Doubleshot E-Book

Raymond Benson

• Herausgeber: Ian Fleming Publications
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: James Bond 007
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 395

Beschreibung

The criminal conspiracy known as the Union has vowed its revenge on the man who thwarted its last coup - James Bond. Now, the Union's mysterious leader sets out to destroy 007's reputation and sanity by luring the agent into a dangerous and volatile alliance.Officially on medical leave, Bond ignores M's orders and pursues clues that might lead him to the Union's inner circle. His search takes him from the seedy underbelly of London's Soho to the souks of Tangier; from a terrorist training camp in Morocco to a bullring in Spain; and from the clutches of a murderous Spanish beauty to a volatile summit conference on the Rock of Gibraltar.Each step brings 007 closer to the truth about the Union's elaborate, audacious plot to destroy both SIS and its best agent . . .

Leseprobe

Doubleshot

By Raymond Benson

Ian Fleming Publications

IAN FLEMING PUBLICATIONS

E-book published by Ian Fleming Publications

Ian Fleming Publications Ltd, Registered Offices: 10-11 Lower John Street London

www.ianfleming.com

First published in the UK by Hodder and Stoughton 2000 First published in the USA by G.P.Putnam’s Sons 2000

Copyright © Ian Fleming Publications, 2000 All rights reserved

James Bond and 007 are trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd

The moral right of the copyright holder has been asserted

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-1-906772-52-9

JAMES BOND TITLES BY RAYMOND BENSON

NOVELS

Zero Minus Ten (1997) The Facts of Death (1998) High Time to Kill (1999) DoubleShot (2000) Never Dream of Dying (2001) The Man With the Red Tattoo (2002)

FILM NOVELIZATIONS

(based on the respective screenplays)

Tomorrow Never Dies (1997) The World is Not Enough (1999) Die Another Day (2002)

SHORT STORIES

Blast From the Past (1997) Midsummer Night's Doom (1999) Live at Five (1999)

ANTHOLOGIES

The Union Trilogy (2008) Choice of Weapons (2010)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Besides writing official James Bond fiction between 1996-2002, RAYMOND BENSON is also known for The James Bond Bedside Companion, which was published in 1984 and was nominated for an Edgar. His first two entries of a new series of thrillers, which Booklist called “prime escapism,” are The Black Stiletto and The Black Stiletto: Black & White. As “David Michaels” Raymond is the author of the NY Times best-sellers Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell and Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell—Operation Barracuda. He recently penned the best selling novelizations of Metal Gear Solid and its sequel Metal Gear Solid 2—Sons of Liberty, as well as Homefront: the Voice of Freedom, co-written with John Milius. Raymond’s original thrillers are Face Blind, Evil Hours, Sweetie’s Diamonds, Torment, Artifact of Evil, A Hard Day’s Death and the Shamus Award-nominated Dark Side of the Morgue. Visit him at his websites, www.raymondbenson.com and www.theblackstiletto.net.

For Randi

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE—PASEO

1 DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ACT ONE—TERCIO DE VARAS

2 SUICIDE MISSION

3 FORTUNE COOKIE

4 CHASING CLUES

5 ESPADA

6 LIVE GIRLS, ETC.

7 DAZED AND CONFUSED

8 THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT

9 SUNRISE IN THREE COUNTRIES

ACT TWO—TERCIO DE BANDERILLAS

10 ON THE RUN

11 SWIFT SETTLEMENT

12 THE CAMP

13 ALL-POINTS ALERT

14 JOURNEY BY RAIL

15 “AS TIME GOES BY”

16 CHANGE OF PLANS

17 MOUNTING EVIDENCE

ACT THREE—TERCIO DE LA MUERTE

18 THE YOUNG MATADOR

19 DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON

20 THE MAN WHO CAME TO DINNER

21 DOPPELGÄNGER

22 BULLRING

23 BLOOD AND LUST

24 BACK TO THE BEGINNING

25 FAENA

26 AFTERMATH

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

PASEO

ONE

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE CONVENT’S SECURITY OFFICERGASPED WHEN HE SAW WHAT CAME UP on the computer screen. Domingo Espada’s British bodyguard had given his name as “PeterWoodward,” but he was positively identified as James Bond, agent 007 of SIS.

“Better have a look at this, sir,” he said to the aide-de-camp, a tall young captain from the Gibraltar Regiment.

The captain looked over the officer’s shoulder at the monitor and recognized the face—it was indeed the man who had walked into the Governor’s Residence that morning with Espada and the rest of his Spanish entourage. He was now upstairs with the other delegates, politicians, and their aides.

“I’d say he has a lot of nerve coming here like this,” the captain said. “He knows we can’t arrest him because he’s here with diplomatic immunity. I had better get on to London and let them know about it. You’re sure he passed through the metal detectors all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

The aide-de-camp frowned. “I don’t like it. The man’s a menace.‘Peter Woodward’ indeed. How long before the Governor and the PM arrive?”

