553 replies to this topic

[terminus]

Lovely scene there, Joyce.

[Bryce (003)]

"Wait until you get to her teeth."

[volante]

With the latest Midas Gold chapter toping the charts; Christmas belongs to Harry Fawkes.

Therefore I will post my BOND AT CHRISTMAS here.

I took to heart the theme being FUN

Please accept The Night Before

as a fun fan fic, depicting James Bond at Christmas 2009

...and just to make sure you read it.

There are TWELVE refererences to songs hidden amongst the action.

So, there you have it.

A story, and a quiz in one FUN filled adventure.

Edited by volante, 24 December 2009 - 03:41 PM.

[DamnCoffee]

C'mon folks. There is no Christmas in Bond...

But at the end of The World Is Not Enough, there is Bond in Christmas.

LMFAO, this made me choke on my food. I laughed, so much when I read this. xD

[volante]

Based on Ian Fleming’s

James Bond

007

The Night Before

…

By

Paul Taylor

News is traditionally quiet at Christmas, but over the years there have been some notable exceptions.

Arguably the biggest ever story on December 25th took place in 440AD, when church fathers decreed the date would observe the birth of Christ

But now Khalid al-Fawwaz a 35 year old Saudi, living in exile in Kabul; believed that by fulfilling his destiny, December 25th 2009 would rival that event.

Two years ago Al-Fawwaz had fled America after being accused of conspiracy in the worldwide Islamic "Holy War". In his absence an American court provided evidence of his sworn allegiance to the Al-Quade Islamic group; and issued an arrest warrant which elevated his profile to number eight on the FBI’s most wanted list.

His escape had been frantic. The FBI had tracked Al-Fawwaz into Egypt, following the financial traces left by his family as it fled before him from Riyadh.
For many months Al-Fawwaz lived like a king in Cairo.
Local agents reported seeing him at the pyramids, but the trail went cold before the FBI could move. Once they missed him by minutes at a house in Alexandria, while Al-Fawwaz was taking counsel with an Al Queda cell leader who told him to seek the simple life not among the rich but among the poor.

Al-Fawwaz took his advice and passed through the countries toward the Mecca of Afghanistan; countries where famine lay heavy upon the land and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken villages where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship of helpless misery.
He visited the oppressed and the political exiles in the gloom of prisons. He searched the seedy crowded wretchedness of the skin trade.
Though he found no one to worship, he found many who worshiped him.
As the first year passed he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, healed the sick and comforted the captive.

Once Al-Fawwaz was confronted by an FBI agent as he waited alone at the gate of a Pakistani prison. He replied to the American’s question by thrusting a knife into the man’s throat.

Prison guards ignored the act, and the town’s folk spirited him away.
It was that day that the legend was born. It was that day he knew his destiny was to die committing the ultimate act in the jihad. Killing in the name. Perhaps he was already dying.

***

James Bond believed that staying at the Mandalay Bay Hotel always tipped the balance between fact and fantasy; but around Christmas time the lights and trees really gave it a surreal feeling. Bond entered the Mix lounge, and sauntered toward the bar. “Vodka Martini”

“Thank-you sir, shaken or stirred?”

“You choose” Bond was on holiday; he didn’t want or need to make any decisions.
With deliberation he looked around the lounge and out of the large panoramic window; the lights glinted and sparkled back at him from the strip; 64 floors below.

There were at least thirty other people in the lounge, but Bond’s eye was drawn to one specific person. She was sitting at a corner table on the balcony, close to one of the patio heaters. Wrapped in a black sable coat, her blonde hair seemed to float effortlessly in the evening breeze.
Bond took in the scene and noted the irony that whilst she must have spent thousands of dollars to keep warm, her champagne bottle was resting in an ice bucket. Elegantly she lent forward and returned her glass to the table. Bond noticed that the collar of her coat took the form of a fox head.
A trifle old fashioned, but never the less, appealing.
The temptation to join her gnawed at his sense of etiquette.
He decided to drink his first martini alone. Then, who knew?

This was James Bond’s third Christmas in Las Vegas over the last eight years.
Four other Christmases’ had been spent on duty, or on some mission or another;
he had always volunteered for duty during the so called festive period after the one Christmas he had spent on his own, in his flat in London.

Bond’s mind wandered back to that lonely time, he viewed the images in the same haunted tones as when he had been subject to abuse and torture.

“Hello handsome” The English accent caught him off balance, and he looked around, and stared directly at the woman he had observed on the terrace.
Her blonde hair had fallen back in place as if sculptured by some famous stylist. Her cheeks looked a little flushed (a result of the patio heater, no doubt) but the overall visage looked composed and confident. She was older than he had thought; maybe even a year or two older than Bond himself. She raised her champagne flute; her scarlet nails complemented the stark contract of the crystal

“What have I got to do to get some service around here?”

Bond realized she was addressing the barman.

“Yes Madame?”

“Would you have my champagne taken through to the Aureole”

“Of course Madame”

As she walked past Bond she stopped and looked directly into his eyes

“Don’t worry I don’t bite”

Bond understood that she had taken his look of surprise as one of disdain

“But does the coat?”

Ha, her laugh was light and musical “No, its fake”

Bond inclined his head toward the festive tabloid, of Santa’s sleigh by the door
“A little like this place”

“You don’t believe in Father Christmas?”

“I believe in Father Christmas” Bond laughed and shook his head
“Think about it, artificial trees, artificial snow, artificial ice and reindeer. Las Vegas is all about the make believe”

“Yes this is the land of make believe” The smile dropped from her face, and her eyes grew sad “So what are you running away from?”

“The reality of the mundane”
She offered her hand “My name is Louise, Louise Vanslet-Haywood”

“Bond, James Bond” he took and kissed her hand

“Take me to dinner, Mr. Bond” it was not a question.

Prestigious Chef Charlie Palmer had brought his famous New York restaurant ‘The Aureole’ to Las Vegas.
Bond and Louise walked into the sleek, stunning setting of the restaurant.
Here dining was an art form. The main dining room expanded outward in a bright, airy welcome, with dark wood, vibrant red and blue accents fitting together in geometric harmony. They took their table in the Swan Court. Bond had already decided not to enquire into her background; so he made small talk about the room. The sun-coloured room was distinguished by its unique seating environments: many of the tables and circular booths were privy to personal patios, which provided diners with the added luxury of a different environment for enjoying cocktails and company while watching Aureole's graceful swans in their outdoor pond.

Their meal was an experience but perhaps the most awe-inspiring aspect of the Aureole’s design was its acclaimed wine tower: a 42-foot pillar of glass and steel, filled with 10,000 bottles of wine that jutted dramatically into the air like a modern obelisk. Increasing the sense of drama, Aureole employs “wine angels,” who hoist themselves up on pulleys to retrieve bottles.

