The Facts Of Death E-Book

Raymond Benson

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

Seitenzahl: 463

Beschreibung

Someone is poisoning British soldiers in Cyprus; the same killer has murdered a British intelligence agent in Athens. James Bond himself barely escapes with his life.The secrets behind these and other deaths start to come to light in Texas, where Bond goes in search of the assassin of M's friend and lover. Fearful of an international scandal that could engulf both his service and his country, he learns instead of the existence of the Decada. Held together by an archaic philosophy and their own bizarre rituals, the Decada's fanatics have created a deadly virus - and are willing to use it to further their terrifying ambitions for power and revenge . . .Aided by beautiful, brave Greek intelligence agent Niki Mirakos, Bond puts himself into the firing line for a last-ditch attempt to stop the Decada before they unleash a horrifying weapon on their helpless prey.

Leseprobe

The Facts of Death

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 1998 First published in the USA by G.P.Putnam’s Sons 1998

Copyright © Ian Fleming Publications, 1998 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, re-sold, 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: 978-1-906772-54-3

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)

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 PARENTS

Morris H. “Benny” BensonBeulah “Boots” Benson

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

1 THE SMELL OF DEATH

2 A DAY IN THE CITY

3 AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY

4 TOO CLOSE TO HOME

5 RENDEZVOUS ON CHIOS

6 TEQUILA AND LIMES

7 THE SUPPLIERS

8 MANSION ON THE HILL

9 THE SPERM BANK

10 OFFENSIVE ACTION

11 THE NEXT THREE STRIKES

12 HIDDEN AGENDA?

13 THE GREEK AGENT

14 THE NEW PYTHAGOREANS

15 BIOLINKS

16 ROMANOS

17 QUEEN OF THE GODS

18 A MURDERER’S TOMB

19 THE NUMBER KILLER

20 GODS NEVER DIE

21 BY THE SKIN OF THE TEETH

22 SECRETS OF THE DEAD

23 INDEPENDENCE DAY

24 GHOST TOWN

25 THE FACE OF DEATH

26 THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

IT WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ROUTINE.

In early October, Carl Williams, a fifty-eight-year-old African-American, had gallbladder surgery at Veterans Hospital in Los Angeles. He needed a blood transfusion to make up for what he had lost during the procedure. He was type A, and there was plenty of that in supply. The operation was a complete success, and he spent an hour in the recovery room before being wheeled back to his bed.

Several hours later, as his wife sat by his side reading, Williams began to choke. At first, Mrs. Williams thought some juice he was sipping had gone down Carl’s windpipe. She slapped his back, but it didn’t seem to work. Carl’s eyes started to bulge and he panicked. Mrs. Williams screamed for the nurse.

A code blue was declared. A doctor rushed in and attempted to save the patient, who went into cardiac arrest just as they were fitting an oxygen mask over his face.

Carl Williams died fifteen minutes after the onset of the symptoms. His wife was hysterical. The hospital staff were shocked and bewildered. The doctor ordered that a postmortem examination be performed.

The next morning, Mrs. Williams was sitting in her kitchen in Van Nuys, trying to make sense of what had happened to her husband. It must have been the hospital’s fault. She was going to speak to a lawyer that very day.

As she stood up to pour some more coffee, she inexplicably felt her throat close. Gasping for air, she lunged for the telephone to dial 911. She managed to get through, but could barely speak into the receiver to tell them where to send the ambulance.

When the paramedics arrived, she was dead.

Halfway across the metropolis of Los Angeles, in Culver City, the nurse who had first attended to Carl Williams’s emergency also died of respiratory failure and cardiac arrest as she was unloading groceries from the back of her car. Fifteen minutes later, in Pasadena, the doctor who had rushed into the room to help the nurse collapsed of the same ailment. He had been on the fourth hole of his favorite golf course.

By the end of the day, eight more people who had come into contact with Carl Williams were dead.

The next day there were several more.

By the third week of October, health officials realized they had a crisis on their hands. Although they tried to keep the mysterious epidemic a secret, news leaked out and was reported in the Los AngelesTimes. A small story ran in the Times, but few people in London paid much attention to it.

By the end of October, thirty-three people had died. Health officials were stumped and scared.

Halfway around the world, in Tokyo, Hiroshi Nagawa received his October injection. It was his monthly shot of blood to help combat the leukemia that he had contracted five months ago. Doctors were hopeful that the transfusions would prolong his life at least another six months. Hiroshi was optimistic, for he felt much better every time he got a shot.

