High Time To Kill E-Book

Raymond Benson

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

Seitenzahl: 461

Beschreibung

The Union is a criminal organization with tentacles throughout the world, specializing in military espionage, theft, intimidation and murder. After one of its agents assassinates James Bond's friend, the Union becomes 007's priority target.When information vital to Britain's national security is stolen, both M and Bond suspect that the Union is behind it. The trail leads Bond from one of England's most exclusive golf clubs to the cosmopolitan city of Brussels and finally to the icy heights of the legendary mountain Kangchenjunga.Led by the abrasive mountaineer Group Captain Roland Marquis, aided by the expedition's beautiful doctor, Hope Kendall, and opposed by an unknown traitor working out of SIS itself, Bond must pit his strength and guile against two deadly adversaries - the forces of nature at high altitude and the most resourceful criminal minds he has ever encountered.

Leseprobe

High Time to Kill

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 1999 First published in the USA by G.P.Putnam’s Sons 1999

Copyright © Ian Fleming Publications, 1999 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: 978-1-906772-51-2

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 my mentors

Francis HodgeandPeter Janson-Smith

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1 HOLIDAYS ARE HELL

2 OLD RIVALS

3 SKIN 17

4 EMERGENCY

5 THE GOLDEN PACEMAKER

6 THE ROAD TO BRUSSELS

7 BITTER SUITE

8 A TASTE OF BELGIUM

9 COVERING TRACKS

10 FLIGHT INTO OBLIVION

11 THE GREEN LIGHT

12 NOT QUITE IMPOSSIBLE

13 LE GÉRANT

14 WELCOMING RECEPTION

15 TEAMWORK

16 THE TREK BEGINS

17 ELIMINATING THE COMPETITION

18 TENSIONS RISE

19 KANGCH AT LAST

20 HIGHER AND HIGHER

21 THE MISSING BODY

22 LOVE AND DEATH AT 7,900 METERS

23 BLOOD, SWEAT, AND DEATH

24 A BETTER WAY TO DIE

25 HUMAN MACHINES

26 THE COLD STONE HEART

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

HOLIDAYS ARE HELL

THE BARRACUDA SURPRISED THEM BY OPENING ITS JAWS TO AN ANGLE OF ninety degrees, revealing the sharp rows of teeth that were capable of tearing out chunks of flesh in an instant. It closed its snarling mouth just as quickly, leaving a half-inch gap.

Had it yawned?

It was easily a twenty-pound fish. One of the most dangerous predators in the sea, the barracuda is an eating machine that rivals the ferocity of a shark. This one swam lazily along beside them, watching. It was curious about the two strange larger fish that had invaded its habitat.

James Bond had never cared for barracudas. He’d rather be in a pit full of snakes than in proximity to one of them. It wasn’t that he was afraid of them but merely that he found them mean, vicious, and unpredictable creatures. There was no such thing as a barracuda in a good mood. He had to be on his guard without showing fear, for the fish could sense apprehension and often acted on it.

Bond looked over at his companion. She was handling it well, watching the long, slender fish with fascination rather than trepidation.

He motioned for her to swim on, and she nodded. They decided to ignore the barracuda, which proved to be the best tactic. It lost interest after a few minutes and swam away into the misty blue.

Bond had always likened the undersea world to an alien landscape. It was silent and surreal, yet it was full of life. Some sea flowers shot down holes in the seabed as the two humans moved over them. A small octopus, or “pus-feller” (as Ramsey, his Jamaican housekeeper, called it), was propelling itself along the orange-and-brown-colored reef. Patches of sea grass hid the domains of the night-crawling lobsters and crabs.

They swam toward the beach, eventually reaching a spot where they could stand. Bond pulled off the face mask and snorkel. Helena Marksbury emerged from the water and stood beside him. She removed her own mask and snorkel and laughed.

“I do believe that fish wanted to take part of us home as a souvenir,” she said.

“It wasn’t interested in me,” Bond said. “It was staring at you. Do you usually have that kind of effect on barracuda?”

“I attract all the meat eaters, James,” she said with an inviting smile.

March in the Bahamas was quite pleasant at eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The hot summer was just around the corner, and Bond had decided to take a week’s leave before then. It was the perfect time of year to be in the Caribbean. He had originally planned to spend the holiday at Shamelady, his private home on the north shore of Jamaica, but changed his mind when Helena Marksbury said that she had never been to Nassau. Bond offered to show her the islands.

“Where did everyone go?” she asked, looking around at the empty beach. Earlier, there had been a few other snorkelers and sunbathers in the area. Now it was deserted.

It was just after noon. Helena looked around for some shade and sat in the sand next to a large rock that provided some shelter fromthe fiercely bright sun. She knew she had to be careful not to get too much of it, as she had a light complexion and burned easily. Nevertheless, she had worn the skimpiest bikini she could find. She was most likely the only person who might notice a flaw—that her left breast drooped slightly lower than her right—but Helena knew that she had a good body, and didn’tmind showing it off. It just proved that nobodywas perfect.

They were on the southwest side of New Providence Island, the most populous of all the Bahamas. Luckily, Bond had found a villa at Coral Harbour, somewhat removed from the hustle and bustle of metropolitan Nassau, which is the center of commerce, government, and transportation, on the northern side of the island. Here they were surrounded by beautiful beaches and reefs, country clubs and exclusive restaurants.

“What am I supposed to wear tonight?” she asked him as he sat down beside her in the sand.

“Helena, I shouldn’t have to tell you how to dress,” he said. “You look marvelous in anything.”

