afford it every possible second in the warmth of the sunshine. The translucent droplets of water shimmered against her skin. The mouth of the fish was open enjoying the pure exhilaration of the leap toward her left shoulder, the tail flexed just above her coccyx.
    “Beautiful.” Bond touched her skin. He moved his hand to Yuko’s right shoulder.
    “The head was here.” He felt her body shudder.
    “Oh, Mr. Bond, your hand is cold,” she squealed. Bond did not think that was the case.
    “As if it was peeping over her shoulder. Does that signify anything?”
    “There are five basic dragons. Their positions all have meanings. Sui-Riu points downward, as if he descends from heaven, he is the dragon king and is said to give control of the sun and the rain.”
    “The left claw extended to the top of her shoulder.” Bond ran his fingers from her neck to her shoulder.
    “That sounds like Ri-Riu the rare dragon. He is not well understood, which is why he hides. However, it is said to give its owner an almost supernatural foresight.” He voice was breathy now. Bond noted her biceps were puckered with goose pimples.
    “What of the colour, Mr. Bond? Was it red? Ka-Riu is a brilliant red colour, he is small in comparison with the others.”
    “No, this one was black, with a red tongue.” Bond felt her body shiver. He held her in his arms and began to lightly kiss her neck. For a moment he imagined he could feel the tattoo moving against his chest.
    “Fuku-Riu is black. He is the dragon of luck. Did it have wings?”
    “No.”
    “Then it is not Hai-Riyo the dragon bird.”
    “No, hers had the body of a serpent, the body seemed to be winding through flames. Do you know the design?”
    “No.”
    Bond kissed her; she tasted fresh and alive. He could tell she was frightened about the design he had described. He had no doubt she knew of it, no doubt Q was right again. Was there no end to the old man’s talents?
    “Are the colours significant?”
    She gyrated her body back against him; she began to twist within his grip. Bond held her close to him. Her breasts pressed against him. His arms encircled her back, as he felt for the leaping koi. Her lips reached up for him and they became lost in a kiss. Bond had read the tattoo enthusiasts guide to dragon colour meanings. Black means wisdom, green represents a love of life and of the earth. Gold shows kindness and the ability to face challenges. Yellow represents the east, and blue the west. Dragons seeking a pearl are forgiving and compassionate, whilst those breathing fire are ferocious and brave. All well and good for the fashion conscious.
    Yet another faction also adorn themselves with tattoos, and like their predecessors before them, the black ring of crime becomes dominant in the symbol they have chosen to represent. Usually a hidden dragon, brave, ferocious, wise and moving was reserved for the most skillful of Yakuza assassins. Centuries ago, this fell within the domain of the male gang members. However, it would seem that after her demonstrations in Kuala Lumpur, the girl Bond was after was a fully-fledged Yakuza female assassin. Yuko Asao gyrated in front of him, her skillful hands and lips doing their best to divert Bond form gaining the name or whereabouts of the assassin. Bond, however, was prepared to do whatever it took to access the information from the tattoo artist that had marked the killer so beautifully.
    Yuko Asao pulled away from the embrace. “Is your hotel close?”
    “Yes, but I don’t have a car…”
    She reached for her tee shirt. “That’s okay I’ll order us a taxi.” She pulled the garment down. Bond began to button up his shirt. Yuko Asao returned to the main studio. Over the drone of the gun he heard her on the telephone. After a quick exchange between the male artist and herself she appeared at the door wearing an ankle length black leather trench coat.
    “Time to go, Mr. Bond.”
    “That was quick.” Arm in arm they walked through the studio.
    “Sayonara,” Bond said to the artist and his model.
    They both replied, “Ja-ne,” a more informal phrase. Bond registered the words.
Outside the harsh neon, and car horns brought him back to reality. Although he was hoping that the rendezvous at his hotel was for real, and as exhilarating as the thought of making love to Yuko Asao was, and as much as he looked forward to waking up with her in the morning, he was stealing himself for a much more rude awakening.
    The omnipresent Toyota taxi pulled up at the kerb. Yuko Asao got in and slid across the seat. Bond followed her in. The driver turned to Bond, and raised his gun. Yuko Asao opened her door and slid out.
    “So sorry, Mr. Bond.”
    “Ja-ne?” he offered, but Yuko shook her pretty head.
    “So sorry, Mr. Bond, this is goodbye.” A big shaven headed Japanese man took her place beside him. Yuko slammed the door shut. Bond’s door opened and another solid man got in. Their search was quick, rough, and efficient. The men removed Bond’s Walther, wallet and mobile. Bond re-adjusted his clothing.
    “Cosy,” said Bond as he adjusted his cramped position in-between the goliaths. The two men tried to dominate Bond with their bulk and presence as the taxi drove away. As expected their gaijin captive was very accommodating, and soon they were enjoying the sights of their city. They could not possibly have understood that it had always been James Bond’s intention to be taken to meet their boss. Q’s research had been first class, finding the tattoo artist that was the preferred administrator to a particular Yakuza gang that used the black dragon and flame tattoo as a gang symbol. Bond firmly believed that whoever sat at the head of their organisation, was a likely candidate for that of leader of the terrorist group ‘Complete darkness’.

***

Shijomae Industries Complex
Tokyo, Japan

As the Toyota ploughed through the Minato district, Bond realized they were heading for the bay. Traffic moved around them like a living organism.
    Another five minutes saw the taxi cruising along the waterfront of Shinakawa. They were definitely heading for the industrial Odaiba area. The unusual silhouettes of the well-lit cranes of the docks dominated the skyline behind the warehouses and office blocks. The giant structures could easily be mistaken for large dinosaurs lumbering behind the warehouses. The skyline was as alien as the Tokyo commercial area they had just come through. Bond felt very alone.
    Then as the car slowed Bond saw a building which looked strange even in the highly unique area of the city. What appeared to be a giant floating ball set amongst an ‘un-finished mecano set’ of a skeletal building appeared before his killer blue eyes.
    At a height of around 100 meters the ball was lit with what looked like a small observation deck offering an excellent view of the Tokyo Bay waterfront area and Rainbow Bridge.
    The sign on the building declared this as belonging to the Shijomae Industries complex. They by-passed the soothing blue lights of the curved glass wall of the administration area and proceeded to a less hospitable loading dock area. The smell of diesel entered the taxi as the heavies opened the doors.
    The two goliaths led Bond into the loading /distribution docks, beeps and buzzers accompanied a hive of factory activity.
Beyond them, furtive work was being carried out by many orange painted, electric powered fork lift trucks. The trucks were driven by men wearing white overalls and yellow hard hats; the company logo was everywhere.
    Like worker bees the men transported crates from the brightly painted racking to the dark mouths of the articulated lorries that waited for them on the loading bays. The attention of the two big men never wavered as they transported Bond high above the factory floor via a network of cold metal stairs. At the top of the building it was darker.

***

W.B.F&C Lear Jet
Zurich, Switzerland

Flights into Zurich always afford good views of the Alps. Otto Killman sat on the right hand side of the Lear jet, watching the majesty of the mountains. It was a view he never tired of.
    His lap top announced a video call. He straightened his tie. Always paid to look your best when going up in front of the boss. The screen revealed his face.
    “You had a good and fruitful trip?” Shinoda San asked.
    “Yes, Kahani was eliminated,” Killman answered.
    “The Aphanox is safe?” Shinoda’s eyes narrowed.
    “Yes, it was moved as you instructed. The British came, as you predicted.”
    “Yes, they are very predictable. How was your meeting with Cambridge?”
    “As we had hoped, the UK contracts are as good as secured.” Otto Killman sat in front of his lap top. The Skype connection revealed the serious face of the Japanese criminal, the background outlined that he too was traveling. The big city skyline passed by behind his car.
    “Then the plan is on track.” Shinoda’s face cracked into a smile
    “Of course. All we need is the ‘chip’…” Killman let the words hang.
    The man in the car allowed himself a shrewd smile. “Please, Mr. Killman, do not concern yourself with the detail. I give you my personal assurance that Aplhanox will be in perfect working order when complete darkness falls in London. Please escalate the pressure on Cambridge. I would like our little virus in place before the light go off.”
    “I will, and that’s good to hear. I put myself at considerable risk in making contact with Cambridge.”
    “We all put ourselves at risk every-time we cross the road. But please be assured your efforts will not go un-rewarded. As you are aware I can be very generous to employees who perform well. Your journey was necessary to ensure we have the foundation in place. The British are greedy people, they will jump at the chance to offer a war torn country development aid, if it means lining their pockets. You did well Mister Killman.”
    “Thank-you Shinoda San.” Killman hated being called an employee. As generous as his boss was, however, Killman knew that the man was a ruthless criminal genius. But then you didn’t get to be the leader of a terrorist organisation by being nice.
    “Complete Darkness will fall in London as promised. My legal company will ensure every effort is made to repair the damage.”
    “I saw news reports from Kuala Lumpur and St Petersburg…”
    “….As I said, Mister Killman, our plan is on track.”
    “I understood that Tong was under MI6 surveillance.” Killman tried to pry.
    “That was already known to us, no need to concern yourself. There will be news from Cape Town and Helsinki very soon. Stay tuned. Please do not see yourself as someone who has more responsibility than is necessary.” Shinoda tapped the side of his nose.
    Killman nodded to himself in self-satisfaction, his pet politician on the Finnish Council of State drove a much harder bargain than Cambridge.
    The Lear touched down, the reverse thrust from the two Garrett TFE731-2 turbofan engines made further conversation superfluous.
    “Good bye, Shinoda San.”
   “Good bye, Mister Killman.” Tsukasa Shinoda broke the connection. Shinoda sat back in the luxury of his car, but he did not relish in the smell of the leather nor appreciate the quiet and comfort of the journey along the busy roads of Japan. A conversation with Killman always left him feeling tarnished with the greed and gluttony of Western culture. Soon that way of life would be lost for a lifetime. Soon the soft skills of reliance upon a life of technology would be no more.
    “Survival of the fittest,” Shinoda said quietly to himself. Shinoda smiled to himself as he allowed himself to visualise the day when Japan would shed the yoke of the contemporary hybrid culture imposed upon his race since World War Two. For a moment he allowed his mind to wander, to escape from the contemporary Japanese problems of an industrial world. When asked how they spent their leisure time, 80 percent of Japanese men and women surveyed by the government in 1986 said they averaged about two and a half hours per weekday watching television, listening to the radio, and reading newspapers or magazines. Shinoda closed his eyes against the shame of the statistics that invaded his thoughts. He recalled with disgust that some 16 percent spent an average of two and a quarter hours a day engaged in hobbies or amusements. Others spent leisure time participating in sports, socializing, and personal study. The rage of indignity coursed through his body, relieving him of the shame and reinvigorating his resolve to return the world to a feudal system of law. Shinoda relaxed as visions of his new world crashed through his mind like a wave upon the sand. The medieval or "feudal" period of Japanese history was dominated by the powerful regional families (daimyō) and the military rule of warlords (shōgun), the great period stretched from 1185 to the early 1600’s. The emperor ruled as the talisman, the figurehead of the ruling class, and the power of merchants was weak.
    In a short time the power of Killman and all the bankers and merchants would be cut. Order would be restored.

[volante]

Chapter 9

Hard Line

 

Tokyo, Japan.
3 days to Complete Darkness

The two pre-occupied security guards strolled along the perimeter fence, deep in conversation about the Yomiuri Giants’ season. Without a second glance they made their way past the oil tanks; this was their usual route. The matte-black Nissan Juke GT-R blended into the shadows and remained unseen by the baseball loving men. A black-clad figure emerged from the parked car and skillfully evaded the sweep of the security camera.
    At the fire escape the figure climbed quickly, target in sight. Running along the rooftop the figure counted off the sky-lights. At the eighth window the figure stopped and prized open one of the panes. With great dexterity the figure rolled through the gap. Once inside the black silhouette shimmied along one of the roof girders. In the darkness the figure waited.
    Far below two men in laboratory coats walked across the factory floor. A man in white overalls and a yellow hard hat approached them; he bowed and took some instruction which the figure could not hear. The men entered a lift, and all was quiet.
    The figure then looped a hi-tensile wire around the girder. Attaching the carabineer to the wire the figure slipped from the girder, and slowly descended to the upper gallery of the factory.
    Another slight pause to assess orientation, and the figure sprinted into the shadows.
    The laboratory door was un-locked. The figure slipped into the clinically clean office, closing the door as it entered. Deft fingers uncurled the window blinds to allow the exterior lights to filter into the room. The crate sat on a stainless steel table. The large label identified the destination as Cape Town.

***

James Bond sat tied to an old wooden chair in the centre of an office. The room smelt damp. A tall cheap wooden stool stood in one corner. Along the opposite wall five large demi john glass jars stood in dusty silence. All other furniture had been removed some years ago, it seemed. The two big Japanese heavies stood to his sides and behind, professionally out of reach.
    Without moving his head, Bond took in everything about the room that he could discern from his peripheral vision. Now was the time to memorize the room, and remain calm.
    It was an internal room, no windows. A single door broke up the plain grey of the walls. Any hope of escape would have to go through that door. The plan, so far, had gone according to schedule. Bond had relayed the information on the girl and the dragon to Q.
    Q had interrogated his lap top and come back with the name and address of the tattoo artist suspected of tattooing the women of the Yamaguchi syndicate.
    Bond had thanked Q for the information but had evaded the inquisitive question “Now what?”
    His plan had been to get himself into this position. Soon would come the meeting with the head of the Yamaguchi syndicate. The ‘what next?’ was a little hazy at the moment. Bond flexed his arms against the rope; there was go give. He was confident that once he had understood why Japanese gangsters had killed Tan Lim Tong he would understand better the motive behind the Complete Darkness group’s actions. That knowledge would undoubtedly lead him to a confrontation. The door opened, and Bond became alert, forcing the details of his escape plan to the back of his mind.

***

Created in 1915, the Yamaguchi was the biggest of all Yakuza families, accounting for 50% of all Yakuza in Japan, with more than 55,000 members divided into 850 clans. Despite more than one decade of police repression, the Yamaguchi has continued to grow. From its ancestral headquarters in Kobe, the family now directed criminal activities throughout Japan. Over the past ten years, certain clans have been involved in operations in Asia and the United States.
    Tsukasa Shinoda , or to give him his proper title, Kenichi Shinoda, was the Yamaguchi-gumi's current oyabun (leader). Shinoda had always followed an expansionist policy, and had increased the operations in Tokyo (which had not traditionally been the territory of the Yamaguchi-gumi.)
    The Yamaguchi family had been successful to the point where its name had become synonymous with Japanese organized crime in many parts of Asia outside of Japan. Many Chinese or Korean shopkeepers who do not even know the name "Yakuza" would know the name "Yamaguchi-gumi" when being asked for money.

***

The intruder used an electronic screwdriver to unscrew the lid of the crate. The faint hum of the tool seemed obscenely loud in the silence of the office. The fourth screw rotated out of the wooden crate. The smell of newly sawn wood filled the air. A layer of packaging was removed. Next came a tray which contained twenty microchips. The figure carefully eased the tray from the crate. Beneath the tray a large cigarette packet sized chip lay nestled like a diamond on a burgundy velvet cushion. The figure un-rolled the black canvas belt from the waist of the black uniform. Inside the belt, an identical microchip nestled in an individual pouch. Carefully the figure switched the microchip with the one from the crate. The process was then reversed. With the task completed, the intruder resealed the crate and moved to the exit.

***

The door opened to reveal a sinister looking Japanese man, his features oozing with menace. He was much smaller and older than the two big athletic heavies at Bond’s sides, but he possessed an air of evil about him that negated any supposed physical disadvantage. His brow was constantly furrowed which gave a deep intense look to his dark lifeless eyes. His skin had a dark hue with a leathery appearance. There were lines around his eyes which looked as if they were a result of him being in the sun for long periods, not through age. His hair was an oily black, cut (without the top knot) in the style of the samurai. The man was resplendent in a dark blue suit. His eyes scanned the room like cancer. His voice sent a chill through Bond and the two heavies. “I am known as Shinigami, it is how you would say the reaper. The Grim Reaper. To you, Mister Bond, I am death.” Slowly he pulled a walkie talkie from his pocket.
    He barked a short message into the walkie-talkie which nestled in his hand. The reaction of the two heavies beside Bond was to fidget, followed by a straightening up of their bodies. Bond thought, ‘Good, the boss is coming.’
    The man in the blue suit stood to the side. Tsukasa Shinoda sauntered into the room.
He wore an overtly crisp black chalk stripe suit. This was however the second sharpest thing he was wearing. The moustache was pure Chicago nineteen twenties; it was an addition since he had recently spoken to Otto Killman. He also wore a fedora which had a clean white silk band. The man commanded presence his aura of menace was almost visible.
    “Bond, James Bond. British secret service. I am very pleased to meet you. Mister Bond. Please to tell me, how was Kuala Lumpur?” His head tilted to the side waiting for a reply.
    “Hot. The duty free’s not all it’s cracked up to be either.” Bond moved in his chair, testing the ropes as he moved. Still no give.
    “Very funny. Mr. Bond. I was told you had a good sense of humour.” The voice was flat and ugly. His upper lip formed an arch. Bond thought the sneer was not part of the costume.
    “Not as good as your tailor’s.”
    Shinoda glanced down at his suit. Stepping back he lifted his head and began to roar with laughter. “This? I’m attending a gangster theme party. All roaring twenties.” He assumed the position of holding a machine gun. “Ta ta ta ta ta.” He simulated shooting the gun. “You dirty rat.” He shrugged in the style of James Cagney. “Tonight for me will be one of much fun. But not for you.” He beckoned the man in the blue suit forward “Tell him.”
    The man spoke; the words were slow and deliberated. They sent a shiver down Bond’s spine. “In coming here tonight, Mr. Bond, you have chosen death.”
    “I didn’t know I had a choice.” Bond looked him directly in the eye. Killer to killer.
    Shinoda leant close to Bond’s ear. “You don’t.” Then, in sharp contrast came another burst of laughter. Abruptly he turned to leave the room. “Kill him.”
    “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” Bond asked. Shinoda stopped in his tracks.
    “No, I just wanted to meet you. I will write a small paragraph in my memoires.” Slowly he turned back to face Bond. “Oh and I know why you’re here. You very cleverly tracked down my Kula Lumpar assassin. And now you would very much like to know why I killed Tam Lim Tong.”
    “Yes please.”
    “Unfortunately, I don’t want to tell you. Goodbye, Mr. Bond. It was good to meet you.”
    “I wouldn’t leave here now if I were you.” Bond’s voice was cold.
    Shinoda stopped in the doorway. “But I’m not you, Mr. Bond. Not only do I run the syndicate which controls most of the crime in Japan, but I also own this company. So you can see I can leave here whenever I want.”
    “If we don’t leave here together, you’ll be dead before you get to taste your first bootleg whisky of the night.”
    Shinoda took a few tentative steps back into the room. His face was set. “Men who threaten me only get to do so once, Mr. Bond. And I must remind you. You are not in a position to threaten me.”
    Bond’s face cracked into a mischievous smile; his blue eyes gleamed. “Then you really have no idea why I’m here.”
    “And I don’t care. Al Capone was once asked which type of death he would most like to succumb to, when passing to the next world. He replied, ‘A swift and unexpected one.’ Unfortunately for you, Mr. Bond, your death will be anything but.” Shinoda snapped his fingers. A small frail-looking man in his seventies rushed into the room. He bowed reverently in front of Shinoda san. “This is Omya san. Take great pleasure in his introduction. He is the last person you will ever be introduced to.” And with that he was gone.
The killer in the blue suit followed, shutting the door firmly behind him. One of the heavies moved from behind. Carefully he placed the stool to the side of Bond’s chair. The old man set his briefcase on the stool and fiddled with the catches on the front. The second heavy placed two of the glass jars next to the stool. The frail old man was softly singing to himself. Bond wondered whether the man could even speak English.
    “The human body is a wonderful thing. You can lose 40% of your blood before going into organ failure.” The tinny laugh made the old man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. Maybe he was even in his eighties. His eyebrows were very grey and unruly. Businesslike, he extracted a long hollow needle from the case, and a length of pink rubber tube. At least he spoke English. Bond now had a tool to negotiate with. “In fact, as your life blood drains away you wouldn’t even know you were dying because of the reduced awareness, your level of consciousness, that is”
    “Fascinating.” Bond subtly moved in the chair.
    “Which is why your Mister God created pain. Pain serves as a warning, lets you know something is not quite right.” He tapped his temple. Bond noticed his incredibly long fingernails. He attached the pink rubber tube to the end of the needle. Omya then brought out a small cotton pouch. Carefully he unfolded it. “Used formally the acupuncture needles can relieve pain.” The needles lay close together in the un-rolled pouch.
    “I expect you don’t want to be too formal tonight.”
    “Other Yakuza killers laughed at me, when I first said the acupuncture needle was my weapon of choice.”
    “Friends can be so cruel.”
    “They didn’t laugh for long, Mister Bond.” He held a long thin acupuncture needle between this thin bony fingers.
    “Shinoda said you were the last man I was going to see; are you intending to bore me to death?” Bond looked quizzically for a reply. The old man broke into a smile…
    “I thought you might like to talk? You and I are going to get acquainted in the time you have left on this earth. Talking will help you enjoy every second of it.” The reedy laughter shook his frail body again.
    “I take it I’ve not long to live then.”
    “Five minutes.” His sleeve fell back revealing a thin loose-skinned arm.
    “That’s not very long, is it?”
    “Oh, I can make five minutes seem like an eternity.”
    “I’m sure you can, and that’s just with talking.”
    “The ‘Ulnar nerve’ is the largest nerve in the body, it runs from the shoulder to the finger tips, and most of the way it is unprotected.”
    “Well, I’ve had someone try to break my balls with a length of rope. I didn’t talk then, and all he wanted was a password.” Thoughts of Vesper poured into his mind.
    “I think you will talk to me. I don’t want your secrets, just conversation. This is my work. I get paid to kill people for Shinoda san. However I do have a hobby, so this I do for free. But please if you would tell me. You see, I like to know how people saw their own demise when they were young. Old? In a hospital bed?” He sniffed and shook his head his wrinkly old face screwed up, pawing at his arms. “No not for you. No dignity for a warrior like you. Yes?” His finger came up, the old eyes were bright. The knife was in his hand and tore at Bond’s suit jacket sleeve before he could respond. “Where the nerve passes through the elbow is called the funny bone.” Omya thrust the needle into Bond’s arm. The pain crashed through his body. His nerve burned, just like when you hit your elbow. The pain radiated throughout his arm, and through his body. A fiery racing car crash? Making love to a beautiful…two beautiful women.” He nodded, and peeled away the material. He tied off a small piece of hose around Bond’s forearm. The vein in his arm stood out. The threat was very real now. Nausea swept through Bond’s body. “Two women? That sounds better. But somehow…”
    Bond looked around the room, ostensibly for the two girls, but actually for an idea of how to effect his escape. The pain made the walls vibrated like a drum skin.
    “I don’t think you’d be able to accommodate.” The shaven headed heavy took a step forward, and blocked his view of the door. “How strange that when one actually faces one’s own death, it’s never the death you hoped for.” The old man inserted the long needle into Bond’s arm. Quickly the dark red blood ran up the glass length and disappeared into the rubber tube. An echoing drip announced the blood hitting the bottom of the glass jar.
    Bond began to rock the chair, the pain radiated like a rampant toothache. Bond began to close down his senses.

 

[volante]

Chapter 10
Cat fight

 

 

Tokyo, Japan.
3 days to Complete Darkness

“Not too long now. Soon your words will flow like your blood.” His smile was meant to be reassuring. Bond struggled against the rope. The shaven headed heavy slammed his hand down on Bond’s shoulder; the pain tingled like a sparkler spitting white heat against his skin.
    Omya withdrew the acupuncture needle from Bond’s elbow, the absolute pain receded. The old man wiped the needle; then replaced it in the pouch.
    “Now you know about the pain, now you will learn to relax.”
    All hope of movement was gone. Waves of nausea swept over Bond; the relief was exquisite. Weakness spread through his body like a virus.
    “You want to talk now. Yes?” Without waiting for an answer or without paying attention to the draining of Bond’s blood, the old man rummaged through his briefcase. Omya pulled out and began to light some small candles. Carefully he placed them on the floor around Bond’s chair.
    From the floor quizzically, Omya looked at Bond. His head was tiny.
    “Not ready yet? Maybe one more acupuncture needle, yes?” Omya painfully got back to his feet. He went to the pouch and withdrew another long thin wickedly sharp needle.
    The sound of an alarm pierced the tranquillity of the night.

***

No time to reel in the wire. The black clad figure ran along the roof of the building.
    In unison Shinoda and the blue suited killer looked up. “There.” He pointed to a black clad figure crabbing down the roof. Mesmerized they watched the intruder utilize a "Speed-line" and zip over to the next building.
    “Ninja!” The blue suited killer spat, and began to move. Shinoda held his arm.
    “Patience Shinigami san. I have a better idea. Let us fight fire with fire.” Shinoda took out his mobile, After a moment he said, “Miko, kill.”

 

***

 

The shrill noise of the alarm cut out the old man’s singing. His brow furrowed
    “Go on, go and see what is happening out there. Get someone to turn off the intruder alarm. We want to be nice and quiet here…” Omya ushered the two big men from the room. He turned back to Bond.
    “…Don’t we? Nice and quiet yes? As your life blood slips away.” The candles smelled of cherry blossom, and the smoke curled into the air.
    “We will wait for the noise to stop before we apply.” Omya replaced the acupuncture needle onto the pouch and slowly descended to the floor in a kneeling position.
    The drip of his blood had stopped now, which meant that the bottom of the glass jar was covered. Bond estimated he’d lost a pint of blood.
    Alone with Bond the old man said, “Just you and me now. Don’t worry. I will stay with you until your spirits leave.” Omya bowed, his arms spread out before him. He began to pray. His chanting was soft and lyrical. The smoke from the candles filled the air with a beautiful cherry scent. Omya’s head was almost kissing the floor.
    Bond gently tipped the chair back, and straightened his legs, first the left, then right. The rope slid down the leg of the chair, and slipped from the bottom. As the old man lifted his arms and head from the floor Bond kicked him beneath the jaw. His frail body crumpled in a heap. Dragging the tube out of the jar, Bond dashed to the door frame. His blood leaked out onto the floor. He smashed the chair back against the wooden frame, and the chair shattered. Bond released his right arm and pulled the needles from his left arm. A fountain of blood filled the air. He swiftly tied the tube around his upper arm as a makeshift tourniquet. Shaking the wooden fragments of the chair, he returned to the old man quickly searching his pockets. Bond took the only item that was helpful, the matches he’d used to light the candles. Bond staggered to his feet and ran from the room.

 

***

 

Headlights and screaming brakes announced the arrival of back up in the factory grounds.
Shinigami directed the men to the gates. The men moved quickly so as not to incur the wrath of the grim reaper. A white suited security guard explained that he had found a car close to one of the oil tanks.
    Shinoda Pulled out his mobile again. Quietly he gave his instruction to the Miko.
At the sound of the word ‘Miko’, the small security guard backed away in terror.
    “Get back on duty. Go to the oil tanks,” Shinigami shouted. The guard ran into the darkness. When you had a boss that could summon up ghosts and spirits to help, being close to him was not a good place to be.

 

***
 

 

Unarmed and weak from the loss of blood, Bond quietly stumbled down the stairs. The sound of running forced him to divert from his escape route. Banging off the walls, he fell into the nearest room. Pausing until the guards ran past, Bond saw that the room was filled with drums festooned with chemical and fire hazard symbols. With quiet efficiency, Bond prised the lid from a drum. He crouched beside it, forcing his good shoulder against the metal. The drum tipped, and slowly the contents poured over the floor. As the liquid spilt, Bond began to manoeuvre the drum. Dizzy from the loss of blood, Bond slowly rolled the upturned drum back toward the door. Bond made sure the route to the exit was clear, then without a second thought he lit a match and dropped it into the pool of chemicals. Crouched double, he lurched through the door. Bond gently closed the door upon the fizzing potion.
    James Bond’s head was thumping as he lurched toward the exit. Behind him the gentle whoosh of an explosion spurred him on. Bond’s hand was on the handle when he heard voices. Two more guards were on the other side of the door. Bond’s grasp of Japanese was passable, but that was when he was in a reasonable state. In his current state he only picked up a couple of words, which he juggled through his fuzzy brain to make sense. He’d picked up the words ‘Oyabun’ the leader and ‘Niko’ the cat.
    Smoke drifted outside through the air vents. The guards looked up, and then the fire alarm began to whine. The two guards opened the door and entered the building. They rushed past Bond, who obligingly hid behind the door. As they opened the door to the burning room, oxygen mixed with the flaming chemical to ignite the toxic mixture even further. Flames reached out and took hold of the two guards, wrapping around them like candyfloss. In unison they screamed in pain. The smoke entered their lungs; the flames sucked the oxygen from their bodies. Instantly they began to choke.
    The consuming fireball resided.
    Bond stepped out from behind the ‘exit’ door and quickly stepped through it and closed it firmly behind him.
“You should never enter a burning building. I thought everyone knew that.”
    The whoosh of the explosion smashed against the metal door, angrily trying to push it off its hinges.
    Once outside, the cool night air made him feel more dizzy. Bond needed rest, and quickly.
    All around him was chaotic noise, sirens screamed in his ears. Bond hurried across a courtyard between the two closest buildings and disappeared into the shadows.
    The sound of the explosion had attracted other guards. Their concern distracted their attention. They hurried past Bond’s hiding place. Ineffectually, the men tried to abate the flames with hand held extinguishers. The fire spread.
    Squeezing behind some crates, Bond dropped to the floor. The moon was high above the skyline, casting down a silvery ghost light. The cold night air made him feel nauseas. The sweat was suddenly cold on his skin. The loss of blood reduced the oxygen flow to his brain, and the shadows began to play tricks in his mind. The fire had taken a strong hold on the building. Bond knew that to stay here meant death, but he was incapable of moving.
    Once the fire had started and the combustion reaction had begun, the fire grew exponentially. The energy and heat increased, jumping from object to object, then building to building. The vitality produced by the reaction of the fire was sufficient to heat nearby combustible materials to their ignition point, almost to the point where a spontaneous combustion reaction occurred.
    The fire continued to grow and spread, glass exploded, cables frazzled. The supply of fuel within the factory was never ending. Combined with the air, it sucked in the energy, and the speed of the fire intensified.
    Of course there has to be all the reactants available, fuel and air. Some materials provide their own supply of oxygen, so they will burn even in the absence of air. Other materials burn hot enough that they will "steal" oxygen away from other chemical compounds. All the elements combined to turn the factory into an inferno.
    James Bond felt the heat upon his skin like a sunburn. The fire raged around him. The guards with their hand-held extinguishers had long since left the area. Bond took in a number of deep breaths; he knew he had to move.
    The black clad figure moved catlike across the burning roof. In disbelief, Bond watched as the figure dropped down beside what looked like a car buried into the side of an oil tank. Vehicle and oil tank seemed to melt into one; the whole scene wavered as the grotesque figures undulated. That was where Bond needed to be.
    Suddenly, inexplicably, the catlike figure split into two. In the light of the moon, the figures became catlike and began to fight, scratching and clawing at each other, limbs flailing. One cat leapt onto the nearest building, climbing with speed and grace, and then the other half did the same.
    Bond closed his eyes trying to regain his balance and sense of reality. The fire alarm still screamed in his brain. Somehow it seemed more intense than the intruder alarm. Bond’s mind made the connection, the intruder alarm. Someone had been in the building. Now that someone was being pursued by…
    The truth was just a breath away, like in a dream when you know the answer to a question that is yet to be asked. James Bond opened his eyes. Suddenly his vision of the cat figures changed. Now the scene became two black clad humans. They were fighting on the roof above him. Their martial arts skills cancelled out each attack that the other threw. Bond watched the two fighters. One of the protagonists was obviously the intruder that had set off the alarm. The other was the…
    Bond was on the verge of the truth when the windows blew out from the building behind him, and the glass sprinkled on the ground with a sound like spoons falling to the floor. Free from the confines of the building, the flames leapt into the sky, like a snake’s tongue probes the air.
    More fierce explosions followed, rocking the night; burning globules of chemicals fell to the earth all around him. This was not the safest place to be. This was like a napalm air raid. He needed shelter.
    Oblivious to the buildings melting around them, the two figures continued fighting on the burning skyline. Bond, unable to move, watched, mesmerised as the two figures traded blows. The answer Bond sought was tantalisingly close. His hands grasped at thin air trying to capture the answer.
    Then he had it. The hand clenched into a fist. The second figure was the assassin from Kuala Lumpur. Shinoda had confirmed the girl from the towers was his assassin. Shinoda had confirmed he had been behind the assassination of Tong. The ‘why’ was obviously, still a burning question that needed to be answered. The answer was maybe why the intruder was here tonight? The intricacies of the plot were still beyond him.
    More burning globules of chemical splatted on the ground around him, and his skin began to burn.
    James Bond smiled; once again his instincts had been right. He had gambled upon chasing the assassin rather than trying to nursemaid the other hackers. The smile spread upon his face; no matter what odds, he had solved the puzzle.
    Above him the fight continued. The figures were still just silhouettes against the burning building…
    …and then it happened. On the edge of the roof, one figure executed a spinning back kick. The impact crashed into the other’s head. But the impact made the attacker lose balance. In lurid slow motion, both figures fell. One crashed through a window into the burning building and was consumed by the inferno. The other plunged to the ground. The body bounced off the building to the side, and thudded onto the earth. Around the body the chemical deposits smouldered.
    Bond crawled from his hiding place; his head was swimming. He reached the figure. The pulse was strong. None of the limbs seemed to be broken. Perhaps this was a cat after all. A razor sharp stiletto dagger snuggled in the sheath on the leg. By the hand was a belt containing what looked like a small hard-drive or a large micro-chip. Bond withdrew the knife with one hand as his other removed the hood. The face behind it was peacefully beautiful. Bond studied the face. Female. Short black hair crowned off the face of a very beautiful Japanese girl. The eye make-up was similar to that of Yuko Asao’s that he had seen earlier in the evening, although Bond thought the reason for this make-up would be different for the face behind the hood. This girl was wearing black lipstick too. The girl was no doubt beautiful, but from what Bond had observed, her fighting skills were extraordinary.
    In his current state he was unable to positively ID this girl as the assassin in Kuala Lumpur, but then again there she’d benefited from being in a blonde wig disguise. The flames devouring the buildings around them made the urgency for his next action very real. There was one sure way to tell if he’d got the right girl. Bond took the knife and slit the black suit from neck to shoulder. Her skin was hot and sweaty from the fight. The suit peeled away from her body. Her white naked shoulder and back were pale in the firelight.
    ‘Then the assassin was the other girl on the roof.’ James Bond replayed the final death blow in his mind. Summoning all his strength he picked up the girl. Bond reasoned it was she that must have inadvertently tripped the intruder alarm, and subsequently saved his life. He wanted to repay the debt. Bond pocketed the chip and hauled her up over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s lift.
    Another explosion rocked the building, and burning embers fell like snow drops all around them. Although the girl was light, Bond staggered under her weight all the way to the car.
    There were no keys in the Nissan, so Bond hot-wired the ignition. The powerful 480 bhp 3.8 litre twin turbo V6 engine burst into life. Bond squeezed the car from its lair. The wheels spun, and then it erupted from behind the oil tank like a baby Godzilla.
    Tokyo is a gigantic warren of narrow streets without name, with sometimes slow-moving traffic and relatively limited and expensive parking. In this city with such an excellent mass transit system, you would need a good reason to want to drive; Bond had such a reason as the car hung on to the grip rounding a tight corner. The huge, wealthy and fascinating metropolis which brings high-tech visions of the future side by side with glimpses of the old traditional Japan waited like a sleeping tiger to his left. The matte black Nissan tore down the bumpy road. Beside him, the girl’s head lolled from side to side as they negotiated the worst of the potholes. Behind them, the flames leapt in the sky, and rabid explosions snapped at the air. Bond needed to make his decision about this escape fast. He could turn left out of the bay area and hope to get lost within the sheer size and frenetic pace of Tokyo. The downside to that argument was that Yakuza members could be on any corner, and rather than hiding they could be herded into a trap very quickly. Much of the city is a jungle of concrete and wires, with a mass of neon and blaring loudspeakers. During the rush hours, crowds jostle on the stations vying to be packed onto the fast outbound trains. But this was Japan, and Bond knew he would not be able to hide within the masses of humanity as they swept through enormous and bewilderingly complex stations. Bond kept his foot down. Here in Tokyo Bay, he knew of another way out of the city.
    Tokai Kisen operates high speed jetfoils from the Takeshiba Sanbashi Pier. They could be in Oshima in less than two hours.
At worst, the overnight ferry is slower, but once on board they would be safe. The ship takes approximately six hours to arrive at Okata port. It was a suitable time for them both to recuperate, and it would mean they wouldn’t have to leave the car as a signpost to their next destination.
    Bond entered the confines of the port terminal. He followed the international symbol of a picture of a car above a boat. With a groan the girl came ‘round. Instantly, she struck out at Bond. Unable to lift his arm to block, the blows crashed upon him. Then she became aware of her surroundings. The car slewed to a halt.
    “It’s ok. You’re safe.” A trickle of precious blood came from his mouth.
    She squared up to him, panting like she’d just finished a 100m sprint.
    “Do you speak English?” Bond asked “I said you’re safe.”
    Her eyes focused upon him as her memory returned and realization dawned upon her. She realized he must have taken her from the factory. His upper body was caked in blood, his face white from the loss of blood.
    “You don’t look well.” The effort to speak was too much for her. Her body melted and she rested back against the seat.
    “I’m not.” Bond picked at the seam of his suit jacket lapel. The stitching gave away and with an effort he withdrew a tightly folded wad of bank notes. He passed them to the girl.
    “Car and two passengers, it’ll look less suspicious if you get the tickets.”
    The girl looked out of the window. The giant white ferry sat majestically at port.

