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[Scrambled Eggs]

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1.

Not for the first time in her life, Delphine Chakra wished she was able to see into the future. There had been nothing wrong with her plan, but you couldn’t plan for something as inexplicable as this.
She thought that at this stage she would be in Singapore where a new identity and job awaited her. There she’d find anonymity. Sweet, blissful anonymity. Instead she found herself tied to a barrel of diesel on the deck of a third hand motor yacht controlled by a greasy, open shirted man she gathered was named Wang who controlled a crew of around twenty.
She was lucky, in a sense. Her white skin and evident value protected her form the simpler, crueller fate endured by the crew of the boat that had taken her from Hong Kong two days earlier. Their machine gunned corpses now bobbed like old tyres on the surface of the Pacific Ocean.
How curious. To be running from such worthy adversaries as the CIA and Chinese secret service and find herself falling, quite by chance into the hands of such low class and old fashioned opponents as pirates. Modern day pirates. Not skull cross bones and rum toting brigands with English accents, but Chinese killers happy to kill for a few Yuan and probably willing to do much more for the chance to rape a young gwailu woman. Only Wang stood in their way. What an unlikely protector! Presumably he wanted her untainted for the brothels of Shenzhen or Macao. Maybe if she was lucky she’d find herself the private concubine of a Kowloon banker.
Thanks to her training, she’d been able to hold herself together and hadn’t given in to despair. There were other options. There had to be. It was just that they weren’t immediately obvious just now.
Of course, she did know an easy way out. But that was the very last resort. She hated using it. It was the whole reason she was on the run in the first place. She and Ming Mei had promised each other they’d only go that route when it was a matter of life and death. Like now.
She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. The familiar warm, drunken feeling began to seep into her. Then she felt numbness as she crept into the mind of the nearest person. She knew it would be the kid she’d been thinking of as the cabin boy. A child of sixteen who had been most leering and disgusting of all of them. His first thoughts disgusted her. His thoughts about her body, the breasts he could see through her t shirt, his wondering about what a white woman looked like naked.... She tried to move onto a more intelligent crew member, one who might be able to tell her something. She fastened upon an older crewmate. He was thinking mostly about braised tofu, which was a pleasant suprise but didn’t help her much.
If there had been only one or two of them, she could quite easily have influenced them. Planted ideas in their heads. Made them release her, made them take her wherever she wanted. She could even make them all jump over board if it took her fancy. But there were too many, that was the limitation of her gift- if you could call it that. Controlling the minds of twenty men would exhaust her to the point of death. She couldn’t risk it.
She drifted in Wang’s mind. This was more interesting. She was glad to know that he thought he could get 300,000 Yuan for her, or 60,000 US. He’d have to split it with the crew but why not get rid of a few of them, get Yao to slit the boy’s throat and maybe a few others then toss them into the drink while they slept. That’d be more profitable. Maybe he’d even treat himself to a gentle but enjoyable few minutes with the gwailu before he sold her? But why was the dog acting so strangely? Cowering in the cabin, did it sense something?
She came out of it, breathing in sharply as she broke out of her deep sleep and opened her eyes to the harsh mid afternoon light. Wang was right, the dog was acting strangely. They said animals had a sixth sense about certain things. She for one gave that idea credence.
Then she noticed something else. The water which had been crystal clear had turned a muddy, gritty colour. Then the swirling began, buffeting the boat more and more. Wang caught her eye as they simultaneously came to the same conclusion. She knew what this was and, in a way she was perfectly placed of all of them to survive it. She wrapped her arms around the barrel, griping firmly onto a handle on the side of it. A radio crackled, Wang picked up the receiver and soon began shouting, then screaming.
Then it came. First the insane current took the boat, dragging it sideways, quicker and quicker. Then the wave cast it’s shadow over them before hitting them and twirling the boat in the air like a child performing a trick with a yo yo. Then there was a moment of silence which seemed to last a lifetime as she flew through the air and hit the water again, being dragged down by the current. Her lungs bursting, she pulled herself back up to the surface by the chain which attached her to the barrel.
She saw the crew members, and pieces of what had been crew members, flailing in the water before disappearing into the waves. The boat had broken in half and was being dragged at speed far into the distance. She was pulled in the same directon, clinging onto the barrel.
Two hours later she lay breathless, still chained to the barrel, lying on her back on a stretch of sand. Around her was a bloody, horrible carnage. Mangled trees lay over the remains of buildings. Boats and huts had been shattered to matchwood and everywhere lay broken bodies.
One involuntary word left her dry, sun burnt lips. “Tsunami. Tsunami. Tsunami.” Then, “I’m alive. I’m alive.”
And already she realised something else. The rest of the world would, if they bothered to try and track her down, discover that she would have been at sea on Boxing Day 2004, at the time that a huge Tsunami had hit.
As far as those looking for here were concerned, she was dead. She no longer existed.
It was wonderful.


2.

“You know something darling? I know something you don’t know.”
The woman spoke with a faint Ukranian accent which amused Bond and went well with her fur coat and Jimmy Choos. Every stitch of her spoke loudly of wealth that had been hard won and was therefore flaunted shamelessly. She was a platinum blonde who looked thirty. Although without the botox, nips and tucks she would probably look forty.
It was only the two of them sitting in the first class lounge of the 747 30,000 feet above Greenland, on its way from London to New York. If there had been another passenger in the lounge he probably wouldn’t have exchanged more than a few flirtatious glances with the woman who, frankly, was at least fifteen years too old for him. But, with just of the two of them to indulge in the champagne and foie gras it only seemed right that they should sit together and share a little conversation.
“What is it?”
“I know about the caviar darling. The caviar. It is a specıalıst subject of mine. Do you know what they do with all the caviar when we arrive at JFK?”
“I must confess that I don’t.”
“They throw it all away darling. US Customs insists that they destroy it. Presumably hot dogs and such like are ok but fine food is not allowed into the United States. With just two of us here they will be throwing away thousands of dollars of beautiful caviar.”
“Shocking.”
“But, darling, this is an opportunity for you and I.” The woman called over a passing stewardess and requested she bring them every ounce of caviar on board the plane. “With lots of toast darling. Lots of toast. And more champagne. You don’t mind joining me in a little feast don you Mr....”
“Bond. And whom do I have the pleasure of...”
“Natalya Ostrenko. I am a Ukranian. And you I believe are an Englishman? Let me tell you about the great history of close friendship between our two countries.” With this, a slender Ukranian ankle gently brushed against Bond’s leg.
As the buttery toast, caviar and crisp Moet slipped down their throats Bond listened intently to her tales of life in the theatre and her career as a choreographer. He knew where the conversation was eventually heading. He decided to speed things up as they polished off the last of the tin.
“There is of course one other advantage to being the only two in this lounge.”
“And what is that darling?”
“We can have the partition put around these seats with noone to hear or care about what we decide to do behind it.”
“My, what a suggestion Mr Bond!” she said this with an element of shock in her voice, but she wasted no time in again calling the stewardess and having the partition placed around them.
The taste of champagne lingered on her lips and her body had the muscled elasticity common to those who spend their lives in the ballet. Bond remembered his last day to day bed partner, a girlfriend of sorts. Another ballerina, just 20, she’d even moved into his place in Chelsea for a few weeks. For a fortnight it had been wonderful, before the usual suspicions, jealousies, fall outs and recriminations inevitably ended in her tearful storming out two months ago. It was possible that she’d been directed by Mrs Ostrenko. Perhaps this feisty Ukrainian had given the young girl a piece of her mind for mistiming one of her carefully choreographed pieces. It was an amusing thought as Bond pulled a black g string from Madam Ostrenko’s buttocks, slipping it down her legs and over her feet. At first she whispered to him in Ukrainian, her voice building into a savage yelp that could probably have been heard in economy class.
She panted softly against his chest. Would Lexie be able to tell? She did seem to have the unerring ability to know exactly what he was up to and exactly what he wanted at. That was part of what made her such a fabulous lover. But really, a shower before landing, a little cologne and he’d be amazed if she’d be able to tell that he’d coupled with a choreographer at least five years her senior while on the plane over.
Anyway, why should she be jealous? The right to be jealous wasn’t a part of their arrangement. The whole point of what they had together was that neither of them would have an opportunity to become emotionally attached to the other. Once a month he would fly to New York and spend a weekend with her. Two or three weeks later she would fly to London and spend a weekend with him at the Chelsea flat. She knew about the wife of the cabinet minister and the city advertising executive he visited on weekdays. She knew about the PPE student he visited at Oxford from time to time. She also knew of Ela in Budapest and Marjory in Lyon. Likewise he knew about the young actor, the NYPD officer and the mechanic in Queens. So, really why should he worry if she knew about what he’d just done with Natalya Ostrenko? Maybe it was that, even between committed bigamists like Lexie and himself, it was nice to have the illusion that they were in some way faithful - at least to the extent of not copulating with someone else merely hours before one of their meetings.
Natalya drifted into a blissful sleep. Bond knew he should do the same but still found his mind wandering. He couldn’t stop his mind going back 12 hours to his meeting with M.
In fact it was his first meeting with M. The new M. To his thinly concealed horror, the man was younger than him. No mistaking the fact. The brown hair had no flecks of gray. The eyes were, whilst betraying a sharp intellect, still somewhat innocent and the body was gym fit. The man didn’t show any of the signs of stress, over eating and over drinking which by rights, should be the curse of any chief of the secret service. He remembered the way the man had stumbled over his words as Bond entered that familiar office.
“Come in ahhhh.... double 0...” at this point M had stolen a quick glance at the laptop screen in front of him. “Double 0 seven! Please, sit down.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Not at all, a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve a lot of respect for the double 0 section. A Lot of respect.”
“Thank you sir. Welcome aboard.”
“Quite. Really I just wanted to have you in for a sort of a fact finding exercise. Trying to get an overall picture of how things work here. You understand?”
Bond knew exactly what he meant. Before the sudden promotion M had built his reputation in Russia where he’d put together a spying network consisting of management consultants, IT experts, economists and the like. They’d provided priceless information on the Russians and whilst there he’d even been able to recruit agents who were bringing in superb information on the Chinese. It was when he’d begun placing double agents inside the Muslim terrorist groups associated with the Chechen rebels that he really got noticed and was talked of as the man who could modernise MI6 from top to bottom.
M was undoubtedly a brilliant man. However, he knew nothing about how things worked at MI6’s London base. Yet bizarrely he was now in charge of it.
“So tell me, in your own words, how you would define your role here?”
“Define my role? Well.... I’m a double 0 agent sir.”
“Yes yes, of course you are.” M had said impatiently, ”But tell me exactly what it is you do here. What is your job? How do British tax payers get their money’s worth by having,” another glance at the laptop, “James Bond on the payroll?”
“I locate and eliminate bad people sir.”
“Tough guy eh? Well, we need tough guys of course. Always will. Can’t be helped. The nature of the beast and all that. But look at this.” He spun the laptop around so that it was now facing Bond. “This is an itemised list showing MI6’s spending on James Bond in the past financial year.”
Bond glanced at the screen, “That much eh?”
“Two and three quarters of a million pounds. In one year. Now, you’ve been a double 0 agent for twelve years – congratulations – so if we extrapolate these figures for that whole twelve year period we can say that, not counting your salary, MI6 has spent something in the region of thirty two million pounds on James Bond. Now, do you feel - and I must stress that I’m being quite open minded about this and not making any decisions at this stage – do you feel that you represent value for money to the British tax payer? Look here for instance. On one operation lasting barely two weeks you went through three customised company Jaguars, five company firearms, all reported as lost in combat and spent over 80,000 on dining and hotel bills. Whilst I’m not disputing the success of the mission I have to stress to you that this spending seems excessive.”
“With respect sir, I am not a cheap option. You want someone to fly in, commit a murder then fly out again you call the SAS. Certain, special jobs demand different talents. Your predecessor...”
“Yes well my predecessor has been retired as you well know. Whilst I don’t dispute your undoubted talents and experience I think perhaps we should try and utilise them in a different way in future. I see your future role as more of a consultant. It’s a new era double 0 seven. Not about guns and derring do anymore. Not our style. These days even the Belarussian secret service have killers as well trained as anyone at MI6 or even the CIA and FSB. We need to find a new speciality. That should be high quality intelligence gathering. Buying and selling facts, that’s what we’re about now. Anyway, if we want a chap in Pakistan out of the way, we can hire a Pakistani. Plausible deniability you see. And of course, it looks better on the accounts. ”
The words rang hollowly in his ears as Bond drifted into sleep.

