Posted 16 January 2009 - 11:48 AM
Chapter 2
The Goldminers
“Of course it was bloody sabotage, ma’am!” Bond nearly shouted before catching himself and lowering his tone “there is absolutely no way that wing could have been damaged accidentally. The fibres in that stuff can withstand…..”
“I am perfectly aware of the properties of carbon-fibre thank you very much, 007. I neither wish nor need to be lectured on the subject by you” replied M, tersely. Bond suspected the latter to be true given the previous few days events, but doubted the former statement. Either way, however, he got the message.
“My apologies, ma’am, but it seems to me…”
“It seems to me you should cooperate fully with the military police at Otterburn while submitting a full report to me by tomorrow morning.”
Standing in the pleasant, river-side gardens of the Waterside Hotel at Pembletham, it was twenty-four hours since the near fatal DSG flight and Bond had only been released from the special RAF medical unit deep in the heart of Northumberland an hour earlier. Much to his doctors’ consternation he had insisted upon driving himself the thirty or so miles back to the small hotel situated near Hadrian’s Wall, enabling him to vent much of his pent up frustration on the wonderfully winding B-roads connecting the two. The unburned residual, however, now fuelled his irritated exchange with M.
“Nobody knew of the test up at the base or in the department – even you and the Chief of Staff didn’t know the timing” persisted Bond “I have the time to dig around while I’m up here. I’m pretty sure I have a lead already” he could also do with an extra day’s recuperation in this beautiful corner of the country before returning to a London he was starting to grow weary of. Plus there was the small matter of a petite and rather adventurous blonde receptionist at the hotel who had taken to serving him breakfast in bed.
“Absolutely not, Bond. Leave it to Captain Reynolds and his team” useless, thought Bond “I’ve spoken to him and he gives me his personal assurance that the matter will be dealt with quickly and thoroughly. Neither you nor I have any jurisdiction on the mainland. The last thing I need now is any more unnecessary friction with Five”
Relations with their homeland sister-service, while never genial at the best of times, had been deteriorating of late – the latest in a series of terrorist alerts involving twenty-five embarrassing false-arrests and the closure of the entire London Underground for eighteen hours had ultimately led to more questions in the House. The more disturbing events of the past forty-eight hours would only increase the tension, and M was coming under increasing pressure to turn up some decisive intelligence. While she would publicly defend her staff to the hilt she was getting increasingly riled by what she saw as basic, school-boy errors made by more junior members of the department. A further run-in on this incident would certainly not help.
“I expect you back here Thursday – I may have news of an opportunity and I don’t need you entangled in someone else’s mess” Opportunity? What the hell did that mean. “That’s all 007. I can handle a loose cannon, just as long as it’s pointing at the enemy and not at my feet” And the line was abruptly cut.
Bond snapped the cover of the phone shut, ripped the headset roughly from his ear and stuffed them both unceremoniously into his jacket. What did she mean, opportunity? And why Thursday, the day after tomorrow - did she actually want him to investigate then after all?
He slumped heavily back down at the table on the terrace he shared with his thoughts. Raising a half-empty whiskey-glass he swilled the contents noisily, examining the multicoloured splinters of sunlight which probed the ice, then took a large, cold mouthful and swallowed, savouring the burn on the back of his throat and revelling in the satisfying warmth which spread south through his chest towards his solar plexus. Fathoming M had become one of Bond’s main pastimes of late: he had worked closely with her for the past few years and while he would lay no claim to personal friendship or insight professionally he thought he had her ‘modus operandi’ mapped. Of course this knowledge only occasionally gave him any edge – more often there was still, to use a contemporary term, a ‘clash of styles’ which resulted in some frank exchanges of views. If his respect for her and the service had not been so deep he would have walked away: then again, if she had not respected his talents she would undoubtedly have dispensed with him even earlier – he was under no illusions. He was still a valuable ‘blunt instrument’ as her predecessor had once called the double-O agents – a term he quietly enjoyed – but there were limits. And over recent months he thought he was edging closer to that limit, or rather, he thought the limit was edging closer to him. But M seemed to be up to something, and he was damned if he knew what.