 

[volante]

Chapter 11

The War Chest

 

Sevenoaks, Kent.
3 days to Complete Darkness

The country house of Chevening is in the Sevenoaks District of Kent. It is the official residence of the Foreign Secretary. However, under the current coalition government, Conrad Walker and the Deputy Prime Minister share the property. But not tonight.
    Guests were still arriving as Ronald Cambridge moved with ease and grace through the lounge. The occasional nod, the effortless smile, the informed comment about gun dogs and the ludicrous ban on hunting, meant that the room full of people was soon negotiated.
    An adjustment of his cuff and black tie followed by a cursory knock on the study door precipitated a curt ‘Come.’
    To the accompaniment of the rich sounding tick of the walnut grandfather clock which sat in the corner of the study, the Foreign Secretary, Conrad Walker, sat in a dark leather wing back chair.
    “Take a seat, Ronald.”
    Putting his whisky tumbler on the Queen Anne table Ronald Cambridge sat.
    “Shame about the no smoking policy.”
    “Yes, a Romeo y Julieta would go down rather well right now,” said the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs. Commonly referred to as the Foreign Secretary, Conrad Walker was a senior member of Her Majesty's Government heading the Foreign and Commonwealth Office; a position regarded as one of the Great Offices of State. A Yorkshire man by birth and MP by desire, Walker’s remit included all relations with foreign countries. This included matters pertaining to the Commonwealth of Nations and the overseas territories in addition to the promotion of British interests abroad. And that meant full responsibility for the Secret Intelligence Service.
    “Why are you here, Ronald?” The question was delivered in the straight talking style associated with the Yorkshire MP.
    “Conrad, am I not welcome at your party?”
    The FS lent forward, and tapped his fingers on the table top “Welcome yes, on the invite list, no. Why are you here?”
    “I’ve been made privy to some information. Thought I’d give you the heads up.”
    “How much?”
    “Everything is about money with you. You were certainly born in the right county.”
    Walker looked around the opulently furnished room. “Everything is about money.”
    “Nothing to worry about, just a superficial skim in the war chest.”
    “And this information couldn’t wait until we were next in the house?”
    Cambridge smiled, and slowly shook his head. Walker checked his Rolex.
    “You’ve got five minutes.”
    “No dinner?” The breathy voice took on a sarcastic tone.
    “Four minutes.”
    “It’s about the group known as Complete Darkness…”
    Walker’s mouth dropped open.
    “Ah, I see I have your attention.” Cambridge relaxed in his chair.
    “You had my attention from the moment you walked in here, now you have my undivided interest, so talk to me about these damn terrorists.”
    “They’re not terrorists, Conrad. They are business men…like us.”
    “Don’t put me on the same level as these terrorists…”
    Cambridge held up his hands, he took the opportunity to examine his nails. “Please, Conrad, hear me out.”
    “Go on.”
    “Complete Darkness are a group of business men…”
    “Jesus, Ronald, tell me you’re not one of them?”
    “No, of course not. However, in my position I deal with many companies and businessmen. They all have a wonderful pitch, to try to sway our decisions to use them for the development activities that we are investing in.”
    “You make cyber-warfare sound like Dragon’s den!”
    Understanding that the source of the group came from Japan meant that the quip about ‘Dragon’s den’ was so close to the truth that Cambridge burst out laughing. He sobered up instantly and continued…
    “Cyber-warfare refers to politically motivated hacking to conduct sabotage. Put in terms that we understand this is not politically motivated, really it’s just another form of business espionage. Complete Darkness simply want to break into a market that up to now has been a closed shop.”
    “Why not tout their business in the conventional way? If what they’ve got to sell is so good, we could legitimately use them.”
    “Bringing down the Iranian nuclear plant and the Saudi oil fields is a wonderful sales pitch. Providing a solution, which the opposition can only dream of fast-tracks your products to the very pinnacle of attention.”
    “It’s a radical approach.”
    “The attack here in three days is just a superficial show of strength.”
    “This smells like blackmail to me.” Walker tensed.
    “Conrad… we simply appoint the companies to administer a very fast solution. Cheap too. We will come out of this looking good in the eyes of the PM and the people.”
    “Who are the facilitators?”
    “W.B.F&C.”
    “The bank?”
    “A little more than just a bank. They have contacts…”
    “I’m sure.”
    “The company they have introduced…”
    “Complete Darkness terrorists incorporated?”
    “This is a bona fide business, W.B.F&C only recommend the best.”
    “Does MI6 know about this? Do they know about your involvement?”
    “I’m not hiding. I’m simply facilitating a safeguard to ensure we are properly defended against future cyber-attacks. The programs that real cyber terrorists will be using in 12 months’ time will make this little Xbox game look like a walk in the park. We’ve got to be ready for that. I’d expect you, as head of MI6, to be calming all those little spies down. Tell them a couple of hours in the dark won’t reduce their chances in the honours list.”
    “Ronald, one of the challenges we face is that we don’t know what threat we will be facing next month, let alone in a year's time.”
    “Britain has a National Cyber Security Programme in place, backed by 650 million pounds of investment. The MoD is far from complacent, but no one wants to be left with egg in their face should all their screens go blank. I’m providing a contingency.”
    “The MOD takes the protection of our systems extremely seriously. It has a range of contingency plans in place to defend against increasingly sophisticated attacks.”
    “The Minister for International Security Strategy told you that, did he?”
    “You’re really sold on these people aren’t you?”
    “Currently Britain's armed forces are at risk of being ‘fatally compromised’ by a sustained cyber-attack because the military is so dependent on technology that has no proven back-up.
The potential vulnerability must be addressed urgently. Shijomae Industries can provide the software to protect us in the future.”
    “Shijomie Industries?”
    “Yes.”
    “Japanese?”
    “Definitely.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “You won’t regret it…”
    “Time’s up, Ronald. We’ll run your company past GCHQ; if they pass the test we’ll use them.”
    “Thank you, Conrad.” Cambridge took his tumbler, and left the room.
    Conrad Walker went to this desk, and speed dialled M. “Good evening, Sir John.”
    “Foreign Secretary,” he said with an air of the inevitable.
    “Don’t sound so gloomy, M, I think I have some good news.”
    “I could do with that…”
    “I’ve just been handed some major intelligence about the Complete Darkness terrorist group.”
    “I’m all ears.”
    “Check out a Japanese company called Shijomae Industries.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Yes, the World Bank Finance & Credit. They seem to be backing the Japanese in this venture. Also put tabs on Ronald Cambridge, would you?”
    “The Secretary of State for International Development?”
    “The same, yes. Oh and Sir John, do it quickly, I have a feeling that after you’ve listened to the security tape from the conversation I’ve just had with him tonight that he won’t be in that position for much longer.”
    “We’ll launch an investigation immediately.”
    “Glad to be of help, keep in touch.” Walker put down the phone. He opened the drawer and withdrew a large Cuban cigar. “To hell with rules.”

[volante]

Chapter 12
Hot Patch

 

Espoo, Finland
3 days to Complete Darkness

Lake Bodom is a small three kilometer long lake in the suburbs of Espoo, about 22 kilometers west of the country’s capital, Helsinki. Ever present silver birch trees covered in lichen line the shore of the steel grey water. The comfortable Oittaa camp site offers all services imaginable for the week-end camper. Sauna, roof covered barbecue, equipment for mini-golf and bikes for rent. The site leads down to a beach with water slide.
    The sun was shining, burning off the last of the mist over the lake. Johan Helsingius was returning to his cabin from the restaurant. He returned his copper mesh lined wallet to his inside jacket pocket. Johan had been putting copper mesh into his wallets for over ten years now, ever since a teenager with a purple mohawk warned him that hackers could bump against his pocket with a card reader and steal credit card information. Johan was a very careful man.
When the email appeared on his PC the night before, he resisted the urge to open it. Instead he put a trace on the route the email had taken to reach him. Johan wasn’t looking to understand where the communication had originated but he wanted to know how devious and to what lengths the originator had gone to stop him finding out.
    After the third spike failed to get past ten false IP addresses Johan knew someone was on to him. He pulled the plug on his hard drive and replaced it with a circuit board. Whoever was onto him would soon be able to hack into a series of messages that would indicate Johan was booked onto a flight Germany. The clues are difficult, but whoever had the capacity to engineer ten false IP addresses would be able to decipher the false trail he was now going to leave.
    Even at this early hour a number of campers were swimming in the lake, but Helsingius ignored them. He hurried back to his cabin. Time away from his computer was time wasted as far as Johan was concerned. His presence here was totally anonymous to his real persona.
    Closing the door firmly behind him, he sat at the keyboard. To log in to his personal account, Johan used a digital password generator. Like a magician he twirled the plastic key chain-like device through his callused fingers. The display changed, highlighting a new string of digits which would be active for only 60 seconds. His other hand danced over the keyboard, punching the six digits. Seconds passed; then his mobile lit up. He always added an extra layer of security to his personal accounts. Now he entered the special code received via the text message. As Johan surfed the browser, a program that he had written instantly removed all extensions from the sites visited. This was done to avoid accidently downloading malware from dangerous vulnerable Web sites.
    This tiresome technique may seem like a ‘Mission Impossible’ level of security to the average user, but it was second nature to a hacker of Johan’s stature. The average user could learn a thing or two from hackers like Johan, who are not only skilled at breaking into others' PCs, but have devised sophisticated, and in some cases, extreme methods for protecting their own. Cybercriminals are finding new ways to bypass traditional security methods like passwords and antivirus software. Many hackers use free software that tests millions of commonly-used passwords in seconds.
    One solitary ping announced a message. Johan opened the box. Quickly he scanned the text:  “Passwords are now obsolete”.
    Johan smiled. Today’s recognition code was correct. Even though he knew this conversation with the machine was totally untraceable, he stuck to the agreed coded response.  “Traditional security methods are no longer enough. How does the average user defend himself?” Johan relaxed soon he would be able discover who was trying to spy on him.
    The one word reply stressed him. “NoScript.”
    NoScript itself allows trusted websites to run JavaScript. It allows two Web browsers to share sensitive conversations, or in the real world, normal activities like online banking. This is in case the other browser becomes infected.
However, the use of ‘NoScript’ in this coded conversation meant caution.
    Johan entered a web address, careful to type "https" instead of "http" so that no one could eavesdrop on the WiFi network.  Johan and his hacker friends always used ‘https’, and a browser extension that encrypted online communications so that hackers or the police can't listen in.  Only now did he type real words ‘What’s the problem?”
    The response was quick ‘Hot patch.’  Hot patch was a term used by security companies to put a temporary band-aid over a breach. The patch closed any security flaw until the software company could fix it.
    Johan typed a reply. “What breach?”
    The single ping announced the response. “Yours, Mister Helsingius.”
    The use of his personal name sent a shockwave through his body. The opening text about passwords identified the hacker on the other end of the conversation as the accomplished hacker and computer science student Linus Torvalds, but Johan would never dream of using his real name. Had the impossible happened? Had he himself been hacked?
    Johan decided to fight fire with fire. He knew the conversation was totally un traceable, but resisted the urge to write “Is that you Linus?” Whoever was communicating to him would simply say yes. Instead Johan typed “What’s wrong?”
    “I think we are under surveillance.”
    The window exploded into a million fragments of glass. The noise was momentarily earth shattering. The projectile flew into the cabin, embedding itself into the log wall behind his head. For just one scintillating moment Johan felt the intense heat of the incendiary device igniting, then a few seconds of excruciating pain as his hair burst into flame and then his eyeballs melted. And then, as the log cabin vaporized, Johan felt nothing.

***

Vauxhall Cross, London.

Bill Tanner looked up from his lap top. “Looks like the Foreign Secretary’s intel was good. There’s been a massive explosion at Shijomae Industries in Tokyo.”
    “I’ll bet you a pound to a pinch of snuff that it’ll be 007. For once, Bill, I’m pleased about the destruction and body count that our secret agent is amassing.” M’s smile was infectious.
    “I’ll confirm the intelligence that 007 is actually in Japan with Q in Kuala Lumpur, shall I, sir?”
    “It would seem the crafty old bugger was holding back on 007’s whereabouts.”
    “Probably a good idea, with the way that this Complete Darkness group seemingly able to listen in on any conversation.”
    “Jump to it, Tanner, let’s see if we can tell the PM that the threat of the terrorist attack is over, before Mallory gets in to see him.” M hit the intercom, the infectious smile spreading across his face.  “Moneypenny…Patch me through to the PM will you?”

***

Tokyo, Japan

The jacket, fedora and false moustache had been discarded and lay crumpled on the floor. CEO Shijomae Industries and Leader of the Yamaguchi Yakuza, Tsukasa Shinoda sat at his desk in his shirt sleeves. His chief enforcer, Shinigami, paced the floor of the traditionally furnished office. As he passed behind the distinguished Japanese man standing to attention in front of Shinoda, the man gave an involuntary shudder. His greying hair was slicked back, and over-long for a man of his age. His thick tortoise shell spectacles were from the most expensive Italian designer house.
    “This news is a great loss of face. How quickly can you replace the ‘alphanox chip’?” Shinoda asked, as he completed his signature on a memo.
    “We would have to use the Osaka facility exclusively, I estimate six days,” the distinguished man replied.
    “We need it in situ, in two days.” Shinoda put down the Mont Blanc pen, and narrowed his eyes.
    Rather than say ‘impossible’ Dr Suzuka thought on his response. After a moment a thin smile came to his face. “Of course, if I took personal control, I could assure you of a replacement in three days.”
    Shinoda looked up at him. There was no need to emphasize the threat. “Do what you need to do, doctor. You have two days. We cannot fail.”
    “Of course, Shinoda san, I will not rest until the replacement is complete.” Dr Suzuka bowed and left the room. He knew that to argue would have been pointless. The door closed.
    Slowly, Shinoda looked up “The sooner we take back our own destiny and do not have to rely on men like that the better.” His head bowed again.
    “You are troubled master” The grim reaper enquired.
    “I cannot believe she is dead.”
    “I know there is much sorrow.”
    “I mean I cannot believe it. We have been stupid.”
    “Sir?”
    “We have assumed the Alphanox was destroyed in the fire.”
    “Yes.”
    “What if the Ninja had already taken the ‘chip’ and was escaping when the alarm was triggered?”
    Shinigami let the thought expand. His smile widened, and then he pounced on the telephone. “Bring in the guard from the factory.”
    Moments later the security guard from the oil tank was brought into the apartment. His hands shook; his polite bow was too low and lasted too long. His two shaven headed captors stood like monoliths beside him.
    “Tell me again what did you see last night at the factory?” The voice held no sweetness.
    “The car was parked by the oil tank. I thought it best not to approach it. I came to tell you.” The man stammered.
    “Yes, you were told to go back and guard it.”
    “Sorry yes. I returned too late. I returned as they were driving away. Please believe me I had no opportunity to stop them.”
    “They?” Shinoda inclined his head.
    “The intruder and the man they brought in earlier.”
    “Bond?” Shinigami spat in his ear. The guard jumped; his whole body shook with fear.
    “I don’t know his name, but it was the westerner that was brought in.”
    “Very good; now describe the Ninja with this man Bond.”
    “She was unconscious” His eyes were wide with terror.
    Shinoda stood up.  His black leather chair rocked back. Shinoda pointed at the little man but he looked at Shinigami as he spoke. His finger shook with rage.
    “She? You see it could be Miko that was with him. Does Bond have Miko?”
    Shinigami rounded the desk and moved close to his boss, his eyes hypnotic. “I beg you, do not raise your hopes, Shinoda san. If Miko were alive she would have killed Bond...”
    “She was unconscious. He has told us.”
    Shinigami shook his head. “Bond would be dead the moment she came to. The intruder must have also been a woman. Secret Service? If the intruder triggered the alarm after stealing the micro-chip, she would have had it when they escaped together from the factory. It would be logical to believe they have the micro-chip with them now.”
    “Then Mr. Bond and the Ninja have taken two things from me. One very personal, and one very necessary for our plans to progress. Please, Mr. Shinigami, find them both, kill them, and bring back the micro-chip. You have twenty four hours, I’m sure Dr Suzuka would also appreciate a speedy return of his little creation.”
    “The car was special.” The small security guard blurted out, his voice loud.
    “Special? Explain,” Shinoda demanded.
    “A black Nissan Juke GT-R, not a shiny one. I think they are very rare.” He bowed again. Hope spreading through his body.
    “Very good, your information is most important.” Shinoda turned to Shinigami. “You now have a good description of their car. That won’t be too hard to find.”
    Shinigami bowed. He snapped his fingers and the big guards left the apartment with the small frightened security guard squeezed between them. An uneasy silence accompanied them along the corridor.  At the elevator, Shinigami dusted down the shoulder of the security guard. The big men backed away in response to the movement. Then, quietly Shinigami said, “Thank-you for your invaluable information.”
    “It was my pleasure to help.” The man bowed again “You must believe me, I had no chance to stop them.”

    “I understand perfectly.”
    The elevator doors sighed open. Shinigami gestured for the small man to enter the elevator. As the security guard stepped forward he realised there was no floor; he turned to protest. Shinigami thrust out his hand. The palm struck the guard in the chest. In a blur of movement, he pirouetted on the spot to deliver a back kick which sent the guard into the void of the elevator shaft. His scream took a long time to fade away.
    Shinigami strolled to the window and looked out upon the vast metropolis of Tokyo. The cloud of pollution hung low over the city.
    “You can run, Mister Bond, you can hide Ninja. But I will find you. I will take back that which belongs to us, and I will avenge the death of my lovely Miko.” The speed of his turn surprised the big men.  “They escaped in a car. A matte black Nissan Juke GT-R. Which direction did they leave and where is it now? Put the word out. We have eyes on every street corner; make sure no one blinks until they are found. We have men at every airport, in every police station, at every port. I want it found within the hour.” The power of his voice was like a typhoon.

[volante]

Oshima

Chapter 13

Izu Islands, Japan.
2.5 days to Complete Darkness
 

 

Hotel Akamon hid its splendour behind the traditional luscious red-painted nine foot high wooden gates. Bond had asked a member of the crew for the best hotel on Oshima Island, and in his answer they had found the perfect hideaway. The gates closed softly behind the GT-R.
    Their villa was presented in a beautifully traditional Japanese style. The living quarters featured a simulated paper wall that led out to their own private outdoor hot spring bath, known locally as ‘Onsen’. The water cascaded into the marble tub from an artificial waterfall. The volcanic rock face formed a natural barrier to hide the bathing activity from prying eyes from the main body of the hotel.

    The manager pulled back the paper wall glass door to reveal the lavish colours of the formal Japanese garden that sat beyond the outdoor bathing facility. “Hotel Akamon has a very large Japanese garden for guests to enjoy.” He smiled and spread his hand over the vista, his smile widened when Bond dropped a 1000 yen note in his hand. “Traditional Japanese cuisine is served with freshly caught seafood for your pleasure at any time of day, in our wonderful restaurant…” He looked at Bond’s bloodstained shirt under the ripped jacket. The girl by his side cocooned in a blanket procured from the ferry over black leggings and ankle length Tabi boots. “…or maybe here on your private villa,” he offered as he bowed his way out of the room.
    Not one to waste a view, Bond took in the splendour of the garden for a fleeting glance. The trees framed the night, leaning into each other as if they were whispering. Then, fully clothed, he fell on the bed and slept. The girl curled up beside him, sharing body heat.

***
 

Otto Killman snatched the receiver from its cradle, silencing the voice from the loud speaker at the other end of the phone. The office reverberated from the sound of Killman’s voice.
    “Stolen? I understood it had been destroyed. Now, Shinoda San, you tell me it was stolen. How could it have been stolen?”
    The silence was betrayed by the pain in Killman’s eyes as the voice from Japan outlined the latest twist in the micro-chip disaster…
    “MI6? MI6 were at the factory. Wait ‘till I get my hands on Cambridge.”
    “No…say nothing that could betray us. We are working on a replacement chip, and I have also set my best man on the task to recover the original. Don’t worry. Complete Darkness will go ahead with the attack. We will be ready. I give you my personal assurance.”
    “Could MI6 have enlisted the help of another hacker – Johan Helsingius, Linus Torvalds or Connie Webb?”
    “Helsingius was vaporized. Torvalds and Webb are under surveillance. They have not been compromised by MI6.”
    “What about the MI6 man known as Q?”
    “He is still in Kuala Lumpur; he is no danger to us. Complete Darkness is to go ahead, Mister Killman, have no worries; I gave you my personal assurance. The chip will be ready.”
    Killman decided to put more pressure on his Japanese client. “We have many clients depending upon this attack. Do not fail.”
    “Please, Mister Killman, remember you work for us. It is only because my face is not acceptable to your European clients that I employ you to be the face of my business.”
    “Of course I remember the instructions my company are under. The stress was just momentarily out of control. Please accept my apology.”
    “Apology accepted. Remember Complete Darkness will prevail.”
    “Of course.”
    “Oh, I was wondering: once the chip is in place, has Cambridge indicated where he would like his little nuclear war to take place?”
    “Yes, South Africa!”

***

James Bond woke up alone. He threw aside the single cotton sheet that covered his naked body. He prowled about the room. His excellent memory had instantly updated him on where and why he was here. From deep in his subconscious he recalled the girl removing his clothing during a deep laden sleep. He headed for the wardrobe and slid open the door. The torn jacket hung to the right. Bond went through the right hand pocket. The micro-chip was still there; he relaxed. The disappearance of the girl was now his only concern. Dropping the micro-chip back in the pocket he headed for the garden, the sound of the water falling into the hot tub had alerted him.
    The girl sat in the onsen, her arms rested upon the marble sides. Her dark hair framed the milky white of her skin. The bruises were livid on her arms, testimony to the battle she had emerged victorious from.
    “What a magnificent view,” Bond said.
    The girl turned her head and admired his naked body. “Yes it is. Please do join me, this is most relaxing.”
    Bond slipped into the tub; the hot needles of water massaged his aching body, cocooning him in a warm envelope of water.
    “You look better.” She smiled; the dark circles under her eyes made her look gothic.
    “You should see me on a good day.”
    “I would like that, Mister?”
    “Bond….James Bond.”
    They relaxed in the hot swirling waters.
    “Onsen water is believed to have healing powers derived from the mineral content. I am afraid I do not know the mineral composition here...but it feels very therapeutic.”
    “Very.”
    “I am so pleased you are not embarrassed to be with me, naked.”
    “Not at all.”
    “Japanese people often talk of the benefits of naked communion for breaking down barriers and getting to know people in a relaxed atmosphere.”
    “Knowing your name would be a good start.”
    Her smile and laughter delighted him. “So sorry, I am Kohana Kawaguchi… I work for the Japanese Intelligence Service.”
    “Nice to meet you.” Bond leant across the pool and offered his hand, Kohana’s hand came out of the warm waters and they shook. She was soft and gentle.
    “I’m pleased we are on the same side.” Kohana smiled.
    “Why were you at Shijomae Industries last night?” Bond asked.
    Kohana took a slow intake of breath, her eye’s rolled, revealing that she was going to tell Bond everything, and that it would only take a moment to get over the guilt of revealing her mission. James Bond settled back into the corner of the bath, the waters worked their magic on his battered body. Kohana drew her glistening wet hand across her rose red lips, and as she spoke the droplets shivered upon her mouth.
    “Tsukasa Shinoda?” Her head dipped, inviting Bond to confirm he knew the name.
    “The CEO of Shijomae Industries,” Bond answered easily.
    “Shinoda is also leader of the Yamaguchi Yakuza.”
    “Isn’t it illegal for a CEO to belong to a criminal organisation?”
    “Yakuza are regarded as semi-legitimate organizations in Japan.”
    “Define semi legitimate.”
    “For example, immediately after the Kobe earthquake, the Yamaguchi-gumi mobilized itself to provide disaster relief services. This was reported by the media, much to the embarrassment of the Japanese government who were much slower to respond. Shinoda repeated the supply of aid after the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami. Local groups opened their offices to refugees. For this reason, many law abiding citizens regard Yakuza income and hustle as a collection of feudal tax.”
    “Thanks for putting me right. Why were you at the factory?” Bond insisted.
    “Shijomae Industries make banking software, the kind that can spot money laundering.  A short while after restructure started in Kobe, Shijomae Industries oversaw the installation of their anti-money laundering system at the Mizuho bank. The same also happened in Tōhoku. We believe the micro-chips within the software allow Shinoda to turn the system off, or at least turn a blind eye for a period of time.”
    “When he deposits his pay check.”
    “With just a click of a mouse.”
    “You can bet your life Shinoda’s friends use those banks too.”
    “Or other banks that now carry the same software. That’s how the Yamaguchi get around the semi legal aspect, they leave no digital footprint, they pay for everything from the account with clean money.”
    Bond thought about the micro-chip in his jacket pocket. Why had the girl stolen it?
    “The latest shipment was ready for dispatch last night?” Bond asked.
    “Yes, the one designated for the cyber-attack on the United Kingdom.”
    “There’s no Yakuza presence in the UK.”
    “This isn’t the exclusive rights of Yakuza. The modern world relies very heavily on technology. Shinoda san employs the technological resource to bring down most institutions .”
    “The blackouts are just a front?”
    “Yes, it is hard to predict when a natural disaster like an earthquake or tsunami will strike. The Complete Darkness wing of his business is a way of speeding up the requirement to replace cyber equipment. It also allows local governments then take the opportunity to get a quick financial fix using the micro-chips that Shijomae supply.” Kohana rubbed her injured arm.
    By way of acknowledgement Bond remarked, “By the way, that was an impressive performance on the roof top last night.”
    “Thank-you. Miko was a very worthy opponent.”
    Bond recalled the words he’d heard during his escape. He’d thought the word was Niko the cat. But upon reflection it had been Miko.
    “Miko?”
    “Miko is a shinto term for priestess.”
    “She fought well for a priestess.”
    “There is another meaning to the word.”
    Bond raised his eyebrows hoping she would continue…
    “The lines are often blurred between what's actually possible with martial arts, and what are simply just stories in Ninja legends.”
    “Ninjitsu? That’s your discipline?”
    “Amongst others yes… The Miko is a sorceress, someone whose skills go way past ninja training. She is one most skilled in the art of assassination and seduction equally.”
    “Many women possess those skills.” Bond laughed it off. “Shinoda told me he had sent an assassin with such skills to kill a man named Tam Lin Tong…”
    “I know there are only a few men alive that possess the ability either to create such masterpieces as the micro-chips used by Shinoda, or to work out how to stop their usefulness. We believe it was Miko that dispatched Mr. Tong.”
    “I would have thought that people that possess such skills would be in demand?”
    “Shinoda already has his expert.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Dr. Suzuka.”
    “What’s their plan?” Bond was disappointed it was not one of the names on Q’s list. He let the moment go without any emotion. His eyes urged her to continue.
    “Destroy reliance on the technological world. Go back to feudal ways of old Japan.” Kohana had a real fear in her voice as she revealed the prophecy.
    “Why does he want to eliminate the opposition?”
    “I don’t know. That’s why I was sent to get the micro-chip. We figure they can only make one at a time. Shinoda will have to come out into the open to try to retrieve it in order for the Complete Darkness attack on United Kingdom to go ahead on time.”
    “To come out in the open could be dangerous for Shinoda.”
    “The danger excites him.”
    “Then they’ll be coming after us.”
    “Are you ready?
    “Always.” Bond eased himself out of the tub.  He dressed in his suit trousers, a white t-shirt and black jumper supplied by the hotel. He rotated his head and listened to the insects coming to life now that the sun had gone down. Kohana came into the lounge area of the apartment, fastening a vivid red and silver embroided Yukata robe.
    “Very nice.”
    “Thank-you.”
    Bond went to the telephone. “I think I better phone home…”
    “No, James, we cannot use the hotel telephone to contact our superiors. Shinoda would be on to us in a heartbeat.”
    “We need to formulate our exit strategy.” Bond lifted the receiver.
    “They took your mobile phone?”
    Bond nodded, then replaced the receiver. “Does your car have a tracking device?”
    Kohana waited until Bond had moved away from the telephone, then she shook her head; she pulled at the sleeves of the Yukata. She completed the traditional summer Kimono outfit by picking up a small fan. She fluttered it in front of her face.
    “GPS?”
    “Sorry no, it has a cloaking devise, otherwise we believe that Shinoda would have been able to trace me at the factory.”
    Bond returned to the phone, and as the girl moved to stop him, he picked up the receiver. “Don’t worry,” he raised his palm to stop her, “I think I know someone that could help us.”
    “A friend?”
    “Hardly, he’s called Q.”
    “The man you were with in Kuala Lumpur?” The words came out quickly.
    Bond looked quizzically at her.
    “We are secret service, Mr. Bond…and you were on CNN. You forget you destroyed the PETRONAS Towers.” She raised her arms above her head and mimed the descent from the sky-bridge. “Please, Mr. Bond, be careful what you say on the phone.”
    Bond smiled back at her. He cradled the receiver between his cheek and shoulder.
    “Don’t worry, I’m secret service too. I’ve done this kind of thing before.” Suddenly he held out the phone to her “A Japanese voice would be less suspicious, though.”
    Kohana took hold of the telephone. “How should I identify myself?”
    “Ask him if he remembers who wrecked his car.”

[volante]

Chapter 14

Spies Die

Izu Islands, Japan.
2 days to Complete Darkness

 

The Sunseeker 28 motor yacht cut through the oil black water at almost 30 knots, its belly skimming over the swell of the ocean.
    Inside the main cabin. Shinigami sat at a table studiously oiling the blade of his katana. Around him the four other members of his Yakuza clan checked their own traditional and non-traditional weapons. Shinigami looked lovingly at the katana. The traditional sword is characterized by a distinctive appearance: a curved, slender, single-edged blade with an oval guard and long claret-braided grip to accommodate both hands.
    Historically the sword had been associated with the samurai of feudal Japan and is renowned for its sharpness and strength. Shinigami had used the katana, a weapon handed down to him from his father, for ritual killings ever since he had been employed by the Yakuza. His elaborate fast moving swing of the sword had earned him his nickname of the grim reaper.
    One of the crew entered the cabin. “We need to turn out all the lights, sir. We will be there in fifteen minutes.”
    “Do it.” Shinigami pulled the black hood down over his face; his clan did the same.
    In the darkness, only the evil intent in his eyes shone.

***

The shrill sound of the telephone cut through the stillness of the night. Kohana picked up the receiver.
    “Mushi mushi.”
    “Friends await you at the temple after evening class is finished.” The line went dead. She replaced the phone.
    “We are being picked up at the temple.”
    “When?” Bond asked. Kohana checked the clock.
    “We must go now, it will take us twelve, fifteen minutes to get there.”
    James Bond slid open the door, the cool of the night rushed in over them. The moon hung like a big fat water filled balloon illuminating the clouds to a fuzzy honey colour.
    “Lovely night for a stroll.”
    “Oh James, it’s a tsukimi.”
    “Moon viewing?” Bond translated.
    “Yes, the custom of moon viewing is called tsukimi and widely celebrated in Japan. It's said that this moon viewing custom was from China. There are only two each year. One takes place on the lunar calendar, and the other on the solar calendar. Dates change every year but usually fall in September or October. The moon isn't always full, but it's said that the moon on the night is the brightest and the most beautiful in the year.”
    Bond held out his arm. “Come on.”
    They stepped out into the moonlight.
    “How do Japanese people celebrate Tsukimi?” Bond asked as they left the confides of the hotel.
    “It's done in a quiet manner. Traditionally, susuki (pampas grass) and other autumn flowers are decorated in a vase. Dango (dumplings) and satoimo (taro potatoes) are offered to the moon in an altar. People look at the moon, enjoying the beauty quietly. Tsukimi also has the meaning of celebrating the autumn harvest.”
    As they entered the trees the moonlight became dappled.