[Scrambled Eggs]

3.

Meanwhile, in economy class, a man lay awake ignoring the in flight movie and the sleeping American girl next to him. She’d caught his eye and smiled when they’d heard the woman’s cries coming from the first class lounge earlier but he’d managed to ignore her quite easily. It wasn’t good. The fewer people who noticed him the better.
His passport said he was David Hitchins, a small businessman from Minnesota. His actual employers knew him as Omar Hassan, based in Kabul. In truth he was neither. Most assumed he originated from Pakistan, in that respect they were right. He was the only one who knew his real name. A good situation. Excellent in fact.
He was 35 and slim. His dark hair was lightened by a touch of hair dye and his light olive skin could easily pass for tanned Caucasian skin. He’d begun his career with the vague feeling that the world was injust and that he had to fight against the dark forces – the Americans and their allies – who wished to oppress his people. He’d lost that vague sense as slowly and surely as his religious conviction had gradually peeled away. Now, if he had to admit to believing in anything, it was simply the fact that the world was a dark evil place and that the best way to prosper was to join in wholeheartedly with all the chaos, preferably on behalf of the highest bidder.
The current high bidder was exceptionally well organised. He was to have assistance, five other men who he had not met before (therefore no link could be proven between them should something go wrong) the weapons were concealed in dead letter boxes located around the city and the identity and address of their target as well as the targets daily routines were given in detail. The first quarter of a million had been paid into his account dead on schedule and so without wasting another moment he’d taken the passport and bank cards for his Hitchins identity and left Munich on the first available flight, via London, for New York.
He took a brief hour long nap and awoke as the plane began its descent into JFK. He carefully avoided meeting anyone’s stares as he calmly ate his breakfast of rehydrated cinnamon roll and coffee. He carried just the one overnight bag as he passed easily through customs, smiling as the officer wished him a “Welcome home Mr Hitchins” and he made his way to the taxi rank.

Bond, a few feet away, rose and gently detached himself from Madam Ostrenko’s birdlike hands. He took a shower. It was now 3 am in London, 10 pm in New York. He could be at Lexie’s apartment by midnight. He felt the shower door opening as the shampoo ran from his head and down his body in a foaming, creamy mass. He felt a hand run through the foam gathering on the hairs on his chest. He pulled Natalya inside, knowing she was already naked.
Forty five minutes later, dressed and full of coffee with Natalya’s phone number and email address inside his wallet, he took his leather overnight bag in one hand and left the plane, taking pleasure in the fact that he could pass through customs quickly and easily at this time of night and made straight for the taxi rank. A tall, remarkably slender olive skinned man was already there. Bond heard him ask for an address in Brooklyn and watched him drive away, giving Bond a quizzical glance through the window.
Why had he taken such an interest in that man? Hard to say, there was nothing outwardly suspicious about him. Bond bid the thought from his mind as he stepped into the second cab and asked to be taken to Lexie’s address in Manhattan.

Lexie lived on Eighty Fifth Street, just around the corner from Central Park, in an apartment far more spacious and better appointed than his own place in Chelsea. He wasn’t sure what she did to deserve, or at least afford a place like this. Nor did he want to know. He was even happier that she didn’t ask how he made his living.
A doorman, amusingly clad in top hat and coat tails nodded to Bond with familiarity. He took the elevator up to the eleventh floor.
Bond knew what she’d been doing, it was always the same. An evening of cocktails with some girlfriends cut short by around ten when she’d retire to her pad for a bath, a freshen up and a little preparation. The little touches were important when a weekend like this was planned and time was short. There would be champagne and vodka in ice buckets, enough food (usually Waldorf salad, for which she had a peculiar liking, chocolates, foie gras and the essential eggs and steaks) for two days, as well candles and scented bed sheets.
He had his own key and walked into the darkened apartment, smiling. First he’d have to play a game of “come and find me”. She wouldn’t be in the bedroom, not yet. She wasn’t in the living room. He paused to pour himself a measure of vodka and swallowed it.
He stepped out onto the balcony. There, with Central Park spread behind her and the close warmth of New York heat all around, sat Lexie. She was dressed in her underwear, a glass of something pink and exotic in her hand, her hair held up by a pin - displaying her swanlike neck - and her lips daubed a harlot red.
Sometimes they shared a few words first, other times not. It depended upon her mood. She walked over to him, her 5’11 frame limbering itself up like a panther waking from an afternoon’s rest in some jungle treetop. Their lips met, hers were far warmer and skilled than Natalya’s. A flick of her tongue and he found himself removing his jacket. Then she stopped.
“How was the flight?”
“Acceptable.”
“Get a little frisky on board? Cute little stewardess give Mr Bond a little extra service? Or a passenger?” she nuzzled his neck, moving her hands over his body, griping his buttocks firmly, “Yes, a passenger wasn’t she?”
“However do you know these things?”
“A woman knows James.”
“You certainly do.”
“That’s why you like me isn’t it?”
“Yes, you know just what I want.”
“Indeed I do.” Then she turned from him and rested her hands on the railing that separated her from the Manhattan streets eleven stories below. She lifted her behind into the air and parted her legs as Bond removed the last strip of clothing and looked over the Manhattan skyline.