It was late afternoon, and the summer sun still strongly highlighted the lazy movement of the steely-grey North Tyne with gilt-edged ripples which formed, intertwined and re-formed in a never-ending, glittering dance before disappearing beneath the stone road bridge. Across the lawns the shadows were starting to form in the lee of the hotel and for the first time that day a chill entered the air: he rose from his seat and stepped back across the terrace and into the bar area, taking a final gulp from his glass and replacing it on the bar.
“Cheers Carl. Another one to my room in about an hour, please. And could you ask someone to rustle up some scrambled eggs and smoked salmon and maybe a pot of strong coffee in the meantime?”
“Certainly Sir” replied the short, jovial and slightly balding figure calmly cleaning glasses behind the bar. Oh for such placidity, thought an annoyed Bond. He’d discovered that he and the barman shared a mutual interest in golf the first day he’d been here, some eight weeks ago. Carl Whately it seemed had played the tour in the eighties, a scratch player for twenty years peaking with a hard-fought third in a windswept Open at the Belfry which, it turned out, Bond had actually attended – one of the few times his schedule had actually allowed for such decadence. They’d talked about playing a round up at nearby Dunwell Hall but as Bond got drawn deeper into his training it never happened.
Bond had stumbled on the Waterside quite by accident some years earlier whilst exploring the region’s driving roads, and he made a point of stopping off whenever he could, its location making the ideal break in the journey to Scotland on his all too infrequent golfing trips. He enjoyed the welcoming, homely atmosphere which started as he pulled into the small, enclosed front car park and entered the snug reception, somehow a more genuine feeling than the seemingly artificial air of similar establishments in the South. A delusion possibly, but Bond felt everyone deserved some. Walking back down through the comfortable lounge with its chesterfield sofas, a variety of winged-back chairs and scattered broad-sheets his mind continued to chew on the nuggets of resentment and dissatisfaction which he knew all too well were magnified due to his feeling of not being in control: he wanted to take direct action – he knew the steps to take but he was being constrained for, as he saw it, no good reason. And that he hated with a passion.
Taking the wide, richly carpeted stairs to the second floor and making his way to his room he subconsciously scanned the faces and spaces with peripheral vision, searching for any alarm signals. None were triggered, and he noted again how uncommonly quiet the hotel was for the height of summer. Making his way along the first floor corridor which deceptively dropped a half-level in his wing of the building he noticed that the décor was actually starting to look shabby. Chipped paint had been retouched and chipped again, carpets fraying – badly in some places – local scenic photography had faded upon the undulating walls. Or maybe this was his negative frame of mind projecting itself on his surroundings: a black cloud clinging to his head, webbed strands probing his overactive brain. But he found he could not switch it off.
He entered the room with senses alert as usual – long practiced training not allowing him to drop his guard. Mental reflexes ran through the usual routine of PC-like diagnostic checks: ears bent for unexpected sounds, eyes scanning for shifted furniture versus the mental photograph of how he had left it. All clear.
Satisfied the room was clean he now needed to sweep his mind in the same manner. His routine for de-cluttering his mind used a technique taught to him by Doctor Unwin, the Service psychiatrist, which involved mimicking the brains own sleep-induced wind-down processes while occupied in routine physical tasks. Not bothering to fold his clothes he stripped, habitually hanging his shoulder holster and its contents close to hand on the towel rail and stepped into the rather cramped little shower cubicle. Same routine: three minutes as hot as he could stand, three vigorous scrubbing and a final two minutes as cold as was possible, icy water taking his breath with it as it swirled noisily down the chromed plughole. Starting at the beginning, his mind went back across the previous eight weeks.
His regime had been tough from day one. Starting with intensive forces fitness work initially to get him back into shape along with a few members of the SAS, two of whom he knew by sight, he worked up to some of the more gruelling cross-country tasks with 23-Battalion and a number of strategic day and night manoeuvres including the killer forty-five mile ‘yomp’ in full battle-dress. Limited weapons work - though he had practiced with a number of interesting new pistols he’d persuaded the armourer to let him try - otherwise a weekly two-hour session of repetitive target work had sufficed. Week three had been a parachute refresher, hardly required, and the following week they’d started on the wing-suit test itself. M had been asked to evaluate the equipment for possible Service use and had struck a deal which involved The Army getting him back to his peak in exchange for his acting as an expendable crash-test dummy. It seemed M wanted to get him up a near vertical fitness curve but she had not intimated why: a period of extended leave (the euphemistic term applied to his thirteen months in the Middle East) was usually followed by a gradual return to duties. Indeed more often too gently for his liking – the drudge of office life and the paperwork it routinely demanded had nearly driven him from the Service on at least one occasion and to drink on two more. Inactivity and lethargy were the killers he feared most.