***

HMS Astute is a nuclear-powered submarine in the Royal Navy. When launched in 2007, Astute became the second submarine of the Royal Navy to be named for the characteristic of shrewdness and discernment. The first was a World War II Amphion-class boat which gained many kill accreditations during her operational years.
    In contrast, the current Astute suffered an embarrassing start when she ran aground off the Isle of Skye during her trials. Since then, she has had a murder on board and suffered allegations that she could not reach her design speed.
    “Twenty fathoms, steady. There’s a shelf up ahead, sir. Should I slow?”
    “No. Full speed ahead.” Captain Rees hoped that the improvements made to the reactor circuits would enable that full speed to now be achieved.
    The reassuring ping from the sonar urged them forward. Modern submarines rely on sonar for detecting the presence of enemy vessels and ‘seeing’ the underwater terrain. Astute had the most advanced system, called ‘towed array’. The system uses a long cable to which hydrophones are attached. At sea, the submarine deploys the cable so that it trails far behind.
    This system uses a device called a sonobuoy, consisting of a hydrophone mounted in a floating buoy. It is designed so that when a sound, such as that of a submarine engine, is picked up, the detector operates a small radio transmitter that sends out a signal that can be received by patrolling antisubmarine planes.
    “Status, Number One.”
    After a moment to analyze the readouts the Number One gave his prognosis. “If we hold this speed for another ten minutes, sir, we can surface, launch the zodiac and go ashore. We should be able to rendezvous with the asset at the temple on Oshima in twenty minutes.”
    “Very good.” Captain Rees turned away. By continuing to approach the land at this speed he was putting the ship and all his crew at risk. He tapped his fingers on his thighs. “Relay 20 to the Kuala Lumpur asset, would you?”
    “Aye, sir.” after a moment the signals officer asked, “Confirmation to London, sir?”
    “Apparently not. We’re on our own on this one.”

***

The honey-coloured moon lit their path to the temple. Their stealth extenuated all the noises from the woods at their side. But apart from the crickets and frogs, something else was forming a beat to their journey.
    They heard the noise long before they emerged from the forest path. Bond could not place the click, click, click sound in the darkness, but Kohana’s smile assured him it was nothing to be concerned about.
    The temple was backlit against the coast line. Naked flame torches lined the path up to the front gates.
    As an explanation Kohana pointed to the temple. “It was a Shinto shrine. When the monks moved out it was bought by a famous film actor. He converted it into a martial arts academy.” As if to confirm her claim, a blood curdling ‘kiai’ echoed from the interior. Bond regarded the ancient building.
    “Keeping in tune with the past whilst Japan moves forward.” Bond nodded.
    They were met at the gate by two young boys. Their faces were stern, their grey tunics clean.
    A fast exchange of guttural words passed between one of the boys and Kohana.
    She bowed deeply to the boys, then explained to Bond. “It seems things have not moved too far forward. I, as a woman, and you as a…”
    “…Foreigner” Bond helped. Kohana smiled at his understanding.
    “We are not allowed to enter the temple.”
    Bond smiled at the boys, and gave a small polite bow. “That’s alright, we can just go around the parameter, get down to the jetty from there.”
    “Not that easy, I’m afraid. We have called at their gates in the night. As a man you cannot turn your back on their hospitality. It would be disrespectful.”
    “I’m slightly underwhelmed by their hospitality.” Bond looked down at the two scowling faces. They remained motionless before him.
    “They are showing you respect. They will wait until I have gone until they smile at you.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “I will go down to the jetty. When our friends arrive I will send your new friend to collect you.” Kohana pointed to the boys.
    “I’d rather us not be separated.”
    Kohana frowned. “Don’t you think I can find a British submarine on my own?”
    “Well, it is dark.”
    “There will be a loss of face if you don’t go in.” Kohana scowled.
    “I thought I wasn’t allowed into the temple.”
    “You will be allowed to watch from outside.”
    “Just like Henman hill.”
    She frowned again, and then explained their requirements to the boys. Instantly one boy beckoned for Kohana to follow him. As they set off around the perimeter of the temple, the second boy looked at Bond and smiled. With upmost respect he opened the outer gate and bowed.
    Ahead of them the shrine was immediately recognizable from the ‘torii’, a gate of two upright poles topped by two cross-pieces. Even in the darkness Bond could see they were painted a bright vermilion. The entrance to the sacred enclosure lay beyond.
    The two water troughs near the entrance both had ladles ritually laid in front for the important water purification ceremony. The ladles are used to pour a little over your fingers, then into your cupped hand to rinse your mouth. The pathway to the shrine itself was marked with twisted straw ropes. These ropes also denote the presence of a god, or gods. They are plentiful in Japan and can be seen tied round trees or rocks or strung across the front of the shrine building. Another rope, this time attached to a bell or gong, hung from the eaves.
    Once inside the grounds Bond felt instantly at peace. The rise and fall of the kendo training session within the open sided dojo seemed in tune with the gentle breeze which wafted the heady aroma of herbs and sweat through the cool air.
The boy gestured for Bond to sit. As he did so he glimpsed Kohana and her small guide descend to the beach. The gentle crashing of the waves onto the shore below added to the hypnotic rhythm of the night.
    Bond sat cross legged on a polished wooden square; it was one of five in the centre of a brushed pebble garden. Larger stepping stones radiated from the wooden squares. Inside the dojo twelve kendo disciples went through a fast attack move. In unison six of the players stepped forward their bokken slashing down on the defenders dark polished helmets. Once complete, the silence was all consuming.
    The boy returned with a simple tray containing a porcelain urn of tea, a single small bowl rocked next to it. Majestically at the boy’s side appeared an elderly man. He wore a clinically white ‘gi’, the two piece uniform of an exponent of various martial arts, and around his waist he wore an old ragged belt, which at one time in its history had been black. His closely shaven head revealed just a hint of dark grey. His face was tanned to the shade of walnut, with deep lines of experience radiating from his eyes. He bowed. Bond got to his feet and returned the gesture.
    “The concept of Kendo is to discipline the human character through the applied study of the katana or Japanese sword.” His hand swept along the line of the dojo, his English was good. Bond followed his hand. Instantly the twelve armour clad players began another vigorous attack and defence sequence. This time a cut to the wrist was followed to a thrust to the head.
    “To mould the mind and body; and cultivate a vigorous spirit. And through correct and rigid training, strive for improvement in the art of Kendo.”
    “And to forever pursue the cultivation of oneself. Bond completed the saying.
    The old man smiled. “You have not stumbled upon us by accident, I think.”
    “On the contrary, I did not know of your magnificent school, I am simply passing.”
    “I do not refer to your actual presence.” The old man deftly stepped to the side. Again his arm swept a path across the dojo. “I refer to you being a warrior.”
    “You are too kind.” Bond held the man’s gaze.
    “Please rest here and appraise our practice. I must attend my pupils.” He clapped his hands, and the boy flew to his side, he dropped to his knees and began preparing the tea.
    “I will; thank-you.” Bond returned to his sitting position.
    Inside the dojo Bond watched the old man take up his position on a raised platform at the far side of the practice area. He waved his hand, and two players engage in a match. Their wooden ‘bokken’ or wooden swords began to parry each attack. One player jumped forward and smashed his sword into the head piece of his opponent. Had the sword been made of steel, the head would have been cleaved in two.
Kendo, the art of Japanese swordsmanship, has a long and rich history. Japanese arms and armour have long been influenced by those of China. Japanese swords were originally not the curved swords we see today but were flat straight swords of a very primitive construction used for thrusts and simple strikes only. The kendo bokken emulates this historical battle scene. Until the two-handed ‘katana’ swords were created, battles centred on mounted warriors protected by heavy armour wielding their swords in their right hands.
    In modern Kendo, there are two types of attacks: strikes and thrusts.
    Strikes are allowed to only three points on the body-the top of the head, the right and left sides of the waist and the forearms. Thrusts are usually permitted only to the throat. Unlike western fencing where two opponents show each other only their sides, in Kendo the opponents stand face to face, and these four target areas were chosen because they are the most difficult. In competitive matches, it is not enough for your bamboo sword to just touch the opponent; points are awarded only when the attacks are done properly to the exact target with good control and a yell or Ki ai.
   Bond watched the various partners attack, thrust and score. His awareness was heightened by the sound of a footstep displacing the pebbles from the garden that surrounded him. Bond momentarily thought it was remiss of the boy to walk upon the pebbles and not keep to the stepping stones. Instantly he knew that would never happen.
    Bond rolled forward. The straight sword slashed downward, cleaving into the wooden block. As Bond came to his feet, he twisted to face his opponent. The attacker was dressed in black, and only the shining silver of the sword which was proving difficult to remove from the block distinguished his outline from the shadows. Bond grabbed the porcelain tea urn and hurled it into the ninja’s face. As it smashed against the mask the attacker put up his hands. Bond dived low, taking the man around the waist knocking the wind from him. They landed on the pebbles. Bond drove his fist into the side of the man’s jaw. Instantly the slacking of the body told Bond the man was unconscious.
But the danger was not over. Movement in the shadows alerted Bond to a new attack. The two ninjas advanced. Bond attempted to remove the sword from the block, but his vigorous twisting only achieved it breaking. Bond held the rope-covered handle with only about four inches of blade extending from it.
    The old man in the dojo looked beyond the traditional Kendo match taking place on the well-lit mat. He looked outside into the darkness and saw Bond retreating across his garden. In the background, the two ninjas advanced upon him. His many years of martial arts training allowed him to watch both battles at the same time.
    One kendo player advanced, his bokken cutting the air as the defender parried the blows, and the natural spirit cries of the kiai accompanied the click and thud of the bamboo sword striking the armour. The movement was beautiful, as graceful as any ballet. In the shadows of the garden the first ninja struck. He thrust the sword into Bond’s mid-section. Bond brought the broken sword down onto the blade. The second attacker pirouetted on the spot, swinging his sword at Bond’s head. Bond dived for the front leg of the first ninja. His shoulder smashed into the man’s thigh, and his stance was broken. The ninja rolled over, bringing a clawed hand into Bond’s face, but the broken ragged blade from Bond’s sword penetrated the palm. His scream was controlled as he wriggled out of the grip. Bond attacked with him thumb. He jabbed it into the eye of the attacker. Now the man screamed openly. The second ninja slashed downward with his sword. Bond kicked the leg of the first man so that the leg met the blow. Bond leapt to his feet. He threw a handful of pebbles into the eyes of the second ninja.
Temporarily blinded, the ninja grabbed at Bond. He latched onto him and brought himself close. Bond butted him twice, three, four times. From the resounding crunch, Bond knew the nose had been found and broken. Blood seeped through the man’s mask, the coughs betraying the blocked airways. Bond quickly searched the man’s clothing. He extracted two throwing knives. As the ninja tried to grab at Bond’s shoulder Bond thrust the knives into the man’s gut.
Inside the dojo, the attacking player feinted left then brought the bokken down onto his opponent’s wrist. The defender dropped his arms and brought up his own bamboo sword in a stunning counter move. The pair glided across the mat, their speed and grace un-paralleled.
    In the garden Bond withdrew the throwing knives from the ninja’s stomach. Bond got to his feet. The whooshing sound made him turn. The fourth ninja held a length of thin rope, at one end a weighted blade now rotated. The ninja attacked, swinging the blade in a figure eight motion. The blade threatened to slice through Bond’s face, or up through his abdomen. Bond stooped to pick up one of the fallen swords. In an awkward crouch the ninja advanced as Bond tried to poke the sword into the gap, like a boy puts a stick into the spokes of a bicycle wheel.
    In an instant, the ninja brought the blade back and cast it like a fly fisherman. The deadly blade shot forward. Bond dived to the left, but as he did he threw the sword at the ninja. The blade cut into the ninja’s arm. The wound did not deter him; he lashed out a side kick which caught Bond in the solar plexus. Bond dropped to the ground. The ninja now intended to use the whirling blade like a whip, and beat Bond to death. He positioned himself above Bond’s prone body. Bond kicked up, catching his attacker in the groin. The whirling blade dropped. Bond caught hold of the rope and pulled it toward him. He expected the attacker to fall, but the ninja executed a neat front somersault and landed on his feet. He bent his knees and angled his body and fired in three ridge hand strikes to the body. Bond used his knees to deflect the blows. The ninja felt inside his tunic and brought out his own knife. With relish, he dropped onto to Bond to finish him.
Bond seized the attacking hand. Like a slippery eel, the ninja twisted his body away. The knife slashed down again. Bond smashed his fist into the ninja’s elbow, then grabbed the man’s tunic and hoisted himself behind the attacker. They rolled over, the ninja trying to force Bond onto the ground, but that was the position Bond was looking for.
    Bond executed a judo naked choke hold on the ninja. Known as a blood choke because it restricts blood flow to the brain via the carotid arteries, when done correctly, it causes unconsciousness in just a few seconds.
Bond’s left arm encircled the ninja's neck. He instinctively felt his opponent's trachea at the crook of his own elbow. Bond's left hand grasped his own upper right biceps. His right hand was perfectly placed behind his opponent's head. Bond took in a big lungful of air and began to squeeze. His elbows came together so that the lateral pressure from his biceps and radius bone applied a crushing vice-like grip to both sides of the ninja’s neck.
   When applied properly, unconsciousness occurs in less than 10 seconds, but Bond knew recovery from the choke was just as quick. Bond placed his right leg across the stomach of the ninja. He then wrapped his other leg over his own shin, creating a figure-four with his legs. This extra pressure allowed Bond to limit his opponent’s movement and stay close on his back. He squeezed the life out of the ninja. The pebbles rubbed against Bond’s back. The ninja wriggled again, desperately looking for a way out, and his breath became ragged. Suddenly the body went limp. Bond continued to squeeze for another ten seconds. Then he released the body and kicked out from beneath him. Gasping for breath with hands on knees to support himself, Bond stood up. He glanced at the dojo. Through the battling pairs of Kendo students Bond saw the old Sensei (Teacher) looking back at him.
    From his seat in the dojo, the old man nodded at Bond’s victory.
    The two Kendo players removed their helmets and bowed to each other in mutual respect.
    In the garden, Bond melted into the shadows and vanished like a ghost.

[volante]

Chapter 15

Say a little Prayer

 

 

Cape Town International Airport
2 days to Complete Darkness
 

 

Through the eyes of a child, the wispy thin cloud that led the long white puffy cumulus clouds slid over the flat top of table mountain looked like a crocodile. Inside the immigration hall the officer pushed the passport back across the counter.      "Thank-you, Mister Bourtas, have a good stay in Cape Town.”
    “Thank-you.” Linus Torvalds squeezed the passport into his rucksack and made his way to the exit.
    The line of passengers waiting for a Touch Down taxi went down quickly. Torvalds slipped into the back of the silver Mercedes.
    “Queen Victoria Hotel, on the Waterfront.” He sat back in air-conditioned luxury. The messages that had haunted his email account for the past two days had told him a suite at the hotel had been booked for him. When the prophesized death Johan Helsingius in Espoo turned into reality, Torvalds had quickly packed a bag and headed straight to the airport. The ticket and passport were waiting in the left luggage, just as the emails had promised. Torvalds looked at his own photograph; it had been taken just over one year ago.

 

***

The hotel reception area was a mixture of crystal chandeliers, white marble, blue velvet and gold leaf. Linus’s grey baggy tee-shirt, dirty blue levis and rucksack stood him in stark contrast to the designer clothes worn by other guests in the hotel. Un-phased by his own appearance, Linus strode up to the reception desk. The three story area was speared by the dramatic spiral staircase in the middle. Everything was modern except for a single signature lamp shade of deep purple which had been employed to add a touch of regal eccentricity as an ode to the historic figure after whom the hotel is named.
    “Good day, I have a room booked in the name of Bourtas.” He swept his hair back out of his eyes.
    The skeptical desk clerk checked his PC, then adopted a broad welcoming smile as the data confirmed the expensive suite booking. “Could I take your passport please, sir?”
    Linus rummaged around in the rucksack and brought out the passport.
    “Thank-you, sir.” He hit the gold plated ornate bell, and a porter appeared.
    The two men travelled in silence above the domestic ballet in the reception area in the glass-fronted elevator. The hum of the lift was tempered with the soft unmemorable music that accompanied them.
    The suite had a rich aroma of oranges and had a wonderful view of the energetic harbour and the majestic Table Bay. Linus made the obligatory tourist pilgrimage to the balcony, and reveled in the wonder of Table Mountain. As he rounded the corner, the Cape Town Stadium came into view along with the living reptile that consumed most of the city's congested traffic.
    The porter presented Linus with the room key card. His smile faded when he realized a tip would not be given in response.
    Linus felt like a fish out of water as he wandered around the opulent room. He dropped his rucksack on the biscuit leather hide couch, and then explored the other rooms. He let his hand trail along the Egyptian cotton sheets on the king size bed. Compared to his own accommodation, this was a luxury he was unaccustomed to, but at what price?
    The sound of the room door closing brought him back to reality. Linus rushed to the living room. A man stood in the center of the room.
    “Hello, you must be Linus. I’m Major Boothroyd, I work for British secret Service.” Q held out his hand.
    Linus approached the old man as a beaten dog approaches a stranger with food.

 

***


Izu Islands, Japan.
2 days to Complete Darkness

 

James Bond jogged down the pathway to the jetty. The boat’s engine kicked up a spray of water as it wheeled away from the jetty. The lights in the cabin illuminated the struggle on the aft deck. Kohana struggled to repress the black clad ninja that stood behind her. As a ninja, he stood out from the others that had fought at the temple. He held a beautiful katana to the girl’s throat.
    Bond ran along the wooden jetty, but the Sunseeker was making space between them.
    Helplessly Bond looked around him for some type of weapon, or vehicle to pursue the fleeing craft.
    There was nothing.
    Bond felt his anger rise as the boat slipped away from him. They were almost two hundred meters from the shore when HMS Astute surfaced, blocking their escape. The powerful search light caught the Sunseeker in its beam. The boat made a dramatic change in course. But immediately lost its speed as it was hit by the submarine-fired electric impulse harpoon. The boat lost all power, and the lights blacked out.
    Bond saw the ninja dive into the sea. The crew had already launched the zodiac rubber speed boat. In less than thirty seconds the zodiac was alongside.
    It was another five minutes before Kohana was back in his arms.
    As they kissed Bond heard a familiar voice. “Think yourself lucky, Commander. I’m not always going to be on hand to stop your girlfriends running away from you.”
    Bond turned Kohana toward the voice and held his hand out in gratitude. The man was perhaps an inch or two taller than Bond but no more than five pounds heavier. His hair was very black, and neatly cut. The accent was pure southern England.
    “Harry, I thought you’d have been pensioned off and living in a bar in Malta by now.” Major Harry Fawkes and James Bond embraced.
    “Sounds tempting, but as long as you keep screwing up for Queen and Country I suppose I’m needed to cover your…”
    “You two know each other?” Kohana interrupted.
    “We’ve been involved in a few scrapes. Have you changed employer, Harry?”
    “No, just hitching a ride.” He gestured back to the sub. “What’s your current objective?”
    Bond felt for the chip in his pocket, he brought it out and held it up to the light. “I need to get this to Q branch, or at least tell someone I’ve got it.”
    They jumped into the zodiac.
    “The Complete Darkness terrorist group are planning an attack on the UK. Somehow their plan needs this micro-chip to start the party. I have the only one. Thought I’d draw the real power behind the group out, see who popped up to get it.”
    “Ninjas?”
    “Complete Darkness are run by a Japanese businessman.”
    The zodiac sped over the waves back toward the Astute. Major Fawkes looked back at Bond. “Looks like they sent some heavies to try and get it back.”
    James Bond assessed his appearance, superficial wounds and dishevelment.

 

***
 

 

Vauxhall Cross, MI6 HQ, London.
2 days to Complete Darkness
 

 

Architect Terry Farrell's influences for Vauxhall Cross speak volumes of 1930s architecture, copying elements of Battersea and Bankside power stations as well as Mayan and Aztec temples. During excavation of the site, the remains of a 17th century glass kiln, three barge houses and an inn thought to have been called ‘The Vine’ came to light.
    Now the building is synonymous with modernity. Layers of decks rising from the river produce no fewer than 60 separate roof areas. 12,000 square meters of glass and aluminum covering the six perimeter and internal atria. The glass may look homogeneous but 25 different types were required to meet specific needs in all parts of the building. Even the doors are specially designed.
    Vauxhall Cross is of course subject to rather different security requirements from those prevailing in the commercial sector.
    The meeting room was at the front of the building. As the blinds closed, the occupants of the room watched as a train silently glided past, evidence that the bombproof triple glazed windows were doing their job.
    Bill Tanner gave the summary… “In 48 hours, Britain is going to be the target of a cyber attack.” Tanner pressed the button and the first presentation slide appeared. “The terrorist group Complete Darkness will affect the attack. All computers will be rendered useless.” A buzz ran through the audience. Tanner pressed for the next slide. A Photograph of Ronald Cambridge came onto the screen.
    “We believe that the Secretary of State for International Development is in contact with the legitimate arm of this terror group.” Tanner let the words of horror float around the table. The photograph of Otto Killman came up on the screen. “This is Otto Killman. He is an adviser to the Swiss global financial services company W.B.F&C. That’s the World Bank Finance & Credit. Their headquarters are in Zürich, Switzerland but they operate in every civilized country in the World.”
    “And some un-civilized ones, too.” M stood up. He gestured for Tanner to advance the presentation. A photograph of the burnt-out hulk of the Shijomae Industries Tokyo building stared back at them.
    “We believe that the micro-chip necessary to facilitate the threat posed by complete darkness was manufactured here. They call it Alphanox.”
    “Before it burned down, I presume?” the Prime Minister offered.
    “Yes. Our asset has neutralized the manufacturing capacity of the Tokyo facility.”
    “That’s good news.”
    “Yes. Unfortunately they have another facility. A second chip will be available for the attack on ourselves,” Mallory interjected.
    “How devastating will this attack be?” the Prime Minister asked.
    “Not very. It could be worse of course, but we believe the attack is only bait to get us to install a new generation of anti-cyber-attack software in all our banks and financial computer networks.” Mallory was growing in confidence.
    “Something you would not advise?”
    “That’s right.” M sounded desperate. “The software contains malware. It will allow this man.” A photograph of Tsukasa Shinoda appeared. “Tsukasa Shinoda, leader of the Yamaguchi Yakuza and CEO of Shijomae Industries, to control any financial transactions that he wishes to,” Tanner said.
    “Explain.”
    “We believe this man is the leader of the Complete Darkness group. An electronic transfer of the entire holdings of an International bank for just one minute could make Shinoda very rich. The input of millions of dollars of counterfeit money would not be picked up on the software,” M answered.
    “That’s it? It’s just about theft?”
    “I’m afraid not.” The screen went blank. The blinds opened. It had begun to rain. M stood at the head of the table. “The object of obtaining the money from our banks is to facilitate a small nuclear war.” The voices around the table were horrified.
    “Where?”
    “We believe South Africa.”
    The voices muttered again.
    “Why?”
    “We feel it’s far enough away from us; plus there are many investment opportunities.”
    “Away from us? What is our involvement in this madness?”
    “I’ll explain that in a moment.”
    “When is this war to take place?” the Prime Minister asked.
    M continued… “The plan would take about three months. First, after the Complete Darkness attack there would be an administrative period where Shijomae Industries would replace the software in the computer systems. The money would be taken. And then they would escalate tensions in the area. Eventually taking over military networks, codes would be overridden and missiles would be fired.”
    “You said South Africa. Who would they fire on?”
    “No, Prime Minister, they would be fired upon.”
    “By whom?”
    “China,” Mallory said,
    “China?”
    “Yes. Bilateral investment has taken major strides over the last decade and is closely linked to developments in trade between South and East. South African investments in China were valued at considerably more than those of China in South Africa until the Industrial and Commercial Bank of China’s purchase of a 20% stake in Standard Bank for US$5.64-billion; the largest single investment into South Africa and China’s largest financial investment was approved in March this year.
    “Other investments by Chinese companies in South Africa are in the mining sector, with a large focusing on chrome. There are five projects in total,” Mallory concluded.
    “A nuclear war of any size would stop the mining in Africa,” M added.
    “The knock-on effect on the sale of world-wide electronic goods would be disastrous,” the Foreign Secretary said.
    “It would be worse than that. The fallout would render all countries on the African continent north of South Africa uninhabitable. Overall, South Africa ranks second in China’s mining investment in Africa, ahead of Zambia and Zimbabwe. All production would cease,” said Mallory. “It would be a global economic meltdown.”
    “Yes, and that is the real objective of Shinoda’s Complete darkness group.” Shinoda’s photograph re-appeared on the screen. “Shinoda wants a return to a more feudal existence. Japan’s economy has declined over the years, in direct contrast to the rise in China.”
    “How much of this do the Chinese and Japanese Ambassadors know?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Good. Keep it that way.”
    In the awkward silence, Bill Tanner took up the narrative. “In construction, the Chinese company Covec recently entered the South African market, supporting the government backed Citic Construction, which is completing the Mittal Steel Newcastle Battery No. 2 and Gas Plant Project.”
    “China would be devastated.” The Prime Minister imagined all production coming to an end.
    “The whole world would be devastated. The world as we know it would change. In mining, China’s biggest gold producer, Zijin Mining Group, is developing the R1-billion Blue Ridge mine and Sheba’s Mine in the Bushveld Igneous Complex north of South Africa. Sinosteel meanwhile is involved in a joint venture with LimDev to operate a chromium mine in Limpopo. Without produce coming from these sites, all jewellery would cease. Catalytic converters would be no more. Automotive production would cease worldwide.”
    “Why would anyone want to see this happen?”
    “Shinoda wants to return to a World of non-technology.”
    “Why would Cambridge want to get involved with these terrorists?”
    “We believe that Ronald Cambridge believes that the reward for his assistance to the Complete Darkness group will be to choose British businesses to help repair and rebuild the war zone.”
    “What you have described won’t keep this conflict to a local issue.”
    “That is correct, but Cambridge won’t be aware of that.”
    “I trust you are monitoring Cambridge?”
    “Yes, Prime Minister.”
    “I think you should bring him in.”
    Mallory nodded toward Tanner.
    For a little while the Prime Minister thought about the scenario. “How do we stop this from happening?”
    “In the first instance we are trying to identify how to get close to the technological hub of the Complete Darkness group.”
    “The alphanox?”
    “Yes, we believe it is the only physical requirement. Everything else can be hacked.”
    “How close are you?”
    “We are pursuing a good line of enquiry,” M said.
    “I’m sorry, Sir John, but that doesn’t sound very close,” the Home secretary suggested.
    “We have an asset in Cape Town. We have one of only two men alive who can affect the ‘hacking’ of the government and military computer systems to both affect the start of the war or stop it,” M stuttered.
    “What happens if you fail?”
    M cleared his throat. He gestured to Tanner. Bill Tanner pressed the intercom. “Can you send him in please?”
    A few moment s later a short rotund man came in. He nodded to the assembled audience around the table.
    “This is Professor Frank Casper.” The man nodded to the assembled guests.
    “Professor Casper, can you describe the effects of the nuclear conflict which you have modelled?”
    “I have estimated the tonnage available in the South African military arsenal.”
    “I’m interested in your qualifications, Professor Casper? Where do you work?
    Casper stood up and walked around the table, he stood next to M. M looked at him and slowly shook his head. Casper smiled and took up the remote. The blinds closed again.
    The short film began with the all too familiar mushroom cloud explosion.
    “The global cooling caused by high carbon clouds wouldn't be as catastrophic as a superpower-versus-superpower nuclear winter, but the effects would still be regarded as an unprecedented climate change." Professor Casper looked at the Prime Minister. “Don’t worry, Prime Minister, you pay my wages. As for where I practice, I could tell you but I’d have to kill you.” After a moment his sour face broke into a telling smile. He began his commentary as the film rolled behind him.
“Earth is currently in a long-term warming trend. You know it as Global Warming. After a regional nuclear war, the average global temperatures would drop by 2.25 degrees for two to three years afterward.”
    “A reverse to global warming?” the Prime Minister asked.
    Casper ignored the remark. “At the extreme, the tropics, Europe, Asia, and Alaska would cool by 5.4 to 7.2 degrees according to our models. This means parts of the Arctic and Antarctic would actually get warmer. Due to shifted wind and ocean-circulation patterns.”
    “How long would this last?” Bill Tanner blurted out. The Prime Minister looked at him.
    “After ten years, average global temperatures would still be 0.9 degree F (0.5 degree C) lower than before the nuclear war.”
    “Ten years,” the Home Secretary echoed.
    Casper nodded
    “What would our world look like, during and after this period?” the PM asked.
    “Ten years without summer. For a time Earth would likely be a colder, hungrier planet.”
    “Hungrier?” the Home secretary asked.
    "Our results suggest that agriculture would be severely impacted, especially in areas that are susceptible to late-spring and early-fall frosts.”
    “Oh my God.”
    “Crop failures and famines would be widespread and last many years after that," Casper added. “All these changes would also alter circulation patterns in the tropical atmosphere, reducing precipitation by 10 percent globally for up to four years. Even after seven years, global average precipitation would be 5 percent lower than it was before the conflict, according to the model.”
    “Where has this information come from?”
    “In addition to our own work, the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Colorado, found large decreases in the protective ozone layer, leading to much more ultraviolet radiation reaching Earth's surface and harming the environment and people.”
    The Prime Minister looked at M. “We cannot let this happen…” But M silenced him.
    "The main message from our work,” Casper said, “would be that even a regional nuclear conflict would have global consequences.”
    After a moment, the Prime Minister raised his head, fear ingrained in his eyes.
    “They would know that?”
    Casper nodded. “Shinoda fully understands that his actions will take the world back by maybe 200 years. Anyone who understands what a nuclear explosion would produce in the modern world would understand the consequences. Shinoda wants the world to be returned to a feudal state.”
    “But their plan fails if the Complete Darkness attack on the UK fails? Am I right?”
    “Our intel believes that is so.” M hesitated. “But there has been an earlier strike in Saudi Arabia.”
    The Prime Minister held his head in his hands.
    “So this process may already be underway in Israel?”
    “It’s possible. But we believe the Israelis paid up.”
    “So the war’s going to be in Africa?”
    “That was the deal Cambridge helped broker.”
    “What the hell has he got to do with it?”
    “Cambridge was approached by Shijomae Industries agents.”
    “Good God, what happens if we don’t play ball with them, would they target a missile at us?”
    “Maybe another country would want to see a nuclear war in Europe.”
    “More likely if Shijomae Industries don’t get the contract, the blackout over Britain will last much longer. We will be destroyed economically.”
    “M, what help can I offer?” the PM asked.
    “Maybe a prayer?” M snapped.
    “I’ll say one tonight.” The Prime Minister pushed back his chair and stood up. The group split, and left the room.
    As the individuals left, M caught Mallory’s attention. “Could I have a minute?”
    “Of course.” Mallory slowly returned to his seat.
    “I’m intending to take my family to the Maldives,” Sir John Green said without any preamble.
    “Very wise, Sir John, I’ll make the arrangements,” Mallory replied without any trace of emotion.
 

[volante]

Chapter 16
Guilty Pleasure

Vauxhall Cross, MI6 HQ, London.
1 day to Complete Darkness

“007 on the line for you, sir.” Tanner put the call through.
    “I have the chip.” Bond sounded pleased with himself.
    “Good work, 007. Unfortunately we believe there’s another one on its way for the Complete Darkness attack,” Gareth Mallory replied.
    After a short pause Bond asked, “M?”
    Mallory responded, “Sir John is currently on vacation I’m taking control of this operation in the interim.”
    Silence.
    “Do you have an issue, Bond?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Good. Carry on.”
    “The last chip was destined for South Africa,” Bond said soberly.
    “So’s the new one.”
    “How quickly can you get me there?”
    “We are sending instructions to the Captain as we speak.”
    “How close are we to identifying the leader of the cyber terrorists?”
    “Q’s still working on it. He’s already in Cape Town.”
    “How many of Q’s list of Hackers are still alive?”
    “Two. But Linus Torvalds is the only one we can find. He’s actually working with Q as we speak. They are looking to identify Connie Webb, he’s the only one still unaccountable on Q’s list.”
    “I have another name for you. Dr Suzuka, he works for Shinoda. He designed the alphanox chip.”
    “Thank-you, 007. We’ll put a tail on him. Mind you that might prove difficult. The Japanese Secret Service are still smarting over the loss of the chip, and one of their agents.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. So please don’t tell your new friend about this conversation,” Mallory said.
    “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bond turned to Kohana. In the confines of the submarine cabin, she nestled into his arms. Bond went on, “Shinoda wants to destroy reliance on the technological world. Go back to feudal ways of old Japan.         Unfortunately he intends reducing the rest of the world to the same standard.”
    “Until we expose him as the leader of Complete Darkness, the Japanese won’t move on him,” Mallory answered…then he dropped his own bombshell. “We think Shinoda is going to start a nuclear war in South Africa.”

***

Queen Victoria Hotel, Cape Town, South Africa.
1 day to Complete Darkness

Three cans of Red Bull stood empty on Linus’s desk. By contrast, the Earl Grey going cold in Major Boothroyd’s Scrabble Q mug was un touched.
    The two men sat at their laptops, fingers dancing over the key boards.
    “This equipment is really dope,” Linus said to Q.
   Q wanted to respond but was unsure what the young man actually meant. Instead he said, “Be careful just how much energy drink you have young man, I’m told it can go through you quite quickly.”
    Linus Torvalds smiled; he too had no idea what Q had said.
    “Ding.” Q’s lap top announced a message. Q opened the mail and read aloud. “Social Security numbers for two of the aliases used by Webb came from the Dallas Social Security Death Index.”
    “Why would they give that out?”
    “Knowing a deceased person's Social Security number is helpful, especially if you're conducting genealogy research. The Social Security Death Index database maintains a record of deceased individuals. The SSN is a nine digit number…”
    “Just because it’s Dallas, doesn’t mean to say Constantine was there.” Linus used Webb’s screen name.
    “But this might. The fees were paid in cash. All the other bills and debits were paid by electronic transfer…”
    “…from dead accounts. Constantine is very careful.”
    Torvalds’ lap top suddenly produced a screen full of names.
    “Okay, I’m in.”
    “What have you got?” Q asked without taking his eyes from the screen.
    “People who go around trying to avoid creditors sooner or later always leave an electronic footprint.”
    “I thought Webb, even yourself, always paid you bills.” Quietly Q went on to say, “Usually from someone else’s accounts.”
    “That’s right. But I’m looking for what happens to people that don’t have any debt.”
    Q’s fingers stopped. He looked over at the young man. Reaching out, he picked up his mug and took a long draft of cold tea.
    “People trying to sell you stuff. Brilliant, what have you got?”
    “Constantine was on the payroll of six blue chip companies in Silicon Valley. However, no one there ever heard of him, let alone got to see him at the office. Constantine simply hacked into their databases and put himself on the payroll. Webb was the surname he used. Webb, a man with no debt, and no insurance. I got the telephone numbers that three big insurance companies hacked from the Silicon Valley companies.” Linus poured over the figures. “Quick, give me the Social Security numbers.”
    “721 dash 07 dash 1426 and 760 dash 61 dash 756.”
    Linus entered the 721-07-1426 number. Moments later he sat up straight. “I have him.”
    Q looked at the screen. Linus had linked the electronic data from the Webb-inputted bogus information contained at Juniper Networks with the employee information collated by hackers for the insurance giant, FM Global. He then filtered the result by all the employees that had applied for and had outstanding finance, and then all those that have claimed on their insurance policies.
Of the 3,000 employees during that period, only one name remained. Constantine Webb. The name was already known. The information they were now marvelling at was the telephone number and driving licence number with the name associated with the footprint. Craig Wentworth.
    Q took the phone number. He entered the digits into his laptop. As it spewed out the address, Linus looked at the result of his police search on the driving licence.
    “I have an address.”
    “I have a photograph.” Was this the face of Constantine Webb?
    “Get on to the Department of Immigration. He must have a passport. United States passports are issued to citizens and non-citizen nationals of the United States of America. They are issued exclusively by the U.S. Department of State. It’s unlawful to enter or exit the United States without a valid passport or Western Hemisphere Travel Initiative-compliant passport-replacement document.” Q felt the excitement race through his body.
    “I’ll see if we can do a trace on the photograph.”
    The minutes passed quickly. Then Tovalds fell forward. He groaned. In a convulsive motion he fell back against the chair.
    “What is it?” asked Q. Concern rushed through him, his hand reached out to Linus’s shoulder.
   “He’s dead. Car crash.”
    Undeterred, Q simply patted the shoulder, he returned to his own lap top. “Then he’s moved on, let’s check the other Social Security number.”
    Linus cleared the screen. “Give me the number.”
    “760 dash 61 dash 756.”
    “You’re a digit short.”
    Q checked the information a second time.
    “That’s all it says. Eight digits.” Q entered the number without the dashes. He looked to see where else this combination was used.
    Tovalds reached for the Red Bull can. He shook all the cans on his desk. Empty. Without thought he got up and went to the mini bar. Linus checked inside the refrigerator. He took out a Diet Coke and a Smirnoff vodka.
   “Vodka and coke, Major?”
    “Gin and Tonic if they have one. A nice Gordon’s is my guilty pleasure,” Q replied. Another email arrived over the secure line. Q opened it. The Mi6 official logo stared back at him. Bill Tanner was confirming the death of the man known as Craig Wentworth. Tanner confirmed they were checking the photograph to see if the face was being used by another name.
    Linus poured the gin and tonic for Q. He put the glass on the desk. “No Lemon?” Linus sat back at his desk. Another email arrived.
    “We have another name.” Q opened the mail. “Well, well, our face has a new name.”
    Linus and Q looked at the screen. Q read out the result. “Hans Mayer… he’s German this week. Works for a company called Biotronik. Medical equipment manufacture. Let’s put a trace on his passport, see where he is right now.”
    Linus sat at his lap top, his face serious.  “I’ve heard of the company, Biotronik before.” Linus began tapping the keys.
    Q typed in the passport number. Moments later, the screen lit up with the German passport. Q scrolled down. The name was Hans Mayer, but the face was that of Linus Torvalds.