They eventually moved into the bedroom, and didn’t say anther word to each other for the rest of the evening. Bond finally drifted into real sleep around two. He rarely remembered his dreams, except for the occasions when he was rudely awoken and the real world meshed awkwardly and confusingly with the dreamland. This was one of those occasions.
It was the hollow rasp of a silenced pistol that awoke him, firing twice into the warm body he lay next to. It was a motor reflex that made him, still barely conscious, roll from the bed onto the floor and hurl out his leg in a part tae kwon do, mostly frenzied kick. It hit home and a dark shadow fell to the ground. Before he could get up another shadow was above him, and again there was the empty, dreadful non sound of the silenced gun firing, but hitting only the carpet as Bond first rolled then jumped to his feet, his head connecting with the man’s jaw. Then he had the gun in his hand. He turned and fired one, two, three, four shots, a pair into each of the shadowed figures lying on the bedroom floor.
The front door of the apartment slammed shut. Bond sprinted after the sound and hurled the door open, seeing the backs of four men sprinting down the corridor toward the stairs.
He fired a quick burst from the gun, clipping the back of one of the men who fell to the ground in mid stride. Bond fired another round into the man’s head as he ran past, around the corridor and toward the stairs. Kicking the door to the staircase open he recoiled as, as he’d expected, a flurry of gunfire peppered the walls. Lying on his stomach he returned fire, his two remaining bullets hitting one, then two men. Tossing the gun aside he sprinted after the remaining two men, hearing their footsteps echoing up the staircase, heading toward the top of the building.
A purple twilight of moon and street lamps semi illuminated the roof of the building as he watched the two dark shadows run across it. Two more rounds and he could have taken them both out. No matter. He sprinted after them. One was far quicker than the other and made it to a ladder which led down the building to ground level. Bond gained on the other and dived, tapping his ankle and sending him sprawling to the ground. The man mumbled something as Bond got to his feet, stood over him and, with his bare feet, snapped his neck.
He looked down the ladder, the final man was half way down. Bond leapt and plummeted down the side of the building, before grabbing hold of the cold steel frame of the ladder as he clattered into the man below him. The man wobbled but remained on the ladder. Something cold pressed against Bond’s thigh. A knife. Bond kicked out, knocking the knife from the man’s grasp... then his sweaty palm slipped on the metal....
Bond fell, six stories into the street below. His fall broken by a parked Volkswagen.
The car’s alarm went off, but Bond wasn’t conscious enough to hear it.
The man some knew as Hitchins and others as Hassan jumped the final storey into the alleyway. Who on earth was that guy? He’d have to check him out, if he wasn’t dead already. But no time to check. The car alarm would surely attract someone soon enough. He slipped out of his black cotton shirt, revealing a red Hugo Boss t-shirt. Suddenly he was just a yuppie clubber looking for a cab. He strolled calmly into the night, mingling with the crowds.


4.

Jon Strawb woke lazily. His head felt thicker, heavier than normal. Like waking with a hangover after only a few hours sleep. That was wrong to begin with. He didn’t drink now. Well, a few beers while watching the sun go down but that wasn’t drinking. Not like the old days of a Bloody Mary in the morning, Martinis at lunch and a bottle of Bourbon after work. This fuzzy feeling was like an old friend that he wasn’t all that keen to make eye contact with and recount old times.
He crawled out of bed, crossed the floor of the tiny wooden cabin, turned the valve on the gas cylinder in his kitchen, lit the gas ring and placed a kettle on top of it. He quickly brushed his teeth and splashed water in his face. The nagging, fuggy feeling still remained, throbbing in the back of his head.
He’d been in the cabin on top of the mountain in the heart of Montana for three months now. A dream job. Just a laptop and a telephone to keep him in touch with the outside world whilst he watched for forest fires in the expanse of Pine that stretched as far as the eye could see. Ideal. Just him and his thoughts, with a big box of paperbacks and another of DVDs all there was to pollute his mind. Every two weeks a helicopter brought him supplies, a few crates of beer, plenty of steak. He felt blessed. This was what he’d been put on earth to do.
He drank a coffee and, finally, could no longer ignore the fact that he knew exactly what the feeling at the back of his head meant. He breathed deeply, took in a lungful of mountain air, gazed up at the clear sky and thanked, for the thousandth time, every God in heaven that he was miles away from civilisation.
Who was it this time? He had to know. He closed his eyes and concentrated.
A few minutes later, he couldn’t stop a tear falling from his eye. He’d told her she wasn’t mean for that life. Poor Lexie.
He stepped back into the cabin and went to his desk. From inside a drawer he pulled a map and spread it out on the desk before him. It was a map of the world. Five red markers were placed on it. There had been nine, the other four he’d removed over the past few weeks and now sat at the bottom of the drawer. The remaining markers were placed over his Montana cabin, Santa Monica California, New York City, Kowloon in Hong Kong, and the small island of Krabi off the coast of Thailand.
He removed the marker over the city of New York and dropped it into the bottom of the drawer.
Just four left.
He wiped the tear from his eye, and then smiled sweetly when he looked at the marker over Krabi Island. “You’re safe. The safest of all of us. Safer than even me. No one knows about you except me, don’t they? Well I’ll never tell anyone Chakra. You can count on that.”
Then he folded the map up and placed it back in the drawer. It was breakfast time.


5.

“You see my problem don’t you Mr Bond?”
“I do.”
“Yes, I’m glad we speak the same language. See I don’t necessarily disbelieve your story, I can’t disprove it. But you can see why I might think there’s a little more you’re not telling me?”
The speaker was a good four stone overweight with sweat patches darkening his light blue shirt. A tie was worn reluctantly around his neck. No doubt Lieutenant Callus of the NYPD was good at his job but the stress might put him into an early grave. There again, like most in his line he was probably addicted to the work. There was no other reason why anyone would stick to it. Not for the pittance men like him were paid.
Bond respected men like Callus, even though the conversation was increasingly irritating. He couldn’t tell the poor man the full truth about himself. He had to give him part of the story and leave poor Callus with six corpses and the question of whether or not charge Bond with murder.
The stay in hospital had been brief and not made any more pleasant by the charmless armed guards. No broken bones, no internal bleeding. A twisted ankle and a lot of bruising. He was a lucky man they told him and he was released by midday. Released from hospital and taken straight into custody.
Lexie was dead, that was the answer to the first question he’d asked.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. On one level he had barely known her at all. But on a deeper level, having shared her bed so many times, he knew her very well indeed. They had a connection, of sorts. Perhaps just a carnal one, but like all people in their situation they were always, dangerously, within inches of their purely sexual relationship becoming a head over heels love affair. It had happened to him before.
Most of all he felt anger. Simple anger at simple - from what he could tell - unprovoked cold murder.
Callus left the room, giving Bond the same hopeless look that said “I know you know more, I suspect I know what it might be but I’ve a feeling I’m never going to find out.” He returned five minutes later, a scowl on his fleshy face.
“You’re free to go.”
“Free to go?”
“Yep. Just like that. You’re sprung, free as a bird. Enjoy it.”
“No more questions.”
“No, this investigation is being taken away from me. And the same people want you kept away from it. I’m kinda glad, don’t like messing with the agency. I only hope they get whoever did that to that beautiful woman.”
“Same here. Goodbye Lieutenant”
“Yeah. Whatever. Sorry about your loss an all Bond. Now I hope you get out of my city. We’ve enough problems without whatever it is you’re mixed up in.”
So the CIA had gotten involved. Made sense. Clearly a professional hit and not just a mob affair. He was allowed to take all his luggage. No questions were asked.
There seemed nothing more to do than to head straight back to JFK. If the CIA, FBI or Homeland Security wanted to interview him they could just as well do it in London.
He booked himself a flight on the next available plane and made his way to the departure lounge. He realised he hadn’t eaten for fourteen hours and sat down at a seafood bar, ordered a plate of sashimi and vodka and tried to avoid looking at the newspapers.
“Turning tail 007?”
The speaker had calmly sat next to Bond and spoke while perusing the menu. Bond said nothing. The man had pale, stubby skin stretched over his face and looked in his mid fifties. He wore a grey black trench coat and had rough hands with fingernails bitten down to the quick. His white hair was cut close to the scalp.
“Guess you’ve no reason to stick around?” The waitress brought the man a glass of water.
“Can’t think of one. Can you?”
“Maybe. I can give you a reason why Lexie was killed. I can point you in the right direction.”
“You could always tell Homeland security. I gather this is more their jurisdiction.”
“Oh they already know. Not they’re going to do anything about it.”
“Why would they not want to do a thing like that?”
“Investigation isn’t their priority. This’ll be more along the lines of a cover-up.”
“Whys that?”
“They’re probably rather relieved that she’s not around anymore. Lexie Harrison represents a part of the agency’s history that it’d rather forget. Investigating too hard might open a few closet doors allowing a few skeletons to tumble over and smash all over the floor.”
“I see.”
“I’m inclined to think that’s a little short sighted. Natural human curiosity should make them keen to find out who wanted her dead. The why is already known. But who wanted her dead? What more do they want? What do they want to achieve? You know, all the questions they should be asking instead of “how can we best keep this whole story quiet?””
“Go on.”
At this the man placed a folder on the table next to Bond’s vodka. “Open it if you would 007.” Inside was a collection of articles. A scrap book divided into four sections. One described the death of a gambler in Las Vegas, another a farmer in Texas, a psychologist in Chicago and a tattoo parlour owner in New Orleans. Bond glanced at the articles. All had been murdered. All were in their early to mid thirties, as had Lexie. “Lexie is number five.” The man said simply.
“What links these people?”
“They were all involved with the CIA earlier in their lives. Much earlier. Lexie was the only one still employed by the agency. You didn’t know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“Not a sharing kind of relationship huh?”
“Tact not a strong point of yours is it Mr...?”
“You can call me Baldwin.”
“Oh can I?”
“Would it suit your sense of melodrama better if I called my self Mr X? Or Mr Black? I’m not telling you my real name.”
“So this is not official business?”
“Well, I’m official. But this business between you and me isn’t. Homeland security might not want answers but I do.”
“What makes you think I do as well?”
The man shrugged. “Just a shot in the dark. Maybe you wanna help, maybe you wanna go back to London England and get started on that... what is it? Consultancy work the new M has planned for you?”
“Don’t get any silly romanticised ideas about me Baldwin. My first loyalty is to Her Majesties Government. I’m not a freelance crusader for truth and justice who’ll head off on a hunt for the bad guys just because someone throws me a few bare bones of information.”
“Maybe so. Listen, it’s up to you.” He collected the file and replaced it with a thick brown envelope. “Inside are details of the two men they’re likely to hit next. These’ll be the final two hits. Then who knows? The guy closest to here lives in Montana. There’s a plane ticket to Boise Montana, a New Zealand passport with your picture in the name of Mazziello and five thousand dollars for you to use in any way you see fit. I can also guarantee you immunity from prosecution for the duration of your investigations. All I want you to do is try and catch these sons of bitches in the act and try and keep one of them alive, not like last time.”
“Many thanks.”
Baldwin waited a few seconds for more words from Bond, who simply tucked into his raw fish and motioned for another drink. With impatience he spoke again as he stood to leave, “Listen 007, if you decide to forget all about this then that’s your privilege. I guess the world’ll keep turning. Probably the fallout from this won’t effect you and you’ll forget all about it, just move onto the next woman. But someone will feel the fallout, I’m sure of that. Maybe a lot of people. I don’t know what this scheme is but I’m sure that eventually, maybe in a few months, maybe a few years, we’ll regret not learning more when we had the chance. Maybe you’ll be retired by then, I dunno. Anyway, the choice is yours. See you around maybe. God be willing.” He offered Bond his hand, Bond shook it firmly but without commitment. He noticed a small crucifix swinging beneath the neck of the man’s open neck shirt. With that he blended into the crowd.
Bond looked up at the departure board, an hour before the flight to London left.