They had a dinner invitation at the home of the former Governor of the Bahamas, a man Bond had known for many years. They had become friends after a dinner party at which the Governor had presented Bond with a theory concerning love, betrayal, and cruelty between marriage partners. Calling it the “quantum of solace,” the Governor believed that the amount of comfort on which love and friendship is based could be measured. Unless there is a certain degree of humanity existing between two people, he maintained, there can be no love. It was an adage Bond had accepted as a universal truth.

The Governor had long since retired but had remained in Nassau with his wife. Bond had made it a point to stop in and see him every time he went through the Bahamas, which wasn’t very often. When Bond went to the Caribbean, it was usually to his beloved Shamelady in Jamaica.

Helena reclined and looked at Bond with her bewitching, almondshaped green eyes. She was beautiful—wet or dry—and could easily have been a fashion model. Unfortunately, she was Bond’s personal assistant at SIS, where they both worked. So far they had kept their affair a secret. They both knew that if they carried on much longer, someone at the office would find out. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with it, but office romances in this day and age were frowned upon. Bond justified it to himself because there had been a precedent. Several years ago he had been romantically involved with another personal assistant, Mary Goodnight. How could he forget their time together in Jamaica during the Scaramanga case?

Helena was different from Mary Goodnight. A thoroughly modern woman of thirty-three, Helena Marksbury had none of Ms. Goodnight’s charming yet scatterbrained personality. She was a serious girl, with weighty ideas about politics and current events. She loved poetry, Shakespeare, and fine food and drink. She appreciated and understood the work Bond did and considered her own job just as important in the scheme of things at SIS. She also possessed a stubborn moral conscience that had taken Bond several months to penetrate before she agreed to see him socially.

It had begun in the courtyard in the back of Sir Miles Messervy’s house, Quarterdeck, near Great Windsor Park. The occasion was a dinner party held there a year earlier, and the mutual physical attraction between Bond and Helena had become too much for them to ignore. They had gone for a walk outside and ended up kissing behind the house in the rain. Now, after three months of false starts and two months of cautious experimentation, Bond and Helena were dating. While they both acknowledged that their jobs came first, they enjoyed each other’s company enough to keep it going casually. Bond felt comfortable with Helena’s level of commitment, and the sex was outstanding. He saw no reason to rock the boat.

There was no mistaking the invitation in her eyes, so Bond settled next to her wet body and kissed her. She wrapped one slinky leg around his thighs and pulled him closer.

“Do you think we’re all alone?” she whispered.

“I hope so,” he replied, “but I don’t really care at this point, do you?” He slipped the straps off her shoulders as she tugged at his bathing trunks.

“Not at all, darling,” she said breathlessly. She helped him remove her bikini, and then his strong, knowing hands were all over her. She arched her back and responded with soft moans of pleasure.

“Take me now, James,” she said softly in his ear. “Here.”

She didn’t have to ask him twice.

The Governor greeted Bond with an enthusiastic warm, dry handshake.

“It’s great to see you again, James,” he said.

“Thank you, sir, you’re looking well.”

The Governor shook his head. “Lord, I’m an old man, and I look like one. But you haven’t changed a bit. What do you do, take frequent trips to the Fountain of Youth? And who might this lovely lady be?”

“This is my assistant, Helena Marksbury,” Bond said. She was dressed in a fashionable lightweight red cotton dress with a wrap covering her bare shoulders and ample cleavage. Bond was wearing a light blue cotton short-sleeve polo shirt and navy blue cotton twill trousers. His light, gray silk basketweave jacket covered the Walther PPK that he still kept in a chamois shoulder holster.

“Do you remember my wife, Marion?” the Governor asked, gesturing to a handsome woman with white hair and sparkling blue eyes.

“Of course, how are you?”

“Fine, James,” the woman said. “Come on in, both of you, please.”

The dinner party was in a century-old colonial-style mansion off Thompson Boulevard, near the College of the Bahamas. The former Governor was obviously wealthy, as there seemed to be no end to the line of servants waiting to attend to Bond and his date. More than two dozen guests were already in the drawing room, which was next to a large living room with an open bay window overlooking expansive gardens. There were people outside as well, standing in clusters with drinks in hand. Ceiling fans leisurely provided a breeze.

For the first time since he had been visiting the Governor, Bond also noticed an undeniable presence of security. Large men dressed in white sport coats were positioned at various entrances, suspiciously eyeing everyone who walked past. He wondered if there was perhaps some VIP present who would require such protection.

As they were uncomfortable socializing with people they didn’t know, Bond and Helena kept to themselves and went outside to the gardens. It was still bright, and night wouldn’t fall for another two hours.

They approached the outdoor bar. “Vodka martini, please,” Bond said, “shaken, not stirred, with a twist of lemon.”

“I’ll have the same,” Helena said. She had actually grown to like the way Bond ordered his martini.

“This is lovely,” Helena said.

“It’s lovely as long as we’re alone,” Bond replied. “I don’t relish making small talk with the Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Millers of the world,” he said, indicating the other people milling around.

“Who are Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Miller?”

“Just a couple I met at a previous dinner party here.”

“Ah, there you are,” the Governor declared. “I see you’ve got yourselves something to drink, good, good.… How’s Sir Miles doing, by the way?” He was referring to Bond’s old chief, the former M, Sir Miles Messervy.

“He’s fine,” Bond was happy to report. “His health improved rapidly after he retired. Getting out of the job was the best thing for him really. He seems ten years younger.”

“That’s good to hear. Tell him hello for me the next time you see him, would you?”

“Certainly.”

“How do you get on with the new M?” the Governor asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“We have a sterling relationship,” Bond said.

“No problems accepting orders from a woman? I’m surprised, James! You’re the one who once told me that you could marry only an air hostess or a Japanese woman.”

Bond grinned wryly at the memory. “She runs a tight ship and runs it well.”