Another officer was just hanging up a telephone. “The PM’s plane just landed. I would say half an hour.”

The Convent, the Governor of Gibraltar’s official residence on Main Street for over 250 years, was a hive of activity. As they were under a “Red” security alert, it was crawling with extra men from the Gibraltar Regiment. VIPs from several neighboring countries were upstairs, awaiting an important summit meeting between Britain’s Prime Minister, Spain’s Prime Minister, and others who had an interest in the Gibraltar conflict.

Another security officer rushed to the captain with a piece of paper. “This urgent fax just came in, sir.”

The captain read it. It was from the Ministry of Defence headquarters in London.

“My God” was all he could manage to say after he had absorbed the message.

Upstairs, Nadir Yassasin looked across the long table in the Banqueting Hall at the man the aide-de-camp was worried about. The man was the British secret agent, wanted by his own people, suspected of having turned terrorist, and one of the most dangerous men on the planet. There was no mistaking the face—from the three-inch scar showing whitely down the sunburned skin of his right cheek to the black hair, parted on the left and carelessly brushed so that a thick comma fell down over the right eyebrow. The gray-blue eyes were set wide and level under straight, rather long black brows. His jaw was firm and strong. His mouth was wide and finely drawn; Espada’s aide, Margareta Piel, had been correct in describing it as “somewhat cruel.”

Yassasin took a deep breath and congratulated himself for having finally arrived at this fateful moment. It had not been easy, but the project would surely go down as his finest hour. Everything had fallen into place, and he was confident that his new assassin would come through and perform his final task without hesitation. The man was already a cold-blooded killer. After undergoing the necessary “remodeling” and reconditioning, the Brit was now under Yassasin’s total control. The fool would do anything for him.

Yassasin almost allowed himself a smile. It was all going to happen in a few minutes, and agent 007 would take the blame. History would be made today, and Nadir Yassasin, the Union’s most accomplished strategist, would have a part in it. Yet, if all went according to plan, no one would ever know that he had even been in the room. Today, he was “Said Arif,” a Moroccan representative from a United States agency. He would leave the Rock under the same alias. It was sad, Yassasin thought, not to be remembered as he deserved for his role in the day that Gibraltar was besieged.

Never mind, he thought. His reward was that he had planned the entire operation, and that it was going to succeed.

Jimmy Powers glanced for the fifth time at the Gibraltar Chronicle sitting on the table beside him. The headline screamed, “PM TO MEET ESPADA TODAY,” beneath which was a picture of the Spaniard, standing at a podium with a painting of Franco behind him. His fist was raised and he was shouting to the throngs of people who would do anything he ordered. He certainly had something of Franco in him—not to mention the deadly charisma of a Hitler or a Mussolini. Another story on the front page announced, “Spanish Mob Gather at Border—UN to Mediate.”

“Gather” … that was funny, Powers thought. “Ready to erupt” would be more accurate. There were a couple of thousand men, armed and dangerous, waiting for the signal to storm across the border between Spain and Gibraltar. The Gibraltar Regiment and the Gibraltar Services Police had lined up a battery of weapons and were more than willing and ready to take them on—but this was a question of numbers, not strength. With the reinforcements from the U.K.delayed, the “Rock” didn’t have a chance. They had underestimated the power that Domingo Espada held over his people. More important, they also had no idea that the Union was behind the brilliant plan that would topple the British colony and make them look foolish. This was one time that history would not repeat itself. The most impenetrable fortress in the world was about to be assailed—from the inside.

Powers moved his right hand surreptitiously to his waistband and felt the Browning 9mm, waiting for the fateful moment when it would be called into play. According to the plan, he was not supposed to do anything unless something went wrong. If all went according to plan, then he would walk out of the Convent alive. If not, well … he would die killing as many people in the room as he could.

No one could detect the Spanish 9mm Super Star inside Margareta Piel’s jacket pocket, for she was unusually adept at moving with grace and poise. After all, she was one of the most accomplished equestrians in Spain.

Margareta took stock of the room and what was about to happen in it. She was beginning to have doubts about the Union’s choice of an assassin. If her suspicions were correct, then the entire operation was blown. She would have to do what she could to save her own skin and get out of the room alive.

Margareta scanned the others’ faces and carefully considered who might be a threat when the shooting began. The Spanish Prime Minister and the other politicians from the U.K., America, Gibraltar, and other U.N. representatives posed no danger. The only additional woman in the room was an Arab, dressed traditionally in a caftan and a veil, which hid her face entirely except for a shadowy slit for her eyes. Margareta was confident that she wouldn’t be any trouble either.