[Scrambled Eggs]

6.

As he drove into Livingstone Montana, the man who now called himself Owens ran his tongue slowly over the sharp, pointed area where a small chip of his tooth was missing. It was a habit he’d picked up over the past day. Somehow he couldn’t stop himself from attending to that area. It was like the urge to peel off a scab.
He finally had the identity of the man whose boot had chipped at that tooth. Bond. James Bond of the British Secret Service. He couldn’t help but chuckle when he heard the words. There had been no reason to fear the British for at least forty years. All the same, this man was not only a professional but a highly skilled one. Looking at the news reports he knew that the police had released a man but not named him. Surely this was Bond. What would he do now? Go home presumably. Go back to work. The chances of him heading off on a revenge mission against an enemy he didn’t know were surely slight.
Nevertheless, he’d asked his employers for a man to keep an eye on the names of passengers leaving JFK. He had to be sure.
His cell phone buzzed. Holding the steering wheel in one hand he took the phone from his pocket and checked the message:

Passenger James Bond, British citizen confirmed as having booked himself onto BA 165 to London Heathrow. Visual confirmation of a man meeting Bond’s description entering departure lounge.

Well. No more reason to worry about Mr James Bond.
A beautiful place Montana. It reminded him of home in some ways. With the jagged mountains wrapped in lush green forest, Northern Pakistan didn’t seem to far away. He found the Holiday Inn and checked himself in, grinning at the proprietor and displaying his now not quite perfect set of bleached American teeth.
He emptied his case and began cleaning his Glock 9 mm. Other than that, rounds of ammo and the GPS programmed with the new target’s position what more did he need? He wasn’t walking out to the middle of nowhere, that was assured. He had a few hours. A helicopter could surely be arranged in that time. He’d been offered additional help but in his bones he felt this would be a one man job, two including the pilot. This kind of work was so simple when you did it right.

As “Owens” returned to the lobby to enquire of the nearest internet conenction, Bond sat back in his seat, accepted a Bloody Mary from the stewardess and ran his eyes over an article in Time without actually registering any of the words.
He glanced at his watch. Inside an hour he’d have landed at Minneapolis. Two hours later he’d be back in the air heading for Gallatin Field Airport – just outside Bozeman Montana and a few miles from Yellowstone National Park. In the airport car park was a black Mustang for which he had the keys. In the boot he’d find a Kalashnikov plus ammunition, in the glove compartment a Walther and a GPS tracker programmed with the coordinates where he’d find a National Park Fire Spotter. London had been told, erroneously, that he was helping the CIA with their enquires.
It all had the framework of a well planned operation but Bond still hadn’t a clue what he was doing.
Baldwin somehow knew one thing about him: That despite his better judgement telling him he belonged back in London, when he had an itch he couldn’t help but scratch it. He’d been shown a chink of light that might illuminate a great conspiracy and he wanted in.
How much time did he have before someone in London put a call through to Langley trying to contact him only to be told that they had no idea of his whereabouts? A week at the most. That’s what he’d give himself. A week to discover evidence of something that’d justify him going AWOL for longer. Then back.
In the mind numbing two hours between flights he tried to keep his mind occupied. He browsed the few shops and bought himself a bottle of Bourbon. He browsed the magazine racks and thumbed through a few paperbacks without buying any. Eventually he settled for casting an appraising eye over the air stewardesses who passed him by in their somewhat comical uniforms, pulling their little suitcases. A few returned his gaze. Was it bad form to look for a new lover so soon after what had happened in Manhattan? Of course not. Sex. Frantic, sweaty sex was just what he needed.
The second flight was brief. He asked for a drink and was rewarded with the brief, bright “Sure!” Middle Americans give when serving alcohol before 6pm – concealing the fact that they consider you a slovenly alcoholic to be drinking at that time of day.
The car was just as it had been described. He inspected the glove compartment, which was also as it had been described. He slipped the Walther into his jacket pocket then he inspected the boot. Along with the rifle was a sleeping bag, rucksack, boots in his size and other camping equipment. He waved a farewell to the passing stewardesses. The next tryst would have to wait.

The car handled sluggishly but was impressively powerful and he tore up the twenty or so miles which separated him from Yellowstone. Paying his entry fee he parked the car at the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel just inside the Park’s boundary, changed swiftly, concealed the gun inside a tarpaulin and began walking. In one pocket the GPS and the handgun in the other.
There was a peculiar aroma of sulphur, from the scalding hot springs that formed a Martian landscape of bright orange rock and turquoise water around the hillsides immediately behind the hotel. The smell mixed with burger mustard and grease from the tourists all around. The beginning of his walk was more like Disneyland than the wilderness.
An hour into it and he saw fewer faces and heard fewer footsteps. The grass grew long around him as he wandered up the slope. The dried out skin of a snake on the path reminded him that there were other dangers here to be wary of. He pulled the rifle from its canvas covering and tossed it over his shoulder. Onto the barrel he tied an extra cartridge case which clanked audibly against the gun metal as he walked. It’d be enough to startle a bear and make it turn and leave the path before he came upon it.
He needed to head north westerly for twelve miles before ascending the mountain on which the cabin stood. With three hours of daylight remaining he could conceivably cover ten of those miles before he had to make a makeshift camp for the night.
Around nine he chose a spot in a clearing, his aching limbs grateful for the halt. Looking up at the clear sky he disregarded the tent and simply spread a ground sheet on the long grass. He loved the silence and as the darkness began to creep in he drifted away under the stars.


7.

“Twelve beers. Velly Coldee!” The Australian had mastered this phrase. His own method of getting things across to the Cantonese in words that they could understand. The spectacled young barman who took his order had heard this same phrase countless times that night as he served the pack of Australian, British and Canadian suits who sat together in a pack in the Goose restaurant in Wan Chai. It was 12 am. In the preceding five hours they’d worked through every drinking game they knew: black bitch, soggy bottom, ram raider and piggy pinch had all had an airing. Now they’d resorted to simply drinking as much as they could.
It was a clientele the Goose would never have accepted if it weren’t for the presence of Fatman Chang. He was one of the faces around Hong Kong who when they wanted something, generally got it. It was his little celebration and he watched the drunken westerners with a smile, accepting the occasional toast. None of the men considered for a second that Fatman Chang’s smile might not be a friendly one but a mocking one. They were everything he’d heard about westerners as a child made drunken, ruddy flesh. They were very amusing.
There was one boundary the men wouldn’t cross. No matter how much they desired her, no matter how much they looked at her and saw only the Wan Chai whores they made free with, they knew not to make a single remark about the girl in the white silk gown who sat between the two bodyguards just next to Fatman. She had the air of someone protected, almost like a daughter. They assumed she was a mistress.
The truth was that she was far more valuable to Fatman than a wife or mistress. The men owed their celebration – the major stock market killing they’d made – to her. The bodyguards had an inkling of her value: she was the Fatman’s good luck charm. That was what they thought. But only Fatman and Mingmei Johnson herself knew that the stock market success and Fatman’s whole fortune was down to the fact that she knew exactly, precisely and with little ambiguity how the stock market would change. To her it was as predictable as the rise and fall of a child’s see saw.
But she knew other things. She knew her time with Fatman, the life of the past four years, was soon coming to an end. She knew he had, at the most, a few weeks to live and that she would be taken to safety far away from here. At the moment it was all just hazy visions in her head, but she knew that certain things would come to pass. That included the death of Fatman Chang.

