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[Harry Fawkes]

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I A N F L E M I N G’ S

J A M E S B O N D
O O 7
_____________________I N______________________

H A R R Y F A W K E S’
T R O U B L E S H O O T E R









For all those gallant and brave men and women out there
who are giving so much in the secret war against terror
about which exploits we know so little.
If at all…

_______________________________

I am not of that feather to shake off
My friend, when he must need me.

Shakespeare, Timon of Athens

_______________________________

P A R T O N E
W H I R L W I N D

1
Whisper Who Dares

The cigarette tasted good, comforting.
The man dressed in black combat fatigues took a deep pull and blew out a stream of dirty grey smoke into the cold afternoon air and watched the familiar black car approach through the lemon grove further on. He leaned against the porch as the car pulled up and Inspector Roberto Grazianizi got out, a bull of a man dressed smartly in a loosely fitting blue suit and grey silk tie.
‘Ah, the new OO7,’ he said in Sicilian. ‘Good afternoon, my friend.’
The man dressed in black refilled his lungs with smoke and smiled. ‘I still haven’t been given official Double O status, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m just attached to the Double O Division for the time being until this wretched affair is over.’
‘But M gave you Commander Bond’s designation number. That must mean you’re in.’
‘Bond resigned from the service a couple of months ago and I’ve been earmarked to fill his post, yes, but I still haven’t made up my mind yet.’
‘Then I hope you make the right decision, Sean. Death can be a very gruesome business and there’ll be a lot of that working for M; death I mean.’ Grazianizi lit a thick, brown cigar. ‘However, your man has changed his schedule. I’ve been informed that he’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. Destination Russia. After tonight you will not get another chance like this one because once there he will vanish for good.’
‘We’ll get him.’
‘I sincerely hope so, for your sake. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the consequences if something were to go wrong. My government would be forced to deny any knowledge of your existence and come down on your government like a tonne of bricks. Our media would not take kindly to the fact that British Double O agents with so called licences to kill were operating ‘covertly’ in our country. With the approaching elections just around the corner you can imagine how sensitive things are, which, ultimately, also means my head on the block.’
Sean D’Arcy nodded. ‘And we’re supposed to be doing society a favour by putting Salvatore Rossi away,’ he said. ‘My only regret is that it won’t be with a bullet between his eyes.’
The corner of Inspector Roberto Grazianizi’s lips curled up in an understanding smile.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But do not forget, what you are going to do is still illegal.’
D’Arcy flicked the cigarette away. ‘We still haven’t been able to build up a case against him that’ll stand in court. As the old saying goes: knowing someone is guilty of a crime isn’t proving it. If we wait any longer for the police to do their job and get the proof they need we’ll lose the bastard for sure. The fact is he knew his time was up which in the end made him flee here.’
‘Which obviously means he was tipped off.’
D’Arcy nodded.
‘So now you are here, in Sicily, to apprehend him furtively and take him back to England to keep him under lock and key until the authorities come up with their case, right?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Just for the record, couldn’t your government have asked mine to detain him here for a while?’
‘It did.’
‘But?’
‘The request was turned down. Again lack of proof or something. What your government did agree upon though was to give us a very discreet and unofficial hand in locating him, hence your involvement in all this. Once back in the UK, he’ll await his trial in a cold damp cell somewhere nobody’ll find him. Punto e basta, isn’t that what they say over here?’
‘Something to that effect,’ he said and took a pull from his cigar. ‘Prostitution, drugs, extortion, child p�rnography and murder, not to mention the links he has with a number of international crime organisations operating in Europe at the moment. A filthy business he runs I must say.’
‘An understatement, I assure you.’
Grazianizi nodded. ‘I do not agree with what you and your men are going to do tonight, Mr. D’Arcy. Or rather, how you’re going to do it. Not as an officer of the law, that is. However, as a father of a beloved daughter who died eight years ago of a heroin overdose, I do. If it takes bending the rules of law to put men like Rossi away for good then so be it. The end will justify the means.’
‘This man is responsible for the killing of over fifteen men. If the devil had another name it would no doubt be Salvatore Rossi.’
The silence then was cold and uncomfortable, just like the afternoon air. A great black cloud appeared like an omen from behind some hills in the distance and the Inspector shivered suddenly.
‘I believe this will be our last meeting. Now remember, Sean, the men being paid to protect him are professional killers so be very careful.’
The Inspector dropped his cigar and stepped on it. He turned and they shook hands.
‘Thank you, Inspector. For everything.’
Grazianizi smiled sadly. ‘What a world, eh? What a sad, cruel world we live in.’
‘One day it’ll all be a distant memory, that’s all.’
And with that, Sean D’Arcy watched him get into the car and drive off. He stood there a while longer looking at the sky turning dark then turned and went back inside the villa.
An old man with silver hair was busy sorting out some food in the small kitchen further on while three other men, dressed in black combat suits, were seated at a large table sorting through some equipment: ropes, karabiners, pitons and other paraphernalia related to the ‘art’ of rock climbing.
Propped up against the wall behind them were four sub-machine guns with silencers: Heckler and Koch MP5 SDs ~ only the best for a job like this.
The three Double O agents looked up at their boss in anticipation.
‘We’re on,’ he said simply and went upstairs.

* * *

The sea was rough, one enormous wave after the other.
The wind blew at a strong force eight and black storm clouds covered the sky. The small fishing trawler, The Santa Maria, was making a brave show against the force of it all though. D’Arcy was at a table in the wheelhouse, the old man who had taken care of their needs during their four day stay at the villa was at the wheel.
‘It’s going to get worse,’ the old man told him in Sicilian.
‘We couldn’t have picked a better night though,’ D’Arcy answered in the same language and drank some tea from a mug.
The old man looked back at him. ‘You say that as if you’re serious, Mr. D’Arcy.’
‘I am. You see they won’t be expecting anything. Not on a filthy night like this.’
‘You hope.’
‘Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances which we know to be desperate. Chesterton.’
The old man smiled and turned back to the wheel. ‘Poetry is not my cup of tea, Mr. D’Arcy.’
D’Arcy placed a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it.
He looked down at the six by four black and white photo of Salvatore Rossi lying on the table. Rossi was in his early forties, well built, a dark man, bearded with cruel brown eyes and an ugly furrowed scar running down the left side of his face. D’Arcy had studied it carefully as had his men. It wasn’t a face they would forget easily, he thought as he looked out of the port hole.
His colleagues were on the deck, taking it all in as they waited to reach the drop-off point. They all wore black water proofs against the driving rain and their climbing equipment lay at their feet in black haversacks. Despite the storm, which would have put the fear of God into anybody, they were laughing as the youngest member of the team clowned around. D’Arcy couldn’t have been assigned a better team of men.
It was going to be a hard climb though, hard and extremely dangerous, he thought and pulled on his cigarette. To start off with, Monte Tippera was six thousand feet high. One of its sides towered up from the sea while the other soared high over the city of Valdivechio.
The villa, their target point, was built on a wide plateau on the summit and the only way inside the compound was to climb the face of the mountain from the sea. As for the other side, the organisation being paid to guard and take care of Rossi had loyal men all over the place who would warn them the minute strangers approached, even when they were miles away. Farmers, Shepherds, hunters. They were paid handsomely to keep their eyes wide open, even at night.
D’Arcy had thought of a parachute jump but a night drop into such a rough terrain like that would have been far more dangerous…
They reached the landing point on the south coast of Sicily at exactly 2100hrs and lowered the dinghy, which in itself was an arduous job considering the state of things. Getting to the stretch of land forty-five metres away was also demanding, verging in fact on the thin realm of madness, the dinghy almost capsizing twice. But get there they did and at about 2120 they were on the small neck of land looking up at the climb above with a severe sense of preoccupation.

* * *

The light was very bad, almost pitch black, the moon covered by the storm clouds.
Each man had undergone various climbing courses with Mountain Troop of 22 SAS and knew what lay above them and respectively felt the fear in the pits of their stomachs like a living thing.
Sean D’Arcy glanced at the luminous dials of his wrist watch. Time, man’s eternal enemy, was not on their side on this one, he observed as he lit a cigarette with cupped hands. He drew in the smoke with a deep long pull and turned to his second-in-command, Jack Stacey.
‘Check if Alpha Zero is in position,’ he said.
The man called Stacey produced a high powered pocket radio and spoke into the mouth piece. ‘Alpha Zero this is OO9 ~ what is your position, over?’
A few moments passed then a voice crackled through the speaker:
‘OO9, this is Alpha Zero. Location twenty miles south off Linosa; repeat: twenty miles south off Linosa. Mandarin says you are clear to go. Good luck. Over.’
D’Arcy nodded and flicked his cigarette away.
‘I’ve got to cut down one day,’ he said and looked at the others. ‘Right, let’s go then shall we?’

* * *

The worst things about the climb, apart from the fact that it was pitch black and the ground terribly treacherous, were no doubt the pelting rain and fierce winds.
It couldn’t have been worse.
The driving force of both these elements was furious, literally threatening to yank the men off the cliff-face as they began their ascent. The sequence they employed was called by climbers world wide as the ‘Tapeworm method’ with D’Arcy leading the way, hammering luminous pitons into thin clefts to act as safety anchors for the whole team and Stacey not far behind, following as best as he could.
Their two colleagues were further down at the starting point, ‘belaying’ the two lead men until they got to a position safe enough to rest and set up the top ‘belay’ system. This in turn would be controlled by D’Arcy and Stacey to assist the two men below as they climbed up to reach them; a method that would go on until they reached the plateau the villa was built on.
For three hours, the four men stretched out their arms and legs and felt carefully with their fingers and toes for clefts deep enough to hold onto or push or pull up to a higher point, vigilant not to slip on the ice or from the soaking wet rock itself. Although each man was in excellent shape the ordeal was taking more than they expected of them. They pushed on hard however and although the cliff had scores of crevices and ledges they had to take various chances on more than one occasion. At one point, D’Arcy had even slipped a few metres but thanks to the ‘belay’ system and the dynamic rope he was using nothing serious had happened apart from bruising the side of his chest as his body, along with his pride of course, slammed into the rocky face.
It was exactly twenty minutes to four in the morning when he finally reached the summit with a long sigh of relief…

* * *

He lay down on the wet ground soaked to the skin and looking pretty tired.
He took a few moments to steady his breathing before scanning his surroundings through night-finder glasses which lit up the area as if it were daylight.
The villa was about forty to fifty meters away in front of him surrounded by olive trees and bushes. There was a guard standing under a balcony at the back, sheltering from the driving rain. He was holding what looked like a double barrelled shot-gun and seemed to be in one hell of a dreadful mood, D’Arcy considered. He’d probably been out there all night in the rain.
Good. An easy kill, if ever there was such a thing.
At long last, Stacey slithered over the edge, looking in better shape than him. He moved over to D’Arcy’s position after scanning the area and sorted himself out quietly beside his boss. Soon after, their two other colleagues appeared: Mark Downes, OO4, and Pat Cogan, OO3.
‘From the look of you three I’m the one worst off,’ D’Arcy whispered with a wide grin behind his balaclava helmet.
‘You’re getting too old for all this,’ quipped Cogan, the youngest of the team.
‘That’s exactly what my wife keeps telling me, Pat.’
The man guarding the rear of the villa lit a cigarette and as he flicked the match away D’Arcy nodded once to Downes who breathed in deeply and silently disappeared into the darkness like a wild cat out for a kill …

* * *

It was when he came face to face with his death in the form of Downes who sprang up in front of him from nowhere after silently crawling towards him from his position near the summit’s edge that the guard suddenly realised how stupid he was not to have been more alert on a night like this.
Stupid and careless that was.
As he was just about to let out a startled cry, the man called Downes covered his mouth with a gloved hand and stabbed him in the heart with a commando knife, twisting cruelly. It only took a few moments for him to become completely limp and Downes guided him down to the wet ground. Then, making sure no one else was about, he turned and signalled his companions, two quick flashes with his torch.
Splitting his team up in twos, D’Arcy and OO3 made for the front of the villa from one side while OO9 and OO4 made for the smaller building that made up the guard’s rest rooms on its right from the other side.
It was as OO9 and OO4 ran out from the shadows though that luck had it that lightning flashed in the black sky and two guards standing under a tree opposite saw them. At first they couldn’t believe their eyes. They raised their sub-machine guns to engage the ‘spectres’ but Stacey was much quicker at the draw and used their initial hesitation to his advantage. He shot both of them in the heads with a silenced pistol; cold kills, professionally executed by a marksman trained no doubt by the best: The Double O Division.
The two guards were slammed back to the ground dead, eyes still, open wide in a look of horror and surprise. OO9 then raced to the other building while OO4 crossed over to a white four-doored Alfa Romeo parked alongside two other vehicles underneath a wooden portico.
He got the door open and jumped in as OO9 quickly fixed two explosive charges to the building’s door. Several moments later OO4 watched his partner dart behind one of the other vehicles. They both waited, their Heckler and Kochs ready for action, eyes hard and wide through the slits of their balaclavas.
So far so good, they thought…

* * *

Meanwhile, D’Arcy and OO3 had successfully gained entrance to the villa opposite by simply picking the front door lock.
It was dark inside.
Silently, they proceeded to the stone stairs in front of them, the whole place lit up by their night-finder goggles. A clock wound up and struck half four and both men looked at each other, startled by the unexpected sound.
A guard was on an armchair on the wide landing at the top. He was in a deep sleep, snoring, an Italian adaptation of Playboy magazine lying at his feet. So much for the ‘professionals’ Grazianizi had warned him about, D’Arcy thought as they calmly walked up to him.
He slapped a hand over his mouth and placed the cold muzzle of his Heckler and Koch between his eyes. The guard nearly had a heart attack when he looked up at what had woken him.
‘One sound and you’re dead,’ D’Arcy hissed in perfect Italian. ‘Where is Salvatore Rossi?’
The guard suddenly turned white. He anxiously pointed to a room down a dark, narrow corridor behind him, his eyes those of a hunted animal about to meet its creator.
‘Good, now go back to sleep.’
And with that, D’Arcy swung the butt of his MP5 across the guard’s head.
The room he had indicated was three doors further along the corridor. Before going in, they took up a deadly pose outside the door, steadying their nerves and on D’Arcy’s signal, OO3 opened it and they darted inside…

* * *

Salvatore Rossi opened his eyes and was immediately aware that someone else was in the room.
He bolted out of bed and came face to face with the two Double O agents, sinister figures dressed in black, faces masked.
His heart missed a beat.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he hissed, looking down at the threatening prospect of their sub-machine guns. ‘What’s going on?’
By this time the blond girl who had been sharing Rossi’s bed that night also got up, naked. She looked stunned as she took in what was happening.
‘British Intelligence, Mr. Rossi,’ D’Arcy told him.
‘This is a bloody joke!’
D’Arcy moved closer. ‘Get dressed. Try anything stupid and I won’t hesitate to kill you. Do I make myself clear?’
There was something about this man that made Rossi do as he was told. It was definitely the tone of voice he had used: it was cold, menacing; the voice of a man who would kill him without second thoughts
D’Arcy looked across at the tall naked blonde.
‘Tie her up,’ he told Cogan.
‘You know this is illegal don’t you,’ Rossi said as he got into a beige jacket. ‘I’ll simply tell the courts that I was taken against my will. Abducted by security forces from one sovereign country to another without warrant of arrest. It’ll cause one hell of a stink, might even bring down the government.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Rossi,’ D’Arcy told him calmly. ‘You see, we’ve prepared something quite convincing for the courts. There are two men who’ll swear in the witness box that they were with you when you were arrested in the UK. They’ll be doing it for immunity of course.’
‘You’re setting me up!’
‘It would appear so.’
OO3 thrust the muzzle of his Heckler into Rossi’s back after tying the girl up.
‘Move!’

* * *

As they made their way down the stairs, misfortune had it that a guard appeared from a room out of view below, holding two mugs of coffee and when he saw the three men descending the stairs, he dropped the mugs and reached for his shotgun, slung across his back.
He was fast, too fast for D’Arcy and OO3 and he jumped into view and fired the shotgun.
Two loud blasts shattered the dead silence.
D’Arcy was pushed out of the way by OO3 who took the two shots full in the chest for him. He was flung back violently by two invisible fists to his death, six gaping holes in his chest. D’Arcy lifted his sub-machine gun and let off a wild burst of automatic fire, hitting the shotgun bearer below with a spray of bullets.
It was then that Rossi saw his opening. He kicked D’Arcy in the back, sending him flying down the stairs head first.
He then turned swiftly, grabbed OO3’s Heckler off the floor and made a run for it…

* * *

Soon after the blast of gunfire echoed inside the villa, every light inside the other building came on.
OO9 and OO4 braced themselves for what was about to come their way. It was as the feint lights of dawn began to stain the black sky that the door was flung open and a guard ran out holding a handgun, followed by another man in his underwear.
The first guard had triggered the two charges planted earlier and both men were killed instantly, the blast of the explosion deafening. It didn’t take long for more guards to appear through the debris of the front entrance though, but each one was picked off by the two Double O agents who shot them stone dead from their positions under the portico opposite as they raced out.
Salvatore Rossi loosed off a burst of sub-machine gun fire when he came running out of the villa, shooting wildly around him to add to the panic and confusion. He dashed over to a car parked further on, zigzagging between a hail of bullets coming from the portico. He smashed the window with the Heckler’s butt and jumped in. It was as D’Arcy appeared that he got the car started. He wrenched the gear into first and sped off down the gravel drive towards the gate house beyond.
D’Arcy swore violently and ran over to the portico.
He was limping from an injury sustained by the fall down the stairs, a sharp fiery pain, in his knee.
OO4 got the vehicle started at the same time as OO9 raced towards them, shooting another man who had come into view from his right.
‘Where’s OO3?’ he screamed when he jumped onto the back seat.
The Alfa Romeo’s tires screeched as OO4 slammed his foot down on the accelerator and they shot out from under the portico after Rossi.
D’Arcy looked back at OO9 and his eyes said it all.
‘Jesus! Don’t tell me we’re just going to leave him there, Sean? What about his body?’
‘We all knew what would happen!’
‘But…’
‘Leave it out!’ D’Arcy spat furiously.
OO9’s eyes burned into the back of his head but decided not to take it any further…

* * *

Salvatore Rossi tightened his hands on the wheel as he increased speed.
Ahead there were no signs of traffic, just the occasional turning onto other roads and tracks down the mountain side. It was still dark even though daylight was only minutes away now. A bullet shattered the rear window, and then another three more thumped into the car’s body.
The weapon being used was an automatic.
Rossi responded blindly with three blasts from the Heckler. He turned sharply onto a narrow road on his right, almost a track with fields on either side. He fought to keep control of the car as it skidded wildly. He looked back. The Alfa was still hot on his trail. There was a determined expression on his face as he swerved the car violently around another sharp bend. The side bumper hit a low wall and the Speedo showed 85mph. This wide track led onto a main road further on and keeping his present speed, he swerved dangerously out and into some oncoming traffic.
It was then that he heard the noise from above, engine noise; a helicopter, above him and flying low. It appeared in front of him, banking to the side. The pilot most probably had radio contact with the men in the Alfa. He saw someone lean out from the cabin and drop something in his direction. There followed a blinding flash of white light and a deafening blast. The car shook and Rossi swung the wheel to the left to avoid it, hitting the side of another car. Everything was happening fast and he found himself swearing through clenched teeth. A second ‘Flash Bang’ went off and Rossi was nearly thrown across the car as he tried to avoid it. He leaned out of the window and aimed the Heckler at the helicopter as he controlled the car with his other hand. He let off a series of shots but the black Lynx just dipped its nose and flew ahead into the darkness further down the road. The other cars on the road were swerving out of Rossi’s way, as he desperately tried to out run the Alfa; the drivers and passengers looking out at him in dismay as he shot passed at full speed. But then the Lynx reappeared, this time swooping in straight at him nose down.
He saw the man leaning out with a GPMG.
‘!’ Rossi screamed and swerved out of the way.
There was a flicker of automatic fire and the windscreen burst into a thousand pieces followed by a series of loud thumps on the roof. But in the end, it was the two shots fired from the Alfa that had hit the car’s rear offside tyre that sent him through a crash barrier on the side of the road into some bushes…

* * *

Rossi reached for the Heckler.
It had flung off the seat on impact. He fired a burst from the lowered window at the three masked men leaving the Alfa which had now stopped at the side of the road behind him, and then reeled out of the car as a burst of automatic fire showered the area. The Lynx was hovering over some trees a few yards away and as he started to run realised with great clarity that his chances of escape from this one were very bleak. He made for the trees on his left and behind him someone called out to him to stop. As soon as he had cleared the car and made for the trees, the Lynx swooped in after him too, its flashlight lighting up the area, making matters worse.
The man at the GPMG had Rossi in his sight and he fired some warning shots, the bullets thudding into the ground only inches away from his feet.
‘Drop the gun or you’ll get it in the back,’ called a voice from behind him and it didn’t seem to be lacking any seriousness in tone, he observed.
Rossi stopped dead in his tracks. He turned and dropped the Heckler to the ground. Two of the men who had chased him kept their weapons trained on him as their boss approached. He pulled off his balaclava and Rossi looked into the cold, black eyes of the man called Sean D’Arcy.
‘Ok, ok,’ Rossi spat and raised his arms in surrender. ‘You bastards win!’
D’Arcy stopped in front of him, jaws clenched, eyes slits on a white face.
He raised his MP5 to arms length and touched the muzzle between Rossi’s eyes.
There was a fierce and deadly rage in the pair of eyes that stared back at him and Rossi knew they were the eyes of death.
‘Get down on your knees now! D’Arcy said sharply.
‘You can’t do this!’ Rossi cried. ‘What’s the point?! I’ve given up!’
‘I’m not going to tell you again.’
It was as if the whole world had stopped around him.
There was a strange, unnatural silence. He couldn’t even register the pulsating whoosh sound of the helicopter rotors not far away.
He began shaking as he did what he was told.
When he was finally on his knees, he looked up at D’Arcy pleadingly. The arm remained extended, the MP5 steady as a rock to his head.
‘Please! I have children!’
‘So did the man I left behind! A two month old girl, for your information.’
D’Arcy’s finger tensed on the trigger and Rossi watched helplessly.
‘OO7, I can’t let you do it!’ Stacey shouted from behind them, breaking the uncanny silence. ‘We need him alive!’
D’Arcy didn’t even blink.
‘Sean, for the sake of God, don’t do it!’
D’Arcy stared down at Rossi for a long moment. The man on his knees was now a sobbing wreck.
‘Never forget this day, Mr. Rossi,’ he said finally, his voice a mere whisper as he finally lowered his gun to the side of his body. ‘Today you cheated death by an inch. You can’t get luckier than that in life.’
And with that Sean D’Arcy left him to his men and walked across to the Lynx helicopter…

*



2
A Farewell to Arms

ENGLAND
Six months later, on a rainy afternoon in January, Sean D’Arcy was alone in the Sergeant’s Mess at Bradbury Lines Barracks in Hereford.
He was seated at one of the polished dining-tables, eating silently at one end while the young Corporal behind the bar was busy cleaning some glasses.
The silence suited D’Arcy’s mood, as did the solemn atmosphere of the mess. He liked it here, always did.
‘Excuse me, Sarn’t major,’ the Corporal called from behind the bar interrupting his thoughts.
D’Arcy looked back at him.
‘Staff-Sergeant Brincat just called to inform you that the OC’ll see you at one.’
D’Arcy looked at his watch. 1215.
He nodded and turned back to his thoughts as he ate his lunch.
Seventeen years, he thought. Seventeen long years and only five left to reach the end of his service life. And then there was M and the Double O Division. Was he making a grave mistake that day? Was he making the mistake of his life chucking it all in?
Mistake or not, he had made up his mind…

* * *

The Officer-in-Command of the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare Wing of 22 SAS, was a short man in his late forties, about five foot four or five and built like a powerhouse. His eyes were sharp, rather cruel even, and his silver hair was close cropped.
When Sergeant Major Sean D’Arcy marched in, halted and saluted, razor-sharp in shirt sleeve order, the Major looked up from the file he was reading and smiled at the man standing rigidly to attention in front of him, the black pace stick held firmly between his left arm and body, the brass points gleaming brightly.
‘Relax, Sean,’ he said and leaned back comfortably in his chair.
‘Sir,’ D’Arcy said and stood at ease.
‘I’ve just read your request. I must say it has come as a surprise, to say the least. Hell, I’m bloody shocked!’
D’Arcy’s cheekbones tightened. ‘I’m just calling it a day, sir,’ he told him. ‘Seventeen years is enough.’
‘And the Rossi affair has nothing to do with such a decision?’
‘You could say it topped it all up, yes.’
‘The death of that Double O agent? It’s not just on your shoulders you know.’
‘With all due respect, you weren’t with him at the time, sir.’
‘True,’ the Major told him. ‘I don’t pretend otherwise. I just think it’s a e of an excuse to throw everything you’ve worked for away. Your career, your promotion to Warrant Officer 1…’
‘Stuff my promotion, sir,’ D’Arcy said a little too sharply and he knew it. ‘I’m sorry, Major, it’s just that I’ve had enough, that’s all. I’ve seen and done everything there is to in this army and since we got back from Sicily I’ve been in another world. I’m fed up of it all now.’
‘Longing for the quiet life, is that what you’re saying?’
‘You could say that, sir.’
The Major got up and crossed over to the window.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
D’Arcy did as he was told.
‘What about the Colonel and his misfit outfit ~ the Double O Division? He wants you badly, Sean. Will you be closing the door to that side of your life too?’
‘Absolutely.’
The Major turned.
‘You’re one of his best operatives,’ he said after a while. ‘Which means he’s not going to let you go easily, I hope you realise that. People like you, Sean, are hard to come by these days.’
‘There’s always a fool like me for the picking, sir. The world’s full of adventure seekers.’
‘Was that what it was to you? Adventure?’
‘It started off like that, yes ~ the action, the passion. I was young.’
‘And now?’
‘Experienced; weather beaten, tired of it all, disillusioned, call it what you want. I mean after all, what’s it all for in the end?’
‘A good cause? Justice perhaps?’
‘Now that’s one for the great book, sir, wild justice.’
The Major sat back down behind his desk. He took a packet of Du Maurier, chose one and lit it with a brass lighter. He then threw the packet across to D’Arcy who shook his head.
‘Thanks, but I’ve given up,’ he said.
‘My God, you have changed, Sarn’t Major.’
‘We all do in the end, sir; it’s just a matter of time that’s all.’
‘I suppose it is. What will you do? Take over your dad’s pub?’
‘The wife’s running it at the moment so I guess it’ll be on the books, yes.’
‘At least you’ve got something to fall back on,’ the Major told him. ‘It’s rough out there nowadays. Unemployment is quiet high.’
‘We’ll manage.’
‘I’m sure you will, Sean.’ He sighed resignedly. ‘Well, you seem dead-set about this and I don’t think I can say anything that’ll change your mind. The men’ll miss you. We all will.’
D’Arcy got up. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said and saluted sharply. ‘For everything.’
And with that he turned and marched out...

* * *

It had started to rain harder now but there was nothing new in that. It was that kind of day. Black clouds, rain and a cold east wind.
The four dark green Bedford trucks that had taken the men of the CRW Team on exercise to the ranges that morning had just turned through the main gates further down. There was laughing and joyful shouting as the men climbed down wearing their Bergens and carrying assault rifles, all dressed in black combat suits. Smart young men, fresh faced, between the age of nineteen and twenty-four, not more.
They were his men.
D’Arcy watched them from the window of his office three floors up but his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door and without turning he said,
‘Come in.’
A sergeant appeared, a tall wiry man in his mid thirties.
‘Is it true what I’ve just heard downstairs, Sean?’ he asked. ‘You’re throwing everything in?’
D’Arcy turned. ‘That’s right.’
‘Now why in God’s name did you go and do something like that?’
D’Arcy smiled.
Sergeant Jeff Tailor. They had been friends for years, even joined up together way back in ‘88.
‘Put it down to a change of scenery, Jeff. Besides, with this knee there’s no way I’d survive here.’
‘And teaching or office work isn’t your cup of tea, right?’
‘You know I’m not cut out for that ,’ D’Arcy told him and sat down. ‘My time in the army ended when I fell down those bloody stairs on that OP, you know that. I can’t even run the two miler without feeling that damn pain.’
‘Bull with a capital B. You’re doing it because you lost one of your men. You feel responsible.’
‘Wasn’t I?’
‘No you bloody well weren’t! He knew what he was getting into, Sean. You all did. What happened to him comes with the job. We all know that when we go on an operation like that and we all accept it as a fact of life. You couldn’t have done anything to prevent what happened. Come on, man, we’ve discussed it a thousand times since you got back. You’re just going through a bad phase, that’s all. It’s only natural that you feel responsible.’
Tailor sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette.
‘Damn you, Sean!’ he said finally.
D’Arcy smiled then. ‘Look at the bright side of things, Jeff,’ he said. ‘You’ll make Sergeant Major now so I’m doing you a favour you wanker.’
‘Some favour, Sean. But tell me, what are your plans then?’
‘I’ve got the old man’s pub. Nathalie’s running it at the moment so she’ll be over the moon when I tell her.’
‘You mean to say she doesn’t know yet?’
‘No’
‘Jesus!’
They were interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Yes,’ D’Arcy called.
An orderly clerk popped in and looked at Tailor. ‘Excuse me, Sarge, you’ve got a call,’ he said. ‘It’s your wife.’
‘Cheers.’ Tailor got up as the clerk closed the door. ‘OK, Sean. You’ve worked it all out and nothing I say is going to convince you otherwise.’
‘That’s about it, Jeff.’
‘Well sod you then,’ he said warmly. ‘Tonight. I’m organising a Company piss up in your name. ‘The River’s Hope.’’
‘And if I told you I had plans for tonight?’
‘I’ll simply tell you to get stuffed,’ Tailor told him and smiled brightly. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight thirty!’
And with that Jeff Tailor went out and D’Arcy stood there for a long while smiling too.

* * *

After work, D’Arcy parked his silver BMW R1200C opposite the small bar on the corner, the Winged Dagger.
He now wore jeans, white shirt and brown leather jacket. It wasn’t very busy at that time of the day, a couple of men at the tables drinking beers. It was a bright and cheerful place, pastoral, the bar made from honey-coloured stone with a dark green granite top, an arrangement of bottles on three shelves in front of a wide mirror.
Nathalie D’Arcy was behind the counter making a cappuccino, a tall beautiful woman in a yellow flimsy dress. Her brown hair was shoulder length and her eyes were dark. She was a tough, intelligent and resourceful girl who had a rare gay, devil-may-care attitude towards life rarely found in other women, which is what D’Arcy loved most about her. Not that she didn’t care about anything that is, it was just that she looked at life with a smile on her face no matter how bad things got.
‘You’re home early, love,’ she said smiling beautifully.
D’Arcy sat down on one of the stools.
‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘Well, that depends. If you’re here to sweep me off my feet to make wild, violent love to me in the pantry then yes. If not…’
‘That could be arranged but I don’t think the customers would take kind to that, Nat. Who’d serve their beers?’
She leaned on the counter and sipped her cappuccino.
‘Seriously, Sean, what’s up?’
‘Nothing much,’ he told her. ‘I’ve just thrown everything in, that’s all. Resigned.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Nope. I’m out and out for good.’
‘Oh my God…’
She darted round the counter and they hugged and kissed.
‘You finally did it, you rogue. I’m so proud of you.’
‘I know, which is what made the decision easier to take.’
She sat down on the stool facing him.
‘But what made you do it, Sean? The knee?’
‘It’s a long story. The fact is I’m out now. Not to mention jobless.’
‘This place is all yours. Your dad’ll be pleased and I’m dying for a break.’
‘I was afraid you’d say that.’
‘I expect your mates will be organising a farewell party this week.’
‘Tonight.’
‘Well, just make sure the hangover doesn’t prevent you from opening up tomorrow morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’

* * *

‘The River’s Hope’ was situated just outside the quiet village of Mordiford before entering the outskirts of Hereford. The place, now a typical English pub, had been built in Tudor times but was now mainly Georgian. It was considered the local watering-hole of the SAS Regiment. The outer area was very old fashioned and ornate with a mahogany bar, rows of bottles on wooden shelves in front of a large mirror, beer pumps with ivory handles and behind the main bar area was a larger lounge that served as a restaurant where D’Arcy and his men had consumed a very private and luscious dinner.
Now at one in the morning, disco music blaring through loudspeakers in the ceiling, the place crammed with locals and ‘Regiment’ men horded in groups, some dancing, some chatting away, simply enjoying the brilliant night out, Sean D’Arcy had already consumed twenty Gin and Tonics and was still in there, only just though. As for Jeff, he was the worse off, having drunk at least twenty three Scotch and Sodas and it definitely showed. But they were having a marvellous time and the night was still very young.
How long they would last though only God knew.
It was as D’Arcy got up and moved through the crowd to buy another round that he caught the gaze of a tall, delightful blond woman at the bar. She was dressed in a white trouser suit; hair slicked back and tied with a white head band. Her eyes homed in onto his. It was a cold look and he knew he had seen this woman before but couldn’t recall where or when their paths had actually met. As he made his way across to the bar, swaying unsteadily, the blond was joined by a dark haired woman who also stared straight at him, and then they turned suddenly and made for a door marked private at the other end.
Moments later, they disappeared.
Strange, he thought. Who the hell was that!?
‘Discipline, Sean, discipline’ he told himself. ‘You’re a married man, mate …’

* * *

D’Arcy got back home just before five in the morning thoroughly drunk.
Before going to his bedroom he checked on his seven year old son, Jamie, who was fast asleep in the room opposite his own. Bless the little runt, he thought as he gazed down at his son’s face, peaceful in deep sleep. He looked so much like his mother, a handsome devil who no doubt would make women’s heads turn when he grew up.
D’Arcy looked around the room, smiling softly. Posters of Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, Chewbacca, Darth Vader and Yoda decorated his walls. He was, to put it mildly, a Star Wars fanatic. Bless him.
Once in his own bedroom he got undressed and slipped into bed, careful not to wake his wife up but…
‘Sean D’Arcy, with that smell of alcohol on you, if I light a match I’ll blow us both up to kingdom come!’ she told him. ‘How many did you have?’
‘Six or seven,’ he told her and she turned, climbed on top of him and looked down at him smiling mischievously.
‘Bottles no doubt,’ she told him.
‘You know how it is, love. Night out with the lads, and all that.’
He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down to him, kissing her passionately and when she came up for breath she said:
‘I love you, Sean, do you know that? You’re everything to me.’
‘You just love my good looks,’ he said teasingly.
‘You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do about the Colonel?’
‘Forget him. He’s what you could call ‘past tense’ now, permanently.’
‘I hope so. I never did like him, you know that.’
‘Believe me, Nat, this is a new start for me; for us. The army, the Colonel. They’re behind me. There’s nothing more in life I want so badly than being with you and Jamie. Full time.’
She got up and moved to the windows, a pale, slim shadow in the soft darkness.
God she was beautiful, he thought as he looked up at her. Sexy and beautiful.
Quite a woman.
‘You were always the first to volunteer, Sean,’ she said softly. ‘You have no idea what I went through because of that; the sleepless nights waiting for that blasted phone to ring, waiting for that anonymous voice to tell me that you’d been hurt or killed.’
D’Arcy sat up. ‘You make it sound as if I was fighting a war in Belfast or Israel,’ he said amused. ‘It wasn’t like that you know. I was just a…’
She turned sharply.
‘Do you take me for a fool, Sean?’ She spat. ‘I knew exactly what you did. You tried to hide it all but you weren’t good enough, or else I knew you better than you thought. Murderers, drug dealers, all those undercover jobs for the police. Oh, I knew all about it, Sean, always did, and now I really hope it’s all over because I don’t think I could bear it again ~ that life. You were a different man when you were on the job. Dark, closed inside yourself, cold, oh so cold, Sean. Do you know how many times you shut us out and didn’t let us in? You’d disappear inside your mind, inside whatever world you were living in at that time and leave just the shell of the man we knew and loved.’
He got out of bed and took her in his arms.
‘It’s over, I swear it,’ he said and turned her around to face him.
He looked down at her pale face, her dark eyes, the sensuous lips and he wanted her then, more than ever. He lifted her and carried her back to the bed. He lowered her gently against the sheets and kissed her passionately, long and hard.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late for this,’ she asked, smiling seductively as he undressed her.
‘Just call it love by dawn,’ he told her. ‘Let’s make the poets proud of us.

*



3
Assault

The alarm clock shattered the silence by going off at precisely seven o’clock in the morning.
A hand appeared from the blankets and reached out, feeling for it on the bedside locker. The finger found the button and the miserable ringing was instantly killed. Then, after a few moments of hesitation, the sheets and blankets were thrown aside to reveal a superb blond with the body of a top fashion model, and no less, wearing the flimsiest of silver underwear.
She breathed in deeply, got up and went into the bathroom next door. After relieving herself, she undressed and took a shower, cold first then hot. Ten minutes later she was back in the bedroom getting dressed into tight black leathers.
She moved to the balcony, opened the door and stepped out into the fresh morning. The day had finally come; the day they had been training and planning for the past two months.
Their main advantage, she observed, was that security for their target would be at a minimum. They would never expect such a strike, not in a thousand years which meant the element of total surprise was beyond doubt on their side. The British wouldn’t know what hit them and by the time they did she would be long gone...
Lighting a cigarette, the woman called Jano noticed her hands shook slightly with excitement.
She looked out at the view of the Thames before her.
A splendid sight indeed.
She took a deep pull at the cigarette and blew out a stream of dirty grey smoke and smiled. This peaceful moment was the lull before the storm. Fine, she thought, she would savour it leisurely and stayed there for a while longer taking it all in.
In the living room, six men were asleep in sleeping bags on the carpeted floor, their submachine guns propped up against the walls. There were explosive grenades and a number of handguns and boxes of ammunition on the round table in the centre of the room.
She moved to the curtained windows and drew them apart letting in the bright light.
‘Get up,’ she called out in Sicilian.

* * *

D’Arcy woke up in the morning feeling as if a three tonne truck had knocked him over.
He had one of the worst splitting headaches ever and one hell of a wretched taste in his mouth. He pushed himself up on his right elbow and winced at the pain in his head. He got out of bed and took a shower then got dressed into jeans and shirt.
‘How are you?’ Nathalie asked when she walked in.
‘My head feels as if a grenade went off inside it, but apart from that…’
She moved over and gently kissed him on the lips.
‘Last night was truly inspiring, dear, truly inspiring,’ she said.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and Nathalie took the chair opposite. She looked, to say the least, absolutely stunning that morning. Pity he was feeling so hung-over.
‘So what are your plans for the day?’
‘I’ll take Jamie to school then pop down to see my dad.’
‘Then in that case, I’m going to enjoy a well earned day off and go shopping.’
She got up and walked out and he sat there a moment longer searching through his memory of the previous night.
‘I wonder how Jeff feels, the poor bugger.’
And with that he went downstairs.

* * *

The man sitting down at the small table in the bare, windowless holding room on the second floor of Colstale Prison was none other than the notorious Salvatore Rossi, two prison guards standing at the iron door facing him.
It was about ten o’clock when the door finally opened and a short middle aged man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase, walked in.
‘I’d like to speak to my client alone, gentlemen,’ he told the two guards.
They left and the newcomer sat down opposite Rossi. Both men were unaware that what they were about to talk about would be recorded by hidden microphones underneath the very table they were sitting at.
‘I’ve just been on the phone with your business partners,’ he said. ‘They’ve assured me it is now only a matter of time now. They are in fact already in the UK.’
‘Who have they sent?’
‘They didn’t elaborate. They just told me that they’re here.’
Rossi smiled and leaned back in the chair. ‘Twenty five years, the bastards put me down for,’ he said. ‘Twenty five Goddamn years, can you believe it, and the whole thing wasn’t even legal! What a farce!’
‘The evidence against your claim of illegal arrest was overwhelming, Mr Rossi, the outcome was inevitable.’
Rossi looked across at the man in the suit with eyes that would have put the fear of God into the devil.
‘Well, the bastards are finally going to pay for that, big time,’ he hissed. ‘Now then, what about that special forces bloke or whatever the damn hell he was?’
‘I’ve been assured he will be taken care of. Remember, they also have a personal score to settle with him so rest assured.’
‘Revenge is best served cold,’ Rossi said. ‘And six months is cold enough.’
The lawyer produced some papers from his briefcase.
‘I need you to sign these.’
Rossi took them and went through them before signing. ‘Did they tell you what it’s all about?’ he asked finally.
‘I’m sure that whatever your associates have up their sleeves will no doubt satisfy your thirst for revenge.’
The lawyer got up then and put the papers back in his briefcase. ‘You just sit tight and wait.’
‘There’s not much more I can do in this damn place is there?’
The lawyer moved to the door and called the guards.
The door opened and they came back in and Salvatore Rossi was taken back to his cell, this time though with the Devil’s smile on his face...

