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[Harry Fawkes]

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I A N F L E M I N G’ S

J A M E S B O N D

007

IN

H A R R Y F A W K E S’

THE MOMENT BEFORE YOU DIE

And this one

For

Nathalie

who is always there

1
‘Hell Is Too Crowded’

After having ‘ejected’ the secret agent aboard his sleek projectile-looking Subaqua-Scooter through the left torpedo hatch, the British Trafalgar Class nuclear submarine crept away from the forbidden waters at sixteen knots, an ancient dark grey sea monster above white sands and rock.
Gliding through the ink black sea for over an hour and a half, the secret agent finally surfaced within six hundred metres offshore for his final approach, a sinister figure in black shark-skins.
The Mediterranean Sea was dead-calm that night and, thankfully, there was no moon.
His dive helmet was equipped with a night-image intensifier lens and he looked around, the distant coastline glowing eerily.
Checking the readings on the display inside his helmet, he then took a final bearing of his landing zone, El Hadara beach and checked his air. He punched and locked the coordinates into the Scooter’s guidance system then finally pulled back on the throttle.
The Subaqua-Scooter together with its black rider sliced through the sea again, disappearing as though it had never been, down into the abyss below, and Commander James Bond stirred it progressively towards the Libyan coastline beyond...

* * *

Once Bond hit the shallows, he activated the anchor system from the small control panel and, leaving the Subaqua-Scooter safely concealed at a depth of ten meters between some rocks, he swam up calmly to the surface. Again he looked around and, satisfied, he swam the rest of the way and when he reached shore, quickly walked up the sand. He took cover beside some rocks further on and calmly waited for his contact...
Twenty minutes later and Bond couldn’t resist producing his packet of cigarettes from the water proof bag at his side.
He lit one with cupped hands, concealing the flame of his lighter.
He inhaled deeply and instantly felt the sharp pain in his chest.
Cardinal mistake, James.
‘Damn it!’ Bond hissed, swayed unsteadily and dropped the unfinished cigarette, stepping on it.
Those two bullets had certainly kicked seven shades out of his lungs, he thought, not to mention his heart...
As the first signs of dawn broke through the black sky, a powerfully built Libyan in his early fifties, skin dark with a silver beard and dashing eyes, appeared from the shadows of the rough growth opposite and walked calmly towards him. He was wearing a long black robe, travel-worn, and turban. An AK47 assault rifle was slung across his shoulder, a sheathed sword at his side.
‘Salaam aghlikum, James Bond,’ he said.
Bond nodded.
‘It’s been a long time, Mulai Raisul.’
Mulai Raisul was the local head of Station.
‘Fourteen years to be exact.’
He tossed a plastic carrying bag at Bond’s feet. It contained some clothes. Bond slipped out of the shark-skin and got dressed into a long black robe similar to the one Mulai Raisul wore.
‘By the way,’ Raisul said, lighting a long black Cheroot as he waited. ‘I heard someone almost killed you eight months ago.’
Bond’s eyes darkened at the memory.
‘That’s right. I took a bullet to the chest and one in the back.’
‘You are lucky to be alive then.’
‘Believe me, luck had nothing to do with it. Hell was just too crowded at the time.’
Mulai Raisul blew out dirty grey smoke.
‘And Stavros?’ he asked.
Bond finally wrapped the last soft flap of the black veil around his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.
‘He’s the bastard who hired the executioner who shot me. He’s also my best lead to the Marcuzzi.’
The man called Mulai Raisul flicked the cheroot away.
‘Then God help him. Come, Englishman, the horses are further on and it is a good ride to where he lives. On the way, you can bring me up to date on how things are back at MI6 …’

* * *

The white villa was situated on a hillside above a small fishing village called Imhasini. It was extensive and old, striking up there on its own, standing in a large lush garden with tall palm trees and surrounded by a high stone wall running its boundary.
In one of the bedrooms, Dante Stavros had just showered and was now looking down at the naked slender body of the woman he knew only as Sabiha. She was dark and moist with sweat. Her black hair was spread across the pillow, her legs slightly apart, bent at the knees. She waited; an excited, hungry look in her green eyes, for she knew fine well that the man standing over her now was a master, nay a prince, in the arts of love making and pleasure giving, and although she had had many men due to the nature of her ‘trade’, this man best them all.
He smiled that devil of a smile of his and sat down on the side of the bed beside her.
He cupped her left breast in his gloved hand and fondled the erect nipple between his forefinger and his thumb, coaxing her. He saw the pupils of her eyes shrink. She wanted him and the waiting was becoming an affliction; that he knew. He also knew he possessed the devil’s power over women, even if they were women of the trade like this slender creature before him.
‘Please, monsieur,’ she whispered in. ‘Please take me.’
Stavros bent down and kissed her savagely on the lips, devouring her tongue inside his mouth, softly chewing on her lower lip and when they both finally parted for air he grabbed her head between his hands and just looked down at her face for a long moment.
‘You are wasted on the streets, Sabiha,’ he said passionately, his eyes suddenly sad, distant. ‘Your beauty won’t last long at the rate your going, do you know that? How many times a day, eh? How many men in your life? And for what? Money? What a pity. What a cruel, pitiful misfortune.’
She looked at him innocently, not understanding what he was leading to.
‘What else can I do, monsieur?’ she asked. ‘I have a young boy to support and no husband for him to call father. This is a life I chose not for myself but was thrown into by the hand of fate.’
‘Poetry in ignorance, how sweet.’
He looked away, at some point beyond the tiled floor.
‘Monsieur?’
He looked back at her as if seeing her for the first time.
‘Nothing,’ he said softly. ‘Think nothing of what I just said. I was just thinking out loud.’
He reached down then, sliding his hand across her stomach and fondled her womanhood with his gloved fingers for a while, caringly, deep. Sabiha arched her back and moaned softly. She loved the touch of real leather against her body, inside her.
Stavros smiled.
He was a strange one, Sabiha observed, this man. But it was worth every moment being with him for the short periods he required her, which unfortunately were not as often as she would have favoured. Once every two weeks, if she was lucky. He would send one of his men down to Bin Al Hara to summon her. No matter what she’d be doing she would have to drop everything and ride out to him, even if she was with another client. Still, he paid well and although he had strange tastes (not that she hadn’t come across worse), he always ended up satisfying her like no other man could or ever had, albeit his sometimes violent ways.
Stavros finally stood up and got undressed and she looked at his handsome body. It was muscular ~ the body of a hard man, of a fighter and he was fully aroused. She propped herself up, sat down on the edge of the bed and took him in her mouth. She gave him selfless pleasure for a while, his hands running through her hair, caressing the back of her neck, guiding her head. Sabiha knew fine well what he liked and what he didn’t like and took a great deal of enjoyment herself when she heard his soft sighs of gratification. He was then on top of her and he slid himself inside her body. He rode her gently at first, then with a cruel almost savage passion. It was just before she felt herself coming though that he suddenly twisted her round onto her stomach and grabbed a handful of her long black hair, violently penetrating her from behind. She let out a scream and could not help but bite her fist at the vicious pain. It was not rape though, although anybody watching would not have been blamed to think that it was, so rough was he. It was the lovemaking of a wild animal, hungry, no holds barred. After a few moments she found herself wanting more of it, this animalistic brutality, for the pain of his powerful thrusts between her buttocks soon subsided into an overwhelming gratifying pleasure that lit up her entire being …

It was now later and Stavros sat relaxed in a chair in front of the open balcony thinking of the girl inside. He had slipped into a maroon dressing gown, open at the front and under which he was completely naked. He was smoking some tobacco imported from France as he watched the bright red sun rise in the distance. The view to his right was indeed magnificent: the small villages of Zebbug, Ghajn Handi and Qatad in the distance, the brown and green hills and fields surrounding them, and facing him, the dark blue Mediterranean Sea. He pulled on the tobacco and let out a deep sigh when he blew out the dirty grey smoke.
It was six thirty in the morning and his mobile phone rang.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Ali Hamid, Mr. Stavros. Good morning.’
Stavros was all attention.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘You have been accepted. The Shaheel Peshant are honoured to have you as one of their distinctive guests, Mr. Stavros. You may expect two of my most trusted men to collect you tomorrow morning at eight. You will come alone of course. The journey to Al Hasarran will take a couple of hours by helicopter. If the will is there, I can give you my word you will be chosen, Mr. Stavros.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Till we finally meet face to face then.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Hamid, I look forward to it,’ he said and hung up.
Dante Stavros took another pull on the tobacco and felt the warm wind on his face.
Things were looking good he thought and got up and went back to Sabiha…

* * *

They were riding two black horses at a steady dash across the vast, flat desert that seemed infinite. He was sweating profusely and he was beginning to feel that pain in his chest again. Looking to his south, Bond saw pylons running east-west and then what looked like a long road, the glimpse of a vehicle in the distance, speeding along north bound. The wind was hot and arid with a good deal of sand in it. Bond reined his horse to a sudden halt and pulled down his face veil. He had turned a deathly white and found himself fighting for breath. It was barely a month after having spent three weeks in a deep coma and another four months in intensive care after being shot twice outside his flat in Kings Road in London.
‘How far to go?’ he asked finally.
‘Fifteen miles,’ Mulai Raisul told him reining his horse in beside Bond’s. ‘Are you alright?’
The sun seemed to fill the bright blue sky and Bond swore softly.
He took his canteen and drank some water.
‘How can you stick this blasted heat,’ he spat.
‘The same way you English stick the God forsaken cold and rain back in your country.’
Bond wiped sweat from his face.
‘Point taken,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you are up to this? You look as though you need a doctor.’
Bond’s eyes were black pools – cold and dangerous.
‘I need Dante bloody Stavros and nothing else,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Raisul nodded.
‘Then stop wasting time.’
And with that he dug his heels into the horse’s sides and galloped off.
Bond swore and raced after him…

* * *

Back in London the Colonel was having an early breakfast with his wife at his comfortable home in Queen Annes Gate when the red phone in his study rang.
It was Bill Tanner, his Chief of Staff.
‘We’ve just received word from HMS Conquest in the Med, sir. Double O Seven has been deployed and they’ve confirmed he was met by Mulai Raisul. They are now on their way to their target as we speak.’
‘Good,’ the Colonel said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well…’ Tanner hesitated.
‘Come on, man, what is it?’ the Colonel snapped.
‘Well to tell you the truth, sir, I’m still worried about him. Bond that is, sir. You’ve asked a hell of a lot.’
‘Bond believes he’s up to it. And so do I.’
‘But, sir, it’s hardly been a month since he got out of hospital. Section R received Double O Seven’s latest medical report and saying its bad would be an understatement.’
‘Sir James Malony?’
‘Yes. He sent one directly to the Director General of MI6 and the Joint Intelligence Committee along with a four page condemnation of your decision to put him back onto the active service list. Not to put it mildly, Sir James is out for your blood.’
‘That’s his privilege.’ The Colonel told him. ‘Double O Seven would rather die on the battlefield, Chief of Staff, not a bloody hospital bed withering away, which is why he volunteered for the mission in the first place.’
‘But he’s not fit, sir!’
‘We’ll soon find that out, won’t we?’
There was a reluctant grunt at the other end.
‘As for Sir James and the J.I.C, if they want to fire me for reinstating Bond so early then they can bloody well do so. I’ll probably end up thanking them for it. Until then I run the Double O Division, not them. Now, my breakfast is getting cold Chief of Staff. Is there anything else?’
There was another slight pause at the other end. Then,
‘No sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Sir.’
The Colonel replaced the receiver and went back into the dining room.
‘Who was it?’ his wife asked when he sat back down.
‘The office, dear. Nothing important.’
His wife smiled knowingly.
‘It usually isn’t.’
The Colonel drank some coffee and turned back to his newspaper and breakfast. After a few moments he looked up.
‘Damn them all!’ he spat and went about lighting up his pipe thinking of Bond...

* * *

It was eleven thirty and they had reached their hill top hide: a small abandoned stone hut opposite a cluster of palm trees and a large pool of water. James Bond, standing in the doorway, looked down at the colourful flat roofed buildings, narrow alleys and the small harbour that formed Imhasini village below, as the horses grazed further on. They had arrived half an hour ago and the heat had now become simply unbearable.
Bond turned his gaze to Dante Stavros’s white villa in the distance.
‘Four guards you said?’ he asked Raisul who was cooking something inside.
‘That’s right. And if you ask me, going up there alone is crazy.’
‘Then you’re the only truly sane man in a world gone bloody mad, Mulai,’ Bond told him.
‘James, those guards are professional killers from the Hussari tribe. Men who would not hesitate cutting their own mother’s throat if the price was right.’
‘I’ll handle it.’
‘In your condition, I bloody well doubt it.’
‘Tell me about Stavros.’
‘What is there to tell? He is an assassin who hires himself out to the highest bidder. Dante Stavros is filthy rich and has lived here in Libya for three or four years now. He pays the local authorities to turn a blind eye where his crooked affairs are concerned. Drugs, prostitution and some contraband. He has a lot of friends in high places in the government, mostly army generals, mind, who like the smell of his money. He’s worked for the Iranians, Iraqis, the Curtaras and lately Al Qaeda and the Marcuzzi. His preferred method of killing is slitting the throat from behind the victim with a Hakri knife. And of course, when he can’t do the job himself he hires someone else to do it for him.’
Bond nodded.
He had first hand experience at that, for the man who had tried to kill him back in London and who had almost succeeded had been hired by Stavros – who, in turn, had been hired by the Marcuzzi to kill Bond.
He looked back at Raisul who was stirring a pot on a small fire.
‘What is that?’ Bond asked raising an eyebrow.
‘Why?’
‘You’re making my mouth water. I forgot what a bloody good cook you are.’
‘Wild rabbit stew.’
Bond turned his gaze back to Stavros’s villa.
He felt that strange coldness inside him then and was conscious of only one thing: Stavros was the man responsible for all the pain and fears he had suffered all those months in hospital living on the edge of death and, after Bond extracted the necessary information out of him with regards to the Marcuzzi, Double O Seven was determined to make him pay. Hard and cruel!
He recalled what M had told him before he had left his office three nights ago:
‘Dante Stavros is the only lead we have to get to the Marcuzzi, Bond. I need you to find whoever is at the top of this organisation and eliminate him. If there’s someone who can, then it is you. You now have a personal stake in this whole wretched affair which I’m sure will give you an edge. You will leave no stone unturned. Her Majesty’s Government wants the Marcuzzi destroyed, completely and believe me they don’t care how you do it as long as you bloody well do.’
‘No stone unturned,’ Bond said to himself and his smile was cold and nasty…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

2
Naked Kill

There was a half-moon that night and in its light James Bond saw the line of flat-roofed buildings below as they climbed the ridge on foot towards the white villa further on. It took them about twenty minutes to get to the boundary wall on the east side and they stood there in the shadow of a palm tree and looked up to see the man called Dante Stavros and one of his men come out on the terrace into the moonlight, holding what looked like glasses of wine.
Bond and Raisul stayed there, completely still, watching them.
They spent about fifteen minutes chatting, drinking, and then went back inside.
‘I’d better come with you,’ Raisul told Bond as he got ready.
‘No. Wait here. You’ve risked enough already by simply bringing me here.’
Raisul nodded.
When Bond was finally ready the Libyan then helped him climb up onto the boundary wall. He watched him grab for the branch of a tree, work his way along it then drop into the darkness of the large garden below.
‘Good luck, James,’ he said softly and waited.

* * *

Bond, dressed in the black robe and the veil around his face, with only his cold blue eyes showing, presented a terrifying spectacle indeed. He now hid in the undergrowth near the boundary wall, immersed in the shadows, watching. It was several moments later when someone finally appeared, a man with an AK 47 slung across his shoulder. He crossed the wide terrace, unslung the rifle, placing it flat on the table in front of him, and sat down on one of the chairs with his back to Bond’s position. He crossed his legs and enjoyed a cigarette. Bond reached into one of his pockets and produced two feet of what looked like piano wire, the ends threaded into a pair of black handles. His wrists crossed and the wire looped. Silently, Bond walked up to him from behind, a sinister shadow in the darkness of the lush garden. He lifted his elbows, hunched his shoulders, swiftly slipped the loop over the man’s head and pulled with all his strength, violently snapping the loop around the unsuspecting man’s neck. The man gasped, mouth contorting back like a wild animal as he fought for his life. Bond pulled outwards and back with an aggressive ferocity, the wire cutting into the man’s neck, a thin stream of bright red blood oozing out of the lean wound.
Bond kept pulling.
The man opened his mouth in a silent scream, his tongue strained, pointing outwards. He watched the man’s face turn bright red; his eyes bulge out of their sockets as he tried helplessly to fight him off.
Bond clenched his teeth, hissing as he sucked in air through them.
The man’s face was becoming blue now from the lack of oxygen in his system. He was making a strange gurgling sound, trying to pull Bond’s hands away from his throat in a last attempt to break free.
Harder, the voice inside Bond’s mind screamed.
The piano wire cut deeper into his trachea, cutting off the very breath he needed. And then death finally took him and he became still and limp, his face frozen into a picture of complete horror.
Bond let him go and the man fell to the floor.

* * *

James Bond felt a sharp bolt of pain between his eyes from the effort. He also felt an uncomfortable cold sensation inside his chest, then nausea as he fought to regain his breath.
God he was out of shape.
His mouth became dry and he had an odd, wretched taste.
Finally, Bond moved along the terrace and stood at the side of the glass door, peering inside. There was a corridor. A light was on, an oak door at the far end. He reached for his silenced Walther PPK from the small of his back. It was essential that he use it sparingly. Bond turned the handle and went inside. When he reached the oak door he placed an ear to it and listened. There was laughter. Voices. Two men speaking Arabic. Bond tried to picture the scene beyond the door inside his mind, using the voices to establish positions. Satisfied, he pulled the door handle down, opened it and walked in and found two men playing billiards in a wide comfortable library.
They looked up at him, startled, mouths dropping open when they looked down at the PPK.
Bond’s eyes formed a roguish smile
‘Where is Dante Stavros now?’ he asked in Arabic through the veil.
‘Upstairs in his room sleeping.’ One of them told him.
‘Good.’ Bond said and he shot them, without apparently taking aim, both between the eyes, one shot each, blood and brains scattering everywhere as they were hurled back dead.
‘You die the way you live,’ he said softly and went through the next door.
He came out into a dimly lit wide hallway with a flagged floor and crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The villa was expensively furnished, he noted.
He could hear the sound of a television coming from a room on his left. Again, he calmly walked in but this time found no one there. He gave a look around and as he was about to turn back the way he had come, a man holding a mug of coffee appeared from a door opposite.
Bond turned towards him in surprise and brought the PPK up but the man acted sooner.
He darted across the room and hurled himself against Bond, knocking him back against the tiled floor. They fought like wild animals then and Bond could feel his steel-hard muscles under the silk of the white robe the man was wearing. They fought silently and at one point Bond reached for his throat and began to press. The man groaned but managed to break his hold and role on top of him. He brought an iron fist into Bond’s face. Heaving himself sideways, Bond threw him off. The man darted to his feet in a matter of seconds though and Bond saw him raise his right foot and bring it crashing down into his chest.
He was dealing with a trained fighter.
Dazed and in much pain, he reacted by grabbing the man’s ankle with both hands and twisted fiercely, managing to overthrow him sideways. Not that it did much good though for he was back on top of Bond like a panther in for the kill.
Where the hell was the PPK? It had flown out of his hand.
He landed several more blows on his face then grabbed at Bond’s throat. His hands squeezed the very life out of him. Bond heaved with pain. He felt his consciousness going. By some small miracle though he finally managed to twist him off again and Bond turned onto his side and delivered a fierce elbow to the man’s face breaking his nose as he was about to get up again. The pain in his chest was becoming unbearable but Bond’s instinct for survival willed him to carry on. He moved with the speed of a snake striking its prey. He threw himself on top of him, reaching for the man’s neck and dug his fingers into it. Bond squeezed for all he was worth. His sharp nails drew points of blood as they broke skin. He formed a hook with the index and fore finger of his right hand, the thumb curled inwards towards the anterior jugular, just like his unarmed combat instructor had shown him a million years ago, and with one sharp jerk into the neck followed by a stiff pull sideways and up, Bond savagely tore out the man’s throat from his neck. The man squirmed on the floor, his scream choking to a gurgle, both his hands to his neck in an attempt to stop the blood, his life, from gushing out. Bond watched him jerk violently about on the floor in a fit of spasms, a hideous display, that terrifying gurgling noise coming from his mouth and bright red blood gushing between his hands.
Bond crawled back against the wall behind him, away from the surge of blood, white as a sheet, chest heaving to catch his breath.
It had been a bloody long time since he had used such a nasty method to kill a man.
Hoda Korosu the Japanese called it – Naked Kill.
He looked down at his right hand and noticed that he was still holding the man’s throat.
James Bond felt physically sick…

* * *

At last, Bond picked up the PPK and checked its action.
The pistol shook slightly in his blood soaked hand. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then looked back at the dead body lying there in a pool of dark red blood. He then went out into the corridor and proceeded upstairs. There was a deadly silence now, and through the open French windows at the end he could hear the call of some night bird and the distant barking of a dog. There were three rooms, two on his left and one on his right, each door closed.
Bond stayed there in the silence and darkness, the PPK in a deadly poise.
He then went over to the door on his right and opened it.
He felt for the light switch and heard a voice call out in the darkness,
‘What is it, Samal?’ Why do you wake me?’
Bond got the light on and Dante Stavros received the shock of his life.
He darted sideways in the double bed to reach for the Smith and Wesson he kept on the bed side locker. Bond’s Walther PPK coughed once, the bullet hitting the Smith and Wesson’s pistol grip sending it flying to the carpeted floor.
Stavros looked back at Bond startled, a hunted animal, eyes wide open in fear.
‘For God’s sake please don’t kill me!’
‘Then I suggest you don’t move another inch.’ Bond told him, sat down on a chair opposite the bed and pulled down the face veil.
‘Bond!’ Stavros hissed. ‘But you’re dead! My man…’
‘Failed. Miserably.’
‘Listen to me, I can give you money,’ Stavros said urgently ‘Let me live and I will make you a rich man.’
Bond said nothing, just crossed his legs and studied the man in the bed closely.
Stavros had become white with fear.
So much for the man they called the Huntsman, Bond thought. In the face of death he was just a bloody coward.
‘My men?’ Stavros asked after a while.
‘Dead. The four of them.’
Stavros aged considerably at that.
‘We can make a deal, Bond. Surely this is possible?’
He was trembling now.
‘Oh?’ Bond said. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I can give you answers.’
‘To what?’
‘Surely you want to know who hired me to kill you.’
‘It was the Marcuzzi. We already know that.’
Stavros’ brow creased in a sign of confusion.
‘The Marcuzzi? What are you talking about? I have only worked for the Marcuzzi once in my life and that was four years ago.’
Bond raised an eyebrow.
‘What are you talking about?’
Stavros shook his head.
‘No it wasn’t the Marcuzzi, Bond, absolutely not!’
‘Who then?’ Bond snapped.
‘What about our deal?’
Bond nodded once.
‘I want your word of honour, Bond. And I want protection. They have people everywhere.’
‘You have it. Now talk damn you! Who hired you to kill me and why?’
Dante Stavros breathed in deeply.
‘It was a man called Sabah. Melhem Sabah. He is the leader of the Shaheel Peshant.’
It was Bond’s turn to age considerably now…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