Louise gently laid her hand on Bond’s arm “Usually I love the pomp and circumstance brought by an elderly Wine waiter “But right now I’m loving angles instead”

***

On the night that the sign was expected; Al-Fawwaz was in a safe house speaking with the regional leaders of the Taliban.
He addressed them through a translator, a young boy no more then 14 years old
“The brethren are watching at the temples; my own brother is stationed in Babylon and I am waiting here. When the information is confirmed, for whoever destiny beckons will embark on the crowning glory of our jihad”

The men mumbled, they were ill at ease with this emphatic man’s view of the fight that they had championed for hundreds of years.
“I believe the sign will come tonight. I have made ready for the journey be selling my possessions, and making my peace”
The old tribesmen may not have approved of his objective, but knew the meaning of the words.
While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of his heavy jacket and drew out three gem stones–one as blue as a fragment of the sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as the peak of a snow mountain at twilight.
“These gems will mark our future”
Their significance was lost on the old men, who did not recognise the objects as weapons. One of the Taliban said “Al-Fawwaz, this is a vain dream. The devil will never allow himself to lower his guard. He who expects this of him is a chaser of shadows”
The man drew his turban around his face and bade Al-Fawwaz farewell and left.
This was the signal, and each in turn offered his own particular excuse and left. Finally only the oldest of the leaders remained.

He said, “Al-Fawwaz, I am too old for this quest, but my heart goes with thee.” Then with a hand on Al-Fawwaz’s shoulder he said “Those who would see wonderful things, must often be willing to travel alone” With an effort he put on his jacket and picked up his rifle “Your actions will bring the wrath of God down on my people. God go with you”

Left to himself Al-Fawwaz put his jewels back into his jacket. Then he parted the curtains and went out onto the roof to take up his vigil by the radio; he lay back and watched the night sky. He knew the sign would come tonight.
Two years he had been making ready for this final act. He felt alone; yet he felt part of the very heavens.

***

Louise asked “What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I intend to spend it in the casino” Bond grinned back at her
“There’s no clocks, no date and no pretence that they’re not there to rip you off”

“Wow, you have got the festive blues”

Bond felt his mobile vibrate

“Excuse me, for a moment”
Bond left the restaurant, and made a call to London

“Good evening 007, hope I’m not disturbing anything?”

“Only dinner, what can I do for you?”

M’s voice cut through the air waves “Bond, we have received intelligence that an event is going to take place close to your current location tomorrow morning”

“Reliable?” Bond wanted the answer to explain why he was being contacted and what were the Americans doing about it

“M understood, and answered “We believe so, but the Americans don’t think it’s feasible”

“What’s occurring?”

“AF is holding a breakfast meeting; seems he will be sacrificing the fatted calf”
Bond knew that AF referred to Air force One, a name they had devised to relay the fact that the President was flying. Also the President’s real initials were offensive

“Who’s coming home?”

“Two, old friends he’s not sat down with for a long time”

“Can I go?”

“No, we’re not invited”
“Do you want me to eavesdrop, or gatecrash?”
Neither, I want you to make one of the guests a better offer”

“Do I have a goody bag?”

“No. But if the event takes place, he’ll consider you to be his guardian angel”

Bond took this to mean that MI6 would continue to look after the guest for some time.

“And if the intelligence is corrupt?”

M paused for only a second “Well, I would hope there would be no witnesses”

***

Rasoul al-Fawwaz held back the tears when he saw his older brother; the plastic surgery had changed his appearance, but it was his brother. They embraced.
Khalid held his brother at arms length “It is good that we have both been chosen”
Rasoul, nodded. They drove in silence past the wedding chapels and the neon signs along the strip. Khalid looked in awe at the Pyramids
Rasoul took up the conversation
“London, New York, Paris, Munich, Monte Carlo, Egypt; they are all here”

“A wondrous city of cities. Where all nationalities compete for the trade of fools”
Rasoul laughed “Yes my brother, welcome to Babylon”
***
Louise watched Bond approach the table, she had seen the expression before, and the stone set in her eye.
At the elevator door she turned into his arms “Where do we go from here?”

“There’s always tomorrow”

“Yes” she rested her head against his chest
“I thought tonight’s the night”

Bond let her go into the elevator “The past is the past, tomorrow is another day”

Loiuse turned “But right now is the present, and I thought I was yours”

“Don’t look back in anger, Louise; I’ll see you in the morning”

“Late in the morning please James, late”

The doors closed

***

The taxi drove past the hotel. Bond paid the fare and stood on the sidewalk. Something was wrong; the hotel was too small to be well guarded, the place just didn’t seem right. Bond resisted the urge to check the address.
Head down he walked into reception.

“Good evening, I have a room reserved in the name of Sterling”

The booking in process went smoothly. As Bond travelled up to his room, the alarm bells were tripping in his head. The guest he was about to save or kill; would or at least should have ensured all the rooms were booked. Any additional late guest would not have been admitted, or at least challenged by security.
By the 12th floor Bond was convinced the intelligence report was wrong.
After dropping off his bag he decided the direct approach was his best bet.
Bond walked down the fire escape. On the 10th floor he strode along the corridor, and without hesitation fumbled with his key at room 1019. At Two thirty in the morning the noise was considerable. He used his open hand on the door to knock whilst shouting “Louise, hey baby come on open up”

The door opened, no chain; and not just in inch. Bond knew the intelligence was wrong. The man stood at the door, his hair was in disarray, and his robe was held closed with his other hand
Bond spoke even louder “Hey what the hell is going on here?”
He did a comedy double take and drunken re-focus “Who the hell are you” As he spoke his fingers touched the number on the door
His shock was genuine, Bond had intended to explain that he had made a terrible mistake and was on the wrong floor. But his razor sharp mind had recognised the man in the doorway. Bond dropped his weight and charged. His shoulder hit Rasoul al-Fawwaz in the solar plexus. Bond was in the room, with the door closed before Rasoul realized what had hit him.
Bond felt the movement at his side and reacted instinctively, his left arm blocked down and he twisted and fired an uppercut to his attacker’s jaw. The assailant rode the punch and blocked the strike. As soon as Bond’s blow was deflected the arm flashed forward, catching Bond high on the temple. Bond took one step back, and as the attacker followed him forward Bond raised and struck forward with the instep of his right foot, directly into the man’s thigh. The savate kick did the trick and the attack stopped the man in his tracks, he dropped off a pace and Bond followed through with a punch to the sternum. The man sat down and struggled for breath, at that moment Rasoul got up from the floor. Bond drew the Walther and aimed it at Rasoul’s head “Hold it right there”
Bond turned on the light, he gestured for the two men to move in front of him “Hands in you pockets” kneel on the floor
Khalid looked up “You have come to assassinate me” it was a statement.
Bond took the plastic cuffs from his pocket; carefully he slipped them over the wrists of the men. He took a third pair of cuffs and attached one loop to one of the ankles of each man. Satisfied they were secure Bond answered the older man’s question.