* * *

At 1800, a black Honda Shadow came to a halt on the corner of St. James Street from the Pall Mall; Christie's, the famous auction house, on the corner opposite. At the south end of St. James Street stood St. James Palace, an imposing brick castle with two crenulated towers, two red-coated palace guards outside.
Jano removed the helmet and her thick, heavy blonde hair fell down to her shoulders. A young man, well dressed and walking his dog, felt his breath taken away when he passed her. In fact, he almost walked into a lamp post when he looked back to give the girl another glance, so stunning was this ‘Goddess’ of beauty.
She had amazing blue-black eyes that were simply spellbinding. Her face was without a doubt stunning too ~ it was strong and shone with a fresh skin texture, her mouth was full with bright red lips that lifted at the corners seductively. And her body under the skin-tight black leather suit was truly magnificent ~ slender but rounded at the important parts, legs long and shapely, breasts full and taught.
She sat there, astride the bike, watching whilst she smoked a cigarette. There weren’t many people about and luckily hardly any traffic either, which suited her perfectly. The white Ford Transit with tinted glass was parked opposite, along with a few other cars, had been for the past half an hour. The sky was dark, the air fresh and filled with the smell of rain and scents of Pine and Jasmine coming from the public gardens on her right.
Fifteen minutes later, Jano flicked the cigarette away, produced a cell phone and dialled some numbers. After a couple of moments she spoke softly into the phone,
‘We are in position. Ring twice just before he leaves.’
She listened to the reply then carried on waiting…

* * *

The Prince was standing at the large windows, hands clenched behind his back when his senior aid was admitted to his room. He turned and smiled, a tall and broad shouldered young man, strong looking, extremely handsome with deep blue eyes that radiated intelligence and authority on a warm face.
‘Already time is it, Mark?’ he asked glancing at his watch.
‘That’s right, your Royal Highness.’
‘Of course, we wouldn’t want to keep my Grandmother waiting, would we? I do hope she likes the wine this time.’
The Prince slipped into his black dinner jacket.
‘I’m sure Her Majesty will.’
‘Harry boy’s in Afghanistan, the lucky plodder, and I feel so damned bored. I should be out there too you know.’
‘You’re duty is here.’
‘That’s what they keep telling me. Oh, well. A pity my father is out of the country. I would have loved to have discussed the Mugabe situation with him.’
‘I don’t think the Queen would take kind to that. You know Her Majesty detests politics at dinner table.’
The Prince smiled and they walked out.
The driver and two motorcycle policemen chatted away in the Palace courtyard as they waited for him to come down. It was precisely 1900 hrs when he finally did. The driver held the door open for him and the young Prince got in followed by his advisor. The policemen got their bikes started up and moments later they were off down the long gravel drive lined by tall dark oak trees towards the Palace main gate further on.
One of the Palace servants was upstairs when the Prince had got into his car; was looking down at him from behind the thick maroon curtains of one of the large French windows overlooking the courtyard. He was short, in his mid thirties with black hair and a dark face. When the driver had closed the door for the Prince, the servant had produced his mobile and had dialled some numbers.
There had been a look of regret in his green eyes, genuine regret, as he had waited for it to ring…

* * *

Jano’s mobile rang and she looked down at the number.
She felt the rush of excitement soar through her entire being when she reached for the two-way-radio clipped to her jacket collar.
She pressed the switch and spoke into the small mouth piece,
‘Go!’ she snapped.
Seconds later, the rear doors of the white Transit were flung open from the inside and five men dressed completely in black, wearing balaclava helmets and carrying submachine guns rushed out. A couple of bystanders screamed as the sinister figures dashed to the St James Palace main gate opposite.
The soldiers on duty outside the small shelter beyond the barrier looked up at them as they ran across the street towards him and their hearts sank. One of them had already pushed the button to raise the barrier for the Prince’s oncoming car having been warned by radio that it was round the corner and the other brought his rifle up. His body, however, was hit by a spurt of 9mm bullets before he could react. Seconds later the other Guard was shot dead.
The two motorcycle policemen turned the corner beyond, oblivious to the horror awaiting them and they were cut down by sporadic machine gun fire.
The bikes fell onto their sides and skidded violently.
Meanwhile, a pair of the attackers had positioned themselves at the side of the path further on, crouched down on their knees, sub-machine guns at the ready and when the Prince’s car appeared fired on the wheels.
The driver fought hard to maintain control but the car veered violently to the left, crashing into the surrounding bushes. Two attackers ran in from the right and smashed the bullet proof windscreen with sledge hammers. The driver and the Prince’s advisor were shot in the head.
Prince William looked on in horror.
His door was yanked open after another attacker smashed the window on his side and he found himself looking up at the devil in a black balaclava.
‘What is the meaning of this?!’ he found himself saying, almost choking with shock.
He was pulled out of the car brutally and one of the attackers screamed something incomprehensible at him.
It was then that the Transit screeched to a halt just outside the raised barrier and quickly reversed towards them, knocking it down. One of the men got the doors open and the Prince was pushed inside.
The attackers went in after him and the Transit sped off down the road towards the Thames followed by Jano on her Honda.
The assault had lasted less than eight minutes…

*

4
Crisis Time

PC Mike Garner had started his night shift at five and was now at his desk, going through the home decoration magazine his wife had given him just before he left for work.
Talk about subtle hints, he thought as he sipped some of his tea. But then who could blame her? He’d been promising that he’d do the house up for years now and it was about time that he put his money where his mouth was.
Garner was pulled back down to earth at 1915 by the sudden ringing of the telephone.
‘PC Garner speaking.’
He listened for a while and his face turned white. He put the phone down and stood up, stunned.
‘Jesus!’ he said.
‘What’s up, Mike?’ his sergeant asked when he came in from his office. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, mate.’
‘You’re not going to believe this, Sarge,’ he told him. ‘That was St James Palace. Someone’s just kidnapped Prince bloody William!’
The Sergeant’s mouth dropped open…

* * *

The ‘red alert’ was activated by the Duty Officer at the Scotland Yard’s Operations Room at precisely 1917.
All Units were informed of what had happened and notified to seal off London as fast as they could and track down the white Transit. The Army immediately deployed five Lynx SA 316 helicopters complete with four Rapid Deployment Teams in Range Rovers to participate in the pursuit.
It was, however, at 1925 when the Duty Officer back at Police HQ received information from one of his squad cars in the field that they had spotted the white Transit and were currently chasing it through the streets of East London.
‘We’re heading towards Kidbrooke. They’re driving like crazy.’
‘Right, Zero Mike, got that,’ the Duty Officer told him. ‘Do not, for any reason whatsoever, attempt to intercept the van. Just follow it and keep us informed. Back-up is on its way and road blocks are being set up as we speak but the order at the moment is to allow the van exit out of Greater London. Do you read me, over?’
‘What the hell are they playing at?’ The driver said to his partner.
‘Don’t forget the Prince is in that bloody van. They’re just being cautious that’s all.’
The driver nodded. ‘Zero Mike, received. Over and out.’
Moments later, Zero Mike’s hot pursuit was coupled by three of the five Lynx helicopters…

* * *

Zero Mike was dumbfounded when the Transit skidded to a halt one hundred metres away from an army road block on a pitch dark, secluded country road surrounded by fields on either side and just off the M25.
The two Policemen watched the driver and passenger dart out of their vehicle and take up position behind the open doors, brandishing 9mm submachine guns.
Zero Mike and the other police car that had pursued the van stopped further back near a cluster of trees. The Transit driver looked up at the three helicopters circling above, the powerful flashlights lighting up the scene below as if it were daytime. He smiled at his partner who looked back at him from the other side.
‘Right, let’s get this show on the road,’ he said and watched as one of the police men got out of his car with his hands up...

* * *

When the Police Commissioner arrived at the Operations Room at Scotland Yard, the Duty Officer and the Assistant Commissioner greeted him sombrely.
‘Give me the worst, gentlemen,’ he said.
The AC outlined what had happened and the present developments that were taking place just outside London.
The Commissioner turned to the Duty Officer.
‘Inform the men on the scene to stand-by,’ he said firmly. ‘Inform them that if they are shot at they must simply take cover. They are not to respond. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘OK, gentlemen, I will inform the Prime Minister of the developments on my way to the scene.’ He turned to leave.

* * *

The Transit driver let off a long burst of automatic fire above his head, almost emptying the magazine and the police across the road dived for cover.
He reached for a loud haler in the van and spoke.
‘These are our demands,’ he said in English but with a heavy Italian accent. ‘First of all we want an aeroplane ready for us at the airport with enough fuel to take us to whichever North African destination we choose. Secondly, we want three million dollars in cash. If you accept these terms the Prince will not be harmed. He is being held at gunpoint by two of my men in this very van. If you do not give us what we want, they will not hesitate to kill him.’
The senior-most policeman on the scene at the time spoke into the car loudspeaker,
‘Please understand that none of us here can authorise that your terms be met or not,’ he called out. ‘The person you want to talk to is on the way.’
The Transit driver looked at his watch.
‘You have precisely three hours to meet the terms I have just given you so you’d better tell whoever it is on his way to move his , that is if you care for what’s left of your Prince’s life...’

* * *

There was an air of tension in the brightly lit conference room at Number 10.
Twelve top government officials and four representatives from the opposition party were seated at a long table waiting and when the PM finally walked in, each person looked up anxiously.
He sat down at the head.
‘I can confirm to you all that the Prince has been taken hostage by an unknown group of individuals,’ he said gravely. ‘He was kidnapped while leaving St James Palace. Four men were killed during this assault. I have spoken to the opposition leader who is presently out of the country and he has assured me that we have his absolute backing on whatever course of action we decide to take. Now, by some small miracle the police have managed to stop the van that was used in the kidnap. Apparently, the Prince is being held at gun point in the rear of the vehicle. The police have the van surrounded and the Police Commissioner and top officials of MI5 are on the way there as we speak. At this stage we have no news concerning the Prince’s health. The terrorists have demanded three million dollars and an aeroplane to take them to whichever North African country they choose. If we do not accept their demands they have threatened to kill His Royal Highness in three hours time.’
There was a sudden wave of panic in the room.
‘Do we know who’s behind this attack, Mr. Prime Minister?’ came the voice of one of the officials above the general murmuring.
‘At the moment, no.’ The Prime Minister told him and there was a cold silence again. ‘What we do know, however, is that whoever they are they do mean business.’
‘And will we accept their demands?’ asked the Minister of Foreign Affairs opposite.
‘If we give in, Mathew, they say they will free him. Having said that, I’m sure you all appreciate that in situations such as this one giving in to them means opening our doors wide to anyone out there who wishes to blackmail the government by doing the same thing we are witnessing tonight.’
‘Quite a dilemma, Mr. Prime Minister.’
‘An understatement, John,’ he said softly. ‘However, as we all know the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment is considered the best where counter terrorist action is concerned and their experience in siege-breaking operations is second to none. An SAS liaison team is on stand-by as we speak should we opt for military intervention. I have instructed CO 22 SAS to provide me with the technical details as to how such an operation will be coordinated.’
There was a general sigh of relief at this, followed by soft murmuring as the delegates whispered their approvals to one another.
‘But what are the odds of storming the van without the Prince getting hurt?’ one of the Ministers asked.
There was another tense moment of silence after which the Prime Minister spoke,
‘I’ve already been informed that storming the van would most certainly result in the Prince’s death,’ he said gravely. ‘Our objective is to get them to the aeroplane where such an attack by our forces may be coordinated much better and with higher chances of success. In the meantime, we are in the hands of fate, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Then God help us.’

* * *

When the Police Commissioner and Head of the Security Service were waved through the barrier that cut off access to the road beyond and they arrived on scene, the place looked like something out of a disaster movie.
Police cars surrounded the area, amber and blue lights flashing in the dark; plain clothes detectives gathered information from the four policemen who had tailed the Transit, a section of Special Forces soldiers busied themselves preparing their assault kits, and a number of paramedics set up ‘Triage points’ beside two ambulances just in case; and finally, a number of officials came and left the large vehicle that was the mobile command centre.
As for the two ‘terrorists’, they were still kneeling down beside the Transit, brandishing their submachine guns and constantly checking the area around them for any signs of irregular activities that would indicate an assault, although the British would be crazy to do anything with their Prince being held at gunpoint inside the van.
The cold silence there was broken by the Commissioner’s sharp voice.
‘This is the Commissioner of Police,’ he called through the loudhailer. ‘I want to speak to the person in charge over there.’
The driver looked at his companion and smiled. ‘Here we go again,’ he said and turned to the Commissioner. ‘I’ve already told your man what we want. Don’t try wasting our time with needless talk. My companions at the back of this van are getting restless. They are a bit trigger happy so I’d watch it. I gave you three hours and three hours is all you’ve got.’
‘Your demands are being discussed at the highest level. It is certainly not for me to say yet whether or not they will be met.’
‘Then as I said: stop wasting my time with needless talk. You have the time I gave you. Use it well or the Prince’s death will be on you.’
‘I need to speak to him. We must confirm that he is all right.’
‘Oh, so now you are demanding things from me, eh?’
‘Before your demands are taken seriously I need guarantee that the Prince is alive and well and that he will be released.’
‘You have my word, that’s all.’
‘I need more than that.’
‘What you need is more proof that we are serious, Mr. Commissioner. Believe me, I can accommodate you on that by chopping off one of his fingers. Perhaps that will convince you that we mean business.’
‘But how do we know he is well?’
‘He’s fine; for now at least, but your time is running out.’
‘Listen to me, your demands will only be met if the Prince is released.’
‘Are you joking?! Do you want me to loose my patience? Have you any idea who you are dealing with here? One more word out of you and I’ll shoot the bastard myself! Now get lost!’
The Commissioner sighed and lit a cigarette.
He handed the loudhailer back to one of the men and turned to the other officers there.
‘Forgive me for being so crass, gentlemen, but I do believe that for the moment they’ve got us by the balls.’
The Head of MI5 shook his head. ‘You’ll have to stall them for as long as we can,’ he said, his face grave.
‘I’ll do my best but it doesn’t seem as though they’re the stalling type. We’ll make sure the plane develops a technical problem before taking off.’
‘Which will make them even more nervous than they already are,’ the Head of MI5 said pensively. ‘They’ll realise we’re planning something. A technical fault like that can only smell of an assault.’
‘True. However, we have no other options.’

* * *

After shooting the MI5 surveillance operative in the green Honda Civic parked opposite, the killer in the long black coat stepped out of the shadows of a doorway as a passing car disappeared round the corner.
He flicked his cigarette away and just stood there, looking at the victim slumped sideways across the passenger seat with the side of his head blown away by the high velocity bullet he had fired through the side window. There was blood and pieces of bone fragment everywhere inside the car and the killer smiled, hands in his pockets, a sinister figure in the darkness.
He was small, not more than five feet five, with a pale face, thick eyebrows and black curly hair. He knew that the man in the Honda Civic had been a surveillance operative as soon as had walked into the street. To begin with, the fool had had the reading lamp on and was actually reading a book, which is how the killer had got so close.
Careless man, he had thought at the time, a cruel carelessness that had caused the operative’s untimely demise. Why there was someone watching the house he had no idea, but he knew he had had to get rid of him...
Now, at 2330, the killer opened the driver’s door and reached inside to switch off the small lamp in the ceiling so as not to cause any unnecessary attention to the car. He then crossed the street and it started raining, not that he minded. He liked the rain, especially on nights like this one.
There was no one about now, not a soul.
He walked passed a grocery shop, closed at this hour, and paused just outside Number Eighty-five. After a few moments, just to make sure, he walked up to the front door and produced a set of ‘lock picks’. Speedily, he went about fiddling with the lock and seconds later the door opened.
It was very dark inside and he took a pair of ‘Nite-Finder’ goggles from the small pack wrapped around his waist and slipped them over his head. Closing the door quietly behind him, he screwed a five inch silencer onto a Walther PPK and proceeded inside, a mere shadow.
He knew they were upstairs but he just wanted to make sure so he went around the rooms downstairs first. One could not afford to take chances in his kind of job, he observed. The staircase was made of granite and as he ascended he was smiling again. There was no way they would hear him; there would be no unexpected creaks or cracks one would expect whilst ascending wooden stairs. He checked the first two rooms and in the second found the boy fast asleep in his bed.
The killer stood there for a while thinking about it.
There was something in his eyes at that moment ~ a wild streak of sorts.
The killer turned and made his way to the main bedroom.
The door was wide open. Silently, he crossed over to where Nathalie D’Arcy was fast asleep and stood there looming over her, the silenced PPK at his side. He raised it to her head and it was at that moment that she must have sensed something because she suddenly stirred awake, opened her eyes and looked up at death.
She opened her mouth to scream but he shot her twice between the eyes, two simple coughs, killing her instantly.
He stayed there for a moment longer, placed the device under the bed then turned calmly and walked out…

* * *

Also at 2330, inside the mobile command centre, the Commissioner, the Head of MI5 and the SAS and the other officials were busy discussing things when a uniformed policeman came over with the red telephone. He handed it to the Commissioner.
‘The Prime Minister, sir.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said and listened. ‘I see. Of course. That would be inevitable. Yes, I believe so, sir. As you wish. I will inform them immediately.’
The Commissioner replaced the receiver and turned to the other officials.
‘Right, gentlemen, the PM has charged that we move on to the next stage. Our main focus now is getting them onto that plane so that the operation can be handed over to you and your men, Colonel Helles.’
The SAS Colonel nodded and they went outside into the rain. The Commissioner took the loudhailer.
‘Listen in!’ he called out to the terrorists. ‘I have just spoken to the Prime Minister and he has agreed to meet your demands. The money will be delivered here in half an hour.’
‘And the plane?’ the terrorist called back.
‘I have been assured that one will be waiting for you at the airport.’
‘Then twenty minutes is all you’ve got left, Commissioner. One minute later and your Prince gets a bullet to his head. Do you understand me?’
‘Perfectly.’
The driver of the Transit smiled at his partner and as he was about to say something to him they both heard a series of beeping sounds coming from underneath the Transit.
Both men looked at each other, puzzled.
‘What the hell…?’
The driver looked under the vehicle and saw two explosive devices attached to the under body, two red lights flashing on and off.
His heart sank.
‘Oh my God!’ he whispered incredulously.
The Ford Transit erupted into a great ball of crimson fire followed by a thunderous explosion that rocked the night.
Two police cars were lifted up by the blast and were hurled into some trees beyond. The Commissioner and the other officials at the scene were thrown violently to the ground…

* * *

It had been quite a busy night at the ‘Winged Dagger’ and now, at 2345, D’Arcy had finally closed up.
He enjoyed the walk back home from the bar even though it was raining. It suited his mood perfectly. The roads were deserted at that time of the night. Something had been nagging at his mind all day though, ever since he had got back from visiting his father that morning. He couldn’t put a finger on it but it was there, a nagging feeling, down in the gut stuff, a sort of sixth sense warning him of something ~ but what?
D’Arcy looked behind him to check if he was being followed, not that he thought he was but the feeling he was experiencing raised the hairs on his neck.
The street was clear. No one in sight.
‘Snap out of it, Sean,’ he told himself. ‘You’re out of that life, mate. Get bloody used to it now!’
When he finally got home, he went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. The silence was peaceful, only the soft tapping of rain on the windows. He went upstairs into his son’s room to check on him, as he always did before going to bed himself. Jamie slept peacefully and D’Arcy kissed him on the forehead and went out to his own bedroom.
He switched on his bedside lamp and immediately saw the blood that had oozed out of the gaping exit wounds at the back of his wife’s head.
D’Arcy froze, just looking down at the dark stain on the pillow and sheets, mouth open in stark horror.
His eyes moved to his wife’s face and he saw only cold death as the bomb under the bed went off….

*

5
The
Marcuzzi

The Prime Minister was alone in his office, going through some files that needed his attention and anxiously waiting for news of the kidnapping when the red telephone rang.
He picked up the receiver. It was the Police Commissioner and the news couldn’t have been worse.
The Prime Minister went white as a sheet.
‘Lord God, what a tragedy!’ he whispered, more to himself than anybody else. ‘Why? Why would they do such a horrible thing?’
‘The bomb must have gone off accidentally, Mr. Prime Minister,’ the Commissioner told him. ‘They rigged the van with explosives with the intention of blowing it up along with the Prince if we didn’t give in to their demands. These things have happened before, bombs going off unexpectedly I mean. The terrorists could have been inexperienced in bomb handling. Whatever the reason, the Prince perished in the blast. ’
‘Tragic,’ he said after a while. ‘This news, when it gets out, will cause an uproar, no less.’
‘An understatement, sir.’
‘And what about the situation down there now?’
‘We’ve extinguished the fire and cordoned off the area so that the forensic experts can do their thing. Two of my men were killed in the blast and three others wounded. Apart from that, the situation couldn’t be grimmer I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll have to assemble parliament, after which I will issue a public statement to the press. I would like you with me when I do. Notwithstanding everything, Commissioner, you all did your best. Please tell the others down there.’
‘Thank you, sir, I will.’
The Prime Minister replaced the receiver and stood up.
‘Madness,’ he said softly to himself. ‘Absolute madness.’
The Prime Minister moved to the window and looked out at the darkness that stared back at him. He had only been in government for the past eight months now after winning the last election and this was all he needed. First the deficit, then an alarming drop in tourism thanks to the spate of terrorist attacks abroad in London, Rome, Paris and now this: the Prince’s kidnapping and subsequent death.
What a night, he thought. What a filthy, cold night.
The Prime Minister turned and pressed the switch on the intercom.
‘Sir?’
‘Have the speaker assemble an emergency session of parliament for three o’clock,’ he told his secretary at the other end. ‘I will address my cabinet in this office in ten minutes.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

* * *

M, the Head of the Double O Division of British Intelligence, was in the back with the reading light on as the Daimler made its way to MI6 Headquarters through the wet London streets. It had started raining and he was going through a number of files which needed his immediate attention. His department hadn’t yet been called in on the Prince’s kidnapping but investigations, in sync with the other MI6 sub-divisions, were underway nonetheless to find out who exactly was behind it.
‘What a bloody mess!’ he said softly and looked out the window. ‘How in God’s name could this have happened?!’

* * *

The officials at the site of the explosion were still stunned and horrified at the outcome of what had happened barely an hour ago. The entire area had been cordoned off so that the forensic experts could get on with the intense search for any clues that would shed some light onto what had caused the unexpected blast and how many people had actually perished in it.
At three in the morning, the Commissioner was about to leave for the press conference with the PM when his mobile phone rang.
He got into the car and answered.
‘Yes?’ he said as his driver pulled out.
‘Mr. Commissioner?’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘Who is this?’
‘Who I am is not relevant at the moment,’ she said. ‘What is relevant is the young man I now hold as my prisoner.’
The Commissioner’s heart missed a beat.
‘I’m sure you will recognise this voice to be genuine.’
There was a slight pause and then a man’s voice came on at the other end.
‘Mr. Commissioner, this is William. I am alive and well...’
The cell suddenly went dead and the Commissioner turned white as the gravity of it all hit him full in the face.
The Transit had been a bloody decoy!

* * *

The switch had taken place approximately four hours prior to the explosion, on a secluded road just off Fulkhom Close in East London.
From the Palace, the Transit had come to a screeching halt beside a green Ford Escort parked between some trees. Two of the attackers swiftly grabbed the Prince between them and hustled him into the Escort’s booth.
Jano, who had followed the Transit on her bike, walked up to the Prince and looked down at him.
‘Don’t worry, your Excellency or whatever they call you. You won’t be in there for long, I give you my word.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ the Prince asked, his face white.
‘Later,’ she said. ‘I will explain later.’
She then slammed the hatch down and turned to the driver of the Transit.
‘Go!’ she snapped and the van sped off.
Jano got back on the bike and followed the Escort back into London City …

* * *

And now, the Prime Minister was at his desk going through the detailed report the Commissioner had submitted fifteen minutes ago.
He had had to cancel the emergency session of parliament due to the new shocking developments but would address all the members first thing in the morning. His troubled thoughts as he read through the report were interrupted by a soft knock on the door and his personal assistant walked in.
‘This is the worst scenario of my life, Michael,’ he said without looking up. ‘Eight months in office and I’m faced with such a crises. How unlucky can a man be?’
‘Indeed a filthy business, Prime Minister.’
‘And still no word from the kidnappers?’
‘I’m afraid not. Hundreds of men are on the case though but of course it is still rather early for results at the moment.’
‘What about the press?’
‘The story will be on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow morning.’
The Prime Minister nodded, got up and started pacing the room. ‘Tell me about the Double O Division, Michael. I’ve just come across a file that mentions it. I’ve heard of it before but…’
‘It is an ultra-secret organisation made up of twenty British SIS agents who hold the double O numerals.’
‘Double O numerals? What the hell is that?’
‘They signify that these SIS agents have killed and are privileged to kill on active service, Sir. It was initiated in July 1937 as a sub-section of the Secret Intelligence Service to conduct warfare by means other than direct military engagement. It was, however, reorganised shortly after the end of the cold war to combat the ever increasing wave of terrorism and other forms of crime. Its sphere of responsibility involves the handling of extremely delicate cases. Cases MI5 or MI6 wouldn’t dare touch. In other words, if it’s too hot for them they’ll hand it down to the Double O Division. One could say they are not bound by the normal rules of law. In fact, they work completely outside it. Surveillance, infiltratration, undercover operations and assassination jobs. You name it, they do it. We have had a number of complaints regarding their methods, by a number of high ranking officers in the force and the Intelligence Community, but I’m sure you’ll agree that in today’s world such an organisation is indispensable.’
The Prime Minister moved to the window and stood there with his hands clenched behind his back.
‘A special government organisation that deals harshly with men and women who cannot be touched by the law,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘How convenient.’
‘Simply put, they offer tough approaches for very tough situations, sir.’
‘Situations such as this one, Michael?’
‘It would appear so, Prime Minister.’
The Prime Minister sat down and leaned back in his chair, studying the young man before him.
‘Tell me about its Chief,’ he said after a while. ‘This M.’
‘Colonel Gordon Jackson, Sir, OBE and MC in recognition of his services to the military. After a short stint as a subaltern with the Grenadier Guards, he decided to join the Special Air Service. He turned out to be a brave and skilled soldier. Probably took after his Grandfather no doubt who was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Parachute Regiment. He became Commanding Officer of 22 SAS between 1954 and 1968 until he left and went on to Military Intelligence He was sent over to Northern Ireland at the beginning of the troubles, attached to an Intelligence outfit called the MRF. Unfortunately, during a surveillance operation he lost his left arm in a bomb explosion. He was sent back to England and after fully recovering was transferred to MI6’s Section D – Counter Terrorism Analysis. He was appointed Head of the Double O Division a year and a half ago by your predecessor and tasked with its reorganisation. There couldn’t have been a better candidate for the post. Not with his track record. He has coordinated numerous clandestine operations on behalf of the government against various crime syndicates, drug organisations and terrorist bodies that were operating right under our noses but couldn’t be touched, legally that is, not even with the proverbial ten foot barge pole. He also coordinated the capture of the notorious Salvatore Rossi, the drug lord, and thanks to him he is now serving a twenty five year sentence.’
‘Hmm,’ the Prime Minister said pensively. ‘Then if takes working outside the rule of law to find and rescue His Royal Highness, the Double O Division may just be what we need.’
‘It would appear so, Prime Minister.’
‘Right, make sure the Colonel is present with the chiefs of MI5 and MI6 when I meet them in a couple of hour’s time.’
‘Yes Prime Minister.’

*

The uniformed policeman saluted as the black Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street. As soon as the car pulled up at the kerb the door opened and Colonel Jackson got out followed by his Chief of Staff Bill Tanner. The Colonel wore a long black topcoat with a grey velvet collar over a dark grey suit, the 22 SAS Regimental tie perfectly knotted at his neck on a white shirt. He carried a black briefcase and his left hand was gloved. An aide ushered them inside No 10 and up the stairs, past the portraits of previous Prime Ministers, and along the carpeted corridor.
The aid knocked gently on the door at the far end and opened it.
‘M, Prime Minister.’
They went in and the door closed behind them.
The newly elected PM was in shirt sleeves and typing away at his computer, glasses perched on the end of his nose. The office was elegant, with ivory walls, beige curtains and dark brown leather seating. A fireplace burned in one corner. Also in the room with him, sitting in armchairs in front of his desk was the Director Generals of MI5 and MI6, the heads of Scotland Yard’s C13 Anti Terrorist branch, 22 Special Air Service, SIB and the head of CI7.
The Colonel stood in front of the PM’s desk.
‘A long night, M,’ the PM said, removed his glasses and sat back in his chair. ‘One without an end in sight it seems.’
‘With the worst yet to come no doubt, Prime Minister.’ The Colonel told him calmly.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He told him. ‘Now then, this business regarding Sean D’Arcy. When I informed you earlier that the Prince was in fact alive and that the van was a well planned decoy, you seemed to imply that there may be a connection between this D’Arcy and the Prince’s kidnapping.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Please explain.’
‘Do you recall, sir, the Salvatore Rossi affair six months ago?’ the Colonel asked.
‘How could I forget, his court case caused quite a storm at the time.’
‘Well, sir, I believe that His Royal Highness may have been abducted in order to blackmail your government into releasing Rossi from prison.’
‘My God!’
‘Upon what evidence exactly are you basing such an assumption, Colonel,’ the PM asked.
‘This.’ The Colonel reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, produced a small cassette player and pressed the play button.
‘‘I’ve just been on the phone with your business partners,’’ the voice of a man said. ‘‘They’ve assured me it is only a matter of time now.’’
‘‘Who have they sent?’’ came the voice of a second man.
‘‘They didn’t elaborate. They just told me that they’re here.’’
There was a pause that lasted a couple of moments then the same two voices came on again.
‘‘Twenty five years, the bastards put me down for,’’ the second man said. ‘‘Twenty five Goddamn years, can you believe it, and the whole thing wasn’t even legal! What a farce!’’
‘‘The evidence against your claim of illegal arrest was overwhelming, Mr Rossi, the outcome was inevitable.’’
‘‘Well, the bastards are finally going to pay for that, big time,’’ the second man hissed. ‘‘Now then, what about that special forces operative or whatever he is?’’
‘‘I’ve been assured he will be taken care of. Remember, they also have a personal score to settle with him so rest assured.’’
‘‘Revenge is best served cold,’’ The second man said. ‘‘And six months is cold enough for me.’’
Another pause.
‘‘Did they tell you what the plan is?’’ the second man asked.
‘‘Whatever your associates have up their sleeves will certainly satisfy your thirst for revenge.’’
The tape ended and the Colonel replaced the cassette player back in his pocket.
‘This conversation was recorded by MI5 yesterday morning at Colstale Prison during a meeting between Salvatore Rossi and his lawyer, one Robert Morgan. The tape was edited of course in order to omit the irrelevant bits and pieces, but as you can see from the contents I’m sure you will agree with my conclusion. Having said that, the conversation was too vague for us to have identified that they were actually referring to what took place earlier.’
‘Why was Rossi still being kept under surveillance?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘We all know what Salvatore Rossi stands for, Prime Minister,’ the DG of MI5 told him. ‘Drugs, prostitution, illegal gambling, child p�rnography. You name it he’s behind it, and just because he’s behind bars doesn’t mean he’s not running things from the inside. MI5’s job is to prevent people like him from keeping his crime organisation active, but to reach that objective we need to know exactly what he’s up to, where, how and when, even if it does mean waiving his rights slightly.’
‘Considering you were aware that Rossi was planning something against Warrant Officer D’Arcy, may I ask what precautions the security services took to protect him?’ the head of 22 SAS asked.
It was the DG of MI6 who answered. ‘At precisely twelve o’clock yesterday afternoon a surveillance team was deployed to watch his back twenty four hours. We also had teams put onto Rossi’s lawyer and known associates. All their phones were tapped in a matter of hours from that conversation with the hope that we might shed some light onto what they were actually planning. Homes, offices, cars. The works. Unfortunately though, nothing came up to warn us that they were in fact referring to the kidnapping of the Prince or the assassination of D’Arcy.’
‘What about D’Arcy’s family?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘Did you have them watched?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ M said. ‘We had an armed double ‘O’ agent outside his house watching over his wife and son too. Regrettably, he was killed by the assassin or assassins before proceeding to break into D’Arcy’s house to kill them.’
The Prime Minister looked visibly shaken at this. He just sat there taking it all in.
‘Was D’Arcy made aware that Rossi was planning something against him and that you were using him as bait?’ asked the head of 22 SAS.
‘No,’ the DG of MI5 told him. ‘The decision to leave D’Arcy in the dark was to flush the actual threat out of the proverbial woodwork. Our main objective, other than D’Arcy’s safety, was to get to the bottom of what else exactly Rossi was referring to when he stated that the ‘bastards are going to pay big time for locking him away’. To do that, to get to the bottom of it all, absolute secrecy was required, even from Sean D’Arcy. Having said that, gentlemen, everything that should have been done to protect him and his family was done but in these circumstances anything can go wrong, as it in fact did.’
The head of C13 leaned forward.
‘So it would seem that Salvatore Rossi is the mind behind all this then.’
‘No.’ M told him. ‘It is the organisation he worked for before he was abducted by D’Arcy and my men. Don’t forget, his lawyer referred to Rossi’s business partners. He also mentioned that they were in fact already here in the UK.’
‘Do we know who Rossi’s lawyer was referring to then, M?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘This is where it gets a bit complicated, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘Twelve months ago, MI5 received information that Salvatore Rossi was coordinating a very big drug deal for a secret organisation called the Marcuzzi Syndicate. MI5 found out that the deal was going to be with a North African drug circle called the Shaheel Peshant. According to MI5, it was the first time that these two organisations were doing business together and Rossi, who had dealt with the Shaheel Peshant and the Marcuzzi before was chosen to act as a much needed go-between. MI6 immediately set up a covert operation to keep an eye on Rossi hoping that he would lead them to the Marcuzzi or even the Shaheel, who they’ve been after for years now, together with the rest of the world’s major intelligence services I must note. Unfortunately, Rossi gave MI6 the slip and disappeared off the face of the earth. After a couple of months he was traced back in Sicily. The Double ‘O’ Division was given the task of organising his clandestine abduction from Sicily which obviously left the Marcuzzi’s deal with the Shaheel Peshant unwrapped, so to speak.’
‘M, are you telling us that this Marcuzzi Syndicate want Salvatore Rossi out of prison to conclude that deal?’ the head of 22 SAS asked.
‘That’s right,’ the Colonel told him. ‘We’re talking billions and without Rossi the deal will never get off the ground.’
‘And what exactly do we know about this Marcuzzi Syndicate, M?’ the Prime Minister asked.
The Colonel cleared his throat.
‘We know they are a secret criminal and terrorist organisation formed during the early 1900s by a Sicilian Mafia Don called Oscar Francesco Marcuzzi who, together with a number of other top European criminals, decided to break away from the ruling mafia, camorra and other organised criminal outfits ruling Europe at the time. God only knows why, but they wanted to start their own thing, something deadlier, more sinister. Throughout the years, La Marcuzzi, as it is more commonly known in the underworld, became very, very powerful indeed. London, New York, Belfast, Israel, Rome, Moscow, Paris, Berlin ~ you name the city or country, the Marcuzzi established itself there. They deal in anything from drug and illegal arms smuggling, blackmail, extortion, armed robbery, assassination and terrorism. The French secret service believe they have also provided assassins-for-hire to a number of terrorist networks, among them Al Qaeda. They are also responsible for some of the major political assassinations performed during and after the cold war.’
‘Very dangerous people indeed.’ The Prime Minister told him ‘People, I understand, who would not hesitate to kill Prince William if we do not comply with their demands, whatever they may be. Correct?’
‘If it is the Marcuzzi, sir, I’m afraid they would not.’
‘Then time is not on our side, gentlemen, and most of all, my government cannot be seen to tolerate acts of terrorism such as this one. If we do, if we give in to their demands, we are leaving the door wide open to anyone who wants to hold this country for ransom and that simply cannot stand.’
M spoke again. ‘In that case, if I may be so bold to suggest there can only be one course of action available, Prime Minister, and that is to find them and find them fast. To do so though you will have to unleash the proverbial dogs of war.’
‘And what would your division require to handle such a crisis, M? I understand the Double ‘O’ Division was activated primarily to handle situations considered too hot for the normal rules of law. I’m sure we all agree that this crisis constitutes one such situation. ’
‘Simple, Prime Minister, the necessary ‘freedom’ to act in any way it deems fit in order to locate the where abouts of His Royal Highness. Such an operation would, I am afraid, involve certain unorthodox measures.’
‘I see,’ the PM said and there was a tense silence whilst the PM brooded. ‘You will have to put your best men onto the case.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘Which brings me to a very important point, M,’ he said. ‘Commander James Bond agent Double ‘O’ Seven.’
‘He resigned from the Service, Prime Minister, right after the HaJinn affair and just before you were elected.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Jamaica. He owns a house there.’
‘Well, M, Her Majesty the Queen has officially requested you bring him back in, no matter what. I don’t know why but she wants him on this job and I’m not going to be the one to tell her he won’t be. Find him and reinstate him into the Double ‘O’ Division. Do I make myself clear?’
There was a tense silence in the room which lasted several moments.
‘Perfectly, Prime Minister,’ M said.
The Prime Minister stood up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Find His Royal Highness, gentlemen. Pull out all the stops. Unleash the bloody dogs of war onto this Marcuzzi syndicate, or whatever the hell they call themselves, but find him. Fast. Now you must go. I’m expected at Buckingham Palace in ten minutes…’

TO BE CONTINUED
IN

PART TWO

_______________________________

OO7

[Harry Fawkes]

PART TWO
OO7

1
Banco

An hour or so before the kidnapping and punctually at six o’clock the sun set behind the Blue Mountains in the distance with one last yellow flash over the island of Jamaica.
He was sitting down on the cliffs overlooking the horseshoe-shaped bay facing the Caribbean, savoring one of his Moreland Specials with the distinctive three gold rings as he gazed out at the bright blue sea, wearing nothing but shorts and sandals.
He felt what the locals still called the Undertaker’s Wind brush his face as it ‘blew the bad air out of the island’.
Six months, he mused.
He had been out here six long months, which was a bloody long time in his book and coming to terms with the fact that his ‘life’ as a man who had held the elite double O numerals for more years than he himself could remember were categorically over was harder than he had thought. It wasn’t long before those blubbery arms of the ‘soft life’ he had dreaded so much in the past, in between assignments, wrapped themselves around his neck, suffocating him...
Samantha.
He pictured her in his mind, those spellbinding green eyes, that full mouth and the bright red lips that lifted at the corners seductively. He had never once stopped being enthralled by her exciting beauty and the warmth and love she had shown him. It was she who, in the end, had been the driving force behind him overcoming the despair he had felt back then and it was only thanks to her that he had gradually revived the zest in living again.
If only he had noticed the signs that she too was going through the same despair that he was.
‘Idiot!’ he said and his thoughts went back to that day they had declared their love for one another, back at Pratica Di Mare airbase, a million years ago.
‘I’ve fallen in love with you,’ she had told him. ‘I don’t know how or when, or even if love is possible in such a short time, but that’s what I feel for you. Pure unconditional love.’
‘I feel the same, Sam, felt it the moment I set eyes on you way back in Sicily believe it or not. But there’s one thing neither of us have considered.’
‘Which is?’
‘Can that love work out? We’re going to be faced with a choice, you and I. Whenever I’ve chosen to love somebody it just hasn’t worked out. I’m addicted to what I do; just as you are ~ I know, I’ve seen it in your eyes.’
‘What you say makes sense, but that’s the beauty of it all, no? There is no sense to any of this. Never was. Everything you have just said is reasonable. Well, let’s leave reason out of this for a while and when we tire of living our lives without logic we shall see where we are. I’m mad about you and I know you feel the same about me…There is the insanity. I’m not going to ask you to give up what you do and I don’t expect you to ask me to give up what I do. We are who we are. We must learn how not to drive each other crazy because of our jobs. If you can live with what I do then I can live with what you do…’
He flicked the cigarette away and cursed.
But they did give up their jobs, the jobs they loved so much, the jobs that had made them who and what they were. Eventually they became two strangers, distant. But there could be no turning back for him. There was no way he could go back to the life he had left behind.
As for Sam? Well…
He smiled and got up, stretching his muscled body.
‘Well, I hope the bitch is enjoying it,’ he said, turned and made his way back down the stone steps…

* * *

Shamelady was located in a secluded area in one of Jamaica’s most beautiful coastal parts, not far from Santa Maria and Port Gavin on the North Shore of the island, concealed by coconut palms, thick shrubbery, mangrove slough and cane fields. It was built above a horseshoe shaped bay near the top of the stone steps leading up to the high cliff where he sat every evening at six to watch the sun go down...
Two bed-roomed, it wasn’t a comfortable house but it offered one of the most beautiful sunsets in the world and was exactly what he wanted and enjoyed, much to the surprise of everyone who knew him. The furniture was made locally, a rough, do-it-yourself quality. The place, quite dull and ordinary, was indeed a violent contrast between the glamorous standard of living he used to enjoy before retiring and the one he now put up with here.
‘She fits my requirements perfectly,’ he had assured a close friend who had visited him there once. ‘It took a while to manage altering my lifestyle but as you can see I’ve adapted nicely. What else could a man ask for?’
Although he needed to keep a low profile out here in Jamaica he still enjoyed a discreet social life amongst the high flying millionaires and British expats who lived or holidayed there. People, especially the women, were simply spellbound by his hard good looks, his charm, his eligibility and that air of anonymity that surrounded him. He was warmly welcomed everywhere he went and was known by all as the Commander…
After a cold shower and shave he got dressed into a sharp Brioni tuxedo and after enjoying a much needed Scotch and Soda in the small living room went out to the silver Aston Martin DBS V12 and drove off to Kingston…

* * *

He drove through Richmond Road, past the big old-fashioned houses with their beautiful lawns with the finest trees and flowers in Jamaica and five minutes later turned through the high gates along a gravelled drive and wide lawn up to the floodlit and gleaming pillared entrance of the Oracle Casino.
He parked and went up the steps inside. He walked up to the porter’s lodge and was greeted accordingly by young Johnson who knew him well.
‘Good evening, Commander.’
‘How are you Johnson?’ he asked.
‘Fine thank you, Sah.’
‘Good. Busy tonight?’
‘Fridays generally are, Commander. We got some new players too, couple of Americans and French. They’re staying at the Monarch Hotel down the road. Real players, if you know what I mean. ’
‘That’s exactly what I’m in the mood for tonight. Real play.’
The man called Johnson led him up a wide staircase and across a stairwell to the magnificent white and gold Salles Privèes.
The Oracle Casino was built in 1870 as a summer residence for the very rich Brigadier in Command of the Caribbean Defence Force, Brigadier Faultimore Giles. A central courtyard, later roofed over to house the main gaming hall, contained flowerbeds and marble fountains around which the interconnecting rooms of the colonnaded palace were built. A semi-circular staircase leads to the main entrance, which is guarded by two pharaonic statues. In the early 1960s an Anglo-German company leased the palace and its grounds from the Brigadier’s surviving relatives and after extensive alterations they converted it and in 1964 it opened its doors as the Oracle Casino. In the 1970s the property was acquired by the government, which still owns it, but on 15th February 1999 it granted a 10 year concession to Ilargo Casino Ltd, a French company, to manage and operate the place. On the 10th June 1999 the Casino reopened after a two million dollar refurbishment programme.
‘Will you be dining, Sah?’ Johnson asked.
‘Yes, if I could have my usual table.’
‘But of course. I’ll tell the chef you’re here.’
Although not a gourmet in the strictest sense, the staff at the Oracle Casino’s Dining Hall knew the Commander’s likes and dislikes and knew how fussy he was when it came to his food and drink. He was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it and by and large asked for it in an abrupt and authoritative way, especially when it came to his after-dinner Vodka Martini.
As usual he dined well there, this time though seated alone in the far left corner. He ordered a large Scotch and Soda and, starting off with black crab soup he then decided on the mouth watering Kingfish with boiled potatoes and vegetables.
After dinner and completely satisfied, he ordered his usual Vodka Martini and went out onto the wide balcony overlooking the colourfully lit lawn and enjoyed a cigarette.
It was a beautiful evening and he felt good, better than he had in a long time.
He smiled at the thought of Sam and couldn’t help wondering what she might be doing right now. To be fair, they had had a good time together and he truly missed her. Without a doubt she had been the best of his conquests, his so-called affairs, and regretted losing her. But then again who was he to stop her from rejoining the French Security Service?
Perhaps he should give Bill Tanner a call one of these days and ask if his old job was still available.
Who knows?
No, he concluded, the new M would never accept him back. He had not got on with the Colonel at all. God only knows why but they had started off on the wrong foot and then from there on it was only down hill…
He turned and went through to the salles des jeux.
The crystal chandeliers were brightly lit and the place was filling fast, the wealthy and exclusive women exquisitely gowned and the men all dressed in Tuxedos. He could feel the excitement in the air like a real thing.
And then it was as if the breath went out of him for a moment as his eyes fell upon a very attractive young woman at the baccarat table.
He stood there, charmed to say the least.
She was a stunning woman in a dazzling silver evening dress by Chandrail Molète which fitted her firm, shapely Goddess-like figure perfectly.
She was tall and her hair was purple-black, straight, shoulder length. Her stunning face glowed, exquisitely olive coloured, with luminous blue-black eyes. There was an excitement in them, a glowing fire that burned brightly. Her mouth was sensuous with full, red lips.
It took him a few moments to shake himself out of his reverie and he noticed that the real action was around that particular table with a number of people watching her play. She had already won a lot of money and the night hadn’t even started yet.
‘Messieurs, mesdams, les jeux sont faits,’ the croupier said and another game began. She confidently handled her cards and again won, with difficulty this time – a six against a five.
Two thousand in her bank though. A nice packet.
There was a murmur of excitement around the table as the croupier prodded to find someone to bet against her. The other players refused, obviously wary of her seemingly resolute ‘luck’.
‘Un banco de dieux mille! Fait vos jeux, Messieurs, mesdams. Il reste a completer! Un banco de dieux mille.’
It was then that he moved in through the crowd.
‘Banco,’ he said rather sharply.
They all looked at him and there was an exciting silence that lasted a few moments.
He took a chair facing her and matched the bet. He smiled across and she acknowledged, impassively though, as she slipped two cards from the sabot, dealing them towards him.
He picked them up and placidly glanced at them.
Nothing better than a bloody five.
He looked directly into her eyes.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying but you remind me of a painting by Bruyère,’ he told her.
The woman’s smile turned to one of interest.
‘I know his work,’ she said softly. ‘Impressionism had been my passion when I was at school.’
He couldn’t figure out the accent.
She turned over her cards.
Seven.
She slipped him a card.
A Queen, just his luck.
He tossed his other two cards on the table.
A four.
He had lost and he noted the mischief in her eyes.
He shrugged slightly.
‘Well, easy come, easy go, Ms…?’
‘Sabah. Nadesh Sabah. It seems my luck is on a winning streak this evening, Mr…?’
‘My name is Bond,’ he said and lit a cigarette. ‘James Bond.’
‘Well then, Mr Bond, shall we up the stakes slightly then? Double. Or is that too high for you?’
He nodded, his grey-blue eyes devouring her completely.
‘Not at all. Suivi.’
Calmly, she dealt the cards.
‘Jean Louise Bruyère,’ she said softly. ‘I used to know every piece he had done.’
Her eyes again teased him, warmly.
‘So you know the Virgin Awakening?’ Bond asked.
‘The lost Bruyère. Yes I know of it. It was stolen in 1940 never to be found.’
Glancing at his cards, Bond asked for a third,
‘Carte.’
She turned over hers. A five and a Queen as she dealt him a face up six.
‘Cinq,’ the croupier called.
He nodded calmly.
‘They say the girl in the painting was his very first love. Sashay Valeria. It must certainly be your eyes, Ms Sabah. The similarity that is.’
‘I’m flattered Mr. Bond.’
James Bond turned up a King and a Jack.
‘Suise,’ the croupier called sharply. ‘The bank loses.’
The croupier gathered the pile of markers and slid them towards Bond and she smiled invitingly across at him and rose to leave the table.
‘My time is up. Thank you, Mr Bond. It has indeed been a pleasure meeting you.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
And with that she walked away.
James Bond was definitely hooked though and was determined not to leave it at that. This Nadesh Sabah was, he observed, quite a lady.
He took two of the larger plaques and as is customary tossed them over to the croupier then went after her...