Margareta had to admire Espada, who at sixty-two looked more like fifty. He had made a fortune and won the hearts of the people during a three-decade bullfighting career. Now a businessman and politician, Espada was a staunch supporter of those who repeatedly called for Gibraltar, that “pebble in Spain’s shoe,” to be ceded back to his country. He hated the British. He had used his considerable power and influence in the Costa del Sol region of Andalucía to bring about what history would someday call a revolution. The government in Madrid didn’t like it, but there was not much they could do because of his popularity. Many of his followers called him El Padrino—“Godfather.” This was appropriate, for Domingo Espada was perhaps the most efficacious racketeer in the Mediterranean area.

Margareta turned her attention once again to the killer next to her. Her lover. The incongruous Brit, sitting among the group of Spaniards at the table. He certainly had become a different man in the last three months. She studied his features, the broad shoulders, and his unbelievably relaxed demeanor.… The name “James Bond” fitted him nicely. It was blunt and masculine, just as he was.

But things were not as they seemed. What should she do? She had to speak to the assassin.

The gun was warm in the pocket near her breast. She squeezed her legs tightly, forcing waves of pleasure to jolt up through her spine and into her brain. The sudden stimulation brought her focus back to the task at hand.

She patted the warm metal in her pocket once more for inspiration, then prepared to make her move.

For his part, Domingo Espada looked upon the day’s political meeting as a formality that must be suffered before the day’s real business could begin.

So far everything had gone smoothly. The British PM and Governor were on the way. This would be a day long remembered in Spain’s history. Screw the politicians in Madrid, he thought. Espada was satisfied that they were, quite simply, afraid of him. He had single-handedly amassed more support and power from the lower and middle classes than any other Spaniard in the twentieth century except Franco. It was only fitting that the millennium launch a new era of Spanish dominance in the Mediterranean.

Domingo Espada was quite prepared to die for his cause. Even if the plan failed, he would be happy to go down in history as the instigator of the Great Siege of the Millennium.

Today, Gibraltar. Tomorrow … ?

The man who had been identified by the Convent’s security apparatus as James Bond was ready for the assignment at hand. He mentally checked his body to make sure that the Walther PPK was in place in his waistband. He was now itching to get the act over and done with.

For the hundredth time, the hired Union assassin went over the details of the plan. When the PM entered the room, the killer was first to take out the Double-O agent serving as the PM’s bodyguard and then the Governor’s bodyguard. The next target was the PM himself, who would die with a single bullet to the head. Before anyone else had time to react, the Governor of Gibraltar would be shot. By then, Espada, Agustin, and the woman would have sprung into action. They would draw their own weapons, kill any guards who might be in the room, and then hold the rest of the delegates hostage. The Spanish prime minister would be executed if he didn’t agree to Espada’s demands. Yassasin and Powers were to use their weapons only if something went wrong. Otherwise they would maintain their covers as diplomats, become “hostages,” and eventually be released. Espada would declare himself the new Governor of Gibraltar, and the signal would go out for his men to storm the border and take over the colony.

It seemed easy enough. He knew he could handle it.

Finally, the door opened and the aide-de-camp stepped into the room. “The car has just arrived,” he announced. “The prime minister and His Excellency are just entering the Convent now. They should be here any moment.”

It was time. The Union members in the room shared a quick knowing glance as the captain stepped out and closed the door.

The man identified as James Bond gripped the gun at his waist and waited for the door to open again.

ACT ONE

TERCIO DE VARAS

TWO

SUICIDE MISSION

AS THE SUN HAD RISEN OVER NORTH AFRICA TWO WEEKS EARLIER, THE plaintive morning call to prayer had floated out over the rooftops of Casablanca. Mixing verses from the Koran and a traditional beckoning for religious Muslims to offer the first of five obligatory prayers to be performed each day, the melancholy voice was one of the few things that the people of Morocco’s largest city could count on. While the new king and the government did their best to keep the population content, the country was suffering from vast unemployment and, as a result, crime. This was especially true in the larger cities such as Casablanca, Rabat, and Tangier. Casablanca, far from being the exotic and romantic locale for the famed Humphrey Bogart film, exhibited an odd conflict of traditional Moroccan culture with the trappings of a modern, metropolitan business center. The latter was winning, even though the city’s poor and needy were evident on every corner. Wherever there was money to be made in the face of outright poverty, a criminal element naturally gestated.

Even so, the awe-inspiring Hassan II Mosque, towering over the city like a benevolent sentinel, served to remind the people that Morocco was well ahead of its Muslim neighbors in terms of economic stability and that all was right with the world. In a way, the mosque represented a blending of the modern Muslim world’s idealism and its desire to exist on an equal basis alongside the West.

The ambitious leader of an organization that held its meetings not far away from the great monument shared this view.

As the religious faithful hurried to mosques and those who held honest jobs commuted to their places of employment before the early morning rush of business, the worst of Casablanca’s criminal element were also preparing for the new day. Several very different businessmen and women gathered to begin their day’s work in a hightech conference room decorated in reflective sheet metal. It was not an ordinary meeting room in that it was located two hundred feet below street level, beneath the old Central Market, which ran the length of a city block along Rue Allal ben Abdallah. The room was part of an immense, private, underground complex that extended northwest nearly a mile from the Market to the old medina, the centuries-old section of town that consisted of narrow, winding passageways where shopkeepers sold produce, arts and crafts, clothing, and souvenirs.