***

HMS Astute, Pacific Ocean.
20 hours to Complete Darkness

The most obvious statement to make about life on board a submarine is that there are no windows. Once you're underway and submerged, you can't really tell you're moving unless a change of course alters the angle of the ship. The next sense to be deprived is sound. All day and every moment, you are assaulted by the hum of the motors, generators and pumps. The constant noise comes across as a high-pitched whine. It's also rather warm in the engineering spaces.
    “Excuse me, Commander, but Captain Rees requests the pleasure of your company in the control room.”
    In the corridor, the industrial smell of diesel assaulted their senses. Nowhere in the submarine, are corridors wide enough to allow someone to pass walking in the other direction without both of you turning sideways. The crew members that they passed seem to give Bond a much wider berth than Kohana. The Astute has seven compartments, each with a circular water-tight door. So, on the way to the control room every 40-50 feet Bond and Kohana had to duck and step up at the same time to go through the small circular openings.
    There was fresher air in the control room. Captain Rees welcomed his two guests. His pinched nose seemed to take in the air with disdain. He led them over to the chart table and thrust his index finger down on a map. “We’re going to drop you off in London.”
    “That’s a hell of a journey.”
    Rees didn’t see the funny side of the comment. “London, in the Christmas Islands. There’s a plane waiting to take both of you to Cape Town.”
    “That is very kind,” Kohana commented.
    “Your people want you to accompany Commander Bond. They want to create a good image, what with this all being down to Shinoda.”
    “I understand.” Her head dropped in an obedient bow.
    “If you’ll excuse us,” Rees said to Kohana.
    “Of course. Captain, thank-you once again.” Kohana made her way petulantly back to the cabin.
    Bond waited for her to leave the control room. “That was tactful.”
    “I’m not being paid to make friends. I’m under orders. I’ll get you to Christmas Island. I suggest you keep a close eye on that one.” He gestured back toward the corridor where Kohana had gone.
    “Really?”
    “Yes, she’s Japanese…” He let the comment hang. “The Japanese are behind this plot to destroy the world as we know it.”
    Bond nodded his head as if he agreed that every man, woman, and child of Japanese ancestry were involved with the plot. “How long before we surface?”
    “Five minutes. Why, are you feeling a little claustrophobic?”
    “Just a little. Think I’ll be better when I get some fresh air.”

***

Queen Victoria Hotel, Cape Town.
19hour 55 minutes to Complete Darkness

Without any outward reaction, Q wrote an instant message summoning security.
    Linus looked over at him. Q tried to close down the photograph, but Linus’s hand clamped down upon his arm.
    “Very clever Major, very clever.” Linus came off his seat and stood behind Q, his arms draped over the old man’s shoulders.
    “I thought so, yes.” Q felt very frail as Linus swiveled his chair around and stood above him. He lent forward and looked closely into Q’s eyes. “This isn’t going to end well.”
    Linus saw Q take in the information he’d been fed. “Please don’t make any sudden moves.” Linus knew what the British agent was thinking. It was written all over his face.
    Q broke free and tried to get up, but Linus blocked his way. “Wait, it’s not what you think.” Linus pushed his hair from his eyes. “You tell me what I’m thinking.”
    “That’s not me,” he said pointing at the screen. They were scuffling as the security agents rang the door bell.
    “Help!” Q shouted. The door flew open and two grey-suited men crashed in. Their guns were drawn.
    “On the floor, on the floor.”
    Linus let go of Q and raised his hands. “Hey guys, you got to listen to me, there’s been a mistake.” The two agents were now covering both men.
    “Both of you on the floor.”
    Linus suddenly grasped his chest. “Arrgghh.” He fell to his knees. Clutching his chest, Linus squirmed on the floor.
    “He’s having a heart attack, get medical help.” Q went to Linus’s side.
    “The only aspect of the hack was the range.” Q heard the words but was too busy trying to help Linus. The voice continued… “I knew it would have to be in the same building. But in the end I had to position my transmitter in the next room. Cost me a fortune.”
    Linus was on his back, he seized Q’s lapel. “I’m not Constantine. He put my face on the photograph.”
    “Don’t worry, we’ll get you some medical help.” Q was on the verge of trusting him. The deception had been elaborate, but one which Webb could have executed.
    “Constantine.” Linus began to point.
    “Yes,” answered the voice. “I thought that you of all people would have known that your pacemaker could deliver a deadly 830-volt shock from someone on a laptop up to 50ft away. Oh dear, the result of poor software programming by Biotecnik.”
    Q turned to look at the voice. As the realization spread across his face, he turned back to Linus. “…I’m sorry, I realize now that you are not Constantine.”
    Linus raised his hand and pointed toward the voice. In a breathy whisper he said, “He is Constantine,” but the electric shock spread through his heart and killed him.
    Q held the young man in his arms. Q knew Linus was dead, yet he still spoke to him. “That’s not Constantine Webb, my friend; that is Carl Wilund.” Q got to his feet.
    The thin man with well-groomed steel grey hair laughed. It was a dry raspy sound. “You’re both right. I was Constantine, I was Webb, I was even Wentworth, and for a while even Hans Mayer. But when you strip away all those layers at the very core I am as you see, Carl Wilund.”
    Q took a moment to take in the words. Then he pulled himself up to his full height. Gone were the bird-like twitterings of the English gentlemen. Gone were the obsessions of a perfectionist. Before Wilund stood Major Desmond Boothroyd, field agent.
    “You won’t get away with it.”
    “Won’t I?” Wilund angled his head favoring his right ear to better hear Q’s answer.
   “Who’s going to stop me?”
   “I am.” Q made a move forward his chin jutted out.
   “No, you’re not.” With an elaborate wave of his hand, Wilund gestured to his men. Each fired two shots.
 

[volante]

Chapter 17
The Apus Bull

HMS Astute, Pacific Ocean.
19 hours to Complete Darkness

Christmas Island is a Pacific Ocean raised coral atoll in the Northern Line Islands comprising over 70% of the Republic of Kiribati. Its capital is one of the three inhabited villages, called London.
At 388 square kilometers the island has the greatest land area of any coral atoll in the world; its lagoon is about the same size. The shoreline extends for over 48 kilometers, giving excellent bird-watching and surfing opportunities. The Land Rover took Bond, Major Fawkes and Kohana from the harbour. Cassidy International Airport is located just north of the village of Banana. The 2,000 meter runway sees daily flights from Honolulu and Fiji, but today the runway was filled with the imposing presence of the RAF Boeing C 17 -111 Globemaster.
    “Welcome on board Commander, Miss Kawaguchi. Strap yourself in. We have 5,470 miles to cover. Once we reach our cruise height, we will be travelling at 500 mph. I think we can deposit you in Cape Town in just under 11 hours.” The pilot turned to Major Fawkes.
    “Glad to have you on board, Major Fawkes. Would you like to sit up front?”
    “With pleasure.” Fawkes turned to Bond, but the pilot interrupted…
    “Oh, I have something for you, Major.” The pilot handed over a lockable gun case. Fawkes passed it on to James Bond.
    “Tom and Dick send their love. Thought you probably lost your last one and might need this.”
    Bond opened it. The Walther PPK sat snuggly in a black foam holder.  “Very thoughtful, this’ll keep Q happy. Tell them I said thanks.”
    “Will do. Now you two get some rest, watch a film and relax. I’ll bring you dinner in a couple of hours.”

***

Bond skimmed through the DVD’s in the basket at the front of the passenger compartment.
    Kohana took a rough brown blanket and settled into her seat.  “Any good in-flight movies? Anything by Azujiro?”
    “Nothing in there to watch.” He scanned the clinically clean cabin area.  “Not exactly first class, is it? Still I’m sure we’ll find something to do for 11 hours.”
 

***

Vauxhall Cross, MI6 HQ, London.
18 hours 50 minutes to Complete Darkness
 

 

The live feed came from cameras that were fixed to the side of the guns. As the South African Secret Service agents entered Q’s room in the Queen Victoria hotel, the screen on M’s wall showed the footage in real time.
    “Oh, God.” Bill Tanner saw the bodies.
    “There are two down” the first agent said. His camera scanned the room as he covered the second agent checking the bodies.
    Gareth Mallory was a man of strong character proud of his military background. He had served as a Lieutenant Colonel in the SAS for four years, during which time he’d spent three months under interrogation by the IRA. Although his treatment had been torturous, Mallory had steadfastly refused to divulge confidential information about troop movements. Mallory had always been resilient, but at that very moment he felt defeated. No wonder Sir John Green had cracked under the pressure. If this was his first day, he hoped things could only get better.
    Q’s body was quickly identified. Three of the four shots had hit his heart. It wasn’t so clear to see how Linus Torvalds had died, but he was dead all the same. The first diagnosis was a heart attack. The words were seeping back to Vauxhall Cross with an air of disbelief.
    The colour had drained from Tanner’s face. He tried to issue an instruction but he could not raise the words.
    Mallory saw his pain. Slowly he leant forward, pressing the send button.
    “Secure the room. We’ll send someone to clear up.”
    The screen went dead. Both Mallory and Tanner sat in silence.
    A full minute passed before Mallory pressed the intercom and gave his first instructions to Miss Moneypenny. “Miss Moneypenny, can you ask the young man that Major Boothroyd was grooming to be his successor to meet me at Heathrow, please?”
    “Yes sir. When?”
    “Shall we say one hour?”

 

***

Cape Town, South Africa.
8 hours to Complete Darkness

Bond slid the key card through the slot the small red light turned to green. Bond opened the door and entered the room at the Queen Victoria hotel.
Immediately he sensed something was wrong. A young man with black tousled hair sat at a computer. He looked like he’d slept in his green striped shirt.
    “Who the hell are you?” Bond asked as he approached.
    The young man turned; although it was crumpled he wore a maroon tie. Perhaps he had slept in his clothes. His glasses were perched on his nose in the customary nerd position. “Ah, “007 I’m your new quartermaster.” He spoke slowly and softly.
    “The hell you are.” Bond pulled out his new Walther PPK, and aimed it.
    “Get up. Hands above your head.”
    The young man slowly got to his feet; his face betrayed the fact that he was nothing more than frustrated at having to stop work, in order to comply with the harsh instructions. He studied the Walther PPK in Bond’s hand. He gestured toward the gun with his raised right hand.
    “Mmm, I don’t remember preparing that one for you before you left for KL. But I do recognise it as one of our. So what are you going to do, shoot me with my own gun?”
    “If I have to. Where’s Q?” Bond nodded to the scrabble Q mug on the desk.
    A look of melancholy, which could have been misinterpreted as sarcasm passed across the young man’s face. “I took the mug as a memento. I’m sure the Major would have approved.”
    “We’ll ask him shall we?”
    “Sorry, 007, but that’s going to be impossible. I’m a little disappointed that the news hasn’t reached you before now. But I’m afraid I have some bad news. Major Boothroyd has been killed.”
    “Now I now you’re a fake. Nothing could kill that old bugger.” The young man looked back at him. Sadness and calm exuded from him. Bond wanted to think this was another scam but deep inside Bond knew that this man was telling the truth.
In confirmation, the young man cleared his throat and said, “He used to talk about you a lot. He always believed that it was you that wrecked his car.” Bond re-focused the Walther on the man. But he continued: “Can I take my hands down now? I promise you I can do more to stop Complete Darkness with my hands on the keyboard than standing here impersonating a glove puppeteer.”
    “Who sent you?”
    “Gareth Mallory… by the way, Moneypenny sends her condolences about the Major. She told me to tell you, ‘She’s on your side’.”
    However hard it was to comprehend that Q was dead, it appeared that the young man was telling the truth. Boothroyd was dead. It had been a blow understanding Sir John Green had been replaced, but now that his old sparring partner was gone, Bond felt very alone. Every link to his ascendancy to the double 0 section had been severed.
    The gun nestled in between Bond’s shoulder blades. In a flash Bond pivoted to his right. His right forearm connected with the right wrist of the attacker, and the gun hand went across his own body. Bond’s left hand clasped over the gun hand, instantly changing direction. As the attacker’s wrist and elbow strained against their joints. Bond continued the momentum with his right fist, smashing it across the jaw of the attacker. The man dropped to the floor.
    “He’s on our side too. So please don’t kill him, 007. He obviously thought he was protecting me.”
    Bond looked back at this incredibly calm young man. His hands still waved in the air.
    “You should have said.”
    “Would you have listened?”
    “Put your hands back on the keyboard, and make Mallory appear on the screen.”
    “I take it you’re not a fan.”
    “Not unless they’ve changed the definition. On the floor, the attacker came around. Bond helped him to his feet “Sorry about that.”
    “No worries, Commander...Am I okay to go now?”
    “Yes, wait downstairs, and keep vigilant,” Q said without looking at the man.
    Bond smiled apologetically and nodded his permission for the man to go.
    Mallory’s voice made Bond turn around.
    “007, I’m sorry to inform you that Major Boothroyd has been killed. Your new Quartermaster will apprise you of the status on finding the Complete Darkness group. Could you pass over the chip to him please?”
    Without taking his eyes off the screen Q put out his hand. Bond dug the chip from his pocket and passed it to him.
    Q lifted it up, and appraised it, as one would with a diamond.
    “Beautiful, I think this is what they are calling Alphanox.” He fiddled around with some equipment, plugging one end into the lap top. Carefully, he attached the chip to the other end. Pushing his glasses back on his nose, he leant close to the screen. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
    Bond addressed Mallory on the screen
    “What happened…M?”
    Gareth Mallory heard the address and felt a swell of pride run through him.
    “Major Boothroyd and Linus Torvalds were trying to locate Constantine Webb. They believed he was possibly the leader of Complete Darkness. It appears he found them first.”
    “Webb is the leader of the Complete Darkness group?”
    “We believe so.”
    “We think it’s Shinoda.”
    “Let’s not rule either out, shall we? But we must ask ourselves why is Webb here?”
    “Eliminating those that could hinder his plans.” Bond turned to Q. “Can we get a look at him on CCTV?”
    “Already tried that. Mr Webb appears to be a bit of an Apus bull.”
    Bond straightened, a look of disdain spread across his face. “I’m sure you’ll want to explain that statement?”
    As Q continued to hack into the chip he began his explanation… “The Apus bull theory? Not heard of it 007? Apus bulls were worshiped by the Egyptians. Every time a Pharaoh died, they killed the bull and performed the same burial rites. They didn’t, however, bury them with treasure, so there was no need to hide the tombs. Sometimes if a bull died of natural causes, they went to more elaborate ends. Priests would then go out and find a new bull, destined to be a god.”
    “Long flight from London was it?”
    “Not as long as yours, 007.” Q continued on the laptop “When archaeologists went looking for the tombs of the dead Pharaohs, they count the number bulls buried in the chamber. Number of bulls should equal or slightly exceed the number of tombs in the area. However, for certain periods of time. I won’t bore you with the years…”
    “…I’m pleased about that…”
    “…However for certain periods of time. They found the empty Pharaoh tombs without a corresponding number of bull remains.” Q began to chuckle to himself.  “They then became more interested in looking for the tombs of bulls than of treasure-laden dead kings.”
    “That’s a lot of bull, but tell me, is there a point to this story?”
    “Of course Commander. The simple answer is during those periods of time, the actual Pharaohs didn’t bother to have a sacred bull as a companion, therefore no tombs and no remains.”
    “Fascinating.”
    “The Apus bull theory is, that not being able to find something might be because it doesn’t exist, not because you can’t find it.”
    “So you’re telling me you’ve looked for Constantine Webb, and you can’t find him because he doesn’t exist?”
    “That’s right.” Q turned the laptop screen toward Bond. His finger pointed out the CCTV cameras. “About twelve hours ago, the killers came from this direction. However every CCTV camera they went past has a section of erased film. Our man obviously has some kind of cloaking devise which erased the CCTV film, making him invisible. Look here at the hotel, as he walks across the reception. It’s blank. Therefore, we know where he is simply because there is no footage in that particular place. Like the invisible man leaving footprints in the snow.” Q smiled softly.
    “That would suggest he exists but cannot be identified by vehicle or face recognition software. How does this fit in to your Apus bull theory that Webb doesn’t even exist?”
    “You’ll understand soon enough, 007.” Q pointed toward the screen. “Just look. Here you are. See, I have taken the film from another camera in the hotel. The cloaking devise our man is using is very advanced however…” The film from the hotel reception area appeared on the screen. The glass fronted elevator rose. “… it’s only blanking out the camera that’s recording his body and facial recognition. Cameras not picking up his face are not subject to the cloaking. You can see our man in the reflection of the glass elevator.” Q began to edit the picture, bringing the face into contrast “…and as you can see, 007, just like the Apus bull, Mister Webb doesn’t exist. But Carl Wilund does.” Q rested his hand on the desk.
In London, M and Bill Tanner were also looking at the image at the same moment that Q identified Wilund to Bond.
    “But he’s dead!” Tanner exclaimed, his voice in Q’s room was loud and shocked.
    “He’s made a remarkable recovery,” Bond commented, his face set, he turned to Q.
    “We know who he is. All you have to do is find him.”
    “That’s simple, 007. I programmed the characteristics of the blank film into the computer. The vehicle and face software will now identify the blank film which was wiped by a digital command as a single entity.” Q looked at Bond, but the blank response led him to elaborate. “That means you can follow him.”
    “Where is he?” Bond glanced at the screen…
   “Don’t know that yet, but you can make a start… What are you waiting for, 007?”
   “Do I have a vehicle?” Bond looked hopingly.
    “Yes, the car keys are being held for you in reception, as well as a new mobile phone and a new gun. We’re recalling all the models like yours after some were discovered to have sustained damage after an SAS group trialled them. I’ve brought the new Walther PPK/S 9mm short for you. There’s a micro dermal sensor in the trigger, so only you can fire it. Also because you seem able to hang onto your gun…I note you’ve lost your mobile. There’s a homing device in the grip so we can keep tabs on you. Less of a Saturday night special, more of a designer label piece. Please try to bring all your equipment back, 007. Austerity measures aren’t the exclusive domain of the private sector.”

 

***

As Bond descended in the elevator he recalled his first meeting with the old man he had known as Q. He was speaking at a weeks’ course for SAS, MI5 and MI6 operatives at Hereford on the use of plastic explosives.

    “Please address me as Major Boothroyd,” was his opening remark, but the Harris Tweed jacket had already created a barrier between him and the track suited participants.
    The elevator doors opened, Bond had a big smile on his face as he walked over to Kohana. Bond recalled the incident toward the end of the course when Bond and Harry Fawkes proved that they could achieve the same destructive results by using only two thirds of the amount of explosive that Major Boothroyd had prescribed.
    Kohana looked enquiringly at Bond. “You are happy you met with your friends upstairs?”
    Bond thought about the new disheveled play-station generation whizz kid Q and the transition of Gareth Mallory into M. “Yes, I believe I did.” The smile spread.
    “Why do you smile?”
    Bond picked up the package from reception and led Kohana down into the car-park. “I was just thinking about a time when I blew the tow bar off a horsebox.”
    She frowned as she looked at him, shaking her head.
    Bond continued… “Having blown the tow-bar, it ran down a slight incline and smashed into Major Boothroyd’s brand new Morgan 2+2.” Bond ripped open the package and felt the key fob in his hand. God knew what salesman rep car this new Q had procured for him.
    “…And what did Major Boothroyd have to say about his car?” Kohana asked, not knowing who Bond was referring to, but wanting to join in the conversation.
    “He accused me of doing it. I protested my innocence. I told him I had no access to any additional explosives. Told him to go check the weights with the quartermaster.” The lights flashed and the alarm blipped on the Carbon black Aston Martin Vanquish. “Well done Q”
    “Boys with toys.”
    “The Major got his own back.” Bond remembered the look on Boothroyd’s face when on that grey rainy day in 2006; M and the newly promoted 007 had gone into Q’s workshop at Vauxhall Cross. Priceless.
    “What did he do, rhis Major?” Kohana asked, infected by Bond’s good spirit.
    All through the briefing, he had constantly kept an eye on Bond, making sure all the gadgets and equipment for the mission were dutifully taken on board.
    “He gave me a belt as a gift.” Bond recalled the leather belt with its thirty meter rappelling wire hidden inside. “Don’t worry, it will hold you,” the birdlike figure of Boothroyd had said with a reassuring nod as Bond was leaving for his mission.
Bond started the engine. In the confines of the underground car-park it roared like an angry lion.
    “Do you still have the gift?”
    “No, it broke the first time I had to use it.” Bond remembered the cord snapping and his body smashing through a window…but that was a long time ago.
    The Aston Martin erupted from the underground car park, scything through the smoke grey evening twilight.


 

[volante]

Chapter 18
Change of heart

Zurich, Switerland.
7 hours 45 minutes to Complete Darkness

The geographic and historic center of Zurich is the Lindenhof, a small natural hill on the west bank of the Limmat River. The hill rises just seven hundred meters north of where the river issues from Lake Zurich. Today the incorporated city stretches somewhat beyond the natural hydrographic confines of the hills and includes some very affluent districts to the northeast in the Glatt Valley.
    The limpid blue eyes stared down from the dancer in the painting. The scene captured by the artist Nicolas Lanceret was now contained within an ornate gold leaf frame which hung at eye level on the wall. The walls were a soft buttery cream colour, broken only by the natural dark wood of the pillars, which extenuated the home of the painting into a shallow alcove. Along the length of the narrow room other expensive paintings by illustrious artists hung in similar subtly lit alcoves. The floor was of the same dark wood as the pillars. The floor boards were covered only down the centre of the room with a rich red Turkish carpet. From each alcove a beautiful oil painting stood. But this was no art gallery. Slowly, mobile phone in hand, Otto Killman walked down the length of the room. His relaxed manner extended from his freshly shaved face down the long burgundy silk dressing robe, to the hide slippers on his feet.
    “This is wonderful news. I’ll take another five thousand.” Killman rounded the corner of the long room. The main reception to his home was decorated in a similar vein. Here however. small statues held favour in each of the alcoves.
Helga, the stout German maid, was in the process of answering the door. Killman stood a little behind her ready to welcome his guests.
    Resplendent in a dark grey business suit, Shinoda-san entered Killman’s home; an easy glance at the opulence of the banker’s home seemed to lift his heart. He was followed by a similarly dressed Dr. Suzuka, who carried an aluminium brief case. Shinigami followed. He was dressed in a white western business suit. He carried a long dark walnut wooden box.
    “Welcome, gentlemen, I trust your journey was good?”
    “Thank-you yes. We are very humbled to be your guests. Thank-you for your hospitality.” Shinoda-san bowed and then shook Killman’s hand in true Western style.
    “It’s good to see you Shinoda-san,” Killman said truthfully.
    Shindoda smiled at the comment as he took a second longer look at the statues. “Stone and wood. I like your taste Mister Killman. I like natural things.”
    Killman followed his guests’ view. The ‘natural’ comment was not lost on him. Without further pleasantries Killman announced, “Our clients were most satisfied with the news that the replacement chip had been installed and Alphanox is complete.”
    “I told you not to trouble yourself with worry.” Shinoda tore himself away from a statue, and inclined his head toward Doctor Suzuka. “The good Doctor performed with exceptional skill to produce the merchandise.”
    “But the original is still missing? Killman enquired, a false look of concern crossed his brow.
    “No, we are aware of its location,” Shinoda responded quickly.
    “You have it?” Killman asked with genuine surprise.
    “As good as.” Shinoda reached out and lovingly touched the dark wood of a pillar.
    “We have begun to purchase shares,” Killman said to change the subject.
    Shinoda san gave Otto Killman a critical look. “Is that not what is termed Insider dealing?” His instant smile defused the moment, resulting in an uncomfortable forced laugh from all the men.
    “A man gambles with what he has.” Killman clasped Shinoda’s shoulder and guided them through to the lounge. “Helga; please bring champagne.”
    They settled themselves into the leather chesterfields which were positioned to over-look the valley through the vast double glazed doors that opened out onto the balcony. Shinoda looked out of the window at the valley, the river gently flowing. His eyes took in the erosion of the hill and marvelled at the natural power of the water.
    “Tomorrow London will face Complete Darkness. By this time next week, we should have all our contractors in place. In one month’s time, I think we should be ready to make the first transfer.” The German maid was on hand to offer the champagne as Shinoda turned away from the window.
    “That was the plan.” Shinoda nodded slowly, taking a crystal flute.
    Killman continued. “We will leak the information about the Chinese nuclear capability in South Africa during the course of the next few days. When the UK comes back on line after Complete Darkness, they will regard it as the scandal of the century. We, of course, will continue to up the odds until the financial transfer is completed.”
    “Then we press the button,” Shinoda suggested.
    “Boom.” Killman erupted into laughter.
    Shinigami and Doctor Suzuka joined in with another burst forced laughter, but Shinoda-san stood in quiet isolation.
    “I would like to expedite the time scale.” His voice cut through the laughter like a hot knife through butter.
    Killman stopped laughing and became serious. “That’s impossible. We need the funds from the transfer. That software will not be in place in the banks for another two to three weeks. In my opinion, I do not think it would be a good idea.”
    “The tiger does not consider the opinion of the sheep…I digress, In London yes. But we have already trialled the software in Saudi Arabia. The Saudi banks have a lot of transactions. Alphanox has all the information it needs.”
    “But London has the international banks. You said just one transaction will harvest all our outstanding necessary funds.”
    “But we have been harvesting the Saudi banks for weeks. The funds are in place.”
    Killman fought to stop the turmoil in his mind. Should an incident take place now between China and South Africa, he knew his clients would not be best prepared to benefit from the resultant stock movements.
    “How soon would the expedition take place?”
    “Complete Darkness.” Shinoda smiled at Killman, it seemed that the words echoed.
    “What about Complete Darkness?” Killman responded. His eyes darted from man to man; a ghost of a nervous smile touched the corners of his mouth.
    Shinoda looked at his Rolex; he took in a deep breath, as if calculating the time. “Seven hours forty minutes until complete darkness.”
   “In the United Kingdom?” Killman’s smile had now crinkled the corner of his eyes.
    “No.” Shinoda shook his head. “Cape Town.”
    “You want total loss of technology in Cape Town?” The entire smile had now disappeared.
    The maid slowly ambled from the room. The sound of the door closing seemed the cue to continue the conversation.
    “No, the technical shutdown is just a demonstration to show governments that we have the capability to shut down their internet providers. The ultimate capability of Alphanox is to interpret computer codes and replace them with our own instructions. We override the decision making process.”
    “Of course I understand that; I’m asking you what you mean by Complete Darkness in Cape Town?” Killman was serious.
    “We are going to escalate tensions between China and South Africa.” He checked his watch again. “Starting in thirty minutes.”
    “You’re mad.” Killman’s mouth hung open.
    “Don’t call me insane, I’m much worse than that.” Now a smile spread across Shinoda’s face.
    “How would you even conceive of escalating problems that quickly?” Killman asked slowly, He positioned himself in front of Shinoda.
    “On 25 April, the Seminar of Security and Risk Management between China and Africa was held at Stellenbosch University Chinese Research Centre in Cape Town. Consul General Liang Shugen, on behalf of Chinese Ambassador to South Africa Mr. Tian Xuejun, addressed a speech at the Seminar. He pinpointed a number of risks which he insisted must be addressed within a very short period of time.” Shinoda maintained his position face to face with Killman. He took a sip of champagne.
    “So you’ve already been creating tensions?” Killman’s mind was working overtime to try to understand how he could pass on the information quickly to his clients. He had to salvage something from this devastating news.
    “Yes. I intend to expose the dangers the Chinese are faced with at their commercial sites. A terrorist incident at one of the Chinese mining sites would be seen as the final act of African aggression.”
    “To close down their computer systems without my investors in a position to buy shares would mean we would not see any financial benefit.” Killman moved uneasily around the room, he needed to pace as he thought of a way to salvage something.
    “No, Mister Killman. I am not concerned about your investors.”
    “No?” Killman stopped dead.
    “No, I speak about the ultimate complete darkness. I have nothing but disdain for the artificial class of the banker. You suck the life out of hard working people. You do not create anything of beauty, yet your power and wealth grow out of all proportion to the input of your achievement. The war will halt your rise and your bonuses.”
    “You speak of the initiation of a nuclear war?” Killman’s mouth stayed open.
    “Yes. A return to a life without the clutter of greed and dependence upon products.”
    “But the resource is already in London, to facilitate the cyber-attack.”
    “A man fights with what he has. I have a vital piece of resource in Cape Town. We will escalate the tensions. Missiles will be fired on Cape Town in seven and a half hours. We are not talking about a war, Mister Killman, just a single nuclear strike.”
    “Even just the one strike without my investors playing the stock market would be financially disastrous for my people.”
    “But I have told you I’m not interested in your people.” Shinoda clicked his fingers. Shinigami stood up. Killman looked at the enforcer.
    Slowly, Shinigami removed his jacket. He laid it over the sofa. Then he removed his dark blue tie; then the white silk shirt. His powerfully muscled torso was covered in tattoos. Dr. Suzuka offered up the long walnut box. Shinigami flipped the catches, and withdrew the katana.
    Shinigami ran his fingers down the back of the traditional sword. In one swift motion he turned around to face Killman.
    “Is this meant to intimidate me?” Killman asked. He wanted to sound confident, but his voice was rasping, his throat dry.
    Shinigami moved forward. The katana, characterized by a distinctive curved slender single-edged blade, glinted in the room. His hands nestled behind the oval guard. His fingers gripped the long claret-braided grip.
    “It has always been my desire to remove the technological hindrance on a natural world.”
    “I know this of course; and I support your plan. God knows I have moved mountains to get us to this place,” Killman pleaded “…and now you threaten me in my own home.”
    “I also intend to bring the merchant class to its knees; under the leadership of my rule.”
    “In Japan yes; we have spoken and agreed this principle.” Killman backed off as Shinigami weaved the sword in his hands. The blade zipped through the air.
    “We signed an agreement.” Killman’s voice became shrill.
    “The pen is mightier than the sword…so the saying goes. Shall we put that theory to the test?” Shinoda asked. He clicked his fingers again.
    Shinigami advanced two half steps and swung the katana down and across, severing flesh and bone, cleaving Killman’s head from his shoulders.
    As the body fell to the floor Shinigami heard something at the door, his head shot up. In a heartbeat, he had advanced to the door, and snatched it open. Outside, Helga stood back in terror. Shinigami produced a wad of Euro notes from his back pocket. He held out his hand. Helga reached forward and took hold of the money. In a blur of motion Shinigami rotated the katana down on to the maid’s wrist. The razor sharp blade stopped just one millimeter above her skin.
    “Please accept this money as severance pay.”
    Helga took the money “Thank-you.”
    Shinigami stepped closer to the stout woman. “If you ever reveal a word about what has happened here tonight…” He let the threat hang.
    “Good-bye.” Helga turned slowly and walked to the front door. Slowly she opened it and was amazed to see, and allow, a troop of traditionally dressed Japanese women enter the house. Outside on the gravel drive-way, two large box vans were already being off loaded.

[volante]

Chapter 19
Acceleration

 

Cape Town, South Africa.
7 hours 20 minutes to Complete Darkness

Bond gunned the engine to allow the Vanquish to scream down Table Bay Boulevard. The corner of the GPS screen showed Q, his face was a mask of determination.
    “I’ve got another trace from Rhodes avenue.” Q programmed the address into the car’s Sat Nav. Instantly the route appeared on the screen. The Aston Martin roared on, overtaking the steady stream of traffic along the road.
    “25 Rhodes Ave, Newlands. You’ll be there in no time,” Q prompted.
    “We just passed it,” Kohana noted.
    “That was the Chinese Embassy,” Bond replied. The car continued.
    “That’s odd…” Q became silent.
    There followed a few moments of frustration, during which Bond overtook another thee cars.
    “What’s odd Q?” Bond eased on the brakes and executed a hairpin turn to take him back toward the Embassy.
    “The characters on the screen to which I have the Alphanox device attached have just turned to Chinese. Mandarin I think.” Q tapped the keyboard, without any response. He returned to the other laptop and connected back to London. “Mister Tanner, can you establish if there are any meetings taking place at the Chinese Embassy?” Q copied the Chinese characters filling the screen onto his machine. He hit the translate button and read the text. “Oh dear! You also might want to ask them about the location of one of their Nuclear submarines. It’s a Type 093. NATO reporting name SHANG. I believe they’ve just lost contact with it.”
    As more lines turned into English, Q read out more information. “Better get someone from the Admiralty to speak with the Chinese navy. Looks like they’ve just lost contact and control of a second submarine just south of Mogadishu.”
    “While you’re at it can you tell someone at the Chinese embassy I’m dropping in for a visit. Will you, Tanner?” James Bond asked from the car as he floored the throttle. “Q, can you confirm what car you gave to my backup?”
    “Sorry, 007, there’s no backup for you on this mission. Why do you ask? Feeling lonely?”
     Bond glanced at Kohana “Not at all. Only I just noticed a Porsche Cayanne execute the same turn as I did.”
    “Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes.”
    “Can you get your CCTV to identify the car, Q?”
    “Of course, just take him…200 yards up the road. I’ll pick him up there.”
    Bond eased passed a large green truck. In his mirror he observed the big Porsche copying the action. The Vanquish sped past the camera. “Smile,” Bond said to Kohana.
    They approached the junction. Bond judged his moment and gunned the Aston into a gap, sliding it around the corner. Behind him, the large green truck began to ease over, readying himself for the turn. The sound of the horn and brakes seeped into the car as the Porsche tried to make the same move. The truck innocently blocked his path.
    Bond accelerated away from the junction as the heavy traffic built up. As they drove past the Porsche on the other side of the road, Bond tried to see the driver, but the blacked out windows prohibited his intentions.
    “The embassy is coming up, James.”
    Bond urged Q for an answer. “You’ve got about three minutes to identify him.”
    “I’ll give it priority, 007.” Q answered as the Vanquish drifted into the entrance to the Chinese embassy on Rhodes Avenue.