* * *

‘May I join you?’
The girl glanced back as she strolled off to the bar.
‘Mr Bond…’
‘Call me James, please.’
She hesitated slightly.
‘I do owe you at least a drink,’ he insisted.
‘What makes you think that?
‘Well for starters I put the spectre of defeat onto you. It’s the least I can do.’
His grey-blue eyes were quite disarming, as was the cruel smile on the tanned, handsome face.
She glanced at her watch and smiled.
‘OK, James,’ she said. ‘One drink it is.’
He signalled the barman,
‘Two Vodka Martinis, shaken not stirred.’
They moved across to an empty booth and sat down.
‘Vodka Martinis? Sounds exciting.’
‘Three measures of Gordon’s, one of Vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet,’ he told her. ‘Shake it well until its ice cold then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. It’s a lovely drink and my own invention I might add.’
‘You’re a man of taste.’
‘Life’s too short not to be.’
There was a moment of silence then as they both seemed to sum each other up. Then Bond said,
‘So, what brings you to Jamaica, Nadesh?’
‘I’m here with my father. He owns a yacht - The Prometheus. She’s anchored up the coast. We’re here till tomorrow night.’
‘Your accent, I can’t quite put a finger on it.’
‘I’m part American and part Lebanese.’
He looked down at her hands and smiled.
‘Good,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘No wedding ring. I’m in luck.’
Nadesh laughed. ‘My goodness, James, you don’t waist time do you?’
‘No I don’t, especially now that I know you’re leaving tomorrow night.’
His eyes devoured hers and she found herself truly excited by this tall, dark handsome stranger.
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
The barman placed the two frosted glasses with the pale golden drinks in front of them.
He raised his glass to her.
‘To you, Nadesh Sabah, and may this evening be one in a lifetime.’
There was a sort of breathlessness in her then, a breathlessness that no man she had ever met before this one had caused.
She raised her glass, looking deep into his face.
It was dark, clean cut, the eyes hard, wide and level under straight long black brows. The nose was long and straight above a cruel mouth that seemed to be fixed into a perpetual smile. The jaw was firm, ruthless and a two-inch scar ran down the side of his right cheek, a pale streak on the tan of his face. His hair was black, thick and parted on the left.
Yes, Nadesh thought as she sipped the Martini, this James Bond was definitely the most handsome man she had ever set eyes upon and would no doubt be worth every moment...
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Now what about you, James? What are you doing in Jamaica?’
‘I live here. Jamaica’s my place of escape.’
‘From what?’
‘Oh, many things, Nadesh. Life in general if you wish.’
‘How mysterious, Mr Bond. What do you do?’
‘For a living?’
‘Yes. You do work, no?’
‘At the moment I don’t. I’m just catching up after years of, how shall I put it…troubleshooting for Queen and country.’
‘You were in the military?’
‘Royal Navy.’
‘And you live alone?’
‘Yes.’
Their eyes met again and her pupils dilated.
She breathed in deeply, as if to steady herself and gently touched the scar on his cheek.
‘How did you get that?’ she asked.
‘I went through a windscreen once,’ he said. ‘A long and reckless time ago.’
He drank some of the Martini and lit a cigarette, blowing out a thick stream of smoke.
‘Do you sleep on board your father’s yacht, Nadesh?’
She raised an eyebrow and after a pause smiled into his eyes.
‘I’m old enough not to, if that’s what you mean, James.’
‘Then what would you say if I were to ask you back to my place for a drink and then if you’re in the mood a midnight swim?’
Bond looked into her luminous blue-black eyes and her lips parted in an expression of modest excitement.
‘I don’t know why but I’d probably say that would be lovely, James. But there would be one problem though.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have a guardian who watches over me. A bodyguard if you will. My father is very protective of me and I don’t think he’d take to me running off with a complete stranger. Who knows, you might kidnap me and where would that get me.’
‘In my arms for starters,’ Bond quipped and leaned back smoking, studying her.
She laughed.
‘This guardian, where is he now?’ he asked.
‘He’s waiting in the car. I told him I’d only be an hour, two the most. He’ll drive me back to the yacht. My father is holding a cocktail party and buffet for some business associates of his. Masawi has strict orders not to let me out of his sight and to make sure I’m on board the Prometheus by nine thirty latest. My father likes showing me off to his friends when it comes to business parties.’
‘Hmmm, how about I come with you, then when it all gets boring for you I could really kidnap you then take you back to my place.’
‘What then? After that midnight swim you mentioned, James?’ her eyes glowed fiercely and he was captivated again.
‘Make passionate love, Nadesh, and let the world burn to the ground around us.’
And then there was that breathlessness in her again and she finished her drink. When she looked at him there was an exciting want in her eyes.
‘This is so sudden, James. I’m not usually like this. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about me.’
He leaned forward and took one of her hands, holding it lightly, smiling, an inimitable, wry smile of such charm that she found herself wanting to give herself completely to him.
‘Don’t think, just let it happen.’ He got up. ‘Now then, introduce me to this guardian of yours. You see my dear Nadesh Sabah now that I have you I’m not going to let you go…’

2
Accidental Discovery

Downstairs they walked towards her car, a silver Mazda 6 Deluxe Sedan, and a big bull of a man, completely bold and with the face of a prize boxer, broken nose and all the scars to prove it, stepped out of some shadows behind them. He was dressed in a black three piece suit.
‘Nadesh!’ he called. ‘Miesserak irriedak ful hin. Taf khem jirabja jek ma tkunx.’
They turned and Bond recognised the language as Lebanese.
The man called Masawi looked Bond up and down nastily.
‘Min hu dan?’ he almost growled.
‘This is Mr Bond, Masawi,’ she told him in English. ‘He is a friend of mine. I will be going back to the yacht with him. You may follow in my car if you wish.’
It was an order, closed to the argument she knew was coming.
‘Your father…’
‘I will take care of my father.’ She snapped.
Bond smiled naughtily at the big Lebanese then winked.
‘Hope he can keep up,’ he told her as they made their way to his Aston Martin.
Masawi swore in Lebanese, flicked away the cigar he was smoking and quickly got into the Sedan.
‘Nice car, James, may I drive?’
Bond’s heart sank.
He knew that women were often meticulous and safe drivers but on the other hand they were very seldom first-class. They were what he often referred to as mild hazards on the road. The question now was: could he trust her with his car?
‘I usually give women plenty of road when I’m driving,’ he said, sighed softly and reluctantly tossed her the key. ‘But for you, Nadesh, I’d give the world.’
He got in the passenger seat.
‘Hmmm, very comfortable,’ she said when she got in and ten minutes later they were clearing Richmond Road and driving out from Kingston.
She took the panoramic road towards Santa Maria and the Blue Mountains, passed the rousing luxuriance of the big plantations and the rich white and brown coloured houses in the dark hills, all made clear by the glow of the full moon.
‘Well, at least you drive like a man,’ Bond said breaking the silence.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘To begin with you’re entirely focused on the road. I only ever knew one woman who drove like that. You constantly look at your driving mirror which I must point out is an accessory rarely used by women…’
‘Don’t say it, James, except for making up their faces.’
‘Well, it’s true. But back to you, you seem to take a man’s pleasure in the feel of the machine, in the timing of the gear changes and the use of the brake. I’m impressed.’
She smiled. ‘Now that is very sexist of you, Mr Bond, something I don’t take very kind to!’
Nadesh Sabah swore, wrenched the wheel left and swung the Aston Martin into one of the tightest hairpin bends he had ever encountered on Jamaica’s roads.
She shifted down, floored the accelerator and then shifted up again roaring past an oncoming truck which flashed its headlights at them as they sped off passed it into the darkness beyond.
Bond took a deep breath to steady his nerves as he watched the speedometer reach 120 MPH then go to 160 in a flash.
‘What about your guardian?’ he asked.
‘Masawi? Oh, he’ll be ok, James. He knows the way. You just hold on and I’ll show you what women can do when it comes to focus, dear…’
Ten minutes later and James Bond looked a bit pale as she negotiated the Aston through another sharp right turn without changing down but the DBS V12 handled it perfectly.
She piled on more power again and this time shot passed a white Mercedes Benz.
‘Remind me to congratulate your driving instructor,’ he said.
They reached the switchback coast road and the bright light of the full moon glinted on the waters of the Caribbean.
The harbour was further down and Nadesh thankfully reduced speed as they approached.
There were a number of berthed yachts there but the one that stood out was the sleek black and silver Prometheus anchored half a mile out.
She was completely new in design, Bond observed, a remarkable departure from what he had ever seen before. It was a contrasting mix of modern and traditional elements and among the more unique characteristics were the enclosed aft atrium and the 1930’s bull-nose bow. The round windows along the superstructure were evocative of an ancient cruise liner.
‘The top deck is broken into three distinct areas,’ Nadesh told him as they got out of the car. ‘It consists of an arch with a heli-platform, an enclosed gym with 360 degree views, and an external whirlpool /sundeck area. The lower deck features a bar and lounge area with swim platforms on each side of the hull. She’s 334.6' long and can accommodate 28 passengers and 53 crew members; and to top it all I designed her, James.’
Bond was indeed impressed.
‘She’s breathtakingly beautiful, Nadesh – just like you.’
She looked at him and smiled slowly.
‘Thank you, James.’
They took a sleek black launch passed the other yachts, sail boats and fishing boats that were strewn there in the harbour and as they came alongside her he could see two sailors in white shorts and shirts standing by the ladder with boat hooks ready.
They were greeted by a tall American redhead, powerfully built and dressed in a stylish Italian suit. He shook Bond’s hand but other than that ignored him completely.
‘Glad you’re on time Nadesh,’ he said smiling broadly at her. ‘Your father was just asking for you.’
‘Is everyone here?’
‘Yep, and it looks as though it’s gonna be a wonderful evening.’
The American led them passed the deckhouse, where the crew’s quarters, the bridge and the staterooms and offices were and accompanied them to a lift which took Bond and Nadesh from the main deck level to the lower level.
When the doors opened again James Bond was even more amazed.
He had not seen such lavishness even in the yachts of the most extravagant billionaires. It was a place of pure wealth and unlimited comfort. The floors were marble-tiled, the walls solid oak panelling; every fitting gleaming pure gold and crystal chandeliers took light to every corner. There were oriental rugs, and plush leather sofas arranged in seating areas. Three massive paintings donned the main walls around them: Prometheus bringing fire to mankind by Heinrich Füger, Prometheus by Gustave Moreau and Prometheus Being Chained by Vulcan, by Dirck van Baburen. Replicas no doubt but striking none the less.
‘I’ve always had a passion for the ancient Greeks, their gods and heroes.’ She told him. ‘I fell in love with it very early in my childhood, when my father first gave me a book about the exploits of Hercules as a gift. After that I was hooked and absorbed myself in the classic works of Homer, Hesiod, Theogony and Ovid's Metamorphoses to name a few. It was the source of fascination and inspiration for me, James, regardless of my cultural and religious background of course.’
She looked at him then as if she had just snapped out of a daydream.
She smiled.
‘I hope I’m not boring you, James?’
‘How can you bore me, Nadesh, when I find you and everything about you absolutely exciting?'
She looked deep into his eyes and hers, glowing brightly, said it all.
‘And the best is yet to come, Mr Bond,’ She told him softly.
They both knew they felt the same emotions towards each other. The attraction was electrifying…
A dazzling blonde stewardess came over and offered them Champaign cocktails from a gold tray.
Nadesh turned and spotted her Father.
‘Ah, there he is,’ she said.
Melhem Sabah was a tall, well built man in his mid fifties, good-looking and quite striking in a beautifully cut black dinner suit. His face was tanned, strong with a wide hard mouth; the eyes a vivid blue. His hair was dark, grey streaked and he seemed extremely charming and sophisticated, Bond observed, with an aura of power enveloping him.
He was laughing and joking, cheerfully talking to the other guests surrounding him.
As Bond sipped some of his Champaign, he watched Melhem Sabah turn to them and smile warmly.
Nadesh took Bond’s arm and led him over.
‘Ah, Nadesh my darling,’ Sabah said and leaned down to kiss her on the cheeks.
‘Father.’
Sabah looked across at Bond. ‘And who is this dashing gentlemen you’ve brought with you, daughter?’ he asked.
‘This is James Bond, Father. We met this evening at the Casino.’
He shook Bond’s hand. It was a firm handshake and much could be said about it.
‘Welcome aboard the Prometheus, Mr Bond,’ Sabah told him.
‘I’m honoured. She’s a stunning piece of work, Mr Sabah – the contrast between modern and retro elements is beautifully imaginative to say the least.’
Melhem Sabah smiled his pleasure at that. ‘Designed by my daughter, Mr Bond,’ he said proudly. ‘Three years ago Nadesh teamed up with Callapis and Gilbaudi Yachts to embark on a radical new design and Prometheus was born. It is the world's fastest megayacht.’
Nadesh said, ‘Prometheus is powered by two 5000 horsepower diesel engines, James, and two 7500 horsepower lycoming gas turbine engines which act as booster engines to let the yacht achieve speeds in excess of 75 knots.’
‘Other than being a superb yacht designer, Mr Bond, my Nadesh is also a fully qualified Engineer.’
‘Not to mention with a passion for Greek mythology,’ Bond said, looked at her and smiled that charming smile of his. ‘You have an extraordinary daughter, Mr Sabah.’
‘She is that and more, Mr Bond, much more.’ He told him, his eyes warm. ‘So what brings you to Jamaica?’
Sabah took a glass of Champaign from one of the stewardesses.
‘Are you on holiday?’ he continued.
Bond noticed two men standing discreetly behind him and he knew security personnel when he saw them…
‘Actually I live here. I moved out six months ago from London, bought some property on the North Shore of the island. Lovely place called Shamelady.’
‘What a beautiful name, James,’ Nadesh said. ‘How romantic.’
Bond nodded. ‘It’s the name of a wild plant that grows around my house, a sensitive plant that curls up if touched. The locals gave it the name, I simply adopted it.’
‘And what about work?’ Sabah asked. ‘What sort of work do you do?’
‘I’m formerly a Commander in the Royal Navy,’ Bond told him. ‘Now retired.’
‘Really?’ Sabah said. ‘Then you definitely know your ships, Mr Bond.’
‘Well I’ve certainly had my fair share of days and nights of routine and discipline within a capital ship, not to mention the really bad weather one often encounters, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I gather. And what now? What are your plans for the future now that you are retired?’
‘Relax and enjoy life, Mr Sabah. Nothing more, nothing less. In fact I’m thinking of writing a novel. Who knows?’
‘Good for you. Life is too short not to enjoy.’
The American redhead who had greeted Bond and Nadesh earlier appeared at Sabah’s side smiling. He whispered something to him and Sabah nodded, eyes narrowing.
‘Alas, I am neglecting my other guests, Mr Bond,’ Sabah said and shook Bond’s hand again. ‘It has indeed been a pleasure meeting you. Perhaps we will talk some more later. Until then…’
‘Mr Sabah.’
Sabah turned to his daughter. ‘Come Nadesh, Mr Winton Trent wishes to meet you.’
‘I’ll catch you later, James,’ Nadesh said, winked at him then went after her father...
Bond crossed over to the bar and ordered a Scotch and Soda and looked around.
The other guests were all in festive mood, elegant in tuxedos and evening gowns. He didn’t know anyone there although a couple of faces were somewhat familiar. He tried to put a name to these faces but he just couldn’t nail them and when his drink came he went out to smoke a much needed cigarette...

* * *

The moment James Bond set foot on the Prometheus, the two men in black suits in the Security Control Room opposite the bridge had focussed one of the many concealed miniaturised cameras onto his face. Melhem Sabah’s security force was not going to take any chances even though Bond was with their boss’s daughter. Two armed ‘shadows’ were immediately dispatched onto him with orders to follow him wherever he went inside the yacht.
Bond’s face was then enlarged on a monitor and scrutinised by one of the two men in the Control Room. Thousands of images blurred past in a number of seconds. Usually, identification was achieved in moments...
‘Strange,’ the man studying the screen said. ‘The data bank can’t identify him.’
His partner looked over.
‘Cross check it with the external link,’ he told him.
‘Already have. Identity Unknown. Whoever this guy is, does not exist.’
‘Now that is cause for concern.’
His partner thought about it.
‘Send the photo to our man in Langley. He’ll pick him up. Till then we keep him in our sights…’

* * *

He stood there looking out at the harbour.
It was a flawless evening with the full moon shining brightly, the island gleaming against a velvet sea and the lights of the other boats berthed further on bobbing up and down in the distance.
It seemed a long, long time ago since he had left the Service and James Bond now felt that he had changed, completely.
Jamaica was the dream he had always believed in, the island unlike any other he had been to, the one place where he truly felt free, clean-cut.
He still kept himself in peak condition mind, a near-military personal regime in fact: each morning going through a painstaking workout of press-ups, leg raising, arm and breathing exercises. He would then spend an hour or so swimming in his black flippers and mask, floating now and then, watching and exploring the colourful underwater garden on the reef half a mile off shore from the small horseshoe-shaped bay, and although he still smoked, he had cut down his consumption to forty from seventy cigarettes a day…
‘So whadaya fink of saltki’ horse…I mean, hic, Stalkin’ Horse?’
Bond turned to the voice that had just spoken.
Behind him stood an old man with a red bulbous face, swaying unsteadily with a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other.
He was obviously completely drunk.
‘Excuse me?’ Bond said politely.
The man drained his drink and looked at Bond disagreeably.
‘Whadaya def or somethin’? I said… whadaya fink of… Stalkin’ Horse? You in or out…?’
Bond could not stand drunks but there was something about this plump man he found amusing.
‘Well,’ Bond said, deciding to play along. ‘I’m still quite undecided, Mr…?’
‘Joshua…hic…Joshua Clay. Well, limey, ye’d better decide soon rather than later…hic…cause you don’t keep a guy like Melham Sabah waitin’ fer an…hic…an answer.’
Again the drunk swayed, this time almost falling headfirst over the rail.
‘Easy there, Clay.’ Bond steadied him. ‘What about you? Are you in?’
Joshua Clay smiled up at and completely beyond Bond.
‘’Course I’m in, ya limey idjit… I’m upping the dough as soon as I…hic…get back to New Orleans, son. I aint takin’ no chances with these guys. They scare the crap out ‘a me… specialy the girly… hic… She worse than a black…
‘Ah, Mr Clay,’ the taller of the duo dressed in black evening suits said as they appeared at the drunken American’s side. ‘Your wife is looking for you, Sir.’
Bond watched as the two men, obviously security guards, took the man called Joshua Clay between them and led him away from Bond.
‘See ya later limey…hic…Don’t take too long to…decide…hic!’’
And with that, Mr Clay was back inside.
Bond smiled and turned back to the view.
Poor Mr Clay.
He’d have one hell of a headache tomorrow morning
What was it he had said: Stalking Horse? How strange…
‘There you are, James.’ Nadesh said coming out of the doorway. ‘Weren’t you supposed to kidnap me?’
‘The option’s still open,’ Bond said. ‘How did it go with Mr Trent?’
‘Absolutely boring, James. The conversation veered on digital circuits, building-blocks and integrated circuits, not to mention heat dissipation and thermal management. My father might be teaming up with his company on a major project to develop the world’s first working 11-dm SRAM. Believe me, I’d rather be kidnapped by terrorists than listen to Mr Winton bloody Trent.’
Bond took a sip of his drink.
‘What’s Stalking Horse, Nadesh?’
‘Stalking Horse?’
‘Hmmm, someone just mentioned it to me. Asked if I was in or not.’
‘My father is expanding his company’s operations to New Jersey,’ she told him. ‘In order to do that he’s going to take over IPM International. Stalking Horse is the name he’s given to the whole operation. He needs as many investors as possible for it to succeed. Hostile take-overs can be a very nasty business sometimes, James.’
Bond drew her to him and looked deep into her eyes.
‘Now I think it’s time I kidnapped you, Nadesh,’ he told her softly. ‘You’re missing one of the greatest delights in Jamaica.’
She touched his face and her lips curled into a smile as his arms curled around her. ‘And what’s that?’ She asked.
‘A midnight swim at Shamelady.’
He then kissed her and she responded beautifully...

* * *

It was later and she slowly undressed, wearing sexy grey nylon lace lingerie, and his senses were set on fire. She noticed his look and she smiled at him teasingly then ran along the beach over the cool white sand, nothing else mattering in the whole wide world, and she dived into the black velvet water.
‘This is heaven, James,’ she called out as she knifed through the water.
She was magnificent, he thought, beauty in all its sense and best.
Bond dived in wearing nothing but blue underwear, the wonderful cold water embracing his body and when he finally resurfaced they were face to face. He kissed her then, passionately, his tongue forcing her teeth apart, feasting his passion on this creature of immense beauty.
She ran her hands through his wet hair, pushing it back gently, and he could feel her firm, pointed breasts through the wet nylon against him as she studied his face, her chest throbbing.
And then she pushed him away, laughing.
‘Your eyes remind me of a hungry shark, James. I’m scared you’ll bite me.’
Then she turned and dived and he caught a brief glimpse of the thin black string of her thong cleaving her behind and when she finally resurfaced, she continued swimming back towards the sandy beach.
He went after her and when they got out of the water they lay back on the sand looking up at the sky and the gleaming stars.
‘Who are you, James?’ she asked, breaking the silence.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve never done this before, with anyone – especially on a first date.’
‘We haven’t done anything yet,’ he reassured her.
She turned on her side towards him.
‘I’m serious, James. What is this feeling, this excitement, this want that I’m feeling?’
He smiled gently.
‘Serendipity, Nadesh. A beautiful, magical moment not to be missed.’
‘Serendipity. I like that. The act of accidental discovery. But what happens after? What happens in the morning?’
‘You leave tomorrow night. I can’t force you to stay and I don’t think your father would let you so what we have is now and only now. If you want, we can go inside, have a couple of drinks and talk; use this magical moment to get to know each other. Nothing has to happen, Nadesh. That’s not what it’s all about girl dear.’
‘But I’d never forgive myself, James, for missing this magical moment with you.’
She unclipped her bra revealing her firm breasts, the pink nipples erect. She then slowly pulled down her underwear and spread her legs, ready for whatever dark pleasures he had in store for her.
He stayed there for a moment looking down at this Goddess of beauty in the light of the full moon, her wide and welcoming mouth tilted into a smile, eyes pleading him to start. With her purple-black hair strewn across the sand, he reflected that she was the sheer meaning of beauty – everyman’s fantasy. He slipped out of his blue underwear and began his act by kissing her breasts, smiling at her soft moans of pleasure as his tongue and teeth worked around her nipples erotically. He then moved down, his face brushing against her black hair and then she was his completely...

3
Les Sensations Fortes

James Bond stood on the jetty, looking down into Nadesh Sabah’s glowing eyes.
‘Do you think we’ll ever meet again, James?’ She called up as the engines of the launch roared into life.
‘Remember serendipity,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘It’s fate, Nadesh. She’ll smile down on us again I’m sure of it.’
It had been wonderful meeting this girl, he thought, and he would not forget her easily. It was a damn pity that she had to leave and he was actually sad that the short but wonderful time they had spent together was now over...
After making love on the beach the previous night they had gone inside and opened a bottle of Champaign, sitting down in the living room. They talked till about three in the morning, telling each other their life stories, their dreams and after, they showered together, went to bed and fell asleep in each others arms.
Bond had awoke at dawn and for a while he had lay there looking down at her, naked beside him. Her purple-black hair was sprawled out on the pillow and her face was peaceful in sleep. She had a tattoo slightly below her navel: her pet Papillon, she had called it when he first set eyes on it.
He got out of bed and naked went to the window and smoked a cigarette. He moved the curtain aside and looked out at the beautiful morning.
It was a pity that what they had shared during this brief time was almost over.
Nadesh Sabah was quite a girl…
Bond went out to the bathroom, relieved himself, showered and shaved and wore a pair of beige shorts. He then went about fixing breakfast.
It was three quarters of an hour later when Nadesh appeared after grabbing a quick shower and she found him at the dining table.
‘Hmm, smells good, James,’ she said and sat down opposite. ‘Good morning.’
‘Sleep well?’
‘Magnificently, James, and by the way, you make love like it is the last time you’ll ever touch a woman in your life, do you know that?’
‘Was I that bad?’
‘You were absolutely perfect. Perfect and wild. My little Papillon could get addicted to you.’
‘That makes two us then.’
He got up and fixed her breakfast.
‘So what time does your father expect you back?’
‘Five o’clock the latest, James. We sail at six.’
‘That gives us nine hours.’
‘Time enough to kill.’
At nine they went for a naked swim in the calm warm blue waters and again they made love on the hot sand; wild passionate love as if that moment was the last moment in their lives and when they climaxed she arched her back, wanting to feel him more, then she slumped against him, breathless, his dark muscular body hot and moist.
‘Oh, James, that was so wonderful,’ she had told him when she fell away from him, flushed with passion. ‘How am I ever going to get you out of my head after all this? You have scared me for life!’
‘I wish you could stay.’
‘So do I, James, but that would be impossible. If only things were otherwise.’
He stroked her hair, parting it with his fingers.
‘I bet you’ve loads of women at your beck and call,’ she said.
‘None that I can think of, no.’
He bent down to kiss her.
‘You can always come back here you know.’
‘Perhaps one day I just might do that.’
‘That would be wonderful, Nadesh.’
They spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. Bond brought coffee and sandwiches on a large silver tray, apples, honey and a bottle of white wine. They talked more and listened to music and when they made love for the last time it was so natural, so loving, so fervent that it was as if they had been lovers for a long time...
And now, back on the jetty he was saying goodbye to his beautiful accidental discovery.
‘You will call, James, won’t you.’ She shouted as the launch shot off towards the Prometheus, cutting a white snake through the deep blue sea. ‘You won’t forget me? Promise you won’t.’
‘Never,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve scared me too, Nadesh.’
He smiled and watched her for a while longer as she approached Prometheus then he turned and walked back to his car in quite a dark mood.

* * *

It was as he opened the door that he was aware of the two men approaching behind him. His body tensed as he prepared himself for trouble.
His sixth sense rang out inside his mind, old habits dying hard.
Easy, James, don’t get bloody paranoid in your old age now.
He noted that the two men wore dark grey suits and black ties. There was definitely something about them that made them look quite out of place but he couldn’t figure out exactly what though.
One was balding, broad shouldered and wore black glasses, and the other was tall and wiry with blond hair.
Their movements were stiff, expressions tense, eyes wide, nervous.
Bond didn’t know why but his field instincts were signalling wildly and if there was one thing that had kept him alive all these years it was his trust in his instinct, his sixth sense...
He got the door open and turned towards them, noting the obvious bulge of their holstered pistols beneath their jackets.
Hostiles, without a doubt!
‘Excuse me, Mr. Bond,’ the balding man called. ‘We’d like you to come with us please.’
Bond eyed them coldly knowing things were going to turn nasty.
‘Really,’ he said. ‘Do I know you?’
The man shifted uncomfortably, undoing his jacket button, a nervous gesture that could only mean that if Bond did not comply he would reach for his gun.
Amateur.
He was about to say something but Bond was not the sort of man to take any chances under such circumstances. He slowly turned back to the open door as if to close it, then whipped round again without warning and the balding man caught the full force of Bond’s right hook against his chin while his partner received a devastating knee to the groin.
Both doubled back with sharp cries of pain.
‘I don’t think so,’ Bond hissed.
In the next few seconds he was in the Aston Martin DBS V12 and he shifted the gear down, slammed the accelerator and roared off down the road towards the two-lane coast road...

* * *

The two men were quick to follow at breakneck speed in a black Nissan GTR.
Bond looked up at the mirror.
Who the hell were they? What did they want?
Bond was now forced to slow considerably. The road twisted and turned before reaching the long stretch of coast road.
Dangerous.
The black Nissan got uncomfortably closer, keeping up the chase.
Bond cursed and decided to increase his speed none the less.
The Aston Martin blasted off like a rocket, the needle flickering at 120.
His eyes shot to the mirror again then he changed into fifth.
150.
He was now coming up fast behind a truck and when he was almost onto it, he wrenched the wheel to the right and savagely overtook it, slamming down the accelerator again.
He saw a figure leaning out of the Nissan’s window holding a gun.
Three shots were fired followed by a burst of automatic fire. He heard a bullet strike the roof of the car, a gashing, rasping sound, and then another struck the rear view window.
The driver of the truck behind him blasted his horn at these insane men.
Bond kept up his speed racing down the coast road, his eyes scanning ahead. The road in front was empty.
Two hundred meters ahead though the road suddenly narrowed and he caught sight of the signs flash by.
Montego Bay and Oracabessa.
Five minutes later, the sleek Aston Martin warped through the verdant part of the island with its wooden shanties and Baptist chapels, its forgotten stone villages and its mangrove swamps. It was as if he was driving through the pages of Treasure Island…
Dangerous driving indeed, especially through these types of rough roads, bends and sharp turns.
Bond suddenly smiled.
The thrill of danger still excited him.
He had forgotten what it felt like to be chased.
What was it a friend of his had called it once?
Ah, yes: Les sensations fortes.
It felt fantastic!
Bond overtook a Fiat Punto and saw the driver’s mouth drop open as he shot passed him.
Ahead there was a slow flow of traffic and the road was quite narrow with an old lorry blocking most of it. This was going to be tight, he thought as he slowed down slightly.
Let’s see just how good they are!
Bond jabbed hard on the accelerator again and shot forward. He turned the wheel first right then left, right again then another sharp left, perilously zig-zagging his way between the slow moving vehicles.
Horns blasted, headlights flashed at him as he passed by.
And then he tackled the lorry.
He was pressed hard against the road side and he felt and heard the screech and judder of hard metal chafing as he tried overtaking the lorry at break neck speed.
There was another blast of a horn, swearing.
Bond kept on going, sandwiched between the lorry and the low stone wall on his right.
But then he was through.
He’d no doubt caused much damage to the car of course but he had reached his objective. The lorry swerved to the side, the driver obviously shocked at what had just happened and came to a sudden halt, oblique and blocking off all traffic behind it.
Bond laughed as his foot went down and he was hurtled forward along the now free road ahead.
As for his pursuers, they were now blocked by the lorry.
Quite suddenly he was out of the rough and onto the road downhill towards Santa Maria.
The operation to snatch him was a total flop and whoever they were, were no doubt amateurs.
Enemy SIS agents?
He doubted it.
Gangsters out to get him to win the prize Riesha Goethe had put on his head?
Possible.
Melhem Sabah’s men?
Could Sabah be so jealous that a force-warning to stay away from her was needed?
Turning down onto the road to his residence, Bond saw a helicopter circling low a couple of miles out to sea then turn straight towards him.
His heart sank.
The helicopter could only be a continuation – a follow-up to the snatch operation.
How the hell did they find him?
He pulled up in front of his house, reached for the secret compartment beneath the dashboard and produced his Walther PPK, checked the slip and quickly got out.
He needed to gather a few things then he would get the hell out of there and go into what they called in the Service ‘Deep Cover’.
At least until he found out what the hell was going on!
He quickly checked that nobody had tampered with the sophisticated alarm system he had installed.
All clear.
He went inside, the helicopter coming in fast.
Hastily Bond went to his bedroom where he received the shock of his life…

* * *

‘Hiya, James.’ Double O Six said with a wide smile, a large cup of coffee in her hand. ‘Miss me, darling?’
Bond’s mouth dropped.
He was lost for words.
‘What the bloody hell…?’
Jennifer Avery sat with her feet up on his bed, back propped against two pillows. She wore skin tight faded jeans and baggy white shirt open half way down the chest, and her cheeky smile lit up her face.
‘What in God’s name are you bloody doing here, Jennifer?’
‘Simple. Your Queen and country need you, darling. Need I say more?’
‘Cut the bull!’
His voice was like a whiplash.
Avery calmly drank some of the coffee.
‘M sent me, James,’ she then told him seriously. ‘He wants you back.’
‘He does, does he?’
He lowered the PPK.
‘The two goons on my tail?’
‘Single Os who clearly made a muff up of the job, for want of a better word.’
Bond swore violently and moved across to the window, looking out.
The helicopter finally swooped in and, with its rotors booming, put down opposite the house, swirling dust and sand up in its wake.
‘How did you get in here?’
‘Oh, come on, James,’ Avery told him. ‘I’ve been a Double O for years. You insult me when you ask such a question.’
Bond turned and looked at her with cold eyes.
‘What’s going on?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘No idea, James,’ she said. ‘I was in New York when I suddenly received orders to pull out and come down here to Jamaica. I was simply told to find you and inform you that M wants you back. Apparently he needs you. Well, us that is. All 20 Double Os have been called back in, regardless of what they were on. Believe me, there hasn’t been this much panic since the Thunderball affair.’
‘I retired six months ago.’
‘Once in never out. You taught me that a long time ago.’
He looked at her closely, then selected a cigarette, placed it in the corner of his mouth and lit it with a gold lighter.
It was all done with the studied rhythm of a man playing for time while thinking what to say.
Bond tilted his head towards the ceiling and gently blew out the smoke.
‘I need a drink,’ he said finally.
She smiled mischievously at him.
Her smile was always mischievous.
She was a tall, sleek, cat-like woman with a cool English look about her. She had deadly, seductive eyes and a fair strong face with high cheekbones and full lips that were sexy and perilous. Her hair, cut short, was blond.
The last time they had worked together was during OPERATION SPEARHEAD and EXCOCET in the South Atlantic campaign. She was a Sub-Lieutenant then. MI6 had handed down to the Double ‘O’ Division a series of covert operations to execute behind enemy lines before the task force got to the South Atlantic...
‘James, you haven’t changed one bit,’ she said.
‘Neither have you, Commander.’
‘Captain. I was promoted four months ago. James, whatever it is, it’s big. You know M wouldn’t call you out of retirement if it weren’t.’
Again he turned back to the window.
He looked out at the view before him, and punctually at six o’clock the sun set behind the Blue Mountains in the distance with one last yellow flash over the island of Jamaica...
He was being asked back, he told himself, back into the world he had left behind for good, the world he missed so much; hated so much at times.
Once in never out.
Could he have ever lived the life he was leading now for the rest of his life? Would he have survived in the end, or would he have driven himself mad?
How many times had he dreamt of going back to work as a Double ‘O’?
How many times had he longed for Les sensations fortes again, at least one last time?
‘When do we leave?’ he asked finally.
‘As soon as you’re ready, James. The chopper’ll take us to the airport. A Gulfstream is waiting.’
He turned to face her, his face dark, eyes cold.
‘You know what they say about raising the devil don’t you?’
Jennifer Avery got up and drank the coffee. ‘It becomes necessary to pay him his due,’ she said.
He nodded, went out and grabbed a shower.
Avery stayed there a moment longer enthralled by him.
She sighed softly.
James Bond still had that bloody effect on her, even now after so many years.
The bastard had such an intense sexual attraction.
She heard the shower running down the hall and looked at her watch.
They still had an hour or so…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

4
The Gloves Are Off

It was raining hard as the black Daimler pulled up outside the MI6 building and M got out. He disappeared inside the grey, plush, layered-cake-like building and rode the lift down to the basement and when the doors opened he came out into the large, hexagonally-shaped Situation Room where several men and women sitting at desks were busy typing away at their computers and answering telephones, cinema-sized video screens on the walls surrounding them.
He crossed over to the main briefing room opposite.
There were eighteen men and women seated at desk-chairs waiting for him and when he appeared a sudden anticipated hush fell. He crossed to the podium set in front of them and sat down at a large desk beside his Chief-of-Staff, Bill Tanner, a sapper who had earned his spurs as one of the secretariat to the Chief of Staff committee after being wounded during a sabotage operation for the SAS during the Irish Troubles way back in the late sixties; a rather short man in his forties, balding and wearing a dark grey suit and blue tie.
‘The situation before us is, to be frank, comparable to a nightmare of the worst kind.’ M told them. ‘So far the kidnappers have not contacted the government which means although we may have an idea, we cannot be one hundred percent sure what their demands are. The police and army have mounted one of the biggest search operations this country has ever seen but the Prime Minister has given us full authority to coordinate all activities relating to the kidnapping. In other words, this whole affair will be handled directly by the Double O Division.
‘Now then, let us take a look at the limited facts before us. To begin with, the kidnapping took place at St. James Palace. From there the kidnappers proceeded to the Eastend where the Prince was transferred to another vehicle from the Ford Transit they had used in the snatch. This switch must have taken place somewhere between Walworth and Camberwell; somewhere out of the way. Although road blocks were set up within ten minutes of the report coming in the kidnappers managed to avoid them as the bulk of the police force concentrated on the decoy, therefore, the ones actually holding His Royal Highness had ample time on their hands to literally disappear back into central London.’
‘Which also means they could have left London by boat, sir,’ said Double O Fourteen who was sitting at the back.
‘The Metropolitan Police and MI5 are working on that possibility as we speak. They will leave no stone unturned. Having said that though, I believe the kidnappers are still in London. The decoy made the police concentrate on this area (the Colonel stood up and holding a silver pointer indicated the outer ring of East London on the large wall map) while the actual kidnappers could have taken any one of these (again he pointed to an area of the map) minor roads to reach any one of these suburbs here in the north or the north south of London. MI5 are analyzing CCTV footage of the areas I’ve just shown you from the last twenty four hours.
‘To this end, I want each and every one of you out there on the streets with them. Check on new arrivals, look out for anything unusual, and use all your resources, informers and known criminal contacts. This is a no-holds-barred operation. The people we are looking for are somewhere out there, hiding, waiting. They will obviously lie low for the time being and I doubt that they’ll make any announcements during the next twenty-four hours. Any questions?’
Double O Sixteen who was in the center stood up.
‘Has the government any intention of dealing with the kidnappers, sir?’ he asked.
‘The PM seems adamant not to, however, the option of negotiation will always remain open depending on the circumstances,’ M told them. ‘Having said that, an SAS Rescue team is being formed as we speak. They will handle the actual rescue operation should the PM and his cabinet decide to opt for one. The Double O Division’s role in all this is purely an intelligence one.’
It was then that the Chief-of-Staff got up and handed out to each Double O agent a file marked ‘For Your Eyes Only’.
‘Our analysts have been working round the clock to determine exactly who might be behind the kidnapping,’ the Chief-of-Staff told them. ‘Obviously there is very little for them to go on. We assume there was an insider in the Palace who was working for the kidnappers and all employees are being interrogated as we speak. It’s just a matter of time till we flush him or her out. As you all know from the initial reports, we are dealing with professionals, cold blooded professionals responsible for the deaths of at least seven men already, and as to who they might be, our best bet is the Marcuzzi Syndicate. We believe this organization will try to blackmail the government into releasing Salvatore Rossi from prison. The file in front of you gives an unfortunately brief account into the background of this organization.’
‘You each have an assignment in that file,’ continued M. ‘Your sole objective is to find the people who committed this atrocity and report their whereabouts to this Command Centre. You will leave no stone unturned. If the situation demands it, you may act without consultation. The gloves are off on this one so get out there and find them. That is all, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much.’
The eighteen Double O agents began leaving the room and M looked down at the two remaining files in the Chief-of-Staff’s hand.
‘Is that Bond’s and Avery’s?’ he asked as they got up.
‘Yes, Colonel.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now I hope OO7 won’t prove too difficult.’
‘OO7’s a staunch monarchist, sir, and considering the gravity of the situation this country is facing I am sure he’ll accept the assignment.’
‘Hrumph,’ M grunted. ‘He’d better. The PM’s up my nose about him and I’d like to settle his mind. Send Bond up as soon as he gets here Chief of Staff.’
‘Sir.’