The complex had been built in the mid-nineties by a consortium represented by a powerful Arabic law firm. As most of the construction was below ground, very few Casablancans knew of its existence. In fact, the only two entrances to the complex were well hidden behind seemingly innocent stalls in the market and medina. A loading lift was also located in the market behind what appeared to be a rubbish skip. Much of the vast structure was empty. Workers inhabited perhaps a fifth of it, while supplies and weapons occupied another fifth.

The consortium that owned the property was made up of three banking firms—one located in Morocco, another in Switzerland, and one in Monaco. An offshore oil corporation with assets all over the Mediterranean and in North Africa was also a major shareholder in the property. Silent partners based in the Middle East and France were involved. Mostly, though, the funding came from a private individual who was now calling a meeting to order in the darkened, chilly steel chamber that was the conference room for the international criminal organization known as the Union.

“Are we all here?” Le Gérant asked.

The others casually spoke in the affirmative. As usual, Le Gérant was sitting in shadow, wearing dark glasses. Today he wore an Armani suit that fitted snugly over his rather large frame. This meant that today’s meeting would be strictly business. Le Gérant would stick to a memorized agenda, keep things moving along briskly, and discuss the all-important money issues.

Sometimes he wore a traditional jellaba, a gownlike garment with a hood. Although no one could pinpoint exactly why, the meetings were always different when Le Gérant dressed in Moroccan clothing. His considerable charismatic powers were somehow more intense when he embraced his mother’s ancestral Berber culture. Those in his presence felt an elusive aura of self-confidence and enlightenment, and this had a significant effect on his powers of persuasion and leadership. Meetings became lessons in philosophy or Union ideology, and money was never discussed. One commandant had said that Le Gérant became more “mystical” when he wore the jellaba.

Le Gérant never used or took notes. Everything was in his head. Always. He pulled sophisticated facts and figures from the air. He never needed to be reminded of anything. Anyone who had the privilege of meeting him always came away impressed by his profound intellect.

He was usually fair and generous with the Union’s profits. The other people in the room, the cercle fermé, were all millionaires thanks to their work for the Union. Each man or woman was a commandant responsible for a geographical area somewhere in the world, and employed anywhere from fifty to several hundred people, depending on the needs of the district. It took a lot of money to keep several hundred people happy and the Union was able to provide stability. That kept the commandants loyal.

Fear was also a major factor in keeping the cercle fermé faithful to Le Gérant. If for any reason he believed that someone had cheated him or attempted to do something behind his back, he became furious. He could extract a confession easily and punishment was, as a matter of course, swift and merciless. Commandant Jimmy Powers had seen a man’s throat cut in this very room.

The twenty-six commandants were required to take notes and be prepared with any documentation Le Gérant might require. Their leader was very strict, even compulsive, about the appearance of everything. He insisted on cleanliness and order. He dictated what kind of pens and paper would be used in the conference room, and what coffee was served and in which cups. He liked everything to be in its place. A desk light was essential at every station at the table, because Le Gérant kept the room so dark. The commandants, although they were used to them, never liked these policies and wished Le Gérant would change them. Why should they matter to him?

After all, Le Gérant was blind.

A servant entered the room with a tray full of tall glasses filled with hot mint tea. A Moroccan tradition, the tea was served with mint leaves floating in the narrow glass, and each person had the option of adding sugar or not. It was yet another part of the ritual Le Gérant insisted upon.

Jimmy Powers disliked mint tea intensely. It was something he put up with, though, for he had to admit that the Union had brought him more wealth and interesting things to do than the founding Union boss, Taylor Harris, could ever have hoped to offer. He had been wise to stick with Le Gérant after Harris was killed in Oregon. The original Union broke up after that, but Le Gérant’s reformed Union rose from the ashes. While the original Union made a show of being an organization of mercenaries willing to perform any paramilitary task for the right price, Le Gérant transformed the group into something far more serious. Once Le Gérant had outlined what the new Union could do for him, Jimmy Powers turned coat as well and left America for Morocco. He had been there for three years, acting as one of Le Gérant’s most trusted commandants.

Julius Wilcox, the other American charter member, was the ugliest and meanest-looking commandant at the table. He had a particularly gruesome scar above his right eye, a hawk nose, and greasy, slickedback gray hair. He was, perhaps, the Union’s most accomplished executioner. He, too, was happy that he was working for Le Gérant rather than the temperamental Taylor Harris.

Powers scanned the faces of the other commandants. He had never made a point of getting to know any of them personally—it was against the rules. He did, however, know who each of them was and which districts each controlled.