***

Gareth Mallory prodded the intercom button. “Miss Moneypenny, can you get hold of the Chinese Ambassador right away, please?”
    Q read from his screen. “The Type 093 is expected to be armed with six 533 mm and/or 650 mm torpedo tubes that will launch wire, acoustic, and wake-homing torpedoes, as well as anti-ship and land attack cruise missiles. This could include the submarine-launched version of the YJ-83 anti-ship missile. Currently the YJ-83 is not believed to be nuclear tipped. Nuclear deterrence missions are usually delegated to the 092 Xia class or the 094 Jin class SSBN.”
    “I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Bond as he jumped out of the black Vanquish.
    The two uniformed Chinese guards in the security house reacted instantly. Arms extended, they blocked Bond’s progress.
    “I’d like to see the Ambassador, please.”
    “You have an appointment?” the first man asked, his voice calming, as his partner unclipped the flap on his holster.
    “No…but I think he’ll want to see me.”
    The guards rushed forward. The gun was in the hand of the second man.
    “Halt…Hands up.”
    Bond raised his hands. The first guard searched him, and quickly removed the Walther.
    The second guard covered them from a suitable distance. The first guard placed the Walther on the bonnet of the Vanquish. A short, skinny Chinese man attempting to put on his black pinstripe suit jacket came running down the drive, his arms gesticulating wildly.
    “Wait, wait.” He issued a number of instructions in Chinese, and the guards held off.
    “Mr. Bond?”
    “Yes.” Bond watched the man as the large black electronic gate began to slide open. Bond turned to the guards. “I need a list of everyone who visited you about ten to twelve hours ago today.”
    The guards looked to the small skinny man for instructions.
    “You heard him, go look in your log book.” He gesticulated wildly again as the gate continued to open. When the gap was sufficient, the skinny man stepped forward, offering his hand. “I am Chang.”
    It was then that the Porsche Cayanne slithered to a halt beside them.
    Inside the Aston Martin Kohana spoke into the communication device to Q. “You’re time’s up on that car, Mister Q.”
    Q leant close to his laptop screen. “Information just coming through now. The Porsche is a hire car…picked up at the airport this morning…”
    Kohana watched the car stop beside her; she saw both nearside Porsche doors open, and two Japanese men poured out. The man closest to the Aston noticed Kohana sitting in the Vanquish. Bond noticed that in an instant his face betrayed the fact that he had recognized her, and his hand went to his jacket and brought out a Glock machine pistol.
    Kohana slid out of the car, grasping the Walther from the bonnet as she went.
    The first shots raked across the bonnet of the Aston. Kohana raised the Walther and lined up a return shot, but the gun did not fire.
    “Get down,” Bond instructed. He leant forward and took the gun from the security guard’s holster. Bond dropped to the ground just as the second strafe of bullets cut into the guard.
    Two more Japanese were now coming around the Porsche. Together the four men fanned out behind the Vanquish. All four began to fire. Gunfire raked through the air. The second security guard fell to the floor.
    One of the Japanese came around the back of the Aston Martin. Kohana aimed the Walther again, but again it did not fire. The guard aimed his gun at Kohanna, and a smile spread across his face.
    As the action unfolded, Bond realized the gun wouldn’t fire because it was aligned to his palm print. Bond rolled over and fired at the man, who dropped the Glock and fell back onto the road. Bond fired a volley of shots which resulted in the remaining three attackers ducking down behind the Aston. Bond dived for the fallen Glock, his fingers seeking the trigger guard. As the first of the Japanese attackers stuck his head above the car, Bond shot him. In one fluid motion, Bond dived and rolled behind the Vanquish. He came up in a crouch and shot the remaining two attackers.
    Bond looked down at the four dead attackers, then at the damaged Aston Martin. “Q’s not going to be happy about this.”
    “What just happened here, Mister Bond?” Chang asked.
    “Shinoda sent them…Q just confirmed it.”
    Kohana inclined her head to the car. She looked at the two dead security guards and ran to the security hut. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
    “Shinoda?” the skinny Chinese man asked.
    “Japanese terrorist. He’s behind the loss of your submarines.”
The skinny man looked around at the devastation. “Not just the submarines, Mister Bond.” Combined with the recent news that the navy had just lost control of two nuclear submarines, he decided to retreat to the safety of the embassy.
“I think we should go up to the embassy.”

***

Chaos reigned supreme in the Ambassador’s office. Officials were running around and shouting. The Ambassador raised his hand. “Silence.” He stood up and came around the desk. “You have arrived at a very fortuitous time, Mister Bond.” He held out his hand. “I am Tian Xuejun, Chinese Ambassador to South Africa.”
    “Bond, James Bond, British Secret Service. I’m here to help.”
    “We have just been informed that there has been an attack on our chromium mine facility in the Limpopo province; one hundred Sinosteel workers have died, and another 50 are trapped underground. I have 20 engineers being held hostage by these African terrorists. As yet they have made no demands. What can you tell me of these people, Mister Bond?”
    “They’re not politically motivated.”
    “What do they want?”
    “The group want to rid the world of all technological advancement.”
    “To what end?”
    “Their leader is Tsukasa Shinoda…”
    “He is the head of the Yamaguchi Yakuza…”
    “…And CEO of Shijomae Industries.”
    “A very powerful man, involved in very technological businesses. Why does he want to end the technological world?”
    “He’s insane.”
    “Undoubtedly, but what does he hope to gain?”
    “He wants to return to a world run on the feudal system of ancient Japan. Once rid of the comforts of the modern age he intends to rule the world like a warlord.”
    “And he has two of my submarines. For somebody who wants to return to the old ways, he seems well adapted to use the advances of today.”
    “He has a man named Carl Wilund working for him.”
    “The man that escaped from prison?” Bond nodded. “I thought he was dead.”
    “That’s what he wanted everyone to think. He has a device that enables him to hack into any military defence system.”
    “What are they intending to do with the submarines?”
    “Launch nuclear missiles at Cape Town.”
    Xuejun looked back in horror. “Are they going to hack into other countries’ defence systems and facilitate a nuclear war?”
    “They only intend to launch here. The fallout will render mining of materials required to produce equipment unworkable.”
    “No catalytic converters, no more mobile phones or laptops. Their choice of venue is perfect. How do we intend to stop them?”
    “We have a duplicate devise.” Bond activated his ear piece. “Q, status please.”
    “Good news 007; I’ve interrogated the Alphanox chip. It resonates at a very high frequency…”
    “Are you any closer to finding Wilund and the other device?”
    “I think so. Our Alphanox identified an IP address. Only for a nano second, mind you, but I do have a location.” Q went quiet.
    “Where is he, Q?”
    “Before you go rushing off, 007, you need to find what Wilund delivered to the embassy.”

***

Bond, Kohana, Chang, and Xuejun stood in the functional living quarters of the embassy. Their focus fixed firmly on a brand new Sony 50 inch Smart TV.
    “This is the TV set that the men setup. They left 10 hours ago,” Chang explained.
    “Better switch on and see if it works,” Bond instructed.
    “I’d advise against that, 007,” Q said into Bond’s ear.
    “Then perhaps you’d like to advise what I’m doing here?” Bond said.
    Chang and Xuejun looked at Bond, then at each other.
    Kohana broke their thoughts. “It’s okay. He has a communication device in his ear.” She pointed to her own ear.
    “Oh,” both officials said together. But Bond was already going to the back of the TV set in response to Q’s latest instruction. In one swift movement, Bond pushed the TV from its stand. The set hit the floor and the screen smashed. Bond lifted the set and flipped it over on its back. The inside workings of the set looked back at them. Bond took out his mobile phone and began to scan the broken set with his video camera.
    After a moment Q’s voice sounded in his ear. “Well, that shouldn’t be there.”
    Bond crouched down and removed the circuit board that had been attached to the TV set.
    “What is it?” Xuejun said.
    “Some kind of amplifier,” Bond replied.
    “Is it significant in the loss of communication to the submarines?”
    “Probably not; they just need it to listen in on conversations in the embassy.”
    “So you’re telling me the place is bugged?” Xuejun asked.
    “Yes,” Q replied, in a tone which was meant to convey that it was obvious.
    “Yes.” Bond passed on the comment. “Why does Wilund need to listen in to what is happening here?”
    “Perhaps he wants to know how far away we are from finding him.”
    “Where is he Q?” Bond said deliberately.
    “Limpopo.”
 

[volante]

Chapter 20
The Art of War


Cape Town, South Africa.
3 hours to Complete Darkness
 

 

Limpopo Province, South Africa: South Africa’s northernmost province, neatly borders onto Mozambique, Zimbabwe and Botswana, making it the ideal entrance to Africa.
Named after the Limpopo River that flows across the northern border of the province, the name "Limpopo" has its etymological origin from the Sepedi word diphororo tša meetse - meaning strong gushing waterfalls. The dramatic landscape felt like home to the pioneering Chinese; even the capital, Polokwane (formerly named Pietersburg) rolled off the tongue of the engineers, workers and board members alike.
    Limpopo takes up 10.2% of South Africa's total land area. The lush province is rich in wildlife, spectacular scenery and a wealth of historical and cultural treasures.
    But it is Limpopo's rich mineral deposits that make it the jewel in the African crown. Including the chromium middle and high-grade coking coal the province is rich in fossil fuels. With these in abundance the likelihood of finding the platinum group metals, and copper, as well as iron ore, were just a single logical step away.
    The Chinese mining companies prospected the areas with due diligence…and had to wait just nine months until the first yield of diamonds was uncovered. The Chinese giant Sinosteel headed the flood into the northernmost province of South Africa, making it like a colony.
    Over the years reserves of gold, emeralds, silicon, and mica were extracted from the ground, minerals necessary for the technological requirements of modern life. Commodities such as black granite, corundum, and feldspar have also been found, but demand has yet to make the mining a viable concern.
    Today mining contributes to over a fifth of the provincial economy. It is not only the modern minerals that are important in the area. The Waterberg Coalfield, is at the eastern extension of Botswana's Mmamabula coalfields, and is estimated to contain 40% of South Africa's coal resources; the vast emptiness of the area remains as a scar of the need for coal to drive the engines of industry which make the new ‘must have’ gadgets which western civilization craves so.
   The province was formed from the northern region of Transvaal Province in 1994, and initially named Northern Transvaal. The following year, it was renamed Northern Province, which remained the name until 2003, when the name of the province was formally changed to the name of its most important river.
    On the border with Zimbabwe and Botswana, after deliberation by the provincial government, and the Chinese investors and amendment of the Constitution, a notable consideration for the name was Mapungubwe was considered, but Limpopo got the vote. The Chinese population has trebled in the past two years, so much so that had there been a war the number of occupying Chinese would have been seen as a massive army of occupation. However, without a shot being fired, the Chinese ruled the country with a fist of iron and a wad of cash. The art of war had never been so stylish.
    James Bond and Kohana Kawaguchi sat cosseted in the black leather lined cockpit of the red and white Learjet 36. Beneath them, hidden from view, lay the abundant ruins and relics of the ancient forests. At close to five hundred miles per hour and five thousand feet below them, the trees thinned, providing a teasing glimpse of what lay beneath. Kohana looked down at an almost straight cut in the forests and saw it reveal the sparkling trout waters of a fast flowing river. Over to their right, the hills were home to hot mineral springs and cascading waterfalls which would flow northward into the rich feeding lands of the Kruger National Park.
    The jet screamed along its route over much of a vista which had remained unchanged for centuries. Mile after mile of uninhabited land offered unlimited opportunities in Limpopo for the enjoyment of untamed Africa.
    From his vantage point, Bond felt that Shinoda had already won, and he was now travelling back in time to an uncluttered world where technology was just a distant dream.
    The engines began to slow, and the flaps lowered as the jet eased down between the towns of Tzaneen and Phalaborwa into Eastgate Airport at Hoedspruit.
    Just outside Hoedspruit, in the eastern reaches of South Africa's Limpopo Province, lies the gateway to the heartland country's abundant wildlife game reserve, the world-famous Kruger National Park. The whitewashed buildings grew in size as the jet eased on to the Hoedspruit Airport runway. Bond throttled back and taxied over the light grey concrete blocks to the control tower. Beside the runway, a narrow strip of green vegetation formed a stark colourful barrier to the drab desert landscape beyond.
    Beyond the towns, the majesty of the game reserve beckoned. Bond made a mental note that should a nuclear war be avoided that he would safari in the park in the near future.
    A Good-wood green eight seated open topped Land-rover lazily rounded the corner beyond the control tower. The jet engines sighed into silence. Kohana opened the door and stepped out into the blazing heat of the afternoon.
    The thousand mile flight had taken just over two hours. Bond checked his Omega, and put on his tortoiseshell Persol sunglasses. Just over four hours ago, they had been in the Chinese embassy, Cape Town. When news of the whereabouts of the second Alphnox device broke, the Ambassador had made his Lear-jet available, and the rest was history.
   Two smiling black faces looked over at Bond and Kohana from the Land Rover. The men were dressed in traditional game warden outfits, kahki shorts and shirt, and over-large slouch bush hats with Leopard skin bands. As the airport mechanics swarmed over the Lear-jet, the passenger jumped down from the safari styled Land-rover and trotted up to Bond. Bond dropped his bag on the ground and shook hands with the energetic guide.
    “Mister Bond, my name is Kai; I understand you want to go straight to the mine?” His teeth were white and even.
    “That’s right.”
    “So sorry to disappoint you, but Mister Wilund has asked that you join him at Hoyo Hoyo Tsonga Lodge....” The words were accompanied by the cocking of pistols from the mechanics behind him at the plane. Kai took a step back and held up two pair of handcuffs…
    “Do I have to use these? Mister Wilund thought you might be happy at the prospect of visiting him at the lodge. He has instructed that I tell you that traditional African style dining in such a beautiful setting with candlelight under the clear sky would make for an unforgettable experience, and much more preferable than being shot.”
    “I would tend to agree.”
    “James?”
    “We did come here to find Wilund.”
    “Yes, but . . .”
    “No buts, Kohana. Besides I’m starving. Lead on, Kai.” Bond picked up his bag, linked arms with Kohana and marched to the Land Rover.
    The minutes ticked by with alarming speed as the Land Rover eased its way over the bumpy, dusty road. Just over one hour had passed before Kai summoned his guests to observe “Hoyo Hoyo, Mister Bond.” He was pointing to group of traditional Tsonga bee-hive dwellings which could be seen in the far distance above a low rise of Acacia trees.
    As they approached the lodge, Bond saw that the look of a traditional camp was but a façade. But unlike the original tribal homesteads these unique traditional Tsonga bee-hive chalets held the promise of accommodating their guests in luxury and comfort.
    In Africa there is little time wasted upon dusk. The sun seems to decide it has had enough for the day and performs a vanishing act, which leaves the audience stunned and spellbound. Even after spending years in Africa, the spectacle is simply amazing, and few words can adequately describe its majesty. The clouds suddenly illuminate in the most lavish purple and mauve as the sun turns a vivid red and drops behind the horizon. And still they journeyed on.
    James Bond checked his watch again; just less than two hours to Complete Darkness. As he looked, up the sky line had changed again.
    The campfires were already lit and producing a wonderful aromatic woody aroma. Beyond their flames, the heat distorted the air-conditioned chalets at the Hoyo Hoyo lodge. The hotel resembled the traditional rondavels with earth-coloured walls and thatched roofs. Tribal drums swelled the feeling of untamed savagery. Natives looked up from the camp fires as the Land Rover eased past.
    A thin man with sharp cheekbones stood on the entrance dais of the lodge. In the shadows of the fire-light, his expression was hidden, and all that Kohana could determine was that he wore a colonial safari suit. Bond and Kohana eased themselves out of the Land Rover. Their tired muscles flexed as they went up the wooden steps.
    Carl Wilund exuded calmness, his pale skin unaffected by the harsh sunlight. His demeanor was that of a university professor waiting patiently for the last of his students to arrive. It hardly seemed possible that this was the man about to start World War three by unleashing nuclear missiles upon Cape Town in…Bond checked his watch again, one hour forty eight minutes. But this was the man that had murdered Major Boothroyd, Bond doubted that he would remain alive long enough to see his nightmare begin.
   Bond and Kohana were subjected to a thorough search. Servants took Bond’s bag. The natives nodded to Wilund. Satisfied that they were unarmed, Wilund smiled…
    “It may look like a couple of mud huts in the jungle, but trust me the en-suite bathrooms and gossamer soft beds are fit for a king.” Wilund turned on his heel and strode into the interior of the camp.
    A large well-tended fire burned ferociously in the center of the dining area, the wood crackling and pop popping, sending sparks skyward. Wilund strode purposefully past it, over to the far side of the decked area. He rested his hands upon a wooden rail which ran around the perimeter. The light was all but gone, with only shadows of trees to inspire the imagination of what could be seen during the day time.
    As if on cue an Elephant trumpeted in the distance.
    “Private game viewing decks available at all angles.” Wilund turned toward Kohana.
    “The fabrics and the decor of the chalets originate from the local Tsonga community. They will rival anything in Tokyo.” His eyes widened, teasing her to challenge him in disbelief. Before Kohan could protest he moved on again.
    “Here.” He gesticulated over the rail. “An enchanting view overlooking the Mluwati riverbed and the bushveld beyond. I can promise you elephants in the morning.”
    Bond checked his watch. “Rumor has it that there will be a nuclear strike on Cape Town in one and a half hours time. Elephants are going to be difficult to see with all that dust about.”
    From the shadows Wilund sneered at Bond, his face morphed into an evil mask. When he spoke it was with hatred. “I can see why Shinoda wants you dead. I suggest you dispense with the dry British humour for tonight, Mister Bond, and enjoy what you deem to believe will be your last supper.” Wilund gestured for the couple to sit at the heavy wooden table.
    From the deliciously diverse flavours of South Africa's indigenous and multi-cultural rainbow cuisine the culinary aromas began to whet their appetites. Wilund held out his hand hurrying them up. Bond and Kohan went to the table. The servants pulled out the heavy chairs. To the accompaniment of tribal music and drums (courtsey of an iPod and speakers), the servants brought out the food.
    As Bond and Kohan sat at the thick heavy dining chairs, a loop of steel wire weaved out a secret compartment from the chair legs and bound them firmly to the chairs. The servants pushed the heavy chairs forward under the table.
    Kohana looked nervously at Bond as he ran his finger along the bone handled steak knife. Beneath the table, Bond and Kohana felt the strength of the steel cable around their ankles. There was going to be no chance to move. Only a strike with the knife could end Wilund’s life before he could facilitate the nuclear strike.
    “Please, Mister Bond,” Wilund pointed at the knife, “please can we dispense with the threat of death for the duration of dinner.” Wilund shook his finger with disdain. “And stop checking your watch, the missile launch is set for an hour and a quarter time. We should be on the brandy by then.”
    “For someone intent on setting the world back hundreds of years, you’re quite a civilized man, Wilund.” Bond pushed the knife to the side and picked up the champagne flute.
    “Thank-you, Mister Bond.” He raised his flute. “A toast I think to Miss Kawaguchi, who is here I believe simply because her government won’t move against Shinoda; but whose employers cannot lose face in allowing the British to bring him down alone.”
    Servants poured from a bottle of Cristal Brut. Bond offered his glass. Kohana gave him a look of disdain, then switched her gaze toward their host.
    “And you only remain alive because I am trapped here.” Kohana smiled with venom, as she rattled her legs against the chair leg.
    “You are indeed a captive audience. So please enjoy your meal.”
    The white jacketed servants placed the first course in front of them. With relish they removed the silver domed lids on the bone china plates. Kohana looked at the food on the plates.
    “Don’t worry, nothing is over-handled or over-done. On the contrary, the taste is exciting, fresh, elegant, and bursting with flavour, just like a traditional Japanese dish.” Wilund unfolded the linen napkin over his lap. As he glanced down, Bond palmed the knife.
    “What is it?” Kohana asked Bond in a hushed whisper.
    “I’m not quite sure, but it appears to be served with tradition, surrounded by centuries of history. Every meal in Africa is a celebration shared with joy.” Bond nodded to Wilund.
    “How very traditional of you, Mister Bond. Perhaps you would like to propose the next toast?”
    “South Africa’s culinary world offers a wide range of exotic dishes, just like Japan. A toast to the chef.” Bond raised his glass.
    “Wonderful, let’s eat.” Wilund picked up his knife and fork. “You’ll need your knife, Mister Bond.”
    Bond smiled sarcastically, and pulled out the knife from beneath his napkin.
    “What is it?” Kohana asked again, only this time louder and with more petulance.
    “Crocodile, with fried caterpillars,” Wilund answered, stuffing a large piece in his mouth.
    “Can you imagine a life without computers, mobile phones, cash points, fast food, Starbucks?” Bond asked as he cut through the crocodile steak.
    “Ooh, the people would revolt if they couldn’t get their daily caffeine fix.” Wilund laughed at the thought.
    “How long have you been working for Shinoda?” Bond asked.
    “Longer than you might think, Mister Bond, but not as long as you imagine.”
    “I’m not sure that I see his game plan as being good for your long term career path.”
    “Alas, I tend to agree.”
    “Then why are we here?”
    Wilund understood Bond was not referring to dinner in the bush.
    “Otto Killman introduced Shinoda to me. It seemed that Shinoda needed something only I could give him.”
    “Alpanox?” Bond took a bite of the meat.
    “Yes, none of the other hackers could come close. The advance in Cyber weapons has come forward at a staggering pace.”
    “Every country has its own Information warfare units developing debilitating super viruses,” Kohana contributed.
    “Alphnox is much more than a super-virus.”
    “Do tell,” Bond quipped.
    “Alpahnox is as close to artificial intelligence as is currently possible.”
    “And what did Shinoda have to offer you in return to secure your services?”
    “My liberty.”
    “For just a few days? He must have seen you coming.”
    WIlund caught Bond’s drift and caught his breath before responding. “Even just a few hours out of that hell hole would have been worth it.”
    Bond thought about Killman and the numerous investors that would be lining up to make a killing during various cyber warfare hits and the resulting information system re-builds. The world would be crying out for the intellect of a hacker and technical genius like Wilund. None of which seemed to make sense as to why Wilund wanted to be part of reducing the technological world to a dusty wasteland.
    “You are an exceptional talent, Mister Wilund.”
    “Thank-you, Mister Bond.”
    “You have an obvious skill with new technology.”
    Wilund raised his hands in mock embarrassment.
    “Is that why you want all the other hackers able to nullify Alphanox dead?”
    “That’s about the size of it,” Wilund smirked.
    “And does Shinoda intend to kill you?” Bond asked.
    Wilund placed his knife against the plate, and contemplated Bond’s question.
    “Because of what I am about to do? Yes I think he will want to see me dead.” Wilund laughed heartily. His eyes betrayed the fact that he knew something.
    “Something you’d like to share?” Bond picked up on the body language.
    “Mister Bond, Miss Kawaguchi. You must accept that Shinoda is mad.”
    Kohana’s eyes widened, the fury inside her boiling over. Bond sat calmly analysing the conversation.
    Wilund’s hand waved about, the fork, clasped tightly within it dripped gravy on the table cloth. “Shinoda wants to return Japan to feudal times. He wants to rule the world like some magnificent Shogun. Like…Genghis Kahn.” Wilund shook his head.
    “And the nuclear strike in Cape Town won’t facilitate that?” Bond asked.
    “Of course not. Any nuclear strike will result in World War Three. As Africa descends into a dusty wilderness, America, Russia, and China will begin fighting it out for control of the precious resources that will enable their world to continue as normally as possible.”
    “But sitting here, we still end up dead,” Bond argued.
    “Do you believe in magic, Mister Bond?”
    “No.”
    “Neither do I, but I do believe that cyber warfare will curb the bloodshed that the barbaric super powers will be lusting after.”
    “You speak in riddles,” Kohana said.
    Wilund checked his watch. “We will see.”

***

One hour to Complete Darkness

South Africa has a lengthy coastline of about 3 000 km. This coastline is swept by two major ocean currents - the warm south-flowing Mozambique-Agulhas current and the cold Benguela. The former skirts the east and south coasts as far as Cape Agulhas, while the Benguela current flows northwards along the west coast as far as southern Angola.
    The contrast in temperature between these two currents accounts for important differences in climate and vegetation between the east and west coasts of South Africa. It also causes big differences in the marine life.
    The cold waters of the west coast are much richer in oxygen, nitrates, phosphates and plankton than those of the east coast. The warmer waters of the Indian Ocean contain a richness of marine life, and where there is life there also come a healthy amount of predators. The largest predators in the ocean on this day were two Type 093 Chinese navy submarines. Both were fitted with the latest YJ-83 anti-ship nuclear tipped missiles. Nuclear deterrence missions are usually delegated to the 092 Xia class or the 094 Jin class, but a secret message had been passed to the Commanders as the boats waited at the Ngong Shuen Chau Naval Base in Hong Kong, and in line with the codes supplied, the submarines now carried nuclear missiles.
    The crew had managed to disable the audible alarm, but the flashing red light continued to illuminate their feeble efforts to regain control of the submarine.
    Both submarines had changed course and were now line astern going through the Mozambique Channel, a notoriously difficult channel to navigate. The boats ebbed and flowed as the helmsman sat back and watched as the course changed. Silently the boats slid between the island of Madagascar and Mozambique. The channel is approximately 460 kilometers across at its narrowest point between Angoche, Mozambique, and Tambohorano, Madagascar.
    The crew had tried to service but the controls had not responded. The channel reaches a depth of 3,292 meters about 230 kilometers off the coast of Mozambique. A warm current flows in a southward direction in the channel, leading into the Agulhas Current off the east coast of South Africa. It is around 1000 miles long, and the width of it varies from 250-600 miles. Communication with the outside world was lost on the crew, as messages flooded in, and as if by magic responses were sent.
    When the launch code sequence responses flashed up on the screen the entire crew held its collective breath. It was during the relative silence that the missiles began to prepare to launch.

***

Forty five minutes to Complete Darkness

The role of the South African Navy (SAN) is to prepare for and to conduct naval operations in defense of the RSA, its citizens and interests and to carry out peacetime operations in support of national objectives. The SAS Isandhlwana, named after the hill dominating the site of one of the most famous battles of the Anglo-Zulu war of 1879 ploughed through the breaking waves of the Indian Ocean.
    The orders of the captain were quite clear: ‘Destroy the Chinese Submarines before they launch their missiles.’

***

Forty Minutes to Complete Darkness

Gareth Mallory stood wearily, easing his back by putting his hands on his hips, and stretching. “Is there any way to determine which of the communications are bona fide and which are the result of hacked emails?”
    “At this stage, no,” Q answered. “However it doesn’t really matter. Both China and South Africa are on a nuclear collision course.”
    “The explosion in Limpopo was certainly real,” Bill Tanner added.
    “Speaking of which is there any news from 007.”
    “Alas no. We tracked him to Eastgate Airport…but then nothing.”
    “You think Wilund is on to him?”
    “Most certainly, but 007’s previous exploits would lead us to believe that 007 getting close to Wilund could well be our best chance to averting the Third World War.”
    “Let’s not over-dramatize, Q. Shinoda’s plan is to have just one small nuclear explosion.”
    “I’m afraid it won’t stop at that. The Americans are warning the Chinese that should they launch a nuclear strike, they would offer support to the South Africans.” Q pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. “…And that’s certainly for real.”
    “The Russians are advising that any sanctions or actions against China would exact the most ardent response,” Tanner read from his screen.
    “The Russians in support of the Chinese…? I hope the PM doesn’t get wind of that.”
    The staccato bleeps interrupted the conversation. Bill Tanner picked up the telephone.
    “It’s the PM, sir.”

[volante]

Chapter 21
Complete Darkness

Africa.
30 minutes to Complete Darkness

The JL 2 is affectionately known as "The big wave" to the serving crew members of the Chinese Navy. Traditionally all crew members sign the warheads at the beginning of every tour of duty. Whilst at sea they talk to the missiles and refer to them like children. It is a tradition similar to the actor’s encouraging remark of ‘Break a leg’ referring to good luck. But in reality the big wave is a second-generation intercontinental-range submarine-launched ballistic missile, or SLBM for speed. It has a two-stage, solid–liquid-fuelled propulsion design and should be given the utmost respect.
    Accurate specifications of the missile are hard to obtain and substantiate outside China, due to the secretive nature of the program. However, the missiles are thought to be able to deliver their payloads up to a range of 8,700 miles and can carry either single or multiple warheads, conventional or nuclear.
    The subs were just over 1,700 miles from their target when the SAS Isandhlwana picked them up on radar. The Destroyer heaved over to starboard and closed in for the kill.

***

28 minutes to Complete Darkness

Gareth Mallory put down the telephone. Bill Tanner looked for a comment, and over the internet hook up, Q waited for a response. Mallory took a breath
    “The PM has been reliably informed that the minute it is confirmed that a nuclear strike has taken place in Cape Town the North Koreans will launch a strike on South Korea.”
    Bill Tanner feverishly entered data onto his keyboard. As the result flicked up on his screen his face was ashen. “American seventh fleet is steaming toward South Korea … The SAS Isandhlwana has located the two Chinese submarines. They are about to launch an electronic shutdown probe.”
    “How long until we know if they‘ve stopped the launch?”
    “10 minutes,” Q replied.

***

24 minutes to Complete Darkness

The plates had been cleared away. The tempo of the African drums had subtly changed to slow down the mood of the diners. A smiling servant placed the brandy decanter in the center of the table. At Kohan’s side another servant placed a small jug of Saki.
    “A most thoughtful host, thank-you, Mister Wilund.” Kohana made a small bow.
    The servants poured the drinks into the cut glass balloon glasses, and porcelain cup for Kohana.
    “Your time is almost at an end, Wilund. You do realize your plan won’t work.”
    “My plan, Mister Bond? What do you know of my plan?”
    “The attack on the chromium mine facility, killing one hundred Sinosteel workers was your way of announcing your presence here in Limpopo. With a nuclear strike less than a day away I had to ask why you would give away your position and why you would still be with in blast range.”
    “So what is my plan? Tell me, I’m excited. 50 men are trapped underground, and 20 Chinese engineers are being held hostage by African terrorists. Perfect for an escalation scenario to a nuclear war.”
    “Ridiculous. You’re sitting here without a care in the world, yet you would have us believe that you made all this possible just to let a madman kill you a couple of days after gaining your freedom.”
    Kohan looked sideways at Bond.
    “My liberty, Mister Bond. I always had my freedom.” Wilund took a sip of brandy.
    “You were in prison.” Bond took the knife that he had hidden in his napkin.
    “I had my internet. The world was my oyster.”
    Bond turned the knife around, wiping the blade as he did so. His fingers curled around the blade. The throw would have to be accurate.
    “Yes, and you sent out a message that you knew would enable MI6 to pinpoint you here. All this has been orchestrated by you. This isn’t about to be the end of the technological world. This is about the beginning of a new chapter.” Bond angled his body, to allow his throwing arm to be free of the chair.
    “Very perceptive. Tou are close, but as with the brandy, no cigar.” The superior smile lit up his face.
    “The threat of nuclear war doesn’t faze you at all…”
    “No, not at all.” Wilund laughed.
    “So you don’t see any threat to your life, which means you don’t plan to die after the missiles are launched.” Bond pushed down on the table with his left hand, and drew back his right arm. The timing was perfect. The servants were all too far away to stop Bond throwing the knife and plunging it into Wilund’s heart. It was at that moment that Kohan stretched out her hand and stopped Bond’s arm from completing the action.
 
***

20 minutes to Complete Darkness

The first probe hit the submarine just aft of the conning tower. The laser burnt a hole through the hull. The impulse motor propelled the centre tube into the hull.
    A moment later the second probe latched on to the second submarine to the front and left of the conning tower. Back in Pretoria the technicians watched the screens. The impulses continued from both submarines.

***

19 minutes to Complete Darkness

The heavy blows from the servants turned into a single sharp scratch on James Bond’s neck. As the drug took effect, Bond slipped forward and was unconscious before he hit the table.
    Wilund drained his glass, thumping the crystal down on the table. Rage spread through his body in parallel to the hot fiery liquid. “Take them to the water hole.”

***

18 minutes to Complete Darkness

The technician looked incredulously at the screen. “The probes have not activated.”
    “In layman’s terms, please.”
    “The submarines are still active.”
    The Admiral activated his mobile. The Commander of the SAS Isandhlwana answered.
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “Destroy the submarines.”
    “Yes, Sir.” the line went dead.
    The admiral turned to the technician, “The line just went dead.”
    The young South African naval technician took off his headphones and looked up from the screen “Not just the screen, sir. All power has died on the Isandhlwana.”
    From the depths of the Indian Ocean the commander of the first Chinese submarine watched in horror as the launch sequence began. In the torpedo silo of the submarine, the conveyer belt led a torpedo to the launch tube.
    Within two minutes, the red digits were ticking down. The chaos in the control room turned to despair as the computer screen confirmed the launch of the torpedo.

***

15 minutes to Complete Darkness

Without any power the Isandhlwana drifted on the ocean. The moon illuminated the ship.
    Like one of the classic film images of sea battles the torpedo broke the surface and meandered around until it pointed at the stricken vessel. 60 years ago it might have been true that one would expect the crew to see the line of frothy wake marking the progress of the torpedo until it slammed into the side of side of a ship, setting off a huge fiery explosion. But a modern torpedo dors not kill its targets by "hitting" them. It travels at highway speeds, and has a range of around 40 km when doing 100 km/h, or so. It weighs around 1600 kg, of which 267 kg are high-tech explosive, and which have the punch of half-a-tonne of TNT.
    Some modern day torpedos are guided by a wire that reels out behind it. But the Chinese Mk 48 can find the target by itself. Once it gets close enough to the target, it first uses sonar to aim for the centre of the ship. Then when it's really close, it uses the magnetic signature of the target as a trigger to explode. Like a great white shark, the torpedo sank beneath the surface of the ocean. The torpedo now homed in on the target. Out of physical and sonar sight no one on board saw anything. When the torpedo was 15 metres directly under the hull of the Isandhlwana (the depth and location are critical), the 267 kg of high explosive would instantaneously turn into a huge volume of gas. The resultant effect is four fold.
    First, the actual explosion generates a very high pressure shock wave. This rams into the middle of the underside of hull of the ship at about 1.5 kilometres per second.
    Second, the shock wave crushes the underside of the hull, and also lifts it up. The hull of the Isandhlwana bent the ship upwards from the middle, like a banana. The upper deck cracked open and split apart. After a few hundredths of a second, the shock wave had come and gone. But within a few more fractions of a second, the expanding bubble of gas from the explosion hit the underside of the hull. The bubble reached a maximum size of about 18 metres across, and it maintained the massive upward force on the bottom of the hull, once the shock wave has passed.
    The ship bent upwards in the middle in two stages - from the shock wave and then the expanding gas and broke itself apart.
    Third, after about half-a-second, the bubble began to shrink. The cracked ship began to sag in the middle, and then began to "banana" in the other direction. This actions tore the hull of the ship even more. The technical term for this sagging is the "whipping" phase. For the crew of the Isandhlwana the technicality was lost, as the sailors were shaken from the roof of the cabins to the cold hard decks. They were tossed like rags dolls in the mouth of an aggressive dog.  The action effectively broke the back of a ship - after all, if you want to break a stick in two, it's much more effective to bend it back-and-forth, rather than bend it in only one direction.
    Fourthly, only four seconds after the torpedo exploded, the shrinking bubble reached its minimum size, and began to expand again. The water pressure around it was greatest directly underneath (being further from the surface) and least at the top (being closest to the surface). So it expanded upwards more than downwards, resulting in a lot of water being forced upward in a high-speed wall of water. This "bananaed" the ship back in the first direction again, at the apex of which the wall of water and the enormous bubble rammed right through the hull. The combined force was enough to completely rip the superstructure off the ship. To any onlooker, it would gives the appearance of a second explosion, but by then nearly all, if not all, the crew were already dead. The hull snapped into two separate halves. The plume of water and ship fragments shot 150 metres into the air, split into two halves, and sank.

