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[tdalton]

coco1997 & tdalton present

a new james bond fanfiction adventure

 

 

 

DISCLAIMER:  This is a work of fanfiction.  Many of the characters and some situations contained within this story are the creation of either Ian Fleming or EON Productions.  No copyright infringement is intended, as this is merely presented as a tribute to both the James Bond novels, written by Ian Fleming, and the James Bond film franchise, which are produced by EON Productions.  No monetary gain is made from this work whatsoever.  It is merely presented for the entertainment of the CBn community.

 

NOTE:  This project was the result of conversations that occurred during the wind down of the "Ultimate Bond" fanfiction game that occurred here on CBn a few years back.  What coco1997 and I set out to do was to re-imagine some of the Bond films and novels, using a mixture of already established characters and our own original characters to create what are mostly original works.  This project, A WHISPER OF LOVE, A WHISPER OF HATE, is a re-imagining of the characters and some events from the LIVE AND LET DIE source material.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

San Monique

 

When the siren went off, it could be heard all over the island of San Monique, an island in the waters where the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean meet, located north of both Cancun, Mexico, and PInar del Rio, Cuba.  The island had, for most of its history, escaped colonization by the world powers, mostly because there was no abundance of any of the most sought after natural resources.

 

That had changed more than a decade ago, when the first of what the local population called the “invaders” came to the island.  They were repelled quickly, partly due to the force of the local population, but also in some part due to the presence of the goddess Solitaire.  Solitaire, a beautiful and pure woman with long, blue-black hair who had been a part of the local religion dating back long before any of those currently living on the island knew, had long protected the island.  That was the story that they told themselves. 

 

The sirens had arrived not long after the first actual sighting of Solitaire, which occurred within the last five years.  Since then, they had become commonplace, a warning to the locals not to venture down into the cove where she had long been thought to reside.  In the early days of what the locals called P.A., or post-appearance, the sirens were a regular part of daily life.  People would venture down there either to try to see the goddess themselves or they would go down there to try to debunk the entire thing.  In the last couple of years, the sirens had lessened considerably in frequency, to the point that they were no longer a part of every day life. 

 

Following every sounding of the siren, the offending party was captured by the settlers that Solitaire had allowed to inhabit the cove and then brought up the cliff to a ritual site in which they were sacrificed to the goddess.  Tonight’s siren was no different and the locals began to assemble for the ritual.

 

T.H. Johnson, one of the settlers permitted by the goddess to be in the cove, quickly moved down the makeshift stone staircase that led from the top of the cliff down to the bottom where the cove was located.  Halfway down there was a small landing where there was a door built into the face of the cliff.  Using the hook that stood in place of his right hand, T.H. knocked loudly on the door.  He waited several moments and then opened the door and entered.  

 

Inside was a sight that betrayed its surroundings.  Dug into the face of the cliff was what could only be described as a penthouse, much like what one might see in a fancy New York City highrise, albeit without the windows providing a gorgeous view.  T.H. navigated his way through the penthouse to the bedroom.  In the queen size bed, completely unaware of his presence, was Simone Latrelle.  The sound of her breathing was the only noise in the room.  The penthouse had been made entirely soundproof so that the sirens did not disturb her.

 

T.H. cleared his throat loudly.  Simone stirred in the bed and then sat up.  She was naked but made no effort to cover herself in T.H.’s presence.  “What is it?” she asked groggily.

 

“The sirens have sounded.  The locals are gathering for a sacrifice.”

 

“Who did we catch this time?  Another local or is it something that we should be concerned about?”

 

“There’s cause for concern.”

 

Simone sat in the bed for a few moments longer, contemplating the next move.  She rose from the bed and crossed the bedroom to a large wooden armoire.  She could feel T.H.’s eyes following her.  “You can stop staring, Tee Hee,” she said, invoking the nickname that she knew he hated, but it had long since stuck to him. 

 

He didn’t say anything.  “Leave me,” she instructed as she put on a white ceremonial robe.  I’ll be at the ritual site momentarily.”