“Well, that’s great! I’m glad to hear it,” the Governor said with a little too much enthusiasm. Bond thought he might be a bit drunk. “Listen, I’m so glad you came, really, James, because I want to—”

The Governor’s attention was distracted by the head servant, a black man with gray hair and glasses, whispering to one of the security guards some fifteen feet away. The guard, a Caucasian who might have been a professional wrestler, nodded and left the scene.

“Everything all right, Albert?” the Governor called.

“Yessuh,” Albert said. “I sent Frank to take a look at someone’s motor scooter parked outside the fence.”

“Ahhh,” the Governor said. For a moment Bond thought he appeared nervous and perhaps a little frightened.

Bond asked, “You were saying?”

“Right. I was saying there was something I’d like you to take a look at. Privately. In my office. Would you mind?”

Bond looked at Helena. She shrugged. “I’m fine,” she said, eyeing a large tray of peeled shrimp. “Go ahead. I’ll be somewhere around here.”

Bond squeezed her arm and then followed the Governor back into the house. They went up an elegant winding staircase to the second floor and into the Governor’s study. Once they were inside, the Governor closed the door.

“You’re being very mysterious,” Bond said. “I’m intrigued.”

The Governor moved around his desk and unlocked a drawer. “I think I’m in a bit of trouble, James,” he said. “And I’d like your advice.”

The man was genuinely concerned. The levity in Bond’s voice immediately vanished. “Of course,” he said.

“Ever heard of these people?” his friend asked, handing over a letter in a transparent plastic sleeve.

Bond looked at the piece of paper. It was an 8 1\2-by-11-inch piece of typing paper with the words “Time Is Up” centered in the middle of the page. At the bottom it was signed “The Union.”

Bond nodded. “The Union. Interesting. Yes, we know about the Union.”

“Can you tell me about them?” the Governor asked. “I haven’t gone to the local police here, but I’ve already sent a query to London. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Is this message, ‘time is up,’ meant for you?” Bond asked.

The Governor nodded. “I’m heavily in debt to a man in Spain. It was a real estate transaction that wasn’t particularly … honest, I’m sorry to say. Anyway, I received one letter from this Union, or whatever they are, two months ago. In that one it said that I had two months to pay up. I don’t want to do that because the man in Spain is a crook. I got this letter four days ago.Who are they, James?Are they some kind of Mafia?”

“They’re not unlike the Mafia, but they are much more international. SIS only recently became aware of their activities. What we do know is that they are a group of serious mercenaries out for hire by any individual or government that will employ them.”

“How long have they been around?”

“Not long. Three years, maybe.”

“I’ve never heard of them. Are they really dangerous?”

Bond handed the letter back to the Governor. “As a work-for-hire outfit, they have to be experts at anything from petty street crime to sophisticated and elaborate espionage schemes. They are reportedly responsible for the theft of military maps from the Pentagon in the United States. The maps disappeared from right under the noses of highly-trained security personnel. A well-protected Mafia don was murdered about a year ago in Sicily. The Union supposedly supplied the hit man for that job. They recently blackmailed a French politician for fifty million francs. The Deuxième got wind of it and passed the information on to us. One of the most recent reports that went through my office stated that the Union were beginning to specialize in military espionage and selling the fruits of their findings to other nations. Apparently they have no loyalty to any one nation. Their primary motive is greed, and they can be quite ruthless. If that letter was meant for you, then, yes, I would have to say that they are indeed quite dangerous.”

The Governor sat. He looked worried. “But who’s behind them? Where are they based?”

“We don’t know,” Bond said. “Despite all the intelligence we’ve gathered on them thus far, SIS have no clues as to who they are or where they make their home.”

The Governor swallowed. “What should I do?”

“I can see you already have extra protection around the house. That’s good for a start.”

The Governor nodded. “There are so many guards around here, I can’t keep track of them all.”

“I’ll alert Interpol and see if the letters can be traced. It’s a difficult thing, though. Tomorrow I’ll make a report to London and see what we can do about surveillance. It’s highly likely that you’re being watched. Your phones may even be tapped.”

“Good Lord.”

“The local police know nothing about this?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t involve them just yet. The Union have an uncanny ability to infiltrate law enforcement organizations. Tomorrow let’s go to Government House and file an official report. I’m glad you told me about this. We have orders to gather as much information about the Union as we can.”

“Thank you, James. I knew I could count on you.” He stood up, but the blood had drained from his face. He was clearly frightened. “I think we should rejoin the party.”

“Try not to worry,” Bond said.

They left the study and went back outside. Helena was sitting on a stone bench alone, gazing across the gardens at the house. She gave Bond a warm smile.

“Working, James? I thought we were on holiday,” she said when he joined her.

“We are. Just giving a little professional advice,” he said.

“Really, James, a Japanese woman or a flight hostess?”

Bond laughed. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

Dinner was a magnificent feast consisting of traditional conch chowder, peas ‘n’ rice, Bahamian lobster, Dover sole fillets simmered in white wine, cream, and mustard sauce and topped with shrimp, and pineapple spring rolls with rum crème anglaise for dessert. Helena was in heaven and Bond enjoyed watching her eat. She savored each bite, squeezing out the juices with her cheeks and tongue before chewing and swallowing. She had one of the most sensual mouths Bond had ever kissed.

Afterward they retired to the gardens to enjoy the star-filled night sky along with several other couples. Some of the men were smoking the cigars that one of the servants had passed around. To get away from the crowd, Bond and Helena walked along a dimly lit path that circled the garden and ran around the perimeter of the grounds.

Helena sighed heavily and said, “I don’t want to go back to London.”

“All good things come to an end,” Bond replied.

“Does that mean us, James?”