3
The
Apocalypse Agenda

There was a long moment of silence as James Bond’s mind went back to that evening, a long time ago, when he had first met Melhem Sabah on his yacht, the ‘Prometheus’. He remembered his face - tanned, strong with a wide hard mouth, the eyes a vivid blue; the dark, grey streaked hair and that strange aura of power omnipresent.
And then he remembered Nadesh…
Bond finally stood up and crossed the room. He took one of the French cigarettes from the packet lying on the bedside locker and using Stavros’ gold lighter, lit it and inhaled deeply.
He looked down at Stavros.
‘Why did Sabah want me dead?’
Stavros nodded as if he knew that question was coming.
‘His daughter fell in love with you, Bond, and Sabah is a very jealous man when it comes to his daughter. Jealous and raving bloody mad believe me. He was afraid you would steal her away from him. He told me that you both met in Jamaica and after that she couldn’t get you out of her mind. She wanted to leave him and find you. They were in France at the time. He went furious, locked her in her room, day and night. There was no way he would let his only daughter leave him for you so he turned to me. I’ve worked for him before. He said he wanted you out of the way and that he would pay handsomely if I got rid of you. I would have done the job myself had I not been caught up in something else at the time so I got one of my best men to do it. The rest you know.’
Bond sat back down, cigarette lax in his fingers, PPK in his right hand, the muzzle pointing straight at Stavros.
‘How much did the bastard pay you?’ he asked.
‘One million dollars. He wanted you out of the way badly.’
‘Tell me about the Shaheel Peshant. Everything you know.’
‘Please, at least let me get dressed.’
Bond shook his head.
‘Just talk,’ he said.
‘Not here, Bond. Take me with you. I’ll give you all the information you need back in London. I also want my slate wiped clean. That’s the deal, nothing more, nothing less.’
‘I’m losing my patience.’
‘Listen to me, Bond. I can tell you that the Shaheel are planning something big. Melhem Sabah calls it the Apocalypse Agenda. His target is Europe and believe me if he is not stopped the world will witness the worst terrorist attack in history.’
Bond took a pull on the cigarette. He didn’t like what he was hearing at all but he needed more, much more than what Stavros was letting on.
‘There are ways I can make you talk,’ Bond said and there was a cruel menace in his voice. ‘Painful ways so I wouldn’t force my hand if I were you.’
Stavros nodded.
‘I will not talk unless I want to and you know that, Bond. Not even under torture. I’ve said enough already. Take me with you and I will give you all you need to know. Other than that…’
‘And how do you propose I get you out of this country?’
‘There is an airstrip three miles away from here. I have a plane which I use now and again to fly out of here. I could fly us both to Malta. Once I am safe in London I will talk.’
Stavros knew fine well he had Bond hooked. What he had just told him meant too much not to keep him alive. Bond thought about it all for a long moment. Things were indeed taking quite an unexpected turn.
‘If I talk now and you do let me live I’m just as well dead.’ Stavros went on. ‘There would be nowhere to hide for me. Not from the Shaheel. My best chances are with you and in London with a new identity and life. Believe me, Bond, the knowledge I have is terrifying to say the least. Europe, the world, will never be the same if they succeed.’
Bond got up and stubbed out the cigarette.
‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘Try anything bloody stupid though and I’ll kill you stone dead. Do you understand me?’
‘Perfectly.’
Dante Stavros got out of bed and slipped into some clothes. They then went out and downstairs…

* * *

There was an AMSEC safe downstairs, in the billiard room, and Stavros asked if he could get some money and blank passports, just in case. Bond waited as he packed a black carrying bag, the PPK still pointing uncompromisingly at him. They then went out and around to where Raisul was waiting.
‘What’s this?’ the Libyan asked as they approached.
‘Change of plan, Raisul,’ Bond told him. ‘I’m taking him with me. There’s an airstrip three miles away from here. He has a plane.’
‘We must go.’ Stavros cut in, a hunted look on his face. ‘We can use my Land Rover.’
Raisul moved closer to Bond.
‘Have you gone mad, Bond?’ he said.
Bond nodded, indicating he understood his friend’s concern.
‘I’ve no choice. He has vital information I need and he’s not giving it unless I take him back to London.’
Raisul looked at Bond reproachfully.
‘I will make him talk then. The son of a whore will sing like a canary by the time I finish with him. Near death has softened you, Double O Seven. A few years ago you would not have shied away from a little torture.’
Bond smiled at his friend.
‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But this time is different.’
‘Very well. I just hope you know what you are doing.’
‘I’m going with my gut feeling on this one, old friend.’
‘And where will you fly to?’
‘Malta. I’ll have a better chance of getting out of there and back to London using the British Embassy. I know the High Commissioner’s wife. She’ll help me.’
Mulai Raisul looked up at the black sky and sighed heavily.
‘Something tells me I’m making a grave mistake listening to you,’ he said.
‘Stop complaining, you old dog. You’ve been dying for a little action and you know it.’
‘Maybe. But when it comes to you, Bond, the words ‘a little action’ is an understatement. Besides, I thought you said I’d done enough.’
Bond slapped him on the back.
‘As I said, change of plan. Now come on, let’s make a move.’
The Land Rover was parked in the garage at the front and Bond sat in the back with Stavros while Mulai Raisul took the wheel…

* * *

The same moment the beige Land Rover sped off into the night towards Surt a man stepped out of the shadows of some bushes. He’d been there, watching, ever since Bond and Raisul had arrived at the villa. He had watched the British secret agent climb over the wall, and come out, an hour or so later with Stavros at gunpoint.
He was a tall man, unmistakably Arab, with broad shoulders, dark intense eyes and high cheekbones. He wore a black Shemagh and Dishdasha underneath a silk black Bisht.
He walked up to the front door with a lock pick opened it. He went inside and around the house, stepping over the bodies as he looked around. The stench of the butcher’s shop was everywhere and he smiled when he finally sat down on the sofa after helping himself to a large Scotch from the drinks cabinet. He produced a cell phone and dialled some numbers. After a moment a voice answered at the other end,
‘Well?’
The man sat back in the leather sofa.
‘It’s Bond all right,’ he said in Arabic. ‘And it seems he’s on a rampage.’
‘That bad, eh? Do you think Stavros talked?’ the voice asked.
‘Of course he talked. I have no doubt there. They’re heading to the airfield just outside Surt. If you’re lucky you just might catch them.’
‘The Barbajans are on a moment’s notice stand-by. They’ll catch them. Is Stavros using his Land Rover?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it shouldn’t be too difficult. They’ll use the bikes.’
‘Are you going to kill Bond?’
‘Why should I, Ali? I’m going to have some fun with him.’
‘Good for you. I’ll see you back at Al Hasarran then.’
Ali Hamid hung up.
He looked down at the corpses on the floor.
‘Death comes as Allah wills, gentlemen,’ he said and raised his glass…

* * *

They were driving at sixty down the dessert road towards Surt city which lies in the north of Libya and borders the Gulf of Sidra. This was rough country they were passing through, with hills and rocky ravines surrounded by high brown cliffs. So far they hadn’t come across any traffic or signs of other human beings, just the dark night and the pale half moon.
Dante Stavros was slumped in one corner at the back watched carefully by Bond, the PPK steady as rock in Bond’s hand, ready for one false move. In about twenty minutes they’d be driving through a small village called Hamasarat just outside Surt and Stavros had for one brief moment thought of escape but that would have been crazy. Bond had warned him that he would shoot to kill should he try something. And by the looks of the cold bastard, Stavros observed, and not for the first time that night, he was certainly not the kind of man to bluff.
‘May I smoke?’ he asked Bond, breaking the silence.
‘Yes, and whilst you’re at it pass one over,’ Bond told him.
Stavros nodded, reached into his pocket and took out the crumpled packet of French tobacco. He passed one to Bond, selected one for himself and placed it between his lips, lighting it with his gold lighter.
Bond lit his and coughed violently when he blew out the smoke. It was as if his lungs had filled up with needles, so sharp and prickly was the sensation he felt on exhaling.
‘Easy, Mr. Bond,’ Stavros said.
Bond regained his composure.
‘Shut up,’ he spat and moved uncomfortably in his seat.
‘My man caused considerable damage by the looks of it,’ he said.
Bond ignored him and glanced at his watch.
Stavros took a pull from his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.
‘May I ask how you found me?’ he said. ‘Or can’t you say.’
‘After shooting me, your man was wounded and captured by my partner. It was only a matter of time until he revealed the name of the man who’d sent him. You.’
‘I see.’
Bond tried another pull at the cigarette and as he blew out the smoke there was a blinding flash and a deafening explosion outside that rocked the Land Rover and sent them flying on the back seat...

* * *

Bond slammed into the seat in front of him as Raisul wrenched the wheel to his right then left as he regained control. Bond swore violently as Stavros and himself rolled with the Land Rover again. He clung to the door for support.
‘What was that?!’ Stavros shouted.
One of the side windows had shattered and a gush of hot air and sand blew in.
‘I think our luck has just run out, Bond!’ Raisul called as he increased speed.
Bond looked back.
He saw two small beams of light cut through the darkness, one behind the other.
Motorbikes.
Two of them.
And then he noticed another two beams of light, on his right and about twenty five meters away moving in fast.
It wasn’t long before one of them dashed passed them and he saw the rider. He was dressed in black Dishdasha. Bond heard a series of shots from an automatic. The rear window exploded into a thousand pieces and a bullet ripped into Stavros’ right shoulder. He let out a cry of pain.
In the mirror, Raisul saw one of the headlights growing larger.
‘Take the AK,’ he called out to Bond.
Bond leaned forward and took the automatic from the front seat.
He aimed the rifle at the oncoming bike and let off a burst of automatic fire.
It swerved left, then right and then Bond saw it literally lift off into the air and fly off the road. Moments later it exploded.
One down, three to go.
But who the hell were they?
Raisul rounded a sharp bend. Not far now to the village, then the airstrip. The road had now become much smoother than the one they had just driven through and he increased speed considerably.
‘Barbajans!’ Stavros shouted. ‘There’s no other explanation.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Bond hissed.
‘Mercenaries,’ he told him. ‘Bandits, hired hands, call them what you want. They work for anyone.’
‘Sabah?’
‘Who else?’
‘How the hell did they find out…?’
From the corner of his eye, Bond noticed a bike appear on their right. He saw a flash of automatic gun-fire.
‘Get down!’
They felt the thumps and thuds as the rounds hit the side of the Land Rover. Bond looked up as another bike turned onto the road in front of them from their far left. He could see the rider, a dark shadow in loose-fitting Dishdasha, stopping sideways ahead and point something in their direction and he knew, or rather felt, that it was an RPG 7.
He saw the sudden flash of bright light as the projectile shot out towards them, a long trail of fire behind it.
Raisul managed to avoid the head on collision with the projectile by swinging the wheel sharply to his left. The projectile hit the road and there came a deafening explosion. The blast hurled the Land Rover crossways over the road, turning it in a full circle and ending upside down and nose first through a sand dune...

* * *

Bond kicked his door open and crawled out.
He fired the AK at an oncoming bike, hitting the driver in the chest as he approached, sending him flying off the bike with a cry.
Raisul appeared beside him, a deep cut just above his eye, the PPK in a two handed grip.
‘What now?’ he said. ‘Make a run for it?’
‘How far to the airfield?’ Bond shouted.
‘Thirty minutes on foot.’
Both men looked back at the wreck of the Land Rover.
Stavros was still in there. His face and upper body were covered in blood from the gunshot wound to his shoulder and a bad head-wound.
‘I can’t move!’ He screamed out. ‘Please get me out of here, Bond! I think my leg’s broken. If they catch me I’m a dead man!’
‘Tell me Sabah’s plan,’ Bond called back.
‘I can’t. You’ll leave me here if I do!’
‘Tell me what his target is?’
‘You cold hearted Bastard! Please get me out of here!’
Bond dashed over to him and peered through at him.
‘Tell me Sabah’s plan!’ he spat.
Stavros looked across at him and Bond noted the fear and pain in his eyes.
There was the sound of machine gun fire and six to eight rounds thumped into the sand inches away from him.
Bond darted to where Raisul had taken cover.
‘Bond don’t leave me here, please!’ They heard Stavros call out. ‘I beg you. Sabah is going to…’
Dante Stavros didn’t get a chance to finish what he was about to say for the Land Rover blew up, hit by another projectile, a crimson ball of flame shooting upwards towards the sky with a thunderous roar.
Bond and Raisul who were positioned a couple of feet away, were sent flying through the air in the blast and landed unconscious in the sand further on...

* * *

James Bond could have sworn he could hear the sound of a helicopter landing.
The British secret agent opened his eyes.
They were full of sand and is all he could see was haze.
He lifted a hand to his bloodied face and wiped away the muck. His back burned and every bone, muscle and nerve in his body throbbed with a violent pain. He tried talking; tried calling out to Raisul but the sound just couldn’t come out of his mouth. He spat blood.
What did Stavros say before he was blown to bits?
‘You cold hearted bastard?’
How right he bloody well was!
Bond managed to look around him and saw what looked like a sleek, silver Lynx helicopter landing opposite on the road, its rotors whirling round. He watched as soon after someone stepped out.
Tow riders dismounted their bikes and went over to greet the new arrival.
They talked for a couple of moments then walked towards him and he crawled up on both knees, hands flat on the cold sand, coughing.
‘Please don’t move, James, or my men’ll have to shoot you dead.’
Bond couldn’t believe his ears.
He looked up at the person who had arrived in the helicopter and his heart missed a couple of beats, sinking when he saw her face. She was just how he remembered her: the stunning face, glowing, exquisitely olive coloured and the luminous blue-black eyes. The excitement in them, that glowing fire that burned brightly was still there. The mouth, sensuous and full, and last but not least, the purple-black hair - straight, shoulder length.
He bowed his head as if in defeat and stayed there looking down at the sand beneath him.
‘I knew we’d meet again, James,’ Nadesh Sabah told him cheerfully. ‘Serendipity at its best. And there I was thinking you were dead and gone.’
Bond cursed.
‘Tell me you’re not part of this, Nadesh,’ he said.
‘Oh, but I am, James. In more ways than you can begin to imagine.’

*

[Harry Fawkes]

4

The Phoenix of a New Beginning

The floors were marble-tiled, the walls solid oak panelling; every fitting gleaming pure gold and crystal chandeliers took light to every corner. The twelve men dressed in dinner suits were seated on plush leather sofas arranged in seating areas. Three massive paintings staged the main walls around them: Prometheus bringing fire to mankind by Heinrich Füger, Prometheus by Gustave Moreau and Prometheus Being Chained by Vulcan, by Dirck van Baburen. Replicas no doubt but striking none the less.
A dazzling blond stewardess came over and offered them Champaign cocktails from a gold tray whilst the man called Melhem Sabah lit a long slim cigar. He was standing in front of them, dominating the room; a tall, well built man in his mid fifties, good-looking and quite striking in a beautifully cut white suit...
‘The apocalypse is inevitable, gentlemen,’ he said, puffing out dark grey smoke. ‘It has always been a matter of time and now, finally, that time has come. Our new world order is on the rise and each one of you has pledged outstanding loyalty to it, to me, to what I, we, all stand for. We are the phoenix of a new beginning.’
He took a long pull at the cigar and looked down at them, his eyes glowing.
There was a passionate fire inside his eyes and the twelve were simply captivated by them.
‘You have all invested money – millions and millions of dollars,’ he continued. ‘You have invested manpower, property, intelligence, technological information - your lives, even - just to see this new beginning through. To witness the rising of a new era. Well, my friends, what you have invested has not and will not be in vein. We are there. You are there. The Shaheel is there.’
Sabah courteously raised a hand and the lights in the room dimmed gradually.
A few feet away from him a holographic image materialized from nowhere. It was the image of the most powerful weapon ever invented by man: the Antiproton Energy bomb.
‘Gentlemen, I give you Prometheus’ fire…’

* * *

They had been flying above the great ocean of dessert for about an hour and a half until they finally arrived at an imposing fortress built atop a hill, circling it twice. James Bond had no idea where they were but knew this was to be his final destination, for the time being at least. He looked out at the view below. A high wall built from dark red sand stone surrounded this ancient fortification they called Al Hasarran.
'It was once called It-Trieq tal Jenna, James.’ He heard Nadesh’s voice through his ear piece.
'The path to heaven,' Bond replied.
'Exactly. It was an Acemi Oglan school, a school that turned kidnapped Christian boys into soldiers, warriors. These 'students', mostly children, were taught how to master the sword and the cruel arts of war, to fight and kill in the name of Allah. In the morning they received what their tutors called spiritual education from the Holy Koran and during the afternoon they were taught how to kill.'
‘And today?’
'Well, you could say we use it for practically the same thing. The only difference is that we now train ‘students’ how to master the gun and the bomb, to fight and kill in the name of the Shaheel Peshant.’
It was at that precise moment that the helicopter landed in the wide courtyard and they got out as the rotor blades slowed to a stop.
Two men in black robes, faces veiled and carrying black AK assault rifles appeared opposite.
Bond looked at Nadesh.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘You are now my guest, James.’
He looked at her closely.
‘Guest or prisoner?’
Bond’s clothes were tattered and burnt, his hair unkempt, face dirty. His eyes were bright, clear pools and they studied hers.
‘What do you mean by prisoner, James? Don’t be stupid, darling. You are here as my guest, I promise you.’
‘Stavros mentioned that your father, the Shaheel Peshant, is planning a terrorist attack. Is this true?’
She kissed him softly on his lips.
‘My dear James,’ she said. ‘I will tell you all tonight. Let my men show you to your room. Clean yourself up. Rest a bit, you really look as though you need some and then we will talk.’
‘But…’
She put a finger to his lips.
‘Tonight, James. Please.’
And with that she turned and disappeared inside.
Bond kept watching after her then turned to the two men.
‘Well, gentlemen, lead the way.’

* * *

At the same time, Colonel Gordon Jackson, the man called M and head of Double O Division, the elite of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service was standing at the window in his office; smoking his pipe when Bill Tanner, his Chief of Staff, walked in.
‘It appears we’ve lost all contact with 007, sir. HMS Conquest had to leave the pick-up point an hour ago to move back into international waters. Something must have gone wrong.’
‘Which is all I bloody need,’ M said softly without turning. He looked out across the dark grey river, his eyes sombre.
‘Sir?’
M finally turned to face him.
‘The Director General wants to see me in half an hour. No doubt to discuss Sir James’s report and the Joint Intelligence Committee’s recommendations.’
Tanner’s jaw tightened and he sat down in the chair opposite.
‘I’m not sure it was the right decision, sir, if I may say,’ he told him. ‘To send Bond out so soon, I mean.’
M looked at Tanner for a while then sat back down behind his desk.
‘I gathered that from our phone conversation this morning, Chief of Staff,’ he said firmly. ‘However, I stand by my decision. I’m sure Bond is all right. It’s not the first time he’s has gone off the radar during a mission. ’
‘True.’
‘Of course, if the Director General thinks he’s going to fry me for sending Bond out when I did then let him bloody try. As I said before, I run the Double O Division, not him. Bond is one of my best men and an agent with a background experience second to none. He knew what he was getting into and I had and still have full confidence in him.’
M swivelled round in his chair and poured himself and his Chief of Staff a very stiff Scotch from the drinks cabinet behind him. He added a touch of Soda and turned back to Tanner.
‘Let me tell you something not a lot of people know about me, Tanner,’ he said passing the drink across. ‘Much of my time with the SAS saw me serving behind enemy lines: Malaya, Borneo, South Arabia and Northern Ireland, where unfortunately I lost this bloody arm - picked up the wrong briefcase, believe it or not. Well, my point is this: I’ve been in some very ‘sticky’ situations in my time. God only knows how many times I nearly got killed out there in the field, or how many people I killed during active service for Queen and Country. I’ve been to hell and back, more than once, and I’m still paying the wretched price whenever I close my damn eyes at night to go to sleep. I know exactly what a field agent goes through: how he acts, what he feels, what he thinks. Now I based my decision to send Bond to Libya because I believed he was up to it. Bond and I spoke about it for quite a long time before he left, had several meetings at Blades and I knew that if I didn’t sanction his reinstatement he would have gone out alone. And I could relate to that Tanner because I would have if I were in his shoes. So instead of slamming the door in the poor bastard’s face to play safe, I gave him this Division’s official backing not to mention my own. Churchill once said: We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind and I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. The terrorist attack by the Marcuzzi Syndicate several months ago placed the threat of terrorism on the front burner and the Government wants them destroyed completely. Now the PM has handed down that job to us.’
M leaned back in his chair, glass in one hand, pipe in the other. Tanner drank some of his whisky and looked across at him.
‘This is a very dirty business we deal in, Chief of Staff, and you’ve been around this place to know that well enough. The men and women who form part of this Division, the men and women who earn the Double O numerals, are bloody hard to come by. Only one percent of those applying to join us are accepted and given that fact we must use all our resources without fail to find them. James Bond knew that and he also knew I, this Division, needed him. Not one hundred percent fit?’ M drank the remaining Scotch in one gulp. He stood up, straightened his tie and crossed over to the green leather padded door. ‘Men like Double O Seven offer blood, toil, tears and sweat for the safety of this country and what it stands for every day, Tanner, right up to the moment before they bloody die, and that’s a fact, son.’
And with that he went out…

* * *

The Conseil Europeen pour la Recherche Nucleaire (C.E.R.N) is the world's largest particle physics laboratory, situated in the northwest suburbs of Geneva on the Franco-Swiss border. The organization has twenty European member states, and is currently the workplace of approximately 2,600 full-time employees, as well as some 7,931 scientists and engineers (representing 500 universities and 80 nationalities). Its main function is to provide the particle accelerators and other infrastructure needed for high-energy physics research. Numerous experiments have been constructed at CERN by international collaborations to make use of them. The main complex at Meyrin also has a large number of computer centres containing very powerful data processing facilities primarily for experimental data analysis and because of the need to make them available to researchers elsewhere, has historically been, and continues to be, a major wide area networking hub.
Set in a wide valley well-hidden from prying eyes, CERN might easily be mistaken for a small peaceful village, which in a way it is. Amongst the cluster of buildings which forms the main research complexes, laboratories, brick dormitories and computer centres, one can find two supermarkets, a small hospital, a cinema and a couple of restaurants.
The two archetype Antiproton Energy bombs were stolen by twelve members of the Shaheel Peshant from CERN’s Antimatter research centre during a routine security check that went horribly wrong...

*

[Harry Fawkes]

5
Thunderbolt

In charge of carrying out the assault and delivering the bombs safely to the Shaheel was their top agent, an ex-British Special Forces operative who called himself Keller. He’d been training his eleven men for such an audacious operation non-stop in the sweltering heat of the Libyan dessert for the past two weeks and thanks to a conveniently placed Indian scientist within CERN, who’d been working on the project for well over three years, they had all the relevant information they needed to get the job off the ground. It only took kidnapping his six year old daughter and the Indian was putty in their hands. Incredibly though, they also had insiders in the American Intelligence Service on the Shaheel’s payroll, people in ‘strategic’ places who wanted to see this operation through. It was these ‘insiders’ who had supplied them with the exact date the THUNDERBOLT bombs were being transported out of the CERN facility to Meyrin airport, to be flown to the US for testing - not to mention how exactly the US security team intended doing it...