 

He turned and left the penthouse, quietly shutting the door behind him.  Simone made her way to the main room of the penthouse, where there was a large 27-inch iMac computer.  She clicked the mouse a few times, bringing up security footage of the cove.  After rewinding the film a few minutes, she found what she needed: the image of a man being led up the stone steps by Tee Hee and some of his men.  She retrieved her tarot cards and set about identifying the man on the computer monitor.

 

Outside, Tee Hee had made his way to the top of the cliff, where the clearing that served as the ritual site was filling up with locals.  Many brought with them makeshift musical instruments, playing songs of tribute to the goddess Solitaire.  One man danced around the growing bonfire in the middle of the clearing with a venomous coral snake hoisted above his head.

 

Tee Hee had been easily able to distinguish what kind of snake it was the first time he had seen it.  The alternating red, yellow, and black bands gave the snake away.  He always made sure to stay away from the snake charmer, having had a run-in with a coral snake while stationed in Brazil a couple of decades ago.  It had nearly cost him his right leg.

 

The siren had stopped blaring, the sound of which was replaced by the primitive music and chanting being performed in the clearing by the gathered local population.  This quickly gave way to the blaring sound of tribal horns, causing the crowd to fall silent.  On the cliff side of the clearing, there was a stone alter that stood two stories tall.  From it, the goddess Solitaire levitated above the altar and began to descend toward the clearing. 

 

Her bare feet touched the ground, making no noise whatsoever.  She walked towards the center of the clearing, where the bonfire was burning.  Her white robe billowed in the light breeze, as did her blue-black hair.  The gathered crowd simply watched as she made her way towards her offering.

Her ‘offering’ was the intruder that had made his way into the cove.  He was tied to a wooden stake, which he was struggling against in an effort to free himself.  He stopped moving once his eyes locked with Solitaire’s.

 

She stopped in front of him, her eyes fixated on his.  “Mr. Harris.  It’s so nice to meet you.”

 

“Please…”

 

“Please, what?” she asked.

 

“Let me go.”

 

Solitaire moved even closer to Harris, leaning up so that she could whisper in his ear.  “Why would I do a thing like that?”

 

“Please,” was all he could answer.

 

Solitaire stepped back and addressed the crowd in the local language.  “He wishes to be set free.  What say you?”

 

The crowd erupted in chants of disapproval.  “I’m sorry, Nathan, but there’s nothing I can do for you.  It is forbidden for anyone to enter the cove.  You did, and now you die.”  

         

Solitaire began to walk away from him.  The snake charmer moved around the bonfire and stopped in front of Harris, the coral snake still hoisted above his head.  Solitaire continued walking.  She looked back were, beyond the bonfire, she saw someone lurking in the trees.  She watched for a moment and then turned and continued walking.

 

The snake toyed with Harris for a few moments before lunging out and biting his neck.  Harris convulsed in pain as the venom began to course through his veins.

 

As Harris convulsed, the crowd watched as Solitaire levitated back up to the altar and disappeared into it.  Their attention quickly turned back to Harris, who quickly lost the ability to breathe, as the venom began to paralyze the muscles responsible for respiration.  The convulsing stopped and Harris’ chin fell to his chest.  The crowd cheered.

 

Inside the altar, Tee Hee was waiting with one of his men.  “Ms. Solitaire,” he began.

 

“You know I hate that name,” she corrected him.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“You men are all alike, needing to define a woman by her relationship to you.”

 

“Again, I’m sorry.”

 

She turned her attention to the other man.  “There was a woman in the bushes watching the ritual.  Go get her before she flees.  Just throw her into the fire.  We don’t need to go through the ritual process again. 

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he left.

 

She turned her attention back to Tee Hee. “Our friend, Mr. Harris, is, or I guess more accurately was, an agent of MI6.  Double-oh status.”

 

“We should expect retaliation, then,” Tee Hee said.

 

“They’ll send their best agent.  James Bond, Double-oh Seven.  At least he’ll be their best agent for a little while longer.  Facing mandatory retirement.”

 

“A geriatric then?” Tee Hee chuckled, exhibiting the trait that had earned him his nickname.