James Bond took great pride in his professionalism. The singular ability to treat everything with the same cold, hard, analytical rigor; the discipline and attention to detail. The honing of skills and accumulation of knowledge. And ultimately the ability to kill when required: to do it well and without hesitation. These were the things which had earned him his much-vaunted double-O status, a role for which there was no job description. Dinosaur he may be, but despite the current trend for trying to make people conform to types - even the Service had its ‘diversity’ programme which was anything but – ultimately the need for specıalısts remained. Play people to their strengths was Bond’s outlook – and Britain had an uncanny knack of calling upon him for his at regular intervals. His felt his mind drifting again.
The DSG flight was clear in his mind, events immediately afterwards less so. He’d faded in and out of consciousness on the return flight, landing in late evening, the test itself having taken place close to the Arctic-circle. A preliminary examination by a tall, bespectacled Scot with the unlikely name of Doctor McDougall had revealed no breakages but extensive bruising and lacerations to his inner thighs and arms, mild ligament damage to his left shoulder and right knee. Further tests showed he had suffered severe concussion from the gravitational-effects of his rapid descent and final capture of the power-line, though a brain scan proved clear. He was later informed that the string of lights was not in fact constructed from the triple core flex he had hypothesised – a new narrow lightweight gauge had been employed and by rights he should have fallen to his death. He also discovered that his flight had been the subject of a pool-bet by the eight airmen involved in the exercise, only one of whom had bet on him being successful.
“Surely that’s a conflict of interests?” he’d complained to Steve Colman, a jovial thirty-five year-old SAS instructor assigned as his liaison during his time at Otterburn, as he had stood at the window of his sparsely furnished room in the medical centre.
“Only if the stake is over a hundred of our British Pounds…” Colman had replied, tongue not-so-firmly in his cheek. Bond liked Colman – upfront, honest and good at his job. There had been few friendly faces up here when he’d arrived, the base pretty much running as a closed shop, and squads got shipped in and out en masse. It was very rare for a single trainee to join the base and of course the clandestine nature of his trip meant he was treated with suspicion by the base’s remaining fifteen hundred or so occupants and was the subject of much speculation. Colman, assigned to the DSG programme himself from the SAS’ own HQ down at Hereford, was in a similar boat and the two had holed up from the start. He’d probed the officer about the damaged wing over a bottle of Smirnoff which much to Bond’s amusement he had managed to sneak in wrapped in fruit.
“Definitely sabotage, no doubt about it. The MPs are playing it hush-hush but I’ve seem the first draft of the report and it’s clear. The cut’s too regular and there’s scorching along the length - suggests a hot metal rod, maybe a soldering iron… or a laser. You were sodding lucky to be able to cut it with a knife you know, even a Fairbairn” More luck – he didn’t want to spend his quota too soon. “Anyway, it’s down at the labs now – they’re running tests to see what they can find out. Got our forensics fellow back in from a holiday in Florence within four hours. He looked very pleased I can tell you!” Colman grinned at some private irony.
Bond’s head ached dully, a hissing grey fog which turned into a roaring storm-cloud if he tried to move it too quickly and threatened to engulf him if he didn’t flex his muscles occasionally. He winced but tried to recall events. The suit had not been out of his sight for six hours prior to take off, and he had examined it minutely to assure himself it was intact. He’d tested the instruments personally, as he had always been taught: engines, oxygen feed – the lot. There had definitely been no damage – not even a minute perforation intended to give as soon as he stepped out of the plane.