* * *

The black helicopter that had picked up James Bond and Jennifer Avery from the MI6 secret airfield in Kent in the early hours of the morning made the short flight to central London in less than twenty minutes. It now swooped in from the Houses of Parliament and continued across the river towards the SIS building. It landed near the river entrance and Bond and Avery got out. He was now dressed in a smart navy blue blazer, a Sea Island cotton shirt, charcoal grey trousers and plain brown shoes made for him by John Bulling of St James Street, London.
They passed the two armed C13 Anti Terrorist Police Officers standing guard at the private entrance and went through the doors into the high tech world of espionage that was MI6...
After passing through the rigorous security system on the ground floor, they rode the lift to the eighth floor where they found Miss Moneypenny going through one of the large filing cabinets in her outer office.
Bond walked in with a smile, followed by Avery.
Moneypenny’s face and eyes brightened at the sight of him.
‘James,’ she said failing to conceal the joy in her voice and her bright blue eyes. ‘How wonderful to see you again. How was your holiday?’
‘Holiday, Penny?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘You forget I retired.’
‘Oh, James, you can be so naive sometimes, darling. Nobody ever just retires from this business. You should know that.’
‘Yes, Double O Six here reminded me just too well.’
‘Well, now that you’re back I hope we’ll get some much needed excitement around here. It’s been awfully boring without you.’
He kissed her on the cheek and her face flushed with girlish pleasure.
‘You know we could start off with an exciting evening at my place tonight?’ he whispered into her ear. ‘How’s that for starters?’
‘For you James I’d skip straight to dessert,’ she said, and then sighed as if being pulled back down to earth. She cocked her head to all the files on her desk. ‘But regrettably I’ll probably be working on all this throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning so we’ll have to give it a miss, James. As usual.’
‘Nothing ever changes does it? You and I, always so close and yet so far. An everlasting sweet dream’
‘One day, James. One day.’
‘So what the hell’s going on, Penny?’ he asked seriously. ‘Why have I been called back?’
‘James it couldn’t be worse, believe me.’
She sat down at her desk and looked up at Double O Six who was standing there, leaning against the wall watching them, somewhat amused.
‘Jennifer, dear, when you decide to wipe that smile off your face the Chief of Staff will see you in the Situation Room. He’ll give you a full brief there. As for you, James…’
She flicked the switch of the intercom and spoke:
'Commander Bond is here, sir.'
'Send him in now,' came M's sharp voice from the loudspeaker, and the red light of privacy went on above the red leather padded door...
‘Good luck, James.’ Avery told him.
Bond winked at them and smiled amiably.
‘Who was it who said life was a bad joke?’ he said and after a deep breath, went through.

* * *

James Bond came through the door and shut it behind him.
M looked up from a file marked ‘Top Secret’.
‘Sit down, Bond,’ he said simply and Bond noted that M’s greeting had been definitely raw.
Bastard, he thought.
He walked over to the chair across the desk from M and sat down.
M looked Bond over.
‘Looking fit I see.’
‘I still like to keep myself in shape, Sir.’
‘Old habits die hard.’
M reached for his pipe and began filling it.
‘Right, I’m sure neither one of us has any time to waste so I’ll get straight to the point. We need you back, Bond.’
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room.
James Bond reached for his gunmetal cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and placed it in the corner of his mouth.
Lighting it, he inhaled deeply.
‘What’s the problem?’ he said not even attempting to hide the tinge of bitterness in his voice.
He blew out a cool stream of smoke.
M told him then and Bond noted the sudden strain in the old man’s face as he briefly outlined the shocking events that had happened almost two days ago.
Bond had known that whatever the reason was that M had wanted him, it must have been serious and important to have summoned him back in after retiring; but this: Prince William being kidnapped!
The news hit him full in the face.
‘How the hell did it happen!? He demanded rather sharply.
‘No one is immune from terrorism, Bond. One just has to remember the assassination of Earl Mountbatten; the murder of the British Envoy to Dublin; the car bomb in the House of Commons and the attempted assassination of Princess Ann. The list is long, very long. The fact is we have accepted what has happened and are trying to deal with it. The whole department is on panic stations over the brim though. Every double O agent I have is out on the streets trying to find him. The police, the army, all the Intelligence Services. They’re all in on it and we’re coordinating everything.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Bond told him. ‘Where exactly do I come in?’
M got up.
He seemed much older than the last time Bond had seen him.
‘Drink?’ he asked as he moved to the drinks cabinet.
Bond raised a curious eyebrow.
What was this? He asked himself. Kid glove treatment from the devil himself? Careful James! When you sup with the devil always use a very long spoon!
‘Thank you, Sir.’ He said.
M went about pouring two large Scotch whiskies. He then added plenty of ice and Soda
‘Her Majesty has made a personal request that you be brought back in, no matter what,’ the ex-SAS Colonel told him and handed him the drink
He returned to his seat behind his desk.
‘We don’t know why, Bond, but she wants you on this job and the PM doesn’t want to be the one to tell her you won’t be.’
Another cold silence filled the room, and then M spoke again.
‘I need not remind you that under Regulation 213, Section 41, Paragraph 8 of the British Secret Service Act, SIS may recall you back on active service anytime it deems necessary. The current crises this country is now facing constitutes one such ‘essential’ moment, if you catch my drift.’
Bond nodded and took a long sip of his drink.
‘So what have you got to go on?’ he asked.
‘At the moment, bloody nothing. Nothing concrete that is. On the other hand we do believe that the people behind the kidnapping are an organization called the Marcuzzi. Ever heard of them, Bond?’
‘No.’
‘Unfortunately we have damned little on them,’ M said. ‘We think this Marcuzzi are out to blackmail the government into releasing a man called Salvatore Rossi from prison. This Rossi was involved in a drug deal for the Marcuzzi, a drug deal on a grand scale. He was organizing it with a mysterious North African circle; a deal not concluded thanks mostly to this department.’
‘So they want him out to conclude this deal?’ Bond asked.
‘We’re talking billions, Bond, and the North Africans are reluctant to deal with the Marcuzzi without Rossi. They don’t trust them. According to Section N, if this deal gets off the ground it’ll be the biggest drug deal in decades. Of course, we could be wrong. The whole matter might not even be related at all. The only way we’ll know for sure will be when they make their demands known. And they’re taking their bloody time on that!’
Bond stubbed out his cigarette.
‘What are my leads?’ he asked.
‘Now then, as I’ve already said we have practically nothing. We’ve tried interrogating Rossi but predictably he doesn’t know anything.’
‘And even if he did, he wouldn’t say anything. Not with the methods currently in use. Give me ten minutes with him and I’ll have him singing like a canary.’
‘Out of the question, Bond,’ M told him. ‘He’s in prison and under the protection of the law. What we can do with him is limited to legal restrictions not even I can override in this day and age.’
‘Which leaves?’
‘Two men. His right hand man and his lawyer.’
M produced a file and extracted two black and white photos of a man coming out of a house and another of a man getting into a car.
He tossed them together with the file across the desk.
‘Angelo Galea and Robert Said,’ he told him ‘Galea’s been working with Rossi for the past fourteen years. Unfortunately the police haven’t got a thing to nail him on but we know for sure he’s dirty.’
‘But knowing something doesn’t prove it.’
‘Exactly. Now this Galea is a hard one. Much feared and respected in the criminal community here. I’d say he’s our best bet to get to the bottom of this wretched affair.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, for starters we’ve been shadowing him for months now, ever since Rossi was put away. MI5 assumed he’d be taking care of business for Rossi considering he was behind bars. Well, a couple of months ago he disappeared completely. Gave surveillance the slip. Eventually we traced him, thanks to the Italians once again, in Sicily. Spent two weeks there, God only knows why. We can only assume the purpose of that visit was to coordinate the kidnapping with the Marcuzzi.’
Bond nodded.
‘What about his lawyer?’
The Colonel opened a drawer and played the tape of Rossi and his lawyer.
‘Listen to this.’
‘‘I’ve just been on the phone with your business partners,’’ the voice of Rossi’s lawyer said. ‘‘They’ve assured me it is only a matter of time now. They are in fact already in London.’’
‘‘Who have they sent?’’ asked Rossi.
‘‘They didn’t elaborate. They just told me that they’re here.’’
There was a pause that lasted a couple of moments, then,
‘‘Twenty five years, the bastards put me down for,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘Twenty five Goddamn years, can you believe it, and the whole thing wasn’t even legal! What a farce!’’
‘‘The evidence against your claim of illegal arrest was overwhelming, Mr Rossi, the outcome was inevitable.’’
‘‘Well, the bastards are finally going to pay for that, big time.’’
The tape ended and the Colonel replaced the cassette player back in the drawer.
‘The conversation was recorded at Colstale Prison two days ago.’
‘I see.’
‘On the surface, Robert Said looks as clean as a whistle but if you scrape hard enough I’m sure you’ll unearth a can of worms. Now then, it is clear from the recording that Rossi and Said are in the dark as to where the Prince is being held. Which obviously leaves Galea.’
Bond looked back down at the picture of Galea.
‘Where can I find him?’ he asked after a moment.
‘He has a nightclub in the EastEnd. A place called Footloose. Needless to say, time is not on our side on this one, Bond. Once they make their demands known to the government the PM will have to act fast. The fact is though the PM can’t afford to negotiate for obvious reasons so he’s pulled out all the stops. I’ve left these two shady individuals specifically for you. Other than that…’
Bond nodded and stood up.
‘What about my licence to kill and double O status?’
‘Renewed with immediate effect, OO7.’
‘Sir,’
And with that James Bond left...

. * * *

His flat was situated in Chelsea, in a pleasant plane tree-lined square off the King’s Road. It was on two floors and he considered it the genuine bachelor establishment. The sitting room was large and pleasantly decorated, books lining the walls, antiques everywhere. There was a lush leather sofa and two armchairs set in front of an Adams fireplace, a glass table and thick battle-ship grey fitted carpets. The wallpaper was silver satin and light cream with matching drapes. There were four large paintings on the walls, two of which were Williams, portraits, and the others by the less known Colesel, various mountain views. Since moving out to Jamaica, Bond had made arrangements to have his house-keeper come over twice a week and keep the house running, just in case he had to fly back to London one fine day. The kitchen was to be kept topped up with all the essentials at all times, no matter what…
After his meeting with M Bond had gone down to the Situation Room to see Bill Tanner. To say the place was a hive of activity would have been an understatement and Bond then truly understood what M had told him back in his office:
‘The whole department is on panic stations over the brim. Every double O agent I have is out on the streets trying to find him. The police, the army, all the Intelligence Services. They’re all in on it and we’re coordinating everything’.
‘Why is M so sure that the Prince is still somewhere in London, Bill?’ Bond had asked the Chief of Staff.
Tanner pointed to the large wall-map opposite. ‘Well the kidnapping took place here, outside St James’ Palace. The switch must have taken place somewhere between here and here (he drew a large circle on the map with his finger). By the time they could have got to any of these points here the road blocks were in place. They most probably backtracked into the city-center within this area and holed up anywhere around here or here in a safe house. MI5 are going through their CCTV recordings with a fine comb but so far zilch. It’s as if they vanished into thin air.’
‘And so far no word from the kidnappers.’
‘That’s right. I doubt we’ll hear anything from them though. Not until they’ve sorted themselves out and are certain that their kidnap-holding operation is running smooth. In cases like this it usually takes two days for a terrorist group to release their demands.’
‘What a bloody mess. I’m surprised you’ve succeeded in keeping it a secret all this time. Must’ve taken some doing to keep the press out of it.’
‘The only people who know what has happened are the ones immediately connected with the operation. Times of crisis and special laws, James.’
One of Tanner’s assistants appeared from a door at the far end and walked up to them.
‘Excuse me, Mr Tanner, M wants you.’
Tanner nodded and shook Bond’s hand.
‘If you need anything give us a call, James. We’re all camping here till this bloody nightmare’s over.’
Bond nodded. ‘I’ll see you, Bill,’ he said as Tanner walked off.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ Tanner said and turned. ‘It’s good to see you back, OO7.’
Bond smiled and then took the lift up to the MT Section on the fourth floor and went about choosing his means of transport: a sleek black Suzuki GRS R2000.
After signing it out he then drove back to his flat where he now sat in his living room, flicking through all the accumulated mail. Most of it was junk and found its way into the waste paper basket.
An hour or so later, after a refreshing shower, he caught some sleep and when he awoke went downstairs and made himself a strong cup of coffee.
James Bond was now dressed in black motor-cycle leathers, his Walther PPK pistol smug in the small of his back.
He took one of the cigarettes from the silver box on the coffee table and lit one.
He then sat down in the living room again and went through the file M had given him; the file marked FOR YOUR EYES ONLY...

*

Edited by Harry Fawkes, 28 August 2008 - 07:59 PM.

[Harry Fawkes]

5
Gravesend

It was approximately eleven thirty in the morning when Bond’s Suzuki GRS R2000 sped north out of Chelsea, zigzagging through the heavy traffic towards Marylebone, then onwards to Camden.
A black Porsche, driven by the man who had killed Sergeant Major Sean D’Arcy and his family, emerged from a side road and, staying well back, followed him.
According to the information in the file, Angelo Galea always had lunch at the Incognito Restaurant near the Durley House Hotel in Camden Town. It was, apparently, a daily routine for him and a place where he took care of most of his business dealings at that time of day. For, apart from his role in Salvatore Rossi’s criminal organisation, Angelo Galea was also a legitimate real estate and insurance broker.
When Bond finally got there he parked the Suzuki alongside the kerb, crossed the road and went inside.
The place wasn’t very busy, two waiters busy hovering around serving and the man he was seeking was at the far end, at a table near the window. He was with two other people, a man and a woman.
James Bond went to the bar and sat down on a stool and when the barman came he ordered a Scotch and Soda. Lighting a cigarette he sat there watching Galea, weighing him up inside his mind.
He was a short man, not more than five four or five with close cropped red hair. Well built, he wore a dark grey suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. His eyes, observed Bond, were icy and vigilant, and the face cruel with strong cheekbones.
The girl in the beige trouser suit looked like an executive secretary on her lunch break. She had black hair, dark eyes and olive color skin.
As for the other man, he wore steel-rimmed glasses, a dark blue Armani suit and what little hair he had was silver. Bond estimated that he was in his early fifties.
Bond’s drink came and he took a swig and his eyes met Galea’s. He too had been watching Bond, as soon as he had walked in. There was a dangerous flash of electrical static between both men but OO7 simply looked away calmly…

* * *

Meanwhile outside, the man who had followed Bond here crossed over to a phone booth opposite.
He dialed some numbers and after a moment Jano’s voice came on.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me Karl,’ the man said in Sicilian. ‘You’re not going to believe this but your man Bond is onto Angelo.’
There was a long pause at the other end. ‘Interesting and quiet unexpected to say the least,’ she said finally.
‘Shall I get rid of him?’
‘Out of the question.’ She told him sharply. ‘James Bond is not to be touched. Am I understood?’
‘That might prove difficult,’ he told her.
‘Just do as you’re told, Karl.’
‘Then it’s your head on the block not mine.’
‘I’ll handle it.’
‘Does Galea know who Bond is?’
‘No. He was kept in the dark about that part of the operation.’
‘But he knows everything about us!’ he told her. ‘I’d say that’s reason enough for me to get rid of him, don’t you?’
‘Let him be for the moment. If Bond contacts him in any way then get rid of him but leave Bond to me.’
‘Just for the record, I don’t like it. You’re jeopardizing everything.’
The man who had killed D’Arcy and his family replaced the receiver and crossed over back to the Porsche and waited.
At roughly the same time as Karl’s telephone call to Jano, another call had been made, this time by cell phone and to M at his office at Vauxhall.
It was from OO2 who was ordered by M to shadow Bond after leaving his office.
‘OO7 is already on the job, sir,’ the agent told him as she too waited outside the restaurant in a white car. ‘He’s shadowing Galea as we speak.’
‘He doesn’t waist time does he? Let’s just hope he gets some results and fast.’

* * *

Jano was driving back to the safe house on the other side of London when she had received Karl’s call and she didn’t like it one bit.
Something had gone wrong.
Some unforeseeable thing had hit the proverbial fan and now Bond was onto something. It could only be the connection between Rossi, Galea and the Marcuzzi.
What else?
Not that such a link would lead him anywhere near her of course but still, it made her feel uneasy. Clearly, the solution to the problem lay in Bond’s assassination. One bullet to the head from across the street would be all it took and he’d be out of her hair permanently. Then again, she wanted Bond for herself when the time came and that time was just round the corner.
She smiled as she approached the safe house
No, she thought as she got out of the red car.
James Bond would get what was coming to him in good time but for the moment she wanted the bastard alive just a little longer.

* * *

Bond finished his Scotch and Soda, paid and went outside to the Suzuki.
He sat there patiently waiting for his target. When he did finally appear, he and his guests paused for a moment on the pavement laughing. Galea then shook the older man’s hand as if a deal had been negotiated and sealed and then they departed. Galea made his way with the girl to the black Mercedes XRS parked across the road while the old man went on foot the opposite way.
It was about four o’clock when they finally reached the high apartment block Kensington. OO7 pulled in and switched off the engine. He watched Galea and the girl get out and disappear inside. He then waited another ten minutes, crossed the street and went up the steps to the main entrance.
He stood there examining the name cards, each beside its small letter box and bell-push. He lit a cigarette and after about five minutes, from the glass door, he saw a man and a woman come out of a lift inside. As they approached, Bond bent down and pretended he was speaking to someone on one of the intercoms.
‘No, she couldn’t come,’ he said, smiling. ‘She’s working, so you’re going to have to put up with me.’
He straightened up as the couple opened the door from the inside and came out. He moved aside and the man held the door open for him.
‘Cheers,’ he said and went in.
Galea’s apartment, according to the name card, was on the third floor and when Bond came out of the lift the corridor was deserted. He produced a lockpick and went to work on the door. After a few moments, the lock eased back and the door came open. He edged it slightly open and listened.
Bond took the Walther from the small of his back, screwed on a five inch silencer and went in, leaving everything to chance.
It was a bright, large place with lavishing decorations and ultra modern furniture. Calmly, he walked through to the living room beyond the wide corridor. He could hear noises coming from the bedroom on his right and he crossed over. The door was ajar and he went in.
Galea, naked, was on top of the girl, pumping away, passionate pants and sighs of pleasure reverberating in the room.
‘I hope its safe sex you’re practicing,’ James Bond said and leaned against the open doorway.
Galea turned sharply, mouth open wide, a look of absolute shock on his face. The girl brought the sheet up to her chin, knees raised.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Galea shouted and darted out of bed. ‘Who the are you?!’
Bond raised the Walther to arms length, a cruel smile on his face, menacing in the black leather suit.
‘Let’s start with the Prince’s kidnapping, shall we?’ he said.
And with that Angelo Galea aged a couple of years before his very eyes.
‘What the hell are you talking about? You’re mad!’
‘Perhaps I am,’ Bond told him. ‘Which is more of a reason to tell me what I want to know.’
‘Are you a cop?’
Bond just looked back at him calmly.
‘This is ing mad!’ Galea spat and stepped forward.
Bond squeezed the trigger and shot him in the left leg. Galea fell back against the wall and dropped to the floor. The girl screamed and Bond pointed the gun at her.
‘Shut up!’ he hissed then went over to Galea.
He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled him up to his feet. He then thrust the gun into his chin.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Ah, yes, the Prince and his kidnappers. You were about to tell me where they’re keeping him.’
Galea looked at him, teeth clenched, sweating hard and a look of absolute terror on his panic stricken face.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he spat. ‘I swear to you I don’t know what you’re talking about! I swear to God!’
‘Wrong answer.’
Bond lowered the gun and shot Galea in the right foot.
Galea screamed like a wild animal and dropped to the floor again, curling up and wailing as he held his foot.
‘Hurts doesn’t it,’ Bond said and sat down on a chair opposite. The girl was crying hysterically now. ‘And that’s only the beginning. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Galea was sobbing wildly.
‘I said do you understand!’ Bond shouted.
‘Yes, yes, for God’s sake. No more, please!’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now let’s start again. Where are they keeping him?’
‘They’ll kill me if I talk!’
‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t.’
‘I…I want protection!’
‘The only thing I can guarantee is that I won’t kill you myself if you do talk. Is the Marcuzzi behind the kidnapping?’
‘Yes…yes, they are. I had nothing to do with it though. I swear on my life.’
‘Where are they keeping him?’
‘They’re still in London!’ he spat the words out.
‘Be more specific.’
‘Come on, man, you think they would’ve told me?! I just took care of their needs before the operation. That’s all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was the middle man. Contacts, cars, places to stay…They never told me the finer details of their plans.’
‘Give me a name. A name that’ll lead me to where I want to go. Think wisely because if you fail to answer me, the next bullet’ll blow your balls off.’
Galea was shaking uncontrollably.
He opened his mouth and as he was about to speak the door slammed against the wall behind Bond and the man called Karl appeared brandishing an Uzi sub-machine gun.
OO7 jumped to the floor as the Sicilian let off several bursts of machine gun fire, spraying Angelo Galea and the girl with 9mm bullets, killing them instantly.
Bond turned onto his back, astonished that he hadn’t been hit in the hail of gunfire himself, and fired twice, two handed, but the man called Karl was out of the room in a flash.
OO7 got to his feet and went after him…

* * *

The killer had used the only lift available so Bond shot towards the staircase and darted down three steps at a time, gun in hand.
He was just in time to see the killer drive off in the black Porsche down the road towards the Holland Road. Once outside, Bond ran across the street to his bike and got on. Helmet on, he started up, the engine booming to life like a wild beast, and pulled out, almost getting hit by a car heading towards him. He swerved, thrust down on the throttle and sped down the road after the killer. When Bond veered onto the Holland Road, he knew that the killer would have made his way north towards North Acton rather than take the busier route towards the Thames. Horns blasted and drivers bawled obscene insults at him as the Suzuki shot through the heavy traffic causing havoc in its wake. He was touching 90MPH now and as he reached the M41 and shot through the red lights, a couple of cars swerved and screeched to a halt to avoid him, crashing into one another.
As he raced ahead towards North Acton, he spotted the Porsche further on. It was speeding passed the cars in front of it as if it had the devil on its heels, which to some extent it did.
Bond increased speed and went after it, desperate. The killer had to be stopped, at all costs. Whoever he was, he was the link that would get him to his target. The Porsche was making good speed though and the killer was an able driver, but then, so too was James Bond and he maneuvered the bike beautifully through the traffic on the winding coast road. What OO7 didn’t know though was that he was being run into what is referred to as a mobile ‘box’.
A black Seat Cordoba, a white Ferrari and a red Audi had been behind him, keeping back but cautiously hanging on his heels.
He sensed something was amiss when the Ferrari shot passed to overtake and ended up cruising at a steady speed in front of him. He pulled back on the throttle and pushed the bike to 100 and it was then that the red Audi made to overtake. However, instead of passing him, it stayed on his side. Bond looked back and saw the Seat, which is when his heart sank. Moments later, the three cars closed in, boxing him so that he had to reduce speed dramatically and sway to the side of the road. He swore violently as the rear car hit his back tire nearly toppling him.
Damn them!
There was nowhere to go. He was trapped; it was as simple as that. And then from the corner of his eye he saw the passenger of the Audi roll down his window and point an automatic pistol at him. He was about to swerve the Suzuki to the left but the car in front of him reduced speed radically, catching him unaware so that he crashed into its rear and came flying off the bike. Bond hit the car’s roof with a hard thump and fell onto his back to the ground. He rolled over twice and is all he could remember was trying to get up but something preventing him.
James Bond’s head fell back and the last thing he saw through the full face visor were the grey angry sky…

* * *

Storm clouds completely obscured the sky and only on occasions did the pale, phantom sun show through. Gravesend was certainly no place to be on that cold, haunting afternoon. Three hundred feet above the fierce dark grey sea the black Porsche, followed by the red Audi, came to a halt beside a solitary belt of trees high up on a wide track a couple of meters away from the cliff edge.
Bond felt the jolt of the Audi stopping and came awake from a very rough and painful sleep. He was in the booth of the car, curled up in the foetal position due to a lack of space. He carried out a mental damage assessment but it wasn’t long before the booth hatch was opened and two men brandishing automatic pistols loomed down over him.
A gush of cold wind with rain drops hit him and he felt sick with a sharp pain in his back.
‘Get out!’ one of the men barked.
He did as he was told.
Miraculously, he hadn’t broken any bones in the crash and subsequent fall but the ache and pains all over his body were severe.
Through the hazy confusion and pain, Bond tried to figure out where he was.
‘Ah, there you are, Mr. Bond,’ a voice called from behind him.
OO7 turned and came face to face with the man he had been chasing earlier. He was standing near the Porsche, smoking, the submachine gun lax in his hand against his right thigh.
The two men stood behind Bond, their guns trained on him and he suddenly knew that his time was almost up.
‘Nothing broken I hope?’ the man called Karl said in pretty good English.
‘Who are you?’ Bond asked.
‘A nobody,’ he said. ‘A nobody who’s going to kill you this afternoon.’
Bond looked up at the angry sky and smiled cruelly. ‘Well, at least it’s a fine day for it, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘English weather at its best.’
And Karl sneered.
‘Good one, Mr. Bond, cool to the last minute. That I like. Now then, get down on your knees please. Nice and easy, mind you.’
Bond looked at him for a long moment and then did as he was told.
‘Now place your hands on your head.’
‘Who you are?’ he asked.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, if I’m going to die I’d rather go knowing.’
‘I work for an organization called the Marcuzzi. No doubt you’ve heard of us.’
Bond nodded. ‘And the Prince?’
‘What about him?’
‘Were you behind the kidnapping?’
‘Yes.’
Karl raised the submachine gun to arms length and aimed at Bond’s head.
‘You know, you’re a very unlucky man, Mr. Bond.’ He told him.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, I was ordered by my superior not to touch you,’ he said. ‘You see, she wants you for herself, God knows why. If you hadn’t come running after me you’d still be alive to see tomorrow. Foolish and unlucky, eh?’
‘And who’s your boss?’
‘Jano.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Well she's heard of you and to top it all it seems she has a score to settle with you. Happy now? You go to your death knowing everything. How’s that for service with a smile? Now then, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Bond, but time is really pressing.’
Karl brought up the gun again and tightened his finger around the trigger.
‘Wait.’ Bond snapped.
Karl raised an eyebrow inquisitively and lowered the gun again.
‘Just one more thing,’ Bond said. ‘Where are they keeping him?’
He laughed genuinely. ‘You don’t give up do you? What difference does it make now?’
‘Just call it curiosity, that’s all. Please. I’d like to know.’
Karl nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘He’s still in London. Our safe house in Islington. Want the bloody telephone number?’
Bond panicked for the first time in his life.
He was finished.
There was no way he would get out of this one.
Death had finally caught up with him and nobody, not even James Bond, cheats death.
‘If this Jano told you not to kill me then why are you defying her?’ he asked desperately.
‘To tell you the truth I don’t know. I just feel like it. I’m in a killing mood. Now then, please shut up and let me get on with it!’
The man called Karl smiled heartlessly and brought up the gun.
‘Goodbye Mr Bond…’

*

[Harry Fawkes]

6
Drink with the Devil

When they had placed the Prince in the booth of the car during the switch, forty eight hours ago, on that secluded road just off Fulkhom Close in East London, and closed the door on him it had felt as if he had been put in a coffin.
He couldn’t move and the strong smell of petrol was nauseating.
He was scared and sweating profusely.
He was desperately alone.
He had no idea how long he was in there but after what seemed like an eternity the car finally came to a halt.
Prince William heard what sounded like a loud bang and the car rocked slightly sideways.
He heard a door opening and footsteps outside.
What was happening?
Should he try and fight them when they re-opened the booth?
And then he felt another jolt beneath him and his heart missed a beat.
He moved his legs slightly and part of the undercarriage slid open beneath him; the section where the spare wheel is usual stored.
His mouth dropped open.
A man looked up at him from a manhole directly under the car.
He had a gun pointing threateningly at him.
‘Get down here now or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes,’ he hissed.
The Prince propped himself as far up as he could and twisted his legs through the small opening, guiding his feet onto the rungs of the ladder; then he twisted his upper body through, his head crouched against the car booth as he went down into the manhole.
The man with gun helped him as much as possible and it was then that the Prince decided to make a move...
He thrust an elbow into the man’s face and he fell feet first from his position landing flat on his back in the dirty water below.
The Prince quickly slid down the ladder. There was a splash of water as he landed knee deep in water. With a hunted look on his face, he crouched and turned to run down the dark tunnel but came face to face with another man holding a torch.
He was smiling cruelly and half his face, the left side, was scared, an ugly burn.
‘Now that was stupid, your highness,’ he growled and smacked the Prince in the face.
The Prince fell back into the water.
He then felt the man’s powerful hands grab him from the chest and pull him back up.
‘Get moving you little prick or I’ll forget who you are once and for all.’
The Prince was pushed forward violently.
They walked for about ten minutes below the streets of London, rats every where, the stench potent, down there in the narrow sewer system, and at last they came to another ladder further on.
The Prince stopped and looked up.
There was another man half way up the ladder.
‘Come on!’ he called down. ‘Hurry up! Get up here!’
The Prince, blood oozing out of a cut above his right eye, did as he was told and climbed up.
He came out of the manhole enclosed by canvas screens and an awning. He could hear the sound of sirens in the distance, a helicopter flying above, passing by.
‘Wait.’ The man who had led him up said.
By this time the man who had accompanied him in the sewer came up soon followed by the man the Prince had knocked out.
He went for the Prince grabbing him roughly.
‘You’re time will come!’ he hissed through clenched teeth. Blood was pouring down his nose which looked broken. ‘You just wait.’
Perhaps five minutes later there was the sound of a car and the first man peered out.
‘Ok,’ he said. ‘Get him ready.’
The Prince was again manhandled into the booth of a car, a Ford Escort. It had reversed into the opening of the canvas screens.
Before closing the booth the scared man tore the Prince’s left sleeve off and injected him with some sort of drug; and after that there was only darkness and the soft hands of sleep as the car sped off…

* * *

The Prince stirred awake.
He sat up and looked around, startled.
The room was very small and bare, another coffin; paint peeling off the walls that crowded in on him, no windows.
There was an ion bed and a broken chair.
He glanced at his watch and tried to focus his thoughts on the events that had dominated his life so far. He had been out cold for an hour and fifteen minutes and his head ached terribly from the effects of the drug they had given him.
He helped himself up.
There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and he turned as the door opened to reveal the woman called Jano holding a tray with some food and a small bottle of water.
‘No ill effects, I trust?’ she asked and moved inside.
The Prince saw the two armed men outside and ran a hand through his tousled hair.
‘I’ve certainly felt better, Ms…?’
‘Jano.’
‘How dramatic. Is that your real name?’
‘Of course not.’
‘May I ask what this is all about?’
Jano placed the tray on the bed.
‘I thought you might be hungry. I understand you were on your way to dinner with the Queen when we abducted you.’
‘Thank you. However, I seem to have lost my appetite. I’m sure you understand.’
Jano smiled and there was something purely evil there and it sent a shiver down his spine.
‘I’ll just leave it there then,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’ll feel like it later.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘Well, William dear, let’s just say if your government accepts my demands you will soon be free again. What these demands are is no concern of yours however.’
‘And if they are not met?’
The look in her cold eyes said it all and Prince William nodded.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Your accent. Sicilian?’
‘Very good.’
‘Mafia?’ he asked.
‘No. We are much more powerful than the Mafia.’
‘And does your organization have a name?’
She laughed. ‘So many questions, William. Are you not tired yet?’
‘Not really. As for the questions, I like to know who I am dealing with, that’s all.’
‘Well, in that case I shall indulge your curiosity. We are simply known as La Marcuzzi.’
She turned to leave then.
‘My men,’ the Prince called. ‘Did you have to kill them?’
‘That was inevitable, I’m afraid.’
‘A waist of good lives,’ he said and sat down on the side of the bed. ‘They were good men. They had families…’
‘They knew the risks of protecting a young man such as yourself. I’m sure they will agree in the afterlife that they should have been more alert. After all, death is the ultimate price one pays if one loses the game people like us play.’
‘And is this all it is to you, Jano, a game?’
Her eyes darkened suddenly. ‘Yes. It is a game, one I am very good at.’ She told him. ‘And if your government does not accept my demands then your blood will on their heads. Now sleep, William. Tomorrow is a new day. Should you require anything my men will take care of it.’
And with that she walked out, closing the door behind her.
There was the sound of a key being turned in the lock and he was alone again.

* * *

The following morning, the Prince propped himself up on his elbow and glanced at his watch: 0700 hrs. He got out of bed and into his damp clothes. They stank.
Fifteen minutes later and a young man came in accompanied by two armed men.
‘Good morning, Ecellenza, breakfast is at eight.’ He told him in very poor English. ‘Perhaps you like shower, eh? I have new clothes for you, yes?’
The Prince nodded, took the pair of jeans and white T shirt and followed them along the narrow carpeted corridor to a small room at the far end. He went inside and closed the door behind him. Immediately, he looked for a window but, again, there wasn’t any. After showering in the grimy stall he got dressed and went out and followed the young man downstairs.
The woman called Jano sat at a table laid out for breakfast. The Prince knew quite a few beautiful women but none possessed a face as stunning and as attractive as hers. She had wide, full lips that made her mouth sensuously sexy. Her complexion was fresh and athletic and her long blonde hair was shiny, full of body. And the eyes, oh so captivating, he thought. They seemed to draw him to her…
‘Good morning,’ she said as he sat down.
Her smile glowed, and despite everything it touched him.
What the hell was going on? This woman was a cold bloodied killer, a terrorist and he was warming to her!?
‘Let’s have breakfast together.’
The Prince looked across at the two guards opposite, brandishing Uzi sub-machine guns as she buttered some toast.
‘It seems I don’t have a choice,’ he told her.
‘Every body has to eat, William, so we might as well be civil about it. Now then, tea or coffee?’
‘Tea.’
Jano poured him some from a pot and he added some milk and sugar. The young man who had escorted him down here brought them their breakfast which consisted of fresh scrambled eggs, toast, an assortment of fruit, and yoghurt.
‘May I ask if there is anything you might need to make your stay here more comfortable?’
He didn’t say anything to that and she looked at him hard and long for a moment then nodded.
‘Suit yourself. I am going to set a price of twenty million dollars for your safe return. I will issue a communiqué to your government this evening giving them a deadline of forty eight hours to pay up.’
‘Is that how much the spilled blood of five innocent lives cost?’
Her eyes remained calm, dead calm.
‘I am also demanding that your government release a very close friend of mine from prison. Salvatore Rossi. You may have heard of him.’
He shook his head.
‘Why didn’t you just try and break this Rossi out of prison? Why got to this extreme?’
‘Because we make over twenty million dollars out of this kidnapping. Twenty million dollars, William. And apart from that, kidnapping you was easier believe it or not.’
William was about to say something then but the young man crossed over and spoke to Jano quietly and when he was finished she got up.’
‘You will have to excuse me but it seems a business associate of mine has just arrived earlier than expected. Please, feel free to finish your tea.’
‘I’m ready to go back to my room now thank you.’
He got up and the two armed guards were beside him.
‘I’ll see you tonight then. Dinner will be at half eight and if you should require anything before then do not hesitate to inform my men.’
He turned without a word and was escorted back to his room.

* * *

M was at his desk typing away at his computer.
He had just received the call from Double O Two informing him that Bond was on the job. M had immediately informed the Prime Minister and had then poured himself a Scotch.
It had been a long night, one without rest and as things were going he knew that until this wretched affair was over, rest would be a luxury unavailable to him.
One thing was certain, if anyone could get results it was Double O Seven…
This operation was one of the worst the Colonel had faced so far since taking over the Double O Division from his predecessor and he felt vaguely depressed. The pressure being put on him was extreme but he was determined to come out on tops.
The first thing he had requested was the Prime Minister’s intervention to ‘put a lid’ on the media. It was vital that news of the kidnapping was not leaked to the press and if it was, which was quite inevitable of course in this day and age, slam the Official Secrets Act in their faces.
Nobody must know what had happened, least of all the public.
The terrorists must not feel that they had the upper hand – no matter who they were holding hostage.
He had accompanied the Prime Minister to a meeting with Her Majesty the Queen at Buckingham Palace earlier on, in her private chambers.
‘Surely we can negotiate,’ the Queen had said quite desperately. ‘There must be some room for negotiation.’
‘Very little, I’m afraid, Ma’am,’ the Prime Minister had told her. ‘Having said that, although we do not negotiate with terrorists, as such, we may have a few unofficial avenues we may take in handling certain matters of negotiations once they contact us, should the worst come to the worst of course.’
‘Be more specific, Prime Minister.’ The Queen had told him sharply.
‘In other words, Ma’am, MI6 could produce a package, of course not sanctioned by the government or yourself, which may have the desired effect of the Prince’s release. The only hitch would be if delicate information of this nature of covert dealings were to be leaked to the press by the terrorists themselves. It would cause a public outcry to say the least,’
‘Indeed,’ the Queen had said. ‘Paying them off for my Grandson’s life is not an option, Prime Minister, I understand that. The solution lies in our Security Service, our Police Force, and the Army. I want your assurance Prime Minister that everything possible is being done to find him.’
‘I can give you that assurance without the slightest hesitation, Ma’am. Even the Americans have offered their help.’
She nodded. ‘And the Special Air Service?’
‘On standby as we speak. As soon as we find His Royal Highness they will be deployed should you agree on an assault…’
‘Good. And what about Commander James Bond? Has he agreed to help?’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ M told her. ‘He flew in last night. He has been fully briefed as to the nature of the situation before us and is on the case as we speak.’
‘Very well gentlemen. Keep me updated. Thank you.’
And now back at SIS Headquarters, M finally sat back in his chair after typing a detailed report to the DG of MI6 and sighed heavily.
‘The bastards have us by the bloody balls!’ he said and lit his pipe.

* * *

Prince William was sitting down on the side of the bed when the knock on the door came.
It opened and the young man appeared.
‘You come now,’ he said simply.
William sighed heavily, got up and followed him out.
They had left him alone all day and he had spent it mostly resting and reading a book they had given him to pass the time: Alan Coren’s A Year in Cricklewood.
Jano and another man were having a drink in the small living room when the young Prince appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Ah, there you are, William,’ she said as he came down. ‘I hope you are hungry. My men have cooked something very special for you.’
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘This is Luca. He is from Palermo and is the man who assisted me in organizing this whole operation. Without him only God knows what would have happened.’
‘Perhaps the lives of my men would not have been so cruelly taken.’
The man called Luca smiled.
There was something cruel and evil about him too, the Prince observed. He looked like the kind of man who would kill just for the actual pleasure of it.
‘It is an honour,’ he said and bowed slightly.
‘May I offer you a drink before we start?’ Jano asked.
‘Thank you. I’ll have a Scotch.’
‘Of course.’
She went to the small cupboard in the corner and poured him his drink.
‘Is this not Senza Cuore Di Sicilia?’ William asked.
He was referring to the soft music playing in the background.
Jano smiled at that.
‘Good, William, very good’ she said. ‘You are undoubtedly a man of taste. Zucchini’s Senza Cuore Di Sicilia. Beautiful music don’t you think? But pray, how would a young English man like yourself, a Prince and no less, know anything about Sicilian music? ’
‘A friend of mine introduced me to it a couple of years ago. His mother is Sicilian.’
She gave him his drink.
‘So have you delivered your communiqué?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, half an hour ago. Your government now has forty eight hours to comply.’
William nodded. ‘They’ll find you in the end, you must know that.’
She chuckled to herself.
‘And if they do, how many more people will die, William? Would it not be better to just give us what we want? Just to avoid a bloodbath? ’
He couldn’t say anything to that because one of the guards appeared from the kitchen and Jano smiled again.
‘Ah, good. Dinner is ready. Come let us sit down.’
They sat down at the small table, William at the head and Jano and Luca at the sides. Luca busied himself opening the wine and when he was ready he handed it to Jano who filled their glasses. Two men came in then, each holding two large dishes which they placed on the table in front of them. It was Jano who served him personally, placing an assortment of fresh fish on his plate. It looked to say the least delicious.
‘You know, Sicilian kidnappers in the old days always abided by certain rules,’ William said and took a sip of wine. ‘That the victim was always treated with utmost respect and politeness. You’ve been trained well, I must say.’
‘What is life without respect? However, remember this, William, that in the old days respect and politeness were soon put aside if there was stubborn refusal to pay for the ‘guests’ release. Sometimes the kidnappers had to cut off an ear, or a finger to convince people to pay up. Sometimes, very rarely, the body of the guest was delivered mutilated or riddled with bullets. That is also the Sicilian way.’
‘And the Marcuzzi way?’ he asked.
‘Considering who you are, I doubt it will ever come to that, but then again you never know.’
‘Well I’ll keep that in the back of my mind.’
She poured herself some more wine.
‘You’ll never get away with this, you do realize that don’t you? The government will never negotiate with murderers and terrorists no matter who they’re holding hostage.’
‘As I told you earlier, if your government does not give us what we want then they will be the cause of the untimely and most unfortunate death of the future King of England.’
There was silence for a few moments then the Prince said,
‘May I inquire as to how you got to know the exact timing I would be leaving the Palace?’ he asked.
‘I had a mole, William,’ she said. ‘A strategically positioned mole. Money can buy everything and anybody these days. Telephone operators, clerks, secretaries, soldiers. Everybody bends at the right price. It couldn’t have been easier believe me. Your government should review your security arrangements. They are, to say the least, pathetic.’
‘If a bullet has your name on it then there’s really not much one can do about it.’ He told her.
‘I think it was your father, Prince Charles, who said that. Of course, he was right.’
Something had certainly broken inside this girl’s mind, the Prince contemplated as he sipped some tea. She certainly looked like a poised, intelligent young woman but underneath all that there no doubt lay a streak of madness and brutal sadism that was very dangerous indeed, and he sensed it strongly. Only God knew what had made her crack…
They finished eating and she offered him a cigarette.
‘Do you use these, or is it too politically incorrect for a young Prince to enjoy a cigarette with his captor?’
‘Not at all,’ he said and stuck one in the corner of his mouth. ‘I was taught at Sandhurst that they can be a man’s best friend at the worst of times.’
She smiled at that and her face lit up. She reached out, lit his cigarette with a silver lighter and then took one herself.
‘You know, I like you, William,’ she said. ‘It is a pity we had to meet this way. You are not like the other men I know.’
He sat back, staring at her; aware that he should be indifferent and angry at her, and he wasn’t which was the strangest thing he’d ever experienced. This woman represented everything evil about life, everything he despised most. But…
‘We come from totally different worlds,’ he told her. ‘Yours is a world of pure and vicious evil. One where an innocent man’s life stands for nothing. You people kill on a whim that which is sacred, and for what? Money? Lost causes?’
‘I know what I am, William, and I assure you what I do is not just for the money.’
‘Oh? There’s another reason for all this madness?’
‘You would never understand,’ she said and the hint of a shadow crossed her eyes. ‘You can’t even begin to imagine the world I come from. As you said, my world is a world of pure and vicious evil and I am but a simple pawn in the hands of greater evils. This is not a life I lead but one that was forced upon me years ago. Some people are born into worlds like that. They have no choices. No rich, royal families to look after their every need, no secure lives to fall back on when things get rough. Where I come from, evil sucks you into its world the moment you open your eyes for the very first time. But again, a young man like you wouldn’t know about things like that.’
‘Everybody has a choice in life,’ he told her.
‘As I said, I am but a pawn in the hands of greater powers. This is not a life I lead anymore, believe me.’
‘Perhaps, Jano or whatever your bloody name is,’ he said with feeling. ‘But at one point in your life you did have a choice of sorts. Having said that, every moment that passes; every golden, living moment that passes you, is a God given chance to change your life. To refuse it, to ignore such a chance is self condemnation to hell.’
Jano raised her glass at that and, although she was smiling, there was a strange, sad look in her eyes that touched him.
‘Then so be it, William, my young handsome Prince,’ she said. ‘To life, all its tragedies and most of all, the road to hell.’