“No, I’ve come to warn you” Bond addressed Rasoul again,
“I understand you have a meeting in the morning with the President of the United States of America”

Rasoul turned to his brother, then back to Bond. Slowly he nodded

“Yes that is correct” he knew better than to say any more than what he had been asked

Bond sat on the corner of a bed “My organisation has received intelligence, that this meeting is to be the target of an Al Quade attack. I can see now why they would not want you to be taken back into the fold”

Khalid watched as Bond spoke to Rasoul; the truth and possible salvation dawned on him. The assassin believed that Rasoul was him. The plastic surgery and twelve months of living on the front line had altered his appearance so much that he was unrecognisable to the authorities that sought him. However the downfall was that his own brother looked so much like the Khalid of two years ago that the assassin thought Rasoul was the eighth most wanted man in America
Khalid spoke “Mr al-Fawwaz has been away from his country for a long time, and has much information for Obama” He let the words hang, and prayed that Rasoul would understand the deception.
Rasoul spoke “We hear your warning, what would you have us do?”
Bond addressed them “My Country’s government would give you sanctuary; your information would be of assistance in our fight against terror”

Rasoul answered “Your Queen, she sells sanctuary?”

Bond answered “Depends on the information you have to offer”

Kahlid looked to his brother; their eyes passed the information with a glint.
Kahlid looked at Bond “We only have the information that we have, we cannot
guarantee it would be useful; but I assure you it would be beneficial to have us alive. If Obama himself thought it necessary to meet with us on today of all days he must think the benefit worth the journey”

Bond nodded encouraging the conversation, he had his orders. Wait until the event took place and offer sanctuary or if the information was false, Bond was to kill his hostages.
What Bond could not understand was a willingness to sacrifice Obama. He checked his watch 05.00am December 2009
Bond made his call to London.

“Something’s not right here. Please confirm the guest list”
The silence from the other end was oppressive.
Bill Tanner cleared his throat “There’s been a development”

“Do tell”

“We believe the man you have is…”

“…Kahlid al-Fawwaz” interrupted Bond

“Yes, the event was going to be initiated by him. If you can confirm that identity the FBI will be along to relieve you of your duty”

“There are two men here” Bond aimed the mobile and took two photographs, within seconds they were on the screen in London

Bill Tanner looked at the pictures and without taking his eye off the screen, pressed the speed dial for his FBI contact. He adjusted the phone in his hand “James it’s him, I’ll contact the FBI now”
Bond felt the conversation was coming to a close; he needed to ask the question
“Bill, the original instruction was to allow the event to take place; as we didn’t know the assets were going to be taken out of the picture, what was the thought behind killing the President?”

Bond heard the chuckle on the line “Like most things in Vegas, Obama was a replica”

***

Louise Vanslet-Haywood, stretched out on her bed “Do you know James, I think this is going to be one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had”
Bond kissed her shoulder “The feeling is very mutual”
She laughed and snuggled into his chest “Last night I thought Christmas was going to be ruined…”
“..ah” Bond cut in “Last night was the night before Christmas”

[Bryce (003)]

Nicely done and knowing something of the Mandalay Bay myself, your details are excellent.

Bravo Volante. Cheers and Happy Christmas.

[MattofSteel]

Down to the wire. Always down to the wire...

...I won't fail two years in a row. So we'll say, by Christmas Eve's end, Canadian time.

[terminus]

Interesting short, Volante.

Mine is still in-progress, unfortunately I couldn't work the title into the story as planned so the title is likely to undergo a change. I'm hoping to have the short finished on Boxing Day at the latest.

[MattofSteel]

My minor 9-page effort of imitation, with healthy doses of snobbery, pretentiousness and atmosphere.

Surely that's what 'writing as' Ian Fleming means, no?



'THE KNIFE BEFORE CHRISTMAS'

http://debrief.comma...showtopic=56881

Merry Christmas, all!

[terminus]

Rather liked that piece, Matt. Out of the three full stories we've had, that was probably my favourite - though all of them have been very good.

I'm not quite happy with mine, tho' it's pretty much finished. It's turned out to be quite a length - about 25 pages when I copied it into Word (but then, Blast from the Past is about 28 pages in The Union Trilogy) - but I'm not happy with one of the action sequences.

[volante]

That's all well and good but who's up for the twelve song references in my The Night Before story????

[terminus]

Hmmm. I found a handful of them, not all of them, though.

"I Believe in Father Christmas" by Greg Lake
"Angels" by Robbie Williams
"Pop Muzik" by M
"How Can I Be Sure" by Dusty Springfield
"Don't Look Back In Anger" by Oasis
"Pomp and Circumstance" by Elgar

[chrisno1]

That's all well and good but who's up for the twelve song references in my The Night Before story????

Interesting little tale Paul, nice reading in this half-drunken Boxing Day fall...

I didn't get all the titles Terminus saw, and I was stretching I thought with some of them:

1.Skin Trade - Duran Duran
2.Santa's Sleigh - I thought they sang this in "About A Boy" not sure
3.I Believe in Father Chrstmas - Greg Lake
4.Louise - Human League (dodgy)
5.Land of Make Believe - Bucks Fizz
6.Pomp & Circumstance - Edward Elgar
7.Angels - Robbie Williams
8.Babylon- David Grey
9.Clocks - Coldplay (dodgy)
10.Tonights The Night - Rod Stewart
11.Don't Look Back In Anger - Oasis
12.She Sells Sanctuary - The Cult

You missed the opportunity to put in Dean Martin's Christmas Blues! (You wrote 'Festive Blues')

[terminus]

I got Pop Muzik from the line 'London, New York, Paris, Munich' though in the song London and New York are the other way round.

I'm probably wrong about the Dusty Springfield one.

[volante]

Well done guys, and Merry Christmas.

The dodgy ones were not in my list,so TWO are still to find.

There, now isn't this fun.

[Bryce (003)]

I've decided to work up a New Year's story/tale -

A little more light-hearted.

John Bryce and Matthew O'Shawnassey in : "Two for Tokyo"

Mayhem and Chaos, Bombs and Terrorists, Natural banter...and some scotch.

all in the land of the rising sun.

No....Really.

What could possibly go wrong?

Bryce: "How many people know what the score is over here?"

Cassandra: (gesturing to both 003 and 004) "Counting you two? Only about twelve million."

[terminus]

Can't wait to read it, Bryce.