***

10 minutes to Complete Darkness

The naval technician in Pretora looked up from the screen.
    The Admiral looked at him. “What is it, son?”
    “The ship has just vanished from the screen, sir. We have lost the Isandhlwana.”

***

9 minutes to Complete Darkness

Yang Huaiqing was commander of the first of the Chinese submarines. A naval veteran of fifteen years, he stood in complete shock as the countdown to missile launch began. He had already attempted the self-destruct sequence, only for the system to tell him that he had no authority to activate the devise.

***

7 minutes to Complete Darkness

Tsukasa Shinoda spread his arms, and admired himself in the 17th century French mirror which had once been owned by the late Otto Killman. He wore a traditional Kimono. The Kimono used to be the main clothing of the Samurais. Shinoda’s kimono was made up of cotton and silk. The smile spread across his face.
    Only the elite class of Samurais could afford silk kimonos, due to their finesse and glaze.
    Interestingly, the colour of the kimono was in consonance with the status of the owner in society. Warriors avoided kimonos with bright colours or any bizarre shades, as they were generally frowned upon. Shinoda’s garment was made of dark grey silk.
    Beneath the kimono, Shinoda wore a loincloth, called a ‘fundoshi’. The garment was cumbersome, like a diaper. But it was an essential part of Shinoda’s new status. In just six minutes, he would start to rise above the people. Soon Shinoda would be viewed as a god, as a Shogun, as the ruler of the world.
    Shinoda strode from the dressing room. In the lounge Shinoda went to the windows and looked out over the valley. “Suzuka, is it done?”
    “Yes Lord, launch sequence commenced.”
    “How long to launch?” Shinoda had relinquished his wrist watch.
    “Four minutes, Lord.”
    “What is the reaction of the rest of the world?”
    “Turmoil and chaos. Korea is about tear itself apart. The Americans wait like a jackal.”
    Shinoda spread his fingers and waved his hand over the valley.
    “Soon I will bring order to the chaos.” Shinoda pointed to the wall mounted television. “Let me see the world as it dies.”
    Sukuka pressed the remote control.

***

3 minutes to Complete Darkness

Gareth Mallory, suit jacket long ago discarded. tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk. “Q, we need an answer.”
    “It would appear that Mister Wilund has indeed thought of everything. I’m afraid I cannot hack into the Alpanox device.” Q’s voice sounded totally defeated. The screen continued to pulse back at him. He willed it to be silent.
    “Think, man, what can we do?” Mallory’s voice was calm but full of stress. His mind never even contemplated what might have happened had Major Boothroyd still been alive to solve the ultimate puzzle. He wanted to inspire the young computer genius to conjure up an answer which would stop the nuclear strike, but they were spread too thin. Q in Kuala Lumpur, he and Tanner in London, and 007.
    “Where the hell is 007?” Mallory shouted.
    Bill Tanner looked up from his keyboard. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no contact with 007.” The phone rang again. Tanner looked at the screen. “It’s the PM again, sir.”

***

1 minute to Complete Darkness

Commander Yang Huaiqing watched the countdown clock turn to 59 seconds. To the rear of the conning tower, the right hand side missile tube opened. 58, 57, 56, 55, 54.
    Two of the crew were openly praying. On the second submarine, the first missile tube popped open. 53, 52, 51, 50.
    For just one moment, Q took his fingers from the key board. He flexed them and then quickly restarted typing. The program that he was writing was almost complete. The screen continued to pulse back at him. Q was quietly confident that he had found a back door into Wilund’s Alpanox program. Soon the screen would fall silent.
    Just a few more seconds would prove him right. 40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35.
    “Q, status please?” Mallory asked.
    “Won’t keep you a moment, sir. How’re the Americans coping?” The screen pulsed.
    “CIA haven’t even come close. We are all relying on you.”
    30, 29,28,27
    “And the Japanese. I thought they would have a vested interest.” Q continued to type. “Nearly there.” The green dot pulsed in defiance.
    “Q, we don’t have time…”
    “Have the Koreans backed down yet?” Q asked. The pulse seemed to mock him.
    21, 20, 19, 18, 17
    “Felix Leiter would have us believe so, yes,” Mallory sighed.
    14, 13, 12.
    “Well, that’s good to hear. If we can avoid a war in the first couple of days it will be a bonus, I suppose,” The pulse was obstinate,
    7, 6, 5, 4.

***

3 seconds to Complete Darkness

Commander Yang Huaiqing said, “God save us all.”
    And with that the missiles launched.
    Q said a silent prayer and pressed the enter key. The pulse continued.
    Q licked his lips. “I’m sorry, sir. I have failed. I cannot stop the missiles.”
    From the depths of the ocean, the weapons of doom broke through the surface.

[volante]

                                                                                             PART TWO

                                                                                         Each hour wounds
                                                                                         The final hour kills


Chapter 22
Missiles
 

 

Like salmon leaping from a stream, the two missiles broke through the gentle undulations of the ocean surface. Angrily they shook the water from their metallic silver bodies, and began to seek out their target. Within the sleek nose cones, the guidance systems began the necessary adjustments, thousands of calculations in a single moment; all the while the missiles fought their way clear of the ocean that had expelled them.
       As the missiles arced in the air, the small delta shaped wings adjusted to enable them to fly true. Like blind puppies the two missiles made slow lazy adjustments to their course, their lack of speed made them teeter on the verge of stalling. Wondrously their bulk stayed precariously poised in the thin air above the vast ocean. If there had been any onlookers it would have looked as if the missiles were sniffing out food, of maybe a prey. Just as it seemed the missiles would surely fall back into the sea, the thrusters ignited and with a growl the hunt was on.
       As they began to accelerate small adjustments continued within the computers in the nose cones. The targeting programme continued to home in until the attuned course was locked on target. Then the afterburners kicked in.
       At sixty meters above sea level and ten meters apart the missiles moved as one; leaning and banking, tearing across the grey morning sky, roaring an unearthly sound they tore onward toward the sleeping coast of Africa.
      The tracking stations in London and Cape Town followed the two ghostly blips across the screen. The countdown to Armageddon had begun.
       ‘We’ve picked up two signals. Waiting for identification.’ Within a moment the screen displayed the confirmation of the source of the bleeps.
       ‘Confirmed. Nuclear armed missiles on course for Cape Town,’ the South African lieutenant advised his commander.
       ‘How long until impact?’
       ‘Time to impact, five minutes.’ A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Behind him the buzz of conversation increased. Voices tried in vain to not reveal the panic of the impending doom which was rushing upon them.
Hindsight began to kick in, now leading into guilt about not telling the population of their imminent deaths.
       ‘How will we be judged?’ one colonel asked his peers.
       ‘Just pray they’ll be someone left to carry out the judgement,’ another replied. As one they all looked back toward the screen.
The missiles punched holes through the air and left foaming maelstroms in their wake. Furious tongues of water reached out in a vain attempt to grasp at the speeding missiles.
       All across the country aircrews were being scrambled. Amid screaming attention seeking sirens the jets took to the air. In the control towers the live commentary from Cape Town gave continuous updates as the harbingers of doom continued to speed across the sky.
      As the jets and helicopters took to the sky, their pilots, eager for action, began asking their control towers for instructions. But the command towers were only able to give generic instructions; secretly each base commander wondered what they could do to avert the impending disaster.
     Should they advise the pilots to head for Cape Town before the missiles arrived, and subsequently die in the impact, or should they advise the air force to wait at a safe distance, and hope to pick up any survivors?
      Both scenarios seemed ridicules seeing as how two nuclear missiles were about to strike Cape Town, but still a decision had to be made.
      ‘Air strike two, your target is Cape Town,’ the commander advised. Instantly the blips that signified jets in the air began to move.
Similarly, the South African army was being mobilised. All units were being directed to Cape Town.
       From the status screen an engineer raised his head, half turning to attract his commander’s attention, he called ‘Sir, the missiles have changed course.’
The commander, flanked by Admirals, Colonels and nervous Politian’s crowded in to look at the screen.

 

***

Geneva.

A cool mountain breeze flowed over Shinoda and Shinigami as they sat in the chocolate leather chesterfield sofa in Killman’s lounge. Killman’s body had been disposed of with upmost efficiency. The flat screen TV had been hooked up to Suzuka’s computer to allow Shinoda to watch the missile strike live from the comfort of his newly acquired home. Traditionally attired Japanese ladies presented bowls of tea to their master.
       Hardly daring to breathe Shinoda watched the blips race across the grey-green screen of the sea and over the darker grey area which he knew to be the land mass that was Africa.
From his side, Suzuka provided an ongoing commentary. But, in essence the screen said it all; two brilliant white blips of light which represented the two missiles heading toward Cape Town.
      ‘The final dawn of the technological age has already risen. Prepare to return to a more honest way of life,’ Shinoda joked with Shinigami.
      ‘Time to impact ...’ Suzuka counted off the seconds ... but when the words died in his throat, Shinoda was torn between the hypnotic blips on the screen and the urge to turn to his architect.
      ‘Doctor Suzuka; it looks to me as if the missiles have diverted from their target. How can this be?’ he asked without averting his gaze.
      Suzuka failed to answer.
      ‘What has happened?’ Shinoda shouted at Suzuka. The faithful doctor cowered by his lap top. ‘I cannot explain...’
      ‘Have they exploded?’ Shinoda boomed.
      ‘No’
      After a moment of silent deliberation Shinoda stood up. ‘Wilund has betrayed us. Fuel Killman’s plane; we leave immediately.’

 

***

The missiles tore over the unspoiled land. The dust clouds swirled up from the dry earth beneath them lingered in the morning sun before dropping lazily back down to the ground. Simultaneously both missiles dropped altitude, as they screamed over the heads of terrified animals that fled in frenzied retreat.
       As the flight continued, the land changed colour beneath them, the dry beige of earth turned into to a lush green. Towering trees swayed and bowed aside as the missiles strafed above them. Then the noise of the engines dropped in intensity as the missiles began to slow.
       A huge flock of white birds took to the morning air, screaming in terror as the two missiles zoomed in low over the tree tops. Then at just thirty feet above ground the terrain changed again as the missiles dropped over the still calmness of the long lazy Lake.
      Slowing now, thrusters firmly switched off, the missiles glided in. Lower and lower, slower and slower. Now skimming the surface of the lake, the water formed fountains at each side of the bodies. The tails dropped into the water, and then the bodies splashed through the clear blue veil of the surface.
      In a maelstrom of white foaming water the missiles slowed and sank beneath the surface, generating another huge plume of water. In just moments the metal bodies had vanished and the water replaced itself and quickly the lake became calm again. After just a second or two the birds swooped back down and returned to the lake surface.
      Beneath the surface the missiles continued to sink; the once sleek bodies now becoming ungainly and heavy. One missile drifted right, tail down, the other ploughed gently into the sandy bed thirty feet below the majestic floating birds.

***

Vauxhall Cross, London.

M looked up from the screen, ‘No explosion?’
     ‘No...’ Tanner hit the keys, ‘...it appears they’ve landed.’ Tanner checked the co-ordinates. ‘They’ve landed in the lake at the game reserve.’
     ‘Inform Cape Town of our understanding,’ M instructed, ‘see what Intel they have? And get Q on the line.’
     ‘Yes sir,’ Tanner replied.
M waited while Tanner passed on the information.
After a moment M looked at Tanner ‘So, no explosion then?’
Tanner shook his head ‘Definitely not, sir.’
     ‘Well Q, it looks like you’ve earned your Christmas bonus.’
     ‘The money would be most welcome, sir, but I’m afraid I cannot take the credit for saving the world on this occasion.’ Q’s calm voice came back over the speaker.
     ‘You didn’t facilitate the disarm, Q.?’
     ‘No sir.’
     ‘Or initiate the change of course?’
     ‘No.’
     ‘Then who did?’ M asked.
After a moment Q replied ‘My money would be on Wilund.’
     ‘Explain yourself, Q,’ said M, easing his body forward, closer to the speaker.
     ‘I never did buy into his motives for destroying the technological world as we know it; or indeed as he loves it. Africa is Wilund’s home, and the technological arena is his playground. He owes a lot to The SA government. They probably saved his life when they stopped his extradition to the US.’
     ‘But they did put him in prison,’ said Tanner.
     ‘For political equilibrium they would have had to. And the length of the sentence seemed unjust, unless it was simply to placate the Americans. As you know you can commit murder in South Africa, and be out within the year... Anyway it seems he had full access to the web whilst he was inside. He was probably helping develop cyber security systems for the government, during his incarceration’ said Q.
     ‘And yet he was recruited by Shinoda,’ said M.
     ‘To do what, destroy the technological world? Wilund’s entire life has been focused on possessing the ultimate power afforded him by the net. He is the world’s greatest computer hacker. Why would he want to destroy that?’
      ‘But he escaped from the prison.’ Tanner remarked.
      ‘It could have been a show, or he might have been sending a message to someone.’
      ‘Either way we’ve got a problem,’ said M turning to Tanner, ‘how long before we get satellite coverage over the area?’
      ‘Thirty minutes, sir,’ Tanner answered.
      ‘And when do we get troops to the airfield.’
      ‘Couple of hours at least.’
      ‘And where the bloody hell is 007?’

***

Game Reserve, Africa.

Gracefully the divers flicked their fins and propelled themselves down to the bed of the lake. Each man carried a powerful torch, their beams picking out the still settling grains of sand.
     More divers waited at the surface; each pair carried a large search light. From the centre of the lake, and then moments later about thirty yards further away, two bright red beacons popped to the surface.
     ‘In you go boys,’ Wilund commanded. As they descended, the wires from the search lights uncoiled and slid beneath the surface. The wires fed back into a large generator, strapped onto the back of an old DAF flat-bed lorry.
     The divers descended; hand over hand following the cord from below the beacons. From about ten feet down they saw the torch lights. The divers let go of the cords and followed the beams of light which were waving gently below them. Within a few minutes they had set up the search lights. The lake bed was smooth and sandy; most of the disruption had already sunk to the bed again.     With a flick of a large rubber switch the powerful lights lit up the two missiles as they lay sleeping.
     The divers harnessed their torches and unfurled giant canvas slings, repelling the bravest of the small fish, inquisitive of their new arrivals. As they threaded the canvas sheets beneath the missiles more sand was kicked up from the bed, turning the peaceful seen into a snow storm of haze.
     Cautiously the divers rolled the missiles onto the canvas slings. Then they attached the canvas loops over the top, slipping the steel locking devises into the loops. As soon as the canvas was secure, steel ropes came snaking down from the surface.
     The divers attached the ropes to the harnesses. As each diver gave a thumbs-up sign, the leader notified the surface with a click of his communicator. Above them the mobile crane drivers started up their engines.
     The caterpillar tracks dug into the soft mud along the lake side. The steel rope trundled around the pulley, and from the mast the long wet length of rope came up from the depths. Wilund watched the scene with an air of acute anticipation. He turned to see the low loaders being prepared to take their precious cargo. Wilund glanced at his watch; things were going well, and yet he believed it would still be another three hours before the next phase of his plan could be undertaken.
With a whoosh of cascading water the missiles, cradled in their blankets broke through the surface of the lake.

***

Killman’s jet

The leather lined luxury of the Gulfstream G550 did nothing to dissipate the anger that was building up inside Shinoda. His master plan, of ruling a feudal style world had dissolved before his eyes when the missiles had failed to detonate. He felt the betrayal cut into him. He thought back to when Wilund’s deception had begun. Now with hindsight, he knew it was from the very beginning. He felt robbed of his glory. He also felt foolish to have put such faith in a foreigner.
       It had been a mistake to trust the South African, he knew that now. It was a mistake that he was about to rectify.
       ‘How long before we have eyes on the ground?’ Shinoda asked.
       ‘Communications will be in place within thirty minutes.’
       ‘How long until we land?’
       ‘Three hours.’ The Gulfstream G550 would be able to fly to Africa on a single tank of fuel at over 600 miles an hour.
       ‘My missiles could be anywhere by then,’ Shinoda hammered his fist onto the arm of the seat.
Shinigami thought it better than to answer. ‘We are flying at 51,000 feet,’ he began, but was interrupted.
       ‘Have we been in contact with Wilund?’
       ‘No sir, his mobile is dead,’ Suzuka replied. The jet had seating for fourteen passengers. It featured Wi Fi, and state of the art communications. Suzuka was thanking his lucky stars that Killman’s jet had been available. It would most likely be his last flight anywhere if Shinoda’s plan came to fruition. He wondered idly how Shinoda would have been able to get to Africa so quickly if the jet were not in existence.
       ‘Dead? How apt,’ replied Shinoda.
       ‘Yes sir.’ Suzuka bowed.
Shinoda stoked the leather arm rest. ‘Once we get to Africa, we must ensure the jet remains un-damaged ... until we get back to Japan.’
       ‘As you wish, my Lord.’

***

Game Reserve, Africa.

Tightly wrapped in iron grey tarpaulins the missiles nestled on their wooden yokes on the back of the two low-loader trucks. At a maximum 10 MPH the convoy crawled over the last of the arduous miles from the lake to the perimeter of the airfield.
In the lead jeep Wilund lifted his head and watched the massive Tupolov aircraft come into view.
The driver motioned to the aircraft. ‘Magnificent isn’t it. Like a bull-elephant at the water hole.’
     ‘Yes it is, Wilund replied, and then with a smile he added ‘and just like an elephant, I’m glad I’m not going to have to ride on its back.’
The driver looked over at Wilund, bright teeth smiling out of his dust streaked face.
The dull steel body of the aircraft looked tired, and totally out of place against the vibrant cloudless blue sky that stood above it. The distant trees seemed to cosset the plane within their branches.
The radio in the jeep crackled into life. Wilund picked it out of its cradle and held the microphone to his mouth ‘Proceed.’
     ‘The American satellite will be in range in ... two minutes, sir. The local security force could be here within two hours; and the entire South African air-force won’t be far behind.’
Wilund depressed the talk button. ‘Is Roger ready?’
     ‘Yes sir.’
     ‘Good. Better get ready to put on a show then.’

***

Vauxhall Cross, London.

Gareth Mallory rose from the leather bound chair. He eased his hands into the small of his back, and stretched out the tension. With one more look at the screen he turned toward the window, ignoring his guest; he needed a moment of private thought. It was important to keep a professional distance from the paranoia that was ebbing and flowing in the room. Soon, he knew the minister would be gone, and he would be able to run the show again without the political hindrance, ‘Politicians,’ he said under his breath.
      ‘Look here, M. This Wilund chap is making us look stupid. What can we do? What do I tell the PM?’ The minister checked his watch. ‘...In half an hour.’
M turned to face his inquisitor ‘That we couldn’t have done anymore. Really there’s little we could have done differently under the circumstances...’
       The Foreign Secretary waved his hand in dismissal ‘Now don’t get defensive, M. I understand; and I’m grateful that the dammed missiles didn’t go bang, really I am. It’s just that the PM is getting his Intel direct from MI5, and they just can’t get it into their heads that this Wilund chap could be in possession of so much cyber ... clout.’
The use of the good old Yorkshire word brought Mallory back to earth. He turned and smiled sympathetically at the FS. But the Yorkshire man continued.
‘He’s single handedly doing more damage to the UK than the Russians or the Bulgarians have ever done. Are you sure Cambridge has given every piece of intelligence up?’
‘Yes sir, quite sure,’ M replied.
The FS drummed his fingers on the desk ‘And what’s this Shinoda chap up to now?’
‘His entourage left Otto Killman’s Swiss residence moments after the failed missile strike was reported,’ Tanner offered. Flicking the screen to overview, the FS was able to see a shaded map of the area, from Europe down to Africa. A light blue blip, with the jet’s tail number was heading for Cape Town.
‘He’s on his way to South Africa,’ M concluded ‘I expect he’s intending to fire his IT expert.’
‘Sir, the satellite’s online now,’ Tanner interrupted.
‘Put it on screen.’ M was back at his desk in a whisper; his turn of speed surprising the FS.
Mallory and the FS watched the scene unfold. The picture was in multi-grey and ghostly green.
Tanner flicked the screen to close-up view of the airfield. He pointed to the action ‘Top left corner. That’s the two missiles. The nuclear trace cards show as orange. It seems they have just entered the airfield north of the game reserve.’
‘Is it a commercial airport?’ the FS asked
‘No sir, it’s a company owned strip, used almost exclusively for supplies.’
‘What’s that?’ M pointed to a darker shape in the airstrip area.
‘Looks like an aircraft,’ Tanner replied
‘Bloody big one,’ the FS commented.
‘Looks big enough to be a Tupolov,’ M suggested.
Tanner flicked back to overview screen, covering the east coast of South Africa.
‘What are those?’ the FS pointed to the bottom right of the screen.
‘They‘re the eighteen nuclear trace cards from the missiles on the Chinese subs,’ offered Tanner.
‘Christ, I’d forgotten about those,’ the FS said.
‘It's okay, the Chinese have confirmed they are back under control. They’re heading back to their base,’ Q confirmed over the open line.
‘That’s a positive you can tell the PM, I suppose,’ offered M. Tanner flicked back to the close-up view. As they crowed around the screen began to glow red around the two orange cards on the missiles in the game reserve.
‘What’s happening?’ the FS asked.
‘It’s the Tupolov engines,’ Tanner replied.
‘S***, he’s taking them out of the country.’ The FS slammed his palm on to the desk.’
‘Apparently so,’ M answered; whilst idly wondering what the FS thought Wilund would be doing with two stolen missiles that he had taken to an airfield. M turned to the conference telephone, ‘how close are the SA troops?’
The open line buzzed back ‘The local chaps are approaching now,’ Q confirmed.
‘Who’s in command? And put me through to them.’
‘The Intel shows it’s a sergeant in charge. Twenty men in total, two trucks.’
‘Get on to Cape Town, tell them to withdraw the air support; twenty men will be enough to stop Wilund taking off,’ the FS announced.

[volante]

Chapter Twenty Three

Game Reserve, Africa.

The men heaved on the ropes. Sleek black muscles strained, it was a slow and heavy task, but there was no way to automate it. After all it wasn’t every morning you loaded nuclear missiles onto an aeroplane.

Inch by inch the missiles came up the ramp and disappeared into the cavernous belly of the Tupolov. As is the habit of such a task the men all joined in with a deep song of rhythm.
The guard in charge of loading came down the ramp, as he did he noticed plumes of dust from beyond the perimeter fence, announcing the arrival of vehicles.
‘Sir,’ the guard attracted Wilund’s attention.
Wilund spun around, then glanced at his watch, ‘wow, they’ve made good time,’ the smile never left his face. He glanced at the team of men hauling the missiles onto the plane. Happy with their efforts he spoke to the guard.
‘Get Roger on duty.’ Wilund strolled along the side of the plane, trailing his fingers along the warm metal. The pungent smell of rubber and aviation fuel soured the freshness in the air.
At his command the guard ran to the jeep.
At that moment two Mercedes trucks smashed through the wire parameter fencing, and lurched over the threshold of the airfield. The South African troops on the back swayed in rhythm. They quickly covered the open distance and disappeared behind one of the large hangers. The trucks stopped and the troops jumped out, checking their weapons.
Wilund’s guard came away from the jeep with a lap-top computer in his hands. He ran back to the Tupolov and handed the lap top over to Wilund under the gigantic wing.
‘Thank you.’ Wilund’s fingers danced over the keys.
The metallic voice came from the speakers ‘Roger reporting for duty.’ Wilund smiled at the screen.

***

Kohana opened her eyes. The room came slowly into focus. Plain grey plasterboard walls and a single strip light above her. James Bond stood over her, blocking out the harsh light.
‘Here, drink this,’ said Bond holding a bottle of water.
Kohana took the bottle and drank thirstily. ‘How long have I been out?’
‘About twelve hours.’
‘Where are we?’ she sat up and looked about the room. It was about forty feet long, by twelve feet wide; she supposed it could be a container, hurriedly converted into a basic living space.
‘A cell, it’s what Wilund calls the Water hole.’ Bond moved to reveal a door in one of the end walls.
‘Bomb proof?’
‘I do hope so; although that ...’ Bond inclined his head towards an air vent on the back wall, ‘... seems to be drawing air in.’
‘Are they trying to kill us?’
Bond held up his own bottle of water, ‘Yes, and slowly. There’s no Scotch in the mini-bar.’
‘I mean with radiation.’
‘There’s been no explosion.’
‘Why what happened? I don’t remember anything after the meal.’
‘I think Mr Wilund was playing a trick on us.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘That depends on what he intends to do with those missiles.’
‘Why didn’t they explode?’
‘I’ve been thinking about his motives for wanting to blow Africa to Hell. Africa is his home, and Wilund is a technological guru always looking for the next technological advancement. It would be naive to think he would want to agree to or give up his power base if the world were to return to a Japanese feudal system.’
‘I think you are right James; I got the impression that Wilund was not a man with any intention of dying last night.’
‘So the question is, why the façade?’
‘Why did he ever agree to work for Shinoda, you mean?’ Kohana began to smile ‘Shinoda will be furious, no one has ever dared double-cross him before.’
‘I wonder if Wilund ever worked for him. We know Wilund needed help to escape from prison. But if that was all he needed Shinoda for, then perhaps he’s been the one pulling the strings from the beginning.’
‘What about Shinoda killing off the other hackers?
‘It could be that Wilund was eliminating the other hackers.’
‘Whoever was responsible, those men are dead, and Wilund is free,’ said Kohana.
‘With two nuclear missiles in his back pocket.’
‘And us.’
‘Yes, time we were thinking of leaving,’ Bond walked around the cell; then jumped up grabbing hold of the air-vent. He adjusted his weight, bracing his feet against the wall and began to pull. But the grill would not move. Bond dropped to the floor.
‘I take it you’ve tried the door.’ Kohana asked.
Bond frowned; then walked over to the door, and pressed the handle. ‘Locked,’ he replied with a reluctant smile on his face.
‘Just think we might be the only two people left alive in Africa.’
It was then that they heard the shooting ‘I doubt that,’ said Bond.
The door swung open to reveal a small African soldier in full combat gear, the sergeant stripes were proudly displayed on his shoulders.
‘Mr Bond?’ he asked.
‘Yes, we’ve been expecting you,’ Bond replied.
‘Follow me please, we need to escape.’ He handed Bond a Walther PPK.
‘That’s an understatement.’ Bond helped Kohana out of the cell. As they emerged the heat of the African sun hit them; and then the rapid gunfire of automatic weapons made them dive for cover. Around them other SA troops looked in full retreat.
‘What’s happening?’ Bond asked.
‘We cannot get close to the airplane; firepower is too much.’
‘What plane?’
‘Wilund is loading the missiles onto a plane; it is almost ready for take-off.’
‘Shame you couldn’t have got here sooner.’
‘Sorry, Mr Bond; we came as soon as we were able.’
‘Are you the only unit here?’ Bond asked.
‘Yes, the other troops were sent south toward Cape Town.’ More gunfire strafed the air. ‘We are pinned down,’ he pointed toward the hanger.
Two of Wilund’s guards came around the corner. Bond aimed and fired. Both men hit the dirt. But, before they could relax three guards suddenly emerged from the darkness of the hanger door. The first seized Kohana; his arm snaking around her neck. ‘Drop your weapons,’ he shouted.
Bond looked for a target, but before he could move Kohana lent back and brought her leg up, over her head, the ball of the foot aimed for the nose of her attacker. The kick hit him full in the face. He released her. She dropped to the ground sweeping her leg, bringing the other two guards down. In a blur Kohana had launched herself at the nearest prone guard, her elbow smashing into his windpipe. As the first guard jumped to his feet Bond shot him. But as he did, the third of the intruders raised his weapon. In an instant Kohana rolled, flexing her body, flicking out her leg, catching him on the elbow. The man dropped his gun. Bond turned and kicked him, hitting him square in the jaw.
He offered her his hand ...
‘James!’ Kohana shouted, pointing to the roof. Bond rolled over and fired three shots at a sniper getting into position.
‘Come on, this way.’ They ran for cover, scurrying around the hanger wall.
‘How many men does Wilund have?’ Bond looked at all the SA troops hiding behind the building.
‘It’s not his men we are worried about.’ The sergeant replied.
The remote operated gun enhanced robot, (nicknamed Roger) came around the corner. The eight feet tall automated killing drone, Roger, stood on a caterpillar tracked base about the size of a quad bike, it raked the hanger wall with deadly fire. Two more troops were cut down.
At about the five feet mark on the gun drone, a rotating turret moved freely, allowing two 50 cal machine guns to traverse a 360% kill field. Two more troops dropped to the ground as the deadly drone spat fire. The sergeant led Bond, Kohana and the remaining troops back along the side of the hanger. As they got to the far corner, Bond saw two Apache helicopters approaching from the south.
‘I hope they’re on our side?’ Kohana said.
‘This way Mr Bond, we will wait for the helicopter support over there,’ the sergeant directed him to another hanger. The two helicopters swooped in; the sergeant stood up and waved both arms at the approaching saviours.
Before Bond could raise the alarm, the first Apache opened fire. The 50 cal shells split the air instantly killing more troops. The lead copter raked a solid wall of fire at the troops. The men ducked into the hanger, but a missile followed them into the building producing a colossal fireball.
Bond grabbed Kohana and pulled her back into a small workshop, at the corner of the hanger, the fingers of flame crept around the door, but lost their intensity as Bond kicked the door shut.
Outside, the troops cried out in anguish as the shells smashed into them. After a moment the gunfire and the flames ceased.
The drone gun platform, trundled along the hanger wall, the guns moving freely, changing angle and firing as any moving target appeared.
Within the workshop, Bond heard the two apaches land. Carefully he raised his head over the window ledge.
‘All’s quiet, come on we need to get to those helicopters.’
‘They are coming to kill us,’ said Kohana.
‘They are our way out of here, so let’s not judge.’
‘What about the robot?’
Bond watched as the gun drone trundled back along the side of the hanger.
‘Keep low, follow me everything will be okay,’ Bond whispered.
‘You think so?’ Another prolonged rake of gunfire punctuated her words.
‘Sure, what could possibly go wrong?’
The four turbo prop engines on the Tupolov burst into life. The pilot eased off the brakes, and the leviathan crept forward. The early morning clouds had been burnt away by the fierce sun leaving the sky a clear azure blue.
Bond picked up a rifle from a fallen SA trooper as he ran along the hanger wall. From the corner of the building Bond observed the Tupolov rumbling along the runway.
‘We’re too late,’ Kohana said, as she held onto Bond’s shoulder.
‘Maybe not, they have to turn at the end of the runway; then come back along here,’ he pointed. ‘That’s the take-off point.’
‘But the guards are lining the runway; you won’t be able to get near to the plane.’
‘They’re Wilund’s men and the pilots from the helicopters ...’ he pointed at two black clad men standing between the many camouflaged guards.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ answered Kohana.
‘That means the Apaches are un-guarded; come on,’ said Bond.
They doubled back along the hanger wall.
‘What about the robot?’
‘No need to worry, Wilund was controlling it; and all his men are otherwise occupied. Okay, you stay here while I try to-’
‘No way, I’m coming with you.’
Bond watched as the Tupolov made its turn at the end of the runway; there was no time to argue. ‘Come on then.’ Bond and Kohana ran around the corner of the second hanger and across the open space to the first Apache helicopter. As they approached the pilot saw them coming and started to draw his gun, Bond shot him with a single bullet.
‘Where’d he come from?’ asked Kohana.
‘Two man crew,’ replied Bond.
They climbed in to the first helicopter. Bond began the take-off process. The Tupolov’s engines increased in pitch as the plane began its take-off run.
The rotors began to whirl. Bond eased back on the stick, and the Apache lifted off. He angled the helicopter toward the runway and the giant plane.
‘James, just how are you intending to stop them? Kohana shouted at him. Above the roar of the engines Bond shouted back ‘We’re going to play a little game of chicken.’
Kohana sat back in her seat and frantically fastened her safety harness. She watched in horror as they began closing in on the approaching plane. Bond needed to get the angle just right. Too shallow, and he would miss the Tupolov all together, and it would escape. Going straight and he would hit the runway, just as the plane reached maximum speed for take-off; neither would be able to stop in time. If he went in too sharp, he would be sitting on the runway long enough for them to see him, which would enable the Tupolov to stop or to plough into him under braking. Their paths were due to collide in just one hundred yards. Bond had less than five seconds to make his mind up about how he was going to make the final approach. He banked the Apache over and went for the steep option. However this ended it would all be over within the next minute.
It was then that the second Apache attacked them from the rear. The gunfire, smashed into the rear of the body. Bond and the Tupolov were heading together at about one hundred MPH. If he went left or right he would end up ploughing into the plane or making himself a huge target for the second Apache.
Bond took the only option open to him. He pulled back on the stick, and the Helicopter rose directly into the air. Bond banked the Apache over, scanning the area of the attack; as he did so the Tupolov slipped past beneath him and then rose imposingly into the air. Bond continued to spin the Apache; the attacking helicopter was lining him up for the kill. Bond was a sitting duck. Instinct took over and Bond fired a missile at the Tupolov. For a moment he thought he was going to hit it, but the missile ploughed into the runway less than six feet behind the tail. The explosion created a massive fireball which engulfed the back of the plane. Bond continued to spin the helicopter. The second Apache attacked again, the shells smashed into the side of the cockpit, splintering the armour plated glass. Bond pulled back on the stick, the Apache rose again. From the side window Kohana watched the Tupolov emerge from the fireball and rise into the African sky.
‘He’s getting away.’
The Apache rose another one hundred feet into the pure blue of the African sky, followed by a hail of bullets. Bond banked to the left and began his escape. The second helicopter followed suit and began its pursuit. As they crossed the runway Bond noticed a Gulfstream making its final approach, he swerved right and brought the ‘copter around in a tight arc.
‘Someone’s keen to join the party?’ said Kohana.
‘It’s Shinoda. Let’s see if we can’t give him a little welcome party.’ Bond shouted, and the helicopter dropped. The pursuer followed suit, sticking to the back of the Apache with stubborn skill. Bond continued to drop altitude, swinging left into the path of the approaching jet. The two aircraft were heading for a direct, head-on collision.
‘You really are hell bent on getting us killed aren’t you?’ shouted Kohana.
‘Just trying to change the odds,’ replied Bond. The Apache swooped down to no more than fifty feet. To avoid a collision the Gulfstream pilot would have to take the only evasive action available to him. He dropped the Gulfstream onto the runway, the tyres screeched in protest, the suspension buckled, and the plane skewed around. In the blink of an eye, the jet was out of Bond’s field of vision.
‘That went well.’ Bond began to take the Apache back up.
Behind them the second Apache, which was following them down was suddenly faced with the crash landing Gulfstream. But if he lifted, he’d hit Bond. As the stricken Gulfstream sped toward him the spectacle of one of the engines somersaulting through the air forced the pilot to go wide of the runway. Bond had gained his few seconds advantage. He banked the copter over and came around in a tight turn; as the attacking Apache came into view Bond depressed the trigger. However it was at this moment that everything went wrong. The helicopter’s weapons refused to fire. Bond checked the armourments display.
‘We’re all out of missiles.’
On the landing strip the right wheel of the Gulfstream hit the rubble ploughed up by the missile strike on the runway. The jet slewed to the side and careered off the landing strip over the rough ground. With the wheels ripped from the fuselage the skidding plane kicked up a massive dust-cloud which engulfed the Apache, Bond continued to lift to get a clear view.
‘Can’t we just shoot at him? Kohana asked.
‘We’ve fired all our weapons, no ammo left I’m afraid.’ Bond swept left and circled the airfield.
‘With a bit of luck we’ll be able to outrun him.’
The second Apache came after them out of the dust cloud. The lock-on bleep whistled through the cabin.
‘Well maybe not.’
‘He’s locked-on to us,’ shrieked Kohana, ‘do something!’
Bond flung the apache from side to side, but no matter how he tried to evade the attacker, the pursuing pilot kept on his tail. Bond swept in low over the airstrip; through the smoke from the burning wreck of the Gulfstream. The pursuing pilot followed.
‘Persistent little fellow isn’t he?’ The Apache angled over at almost ninety degrees. The second Apache followed them through the manoeuvre.
‘James, do something!’
‘I’ve got an idea, you might want to buckle-up,’ said Bond.
‘I’m already way ahead of you; what’s the plan?’ The helicopter rose in a steep climb.
‘James?’ Kohana clung onto the seat. The Apache was almost vertical. The pursuing pilot followed them up.
The lock-on beep in the cabin went constant. The missile had been fired.
Behind them the missile homed in on the heat source of the Apache’s engine. Bond continued to climb. The Apache was vertical. Bond continued pulling back on the stick. The helicopter went over the ninety degree angle and began to turn upside down.
‘James, I don’t think this can do a loop the loop.’ Then the stall indicator began bleeping. The missile behind them was rapidly gaining.
The helicopter was totally inverted. The cabin screamed at them with both missile approach and engine-stall warning bleeps; but both were drowned out by Kohana’s high pitched scream.
The engine stalled. The helicopter began to fall. Inertia kept the Apache on its loop the loop trajectory, but the speed was dropping off; as was the height.
They were now hanging in their harnesses, the nose of the helicopter pointed directly toward the airstrip beneath them. In the distance the Gulfstream burned ferociously on the ground. The inertia kept the helicopter going, but now that the engine had failed, they were in free flow. The burning plane below them seemed to be getting very big, very quickly.
The missile homed in just a couple of feet separated the two entities. The helicopter dropped from the sky and began to spin. Bond looked for the horizon, but his whole world was spinning. The Apache dropped through the air. Bond jammed his finger against the start button. The ignition light stayed firmly red.
The helicopter dropped. The earth was rapidly coming up to meet them. The missile was almost upon them, having performed a perfect loop in the sky.
Then the missile was past them. As Bond saw the vapour trail from its engine screech past, he depressed the starter button. The engine fired up. The starter light turned green. The rotor began turning.
The missile careered past them looking for another heat source. It found it in the attack helicopter which was hovering below. The pilot looked up incredulously as the missile sniffed out his engine and smashed into his rotor from above. The Apache burst into a fireball of metal and fuel. The helicopter exploded, sending shards of metal down to the airstrip below it.
James Bond wrenched the stick back, and brought the falling Apache under control. Once the machine had stopped spinning he pushed the stick forward and lowered the helicopter down to the airstrip. As they landed, all around them pieces of flaming metal fell to earth.
Away to the left the Gulfstream was billowing smoke and flames from its smashed windows; the fuselage had broken in two and its engines were ripped away and burning angrily.
‘Let’s go and welcome Shinoda-san to Africa.’