Thousands of miles away, in Montana, it was 10 am. Jon Strawb had his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, while in his hands was a shotgun. He was hurriedly, breathlessly slipping cartridges into it. He’d seen the figure quite clearly making his way up the mountain track to his cabin. He wasn’t expecting visitors, especially not ones armed with assault rifles.
He waited behind the door, stilling his breathing and trying to keep his mind clear. He loaded his second shot gun. He had four shots. That should be enough for one man. But he had to get his shot in first. He closed his eyes, almost meditating as he listened for the merest sound. He heard earth crunch as the man came closer to the cabin. He heard the sound of a pebble being kicked into a bush, then a sudden stop. “He must be sizing up the joint” Jon thought. Then came the trudging sound again.
Jon kicked the door open and fired both barrels. The shells flew harmlessly into thin air. Then a rifle butt clubbed him around the head, knocking him to the floor but he stayed conscious. He drew the second shotgun from the long holster on his back. The man grabbed the barrel and pushed it away from him as Jon pulled the trigger. Pieces of wood and tin fell from the roof. The shotgun was wrenched from his grasp and thrown. The barrel of the assault rifle, he could see it was a Kalashnikov, was pushed into his face. Here it came.
“Get up.”
The voice was British. Not what he’d expected. “Limey huh? I figured on some guy from the Balkans or a Latino. Ex SAS?”
“On your feet tubby.”
“You’ll kill me anyway. Wontcha your lordship?”
“And wouldn’t you rather I did that with you standing on your feet?”
“That’s a noble sentiment bud. I tell you what I’ll do, I will get to my feet. Ain’t I a good boy?” Jon stood slowly, pushing himself up with his palms. He turned, smiling toward the man with the gun, as he did so he drew the hunting knife from the scabbard on his belt and lunged, only to be rewarded with a punch to the jaw and a firm hand pulling the knife from his grasp and in doing so stopping him from falling. He was then twirled around and patted down for more weapons. “I’d rather you get this over with and kill me before this becomes a strip search mister.”
“I don’t think I’ll need to do either of those things. You’re Jon Strawb?”
“I have that privilege. I like how you’re thorough with your research.” Then Jon was surprised as the man lowered his gun. “Who do I have the honour of welcoming to my humble shack?”
“James Bond. And I’m not here to kill you. I work for the British government.”
“Welll.... ain’t that a thing. What’s your Queen want me for bud?”
“This isn’t official business.”
“Just happened by huh?”
“Call it a bus man’s holiday.”
“So, you’re sent as some kind of guardian angel huh?”
“Not quite. I think I was meant to catch your murderers red handed and learn what I could from them.”
“Nice. Why a Brit?”
“I’ve a personal link to this business.”
“What would that be?”
“Lexie Harrison.”
Jon nodded. “What you say about a beer. Little early but I could use one.”
“Why not.”
They sat together at what passed for Jon’s kitchen table. He handed Bond a can of Pabst and opened one for himself, which he almost drained in one gulp.
“Man that tastes good. I thought I was road kill a few minutes ago. Really helps you appreciate the good things in life. So, what do you know? Let’s compare notes.”
“Lexie was murdered by six professional killers. Mostly from the subcontinent but two were Serbians. One escaped. Her murder is somehow linked to four other murders of people around her age. You’re possibly next on the list.”
“That’s it?”
“All I know.”
“Jesus. That wasn’t a very fair deal I made when I said we should share resources bud.”
“Can you add anything?”
“Sure. Jesus.... ok sit tight mister. I’m going to tell you a story.”

[Scrambled Eggs]

8.

Jon cracked open another can and took a big glug. “Damn, tastes just as lousy as it did before I thought was a dead man. Oh well. Now, lets go back to the beginning huh. 1943 I guess that’d be. You’re familiar with the Nazis and their happy pastime of conducting experiments on the guests held at their concentration camps? Well, one sick son of a bitch who benefitted from that unprecedented opportunity for scientific enquiry was a Dr Grau. Grau’s own particular interest was in the mind. He had a belief that there are portions of the human mind unused that are capable of strange feats. You with me so far? Good. Now Grau, with the assistance of a few hundred poor souls he managed to drive mad after pumping them full of chemicals designed to switch on these closed off parts of the brain, made some progress. Some of his patients displayed some ability, basic mind reading, predicting the future... but never for long. They were driven half mad, their brains not capable of processing all the information. But, there were enough positive signs for our good old men in Langley to show an interest. Grau was captured by the Soviets and murdered, which was quite fair and I shan't hold that against the russkies for one minute. But, his research notes were captured by our guys and, eventually some of his ideas were put into practice. First they made their experiments on dumb college students. The results were so extreme they quickly pushed it underground and worked on mental patients and death row inmates. Nice little science project huh? They eventually reached the conclusion that the only way for the system to work was to use it on young children. Get them when their brains are still developing, then introduce the drugs. That way the abilities would develop... “naturally “so to speak. So, in 1974, 20 kids were chosen. All orphans from New York, Los Angeles...and I dunno where else.”
“What happened?”
“Well, eleven of them were dead by the time they were 3 years old. That was when the project was shut down. Senators, journalists started hearing things about the CIA giving hallucinogens to kids. Little body bags at Langley. Not good. But the other nine... it worked. To various extents. One of those kids was Lexie Harrison. Another was Jon Strawb. There's your link bud.”
“Lexie was.. psychic?
“She could read minds. She wasn’t the best at it but she had that ability. Enough for the agency to keep her in work. She was the only one still working with them.”
“The others?"
“Either left or quit.”
“How about you Jon? You can read my mind?”
“Nah. If I could do that I’d join a travelling circus and make some good money. No, I was a finder. I could find any of the other eight wherever they were on the globe. Useful skill when all of them were agents but not something that was going to make me rich. By the time only Lexie, Mingmei and Chandra were left in the agency there didn’t seem much point in my sticking around.”
“So who wants you all dead?”
“Pass.”
“You’ve no idea?”
“I don’t know what the motive is, or who is doing it. No clue. Zip. Nada.”
There was a silence as Bond digested the man’s words. The ravings of a lunatic?
He was unsure for how long the sound of the helicopter had been there in the background.
“You expecting a chopper buddy?”
“No.”
“Then I think we’d better get moving. Unless you’ve a couple of stinger missiles in that backpack?”
“Afraid not.”
“Thought not. Guess it was too early for beers after all.”
Tossing the cans aside they instinctively grabbed their guns and ran for the door and toward the bottom of the hill, choosing the side partially obscured by Pine trees. Bond led the way, jogging down hill, the Kalashnikov loosely slapping against his back. Strawb followed, puffing as he struggled to carry himself and his shotgun at Bond’s pace. Already the faint buzzing in the distance had become a raw rasp of helicopter engine which blocked out all other noise. It was close. Bond paused and looked up. The tree cover was nowhere near thick enough to camouflage them from above. It would be possible to avoid offering the enemy an easy shot by winding in and out of the trees as they went downhill. But that would mean running at full tilt all he way to the bottom. Perhaps for longer. By the looks of the spare tyre round Strawb’s waist and the way he was already gasping for air, the sheer effort would probably kill him before they were halfway down. No, there was one thing for it. He ordered Strawb to take cover beneath as much foliage he could find. Then Bond concealed himself behind a fallen log.
Bond knew that the science of bringing down a helicopter is essentially simple. It is an inherently vulnerable machine always one step away from becoming a whirling, self destructing bubble of chaos. Like any intricate mechanism, when one element fails, the whole instrument collapses into a pointless mix of metal, carbon fibre and upholstery. And, in the case of a helicopter, the collapse into confusion is always a spectacular one.
Bond waited until he felt the swish of air swirled by the rotor blades begin to tousle his hair then sprung to his feet, the Kalashnikov resting against his shoulder, and fired - emptying the whole clip of ammunition. He didn’t know if he’d hit the pilot, the controls or the tail rotor but he couldn’t have cared less as the craft tilted on it’s side and it’s rotors slowed to a drunken sway as it toppled to the ground. The explosion tore at Bond’s eardrum as he dived for cover.
“Owens” rolled on the ground, extinguishing the flames that had briefly wrapped around his jacket. He winced as the shrapnel that had lodged into his shoulder began to sting like only red hot metal can when it’s buried inside soft tissue. Instinct had saved him again. As soon as he’d seen the man stand he’d jumped clear of the chopper. He’d brought down enough helicopters himself to know how vulnerable they were. He turned away from the heat and the diesel scented smoke drifting over from the crash.
He knew he was up against a better armed man. A Kalashnikov versus his Glock. But then, the man no longer had the element of surprise. He’d handed it onto him.