*

TO BE CONTINUED
IN



PART THREE

_______________________________

THE KILLING GROUND

[Harry Fawkes]

PART THREE
THE KILLING GROUND

1
Guardian Angel

Her eyes stared fixedly ahead.
The red Audi in front of her had been doing eighty. It was about 1730 and there was no sign of them ahead and the road ran straight through a dark forest. About a mile outside it though, she turned the white Aston Martin DB9 into a narrow country lane and climbed up past another grove of trees on the brow of a hill.
She could now see the two cars below and she gave a sigh of relief as they stopped further on. She too came to a halt, got out and opened the booth. Inside was a black rucksack which slung over her shoulder and made her way quickly down the hill towards the two cars below. She took a narrow trail that ran passed a belt of trees and bushes fifty yards or so away from them.
Silently, she stretched herself out, cloaked by the bushes, and looked around. There was a man standing beside the Porsche. He was short and barely visible beside the car.
James Bond stood opposite, two armed gunmen behind him a couple of paces back. The man near the Porsche brought up what looked like a submachine gun and her heart missed a beat. She reached for the rucksack and extracted several metal components, a short barrel, a magazine that took ten 7.65 mm rounds and a flat shoulder piece.
Quickly, she assembled the rifle after which she fixed on a telescopic sight.
She settled into a comfortable aiming position and squinted down at the scene further on.
OO7 was now on his knees and Karl had the submachine gun up. It looked as though he was going to shoot. The only problem was that from where she was she didn’t have a clear shot at him. She was on low ground and he was slightly higher on a mound. She could only see Karl’s right shoulder and the rest of his extended arm.
There was no way she’d get a kill from this position.
She got the shoulder into the sight.
If she fired now, Karl would be disabled but that still left the two gunmen behind Bond. How would they react? Would she be fast enough to disable them? Would OO7 act and overcome at least one of the gunmen giving her time to immobilize the other?
She clenched her teeth and squeezed the trigger...

* * *

When the bullet struck his shoulder, Karl was flung to his side to the ground.
Although unexpected, James Bond recognised the opening he needed in that split second of confusion. It was brief but long enough to get the upper hand. He sprang up and spear-handed the gunman on his right in the throat and simultaneously grabbed the pistol with his other hand, turning it on its owner. There were two blasts as OO7 shot him in the chest, the force of the impacts hurling him backwards. The other gunman turned quickly towards him though and raised his own gun to shoot Bond, mouth open in surprise at the sudden change of events, but the gunman was shot in the back of the head by the girl in the bushes, the impact sending him flying forward.
Then from the corner of his eye, Bond saw Karl get up and charge at him.
The pistol he had taken from the first gunman was knocked out of his hand when Karl charged into him, shoulders and head down. Both men fell to the ground and Karl reached out for the submachine gun which lay a couple of feet away. He brought it up as Bond twisted round and managed to get on top of the Sicilian, hitting OO7 with the barrel at the side of his head. Grasping for breath and dazed, Bond grabbed Karl’s wrist. He managed to break Karl’s hold on the gun. It fell to the ground beside them. It was then though that Karl’s left fist swung into Bond’s face, knocking him to the side. Karl rolled and managed to get on top of Bond, grabbing his neck with hands of steel, squeezing hard. He lashed out but Karl, despite his wounded shoulder, was stronger.
‘Time for you to die, Bond!’ the Sicilian hissed through clenched teeth as OO7 choked.
Bond’s arm thrust up through Karl’s forearms and finally broke the hold. He then viciously thrust the side of his outstretched hand into the Sicilian’s throat. Karl held his neck and gasped for air. Bond pushed his opponent off him and reached out for the gun only a few feet away. He grabbed it, bringing it up as the Sicilian turned to jump back on top of him, a wild animal desperate to survive.
James Bond squeezed the trigger and the man called Karl jerked back a dozen times as the shots slammed into him. He screamed and fell back in sporadic spasm as Bond kept firing and Karl went over the cliff, disappearing into the void below...

* * *

Bond got up, swaying slightly and it was then that heard the sound of someone running towards him.
He turned, gun in the classic two handed grip, and came face to face with the girl who had just saved his life.
She was tall, white skinned with athletic looks and short, blond hair and wide green eyes.
‘You’re a hard man to keep up with Mr. Bond,’ she said stopping in her tracks and their eyes locked.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Your guardian angel,’ she told him. ‘Sergeant Kylie Camille, Double O Two.’
‘I see,’ he said and smiled softly. ‘Well, it seems I owe you my life, Sergeant.’
‘Thank M for that. He’s the one who told me to stay on your back. I’ve been following you since this morning. I saw them load you into the booth of that car back but I wasn’t in a position to act so I kept on them, and here I am.’
He looked down at the rifle in her hand.
‘Well thank God you came prepared.’
‘Just call it precaution at its best.’
‘We’d better call M then sergeant; they’re holding the Prince in safe house somewhere in Islington...’

* * *

After dinner, Prince William was escorted to his room and he sat down on the side of the bed as the door was locked by the armed guard.
Now, he sat there thinking about it all; about what Jano had told him during dinner.
She was definitely mad, there was no doubt there. Something had cracked inside her mind. He genuinely felt sorry for her though.
He closed his eyes.
What had Jano been through to turn her into what she is today, a cold monster; and it showed in her hypnotic eyes.
He got up, confused, and paced the small room.
And where did all this leave him?
Why was he feeling pity for her? Was it pity or some sort of infatuation?
‘Damn you, William!’ he said softly to himself. ‘What the hell are you rambling on about? This is a bloody terrorist! What good will it serve? By tomorrow evening you’ll probably be dead!’
He turned and lay on the bed with his eyes closed.
There was nothing to do but wait…

* * *

At the same time, James Bond was standing at the window in M’s office; smoking and looking quite sinister dressed in the black leathers when the Chief of the Double O Division walked in.
‘All our resources are concentrated on Islington, OO7,’ the Colonel told him, a new life to him. ‘MI5 and MI6 surveillance teams have been dispatched to the area along with C13, DI5 and Scotland Yard and I’ve just had an emergency meeting with the PM. He’s been fully briefed and is now addressing COBRA. They’re going to decide the best course of action. The Marcuzzi issued a communiqué earlier on. We were right all along. They want Salvatore Rossi released within forty eight hours and twenty million dollars.’
‘If the government gives in to them it’ll only be a matter of time till someone else out there does something similar,’ Bond said. ‘Anyone who wants to become a millionaire overnight.’
M nodded. ‘And the PM knows that, Bond, but the matter must be discussed at COBRA level. The final decision to storm the place once we’ve found it rests within their hands.’
‘Let’s just hope they come to a quick decision then.’
‘In the meantime, a strike team is flying out to London from Hereford. They’ll be planning the assault from here.’
Bond’s jaw tightened and he sat down in the chair opposite.
‘I want to be on the team,’ he said.
M sat at his desk and lit his pipe.
‘I don’t think that would be wise, Bond,’ he told him firmly. ‘In fact, I think you should go down to the MI room. Get someone to look at those bruises.’
‘I’m perfectly all right. You’ve got executive powers on this, M, no less. It’ll only take a phone call.’
‘It’s an SAS operation and you’ve been inactive for over six months. You’ve done enough already.’
‘You forget I’ve trained with the SAS. I know their drills. As for me being inactive for six months I can assure you I’m as good as I was before I left the Service.’
The Colonel regarded him gravely for a moment.
‘Give me one reason why?’
‘The man who was going to kill me mentioned that this Jano has a personal score to settle with me. She knows me which means I’d better be there when the SAS storm that place just to make sure she stays alive. She’s our only ticket to get to this Marcuzzi organization and knowing the SAS they’ll shoot to kill first then ask questions later.’
M thought about it for a long moment then nodded. What he said made sense.
‘Very well, Bond, if that’s what you want.’
There was a knock on the M’s door and the Chief-of-Staff walked in.
‘We’ve been through the computer with a fine comb, sir,’ he said. ‘We have absolutely nothing on this Jano character.’
The Colonel puffed out a cloud of dirty grey smoke.
‘What about EuroInt?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. They’ve never heard of her.’
The Colonel sat back in his chair.
‘Well, whoever she is we’ll get her in the end.’ he said and looked across at Bond. ‘I’ll make the necessary phone calls, James. In the meantime I suggest you make your way to the MI room. When the SAS get here I’ll inform them you’ll be on the team. It’s only a matter of time now till we locate this safe house. Someone is bound to have noticed something odd in one of the streets there. Till then, we’ll just have to wait.’

* * *

Islington is an inner-city district in London, spanning from Islington High Street to Highbury Fields, encompassing the area around the busy Upper Street. The name is applied to the areas of the borough close to Upper Street such as Barnsbury and Canonbury, developed in the Georgian era.
It grew as a sprawling village along the line of the Great North Road and has provided the name of the modern borough. This gave rise to some confusion, as neighbouring districts may also be said to be in Islington. This district is bounded by Liverpool Road to the west and New North Road to the south-east. Its northernmost point is in the area of Highbury. The main north-south high street, Upper Street splits at Highbury Corner to Holloway Road to the west and St. Paul's Road to the east...
The following morning and throughout the afternoon, life in Islington was as normal as normal could be.
Life went on as usual.
People shopping, lunching, working, living.
Usual day to day life as day to day life should be.
However, if one looked closer one would no doubt notice that there was a lot more activity going on around the areas that formed this London Borough. A concentrated and organised activity that was covertly leading to obtaining one thing: results in the Prince’s kidnapping.
One would notice more men and women, strangers from outside Islington, in the pubs, takeaways, car rental agencies and the shopping centres there asking questions about lost relatives, forgotten addresses, lost friends, lost directions.
Questions that would not seem strange at first.
Most of these questions concerned themselves with, for example, what one thought of the neighbourhood they lived in or had they noticed anything strange lately in their neighbourhood, anything out of the norm?
Had they noticed any new arrivals perhaps, such as people renting flats, or new faces at the local grocery or supermarket?
These questions were always accompanied by the explanation that whoever was asking them was doing some research for a local Real Estate Agency or was looking for a long lost friend whose name had been forgotten.
Had anyone recently rented any property within their neighbourhood?
Shopkeepers, customers, managers, bus drivers, ticket collectors. They were all asked these discreet questions …
The operation to find Prince William was called ‘Quick Bolt’ and the people asking these questions were all Security Service personnel. Police, MI5, MI6, Army Intelligence, Special Forces Personnel, and there were more than one thousand of them on the streets of Islington.

* * *

The lift doors opened and James Bond walked out into the green corridor on the fifth floor.
It was quite, a stark contrast to what was going on in the rest of the SIS building, the bustling world of Britain’s Intelligence Service.
Staff came out of offices carrying files, books, letters, reports; going from one office to the other. People, rather anonymous men and women, were busy on computers collating data, managing and controlling operations, both local and foreign via satellite and people on the ground. An MI6 agent could be anywhere in the world, gathering information and intelligence himself or conducting covert operations that included assassinations, undercover jobs, infiltrating governments, terrorist groups, drug circles and this building was the brain centre, monitoring the agent’s every move, keeping tabs on them, moving them around like pawns on a giant chess board that represented the world of international espionage...
MI6 was indeed a beehive of activity, always had been and always would be…
Bond smiled as he walked along the end of the carpeted corridor to an anonymous door on his right. He opened it and walked into his small plain office with a desk and chair.
He went and stood by the window, now dressed in a navy worsted suit and black knitted tie, looking out at the dull river Thames below, the Houses of Parliament opposite in the grey distance.
After being seen to by a tall, dark, lovely nurse at the MI room, who had treated his wounds with loving attention, he had decided to go back to his flat, shower and get changed. He had grabbed something to eat and again made his way back to SIS headquarters.
It was useless joining the army of detectives now on the streets of Islington, hunting for the Prince.
He had done his job; had obtained vital information that could lead to the Prince’s whereabouts.
As M had said it was only a matter of time now.
He took out his gunmetal cigarette-box and his gold lighter.
He would give them a couple of hours and if no one came up with something he would get out there and join in on the covert search.
Bond lit a cigarette and with a sigh sat down at his desk, pulling towards him the In-Tray of dark red folders bearing the ‘EYES ONLY’ marking.
He went through them, bringing himself up to date with the various goings-on in the world of espionage.
A lot was going on since he had left six months ago and the main thing on the agenda seemed to be his old enemy: Russia.
A new Cold War seemed to be brewing on the horizon with the news that Putin may ratchet up the ante disproportionately by supplying Teheran with its S-300 system which had the ability to track 100 targets simultaneously and strike at planes 75 miles away. It would dramatically alter the balance of power in the Middle East and the United States would not stand for this; nor would Israel; nor, paradoxically, would many Arab states…
There was a knock at his door and he looked up.
‘Come in,’ he said.
It was Sergeant Kylie Camille, Double O Two, the woman who had saved his life.
‘Hope I’m not disturbing you, Commander,’ she said.
‘Not at all, and please, call me James.’
She walked in.
Kylie Camille looked exceptionally desirable in a light blue suit and white blouse. In fact, she was far more attractive than Bond remembered her being back at Gravesend. Young and attractive.
‘Sit down,’ he told her and she did, crossing her legs.
They were long and shapely and Bond couldn’t help looking down at them.
‘I met you once before you know,’ she told him. ‘Two years ago. I was a Single O then. You gave us a lecture on firearms.’
‘Oh?’ he raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes. You taught us that it’s not the accuracy that counts so much with the first shots. It’s the speed you get the first ones away.’
‘Hmmm,’ Bond said. ‘Getting the first one gives the initiative. There aren’t many men who’ll stand still and aim at you as you’re firing away. Yes I remember. You were an outstanding shot yourself.’
She looked at him for a while, as if studying him.
He smoked, waiting.
‘Why did you resign? Or can’t you say?’
Bond sat back in his chair.
Curious sexy little devil, he thought mischievously.
‘I just needed a break,’ he said finally. ‘Quite a long break. It was a mistake of course. I should never have gone through with it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well for starters I love this job too much. Not the killing mind, certainly not that, but the thrill of a new assignment, of getting out there and doing the job. I missed all that badly. Reflecting on it, I should have applied for long leave. A month or two. Just to clear my head. I was going through quite a rough time then you see.’
‘The HaJinn affair?’
‘Yes,’ he said ‘I think it took a lot out of me. You’re well informed.’
She nodded.
‘I read the Case Study,’ she said. ‘You were tortured violently by that mad man Amon Locke. I’m surprised you survived.’
‘So am I.’
He took a long pull on his cigarette and blew out the grey smoke.
‘Sergeant.’ He said finally. ‘Police or Army?’
‘C13, Counter Terrorism Command.’
‘And what made you join this mob?’
‘I was approached by the Colonel. He needed me for a job. I’d been sent by CI3 on a three year training course with the SAS. He’d read my file and decided I was the right candidate for what he required. It was an undercover job with a terrorist organisation called the Army of God. He needed a complete unknown. I started my training as a Single O and after my required two kills was given Double O status. After that there was no turning back’
‘There usually isn’t, Kylie.’
The red telephone rang then and Bond took the receiver knowing it would either be Miss Moneypenny or M himself.
‘Double O Seven,’ he said and it felt bloody good to say it again.
He listened for a moment.
‘Yes, sir, she’s here with me now,’ he said into the phone. ‘We were just going over a few things about the case. Of course, sir, we’re on our way down.’
He replaced the receiver and got up, stubbing out the cigarette.
‘They’ve located the safe-house,’ he told her. ‘M wants us down in the Briefing Room now.’

*

[Harry Fawkes]

2
Tiger’s Rage

It was a filthy night, a storm brewing over London.
The old rented safe house the terrorists were using was small, three large rooms downstairs and two small rooms upstairs; an end of the street terrace semi as they go.
The two plain clothes SAS men were dressed in jeans, beige dessert boots, black T shirts and green bomber jackets. They had successfully drilled a number of holes through the various numbers of walls in the house next door, to the horror of its owner, inserting infrared fibre optic cables.
Thanks to a set of small LDC x19 monitors they now had crystal clear pictures of the inside of the safe house complete with sound.
Nothing seemed out of the norm in Lincoln Street, just a dog barking in the distance and the call of some night birds, the occasional car passing by.
One of the two guards in the living room paused to light a cigarette and moved the living room curtains slightly aside, a submachine gun slung across his shoulder. He was tired and had failed to notice the two spectre-like shadows emerge from some bushes outside, slightly to his left and dart towards the house, disappearing into the darkness of some more bushes further on, as if they had never actually been.
‘You know, I hate London,’ the guard who lit the cigarette said to his partner behind him. ‘A nice villa with a pool in Greece, a cool blonde to share your bed with and a million dollars to spend is what I want when this wretched affair is over. I mean, what more could a man ask for?’
‘No way. Life’s great here. Swinging London.’
‘Better than Greece?’
‘A lot better believe me. Nah, in the end there’s no place like London. La bella Londra.’
‘You’re mad.’ The first guard said. ‘Ah, well, we all are probably. At least this job’ll pay off though in the end.’
‘If they accept Jano’s demands.’
The guard chuckled.
‘What choice have they got?’ he said. ‘We’ve got them by the balls.’
The other guard walked up to him, took his partner’s cigarette and took a couple of puffs.
‘I wouldn’t underestimate the British, Carlos,’ he said handing the cigarette back. ‘Remember the Iranian Embassy Siege way back in the eighties?’
‘The SAS operation?’
‘That’s right.’
‘They wouldn’t dare storm this place. They’d never risk the Prince getting shot.’
The second guard looked outside into the dark street.
‘Let’s just hope you’re right.’

* * *

Four more soldiers, their faces covered by balaclava helmets, were situated in the dark at a holding point in the front garden of a house opposite.
One of them was on the radio to HQ, whispering information and receiving orders through his earpiece whilst two others observed the house through infrared binoculars. The remaining one stood guard further on, brandishing an assault rifle.
They were all sinister shadows in the dark.
When the team sent out an hour ago to set up visual from the house next door to the safe-house finally got back the S/NCO in charge got up from his position and listened to what they had to report.
‘We managed to place fibre optics in all rooms except one,’ the SAS Corporal told him. ‘OPS ROOM have now got visual and sound practically every where.’
‘Great.’ the Sergeant said and turned to the radio man. ‘Check the VDU monitors, Mark,’ he told him and glanced at his watch.
‘We’re on, Sarge,’ called the radio man. ‘I’m fixing up the link with HQ now.’
‘Good, which means we may consider ourselves on stand-by from this moment onwards...’

* * *

The Operations Room back at MI6 was a hive of activity when M and the CO 22 SAS came in.
Uniformed SAS soldiers and MI6 Staff were busy working at computers and telephones, talking in low tones, recording messages and scrutinizing every scrap of information that came in from Lincoln Street.
The duty SIS officer, a young Major, was coordinating everything from a leather chair in the centre of the brightly lit room. When he saw the new arrivals, he got up and greeted them.
‘Thanks to the live link with the surveillance team we have the place on visual from the best angles, gentlemen,’ he said and nodded to five screens showing various pictures of the villa and its grounds. ‘As you can see, they’ve managed to position cameras and listening devices covering almost every vantage point.’
M nodded and moved to a walled map of Lincoln Street and the plan of the safe house and looked at the blue flags marking various points.
‘We’ve closed the street up so tight with MI5 agents that not even a rat will get through without being followed.’ The Major told him.
M turned to the CO 22 SAS.
‘So, for the moment is all we can do is wait,’ he said.
‘The lull before the storm.’ CO 22 SAS said softly. ‘What do you think the chances are of COBRA agreeing to the military option, M?’
‘Well, we both know that the PM’s view is not to deal with these criminals but he also realises that if the Prince is killed during the storming it would be as unprecedented as it can get. It’s a catch-22 situation, and COBRA know that too. The risks are, to say the least, massive. I wouldn’t like to be them in such a situation, Henry, especially if the strike team fails to get his royal highness out of there in one piece. Having said that, yielding to the terrorist’s demands would be even more disastrous. If the PM pays them off and releases Rossi it would be political suicide for his government which is what the PM’s arguing at the moment.’
Silence, then:
‘What about the strike team’s options. Have they decided how they’re going to carry out such an operation?’ M asked.
CO 22 SAS nodded. ‘It’ll be a ‘tiptoe and blitz’ job. Two teams. Alpha and Bravo. Once the guards downstairs have been immobilised they will make their way upstairs and systematically blitz the place till they establish where the Prince is being held.’
‘How many men?’
‘Three considering the size of the house. You’re man Bond will be the fourth.’
M looked up at the monitor showing the crystal clear picture of the two guards making sandwiches in the kitchen and the various other movements inside the house.
‘Then let’s just pray to God we have the same success we had back at Princess Gate in 1980.’

* * *

There was a Range Rover parked at the corner when Bond and Camille got to Lincoln Street in the white Aston Martin and a member of the strike team got out, a man dressed in civvies and one he’d served with before.
‘Hello, Commander,’ he said and they shook hands. ‘The team’s in the forward holding area. We’ve occupied a house opposite the terrorist’s safe-house’
Bond nodded.
‘This is Sergeant Camille, Double O Division. Any word from COBRA?’ he asked.
‘So far no.’ He told him. ‘Come on, I’ll lead the way.’
The SAS man got back into the Range Rover.
They then followed it into the street…

* * *

When Jano had got back to her rented house in Farough Street, a couple of miles away from the safe-house, after dinner with the Prince and Luca, she had taken a shower after which she had contacted her superiors in Palermo to inform them that the communiqué had been sent and that it was only a matter of time now till the British paid up.
The next call she had made had been to the safe house.
‘Has our guest settled in?’ she had asked Luca.
‘Tomaso’s just looked in on him. He said he was fast asleep.’
‘Good for him then. I’m turning in too. Tomorrow’s a big day so get some sleep yourself. I’ll be down there at about eight. Make sure the men are switched on, Luca. At this stage anything can happen.’
She had hung up and went up to her bedroom, took her pistol from her hand bag and placed it under her pillow. She had shivered slightly as if somewhere someone had stepped over her grave.
What a bloody strange feeling, she thought and poured herself a Grappa from a bottle on her bedside locker.
On the small table in the corner there was an LDT high powered radio transmitter. She had turned it on and thanks to two microphones she had placed inside the safe house she would now know exactly what went on there during her absence…

* * *

SAS Forward Holding Area
There were three men in the large living room, all dressed in black combat suits, Heckler and Koch MP5SD submachine guns at their feet along with the rest of their equipment.
A tall blond man was leaning against a table and when Bond and Camille were shown in he looked up and smiled. He was Captain Robert Brown, 22 SAS.
‘Ah, Commander Bond, good to see you,’ he said.
Bond sat down on one of the chairs and acknowledged the two other men in the room.
‘Right, I think we can start off then,’ Captain Brown said and crossed to a large wall-plan of the safe house. ‘Operation Tiger’s Rage is a joint mission that has been coordinated by the SAS and MI6’s Double O Division. It has been decided, considering the Commander’s experience with the SAS, that he form part of the actual assault team should the government opt for a rescue operation. Now then, should we be called out, our main objective will be to get to the Prince as fast as we can. To reach that objective though we first have to get through the ground floor rooms and immobilise the guards there. Fortunately for us, the surveillance team that was deployed on site with two of my men an hour ago managed to plant three high explosive invert-bombs on the wall at this point here (Brown indicated where on the wall-plan) which means the team chosen to take out the guards downstairs will be aided by two other men who’ll blast their way through this wall here from the house next door.
‘The kidnappers are probably guarding the Prince at gunpoint which I’m sure you’ll agree makes things rather difficult. Having said that, we should have the element of surprise on our side, that is of course, if the first team successfully immobilises the guards downstairs before the alarm is raised. According to the surveillance team they are holding the Prince upstairs but unfortunately they haven’t established yet which room he’s actually in so it’s going to be up to the second team, Commander Bond and myself that is, to find his royal highness as fast as we can.
‘We will all advance from the holding-area in pre-arranged order and both teams will go to their assigned positions here and here (Again he indicated the spot on the wall-plan) using this route. Once in position, each team will await my ‘go’, which will red light Operation Tiger’s Rage to commence. Now, Bravo team’s objective is to execute the guards that are in the kitchen, the living room and the back yard. S/Sgt Morley will lead the team and will be assisted by Corporal Sandy Cook. Obviously the guards inside are armed and possess communication radios which means each team reports to a controller in the house. According to the audio experts this controller operates from a room on the ground floor, possibly the dining room. Once Bravo has gone through the door you will carry out a series of very swift one shot one kills. Ops Room back at SIS are monitoring everything live thanks to the surveillance cameras and will be in constant radio communication feeding us all with ongoing information pertaining to the guard’s actual positions. We cannot afford one of those guards raising the alarm before the blitz starts so I suggest you go for a head shot.
‘Alpha’s job is to locate and rescue the Prince. Once Bravo has taken out the guards, we will proceed upstairs to execute a synchronised room clearing operation until the Prince is found. We’ll all be using stun grenades which will obviously cause a series of dramatic effects to our obvious advantage. This diversion will give us vital seconds during the assault. Any questions?’
There was an uneasy silence.
‘Right Commander Bond let’s get you kitted out shall we?’
Bond got up and was given a large kit bag by one of the men and he followed Captain Brown into the kitchen further on.

* * *

‘Tiger’s Rage,’ Bond said as he undressed and slipped into an SAS black combat suit. ‘How original.’
Brown smiled and said:
‘When the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage.’
‘Shakespeare,’ Bond said and cocked his pistol. He thrust it into his side holster and looked at the Captain carefully. ‘There was no mention of Jano during your briefing, Captain. You need to make it clear to your men that we need her alive.’
‘Surveillance was mounted an hour ago. There are no indications as yet that she’s actually in the house. Having said that she could be asleep. We’ve covertly closed the street up tight. No one will get out without a ‘tail’. MI5 have deployed most of their Chameleon Teams to the area so anyone leaving by car will be intercepted.’
Bond nodded gravely and they went back inside.

* * *

SIS Headquarters ~ Vauxhall
M was at his desk busy writing into a file, a pot of tea and a cup in front of him that had turned cold an hour ago.
At exactly two in the morning, the telephone rang. He took off his glasses and picked up the receiver.
It was the Prime Minister.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said after listening for a few moments. ‘I’m sure you did, Prime Minister…Yes, sir, Commander Bond will be with them. Of course, I take full responsibility…Very good, Sir. Thank you.’
He replaced the receiver and got up.
He walked to his office door and opened it.
‘Right, everyone, the Prime Minister has given the thumbs up to the military option,’ he told them all. ‘Chief-of-Staff inform CO 22 SAS. He’s in the Ops Room.’

*

[Harry Fawkes]

3
Dare all to Win

The Prince was in bed staring up at the ceiling.
Still he couldn’t sleep ~ there was too much on his mind for that and the fact that there was a guard outside his door, just sitting there waiting for the order to execute him when and should the time come, made him feel even more uncomfortable.
The Grim Reaper, right here on my doorstep, waiting, he thought to himself.
A dog barked in the distance and he tried turning his thoughts to those of escape instead of death, but the million pound question was how? He couldn’t get out of this room for starters and even if he could what was he going to do? Overrun the house? With what? He’d be shot as soon as he set foot outside.
No. Things like that did not happen in real life...
Downstairs, two guards sat down at the dining room table playing cards, smoking heavily and drinking coffees, their sub machine guns at their feet while in the living room, another Marcuzzi man relaxed on the sofa watching T.V.
The radio operator was at a small table in front of the large Motorola radio-set at the window, opposite the men playing cards. He had a cold beer in one hand and a book in the other. Every fifteen minutes, each team patrolling the grounds had to report in by radio, give his password to authenticate the transmition and report his state.
It was going to be a long night it seemed, and the fact was none of them, not even the guards outside in the back garden, was expecting anything. To say they were too damn sure that the British wouldn’t dare mount a rescue operation could only be described as the understatement of the year which in the end, of course, was to be their ultimate downfall...

* * *

SIS Headquarters
M stood with CO 22 SAS in the Operations Room.
It was, M observed, something out of a high tech sci-fi film.
‘Now this certainly gives new meaning to the word ‘armchair generals’, M,’ CO 22 SAS said and nodded to the five LCD video screens depicting various live scenes at the house in Lincoln Street.
‘Modern technology at its best,’ M said.
‘It shouldn’t be long now. The assault is set for 0315.’
M looked over at the large clock on the wall.
‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best,’ M said.

* * *

Something had awakened her and she lay with her eyes open trying to figure out what it was.
She could hear the men at the safe-house in Lincoln Street talk in low voices from the radio opposite, but it wasn’t that. But then it became clear to her, the distinct sound of helicopters, in the distance.
Two, and they had just passed by high above.
Jano reached for a cigarette and lit one. She had a strange feeling now, a down in the gut thing. Had it been an omen that had brought her awake, or was she simply being paranoid or over excited?
She listened to the crackled voices of her men coming from the radio.
They were talking nonsense of course. Some pathetic conversation about cars and women over a game of cards. She could hear a T.V that was on from one of the other rooms and every fifteen minutes or so she heard the radio operator answer the guards outside.
Everything seemed normal enough, she decided and took a deep pull at the cigarette and inhaled. Blowing out the soothing smoke, she stubbed it out in the ashtray and tried to get back to sleep…

* * *

The silence was eerie at 0330.
Hidden in the undergrowth beneath a wall on the back side of the safe-house, the first man who had filtered through a gap they had skilfully opened in the five-foot wall detected a movement in the apple trees opposite.
He focussed his infrared glasses as two guards emerged from the pitch black, torches on, picking out objects in the dark. Their submachine guns were slung across their shoulders and the SAS Trooper’s heart sank as they moved directly towards him but stopped a couple of meters away.
They engaged in quiet conversation, speaking Sicilian and then they went on towards the house laughing.
The Trooper breathed out a sigh of relief and spoke quietly,
‘OK, you can send in number two,’ he said and changed his position to make room for the next man...

* * *

The two guards at the front of the house were tired and most of all bored stiff.
One leaned against the wall whilst the other sat down on a step, smoking. The guard smoking took a long pull at his cigarette then flicked it away. He propped his sub machine gun against the wall and walked over to some bushes where he urinated. The other guard looked at his watch.
‘What time does Luca relieve us?’ he asked.
‘Four o’clock.’
‘Jesus, I’m knackered.’
The guard who had just urinated pulled up his zip and took his submachine gun.
‘Don’t start moaning, Ciccio, for God’s sake,’ he said. ‘Come on let’s take a walk.’
Both men went on to check the area near the iron-gate and in the distance a dog barked…

* * *

It took the two men of Bravo team well over half an hour to shift unnoticed into their respective positions in the grounds.
James Bond and Captain Brown were on stand-by at their forward preparation site not far from the main gate and it was 0420 when the voices of the two Bravo men crackled through Captain Brown’s headset one after the other.
‘Alpha one this is Bravo ~ in position.’
Brown glanced at OO7 and nodded.
‘Bravo this is Alpha,’ he said into the throat mike. ‘Teams stand-by, repeat, teams stand-by.’
He signalled the SAS man carrying the chain cutter who darted to the main gate and kneeled down in the shadows waiting.
Brown looked at his watch.
Zero hour minus ten.
Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One…
‘Bravo this is Alpha. GO!’

* * *

The two guards at the back of the house were chatting away near the wall at the far end.
They didn’t hear anything but not far away from where they were standing there was a soft ‘pftt’ sound and one of them was shot between the eyes.
His mouth dropped open in a silent scream.
His partner looked at him in horror and again there was the soft ‘pftt’ sound from the shadows beyond. The guard was expertly shot in the side of the head.
The next two guards, who were positioned on the right side of the house, were shot simultaneously ~ not even a second between each kill, the only sound the same dull ‘pftt’ sounds coming from the undergrowth opposite them.
The next two kills took place near the wide pool.
One of the guards was sitting down at the table rolling up a cigarette from an open packet of tobacco while his partner was busy SMSing on his mobile to God only knew who. The man sitting down was shot in the back of the head and he fell forward dead, collapsing across the table while the one standing was shot once through the heart then in the head as he looked up to see what had overcome his partner.
Bravo’s series of kills were indeed swift and cold…

* * *

There was a deadly silence now in the Ops Room at SIS Headquarters; even though it was literally crowded as they watched the kills take place live on the screens.
Each man and woman there had watched the ‘immobilisation’ of the guards transfixed, so clear were the pictures being transmitted from Gozo.
M, CO 22 SAS and the DGs of MI6 and MI5, who had come down specially for the event, stared at the screens with intense concentration as Alpha advanced once Bravo gave them the ‘all-clear’. They watched the two black phantoms of Alpha team, Bond and Brown, dash into the grounds as soon as the gate’s chain was cut. Moments later they watched them position themselves stealthily outside the main door. Two SAS men darted forward to plant the charges. It took about thirty seconds to get the wire and detonator set up and when they were ready the team took up their assault positions.
‘Alpha, this is Zero Golf,’ called one of the men monitoring screen four. He was in direct radio contact with Captain Brown. ‘Stand-to, repeat, stand-to! One of the guards has just gone into the kitchen. Remain in position. Over.’
Brown’s voice crackled through the loudspeakers. ‘Copy that Zero Golf.’
About five minutes later, five minutes that seemed to last for eternity though, the guard who had left his place reappeared carrying two mugs of coffee and a plate of sandwiches. He sat back down and resumed the card game with his partner.
‘Alpha this is Zero Golf. The word is Go!’
‘Got that, Zero Golf. Alpha One out.’

* * *

Captain Brown nodded once at OO7 on his left and he pressed the red button on the small black box.
After a couple of seconds the charge exploded, blasting the door to pieces. The guards downstairs were, to say the least, thunder struck. The team went in and spread out for the kill. There was another series of explosions accompanied by blinding flashes. When the ‘Flash Bangs’ went off, the guards downstairs became completely disoriented and during these fifteen seconds of disorientation they were all shot dead, mouths open in surprise, their bodies riddled with bullets fired from the Heckler and Kochs of Bravo team from the left and the two SAS Troopers who had blasted through the wall from the house next door.
Simply put, the Marcuzzi guards didn’t even know what hit them.
OO7 and Captain Brown quickly made their way upstairs while the killing by Bravo went on downstairs, Brown in the lead with Bond behind him.
OO7 knew that Jano wasn’t downstairs from the continued reports they had received and were currently receiving from Ops Room, so his only hope was that she was upstairs.
He could feel his heart pounding against his chest as he raced up the steps.
The guard on the landing outside the Prince’s door at the far end saw Brown appear from the stairs. He was still in shock and disorientation because of the deafening blasts when he instinctively got up, screaming like some wild animal and sprayed the SAS Captain with his submachine gun.
He was cut down by the savage fire.
James Bond swore violently and dived to the ground, turning expertly onto his side and shot the terrorist full in the face, three taps, brutal and quick as the guard made for the door he was guarding.
Bravo came up from the stairs, one of the SAS Corporals at Bond’s side now, the other covering the rear. They took up positions outside the three doors in the narrow corridor and on Bond’s signal began the room clearing process.
‘Flash Bangs’ were thrown in the instant the doors were blasted off their hinges thanks to the shotguns they were all carrying. Blinding flashes followed thunderous blasts, and then came the bellow of one or two Heckler and Kochs as some of the men sprayed the rooms with 9mm bullets.
It was, finally, OO7 and the SAS Corporal who found the Prince in the room at the end. He was crouched on the floor beside his bed, white as a sheet, mouth open in shock at the deafening blast and flash of the ‘Flash Bang’ thrown in by Bond.
‘We’ve found the Prince!’ James Bond snapped through his throat mike. ‘He’s OK. I Repeat, he’s OK!’
Everyone in the Ops Room back at MI6 burst into a frenzy of joy at that news and M turned and shook his colleague’s hands in exhilaration, their smiles wide across their faces. The relief there was indeed something to see.
Meanwhile back at the safe-house, the Prince looked up at the three men in black combat suits, fear and confusion in his eyes.
OO7 kneeled down and helped him up as the two SAS men turned to cover the door, standing by.
Bond removed his sinister gas mask.
‘Your Royal Highness, my name is James Bond,’ he shouted. ‘You are in safe hands now. We’re taking you home, sir.’
Prince William looked at him and Bond could see the relief in his face instantaneously.
‘Thank you…thank… you’ he said breathlessly. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Later, sir. Come on. Let’s get you out of here.’
And with that they pulled a bullet proof jacket over his head and handed him over to the other three SAS men who quickly escorted him downstairs, three steps at a time.
Once outside they found a Range Rover and they helped him in. Moments later, it sped off as if the devil himself was at its heels.
Despite one SAS man down, Operation ‘Tiger’s Rage’ was nothing but a complete success.

* * *

James Bond felt a blinding rage rise up inside him like a living thing as he passed the man crouching over Captain Brown’s body.
He looked down at the dead officer.
He was a good man, Bond thought.
‘He forgot to throw a ‘Flash Bang’ before running out onto the landing,’ the SAS corporal said and stood beside him.
‘One mistake,’ Bond hissed. ‘One bloody mistake is all it takes!’
‘Part and parcel of the job, sir. It could’ve been anyone of us and he knew the risks. We all did.’
James Bond nodded, strangely wondering when his time would come; his one mistake that would cost him his life.
‘We still didn’t get Jano,’ he said finally.
‘Oh, they’ll find her. There’s no way she’s going to get out off the UK alive.’
‘Well our job here is over, Corporal,’ Bond told him. ‘We’d better get the men out.’
OO7 looked back down at Brown and he felt sick. As he turned to leave he heard the sudden ringing of a telephone downstairs...

* * *

Bond and the Corporal raced downstairs and looked around for the ringing phone.
‘Over here!’ called out one of their men.
They ran into the dining room and Bond nodded at the Corporal who acknowledged that he should answer and he picked up the handset.
‘Hello?’ Bond said.
‘Ah, there you are, James.’ It was Jano. ‘It’s so good to hear your voice at long last.’
‘Jano I presume.’
‘And who else?’ she said and OO7 felt a chill down his spine. The voice was indeed familiar but he couldn’t yet put a finger on it. ‘I must say, that was quite an intrepid operation you carried out. I’m impressed. I didn’t actually think the British would dare go through with it. Bravi.’
‘Who are you?’ he found himself asking.
‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You only know me as Sabine, James. Remember. The Riesha Goethe affair six months ago? Well, as you can see I’m back from the dead, darling, and I just want to tell you that I’m very disappointed, James. Your government has betrayed me so now it will feel the scorpion’s sting. Betrayal can only bring death in my book.’
There was a slight pause at the other end, then,
‘Lost for words, James?’ she said pulling him back down to earth.
‘No matter where you hide I’ll find you!’ Bond put in quickly.
‘No you won’t, darling, because I’m going to kill you first. Oh, and before I forget, could I leave a message with you for your Prime Minister please. Tell him to watch his back because I’m going to put a bullet in his head too if it’s the last thing I do. Tell him it’s payback for double crossing me, James. Goodbye and give my best regards to Prince William.’
The phone went dead and Bond slammed down the receiver. He had gone white as a sheet.
He looked gravely at the SAS corporal and at Kylie Camille who had just joined them there
‘Jano’s going for the PM,’ he told them.

*

[Harry Fawkes]

4
An unpredictable Storm

Earlier
Jano came awake at the sudden sound of the ‘Flash bangs’ roaring from the radio’s speakers opposite.
Moments after the first blast, she heard the sound of machinegun fire and the muffled screams of her men as they were being shot dead.
The safe-house was being stormed!
She darted out of bed and dragged a chair up to the table where the radio was. She listened, thanks to the high powered microphones she had planted around the house, as the assault progressed, a tight knot feeling in the base of her stomach.
At one point she got up and hurriedly slipped into some clothes, still listening as the events back at the house evolved, her eyes dead calm.
The assault lasted roughly fifteen minutes and when she heard the voices of James Bond and the SAS corporal at the top of the stairs in the aftermath she decided, God only knows why, to call the house and have a ‘word’ with the man called OO7...
When she finally hung up there was a strange look in her eyes. It was the look of controlled madness, as if all that had just happened at the house had been one big joke.
She now lit a cigarette and went to the window looking down at the dark street.
There was no way they would find her here, she reassured herself. Nobody knew about this place except her. She tried to figure out what the hell had happened and how the British had found out where they were holding the Prince.
Only one man knew about that location and that was Karl.
Bond must have compromised him.
That was the only plausible explanation she could think of. And if Karl was in their hands it would only be a matter of time till they got to her. The secret of staying alive in this game was to keep on moving…
She flicked the cigarette into the darkness and turned.
She gathered the things she would need most: money, false passports, four boxes of ammunition and her Walther P99 and packed them into a black backpack. She made one last phone call then sat down at the open window again during which she calmly finished the remaining Grappa in a bizarrely highly elated mood.
An hour or so before the sun rose, she got up, took the haversack, gave a last look around and went out of the bedroom to the garage downstairs. A few moments later she drove out and off in a silver Porsche.