Hopefully mine will make it to your screens by New Years Day, think I've sorted out that scene I was having trouble with now.

[Bryce (003)]

Thank you Terminus - Looking forward to the balance of yours.

Expect an "homage" to YOLT at some point.

[MHazard]

Well, I started my story before Christmas, it's coming along well, but there is no way it will be done by New Year's. So, I'll finish it and post it next holiday season (sorry folks, I tried, but I just don't work as fast as you do). In the meantime, thanks to the three who did post and more specifically:
Bryce, nice job and Matt and Terminus I'm taking your stories with me to enjoy on a New Year's out of town trip (to a destination used as a fan fiction locale, but not by me). In the meantime, Happy New Year to all.

[terminus]

I've decided to post the story in three-parts, so that it's put out there for people to read whilst I polish off the scenes that have been giving me a bit of trouble.

I'd like to thank coco1997 who has allowed me to bounce ideas off him, including such random questions as 'What brand of underwear would Bond wear?' and all of you who have encouraged the production of this story.

Without further hesitation, here's the first part.


Paris, France
December 19th, AM


There was nothing worse in winter, considered Bond, than to find oneself away from home. Still, he concluded, that was his lot in life, as he crossed the Parisian street, busy with shoppers and bedredged with snow. Entering the warmth of the cafe, Bond removed his Burberry gloves and his Ralph Lauren peacoat and took the patrons in, memorising the faces, marking out potential hostiles and making sure he placed his back to none of them.

"Coffee. Black. Strong." Bond considered his French rusty which would have, no doubt, upset his mother. Monique Delacroix whose Swiss genes, when combined with his father Scottish ruggedness, gifted Bond with looks and charm.

The waitress soon returned and, soon after, his contact arrived - her black hair framing an alabaster face, her cheeks dusted rouge from the touch of the cold outside. In Bond's experience, the prettiest women all had some sort of defect, from broken noses to uneven breasts and mutilated ears but his contact was, to most eyes, unblemished.

Of course, he knew better.

"Can I order you a coffee, madamoiselle?"

"Of course. Would you care to make a suggestion of blend?."

"I'm told the Argentinian has an interesting aroma."

Pleasantries and passwords exchanged, the conversation converted into English when the woman slipped her cellphone onto the table. At least it appeared, to the untrained eye, to be a cellphone but Bond knew better - this had come straight from the Quartermaster. And, when the woman pressed two of the buttons at the same time - as she had - it would emit a pulse that would disrupt any electronic listening devices that had been planted in the vicinity.

"How are you? It's been quite some time."

Bond had worked with her before. Her name was Hesta Rosenthal and Bond recalled she had a fondness for gauloises and cheap wine. Bond recalled the touch of her skin against his, his fingers exploring her body and caressing the scar tissue on her leg she had aquired from a motorbike accident as a student.

"You've got the information, of course?" questioned Bond, pushing niceties aside and cutting straight to the heart of the matter. Hesta, one of the agents that MI6 had deployed into the field, had been tasked with keeping Luther Pollard, a middleman for international terrorism, under surveillance during his 'business trip' to Paris.

Hesta nodded, slid a packet of gauloises across the table.

"Perhaps you might think of having a smoke later, James?" Bond picked up the blue packet, tipped the lid open revealing the flash drive concealed between the horrid French cigarettes.

Slipping the packet into the pocket of his peacoat he responded.

"Maybe I will. Thankyou."

Bond finished his coffee, left some money on the table and left the cafe with the packet of gauloises snug in his pocket. The cold air touched his cheeks and his breath misted before him as he crossed the street, heading towards the nearest metro station.

His journey to Paris had been thrown into chaos by the snow that was currently savaging his homeland. Initial plans to have him travel to Paris on the EuroStar had been cancelled and even the back-up plans to have him fly into and out of Charles De Gaulle had been threatened and, ultimately, Universal Exports had been forced to redirect his route through City Airport and Paris Orly.

As Bond turned the corner, the blast took him unaware. Shattered glass sprayed the street as a blast of fire was belched from the smashed window, sending the shoppers into hysteria. He fought against the tide of scared pedestrians, pushed his way towards the cafe.

Even from the other side of the street, he could see the charred remains of the cafe and knew that throwing himself into the smouldering skeletal building would proove fruitless.

Safer, he concluded, to make sure that the information that Hesta had recovered would reach the right hands. With barely another though, he melded into the pedestrians that had grouped to watch the response of the emergency services.


EVERYMAN STUDIOS
presents

DANIEL CRAIG
as Ian Fleming's
JAMES BOND, 007

in

NUCLEAR KISS


London, England
December 19th, PM


The flights that Universal Exports had booked delivered Bond to City Airport by half-past three. He found himself walking the corridors of Vauxhall Cross within the hour with a meeting set up with M for half-past three. As Bond entered her office, he was dismayed to see that Miss Moneypenny had come down with a flu overnight and had been replaced by a delicate redheaded creature from the typing pool whose name was embossed on a plate on the desk.

"Miss Pettaval," said Bond, by way of greeting.

The redheaded creature - presumably the designated Miss Pettaval - looked up from her computer and settled her eyes on his strongly-muscled frame, drinking his appearance in.

"Commander Bond, welcome back," the accent suggested gentle Cornish roots, thought Bond. "I'll let M know that you're here and," she held up her left hand where a simple gold band rested around her ring finger, "it's Mrs Pettaval, thank you very much."

Bond, suitably admonished.

"Well, he must be a very lucky man, Mrs Pettaval," replied Bond, emphasis placed on the title. Not that such an obstruction would ordinarily bother him, but with the exception of Moneypenny he restrained himself from workplace romance.

Mrs Pettaval put the phone down.

"She'll see you now," said the redheaded guardian of the door to M's sanctum, indicating the room's other door with a nod of her head. Bond mumbled thanks and pushed through into M's office.

The old woman was sitting at her desk with a tumbler of amber bourbon in her hand.

"How was Paris?"

"Productive," Bond took a seat opposite M and withdrew the closely guarded blue packet of gauloises from his pocket. He slid them across the table where M took them, opened the packet and tipped the flash drive out onto her desk.

"Unfortunate what happened to Agent Rosenthal, wasn't it?"

"Quite. Do our friends in the Deuxieme Bureau have any leads as to who might be responsible?"

M shook her head.

"Unfortunately not," she replied with a frown on her face. Both knew that the bomb was connected to the investigation into Luther Pollard but they would need to play a waiting game for the evidence of that connection to turn up. "I've also been informed ..."

M fingered the flash drive absently.

"The Deuxieme Bureau have reported that Luther Pollard was fished out of the Seine at approximately five 'o clock this morning, French time, with his throat garotted - we're still waiting on approximate time of death," explained the silver haired Head of the Secret Service. "I'll send this flash drive down to Q-Branch for analysis, there may be leads in the information that we can follow."