Hiroshi went from the doctor’s office to his job as a computer programmer. The day went well, but he began to feel a little dizzy as he got on the underground train to go home. In the middle of the packed train, Hiroshi suddenly felt as if his esophagus had been clamped with a vise. Thankfully, the train was just pulling into a station. Choking horribly, he pushed his way through the crowd of people to the opening doors. He stumbled out onto the platform and collapsed a few feet away from the train.

Everyone in the subway car with Hiroshi that afternoon was concerned, but they went about their business and let the medics handle the situation. Little did they know that in twenty-four hours, they too would be in the morgue.

ONE

THE SMELL OF DEATH

THE TABLEAU OF PAIN AND SUFFERING MIGHT HAVE BEEN A FREEZE-FRAME from a macabre dance of death.

The twelve men—three corporals and nine privates—were sprawled about in various positions in the barracks room. They were fully dressed. One man was half on, half off a cot. Three were piled together, clutching one another in a final embrace. All of them had vomited and bled from the nose and mouth. They had clearly experienced a horrible death.

The team of four investigators dressed in protective clothing made a thorough search of the premises. Each wore a Willson AR 1700 full face gas mask with respirator and “in-cheek” filters, airtight goggles, a hood, an impermeable butyl rubber suit, eighteen-gauge rubber gloves and boots. Every inch of skin was covered. The investigators were thankful that the gas masks blocked out the stench of death. They were sweating profusely beneath the suits, for in late October, it was still hot in southern Cyprus.

James Bond peered through the eyepieces of his gas mask, taking in every detail. Twelve soldiers had been killed by an as yet unknown chemical agent, possibly administered through the air ducts. It seemed the only possible explanation. Equally disturbing was the number “3” painted in red on the wall of the room. Beneath the number, on the floor, was a six-inch-high alabaster statuette of the ancient Greek god Poseidon.

Bond watched the two British SAS investigators do their work and then followed them outside into the sun. One investigator, the sole Greek in the team, remained inside to finish making notes and to take photographs.

The men removed their gas masks and hoods. The temperature was already eighty-five degrees. It would have been a good day for a swim.

The British Sovereign Base Areas in the Republic of Cyprus cover approximately three percent of the island’s land area. The Western Sovereign Base Area, which consists of the Episkopi Garrison buildings and the Akrotiri RAF airfield, and the Eastern Sovereign Base Area—the garrison at Dhekelia—remained under British jurisdiction when the Treaty of Establishment created the independent Republic of Cyprus in 1960. Prior to that time, Cyprus had been a British crown colony.

Bond had been dispatched to Cyprus shortly after midnight and had been shuttled to Akrotiri by a Royal Navy aircraft. He had been met by Captain Sean Tully and taken directly to Episkopi, the area which housed the Sovereign Base Areas Administration and the headquarters of the British Forces Cyprus. James Bond always thought the island was a lovely place, with its beautiful beaches, its rolling hills in the north, its near-perfect climate, and its quaint and colorful cities. It was unfortunate that Cyprus had such a turbulent recent history.

It was an unnamed British officer who had drawn a line with a green marker across the map in 1963, when tensions between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots culminated in violence. The United Nations moved in shortly thereafter in an attempt to keep the peace along the aptly named Green Line. Eleven years later, as a result of an attempted coup by the Greek government and the Turkish invasion of the northern part of the island in reaction to that attempt, the island was divided not just by a symbolic Green Line, but by a physical and political one. Today, Her Majesty’s Government, along with the UN, recognizes only the government of the Republic of Cyprus, which administers the southern two thirds of the island. The socalled Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, which illegally occupies the northeast third of the island, is not recognized by any nation other than Turkey. The situation has been a source of tension, mistrust, and conflict for over thirty years.

The current disaster had struck in a barracks near the Episkopi helicopter landing site. Bond had been joined by two SAS forensic identification specialists from London and, at the last minute, by a member of the Greek Secret Service. He was a bit puzzled by the presence of the Greek agent, who was still inside the barracks taking notes. M had advised him that a Greek agent would be contacting him in Episkopi, but this was obviously a British matter, as it involved British military personnel and occurred on territory governed by neither the Republic of Cyprus nor Greece.

Winninger, one of the London investigators, wiped the sweat from his brow and asked, “Commander Bond, do you have any preliminary impressions?”

“It was some kind of aerosol agent, I would imagine,” Bond said. “The number on the wall and the little statue are some kind of signature that the killer or killers left behind. I understand there was something similar at Dhekelia two days ago.”