One of the men who intrigued him was Nadir Yassasin, a black Muslim from Morocco … or perhaps Mauritania … he wasn’t sure. Yassasin was known as the Union’s “strategist.” If anyone could be called Le Gérant’s right-hand man, it was he. Powers had been promised that he and Yassasin would work together very soon.

The other commandants were from other areas of the globe—Great Britain, France, Spain, Belgium, Germany, Russia, Israel, Argentina, Taiwan, Japan, Australia, Sudan, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Libya, Algeria, and the United States. Collectively, they controlled thousands of Union members worldwide. In the six short years of its existence, the Union had grown into a powerful, deadly force that kept Interpol, the CIA and FBI, MI5 and MI6, Mossad, and other law enforcement agencies on alert for any information pertaining to the capture of Union leaders. The organization’s accomplishments were impressive. The Union were responsible for several audacious terrorist attacks, political upheavals, high-profile blackmail and extortion cases, murders-for-hire, drug smuggling, prostitution, and arms dealing. The only major failure had occurred within the last two months: the one involving the disastrous Skin 17 project. Powers knew that this had been a thorn in Le Gérant’s side since that fateful day in the Himalayas.

As green and black olives were served with the tea, LeGérant decided it was time to begin. He spoke in English, with a French accent.

“I am happy to report that several of our latest ventures have been successful. Thanks to people working day and night in our communications department, we have penetrated nearly every intelligence agency in the world. If we are not already inside them, then they are not worth bothering with.”

The group applauded politely.

“Mr. Wilcox, could you please inform everyone of our financial status?”

Wilcox sat up and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, here we are,” he said, thumbing through his notes. “Total income for the last fiscal year was twelve billion dollars in U.S. funds.”

The group applauded once more, this time a little more enthusiastically.

“The distribution of the money will occur by the end of this month,” Wilcox continued. “You are all aware of your percentage. If you have any problems, see me.”

“And recruitment?” Le Gérant asked.

“Up fifteen percent,” Wilcox replied. “The payroll indicates that we now employ over ten thousand people worldwide. Like McDonald’s, we’ll soon have a Union franchise in every major city.”

Some of the commandants laughed.

“Very good,” Le Gérant said, obviously pleased. It couldn’t be said that he didn’t have a sense of humor. “I believe our efforts to escalate the war in the former Yugoslavia were what put us back on track after the failure of the Skin 17 project. We have our strategist, Mr. Yassasin, to thank for that.”

Again, there was applause. Yassasin merely nodded. He was always given the most “impossible” jobs and always managed to pull them off with finesse. Besides being an expert in computers, electronics, physics, and disguise, Yassasin was a master planner. Like a chess champion, he could predict every possible move and countermove in any job he undertook.

“Which brings us to new business,” Le Gérant said, shifting the tone of his voice to something more akin to that of a disapproving parent. “The Skin 17 failure cost us much more than the money we invested in it and the lives of the operatives we lost. We had promised to sell the formula to the Chinese. Not making good on that promise left us with bad credit in the Far East. All of the markets in Asia have dried up, and we’re having difficulties keeping up our operations there. This is seriously affecting our business, not only in the Far East, but everywhere. When the word got out that the Union slipped up on a major job, it made our clients less enthusiastic about working with us. It damaged our image and reputation. We must work on repairing that damage.”

Le Gérant finished his mint tea, then paused to light a cigarette. He never once moved his head as he performed these simple tasks with his hands. His sense of touch was highly amplified to compensate for his lack of sight. Some commandants believed that all of his other senses overcompensated for his disability. It was said that Le Gérant could hear a mouse flitting about in a room on the other side of the complex and that he could smell whether a person was telling the truth or not.

“As you no doubt know, a famous ex-matador in Spain is stirring up trouble with the British. Has everyone seen the latest news? Domingo Espada is very busy with his little revolution that he’s organising just north of us. Now, I’ll be quite open here, and I trust that nothing I say will leave this room. Domingo Espada, the head of a considerably successful Spanish mafia, refused to join the Union when we first invited him. He has considerable influence in areas we would like to penetrate, such as South America. Ladies and gentlemen, Señor Espada has come back to the Union and offered us an intriguing project for which he will pay a considerable amount of money. Aside from the monetary considerations, Espada has agreed to help the Union access those areas in which we have no influence. His personal organization controls them now.

“Of even more interest to us is the fact that Great Britain is the target of Señor Espada’s proposal. Espada has had long-standing issues with the U.K. for political reasons. As you all know, the failure of the Skin 17 project was largely due to the interference by Britain’s MI6. Their SIS and Ministry of Defence made fools of us, and I do not take kindly to that.”

Jimmy Powers shot a glance at the commandant for the district that included Great Britain. The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“One agent in particular,” Le Gérant continued, “a Double-O, was the man most responsible for the project’s failure. Therefore, Espada’s proposal is of great interest to me because it may give us the perfect opportunity to exact revenge for Britain’s unforgivable meddling in our business. I would like to see this British agent suffer the tortures of the damned for as long as possible, then die a humiliating death that will make world headlines.”