Bond nodded.

"We'll catch the bastards that did this to Rosenthal, Bond, don't you worry," said M in, what must have been, as close to reassurance as she could muter. "Whilst we're waiting for Q-Branch to make some progress, why don't you pop down to the canteen and get yourself something to eat. You must be starved."

Bond left the room, politely acknowledging the suggestion from his superior, gave a polite nod to Miss Pettaval and headed to the canteen. He picked up a plate of scrambled eggs, hearty beef sausages and mushrooms and a pot of thick black coffee that he conducted back to his office for consumption.

Nigel Smith was on leave and the writing pool hadn't sent a replacement. Due to the heavy snowfall, there had been trouble getting personnel into the building so only vital services - such as providing a secretary for M - had been provided. Not that Bond minded, it would give him time to ponder the Parisian mission in peace whilst he consumed his late lunch.

As he poured coffee into a mug, he pondered the morning's events.

It was three hours later, bordering on seven, when the call came down from Mrs Petteval that the information on the flash drive had been downloaded, decoded and analysed and that M wanted to see him immediately.

Closing the file on the proliferation of human trafficking in former Soviet satellites, he quickly left his office, leaving the remains of the half-eaten lunch on his desk and found his way to M's office. Given the the time to give only the most cursory greating to Mrs Petteval, he was ushered into M's sanctum where the Head of the Secret Service was sat, frowning, at her desk.

"I understand that the information has been analysed."

"Yes. It turns out that Miss Rosenthal had witnessed a meeting between Pollard and Gustav Staten," M explained. Bond recognised the name - ran it through his head. Gustav Staten? Gustav Staten? THAT Gustav Staten?

"The arms dealer?"

M nodded.

"The information that Miss Rosenthal uncovered suggests that Pollard was just a middle-man between Staten and someone else, whose identity remains unknown. It also suggests a deal had been brokered," M revealed. "We believe that Pollard was instructed to buy several low-yield nuclear bombs for the use of his superior."

"Once Pollard had brokered the deal and the money transferred he was taken out by this unknown superior," said Bond, voicing his guess as to what M would continue with.

"Exactly. What I want you to do is to find Staten and follow the money to the unknown superior," M explained. "Our people in the field believe that Staten left France for the Far East. Bangkok, to be exact. I've instructed Mrs Petteval to make the necessary arrangements for your flight."

Mrs Petteval had, indeed, made the necessary arrangements for Bond to travel to Bangkok. Bond exited M's sanctum to find Mrs Petteval folding the print-out of the e-ticket and placing it in a plain brown envelope.

"Booked under the name of Mark Hazard," she told him, handing the envelope to him. "You wouldn't believe the strings I had to pull to get that flight out of Heathrow tonight, let alone the favours I had to call in to get you on that flight, Commander."

"England expects, Mrs Petteval," joked Bond.

Mrs Petteval let a smile cross her red lips.

"It certainly does, Commander, it certainly does," replied the red headed temp, steepling her fingers and leaning her chin on the interlaced digits. "No more room in Economy so I had to book you First Class. Flight leaves at just after half nine. That ought to give you enough time to pop home, freshen up and pick up a change of clothes. But, before you go, Q wants to see you."

Bond slipped the plain brown envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Tell him that I'll be straight down."


Bangkok, Thailand
December 20th, PM


The flight from Heathrow had left shortly after ten as the runway had frozen and needed to be de-iced. Due to the various favours called in by Mrs Petteval, the BA flight to Bangkok was the first to leave the airport and, as he had watched his fellow travellers congregate in the gate before boarding the plane, he had felt a small twinge of amusement that none were aware of the flights importance in the grand scheme of national security.

Emerging from Suvarnabhumi Airport at just after four in the afternoon, Bond stepped into the humid caress of Bangkok and took a taxi into the city centre. Handing the driver, who had animatedly regailed him with stories of the cities colourful history on the drive into the city, several Baht notes, he climbed out of the taxi and onto the forecourt of the The Peninsula.

The sun, beating down on him, provided a welcome exchange from the snow that had fallen across Northern Europe. Checking into his room, he took the opportunity to refresh after the long flight that had been jammed full of tourists, businessmen and residents. He turned the shower on, turned the temperature of the water up and allowed it to cleanse him before turning the temperature down low and letting the blast of icy water reinvigorate.

A piece of paper that had been folded in half, then folded in half again had been slipped under his door whilst he had been showering. With the towel securely around his waist, he opened the door to his room to see if the messenger could still be seen but closed the door none the wiser.

Taking a seat on the sofa, Bond unfolded the note to find that it was written on a piece of the hotels embossed paper, scrawled in pencil and signed S T Nicholas. Bond raised his eyebrow at the name, folded the piece of paper back up and set about getting dressed, choosing a light white polo-shirt and a pair of cream slacks.

He considered the note, the pencil scrawl had contained a location and a time. A call to reception confirmed the Sala Rim Naam as a traditional Thai restaraunt at the Mandarin Oriental. Despite the enthusiastic suggestions of the receptionist that Bond would find the Thiptara, the Peninsula's own Thai restaraunt, a much better venue for dinner, Bond eventually found out the Sala Rim Naam's dress code and had the receptionist book a taxi that would get him to the Mandarin in time for his meeting with his mysterious friend.

The night sky was bright with stars as the pre-arranged taxi had deposited Bond outside the Mandarin Oriental. Bond took the hotels ferry across the river to the Sala Rim Naam, housed in a exquisitely decorated Thai pavillion, where he managed to explain, in broken Thai, to the hostess that he was meeting his friend.

"S T Nicholas."

The hostess nodded and indicated that Bond ought to follow her. She led the way to a window table that gave a view of the Terrace Rim Naam and the Chao Phraya river beyond. Bond ordered a cool glass of the local beer and pondered if he had been led into a trap.

These thoughts were pushed aside when the seat opposite him was taken by a beautiful Thai woman. Her raven hair fell around her face and her lips were full, her blue eyes were inquisitive and her body was athletic, the folds of her dress hugging her figure in all of the right places.

"If you're St Nicholas, then I think all my christmasses must have come at once," joked Bond as he ran his eyes over the woman's curves.

The woman laughed.

"S T Nicholas, as you well know," she playfully admonished. "Sinjai Tasanawalai Nicholas, actually. But you can call me Sinjai. It's what all my friends call me."

"And I do so hope we can be friends."

"Of course, Mr Bond," replied Sinjai with a flirtatious smile. "But first, let us order food and discuss business. I hear you have excellent taste in food, allow me to suggest the Neua Yaang Naam Tok. It's quite delicious."