“Of course not,” he said, “unless you would prefer that. I don’t want to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Look, Helena, you’re a wonderful girl, but you should know me by now. Entanglements can get messy, and I don’t like them. I think while we’re in London we need to tone it down. Being the sensible girl you are, I know that you’ll agree.”

They found themselves at the far end of the expansive lawn, some fifty yards from the house. A ten-foot-high stone fence separated the grounds from the street. They stood beside a toolshed and held each other.

“You’re right, James,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes I dream of a different sort of life. One that borders on the edge of fantasy. My sister in America seems to live a fairy tale existence. She has a husband who adores her and two lovely children, and they live in an area of southern California where the weather is always perfect. She’s always so incredibly happy when I speak to her that I get a little jealous.” She smiled and took his arm. “But you’re right, James. Let’s not get morose. I want to enjoy every last minute of our time here.”

He pulled her chin toward him so that he could kiss her, but her eyes widened and she gasped. “James!”

Bond whipped around to see what had startled her. A body was lying just off the path. The shadows would have completely hidden it had it not been for the moonlight reflecting off pale skin. Bond moved quickly to the corpse and saw that it was Frank, the security guard. He had been stripped of his shirt and white jacket; his throat had been cut, ear to ear. He was lying in a pool of fresh blood.

“Wait here!” he commanded. He turned and sprinted across the lawn toward the house. He heard her call behind him, “James! I’m coming with you!” as he took a shortcut over a set of stone benches surrounding a stone fountain. He ran through the gardens toward the back of the house, searching frantically for the Governor. He found the man’s wife standing beside some guests.

“Where’s your husband?” Bond asked.

Startled, the woman replied, “Why … I believe I saw him go upstairs to the office with one of those security men.”

Bond left abruptly, entered the house, bolted up the stairs three at a time, and ran to the open doorway. The former Governor was lying on the floor in a ghastly pool of red. Like the guard, his throat had been slit so fiercely that his head lopped at a grotesque angle. There was no one else in the room, but two distinct footprints in blood led from the body toward the door to another bloody patch on the carpet. The killer had wiped his shoes clean before leaving the office.

Others had made their way up the stairs by this time. Bond was unable to stop the Governor’s wife from glimpsing the horrid sight. She screamed loudly just as Bond pulled her away and slammed the door shut. He told one of the men to call the police and look after her, then he rushed down to the first floor. The bewildered head servant was at the foot of the stairs.

“Did you see a guard come down the stairs?” he barked.

“Yessuh!” Albert said. “He went through the kitchen.”

“Would that lead to the motor scooter you saw earlier?”

Albert nodded furiously. He ushered Bond into the kitchen, where several servants were cleaning up after the huge meal. He then led him into a corridor and pointed to a door at the end.

“That’s the servants’ entrance,” he said. “Go out of the gate and turn left. It was just down the street a bit.”

“Tell the girl I came with to wait for me,” Bond said as he went outside.

He found himself in a small parking area reserved for the servants. He ran to the open gate and peered carefully around to look at the street. Sure enough, a black man dressed in a guard’s white jacket was on an old Vespa motor scooter. He was just beginning to pull away.

“Stop!” Bond shouted. The man looked back at Bond before accelerating down the street. Bond drew his Walther PPK and fired at him but missed. His last chance was to give chase on foot.

The man was a quarter-mile ahead of him. He had turned onto Thompson Boulevard and was headed north through busy traffic. Bond ran into the street in front of a bus traveling in the same direction. The bus driver slammed on his brakes, throwing several passengers to the floor. The bus still hit Bond hard enough to knock him to the pavement, stunning him slightly. He got up quickly, shook his body, and continued the pursuit.

The Vespa crossed Meadow Street and zipped into the entrance of St. Bernard’s Park, circling around St. Joseph’s Baptist Church. Bond jumped on the hood of a BMW and scrambled over it just in time to see the assassin slam into a street vendor’s kiosk that had been set up at the corner of the park. T-shirts and souvenirs went flying, and the angry proprietor shouted and shook his fist at the driver. The scooter then disappeared into the park.

It was darker off the main road. Bond kept running, panting heavily. Should he risk firing a shot? He could just see the taillight of the scooter some thirty feet ahead. He didn’t want to kill the man. If he had ties to the Union, it was imperative that he be taken alive. The Vespa rounded a turn and was traveling on relatively straight pavement. It could easily speed away if he didn’t stop it now. Carefully aiming the handgun at the scooter’s taillight, he fired once.

The bullet hit the back tire, sending the scooter skidding across the pavement on its side. The killer landed hard, but immediately got up and started to run with a limp. Bond pursued him across the lawn. The assassin was holding his leg as he ran—he wouldn’t go far.

He did, however, make it to the western edge of the park and ran across the road and into a residential street. Bond followed him, almost collided with a taxi, spun around, and fell. Not wasting a second, he leaped to his feet and continued the chase. He could see the killer hobbling along about thirty feet ahead.

“Stop!” Bond shouted again.

The man turned. Bond could see him holding something in his hand. A flash of light and the unmistakable sound of a shot forced Bond to roll to the ground. His hope of taking the armed man alive had diminished greatly.

When he got to his feet, Bond saw that his prey had disappeared. There were a couple of alleys, either of which he could have run into. Bond sprinted to the corner and peered down one of them. Sure enough, he heard the sound of running feet. Bond hugged the wall and crept quickly toward the noise. He could see the man at the end of the alley, trapped in a dead end. Bond took cover behind some rubbish barrels.

“Give up!” Bond shouted. “You’re caught. Throw down your gun.”

The man turned and looked toward the voice. His eyes were wide. He fired blindly, unable to see his target. The bullet ricocheted off the alley wall.

It was now clear to Bond what had happened. The assassin had jumped the fence, killed the guard Frank, and taken his shirt and jacket. Impersonating a security man, he then persuaded the Governor to follow him inside the house. The Governor certainly wouldn’t have known all the security guards by sight.