“Right,” the second man, Ashcraft, said. “A small squad of men was killed by a nerve toxin called sarin. The same stuff that was used in a Japanese underground train recently by a religious fanatic.”

Winninger added, “And then there was poor Whitten two days before that.”

Bond nodded. He had been briefed. Christopher Whitten had been an MI6 operative in Athens. His body had been found by the Greek police sprawled on the steps of the Temple of Hephaisteion in the Ancient Agora near the Acropolis. He had died by an as yet unidentified poison, but Forensic Toxicology believed the cause of death to have been ricin, a deadly chemical derived from the simple castor bean plant.

In all three cases, the perpetrators had left a number painted near the body or bodies. The number “1” had been scrawled on a rock by Whitten’s head. The number “2” had been painted on the wall of the Dhekelia barracks where the small squad of soldiers died the other day. A similarity to the Episkopi incident was that another small statuette of a Greek god was left at the Dhekelia scene.

Ashcraft said, “And now we have the third attack in four days. Looks like we’ve got a serial terrorist or something… . One complete section and half of another from the platoon were killed. That’s three corporals and nine privates—three fire teams. It happened late last night after they had come in from drill. What do you make of the condition of the bodies, Ray?”

Winninger rubbed his chin. “From the amount of bleeding the victims experienced—from nearly every orifice of their bodies—it appears to be Tricotheneces. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Ashcraft said. “We’ll have to get the lab to verify, of course. Terrible way to go.” He turned to Bond. “Tricotheneces is a poison that causes radical bleeding from the eyes, ears, and mouth, internal bleeding, burns, convulsion and death—all within half an hour.”

Bond was familiar with the various types of chemicals used in terrorist attacks and in warfare.

“Is it my imagination, or can I smell their bodies from out here?” Winninger asked.

The Greek agent emerged from the barracks, still wearing the gas mask and protective hood. Now out in the fresh air, the gas mask and coverings were quickly removed, revealing a head of long, black hair. She had Mediterranean features—tan skin, thick eyebrows, brown eyes, full lips, a large but not unattractive nose, and a long neck. She was unusually tall—nearly six feet. Bond and the other two men were surprised. They hadn’t realized the agent was a woman when she walked into the barracks after them. She hadn’t spoken and the protective uniform covered any hint of female shape.

“Are you from the NIS? You’re Mirakos?” Winninger asked.

“That’s right,” she said. “Niki Mirakos of the Greek National Intelligence Service.” She pronounced her first name “Nee-kee.”

“What are you doing here, exactly?” Ashcraft asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m investigating these terrorist attacks, just as you are,” she said with a look of disdain. “Your man Whitten was found in a public area of Athens—in a national park that was a holy place for the ancient Greeks, no less. These attacks are not random. There is a purpose behind them. My government has an interest in what has happened.”

“Maybe you can fill us in on your hypothesis, then?” Ashcraft said.

“Later,” she said. “I want to get out of these hot clothes and take a shower.” She turned to Bond. “You’re 007, aren’t you?”

Bond held out his hand. “Bond,” he said. “James Bond.”

“We’re supposed to have a little talk,” she said. She glanced at the two other officers and added, “Alone.”

Bond nodded. He led her away from the other two toward the building in the barracks that had been assigned to them as temporary quarters. As they walked, she unzipped her coveralls, revealing a white T-shirt soaked in sweat. Her full breasts were perfectly molded into the shirt. Bond couldn’t help stealing a glance or two as they walked. She wasn’t “beautiful” in the cover girl sense, but she exhibited an air of sensuality that made her extremely attractive.

“We believe this to be the work of terrorists specializing in chemical and biological weaponry,” she said. “The targets thus far have been British, but we believe there is something behind the attacks which will ultimately involve Greece.” She had a fairly thick accent, but her English was very good. Although most people under the age of forty in Greece have learned English, very few practice it on a daily basis.

“Do you have any idea who these people are?”

“No, and that’s part of the problem. We’re still investigating the death of your man Whitten, with the cooperation of your government, of course.”

“Is there a significance in the site where the body was dumped?” he asked.

“Perhaps. The Ancient Agora was the Athenian marketplace. You know about the coin?”

Bond nodded. “Whitten had an ancient Greek coin in his mouth.”

Niki continued, “That’s right. The ancient Greeks believed that the dead should have a coin handy to give to Charon, the boatman on the River Styx, so that he could ferry them across the river to Hades. A dead person was usually buried with a coin in their mouth to use as fare.”