“You mentioned a laser? Why a laser”
“There’s an American device on test at the moment called the Heat Pen – actually the ‘Schell Laboratories West-Point Z5S Laser-Wand’ to give it its official title – you can see why it doesn’t get called that very often. It’s a small laser, size of a fat pen, basically a very high powered version of those light-pointers you see used”. Colman looked thoughtfully down at his glass “Can’t really be used as a primary weapon, but powerful enough to cut or burn at seven to ten metres. It’ll become standard equipment for special ops. within the year. Could have been used on the wing….?”
“…but only by someone in close proximity shortly before the flight…” Bond finished. In his mind he clearly saw Foreman’s brief grin prior to him opening the airlock and his mind relaxed with dawning realisation. But he got no further, his battered mind finally shut down and he sunk into a troubled sleep in which a small boy threw rocks at exotic birds. He called for the boy to stop but his arms kept reaching for the next.
Colman had not returned the following day – instead Bond had virtually been pushed out the door once it became apparent he had recovered his faculties and could perform some basic motor and mental tasks. At one point a number of unfamiliar faces had appeared at an observation window before quickly withdrawing when he grinned and waved with what was supposed to be sarcastic cheeriness. Five, he supposed. They had not even bothered to ask him for a statement, obviously thought the facts spoke for themselves.
The drive back had been uneventful barring some unexpected sheep, and listening to some inappropriately loud music he had put the Lotus once more through its paces, the well learned series of corners attacked seamlessly and smoothly down through the small villages, each despatched with fluid composure by the combination of car and driver. He had unfinished business – he should have been allowed to stay on. These type of loose ends infuriated him, as did the bureaucracy between Britain’s security services which dictated that each had to ‘keep-off-the-other’s-patch’. It was like being back at school for God’s sake. It was the seams that were the risk, he would tell anyone who would listen, that’s where they had to ensure they overlapped, prevent exposure. But nothing tangible ever came of it and instead came the familiar plaintive cries that ‘lessons will be learned’ as a result of some preventable tragedy. Politics and posturing - personal pride over doing what was Right . Of course he always had a clear view of what Right was.
Stepping back onto the cool, white tiles he pulled down a large white and pleasantly pliable bath towel from the rack – not stiff with starch or whatever it was hotels used – which he wrapped around his midriff. Simple pleasures – after the past year it was easy to forget them. He examined his body minutely in the full-length mirror as he would examine any other piece of professional hardware: acceptable was the word which sprang to mind – how long since he had been able to say that? Only the long, newly furrowed, jagged scar across his lower chest marred the picture, those across his left cheek and right hand paling with time. While some would wear these like badges of honour to Bond they were simply archived files and unwanted identification marks.
There was a knock at the door: room service. Taking his automatic quietly from the holster and holding it beneath a hand-towel he reached for and opened the door sharply – the small, youthful waiter he vaguely recognised looked initially startled before smiling, and pushed forward a chromed trolley.
“Thanks – I’ll take it from here” he smiled back, and closed the door. Seated at a small side table the eggs and salmon were dispatched in short order – the former possibly over salted he thought – whilst two large cups of black coffee focussed his mind. A brief review of the early evening headlines revealed no new information regarding the bombings – he could imagine the all-night sessions at headquarters, and momentarily experienced guilt at being so pre-occupied with his own experiences.
“Concentrate on your own sphere of influence, Bond” he spoke aloud to the room’s contents. Their silent response was resounding. Enough mental expansion – time to think.
Still wearing just the bath towel he took up the Walther once more in his right hand, holding it barrel pointing to the dark-red carpet. Next he positioned himself on the side of the bed then switched off the lamp and the TV. Routine and practice – never let them tell you it was natural, never assume it is like riding a bike – death takes but one fall. So Bond practiced. His mind clicked into two parallel processes, his consciousness pulling recent events into formal order whilst his subconscious ran through the well-honed instructions for weapons checking. Weighing the cold polymer weapon in his hand he closed his eyes, relying on touch alone.
(Check to ensure the pistol is safetied and unloaded, trigger in front position, barrel free, chamber free, magazine empty) – he removed ten nine millimetre bullets and laid then on the bed next to him – (Remove the magazine, draw back the slide assembly to the stop. After the slide assembly is released, it must be returned to its front position by the recoil spring)
He’d officially completed the mission he had been up here to perform, albeit more ‘interestingly’ than planned. He’d been asked to evaluate the wing-suit and overall he’d been impressed with its manoeuvrability, speed and relatively lightweight.