“I’m counting to three,” Bond shouted. “Throw down your gun and raise your hands. I have a clear shot at your head. I assure you that I’ll blow a hole in it.”

The man pointed his gun in the direction of the voice. From Bond’s distance it appeared to be a revolver of some kind. Another shot went off, this time piercing the garbage can next to him.

“One …”

The man hesitated, not sure what to do. He knew he couldn’t escape.

“Two …”

Then the killer did a curious thing—he smiled. There was only one thing to do that made sense to him.

“You won’t take me alive, man,” the man said in a heavy West Indian accent. Then he pointed the gun at his temple.

“No!” Bond shouted. “Don’t—”

The man pulled the trigger. The noise reverberated like a thunderclap in the close confines of the alley.

TWO

OLD RIVALS

“THE TRICK IS NOT IN THE AMOUNT OF FORCE YOU USE WHEN YOU HIT THE ball, Mr. Bond, but in the negative force,” said Nolan Edwards, the starter at Stoke Poges Golf Club.

“Well then, it’s perfectly clear,” Bond replied with sarcasm. The ball he had just knocked ninety yards onto the putting green overshot the hole and continued to roll into the rough.

He was frustrated by his lack of progress in mastering a difficult shot. It was called “backing the ball on the green.” Pro golfers perform it successfully most of the time; formidable amateurs such as Bond found the shot elusive. He was determined to get it right, for he had always played golf with the attitude that one should incorporate new techniques and strategies to keep the game alive. This particular shot would be useful should he ever need to hit the ball into a tough pin placement. If he overshot the hole, it would roll off the green (as he had just so aptly demonstrated). However, if he could successfully put a backspin on the ball, it would roll back toward the hole and be in a perfect position for him to sink the putt.

Bond had been on the practice green in front of the club for half an hour. He hadn’t got it right once.

Edwards, an American from Illinois and longtime Stoke Poges employee, shook his head and wrinkled his brow. “It’s a tough one, Mr. Bond. I’ve seen very few amateurs do it. To spin the ball with some kind of accuracy, what you need to do is combine swing speed, impact position, hand action, and acceleration into one smooth swing.”

“What I need is a stiff drink,” Bond said, picking up his wound three-piece Titleist ball and pocketing it.

“Any sign of Bill?” he asked.

“I believe that’s his Alfa now,” Edwards said, nodding in the direction of the starter shed, where Bill Tanner, the Chief of Staff at SIS, had just parked his red Alfa Romeo.

“Hello, James,” he said, getting out of the car and opening the trunk. “How are you, Edwards?”

“Fine, Mr. Tanner,” the starter said. Tanner pulled out the clubs and handed them to Edwards. “Mr. Bond was just practicing a very difficult shot.”

“You still trying to put a backspin on the ball, James?”

Bond nodded, unsnapping the glove from his left hand. “I’m close, Bill. Damn close.”

Tanner chuckled. “You’re taking this much too seriously, James. Come on, let’s go and get a drink. The others will be here soon.”

Bond left his bag of Callaway clubs with Edwards and walked with Tanner to the front of the clubhouse, an impressive grade-one Palladian mansion. He had joined the club in 1993. The dues were sizable, but the splendid public and private rooms of the clubhouse, the elegant dining room and fine cuisine, the attentive staff, and the golf course itself made membership a cherished luxury. Founded in 1908, the Stoke Poges Golf Club is one of the finest in England. Located in Buckinghamshire in the south of England near Eton and Windsor, the thousand-year history of the estate is just as colorful as its surroundings. Decades of established traditions complement the clubhouse, its ancient gardens and parkland, and its world-famous course created by Harry Shapland Colt.

Bond and Tanner entered the lobby and walked past the grand staircase, which, at the time it was built, was the largest cantilever staircase in the UK. They went through the bright and cheery Orangery and into the more subdued President’s Bar. Bond preferred the bar, as it was a room that was both elegant and masculine. There was a yellow marble fireplace, a well-stocked oak bar, and comfortable furniture with cream-colored upholstery. Trophies and wood plaques adorned the yellow walls, proclaiming the names of past captains and other vital historical facts about the park.

Bond ordered a bourbon and Tanner asked for a Black Label whisky. Tanner looked at his watch. It was still early in the day. “They should be here soon. Do you think it will rain?”

English weather in April is unpredictable. So far, the sun had managed to skirt around the hovering dark clouds.

“Probably on the back nine,” Bond prophesied. “It never fails.”

Bond had been home for two weeks. The Governor’s murder had spoiled what had begun as a delightful holiday in the Bahamas with Helena. Now that they were back at the job, their relationship was a masquerade. They tried to put the romance behind them and, as much as possible, pretend that it never occurred. So far it wasn’t working. The situation was further complicated by the fact that their affair had been a secret before the incidents in Nassau, but now a number of people at SIS knew that he had been there with his personal assistant. Bond could feel Helena’s tension when he was at the office, so he made excuses to leave or work at home. He was extremely grateful when Tanner had suggested that he take Thursday off and play a round of golf with two other SIS civil servants.

“How is your research on the Union coming?” Tanner asked.

“Must we talk shop?” Bond snapped.

“Sorry,” Tanner said. “You really do want to master that shot!”

“No, I’m sorry, Bill,” Bond said. “I’ve been on edge lately. That business with the Governor in Nassau, and the killer who blew his own brains out … it’s all a big mystery that I’m still trying to sort out.”

“Never mind, James, it’s all right.” He tapped his glass against Bond’s. “Cheers.” Tanner knew damn well what was really on Bond’s mind, but he had the tact not to mention it.

Two men entered the bar. Bond glanced up and grimaced. The taller of the men spotted Bond and Tanner and waved.