“So the body placement, the coin, the number … are all symbolic,” Bond said.

“Of what?” she said. “If we can find the connection between that murder and the incidents here on Cyprus, it would be a big help.”

“The statuettes could be a substitute for the temple,” Bond said. “Ideally, maybe the killers wanted to send some sort of message linking the deaths to ancient Greece. That’s why Whitten’s body was dropped where it was. Since they couldn’t do that here on Cyprus, maybe the statuettes are supposed to symbolize the equivalent. Whatever that is.”

“That’s an interesting point, Mr. Bond,” Niki said. “The statuette at Dhekelia was that of Hera, the queen of the gods. This one was Poseidon. I wonder if that means anything.”

“I’m no ancient Greek scholar,” Bond said, “but I do know that Hera was a vengeful, jealous god.”

“What do you make of the numbers?”

Bond shrugged. “It’s a definite indication that these three acts were committed by the same group … and that there will probably be more.”

They had now reached two three-story white buildings of brick and plaster, some two hundred meters from the Helicopter Landing Site. The orange wind sock could be clearly seen blowing in the wind. The sound of an approaching Westland Wessex Mark II search-and-rescue helicopter was growing louder. They glanced up toward the sun and saw it descending from the sky, its silhouette resembling a humpback whale.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Niki said. She looked at her watch. It was just after noon. “Let’s meet in the mess at one? We can compare notes before we meet the base personnel at two. They will want answers.”

“Fine,” Bond said. “I’ll take a shower too. Perhaps we can go for a swim after the debriefing? And then maybe dinner?”

“You work fast, Mr. Bond,” she said with a slight smile.

He shrugged. “I leave in the morning.”

“We’ll see,” she said as they separated. Bond went up to the second floor of one building, normally occupied by a platoon. As he passed the showers, he noticed a sign on the door proclaiming that the plumbing was out of order. Bond turned and shouted to Niki, who was entering the barracks across the road.

“I need to use one of your showers! Mine are out!”

Niki waved and gestured for him to come over.

Bond had been assigned a room that was currently vacant, although bits of the kit of three soldiers were still there. The rooms were all alike—sparsely furnished with three cots, three cupboards, a sink, a ceiling fan, two strips of fluorescent lights, and a dozen posters on the walls of various popular pinup celebrities. He grabbed his open carry-on bag and made his way across the road to Niki’s barracks. Bare shouldered, she stuck her head out of her door as he passed by, and said, “You can use the next room. The showers are a few doors down. You go first, I can wait.”

“Why not join me? We could do our part in conserving Cyprus’s precious water supply.”

The door shut in his face.

Bond entered the room, removed his clothes, and threw his bag on one of the cots. He hadn’t brought much with him, as he knew that he would be on a plane back to London in the morning. As an afterthought, he had thrown in his swimming trunks and a diving utility belt that Q Branch supplied to agents normally working near water. Perhaps there really would be some time for that swim with the lovely Niki Mirakos….

Bond wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out of the room to the showers.

There were five shower stalls, two bathtubs and toilets. No one else was around. Bond dropped the towel and stepped into one of the stalls. He twisted the knob and turned on the hot water. It got warm very quickly and he felt the spray begin to wash away the sweat. As he reached for the soap the water suddenly turned cold. He ducked back and held his hand under the spray. Suddenly, the water cut off. In a few seconds, warm water burst out of the spigot. Bond chalked it up to poor plumbing on a military base and moved under the spray once again. When the water turned cold a second time, he became suspicious and stepped out of the stall. Immediately the smell of ammonia enveloped the room. Smoke funneled out of the stall as some kind of abrasive chemical poured onto the tiles on the floor.

Bond ran out of the room naked. He ducked into his temporary quarters, taking a few seconds to grab his swimming trunks and slip them on. He grasped the utility belt, which also held his new Walther P99 in a waterproof holster, and ran back outside. Niki, a towel wrapped around her shapely body, stepped out of her room in time to see him leap over the railing and gracefully land on the grass below in his bare feet. A couple of perplexed privates in uniform were standing beside a jeep watching him.

Paying no attention to them, Bond ran around the building in time to see a figure dressed in camouflage fatigues running away from the barracks toward the helicopter landing site. The Wessex that had landed earlier was still there, its rotor blades spinning. Bond took off after the running figure, who was wearing a gas mask and protective hood.