(Insert the empty magazine, draw back the slide assembly to the stop. The slide assembly must be arrested in the rear position)
The Hercules had been unable to detect him on the official radar hence they had not known of his problems until relatively late. The homer only fed data back into some PC software for post-analysis. The wonders of modern technology he thought, wryly. But all in all the DSG would be a very effective tool for getting behind enemy lines - he’d write up his report to M this evening.
(Remove the magazine, pull the slide assembly back partially. After the slide assembly is released, it must be returned to its front position by the recoil spring)
He’d also include his official evaluation of what went wrong, including what Colman had told him about the laser – he’d already decided in his mind that this was the weapon which had inflicted the damage, and that Foreman had been in on the plot if not carried out the sabotage himself.
(Operate the de-cocking key. The striker must be released)
Doubtless M would have extracted from Five and that bloody idiot Reynolds whatever they had uncovered so would have the complete picture. He’d be interested to know what else they’d turned up.
(Insert the empty magazine, draw back the slide assembly to the stop. The slide assembly must be arrested in the rear position)
God knows there were any number of people who wanted him dead – including, as someone once succinctly put it, ‘countless husbands and boyfriends’ – but what worried him was how he’d been targeted on home territory.
(Press the slide catch down. The recoil spring must return the slide assembly to its front position)
How had the base and possibly the Service itself been compromised? He was used to being on guard during ‘aways’, but while they always taught you never to let your guard down on home territory, there had always been a feeling of going through the motions – as indeed he had been doing so far at the Waterside if he was honest.
(Remove the magazine, pull back the trigger until it engages in the single action position. The firing mechanism must not be released)
Had he missed something here and let his defences down? His thoughts sprang to Vicki, the athletic receptionist. Here he was pretty confident he hadn’t let anything slip – he prided himself on his clinical detachment in these matters. Others less charitably called him a cold bastard. Whether he’d been negligent or not, it was an undoubted wake up call. One which maybe he had needed.
(Pull back the trigger - single action trigger - Striker must be released)
On the plus side of the equation he felt back to something approaching ‘shape’ again, at least physically. Working towards the test flight had helped him focus his personal training which, through a daily fitness regime was now back to full strength. To this end the ‘surprise’ element of the flight had also given him the test he needed – physically and mentally – and he was quietly pleased with his body that he had passed.
(Release the trigger and then pull it right back (double action trigger) The striker must be released after it reaches its rear most position)
Part of him had even suspected it could have been a deliberate test by M – but knowing how close he got to death, surely she wouldn’t go to such lengths to get him back on form? His answer was less than convincing.
Checks complete, he now practiced stripping the gun into its main assemblies and reassembling again by touch.
(Remove the magazine and check that the pistol is unloaded. Press the barrel catch down on both sides)
So what were his options? Return to the base and snoop around? His pass had been rescinded, which left him needing to get hold of Colman again to help him. He resolved to get hold of him first thing after breakfast.
(Pull the slide assembly with the barrel and recoil spring unit forwards off the frame. Push the recoil spring unit slightly forwards and then remove it. Finally, pull the barrel out of the slide assembly section)
Lastly he cleaned the pistol - soiled parts of the slide assembly, magazine lips, follower and frame with brush and cloth. Then the barrel with an oil soaked brush, pulling the latter and then the pull-throughs several times through the barrel, ensuring he started from the chamber side. Lightly oiling the metal parts he then re-assembled the pistol and checked it for ‘easy action and fault-free operation’. His quick-draw practice was interrupted by his phone, which let off a simple salvo of three electronic beeps signifying HQ, Bond detesting ‘musical’ ring tones.
“Predator green” – his acknowledgement communicating operational status as expected alongside his call-sign.
“And how’s Predator feeling this afternoon?” it was Bill Tanner, M’s Chief of Staff, a thankfully friendly voice.
“Fine. I’ve quit the flying lessons though – pretty cut up about it actually…”
“Sorry to hear it. Your likely farrier has gone slack, by the way. But I need to cut to the chase: trouble at the mill I’m afraid. Won’t say more. She wants you back down here for a briefing at one tomorrow rather than Thursday, you’d better cancel any dinner plans you may have…” Bond noted the deliberate capitalisation of the ‘S’ in She.