“Well, well!” he said. “If it isn’t James Bond and Billy Tanner!”

“Roland Marquis,” Bond said with feigned enthusiasm. “Long time.”

Group Captain Roland Marquis was blond, broad-shouldered, and very handsome. A neatly trimmed blond mustache covered his upper lip. His eyes were a cold blue. He had the kind of weather-beaten face that suggested years of outdoor activity, and the square jaw of a matinee idol. He was the same age as Bond and just as fit.

He held out his hand as he approached their table. Marquis squeezed Bond’s hand roughly, reminding 007 of their lifelong rivalry.

“How are you, Bond?” Marquis asked.

“Fine. Keeping busy.”

“Really? I would have thought there’s not a lot to do over at SIS these days, eh?” Marquis sniffed.

“We have plenty to do,” Bond said with little humor. “Mostly cleaning up messes left by others. How about you? The RAF still treating you better than you deserve?”

Marquis laughed. “The RAF treats me like a bloody king.”

The other man stepped up to the table. A man in his late thirties, he was smaller in stature, thin, and had glasses, a long nose, and bushy eyebrows, all of which gave him a birdlike appearance.

“This is my partner, Dr. Steven Harding,” Marquis said. “He’s with the Defence Evaluation and Research Agency. Dr. Harding, I present you James Bond and Bill Tanner. They work for the Ministry of Defence, in that gaudy building next to the Thames.”

“SIS? Really? How do you do!” Harding held out his hand. Both men shook hands with him.

“Join us for a drink?” Tanner asked. “We’re just waiting for our friends to make up the fourball.”

Marquis and Harding pulled up chairs. “Bill, I haven’t met your new chief,” Marquis said. “What’s she like?”

“She runs a very tight ship,” Tanner replied. “Things are not that different since Sir Miles retired. What about you? I think the last time we spoke you were working at Oakhanger?”

“I’ve moved,” Marquis said. “They’ve got me liaising with the DERA now. Dr. Harding here is one of their top engineers in the aeronautics division. Almost everything he does is classified.”

“Well, you can tell us. We won’t say a word,” Bond said.

“You’ll hear about it soon enough, I should think. Won’t they, doctor?”

Harding was in the middle of taking a sip from a gin and tonic. “Hmmm? Oh, quite right. I must be sure to phone Tom after we play the front nine. We’re almost there.”

“Almost where? Marquis, what are you up to that you haven’t told us?” Tanner asked.

“Actually we have told you,” Marquis said with a broad grin. “Your chief knows all about it. Ever heard of Thomas Wood?”

“Sure,” Bond said. “He’s Britain’s top aeronautics physicist.”

At the mention of Wood’s name, Tanner nodded his head. “You’re right, I do know all about it, Marquis. I just didn’t know that you were involved.”

“It’s my pet project, Tanner,” he said smugly.

“Dr. Wood is my boss,” Harding said.

Bond was impressed. To be working with a man of Wood’s stature would require a considerable amount of gray matter. Harding must be smarter than he looked. In contrast, Bond had never thought much of Roland Marquis’s brain or any other part of him. His greatgrandfather, a Frenchman, had married into a wealthy English military family. The Marquis name was passed down from son to son, every one of them becoming a distinguished and decorated officer. Roland Marquis inherited his family’s snobbishness and was, in Bond’s estimation, an egotistical overachiever.

Ralph Pickering, the club’s general manager, looked in the bar and spotted Bond. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Bond,” he said. He stepped over to them and gave Bond and Tanner a message that their other two partners would not be joining them. “They said they had to go away on business unexpectedly and that you would understand. They send their apologies,” he said.

“Thank you, Ralph,” Bond said. He wasn’t as annoyed with them for not showing up as he was with the fact that they had received orders and had probably left the country. Even after two weeks Bond was restless. He was ready to do anything to get out of London and away from Helena for awhile.

After Pickering left the room, Bond looked at Tanner and asked, “What do you want to do now? Play by ourselves?”

“Why not play with us?” Marquis asked. “I’m sure we could make it interesting. Dr. Harding and I against the two of you? Straight Stableford-level handicaps?”

Bond looked at Tanner. Tanner nodded in approval.

“I assume you’re talking money?” Bond asked.

“You’d better believe it. How about two hundred and fifty pounds per man for every point by which the winners beat the losers?” Marquis suggested with a sly grin.

Tanner’s eyes widened. That could be a lot of money. He didn’t like gambling.

Nevertheless, the glove had been thrown. Bond took challenges very seriously and couldn’t resist accepting it.

“All right, Roland,” Bond said. “Let’s meet at the starter’s shed in, say, half an hour?”

“Splendid!” Marquis said, grinning widely. His straight white teeth sparkled. “We’ll see you on the course, then! Come along, Dr. Harding.” Harding smiled sheepishly, downed the rest of his drink, and got up with Marquis.

After they had left the bar, Tanner said, “My God, James, are you mad? Two hundred and fifty pounds a point?”

“I had to accept, Bill,” Bond said. “Roland and I go way back.”

“I knew that. You were at Eton together, right?”

“Yes, for the two years I was there we were bitter rivals. We often competed in the same athletic arenas. Whereas I left Eton and went to Fettes, Marquis went through Eton and Cranwell. As you know, he distinguished himself in the RAF and was rapidly promoted to his present rank.”

“Didn’t I read somewhere that he’s a mountaineer?”

“That’s right,” Bond said. “He’s actually quite famous in the world of mountain climbing. He made international headlines a few years ago after climbing the ‘Seven Summits’ in record time.”

“ ‘Seven Summits’?”

“The highest peaks on each of the seven continents.”

“Ah, right. So he’s been up Everest, then?”