* * *

At 2100 hrs, the rain was easing as the wind gained strength, but the storm clouds still filled the night sky. Beyond the next bend the road ran straight for about two miles and Max was driving in a state of tingling excitement, the speedometer showing well over 80 MPH. They’d been driving along these dark country roads and lanes for almost an hour now, both wondering if all would go well or not.
‘Nervous?’ Keller asked his partner.
Max nodded slowly.
‘And scared,’ he said.
Keller closed his eyes after dropping the seat back a little.
‘You’ll be OK, Max’ he said.

* * *

The Range Rover came to a halt on a side road on a hill shrouded by trees which overlooked the road running through the dark moor, the road the US convoy would be taking.
Keller lit a cigar, offering the man called Max one. He shook his head and they got out.
The rain had now strangely increased its force.
It didn’t bother them.
The ambush had been planned out perfectly and they could not afford mistakes. There was too much at stake and failure was not an option.
Too many people were depending on the operation being a success and Keller couldn’t help laughing at the madness of it all.
So many people wanted to witness the fall of the US and the irony of it all was that most of the people behind the man called Apocalypse came from within the US Intelligence community.
‘Johan has just radioed in,’ Max told him, disturbing his thoughts.
‘Good.’
Keller stood there a while longer and in the distance he could just make out the top of the mountains, streaked with silver and white and some hills lifting steeply in the night sky.
‘You know, Max, my father once told me that if I go to hell when I die I should go singing.’
Max looked at him, raising an eyebrow curiously.
‘What did he mean?’ he asked.
Keller shrugged.
‘We’re all captains of our own doom and we should shoulder the consequences of our actions in life,’ he said and smiled maliciously. ‘Or something to that effect anyway.’
He turned and moved to the rear of the Range Rover, opened it and took out a black suitcase.
He then left, following a narrow path across the moor.

* * *

There were eight black Cherokees with American licence plates parked inside the large particle physics and antimatter laboratory on the eastern side of the CERN facility.
The hangar-like building was surrounded by armed security personnel as the two small but powerful AE bombs were being locked away into two matching aluminium suitcases by three scientists in white coats, under the watchful eyes of the American SD11 personnel.
In one corner, working at a computer at a desk under a naked light bulb, Dr Gupta Makulli Gayner was sweating profusely.
He was wondering about his daughter, of how it would be when he set eyes upon her again. The Indian had told everyone at CERN that he had sent his daughter back to India two years ago, to her Grandparents, so she could receive a proper Indian upbringing and education.
The men who were holding her were evil by any long shot.
They had proven that to him during their first meeting, when they had slit the throats of two men who were unknown to him, in a warehouse in Cointrin, just to show him that they meant business and if he didn’t do as he was told, the next neck to be cut would be Salimma’s, his daughter.
He looked across at the Cherokees and the American personnel, watching closely as the CERN scientists went about their work. He breathed in deeply to steady his nerves.
His part of the job was almost done now.
He only had one more call to make, as soon as the convoy left, and the horrible nightmare would be over.
It certainly was not his fault that CERN Security hadn’t caught on to his predicament. They had asked him questions, certainly, carried out the normal security checks on him and his family, once a month, but they were content with the story he told them and nothing had seemed out of the ordinary in his usual day to day lifestyle. They had never suspected anything contrary - the stupid, careless bastards.
They should have seen right through him; seen that he was being blackmailed, seen the terror in his eyes, in his body language.
But no, the men in grey suits were always satisfied.
Was this the state-of- the- art security CERN always bragged about in the media?
The roar of the Cherokee engines starting up signified that the AE bombs had been loaded and were now in the hands of the Americans.
They would drive down to Meyrin airport, four vehicles in one direction acting as a decoy whilst the other four took another route. Once there, the two suitcases would be loaded onto an awaiting USAF transport plane and, under heavy security, flown to the US to be tested.
Heavy security? What a joke!
‘God help us all,’ Makulli Gayner whispered and got back to his work...

* * *

The Antiproton Energy bomb, the most powerful weapon ever created, is a device using antimatter as an explosive and it was only three years ago, ever since CERN informed the West of their breakthrough in antimatter bomb-related research, that the United States and Great Britain had shown their immediate interest in the possibility of its military use, not to mention its destructive applications. On March 16, 2005, Chief CERN Antimatter Scientist Wolfgang Raspar spoke for the very first time at the NASA Institute for Advanced Concepts during which Raspar emphasized a potential property of positron weaponry, a type of antimatter weaponry codenamed: THUNDERBOLT. CERN was immediately granted funding by the US and Great Britain specifically for positron weapons technology development and for focusing research on ways to store these positrons for long periods of time, a significant technical and scientific difficulty, but one CERN soon overcame...

* * *

The wind howled through the branches of the tall trees, somewhat passionately, and when he reached the outer belt he paused to look down the road.
Nothing.
Just a cold, empty darkness.
He couldn’t see the eleven Shaheel operatives, but he knew they were out there, in their respective positions, armed to the teeth with Russian assault rifles and armour piercing rounds; waiting patiently, and no doubt at this very moment, watching him closely.
The man called Keller smiled.
His men would do well tonight.
He found the drainpipe that extended beyond the side of the grass verge. It had only been last night that they had found this blocked pipe – the perfect spot to hide the bomb.
He placed the case onto the wet ground, unfastened the straps and carefully produced a large plastic bag containing an assortment of explosives packed inside a tin.
Keller then slid it inside the drainpipe and folded the plastic bag backwards so that the tin’s lid was exposed. The chemical fuse was French, Model 42x and of very good quality. It could probably take a building down if properly placed.
He wiped rain away from his forehead and eyes with the back of his hand and glanced at the dials of his wrist watch.
He extracted the fuse which looked like a long, slim pencil, a detonator and removed the lid. He then slid the long fuse into the slot in the explosives and carefully set the remote detonator with a pocket screw driver...

* * *

SD11 was the relatively new American Security Service that answered directly to the White House and Captain Jack Russo had joined three years ago after being recommended by his superiors back at CI7 (Intelligence). He had flown out to Switzerland three nights ago with his team of men, responsible for ensuring the THUNDERBOLT bombs reached the United States safely.
They weren’t actually expecting anything to go wrong but then, one could not be too sure in this day and age, he thought as he lit a cigarette.
When the Cold War between the United States and Russia ended in the early nineties, the threat of nuclear disaster had appeared to fade. The events of Sept. 11, 2001, however, changed this when Al Qaeda hijacked four planes, which is when the fears increased over the possibility of stolen nuclear material being used in a future attack on the States. Reports in the Intelligence community showed that these fears weren’t quite unfounded. Authorities in Russia, a country with a large arsenal of nuclear weapons and material used for building bombs, had reported on numerous occasions hundreds of attempted smuggling incidents since September 2001...
The red-headed American looked back at the other two Cherokees behind him as his driver increased speed to keep up with the lead vehicle as they now raced to get to the airport.
Captain Russo swallowed hard and checked if the two choppers were still with them.
They were.
Calm down, lad, he told himself. Nobody knew these bombs even existed let alone that they were being transported to the States tonight…

* * *

Keller moved into the shadows of some bushes further on.
He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pistol which he cocked. He then waited patiently for the convoy to arrive.
It was about five minutes later when a voice crackled through his earpiece.
‘They’re on their way,’ it said. ‘There are two helicopters above them.’
Keller nodded.
‘That was to be expected,’ he said calmly. ‘Number 3 hit them with the Stinger. Make sure your shots count please.’
‘Sir,’ came the metallic reply.
They all waited.
And then there came the distinctive sound of the helicopters approaching and beyond the bend he could see the pale yellow light of the lead Cherokee’s headlamps cutting through the darkness.
The convoy reached the round-about.
Little did the men of SD11 know of course that beyond them the cruel hands of death awaited.
They were now about one hundred meters away from the bomb Keller had planted.
He produced the small radio control device.
Thirty meters.
Twenty.
Ten.
Five…
‘Now!’ Keller hissed through clenched teeth.
A blinding flash of pure white light lit up the landscape, accompanied by a thunderous explosion which shook the entire road. A column of black smoke soon followed, filling the night sky. The other Cherokees skidded out of control and veered off to the right and left to avoid the burning wreck of the lead vehicle that now blocked the road.
Eleven figures dressed in black appeared as if from nowhere and started blasting their weapons at the vehicles.
The SD11 men responded heroically, some dashing out of their vehicles and shooting as they ran for cover, others were cut down as they responded from their seats or tended to the wounded.
The fire-fight lasted around ten minutes during which one of the Shaheel men, using an AAM S5 Stinger, shot down the two helicopters as they circled above, their flash lights lighting up what had now become the killing ground...

* * *

Captain Jack Russo was still alive when the shooting finally came to an end.
He was wounded badly though, three bullet to the chest, and he was now crawling over to his gun which lay only feet away from him.
Keller was breathing heavily from the exhilaration of the fire-fight as he looked down at him, strangely feeling sorry for the SD11 man.
Russo looked up and their eyes met.
‘They’re useless without the codes…’ he managed to say, coughing up blood. ‘The bombs… they’re useless. You…you must realise that…surely.’
Keller nodded.
‘Don’t worry, Captain,’ he told him. ‘This wasn’t your fault, son. As for the codes, I’m sure my superiors’ll manage.’
He then coldly shot the American, once, in the back of the head and the silence that followed was deafening.
Keller crossed over to the Cherokee on his left.
Three bodies lay sprawled inside, blood and brains and bone fragment everywhere.
One of his colleagues came in beside him.
‘A success, Mr. Keller,’ he said, his accent Eastern European.
‘The beauty of using armour-piercing rounds.’ He told him. ‘How many of my men survived?’ Keller asked.
‘Six.’
Keller lit a cigar and blew out thick grey smoke.
‘Take care of the others on your way back to the hotel. Make sure you tie up all loose ends, remember that.’
‘Of course.’
Another Shaheel operative stepped up to them. He produced some pneumatic tools from a carrying bag which he used to prise open the Cherokee’s booth.
Inside were the two aluminium suitcases.
Keller took them as two silver Range Rovers appeared, coming towards them, from further on.
He got into the first one beside Max after placing the bombs on the back seat.
‘Drive,’ he said simply and prepared himself for the next ordeal.
The airport...

* * *

Keller was a tall, rather well-built fetching man with blond hair and spellbinding dark blue eyes. He now wore a very classy, dark blue single-breasted suit, white shirt open at the neck and laceless brown shoes
Max was dressed up as a nurse complete with white coat and pushed a trolley in the centre of which was a large silver fridge-like container with two red lights flashing.
They walked through to the airport departure lounge as if they knew exactly where they were going.
The security personnel outside the check-in gate inspected their passports.
Dr Schulhardt Eindermainer and Carl Stromsburg - Red Cross Society.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ one of the security personnel said after a few moments. ‘Just as a formality, I would like to inspect the contents, please.’
‘Of course,’ Keller said and opened the silver lid.
Inside was a human heart, dark red, slightly ash grey at the sides and with patches of dirty blue around the centre.
Some thin coloured wiring was attached to the ventricle valves and it was cushioned in ice that looked like hundreds of dazzling little diamonds, sparkling brightly in the light...
The heart was pumping steadily and the security guard grimaced.
‘Thank you,’ he said as the Englishman closed the lid again.
Keller then handed him the relevant documents which the other guard dully inspected.
‘Hannah Boldman?’ he asked.
Keller nodded sombrely.
‘It has to arrive by tomorrow morning at Hope General Hospital in Los Angeles. If we get there on time she may live a happy, healthy life thanks to this.’
‘I will pray for her then, Herr Doctor.’ The guard told him. ‘Now, your plane is waiting, sir.’
And with that he showed them through the gates where they made their way to the awaiting white Cessna Conquest with the Red Cross emblem on its tail.
Keller couldn’t help a pert smile as they carried the container on the plane between them. If only the guards back there knew that inside this fake medical container lay two of the most powerful weapons ever known to man…

* * *

An hour into the flight to the US, Keller received a call on his cell phone.
Max watched him, all smiles whilst he chatted with the person at the other end.
Max continued working on his laptop, the two AE bombs on the seat opposite. When Keller was finished he pocketed his phone and got up, moving over to the drinks cabinet.
‘Drink?’ he called to his partner.
‘No thank you, I’m all right.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Keller poured himself a stiff Gin and added some Tonic, a slice of lemon and some ice. He then crossed over to a hold at the back of the plane and punched in the correct code into the small display. The door opened with a hiss, revealing a black thermal wet-suit, folded neatly on a shelf, an oxygen mask for HALO jumps, flippers, knife, an automatic pistol with a five inch silencer; a Locate Beacon and the most important items: an oxygen tank, a PFO jacket, parachute and one DLR Syntax bomb.
‘Christmas comes early,’ he said softly, took the pistol and quickly checked the action. Satisfied, he downed his drink and slipped it in the small of his back.
When he finally turned, there was a pure and vicious evil in his eyes that had not been there before.
He checked his watch.
A small red light was blinking on and off which meant it was time...
‘How long have we been working together, Max?’ he asked when he sat back down in the leather chair opposite his partner.
‘Nine months, I think,’ Max said. ‘Why?’
‘Well, I just wanted to make sure you understood that this isn’t personal you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
Keller had the gun in his hand in a flash and shot the man called Max twice between the eyes.
‘Well, then again, you can’t get more personal than that I suppose.’
After shooting the two Italian pilots in the back of the head and swiftly taking control of the plane as it lost altitude, Keller switched on the automatic pilot then quickly got dressed into the thermal wet suit. He took the two AE bombs which were stored in two wide aluminium canisters with electronic displays at their base and placed them both in a back-pack. Slipping on the parachute, he then calmly poured himself another drink and gave one last look around, savouring the moment.
In the end, all had gone quite well, he observed and knocked back his drink.
He went about fixing the Syntax bomb to one of the seats and set the timer for ten minutes.
He shouldn’t be in the water longer than fifteen minutes.
Thanks to the Locate Beacon the Prometheus would home in on him in no time.
He wore a Balaclava helmet under the oxygen mask and thick leather gloves then got the Airstair door open and waited, hands clutched to the sides of the door.
The man called Keller breathed in deeply and dived headfirst into the night towards the Atlantic below…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

6
On Dangerous Ground

Al Hasarran, Libya

The two armed Libyans showed him to a room on the South Turret. It was large, newly decorated and most importantly refreshingly cool. There was, thankfully, even a shower-room ensuite.
James Bond slipped out of his sweat soaked, tattered clothes and, naked, crossed over to the long Cheval mirror against the wall. His face was filthy and he hadn’t shaved in two days. His now weary grey-blue eyes fell down to the scars on his body.
There were many but the 'freshest' and most prominent were the two ugly puckered ones on the left side of his chest; dangerously positioned a few centimetres away from his heart. One was the size of an old ten Pence coin while the other beside it was slightly smaller.
Entry and exit wounds and only several months old.
Bond shivered as if someone, somewhere had just stepped over his grave...
There was a soft knock on the door and Bond wrapped a towel around his waist.
‘Come in,’ he called.
A tall, slender woman with long black hair came in carrying a silver tray. She wore a black silk shawl which swung around her body as she moved across the room to place the tray on the centre table.
She turned and her smile as she devoured his body with a long glance was undeniably seducing.
‘Ms Sabah thought you might want a drink before you rest,’ she told him in perfect English.
Bond looked down at the three bottles: Gin, Vodka and Kina Lillet. There was a shaker, a lemon and a small ice bucket.
‘That’s very thoughtful of her,’ he said.
The woman nodded and started pouring the ingredients into the shaker.
Bond stood there, looking at her.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Satina, sir.’
She finally poured the ice cold drink into a long glass and gave it to him.
‘I hope it’s to your satisfaction, Mr Bond.’
He raised the glass to his lips, holding her bright brown eyes in his and tasted it.
‘Perfect,’ he told her.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
Bond smiled softly.
‘I’m tempted,’ he said, his own eyes glowing. ‘But no, I’ll be fine for now thank you.’
And with that Satina nodded obediently and left and he was alone again.
Bond moved to the window and looked out, his thoughts turning to what Jano had told him before he had killed her back in St James’s Palace during the Troubleshooter affair.
‘Apocalypse, James,’ she had said. ‘The man you seek is called Apocalypse.’
He now had no doubt that Melhem Sabah was in fact Apocalypse. The only question though was the hell was he going to do about it...
The red ridges and deep depressions of the Libyan Desert beyond went on forever and his thoughts naturally turned to those of escape.
To begin with, he was definitely on dangerous ground here and his only way out of this place, if the worst came to the worst, would be by chopper, he reflected as he relished his Martini.
But then again, where the hell would he fly to?
The British Embassy was located on the 24th Floor of the Burj Al Fateh building which was somewhere in central Tripoli. Getting there would be a bloody gauntlet in itself though considering the fact that he had no idea whatsoever where in God’s name he was at the moment.
Bond had no choice but to play things by the cuff again and act according to the situation.
The story of his life...
Bond drank the lingering Martini and went into the shower room. There was everything he needed – shower soap, shampoo, electric razor, aftershave lotion, tooth brush and tooth paste and deodorant.
He shaved and had a cold shower after which, completely naked, Bond lay down on the bed and closed his eyes…
He awoke at around six thirty in the evening feeling good, rested.
It was dark and he got up and switched the lights on. He found a neatly folded shirt, slacks and brand new desert boots on the dressing table.
Satina must have come back whilst he was asleep and left them there.
Bond looked down at his naked body and remembered that he’d fallen asleep that way.
Serves her right, he thought with a wicked smile. She should have knocked...
He got dressed and satisfied that everything fitted perfectly, fixed himself a drink in lieu of a strong coffee and stood by the open window enjoying the cool evening breeze.
It was a couple of moments later when he knocked back the drink, crossed to the door and went out.

* * *

Al Hasarran was quite dark, cold, but most of all imposing.
The floors were covered with very old terracotta tiles, and candles and oil lamps provided dim light as he descended the wide staircase.
The walls were richly decorated with a number of Persian and Libyan carpets and there was a large quantity of beautiful oil paintings depicting various birds-eye views of Libya.
It was probably built during the twelfth century, he observed, as a major fortification against any attack by Christian invaders, as well as serving as a school for Christian prisoners of war who were forced to accept Islam. From the beginning, these Christian prisoners, mainly boys, were subjected to a well planned system of education through which they were fashioned into the most ardent defenders of Islam and of the Sultans of Constantinople. The boys, who through circumcision were immediately accepted into the Islamic faith, were then selected and the most physical and talented among them were assigned to train for the elite corps of the Ottoman Empire: the Janissaries.
It was in places like this that they were then taught how to master the sword and the cruel arts of war, to fight and kill in the name of Allah…
During his walkabout of the castle, James Bond came across a couple of armed guards but none of them stopped him which was fine by him. There were a number of wide corridors and lodgings and after about ten minutes looking around, he came to the Great hall on the northern side, cut out from dark red rock. No doubt recently renovated like most of the castle, it was elegant and rich with baroque ornaments, French furniture and a wide open fire place. Giant tapestries and mural paintings, along with a number of swords, pikes, shields and pieces of Janissary body armour decorated the walls. There were three comfortable club chairs, upholstered in green leather, and the lighting came from several oil lamps fixed on the walls.
Bond crossed over to one of the barred windows and looked out into the courtyard below where the silver helicopter waited. Three armed guards patrolled the lush grounds around it with dogs...
‘Good evening, James,’ came a voice from behind him.
Bond turned.
Nadesh Sabah stood in the doorway opposite looking quite stunning in stone-washed jeans, knee high boots and a plane white shirt open at the front. Her hair was tied back, a pair of diamond studs but no other jewellery.
‘I trust you had a good rest,’ she said.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I only got to know you were alive last night, can you believe it.’
He said nothing to that and she could feel his bitterness.
‘I received a call just before you broke into Stavros’ villa. I had a man watching the place who told me you were alive. I had no idea. My father told me you’d died in a car crash somewhere outside London.’
‘Well now you know your father’s a liar.’ Bond told her.
‘Yes. He deceived me in the worst possible way. But the important issue is that you are in fact alive and well.’
Bond breathed in deeply and sighed heavily, his face and eyes stone hard.
‘You do understand the bastard’s mad don’t you,’ he told her.
Her face turned pale at that.
‘He’s my father, James.’
‘Did you know he waged one million dollars to have me killed?’ Bond snapped.
‘I swear to you, James, I did not.’
‘Well, Dante Stavros was the man who organised it and before he was conveniently killed last night he told me your father is planning a terrorist attack on Europe. Something your father refers to as the Apocalypse Agenda. ’
‘That’s preposterous, James.’
‘Is it? What about the Shaheel Peshant?’
Nadesh crossed over to a drinks tray, fixed two glasses of Scotch and when she finally turned back to face him, held his eyes in her own.
‘My father is not a terrorist, James.’
‘Wasn’t it you who told me this morning that ‘students’ here are trained how to master the gun and the bomb, to fight and kill in the name of the Shaheel Peshant?’ Bond said as she handed him the Scotch. ‘Terrorism by another name perhaps?’
‘My father set up the Shaheel years ago to fund and train men and women from a number of countries in Africa that are afflicted by war. We help them fight their corrupted governments, that’s all. They’re freedom fighters, not terrorists.’
Bond sipped some of his drink and shook his head, unmoved.
‘Sophisticated weapons, training, safe houses and living expenses, probably international travel, false identities and documents,’ he said. ‘The hallmarks of terrorism.’
‘As a sixteen year old Lebanese boy who saw his parents hung from a lamp post by the military just because they voiced their dissent against the government there, my father knows first hand what the cruelty of war can do in these type of countries. He has dedicated his life to do what the West has constantly failed to do in situations like these. Somalia, Rwanda, Dharfur, Eritrea, to name but a few. Millions of people have died because of the atrocities by the governments there. Millions of dollars are spent each year to buy weapons which are then used against their own people. Now is all my father does is provide training, weapons and funding to the people of these countries who decide to fight back but have no resources to do so. He is a philanthropist, James, not a terrorist.’
‘A philanthropist who pays one million to have me killed,’ Bond said. ‘Now that is one for the good book.’
‘James, nothing in this world can justify what he did to you. I will never forgive him for that. But he was desperate. He was threatened. I’m all he has in this life and that led him to do what he did. He has now lost me for that though, lost me for good.’
Bond crossed to the window and looked out again.
‘Something isn’t clicking, Nadesh,’ he said without looking at her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do the words ‘please don’t move, James, or my men’ll have to shoot you dead’ mean anything to you? You told me that last night before bringing me here.’
‘I was being dramatic, James. Come on, surely you didn’t believe me.’
‘I really don’t know what to believe, Nadesh. I’ve learnt the hard way to be sparing when it comes to trust - especially in situations like these.’
‘James don’t be stupid. I’d never do anything to harm you.’
He turned to face her.
‘Why did you have Stavros killed then?’
‘I didn’t, James!’ She retorted. ‘The Barbajans did that. I requested that they stop you before you got to the airstrip. As you know things went horribly out of control. I suppose I should have known really considering they’re one of the most violent groups in Libya. However, I couldn’t let you leave and they were the only help I could get at the time.’
She looked down at the floor, her eyes quite sad, her face a painful picture.
‘I’m telling you the truth, James, I swear to you. When I left you back in Jamaica it was the biggest mistake I’d ever made in my life. I wanted to come back, to share what we had again but most importantly to tell you that I loved you. I don’t know how it happened but it did. My father stopped me though. He went mad at the idea of me leaving him and then he told me that you had died in a horrible accident back in London which is when my whole world collapsed. I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. It was all my fault.’
She was crying and she was beautiful and he felt what he had felt back at Shamelady, that night on the beach. The desire, the passion, the want, the need.
They were suddenly there again, under that wonderful full moon, the warm sand on their backs, the bright stars, silver pinholes, gleaming brightly in the black, velvet sky...
He wanted so badly to believe she was innocent in all this but something in the back of his mind nagged him not to though.
‘Where is your father now?’ he said after a while.
‘France. He arrives here in two days.’
‘Listen to me, Nadesh. There’s more to your father’s business than you seem to know yourself. A year ago a criminal organisation called the Marcuzzi Syndicate was coordinating a very big drug deal with the Shaheel, which thankfully never got off the ground. British Intelligence found out about it and has been concentrating all its resources in finding these two organisations and bringing them down, once and for all. Your father is not what he’s made himself out to be.’
‘I can’t believe that, James. I can’t believe…’
‘Nadesh, I work for the British Intelligence Service,’ Bond said, cutting her off. ‘When we met back in Jamaica I was retired. I was called back for active service though and reinstated shortly after you left. When I got out of hospital a month ago I was sent over here to locate the Marcuzzi. We’ve had Stavros in our sites for sometime. He was my lead to that organisation. It turned out he worked for your father.’
‘I know that. He was being hired to train eight Rwandan Buto fighters who are here at Al Hasarran at the moment. The Shaheel is funding their cause. My father…’
‘I’m not disputing that, Nadesh. But Stavros knew far more about the Shaheel Peshant and your father than you apparently do. This Apocalypse Agenda is a reference to the attack your father is planning against Europe. I don’t know why he’s doing it and I don’t know when it’s going to happen but I am going to find out, one way or the other.’
‘Ok, James, let’s say you are right. Can you tell me where all this puts us? If, of course, there is an us.’
‘Nadesh, it depends entirely where you stand. That’s all I can say.’
‘Which means you want me to betray my father, right?’
‘I’m asking you to do the right thing.’
Bond crossed over to the drink tray and poured himself another Scotch, a double this time.
‘I need to know if your father knows I’m here?’ he said after a long moment.
‘He doesn’t.’
‘Which gives me two days to find out what he’s planning. Can you help me contact my people in London?’
‘Can’t we simply leave all this behind us, James?’ She said suddenly, her voice somewhat desperate. ‘I’ve never felt so sick before this. It’s just too much to take in. Please, let’s take the chopper and get out of here. We could go back to Jamaica and start again, find what we lost and take it from there.’
‘Nadesh, your father will never let go of you. There’d be no place on earth where he wouldn’t find us. If his organisation is as big as we believe it to be he has men everywhere. We’ll always be looking over our shoulders. Whatever has to be settled has to be settled here at Al Hasarran before we even think of looking for what we had before you left that day.’
‘You’re very cruel, James,’ she said. ‘I can see that now. But then you’re a spy, aren’t you? And spies can be very cold, can’t they.’
‘If I don’t stop what you’re father is planning then a lot of innocent lives might be lost. I have a job to do and I’m going to do it. I have no choice.’
She nodded resignedly. ‘I will help you in any way you require. You are the man I’ve fallen in love with and I’ve already lost you once; there’ll not be another time. Now come, let’s eat and then I want to show you something…’