Bond ascented to the suggestion, along with others for Bua Lom Say See, Neua Kua Kling and Khow Soy Gai. Sinjai ordered herself a gin and tonic which was promptly delivered and then the conversation turned to the matters at hand.

"So," began Bond. "Who are you?"

"Thai Intelligence," explained Sinjai. "We heard from your people that you would be operating in our country and, rather than stand back, my superiors thought that you might appreciate a helping hand."

"I always welcome a helping hand, Sinjai," replied Bond as he dug a fork into the Neua Yaang Naam Tok. The tastes of the grilled beef salad with toasted rice and chilli powder danced on his tongue until he washed them down with his second glass of local beer.

"Besides which," continued Sinjai. "We've managed to locate Gustav Staten. He's staying in this very hotel. My people have placed him and his room under surveillance."

Bond raised an eyebrow.

As the main course continued, Sinjai explained what Gustav Staten had been up to since his arrival in her country. And, as Bond dipped his spoon into the Khao-Niew Ma-Muang and savoured the mango and coconut flavours, he was evaluating the options of how the operation should continue.

As he finished the desert, resisting Sinjai's suggestion that he should try the Pol-La-Mai Nam-Peung and pondering how she maintained such a trim figure despite eating as much as himself, he decided to propose his idea.

"I've got a plan," he said, before launching into an explanation.

Edited by terminus, 29 December 2009 - 11:27 PM.

[MHazard]

My apologies to Volante the author of the story which I attributed to Terminus and which I am bringing with me on a trip to read. My thanks also then to Volante for gettting it in on time and to Terminus for providing another story I intend to read. Once again, Happy New Year and to all a Good Night (or is that a Mary Goodnight?)

[Bryce (003)]

Wonderful Terminus. Quite enjoyed it and I look forward to the remainder.

Cheers.

[terminus]

My thanks also ... to Terminus for providing another story I intend to read. Once again, Happy New Year and to all a Good Night (or is that a Mary Goodnight?)

Here's hoping that Nuclear Kiss doesn't disappoint. Happy New Year to yourself.

Wonderful Terminus. Quite enjoyed it and I look forward to the remainder.

Cheers.

I'm glad it's got your stamp of approval, Bryce. Hopefully the rest will play out to your satisfaction. Have to say, it's been incredibly interesting writing it and letting myself find out about characters as I'm writing them - there may also be a follow-up somewhere down the line, the title of which might be announced at the end of Nuclear Kiss.

[coco1997]

Excellent first part, terminus. Looking forward to seeing how the rest of the story shapes up.

[MattofSteel]

Great story, terminus!

[terminus]

Apologies for the delay - but the second part of Nuclear Kiss is eventually ready to be posted.


Part 2



December 21st, AM


The Jim Thompson Thai House & Museum was located in the centre of Bangkok. Six traditional Thai houses, constructed of Teak, had been brought to Bangkok in the fifties from across Thailand. Tours of the house ran from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon so it was at nine thirty that Bond found himself stepping out of the taxi and joining the line to enter the building.

He paid one hundred baht and entered, joining one of the compulsory tours that guided curious tourists around the building. He scanned the group he had joined, there were the usual mix of quiet and rowdy foreigners including an obese American couple and an attractive woman wearing a baseball cap as well as a handful of Thai people interested in exploring their heritage. Bond settled his eyes on the forty-something Gustav Staten, his eyes hollow yet unedniably handsome.

Bond's plan had been risky. Sinjai had orchestrated a meeting between Bond and Staten, with Bond 'posing' as a potential buyer representing a white supremacist movement in the American South. The meeting was to be held in a public place and Sinjai had quickly suggested the Jim Thompson House & Museum as it was a popular public place.

As the tour moved onwards, Bond made his move. He had dressed down, with an open white shirt, simple tan slacks and a pair of sunglasses to shade his eyes from the sun.

"Gustav Staten?"

Staten flickered his eyes to the side, took in Bonds muscular frame that was hidden yet still obvious beneath the strained cloth of the shirt. With firm pectorals and biceps, Bond could have broken Staten without breaking a sweat and, from the look on his face, Staten knew that.

"Mark Boldman?"

"Not quite. The name's Bond, James Bond." Staten looked panicked. He began to scan the room, looking for his closest exit. Bond gently but firmly took hold of his wrist. "No need to panic. I just want to talk, Gustav. I represent MI6 and I believe you can help us."

"How?" whispered Staten.

"Four days ago, you made a deal to sell several nuclear weapons. The man who brokered the deal was fished out of the Seine, his throat garroted, the following day. He'd outlived his usefulness ..."

Staten's face went pale.

"If you want to spare yourself a similar fate, then I can make a deal with you. I can guarantee your safety if you tell me the name of the person you made the deal with," Bond finished. He'd made the pitch, now it was up to Staten to have enough common sense to accept it.

Staten clearly knew that Bond would obtain the answer in one of two ways, the one where Staten volunteered the name of the person he'd made the sale to or the one where he was marched out of the Jim Thompson House & Museum and whisked away to a warehouse and beaten until he divulged it. His answer came quicker than Bond had expected.

"Graeme Stewart."

"When and how are the nuclear weapons due to enter the country?"

Staten looked from a particularly ornate Thai tapestry to Bond.

"They're already in the country, Mr Bond," the arms dealer explained. "I hold a number of weapons cachet's at old Soviet stockpiles, the weapons that Stewart needed were being held there."

Bond realised that the woman in the baseball cap had been hovering nearby. He looked over at her and smiled, she busied herself pretending to read a guidebook that had been bought at the front desk. He turned his attention back to Staten, who had watched Bond observing the woman.

"I think we're being followed," whispered Bond.

Staten moved to respond but he couldn't speak. He grasped at his throat unable to breathe and then slumped to the floor, quite obviously dead. The woman in the baseball cap pushed her way through the other members of the tour group, moving back in the direction that they had come. Bond put two and two together and assumed that the woman must have, at some point, administered a venom to Staten that had just taken affect. Bond followed her, knocking tourists out of the way as he emerged onto Soi Kasemsan and momentarily lost track of the woman amongst the gaggle of tourists who were waiting to enter the museum.

But he caught a glimpse of the baseball cap, pushed his way through the waiting men and women as he forged a path down Soi Kasemsan on an approach to the busy Rama 1 Road, the woman following a similar instinct as Bond.

The woman's baseball cap was knocked off her head, it vanished under the feet of the pedestrians walking the sidewalk. Her black hair was released from underneath the cap, it unfurled and hung around her shoulders. She didn't stop to reclaim her cap or adjust her hair, she charged into a lane of traffic, dodging around cars and trucks.