 

“No.  Far from it.  The mandatory retirement means he survived to forty-five.  It means he’s good.  Very good.”

 

She paused for a moment, reaching up to her head to remove the large, golden headpiece that served as part of the ritual garb.  “Wait for everyone to leave and then gather up the body.  We can’t further expose San Monique.  It’s too important.  We’ll take on Bond elsewhere.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Tee Hee said.  He turned and left the altar.

 

She waited until she heard the sound of the crowd die down to nothing then exited the altar, making her way down the stone staircase to the penthouse in the side of the cliff.  

 

A few minutes later, once she had made her way back to the penthouse, Simone heard a knock on the door.  She opened it to find Tee Hee.  "What is it now?"

 

"The woman you saw in the trees.  We took care of her."

 

"You bothered me to tell me you did your job?"

 

"She had a cell phone.  She was taking video."

 

"Did she send it to anyone?"

 

"I don't know.  She threw it off the side of the cliff when we went to grab her."

 

"Thank you," Simone said, dismissing Tee Hee.  She closed the door and retreated into the bedroom.  She crawled into the bed and buried her face in the pillow and began to cry, as she often did following the rituals.

[tdalton]

Chapter 2

 

Paris

 

The metro tunnel was nearly empty.  Good, thought Bond, as he and Mary Goodnight made their way towards their destination.  Ahead of them, about a hundred paces, was a solid, grey door covered in graffiti.  There was nothing remarkable about it aside from where it led.  “Is that it?” Goodnight asked.

 

“I think so.”

 

Bond reached for the silver door handle, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was looking before he pulled it down.  What few people there were in the metro at that time of night were oblivious, going about their own business without giving anyone else a second thought.  The new global era of self-centeredness had its perks, Bond thought.

 

Bond opened the door and quickly ushered Goodnight inside before entering himself.  Inside the door was a small landing area that led to another door.  This one had an electronic lock which could only be opened by entering a numerical code.  Goodnight stepped up to the keypad and punched in a five-digit code.  There was a loud click, indicating that the door in front of them had unlocked. 

 

On the other side of that door, there was yet another small landing area, in the middle of which was a spiral staircase heading down further into the Paris underground.  Looking down the staircase, the stairs quickly disappeared into the darkness below them.  “Inviting, isn’t it?” Goodnight quipped.

 

“A regular holiday destination,” Bond retorted.

 

There was some hesitation before Bond decided to be the first to descend into the darkness.  “I guess I’ll go first.”

 

“You know what they say.  Age before beauty,” Goodnight chuckled, playfully punching Bond in the shoulder.

 

Bond gave her a half-serious stare which said grow up, but he knew that was a losing battle with her.  The job hadn’t gotten to her yet.  He hoped that it never would.  “So, what exactly is down there?” Goodnight asked as Bond retrieved a flashlight from his pocket.

 

“The catacombs.”

 

“Why in the hell are we meeting this guy down here?”

 

“No idea.”

 

The catacombs, or Municipal Ossuary, contained the remains of some six million people spanning hundreds of years.  The catacombs into which Bond and Goodnight were scheduled to meet their contact had originated at the Cemetery of the Innocents, which had been in use for a thousand years before being moved, due to infectious outbreaks within the community that previously housed it, into the unused quarries beneath Paris.  

 

“You know, the catacombs are open to the public, right?  Why not go in through the actual entrance?” Goodnight asked.

 

“Only a small part is open to the public.  Where we’re going isn’t and there’s no way to get there from the tourist section.”

 

Flashlights in hand, Bond and Goodnight began their descent.  The journey downward took several minutes, made more difficult by the narrowness of the spiral staircase. 

 

When they reached the bottom, there was a small semblance of light off in the distance, but not enough to discourage the use of their flashlights.  As they walked they could hear the occasional rat scurrying along the stone floor.  “Thank God it’s too dark to see them,” Goodnight stated.

 

“Shortly, it won’t be,” Bond stated matter-of-factly.