*

[Harry Fawkes]

7
Queen's Regulations

London (Earlier)
It had turned rather cloudy that afternoon as the black Daimler turned through the gates. It dropped the Colonel outside the Cabinet Office’s main building at 70 Whitehall, adjacent to Downing Street, and a young man in a light grey suit greeted him. He led him upstairs along a carpeted corridor to a white door directly opposite the entrance to the Devonshire Room and he was shown to a comfortable chair in the outer office.
Colonel Jackson was sixty-four, of medium height with broad shoulders under a Burberry coat which he wore over a dark blue three piece suit and white shirt, the 22nd Special Air Service Regimental tie perfectly knotted at his throat. He had the dark ruthless face of a man who had seen everything there is to see, and more, much more.
It was several moments later when the young man reappeared from the door opposite.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Colonel,’ he said. ‘The Committee will see you now.’

* * *

The Joint Intelligence Committee is the part of the British Cabinet Office responsible for providing co-ordinated intelligence assessments in the fields of security, defence and foreign affairs. It oversees the setting of priorities for the UK's four main intelligence and security agencies, not to mention their performance. The JIC's main task is to produce top-level all-source intelligence assessments for UK ministers and senior officials.

* * *

The windowless room was large and brightly lit. Original oil paintings by Lord Justin Pontanain-Skye, showing various scenes from English country life, and a particularly large map of the United Kingdom and Ireland donned the white walls together with a reproduction of HM The Queen overlooking a long glass table that faced the door and that was positioned in the centre of the room.
The Committee, which now sat on one side of the table in comfortable light brown leather chairs, was made up of six top officials from the British Intelligence and Security agencies.
The Chairman, Lord Nigel Desprat (OMM), sat in the centre writing down in a file, while the Honourable General Secretary, Sir Harry Fenton (DG MI5) sat on his right.
The other members were on both sides of them and consisted of Sir George Bletchley-Flynn (DG DS7), Sir William Shaw (DIS), Lady Janet Markstein (GCHQ) and, last but not least, Claude Wimsey (DG SB).
‘Do sit down, M,’ Lord Desprat said when the Colonel came through. ‘This shan’t take too long I hope.’
The Colonel took the single leather chair facing them and sat back comfortably, a black leather briefcase at his feet.
‘You do understand why you’ve been summoned here?’ Lord Desprat told him, a short, silver haired, plumy old man in a pin striped suit, maroon handkerchief in his breast pocket.
His half moon glasses seemed to accentuate his bright red face.
The Colonel’s ruthless eyes looked him hard and long.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Which is quite surprising considering the events that took place last night.’
It was Sir William Shaw who spoke next and the Colonel immediately sensed that his mood was belligerent.
‘And you think this exercise is futile, is that what you’re saying, Colonel Jackson?’
William Shaw, the Colonel thought, if anybody was out for his job then it most certainly was him. In fact, they had already crossed swords once in the past during the Riesha Goethe affair...
‘What I’m saying is that there are more important issues facing us at the moment than Sir James Malony’s report.’
‘Oh?’
‘Need I remind you all that the two Antiproton Energy Bombs that were stolen last night from the Americans are the most powerful weapon ever known to man, and that they are now in the hands of terrorists. Shouldn’t we be concentrating all our efforts there?’
Again it was Sir William who spoke.
‘Rest assured we are, Colonel, which is why we’ve also taken the liberty of appointing your Chief-of-Staff to act as head of the double O division in your absence. We’re sure he’s more than capable of running things without you. This disciplinary hearing is…’
‘On whose authority was such an order issued?’ the Colonel hissed.
‘This Committee’s,’ Sir William told him. ‘Call it damage limitation if you will.’
‘Damage limitation? What the bloody hell are you talking about?’
Sir William was about to open his mouth to speak but the Chairman cleared his throat, sensing the tense animosity between Shaw and the Colonel.
‘Colonel Jackson,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to the point shall we. Your decision to reinstate agent Double O Seven onto the active service list after several months in hospital recovering from two nearly fatal gunshot wounds, not to mention sending him off to Libya to track down the Marcuzzi Syndicate, raises a damn lot of questions.’
The Colonel breathed in deeply as if to steady himself, but said nothing.
‘Have you heard from Commander Bond yet, Colonel?’ asked Lady Janet Markstein, interrupting the tense silence.
‘No,’ the Colonel said simply.
‘And how long exactly has he been off the so-called radar?’ Claude Wimsey asked.
‘Almost thirty six hours.’
Sir George Bletchley-Flynn leaned forward in his chair and spoke,
‘According to our information, Colonel, HMS Conquest had to leave the pick-up point to move back into international waters an hour after Bond was due back. That could only mean something must have gone wrong - that Bond could be in deep trouble.’
‘Or worse still, dead.’ Sir William put in for good taste.
The Chairman shifted uncomfortably in his chair, flushed with irritation.
‘Not to mention captured,’ he said, almost sotto voce. ‘My God, M, such a situation doesn’t even bear thinking about. Colonel Qadafi would have a field day embarrassing us with the international community. I can even imagine the headlines. British spy caught operating illegally in the Socıalıst People's Libyan Republic. The PM’d go mad especially since we’ve fully restored diplomatic relations with Libya.’
Sir William Shaw fussed with some papers, a ghost of a smile on his face. He was relishing the Colonel’s apparent downfall.
For a moment there was a tense silence in the room and all the members of the committee settled their gazes on M.
‘As Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, and I’m sure I speak for all those present, I find your decision quite irresponsible.’ Lord Desprat continued. ‘It is a fact that Commander Bond was not fit to undertake such a task and by sending him out there, not only did you compromise him but you compromised Her Majesty’s government.’
‘Commander Bond knew exactly what he was getting into,’ M said. ‘He also knew what the consequences would be if anything went wrong, all my agents do. That’s part and parcel of the job. Bond is one of my best men and an agent with a background experience second to none. My decision to give him official sanctioning on the Stavros affair was based on the fact that he would have still gone out alone had I not. Besides, considering the Double O Division is made up of twenty agents, Double O Seven included, not to mention four of whom have only just been given Double O status, how could I not have accepted his services, especially given the fact that the Prime Minister himself issued directives that the locating and bringing down of the Marcuzzi Syndicate receive top priority?’
‘That is beside the point,’ Sir William Shaw told him sharply. ‘You could have sent someone else to Libya instead and kept Bond…
‘You are beside the point, Sir William!’ M had raised his voice, cutting him off in mid sentence. He’d had enough of him for one day. ‘I run the Double O Division and such a decision was mine and mine alone to make.’
‘Colonel Jackson!!’ Lord Desprat called out, his cheeks turning bright red. ‘May I remind you that this is the Joint Intelligence Comit…’
‘May I remind you of the Queen’s Regulations and Orders, Lord Desprat,’ M said cutting him off abruptly. ‘The Secret Service Act, 1985, Section 36, Paragraph 4.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The Colonel opened his leather briefcase with his good hand and produced a thick red manuscript. He leafed through the pages and after a few moments, paused then read out loud.
‘It shall be lawful for the head of the Double O Division to make regulations or orders with respect to the establishment, government and discipline of such division, or any part thereof the terms, conditions and extensions of service and the discharge and training of, reinstatement and hitherto deployment of any member of such division or any part of or unit thereof and with respect to all matters and things relating to the duties and responsibilities as handed down directly to such by the Prime Minister of the day. Such provisions supersede any other intelligence or security service, unit or committee in order to reach such aim under this act.’
A deafening silence fell then and M looked directly into Lord Desprat’s eyes.
‘In other words, Sir, my division is sovereign from any other service or committee relating to Intelligence and Security matters,’ M told him. ‘Which I am sure you will agree explicitly means that I am answerable directly and exclusively to the Prime Minister himself.’
‘I must protest!’ Sir William spat.
‘That is your privilege, Sir William.’ The Colonel told him. ‘But for now you will just shut up!’
Lord Desprat opened his mouth as if to say something but then thought better of it as M continued.
‘You may forward any assertions with regards to the return of Commander Bond to active service and my decision to send him out to Libya with Downing Street, but as things stand, gentlemen, I'm sure you will all agree that the law is on my side.’
M stood up then.
‘Now then, Lord Desprat, you will call my Chief-of-Staff and rescind this committee’s illegal appointment forthwith.’
And with that, Colonel Jackson took his briefcase and walked out…

* * *

[Harry Fawkes]

8
Excursion to Hell

It was a few minutes before midnight when Bond and Nadesh left Al Hasarran on two black horses, riding out of the large wooden gates at a fast gallop.
It was a beautiful night, the full moon shining brightly, the desert around them mystifying, alluring. The air was quite cool now and Bond wore a light blue cardigan. They’d just finished dinner and were now on their way to visit what Nadesh had called ‘Id Dmuh ta Allah’.
What exactly that meant Bond had no idea.
He looked at her as she rode her steed - the arched back, the blue black hair blowing in the wind towards him, the wonderful sight of her lean thighs between the horses back, not to mention her perfectly rounded backside in the tight jeans, bounding up and down with each hurtle.
Bond smiled roguishly.
About twenty minutes later they rode over a large sand dune and came to an oasis in the middle of this vast ocean of desert. It had appeared as if from nowhere, magical, out of place in this empty yellow void.
Bond could hardly believe his eyes at the beauty he was faced with. Palm trees, fresh and luminous, green bushes, bright and strong; exotic wild flowers and plants of every colour and description. All of which bordered a wide and long pool of calm, dark water.
Heaven in hell...
Nadesh dismounted and stretched after the ride.
‘Id Dmuh ta Allah, James,’ she said as Bond moved in beside her. ‘The tears of Allah.’
‘It’s very beautiful,’ he said.
She walked up to the water’s edge and sat down. She grabbed a stone and threw it in, the ripple it caused grew wider and wider until finally settling as if it never had been.
There was something remarkable about this whole picture, Bond thought, remarkable and captivating.
‘Are you going to kill my father, James?’ Nadesh asked softly, breaking the serene silence.
He sat down beside her.
‘Whatever your father is planning has to be stopped. How is another question.’
She nodded.
‘You know, I didn’t think a man could touch me as deeply as you did, James. After Jamaica I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I thought about you every single moment; of how it would have been.’
She looked at him for a long moment.
‘I couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, your touch, your kisses, the way you made love to me that night on the beach.’ She suddenly gave out a little laugh. ‘I know it had started as just a one night stand but...’
Bond lit one of the Libyan cigarettes she had given him back at Al Hasarran and breathed in deeply. He looked down at the glowing tip when he blew out the stream of dirty smoke. They were too mild for his liking but in the absence of his beloved Moreland Specials, beggars couldn’t be choosers…
‘Fate has a strange way of playing with lives,’ he said at last.
‘Fate is a cruel bitch.’
There came the call of some mysterious night bird, somewhere in the trees.
Bond brushed a lock of hair away from her beautiful eyes, looking deep into them. They were pools of warmth, of passion, of want and he cupped her face in his hands and bent down to kiss her full lips. Their tongues met and they kissed passionately for a long overpowering moment …
‘Tell me about yourself, Nadesh,’ Bond said when they finally came up for air. ‘I want to know who you are. I want to know everything about you.’
‘I was born in a small place called Jbeil in Lebanon, James. My family had a villa in the mountains there where I ran wild and free till the age of twelve. My mother, an American, taught French in one of the universities just before the troubles started. As for my father he was one of the biggest shipping magnates in Lebanon – Sabah Shipping. He had taken over from his father. All in all, life could not have been sweeter.’
‘I can imagine you – a wild, naughty little girl in the mountains, a little terror – no doubt picking on the boys and giving them a rough ride for their money.’
‘Yes, but that little wild mountain girl was soon sent to university where she had to study mechanical engineering, believe it or not. Mechanical engineering and Greek history. Anyway, in 1980 life took a turn for the worse. The world I loved so dearly changed drastically. My mother was killed during a fire fight between an Israeli Special Forces Unit and the PLO in Beirut. She was on her way home from University and her car was hit by an RPG7. Well, James, soon after that my father and I fled Lebanon to America where we settled down. Things had turned nasty, very nasty and to stay was to court danger. My father invested most of his money in electronics and soon became one of the richest men in the IT and Engineering Sector. As for me…’
‘You ended up designing one of the most stunning yachts I’ve ever set eyes upon.’
‘The Prometheus. Yes, the pride of my life.’
‘What about relationships? Surely a woman like yourself has a long list of admirers at your door.’
‘What can I say, James, I’m quite choosy when it comes to men. True, I’ve had my fair share of messy affairs. I mean, God, that’s the story of my life. The fact is nobody ever touched me the way you did though. Not only physically but also inside where it counts most.’
Bond pulled on his cigarette and looked out at the dark pool beyond.
He thought of the many other women who had crossed his path throughout his life, the many women whom he had loved in one way or the other.
So much love and passion shared.
And now, enter Nadesh Sabah.
Where did this wonderful creature stand with the others?
What was she to him?
He had met her several months ago back in Jamaica when he had just come out of a rather messy relationship himself. They had shared something exquisite together, true, but was that something exquisite enough to stand for love, or even the hint of it?
When she had left and he had embarked upon the Troubleshooter affair back in London he had erased her from his mind; had moved on. So what could all this mean?
Nadesh had fallen in love with him, that much was sure - but what about him? Did he have feelings for her? Enough feelings to build love on?
He had genuinely believed that what he and Sam Bernier had shared was love but somehow it had gradually dissipated throughout the months they had lived together. Both of them had just given up their jobs as spies which had put a terrible strain on their relationship.
But with Nadesh, things could be different, he edged himself...
Things could perhaps work out. She was willing to leave her world behind her, for him. She had said so back at Al Hasarran. Is all he’d have to do is leave his world behind, just as he was going to do for Tracy, leave the world of killing and espionage behind him and apply for a desk job, concentrate on building a family…
The question was, was she worth it?
‘What about you, James? Tell me something about you.’
He sighed heavily.
‘I don’t want to bore you,’ he said.
‘Seriously, James.’
Another deep pull from the cigarette.
‘My father was Scottish and my Mother Swiss,’ he told her. ‘As a boy I spent much of my early life abroad with them. Unfortunately, they were killed in a mountain climbing accident and I was sent to live with my Aunt in Kent, a fine woman, full of love and warmth. She practically brought me up, educated me, taught me how to live again. I joined the Royal Navy after college and later went on to British Intelligence where I’ve been ever since.’
Bond smoked again and when he blew out the smoke, watched it disperse magically into the clear night air.
‘I was married once too, rather briefly mind. My wife, Tracy, was killed by a mad man called Blofeld. The bullets were meant for me.’
She looked at him and couldn’t help noticing the sadness in his eyes.
She was in his arms then, looking up at his handsome face, her back resting upon his laps, his cruel lips and cold grey-blue eyes smiling down at her and he bent down to kiss her again, this time with a violent passion. Her arms embraced him lovingly, her fingers caressing his back. She moaned softly with pleasure and she turned her face away from his, disengaging from his kiss, offering him her neck which he kissed. She smelt beautiful, Jasmine and Rose. He slipped a hand up her shirt and cupped her left breast, her nipple between his fingers…
‘James, am I not worth it?’ she asked softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Am I not worth leaving whatever business you have with my father behind you? Can’t you see I’m offering you nothing but love? Take it, James. Let’s leave all this behind us. My father, whatever he’s planning, your job. Let’s turn our backs on them all. Let’s think of ourselves and ourselves alone. I beg you, James. Surely you can see that I’m worth it. I am yours.’
Bond said nothing, just looked down at her.
‘Can’t you just call your people and give the job over to someone else in your Service? Please.’
Bond thought about it.
Give the job over to someone else.
What would M say to that?
Why not though? Why not pursue Nadesh’s love?
He was about to say something when a sudden noise distracted him. It was the sound of oncoming vehicles in the distance...
He turned and saw four bright lights cutting through the darkness further on, headlamps.
‘What’s going on,’ Nadesh said and they got up.
Two Land Rovers came to a halt further on and six men dressed in black robes and black and whiter headscarves disembarked.
They carried rifles, AKs.
Bond watched them approach, a bad feeling to it all.
The leader, Ali Hamid, came forward, a slight smile on his rugged face.
‘What’s happened, Ali?’ Nadesh asked him, concerned.
‘Your father called ten minutes ago,’ he told her and eyed Bond eerily. ‘He’s quite angry that he wasn’t informed of Mr. Bond’s arrival here. To say he is on a rampage would be an understatement.’
Nadesh made to move forward but the five men accompanying Ali Hamid raised their rifles at her.
‘What on earth is this? Have they forgotten who I am, Ali?’
‘Of course not, Nadesh. They just have strict orders to detain you. You will fly out to the Prometheus first thing in the morning.’
Hamid turned to Bond.
‘As for you, monsieur, your holiday here in Libya is over. Having said that, I am sending you off on a pleasant excursion though. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Oh,’ Bond said, sensing something bad coming his way. ‘Where to, or can’t you say?’
‘Where else but to hell, monsieur Bond.’ Ali Hamid turned to one of his men. ‘Take him.’
The tallest of the six moved forward and suddenly smacked Bond violently across the head with the butt of his rifle.
He fell back unconscious and Nadesh cried out,
‘No!’
Ali Hamid beckoned two of his men who took her between them.
‘My dear Nadesh,’ Hamid said softly. ‘There was no way I could hide this from your father. He would have had my head.’
She looked at him with pure hate in her eyes.
Hamid turned to his men.
‘Take them back to Al Hasarran.’