“More than once, I believe,” Bond said. “I’ve run into him from time to time over the years. We still regard each other as rivals. I don’t know why. It’s extraordinary, really.”

Tanner frowned and shook his head. “We’re not going to have a boxing match out on the course, are we?”

“I’m afraid that whenever I’m thrust into a situation with Roland Marquis, it ends up that way. Cheers.” Bond finished his bourbon and asked the bartender to put the drinks on his tab.

They went downstairs to the changing room. Bond put on a Mulberry golf shirt, gray sweater, and pleated navy slacks—his preferred attire for the golf course. He hung his Sea Island short-sleeve cotton shirt and khaki trousers inside a polished wooden locker and shut the door. Even the changing room was opulent, with paintings of Sir Edward Coke and Elizabeth I on the walls. Coke, one of the estate’s more famous tenants, was theman who sentenced Guy Fawkes to death and often entertained the queen when she stayed at the manor house in 1601. Bond never took the splendor of Stoke Poges for granted.

“Do we want caddies?” Tanner asked.

Bond shook his head. “I don’t. Do you?”

“I can use the exercise.”

They walked through the corridors and an outdoor tunnel that smelled faintly of fertilizer. This led to the Pro Shop. Bond paused there long enough to purchase another set of Titleist balls with the number 3 imprinted on them, then followed Tanner outside to the beautiful course. Large, gnarled cedar redwood trees adorned the edges of the fairways. The freshly cut green grass was once prime grazing for deer, so the turf was very fine. It could hardly have been better for golf.

“They’ve really changed things in the past year,” Tanner observed. “The fifteenth hole used to cross the main road here, didn’t it?”

Nolan Edwards, who was standing nearby, answered, “That’s right, sir. We actually had a couple of broken windscreens in the parking lot. We redesigned a few holes. It keeps the players on their toes.”

Roland Marquis and Steven Harding were on the putting green. Bond and Tanner retrieved their clubs and put them on trolleys. Bond had recently purchased the Callaways, which he felt were the most advanced golf clubs on the market. The set included BBX-12 regular flex graphite irons, which he had chosen because he could swing through the shot more easily with the regular flex than with the stiffshafted clubs.

They all met at the first tee, and the game began at precisely 10:45 A.M. The sun was shining brightly behind them, although several dark clouds were moving around the sky. It was breezy and cool, which invigorated Bond. He took a moment to take in his surroundings, for he believed that in golf his human opponents were not his only adversaries. The course itself was the real enemy, and the only way to conquer it was to treat it with respect.

“Bond, I hope you brought your checkbook,” Marquis said, sauntering up to the tee. Harding trailed behind him, struggling with his own trolley.

“I’m ready if you are, Roland,” Bond said. He looked over at Tanner, who held two golf balls in his hand. Bond picked his Titleist 3, leaving Tanner with a Slazenger. Marquis and Harding were also using Titleist balls, with the numbers 5 and 1, respectively, marked on them.

After winning the toss, Bond was the first to tee off. He was currently delighted with the results he was getting off the tee with the Callaway firm-shafted War Bird driver. He found that a firm-shafted driver allowed him the maximum distance and, unlike many good players using firm-shafted equipment, Bond avoided hooking his drives with it.

The first hole was a gentle opening to a test of skill laid out by an acknowledged master of golf course design. It was a par 5 with a long fairway of 502 yards. Tricky cross bunkers lay 100 yards short of the green. Bond placed his ball on the tee, took his stance, concentrated, swung, and achieved an even follow-through. The ball sailed a good 225 yards to an impressive position just past the first tree on the right side of the fairway.

“Nice one, James,” Tanner said.

Marquis was next. His drive didn’t send the ball as far as Bond’s, but it landed square in the center of the fairway. It gave him a slight advantage in that all he had to do from then on was hit the next shot to an easy lie around 100 yards out.

Tanner’s drive was terrible. The ball overshot the fairway and flew into the trees on the right.

“Oh, damn,” he muttered.

“Bad luck, Bill,” Marquis said, obviously enjoying himself.

Harding was not much better. At least he hit the ball on the fairway, not much farther than 150 yards from the tee.

As Bond and Tanner walked together toward their balls, Tanner said, “I think the prospect of losing hundreds of pounds has got me a little edgy, James.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bill,” Bond said. “The man’s an insufferable boor. I shouldn’t have accepted his wager, but it’s done. If we lose, I’ll take care of it.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Just play your best, and we’ll see what happens.”

The par for the course was 72. Using the Stableford system, players received one point for a bogey, or one over par; two points for par; three points for a birdie, or one under par; four points for an eagle, or two under par; and five points for the rare albatross, which was three under par.

Bond put the ball on the green on his third stroke. If he could sink the putt in one more, then he’d have a birdie. Unfortunately, Marquis did the same and managed to put his ball three yards from the flag. Tanner’s bad luck continued: On his third stroke he landed in one of the bunkers. Harding made it on to the green in four.

Marquis sunk his putt to get it out of Bond’s way. Bond took the Odyssey putter from the bag and stood over his ball. It was 25 feet to the pin, so he had to give the ball a good, firm tap. His stroke sent the ball across the green, where it spun around the lip of the cup and stopped a foot away from the hole.

“Oh, bad luck, Bond,” Marquis said.

At the end of the first hole Marquis had three points, Bond two, Harding two and Tanner one. At the end of the game Bond and Tanner would combine their scores, as would Marquis and Harding. The team with the most points would, of course, win.

After the disastrous first hole, Tanner calmed down and began to play evenly. He made par on the next hole, as did the other three.

The third hole was a par 3 that Bond made in two. The other players all made par. As the four men walked over to the fourth tee, Marquis said, “Bond, do you remember the fight we had?”