Le Gérant paused, taking a couple of drags from his cigarette before extinguishing it in the ashtray in front of him. He knew exactly where it was sitting without feeling for it.

“Espada’s plan is really quite insane. It’s a suicide mission. When I first heard about it, I told him quite frankly that no one would walk away from it alive. He said that he was willing to die for the cause. But, if we can pull off his proposal, the Union will be the most powerful criminal network in the world. We will be able to demand any price from any country for the merest threat. The name ‘the Union’ will be so feared that we will have more influence on the world’s economy than the New York Stock Exchange. Therefore, I have decided that Señor Espada’s suicidal project is worth attempting. And we, my friends, will walk away from it alive.

“What I would like to do,” Le Gérant continued, “is to kill two birds with one stone. We will agree to help Espada, for the money, of course, but at the same time, we will exact revenge on Great Britain.

When it is revealed that the Union was behind the catastrophe that Espada wants to instigate, the entire world will bow to us. It will solidify our place in history.”

“How do you plan to do this?” Powers asked.

Le Gérant smiled and said, “I detect excitement in your voice, Mr. Powers. Is this something you’d like to work on?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, Gérant.”

“Fine. I’ve asked our strategist to come up with a plan. And I’d like you to serve as his eyes and ears, since you’re so good at that sort of thing.”

A chance to work with Yassasin! Powers was pleased.

Le Gérant turned to Yassasin. “Would you like to tell us about it, Nadir?”

Yassasin leaned forward so that the desk lamp cast an eerie light on his face.

“The plan is already in progress,” he said. “In fact, it began shortly after the collapse of the Skin 17 project.”

The others sat up, alert, waiting to hear what the strategist had to say. Everyone was thrilled that they were about to participate in another Nadir Yassasin project. He was the most respected man in the room, other than Le Gérant.

“One of Domingo Espada’s closest colleagues and confidantes is a woman named Margareta Piel. We need her help, so we have offered her membership in the Union. She works for Domingo Espada in many capacities and lives at his private ranch in Spain. She is well known in Spain as an equestrian instructor and performer, but she has quite a dark side. She’s a vicious homicidal maniac. Her skills at stealth, theft, breaking and entering, seduction, and murder are top quality,” Yassasin continued. “Her nickname is Mantis Religiosa, or ‘Praying Mantis,’ because it is rumored that she disposes of her lovers after she has had her way with them.”

“My kind of gal,” Julius Wilcox said. There were some chuckles, but Le Gérant abruptly snapped, “Silence!”

After a pause, Yassasin continued. “She will be an integral part of the plan. Whether or not she turns against Espada remains to be seen, but I think she is enticed by the financial possibilities of being a member of the Union.

“I have also enlisted one of our top mercenaries; he had been working for us in Africa. He’s Welsh, a man by the name of Peredur Glyn. He was a former football hooligan who was convicted of murder a few years ago. The Union helped him escape from prison in the U.K. and he has lived underground ever since, working for us. He’s in excellent physical shape and he’s a formidable killer. Most important, he possesses the necessary physical attributes that will suit our plan perfectly.”

“Has he agreed to the fee?” Le Gérant asked.

“He has agreed to the payment of a half-million U.S. dollars,” Yassasin confirmed. “Besides, he feels that he owes us a service for helping him get out of prison.”

“Good. Tell us about the remodeling and reconditioning.”

“Glyn went through the remodeling well over a month ago, and it was more successful than I had hoped it would be. He is now currently undergoing reconditioning and training.” Yassasin smiled. “We won’t have a problem with him. He is a very gullible man. Very susceptible to our techniques. Not very bright, but eager to please. In two weeks’ time, Glyn will be ready. Everything is in place for the plan to proceed. We will be on a very strict schedule.”

“Very well,” Le Gérant said. He looked at the commandant for Great Britain. “What is the latest on attempts to replant an operative inside SIS? It was unfortunate what happened to that girl at MI6 … what was her name?”

“Marksbury,” the man answered. “Forget her, she was insignificant. We are still working on replacing her. These things take time.”

“Perhaps you need to step up your efforts,” Le Gérant suggested with the slightest hint of menace in his voice.

The commandant swallowed hard and continued. “But, Gérant, with all due respect, you are aware that our primary operative in the U.K. has been in place for two years and continues to provide us with valuable information on MI6 personnel.”

Yassasin spoke up. “And this operative will continue to play a part in our plan,” he said, cutting through the tension with equanimity. “As you know, the information that was furnished to us was the catalyst for the scheme. When we learned that our target was on an extended medical leave since the events in the Himalayas, we felt that the opportunity was too good to pass up. He is still currently off duty and therefore extremely vulnerable.”