* * *

When Bond regained consciousness he was naked on the cold stone floor and in what looked like a cellar, the walls wet with moisture. When he stood up he noticed a well in the centre, a low round brick wall and a natural fibre rope suspended from a winch machine fixed to the ceiling.
He made a quick damage assessment.
Apart from the wretched throbbing at the side of his head he wasn’t too bad.
He looked around.
No windows, just a great oak door on his left.
His mind started racing fast now but his thoughts were soon interrupted when the oak door opened and the man called Ali Hamid walked in accompanied by two armed men.
‘Ah, monsieur Bond. I’m glad you are up and about.’
His smile revealed gleaming teeth.
‘Where’s Nadesh?’
‘In her room resting.’
Ali Hamid lit a cigar.
‘You are a very lucky man, you know. I mean, to have survived those two shots back in London several months ago. Allah indeed looked down favourably on you. Not this time though I think, eh?’
‘What is it you want?’ Bond asked.
‘That’s the worst part of it all I’m afraid. You see we actually don’t want anything from you. We know who you are, why you are in Libya and everything else about you.’
‘Which leaves us where, exactly?’
‘Melham Sabah wants to talk to you, facia a facia. He is flying out here from the Atlantic as we speak. In the meantime, I have been instructed to make you as comfortable as possible.’
Hamid looked over at the well and his eyes glittered and in that one single moment James Bond knew what was in store for him.
‘Sixty feet deep with about four feet of very cold water, monsieur Bond, but unfortunately please do not expect room service.’
And with that, one of the men moved in and shoved Bond’s hands behind his back whilst the other covered him.
He guided Bond over to the well and the suspended natural fibre rope.
Bond felt the rope cut into his wrists as the man tied him up.
He looked up at the winch machine suspended up there on the high ceiling then at Hamid.
‘I don’t know who you are but I do know I am going to kill you,’ Bond told him and Hamid noticed the look in his eyes, the look of a true killer.
‘I’ve read a lot about you, Bond,’ Hamid told him. ‘You are the best at what you do and I am honoured with such a threat.’
He nodded and the man near the wall pressed a button on a small panel and Bond’s arms were drawn up behind him until his whole body was suspended a few feet off the floor over the well.
‘Oh, and watch out for the rats, monsieur Bond,’ Ali Hamid called. ‘I wouldn’t let one of them bite you now. We wouldn’t want you catching any horrible diseases.’
He was lowered down.
The whole ordeal was very painful and he felt his arms tearing out of their sockets. He gritted his teeth and glanced up to see the man called Ali Hamid peering down at him.
What was it he had said?
An excursion to hell?
It had suddenly gone dark, very dark and the smell down there was awful. After a few more moments he felt his feet touch the very cold water and then he was static, standing waste height in complete darkness, naked, hands still tied behind his back.
Something brushed across his left buttock and swam away with a splash.
If there was one thing James Bond hated, it was definitely rats…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

9
The Thousand Faces of Darkness

James Bond had found a narrow ledge to sit down on. His head was now bowed; chin resting on his chest and eyes closed.
Not that it mattered, his eyes being closed that is – it was so dark down there that open or closed made no difference at all.
Cold and dark, he thought.
How many times had he been in situations like this one throughout his career? How many times had he succumbed to the madness of other men in the form of physical and psychological torture?
How long was it going to be when his body or mind finally failed him?
Bond’s head lifted and his eyes opened to look up. They were drained, his face drawn and nothing but the thousand faces of darkness stared back at him and it chilled his soul.
He’d been down there for about twelve hours now and it genuinely seemed like forever. He sighed heavily and went back to the ‘rest’ position with his chin resting on his chest.
What had they taught him back in the SAS when it came to situations like these? Ah, yes.
The darkness and isolation were his safety. The physical pain and discomfort in contrast were like nothing he had ever experienced before. The agony that now invaded his body and mind, clouding his thoughts, were the worst though.
Nobody could ever be sure how long one could hold out in situations of extreme torture. The secret, though, was mind control. No matter what they did to your body no one could touch you there, inside your mind. It was only a question of emptying the mind of all the pain and fears that filled it, and then finding the spot you can consign your inner self to, a spot where you can escape the brutality of the outside torture.
People called it Ch’i.
Brave words, he thought. If only he could put them into actions this time.
A very cold chill ran down his spine and he shivered.
A few years ago remembering those words would have helped. Had helped in fact, on many an occasion. As for now…
To be tortured just to satisfy the torturer’s sadistic desires was the worst thing. It was horrifying that no matter what he said or did the torment would not stop. The bastards didn’t want information. They were simply doing this because they loved inflicting pain on others, so being granted a reprieve from that pain seemed out of the question...
James Bond suddenly drifted into the soft hands of sleep but it was about ten minutes later though when he opened his eyes with a start.
It was the sound of footsteps, racing towards him...
They were coming.
His heart sank in fear; fear of the unknown.
There were three of them, ugly bastards, thugs and of the worse kind, heavily built, fists of steel.
They battered him savagely.
He fell down into the dirty black water.
How on earth did they get down here?
They kicked him and he screamed out, swallowing the filthy water. He tried fighting them off but to no avail.
One of them, a giant, lifted him up and pulled him towards him, his brutal face only inches away from Bond’s.
The eyes were so evil.
Red slits on a pale, scared face.
He could feel the brute’s breath on his face and it stank like death…
‘You are in hell, Bond, and you’re burning you filthy dog!’
Bond panicked, his heart missed a couple of beats and then there was a violent pain in his chest, a vice-like grip squeezing it.
He couldn’t breath and he looked into those deep red eyes and he fought for breath.
His eyes closed.
Fight Bond, a voice screamed inside his head.
Fight them…
And then all was calm and when he finally opened his eyes again he was in a room, warm, pleasant.
He found himself sitting down on a double bed, the sheets fresh and smelling of lavender. The furniture was old fashioned, old pine, and he could hear laughing and the sound of music coming from outside.
Bond got up and noticed he was wearing shorts, long black woollen socks pulled up to his knees and black shoes with silver buckles and he was a child again...
He walked over to the window and looked out.
The scene before him was beautiful, mountains topped with snow in the distance under the brightest blue sky he’d ever set eyes upon, lush green fields and hills.
Below the window, on a wide porch, a couple of people were sitting down on wooden tables and chairs, drinking large glasses of beer, eating pastries.
A man and a woman were dancing to the pleasant sound of a violin being played by an old man with a white beard and a small dog at the side of his feet.
Where was he?
What was this place?
And then he saw a sign further on, a wooden sign and he looked up at the mountains again, a terrible sinking feeling hitting him hard…
Chamonix.
Bond then realised where he was and his eyes followed the fields up to the great mountain towering above the valley: the Aiguilles Rouges...
They had come here on holiday soon after leaving nasty Russia where his father had been working on a very important engineering project for Metro-Vickers.
This was to be the holiday of a life time.
They had promised him that.
They had promised him that they would be together; no more work for daddy away from home in the soulless city of Moscow and that mother had finally recovered from what they had called a nervous breakdown.
What on earth that meant, young James Bond didn’t know then.
He remembered the lovely time they had shared together here. Walking about in the valley in the mornings, lunch at the Chalet and then just relaxing together in their room, all huddled up in bed.
The evenings were magical, special.
Just to watch mummy and daddy together, in love and taking pleasure in one anther’s company once again was a gift he cherished dearly.
Things had become so difficult back in Russia - the ongoing arguments that almost always ended in tears. The screaming, the endless fights. His mother hated Russia. It had something to do with the fact that she didn’t feel free. She was always complaining that she felt boxed in between four walls with no windows; a bird with her wings wrapped in barbed wire...
He overheard her one night telling his father that someone was watching the house and was following her every time she went to the market or the Park with young James...
Chamonix was different though.
That morning his parents had left him at the Chalet.
They were going for a walk alone, they had told him, a couple of hours is all.
They were meeting someone.
A friend who’d come all the way from Russia to see them.
A Mr. Nierashvy Deshtevof - a very rich gentlemen who had a business proposition for daddy. A business proposition that would take them back to London…
He glanced at his small wrist watch.
They’d already been gone for four hours now and he wondered if he should go out looking for them…
It was then that Bond watched as large dark clouds blemished the bright blue sky.
Soon it got darker and darker and most of all cold, so cold.
He found himself looking across at the Aiguilles Rouges.
He felt his mouth dry up and a tight knot feeling formed in his stomach. He became short for breath. Bond hated this feeling, this wretched feeling of dread at the approaching gloom and doom that he knew was now inevitable. He closed his eyes and wished he wasn’t there, wished he was back in the hole, sixty feet below in the heart of bloody hell, than here in this…hell!
He raised his hands to his face and pressed his palms into his eyes and looked at the dark red blotches against his closed eyelids begging the almighty to take him away from here…
And then came the knock on the door and Bond knew where he was then, knew where his mind had bloody taken him.
Damn you, Bond! Damn you to hell you fool!
Wake up!
He saw himself as a child opening the door and coming face to face with Mrs Betridt Hansmann, the owner of the Chalet.
There were tears in her eyes and Bond remembered that he felt quite unusual looking up at her, expectantly.
He was hoping for some news about his parents.
‘There has been a horrible accident, Her James.’ She had said. ‘Your Mother and Father…They were climbing…Your Mother slipped…Oh, Her James, what a tragedy…’
Bond remembered that he couldn’t understand a word she had said.
He just saw her mouth moving, that’s all.
He had felt rather than had learnt then and there that something horrible had happened to his parents.
Bond turned away from the old lady and ran back to the window and stood there looking out at the cursed Aiguilles Rouges.
He broke down and wept then, silently though, with his back to Betridt Hansmann…
And it was at the specific moment when James Bond opened his eyes back in the well and indeed there were tears running down his cheeks...
‘Bastards!’ he hissed through clenched teeth and went a deathly pale...

* * *

The Double O Division’s Operations Room back at MI6 was a hive of activity which was not unusual considering. It was large and spacious with cinema-sized video screens on the walls surrounding the fifty or so SIS staff who were busy working at the banks of computers, listening through headphones or talking in low tones into telephones and various other communication links to the outside world, recording messages and scrutinizing every scrap of information that came in from their operatives in the field, while senior officers examined maps and spoke quietly to each other.
The SIS senior duty officer, an ex-Parachute Regiment Major, was coordinating everything from a leather chair in the centre of the brightly lit room and when M and his Chief-of-Staff came in, he got up and greeted them.
‘I’ve just been on the phone with the Chief of Operations for DGSE, sir.’
‘So now the Americans have involved the French.’
‘That’s right, sir. Monsieur Bertrand requested we send over whatever intelligence we have.’
‘Not bloody likely. If they want a joint intelligence operation then they can work with the CIA. It’s their show. The fact that the Americans didn’t bother informing us that they were transporting the wretched thing in the first place has upset Whitehall considerably which means we’ll do our own thing on this one.’
M moved to a walled map of the world and looked at the blue flags marking various points.
‘Anyway, what have you got for me, Major?’
‘COMSAT, sir.’ The Major told him. ‘Our listening satellite for cell phone calls in the Middle East. D Section have been working around the clock to analyse transcripts of various recordings dating back to at least three days before THUNDERBOLT was stolen.’
‘And?’
‘They brought our attention to this.’
The Major handed him a file which the Colonel opened and glanced through the contents. He then handed it back.
‘It was intercepted twenty four hours before the operation commenced.’
‘Read it out, Major Bramley.’
‘Right sir. Length of transmission was forty seconds. Two male voices. Language English. First Male Voice: You were supposed to call an hour ago. Second Male Voice: It wasn’t safe at the time. What do you want? First Male Voice: I’m sending you the details now. Second Male Voice: Then why the bloody hell are you calling me? Just send the damn thing. First Male Voice: I have invested millions in this operation. Not calling me when you should have made me nervous. I just wanted to make sure all was going according to plan, that’s all. Second Male Voice: And risk ruining everything. This call could be picked up. Don’t call me again. I’ll contact you at Al Hasarran when Prometheus is safe in our hands. First Male Voice: But… Record of transcript from satellite intercept ends.’
‘And Prometheus swept down from the heavens bringing the gift of fire,’ M said. ‘Where were they when the call was made?’
‘Location of second caller was London whilst the first caller was somewhere in Libya. COMSAT are working on pinpointing exactly where as we speak.’
M turned and looked at his Chief-of-Staff.
‘Libya,’ he said. ‘Which is where Double O Seven is at the moment – if he’s still alive of course.’
‘Are the Americans aware of that transcript?’ Tanner asked the Major.
‘No, sir. The satellite was ours. Having said that…’
‘It’s only a matter of time till they get wind of it,’ M said.
Silence, then:
‘Al Hasarran and Prometheus,’ M said. ‘Very interesting indeed.’
Bill Tanner nodded.
‘Sounds like D Section have found our culprits, what do you think, Tanner?’
‘The whole conversation could mean anything, of course, but considering we have no leads whatsoever I would have to say we’ve just been presented with one of the best bets so far, sir.’
M nodded.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ he said and turned to the Major. ‘Good job, Major. Get your analysts working on those two words. They’re bound to come up with something.’
‘They’re running the call through their system, sir. If we’re lucky we might even get a voice match.’
M looked at him for a moment.
‘Parachute Regiment, eh?’
‘That’s right, sir. 3 Para.’
‘Falklands?’
‘Amongst others.’
‘Of course. Well, as soon as your men come up with something kindly call me.’
‘Sir.’
And with that M and the Chief-of-Staff went back to the lift. As they were riding it up to the ninth floor, M said.
‘Who have we got over there who can help us out locating Bond?’ M asked.
‘Double O Seven mentioned once that he had a friend at the British Embassy there. The wife of the High Commissioner, sir. She’s worked for us before, believe it or not. A long time ago. The Moonraker affair.’
‘Hmmm,’ M grunted dubiously. ‘High Commissioner’s wife, eh? Skating on thin ice, don’t you think, Tanner? What’s her name?’
‘Gala Richards. Used to go by the name of Brand. Ex- Special Branch.’
M thought about it for a moment then spoke,
‘Well, I suppose we could use all the help we can. Off the record, of course. If the JIC got wind off it they’d have my head. Having said that, there’s no way on earth I’m sending over another Double O agent. We’re stretched out as it is.’
‘I’ll give her a call, sir. I’m sure she’ll help.’

* * *

James Bond awakened slowly to the same total darkness as before. He had managed, thankfully, to sleep a dreamless sleep and he stood up and relieved himself. He noticed two rats swimming around him and, hands still tied behind his back, aimed in their direction, hitting one of them on the back before they ducked and swam off to whatever home they went to in that hell-hole.
‘And don’t come back!’ he hissed and sat back down.
How long had he been there? Twelve hours now? Fifteen?
Was it just a matter of time before one of those wretched things went for a bite?
Bond felt like screaming out, which was strange considering his training and past experience in situations like this one. But then again, he thought, the older you get in this job the harder it became. The mind became weaker which opened doors for fear, cold fear, to slip through.
Bond looked up at the gap.
He’d tried loosening the rope that bound his wrists but the goon who’d tied him up was beyond doubt a pro.
He suddenly felt that depressing weight and tight knot feeling coming back to him.
Fight back, James. Do something to stop your mind wandering off into the dark horrors again.
Silence, loud, deafening.
The stench unbearable.
He sighed heavily and his chin dropped onto his chest.
He tried poetry – first reciting it inside his mind, then out loud. Anything to get his mind off it all…
‘Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring? Said the piggy, ‘I will.’ So they took it away and were married the next day by the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, which they ate with a runcible spoon; and hand in hand, on the edge of the sand they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon. They danced by the light of the moon.’
Bond swore violently, feeling absolutely pathetic. He tried some breathing exercises, striving to relax as much as possible, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth, emptying his mind of any negative thoughts…
Poetry.
Poetry, James.
Think of another poem, old man.
Ah, yes, he thought with a cruel smile on his face.
‘Decisions decisions, what should I choose? Spaghetti, Rigatoni, Farfalle, Fellatio? What should I choose? I’m blowed if I know!’
Bond laughed out loud and the intricate engine of his mind drove him back to the day he’d heard that funny poem…
Eton is situated on the opposite bank of the River Thames to Windsor and is connected to it by Windsor Bridge. It lies within the historic boundaries of Berkshire and is a rather small town, largely dominated by the College, an ancient public school which educated many of England's establishment.
To begin with, his time there was brief, undistinguished and bloody boring. It was also a lonely time for Bond and he despised the whole Eton episode tremendously. He boiled it down to the pompous snobbery, the pathetic upper-class cliques, the boring school traditions and the lame lessons and everything else that came with learning.
To sum it all up he was a complete outsider in this closed, upper-class society....
At fifteen James Bond was quite tall for his age not to mention strikingly handsome, already taking considerable trouble with his appearance, much to the annoyance of the scores of so-called ‘dandelion’ boys there, but in particular to the annoyance of his housemaster who somehow saw Bond as an undisciplined spoilt brat and dangerous rebel.
Bond would spend his weekends winding down and lazing about, trying to get away from it all, thinking about his parents and how unfair life was for taking them away from him.
He would walk along the river and sometimes, when the sun was out and the day was warm, lie down on the grass bank.
What did he want out of life, he would occasionally ask himself – what was it all about?
One thing was certain: Eton was not for him.
He needed more, much more…
There was a charming theatre in Windsor, the Theatre Royal, which Bond frequented quite often, always alone. He loved it there. The plays he saw made him forget for a while the suffocating life he was leading and afterwards he would have dinner at one of those small restaurants in Peascod Street and it was as he made his way to one of these restaurants where he met Marriela, a very beautiful half-Italian girl of sixteen.
She was one of the most erotic creatures he had ever set eyes upon in his life.
Simply put, she was stunning, electrifying and his senses flashed into a raging hot fire of desire for her. She’d arrived in England a couple of months before and was staying at her English Grandfather’s house, studying English at one of the local schools in Berkshire. She had long straight black hair, feathered at the sides. Her eyes were smouldering embers and her body was absolutely voluptuous. Bond couldn’t resist walking up to her that evening after the play and asking her to join him for dinner. She’d been walking about with a map in her hands, sight seeing and enjoying the warm evening air.
Marriela had taken a long look at him, sizing him up carefully and after a few moments of hesitation accepted...
Bond smiled at the memory.
It was as they went through the menu that she had come up with that poem.
‘Decisions decisions, what should I choose? Spaghetti, Rigatoni, Farfalle, Fellatio? What should I choose? I’m blowed if I know!’
It was the first time Bond had laughed with heart for a very long time. The poem had come so unexpectedly and after a couple of glasses of wine they were best friends and more…
They used to meet on week-ends and Bond cherished his time with her.
They would take walks along the river, sharing their dreams, planning each other’s lives, joking, sometimes arguing. Passing the time together was the best thing that had happened to him and he took their friendship very seriously.
That Marriela turned out to be his housemaster’s part time maid didn’t bother him one bit…
Bond evoked the night he lost his virginity with her; a night that changed him and his life forever. They had been going out with each other for four weeks now and two Saturdays before summer holidays started Bond plucked up the courage to ask her back to his room. It wasn’t difficult getting in. They just climbed the wall from the fields opposite the river on the eastern side of the College and, merging with the shadows, raced over to the red-bricked building that was his school house...
Once inside his warm room they lay down on his bed, giggling wildly and after a while she guided his hand to unbutton her blouse, revealing round and full breasts, incredibly beautiful.
Bond, mesmerised, leaned over and kissed her on the mouth and she tasted sweet and the kiss grew in intensity as the animal passion inside him broke free.
He moved down to her heaving chest and his warm face brushed her left breast and his mouth found her hardened nipples, her soft gasps exciting him more as he devoured them.
In the flickering light of the candle on the bedside locker he became a ravenous beast and he pulled down her skirt. Marriela was wearing a pair of cotton pants and he peeled them off, his eyes glowing wildly at the site of her. He got up and slipped out of his clothes, fully aroused and they explored each other then, without restraint, taking their time at giving each other deep pleasures.
She finally spread her thighs to receive him and they made electrifying love...
‘Oh, James you were wonderful, my love,’ she had said after, as they lay in each others arms. ‘I am in heaven.’
Bond kissed her, long and deep.
‘I never knew what that word meant until now, Marriela. What have you done to me?’
She laughed softly.
‘I have made you mine, forever, James – Ai perso la tua virginita con me e allora vostro amore sara mia per sempre carro. Mi hai capitto…’
Sweet Marriela – his first ever conquest.
He had never forgotten her. How could he? In the end it was thanks to her that his horrible career at Eton came to an abrupt end. You see, that same night after he had made wild and passionate love to her in his room, his housemaster had caught them as they jumped the wall at four in the morning. It was of course exactly the incident the stupid bastard had been waiting for…
Oscar Wilde once wrote that life is a bad quarter of an hour made up of exquisite moments, Bond thought, and his short time with Marriela had definitely been one. He wondered what happened to her after Eton. Did she go back to Italy after that unfortunate incident? Was she married today? God knows…
Bond’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the rattling of bolts from above and a moment later, the lid covering the well was opened and a great shaft of yellow light flooded in.
‘Are you still with us, Mr. Bond?’ came Ali Hamid’s voice.
The light burned Bond’s eyes.
He stood up, swaying slightly.
‘Yes,’ he shouted. ‘You could say that.’
‘Good, very good. It seems that Mr. Sabah has had a sudden change of heart. He won’t be joining us after all. He’s instructed me to take care of you myself, Mr. Bond.’
‘Did he now?’ Bond said.
‘Just a moment and I’ll explain. Brace yourself whilst my men pull you back up.’
Bond’s heart lifted.
Thank God for that.
They were getting him out of here.
He breathed in deeply and strained his muscles. Hoisting him up would be painful no doubt. He looked up at them expectantly and all of a sudden he was drenched in freezing cold water.
The men at the top had tipped three large buckets of the stuff and Bond fought for breath at the sudden shock of it all.
He screamed out loud, a pathetic defiance at the forces ranged against him.
He could hear laughter from above and the distant voice of Hamid.
‘Sweet dreams, my poor Mr. Bond.’
He heard the lid being placed again and then total darkness.
James Bond, now colder than ever, leaned back against the wall, shaking uncontrollably...

* * *

[Harry Fawkes]

10
Pain

Melhem Sabah’s silver Lear jet landed at Tripoli airport and taxied off the runway to Park 4. He was dressed smartly in silk blue shirt and beige linen trousers. Accompanied by two of his most trusted men, he came down the steps and was greeted by Ali Hamid who had already settled things with Customs, Immigration and the Secret Police who always treated Melhem Sabah as royalty every time he flew in.
The Arab escorted them to the silver Lynx helicopter and a couple of moments later they took off for Al Hasarran.
‘My daughter?’ Sabah asked finally through his mouth piece.
‘She has been taken to your villa in Sardinia,’ Hamid told him. ‘I’m afraid she proved a handful for my men. Two of them ended up with broken wrists. She didn’t want to leave the Englishman. I would have to say she really is in love with him.’
Melhem Sabah looked at Hamid with the devil’s eyes and Hamid looked away nervously.
‘I hope you’ve been keeping him comfortable,’ he said. ‘I’m really looking forward to meeting the pest.’
‘Oh, he’s comfortable alright. The ‘hole’ has that effect on men.’
‘Good.’
‘May I ask how things are going with Prometheus?’
Sabah looked out at the view below.
‘God willing in the next few days they will be ready for our use.’
Hamid smiled.
‘Thanks to the electro magnetic thellion?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ Sabah told him. ‘Our esteemed scientists have managed to get the stuff functioning. It has taken a whole year of hard work but it has paid off. The electro magnetic thellion will replace the mercury igniters and will produce the same chain reaction to set Prometheus off.’
‘Allah be praised then.’
‘The day is coming, Ali,’ Sabah told him and leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘The day the world will be finally cleansed and from the ashes will come a new order. The Order of the Shaheel Peshant.’