Bond had never forgotten it. It had been at Eton after a grueling wrestling match in the gymnasium. The instructor, a friend of Marquis’s parents, had pitted Bond against Marquis because it was well known that the two boys couldn’t stand each other. Bond was obviously the better wrestler, but Marquis had surprised Bond with an illegal blow to the jaw. The instructor turned a blind eye, ultimately declaring Marquis the winner. After that a fistfight broke out.

“That was a long time ago,” Bond said.

“Still smarting from that, eh?” Marquis taunted. “Just be thankful the headmaster came in to save your arse.”

“I seem to remember that it was you he rescued,” Bond replied.

“Isn’t it funny how two grown men remember the same event differently?” Marquis slapped Bond on the back and gave a hearty laugh.

By the time they had played through five holes, the score was twenty-one to nineteen in favor of Marquis and Harding.

The sixth hole was a straight 412-yard par 4 with bunkers right and left at 195 and 225 yards from the tee. The green was uphill, small, and difficult to putt on because of its varied slopes.

Bond drove the ball 200 yards off the tee. Tanner followed suit, putting both balls in position for a straight shot over the bunkers and onto the green. When Bond made his second shot, he put the ball just in front of a center bunker about 100 yards from the green. It would be a perfect opportunity to try to back up the ball. He could hit it over the bunker, onto the green behind the pin, and hopefully put enough of a backspin on the ball to make it roll near the hole. He had to try it; otherwise making par would be extremely difficult.

When Bond’s turn came, he removed the Lyconite 56-degree wedge from the bag and took a couple of practice swings.

“Come on, Bond,” Marquis said patronizingly. “All you have to do is hit it over the bunker.”

“Shhh, Roland,” said Tanner. Marquis just grinned. He was getting cocky. Even Harding grimaced.

Bond swung and chopped the ball up and over the bunker. It fell just behind the pin but failed to roll toward the hole. Instead, it bounced forward off the green and into the rough.

“Oh, bad luck!” Marquis said with glee. Bond eventually took a bogey on the hole, while the others made par. Marquis and Harding maintained their lead.

While walking up the seventh fairway together, Tanner said to Bond, “Nice try.”

“Bollocks,” Bond said. “You know, I think it’s taken me all these years to realize how intensely I dislike that man.”

“Try not to let it affect your game, James,” Tanner advised. “I agree with you, he’s as obnoxious as hell.”

“I can’t hate him too much, though.”

“Why not?”

Bond thought a moment before answering. “He’s made of the same stuff as me,” he said. “Roland Marquis, his personality faults notwithstanding, is good at what he does. You have to admit that he’s a bloody fine player, and he’s one hell of an athlete. His accomplishments in the RAF and in the mountains are impressive. He could just use some lessons in humility.”

“I understand he’s quite a ladies’ man as well,” Tanner mused.

“That’s right. England’s most eligible bachelor.”

“Besides you.”

Bond disregarded the quip. “He flaunts his dates with supermodels, actresses, very wealthy widows, and divorcees. He’s the sort of celebrity that bores me to tears.”

“I’ll bet you were rivals over a girl when you were younger,” Tanner said perceptively.

“As a matter of fact, we were,” Bond admitted. “He stole her right from under my nose. He engineered the entire seduction to get the better of me.”

“What was her name?” Tanner said, smiling.

Bond looked at him and said with a straight face, “Felicity Mountjoy.” The chief of staff pursed his lips and nodded, as if that explained everything.

Bond got lucky on the ninth hole and made a birdie, while the other three all made par. Bond was one under par on the front nine and Tanner was two over. Marquis, however, was two under par and his partner was two over. The Stableford score was Marquis and Harding thirty-six, Bond and Tanner thirty-five.

They sat outside in back of the clubhouse to have a drink before playing the back nine. Bond ordered vodka, on the rocks, and set his gun-metal cigarette case on the table beside the glass. Tanner had a Guinness. The sound of bagpipes and drums was coming faintly over the trees from outside the chapel on the estate grounds.

“The Gurkhas are here,” Tanner observed.

The Pipes and Drums marching band of the Royal Gurkha Rifles often played at Stoke Poges, for the Gurkha Memorial Garden was located near the course. Elite fighting men recruited from Nepal to serve with the British army since 1815, Gurkhas are considered to be among the fiercest and bravest soldiers on the planet.

“We’re not far from Church Crookham.” Bond said, referring to the regiment’s home base.

Marquis and Harding joined them, each earning a pint.

“Vodka, Bond?” Marquis pointed. “That’s right, I remember now. You’re a vodka man. You like martinis.” He pronounced the word with exaggerated erudition. “Vodka will dull your sense’s, my boy.”

“Not at all,” Bond said. “I find it sharpens them.” He opened the gunmetal case and removed one of the specially made cigarettes with the three distinctive gold bands.

“What kind of cigarettes are those?” Marquis asked.

“I have them custommade,” Bond explained. Morland’s and H. Simmons had gone out of business, so he now ordered his cigarettes directly from a company called Tor Importers, which specialized in Turkish and Balkan tobacco. His was a blend with low tar that he liked.

Marquis chuckled, “Well, let’s try one then!”

Bond offered the case to him, and then the other men. Harding took one, but Tanner refused.

Marquis lit the cigarette and inhaled. He rolled the smoke around inside his mouth as if he were tasting wine. He exhaled and said, “Can’t say I care for it much, Bond.”

“It’s probably too strong for your taste,” Bond replied.

Marquis smiled and shook his head. “You always have a comeback, don’t you, Bond?”

Bond ignored him and finished his drink, then put out the cigarette. He glanced up at the sky and said, “Those clouds don’t look friendly. We had better get started.”

The sun had completely vanished. Thunder rumbled lightly in the distance.