[volante]

Chapter Twenty Four

Pieces of burning metal pinged off the rotors of Bond’s helicopter as it landed on the airstrip. The engine pitch died away, and all was quiet. For an instant they sat in a hesitant moment of relaxation.
‘Thank you for flying Bond air,’ Bond quipped, ‘please be careful when opening over-head lockers, items may have moved during the flight.’ A piece of metal smashed down onto the fuselage, and then bounced harmlessly on the airstrip. Kohana laughed.
Bond gave her a reassuring smile then looked through the canopy. ‘I think that’s everything, come on time to go.’
‘You are ...’ Kohana looked at Bond with a blend of amazement which turned to anger, her voice rose to fever pitch. ‘...We could have been killed.’
‘Yes, especially if that missile had hit us. Still not to worry, we’re alive.’
She undid her safety belt, and the anger melted away. Bond was correct, they were, alive.
The African sun had heated the airstrip to an unbearable furnace. Adding to the heat all around them pieces of the destroyed helicopter smouldered and burned. They began making their way to burning Gulfstream.
Kohana looked into the broken fuselage. ‘No bodies in here.’
More pieces of the wreckage smashed into the ground around them.
‘Change of plan, we better get under cover.’ He reached for her hand.
‘Do you think anyone survived?’ Kohana asked. They looked back at the wreck of the jet as they hurried toward the hangers.
In answer to her question, the gun drone trundled around the side of the hanger, its two 50 cal machine guns, waving excitedly in the air.
Bond pushed Kohana behind him.
‘How very noble Mr Bond. However, not even you could stop a shot from this exceptional piece of equipment.’ Shinigami stepped out from behind the drone. He had a cut above his left eye, which dripped blood down his cheek. His finger hovered above the keyboard; a sinister smile passed across his face.
‘Just one keystroke ...’ But then he put the laptop down on the front of the platform. ‘But I won’t need this, for what I have in mind.’ The two 50 cal guns dropped to the side of the drone.
‘I didn’t have you down as another technophobe.’
Shinigami unbuttoned his shirt. ‘I’m not doing this out of any misguided loyalty for the late Shinoda-san,’ he threw the shirt to the ground. Shinigami’s torso was covered in tattoos, wonderful, vibrantly colourful tattoos. ‘I simply want to derive as much pleasure as I can from killing you.’ Shinigami flexed his substantial muscles; it appeared that the dragons on his body flowed into life.
‘Good luck with that.’ Bond took up a defence stance. He wondered if Shinoda was really dead, or if that were just a red herring.
Shinigami reached down to the rear of the drone platform and picked up his katana. ‘Every time I have sought to kill you,’ Shinigami looked lovingly at the blade. ‘I have always used a minion. Now the time has come for me to kill you myself.’ Shinigami raised the sword, and leapt forward into the attack.
‘Go to the hanger, wait for me there,’ said Bond, pushing Kohana away from the action. Kohana backed away from the fight.
‘Yes, little flower, runaway. I will find you later; after I have disposed of Mr Bond,’ said Shinigami, watching the frightened girl running away. ‘To the winner, the spoils.’
‘You seem very sure of yourself,’ said Bond, looking directly into Shinigami’s dark eyes. His was a face full of confidence; not a face besmirched by arrogance; but assured, like the face of a man that has killed before, many times.
‘You think there is a chance you can beat me?’ he blinked, and wiped the blood from his cheek with his forearm. The ghost of a smile crossed his face.
‘There’s always a chance.’
‘Perhaps we should have a wager. Will you gamble Mr Bond?’ his smile was growing now. Now there was arrogance in his voice. Bond needed to encourage this, this would be his weakness.
‘No.’
Shinigami stepped forward raking the sword down in a vicious arc. Bond scrabbled back. The blade hissed through the air. Shinigami laughed, as he brought the blade back to eye level. Bond crabbed backward.
‘Why, are you frightened?’ Shinigami waited motionlessly for Bond to get back to his feet. Bond stood, and wiped the dirt from his hands.
‘No, it’s just that I have nothing to gamble with.’
‘Your life; you gamble with your life. The only stakes that make the turn of a card interesting,’ said Shinigami smiling assuredly. ‘But, of course you are right to refuse. You have no hope of beating me.’
‘A man with no hope is a dangerous man.’ Bond circled to his right.
‘Dangerous maybe, but a man without honour none the less.’ Shinigami feigned a move to his left, and then struck again. As Bond rolled away from the attack Shinigami, pivoted to the right, and swung the blade across. The blade slashed across Bond’s shoulder. A dribble of blood seeped down over his shirt.
‘That’s new,’ said Shinigami, referring to the blood loss that Bond had endured on their previous meeting.
‘You think you have honour?’ asked Bond, circling right.
‘Do not speak of honour to me.’ Shinigami shouted. Suddenly he stopped; he realized Bond was deliberately trying to goad him. Another smile spread across his inscrutable face. ‘You cannot upset me Mr Bond. You’re certainly not a danger to me. I know who you are; what you are. Every country has a department which can use assassins in the interests of national security. But you have no passion for your work. No passion for the fight. You are just the hired help.’ Shinigami lunged again. The sword rose and fell three times in quick succession. Bond jumped back allowing the tip to whistle past his face and body. Shinigami thrust forward. Bond sucked in his stomach, and then fell to the ground. ‘I am Yakuza, I am Samurai. I am a man of honour. Get up. Face you death like a man.’
Slowly Bond got on to his knees, he coiled like a spring. ‘You told me that when a man faces his own death, it is never the death he imagined for himself.’
Shinigami recognised that Bond was going to leap up at him. The thought made his smile again, it was so obvious what he was intending to do. ‘That is correct, Mr Bond; but I am not facing my death. You are.’
Bond made his move; but it was not toward Shinigami. Bond dived to his right. He rolled forward and landed next to the caterpillar track of the gun drone. In one smooth motion he reached out and took hold of the laptop.
The sudden understanding of what was going to happen dawned on him. Fear spread over the face of Shinigami, ‘No, not like this. You would use a gun against my sword’
Bond scanned the keyboard. ‘Not how you imagined it then?’ his hand struck the enter key. The two 50 cal guns came up to aim. Shinigami raised the katana high above his head and leapt forward. The guns barked quickly, and the would-be samurai dropped to the hot baked earth, a broken dead man.
Bond put the laptop back on the gun platform. ‘And strictly speaking it was the laptop that did the damage. Oh well, that’s another thing that’s mightier than the sword.’

***

With the Mediterranean Sea as its northern border and the Atlantic Ocean as its western; Morocco sits on the north-west tip of Africa, enjoying a year round Mediterranean climate.
The sun was in its final phase of the day as the aircraft began to drop through a typical mountainous backdrop. Without incident, Wilund’s Tupolov landed at Khouribga’s private airfield. None of the many hundred locals working at the reserve that observed the event took any notice of the furtive actions of the ground crew; as large aircraft were often seen at the country’s largest phosphate reserve.
Upon landing the massive Tupolov was directed to the giant dome shaped hanger at the far side of the site. As the sun set over the magnificent Atlas range, Wilund left the site in the back of a battered and dusty 4X4.

***

To blank out the sanitised, accent-less, flight-information announcements from the airport tannoy system, Bond concentrated on a single drop of condensation as it dripped down the stem of his martini glass. The phone call to M was going as well as expected.
‘Just make sure Miss Kawaguchi gets on the next plane to Tokyo, will you 007,’ instructed M.
‘My pleasure, M.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she has been, but it’s time she went home now. We don’t want another international incident do we?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Good. Now you’re booked on the next flight to Washington.’
‘Was that Wilund’s destination?’ asked Bond.
‘We’re not sure where he planned to detonate the missiles; however that’s not relevant anymore.’
‘So why am I going to Washington?’
‘It’s your next mission, 007. Did you expect some kind of vacation? I’m sorry we’re far too busy for that I’m afraid.’
‘But Wilund is still at large.’
‘Your mission was to neutralize the threat of a nuclear explosion in South Africa, and safeguard British interests in the area. You have completed the task, well done 007. The Americans and the Chinese will tie up the loose-ends. Now it’s time to move on to your next assignment.’
‘What’s the assignment?’
‘You’ll be briefed once you arrive. You’ll be contacted by the CIA. Just relax on board; we’ve swung you an upgrade.’
‘How kind. So you don’t believe Wilund represents any sort of threat anymore?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘We believe Wilund is in Morocco. Luckily enough one of our satellites was monitoring the area. We got a single nuclear trace card bleep, from both missiles. Guess he forgot to turn the trackers off.’
‘That was fortunate.’ Bond didn’t believe a word of it.
‘Wilund must be slipping,’ said M, speaking with a little doubt in his voice.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Really, you think he planned it ... wow if he did, he thinks of everything.’
Bond caught the trace of irony in M’s voice. Evidently M wasn’t so sure that the mission was over either. Bond decided to continue probing the subject matter.
‘Yes, Wilund’s a real master of misdirection. Ever since he broke out of the maximum security prison, and superimposed Tang’s face in the getaway car, we’ve been chasing shadows all over the world.’
‘So you think Wilund was behind all these computer hacker murders?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Yes, Q is of the same opinion; and we thought it was Shinoda,’ M gave an embarrassed tut. ‘Guess he was just another mad man who wanted to rule the world.’
Bond got the message loud and clear; M didn’t want him off the case; that was why he was being sent to America.
‘Yes, Wilund either killed or bought off everyone that could spoil his plans, and he played Shinoda like a fool.’
‘Well, Shinoda’s not a problem anymore.’
Bond recognised that M was now issuing a clandestine instruction and directing him toward Wilund as the principle threat.
‘No, Shinoda is no longer the threat. Just Wilund and his two nuclear warheads.’
‘Not even the missiles present a threat now, 007. We are told that the Chinese can disarm the warheads from the mainland; then the Americans can blow the plane out of the sky over the middle of the Atlantic. It’s time for us to back off.’
Although Bond felt the tingle of excitement at the revelations he sensed a new danger. Without moving his head he scanned the lounge, and noticed a man, dressed as an airline captain weaving his way through the tables. The man, carrying a black leather attaché case, appeared to be hiding his face from the airport security cameras in the lounge.
‘I understand that sir. Just one thing I don’t follow. If the Chinese can disarm the missiles remotely why was there such a flap when they were launched against Cape Town?’ Bond remained calm, but recognised that he was the target destination of the man. The disguise was good, except that the uniform was not that of a captain in the airline, to which this lounge belonged to.
‘I’m sure Q can fill in the technical details, 007. But basically, the Chinese tell us that once launched from a submarine; only the sub itself can facilitate a disarm; and we know why they couldn’t complete the procedure before. But, anytime before a launch sequence is initiated, once they have a fix on the tracker cards, they can manipulate the missile arming process remotely. The Chinese are flying their experts to the states with their secret launch code equipment,’ said M.
‘That’s reassuring. When can I catch up with Q for those details?’ The man in the captain’s uniform had cleverly moved out of Bond’s sight line, yet he still felt him approach from his left.
‘Oh, not to worry about that now, 007. Just enjoy your flight.’
‘I will thank you.’ Bond terminated the call, and looked up at the captain standing by his table.
‘Hello, Q,’ said Bond, ‘can I get you a drink?’
‘Not when I’m pretending to be a pilot thank you, 007. You can see how it would alarm the passengers.’
‘Have a seat. I understand you have some information for me.’
Q’s brow furrowed, he slid into the seat and placed the attaché case on the floor between them. ‘No, I’m here on M’s orders. Making sure you get on the Washington plane. I understand it’s lovely this time of year.’ He slid the boarding card across the table.
‘M told me you could fill me in on the details on how the Chinese were going to disarm the missile threat.’
‘I thought the mission was over?’
‘Far from it; Wilund and Shinoda are still a threat.’
‘Shinoda’s dead, 007,’ Q narrowed his eyes sensing a conspiracy.
‘I didn’t see any bodies in that jet.’
Q lent in close, ‘I don’t believe Shinoda was ever in control of this plot.’
‘Neither do I,’ Bond mirrored his position, ‘but I believe he did.’
Q nodded in agreement. Bond continued. ‘Wilund made him look like a fool; and the Japanese are really big on not wanting to lose face. I believe if Wilund is heading for Washington, Shinoda will be heading that way too.’
‘But the Chinese are going to disarm the missiles, there’s nothing left for us to do.’
‘I think Wilund will have taken that into consideration.’
Q considered the problem, ‘So how can I help?’
‘I need a passport.’
‘Surely not for you, 007?’ Q inclined his head. ‘Although I was told how unreliable you can be at keeping, and returning equipment from the field.’
‘Not for me, her name is Kohana Kawaguchi, Japanese Secret Service.’
‘I was told Miss Kawaguchi was heading back to Tokyo.’
‘Yes, I know you were,’ said Bond handing Kohana’s photograph to Q.
‘Truly lovely,’ Q looked up from the photograph, ‘I expect you’ll want an entry visa too?’
Bond checked out the flight departure board. ‘Yes, and I need it in one hour.’
Q put the photo in his pocket. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. If I’m asked, can I say that she is still assisting in the capture of Shinoda?’
‘I doubt you’ll be asked.’
‘Thank you, I’m filled with confidence.’
‘And I need her name added to the passenger list.’
Q frowned and exhaled down his nose. ‘Once I’ve worked that miracle I won’t be able to offer any further assistance I’m afraid.’
‘That’s understandable. Have a good flight back to London.’
Q smiled, and pushed his chair back. ‘I will ... oh, and good luck, 007.’ Q turned as if to go, then as if remembering something important turned back. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to return the equipment.’ He began to walk away, keeping his face turned away from the CCTV.
‘What equipment?’ asked Bond.
Q inclined his head toward the black leather attaché case, which he had forgotten to pick up.
‘A gift?’ asked Bond.
‘Something I thought you might need.’ He pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and walked out of the lounge.

[volante]

Chapter Twenty Five

Bond watched Kohana as she slept in her private first-class capsule; they’d boarded separately and had no contact with each other.
He thought back to when they’d first met. Remembering the fight he’d seen her having on the burning roof of Shinoda’s warehouse complex, with the tattooed female ninja assassin. He smiled at the memory, and in admiration of her fighting skills.
He recalled that she had slept, as she was now, in the car as they had escaped from Shinoda’s complex. He recalled the flight to the Tokyo docks and the slow escape by ferry to the remote island. His memory pricked as he remembered the look of terror on her face when she was being held by Shinigami on the boat, after Shinoda’s men had ambushed him at the temple.
He smiled to himself as he recalled her expertise in the love making that they had enjoyed on their journey to South Africa.
A flight attendant walked past, and noticed Bond looking at the sleeping passenger across the aisle; her disapproving frown could not be explained by Bond, so he just lowered his eyes. Feeling slightly embarrassed at what he perceived the attendant must have thought, Bond looked out of his window, and contemplated his real reasons for bringing Kohana with him. The thoughts made him sad, his thoughts then turned to his old friend, Major Boothroyd. How quickly lives were lost in this business, yet, being in the field meant that the odds were constantly changing. His new quartermaster was proving himself a worthy successor; as indeed was Gareth Mallory, his new boss back in London. ‘New mission, indeed,’ Bond smiled to himself. M was playing politics; he probably had the foreign secretary in the office with him during the phone call. M new the threat that Wilund still possessed, and no matter what the Americans and the Chinese were saying publicly; and whatever Wilund’s insane plan was it would be played out in America’s capitol. And therefore that was where Kohana had insisted Shinoda was heading and knowing the threat the two men still presented was why M had instructed Bond to go there now. Idly he looked up at the overhead locker and wondered what equipment Q had furnished him with.

***
The headquarters of all three U.S. military services are based in Arlington County, in the Department of Defence building known as the Pentagon.
Covering 34 acres, the world famous five sided structure is home to over 25,000 workers. Today that number was swelled by a party of twenty Chinese scientists, accompanied by forty, forced-smiling FBI and CIA agents, tasked with offering cooperation, while ensuring no sensitive locations, or information was accessed.
On the fifth floor of the southwest side of the building, the Secretary of Defence has a well-appointed office, newly furnished, after the damage sustained from the nine eleven attack.
The bronze coloured atomic clock had just turned ten oh one when the external line began to ring. Secretary of Defence, William Boyd, tentatively picked up the phone. Surely all his calls should come via the PA?
‘Hi Bill, how are you today?’ The voice sounded tinny, it echoed.
‘I’m fine ... who is this please?’ The identifier on the phone pad was blank.
‘It’s Carl, just wanted to give you a head’s up about those “Commies” you got with you today.’
‘Who is this?’ Boyd asked.
Without offering an answer, the voice continued, ‘Thought you might like prior warning. You don’t want the President seeing it first on CNN now do you?’
It was then that the PA showed two security guards into his office.
One of the guards put his finger to his lips then mimed ‘Keep him talking.’
The other guard placed a stethoscope on the phone.
The voice on the phone continued, ‘There’s a chemical plant in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.’
‘I’m not familiar with it, but please go on,’ Boyd offered. His voice calm, but his eyes, and free hand asking questions.
‘I sent a film crew there. Get someone to call them up.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The voice grew angry, ‘Don’t play games with me Boyd, you have one minute!’ the line went dead.
Boyd held the phone out, ‘What the hell is going on?’ voice terse.
‘We just got a report there’s going to be a terrorist attack at a plant in Harrisburg. That was Wilund on the phone.’ The guard hit the key pad.
‘What the hell. Where is he?’
‘Boys in communications say the call originated from Africa. Morocco to be precise.’
Boyd weighed up the options, ‘How close are the Chinese to disarming the missiles?’
‘They say they’re waiting for you, and then they’ll press the button.’
‘I want to know the minute this guy is in international air-space,’ Boyd rushed out of the office.
By the time Boyd reached the control room, there was a live fed from CNN on the Ashfield Petrochemical site. The room was crowded. The Chinese were busy with their equipment, the additional FBI and CIA busy making sure their visitors did nothing untoward. A high ranking official from the Air Force gave a slight nod, beckoning Boyd to his side.
‘Status?’ Boyd asked.
‘Evacuation almost complete, they were able to cut off supplies, if there is an attack ...’ his words were cut off by an audible gasp of the assembled.
Boyd checked the screen. A massive explosion had ripped through the tanks. A fireball of flame was twirling, and mushrooming toward the iron grey sky.
‘Oh my God.’
The team began issuing instructions, and moving purposefully. The Chinese scientists began hitting their key pads.
‘How soon will that plane be in international air-space?’
‘Five minutes.’ The men exchanged a glance.
Boyd spoke to the CIA agent in charge of the Chinese party.
‘Disarm the missiles.’
The Chinese scientist hit the enter key, and then confirmed, ‘Missiles disarmed.’
Boyd looked at Peters, ‘Do it.’
General Peters picked up the phone, ‘This is Peters; send the ‘Rapters in.’
Wilund’s Tupolov was flying at four thousand feet, when the U.S. air-force F21’s, dropping from the sun, each firing two Sidewinder missiles. After a thirteen second pause the pilots confirmed.
‘Enemy plane down.’
The pilots, swung their jets over and watched as the giant Tupolov broke up in the air and dropped into the sea.
All around the control room the multi-national team of Americans and Chinese roared a loud celebration.

***

Dullas airport proclaimed a warm welcome to all passengers. Bond and Kohana attended different immigration booth queues; she was a couple of slots ahead of him. Bond watched as she approached the booth. If she was nervous about using the fake passport she wasn’t showing any outward signs.
Bond observed her handing the passport to the homeland security guard. She looked into the camera lens, and after a brief flurry of stamping, the passport was handed back. Kohana walked calmly into the United States.
Bond had to wait for one more of the passengers to go through the process, and then he could follow her. He stepped forward, placed the attaché case on the floor and handed his passport over to the guard. She gave him a brief uninviting smile, and slid it under the ultra violet lamp, and then prepared it for stamping.
‘Can you look into the camera please sir,’ she said without warmth. Bond looked into the lens.
She picked up the stamp. ‘Is this your first time in America, sir?’ she asked without really caring about an answer.
‘No.’
‘Is your trip business or pleasure?’ Her words slowed and her brow furrowed.
‘A little of both.’ Bond sensed she was stalling. ‘Is there a problem?’
She looked up from her screen. She looked directly at Bond, and then down at his passport. In a flustered uncoordinated motion she put the stamp down and dropped her hand below the counter, to where the panic button was situated.
Bond knew that if the CIA were intending to meet him at the airport, it would be after he’d gone through the immigration channel. Something was wrong.
He sensed the problem escalating, two uniformed guards respond to their radios at the same moment. Both looked directly at Bond.
Both men, ex forces or ex pro-footballer types responded into their lapel mikes. Both headed toward him.
Her left hand danced over the keyboard, ‘Seems we got a small hic-up; won’t keep you a moment, sir,’ said the guard. A false smile passed across her face. Bond saw two more uniforms walking purposefully toward him. There was no mistaking their intentions.
The first two uniforms were now at his side. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come with us sir, while the problem with your passport is sorted out.’ It was an invitation that Bond felt he could not dispute. The man was a good foot taller than him, with a southern accent devoid of any southern hospitality.
Bond held his hand out for his passport. The guard gave it to him, unstamped. He bent down to pick up his attaché case, but the second uniform beat him to it. ‘I’ll take care of this, sir. Did you pack the bag yourself?’
Bond wondered what weapons Q had given him to carry, ‘Yes,’ always best to say yes, no would have escalated the problem very quickly.
One uniform led him; the other three formed a security wedge around him.
‘If you’d like to wait in here, sir?’ It was not an invitation. Bond went into the small sterile room, it smelled of latex. The only furnishings were a small wooden table and two metal chairs, he sat. The three uniforms crowded in to cover the door.
For an instant Bond wondered what the problem had been with his passport, or what the immigration officer had seen on the screen.
‘I’d like to make a telephone call if I could?’ asked Bond, maybe it was time to tell the CIA he had arrived.
In response the first uniform pulled out his gun, and Bond had the answer to the problem ... Wilund; if the man could hack into security systems at will, and fire nuclear missiles from submarines, he could certainly falsify some information on the U.S. immigration system.
‘If you could just remain calm please until a supervisor gets here,’ the other guards were also drawing their weapons.
Bond recognised that the threat, although very real was not dangerous in the true sense of the word. This was not a kidnap, as such. The uniforms were going through a well drilled process. They were all extremely nervous, which meant they were playing this scenario for real. To that end it made Bond feel quite safe. His only worry was the delay to his journey. Bond turned, and was about to ask to make a phone call again when the guards increased their monitoring.
‘Get on the floor, hands outstretched,’ said the first uniform, his stance constantly shifting to get a better aim with the gun. Bond raised his hands and began to comply. As he moved, he suddenly shifted his weight, exploding off the chair; crashing into the first guard. The impact sent the gun high into the air; then a rigid left hand strike to the ribs stopped the man in his tracks. Bond smashed his right hand into the second man’s throat. As he fell Bond relieved him of his gun. The third guard was moving forward. Bond kicked him on his knee joint with his instep. The leg buckled. Bond spun around dropping his weight and hit the second guard in the solar plexus with his elbow. In the blink of an eye all three guards were down.
The door opened and the fourth of the original uniforms came blustering in. Bond shifted his weight to the left and punched him in the throat. As he fell, he caught him and quickly dragged him into the room. Bond picked up his attaché case and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Within a few steps he had joined a throng of passengers. Bond weaved his way through them. He put his head down as he saw a man in a dark suit flanked by two more uniforms running toward him. Bond continued to walk confidently, and the men were past before they made the connection. They would reach the interrogation room in less than a minute.
Bond upped his pace and jogged through the concourse.
Relatives and chauffeurs waited patiently for their human cargo to arrive. Bond pushed through the happy reunions and marched out of the arrivals hall.
Beyond the Dulles Flyer cab rank, he scanned the crowd spying Kohana between the bobbing heads of a party of French tourists. She was waiting at the kerb. As she registered Bond’s approach a black Ford stretch limousine pulled up behind her, the chauffer climbed out, and stole up behind her.
‘Look out!’ Bond shouted, but his warning was lost in the wave of a thousand voices. The rear door opened and Kohana was bundled into the car.
Bond dipped his shoulder and jinked through the crowd. The chauffer had already returned to his door. He turned and picked out Bond hurtling toward him. The chuffer raised his head, and Bond recognised Wilund.
Wilund gave a mock salute, and slipped into the driving seat. The big Ford pulled away.
Bond jumped over a suitcase and gave chase. Behind him, the security guards were in hot pursuit. He thought about abandoning the attaché case, but thought better of it. As yet he didn’t know what special equipment Q had furnished him with.
The Ford was making slow advancement, changing lanes away from the parking zone. Bond would be able to keep up with its progress until it hit the Dullas Toll road, but that was no more than thirty seconds away, give or take a couple of minutes passing through the toll booth. He had to find the solution now. All around him the screams of alarm from the passengers rose in intensity. Uniformed security guards were closing in. Up-ahead Bond saw what he was looking for. The bright red car had just pulled up in the parking zone, the tailgate was flipped open. The driver, in dark business suit was getting out, accompanied by a wife in casual clothing. He was going on a trip, she was dropping him off. The man pulled his bag from the rear, and then the wife threw her arms around him. Bond threw the attaché case into the back, slammed it shut and slid into the driver’s seat as the couple kissed a fond farewell on the kerb.
The autumn-red Nissan Pulsar pulled away from the parking zone inciting indignant car horns. In the mirror, the first of the security guards was already on his lapel mike.
Bond bullied the saloon next to him, as he sped through the gap. Wilund was about ten vehicles ahead. He would be through the toll booth and onto the highway. The highway was known as the Silicon Valley East, because of all the high tech companies situated upon it.
Bond threw his cash into the toll bin. He span the wheel and glanced off a cab. As he roared away he pulled his mobile out and engaged speed dial. In London, Bill Tanner connected the call.
‘Hello, 007 have you made contact with the Americans yet?’
‘Things aren’t going quite to plan, can you get hold of your CIA contact and confirm who I am,’ said Bond holding the Nissan in a power slide.
Soon he was passing the old buildings developed by the defence contractors. The buildings originated from the fifties; the contractors had snapped them up when the cold war made real estate cheap, and customers didn’t need to have aesthetically pleasing façades.
Wilund was edging the Ford into the fast lane of the highway. Bond floored the accelerator and bolted for another gap in the traffic.
‘007, looks like you could be in for a chilly reception. Your status has been altered on the Homeland security system.’
‘I wonder who could have done that.’
Tanner ignored the cynicism, ‘we’re making the appropriate requests that your status is revised and the hounds be called off, so if you could just have a little patience,’ Tanner explained.
M’s voice came over the line, ‘It’s not the CIA this time, Bond; you’ll be contacted by the FBI. Your contact’s name is ...’
‘I’ve already left the airport, contact was compromised, I’m in pursuit of Wilund,’ Bond thought it best not to explain about Kohana’s involvement.
‘Wilund’s there in Washington ... well at least there’s no need to pussyfoot around anymore. Tanner update the Americans will you. 007, if you could apprehend Wilund it would be a tremendous boost for our credibility.’
‘I’ll do my best. Is there any word on the location of the missiles?’
‘As soon as we know, I’ll relay the information.’
Bond disconnected the call. The Ford was on the highway, and the Nissan was just about to endure itself on Bond’s heart.
The Nissan leapt forward, holding a sure grip around the outside of a semi-trailer. Only two cars separated the protagonists. Wilund switched lanes, making for the exit. Bond followed, narrowly missing a family saloon. The two cars sped along the highway, blitzing past the sedate traffic and its shocked drivers.
The Ford darted down the exit ramp. The Nissan followed. Wilund slammed on his brakes, causing the rear of the car to light up like a red Christmas tree. The Nissan slithered to a crawl behind him. As one, the two cars turned on to the highway leading into the city. Wilund overtook the car in front, Bond pulled out to follow suit, and was side swiped by the police cruiser. He held the spin, but was unable to direct the car out of its collision with the traffic barrier. The Nissan came to a halt amidst smoke and steam. Before either had subsided a dozen shotguns were poking through the smashed windows. Bond watched the black Ford receding in the distance.

***

The man with the moustache sat back in his chair, his hands spread out, in a gesture of openness, in front of him. He smiled nervously as he offered yet another unreserved apology, ‘As I send before, Commander, I can only apologise for the misunderstanding at the airport. If I, or any of my men can offer you any assistance in the future, please, do not hesitate to contact me.’ He slid his business card across the desk, ‘My personal cell number is on there.’ His eye-brows rose to emphasize the lengths he was willing to go to, ‘Twenty four seven, you hear me, anytime, Commander, anytime.’
Bond already knew the FBI agent’s name; it was on a brass plate, on his door, and a bronze coloured triangular bar on his desk.
‘Thank you, agent Donaldson, your offer is much appreciated,’ Bond picked up the card and dropped it in his inside jacket pocket.
Bond got up to leave; but Donaldson launched into another impassioned plea, ‘I mean, after all, who could have thought this man Wilund could have infiltrated our security system and changed your data?’
‘I know, it’s unthinkable.’
‘Just glad we got a fix on those missiles. Our boys did good shooting that plane down.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘The explosion at Harrisburg ...’ Donaldson shook his head. ‘Once again Commander, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’
‘Don’t worry about it. If I could just have my attaché case ...’
‘Of course, it’s already in your car. I think you’ll like it. We’ve gone all out to make amends; your Mr Tanner told us you enjoy a good ride. My secretary will escort you down to the motor pool,’ Donaldson pressed the intercom button, ‘Rachael, could you take Commander Bond down to the motor pool?’
Bond looked at the redhead in the doorway; tall and willowy with a smile that was the most welcoming thing he’d seen since landing at Dulles. Her well toned body fit neatly into her ash grey tailored business suit.
‘Thank you,’ said Bond, without taking his eyes off the girl.
Slowly she walked away. She moved with sexually assured confidence that was guaranteed to be appreciated by anyone following. Bond followed.
They travelled down in the elevator in silence. Bond wondered what type of vehicle Donaldson had been able to procure.
In the underground car park, she held up the car keys, blipping the lock.
‘Are you booked in anywhere?’ her green eyes sparkled.
‘Not yet.’
‘Will you be staying long in Washington Mr Bond? There are a few places I can recommend,’ she dropped the key fob in his hand.
‘I could be persuaded to extend my visit. How can I reach you?’
‘The land-line on Mr Donaldson’s card will get me during office hours.’
‘And what if I want you outside of office hours?’
‘I would hope you’d ring during the day ... if you want me during the night that is ... After all I’d have to make sure I was fully prepared for a night with you,’ Rachael smiled as she turned to glide back toward the elevator.
Bond turned to look at his car, however tempting Rachael’s offer was, he’d decided to pass on her invitation; at least until Kohana was safe.
As she sashayed toward the elevator, all Rachael heard him say was ... ‘Beautiful’, she thought he was making the reference about her. She smiled to herself expecting a call before office closing time.
Bond was in fact looking at the gleaming black 500 Shelby Mustang. ‘Well done agent Donaldson.