 

When they reached the end of the corridor where a hanging lantern was found to be the light source, they turned right and saw the corridor lit with lanterns hanging from the ceiling.  One look down this corridor showed that the lanterns were providing a path for the two of them to follow. 

Bond clicked off his flashlight and instructed Goodnight to do the same.  “Why?” she asked.

 

“The lanterns are providing enough light.  We should conserve the batteries on these things.”

 

Bond reached into his overcoat and pulled his Walther PPK from its holster.  He clicked the safety off and then proceeded to follow the path through the catacombs.  The path led them through several twists and turns through the Paris underground until they finally reached a large open area.  Two rows of columns began at the entrance and extended all the way to the far end of the room.  The walls of this room were not made of stone like the ones in the corridors, but rather they were made of human bones.  Skulls, mostly. 

 

“This is horrible,” Goodnight said.

 

They stood there for a few minutes, surveying the room.  There were books, magazines, and the odd piece of drug paraphernalia strewn around the room.  In the corner, where the light did not reach, more rats could be heard scurrying about, presumably fighting over whatever scrap of food that may have been left behind by whoever had last been down there.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Bond,” a voice said from the darkness.

 

Bond and Goodnight stopped in their tracks.  From the darkness emerged a tall, thin man in a black suit and black overcoat, similar to the one Bond was wearing.  He extended his gloved hand.  Bond declined to shake it.  “Mr. Sinclair, I presume,” Bond said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, then, do you have the information?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where is it?”

 

“I’m the information, Mr. Bond.”

 

“So, you’re surrendering to us?” Goodnight asked.

 

“I prefer to think of it as a defection, Ms. Goodnight,” Sinclair responded.

 

Robert Sinclair was a high-ranking official in the French government.  He was also one of the few known members of Quantum that remained in operation.  M had tasked the Double-oh Section with rounding up the few remaining members so that they could answer to their respective governments.  The problem in France was that the government didn’t seem overly concerned about the Quantum threat, even though there had been sufficient evidence to prove both their existence and their threat to global stability.  Sinclair knew that he would face no punishment in France.

 

“Why?” Bond asked.  “Your government doesn’t seem overly concerned about the Quantum threat. 

 

“True.  But I’m tired of running from the various organizations.  There’s also a rogue element in the organization that is on the verge of taking over.  I want no part of them, and they need to be stopped.  I’m willing to help your government with this problem.”

 

“What do you mean ‘rogue element’” Bond asked.  “We’ve taken care of most of the organization’s leadership.”

 

Sinclair laughed at that statement.  “It’s cute that you think that.  It really is.”

 

“Enlighten me, then,” Bond said.

 

“You can’t defeat Quantum.  You take one of us out, somebody else rises up in their place.  Someone hatched a plan a while back to make your people think that we were running low on active members, with the goal being that you’d back off a bit.  Obviously it worked.”

 

“So, you’re coming with us, then?” Goodnight interrupted.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good, then can we have this conversation up there?” she asked, gesturing above her head.

 

“I’m afraid not,” Sinclair said.

 

“Why not?” Bond asked. 

 

“There are only a few places in Europe and North America where they can’t listen in on us.”

 

“They track their members?” Bond asked.

 

“No.  They track everyone.”

 

“Bullshit,” Goodnight interrupted.

 

“It’s hard to believe, but it’s true.  The infrastructure they’ve built for their various endeavors in espionage dwarfs even what your cousins over in America have done with their NSA.  We’re far enough underground that she won’t be able to hear us.”

 

“She?” Bond asked.

 

Sinclair opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.  He gasped and blood began to spill from his mouth.  He fell forward, landing face-first on the stone floor.  Goodnight bent down to tend to him, quickly discovering the bullet hole in the back of his neck.  It was a small caliber shot, judging from the size of the hole, but enough to sever his spinal cord. 

 

Bond’s eyes darted around the room.  His Walther was drawn, ready to take on the unseen attacker.  He suddenly felt a sharp, yet familiar, pain rip through his right shoulder.  It caused him to drop the Walther as he fell to his knees and then to the ground in agony. 