* * *

Tripoli is the largest and capital city of Libya. It has a population of 1.69 million and is located in the northwest of the country on the edge of the desert, on a point of rocky land projecting into the Mediterranean Sea and forming a bay. Founded in the 7th century BC by the Phoenicians, who named it Oea, it is the principal sea port and the largest commercial and manufacturing centre in Libya. The climate is typical Mediterranean, with hot, dry summers, cool winters and some modest rainfall. The city's old town is still unspoilt by mass-tourism, though it is increasingly being exposed to more and more visitors from abroad, following the lifting of the UN embargo in 2003. The Assaraya al-Hamra (the Red Castle), a vast palace complex with numerous courtyards, dominates the city skyline. The Gurgi and Karamanli mosques, with their intricate decorations and tile work, are examples of the artistic skills of local craftsmen. Just outside the Gurgi mosque is the Arch of Marcus Aurelius, the only surviving Roman monument in the city. More and more palaces (especially from the Karamanli period) are also being restored and opened to the public.
The British Embassy’s Commercial, Visa, Consular and Management Sections are located on the 24th Floor of the Burj Al Fateh building in central Tripoli. The Political/Economic, Press and Public Affairs Section are located within the Ambassador’s Residence off Sharia al Shatt, parallel to the Corniche road between the Mehari Hotel and the Secretariat for Foreign Affairs...
Gala Richards had just settled down in her comfortable office at the High Commissioner’s residence after seeing her husband off to work. Apart from being a devoted wife, she was also in charge of Press and Public Affairs, a job she loved very much and that morning she had a list of things to do. The call she received on her secure cell phone however changed things completely and had hit her like a bolt from the blue.
‘Gala? It’s Bill Tanner.’
‘Bill. What a lovely surprise. How are you dear? How long has it been?’
‘More years than I can remember regrettably.’
‘What is it Bill? What can I do for you?’
‘It’s James. He’s gone missing in your part of the woods I’m afraid.’
‘I see.’
‘I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t serious.’
‘I understand, Bill. What is it you want me to do?’
‘I hate asking you this but we really need your help to establish where he is,’ he told her. ‘He was with our head of station there: Mulai Raisul. They were looking up a man called Stavros. Dante Stavros. We now believe he’s been compromised.’’
‘Can’t you send someone over?’
‘I wish it was that simple, Gala.’
‘Perhaps my husband…’
‘I’m afraid your husband can’t get involved. This is strictly off the record, even to him. ’
‘Bill!’
‘I know, Gala. It’s a hell of a thing to ask but the fact is the whole thing’s a mess to say the least and we can’t take any chances. We thought perhaps you might have some friendly contacts over there. You know, make some discreet enquiries and all that.’
‘I’ll try my best, Bill, but I’m not promising anything.’
‘Of course.’
‘What about John Duran? Can I use him?’
‘John is your husband’s minder, Gala. Is that wise?’
‘He’s SAS, Bill, I’m sure he knows what cloak and dagger jobs entail and he’s a very resourceful man. He knows people here. People in low places who are just the right sort in cases like this, Bill.’
‘Ok, Gala, but make sure the High Commissioner stays out of it. Again, I know it’s a lot to ask but…’
‘Don’t worry, Bill. I’ll do my best. Now then what are our leads?’
‘I knew we could depend on you. Is all we’ve got is that Dante Stavros has a villa situated on a hillside above a small fishing village called Imhasini. Apart from that...’
‘Imhasini. I know the place.’
‘There is one more thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘Al Hasarran. We need to know what exactly that word means. Our analysts are working around the clock on it but I thought you might be able to come up with something yourself.’
‘What’s going on, Bill?’
‘Well, let’s just say that this is big, Gala. If Bond’s alive we need him back here urgently.’
And with that Bill Tanner cut off.
Gala sat there for a moment taking it all in. She got up and crossed to the window, looking out.
Born in Liverpool to one of Britain’s wealthiest families, Gala Richards’ father had died soon after her third birthday and she was raised after that by her mother as an only child. In spite of their wealthy business in real estate, which her mother was running successfully, Gala chose to join the police force rather than follow in her father’s footsteps and taking on the business which, in the end, came as a shock to her mother, a shock she’d never actually recovered from. Intelligent and brave and having attended some of the best public schools in England, she soon made Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.
She first came across James Bond during the Moonraker affair when she was ‘planted’ on Sir Hugo Drax as a private secretary, to keep an eye on the ‘strange’ goings on at his rocket site down in Dover. This adventure with Bond turned out to be one of the most exciting times in her life. She had gone on though to marry one of her colleagues at Special Branch soon after that episode but her husband unfortunately died sixteen years later from cancer. It had been a horrible time for her and it was then that James Bond had re-appeared in her life, although briefly, several months after the funeral.
Bond had got to know of her loss after getting back to England from a mission abroad, from Bill Tanner who was a very close friend of her mothers. He had called to offer her his sympathy and they agreed to meet for dinner after which he took her back to his flat. What had followed was inevitable. It always was when it came to James Bond. He was that type of man. One look is all it took and he’d thaw her completely, God bless him. After that night she genuinely thought it might just work out with him but what they had shared soon came to an abrupt end.
It was his job naturally. He was married to it, always flying off to far away places and coming back a different man, distant, wounded inside, upset...
That was not what she wanted out of life.
She was the kind of woman who needed a man who would be there for her at all times, not the kind of troubleshooter for Queen and Country that secret agent Double O Seven was.
She missed him of course but that was life.
He was, in the end, the man who could have been…
Gala turned and sat back at her desk.
After a while she took the red phone and spoke to her secretary.
‘I need John Duran here yesterday, Casey. He’s out scuba diving at his usual haunt so send someone over for him would you. ’
‘Of course, Mrs Richards.’
Gala hung up and looked down at the photo of her husband.
‘Cloak and daggers, darling,’ she said softly with a smile of pure excitement on her face. ‘For Queen and country, so I’m sure you won’t mind.’

* * *

James Bond had the devil’s smile on his face when he climbed up the steps and pushed through the swing doors. He was dressed in beige slacks, a white Sea Island cotton shirt, burgundy tie and dark blue double breasted blazer with gold buttons
Blades was located just off St James’s Street.
It is a unique gentlemen’s club and Bond’s membership was a long standing one. He walked up to the porter’s lodge and was greeted accordingly by Brevett who knew him well.
‘Good evening, Commander Bond, your guest is already waiting in the dining room, sir.’
‘Guest?’ Bond raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s right, sir. Arrived fifteen minutes ago.’
He led Bond up a wide staircase and across a stairwell to the magnificent white and gold Regency dining room. A woman was seated alone with her back to him in a corner near the window and Bond’s heart missed a beat as he reached the table.
‘James, you dear rogue,’ Tracy di Vicenzo said and her smile was simply breathtaking. ‘You’re late as usual.’
‘Tracy.’
Bond sat down, feeling light headed at the site of her.
There was an air of absolute unreality to everything now and when he spoke again, his voice was very throaty.
‘W…hat…what are you doing here?’
Tracy reached out and touched his hand.
‘What do you mean, darling? What’s wrong? You look pale all of a sudden.’
Bond swallowed hard.
He was so damned thirsty and it was then that Brevett came over with their drinks. Champaign, the best and ice cold.
He quickly lifted the crystal glass to his lips and it soothed his thirst like nothing he had ever known before.
He drank it down and looked at Tracy again.
‘Is this a dream?’ he asked softly.
‘What if it is, James? Does it matter? We’re together. That’s all that counts, no?’
James Bond lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, looking into his wife’s brilliant blue eyes, her beautiful golden face and shocking pink lips.
‘My God I’ve missed you Tracy. You have no idea how it’s been.’
‘Oh, but I do, James my love. I know exactly how it’s been for you. You suffered so much after that wretched day. I’m so sorry my darling.’
He reached out for her.
‘No. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I should have…’
‘Shhh, James. Let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s not waist our time on the past. Tell me about now, my love. How are things now?’
Bond looked down at the table, eyes sad.
‘Not very good, Trace. I think I’m in a spot of trouble, you see.’
‘What trouble?’
‘I can’t remember. I just know I’m in trouble. Or was anyway.’
Tracy smiled again and it was reassuring, warm, and full of love.
‘James Bond, my dear loving husband,’ she said. ‘When are you going to learn that Her Majesty’s Secret Service has taken so much from you? You’ve sacrificed so much, lost so much. Your life has been full of pain. The time has come for you to leave all that suffering and pain and death behind you. I can’t stand seeing all that pain inside you anymore, James. You’ve got to let go.’
Bond took her face in his hands and kissed her hard and long on the lips. The beauty of it, of this glowing, lingering kiss, sent one of the most wonderful feelings soaring through his very being and that was it he thought. He had been with many women in his life, loved many of them, but none of them came as close as Tracy had.
‘Oh, darling Tracy, you’re so right. Damn them all. Damn M, Bill Tanner, Moneypenny, my licence to kill, the whole lot. Damn them all to hell. I want you. I want to be with you forever, darling. No matter what.’
‘Oh, James, I’ve been waiting so long for this day. You have no idea how hard it has been. Please tell me you’ll never leave me again.’
Bond squeezed her hands tightly in his.
‘I swear to you my beloved wife. Now that we’re together again nothing will separate us.’
He got up then and looked down at her, a new resolve in his eyes.
‘Come on,’ he said and his smile was wide and bright. ‘Let’s get the bloody hell out of here.’
‘Where are we going, James?’
‘My place. I’m going to pack and we’re going to pay a visit to my Aunt Charmian. You’ll love her believe me. You’ll love Kent too.’
He led her out and down the carpeted stairs and as they were about to leave a voice called out to him.
‘Where the devil d’you think your going, double O seven?’
Bond and Tracy stopped in their tracks.
It was Sir Miles Messervey, Bond’s old chief.
He was standing mid-way down the stairs and Bond felt cold as he looked up into M’s shrewd, clear eyes.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Hello my foot!’ M snapped. ‘Get a grip on yourself, double O seven?’
Bond took a step forward, still holding Tracy’s hand.
‘I’m leaving the service, sir. My mind’s made up and nothing you can say is going to change it.’
‘James, my boy, listen to me. You’ve got a job to do which means you can’t just up and leave like this. Too much is at stake.’
‘But, sir…’
‘No buts, James. You’re giving up and that’s wrong. Walking out that door is the easy way out. You still have unfinished business to take care of. What about Melhem Sabah?’
‘Stuff Sabah!’ Bond spat violently. ‘As I said I’m leaving, sir, and there’s no way I’m going to change my mind. I’ve found Tracy again and I’m not risking losing her this time. There are other double O’s. Let them take care of Sabah. I’m through with this life. I’ve given enough for Queen and bloody country.’
M came down and stood a few feet away from Bond. His eyes were somewhat sad which surprised Bond.
‘You know, James, I’ve always looked upon you as the son I never had,’ the old man told him. ‘Every time I sent you out on one of those wretched missions it was as if I was sending my own son out to his death. The fact is I had to, James. Which is what I have to do now and it pains me thoroughly to do so.’
‘But, sir, Tracy…’
‘Is dead, James. And you are not. Not yet, anyway. This is the moment before you die, James. The moment when you either give up or fight back.’
Bond lowered his head.
‘I don’t want to fight anymore.’
‘We all go through that moment of giving up. But you can’t. This isn’t your time, son. You’re not even actually here.’
Bond looked back at Tracy.
She was looking at him with the saddest eyes he’d ever seen and it pierced his heart. The pain inside him was a living thing.
‘Tracy.’
A bright, single tear ran down her left eye and she tried smiling.
‘He’s right, James,’ she said softly. ‘You can’t give up. Not now.’
‘But I don’t want to leave you.’
‘Neither do I, my love. But it just isn’t your time.’
‘James, you’re still in that horrible hole back at Al Hasarran. You’re giving up on life. Right now as we speak. All this is happening inside your mind and if you’re not careful it’ll be the death of you. Snap out of it, son. You’re stronger than this.’
Bond swayed unsteadily, feeling light headed, a sharp pain in his chest.
He looked back at his wife.
‘I have a son, Tracy. His name is James. I can’t leave him alone in this bloody world. Not yet. He’s studying at Eton believe it or not. In my old House. He’s half Japanese and wants to join MI5. I told him if he does well at school I’ll throw in a word for him. His mother died of cancer a couple of years ago so I’m all he’s got...’
‘I understand, James,’ Tracy told him and she was smiling reassuringly.
‘Oh, Tracy. I’m so sorry for everything, my darling. I let my guard down that day. I failed you, miserably and you paid the highest price.’
Tracy moved towards him and held him close to her and he could smell her scent and it sent shockwaves through his being.
‘It’s all right, James. I knew what I was getting into the moment I agreed to marry you. It wasn’t your fault things turned out the way they did.’
They kissed then and James Bond held onto her for dear life.
But stop it did and when he opened his eyes again he was back in the hole...

* * *

Silence.
Deafening.
The cold – biting into him.
He was shivering uncontrollably, crouched there in the corner, hands tied behind his back and when he reopened his eyes they were expressionless.
And then finally, after only God knows how long he heard the rattling of bolts from above and a moment later, the lid covering the well was opened again and that great shaft of yellow light flooded in.
He waited.
‘Still with us, Mr. Bond?’ came a voice, the accent distinctly Arabic – it was not Hamid’s. ‘I hope it is not too cold down there? We’ve brought you something that should give you some warmth. Just a second and we will lower it down.’
There came a ruffling noise and he sensed that they were lowering something down to him.
‘It is tea, Mr. Bond,’ the voice called down. ‘It is good, yes?’
Bond could see an old mess tin, dangling in front of him, the top handle tied to a thin line of rope. It was steaming in the damp air and the sweet smell of it was overwhelming.
He felt a sudden nausea flood inside his entire being.
To drink it was impossible.
He heard them laughing up there and then one of them urinated down through the gap. Soon after, the other guard followed suit.
There was no way Bond could avoid it and he stayed there, crouched in the corner, silent.
‘Soon Mr. Sabah will be here and all this will seem like a nice holiday, Mr. Bond,’ the guard said and the lid was then put back into place.
God, but it was cold, Bond thought and he was shaking all over.
The sweet smell of tea was the real torture though and he breathed in deeply to control himself.
It was then that he remembered what Sir James Malony had once told him, way back in another life time…
‘The power of mind is the sum-total of all the forces of the mental world, including those forces that are employed in the process of thinking. The power of mind includes the power of the will, the power of desire, the power of feeling, and the power of thought. It includes conscious action in all its phases and subconscious action in all its phases; in fact, it includes anything and everything that is placed in action through the mind, by the mind or in the mind. To use the power of the mind, the first essential is to direct every mental action toward a goal in view.’
Crouched there in the corner, chin resting on his chest, his breathing strangely calm and thoughts definitely resolved, James Bond knew fine well what his goal was now:
Bring cold death to Melhem Sabah!
That was a solemn promise.

*

[Harry Fawkes]

11
Dance with the Devil

Time no longer had any sense or meaning. He’d lost track after the first two or three hours. Is all he knew was that it seemed like an eternity and he was uncomfortable and bloody cold.
He’d been through worse of course but as the guard had said: the worst was yet to come.
Bloody boring too, just sitting there with his hands tied behind his back, pitch black staring right at him. He’d even given names to the two rats which graced him with their presence now and then.
Double O Bee and Double O Bow.
James Bond smiled.
Harmless little fellas, mind.
They just swam around him, minding their own business, occasionally glancing up, little shiny, globuley eyes smiling up at him, their teeny weenie noses twitching about as if on a smelling frenzy.
Probably waiting till he dropped dead.
What was he to them? Lunch or dinner?
Bond thought of the dream he’d had earlier.
Tracy, Sir Miles and Blades.
It was amazing how the mind responded to situations like this. Sir James had once said that the mind is a place where man can make his life heaven or cause it to become hell on earth, with one simple thought.
He’d created heaven thinking of Tracy. To see her again, to touch her, to love her one more time, so vividly as it had been in that dream, was gratifying to say the least.
Bond made a quick mental note to thank the guards the next time they appeared…
It was later now, much later and he must have dozed off again, this time a dreamless sleep.
He came awake with a start.
One of the rats was on his left lap and, startled, it leapt off and with a splash disappearing into the black stinking water.
The light appeared above him and this time Ali Hamid leaned over.
‘Mr. Bond? Kindly brace yourself and we’ll have you back up here in no time.’
Bond expected another taunt but soon felt the rope behind him becoming rigid.
The haul up was slow, painful and at one point he thought his shoulders were going to dislocate.
He scraped against the wall a couple of times and when his head finally cleared the brick wall he saw Melhem Sabah standing beside Ali Hamid and two guards further on.
Sabah was smiling when he walked up to Bond.
He looked him over calmly then put a silk handkerchief to his nose.
‘My God, you stink Bond,’ he laughed. ‘Get him out of here and cleaned up. I’ll see to him later.’

* * *

He was taken up to his room where he got cleaned up and dressed into comfortable slacks and shirt. He was given something to eat and drink after which he was taken back downstairs to a stainless steel door that he’d noticed during his walkabout a couple of nights ago. One of the guards entered a code and the door slid open. Bond went forward into an air-conditioned room, large and spacious and beautifully decorated in crimson red. There was a large desk further on behind which Melhem Sabah sat down on a lush leather swivel chair.
‘Ah, James Bond,’ Sabah said. ‘The man who cheats death. Do come in and grab a chair please. We have a lot to talk about but not enough time at our disposal unfortunately.’
There was a single chair in front of the desk and Bond sat down.
‘Facia a facia at last, Mr Bond, isn’t that what they say?’
Bond said nothing.
He still felt weak and the ordeal he’d been through in that hell hole had taken so much out of him, not only physically but mentally too.
The room, he noted was quite bare where ornaments were concerned apart from a couple of dull paintings donning the wall. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling and there were no windows whatsoever.
‘You know, you are not dead yet because my daughter has threatened to kill herself if I kill you.’
Bond just looked at him hard and straight in the eyes.
Melhem Sabah wore a light blue linen suit and white shirt open at the neck. His silver hair, which was shoulder length, was combed completely back with a single lock hanging in front of his left eye, a handsome man with strong cheekbones and cruel lips. The evil in his eyes though was powerful and Bond could feel it oozing out of them. He could almost touch it…
‘The thing is I believe her, Mr. Bond, which is the dilemma I am faced with,’ Sabah continued.
‘Where is she?’ Bond cut in.
‘Safe, double O seven. You don’t mind if I use your designation number, do you? You see I know all about you.’
‘Then you’ll know it’s just a matter of time until my people find you out here and once they do they’re going to come down on you like a tone of bricks.’
Sabah laughed.
‘Your people have no idea about me so spare me the bull, Bond. And even if they did we would be the first to know about it, believe me.’
‘I presume you mean the Shaheel Peshant, right?’
‘We are a new world order, Bond, an organisation so powerful that in the next few days life as you know it on this planet is going to change drastically. How? By bringing down what we in the Shaheel call the American Empire.’
Sabah got up and crossed over to a drinks cabinet opposite and fixed two glasses of Scotch.
‘Oh, I know what you are thinking Bond,’ he said when he handed him the drink. ‘You think I’m crazy.’
Bond swore.
‘Where on earth do you people come from?’ he said sharply. ‘Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard verbal diarrhoea like that from madmen like yourself throughout my years. Believe me I’ve lost bloody count. World domination, new world orders, death to America and the West. My God I’m sick of it.’
Bond knocked back his drink and in one swift action, smashed the glass and was across Sabah’s desk in a flash...
The piece of glass that remained in his bleeding right hand pierced Sabah’s neck and Bond, teeth clenched, eyes wild slits, jerked his hand to the left in one savage swipe, ripping the neck open.
Bright red blood gushed out as Sabah, his eyes almost popping out of his sockets slumped to the floor like a giant rag doll.
He squirmed there at Bond’s feet, his scream choking to a gurgle, both his hands to his neck in an attempt to stop the blood from gushing out.
Bond watched him jerk violently about on the floor in a fit of spasms a terrifying gurgling noise coming from his mouth and bright red blood gushing between his hands.
Double O Seven smiled and there was something in his eyes then – a cold evil that would have put the fear of God inside any man.
‘Blah blah blah, you evil ,’ he said and, covered in blood, lit another cigarette…

* * *

Bond crossed over to the drinks cabinet and poured a generous tot of Scotch into a glass. He gulped it down and poured another.
He looked down at his right hand.
When he’d smashed the glass Sabah had handed him earlier he had cut it and the wound was quite deep.
‘Ah well.’
Bond took a long pull on the cigarette feeling absolutely calm and in control. He blew out a stream of dirty grey smoke, dropped the cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. He then crossed over to where Sabah’s dead body lay.
Searching him, Bond found the man’s mobile phone and a silk handkerchief which he wrapped around his hand to stop the bleeding.
Bond punched in some numbers and sat down on the swivel chair.
‘Universal exports,’ came an unknown voice at the other end. ‘Who is speaking please?’
‘Bond. James Bond. This is top priority. Get me M or Bill Tanner now.’
‘Give me your security clearance code please. This is an open line thank you.’
‘Corporate 85616007. Could you be quick about it? I’m in the middle of something here.’
‘When security clearance is confirmed we’ll call you back on this number.’
Bond swore violently.
‘In the meantime I’ll try and bloody stay alive, right?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Procedure. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Well get the hell on with it then.’
Bond went through the drawer in the desk as he waited, looking through the assortment of files and papers there. After a couple of moments the phone rang.
‘Bond speaking,’ he said.
‘Double O Seven,’ came M’s voice. ‘Thank goodness you’re alive. Where are you?’
‘Still in Libya. An old fort called Al Hasarran. It’s about two hours away from Imhasini. Apart from that, I haven’t a clue.’
‘What happened?’
‘The Marcuzzi weren’t behind the hit after all,’ Bond told him. ‘Stavros led me to Melhem Sabah. He’s running a terrorist group called the Shaheel Peshant. It’s a long story and I don’t have much time. I suggest you target all your resources on his assets and any known associates. The works. His organisation is planning something big. Sabah mentioned bringing down the American Empire.’
‘Where is he now?’
Bond looked down at the dead body and the look of death on Sabah’s face sent a cold chill down his spine.
‘Dead.’
‘Bond?’
‘As I said Colonel, long story. Look, I don’t know if I’m going to make it out of here alive. There are guards everywhere and I’m in the middle of the desert unarmed which doesn’t augur well even if I did get out of this fort. Which means I’m going to need a favour from you.’
‘Go on.’
‘My son. He’s thinking of joining our sisters at ‘Five’, the idiot. Any chance of giving him a hand if I don’t see this through? I wouldn’t have asked, Colonel, but considering my current situation…’
‘Of course I will, James. Listen to me though. We’re setting up a satellite fix on the mobile phone you’re using. We’ve got someone over there looking for you as we speak. They may just get there on time. Can you stay put where you are now?’
‘Out of the question,’ he said. ‘They’ll be coming soon.’
‘Which means?’
Bond smiled cruelly.
‘I’m going to make the Charge of the ing Light Brigade look like a school outing that’s all.’
‘That bad?’
‘Worse.’
Silence for a moment.
‘Well, good luck, James. I know we’ve crossed swords in the past but…’
‘No hard feelings, M. I’ve got to go now. I don’t know what Sabah was up to but he seemed confident that whatever it was, it was going to be big.’
‘We have an idea already, James. From what you’ve revealed it seems this Melhem Sabah was behind the theft of two Anti Proton Energy bombs from CERN.’
‘Anti Proton bombs? Christ, that’s bad.’
‘An understatement to say the least.’
‘Yeah, well...’
‘James, I’ll see you back here,’ the Colonel told him. ‘Alive!’
‘You know, M, I’ve been dancing with the devil to his tune all my life. Well now I’m going to give the bugger a run for his money.’
And with that James Bond hung up.
He stayed there for a moment, thinking it through. When he was finally ready, he got up, took a deep breath and walked to the stainless steel door…

*

[Harry Fawkes]