Strawb’s face was flushed and flecked with dirt. They’d reached the bottom of the hillside and were looking up, watching the flames from the burning helicopter quickly spreading through the woods. They began walking along the river, heading back toward civilisation.
“Love your work Bond. I’ve seen some good operators in my time, hell I grew up in the CIA but that was good.”
“What now?”
“Now? Hell I could use a steak. Been living and drinking out of cans for too long. How’d you like yours?”
“Bloody.”
“Rare meat man huh? Yeah well you’re an aristocrat. I like mine burned to a crisp, like the assassins in that chopper back there. And with shrimp. And hot sauce. And onion rings and about a quart of beer.”
“What a pity.”
“Hey I’m sure it’s not what you eat when you play polo at weekends. Hey I’m just messing, I like yo....”
His words were cut short as the snap of a handgun sounded and Strawb’s jaw exploded into splinters of bone and bloody flesh. Bond dropped to his knees and rolled into the undergrowth. He looked toward Strawb as he lay on the ground. Jon Strawb tried, in vain, to move what remained of his mouth. There came a hiss and splutter of half formed words, “Cha...Chakra...she....” then nothing.
Bond heard the crunch of long grass being stepped on by heavy leather boots. He stayed quite still. The sound was less than a few feet away. What he did next was pure instinct. He lashed out with his left leg and sprung to his feet, smashing his fist into the killer’s jaw. The man staggered backward, Bond saw the whites of his eyes as he toppled backwards, then came a terrible scream.
Bond looked down to see the orange rock and clear blue water of a hot spring, just at the edge of the river. Inside it the water was at over 190 Fahrenheit. Inside, was the head, shoulders and arms of Strawb’s killer. His legs lay useless, lifeless just outside the spring.
Bond knew there was no point in asking him any questions.


9.

Delphine Chakra wasn’t sure what exactly it was she liked about sleeping with Thai men. There was the skin of course. Almost as soft as a girl’s. She liked that. She liked digging her nails into it. And no one could smile like a south East Asian, she was sure of that.
But what she loved was to lie next to them afterward and know that they didn’t want her for keeps. Just another white girl with braided hair and bangles on her wrists looking for a good time. She was quite sure that Thaksim, the barman lying next to her, had made laying white girls less of a pastime and more of a life task.
She’d lost track of the number of Thaksim’s she’d been with. The houses, little more than huts that she’d rented. The small paying jobs teaching English to lower middle class kids and picking lychees and asparagus for western supermarkets. It was all a blur. A life half way between being half lived and lived to the full, depending upon how you looked at it. Nevermind. Her only remaining ambition was to stay alive or at least to die without having to take another person’s life.
Occasionally she’d have to steal cameras from tourists who’d inadvertently managed to snap a picture of her. A long shot that the wrong person would see that picture when the tourist got back home to Ohio or wherever but not a risk worth taking.
It was 7 am. She moved aside the caramel coloured arm that lay across her shoulder and reached to the bedside table for her cigarettes. She’d resisted the temptation to indulge in the local pot. Part of her said “Why not?” but the other part of her knew that it might cause her to slip. One thing she could never afford to do was lose control of her mind. That way madness lay. Quite literally. She didn’t want to return to when she was 11 and couldn’t tune out the voices. Before she learned to pick and choose.
One thing about her gift that she’d never really understood was how, no matter whose thoughts she was hearing, she always heard them in English. Not only English but in perfect north American English, with a touch of Baltimore about the accent. Maybe because she’d grown up with CIA foster parents in Maryland. Chinese, French, Russian, Pole, Turk or Scot, she heard them all in the same voice. It amused her to hear a lover's thoughts in the same way as she heard a target's. Maybe that was why she’d never been able to take anyone seriously enough to commit to them.
Although there had been Mingmei, but that had been different.
Thaksim began to stir. She smiled as he mumbled a good morning and allowed his hand to wander down her back toward her thighs. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift. What was on his mind?
He was thinking, alarmingly of his mother. And father. And her, at their house. Then a ceremony, then a little house with her by the stove and several little Thaksims running around the place.
She supposed she should be flattered. She was the girl who’d finally won the heart of Thakism the whitegirl killer.
She concentrated hard, and planted a simple, undemanding thought in his mind. His hands and eyes grew limp once again as he drifted back into a deep sleep.
She slipped carefully from out of the covers, dressed quickly and threw her bag over her shoulder. With a quick glance she gave Thaksim and his little home a last look then turned and walked quickly through the village toward the main road. There was a bus in the next twenty minutes if she remembered right, then a boat to.... the next place.


10.

Bond had a lot of respect for genuine American bars and had dressed as well as could be expected in the circumstances. After showering in his room at the Big Sleep Motel in Scipio Utah, just off Interstate 15. He’d forsaken the white tube of four year old “shampoo” provided by the Big Sleep’s proprietors and relied upon scalding hot water to cleanse the smoke and grit from his body. Apart from the bruises from landing on the Volkswagon two nights ago and cuts from the splinters of Pine wood that had showered over him earlier that day he was in perfect shape. Then he’d dressed in white shirt and a dark blue suit and headed outdoors for a bar recommended by the old man behind the desk. The choice of venues wasn’t extensive, but Bond had jogged ten miles then driven south for seven hours and a drink was the minimum that he needed.
Bond liked the American belief that a good barman should be personable, that good conversation was a part of the job. He wasn’t always in the mood for such conversations but it was a charming convention. He smiled wryly at the burly man in the cheque shirt, ponytail and moustache behind the bar as he climbed onto a stool. The portly host ambled forth to greet the debonair customer and potential new friend.
“Want something?”
“A vodka martini.”
“Ain’t got no vodka.”
“Gin then.”
The host replied with a glazed, vacant look.
Bond remained patient, “What do you have?”
“What you see is what we got.”
Bond settled for a bourbon, swallowed it in one short sharp attack and ordered another. The barman barely made eye contact let alone opened his mouth. Bond glanced up and down the bar. He was the only customer other than a pair of girls sitting in a corner and an old man further down the bar who was hunched over a glass of something yellow which presumably he considered to be drinkable.
On a tv screen, CNN was showing planes dropping water on the blaze now raging in the centre of Yellowstone. They then cut to a body covered in a blanket being taken away by an air ambulance. Jon Strawb’s smiling face flashed on screen as a young reporter, microphone in hand spoke with a suitably grim expression. It was then, with a flicker, replaced by American football. The barman smiled as he turned up the volume and snarled something unintelligible. Bond watched the full contact committee meeting that constitutes America’s national sport then drained his glass and left a handful of dollars on the bar. Maybe it’d be better to go back to the motel room and drink the bottle he’d bought in the airport. Although, there were the two girls in the corner. They looked young, their blonde hair looked natural and the looks on their faces as they stole glances at him suggested they were amenable.
Bond changed his mind, ordered a third drink and asked the barman, who looked nothing less than dazed at his request, to send two glasses of rum and coke to the girl’s table when he heard the sound of the stool next to him being moved and occupied. He instantly knew who it was.
“Am I to assume that the Mustang has a tracker installed?” Bond asked.
“I only provide vehicles with that particular feature already installed.” Replied Baldwin, in his New York accent – suddenly exotic in the new surroundings.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Root beer.”
The barman served them in his characteristically warm way and left them to it. “I take it you’ve seen the news?” said Bond.
“Yes, have to say you move fast Bond. I flew straight to Bozeman thinking I’d get to you before you made it back to the Mustang, assuming you were still alive. Had to take another flight to Salt Lake City when I realised you were already on the move. So what happened?”
“It wasn’t pleasant.”
Baldwin’s expression didn’t change as he sipped on his root beer. “Learn anything?” he asked, as if Bond had spent the day at the local museum.
“Strawb told me a few things. Still have more questions than answers though.”
“Like?”
“What's Chakra?”
Baldwin turned toward Bond and for the first time he saw Baldwin’s eyes, blue and pale. His lips had the same sickly, cold pallor as the rest of his skin. He looked like a man who carried a burden. “He talked about Chakra?”
“Just before he died. Used the name. What is it?”
“Chakra isn’t a what, it's a who. And in the past tense. She was another in the group Jon and Lexie belonged to.”
“The cream of the CIA’s lab rats?”
“That’s right. I guess its not so strange he should be thinking of her. They were always close. Close friends that is, I think he was a little bit in love with her. Understandable. Beautiful girl.”
“She was murdered too?”
“No, the Indian Ocean took care of poor Delphine Chakra. Four years ago. Body never found but we know she was at sea when the Tsunami hit.”
Bond knocked back his third drink, “How does a girl get a name like Delphine Chakra anyway?”
“CIA foster parents. It was the ‘70s and they didn’t want her to take their family name. They thought it’d be “cool” to name a child after the Buddhist circles of existence. Delphine comes from Delphi, home island of a Greek oracle.”
“They did some crazy things in this country in the ‘70s.” Bond said as he spotted the girls looking him over from the corner of his eye.
“You’ve got that right. So where are you on your way to Bond?”
“Los Angeles, hoping to meet you along the way. Tell me about your final name on the hit list.”
“I can tell you he was stabbed in the chest eight times this morning. Chris Blake, screenwriter and closet transvestite. Found in bra, panties and a pool of blood in East Hollywood. Top news item before you set Yellowstone on fire.”
“So it’s over.”
“It’s finished.”
The two men said nothing for a few moments. Baldwin giving nothing away as he sipped at his drink. Bond turned and winked toward the two girls, eliciting a lot of whispering between them.
“Maybe I’m psychic but I’ve a feeling you won’t be lonely tonight.” Said Baldwin.
Bond smiled, “Your people must be happy. All of them dead. Every skeleton folded up and stacked neatly in boxes right at the bottom of the closet.”
“True. You should go home before M misses you. I guess whoever did this had more resources than I’d realised.”
“What’s been learned from the crime scene?”
“Nothing.” Muttered Baldwin, almost spitting the word out.
“There must be some sort of lead?” pleaded Bond.
Baldwin swilled root beer round his mouth as he thought. “There’s one lead left. I’m not saying you should follow it up, in fact I strongly suggest you don’t but.... as you’re asking. There’s actually one more left.”