* * *

The PM’s car, accompanied by four policemen on motorbikes, pulled up in front of Buckingham Palace just as the two black helicopters approached from the east coast.
There was an ambulance parked there along with four other cars and three Land Rovers. M, the CO 22 SAS, the Police Commissioner, the DGs of MI6, MI5, C13, C11, CI7 and SIB, all stood waiting opposite.
The PM got out and joined them and they all watched the helicopters gracefully land on the wide gravel square further on. As the rotors slowed and the roaring engines died down, the doors were slid open and from the lead helicopter a technician stepped out followed by the Prince.
He was steered over to where the PM and the other officials were and he shook each of their hands. Meanwhile, James Bond and the rest of the rescue team made their way to the waiting Land Rovers that would take them to SIS headquarters. Four of them were carrying a stretcher with the covered body of Captain Brown. The Prince turned, his face grave and he bowed his head in respect as they passed him.
His Royal Highness Prince William of Wales was then ushered into Buckingham Palace with the Prime Minister to be received by Her Majesty the Queen.
M moved in beside Bond.
‘Where’s Double O Two?’ he asked.
‘She’s on her way by car.’
‘Good. You come with me.’
Bond did as he was told.
‘We’ve got to find Jano, Bond.’ The Colonel said when they got into the Daimler.
‘At least we know her identity now.’ Bond told him pointedly.
‘Hmmm, Maria Grazia Fannioli. How on earth were we duped into believing it was her who was shot back in Sicily?!’
Bond sat back and closed his eyes as they drove through the wet streets of London.
‘At any rate, they’ll have to change the PM’s schedule until she’s caught. He can’t do any more public appearances, not if he cares for his life that is.’
‘As soon as you called me from the safe-house I made sure he was immediately made aware of what Jano told you.’
‘And...?’
‘And unfortunately he has ordered that nothing be cancelled believe it or not.’
Bond looked at him. ‘Does he realise he’s dealing with a very mad professional killer?’ he said.
The Colonel looked at him gravely. ‘He made it quite clear that he is not prepared to have his life dictated by a terrorist. Everything will go on as normal. There will be no publicity. The press aren’t even going to be informed. The hunt for the lady called Jano will be conducted in absolute secrecy by the double O division, which is where you come in again. Your job is to trace her and find any leads to get to this Marcuzzi organisation. I want you to get to the heart of it, find whoever is leading it and eliminate him. In fact, I want the Marcuzzi destroyed, completely. We need to send out a message. A message that states that the UK will not tolerate what organisations like the Marcuzzi set out to achieve during these few days. Is that clear, double O seven?’
James Bond nodded.
‘Perfectly,’ he said and lit a cigarette…

* * *

The silver Porsche came up the road that ran to the old chapel of St Mary built on the edge of Crucifix Point opposite Canary Wharf. It turned outwards, came to a halt and a dark haired girl in tight jeans and leather jacket got out of a black Free Lander.
She was a brunet, her hair cut short and layered. Her face was typical Italian, fresh with stunning chestnut eyes and full, sensuous red lips. Her skin was perfectly tanned.
She looked up at the grey sky as Jano got out of the Porsche, a mischievous smile on her face.
‘It’s good to see you again, Jano,’ the girl said.
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘What happened, or can’t you say?’
‘It’s a long story, dear.’
‘Ok. You can leave the Porsche here. Miguel will pick it up and dispose of it, if that’s ok?’
‘Absolutely perfect.’
They made for the Free Lander. They got in and drove off as it slowly started to rain…

* * *

They arrived at the block of flats in Finsbury twenty five minutes later and the drive went uneventful.
The girl’s apartment was on the top floor and once inside she opened the balcony window to let in some fresh air. The place overlooked King’s Square, a small place, sparingly decorated, two bedrooms, a kitchen and living room combined.
Jano placed her backpack on a chair and lit a cigarette.
‘Nice,’ she said. ‘You live here alone?’
The girl busied herself making some coffee.
‘Yes.’
‘What, no boyfriend?’ she asked
‘No. Will you be staying long?’
‘Hopefully not,’ Jano told her. ‘Tell me, how long have you been working for Angelo Galea?’
‘Six years. I started off as a courier.’
‘How old are you, Tania? Eighteen, nineteen?’
‘Twenty.’
Jano walked up to her.
‘So young, so innocent,’ she said. ‘And so beautiful.’
The girl called Tania turned and Jano touched her chin and she lifted her face up towards hers.
‘They didn’t tell me much but they insisted I help out in any way I can,’ Tania said timidly.
Jano moved closer.
‘Good, because I’m going to need all the help I can get.’
Their lips almost touched then and they both felt the sensual heat for each other radiating from their bodies. It was electrical and Tania felt herself aroused.
‘I think this is going to be the start of a wonderful relationship, Tania.’
Tania smiled deliciously…

* * *

From Buckingham Palace, the Colonel dropped Bond off at his flat in Chelsea after arranging to meet back at Headquarters at about one in the afternoon.
At eleven thirty though, James Bond was awakened from sleep by the phone ringing.
Bond swore and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello,’ he said voice crusty.
‘Ah, double O seven, I’m sorry to wake you but I need you here, now.’ It was M. ‘Something’s cropped up.’
‘Give me half an hour, sir.’
‘Good man. I’ll send Sergeant Camille to pick you up.’
Bond hung up and cursed again.
He shaved, showered, put on a smart dark blue suit, white shirt and maroon tie and made himself a very strong black coffee.

* * *

Jano was to meet her contact for lunch at 1230 at a restaurant called Peppino’s in one of Soho’s many side streets, an Italian restaurant famous for the quality of its fresh fish, its speciality Oysters, Cray fish and Eel soup; an old fashioned place, reminiscent of the swinging sixties as the décor in there strongly suggested; very expensive and quite popular with the London suitors.
She got there ten minutes early and was shown to a table in the corner. She ordered a dry Martini and sat back to enjoy a cigarette. At precisely 1230, a tall, distinguished looking man with silver hair stood in the foyer. He was well built, his hair, swept back behind his ears, was long, almost touching his shoulders and his face was typical Roman with stunning blue eyes and cruel lips. His skin was tanned and he was dressed in a dark grey suit and maroon silk tie.
He looked around and proceeded past her to the small bar further on.
‘Good afternoon, Philippe,’ Jano told him.
The man called Philippe looked down at her, a slight look of puzzlement on his face and then recognition dawned.
‘My God!’ he said in Italian. ‘Jano?!’
Jano had donned a black wig and secretary glasses. She was dressed in a light blue business suit with short skirt. Her face had changed too, quite distinctly in fact, thanks to her expertise in facial make up.
The change was truly uncanny, a chameleon no less.
‘Please sit down before you attract the wrong kind of attention.’
He did as he was told and beckoned a waiter.
‘Scotch and Soda, no ice,’ he told him and looked at Jano. ‘And another Grappa for the signorina.’
Philippe sat back smiling handsomely. ‘I’m impressed.’ He said. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you in a million years!’
‘You trained me well, Philippe.’
‘You were a good student.’ He lit a cigarette without offering her one. ‘Your men?’
‘Dead. All of them.’ She told him. ‘And I still don’t know what the hell went wrong. I had everything planned out meticulously.’
He looked at her hard for a moment and again he smiled. ‘Jano, my sweet Jano,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it obvious what went wrong? Your man, Karl, he went out to silence Angelo Galea, which he did in the end, but…’
‘James Bond got to him.’
‘Exactly. James Bond. Threw him off a bloody cliff, would you believe it, after he made him spill the beans evidently. A nutter, if I’ve ever seen one. Raving mad.’
It was Jano’s time to smile. ‘I like him, Philippe,’ she told him. ‘Bond is unpredictable.’
‘Yes, but thanks to him you’re…how shall I put it? In the deep end and swimming with the sharks.’
‘The story of my life.’
The waiter brought their drinks over.
‘Which is why I think we should discuss a way of getting you out of the country,’ he said. ‘Things are going to get very hot soon. They’ve mounted a nation wide hunt for you. The police want your head on a silver plate, and that’s an understatement. Some London rat is bound to talk which makes your time here borrowed.’
Jano sipped her drink. ‘I’m not ready to leave yet,’ she said softly but with firmness he knew to be ultimate. ‘I have some unfinished business to take care of.’
Philippe looked at her, surprised. ‘Like what pray?’ he asked.
Through a cloud of silver grey smoke she said, ‘Like assassinating the Prime Minister of Great Britain, for starters.’
The man called Philippe was sipping his Scotch when she had said that and he nearly choked…

* * *

When James Bond walked into M’s office he found the Chief-of-Staff and Sergeant Kylie Camille there also.
‘Ah, Bond,’ the Colonel said. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Sir, Bill,’ Bond said and sat down and acknowledged Sergeant Camille.
Bond lit a cigarette.
‘The PM’s being stubborn.’ M told him. ‘I’ve been trying again to convince him that it would be mad not to change his schedule but he doesn’t seem to actually appreciate the severity of Jano’s threat.’
‘I wouldn’t call him stubborn then,’ Bond said. ‘I’d call him damn right crazy. The woman we’re dealing with is a psychopath.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘As I told him, it’s his choice in the end. He has ordered all Security Services on a nation wide hunt for her. People are being questioned, houses searched, Rossi’s goons, not to mention his lawyer, are being watched twenty-four hours but the problem is it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
The Colonel passed a black folder to him from which he produced a number of 6×4 black and white photos of the kidnappers killed at the safe-house during the rescue operation.
‘Those men entered the country three months ago on different flights,’ the Chief-of-Staff told him. ‘Alitalia, Lufthansa and Air France. All bearing false passports.’
M lit his pipe. ‘As for Jano only God knows how she got here. We’ve tried matching the only photo we have of her with some of the video footage of passengers entering passport control from flights coming in from Europe but unfortunately there was no match. MI5 have provided us with some tapes stretching over a period of five months from the kidnapping. Airports keep such records on disk-file.’
‘She obviously used a disguise.’ Bond observed.
‘No doubt there. Nevertheless the police have traced the safe-house the kidnappers used to a man called Andre Darling, a very rich and powerful businessman here, amongst other things.’
‘Other things?’ Bond asked.
It was the Chief-of-Staff who spoke. ‘Illegal arms smuggling. Apparently, he buys weapons from Libya, Peru, Bolivia etc and smuggles them into the UK. Sells them to the highest bidder in Europe. Of course, as things like these always go, the police have no proof yet. To say he’s careful when it comes to covering his tracks would be an underestimation of the fellow.’
‘He’s also done business with Salvatore Rossi in the past,’ M put in.
‘Drugs?’
‘That’s right. Now the fact that the kidnappers entered the country by air indicates that they must have purchased the weapons and paraphernalia used during the operation here in the UK.’
‘I see,’ Bond said. ‘And only one man could have provided them with the stuff?’
‘There are a number of possible leads but the fact that Darling has links with Rossi and that he rented them the safe-house makes him our strongest,’ said Sergeant Camille.
‘Now, we can’t bring him in legally, OO7, his lawyers would have a field day suing us,’ M said. ‘We haven’t got any proof that he has his finger in anything illegal, you see. He’d simply say he leases the house out to God only knows how many people a year and that he had no idea that these particular clients would be using it to hold Prince William on this occasion.’
‘But we know he’s involved one way or the other.’
‘Knowing something isn’t actually proving it, James,’ Sergeant Camille said.
‘Which is why we’re on the job,’ the Colonel said through a cloud of grey smoke. ‘You, double O Seven, and you, double O Two, are going to come down on him like a tonne of bricks to see what information you can get out of him. It is very possible he’ll lead us to Jano and the Marcuzzi. We have full clearance again from the PM to leave no stone unturned.’
‘Wild justice again,’ Bond said and blew out a stream of smoke.
‘It’s the only way. Now, Darling is on his yacht at the moment. The ‘Trinity’. It’s anchored somewhere off Folkestone. He has a proclivity for diving. Loves the thing and he’s out there almost every day. Some place called the black Lagoon. I think you should pay the bugger a surprise visit before he comes back in tonight.’
Bond looked at the young girl. ‘Seems you’re stuck with me Kylie,’ he said and smiled.
‘I’ll take it as a learning experience, Commander.’ She told him.
Bond turned to M. ‘What about Rossi’s lawyer?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got double O Six and double O Eight shadowing him but he’s keeping himself squeaky clean at the moment. His calls are being monitored and the people who leave his office are being tailed. As things seem I’d say he’s just a secondary player in all this, the so-called messenger.’
Bond sat back. ‘Well, we’ll just see how it goes with this Darling then. A bit of roughing up won’t do him that much harm.’

* * *

…‘Have you gone bloody mad?’ Philippe hissed.
Jano smiled. ‘Calm down, Philippe, or you’ll have a heart attack.’
‘I am having a heart attack!’ he told her, trying desperately to keep his voice down. ‘Why in God’s name would you want to assassinate the Prime Minister? You’re in deep enough trouble as it is.’
‘I don’t like losing.’
‘Look, Jano, our sole objective was to free Rossi, that’s all. What on earth could you possibly achieve by this?’
‘Revenge. Besides, I’m dead anyway. The Marcuzzi does not tolerate failure on such a scale, Philippe, you know that. Once I’m back in Sicily I’ll be shot. I might as well go down with a bang, forgive the jibe.’
He looked at her for a long moment, trying to figure her out. He had known her for a long time, ever since that night back in Rome when her roommate had called him to help them with the bodies of the two mafia men sent out to kill her and who lay in pools of blood in their apartment. Shot to death while they were raping her. He had known then that she was a wild one, mad even, which is why he had decided to take her under his wing and give her protection. He had ended up teaching her everything he knew where the art of assassination was concerned; had even initiated her in the HaJinn with Riesha Goethe’s band of assassins...
Even then he had had trouble figuring her out.
She was, to put it simply, an unpredictable storm, which is what he loved most about her in the end.
Philippe Laroche sighed heavily, helpless to her will. He shook his head slowly.
‘Tell me,’ he said finally. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Information. I want to know his schedule for the next two weeks. Dinners, meetings, public functions, security arraignments, whatever, obviously including timings and venues of course. Set up a meeting for me tonight with Andre Darling. A man with his influence and contacts here shouldn’t have any problems acquiring such information.’
She knew Philippe loved her.
Not the love that lovers feel but the love reserved for brothers, sisters and parents. She also knew fine well that Philippe would do exactly what she asked.
‘Darling is a rat not to be trusted more than necessary. He’ll betray you. Besides, information like that will cost money and there’s no way the Marcuzzi will red light such an operation,’ he told her.
‘I’ve still got some cash stashed away, Philippe, enough to buy me what I want.’
‘They’ll have my head. And how long do you think it’ll take the British to trace the safe-house back to him? It’s too dangerous. ’
‘What’s life without a little risk,’ she said and her eyes glowed beautifully. ‘Listen to me, Philippe, as you know I organised the Prince’s kidnapping to get Salvatore out of prison and to make some money out of it too, enough money to buy myself back into the Marcuzzi and fix up my life after Sean D’Arcy and his men ruined it. The Marcuzzi saw Salvatore’s abduction that night as my failure and they gave me one chance to fix things up which I tried. Now, everything I set out to achieve has gone down in a blaze of fire last night which leaves me out in the cold. I could end it all with a bullet to my head, from my own hand, but I don’t want to go like that. Neither do I want you to be put up against me, Philippe, and you know that’s what they’ll do once you get back to Sicily. They’ll force you to hunt me down and kill me yourself. That’s how they do things, you know that as well as I do. Now, is all I want is a chance to go down fighting and the best way is playing the game of death.’
‘With James Bond?’
‘With him and the rest of the bloody British. Look at it as my swan song in this life.’
He finished his Scotch and sat back.
‘You were always different, Jano, which is what I love about you. Always have. You’re hell on wheels, nothing less. Ok, I’ll do it, I’ll get you what you want but then I’m out of it. You’re alone. Punto e basta.’
‘Which is exactly the way I want it to be.’
It was then that the waiter appeared to take their food order.

* * *

The ‘Trinity’ was a large, high-powered motor yacht with a laddered skeletal structure above the cockpit.
It was anchored in a bay with a wide stretch of white sand. Pierre Carabez, the skipper, sat in the swivelled chair bolted to the deck, a fishing rod in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other.
‘How was it?’ he called as the man called Andre Darling hauled himself on board from the dive platform.
Darling took his tanks off and dried himself. ‘Bloody awful,’ he said. ‘I need the Mediterranean, mate, not this bloody piss. Malta or Sicily – them’s the best places for diving.’
He was a big, hulk of a man, completely bald with eyes that were little black dots on a fat seamless face. He was, simply, a hideous looking man. He glanced across at two girls, both Negroes, sunbathing in the little sun that there was that day, naked on the upper deck while two men in white T-shirts were taking care of his diving equipment aft. He then looked out to sea and saw a red speedboat approaching from land. He sat down at a small table to enjoy a late lunch consisting of cold roast beef and potato salad. After diving all day, he was quite hungry.
It was about five minutes later when the speedboat reached the black Lagoon and Bond piloted it carefully to the side of the ‘Trinity’ and Andre Darling got up, walked to the rail and looked down at the new arrivals.
‘’Afternoon,’ he called. ‘May I help you?’
It was Sergeant Camille who answered.
‘I’m Sgt Camille, Mr. Darling, CID,’ she said and flashed a badge. ‘We’d like to have a word with you please.’
‘Of course, Sgt. As a matter of fact I’ve been expecting you. Please come aboard.’
Bond took the boat to the other side and tied up. They were helped aboard by one of Darling’s men who escorted them to the lower deck where they found him back at the table finishing his late lunch.
‘Please sit down,’ he said wiping his mouth with a white paper napkin. ‘May I offer you a drink? Some wine perhaps?’
They sat down as he poured some wine into two Paris goblets.
‘You said you were expecting us,’ Bond said.
‘Of course, the police told me they wanted to ask me a couple of questions about some property I own in London. What’s going on?’
‘A house in Lincoln Street,’ Camille told him. ‘It was used in a kidnapping, Mr Darling.’
Darling sat back calmly in his chair.
‘Blimey,’ he said feigning shock. ‘You don’t say! How awful.’
‘Can we assume you met the person or persons behind the kidnapping?’ Bond said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The people who rented the house. May we assume you met them?’
‘One of my assistants takes care of that end of the business for me. Rent collecting, I mean. I’m a very busy man you see. So many things on my plate. I need all the help I can get.’
‘I can see that,’ Bond said and looked mockingly around.
‘Your assistants name, sir?’ Camille asked, cutting in.
‘James De Silva,’ Darling told her. ‘You’ll find him at my villa in Folkestone at the moment. I’m organising a cocktail party this evening, a very important business function. The good man is taking care of things for me. Very efficient lad.’
‘Have you ever met a woman called Jano, Mr. Darling?’ Bond told him, his eyes burning, challenging, searching the fat man’s eyes.
‘Jano?’ Darling repeated. ‘I can’t say that I have. I mean with a name like that one would most certainly remember, Mr…?’
‘Bond. James Bond.’
Darling nodded slowly.
‘Well, Mr. Bond, I’m sorry. I have never met anyone with that name.’
‘And of course you wouldn’t possibly know where the people who rented your property in London could have also laid their hands on several 9mm submachine guns, enough ammunition to last a life time and enough explosive to blow up Number 10 would you, Mr. Darling?’
There was a heavy silence and Darling took a sip of his wine, eyeing Bond from across the table. His face was dead serious, eyes quite deadly. If looks could kill…
‘No, Mr. Bond, I wouldn’t. I’m a business man not a criminal.’
‘Of course you are,’ Bond said and smiled cruelly. ‘A business man, that is.’
Darling stood up, visibly irked. He breathed in deeply, as if to calm down and then smiled broadly at Camille.
‘Well, I do hope I’ve been helpful, Sgt Camille, but I am a very busy man and my time is limited I’m afraid. Of course any further discussions will have to be done with my lawyer present. I’m sure you understand.’
‘We’ll need to question your assistant, Mr. Darling,’ she told him as they got up.
‘Of course, my dear. By all means.’
‘You can tell him to come down to CID headquarters in London tomorrow morning at nine. Tell him to ask for Inspector Valance.’
He shook their hands.
‘It has been a pleasure assisting you. I must thank you for coming out here. I hope you haven’t wasted your time.’
Andre Darling watched as Bond took the speedboat out and speed off towards land. Behind him a door opened from the wheelhouse and a thug appeared. He walked up to Darling.
‘What d’you think?’ he asked.
‘They’ve got nothin’ on me. Absolutely nothin’.’ Darling sipped some wine, still looking out at the speedboat. ‘Call De Silva though. Make sure he knows what to say.’
‘So that was James Bond, eh? Doesn’t look much.’
Darling looked back at him belligerently.
‘That’s because you’re a bad judge of character you bloody dolt. Bond’s hell on wheels and don’t you forget it.’

* * *

James Bond and Camille left the speedboat in the hands of two plain clothes police men and were now driving up a steep hill that led to the village.
‘What now, James?’ Camille asked.
‘Lunch.’ he told her. ‘It’s about time we got to know each other a bit better Kylie.’
‘Did you see the look in his eyes when you mentioned the submachine guns?’
‘Yes. He’s a dangerous one, this Darling fellow. One I wouldn’t mind locking my horns into.’
As she turned the Aston Martin DB9 through a very tight bend, he looked across at her and smiled cruelly.
‘By the way, fancy gate crashing a party tonight, double O two?’

*

[Harry Fawkes]

5
Gate Crasher

The waiter brought the wine, a bottle of Vernaccia di San Gimignano, and after tasting it, James Bond nodded his satisfaction and sat back and gazed out of the window.
Folkestone is a resort town on the south coast of Kent, traditionally known as "The Garden Coast". Situated at the foot of the North Downs, the town has stunning views of the surrounding countryside as well as the coast of France, a mere 24 miles away. Many walkers enjoy this fabulous scenic route and the area is a magnet for passing migrating birds, and the woodlands adjoining Wear Bay and the high cliffs above the black lagoon are of particular interest during the spring and autumn periods.
They were now at the Bay Tree Restaurant of the Burlington Hotel, a superior three star that stands in its own grounds and set in tranquil surroundings overlooking the Leas Promenade and the English Channel.
Bond had ordered for both of them: roasted turkey with smoked bacon, cranberries, pecans, crumbled blue Cheese and poppy seed dressing, accompanied by crisp greens, baby tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion, pepperocinis, kalamata Olives and Feta Cheese served with a delicious Mediterranean dressing.
‘I’m curious, Kylie, what made you cross over to MI6?’ Bond asked her breaking the silence.
‘Well, to put it simply I didn’t believe the police and the normal rules of law were getting anywhere where the drug problem and the war on terrorism here are conducted.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The police are working with their hands tied behind their backs which obviously suits people like Andre Darling, Salvatore Rossi and company. Too many legal characteristics that seem to give them an upper hand.’
Bond nodded. ‘And the Double O division offers something more, is that it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, For starters it works outside the characteristics I mentioned. It’s sanctioned to take action where the police and MI5 wouldn’t dare. James, before I joined C13, I was with CID. I was involved in a stakeout once, a drug pusher working for a local drug organisation. We’d been trailing him for months, trying to catch him red handed, a man called Silvio Testa. Well, one fine day, when my partner and I were just about to receive our first break we were called off the case. The order came from above. No warning whatsoever. I obviously complained but my superior didn’t listen. We were so close to building up the case we needed to put him away.’
‘You took it personal.’ Bond said.
‘Tell me who wouldn’t,’ she told him. ‘A very close friend of mine had died of an overdose a year before. Silvio Testa was the pusher who sold her the stuff and I just wanted to bring him down. Well, after being pulled off the case I decided to go out alone, work outside the law that is. To cut a long story short, I managed to build up the case we needed against him. He was put behind bars and in the process of my personal investigation I also exposed a corrupt police inspector ~ my direct superior and the man who had pulled my partner and me off the case. He was working for Testa’s organisation; on their pay role that is.’
‘Which caught M’s attention,’ Bond said.
‘That’s right. After my unfortunate experience, I left CID and went onto to C13 and the next thing I knew I was offered a job with M’s group, which of course I accepted and here I am.’
There was a long moment of silence again.
Kylie Camille sipped her drink and looked closely at Bond.
‘What about you, James?’ she asked after a moment.
‘What about me?’
‘Why did you join MI6?’
Bond took some wine.
A smile slid onto his handsome face. Kylie Camille’s face and eyes reminded him of Greer Garson as a young woman, he thought, the English-American actress who was very popular during the Second World War. Her close-cropped hair made her look slightly boyish and her mouth was quite striking with a sensual lower lip...
‘Well, where do I start?’ he said softly. ‘I think it was probably the best thing for me at the time. I was addicted to something a friend used to call Les sensations fortes, still am tell you the truth.’
‘An adrenaline junky.’
‘I wouldn’t call it exactly that,’ he put in quickly. ‘I wanted more out of life – action, adventure, passion. Something much more. After University I joined the Royal Navy and went on to the Special Boat Service.’
She nodded.
‘You obtained the rank of Commander and was placed in the 030 Special Forces Unit serving covertly in Iraq, Somalia, Iran, Libya and actively in Bosnia. After that it was two years with the SAS, and then came RNR Defence Intelligence Group.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ve done your homework,’ he said. ‘DIG recruited me and sent me on a couple of specialized courses studying languages at Oxford and Cambridge which is where I met a man called Ian Lancaster. He was an SIS recruiter who thought I was the perfect candidate for the world of espionage. I had no family and was going from one adventure to the other in the SAS, in search of that ultimate thrill or high if you wish. I went to work for him at Section F. It was all about intelligence gathering then, you know, info, profiling, assessments, data processing - spying in the true sense of the word, if you will.’
‘I bet that didn’t last long,’ she said.
‘It didn’t. A year after joining Section F, Sir Miles Messervey summoned me to his office on the eighth floor. He wanted me to join his outfit. Said Ian had recommended me to him. He’d been watching me closely and he told me that he could do with a man of my ‘talents’. It turned out he was the founder of what they then called the Double O Section. Well, after going through the mandatory gruelling training, he gave me my first two jobs. I had to assassinate a Japanese spy in New York and a Norwegian double agent who betrayed two British agents to the Russians. After those two very messy affairs, I was given Double O status and from then on there was no turning back.’
‘Dr No, Goldfinger, Hugo Drax, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Mr Big, the Laird of Mulcaldy, the Union,’ she said. ‘To name but a few. You’re a living legend back at Elton Green, James.’
Elton Green was MI6’s top secret School for potential Double O Agents, where Single Os are put through one of the most gruelling training programmes in the world.
She took some wine.
‘I read in your file that you were married once,’ she told him after a while.
James Bond breathed in deeply. He stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and looked down at his lighter, as he toyed with it in his fingers, then at her and he held her eyes in his for a long moment.
‘Yes, I was,’ he said softly. ‘A long time ago.’
‘May I ask what happened?’
His eyes became two slits and she knew that she had just asked something that had seriously put him off.
He lit his cigarette and breathed in deeply.
‘I’m sorry, James, I shouldn’t have…’
‘No, it’s all right, it’s just that I hardly ever talk about it anymore,’ he said. ‘That madman Blofeld killed her. The shot was meant for me but instead it caught my wife, Tracy, in the heart. I suppose it was all my fault. I should have been out trying to catch the bastard instead of thinking of marriage. You see, I let him go after that wretched affair in the Swiss Alps. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve been over those last few moments. Still, I suppose I’ll pay for that mistake all my life.’
‘Life and all its ugliness,’ she said softly.
‘Hmmm, anyway enough of that,’ he said. ‘What about you? Are you married, Kylie?’
‘No, but I’m engaged. I don’t know if I’ll go through with it though. The wedding that is. I think it’ll be selfish if I got married considering what we do. He’s a banker and he wants me to give it all up.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Not enough to chuck it all in I think. Not yet anyhow.’
‘If you love him enough you’ll give it all up for him. Find a job in Records or Profiling. It wouldn’t be fair. I was going to do that when I got married. I would have changed jobs for sure.’
‘You must have loved her a lot, James.’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve never loved anyone more.’
The waiter brought the food and he stubbed out the cigarette. He smiled.
‘Delicious,’ he said. ‘Come on, Sergeant. Enough talk now. I’m hungry…’

* * *

‘You know something, you still haven’t told me how exactly you’re going to pull it off,’ Tania said.
She had just finished eating and she lit one of Jano’s cigarettes.
Jano smiled.
‘It’s what I call beautifully simple, my dear.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘At the moment the British are guarding their PM like Fort Knox.’
‘Which is to be expected since you warned them of your intentions. Which also means you’ll never get past his security unless you shoot him from a long distance away. In which case you won’t have much luck there, they’re obviously expecting that too.’
‘Brava, Tania, bravissima. However, the British Prime Minister is not the real target. That is what I wanted them to believe.’
Tania looked at Jano closely.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘Have you ever heard of that old biblical saying never let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, or something to that effect? By believing I will attempt to kill the PM, the security services will obviously concentrate all their resources protecting him, leaving my actual target exposed.’
‘But then why go to all the trouble of asking Laroche to get Andre Darling’s hands on the PM’s schedule for the next two weeks. Dinners, meetings, public functions, security arraignments, timings and venues. Surely such information will come at a very high price.’
Jano got up and fixed two coffees.
‘Having his schedule will enable me to establish when the PM’s security arrangements will be at its strongest thus my actual target’s security will be at its weakest. Hopefully, anyway. Secondly, Andre Darling will no doubt betray me tonight. He will do so after he gets paid of course but betray me he will which is exactly what I want him to do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because by informing on me he will save his own hide with the authorities. They have probably already traced the safe house back to him which means the police will turn the heat up on him and people like him crack easily. Now, if he does betray me he will give more credibility to my plot to assassinate the PM which, in turn, will thicken my so called ‘smoke screen’ considerably. The only problem I’ve got to solve however is getting out alive when I meet Darling tonight.’
‘But then, given that argument what makes you think he’ll even bother getting the information you require? Is all he has to do is pretend he’s got it.’
‘He might be stupid, dear, but he’s not mad. He’ll know I’ll want to check the goods before I hand over the money so he’ll not chance handing over anything other than the genuine article. Well, at least I hope so.’

* * *

M was at the window of his office, smoking his pipe and drinking tea.
There was a knock at his door and the Chief-of-staff walked in.
‘We’ve got her file, Sir,’ he said. ‘The Sicilian Special Branch has just sent this.’
The Colonel sat down at his desk and took the file the Chief-of-staff handed him. He opened it and went through the contents. There was the cutting of the front page of the ‘Corriere di Sicilia’ dated 4 March 1990 with the headline: ‘Farmer murdered by Mafia.’ There was also a 6×4 black and white photo of the victim ~ one Enricho Fannioli.
He produced another photo of the victim’s daughter ~ 14 year old Maria Grazia Fannioli: AKA Jano.
‘No recent photo?’ M asked.
‘Our computer experts are working on an identikit with that photo.’
The Colonel sat back in his chair and read the report.

* * *

When the waiter came over to clear the table Bond ordered two coffees for both of them.
He sat back and lit another cigarette.
‘So, James, what now?’ Camille asked.
‘Jano could be anywhere and everywhere.’
‘What I can’t understand is why she boasted to you about her intentions. Don’t you think it strange?’
‘It’s a game to her. She’s obviously addicted to living on the edge, to the rush of danger. I’d say she’s a romantic apart from being barking mad of course. Letting us know has raised the stakes and that gives her a high.’
Camille nodded. ‘You mentioned ‘gate crashing’ earlier on. I assume you meant Andre Darling’s party tonight.’
‘That’s right.’
‘To what end?’
‘Jano’s going to need help if she wants to succeed and of course get out alive. Help that can come only from the so called underworld. If what the Colonel said about him is true then I’d bet my right arm it’s him she’ll turn to for that help. I just want him to know that we’re onto him.’
‘After which?’
‘I intend to increase the pressure ~ my way.’

* * *

The Colonel slammed the telephone down and looked up at the Chief-of-staff.
‘The PM has just confirmed he won’t change a bloody thing!’ he hissed. ‘His schedule for the Italian PM’s three day visit will remain the same.’
The Chief-of-staff nodded gravely. ‘He obviously doesn’t want to show signs of weakness in the face of terrorism,’ he said.
‘Hmm, but I’m not pleased though, chief-of-staff. I’ve a bad feeling about this, a down in the gut feeling.’
‘What about his security arrangements?’
‘I have a complete list of every movement he intends to take together with his Italian counterpart. Tomorrow he will meet the Italian PM at Number 10 at nine. At twelve thirty they leave for lunch at Ballards. At eight in the evening a function will be held at Buckingham Palace where he’ll meet the Queen. Sunday they’ll attend mass at Westminster followed by a wreath laying ceremony at the war memorial then on to lunch at Winterset. Monday will see the Italian PM meet the opposition leader, a quick visit to Oxford then dinner at the Italian Embassy.’
‘Looks as though she has every opportunity to strike.’
‘That’s an understatement. However, MI5 and the SAS are in charge of crowd control and they’ll also have roof top surveillance teams for any movements on opposite roofs and windows from surrounding buildings. We’ll take care of his personal security of course.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime CID and MI5 are checking out every hotel, bar, restaurant, nightclub, guest house that can be found listed. Houses and flats of known criminals are being raided and turned over as we speak. God knows how many foreign women bearing even the slightest resemblance to the identikit feature are going to be lifted for questioning. In short, Chief-of-staff, we are leaving no stone unturned.’
‘Just one thought, Sir,’ the Chief-of-Staff said.
‘Go on?’
‘What if she tries to go for the Italian PM as well?’
‘Now that, Chief-of-Staff would be absolutely disastrous, politically that is.’
The Colonel was about to say something else but was interrupted by a knock on his door and Bond and Camille walked in.
‘How did it go with Darling?’ he said.
‘So far nothing we didn’t already know, Sir,’ Camille told him. ‘We’ll be paying him another visit tonight though.’
The Colonel handed Bond the file they received from the Sicilians.
‘We received this a couple of hours ago,’ he told him.
‘Maria Grazia Fannioli,’ Bond said after going through the contents. He passed it to Camille. ‘No recent photo?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ the Colonel said. ‘But Section C is working on it.’
Bond handed the Colonel a piece of paper with a list of items written down on it.
‘I’ll need these for tonight, Sir.’
The Colonel nodded.
‘One SA4 listening device, a surveillance van together with a team to man it and three ‘shadow’ cars.’ He looked up at Bond. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll inform Q Branch. But, would you mind explaining what you’ve got up your sleeve double O seven.’
Bond nodded. ‘Simple, Sir,’ he said and went on to explain what his plan was…

* * *

The lights of Andre Darling’s residence were all on, a nice welcome for the guests as their Chauffer driven cars came up the gravel drive to the front entrance ~ Limousines, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces ~ the country’s rich and powerful.
Darling was one of the richest men in the UK. His estate, situated in the west of Folkestone, was a beautiful place, a huge seventeenth century country house set in the midst of a large formal garden on the edge of a wide, steep cliff.
That evening his security men guarded the estates’ entrance, inspecting the guest’s cars before they went through. Men patrolled the perimeter around the house whilst inside, Darling, wearing an elegant evening suit, moved smugly amongst his guests as a band played in one of the halls.
It was, however, about eight thirty when a white British Telecom van pulled up just down the road leading to the estates main gates. Three men got out of the back and one of them set up a sign saying ‘MEN AT WORK’ while the other two lifted the man hole opposite.
Inside the van, two men were seated at a panel of screens and audio system with headphones on, Kylie Camille sitting opposite. She glanced at her watch and took a two way radio, pressed the switch and spoke.
‘OK, James, we’re ready to go.’

* * *

Dressed completely in black, James Bond was riding a Suzuki 900cc Ninja through the narrow meandering countryside roads when Camille’s voice crackled through the radio earpiece beneath his helmet.
He acknowledged her, kept up the speed till he came to a belt of trees situated on a rise a hundred meters away from Darling’s house, looked around then dismounted.
It only took him about ten minutes to get to the left side of the perimeter wall from where he left the bike and there he waited for a few moments, enjoying a quick smoke. He then flicked the cigarette away and climbed over the wall.
Landing lightly on his feet, he darted into some shrubbery towards the house with a cautious rush.
Lights blazed from the front windows onto the wide gravel drive where the cars were parked and chauffeurs waited for their masters. The house was rectangle and a greyish green colour with oak trees growing on three sides of it. It was an imposing building that depicted wealth and power.
James Bond halted abruptly as he moved forward through some trees.
Voices!
He sank quietly to the ground and lay flat on his stomach, silent. Two of Darling’s security men appeared from the shadows on his right. They stopped a few metres away from him and one of them lit a cigar. They stayed there for several moments longer, engaged in conversation then moved on towards the gravel drive further on.
Bond got up and went on.
He reached the eastern side of the house and merged with the shadows of some bushes. He waited to make sure nobody was about and then calmly walked out towards the main entrance on his right.
‘I’m in,’ he said, knowing Double O Two was listening in...

*

[Harry Fawkes]

6
Shaken not Stirred

Andre Darling had pulled out all the stops to make sure that his guests enjoyed themselves that evening.
He spared nothing: the best food, drink and entertainment money could buy; not to mention the line of servants to go with it all. There was enough to satisfy them all through the night.
James Bond paused in the arched doorway and looked around.
People mingled in crowds, danced, drank and ate in a wide, marble floored hall beneath a large crystal chandelier in the centre. Paintings, Frescos, adorned the white walls with three French windows, draped in white satin curtains, overlooking the expansive gardens outside.
Bond took a glass of Champaign from a passing waiter and walked around the crowd. A beautiful brunette standing at the wide bar opposite caught his eye and flashed him a very seductive smile. He nodded coolly and spotted Darling further on talking to a group of men.
Bond downed the Champaign, lit a cigarette and caught Darling’s glance which turned from one of friendly hospitality to one of lethal anger in a moment as he recognised Bond.
Bond smiled back at him roguishly though and watched as Darling signalled one of his security men.
He watched him whisper something to the man, a thug, and they both looked back in OO7’s direction.
Bond turned and crossed over to the bar.
‘Good evening,’ he said to the brunette who was standing alone and sipping what looked like a Brandy Alexander.
‘It certainly seems to be going in that direction now that you’re here, Mr…?’
‘Call me James,’ he said. ‘Would you care for another drink?’
The brunette was just about to say yes, her eyes flashing at him, when Darling’s security man came up and placed a heavy hand on Bond’s shoulder.
‘I’m afraid this is a private party,’ the thug told him. ‘You’re gonna have to leave. Now!’
‘Excuse me,’ Bond told the brunette and twisted his upper body around like a bolt. He kneed the thug between the legs.
The thug doubled forward and grabbed his injured parts and Bond delivered a devastating left hook to his face sending him flying back across the marbled floor.
Another security man moved in from the crowd behind Bond to grab at him but OO7 was quicker ~ he blocked off the newcomer’s incoming blow with his left forearm and thumped him with a fist of steel in the solar plexus. The security man stooped and cried out in anguish. Bond grabbed his jacket, lifted up and sent him flying across the marble bar counter to the other side, smashing a tray of glasses and three bottles of whiskey in the process. There was a loud crash of breaking glass.
The hall went silent.
The band stopped playing and everyone looked across at OO7 in shock and horror. Bond turned to the barman who had gone white as a sheet.
‘Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred,’ he told him then turned to the brunette. ‘And for you, Ms…?’
The brunette took an involuntary step back, her mouth half open in shock, and then she walked briskly away disappearing into the crowd.
‘I hope it wasn’t something I said,’ Bond observed smiling and turned to take his drink.
Darling shook himself out of his state of ghastly stupor and signalled the band to play.
‘Please, please, ladies and gentlemen,’ he called out to everyone. ‘It’s just a slight misunderstanding, that’s all. There is absolutely nothing to worry about.’
Which was all it took to defuse the tense atmosphere that had now dominated the party. Darling crossed over to Bond who was leaning calmly against the bar now. The big man’s smile, although twitching nervously, was wide, showing bright white teeth.
‘What an unexpected surprise, Mr. Bond, I must say. Please, perhaps we may have a quiet word in my study.’
Bond downed his drink in one go. ‘After you, Andre my boy.’
Darling, still all smiles and reassuring nods in front of his guests, lead him to his private study...