Bond followed into the traffic. A yellow truck clipped him and he rolled over a car in the next lane, landing in the central reservation that was overgrown with trees and browned grass. Getting to his feet, he vaulted the low hedge on the reservation and forged ahead into the other lane of traffic - dodging between the trucks and cars before arriving on the other side of the road in front of a building site circled by a chain-link metal fence.

The woman slipped through the gap in the chain-link metal fence that bordered the building site. Builders with hard-hats were everywhere, operating machines and involved in the construction of a new shopping centre that was, according to the massive billboard on the edge of the site, opening at some point in 2010.

Bond was too big to slip through the gap in the fence and instead climbed up it, throwing himself down on the other side into a pile of sand. He landed, let out a grunt as he hit the sand, then pushed off and sidestepped a digger as it moved through the construction site.

He'd lost sight of the woman when the digger had crossed his field of vision, but saw her pushing her way through a crowd of surveyors and into the half-finished shopping centre. He charged after her, vaulting up the steps and in through the doorway - the interior of the shopping centre was constructed around a central plaza. People on the top floor could look down the four floors to the bottom where there would be an ornate fountain and a food court.

But right now it was an empty husk and Bond listened carefully for the steps of the woman. He threw himself into motion, taking the bare concrete steps down a level. There were no handrails yet, someone could quite easily fall from those steps to their death.

The woman came charging at him and he found himself flying backwards, his feet leaving the firm concrete floor behind as he fell backwards into the central plaza and slammed into a tower of scaffolding that reached from the floor to the open ceiling. It swung with Bond, the metal scaffold pipes screeching across the floor until it settled - jammed at a diagonal angle between the two sides of the central plaza.

Bond settled his eyes on the woman who was climbing the steps to the unfinished top floor of the shopping centre. He felt the scaffolding beneath him and judged it was securely wedged. Placing one hand on the bar that had provided the support to the level above the one he'd landed on, he began climbing up the scaffolding like he would a ladder.

He arrived at the topfloor at the same time as the woman. But now they were on opposite sides of the central plaza, Bond ran round the edge of the plaza. He lifted his PPK up and got the woman in his sights - just as she ducked under a piece of transparent plastic that covered an entrance into another section. Bond ducked under the plastic, pushing his way through into the covered car-park which was being used as a storage area for various equipment.

The woman was running down the ramp that would lead onto the street but was now just leading her back into the building site. Bond peered over the waist high wall and checked below - he was thee floors up. It wasn't a significant drop, but were he to land wrongly then he could sustain some serious injuries or even die. But there was a dumper truck about to pass by the window carrying sand to another corner of the building site.

Bond timed his jump and landed in the sand, rolling off and falling to his hands and knees before sprinting off in the direction of the exit ramp from which the woman was now emerging. The National Stadium loomed on other side of the chain-link fence and the woman was going to be able to push through the gap between the two gates again. Bond put on an extra surge of speed, rushed to catch up with her.

She was through the fence, but she'd dropped something. Bond pulled himself onto the fence and then dropped to his feet on the other side, bending to pick up the object that the woman had dropped. It wasn't an object per se, it was an incredibly realistic black wig.

Bond held the black wig in his hands and scanned the crowd of people outside the National Stadium. He had lost her. The woman had vanished into the crowd - but he'd gotten a good look at her and he'd be able to provide a description to the Thai police.

As he stood on the edge of the road, a Thai police car pulled up beside him. The passenger door opened and Sinjai climbed up. She quickly moved to his side and looked him over, taking in the black wig that he was holding.

"Are you okay, James?"

Bond nodded. He'd taken a few cuts and bruises but, otherwise, he was fine.

"What about Staten?"

"Dead. I've asked for his blood to be analysed for poisons. We need to get you back to your hotel room to clean up, but first - we'd like you to speak to one of our sketch artists to get an image of the assassin ..."

Bond climbed into the back seat of the Thai police car. Sinjai climbed back into the passenger seat and barked orders at the policeman who was driving. Soon, they pulled up at a policestation where Bond, through broken Thai and a translator, gave a description of the assassin and produced an accurate photofit. Whilst he had been busy, Sinjai had arranged for a car from Thai Intelligence to drive them back to the Peninsula.

As the car pulled into a lane to cross a bridge across the Chao Phraya river, Bond looked across at Sinjai and wondered what her flaw was. Hesta Rosenthal had some scarring from a motorbike accident and Honeychile Ryder had a bent nose but S. T. Nicholas had no visible flaw.

Bond's focus was brought back to the present when he heard a popping sound. The popping sound was followed by the car swerving across the road and the driver slumping in his seat. Sinjai jumped forward, trying to push the driver out of the way so she could get to the steering wheel but the driver must have been one of the few conscientious drivers in secret services across the world, he was wearing a securely fastened seatbelt.

As Sinjai struggled with the seatbelt clasp and Bond pulled the driver out of the way, the car mounted the kerb and ploughed through the railings at the side of the road. The car was in flight for mere seconds before it dove into the freezing waters of the Chao Phraya river and began to descend.

"Get out!"

Bond pushed the door, but the force of the water was holding it closed. The car was old enough that it didn't have electronic window openers and the manual levers were jammed when Bond tried to turn the handle. The driver was dead, shot through the head by a sniper, and both Bond and Sinjai would join him if they couldn't find a way to escape the rapidly sinking car.

Bond felt the reassuring heft of his Walther PPK in his pocket. If the car was old enough to have manual levers to open windows and a snipers bullet could pierce the windshield, then it stood to reason he could shoot their way out of the car.

The car was now totally submerged and sinking faster, it had begun to fill with water as the crack on the windshield had begun to widen. Bond pulled out his PPK and took aim at the rear window, unleashing a hail of bullets.

BLAM

BLAM

BLAM

The bullets tore through the rear window allowing the murky waters of the Chao Phraya river to flood the car. Bond and Sinjai were released, they floated upwards, propelled by rapid kicking of their feet until they broke the surface and took deep breaths of air.

On the bridge above, there were dozens of people gathered around the broken railing. When Bond and Sinjai boobed to the surface, they broke out in a cheer and a small boat, the skipper of which had seen the accident, advanced on the pair and helped them onboard. He took them to a nearby dock and from there, Bond and Sinjai were hustled into an ambulance where they were given a quick check-up by the paramedics including beind urged to visit a physiciain immediately to get boosters for their innoculations. In Bond's line of work, that was a job essential and innoculations were given on a regular interval, so he had no worries.

Sinjai made a few polite requests to the paramedic and he agreed to drop them both off at the Peninsula. Bond offered the shower to Sinjai first and she accepted, pulling on a comfortable towel robe when she had finished. Bond stepped into the bathroom and began to cleanse himself whilst Sinjai made a few calls.