[volante]

Chapter Twenty Six

The hotel had been picked with care, large enough to have an underground car-park, to hide the attention grabbing Mustang, small enough to accept cash. The last thing Bond wanted was, Wilund doing a cyber-search on his AmEx card transactions, and discovering where he was staying.
Alone in his room, Bond flipped the catches on the attaché case and examined the contents, four pairs of socks and an iPad.
His mobile rang. ‘Yes.’
‘007, I see you’ve opened the attaché case,’ said Q.
Bond studied the case to see where the camera was. He could find nothing, Q must be speaking metaphorically, ‘Thank you Q, your attaché case nearly got me killed at the airport, I was expecting a weapon at least.’
‘Well, I thought you might want something more practical for the mission; and of course something in the form and appearance that you’d have no trouble getting through customs. Let me tell you how it all works.’
‘I don’t need to be told how to operate a pair of socks, and I don’t have the time for a lecture, so whatever’s in here, make your explanation a quick one.’
‘Remove the back panel from the iPad.’
Bond slid back the plastic cover. Q’s instructions seemed to go on forever, but finally he said, ‘Okay, you can turn it on now.’
The street-map morphed onto the screen, it had two glowing dots. ‘You should be seeing two dots, one green, one red, on a map of Washington; one’s you the other is Miss Kawaguchi.’
‘Very clever, Q; how did you get a tracker on her?’ Bond manipulated the screen, and ascertained she was in the Eccles Building, on Constitution Avenue, better known as the Federal Reserve.
‘I included a tracking devise in her passport. It’s activated and powered by her body heat.’
Bond tapped the screen, and initiated a GPS route. ‘Genius, Q, don’t you believe what anyone else says about you, I think you’re doing fine.’
‘I hope that’s M’s opinion, after this is all over.’
‘Do you want me to put in a good word for you?’
‘No thank you, 007, I think my chances are much better if you say nothing.’
***
James Bond eased the black Mustang into the very imposing security post holding area of the Federal Reserve. Concrete bollards and razor wire beyond the gate did little to do the four-story building any justice. With an exterior of Georgia marble, in the shape of the letter H, there is ample space on either side of the building to form the east and west courtyards. But Bond wasn’t heading for the main building, his interests lay, nestling in the distance, in a building which had no aesthetic appeal at all.
A pedantic security guard, with an austere glint in his eye, confirmed Bond’s appointment, as other less talkative guards, armed with mirrors on extending selfie sticks, checked the underside of the car. Not satisfied with what they could see inside, they attached the AVIANS (Advanced Vehicle Interrogation and Notification System) pad to various parts of the bodywork. The pad is a seismic sensor, and acts like a giant super sensitive stethoscope to determine if anybody is hiding out of sight.
Once they were satisfied that there was no other heartbeat emulating from the interior of the car, they scanned for explosives and drugs. Twelve minutes later the lead guard directed Bond to the visitor’s car-park.
‘Have a nice day, sir,’ he smiled unconvincingly.
‘I will,’ responded Bond, then adding to himself, ‘what’s left of it.’
There must have been at least two hundred cars parked between the gate and the ascetic grey building which lay behind the wonderful white facade. It had been built in the 1950’s to house various cold war deterrents. The cars, by being there, indicating that work at the Federal Reserve was continuing as normal.
In the distance, a lazy coil of grey smoke wheezed from a hundred foot steel chimney. Bond knew that many of the employees worked below ground in the vaults between the reception building and the furnace.
If Kohana was inside, as the GPS suggested, and if she was with Wilund, whatever he was up to was not, as yet affecting daily business. The concern for Bond however, was that whatever Wilund was intending to do at the Federal Reserve would not only have an adverse effect on the American economy but would have immediate devastating results on the employees at the complex. Until all the information was understood, Bond needed to handle the situation very tactfully.
In a dark grey business suit, and crisp white shirt, and attaché case in hand, Bond walked confidently into the sand-coloured marble and patriotically bedecked reception area. Here, although the smiles were wider, security was even tighter than outside.
‘My name is Sterling, I have an appointment with Mr Dunn, and Mr Kettering,’ said Bond, using the names he had been supplied with by FBI agent Donaldson, who at three o’clock in the morning had been as good as his word to provide assistance. Bond was directed toward an airport scanning machine manned by four un-compromising guards and two unimpressed dogs.
Bond removed his watch, wallet and keys and stepped through the personal scanner. The attaché case had already passed the dogs and X-ray security scan. Neither method had detected explosives, which was what Bond expected because the attaché case contained no explosive materials.
The devise, as Q had explained in great detail, which formed the construction of the attaché case, emitted a high frequency signal which caused a sound wave to resonate through the CPU of any computer it was paired with. The resulting vibrations would begin a chemical reaction in said CPU, which if allowed to escalate would generate enough heat to cause an explosion, frying the hard-drive, and turning the machine into a bomb. The phenomenon was something which the likes of Bill Gates was none too keen to expand on, when offering to sell these devises into every home in the world. But, still, the frequency of the supersonic sound-wave generated by the device was something that did not exist in normal households, or everyday office environments, and therefore every PC sold was considered safe.
Bond retrieved his case, happy in the knowledge that wherever Wilund was situated, it was odds-on that he would have a PC with him. As he waited for the elevator, Bond had no doubt that the other specialities the case afforded him would come in very useful.
The interior was a two-story atrium with dual staircases and a skylight etched with the outline of an eagle. The atrium floor was of marble and its walls are of travertine marble,
Dunn’s office was on the third floor, and the view from the window was as uninspiring as the man himself. Grey hair and heavy jowls, he sat, in an ill-fitting suit, in the centre of his own importance.
Dunn did not get up when Bond entered the office, but merely gave a nod of his large flabby head as his secretary showed him to a chair and left without an introduction, or offer of refreshments.
Without any preamble Dunn asked, ‘Have you seen the security here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Impressive, don’t you think?’ The accent came from a bygone age, more akin to the battlefields of Virginia than the Washington of today.
‘Yes.’
‘So how the hell do you think someone could get in here, and be accessing our system, as we speak?’ His voice rose to a croaky scream.
‘And has been here most of the night,’ replied Bond, holding his gaze.
‘Preposterous.’ The jowls shook. ‘If anyone was here, our security would get them. Christ the FBI and SWAT teams would be crawling all over my ass. But no, the FBI says this Wilund fellow was blown to hell over the Atlantic.’
‘Then you’ll have great delight showing me there’s no one in the location I mentioned on the phone,’ Bond gave a sarcastic smile.
Dunn’s well-manicured fingers danced over the keyboard. After a moment he swung the monitor around so that Bond could see the screen. ‘Empty, as it has been this past year,’ he said.
‘What was the room used for?’ Bond looked at the screen, observing nothing but an empty desk in the centre of a well-lit room. He opened the attaché case and took out his iPad.
‘It was a vault, unused ever since we got our new computerized system installed.’
After a moment, Bond swivelled the iPad around so Dunn could see the signal. ‘That says there’s someone in there, right now.’
‘And I say it’s empty.’ Their eyes locked.
The door opened and a tall black man with a disarming smile came swiftly across the room, hand extended in a friendly gesture, ‘Mr Stirling, I’m Glenn Kettering, good to meet you. Agent Donaldson said we were to extend you every possible courtesy. How can we help?’ he relaxed into a chair next to Bond, keeping his eyes firmly on the visitor.
‘As I was saying to Mr Dunn, I have a report that your computer system has been hacked by a cyber-terrorist.’ Bond dropped his finger onto the iPad screen. ‘He’s accessing the hard-drive in this location right now.’
‘You think a man by the name of, Wilund, I believe.’
‘Yes,’ replied Bond.
‘FBI tell us this guy, Wilund is dead.’
‘I don’t think he is dead, I think he’s here,’ Bond tapped the screen.
Kettering grimaced, ‘I really can’t see how that could be possible this place is tighter than a duck’s ass.’
‘If you could just show me the location ...’
‘Jeez, this guy ain’t going to be happy till he sees it himself. You goin’ to take him down to the sauna?’ said Dunn, looking up at Kettering.
‘Of course ... do you want the full tour of our facility Mr Stirling?’
‘Not unless it’s necessary,’ Bond slipped the iPad back in the attaché case.
Kettering and Dunn exchanged hurtful glances. ‘This part of the building may date back to the cold war but the action that goes on underground is by courtesy of the most modern cash printing, reclamation, and destruction facility in the world, and the biggest repository of cash in America. We’re very proud of the facility, and our security. And, we believe what the FBI tells us. But, if you really insist ...’ Kettering extended his hand, gesturing for Bond to leave the office.
‘The sauna?’ asked Bond.
‘You’ll see when you get down there.’
In the corridor Bond continued ‘I’m sure it’s an impressive operation, Mr Kettering, but I really only need to confirm the cyber-terrorist presence.’
They marched into the elevator. ‘Cyber-terrorists? Here in the Federal Reserve. I don’t think so. You’re here on your own Mr Stirling; because everyone else thinks this cyber-terrorist guy is dead,’ Kettering pressed the button for level zero minus two. ‘If there were any cyber-terrorists in here the FBI would be all over us. The security camera shows that the old vault is empty,’ Kettering smiled apologetically.
When the elevator door opened the hum of machinery and the clatter of printing presses filled the air. Although the air-con was on, the corridor was full of warm stale air.
A security guard wearing the same uniform and bleak expression as the ones in reception gave a slight nod as way of acknowledgement. Kettering showed him his ID, and then gestured for Bond to get into a white golf buggy.
Kettering depressed the accelerator, and the electric cart hummed along the warm corridor, ‘We’ll be there in a jiffy. Construction of the main building began in 1935 and was completed in 1937. Its pragmatic classicism captured the spirit of Depression-era and wartime Washington. Back then we were a city determined to remain grand but with nothing to spare on the non-essential, this tunnel links the two buildings, but also takes us to the vaults, and the furnace.’
Bond watched as they passed chrome barred vault after vault, each little cavern was lit with brilliant LED lights; each glory hole contained a stack of cash. At each doorway a uniformed guard stood impassively.
‘Dirty cash comes in here from all the banks in the DC and Virginia area, and all the way down to Florida. We print the equivalent amounts and distribute new notes right back to the banks and ATM’s. That happens every day.’
‘I was wrong, this is impressive,’ said Bond, smiling at the piles of cash. ‘It’s also very bright, and hot.’
‘Oh this part is nothing Mr Stirling, just the holding tanks. And the lights, yeah they are pretty powerful, all ultra-violet and LED.’
‘Why ultra-violet?’ asked Bond.
‘Well,’ Kettering stopped the cart outside a vault, he pointed. ‘There’s about a million dollars in each of the holding tanks. And we got twenty-four of them. During the daily process we will burn all the damaged, un-recyclable cash, and send out the same sums in exchange. Now just suppose someone had stolen cash from a bank, and sent in counterfeit bills instead. Well, if we didn’t identify it as counterfeit, those nasty people would be able to pull off the perfect crime. Because after it gets burned up, they’d be a million or so up on the deal; and no questions asked. The bills aren’t made of paper, as you’d expect, but a linen compound. Although the fakes can be pretty damn good, a counterfeit bill still shows up under-ultra violet light as a different colour than a real one. In the ultra-violet light you can see one fake bill in a stack a thousand dollars high,’
Kettering pointed at the stack of cash. A couple of purple lines stood out against a brilliant white mountain of money. Another golf buggy, containing two men in white lab coats passed them. In the vault, a white-coated technician fed a stack of bills into a machine that sorted the notes, reclaim, and destruction.
‘The computer system is linked to the separator,’ he gestured to the machine. ‘The program determines how much new cash needs to be generated.’
‘Impressive.’ Bond wondered how, Wilund intended to manipulate this data, and why no one else seemed to think it as a cyber target.
‘After we’ve been to the lower level and seen the error in whatever Intel you received about terrorist activity, I’ll take you to see the presses, where we make the cash ... and then on to the furnace, where we destroy it.’ The little golf buggy trundled along.
Circular mirrors placed at every corner of each block of vaults precipitated a smooth flow of electric traffic in the bowels of the facility. Within a couple of blocks they came to a stop. Bond did not associate the number on the door with the location he’d asked to see. Kettering saw the look of confusion as he punched the numbers into the panel and pushed the door open. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Stirling; the vault you want to see is through here, one of the old vaults.’ he opened the door revealing a short flight of metal steps descending. ‘We just can’t take the buggy any further,’ his smile was wider than ever.
As they descended Bond noticed how much hotter it felt. The sauna. At the foot of the stairs a distressed looking guard looked up from his desk. Kettering flashed his badge.
‘Good morning sir, I’m sorry it’s so hot, must be something wrong with the air-con today,’ he apologised.
‘As you can see no one gets to move around this place without one of these,’ he tapped his ID badge. ‘This is the oldest area of the Federal Reserve. The furnace was built in the fifties, but the vaults down here come from an earlier incarnation. This area was excavated in the 1800’s.’
‘Is it always this hot?’ asked Bond.
‘No, must be an air-con problem. The conveyer system to the furnace runs behind the vaults... that’s why we don’t use them anymore.’
They walked down the corridor, their footsteps echoing.
‘This is it,’ said Kettering. He extended his hand toward a circular vault opening. A shinny bright steel barred gate was locked across the entrance, a steel number pad sat on the wall, bathed in a gentle green light. ‘Of course the hydraulic gates came much later.’
‘I think you better get security,’ said Bond. ‘Hey,’ Bond shouted back to the guard, who began jogging toward them.
‘Why? The door’s firmly locked.’ Kettering pulled on the bars.
‘Well, this vault’s in darkness,’ said Bond.
‘Sure I can see that,’ Kettering screwed his face up to convey his look of confusion. He punched in the code, and the steel gate slid back.
‘The CCTV footage in Dunn’s office showed it lit up like a Christmas tree.’
Kettering’s face dropped.
Bond looked down to see the Glock automatic in his hand. ‘You’re just too clever for your own good, Mr Stirling, or should I say Mr Bond.’
The guard arrived at their side. ‘Mr Kettering?’ he looked at the Glock.
Kettering altered his aim and fired. ‘Yes?’ he answered, and then turned the gun back on Bond. ‘I told you security was tight. You can take him in there with you if you want.’
Under Kettering’s scrutiny, Bond dragged the guard into the empty vault. The man’s legs however were still extending beyond the threshold when Bond came out and picked up his attaché case.
‘No,’ Kettering pointed at the case. ‘I don’t think so Mr Bond, who knows what communication devises you’ve got hidden in there. Please, just get this mess off the floor and into the vault,’ Kettering gestured toward the guard’s body.
Bond lowered the case to the floor, then in one fluid motion, depressed a trigger, detaching the handle, he came upright and fired. A pair of razor sharp taser prongs tore through Kettering’s clothing and embedded themselves into his chest. Instantly the searing pain shot through his body, his muscles cramped and seized as he toppled backward.
The pain was enough to make him cry out, but before his body could generate the sound, he was unconscious.
Bond reattached the handle to the attaché case. He took the gun from Kettering’s hand, and dragged his unconscious body into the vault. Quickly he keyed in the code to close the gate.
‘Sweet dreams.’ The steel bars fitted snugly in place. Bond flipped the catches and took out the iPad from his case; he memorized the direction to Kohana’s location, and set off in pursuit.
The corridor that intersected at right angles with the vaults was well lit. Bond counted off the vault doors. At the third steel door, he braced himself, twisted the handle and entered.
The room was square, and well lit, highlighting the soothing green walls. The vault looked just like it had when he’d observed the CCTV in Dunn’s office, except that in the centre the large, simple desk was occupied. Sitting at the desk with a large laptop at his fingertips, was Carl Wilund.
‘Not interrupting anything am I?’
Wilund’s look of outrage was instantly smothered by his supercilious smile. The heat in the vault was extreme. The source was coming from the back wall, which had a large hole blasted out of it. Masonry was festooned about the floor.
‘Good to see you again, Mr Bond, have you come to fix the air-con?’ Beyond the hole, Bond could see the conveyer, sliding past.
‘No, where’s the girl?’
‘Did you find the fun and games at the airport amusing?’ his hair was plastered against his scalp. ‘I did.’
‘Not really. Where’s Kohana?’
Wilund’s hand snaked out toward the keyboard.
‘Don’t move!’ Bond extended the gun.
‘I was going to ask her to join us. Would you like that?’
Bond placed the attaché case on the desk, next to Wilund’s laptop. ‘Move away from the computer.’
Wilund scraped the chair away from the desk, his hands raised palms showing.
‘Far enough?’ The sweat poured down his face.
‘For now. Getting a little hot for you?’
‘One has to make sacrifices.’ Wilund clapped his hands, and slowly shook his head. ‘I suppose you could say I’m on the cusp of greatness.’
Bond looked at Wilund’s laptop. The word “enter” flashed in the bottom corner. ‘Sorry I spoiled your moment.’
Wilund shook his head, clearly frustrated, but desperate not to show it.
‘What’s the plan?’ Bond asked.
‘I suppose the details will be out in the open soon enough. It won’t hurt to spill the beans. The files I’m about to access will give me right of entry to the U.S Federal Reserve. Once I have access, money can be siphoned off, anytime, anyplace.’
‘Looks like I arrived just in time.’
‘It would have been nice to see if my hack worked. The codes, would be invaluable’
‘And you were going to auction the codes off?’
‘No, I’m going to be giving them away. Just think of all the terrorist groups in Iraq and Syria that will benefit from such information. America will be inundated with cyber-attacks. This is a much more fitting end to America’s financial domination of the World than a nuclear meltdown don’t you think?’
‘And how will you control what these terrorist groups will do to the economy of this country?’
‘The free information I’m giving them comes at a price. I will suggest targets, and the force with which they can attack.’
‘What if they don’t want to play nicely? What if they go nuclear?’
‘They don’t have the capability, besides I’m going to sell them the Chinese warheads, which will put a stop to their research programs. I’m going to sell them strictly regulated quantities of course. However, even with the small amount they get, they will be able to do an awful lot of damage. And I will be selling at a very reasonable price.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘Well, part of the deal will be that they target a considerable number of attacks right here. Just think how attractive that will sound to the rest of the world. A safer Europe guaranteed, the future activities of all the major terrorist groups focused on America. Their actions will cause the maximum amount of damage; and embarrassment. Much better on American soil than that of Africa.’
‘You still bear a grudge then?’
‘I do have an axe to grind, yes. Just think all those US troops having to be recalled to protect their homeland; instead of invading innocent lands, and hounding innocent people.’
‘So why go to all the trouble to steal the nuclear missiles?’
‘If I hadn’t agreed to do it someone else would have; and then where would you all be? ... I think the words you’re looking for Mr Bond are, thank you; and to save your embarrassment, you’re welcome.’
‘We were always sceptical about your involvement with Shinoda.’
Wilund gave a dismissive laugh. ‘No, no, no; even now you have no idea what I was planning. The FBI and the rest of the world’s security forces think the missiles are at the bottom of the Atlantic ... along with me.’
‘Yes, shame about that.’
‘Oh Mr Bond,’ Wilund wagged his finger. ‘When I was first approached by that ridicules Japanese gangster and told of his plan to reduce the economic and technological world to ruin; I thought, oh no I can’t let this happen. But I had little in the way of leverage, being in prison you understand. Once I was free, I was able to reduce the number of people that could have facilitated his plans.’
‘Killed, you mean.’
‘Most of them were thoroughly nasty people. Computer hackers, bah. Anyway, I decided to use his plan for a nuclear winter in Africa as a catalyst for my own revenge on the USA. So I agreed to work for him. While keeping up the pretence, I engineered my own plan to make the Americans and the Chinese look stupid.’ Wilund suddenly looked deep in thought. ‘I may even get the “Is nuclear safe?” question raised again in the various Houses of Parliament,’ his face took on a childlike look of astonishment. ‘Maybe this could mean a Nobel peace prize, what do you think?’
‘Do they award them posthumously?’
‘Oh, Mr Bond ...’ Wilund shook his head to admonish the question. ‘I found the whole façade most satisfying, every security force in the world totally baffled by my plan. Especially now that the Americans think the missiles are at the bottom of the ocean. I’m sure they’ll catch on quick enough when the first dirty bomb goes off in Times Square.’
‘So the missiles are already here?’
‘The bits that will force this country to its knees, yes. The chemists and engineers made available by the new owners are going to dissect them, and hand them over to their sleeper cells. Then from here, when I have their money and their cooperation,’ he stroked an imaginary keyboard, ‘I can re-direct oil tankers, I can sell commodities, wipe millions from the stocks and shares ...’ Wilund searched for other examples. ‘Any activities to widen the revenue stream of the terrorist groups, I can accommodate, cyber-terrorism and ordinary terrorism.’ He sat back with a look of ecstasy on his face.
Bond levelled the Glock at him. ‘Thank you for being so honest, but let’s face it your dream comes to an end when I shoot you.’
‘But you won’t do that. Not until you know that Miss Kawaguchi is safe,’ Wilund laughed. ‘All this power I have at my finger-tips, and yet all I need do is exert a little blackmail over you. Put the gun away Mr Bond, you can’t take the chance on Miss Kawaguchi being hurt if you should end my life.’ Wilund leant forward, ‘Shall I get her in here?’
Bond placed the gun against Wilund’s temple, and handed him his mobile, ‘Yes, but don’t make any sudden movements or I’ll just have to take my chances with who’s got her.’
Wilund pressed the key. ‘Send the girl in.’
Bond looked at the door. For a moment nothing happened. Bond pressed the Glock harder into Wilund’s temple.
‘Patience,’ said Wilund.
The door handle twisted, and the door slowly opened. In the light from the corridor, Kohana stood, framed in the doorway, she wore only a thin white strappy vest top, and light silk trousers. Head bowed, slowly she entered the room.
‘Oh James,’ she sighed, and ran into this arms. As she held him tightly Wilund lunged forward and hit the enter button.

[volante]

Chapter Twenty Seven

In two banks of four, eight separate 3D holograms floated above the laptop screen. Each provided a tumbling array of numbers rotating on a floating orbit around a globe.
Bond turned to Wilund, his face a mask of anger.
‘Oops! Sorry Mr Bond I couldn’t resist.’
Without looking at her, Bond handed Kohana the gun. ‘If he moves kill him.’
Bond, looked at the screen, it depicted a picture of a safe door, silver-grey steel with dark grey domed rivets around the edges; a large round tumbler dial resided in the centre. Below the dial sat six flashing squares. Bond pressed some keys. Immediately the word ‘LOCKED’ emblazoned itself across the screen, as if administered from a sizzling branding iron.
‘Classy, n’est pas?’ Wilund tilted his head.
‘Minor set-back.’ Bond adjusted the keyboard.
‘You don’t think you can break my password do you?’ Wilund giggled. Above the screen the numbers continued to whirl around.
‘I can try,’ Bond hit a few more keys.
‘Oh, look, 50% complete. Once I have the hard crypt data files, the world is my oyster,’ Wilund laughed, the sound bubbled over his lips.
Kohana spoke for the first time. ‘James, he said you won’t be able to break the password.’ Her voice was tipped with steal.
Slowly he turned to see that Kohana was aiming the gun at him.
‘Step away James, it’s all over.’ Her voice was laced with false emotion, but there was no sadness in her eyes.
The holograms registered 75% complete.
‘She’s right, even if you killed us both the accounts will be opened, and the money will pour out to the terrorists.’ Wilund’s voice erupted with another peal of laughter. ‘I told you I was on the cusp.’
‘Poor James, such a trusting soul,’ Kohana commented.
Wilund playfully slapped her thigh. ‘Don’t be so harsh, your charms are ... irresistible, my darling little flower.’
Bond looked at Kohana, ‘what are you waiting for, better pull the trigger now ... while you have the chance.’
Kohana shrugged her shoulders. ‘If you insist.’
‘No, have patience my dear. We are waiting for me to rule the United States of America; I personally would like Mr Bond to witness that. Mr Bond, it would seem that because you are the only one here that no one else cares. But, it’s your lucky day; you see we don’t actually have to kill you.’ Wilund shooed at him with his long delicate fingers, gesturing that Bond move away from the table. He picked up his laptop, and held it at arm’s length. The holograms, continued to whirl above the screen, revealing a completion percentage of 90. He reached for, and grasped Kohana’s hand. ‘Just let us walk out of here, Mr Bond. Let bygones be bygones.’
‘You know I can’t allow that to happen.’
‘Why?’ Wilund asked innocently.
‘You killed a friend of mine in Cape Town. Besides, do you think once you’ve left here she can protect you from Shinoda?’
Wilund gave another sharp laugh ‘Shinoda? He’s dead, and his legendary female ninjas? They’re all gone.’ The holograms showed 93%
Kohana stepped toward Bond. In the ultra-violet light that cascaded over the table he could see that a colourful dragon tattoo was peering at him, from over her shoulder.
‘My poor, James. Shinoda died in the jet crash in Africa, I saw his broken body in the wreckage. All torn and feeble, like the fool he was. But if you’d known that, it would have been harder to convince you to bring me to America, to my darling,’ Kohana looked at Wilund, exposing more of the extensive tattoo.
‘Nice tattoos.’
‘Yes, but it is good that they are invisible sometimes.’
‘You killed Tang!’
‘Yes, I could see you liked the look of me even then. Di you enjoy your swim with the sharks?’ Her smile almost broke down the barrier between them, almost.
‘You were at Shinoda’s complex to kill him, not protect him.’
She bowed, ‘Guilty as charged. His most trusted assassins were all women, I was able to infiltrate with ease.’ She gave a slight bow.
‘95%, consider yourself lucky to be witnessing the birth of a new democracy, Mr Bond.’
‘What happens when it reaches 100%?’
‘This machine will have access to the American Federal Reserve. I will control America. I will be able to hold the President in one hand, and all the major terrorist organizations in the other, Cyber terrorism, I could rule from the beach if I wanted.’ Wilund laughed again.
‘Why do you need to be here then, sweating like a pig?’
Wilund stumbled on his reply.
‘What’s so special about this location?’ Bond asked.
‘The Federal Reserve’s computer system links into the reserves for purposes of cash replenishment.’
‘And the laptop, it acts as a key, you have to be close enough to take the information; it’s a local network isn’t it?’
‘It was the easiest way to hack in. Just a few seconds, and I am going to be very rich.’
‘Well we can’t let that happen, can we?’ Bond lent forward and snatched Wilund’s laptop, hurling it through the hole in the back wall. The laptop smacked against the plastic tunnel on the far side and dropped onto the conveyer.
‘Don’t blow it all at once,’ Bond smiled.
‘Kill him!’ Wilund screamed. He ran for the hole and dived through.
Kohana viewed Bond through evil eyes. She squeezed the trigger.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber. Kohana looked at the gun in amazement. She pressed the trigger again. Nothing!
‘You don’t think your little act had me fooled did you?’ A subtle smile spread across his face. ‘You may have been wearing a wig in Kuala Lumpur, but there are things you can’t disguise.’ His eyes drifted down her body.
‘You couldn’t have recognised me from my body?’ she looked incredulously at him.
‘I’m considered something of an expert. And of course your conversation and actions with Wilund at our dinner party in Africa, were bordering on foreplay.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Not at all.’
In the tunnel, Wilund raced along the conveyer. The laptop was just in front of him, resting upon a stack of bills, the holograms floated above it. The conveyer continued for another twenty feet, and then dropped through a steel funnel into a shredder. The conveyer sat atop a network of steel scaffolding tubes. It was about sixty feet down to the ground. Within the tunnel, four more belts, at different heights, covered by plastic domes fed into the shredder. From the bottom of the whirling blades, the pulped bills were transferred on a single belt into the furnace.
Two more quick steps enabled him to seize the machine. The laptop was red-hot. Suddenly the screen went black, the holograms vanished. A small puff of smoke came from the USB port.
Wilund sniffed at the laptop, without doubt he knew it was the hard-drive, and it was fried ‘Oh S***.’

***

Kohana threw the gun at Bond, he swatted it away. She came at him with speed and grace, aiming for his knee. Take away a man’s leg, and he can’t fight.
Bond shifted his weight and allowed her kick to direct his movement. He pivoted and swept her standing leg. They both fell.
The explosion rocked the room. ‘Well done, Q. Old, Q would have been proud,’ Bond said as he got to his feet. The device had worked; Wilund’s laptop had exploded, hopefully blowing the hacker into a thousand pieces.
Kohana looked through the hole in the wall. The plastic dome was shattered, dust and bills floated in the air like a snow globe scene.
‘The dream’s over, your boyfriend’s been hacked.’
She turned, her response and attack was ferocious, leading with fingers curled like claws, aimed for his eyes.
Pound for pound, Bond was superior to her. But her skill and speed were closing the gap. Her anger at losing Wilund, had turned her into a tigress. Bond knew how deadly she could be, he’d seen her in action. He blocked three more attacks before connecting his elbow to her cheek. Kohana stumbled back.
‘You knew nothing of my deception.’ A spinning back kick caught Bond on the shoulder. She attacked with straight fingers to the throat.
‘I knew all along. I also knew I would have to bring you here with me, in order to find Wilund. Couldn’t have done it by myself. With his ability to bend his actual location by use of technology, I knew I needed the personal touch.’ Bond deflected the strike, and aimed a blow to her thigh. ‘And you had such a lovely personal touch.’
Kohana cross blocked the strike, and went for his eyes. Bond twisted away; then dropping his weight charged into her with his shoulder. She stepped off a pace. Bond thought she would need a second or two to recover, but she was onto him immediately. Kohana’s knee caught him in the groin. Bond twisted and backed away. Two kicks to his knees and a solid right punch pushed him back against the wall. The heat from beyond the hole warmed his back, the dust was finally settling. Bond suddenly felt pain in his chest.
From nowhere, somewhere Kohana had a blade. No more than one inch long, like an arrowhead it protruded between her fingers. Both sides of the blade were razor sharp. Bond looked at his chest. The blade had entered high on his left side. A couple of inches lower, and it would have penetrated his heart. He looked at her. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’
‘You used me,’ Kohana snarled, and attacked again. The tiny blade slashed across his bicep biting into his flesh; he parried the blow, and smashed a fist into her face. She stumbled back. Slowly she crept forward, legs flexed, body ready. When the next attack came it was fast, too fast for Bond to react. He felt the blade burn across his thigh.
Bond crabbed along, his back to the wall; he was now standing in front of the hole. The floor was littered with masonry, and charred bills. As Kohana stalked him, he knew it was vital that he kept his footing.
Another spinning kick caught him mid-thigh, the pain from the knife wound flailed through his body. Her body spun, the arm and blade extended. At that height, if it connected, it would be with his neck. Bond lent back into the hole, he’d already lost too much blood on this mission to want to lose anymore.
Kohana changed her focus and side kicked him in the gut. He lost his footing and fell through the hole. The explosion had shattered the plastic dome, allowing the heat from the furnace to spiral around him; it felt like he was being hit by a jet engine. Tiny pieces of burnt dollar bills swirled in the air. The explosion had also broken a number of struts below the belt, which slanted it out of true, angling it down onto the lip of the funnel. The belt made a harsh rasping sound as it rubbed against the steel lip. The angle made it difficult for him to get up. The belt took him, head down and sprawled out trying to move.
As he was getting to his feet, Kohana stepped into the tunnel. But as she raced toward him, the scaffolding groaned, and the belt tilted, like a pendulum. She thrust the knife forward, her loss of balance was the only reason she missed.
She steadied herself, for just a moment, and then forced Bond to block a kick and punch combination. As he fought to retain his own balance he looked behind him. The belt ended in just twenty feet. Thirty feet below the belt the shredder blades were spinning at more than four thousand revolutions per minute. If he hit that, he would be no more than pulp, heading for the furnace. His only hope was to move closer to his attacker.
As Kohana slashed with the blade, the belt tilted back and forth, like the deck of a small boat on a stormy sea. Bond stepped closer, Kohana stepped backward, yet their position on the conveyer remained the same. If they stood still, the belt would deposit them in the shredder in a moment.
Struggling for balance, Kohana stepped backward again, stabbing at his belly. Bond followed her, blocking and countering, trying to find a grip on her wrist. Her foot collided with a stack of bills, she fell in a tangle. Bond tried to jump over her, but as he moved the belt shifted.
He fell on top of her. The belt smashed against the wall. More scaffolding tubes bent, the belt dropped, Kohana stabbed at him again. Bond blocked with his elbow. They grappled and twisted as the belt took them closer to the edge.
Bond brought his knee up, twisting away from another attack. He tried to find purchase with his feet, but suddenly he felt them go over the edge. Another steel tube buckled, and the belt tilted and dropped. Kohana was thrown on top of Bond as their bodies slid over the end of the conveyer.
Another pile of bills flew over them, bouncing off Bond’s shoulder. Bond grabbed for the lip of the steel funnel as the bills blossomed and fluttered down all around them.
Their bodies smashed into the steel funnel. They began to slide down. Then the fingers of his right hand folded around the steel lip. Instinctively he gripped.
Then he caught hold of Kohana as she slid past him. His left elbow smashed into the steel, sending a wave of pain through his battered body. He held her forearm. As he looked down, Kohana was twisting. Below her the steel blades sliced through another stack of bills. Their eyes met. Bond saw what her intention was before she made her move. He shook his head, but in return she just smiled at him.
‘It doesn’t have to end this way,’ Bond shouted above the roar of the blades.
‘Yes it does.’ She brought her other arm up. Between her fingers the bloodied blade glinted. She jack-knifed her body planting her feet against the funnel wall. Deliberately she attempted to slash at his exposed wrist. Bond let go.
Kohana slid down the steel wall of the funnel. Her scream was short lived as the blades sliced her body into pulp. A fine mist of blood sprayed the air.
Although they had shared some intimate moments, Bond felt no guilt about her death. No empathy, just a cold professional curiosity as to her reason for not trying to kill him earlier.
“I bet that was never the death you thought you were going to have?”

***

Agent Donaldson picked up the phone smoothed his moustache and sat back in his chair. ‘Hello, Donaldson here.’
James Bond spoke clearly, ‘I can confirm that the missiles have been found.’
‘That’s great news, guess the Chinese will be wanting them sent back home.’
‘That’s affirmative, and more can be said for the guys that intended to be working on them.’
‘Arrested?’
‘Killed. Your SWAT teams have only one speed.’
‘Shame. What about Kettering?’
‘He’s being retired, to a very secure retirement home.’
‘Any more bad apples?’
‘No. Dunn was clean, narrow-minded, and stupid, but clean.’
‘Good, it was a close run thing, Commander. We almost ended up with egg all over our face.’
“Speak for yourself” Bond thought, but he said, ‘All’s well that ends well. And the Bureau comes out looking credible.’
‘That’s always a plus point. Just think, collaboration between MI6 and the FBI, defeating a terrorist attack. Sounds like an all-expenses paid vacation is on the cards.’
‘Job well done, case closed. Have yourself a celebratory drink.’
‘Will do. Goodbye Commander,’ Donaldson replaced the phone onto the cradle.
Donaldson pressed the intercom button, ‘Rachael, would you bring me in a large celebratory Scotch, please.’
The intercom remained unanswered.
‘Rachael?’

***

Bond replaced the mobile in his pocket while easing the Mustang out of the traffic on the Silicon Valley East toll road. The car headed for the airport.
‘Where did you say you were staying?’ Rachael watched a jet taking off.
‘Nassau, we can be there in time for dinner.’