* * *

‘What the bloody hell is going on!’ Darling screamed as he shut the door behind them. He moved to a large desk and sat down, his face a picture of pure rage. ‘Are you mad? I’ll have you chucked out of the police force for this!’
Bond just stood there, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Darling took the phone and began dialling some numbers. ‘I’ll have your head for this Bond and no power on earth is going to save you. You have no idea who the hell you’ve just ed with!’
‘Put the phone down, Darling,’ Bond told him sitting down on one of the leather armchairs opposite. ‘You’re wasting your time. I’m not a police man.’
Darling hesitated then did as he was told.
‘What do you mean?’ he hissed.
‘Just what I said. I’m not a police man.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Maria Grazia Fannioli. It’s as simple as that.’
‘I told you this afternoon I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about!’
It was then that Bond produced his pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his leather jacket and calmly screwed on a six inch silencer to the end.
Darling watched in horror, his mouth dropping open.
‘I know you’re lying,’ Bond said softly.
‘You’re mad!’
‘Probably. One thing’s for sure though, I’m mad enough to kill somebody to get her. So, I’ll ask you one more time. Where can I find her?’
Darling got up very slowly.
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ he said.
Bond pointed the pistol at him.
‘Which is exactly where you’re wrong.’
‘Look, Bond, I swear on my son’s life I have no idea where she is.’
‘So you do know her.’
‘Yes, yes, damn you, man! We met. Once. Two weeks ago. I took her down to the safe-house in London. She paid me in cash and that was that. Our paths never crossed again.’
‘What about the weapons they used?’
Darling was about to say something but then thought better of it.
‘We know it was you who provided them so don’t even think of denying it,’ Bond insisted.
‘My men delivered them four days later. Believe me I had no idea what they were going to use them for. You’ve got to believe me.’
Bond fired once, the bullet missing Darling’s head by an inch, smashing through the window behind him. Darling almost had a heart attack.
‘No, please!’
‘I want a name. Someone who knows where she’s hiding.’
‘Jesus Christ, man! I told you our paths never crossed again. She broke contact with me after our first meeting. No one knows where the bitch is now.’
Bond shook his head slowly.
‘You’re a liar,’ he said softly but quite menacingly. ‘A good one but I can see right through you. Which of course means I’m going to have to explain to you why I want her so badly. Something tells me you still haven’t grasped what lays ahead for you if I don’t get what I came here for and if you think I’m not prepared to go to the extremes to get it then I suggest you think twice. To begin with I work for a very secret government organisation that knows everything about you and when I say everything I actually mean it. Now, this organisation works completely outside the law. In fact it’s what you could call the government’s final option for getting rid of people like you, people it can’t stop using the normal rules of law that is, people it considers the cancer of society. As for me, well this organisation has given me carte blanche to find this Jano. The bitch has killed a lot of people you see and I want her head for that and I’ll not rest until I’ve got it. You might not know where she’s hiding out yourself but I’d bet what’s left of my soul that you know someone who does. I want that name and if I don’t get it believe me you will die. What I’m telling you is a fact. Now then I’m going to ask you one last time. Give me Maria Grazia Fannioli.’ Bond pointed the pistol directly at Darling’s heart.
Darling found himself staring into the devil’s eyes then and he broke down suddenly.
‘Please….please….I need some more time! I’ll get you a name. By tomorrow morning, I swear to you. I’ll make a couple of calls. Find out where she is. I have contacts. Please.’
There was a long moment of silence during which Bond slipped a high frequency bug under the seat of his chair. He then got up and stood there looking at Darling who had turned a deathly white.
He lowered the pistol, slowly, and nodded once.
‘OK, you have until nine tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Not one minute later. I’ll call you and if you haven’t got what I want then consider yourself a dead man walking.’
Bond turned, the pistol still at the side of his body, lax in his hand and walked to the door. Before opening it he paused as if remembering something.
‘By the way,’ he said and turned calmly.
Without aiming, he shot off part of Darling’s left ear.
The fat man fell back against the wall behind him, clutching the side of his head, blood pouring from between his fingers.
‘That’s just to remind you that I mean business.’ James Bond continued and with that he was gone…

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, Bond came down the road riding the ‘company’s’ Suzuki 900cc Ninja and pulled in beside the British Telecom van.
The rear door opened and Sgt Camille stepped out as he removed his helmet.
‘You had the man on his bloody knees for Christ sake, James!’ She told him quite fiercely. She had listened in on what had gone on in Darling’s study thanks to the high powered bug Bond had planted.
‘When you hit, you’ve got to hit hard.’ Bond told her. ‘There is no other way in this game, remember that.’
‘But was there need to shoot the bastard’s ear off?!’
‘It was just a warning, that’s all.’ He put the helmet back on.
She looked after him as he drove off down the road.
He was, to put it mildly, the most dangerous man she had ever met and it worried her to the bone...

* * *

Jano was in the bedroom getting dressed and when she was ready she took her pistol from the bedside locker, checked the action and slipped it into the waistband of her jeans.
She then produced a smaller pistol, a Beretta 9mm, again checked the action and taped it down to the inside of her lower leg. She gave a final look in the cheval mirror, took the black duffle bag from the chair beside the door and walked out.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at Darling’s villa one of his men was bandaging the side of his head when his chief security man walked in.
‘Get De Giorgio on the phone,’ Darling told him, wincing in pain as the man beside him tied the bandage up. ‘Tell him to bring the bitch here, Ivan. In fact, I want you down at the warehouse too. Take a couple of good men with you. Try and get there before the meeting. The game’s over for Jano. I’ll personally hand her over to Bond tomorrow morning and then kill them both. The sooner I get them out of my hair the better.’
‘May I ask why you’re giving in to them, boss?’
Darling exploded then. ‘James ing Bond is why!’ he screamed. ‘If I don’t give her up it’s my that’ll fry. He’ll come down on me like the wrath of God.’
‘I see. Then perhaps I should send a couple of men to put this Bond character in his proper place.’
Darling looked at him hard. ‘Do you know who that nutter is, Ivan? You’re men are way out of his league. They wouldn’t last one minute against him. He’s raving mad and I’ve seen it in those damned eyes of his. Besides the best time to get him is when he comes for her tomorrow. We’ll set up a trap for the bastard. I’ll teach him a lesson to with me. Now go and do as I said.’
The man called Ivan turned.
‘Oh, and on your way you might as well pop over to the Europa Hotel in Kensington and get rid of her partner Philippe Laroche. Best we cover our tracks fully.’
Ivan nodded and walked out.

* * *

The senior MI6 Surveillance officer listening to the conversation in Darling’s office was on the radio to the surveillance team in the car down the road in a flash.
The instructions he gave them were explicit: follow the man called Ivan wherever he went.
He was then on the phone to M…

* * *

It was about eleven thirty when Tania’s Free Lander turned the corner of the desolate east London street and stopped further up from the warehouse.
Jano took the duffle bag and got out.
‘Are you sure you won’t need a hand?’ Tania asked.
‘Don’t worry I’ll be fine.’
She crossed the street and walked up to the front door. There was a brass plaque which read: OPEN FROM MONDAY TO FRIDAY ~ 0800 to 1600 above which was a doorbell. She pressed it once and noticed a video camera pointing down at her from above. After a moment the door came open automatically.
Jano stepped inside.
She passed through a wide hallway and came to a flight of wooden steps leading to a door. She went up and tried the handle and the door opened up into a large office with expensive furniture.
James De Giorgio was behind a desk writing something down in a file, a tall, handsome man in his early thirties, well built with black hair slicked back with gel behind his ears. There were also two other rough looking men in the room and she immediately sensed that they were nothing but trouble.
Jano closed the door behind her and De Giorgio looked up.
‘You’re early,’ he said simply in English.
‘Life’s too short to waist precious time’ she said in Italian.
‘I don’t speak Italian I’m afraid. Now is that the money?’ he asked looking at the duffel bag.
He was a man of no nonsense, she observed. She nodded.
‘The information I requested?’ she asked, this time in English.
He picked up a black file and waved it. ‘It’s all here. All the PM’s public appearances and all his security arrangements.’
‘Good.’
‘It cost Darling a bomb.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be paying his insider handsomely ~ hence the price I’m paying.’
De Giorgio got up. ‘However, there’s been a change of plan.’
Jano looked back at him calmly. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you’re ed, that’s all.’
The two men in the room quickly drew their pistols and pointed them at her.
‘I thought Andre Darling was a man to be trusted,’ she said.
‘The poor bugger has no choice,’ De Giorgio told her and lit a cigarette. ‘The police are leaning hard on him. It seems they’ve connected you to him, which of course was to be expected since you used his property to hide the Prince. They’ve threatened to bring him down if he doesn’t turn you in. I just received a call from Ivan, Darling’s bodyguard. Apparently he wants to hand you over to the police personally tomorrow morning. Can’t say I blame him mind you.’
‘I see,’ Jano said.
‘I’m sure you do. Now, drop the gun you’re most certainly carrying to the floor. Gently mind you, my men are slightly trigger happy at the best of times.’
‘Are they now?’

* * *

Camille was in the briefing room eating sandwiches and drinking coffee when the Colonel appeared from his office.
‘Where’s Bond?’ he asked.
‘Went home,’ she told him.
‘Right, call him back in now. Darling has just sent some men down to a warehouse in Belfry. Our surveillance team is on their tail. Apparently James De Giorgio is meeting Jano there now and Darling has ordered him to stop her. He wants to hand her over to OO7 himself to get us off his back. The devil’s plan worked.’
She snatched the phone and called him…

* * *

Jano dropped her gun to the floor and kicked it towards De Giorgio.
‘You know of course the Marcuzzi won’t stand for this,’ she said. ‘Or has Darling forgotten that I work for them?’
‘Who’ll tell them that it was Darling who handed you to the police, eh? Philippe Laroche? He’s being taken care of as we speak so I don’t think Darling has anything to worry about with regards to him.’
‘You said he’s personally handing me over to the police tomorrow morning.’
‘Correct.’
‘Well surely he realises that at the first opportunity available I’m going to call my superiors and spill the so called beans on him. If I’m not mistaken the police allow you one telephone call when they take you in.’
‘Look, love, I suggest you bring that up with Darling when you next see him,’ De Giorgio told her. ‘You see, frankly I don’t give a . You can go hang yourself for all I care. Darling too. Now, hand over that money please.’
One of the men moved forward and she passed him the bag.
‘Well, as they say ~ cest la vie,’ she said softly with a smile.
De Giorgio took the bag from the goon and placed it on the desk. He unzipped it and there was a blinding flash of light followed by a thunderous blast which disoriented everyone in the room. Jano, expecting it all, dropped to the floor and tore away the pistol that was tapped down to the inside of her lower leg before anyone knew what the hell was going on. She quickly brought the gun up and shot the man on her right between the eyes, twice. She then turned slightly and shot the other three times in the heart.
She then got up and brought the gun down on De Giorgio who had backed off against the wall behind him, mouth open in stark horror.
‘No, please, for the sake of God!’
‘Always expect the unexpected,’ she said and stepped up to the desk. She took the file he had shown her earlier and checked the contents.
‘It’s all there I swear,’ he assured her. ‘It is exactly what you requested.’
‘Good. Now then, have you ever thought of death, Mr. De Giorgio? Of how it would be when it comes to you?’
De Giorgio’s eyes opened wide at that and she shot him twice in the heart.
‘Tell the devil I said hi,’ she said in Italian, turned and walked out.

* * *

Calmly she crossed the street back to the Free Lander and got in. Tania got the engine started.
‘That seems to have gone well,’ she said as she pulled out.
‘Couldn’t have gone better, dear,’ Jano told her. ‘Now then, I want you to drive as if the hounds of hell are on your heels. Think you can do that?’
‘Your wish is my command, my master,’ there was a smile on Tania’s face as they sped down the street towards the West End…

* * *

[Harry Fawkes]

7
The Butcher’s Shop

The MI6 surveillance men in the blue Ford Escort had followed the Fiat Punto that had left Darling’s villa to Kensington, London, where they had watched the man called Ivan and two other men get out and disappear inside the Europa Hotel, only to reappear twenty minutes later.
MI6 knew that Ivan and his men had just assassinated the man called Philippe Laroche but couldn’t do a damn thing about it, not if they wanted them to lead them to Jano. Once they did, MI6 would come down on them like a bolt.
As for Laroche, whoever he was, he would, unfortunately, have to go down as what is usually referred to in cases such as this one as ‘collateral damage’.
The person in charge of the three man MI6 surveillance team watched the Punto pull out and drive off towards the main thoroughfare and turn onto London Bridge. As they followed, not far behind, he took the radio transmitter and contacted Command Centre.
‘This is Ryker,’ he said into the mouth piece. ‘We’re on the move again heading towards Belfry.’
‘Ryker, this is double O seven,’ a voice crackled through the speakers. ‘We’re on our way there too. Call us when you hit the outskirts. Once we know your location we’ll join in on the tail too. Over.’
‘Willco, double O seven. Ryker out.’
There wasn’t much traffic at that time of night and they reached Belfry ten minutes later. The driver of the surveillance car was keeping well back not to get noticed and when they passed the main roundabout on Great Harlow Road Ryker took the radio transmitter.
‘Double O seven, this is Ryker,’ he said.
After a moment Bond’s voice crackled through the loud speakers, ‘Go ahead Ryker.’
‘We’re turning off the main road towards Chambers Wharf,’ he told him. ‘We’re passing the Scott Lidget Crescent now.’
‘Got that. We’ll be with you in a few moments.’
The Fiat Punto turned a corner and came into a street full of warehouses, old and modern and some of which were abandoned. It came to a halt in front of the largest with a sign saying ‘Inspex Ltd’ and the three men got out, unaware that the Ford Escort and Sgt Camille’s Aston Martin behind it had stopped further away.
They watched as Ivan opened the front door and they all disappeared inside.
‘Well, let’s hope she’s still here,’ Bond told Camille as he cocked his gun.
She looked down at it, then at him. ‘If we can get her alive, James, she just might lead us to the Marcuzzi, have you thought of that?’ she asked.
‘Of course I have,’ he said sharply and got out. ‘Call for back up.’
The three men in the surveillance car also got out and Bond joined them. All three were armed with Glochs and wearing bullet proof vests.
As they were halfway to the warehouse though, Ivan and his men ran out of the main door as if they were being chased by the devil.
One of them spotted Bond and the others as they made for their car.
‘!’ Ivan shouted. ‘It’s the police.’
It was Ryker who reacted first, a short man, bald and well built. He stood there in the classic two handed pistol grip and shouted out:
‘Stop, Security Service! Move one inch and you’re dead!’
Ivan was just about to reach for his own gun but no doubt thought better of it considering that they were being marked by four armed men.
He swore violently and raised his arms in surrender.
Bond turned to Ryker. ‘I’m going in.’
‘Ok.’
Camille was beside Bond now and they both made for the warehouse entrance. Once inside they raced up the steps to the office, weapons at the ready.
James Bond kicked the door open and darted inside, going down on one knee, gun in two hands, only to come face to face with the bloody carnage Jano had caused.
‘Oh, my God!’ whispered Camille behind him…

* * *

Bond felt De Giorgio’s carotid pulse, knowing fine well he wouldn’t find one. He stood up and looked around at the bodies.
‘A couple of minutes earlier and we would have caught her,’ he told her.
‘Three men. Two armed. I can’t believe they couldn’t stop her.’
‘She’s a pro.’
‘Well M’s not going to like this.’
‘Which makes two of us,’ Bond said.
When the Colonel’s Jaguar finally turned into the street, Ivan and his men had all been rounded up and taken to MI6 headquarters in a black van. Ryker was still on the scene talking to some forensic experts and when the Colonel got out the MI6 officer crossed over to greet him.
‘Sir,’ he acknowledged.
‘Where’s Bond and Camille?’ M snapped back. He was obviously in a very bad mood.
‘Inside, and it doesn’t look good.’
‘It never does on nights like this. Thank you. Ryker, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He went in up to the office and one look was all it took.
‘This is all we need,’ he said gravely. ‘She raving mad.’
‘One thing’s certain,’ Camille told him. ‘Darling knows more than he’s telling.’
‘Evidently he does, double O two, and I think it’s about time we bring him in for questioning.’ He looked across at Bond. ‘Official questioning that is.’
The Colonel took a portable radio from his pocket and spoke into the mouth piece.
‘Mr. Ryker,’ he said. ‘Take a team of men down to Darling’s residence and bring the devil over to Headquarters. I’d like a private word with the bastard so make it snappy will you, good lad.’
‘On my way, Sir,’ came the crackled reply.
‘Good man that Ryker,’ the Colonel said. ‘Good field agent if I’ve ever seen one. We could do with a man like that with us. Now then, anything useful here?’
‘We’ve turned the place over,’ Bond told him. ‘A couple of crates full of Uzi submachine guns and Browning pistols downstairs but nothing that’ll lead us to Jano.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘Then let’s leave it to MI5,’ he said. ‘You two check the Europa Hotel. We mustn’t forget Laroche. He’s probably dead but who knows, you might come across something in his room. I’ll inform 5 you’re on your way.’
He gave one last look around and put a silk handkerchief to his nose, face screwed in disgust.
‘The butcher’s shop,’ he said simply and turned to leave.
James Bond glanced at Sgt Camille.
‘Looks as though it’s going to be another long night,’ he told her smiling and lit a cigarette…

* * *

The kettle boiled and Tania made two strong coffees back at the flat.
It was raining outside, quite heavily and Jano was at the table going through the file she had taken from the warehouse. After a while, she smiled and looked up.
‘Good,’ she said and sat back.
‘I take it that it was all worth it then?’ Tania asked passing her a mug.
‘Oh, definitely. I now know when exactly I’m going to strike and where.’
Tania sat down. ‘What I can’t understand is how you knew that Andre Darling would betray you.’
‘Well, as I told you, to begin with it was only going to be a matter of time till the police traced the house we used back to him. It was obvious he’d be their strongest lead to get to me and I knew they’d come down hard on him. The first thing he’d try would be to save his own skin by betraying me at the first opportunity available, try and make a deal with them to save his own skin. Now then, men like Darling are greedy, very greedy. He wouldn’t try anything before I paid him for the information I asked for though. He wouldn’t resist fifty thousand pounds, which obviously meant he would do whatever he planned to do after I paid him. And as you can see from how things turned out this evening, I was right.’
Tania sipped some of her coffee. She was beginning to like Jano a lot. There was something about her and she was genuinely excited around her.
‘So, you are now taking it for granted that Andre Darling will inform the police that you are in possession of that file. But if he does that won’t he be compromising himself even more?’
‘I’m betting my right arm that he’ll see it as grasping out at the last straw,’ Jano told her. ‘He knows he’s going down so he’ll give them anything to make a last minute deal.’
‘I see. But then what will stop them from changing the PM’s schedule now that they know a copy of it is in your hands?’
Jano got up and looked out of the window, mug in hand. ‘That is not important, dear,’ she said. ‘What is important is that they focus all their attention on the PM’s security.’
‘Leaving your target exposed for you.’
‘Well, that is the plan of course,’ she said and turned smiling. ‘How things actually turn out is up to that bitch they call fate.’
Tania couldn’t take her eyes off her.
‘Now let me ask you a question, Tania,’ she said and turned smiling.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Have you ever been to bed with another woman before?’
Jano crossed over to her and Tania felt her heart miss a beat…

* * *

They knew they’d find Laroche dead even before they opened the door to his room.
The smell of death was everywhere and when they found him, sprawled on the floor beside his bed, there were two gaping gunshot wounds in his neck and head, bright red blood oozing out onto the mustard coloured carpet, and that look of absolute shock and horror frozen on his handsome face...
‘The look of death,’ Bond said as he helped himself to a miniature bottle of scotch from the fridge. He unscrewed the cap and swallowed hard.
‘They obviously caught him off guard,’ Camille answered. ‘He had just come out of the shower.’
They went through his things and after about twenty minutes knew it was all for nothing.
‘Come on,’ Bond said finally. ‘It’s a dead end here, forgive the pun. Let’s see where the Colonel’s got with Darling.’
‘I’ll tell 5 they can come up now.’
‘Good.’
Ten minutes later they arrived at the MI6 Headquarters and Camille parked the car beside the Colonel’s Jaguar.
They found him in the interrogation room, Andre Darling sitting at the table looking quite uncomfortable and a MI6 agent standing guard. The Colonel was lighting his pipe when they walked in.
He looked up at the agent and told him to leave.
‘So, Mr. Darling, you were about to tell me where Jano is,’ he said calmly.
Bond and Camille remained standing behind the Colonel.
‘Look, I had it all planned out,’ Darling said. He was sweating hard and had the look of a caged animal on him. ‘My men were ordered to apprehend her at the warehouse. I specifically told them to bring her down to my villa so that I could hand her over to him.’ He looked up at Bond. ‘Where the hell she is and what the hell happened there, I have no idea.’
‘Well, Mr. Darling, three of your men were shot dead,’ he told him. ‘Shot by Jano no doubt. As for the other three you sent down, they are in our custody as we speak. I’m sure you’ll agree something must have gone terribly wrong down at your warehouse.’
Darling went white as a sheet.
‘Now then, old chap, would you mind telling me what the meeting was about?’
‘What meeting?’
M pulled on his pipe. ‘The one between your men and Jano. Why was she there, at your warehouse?’
‘Just call it unfinished business,’ Darling told him.
‘Regarding?’
‘Look, I was just doing exactly what your man here told me to do. I was setting up a trap for her. I wanted him off my back.’
‘What did the trap consist of? How did you lure her there? What was the bait?’
‘It’s not going to make any difference now is it?’ he told him. ‘The bitch has vanished…’
M brought his fist crashing down on the table.
‘Don’t you dare play games with me, you stupid man! You’re up to your neck in trouble and believe me you won’t be getting out of it. Illegal arms. Sixteen cases. Over 400 items to be sold in Europe alone. We’re talking over twenty five years in a cold prison cell for you so I suggest you smarten up and start singing or I’ll have your balls served in an egg cup before you even know what hit you. Do I make myself clear?’
Darling said nothing, just looked at an empty space on the floor.
‘I SAID DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR!?’
Darling was visibly shaken at that and he shook his head. ‘Yes…yes,’ he said, terror in his voice. ‘What is it exactly you want?’
‘Everything. Everything you know. What’s her connection to you and Salvatore Rossi? What was the meeting at the warehouse about? And most importantly, where the devil can we find her!’
Darling looked up at Bond pleadingly, then back at the Colonel.
M knew it was all going to flow out now. He sat back, pipe in mouth and listened.

* * *

Jano looked down at her naked companion.
Tania was indeed an extremely beautiful woman, she thought as she got undressed. She then went to her, a look of desire in her eyes. They made love, hot, passionate, their sweat mingling as they devoured each other, their kisses deep, as was their fervour. They were two fierce beasts hungry for each other. Later, Jano lit a cigarette as her young lover slept beside her.
She couldn’t stop thinking of her target and of the death she would dish out to him…

* * *

They came out of the interrogation room into a brightly lit corridor.
‘Who would have ever thought a cabinet minister would be on Darling’s payroll,’ Bond said as they made their way upstairs.
The Colonel shook his head. ‘Damn the man,’ he said. ‘I’ll call the PM and convene a meeting of all heads of security. We’ll have to change all the PM’s security arrangements. Not that it’ll do much good now that Jano is in possession of his schedule.’
‘As long as she knows his every move she’s got the upper hand,’ Camille said.
‘What about Darling?’ Bond asked.
‘Oh, we’re going to throw away the key once he’s been locked up and that’s a fact. As for Jano, while you two were at Darling’s villa earlier I was informed by our computer experts that they’ve succeeded in coming up with a damn pretty good picture.’
‘Modern technology,’ Bond said as they approached the Colonel’s office.
‘Indeed. The Chief-of-Staff has sent copies of it all around the island. Hotels, bars, restaurants, nightclubs, the lot. Who knows, someone just might recognise her.’
‘That’ll be a miracle, especially if she’s changed the way she looks.’
The Colonel nodded and opened the door. ‘I’ll see you both tomorrow. Early as possible, and when I say early I mean it. Oh, and leave your Cell phones on.’
They watched the door close behind him and Camille looked at Bond.
‘I’ll take you home and pick you up in the morning,’ she said.
Bond nodded.
‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked and she noted the sexy look in his smile.
‘I’m all yours, James,’ she said and they took the lift to the car park…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

8
Bullet Catchers

Jano woke up late the next day.
She got out of bed, showered and wore an elegant white blouse open at the midriff and sexy black Ski pants. She emptied the contents of her duffle bag onto the bed. There was an assortment of explosives, spare magazines for her pistol and six boxes of 9mm rounds.
She then took out a carefully folded black jump suit, skin tight leather gloves and a balaclava helmet. She lit a cigarette and sat down at the window.
It was about half eleven when Tania came in.
‘Good morning,’ she said and gave her a coffee, black, very sweet and strong.
‘You’re an angel.’
‘Any plans for today?’
‘Oh, yes, dear,’ Jano told her. ‘Today is going to be very, very hectic.’
‘So you’ve decided then.’
‘Yes, tonight,’ she said. ‘Tonight I dance with the devil.’

* * *

When James Bond and Kylie Camille walked out of the lift it was exactly seven thirty in the morning.
The place was bustling with activity and when they walked into the Colonel’s outer office they found Moneypenny on the phone. She looked up at them and beckoned them to go through.
The Colonel was at the window fixing up his maroon tie. He had slept in his office that night on an army camp bed.
‘Hard night, sir?’ Bond asked and sat down.
‘Well if Winston Churchill could do it so can I,’ he told them and sat down at his desk. ‘I want you both to go over all our files on Salvatore Rossi, Andre Darling, Robert Said and anyone with the remotest connection with them with a fine comb. See if you can come up with something, anything. At 2030 I want you both with the PM at Number Ten. You’re going to be his official bullet catchers.’
Bond looked at his partner and raised an eyebrow. ‘Shouldn’t MI5 take care of that side of things, Sir?’
‘Well if she decides to pop up tonight I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you’re with him there too,’ the Colonel told them and poured himself some tea from a pot.

* * *

Jano was in disguise again when the Free Lander turned the corner of the street.
It was, thankfully, quite a nice day, just a few rain clouds. They parked opposite the
Corinthian Hotel in Claxton Street and Tania killed the engine and they sat there for a while.
‘Let’s walk,’ Jano said. ‘It’s a fine day for it.’
They walked along Birdcage Walk and up towards the Horse Guards Parade, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and the Old Admiralty.
She could smell the freshness of the morning in the air.
It took them about twenty minutes to get to their destination and in front of the main gate, four armed soldiers in ceremonial uniforms and brandishing SA80 rifles, stood guard at the arched entrance.
‘Come on,’ Jano said as they passed by from Marlborough Road. ‘Let’s have a walk in the park.’
St James’s Park was situated adjacent the St James’s Palace and on the way in through the green gates, Jano paused to look up at the plan of the gardens then back at the Palace.
People sat on the many wooden benches scattered around there, mostly women, watching their children playing around in the grass, feeding pigeons, groups of tourists admiring and taking photos of the place.
They reached St James’s Park Lake and they stopped to admire the view.
‘Beautiful,’ Jano told Tania. ‘Rather grey and sad, as England usually is, but beautiful just the same.’
They walked for another ten minutes through the trees and ponds there and then finally turned back the way they had come. Before leaving, Jano stopped to light a cigarette and looked up at the back of the back of the Palace from Queen’s Walk in Green Park opposite.
There was a low room below one of the main building’s windows on the second floor, some sort of extension situated beside the public garden’s perimeter wall.
She smiled inwardly.
‘Come on, buy me a drink over there,’ she said.
They proceeded to the Cafeteria in the park where they found a table in the corner with a good view of the place.
Jano’s mind was working fast now.
She already had a plan forming and when Tania came back with the drinks she felt an electrical excitement at the idea of it all.
‘Well?’ Tania asked when she sat down.
‘Nice place, don’t you think?’
Tania sighed and raised her eyes to the grey sky.
‘I mean have you got a plan yet?’ she said.
‘Tell me, Tania, is your driving licence clean?’
‘Of course, why?’
‘Well, my dear, this is what we’re going to do…’

* * *

It was One in the afternoon when M was shown through to the PM’s office.
The DGs of the top security services were there too and the PM was going through a thick file. After a few moments he took a gold pen, signed it and placed the file in the out-tray. He then looked up at them all and sat back in his chair.
‘Well, gentlemen, it seems you still haven’t managed to catch this Jano character. Rather disappointing, I’m sure you’ll all agree. She has proven to be quite elusive. M?’
‘I can assure you Prime Minister that everything that can possibly be done to apprehend her is being done,’ he answered.
The Prime Minister raised an eyebrow.
‘But?’ he asked.
‘But simply put, Sir, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. She has the upper hand which makes the chances of catching her before she strikes very limited.’
‘Not very reassuring, Colonel.’
‘Unfortunately not, Prime Minister,’ the Colonel told him. ‘Having said that though, you have my absolute assurance that your security arrangements are pretty watertight.’
‘I hope so,’ the Prime Minister told him and got up. ‘And to make matters worse, one of my own Cabinet Ministers is corrupt, but the less said about him the better. Just make sure you get everything out of the stupid man. Now then, I appreciate the fact that all of your divisions are stretched beyond their limits on this one.’
‘An understatement, Sir,’ the DG of MI5 said.
‘I’m sure. These few days have been the worst of my life what with the Prince’s kidnapping and now this, which is why I wanted you all to know that I am extremely grateful for the outstanding work you are doing. If this Jano does succeed in putting a bullet in my head though then so be it. I’ll have it known that I am aware that situations like this one come with the job.’
‘I am confident that it won’t come to that, Prime Minister,’ M told him. ‘However may I suggest we bring in the media at this stage?’
‘To what end, Colonel?’
‘We’ve come up with a damn pretty good picture of her thanks to our computer experts. We’ve already sent copies of it around the London. Hotels, bars, restaurants, nightclubs, criminal cesspits, the lot. Someone just might recognise her you see. However, it was your wish that the media be left out as not to cause wide spread alarm.’
‘And you think its time to involve them?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. It’ll also turn the heat up on her too.’
The Prime Minister sighed heavily.
‘Very well, Colonel, I’ll leave the matter to your judgement. I don’t like it but…’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

* * *

Going through all the files on the computer of every known criminal associated with the so called Salvatore Rossi ‘clan’ was, to say the least, very tiring and most of all time consuming.
Bond and Camille had been at it for the past three hours now and at about roughly the same time M had walked into the PM’s office OO7 finally got up to stretch his legs.
He walked to the window opposite and lit a cigarette, looking out. He was soon joined by Camille. She took his cigarette and took a couple of puffs herself.
‘The fact is we don’t know what the bloody hell we’re looking for,’ she said.
‘Until we find it that is.’ He took the cigarette back and took a long pull. ‘What do you think?’
‘About last night?’
He looked down at her.
‘Cheeky, girl,’ he said.
‘Well you could have asked me up for a last drink for the road, James. I was disappointed.’
He sighed heavily and smiled softly. ‘You’re engaged, Kylie,’ he told her. ‘I wanted to, really and I was kicking myself in the butt all night through because I didn’t act on my impulse to ask you in. Having said that, I don’t want to confuse you more than you perhaps already are.’
There was a hard look in her eyes and he thought: if looks could kill.
‘You leave my conscience to me, Commander,’ she snipped back playfully. ‘You have my full authority to act on your impulse.’
He smiled cruelly.
‘Your wish is my command.’
They went back to their computers.
‘I once read that it is impossible preventing an assassin from getting his target,’ she said after a couple of moments. ‘Today, tomorrow, next month. A professional will strike when you least expect it. The fact is we’re taking for granted that Jano will strike during these three days. What if she doesn’t? What if she chooses to lie low, very low; strike when everything has calmed down, when we relax our defences?’
Bond looked down at her and nodded.
‘You have a point,’ he said. ‘She is out there though, somewhere, and we can’t do a bloody damn thing until she surfaces or we find another lead.’
It was then that the Chief-of-Staff came out of his office.
‘She’s good,’ he said. ‘She’s bloody good. The police lifted every print from the safe-house. We put them into our computer link with the CIA, Interpol and the Sicilian Special Branch to see if they’d come up with something.’
‘And?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ he said. ‘The rest of her men were identified within an hour but not her.’
‘Which obviously means she hasn’t got a criminal record,’ Camille said.
‘What about the Cell phones the police found?’ Bond asked. ‘Have they identified any particular numbers that could give us a lead, a call received from or made to another Cell phone perhaps?’
The Chief-of-Staff shook his head. ‘All the calls made from the terrorist’s cell phones were to numbers outside the UK. We’re using them to establish a link to the Marcuzzi but other than that…’
Bond sat back. ‘Then it’s back to the waiting game.’

* * *

At that precise moment, back at the flat, Jano was sitting down at the table in the kitchen assembling a very small explosive device, the bits and pieces laid out neatly in front of her.
It was about two in the afternoon when Tania got back and Jano looked up when she walked in.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘No problems,’ she told her and sat down opposite her. ‘It’s a Ford Focus, with airbags.’
‘Good girl, I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.’
Tania looked at the device Jano was handling.
‘Rather small,’ she observed.
‘Small but very effective,’ Jano told her. ‘It’s a Russian MF42 which gives off one hell of a bang at the best of times.’
Tania watched her get back to work and after several moments said,
‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked. ‘I mean, what is it all about? Other people would have packed up their bags and left ages ago, yet you’re risking everything. For what, Jano? Revenge?’
Jano sat back and looked at her sternly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘This is not about revenge. It is about survival. The organisation I work for back is an unforgiving one. I was sent here to do a job for them and everything blew up in my face. If I set one foot back in Sicily now I’m a dead woman. You see, Tania, the Marcuzzi have a reputation of succeeding in whatever they set out to do. Failure weakens this reputation. Now then, the ultimate price of not paying the Prince’s ransom and giving in to my demands was death. I promised that and it must be delivered, at all cost.’
‘And have you considered how you’re going to get away after?’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. As for you, that thirty thousand pounds will make you as comfortable as can be.’
‘Perhaps I’ll be able to join you in Sicily when all this is over.’
Jano smiled and nodded.
‘Now that’s something to look forward to, Tania.’ She got up and took her mobile. ‘Now then, it is time I called my man at the Palace. His services are essential to the success of tonight’s mission.’
She punched in some numbers and waited.
‘George?’ she said after a moment. ‘Hello, darling, it’s me Jano…’

* * *

The computer file Bond was going through back at the SIS Command Centre contained information on Rossi’s lawyer: Robert Said.
OO7 read everything there was on him but knew it was going to lead to another dead end. After about fifteen minutes, he looked up at Camille who was sitting at the computer opposite.
‘I’m wondering if I should have a little word with Rossi’s lawyer,’ he said. ‘Try and pump some information out of him.’
She turned around.
‘Robert Said?’ she said. ‘No, James, there’s no need. Our surveillance teams have been watching him ever since he paid that visit to Rossi in prison. All his phones are tapped, mobile included and his every move is being monitored as we speak. If Jano does contact him we’ll know about it and then we’ll act. As for picking him up or approaching him, at this stage, it could be counter productive especially if she’s watching him herself to make sure it’s clear to contact him.’
‘But at this rate we’re getting nowhere,’ he said.
‘We’ve got to keep looking, James, we’re bound to come up with something sooner or later.’
He ran a hand through his hair and controlled the urge to swear out loud. He needed another cigarette but dismissed the thought.
He sat back and went through the assortment of photos attached to Angelo Galea’s file.
The break they were waiting for came when Bond suddenly found a photo that caught his eye just before he had clicked onto the next photo. He leaned closer to the screen, his heart missing a couple of beats. The photo was taken outside Rossi’s residence in Somerville Set. Salvatore Rossi was coming out of a large house accompanied by Galea and two young women ~ one of whom was the girl called Tania and the other, although completely different from what he remembered of her was Sabine - Jano.
He couldn’t believe his eyes then and called Kylie over.
‘What is it, James?’ she asked and pulled up a chair beside him.
‘This girl,’ he said. ‘Can you enlarge it?’
Camille nodded and typed in the command.
The photo enlarged.
He touched the screen.
‘Focus on her.’
The picture of Jano in disguise filled the screen.
He nodded.
‘It’s her all right. The eyes, I’ll never forget those eyes.’
‘Could you be a bit more specific please?’
‘That’s Jano. I remember her from when we met back in Malta during the Goethe affair. She’s in disguise but it’s her alright.’
‘Let’s se who the other girl is.’
Kylie typed in some more commands and a detailed profile filled the screen.

Tania Borg. Age: 20. DOB: 1-5-84. Distinguishing marks: Tattoo on left arm ~ Scorpion wrapped in barbed wire. INFO: Ms. Borg was arrested twice on drug possession charges for personal use. She is suspected of having worked as a drug courier for Angelo Galea and Salvatore Rossi. Her present residence is 55, Fryent Country Park, Preston. Father, Maltese, owns a restaurant in Swindon, Wilts. For further info contact Head of Archives.

‘Well?’ Kylie asked.
‘It’s her all right.’ Bond said.
He looked her straight in the eyes and she nodded.
‘OK, James, let’s inform the Chief-of-Staff and we’ll go pick this Tania Borg up. Who knows she just might be the link we’re looking for...’

* * *

Jano walked out the front door carrying the black duffle bag and crossed to the rented Focus parked opposite.
She got the driver’s door open and pulled the lever to open the bonnet. Producing the small explosive charge she had assembled earlier, she busied herself attaching it beside the carburettor with some tough industrial tape.
When she was finished, she slammed the bonnet down and walked back inside.
The fact was though Jano had made one simple mistake: she had not worn her wig or applied any other form of disguise to her beautiful face. It was a small mistake, or rather omission if one wished, but a small mistake that in the end would no doubt be the cause of her downfall, for as she went to work on the car, an old lady with silver grey hair was watching everything from her balcony opposite whilst she knitted away at a Cardigan. Her blue eyes were ancient but vigil and still full of life and all its curiosity…

* * *

Number Eighty Five Beatrice Street was an old terraced house situated on a corner a few blocks away from the St George’s School in Gorse Hill.
Camille pressed the bell and they waited. They heard the sounds of movement and the door was opened on a chain. A tall woman in her late forties and with silver hair peered out.
‘Yes? May I help you?’
Camille showed her CID badge.
‘Good afternoon, we’re looking for Ms Tania Borg. We’d like to ask her a few questions.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Are you her Mother?’
The woman nodded.
‘We’re investigating a friend of hers and Tania may be able to shed some light on a few things that’s all. But it is very important that we speak to her. Is she in?’
‘I’m afraid she isn’t. She hasn’t been back here for the past four months.’
‘Then perhaps you could tell us where we might find her. It is important we talk to her, Mrs Borg.’
The woman closed the door while she took the chain off the hook, and then opened again. When they walked in she had turned to precede them into the small living room.
‘I’m not going to be able to help you,’ she told them. ‘You see, she fell out with her father the last time she was arrested. They had a big argument and she packed her bags and left. We haven’t seen or heard from her since.’
She sat down on an armchair.
‘My husband is devastated. We both are. He’s so sorry things turned out the way they did. He didn’t want her to leave. He…we… just wanted her to sort her life out… that’s all. The drugs, the drinking, the bad company…’
Bond spoke. ‘Do you know anyone who might be able to help us find her?’ he asked. ‘Believe me, it’s very important. I don’t want to alarm you but to be absolutely honest, you could say it is a matter of life and death.’
Mrs Borg paused to think, looking down at the carpeted floor.
‘Yes, there is someone,’ she said finally. ‘But I doubt he’ll cooperate with the police.’
‘Why not?’ asked Camille.
‘Well, to begin with he’s a criminal,’ she told them. ‘Tania used to go out with him. He provided her with the drugs she used. He’s a bad man, evil. He was here three weeks ago to collect some of her things. He told us she was all right and that she was better off where she was. My husband tried getting more information out of him but he ended up hitting my husband. He broke his arm and beat him up badly. I know he’s a criminal because my cousin is in the force and I asked if he could look into him. He told us that he’s a drug pusher and a…pimp, that we should stay well clear of him, for our own safety.’
‘Do you know his name?’ Bond asked.
‘Telling you his name will get us into trouble,’ she said and there was genuine pain in her eyes. ‘I told you, he’s a bad man. I’m sorry…’
James Bond stepped closer and looked down at her. ‘I give you my word that this man will not bother you or your husband again,’ he told her, eyes slits. ‘Trust me, Mrs Borg, I will take care of him.’
She looked at him fearfully and then replied. ‘His name is Giulliano Cacciatollo.’
Bond smiled reassuringly. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly.
‘If you find her, please tell her to come back home and that we love her. My husband’s health isn’t too good. Please.’
Camille nodded. ‘We will, Mrs Borg,’ she said and with that they left.
Once outside they got into the Aston Martin and drove off.
‘What now, James?’ Camille asked.
‘Simple. We pick Cacciatollo up and ask him a few questions. My way.’
She looked at him. ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ she told him.
‘You can’t get results in situations like this without dirtying your hands, Kylie, that’s a fact. Now let’s see what MI5 has on the fellow and we’ll take it from there.’

* * *

The Italian Prime Minister, followed by his entourage came up the steps of Number 10 in London amidst a storm of reporters taking photos of him as the British PM greeted him at the top.
The Colonel was at the PM’s side when his mobile rang and he moved away and answered.
‘M here,’ he said. ‘Ah, Chief-of-Staff. Have they now? Good. It just might be the lead we’re looking for. Keep me posted.’
He replaced the mobile in his breast pocket and followed the group of people inside to the PM’s official reception room.

* * *

The old woman sitting at the front window of her flat put her knitting things down on the table and took the T.V remote control just as the afternoon news started.
She brought up the volume and listened to the announcer read the day’s news. There was a special announcement that a woman was wanted by the police for questioning regarding a murder. The old lady immediately recognised the identikit feature they showed shortly after.
It was the woman she had seen earlier working on the white Ford Focus below.
The old lady shook her head in disapproval then looked down at the rented Focus. She got up and moved to the side board opposite and wrote down the licence plate number.
She then went back to her knitting, humming softly to herself…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

9
On the Run

They ordered two coffees from one of the motorway stops on their way back to London while they waited for MI5 to send the relevant information to Camille’s Laptop.
‘What a shame, eh?’ Camille said.
‘What is?’ Bond asked.
‘How some people can waist their lives,’ she told him. She had been in a dull mood ever since they left Swindon. ‘The fear in that woman’s eyes when she mentioned Giulliano Cacciatollo.’
Bond nodded. ‘It’s a wicked world out there,’ he said. ‘Which is why it needs people like us. Troubleshooters.’
She was about to say something and her mobile beeped. She took it and answered.
‘Camille.’ She answered. ‘Good, we’ll contact you as soon as we’ve got him.’
She replaced the mobile in her pocket.
‘Ok, the download is complete. Let’s see who this Cacciatollo character is.’

* * *

When the British and Italian Prime Ministers came out of the Conference Room at Number 10, they proceeded down the wide staircase outside to the awaiting cars.
There were photographers everywhere while high up on the roofs of the adjacent buildings, security personnel lay in wake scanning the area for any possible attempts by a sniper or a gunman within the crowd below. Plain clothes detectives and SAS personnel blended in with the crowd of onlookers and reporters.
The PMs got into the black car and several motorcycle policemen led the way to Rabat. The Colonel was in the Jaguar not far behind and as they reached Westminster he sat back and lit his pipe.
‘So far so good,’ he said to his driver and looked out of the window.