 

Goodnight rushed to Bond.  He was bleeding from a hole in his shoulder that was the same size as the one in Sinclair’s neck.  Fortunately, Bond’s wounds were not life threatening.  At least they wouldn’t be if she could get him somewhere to be treated in a timely manner.

Goodnight now had her gun drawn, ready for any further enemy action.  It didn’t come.  Bond was now on his feet, walking around the room, using the wall for support.  “Where do you think the shots came from?” Goodnight asked.

 

“From somewhere over there,” Bond said, pointing into the small sliver of the room that was bathed in darkness.  “Sinclair had his back to that wall.”

 

Goodnight retrieved the torch from her pocket and switched it on.  Shining it into the darkness, she saw the rats for the first time as they scurried away from whatever they had been doing in order to get away from the new light source.  She made her way to the wall and examined every square inch of it.

The search of the wall yielded a small hole.  Goodnight peered through it to see another corridor on the other side.  Above it was another, smaller hole.  She concluded that the hole on top was the peephole, through which the assailant watched while he set up the shot. 

 

“The shot came from right here,” Goodnight informed Bond.  “Two holes right here in the wall.”

 

“Anything on the other side?”

 

“Just an empty corridor.  The guy got away.”

 

Goodnight crossed the room to get to Bond.  “Let me see,” she said quietly as she pulled back the collar of his shirt so she could see the wound. 

 

“How bad is it?” Bond asked, still in some pain.

 

“I’ve seen worse.  I’m sure you have too.”

 

“So, I’m going to live?”

 

“Looks that way.  It’d be a real shame to kick the bucket just before your retirement.”

 

Goodnight helped Bond to his feet and they began the trek back to the metro tunnel.

 

*******

 

James Bond laid on the bed of the suite at the Hotel Bel Ami.  The pain in his shoulder had subsided within the last hour, thanks in large part to the first aid work done on it by Goodnight.  She stood on the other side of the French doors that led into the main sitting area of the suite, talking on her mobile phone.  Bond presumed that she was speaking with M.

 

“He’s dead, sir,” he could hear her say. 

 

Bond knew that she would be occupied with M for a while, filing a mission report with their boss.  He climbed off the bed, grimacing in the expectation of his shoulder hurting, but very little pain came.  She’s good, Bond thought.  Then again, he already knew this.

 

He entered the spacious bathroom.  The room was entirely white save for the shower, which was glass on two sides and black granite tiling on the other two.  He turned the shower on and waited for the water to become as hot as he could stand it.  When it was near-scalding, he climbed in. 

 

The stresses of the day began to wash out of him under the hot spray of the water.  Another failed mission, he thought.  Those seemed to be just as much the normal state of affairs in the quest to take down Quantum as the successful ones were.  This one in particular stung.  Sinclair could have given them some valuable information about the remaining operatives of the organization.  MI6 knew that there were some still operating in the United States and Canada.  Maybe a cell or two operating in the UK and France. 

 

The more worrying aspect of the meeting, however, as the woman of which Sinclair spoke.  How was she able to spy on everyone in the world?  It just wasn’t feasible.  Surely an exaggeration on Sinclair’s part, although he had gone to great lengths to ensure that they wouldn’t be spied upon. 

 

Bond’s deconstruction of the day’s events were cut short when he felt a burst of cool air against his back as the glass door of the shower slid open.  Goodnight stepped into the shower and pressed herself against Bond’s back, embracing her partner.  “How’re you feeling?” she asked, concerned.

 

“Much better.  Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“You’re pretty good at that kind of thing.”

 

“I’m pretty good at a lot of things,” she said, her tone still somber yet yielding to a small dose of playfulness.

 

Bond turned around and embraced Goodnight.  She rested her head against his chest as the water poured over them.  “This is probably the last time we’ll have this opportunity, isn’t it?” she asked.

 

“Probably,” Bond said.

 

“We’ve got a couple more days here,” she said.  “M doesn’t need us back until Monday.  Apparently without Sinclair, we’re at a dead end.”

 

Goodnight reached around Bond and turned off the water.  “Let’s go to bed,” she said. 

 

They dried off and then Goodnight put a fresh dressing on Bond’s wound.  She then led him into the bedroom.