Le Gérant nodded. “Will the commandants in charge of the British, Spanish, and North African districts meet me in precisely one hour in my office. We must commend Mister Yassasin, for he has come up with a truly ingenious and highly imaginative plan, albeit a risky one, to exact revenge on Great Britain, as well as eliminate the Union’s number-one enemy—James Bond of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

THREE

FORTUNE COOKIE

MEETING YOUR DOUBLE MEANS CERTAIN DEATH.

James Bond blinked and read the fortune again.

Odd, he thought. He had never seen such a downbeat fortune cookie in a commercial Chinese restaurant before. That, on top of the havoc raised by the crying toddler who had just been in the restaurant with his rude and demanding father, had brought back Bond’s headache.

“Harvey!” he called. The fat Chinese man wearing a messy apron stuck his head out of the swing door that led to the kitchen.

“What now? You not full yet?” he asked in his unintentionally belligerent way. Bond had known Harvey Lo long enough to know that he was never really perturbed by his customers. It just seemed that way.

“Come here,” Bond said, motioning him over. Harvey looked over his shoulder. “Read this.”

“It fortune.”

“I know it’s a fortune. Read it.”

Harvey took the little piece of paper and squinted, reading and whispering to himself. He furrowed his brow. “This not our fortune,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I never see this fortune before. I know all the fortunes. There are twenty-five fortunes, all the same, all mixed up in cookies. This not one of them.”

Bond retrieved the slip of paper. “I think I’ll keep it as a souvenir, Harvey,” he said. “Maybe it’s a lucky fortune.”

“Does not sound lucky to me. Sorry about that, Mr. Bond.”

“Not a problem.” Bond dug into his trousers and found a tenpound note. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Harvey beamed. The only time he smiled was when he was paid. “How was food? You like?”

“Same as always, Harvey. Not quite spicy enough.” Bond had ordered shrimp and cashews, Szechuan style, with a bowl of hot and sour soup. “When I say I want it so hot I can’t eat it, I mean it.”

Harvey laughed boisterously. “Aw, you not serious, Mr. Bond. Remember that time I made it so hot? You really could not eat it!”

“That was because it was burnt, not spicy. You overcooked the vegetables and they came out black!”

“Okay, next time, I make it good and spicy. I make tears in your eyes, you will like.”

Before leaving, Bond took a small pill case out of his pocket and swallowed two of the white tablets that Sir James Molony’s colleague had prescribed for him. The headache was becoming worse, and he was damned if the pills had any effect.

Bond got up and left the cozy neighborhood place tucked away in an alley off the King’s Road, just down a flight of stairs. The Ho Ho Lo Restaurant was marked on the street only by a posted menu. It mostly did a takeaway business, but Harvey provided three tables for eat-in customers. As it was a ten-minute walk from his flat, Bond had become a regular over the years when he was home alone during the week. But he had never seen a fortune like the one he had just received.

Bond got to the street and glanced at his Rolex. It was just after 1:00. Should he take a walk farther into Chelsea and browse through a sports shop he knew, or should he go back to the flat and start the day’s drinking?

Damn it all, he thought. He was bored to death. He hated being between assignments, and he especially despised medical leave. It was particularly frustrating because he hadn’t had a decent mission since the Skin 17 affair two months ago. M had ordered him off the duty list for a minimum of three months because of the injuries he had sustained in the Himalayas. Bond believed that she was actually using that as an excuse to punish him for the indiscretion with his personal assistant, Helena Marksbury.

Although he had initially suppressed his feelings for Helena, her death had begun to weigh heavily on his mind. He desperately wanted to track down the Union members who were responsible for blackmailing and terrorizing her.

Naturally, he blamed himself—mostly for not recognizing the warning signs.

M had sent him away for two weeks’ holiday, so he had gone to his winter home in Jamaica, the house he called Shamelady. There, he had gone on a binge, drinking himself into a solitary oblivion, brooding and staring at the calm, blue Caribbean. Things grew worse. By the time he got back to London, he was a mess. He felt terrible, had no energy, and was still physically sore from the ordeal in Nepal. That was when he went to see Sir James, the neurologist who acted as a consultant to SIS, to ask about the incessant headaches that he had been experiencing since the end of his last mission.

Bond began to walk up the King’s Road, thinking back to M’s admonishment after she had seen the way he looked.

“You’re in no condition to take this matter into your own hands, Double-O Seven,” she had said. “I wouldn’t allow it even if you were. You’re too emotionally involved in the case. Scotland Yard is handling it as a murder, and until they find the culprits, then there’s not a lot that SIS can do about it. Our own antiterrorist teams are working on locating the Union members and their headquarters.”

Bond had protested, arguing that he owed it to Helena to find her killers. He wanted to go after the Union himself. M wouldn’t hear any more and ordered him off duty “until further notice.”

“Besides,” she had added, almost as an afterthought, “I expect my people to be in top physical shape. And you’re nowhere near that.”