* * *

Jano got her stuff packed and then went about fixing herself up, making sure that she changed her appearance completely.
The woman who finally stared back at her in the mirror was indeed a complete stranger with brown eyes, black hair and glasses. She smiled and checked her silenced pistol and slipped it into the waist band of her jeans. She then took her duffle bag and went out of the bedroom.
‘Ready?’ she asked Tania.
‘Whenever you are,’ she said.
‘Good, let’s go then shall we.’
They went out, downstairs and outside to the car. When Tania started up Jano lit a cigarette and sat back in the seat.
‘As my good old grandfather once said: when you’re on the run never stay too long in one place…’

* * *

They left the car at a multi story car park just outside Oxford Street and proceeded by foot to Soho.
The Canby Hooligan pub at the corner of Richmond Mews was a meeting place for youngsters to hang about all day and simply watch the world go by, hence of course the nickname ‘lazy corner’.
According to Cacciatollo’s file, this was where they would most certainly find him during the day.
Giulliano Cacciatollo was a ‘small time’ crook. He’d been arrested on numerous occasions, mostly charges relating to petty theft and dope dealing. In 2000, he’d spent three years in prison which unfortunately for society didn’t do him much good where putting him on the right track was concerned, for several months after being released he was arrested again and put away for another three years for armed robbery. He was, simply put, a lost cause that possessed a rather hot and violent temper…
The place there was a bustle of activity, people everywhere, young and old, the wretched smell of exhaust from the old and new buses coming and going to and from Oxford Street heavy in the cool air, and all this under the watchful gaze of three huge bronze devils that formed the large fountain in the centre of a bus terminal opposite.
Bond and Camille crossed the busy road, almost getting knocked down by a speeding bus in the process. A group of youths, around ten in all, were gathered outside the pub, rockers and punks, in their late teens, some in jeans others in black leathers, and behind them.
Sgt Camille paused to have a look at the wide range of CDs displayed on the wooden stand outside a souvenir shop opposite.
From the corner of her eye she noticed Cacciatollo in the centre of the crowd of youths, laughing at some joke one of his mates had just made. She turned and eyed him carefully, making sure it was him. They had studied his snapshot on her laptop earlier on. Although the snapshot was three or four years old there was no mistake that it was him.
She looked across at Bond and nodded.
OO7 acknowledged, produced his gunmetal cigarette case, selected a cigarette and lit one. He then moved through the crowd of youths surrounding Cacciatollo and walked up to him.
‘Giulliano Cacciatollo?’ he asked.
Cacciatollo eyed him curiously, the wide smile on his face fading instantly.
‘What’s it to you?’ he said looking this well dressed man up.
‘I need to ask you a couple of questions,’ Bond told him.
‘Yeah? Are you a cop?’
‘Not exactly.’
Cacciatollo sensed trouble, or rather, knew trouble when he saw it. The man standing before him gave him a very bad feeling. He knew he would have to act fast now and then see what the hell this was all about later. Could one of his contacts or clients have spoken to the police about something? Could they have perhaps given information about one of his deals or scams which he currently had going down?
Most likely, he thought.
‘Well in that case,’ he said finally. ‘I think you should speak to my lawyer first.’
Suddenly he pushed Bond aside, catching him off guard, and in a flash darted off. Three of his friends, sensing Cacciatollo was in trouble, jumped on Bond and tried to hold him down as Cacciatollo made his escape. OO7 swore violently and pushed his assailants off him, breaking one of the youth’s noses with an elbow to the face in the process.
He turned and sprinted after Cacciatollo…

* * *

Camille was watching everything from her position near the CD stand opposite and when Cacciatollo ran passed her she tripped him over with an extended leg.
She reached for the gun in her bag.
Cacciatollo had flown head first to the ground. He didn’t stay down long though and he rolled over twice with the momentum and was up and running away before Camille could get to him.
‘Stop!’ Cacciatollo heard her yell from behind him. ‘Police!’
‘If you want me you’re going to have to catch me!’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
He glanced back and saw Bond and Camille not far behind him, gaining on him fast. Cacciatollo whizzed passed the Prince Edward Theatre, and kept running towards the Shaftsbury Avenue further on.
If only he could get to his car!
He collided into an old couple turning the corner but kept on going, ignoring their startled cries as they fell to the ground. He passed the Trocadero Centre on his left and continued running towards Trafalgar Square further on. His car was parked near the National Gallery and as he turned to cross the street to get there, OO7 finally caught up with him. He grabbed out at his jacket and pulled him back.
Cacciatollo fell back and Bond jumped on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Cacciatollo was a wild one though, intent in getting away. He brought an elbow up into OO7’s face, dazing him slightly. Cacciatollo pushed Bond off and darted to his feet, the look of a hunted animal on his face. He produced a flick knife with a six inch blade and as OO7 got to his feet, adopted the classic knife pose, ready to strike.
He was breathing heavily, eyes wide open, a mix of fear, confusion and anger in them whilst a couple of bystanders looked on in horror.
‘Touch me you bastard and I’ll kill you!’ he hissed.
Bond shook his head. ‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘You’re way out of your league. You’ll only get hurt, badly.’
Cacciatollo charged in then which of course was a very stupid thing to do.
OO7 side stepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted up then violently down and around. He then rammed a knee into his face, sending him flying onto his back.
Bond picked up the knife as Camille finally got there. He closed the blade and slipped it into his pocket.
He kneeled down beside Cacciatollo and lifted him up. Blood poured from his broken nose.
‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’ Bond said.
‘What the hell d’you want?’ he cried out.
‘Tania Borg.’
Cacciatollo screwed his face up. ‘What the hell are you talking about?! I’ve never heard of the bitch!’
‘You know fine well who she is. You went down to her parents house a couple of weeks ago to collect some of her things. You were setting her up somewhere else so don’t play games with me because I’m not in the mood. You’ll hurt ten times more than that broken nose if you do, I warn you. Now then, I want to know where I can find her. We need to ask her a couple of questions. Co-operate with us and you’ll be on your way, I give you my word. Mess with us and you’ll know what it means to truly fear. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
He reproduced the flick knife and the blade sprang out, his eyes dark, very dark.
‘Ok, ok!’ he screamed. ‘Last time I saw her she was staying with a friend of hers. A girl called Sabrina. She said she’d fix her up. I just gave her a hand moving, that’s all. I swear that’s all I know.’
‘This Sabrina where can I find her?’ Bond snapped.
‘She’s got a flat. In Kilburn. In front of Rocco’s Car Hire. Number eight.’
Bond helped him up. ‘See, that wasn’t too bad, was it,’ he said. ‘Now take us.’
‘You’re joking! I need a doctor, my nose is killing me!’
‘You’ll need an undertaker if you don’t do as I say. Now move it.’

* * *

Camille pulled up opposite Rocco’s Car Hire and killed the engine.
Bond was sitting beside Cacciatollo who was holding a blood stained handkerchief to his nose.
‘Where?’ Bond asked.
Cacciatollo pointed to a shabby grey building across the street.
‘Third floor,’ he said.
OO7 nodded and got out. Camille turned holding a snubbed nose pistol.
‘Just in case you’re lying,’ she said.
Bond crossed the street and went in. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and found flat number eight. He produced his pistol, cocked it then after a few moments kicked the door down.
It was a small place, worn out, with old furniture and paint peeling off the walls. In the classic two handed grip, he proceeded inside and looked around till he got to the bedroom where he found who he was looking for in bed with the sheets up to her chin and a middle aged man, obviously her customer, quickly pulling up his trousers.
He looked terrified when he saw OO7 with the gun.
‘Who are you!’ the girl called Sabrina screamed.
Bond looked at the man.
‘Get out of here,’ he said calmly.
The man needed no second bidding. He gathered the rest of his clothes and was out in a flash as if the hounds of hell were after him.
‘What about my money!’ Sabrina shouted.
Bond ignored her.
‘Tania Borg,’ he said. ‘You shared this flat with her.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
He fired once, the pistol coughing violently, the round hitting her pillow just inches away from her head, spewing feathers in the air.
Sabrina screamed.
‘Wrong answer.’ He told her.
‘All right, all right. She was here.’
‘Good girl. Now then, you fixed her up somewhere else I understand.’
‘I just found her another place,’ Sabrina said. ‘She was here for a while. She did a few jobs with me but that’s all.’
‘Where can I find her now?’
‘I’d tell you if I knew.’
OO7 fired his gun again, this time the round hitting much closer than the previous. She broke down then and everything started pouring out.
Bond nodded and finally lowered the gun.
‘Why did she leave?’ he asked.
‘She just got fed up, that’s all. She wanted to be alone. No attachments.’
James Bond slipped the pistol away and took out a twenty pound note. He threw it down on the bed.
‘Do not think of warning her that I’m coming. If I don’t find her I’ll be back to fill that pretty head of yours with lead. Do you understand?’
The look on her face said it all and he turned to leave.
‘By the way, thanks for your time,’ Bond said.
‘Bastard!’ Sabrina spat out.
‘Yes, I have been lately. I wonder why?’

* * *

Tania turned the Focus into a gravel driveway opposite a block of apartments.
Jano got out, opened one of the six garage doors and Tania drove the car in.
‘Back to where it all started then,’ Jano said as they walked up the steps to her flat across the street. ‘Only I know of this place, which means until tonight we can relax.’

* * *

James Bond crossed over and got into the car.
‘She’s got a flat in Finsbury,’ he said. ‘King’s Square.’
Camille got on the radio to MI6 and Bond turned to Cacciatollo.
‘You can go,’ he said and his gun was in his hand in the blink of an eye. He thrust the barrel into the side of his head and there was the look of death in Bond’s eyes when he spoke next. ‘But remember this, if you ever lift a finger or set eyes on the Borg family again I’ll hunt you down and kill you. Do I make myself clear?’
Cacciatollo nodded fearfully.
‘Then get the hell out of here!’
They both watched as he stumbled out of the car and ran off down the street.
Camille then started up and pulled out.
‘Let’s hope we’re lucky,’ she said.

* * *

It took them just under forty five minutes to reach the address and as they drove into the street they were joined by two unmarked MI5 cars.
Camille had barely pulled up the handbrake when Bond yanked open the door and dashed out. He located the block of flats and two MI5 officers joined him as he kicked in the main door. Camille wasn’t far behind with the other two men. Once inside, they all raced up the stairs, guns at the ready. It didn’t take them long to find the flat. They all knew the drill even though none of them had worked together before this and once Bond gave the signal the door was kicked open and they stormed inside.
Spreading out, each room was searched and it was only when Bond burst into the last bedroom that he realised that Borg must have been tipped off and that letting Cacciatollo go was one hell of a mistake.
‘She’s taken everything,’ he told Camille when he walked out into the small kitchen. ‘Her bedroom closets are empty.’
‘Tipped off?’ one of the MI5 officers asked.
‘Most probably,’ he told him. ‘Either the girl or Cacciatollo.’
‘The time frame to clear everything here was too limited, James. I doubt it was them.’
Bond nodded. ‘Have them picked up again though. One of them is bound to know where she went.’ He turned to the MI5 men. ‘I want two of you stationed in here just in case she turns up. You two wait downstairs in your car. Keep constant radio contact with each other. Any sign of the bitch you bring her in to MI6.’
As Bond and Camille went downstairs and out to the car, the old woman who had been sitting all day at her balcony window knitting, called out to them.
Camille turned and the old woman beckoned her to move closer.
‘May I help you?’ Camille asked.
OO7 paused before getting into the car.
The old woman leaned further out of the open window. ‘Are you by any chance looking for that woman who was on the T.V?’ she asked, trying not to shout.
‘The woman on T.V?’ Camille raised an eye brow
‘The woman on the news.’
All of a sudden it dawned upon Camille what she was talking about.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘Yes, yes. I am a police officer. Have you any idea where we might find her? It is very important.’
The old woman shook her head. ‘They left about an hour ago.’ She pointed to the block of flats ‘She was with the girl who lives over there. I took down the number of their car though. Wait, I’ve got it somewhere here.’
She got up and disappeared inside. Camille couldn’t believe their luck.
‘What’s going on?’ Bond asked moving in beside her.
‘It seems you were right all along, James,’ she told him. ‘Jano is with Borg. According to this old lady they left an hour ago. She took down the registration number though. Apparently she saw the identikit feature on the news.’
The old woman returned to the window.
‘Have you got a pen?’ she called.
Camille nodded and took out a note book.
‘Fire away.’
‘It’s ROD 327. I believe the car was a Ford. A white one. I know the type because my son has one. He’s at work at the moment.’
‘You have no idea how much you’ve helped us.’
‘There isn’t a reward by any chance, is there?’
‘I’m not sure, but if we catch her we’ll definitely keep you in mind.’
Once in the car, Camille didn’t waste time getting in touch with the Chief-of-Staff to inform him of the new development. Once off the radio she looked at Bond.
‘We’re close, James. Damn close.’
He nodded but said nothing, just sat there brooding…

* * *

It was five in the afternoon when Bond and Camille walked out of the lift back at MI6 Headquarters.
The Colonel had arrived half an hour previously and was talking to the Chief-of-Staff.
‘Ah, Bond, Kylie,’ he said when he saw them. ‘The Chief-of-Staff here has just filled me in. It seems you’ve been making progress in my absence. As soon as the police spot that car she’s ours.’
‘Well, at least we know the identikit feature is a good match,’ Bond said. ‘Have you lifted Cacciatollo and the girl yet?’ he asked.
‘They’re on their way here as we speak,’ the Chief-of-Staff said. ‘We’ll have a team ready to interrogate them both.’
The Colonel glanced at his watch. ‘I’m due back at the PM’s office in half an hour. I just hope she isn’t planning anything for this evening.’
Bond shook his head. ‘Something tells me there’s more to it than that,’ he said. ‘The question is what.’
‘Whatever it is I want both of you at Number 10 tonight ~ fully armed and ready to shoot to kill.’
‘Till then I’ll head the interrogation team then,’ Bond told him.
The Colonel shook his head. ‘No, Bond,’ he said. ‘Go home and grab a shower. You’ve still got a couple of hours to grab some rest before tonight. Someone else can take care of the interrogation.’
‘He’s right, James, it seems it’s going to be another long night tonight,’ Camille told him. ‘A couple of hours rest won’t do us any harm.’
Bond looked at the Colonel. ‘OK, sir, but if anything crops up I want to know.’
‘Don’t worry, Bond, you’ll be the first I call,’ M reassured him.

*

[Harry Fawkes]

10
Countdown

The time was 1815 and Jano got the garage door open.
She looked up at the sky. It had become suddenly cloudy and dark and the air was cold and sharp. Tania drove the Focus out and Jano got in, sat back and lit a cigarette.
‘Now we are in the hands of fate.’
Tania nodded as she concentrated on the road.
She said, ‘In that disguise I doubt anybody would recognise you.’
‘I certainly hope not.’
Jano looked at her for a moment, a ghost of a smile on her face. They had spent most of the time that afternoon in bed making love and resting. Although it had started out as a purely sexual attraction, Jano genuinely felt something for Tania. It was a true pity that after today their lives might never cross again…
‘You know something, Tania,’ she said. ‘It has just occurred to me that you never did tell me how a girl like yourself got involved in all this.’
‘I used to entertain Angelo Galea’s business associates.’
‘Entertain?’
Tania looked at her and a shadow crossed her face.
‘I see,’ Jano said.
‘I needed the money. When you came along he instructed me to take care of you too. Anything you needed, which is why he gave you my number.’
‘I’m lucky then.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Angelo couldn’t have chosen a better contact for me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And after tonight, my dear, you will not have to entertain anyone again.’

* * *

As Jano and Tania made their way to their destination, James Bond was in his bedroom getting ready for that evening’s function at Number 10.
After leaving MI6 earlier Kylie Camille had taken him home and he had caught up on some sleep. He had awoken with a start at around 1800 and after a cold shower felt fully revitalised.
It was about 1900 when she called him to tell him she was waiting downstairs in the car.
He glanced at his wrist watch.
Already time, he thought as he fixed his bow tie and slipped into his black evening jacket.
He gave a last look in the mirror and his cruel eyes smiled back at him.

* * *

When they got to their destination, Tania dropped Jano off opposite a coffee bar and she went inside and ordered an Espresso. She took it and found a seat opposite the window.
There weren’t many people there, four couples and two young men watching a game on T.V.
She glanced at her watch and sat back to enjoy her coffee…

* * *

Meanwhile at Number 10, both Prime Ministers arrived in separate cars at precisely eight o’clock. First the British PM accompanied by a crowd of security personnel got out, followed by the Italian PM. They were steered up the steps and inside where they found the guests waiting in the Great Hall, amongst them Prince William of Wales. The scene was lavishing, all the top people in the UK were there. Politicians, business men, the media, anybody that mattered. The men wore black evening suits, women in long dresses; tables with the best food were set up to perfection, waiters in white jackets and black tie hovered around holding silver trays loaded with delicious food and drink, and a band was set up in the far corner of the hall playing soft music.
When the PMs appeared all the guests there began clapping...

* * *

It was eight thirty when Jano finally took her cell phone and called Tania.
Tania let it ring for a moment then answered,
‘Hello.’
‘Are you in position, darling?’ Jano asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl, then give me ten minutes then I’ll give you another call when I’m ready.’

* * *

Jano waited patiently in some bushes in Greene Park opposite the Palace. After the coffee she had made her way here on foot.
There was an eerie silence, a silence that suited her mood perfectly; only the call of some night birds disturbed that silence and the distant barking of a dog.
She waited, calmly, the night cold but pleasant with only the softest of breezes. A glance at her watch told her the time was now 2200 hrs.
When she was ready, she made the call then quickly removed her outer garments revealing a black jump suit. She produced a balaclava helmet and skin tight leather gloves and moments later she had become a dark, ominous shadow in the dead silence there…
On receiving the call, Tania started up and drove off down the street from where she was parked. It only took a couple of minutes to get to the road leading to the Palace. She passed the main gates, soldiers standing guard outside beside their Sentry boxes, and picked up speed. As she approached, she wrenched the wheel to her left and slammed down on the breaks. The car skidded and hit a blue Ford Escort parked at the curb opposite. Tania pressed the red button on the small remote in her hand as the air bag inflated automatically, and the small explosive charge inside the bonnet went off with an explosion that was rather deafening…
At that precise moment, Jano darted across the Park to the stone wall opposite. Once in the shadows, she reached into her duffle bag and produced a grappling hook attached to a forty metre natural fibre rope. With one swing the hook was in place and she climbed up and in a matter of moments she was slipping across the barbed wire.
She grabbed for the branch of a tree and walked her way along it, hand over hand, and then dropped into the darkness below…

* * *

The guard on duty at eastern side of St James’s Palace was dying of curiosity. The loud blast sounded like a bomb going off outside which had made his partner and three other guards race outside to see what had happened. Being the junior soldier, he had had to stay his ground and let the others investigate…
It had started to rain now and he was going to get soaked out here in the eastern grounds, patrolling with his dog.
It was about 2230 when the Alsatian at his side whined softly.
‘What’s the matter, Butch?’ he said, coming alert. ‘Go on, seek boy. Go on.’
He slipped off the lead and the dog ran off towards some bushes at the far end. He didn’t get far though because Jano shot it in the head as it made for her position. She then shot the guard between the eyes, twice, two dull thuds in the dark night…
After dragging the bodies and hiding them in some bushes, she took the guard’s radio receiver from his pocket and slipped it into one of her pouches. She then ran across the garden towards the south side of the Palace where she found a ladder her contact had left in place. She climbed up and came to the window, unlocked it and lifted herself inside.

* * *

Two soldiers quickly helped Tania out of the car.
Although Jano had told her what to expect, the crash and subsequent explosion had still stunned her.
‘Thank God for air bags,’ one of the soldiers, a sergeant, said. ‘Are you alright, Ms?’
Tania leaned against him for support. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ She told him. ‘I just lost control.’
‘We’d best call an ambulance.’
‘No, please, I’m ok, really.’
The other soldiers were examining the damage and one of them walked around the car. He suddenly noticed the licence plate registration. He turned, frowning, and walked back to his sentry box opposite. He took the ‘Sentry Orders’ hanging near the door and looked down at the listed number in disbelief. He went back to the sergeant who was calling an ambulance on his mobile and grabbed his arm.
‘Sarge,’ he said. ‘You’re never going to believe this.’
‘Can’t you bloody see I’m on the phone, Franks!’ the sergeant snapped.
‘Sarge, that car is the one the police are looking for,’ he whispered.
The sergeant looked at him as if the man before him had just slapped him in his face.
‘You’re joking!’
‘’Ere, see for yerself,’ the soldier called Franks said and gave him the ‘Sentry Orders’.
The sergeant looked down at it, then at the licence plate registration on the car.
He turned to Tania.
‘Excuse me, Ms, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.’
‘I said I’m ok, sergeant.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, Ms, really but I’m going to have to detain you until the police get here.’
Tania’s heart missed a couple of beats.
The plan Jano had established was that after the crash Tania was to try and settle everything with the other car owner using some of the money she had given her earlier. If she couldn’t do that and for some reason or the other the police were eventually called to the scene, she would just simply cooperate as best as she could. Tania was not wanted by the police and there was no way she could be connected to Jano so she had nothing to worry about.
Still, she thought, she now had a bad feeling ~ a down in the gut thing as if something terrible had somehow gone wrong…
The sergeant signalled his men who took her between them over to the Main Gate. He then took the radio and called his Operation Centre, informing the duty officer that they had found the wanted girl and the car…

* * *

The police woman at the Control Centre at Police HQ replaced the receiver and turned to the officer behind her.
‘They’re bringing her here, sir,’ she told him. ‘Shall I call MI6?’
‘Absolutely not!’ the officer told her. ‘I’m the operation’s duty officer. I’ll see her myself. If we inform MI6 now they’ll get all the glory.’
‘But, sir…’
‘I will inform the Colonel as soon as I have something. This is our show now.’
The young officer turned and walked out.
The police woman sighed and got back to work…

* * *

James Bond and Camille were standing to the far side of the hall while the British Prime Minister went around socıalısing.
So far it had been an uneventful evening and as it progressed Bond doubted even more that tonight was the night Jano would strike.
‘I’m going outside to have a smoke,’ he told Camille.
She nodded and he went out.
It was quite cold and he lit a cigarette. He took a walk around the large beautifully lit garden at the back. Armed men were everywhere and a couple of guards with dogs patrolled the grounds. Bond went up to the gatehouse further on and spoke to the soldier there.
After about ten minutes, he went back inside.
M was beside the British PM now and he nodded at Bond when he reappeared.
‘All clear,’ he told Camille.
‘She’d be mad to try anything tonight, James, especially here.’
‘I agree. We’re definitely wasting our bloody time.’

* * *

The room was bare, no windows, the only light coming from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Tania was seated behind a table, a jug of water and a glass in front of her. When the police officer entered she got more scared than she already was.
‘So, Ms Borg,’ he said. ‘What were you doing at St James’ Palace?’
‘What do you mean what was I doing at St James’ Palace?’ she asked severely. ‘What right have you got asking me that?’
‘Just answer the question please.’
‘Not before I see a lawyer I won’t!’
‘What were you doing at outside the Palace?’
‘This is bloody ludicrous! Is this the UK or Russia?! Look, I know my rights. I want to call my lawyer now…’
‘Tell me about the woman called Jano,’ the officer cut in.
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do, Ms Borg. We know you were with her today so if I were you I’d stop playing games with me. Answer my questions. You’re in enough trouble as it is.’
Tania poured herself some water. Things were getting out of hand. The police knew too much.
‘Well?’ the police officer said.
‘Well what?’
‘Answer my question?’
‘Look, I was going home. I was at a friend’s house.’
‘And Jano?’
‘I was with her this afternoon. She turned up at my flat and we had lunch together. I gave her a lift to Croydon and that was that.’
‘What did you talk about during lunch?’
‘She wanted to stay with me for a couple of days, at my flat. She said she needed somewhere to lie low, that she was in trouble. I told her I couldn’t get involved.’
‘Why did she come to you?’
‘She knew I worked for a man called Angelo Galea. She knew him too. They had something going on together. We met a couple of days ago at Galea’s nightclub. Someone must have given her my address.’
‘Where exactly did you drop her off at Croydon?’
‘Emberly.’
‘Where about did she go from there?’
‘How the hell do I know?’
‘I find that hard to believe, Ms Borg.’
Tania sighed heavily. All this was becoming frustrating not to mention frightening. She had not expected this in a million years.
‘I told you I didn’t want to get involved. I just gave her a lift, that’s all.’
‘What didn’t you want to get involved in?’ the officer pressed.
‘With her. I didn’t want to get involved with her.’
‘Why didn’t you contact the police then?’
‘Why should I have? I wasn’t doing anything wrong.’
‘Do you know why we’re so interested in her, Ms Borg?’
‘I have no idea and frankly I don’t give a damn.’
‘She was the mastermind behind the Prince’s kidnapping. Did you know that?’
Tania looked back at him, putting on her bravest face. ‘I had no idea,’ she said. ‘Now, I’d like to call my lawyer.’
The officer sat down opposite. ‘Did she mention anything about her plans?’ he asked.
Tania drank some water. Everything was going wrong, she thought. None of them had thought things would go this far ~ that the police would somehow know that Jano had sought Tania out.
Poor Jano. What was going to happen now? Could Tania hold out long enough for her to do what she had set out to do? The police had nothing on her. So they had connected her to Jano, so what? That didn’t prove a damn thing. It didn’t prove that she was actually involved in her operation. Having said that though, it would only be a matter of time till they put everything together and connected the crash to what Jano was going to do at the Palace tonight.
They’ll obviously realise it was a decoy…
‘I asked you a question, Ms Borg,’ the officer said.
‘And I told you before, I want to call my lawyer. Now!’
‘Look, if you help us find her I promise you we’ll take care of you. If not I’ll have to hand you over to the Security Services. You wouldn’t like that believe me, Ms Borg.’
It was then that Tania exploded. ‘I told you I have no idea,’ she shouted. ‘I want a ing lawyer! Now!’
‘Ok, have it your way,’ he told her resignedly. ‘I’ll just have to call SIS then.’
And with that the police officer went out.

* * *

M was with Bond and Camille when his mobile rang.
He moved to the side and answered.
‘M,’ he said and listened. After a couple of moments the expression on his face turned to one of absolute rage.
‘What?!’ he spat. ‘How long have they bloody had her there? Damn them! I’m on my way now.’
‘Trouble?’ Bond asked when the Colonel hung up.
‘The police arrested Tania Borg three hours ago,’ he told him. ‘I told the buggers to contact me as soon as they got hold of her which they bloody didn’t.’
‘I’d better come with you,’ Bond said.
‘No, Double O seven. You stay here with Kylie. The PM’ll be leaving soon.’
The Colonel turned and stormed out to the Jaguar.
Meanwhile inside, Prince William was saying goodnight to the guests and left the function amid a round of applause from the guests.

* * *

When the Colonel got to the London Police Headquarters he found the officer who had interrogated Tania talking to the Commissioner in the Control Room.
‘Where is she?’ he asked.
The Commissioner turned and walked up to M.
‘Holding Room Five, M,’ he told him. ‘I must apologise for my man here. I was not informed myself of her capture.’
The Colonel looked across at the junior officer with eyes that would have put the fear of God into anyone. The officer noted the stiff left right arm and the gloved hand and shivered involuntarily. He had, to say the least, put his foot in it...
‘Where was she arrested?’ the Colonel snapped at him.
‘Outside St James’s Palace, Sir,’ he said. ‘She was involved in a car accident opposite.’
M swallowed hard.
‘St James’s?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Three hours ago you said. Was anyone with her?’
‘No, sir. She just said she was going back home from a friend’s house. It was about…’
The Colonel cut in on what he was about to say. ‘Has she told you anything about Jano?’ he asked.
‘Only that she was with her in the afternoon. They had lunch together at Borg’s flat after which she dropped her off in Croydon. She told me she didn’t want anything to do with her.’
M erupted. ‘You stupid, stupid man!’ he shouted. ‘And you found nothing strange in the fact that she was involved in a crash outside the Prince’s Palace?! That crash could have been a bloody decoy!’
The officer opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it.
The Colonel turned and reached for his mobile and dialled Bond’s number.
‘James, it’s M. Where are you now?’
‘On our way back to Vauxhall,’ Bond told him. ‘We’re just leaving Number 10 now.’
‘Listen, Bond, I’ve a feeling the PM is not the real target. Tania Borg was involved in a car crash outside the St James’s Palace. I believe it was a decoy. Jano must have slipped the guards somehow. Where’s the Prince now?’
‘He left about half an hour ago.’ Bond told him.
‘Get to the Palace fast! Priority One and pray to God I’m wrong.’
‘We’re on our way now.’
The Colonel turned to the Commissioner.
‘Call the Palace and warn security there. Tell them to sweep the area with a fine comb…’

*

11
Face to Face

St. James's Palace is one of London's oldest palaces.
It is situated on Pall Mall in London, just north of St. James's Park. The palace was commissioned by Henry VIII, on the site of a former leper hospital dedicated to Saint James the Less from whom the Palace and its nearby Park take their names. The new palace, secondary in interest to Henry's Whitehall Palace, was constructed in the red-brick Tudor style around four courtyards: its gatehouse survives on the north side, flanked by polygonal turrets. It became the principal residence of the monarch in London from 1698, when Whitehall Palace was destroyed by fire, and became the administrative centre of the monarchy (a role it still retains). It is also the London residence of Prince William of Wales…
Ten minutes later, Jano heard a noise as she waited, crouched in the darkness of the corridor, pistol ready.
She got up and came face to face with her insider in the Palace, the man called George.
‘I’m surprised you’re still working here, George.’
‘Thanks to you the evidence your man Laroche planted on the other servant got me out of the spotlight.’
‘Good for you bad for the other guy,’ she asked softly. ‘Where is the Prince?’
‘In his private study, writing,’ he told her anxiously. ‘He’s just got back. Go along this corridor, turn left then right. It is the third door on your left.’
Jano smiled beneath the balaclava.
‘Good man,’ she said and shot him through the heart with the silenced pistol…

* * *

The Army sergeant and the young Corporal on duty in the Palace Guard Room that night were dressed in camouflage uniforms and wore the cap badges of the Welsh Guards.
The Corporal was reading a book at a desk whilst the sergeant was watching T.V, his feet up on the coffee table, when the phone rang.
‘Guard Room,’ the corporal answered. ‘Corporal Walker speaking.’
He listened and after a moment his face went white as a sheet.
He replaced the receiver and looked across at the sergeant.
‘That was Captain Dale, Sarge,’ he said. ‘She’s in the Palace! The terrorist is in the bloody Palace!’
‘Christ almighty!’
Both men got up and raced out…

* * *

At that precise moment in time, the Prince was at his desk writing.
He had got back from Number 10 about half an hour ago and had decided against turning in.
He simply wasn’t tired.
A log fire burned brightly in one corner and he was now working on his book of poems, a book he’d been writing for a couple of years now but had not yet been able to finish.
The room was warm and attractive with pale green walls and maroon curtains, a parquet floor and antique furniture. A set of paintings showing various English landscapes and ports by the 17th century painter Jonathan Flakes adorned the walls around him.
It was about one in the morning when there was a soft knock on the door.
The Prince looked up, surprised and glanced at his watch. It was rather late for the servants to be still up and about.
‘Come in,’ he called.
The door opened and Jano walked in, the silenced pistol in her gloved hand.
The Prince stood up, stunned.
‘Good morning, William,’ she said and closed the door behind her. She removed the balaclava and stood there smiling.
The Prince said, ‘So we meet again, Maria. I hope you don’t mind if I use your real name?’
‘Not at all,’ she told him. ‘Maria, Sabine, Jano. It doesn’t matter anymore. You know you should really do something about the lack of security in this place. This is the second time I’ve got to you, William.’
‘So, I was your target all the time. The PM was some sort of decoy?’
‘You could say that.’
‘And now you are here to kill me.’
‘I am afraid so. I did warn your government that if it didn’t meet my demands I would kill you. As you can see, I am a woman of my word.’
The Prince looked deep into her eyes and his eyes became suddenly sad at it all.
‘Then you’d better get on with it then,’ he said.
‘What, no famous last words? No last plea for your life?’
‘No. I won’t plead for my life. I’ve never feared death. My Mother taught me that a long time ago. It comes in the end as God wills and if this is his plan for me then so be it.’
A dark shadow crossed Jano’s face at that and it was then that she heard running footsteps down the corridor coming their way.
She breathed in deeply.
‘I’m truly sorry, William,’ she said and fired twice, the bullets hitting the Prince in the chest and he was flung back to the floor…

* * *

The sergeant and corporal came running down the corridor clutching their automatic pistols.
They reached the Prince’s study and the sergeant got the door open, coming face to face with his death, for Jano was kneeling down on one leg, pistol aimed to kill.
She fired four shots without hesitation, shooting the two soldiers between the eyes and in the heart.
She then got up, changed clips and darted out along the corridor…

* * *

When Bond and Camille got to the Palace they were met by an Army officer.
‘My men are searching everywhere,’ he told them breathless as they raced inside. ‘If she’s here they’ll get her.’
‘Let’s just hope she hasn’t got to the Prince already,’ Bond said.
‘I’ve sent two of my men to him.’
‘Where is he now?’ Camille asked.
‘His study.’
They made their way upstairs to the second floor, along the carpeted corridor, just in time to see Jano run out of the Prince’s study, gun in hand.
‘Stop!’ Camille shouted.
Jano instinctively turned and fired twice in their direction. Camille and the officer ducked and Bond went down on one knee, letting off a burst from his pistol before she disappeared round the corner.
Camille and the officer then darted into the study whilst OO7 ran on after Jano.

* * *

The Prince was lying on his back and Camille kneeled down beside him.
She felt for his pulse and it was then that the Prince coughed and his eyes fluttered open.
‘Your Highness!’ she said. ‘You’re alive!’
Looking quite distressed, he lifted himself up into a half sitting position and ripped open his shirt revealing a nylon and titanium bullet proof vest underneath. It was efficient enough to block off the two bullets Jano had fired but the shock to his cardiovascular system had caused momentary unconsciousness.
He shook his head to clear it.
‘My Goodness,’ he said. ‘I was going to take this off just before I went to bed. The Colonel told the PM and myself to wear it tonight at the ball just in case. I wasn’t going to but my aid insisted.’
Camille smiled. ‘Thank God he did,’ she said and looked at the officer.
‘Stay with him,’ she told him and darted out after Bond…

* * *

James Bond turned the next corridor just in time to catch Jano opening the window she had used to get into the Palace.
‘Jano!’ he shouted and she stopped in her tracks before jumping out, a smile touching her lips.
She turned to face him and got her pistol to arms length.
‘James Bond!’ she said. ‘Face to face at long last. How does it feel to finally look death in the eyes?’
Bond held his pistol in both hands, the muzzle dead set on his target.
‘It’s over, Jano,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Put the gun down.’
‘What? You’re joking of course. I thought you wanted me dead, James, or are you hoping to catch me alive?’
‘Just put the bloody gun down! Now! You’ve nowhere to go. It’s over. It doesn’t have to end like this. Help us get to the Marcuzzi and perhaps I’ll be able to help you in turn. We can offer you protection.’
‘Shame on you, James. I am not a traitor. I am a warrior, just like you, and this is what warriors call the final showdown. There is no alternative, James. What we must do now is unconditional.’
There was an eerie silence then.
‘Give me a name then. Who’s the head of the Marcuzzi?’
They both stood there facing each other, motionless.
‘That is asking a lot, James.’
‘Jano put the bloody gun down! Help me get to them.’
She smiled at him then.
‘Apocalypse, James,’ she said, ‘The man you seek is called Apocalypse.’
It was something in her eyes that warned Bond of what was coming next.
Jano dropped to one knee and fired, a simple cough in the dead silence.
OO7 ducked and returned fire, twice, both bullets hitting her between the eyes and she was flung back against the wall to her death...

* * *

Camille appeared round the corner as Jano fell backwards.
‘James!’ she called out.
Bond lowered his pistol against his thigh, looking down at the body of Jano, sprawled there like a broken rag doll on the floor.
A hand touched his shoulder and he looked down at Camille.
‘The Prince?’ he asked.
‘He’s alive, James. He was wearing a vest.’
‘Good.’
He swayed unsteadily and she caught hold of him.
She saw that his white shirt front was stained with blood.
‘My God, James, you’ve been hit.’
‘Don’t worry it’s just a scratch,’ he said softly. ‘The bullet just scratched my shoulder. Come on, Kylie. Let’s get the hell out of here. I need a drink.’
They turned and went back along the corridor.

* * *

It had started to rain heavily outside as M’s Jaguar turned the corner into the Palace courtyard, followed by a number of police cars and an ambulance.
James Bond and Camille waited before getting into her car.
‘Bond, Kylie, thank God you’re both all right.’ The Colonel told them. ‘So we got her in the end. Well done, both of you.’
‘We were lucky, sir,’ Bond said. ‘If the Prince had taken off that vest she’d have got him for sure.’
M nodded. ‘Cest la vie,’ he said. ‘Fate has a funny way of fixing things up in the end. How are you, Bond? You had a close shave it seems.’
He looked down at his shoulder.
‘Hurts like hell but it’s nothing serious.’
The Colonel looked at Camille. ‘Take him over to that ambulance and get him fixed up. We’ll debrief later. And again good work, both of you.’
Camille helped him over and a nurse patched him up. Later, inside the car on their way to MI6, he closed his eyes and thought of Jano.
‘She had nowhere else to go,’ he said after a while. ‘Nowhere to hide.’
‘Then why go for the Prince?’
‘If she set one foot back in Sicily they would have shot her stone dead, her own people I mean. If she stayed here, eventually we would have found her. If she tried running, her own people would have found her no matter where she went and so would have we. In the end, she knew her time was up and just wanted to go down fighting and you know the worst thing about it all, Kylie?’
‘What, James?’
‘She missed my heart deliberately.’
Camille looked at him as if he had said something blasphemous.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I said. Jano missed deliberately. She could have killed me. She was that good but she decided to warn me that she was going to fire. It was in her eyes and she let me know, which made me duck and respond. She also arched her gun half an inch which in the end is what kept me alive.’
‘But why? Why miss deliberately?’
Bond lit a cigarette and coughed when he inhaled the smoke.
‘God knows, Kylie,’ he said after a moment.
Silence, just the windscreen wipers against the glass.
And then he said, ‘Whatever the reason it’s over now.’
‘I’d say it’s just begun, James,’ she said. ‘Now we have to find the Marcuzzi and put a stop to them. Whoever they are.’
He nodded.
‘And our only lead is a man they call Apocalypse.’
Bond sat back and closed his eyes.
He’d find the Marcuzzi all right. If it was the last thing he did he’d find them; there was no doubt there …

*

EPILOGUE
_________________________________________

An Eye for a Kill

James Bond had completed his morning ritual of 20 slow push ups, as many leg lifts as he could, 20 reps of touching his toes and 15 minutes of arm and chest exercises combined with deep breathing, after which came the refreshing cold shower.
It was now three weeks later, nine thirty in the morning, and he was sitting and reading The Times at his ornate Empire desk in the book lined sitting room of his flat.
First he went through the editorial columns, then on through the parliamentary reports, and finally to the front-page news…
His shoulder was healing fast and progress finding the Marcuzzi was unfortunately moving at an annoyingly slow pace. Dead bloody ends every where, he thought to himself as he lit one of his Moreland Specials and poured some more coffee.
On M’s instructions, he had been concentrating all his efforts on the pursuit of this organisation and of the man called Apocalypse, and at this stage the job was all purely an investigatory assignment leading nowhere.
He glanced at his watch.
Kylie Camille was picking him up this morning and they were driving down to Kent for the week-end, a well deserved break for both of them and he was really looking forward to it, and most of all her company.
It was a damn pity she was going through with the marriage though.
She’d decided to chuck it all in and hand in her resignation from the Double O division.
All for the best of course.
In the end the poor girl had found out that she truly loved her Banker fiancé after all but had been quite confused before. All women go through it, one supposed. Something to do with their genes, the feminine ones…
One last romantic week-end, she had told him two nights ago over dinner when she had broken the news of her marriage.
‘I need to know how it would have been between us, James. It’s important to me.’
‘I’d like that a lot.’ He had told her.
He was genuinely delighted for her and had agreed that resigning indeed was the best thing she could have done.
As for the Marcuzzi, he would be flying out to France to meet up with his good friend Mathis the following Monday to check out some leads there with the French Secret Service.
Pity they wouldn’t be working together anymore but such is life.
A couple of days in Paris would have done him wonders, especially in the company of a beautiful woman like Kylie.
Ah, well…
James Bond folded the newspaper, got up and went upstairs to change.
He slipped into a pair of grey slacks, blue shirt and a Navy blue double-breasted blazer then selected a tie. He looked himself once in the mirror then packed an overnight bag and at about ten fifteen went back downstairs.
It was a lovely day outside and the sun shone brightly, not even a cloud in sight. He sat down on the armchair, crossed legged and waited for her.
Knowing women, she’d no doubt be late which of course was to be expected.
He sat back feeling at peace, sitting there in the living room of his flat. Strangely his life seemed to flash before him inside his mind and he smiled.
And what a bloody life it had been!
A paid professional killer in the service of Her Majesty’s espionage – once retired, now back on active service thank God.
His thoughts wondered off to the women that had crossed his path. Duchesses, countesses, crooks, spies, prostitutes, assassins, innocent damsels in distress and last but not least: Tracy, La Comtesse di Vicenzo, Mrs Bond…
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
It tasted good and relaxed him.
He couldn’t help thinking of how it would be for him in the end; death that is. Would it come naturally – the iron crab perhaps - or would it come as a bullet to his head at the hands of some madman or other?
Was it true that one died the way one lived?
Knowing his luck it would be long and painful and definitely on a Monday...
Bond got up and swore softly to himself.
What the devil was going on inside his mind that morning? What a morbid mood…
His cell phone rang and he answered.
‘Bond,’ he said.
‘Hi, James, it’s me Kylie. I’m just round the corner. Sorry I’m late but I got caught up at the office. M sent for me.’
He smiled knowingly.
‘No problem, I’m coming out.’
James Bond gathered his things, gave one last look around and opened the door into King’s Road.
He went down the steps to the pavement and to his left he saw the white Aston Martin turn the corner, about seventy yards away.
Children played basketball opposite in the park; Mothers sat on the benches with their prams, feeding the pigeons, some kids riding their bikes.
Indeed a lovely day.
And then he saw the man opposite, across the road, a rather tall, white-haired man who’d been leaning against the lamp post.
Bond looked at him, then at the Aston Martin as it approached.
How come he hadn’t noticed him before?
His heart suddenly missed a beat and everything around him seemed to move in slow motion…
He saw the rifle come up from under the leather coat of the man across the street and move to his shoulder in a flash and knew then what Captain Brown must have felt when he ran out from the stairs into that hail of machine-gun fire from the terrorist on the landing.
That one blasted mistake that cost ones’ life.
That one mistake that comes when you take things for granted and let your guard down…
The first 7.62 mm shell crashed into Bond’s chest amid a loud blast and he was spun round, falling to the ground. At first he thought he had been hit by a sledge hammer in the chest.
He tried getting up and then the second 7.62 mm shell hit him, this time in the back as he got to his knees.
He fell to the ground.
He suddenly realised that he was going to die. Strangely though, he didn’t seem to mind. It had been on the cards for a long time now and nobody cheated death forever.
A ghost of a smile touched his face and then he thought he heard more shots but everything was blunted.
He couldn’t hear properly and felt ever so tired.
‘James! James! Open your eyes! Stay with me, James!’
Who the hell was that, he thought. Who was shouting in his ear?
He felt someone turn him over and he opened his eyes and looked up at the face of Kylie Camille.
She looked scared.
Why the hell was she crying?
Typical of woman!
‘James, help is on the way.’ She called out to him. ‘Stay in there. Please!’
He reached up and touched her face with blood stained fingers and smiled charmingly.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘It’s quite all right.’
James Bond then thought of Royal-les-Eaux.
As it had been a long, long time ago…

THE END

I A N F L E M I N G’ S

J A M E S B O N D
O O 7

WILL RETURN

In

The
Moment Before You Die