“No clues?
“’From little acorns do the mighty oaks grow…’”
“What the bloody hell does that mean,?”
“Small job, big flap….bit like your flying lessons. Bring your wings, you might need ‘em…” and Tanner rang off. ‘Farrier gone slack’ – a dead saboteur, which had to mean Foreman. Why the hell had Tanner not filled him in with more detail? He suspected he had ducked out from conference with M under instruction to bring him, Bond, in as soon as possible, but even so…. OK, well if everyone wanted to keep him in the dark it was time he did some field-work of his own.
Bond picked up his rather nondescript looking phone from the table: a simple rounded, matt black rubberised tablet, and pressed his index finger into a small indentation on the front. Bond only appreciated technology with a purpose. He did not take it for granted, but also got frustrated when the reality seemed to lag behind the promise. Intelligence work had been transformed by it, the most obvious example being the mobile phone. Eight years ago mobile communications had been patchy, but the past four especially had seen the quality and range of new features spiral to the extent that even finger-print activation was on the market in 2004 barely two years after Q-branch had demonstrated it to an enthusiastic Service Christmas party. And the technology seemed to permeate society incredibly quickly – indeed at the same party he had first heard the adage that the expense and complexity of the technology was inversely proportional to the intelligence of the user. A bit harsh possibly, but there was undoubtedly some truth in there. But the technology could not improve upon the content - they were just means to an end – how many times had he overheard the most banal and monosyllabic conversations wasting the most expensive looking hardware. Technology had to have purpose and not just be a fashion gimic: to him these were just the latest – if impressive - tools of the trade. What was fascinating was they way that each new tool changed not just the rules, but the game itself. Instantaneous transmission of data; rapid access to inexhaustible information, the web of surveillance cameras - it could all be used, tapped into and exploited. Provided you knew how - or knew the people who knew how.
A blue LED blinked once as a sensor read his fingerprint and accepted it as positive identification and the shell cracked open. Inside two flat screens, no visible keys. Now Bond flicked open a tab and a second layer of the phone opened like a piece of delicate origami and the screen was instantly four times its original size. The whole lit, outlined in blue, icons and buttons appeared on the console. Finally Bond ran his thumb up the side of the keyboard and a curved, Perspex screen, maybe six inches by three slid upwards and the whole now formed an impossibly thin palm-top – ten inches by eight - the fabled ‘Q-Berry’ as it had been dubbed. The screen lit beautifully and became opaque: both hands operated thumb-dial key pads which had materialised on either side of the tablet and Bond quickly accessed the net.
“The main question with the internet is not ‘is what I am looking for there’, but rather ‘how the bloody hell do I find it?’” the standard training began “It has uses you never knew you needed. It’s instant communication – replacing phone, letter and videophone instantly. It’s newspaper, it’s TV, it’s a library, it’s the new music and video transmission and storage media. It’s all the hobby societies you never knew existed – and of course a few popular ones we’re all very familiar with” knowing wink to the audience. “To date it has been about putting onto the net all the things invented on other forms. But it is now becoming the point of origin where they are generated, and taking things off-line will seem rather pointless. It’s all there, it’s all waiting, shiny, new and wireless. But the key is: how to find it?” The rationale behind a number of highly successful business models – how to find stuff on the web. Bond himself found surfing a bore: like all such media he wanted to spend as little time learning and more time doing. And usually time was of the essence in the ends he sought, so the Service had identified a new need to support its field agents. Hence the birth of the Goldminers.
In the same way that in times gone by the Secret Service had used rather nondescript offices in Regent’s Park which masqueraded as ‘Universal Export’, a dull anonymous façade which would draw no attention, so it was that access to a range of so-called ‘On-Line Secret Services’ was via something of a ‘backdoor’, the principle being that rather than acres of security levels a link could be placed in such an obscure location as to attract no attention even to sophisticated net-trawling programmes. So it was that Bond now accessed www.matchstickmodels.co.uk – ‘Don’t get caught under fire!’ the liberally splashed motto read above animated road-mending signage apologising for the site being ‘Under Construction’ to ensure that even the world’s real match-stick modellers would go elsewhere for there kicks. There was a guest book for the truly deluded where people could sign, just in case. But a hit-counter in the bottom right corner hid an invisible icon which, when scrolled across and a cryptic entered, provided the access he sought. It still did not say ‘Online Secret Service’ – it simply said ‘error!’ - but ignoring this he found the portal he wanted.