12
Execution Day

LONDON

M stood with his Chief of Staff in the Operations Room.
They were looking at the satellite reconnaissance data of Libya coming in on the large video wall. They all showed similar views: the ancient fortification called Al Hasarran in the middle of the desert, crystal clear.
It was a couple of moments later when Major Bramley appeared from a glass office opposite and handed M a rather thin file.
‘What’s this?’
‘All the Americans have on Sabah, sir. They weren’t happy mind. Apparently, he’s hot property back in the States. A lot of powerful friends in high places not to mention dinner with the President four days ago. The fact that we’re looking into him has raised the hairs on their necks, to put it mildly.’
‘I see. Which also means they’re not going to take kindly to the fact that an MI6 agent has just killed him.’
‘Unless there is proof he was behind the THUNDERBOLT theft that is,’ Tanner put in.
Bramley smiled. ‘We’ve ran the voice of the recording COMSAT intercepted with the recording of a BBC Radio interview with Sabah when he was last in London.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, it’s him alright. No doubt there.’
M nodded and produced a black and white photo from the file.
‘Tell me all about him, Major.’
‘That’s digicam footage of Melham Sabah in an IT fair in London four years ago.’ Bramley told him. ‘Age fifty-two and one of the richest men in the world, or rather was that is. At the age of sixteen he saw his parents hung from a lamp post by the military. Melhem’s father, a very rich and influential shipping magnate at the time, had been the leader of a political group called Kamal Sahour, a moderate party that controlled the province of Hashid, north of Beirut. Well, after that particular incident, not to mention the death of his American wife during a fire fight between an Israeli Special Forces Unit and the PLO, Sabah fled Lebanon to America where he settled down. He invested most of his father’s money in electronics and soon became one of the richest men in the IT and Engineering Sector.’
‘The perfect example of the American dream,’ Tanner said.
‘The fact is he has absolutely no known connections to any criminal organisation whatsoever,’ Bramley said. ‘In other words, gentlemen, he is absolutely clean in that respect.’
M breathed in deeply and looked up at the video wall, thinking of Double O Seven....
‘What about the other voice on the COMSAT recording?’ he said finally. ‘Any matches yet.’
Bramley nodded.
‘Yes, sir. The voice belongs to a certain Peter Keller.’
The Major moved over to one of the computers and punched a key. A photo of Keller popped up on the screens on the video wall.
‘Ex-British Army, joined up at 17 and was stationed in Northern Ireland. Awarded a medal for bravery when his patrol unit was ambushed in Belfast by an IRA hit squad. Saved the lives of two of his fellow soldiers. Fast tracked to Officer training at Sandhurst and became a Lieutenant. After that came the SAS. Served in East Africa, Bosnia and Iraq. Spotless record and went on to leave the Army with full honours. His quest for action didn’t end there though. He became a mercenary fighting in Angola, Rhodesia and Colombia and last MI5 heard of him was two years ago. He was spotted working as a bodyguard for the infamous Cuban drug baron Pablo Esantos.’
‘Where is he now?’ Bill Tanner asked.
Again Bramley punched a key.
‘Our computer matched the Photostat Info we have on him with video footage of passengers entering passport control from flights leaving Meyrin airport on the night of the THUNDERBOLT theft and it came up with this match.’
The image of a tall, rather well-built fetching man with blond hair and spellbinding dark blue eyes appeared on the screens. He was wearing a very classy, dark blue single-breasted suit, white shirt open at the neck. He walked through to the airport departure lounge where security personnel outside the check-in gate could be seen inspecting his passport.
‘His passport was in the name of Dr Schulhardt Eindermainer - Red Cross Society. He left Switzerland on a Cessna Conquest bound for Los Angeles.’
‘The trolley the other chap’s pushing?’ M asked.
‘Apparently a human heart being flown to Hope General Hospital for a certain Hannah Boldman.’
M moved closer to the screens.
‘The fact that Anti Proton is non-radio active and its chemical signature is that of pure hydrogen, none of the security features in the airport would have detected it – especially concealed in that heart chamber.’
M turned back to Bradley.
‘Did the plane get to Los Angeles?’
‘The Cessna disappeared completely off the radar, somewhere over the Atlantic.’
‘Well, I think its round about time we had a word with my counterparts at CIA and the NSA not to mention every other bloody Intelligence Service out there. I do believe our Mr. Keller is just about to become the most wanted man in the world.’
‘We’re going through Sabah’s assets and resources with a fine comb, sir. I’m sure something’ll come up.’
M looked across at his Chief of Staff.
‘How long did Mrs Richards say it would take her to get to Bond’s location, Chief of Staff?’
‘Two hours from Tripoli.’
M nodded sombrely.
‘We’ve fixed a satellite intercept tab on the mobile phone Bond used to call you, sir, which means we’ll know exactly where he is at any time,’ Bramley said.
‘Hmm, let’s hope Mrs Richards and her man get to him on time though. Two hours is a hell of a long time…’

* * *

James Bond was not afraid to die.
He was certain of that. But more to the truth was the fact that at that moment in time, deep down, he simply didn’t care anymore.
This state of mind was probably why he had gone against everything he’d been taught when he killed Sabah. The rule in his line of work was to keep the villain talking to try and get as much info out of him or her as one could in the hope of revealing the so called ‘master plan’.
Yet sitting there, suffering Sabah’s rant about ridding the world of America had caused him to feel physically sick like never before.
This was the man who had ordered his death back in London and had nearly succeeded so it was only natural that his first instinct would be to kill him.
The opportunity had presented itself and he had seized the moment, as simple and as crazy as that.
Melhem Sabah on the other hand had made the cardinal mistake of receiving Bond alone.
No guards, no defence.
What the hell had he been thinking, that Bond wouldn’t have dared attempted anything?
But what now though? He asked himself.
Fight his way out of this place?
Then what?
Try and get to the chopper outside? Was it even still there?
He looked around the room...
Even if he did succeed getting passed the gauntlet of armed guards, what then?
Where the bloody hell would he go?
So many questions.
Bond thought long and hard.
What about the plane Dante Stavros had mentioned?
If he could get to the airstrip they were driving to before getting into this wretched mess conceivably he could fly the plane out to Malta. If he captured one of the guards then perhaps he could use him for directions to the airstrip just outside Imhasini.
The point of course boiled down to getting through the guards beyond this steel door, he concluded, and in that particular area the odds were dramatically against him – as usual!
Conversely, while it seemed all so stupid even contemplating success out of this shambles he’d gotten himself into, the challenge filled him with a strange excitement.
A soft smile touched his lips and he crossed over to the drinks cabinet.
It was worth a try, he thought as he wrapped a hand around the neck of a bottle of fine Scotch.
He went back to the door and gripped the handle with his free hand, a wild excited look in his grey-blue eyes.
‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,’ he said to himself and went out…

* * *

The guard didn’t register in his mind what was coming his way until it was too late.
Bond had acted fast which caught both Arab guards by surprise, literally.
Double O Seven came out of Sabah’s office as if he hadn’t a care in the world, turned and walked right up to the one on his left, a mad smile on his face.
The guard’s mouth had dropped open in surprise.
The only thought inside his head was what the hell was this mad Englishman up to now?
Bond simply raised the bottle of Scotch and smashed it across his head.
The other guard opposite watched this happen in a state of bewilderment.
Bond reached down for the guard’s AK like a rattle snake striking. He spun round and let off a burst of automatic gunfire, cutting down the guard opposite before he had time to react.
In the deafening silence that followed, Bond looked down at the guard at his feet, that mad smile still on his face.
‘What a waste of good bloody Scotch,’ he said and shook the guard awake.
‘Rise and shine,’ he said through clenched teeth. The guard opened his eyes.
‘Where is Hamid?’ Bond shouted.
‘Upstairs in his room,’ the semi conscious guard hissed. ‘Third floor, southern wing.’
‘Good boy.’
And with that Bond put a round of bullets into him.
He then made for the stairs.
‘Come on, Ali Hamid!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Let’s be having you, you mad bastard!’

* * *

The guard patrolling the eastern side of the old fort on the second floor was smoking a cigarette when he heard the burst of automatic gun fire downstairs. His mouth dropped open and he unslung the AK from his shoulder, the cigarette dropping to the floor.
Bond was racing up the stairs during this time and when he came face to face with the guard he crouched down and raised his own weapon in a flash. The guard had his up in no time but he hesitated, not sure what to do.
Bond sprayed his AK once, cutting the guard down, killing him instantly.
He got up and continued up the stairs.
There was shouting now, coming from behind him, downstairs.
The guards were now no doubt fully aware that they were under attack.
When Bond passed the guard he’d just shot he paused to kneel down and grabbed two grenades that were fixed to the dead man’s belt.
‘Might come in handy, thank you very much,’ he said and continued on his way.
At the same moment, two other guards appeared at the other end of the corridor and started firing at Bond when he appeared.
The Englishman dropped to the floor, pulled the pin on one of the grenades and tossed it towards them.
One of the guards jumped into a nearby corner as the grenade exploded, killing them both and blasting away most of the wall. The explosion seemed to make Al Hasarran shake.
Someone on Bond’s left appeared in a doorway then and fired several bursts from an M16 assault rifle, clipping the wall inches away from Bond’s head.
Bond swore violently and rolled onto his side, spraying along the corridor in the man’s direction. He fired back at him and Bond saw the man duck to the floor, falling on one knee, getting back into aim.
Bullets ploughed their way into the stone floor dangerously around Bond, ripping bits of dirt and stone up before him....

* * *

Ali Hamid, alerted by the noise downstairs, moved cautiously into the corridor from his room on the third floor. His face had turned a deathly white.
‘What in the name of Allah is going on?’
He looked over the balustrade and saw Bond below battling it out with a couple of guards.
Hamid swore in Arabic and darted back inside his room closing the door behind him. There was a woman in his bed, naked, her knees up to her chin, looking scared.
‘What’s happening, Ali?’ she asked.
Naked, Hamid raced to his bedside locker and produced an automatic pistol which he cocked.
‘It’s Bond,’ he said, to himself more than anyone else. ‘He’s escaped and he’s coming for me!’
Hamid fell back against the wall, petrified. Then, as if waking from a nightmare, he grabbed his mobile phone and dialled some numbers.
It was a few moments later when Keller’s voice came on at the other end.
‘What is it?’
‘This is Hamid. We’re in trouble. Bond has escaped.’
‘Where the hell is he?’ There was alarm in the Englishman’s voice.
‘Here. He’s coming up for me as we speak. What am I going to do?’
‘Where’s Sabah?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Damn you, you bloody fools! You’ve cocked up right and proper haven’t you?’
Hamid was breathing heavily, mostly out of fear and panic.
‘Are the bombs ready?’
‘Of course they are. We’re moving towards our target as we speak.’
‘Does any of the crew suspect anything?’
‘No. Having said that our good Doctors Beleesh and Mestas have been taken care of, permanently. Their help in getting the Anti Proton bombs primed was much appreciated. I gave them a quick death.’
‘Then it is down to you, my brother!’
‘So it seems.’
‘Allah is with you, Peter. As for me, it seems I have an appointment with the devil himself.’
‘Considering what Bond is capable of, better you than me, old boy.’
And with that, the man called Keller hung up.
Hamid looked down at the frightened girl in his bed.
‘Don’t worry, my dear. The man coming up here is a gentleman. I’m sure he won’t harm you.’
Hamid took a deep breath and quickly got dressed.
Whatever happened, he thought, he’d give Bond a run for his money…

* * *

The man in the doorway was firing wildly at Bond.
Now flat on the floor, Bond swung his gun round to fire again. Arching the AK slightly to the left, he succeeded in hitting him in the chest and head and after a bloodcurdling cry, the man fell to the floor dead.
Bond got up and darted towards the stairs. He could hear shouting coming from the ground floor. Three steps at a time, Bond raced up towards the third floor leading to the southern wing. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and a sharp pain built up inside his chest.
As he swung around a corner of a wide landing, he saw another guard raise his gun at him, a look of alarm and fear on his face.
Bond acted fast and cut him down with a spray of bullets.
Double O Seven kicked at a couple of doors which opened into empty rooms.
There was one more at the far end and as he reached it, two men appeared from the stairs opposite, firing M16s in his direction.
Bond dropped to his knees, turning towards them and reaching for the grenade he’d taken earlier. He removed the pin and quickly hurled it.
There was a thunderous explosion that again seemed to shake the entire place and Bond ducked as bits and pieces of stone, wood and a hot blast shot passed him.
There was a dull ringing in his ears when he finally got up. Swaying unsteadily, he moved towards the door.
‘Hamid!’ he shouted.
There were two shots from inside and the bullets burst through the door and whizzed passed his head. Bond paused and switched to single shot. He then kicked the door in. Again there was a shot but Bond dived to the floor, rolled and shot Hamid once in the leg.
There was a loud moan and the Arab fell to the floor.
‘For God’s sake, Bond, please don’t shoot!’
Bond was on his feet, the AK trained on the man on the floor steady as a rock.
A girl was sitting up in bed, covering her face in terror, screaming wildly.
Ali Hamid, trembling, was holding his left leg, blood pumping from a bullet hole below the knee.
Bond looked down at the girl. He remembered her from his first day here, the one who’d served him in his room. Satina.
‘Get out.’ He told her simply, which is all she needed.
‘Why are you doing this to me, Bond?’ Hamid shouted.
‘Of all the damn questions to ask,’ Bond hissed.
He crossed over and grabbed the Arab by the hair, lifting him violently up. Bond then moved around him, using him no doubt for cover just in case any of the guards showed up. The muzzle of the AK dug into the Arab’s left temple.
‘How does it feel being on the receiving end?’
‘Please, Bond. I was just doing my job. No real harm came to you in the end. Surely you can see that!’
‘No real harm? Now that’s a good one.’
‘What is it you want from me?’
‘Answers.’
‘For my life?’
Bond laughed. ‘For a quick death,’ he said.
‘You need me, Bond.’
‘Oh, what makes you say that?’
‘To get out of here. You’d not last a day in the desert. Where could you possibly go?’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage. Now tell me where the girl is.’
‘And then you’ll kill me?’
Bond shot him in the right foot and Hamid broke free of his grasp and fell heavily to the floor, squirming with pain.
Again Bond grabbed him by the hair and jerked him up to stand.
‘Hurt doesn’t it?’ he hissed into his ear. ‘Now there’s a lot more of that pain in store for you with every wrong answer you give me. Where is she?’
Hamid was crying and shaking uncontrollably.
‘Sardinia,’ Hamid told him through clenched teeth. ‘Sabah owns a villa there, a place called Santa Chiara d’Ula. She’s safe. I swear to you, Bond.’
‘Now what about the bombs. Where are they?’
Ali Hamid tried looking back at Bond but the Englishman pushed his head forward.
‘Answer me!’
‘If I give you that information I’m dead for sure. You will have no more use of me alive.’
‘As I said, you can either go quickly or I can make it slow and painful - the choice is yours. Either way, it’s execution day for you.’
Hamid breathed in to steady himself.
‘You’ll never make it out of here alive without me.’
Bond pressed the muzzle harder into Hamid’s head.
‘The bombs. Where are they? Tell me, damn you!’
‘Listen to me, Bond. Please, I beg you. This is bigger than you can even begin to imagine. You are dealing with powers beyond your comprehension. Everything you believe in, everything you’ve sacrificed your life for, lived for, throughout your years, will change forever with the information I have. The bombs are the least of your Service’s problem. It is who is actually behind it that maters most. Melhem Sabah was the tip of the iceberg, I swear to you. Spare me and I will talk. Not only will I tell you where the bombs are but also who is actually behind all this.’
Bond was sweating.
What the hell was Hamid talking about? Was he filling Bond with a load of bull? To buy time?
‘I can get you out of here, Bond. Get you out of Libya. God but what have you got to lose?’
‘This is your last bloody chance, I’m warning you.’
Hamid’s heart missed a couple of beats.
Bond wasn’t biting. He needed to give him more…
‘Can’t you hear what I’m saying, man?’ Hamid shouted in a fit of panic and rage. ‘I am prepared to talk. I can even tell you who the man called Apocalypse is!’
It hit Bond like a lightning bolt from the blue.
That name!
His mind whirled back to that night in St James’ Palace during the TROUBLESHOOTER affair, a million years ago…
‘Apocalypse, James,’ Jano had said before he had shot her. ‘The man you seek is called Apocalypse...’
‘Melhem Sabah was the man called Apocalypse!’ Bond said softly, in deep thought now.
Hamid shook his head.
‘No, no, no, Bond.’ He said sharply. ‘Sabah worked for him, as do I. Spare me and I will tell you everything. I swear to you.’
Bond thought long and hard, and then produced the mobile phone he took from Sabah.
He needed to talk to M, and bloody fast…

* * *

[Harry Fawkes]

13
Of all the bloody Places

James Bond was halfway down the stairs when he finally got through to M.
‘You’re still alive, thank God.’ M told him. ‘Any news about the bombs?’
‘Not yet but I soon will have.’ He nudged Hamid on, the AK digging into his back. ‘How far away are the people you’re sending over here?’
‘An hour, the most. We’ve located a landing strip not far from the fort. As soon as you’re outside the main door turn right and keep going for twenty minutes. You’ll see the Scorpion land. The question is, can you get there in one piece?’
‘I’ve taken a hostage who has the information we need. Name is Ali Hamid, Sabah’s right hand man. He’s offered to talk if I spare him.’
‘Good. The Americans informed us that getting the Anti Proton bombs to work is going to be near impossible without the activation codes so at least in that respect we have some time.’
‘I doubt that,’ Bond told him. ‘And something else tells me there’s more to all this than meets the eye. Something Sabah said. I just can’t put my finger on it. Anyway, who’ve you sent?’
‘Gala Richards and one of her husband’s minders. He’s SAS. They’re flying out to you as we speak.’
Bond thought of Gala, picturing her face inside his mind and a smile touched his lips.
‘She never could resist the taste for danger although she’d be the last to admit that. I’ll need them take me to an airstrip just outside Imhasini. Dante Stavros had a plane there which I’m going to use to get to Malta. I’ll need you to pull some strings there of course.’
‘No problem. What about this Hamid.’
‘I’ll get the information you need as soon as I’m on the Scorpion. He’s reluctant to talk right now. Mind you, I’d check out Sabah’s yacht, the Prometheus. I’ll bet my life the bombs are on it.’
‘Will do. Call me when you meet up with Richards.’
Bond hung up as they reached the main door.
‘Right, Ali,’ he said. ‘We need wheels, old boy.’
‘What’s going on, Bond?’
‘We’re just going for a short ride, that’s all. Then you sing or it’ll be a bullet to the head I assure you.’

* * *

Thirty minutes after the telephone conversation with Bond, the black Daimler turned through the barriers into Downing Street.
M got out and was taken to the Prime Minister’s study. He was sitting with the Director General of MI6 and MI5, the heads of Scotland Yard’s C13 Anti Terrorist branch, 22 Special Air Service, SIB and the head of CI7.
‘So what happened in Libya, Colonel?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘Well, for one thing thanks to Double O Seven we now know who’s behind the THUNDERBOLT theft.’
‘Which means Bond is safe.’
‘Not exactly out of the woods yet but I’m sure he’ll make it.’
‘And what about our cousins across the pond?’
‘Not too happy about the situation, Prime Minister. Sabah was highly regarded in government circles there. Had a lot of influential friends in high places which is no doubt how he obtained the information regarding THUNDERBOLT. Having said that, I have been assured by the highest authority that the American Intelligence and Security Services are going to concentrate all the efforts on Melhem Sabah’s assets and in locating the man called Keller.’
‘Possible targets?’
‘Double O Seven reported that Sabah mentioned bringing down the American Empire. I can only assume he planned to detonate the bombs there.’
‘But is detonation possible without the relevant codes?’ The Prime Minister asked.
‘Unfortunately yes, Prime Minister. I’ve been informed by our analysts that the most likely way would be EMT.’
‘EMT?’
‘Electro Magnetic Thellion, sir. It can replace the mercury igniters inside the Anti Proton detonation chamber which would produce more or less the same chain reaction required to set the bombs off. Very similar to Red Mercury and very easy to obtain off the black market.’
‘I see. And what would the effects be if one of these Anti Proton bombs exploded in a major city?’
M cleared his throat.
‘The fission bomb detonated over Hiroshima had an explosive blast equivalent to 12,500 tons of TNT,’ he said. ‘The Anti Proton bombs stolen from CERN detonated on the earth’s surface will have about a thousand times the blast power of that 1945 explosion, if not more.’
‘Oh my God!’
There was silence for a long moment.
‘Casualties?’
‘One million plus, initially. Add another five hundred thousand to that from delayed effects.’
The Prime Minister stood up and crossed over to the window. He looked as if he’d just received a slap in the face. He stayed there for a while, looking out into the greyness beyond and there was a soft knock on the door and one of his aides came in. He walked up to M and handed him a piece of paper, turned and left the room.
It was M’s turn to go white when he read what was on it.
‘Now this makes matters worse, gentlemen,’ he said and the Prime Minister turned to face him. ‘It appears that Melhem Sabah’s yacht, the Prometheus, is berthed here in Greater London. It arrived three hours ago from the Atlantic…’

* * *

Outside there were four more armed guards waiting when Bond walked out behind Ali Hamid who looked like death warmed up.
‘Nice reception party,’ Bond said and paused on the steps looking down at them, the devil’s smile on his face.
It was getting dark now and there was a soft chill in the air.
‘Tell them I’m in a killing mood so no false moves or it’ll be you who gets it first.’
Hamid spoke to them in Arabic and one by one they reluctantly lowered their guns.
‘Now get one of them to bring round a Land Rover. Tell him he’s got five minutes.’
Hamid swore in English.
‘Anybody ever tell you that you’re a bloody pain in the , Bond?’
‘I’m sure it’s been said before.’
The Arab spoke to them again and after a moment one of them ran off to the stables at the rear end of the fort.
Five minutes later he was back in a green Discovery.
‘Now tell them to scram before I go mad and shoot them.’
‘Scram?’
‘Disappear, Hamid. Tell them to get lost.’
‘You do realise that I need a doctor, don’t you.’
‘All in good time, Ali. My first priority is getting us the hell out of here.’
Hamid made a signal and the guards dispersed.
Bond pushed him violently into the back seat of the Discovery and was behind the wheel in a flash, racing through the main gates as if the hounds of hell were at his heels…

* * *

The Scorpion came out of a low cloud and John Duran was aware of the palm trees of the oasis below.
‘Not far now,’ he said
Gala Richards, engrossed with her map-reading, looked out and saw the imposing building in the distance that was Al Hasarran.
They had been contacted by Bill Tanner ten minutes after Bond’s first call to M and he had requested that Gala use her influence there to get somebody to fly out to Bond.
After giving her the required coordinates of Al Hasarran and the exact location of a suitable landing site MI6 had spotted via satellite, John Duran, a real pro and no less, had set things up. Money, of course, was all it took to charter a plane ‘off’ the radar and the ball was rolling. How Bond figured he’d get out of Libya after they picked him up was another thing; a problem they would have to tackle later...
‘Let’s just hope he’s at the landing site.’ Gala told him.
Duran went down lower, 1000 feet.
‘And if he’s not?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘We’ll have to go in for him I’m afraid.’
Duran looked at her, a strikingly handsome man, tall and bald, well built. He reminded her of the actor Yul Brynner...
‘You’re husband would have my head if he knew about this, Mrs Richards. He’s the High Commissioner, for God’s sake.’
‘But we’re all humble servants of the Crown, John. You of all people know that. Besides, we’re now unofficially working for the Double O Division.’
Duran sighed heavily.
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Hardly anybody outside the Intelligence Services have, John. It’s an ultra-secret organisation made up of twenty British SIS agents who hold what they call double O numerals. James Bond is one of them.’
‘Double O numerals?’
‘They indicate that these SIS agents have killed and are privileged to kill on active service.’
‘And you’ve worked for them before?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘You know something? You never cease to amaze me, Mrs Richards.’
Gala sat back then, smiling, as the SAS Captain prepared for the landing.
She thought of Bond.
Seeing him again after so many years was going to be a special treat indeed...