Bond spun around, “One more? Why wasn’t she on your list?”
“Because she’s not in this country. She’s a girl called Mingmei Johnson. She works for a man called Fatman Chang in Hong Kong. I can see by the way you’re smiling that you’ve heard the name.”
Bond was beaming “I’ve heard bits and pieces.”
“Ok, well just for the benefit of my conscience I want you to know that I have no jurisdiction at all in Hong Kong. I can’t help you. Get hurt, arrested or dead it’s on you. I’m not asking you to go, we’re just talking here. Understand?”
“Can you get me a picture of the girl?”
Baldwin opened a briefcase and took out a manila folder. He opened it and placed it on the bar. Bond found himself looking at long legged Chinese girl with the most delicate, white alabaster looks he’d seen. Not the flushed, puffy features of so many mainland Chinese but the aristocratic, bird of prey features of a wealthy, educated oriental woman.
“I brought this just in case you'd be interested Bond. Just a hunch it’d be useful.”
“Very prescient of you.”
The barman averted his eyes from the football and glanced at the picture, “Hey, she’s hawwwt”.
“She certainly is. Here’s eighty dollars. Will you give me the rest of the bottle and go to the other end of the bar?” asked Bond. The barman did as he was told.
Baldwin waited for the barman to walk out of earshot the spoke again, “I’ll book you onto a flight from LAX tomorrow afternoon. Tell me something Bond.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you going for it? How do you think this ends? There won’t be any medals for you and me. You won’t get a knighthood. All there’ll be is more bodies. All we can hope is that some little grain of good comes of it and that you aren’t one of those that get added to the pile. And frankly bud, I don’t rate your chances.”
Bond held the photograph in his hand “She looks worth a crack.”
“Hmph. Well I can tell you with certainty that you’re not her type. The aforementioned Delphine Chakra was more to Mingmei’s taste.”
“Is that so?”
“Uh huh. This isn’t about revenge is it Bond? Cause you know, I’ve yet to see any endeavour inspired by vengeance do any good for anyone. In fact if you’re going up against Fatman Chang out of revenge I’d say your slender chances become significantly slimmer.”
“Revenge for Lexie? No. It wasn’t like that with her and me.”
“So you say, I hope you’re sure.”
Bond changed the subject, “When will they bury Strawb? He was a good man. Didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“Yeah. All things considered he was a decent guy. I’ll be at the funeral.”
“Get him a wreath or something for me.” Baldwin took that, and the smile Bond was directing at the two girls, to mean that it was time to leave. As he took his briefcase in his hand and stood, Bond asked a final question, “What about you? What’s your interest in this?”
Baldwin fingered the cross that hung on its silver chain around his neck, “Guilt. It’s a great motivator.”

[Scrambled Eggs]

11.


“So, nurturer of my genius, tell me again about the fall of the Roman empire.” The voice was childlike: innocent with more than a tinge of mischievousness. It was a voice that did not belong in the body of a man of thirty who possessed a physique that could most kindly be described as a glowing testament to a life lived in the pursuit of fine food and leisure.
“Well, fruit of my womb, we have not time enough to speak at length but the incidents, mistakes and events leading up to the deposition of Romulus Augustulus, last emperor of the western empire, can be encapsulated in one word.... decadence.” Said a woman with all the tender authority bestowed by thirty years of motherhood.
“Explain some more, oh enabler of my intellect.” Urged the man.
“Your thirst for knowledge pleases me. It is said that good living bred laziness and ineptitude amongst the Romans who gradually allowed an unfortunate Germanic, barbarian influence to seep into their civilisation. Think of a great boulder. Drops of water seep into a crack in it’s surface, then winter comes and the water freezes, splitting that boulder into two. The boulder was Rome, and the water it’s decadent ways. It is always the way with the great civilisations of the west.” She concluded with a sweeping motion of her thin, papery hand.
“Most interesting. And so it will be with the Americans?” It was a rhetorical question, but he never tired of hearing the answer.
“It is their fate. They cannot escape it no more than a comet can escape the day when it loses it’s effervescence and becomes a mere snowball.” Her smile mirrored his.
They sat at a table in the centre of a marble floored dining room of 18th century French style. Through great windows they were able to watch, if the notion ever took them, the toiling of the five dozen gardeners who worked to keep the grounds of their mansions in perfect order, as if under instructions from the architects of Versailles themselves.
Echoing through the room came the sound of a door closing, then footsteps. A valet, in a tri-cornered hat and coattails, bore a silver tray and approached them with a sure footed formality laced with fear.
What was most incongruous about this scene was that, not only did they speak in a gaudy form of English they believed to befit their mock French surroundings, but that they were both Chinese. Despite their fondness, nay fascination, for European culture – both Xi Gang and his mother Min Xiao were proud and arrogant children of the yellow river. Only a drizzle of Mongol diluted their pure Han blood.
Xiao took a letter from the silver tray as the footman placed two plates before them – Tournedos Rossini. They employed a French chef, having bought him from an Australian billionaire who’d once treated them to a meal aboard his yacht. The chef, finding himself many miles from a regular supplier of truffles and foie gras, winced whenever he had to replace the aforementioned ingredients with dried chestnut mushroom and a sausage meat mousse but his employers never seemed to mind.
Xiao finished reading the letter. Gang had taken a few bites of the meal and had returned his attentions to a scale model of the Eiffel tower he was building of matchsticks. Xiao smiled, admiring the construction which had now reached over five feet high, “It seems we must rest from our afternoon’s education and look to more pressing matters. The first part of our scheme is complete. Both the homosexual in Los Angeles and the fat man are deceased.”
“Then it is as we planned?” smiled Gang.
“There is one unsatisfactory outcome. The Islamist we sent there became a casualty. The circumstances are somewhat unclear.”
“What do we care for the Islamist?” Gang frowned.
“Little, but his skills were useful to us. A most gifted assassin.” His mother replied.
“He is just... What do they call it in English? When you lose something while recording a great victory?”
“Collateral damage.”
“That’s right. When is my next meeting in Beijing?” Gang’s eyes were now fully focused on his model.
“With the politburo? Tomorrow my child.”
“Then I must finish my eating soon. Will you bring me a girl tonight?”
“A very choice one, fruit of my loins. But remember to sleep. The jet will leave at five am.”
“Do we still have the girl from Liverpool? The tourist you found me?” he said expectantly.
“No, we were forced to cut out her tongue after she spoke out of turn during a re-education lecture. She will still be useful for intercourse but not for fellatio. I have sold her. But, in return I have for you an Australian girl.”
“Ah, more collateral damage mother!” Gang giggled.
“Indeed my child.”



12.