Sinjai put the phone down as Bond stepped out of the bathroom, a towel secure around his waist and another around his neck. She finished scribbling on the pad at the desk, tore the sheet she'd annotated off and looked up at Bond.

"Graeme Stewart," Sinjai began. "I'm not surprised that you recognised the name. He's a major mover and shaker in the worldwide push towards renewable energy sources. Last year, his company invested several million in wave and wind power promotion in the UK alone."

Bond nodded. He stepped into the dressing area and removed a new shirt from its coathanger, fastening the buttons as Sinjai continued her recounting of the notes from the pad.

"Based on the description you gave of the woman who poisoned Staten, we have identified her as Nina Macpherson," explained Sinjai. That name rang a bell. He eventually put his finger on it - it was one of the names used by a mercenary that other members of the Double-0 Section had encountered. She had multiple identities and escaped capture through a clever use of make-up and disguises. "We also believe she was in Paris at the time of Luther Pollard's murder. I've had the word put out to various agencies to keep their eyes open for her ..."

"What about Stewart? Where's he?"

Sinjai checked her notes.

"He's due to host a press conference at the Hotel Oceanus in Culebra, Puerto Rico, on Christmas Eve," explained Sinjai. "There will be tickets avaliable for you at the airport, courtesy of my superiors."

The Cathay flight that would take him to Hong Kong took off from the runway of Suvarnabhumi Airport. Smartly dressed stewardesses started serving drinks and light refreshments to the other passengers. Bond declined the offer of a drink. He had decided to take the opportunity to get some rest and, exhausted after the days events, he soon fell asleep.


Culebra, Puerto Rico
December 23rd AM


The thirty-five minute Air Flamenco charter flight had eventually brought Bond to Benjamin Rivera Noriega Airport late the previous evening. After catching only a few hours sleep on the long journey from Bangkok to San Juan, a journey that had taken him to both Hong Kong and New York, Bond found his way to the villa that Universal Exports had rented where he managed to talk the housekeeper into summoning up some food for him.

As the clock hit midnight, he had demolished the food that the housekeeper had rustled up, stripped to his red-waistbanded Aussiebum briefs and pulled the thin cotton blanket over himself though he found it difficult to sleep. The events of the past five days replayed in his mind - he had visited four continents, seen an old friend blown up and almost drowned alongside a new one. Eventually, out of sheer exhaustion, the fingers of morpheus had touched him and he had fallen asleep, waking when the alarm on his clock had gone off.

He dressed, showered, ate a short breakfast and then asked for directions to the Hotel Oceanus which was anchored in a cove on the other side of the southern end of the island. The rental car took him to the cove in under an hour whilst finding a suitable vantage point to checkout the hotel took slightly more than thirty minutes.

The sleek white sail of the hotel projected from the sea by twenty metres with the other thirty one metres hidden beneath the gentle waves of the azure sea. It had been based on the design of the roaming laboratory, the Sea Orbiter, which had been designed by Jacque Rougerie and was due to enter operation in three years.

It was anchored to the seafloor by strong chains which held it in place yet were loose enough to allow the hotel to roll with the gentle waves that visited the cove. Private speedboats delivered guests from a jetty on the shore to the hotel itself and Bond could see one of them cutting through the water through his binoculars.

"I need to take a closer look," Bond said to himself. He packed up his surveillance equipment and made his way back through the overgrown tropical flora to the rental car. He drove a couple of coves over until he came across a watersports centre that was willing to let him take a speedboat out for twice the usual charge, a fee which Bond gladly fished out for alongside some scuba diving equipment.

Bond devoured an apple as he steered the speedboat out of the cove, turning to the right and moving along the beautiful sandy coast of Culebra until he saw the white sail of the Hotel Oceania coming into view. He dropped anchor outside the cove, there were several other speedboats docked outside the cove so one more wouldn't be conspicuous.

After checking and putting the scuba diving equipment on, he rolled backwards off the boat and sank into the warm water. The visibility was good as he swam in the direction of the mouth of the cove. After twenty minutes, the thirty metre portion of the Hotel Oceania that extended under the water started looming ahead of him.

There were thick windows allowing hotel guests to look at the underwater world. Tropical fish darted back and forth, some were intigued by the lights from the windows and were quite brave about approaching the intruder into their realm, others exercised common sense and maintained a good distance from the hotel.

The four chains that anchored the hotel to the oceanfloor stretched into the dark water below. Bond wanted to take a closer look and swam towards one of the anchor chains, following the metal chain as it descended into the water. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and jerked round - expecting to set his eyes on an inquisitive fish.

But he came face-to-face with another figure wearing scuba equipment. He took up a defensive posture, his hand reaching towards the knife that had come as part of the diving equipment.

The figure pulled the headpiece of the wetsuit back, allowing luxurious black hair to undulate with the gentle currents of the underwater world. He was suddenly aware that he knew that hair - he knew that figure.

Bond indicated, with simple hand gestures, that she should follow him back to his boat and she obediently followed. Twenty minutes later, their heads surfaced next to the white hull of his speedboat and they removed their breathing aparatus so that they could see each others faces clearly.

Sinjai held onto the side of the speedboat and they trod water to maintain their position. Bond was incredulous, the Thai secret agent had followed him halfway round the world to Puerto Rico without so much as an absent comment.

"What are you doing here, Sinjai?"

Sinjai smiled and her delicate ruby lips evaporated any hostility that had been forming towards her.

"This time, James, I have the plan."

Edited by terminus, 03 January 2010 - 01:43 AM.

[Bryce (003)]

Nice read!

[coco1997]

I agree with Bryce, termy; having already read most of your story in its planning stages via communique before its official release, I have to say you really nailed the chase scene in this part. Very Casino Royale-esue.

[terminus]

Thanks for the thumbs up, Bryce. That actually means a lot.

I agree with Bryce, termy; having already read most of your story in its planning stages via communique before its official release, I have to say you really nailed the chase scene in this part. Very Casino Royale-esue.

I have to admit that the chase sequence was one of the toughest parts of the story to get down onto paper. I could envisage it, but I couldn't get what I was seeing down onto paper so I'm glad it came through well in the end. The CR-esque feeling was intentional - a tip of the hat to the construction site parts of the chases in both QOS and CR.

Hopefully the conclusion will entertain you as much as the first two parts.

[MkB]

I'm way behind my "to read" list, so please give me some time before commenting upon the latest entries but... speaking of "New Year Bond fanfics", I'd like to remind everybody here of an "antique" (2 years already ) fanfic by Clinkeroo:
Traveller from an Antique Land
http://debrief.comma...showtopic=38301
(Thanks to Scrambled Eggs for pointing it to me)

And MHazard, I can't wait the next holiday season to see what you'll come up with, good luck with your writing