“You need to know the good from the bad. That’s what we’re here for – panning for gold – separating wheat from chaff” mixed metaphors from GCHQ. Here you submitted your request – a name, a place, a face, even a sound - to that equally nondescript but far from dull building in Cheltenham which contained the mental horsepower, the bank of information operatives - or ‘Goldminers’ as they had been dubbed, for they often came up with nuggets you’d never have thought existed. It was their job to continuously monitor the net, looking for new sites, users, ideas and plots, tapping into all manner of on-line forums, reporting suspicions, in the same way that the phone-tappers and CCTV surveillance units randomly monitored the reams of incoming data which was impossible to monitor one hundred percent. And their record was formidable, an entire wall proudly recording successfully foiled plots and operations few of which ever made it into the public domain. These resources were also on-hand for requests from members of the Service, both field operatives and others members of other departments. He signalled a one-hour service – bit like getting your photos done at Boots in the old days – de-prioritising it behind real-time field operations.
Subject: “Corporal Foreman, Craig” he wrote “Otterburn Military establishment. Born c.1975 (?), deceased 2007”. Trace: “basic + organisational links, social contacts, travel, past twenty four months”. Response: “Text. Anything within one hour” That should be enough – see what they could turn up in sixty minutes. He submitted the form, then got dressed: time to fill in that bloody report. Pouring himself another whiskey he sat into rather than on to the snug leather bucket-seat and began to type – using the automatic dictator would be too risky, and the keyboard on these things was shielded well from remote ‘snooping’.
By eleven the report had been filed and Bond sat back, took a last swig of his second whiskey, and rose to close the partly open window. The earlier pleasant evening weather had turned and now a late August wind brought with it the first dashes of rain which spattered the gently billowing net curtains. Looking out across the gardens, eyes routinely scanning the fast darkening lawns and the deepening pools of shadow beneath the trees, he saw a shadow suddenly flit behind one of the greenhouses. He squinted – saw nothing – then a glint as the moon cleared the gable and flashed across polished metal. A long split-second hung heavily as his body reacted slower than his mind. Move, damn it. Instinctively he whirled back and round, away from the cool night air, drawing the P99 automatic from the shoulder holster in one fluid movement but crashing painfully against the corner of the dresser as he did so. The bullet whined through the hole in the air he’d just vacated and carved a path through the warm room, into the plaster above his bed, spraying a fine white cloud of dust over the pillow.
Silencer, high powered hunting rifle, single shot.
In a seamless move he took a single large stride to the window, sprang on the ball of his left foot to hurdle across the ledge landing softly on the lawn beneath the ground floor window, crouched low, then rolled left behind a large clump of bushes. Quickly and without taking his eyes off the lawns he fitted the silencer which also nestled in the holster, screwing it on flush to the cold, newly oiled barrel. As he rose slowly behind the bush, gun drawn and aimed at the origin of the first shot there came a second which ricocheted harmlessly off the stonework above his head. Triangulating the origin of the shot he glimpsed fast disappearing heels, scrabbling for purchase on the criss-crossing gravel paths. Cross referencing his view with a plan of the estate memorised on the first night of his stay, Bond guessed the would-be assailant had made a wrong choice - he was now trapped in the open-quad formed by the hotel, the leisure complex and the glass walkway which ran between the two with Bond on the open side. Springing from his hiding place he sprinted low and soundlessly, gun tracking the floor, in the same direction. He heard someone crash against the door of the corridor and curse – not in English – as it was found to be locked. Another two thumps, then the crash of broken glass. Bond ran towards the Hotel-end of the passageway, guessing that his quarry would make in that direction. He could just make out the grey figure now inside the dimly lit corridor, hunched, rifle in hand, about to break the facing window when he turned and saw Bond approaching, gun now raised and steady. A look of panic spread across Eastern European features, and, dropping the rifle the man staggered and ran towards the darkened pool area.