[tdalton]

Chapter 3

New Orleans

 

Felix Leiter sat alone at a small, round table at the Filet of Soul restaurant on Bourbon Street.  He nursed a Bourbon as he watched the afternoon’s entertainment dance around the stage while singing something that sounded like a fusion of old Blues music and more modern R&B.  He didn’t care for the music, but he rarely cared for the entertainment that played there during the afternoon.  The performers that took to the stage after dark were what made the Filet of Soul worthwhile.

 

Leiter’s Blackberry vibrated on the table, producing a loud buzzing sound that thankfully pulled his attention away from the stage.  “Yes?” he said into the phone.

 

“It’s Natalie,” the female voice on the other side said.  

 

“I know.  I recognized the number.”

 

“Anyway.  We’re out here on Route 90 where the Geoghegan Canal opens up, just after you cross over Fort Pike Bridge.  We’ve got a body here we’d like you to take a look at.”

 

“Can’t you handle it?” Felix asked, annoyed.

 

“We found some identification on the body.  Assuming it’s not fake, this guy’s working with the British Secret Service.  We remembered that you know some people over there and thought you might want to check it out.”

 

“I’ll be there.”

 

Leiter ended the call and slapped a small wad of money on the table and headed out to the street where he had parked his car.

 

*******

 

Leiter pulled his 1968 Ford Mustang GT500KR into the parking lot of the marina just off of Route 90 on the other side of the bridge.  He exited, flipping on his Ray Ban Aviator Classics to shield him from the unforgiving afternoon sun.  As he walked towards the docks, a man who looked like a younger version of himself came jogging towards him.  The man removed a badge from his navy suit and produced it for Leiter.

 

“Special Agent Mark Wallace,” the man said.  “Felix Leiter, I presume?”

 

“Natalie’s new partner?” Leiter asked, shaking the man’s hand.

 

“Correct.  Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

 

Wallace led Leiter to the docks, holding up the yellow police tape for Leiter to duck underneath.  Kneeling on one of the docks next to the corpse was Special Agent Natalie Roark, one of the best agents working out of the New Orleans FBI office.  She saw Felix coming and walked away from the body, removing her blue nitrile gloves and throwing them into a nearby wastebin.  

 

“Felix, good to see you,” she said, extending her hand.  Leiter shook it.  

 

“You too,” Leiter responded.  “Do we have a positive ID on the body?”

 

“His name is Nathan Harris, according to the ID we found on him.  We'll have to get confirmation from MI6 that he's one of theirs, unless you can make a positive ID for us."

 

“I’ll take a look.”

 

Leiter approached the corpse.  It was clear from the level of decay that it had been in the water for quite some time.  Miraculously, the face hadn’t been torn to shreds by the fish, but he still did not recognize him.  “Never seen him before.”

 

“Damn,” Roark said.  “I was hoping to avoid the paperwork of going through the official channels.”

 

“I’ll make a few calls.  Might save you some time.”

 

“Thanks, Felix.”

 

*******

 

The sun had almost completely dipped below the horizon when the figure riding a black motorcycle pulled up to the curb right beside a dark alley a few miles from the French Quarter.  Dressed in black leather from head to toe, including a black helmet featuring a tinted visor, the figure was completely anonymous to anyone that happened to walk past.  

 

In the alley, two men stood facing each other.  They reached out as though to shake hands, but in a very awkward manner, with one man quickly exchanging a small plastic bag of cocaine for a thick rolled up wad of cash.

 

The moment the transaction was complete and the two men surveyed their surroundings to see if anyone was watching, the figure on the motorcycle produced a small automatic weapon and began firing into the alleyway.

 

The gunfire drew the attention of everyone walking the streets as well as in the nearby establishments. It continued for several seconds, sending pedestrians scrambling for cover behind cars, dumpsters, and anything else that they could find.

 

The shooting stopped several seconds later. The figure revved the motorcycle's engine and then took off, speeding in between the congested traffic until it disappeared around a corner. In the alleyway, the two men involved in the drug deal were dead.