The tailors shop known as Calder’s sits on Nathan Street in Kowloon, Hong Kong. To one side is a shop selling t-shirts, Mao Zedong hats and all the usual tourist tat. On the other is a shop selling pirated VCDs. Hong Kong has changed a lot since Calder’s was founded in 1898. But, inside the unassuming frontage, easily missed among the neon lights and the Chinese hip hop that blares down the street, Calder’s remains much the same as it was when it opened to provide the men bankrolling Britain’s Far Eastern enclave with a little taste of Saville row.
James Bond dimly remembered visiting here once before, many years ago. The suits he’d had cut for him then, when he’d have been about 25 or 26, had lasted many years. One had finally bitten the dust in St Petersburg – sadly battery acid stains never wash out. The other still hung in his Chelsea flat and remained a useful item of daily wear.
He remembered that if Calder’s had ever been under Scottish ownership it had long since passed into the hands of the Rashids. They were an Indian family who could trace their family’s expertise in buying and selling back to the time of Alexander the Great and they jealously guarded the traditions of the quintessentially British establishment they regarded as their birthright. It was Mr Rashid himself, a burly and luxuriantly turbaned Sikh, who approached Bond as he entered the wood panelled inner sanctum of Calder’s. Bond asked how soon they could prepare three linen suits, in grey, blue and brown.
“Three days sir, if you’ll allow me to take your measurements straight away?” replied Mr Rashid, with a straight face that gave away neither snooty disdain nor warm respect.
Tape measure in hand, Mr Rashid began to measure Bond up. There were barely two minutes of silence punctuated by Mr Rashid’s restrained sales patter and the gentle swish of his tape measure before the big Sikh’s hand brushed against the lump of metal in the holster inside Bond’s jacket.
“What manner of business did you say you were in sir?” he queried, his stone like facial expression blemished by a raised eyebrow.
“Import Export” replied Bond
“Ah, no doubt. This is Hong Kong after all. The bay may shrink as they reclaim more and more land from the sea and the five starred red flag may fly over us in place of the Union Jack but one fact remains immutable. We are all here to buy and sell something.”Mr Rashid put down his tape measure and walked to the far end of the room. He reached into a drawer filled with reels of thread and scraps of cloth samples. A heavy click, like the tick of a great clock, sounded in a corner of the room.
Bond caught glimpses of ancient, but well oiled Victorian wheels and gears as the wood panelled wall next to him spun around. He was now faced with a great cabinet lined with green felt. Bond spied a small metal badge, a trademark which read:

Wallace’s of Manchester, 1898

The cabinet was filled with goods of an entirely different nature to the bespoke suits in Mr Rashid’s newspaper advertisements.
“If I may sir,” said Mr Rashid - not deviating from the gentle, proprietorial tone of voice which belonged somewhere in the Home County towns he’d never been less than three thousand miles away from - “May I direct your attention to the new HK416 Assault Rifle? Made by Heckler and Koch of Germany, a redesign of the classic M4 carbine.”
“Yes, I tested it earlier this year. They say it’s more reliable than the M16?” replied Bond with interest.
“Quite right sir, a reduction in heat due to a proprietary gas system replacing the direct impingement system used in the M16. The barrel is cold hammer-forged with a 20,000 round service life. You’ll have use for an assault rifle whilst here in Hong Kong?”
Bond bit his lip, “I feel I may. I’d rather not have to splash out but I think I’d best not leave it to chance.”
“Better safe than sorry eh sir? Very wise. I shall add it to your bill.”
“With ammunition? Forty rounds?”
Mr Rashid gave a brief nod, “But of course sir. How will you be paying? Shall I put it all on the company account?”
Bond chuckled softly to himself, “Very kind. And I’ll be needing a few other things.”
“I’m sure we can fulfil all your requirements sir.”
“I need a second handgun. A small one as a reserve.”
“I’d suggest our Glock model 30, complete with leather ankle holster.”
“Splendid.” Said Bond taking the small pistol, as smooth as a bar of soap, in his hand. “What have you in the way of anti personnel weapons?”
“We have fragmentation grenades, concussion grenades, incendiaries, stun devices...”
“Half a dozen stun grenades will prove useful.”
“As you wish sir. How would you like to collect?”
“Deliver them to my hotel, The Peninsula.”
Mr Rashid went to his desk and opened a thick ledger, “Of course, Mr...?”
“Cliff Steelman.” Mr Rashid scribbled the name and address.
“The goods will be delivered this evening by my assistant, Mr Nawari. The suits I’m afraid will take a little longer.”
“What a pity.”



13.


“Well all I can say is thank God for Jamie Oliver.” As she spoke these words, Charlotte Chiltern’s ankle slid suggestively against M’s shin. He felt trapped. He’d agreed to visit Charlotte, MP for Neath and at 29 the youngest and by some distance the prettiest Member of Parliament, at home on the understanding that she was holding a party for a small group of friends: a quiet, candle lit supper for a selection of London’s young and powerful. It turned out that she had invited the smallest group possible: just Charlotte, two bottles of Chardonnay and M. Furthermore, it transpired that her husband and two children were away in Cornwall.
M wouldn’t have minded taking Charlotte upstairs and giving her a good rogering. His own wife was quite used to his vague reasons for returning home in the early hours – being head of MI6 was a ready made excuse to cover up all manner of indiscretions. It was the game playing he objected to. If only she’d come out with it and asked him to come around for an evening of mutually satisfying infidelity – then he’d have had no problem.
“I mean it. Without him I would still be subsisting on beans on toast and cottage cheese. I cooked my way through “The Naked Chef” now I’m creating my own concoctions.” She said with pride.
“So I see, and what do you call these exactly?” M held up a concoction of chorizo, squid and hoi sin sauce cased inside a vol au vent.
“These are my oriental tapas.” Charlotte beamed.
“I see.” M didn’t believe that those two words belonged in the same sentence let alone on the same plate. Placing the stiff pastry in his mouth he concluded that Charlotte’s culinary talents didn’t match her gifts for deception and manipulation. “Very unusual.” Was his reply to her enquiring look. She seemed satisfied.
“I’ve some chocolate and chilli mousse in the fridge when you’re finished with the tapas.”
“Wonderful!” said M, simultaneously wondering why he’d never tried for the diplomatic service.
“Maybe we should take them somewhere more comfortable.... upstairs perhaps. You did say you wanted to see my Rothkos.” M felt the sole of Charlotte’s bare left foot creeping up his trouser leg.
His phone buzzed. Moving his gaze away from Charlotte, as she leaned over giving him a tantalising glimpse of the Member of Parliament’s breasts, he opened the text message that was addressed “Tanner”. It read:

Unsanctioned purchase of automatic weapons on company account. Hong Kong.

Probably something which could wait until morning. But no matter, it was an exceptionally well timedintervention.“Listen, Charlotte.”
“Do call me Lotty.”
“Lotty, I’m afraid there’s a little trouble at the office. Needs seeing to. Misappropriation of funds.”
“Misappropriation of funds?”
“Yes. That’s the trouble with this job. Its night time in England but our enemies never sleep. Most anti social of them.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid so. Keep that mousse for next time perhaps.”
“Wait...” she stood and unzipped her dress, stepping out of it to reveal a dangerous lack of underwear together with a neatly trimmed physique.
M was terse, “Madam, I am head of the British secret service. You might behave in this manner afterhours in the Houses of Parliament but we certainly do not. I must be leaving.” M turned on his heel and, without waiting to be shown out, picked up his overcoat and made his way to the front door. He heard it slam behind him then felt London rain begin to fall on him. It was nearly midnight, hopefully he wouldn’t have to walk far to find a cab.
He arrived at Vauxhall Cross within half an hour and went straight to Bill Tanner’s office. The man had two screens in front of him, one showing a cricket match from Australia, another showing some fuzzy CCTV footage. Tanner sipped a can of bitter and popped peanuts into his mouth as he took in the match. Seeing M walk in he immediately stiffened and stood to attention. It was a military reflex.
“Sorry sir I...” spluttered Tanner.
“Never mind, now what’s this business in Hong Kong all about?”
“Didn’t expect you until the morning sir. Well it’s an odd one. We’ve received a bill for £90,000 by email from Calder’s Tailors.”
“What? Who?”
“The email mentions the name Cliff Steelman.”
“Do we really have an agent with a name that silly?”
“No sir. Calder’s isn’t actually a tailors. Well, it is a tailors but it also an armourer. We used to be their sole customers but since 1997 I’m afraid they’ve had to open themselves up to all comers. Its rather confused the lines of communication. This Steelman could be anybody.”
“So. Do we have any idea who he might be? Whoever he is, Chinese, Russian or whoever - he’s messed with the wrong damn expense account. I’ll have him followed to the ends of the bloody earth.”
“Well, there is this sir.” Tanner clicked the mouse and the CCTV footage began rolling. “This was taken at Hong Kong airport yesterday.” He paused the screen as the unmistakable features of James Bond came into view.
M pursed his lips, “I must say Tanner, I’m almost speechless. He’s supposed to be in Langley with the CIA, now we find him in Honkers buying a private arsenal ON THE COMPANY ACCOUNT?!! Bond’s not just a walking anachronism, he’s a bloody idiot.”
“Bad news sir. Sorry.”
“Bad? This is marvellous. He’s out. Finished. I don’t even need to give him a court martial. No department in this government will protect him after this. Not only that, I can scrap the whole double o section on the back of it. Good work Tanner.”
“Thank you sir.”
“So, who won the toss?”
“Aussies did sir, they’ve put us in to bat and we’ve lost the first two wickets for just twenty runs.”
“Hmmm. Well don’t get too engrossed. Find out what the devil Bond is playing at. Who do we have over there?”
“Not many left at the Hong Kong station after the cutbacks sir. Three men. As far as I remember Richie Henderson is over there. Good man.”
“Get him on it. I want as much dirt as possible on Bond. I want him brought down with a mighty thump.”