Bond had the layout spread out in his mind as though on a table before him, another innate, reflex piece of training. Jumping over the half-wall beneath the smashed window he landed on broken glass, discarded rifle a lifeless toy in the gulley. He stopped and listened – hearing scuffed footsteps around the bend into where the fitness equipment lay. He moved quietly and carefully in pursuit, knowing there was no escape.
Darkness met him silently: no movement amid the increasing gloom. Dammit – he’d expected the man to be cornered in the small ante-chamber, but someone had left the door to the pool area unlocked. Quickening his step he crossed to it and ducked to one side, automatic pointing to the upward. Choice: fast or slow. Slow he was easy prey, silhouetted against the door, so fast it was. Gambling that the man would be watching the door for small movements, eyes adjusted to the relative light, Bond threw himself across the threshold, spinning so his back came to rest against the wall as he did so, crouching on the cold tiles, air thick with chlorine. To the right of the door as he looked he could see a figure turn, wide eyed in panic, searching for him.
“Don’t...” he began to command but then something glinted briefly as it came towards him through the darkness. He twisted his body, and a metal spike struck violently against rough concrete sending a shower of sparks which burned briefly in the gloom. It withdrew: the man had a bloody hook on the end of a wooden pole – for fishing debris from the pool presumably. Again it came, a desperate and clumsy lunge which nevertheless sliced across Bond’s shoulder tearing the flesh hotly, but this time he was ready. Grabbing the wooden shaft behind the hook Bond pulled it hard, bringing the man towards him with an involuntary grunt. He let go his grip, but threw himself into the shadows to Bond’s left, reaching for something. Discarding the pole Bond dropped low and spun rapidly and just in time to avoid a fire-extinguisher which now arced silently above his head before crashing against the tiled pool-house wall with a reverberating metallic clang that echoed out across the still, silvery waters. With a powerful hiss the release nozzle activated, sending a plume of cold, white vapour pouring out across the tiles. Bond used the sudden distraction to his advantage. A stack of water-recovery bricks sat against one wall, and he threw himself across the extinguisher’s path, gauging his trajectory to enable his right hand to sweep up and throw a number across the tiles, peppering the man’s legs and groin. The man lost his footing noisily, dropping heavily against the tiles and slipping into the shallows. Bond sprang up on his right foot and leapt towards the receding figure, grabbing the man’s hair as he disappeared into the water, wrenching his head back. Wild eyes stared up at him, glinting with fear, throat gasping for air. The man made a wild attempt to counteract, jumping up out of the shallows in an attempt to strike Bond in the face but succeeded only in unbalancing the pair of them. Bond used his weight to counter the move, pushing him down once more and pinning him hard down on the tiles. The man put up no fight now, his rapid exhalation smelling vaguely of fish. This was no professional, he thought, putting the gun away.
“Name!” he commanded, but no words came from the panting mouth, just a horrible, slow gurgling sound as if he had swallowed a lot of water. In the dim light reflecting off the water Bond could see a dark liquid oozing from the man’s lips as he now let out one long exhalation, head dipped over the edge of the pool. A warm spray came with it across Bond’s hands and face: looking down he could see the metal hook disappearing into the man’s neck, the glistening tip appearing again from the other side. The man breathed heavily then his impaled body sagged heavily.
Bond cursed.
Copious quantities of blood seeped silently across the tiles, glistening, before running into the pool to form a dark, expanding cloud. Bond dragged the body, now limp, from the water and frisked it. He noted the ID, saw nothing of note in the wallet and other pockets revealed a few small coins, a pair of glass dice – one with red dots, one with blue - and the man’s phone. Plugging the latter into the Q-Berry he activated the ‘vacuum’ facility which cleverly extracted all stored information and records. In the seconds this took he held up one of the dice to the light and found himself momentarily mesmerised – the thing sparkled with some intricate internal pattern he could not decipher. As the progress bar reached one hundred percent he disconnected the phone and used it to take half a dozen photos of the lifeless figure, which he immediately dispatched to the Goldminers. The lads in Cheltenham were in for a busy night, he feared.
On an impulse he pocketed the dice too.
# # #