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THE LIFE AFTER THIS ONE
Soothing as the warm water could be to the pain that would, on occasion, shoot through his joints, the man took care nonetheless. Currents tugged at his ankles rather than splashing against them. Balance these days was a survival skill. And the leap to his feet, to an attack stance, remained in his arsenal, though it was a museum-quality weapon, to be sure.
The future no longer receded into the distance for him; instead, it crowded him, an ungainly elbow to the ribs. As a youth, his broad frame could flutter into a room and stand over its prey with impunity, his hands darting to the strike then recoiling, all but spotless. Today, his body, more desiccated and unsteady, did nothing in silence. Each morning it serenaded the walls of his bedchamber with a snap here and a shudder there.
In his prime, he had been the most deadly animal on two legs. No exaggeration, no embroidery. It was not an instinct; rather, it was exercise, repetition, application, and a gradual wearing down of his guilt reflex. Crown and country, the carrot that was used interchangeably with the stick. His trainers were merciless, delving into his memories and shame until, rather than inhibiting his work, they truly enhanced it. The institutional line was always that killing was a cold business, that sentiment and sympathy were things to be weeded out, pruned from the tree.
This was the perfection of their tutelage, the prime aim of their lessons: the elimination of humanity, the death of the self, the revival of the beast beneath.
After all, they were professionals. They were MI6.
Nevertheless, he was their artwork, their optimum effort, their creature roaming the dells and frightening the villagers.
And he would not go quietly.
As the sheet of ocean water far in the distance burned with the sun's first rays, James Bond slipped the magnetic card key into the door of his bungalow, then pushed the heavy mahogany panel away, standing back a moment. A somewhat ridiculous spectacle, this way of entering a room, even his own hotel room, but it had become an afterthought, a conditioned response.
No way of knowing if such a response was necessary here, on Silhouette, one of the smaller main islands in the Seychelles, in the Indian Ocean, just off the sloping east coast of Africa. True, tourism had grown like a fever in the years he had been coming here, both on official business and for the occasional fortnight's retreat. Should he be concerned? he wondered.
It had not been that long ago that Bond had dashed into the string of islands while en route to an assignment in Udaipur. The detour had not been approved, but he doubted the Ministry of Defence would protest too much. His close friend and fishing partner, Fidele Barbey, had succumbed after a prolonged struggle with lung cancer. After years of sporadic meetings and uneven generosity on Barbey
Edited by Wade, 02 December 2006 - 04:58 AM.