* * *

Darkness fell and ten minutes after the Scorpion landed, Gala and Duran now waited patiently outside.
Both were armed with Cobalt S15 handguns and it was twenty minutes past eight when the SAS Captain started pacing up and down anxiously.
He didn’t like this affair one bit.
They were treading on dangerous grounds here and the fact was he had no idea why. Bond was a spy, that much he knew.
What he was doing here in Libya though was beyond him and involving the wife of the British High Commissioner was next to insane.
He wondered who the bloody hell had given the order back in the UK. They had risked not only their lives flying out here but also a major diplomatic incident if they got caught…
It was ten minutes later when he heard the sudden roar of an engine coming from their left.
Duran then saw the flash of headlights over a hill further on and moments later the Discovery came to a halt beside them.
A tall, dark handsome man stepped out and Duran studied the face carefully.
So, this was James Bond.
The face was dark, with a three day stubble, the eyes hard, wide and level under straight long black brows. The nose was long and straight above a cruel mouth that seemed to be fixed into a perpetual smile. The jaw was firm, ruthless and a two-inch scar ran down the side of his right cheek, a pale streak on the tan of his face. His hair was long, almost shoulder length.
When Duran turned to Gala he notticed her eyes were glimmering at Bond. There was an excitement in them.
‘James,’ she called as she moved in to greet him. ‘Of all the bloody places to meet up again.’
Bond smiled down at her and took her hands in his and she noted then that there was a permanent look of pain inside his grey blue eyes.
‘You look absolutely splendid, Gala,’ he said softly and he meant it. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you out like this, girl dear, but as usual I’m in the thick of it.’
‘What is it this time, James? Saving the world again? At your age? I thought you’d be out of the service by now. How long has it been?’
‘Don’t you dare remind me, please.’
Bond got the passenger door open then, leaned inside and manhandled the man called Ali Hamid out.
The Arab was out cold and Duran moved in to help Bond as he swayed unsteadily.
‘Has M briefed you?’ Bond asked hoarsely as they boarded the plane with the Arab between them. He was tired and drawn out now.
‘Not exactly, James.’ Gala told him. ‘He just said it was vital we get you to the airstrip just outside Imhasini. There’s a plane waiting.’
‘Which I’ll hopefully be using to fly to Malta.’
‘Hopefully?’ Gala raised an eyebrow.
‘You know how things get in situations like these. I’m playing things by the cuff. How long will it take to get there?’
‘Just under an hour.’ Duran told him as they dropped Hamid onto one of the seats.
‘This is John Duran, James. He’s one of my husband’s minders.’
Bond shook his hand and noted the firmness in his shake.
He then finally sat down, dead beat to say the least and ran a shaking hand through his rather long hair.
Gala was beside him then as Duran disappeared into the cock pit and started up.
Moments later the Scorpion was in the air.
Gala took Bond’s hand in hers and looked at him closely.
The man sitting beside her now was the shell of the man she’d known during the MOONRAKER affair.
Bond had definitely been through hell and it showed and Gala Richards couldn’t help shivering involuntarily as if someone, somewhere had stepped over her grave.
What terrible thing had happened to him?
‘Well, James, I’m all ears, darling,’ she said at last. ‘What the hell are you doing in this part of the woods?’
Bond smiled the ghost of that rouge smile of his she remembered so well and told her everything…

* * *

When the man called Apocalypse entered the Oval Office he found the President signing some papers with his chief of staff, Jack Reilly.
The President looked up and smiled.
‘Be right with you, Simon,’ he said.
‘Take your time, Mr President.’
When the President was finished, the chief of staff left.
‘Have a drink, old friend.’
‘Thank you, sir, I think I will.’
Apocalypse helped himself to a whiskey from the side board and the President closed the file he was working on.
‘I’ve read your report on the Sabah affair,’ the President told him. ‘It seems he’s taken us for one hell of a ride.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘I take it that the Brits are not just acting on a whim and that they’ve got a reliable source to this find.’
‘According to the CIA they’ve given assurance that their information is top notch.’
‘Right, then, to take the most important item first. The THUNDERBOLT bombs. The Brits believe the US is the most likely target. What are we doing to prevent such an attack on our soil?’
‘Everything that can be done is being done, Mr President. I’ve taken the liberty of pulling out all the stops on this one. Extreme measures, if you will.’
The President nodded.
‘What are our leads?’
‘Well apart from pulling out all Sabah’s files and known associates I think our best bet is the man called Keller. If we find him, we find the bombs. He is after all the top name on our list.’
‘Thanks again to British Intelligence.’
‘That’s right, sir. Their man Bond had a lucky strike in Libya. Uncovered the plot but did away with Sabah. Unfortunately, apart from the fact that he was behind the theft, he didn’t get much else out of him though.’
‘Where is Bond now?’
‘On his way back to England. Apparently he’s kidnapped Sabah’s right hand man. He thinks he has information that’ll help us locate THUNDERBOLT.’
‘Well, let’s just hope he gets it to us in time.’
‘Before they detonate the bombs you mean.’
‘That’s right.’
‘If only we could get so lucky.’
‘Work with the Brits, Simon. Make sure we give them everything they need. On this one I believe that the end will justify the means. I don’t need to remind you what would happen if one of those bombs went up in one of our cities.’
The man called Apocalypse nodded gravely.
‘It would be the downfall of our way of life as we know it, Mr President.’
The President breathed in deeply.
‘The ultimate nightmare come true,’ he said.
‘Sir.’
It was then that the President of the United States went back to work and the man called Apocalypse drank the remaining whiskey and left.
Outside the Oval Office he was joined by his right hand man Blake Thomas.
‘How’d it go?’ Thomas asked.
Apocalypse swore under his breath as he passed a group of White House security men who nodded courteously.
‘We need to stop Bond at all costs, Blake,’ he said as they went down the wide staircase. ‘If Hamid talks then we’re dead. It’s as simple and as crazy as that. Everything we’ve all worked for’ll be destroyed, which is why I want you to contact all our assets in Europe. I’m issuing a death warrant on the bastard. Get on the phone to General Aymini Shirttail in Libya. Bond is flying to Malta as we speak which means they’ve got to stop him. Do you understand?’
‘Leave it to me.’
‘Now let’s just pray the bombs go off before the Brits find them. We may just be able to salvage something out of this mess.’
‘We’ll know about it if they do find them, I presume.’
‘Yes. I’ll be the first to know.’
As the man called Apocalypse turned the corner to his office, a White House Security guard acknowledged him.
‘Secretary of Defence,’ he said.
‘Harry,’ Apocalypse greeted. ‘How’s Janet?’
‘Oh, fine, sir. She’s coping pretty well.’
‘Great. Be sure to say hi for me.’
‘Sure will, sir.’
The Secretary of State got his office door open and Blake Thomas paused outside.
‘What shall I tell the others, sir?’
He smiled.
‘Tell them to expect a brave new world, Blake. That’s all. DOMINION is still in there. Always will be, no matter what.’

* * *

[Harry Fawkes]

14
Dominion

‘Oh, James I can’t believe you’re still doing this,’ Gala told him when he was finished telling her what had happened since he reached the shores of Libya and what had brought him here and why.
‘After all these years, isn’t it time you threw in the towel, for Goodness sake?’
‘For what?’ Bond asked and a shadow crossed his face. ‘Besides it wouldn’t last. I’d end up going mad. I’ve tried it, Gala. Really I did and believe me it didn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, to begin with I missed the real chance to give it all up a long time ago – you know that.’
‘Tracy?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Mind you, in the end I suppose this life is what really satisfies me.’
‘Nothing ever satisfies you, James. Never has, never will. You were always one to go a little further. Just like that poem…‘be it beyond that last blue mountain barr’d with snow, across that angry or glimmering sea.’’
Bond smiled.
‘Flecker’s The Golden Journey,’ he said. ‘Quite appropriate.’
‘I’m sure. It sums you up beautifully, James.’
Bond breathed in deeply and got up.
‘Perhaps. But now, time to get back to work.’
He crossed over to Ali Hamid.
The Arab looked bad.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the English spy and there was something there, in those eyes of his – a mocking look.
‘If you don’t treat my wounds I’ll die,’ he said.
‘Which’ll suit me fine, I assure you.’
Hamid laughed.
‘Cruel, Mr Bond, very cruel.’
‘Believe me, Ali Hamid, you have no idea of the meaning of the word. But soon you will find out. If you don’t tell me where those bombs are you will experience the true meaning of cruelty in its very sense.’
Hamid nodded and understood that he was indeed looking up at the devil himself...
‘You won’t stop it, Bond,’ he said calmly after a while. ‘You do know that, don’t you? It is the inevitable you are faced with. There were deals. Arrangements made.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bond asked.
‘The change.’
‘Don’t!’
It was sharp, like a whiplash and Hamid raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t what?’ he asked.
‘Don’t mess with me,’ Bond told him. ‘Sabah didn’t last five minutes. I cut his throat from ear to ear because he bored the life out of me with his speech about new world orders bringing down the American Empire and all that bollocks. So, basically, if you want to live just get to the point. I want the bombs.’
Hamid’s eyes widened in horror.
‘My God…you are a bastard, Bond.’ Then after a long pause. ‘One of them is in London. The other New York.’
‘How do I get to them?’
‘I only know the targets. That’s all, I swear.’
Bond reached for Gala’s handgun, cocked it and placed the muzzle onto Hamid’s knee.
‘Give me something more or I’ll blow your ing knee off.’
Hamid’s heart missed a couple of beats.
‘What can I tell you?’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything else.’
‘Give me names!’
Hamid’s face turned whiter.
‘You’re asking too much, Bond! They’ll kill me…’
Bond fired the Cobalt S15.
Hamid screamed and blood drenched his robe at the knee.
His knee was gone and he was shouting at the top of his lungs, a wild animal as he writhed in pain.
The plane juddered as Duran, startled at the sound of the gun going off, looked back from the cockpit to see what the hell was going on...
‘Give me names!’ Bond screamed back at the Arab and this time Gala was beside him, shouting for him to stop.
‘James, no! This is wrong!’
Bond pushed her away violently, a driven man.
Again he placed the muzzle against his other knee.
‘Names, Hamid!’
Gala looked back at him in horror.
Hamid’s eyes were wild and he took several frenzied breaths and nodded frantically...
‘Peter Keller and Ryan Ellis! That’s it, Bond! I swear on my mother’s soul! They’re going to deliver the bombs and set them off. That’s all I know.’
Bond kept pushing; had to.
‘How are they going to detonate them without the relevant codes?’ he said.
‘Something called Electro Magnetic Thellion. It replaces…’
‘I know what the hell EMT is,’ Bond cut in quickly. ‘Who provided the hardware?’
‘An American weapons manufacturer. Icarus Watch. They’re in it too. They all are. Even your own people. You have no idea what you are up against. They are powerful, immensely powerful.’
‘Who?’ Bond demanded urgently.
‘Dominion, Bond, Dominion!’ Hamid screamed it out. ‘Can’t you see? They’re going to take over your governments. They’ve been planning it for years, placing their men in strategic places and once the bombs go off the powers that control it will oust your Prime Minister and the US President and take over themselves with the promise of better security and control. ’
‘Who are they?’
‘They are important, powerful people. They are everywhere. Sabah was one of them. He followed orders. After the bombs go off they will take over the rule of law as you know it and govern British and American society through nothing but chaos and cold fear. Total war against the rest of the world will follow soon after and out of the ashes will rise one world order, Bond. Your enemy is from within this time and you cannot stop them.’
‘Who is Apocalypse?’
Hamid stared at Bond wide eyed.
He was about to say something but then thought better of it.
‘Talk damn you!’ Bond hissed and pressed the muzzle into his knee.
‘The man called Apocalypse is the United States Secretary of State.’
‘Simon Carter?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’s head of this Dominion organisation, is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, no. Not the head, Bond. More like the chief of operations. Nobody knows who controls Dominion. They are many, believe me.’
Bond wiped sweat away from his forehead.
‘When do the bombs go off?’ he said.
Hamid took a deep breath and held it.
It was as if he was trying to stifle the excruciating pain in his leg.
He turned bright red then let out a long hissing moan.
‘Damn you to hell, Bond!’ he hissed. ‘You’ve only got an hour. What difference is it going to make. You’ll never find them. One lousy hour and the life as you know it will cease to exist. You will be nothing and all this will be for nothing.’
Bond looked back at Gala who had heard everything.
She had gone white as a sheet.
‘I need to contact M,’ he told her. ‘Now!’
She nodded, her eyes wide with fear.
‘We’ve got American SatComs,’ she said and raced into the cockpit and when she reappeared she handed him a large black phone.
He dialled some numbers and waited.
Hamid burst into a laughing fit but it looked as if he was crying.
‘American SatComs!’ he called out. ‘Now you’re a dead man, James Bond! They’ll know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re doomed you stupid fool!’
Bond looked down at him once and shot him between the eyes without taking aim, calmly and coldly.
‘M here,’ came the Colonel’s voice through the speaker.
‘It’s Bond,’ he said as Hamid slumped forward dead in his seat. ‘I hope you’re sitting down, Colonel…’

* * *

The magnificent Chateau de Saint-Renoir Neux was situated fifty kilometers from Paris, a vast seventeenth-century residence lit up magnificently by a number of strategically placed spotlights. The whole place was surrounded by lush gardens and a dense woodland which hid the whole place from plain view. Lights blazed from the front windows onto the wide gravel drive where the cars were parked and chauffeurs waited for their masters. Limousines, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces ~ they belonged to twelve of the world’s most richest and powerful men.
The Chateau was rectangle and greyish green with oak trees growing on three sides of it, a daunting building that was reminiscent of times gone by ~ classical, haunting.
It depicted nothing but wealth and power.
The twelve men were greeted by their leader and after dining magnificently, followed by liqueurs and coffee, he led them to the conference hall at the back of the house.
The wide room was decorated in soft peach with heavy mint curtains covering French windows which looked out onto the magnificent gardens beyond. A beautiful ancient chandelier hung from the ceiling and four paintings, classics by Shermann Voyster, formed the only adornments.
A polished oak table occupied most of the centre of the room and it was set for twelve people, complete with blotters, a glass of red wine and one with water, laptops, ashtrays and agenda.
The leader took his place at the head of the table while the others filed to their seats, all marked with name cards.
Nobody sat until the leader had taken his chair.
‘Gentlemen, the inheritance which has fallen to us is a terrible one,’ he began, his rather grim voice breaking the silence. ‘The task with which we are faced is the hardest within the memory of man. But having said that I am filled with unbounded confidence for we believe in our goal and its imperishable virtue to found the New Way.’
He took a sip of water and looked down the table at each man. They in turn sat very still and looked up at their leader with expressions of complete interest and approval.
‘My friends, my brothers, we all agree that turbulent instincts ruling man at the moment must be replaced by a strict world discipline as the sole guiding principle. A new order must be affirmed, a new order that will change the very foundations of life as we know it. Our current civilization is on the verge of destruction.
‘Wars rage on. The threat of global pestilence increases. Starvation is widespread. International terrorism has gripped the western world by the throat and is choking the very essence out of our life. Governments unashamedly exploit the very source which gives us existence. Corruption, betrayal, dishonesty, hate. All this is bringing life as we know it to a slow, maimed, painful voyage to doom itself.’
Again he sipped some water, letting the words sink in.
‘I can assure you all that I look into the future with perfect tranquillity and great confidence notwithstanding. As discussed before in this very house we all understand and agree that the only way to achieve our aims of a new world however is by actually accelerating such an inevitable destruction, hence therefore the theft of Prometheus’ Fire.’
The twelve men around the table nodded whilst the leader’s zealous eyes again surveyed them one by one.
‘I am pleased to inform you that Prometheus’ Fire has been placed and that the countdown has finally begun. We are now at the point of no return and apart from a few minor unforeseen hitches, the unfortunate death of Number 3 that is to say, I can assure you that all is well and proceeding as designed nonetheless. After the attack in London takes place, a terrorist attack our Security Services will discover was committed by a previously unknown terrorist organisation called the Shaheel Peshant a splinter group of Al Qaeda, the President of the United States and the British Prime Minister will have one week to accept the new terms of government as proposed and delivered by this Special Executive.
‘The terror and chaos caused by the first explosion and the leak of the threat of a second to our own controlled medias will be the ideal platform for us to seize power and control. People will be told that a similar attack on the United States will take place which will cause the public to scream for tougher security measures. Dominion will offer them those measures. We will offer the people of the United States and Great Britain security and peace of mind through an emergency legislation, an emergency legislation that, thanks to our strategically placed people in both governments, including myself and my United States counterpart, will declare special measures to protect democracy. The President and the Prime Minister will have no choice but to accept.
‘These special measures will include compulsory detention orders at the discretion of the Security Services and will clearly divest the normal citizen of any existing legal protection; emergency supervision on all media output that will censor and scrutinise such without notice; direct government control of the judiciary and legal system and ultimately direct orders, rules and policies that will not require any form of vote from Parliament or Congress. When these measures are in place we will then produce a legislation that will fuse both the Unites States and Great Britain under one rule of law and establishment complete with a common defence and attack policy with the sole objective of reconstructing and reforming both our societies according to our principles. Once we have taken complete control, we will then strike at the very hearts of our enemies, the enemies our present governments fear and thus have simply made more powerful throughout the years. Russia, China, the Middle East, North Korea, the European Union, Israel and finally Islam. The scourges of this world, and no less, will all perish under the might of The United Dominionist State.’
There was an outbreak of applause from around the table and the leader took his glass of red wine and raised it. The twelve men got up and did the same.
‘Today we will witness the foundation of the true new world order.’
There was a long moment of silence then,
‘My dear brothers,’ the leader said. ‘To Dominionism and the end of Satan’s day.’

* * *

15
Land Of Standing Corpses

Some forty miles from the furthest tip of Tripoli, at the Halimahali air base, the duty officer received quite an unexpected telephone call. It was from the Chief of the Libyan Intelligence Services, Al Haras Assauri, General Aymini Shirttail.
Shirttail ordered him to deploy one of their aircraft there to seek out and destroy an unidentified aeroplane flying covertly in Libyan skies. The exact coordinates were handed down and ten minutes later a MiG-21MJL raced off the main runway into the clear black sky. The pilot was just about to come off duty when the duty officer handed him his new orders complete with target information. In a matter of minutes he was on his way to shoot the Scorpion down…

* * *

Meanwhile, James Bond had just finished briefing M and he now sat down in one of the seats, stooped forward, face buried in his hands.
His head spun like a wretched Ferris wheel and he felt sick, every bone and muscle inside him sore. The fact was he had no idea what to do now. What could he do? The information he had got out of Hamid had been passed on to M who would obviously take matters in his own hands. Bond was simply out of the picture.
They hadn’t much time, that was for starters and according to the Colonel finding the Anti Proton bomb was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack. MI5, MI6, GCHQ, SAS, Special Branch, CI7, the works. They’d all be concentrating all their resources on finding the bomb, which in the end could be practically anywhere by now.
But what about him? What could he do to help?
Nothing.
Just sit tight and hope for the best.
One hour. One God damned hour before the bombs went off.
What a nightmare!
Bond finally sat back. He needed a cigarette and a stiff drink.
If only he was in London right now, working on the search.
Where would he look?
What would he be doing to put his money’s worth into it all?
What if they didn’t get to the bomb on time?
The consequences were simply horrifying.
The ultimate nightmare.
The one terrible act that would plunge the world into nuclear crises.
Hamid had said that life as he knew it was about to change.
Now that was most certainly an understatement.
If the bombs went off the whole world would stand on the brink of war. Simply, it would be the greatest crises of all.
Bond closed his eyes.
What now?
Fly out to Malta and make his way to a devastated UK?
Then what?
He swore violently and looked across at Gala who sat looking back at him.
She looked as if she was in shock also no doubt trying to come to terms with what she’d heard.
He knew what she was thinking. This was not the man she knew. This was not the James Bond she had shared one of the most exciting adventures with way back during the MOONRAKER affair.
True, he thought.
He had changed.
Life had changed.
He was colder now.
He’d been through hell itself since the last time he had seen her and, yes, he was just the shell of the man she had known back then...
He looked at the reflection of his face in the window.
The eyes were colder, he thought, more dangerous. His face was drawn, unshaven, the lips crueller than ever. His hair was longer than usual and he ran a hand through it.
He needed to clean up.
Not his appearance mind.
Inside where it counted.
Ever since that horrible day he was shot outside his flat in King’s Road he had changed dramatically. He feared death more than ever now, and to face that fear he had gone out to embrace it headlong. Had it made a difference?
What was it Heidegger had said?
For authentic living what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death…
No. He was still afraid.
He breathed in deeply, stood up and crossed over to the cockpit.
‘How far are we from the landing strip,’ he asked Duran.
‘Thirty minutes, maybe less,’ the SAS Captain said. ‘I still don’t know how the bloody hell I’m going to put her down in this dark. I’m a good pilot, Bond, but not that good.’
Bond understood.
‘Got a parachute by any chance?’ he asked.
Duran turned and looked at him.
‘No,’ he said.
Bond nodded.
‘You’ll just have to try your luck then and hope for the best.’
‘Did you have to kill him?’ Duran asked. ‘Don’t you think it was uncalled for? He was begging for mercy for Christ sake.’
Bond had turned and he paused before walking out.
He looked down at Duran and sighed heavily.
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette on you by any chance?’ he asked
Duran reached into his jacket pocket and produced a crumpled packet and a silver Zippo, lit one, and passed it on to Bond who took it, looked at it as if it were life itself and took one of the deepest pulls he’d ever had from a cigarette.
He held his breath, letting the smoke soak into his lungs, then blew out, coughing badly again.
‘Damn that tastes good, thanks,’ he said finally. ‘As for Ali Hamid, the bastard had it coming. After what he put me through at Al Hasarran I was bloody generous believe me.’
Duran shrugged.
‘It comes to us all in the end, I suppose,’ he said after a moment. ‘Death I mean.’
‘Now the field of battle is a land of standing corpses,’ Bond said softly.
‘A bit late in the night to be quoting Wu Ch’i, Bond, don’t you think?’
‘Depends on how you look at it. I’ve been in the land of standing corpses ever since I joined the bloody Secret Service.’
And with that, he went out to sit down again and pray they found the bombs in time…

THE END
____________________

H A R R Y F A W K E S

Author of

Nobody Cheats Death
Spearhead
Troubleshooter
Loneliness is a Lover
The Moment Before You Die