Now he was doubly anxious to get back into action. It was the only thing that could shake him out of the malaise … the depression … that he felt himself drowning in. It happened to him every once in a great while. Bond had seriously slipped off the deep end once, after the murder of his wife, Tracy. The previous M had been forced to send his top agent for psychiatric evaluation and then off to Japan on a mission in the hopes that Bond would pull himself out of the well of despair he had fallen into.

If only he felt better. The damned headache had crept up on him and was now excruciating. The events in the Himalayas had certainly taken their toll on him. Besides the fatigue, which never seemed to improve, he suffered from various aches and pains. Worst of all were the frequent headaches, which tended to begin midday and continue well into the night. His sleep patterns were disturbed, he had fitful dreams, felt bouts of inexplicable anxiety, and had taken to drinking more. He also felt unusually paranoid for the first time in his life. Ever since returning from Nepal, Bond had sensed that he was being watched, although he had used every trick in the book to determine if that was true. So far he hadn’t been able to substantiate his suspicion and he was afraid he was imagining things.

The most alarming event was the blackout incident that had occurred while he had been recuperating in Jamaica. He had been about to take a leisurely swim in the private cove behind Shamelady, when he suddenly felt disoriented. His heart had begun to pound mercilessly and a blanket of dread enveloped him. For a moment he thought he was having a heart attack. He had stumbled back to the shore and had collapsed onto the sand. The next thing he knew, Ramsey, his Jamaican housekeeper and cook, was shaking him.

At that point, Bond had known there was something seriously wrong with him. He had immediately made arrangements to return to London and see Sir James.

Bond approached Royal Avenue and sat heavily on a bench, staring at the street, watching the buses, taxis, and people go by. Bond felt removed from the scene, almost as if he were floating out-of-body. It was an unfamiliar, disconcerting sensation.

Should he go back to the doctor? Sir James was still away on some kind of tour, so he would have to see Sir James’s colleague, Dr. Feare, again.

Bond remembered the appointment with the neurologist a month ago. When he had arrived at Molony’s office on Harley Street, he was surprised to find that Molony was on an extended, worldwide lecture tour as a guest neurologist. Miss Reilly, the unpleasant, middle-aged woman who served as the clinic’s nurse, informed Bond that he would have to see Molony’s relatively new assistant, who had introduced herself as Dr. Kimberley Feare. Bond was taken aback, for Dr. Feare was petite, blond, and extremely attractive.

“How long have you worked for Dr. Molony?” he had asked.

“Not long. I was lucky to get the job. Sir James is probably the best neurologist in the world. He’s in India at the moment, and he’s working his way west toward Africa,” she said in a girlish, playful voice. Bond liked her immediately. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Bond? I understand your file is classified. You’re with SIS, am I right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then the only other person outside this office who shall see my report will be your chief,” she said, making a note in the folder. “As you know, we’re very careful about confidentiality with government civil servants.”

Bond went through the examination, X rays, an EEG, and returned a day later for a CAT scan. After he had described his various Himalayan injuries to Dr. Feare, she suspected that he might have some damage to his skull. At one point during the expedition up the third tallest mountain in the world, Bond had been hit on the head and knocked unconscious. Exacerbated by the oxygen deprivation at high altitude, the injury could be the cause of the headaches; there might be a blood clot, a crack in the skull, or any number of ailments associated with a blowto the head. The tests came back with somewhat alarming news. The EEC had picked up a lesion on the temporal lobe of Bond’s brain. Dr. Feare was of the opinion that it wasn’t terribly serious, but the blackout in Jamaica was probably a result of “post-traumatic epilepsy.” Although it was a rare condition, it wasn’t extraordinary. It was possible, however, that it could occur again without warning.

“With this kind of thing, we could perform a little surgery and remove the lesion with a laser,” she had said. “But that’s a last resort. I think we should first try to get rid of it with medication and rest.

Pure and simple.”

Dr. Feare gave Bond an additional diagnosis of “too much stress,” and recommended to M that he take it easy—for at least three months. She had prescribed carbamazepine and painkillers and told him to take two tablets at lunchtime and two before bedtime. Dr. Feare warned him that if things hadn’t improved in three months, surgery might be the next step. The worst thing about it was that he was forbidden to drive. He wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol, either, but Bond ignored that directive.

Unfortunately, the pills didn’t work at all. Bond had been struggling with the intense pain in the back of his head for months now, and it was driving him mad. There was only one thing to do—go back to see Dr. Feare.

Bond stood and continued the stroll toward the square lined with plane trees, where for many years he had owned a comfortable flat on the ground floor of a converted Regency house.

He was convinced that a mission was the only thing that could bring him back on track. It had always worked in the past. The only way he could put the demons to rest was to go after the Union and, if possible, destroy the entire organization. If M wouldn’t put him on the assignment, then by God he would just have to do it himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he had deliberately disobeyed orders. It would be for the good of SIS and Britain. The Union was the most evil menace to threaten international law and order since his old enemies, SPECTRE. Its members had to be smoked out and exterminated like pests.