The figure made it to the Wessex and climbed into the open door. The helicopter immediately began to rise just as Bond made it to the HLS. He leaped forward and just managed to grab hold of the trooping step, the metal attachment used as an extra step to assist soldiers entering or leaving the aircraft. The Wessex continued to rise, with Bond hanging on for dear life. Within moments, they were flying over the base toward the Mediterranean.

The door was still open, and Bond could see two camouflaged figures from his position. One was holding a gun to the pilot’s head. The aircraft had been hijacked!

The gas-masked figure he had seen earlier leaned out of the door and saw Bond hanging on to the trooping step. He pulled a large knife from a sheath, then squatted down closer to the floor of the aircraft. Holding on to the inside of the cabin with one hand, the figure leaned out with the knife in the other. He swung the knife across Bond’s knuckles, slicing the skin. Bond winced with pain but forced himself to hang on. The helicopter was a good two hundred feet above the ground. He would surely fall to his death if he let go. The assassin leaned out again, but this time Bond was ready. As the knife swung, Bond lifted one hand off the trooping step and grasped the piece of metal beneath the step mat fastened onto the helicopter. It wasn’t as good a handhold as the step itself, but it was shielded from the assassin’s knife. He then inched out onto the wheel axle and wrapped his legs around it. The killer would have to venture out of the aircraft to get him now.

As the helicopter flew over the RAF airfield at Akrotiri, the pilot was ordered to maneuver the vehicle wildly in an attempt to throw Bond off. The pain was almost unbearable, and the blood from the cuts dripped onto his face. But he hung on tightly. If only he could manage to keep hold until they got over the water …

The figure leaned out of the door again, this time holding an automatic pistol—a Daewoo, Bond thought. Bond swung his body up under the helicopter as the assassin fired at him. The bullets whizzed past him as he swung back and forth. Fortunately, the jerking movement of the helicopter spoiled the man’s aim and he shouted angrily back at the pilot.

The helicopter was now over the Mediterranean, flying south. The water below was choppy and rough.

The assassin did what Bond was afraid he might do: he crawled out onto the trooping step. Now that the chopper was flying level, Bond could be shot at point-blank range. He couldn’t see the assassin’s face behind the gas mask, but he knew the man was smiling in triumph. The assassin raised the pistol and pointed it at Bond’s head.

Bond used all of his strength to swing back underneath the trooping step and used the momentum to push himself away from the helicopter. In midair, he somersaulted so that his body ended up in the diving position. He heard the shot ring out above him as he soared down to the sea. The impact might have killed an ordinary man, but Bond’s graceful Olympic-style dive smoothly cut through the surface of the water.

He swam up for air and saw the Wessex continuing its trek southward. He looked at the shore, which was at least a mile away. Could he swim back? The water was very rough. It would be a challenge for even the strongest of swimmers. It was lucky that he had thought to take the utility belt.

While treading water, Bond unzipped the belt and removed two coiled rubber items which, when shaken, opened out to their proper size. They were portable flippers. He quickly placed them on his feet. Next, Bond removed a small can the size of a shaving cream container. Two long elastic bands allowed him to strap the can onto his back. A flexible tube uncoiled from the top of the can, and he stuck the end in his mouth. The can was a ten-minute version of an aqualung, which would be helpful in swimming through the choppy water. He hoped that the current wasn’t so strong that he couldn’t make headway toward shore.

Bond began the slow crawl toward land, thankful that he had brushed up on his diving skills a couple of weeks ago. He was also grateful that Major Boothroyd was indeed a genius.

He fought the sea as best he could, but it was a case of two steps forward, one step back. Still, he was an expert swimmer and extremely fit. An ordinary man might have drowned by now. Five minutes later, Bond estimated that he was about half a mile from shore. The air would last him another five minutes and then he would have to depend on short, deep breaths stolen from the choppy surface.

The sound of another helicopter grew nearer and its shadow blocked out the sun. Bond stopped swimming and treaded water. A Gazelle was directly above him, and a rope ladder was being lowered to him. He took hold of it and swiftly climbed up into the small, round helicopter. To his surprise, it was piloted by none other than Niki Mirakos. An RAF airman had manned the ladder.

“What kept you?” Bond asked.

“You said you wanted to go swimming!” Niki shouted over the noise. “I wanted to make sure you had a little time to enjoy yourself.”

The Gazelle pulled away toward the shore and back to Episkopi, passing two more Wessex helicopters heading out to sea in pursuit of the hijacked aircraft.

Back at the base, Bond and Niki learned that whoever it was wearing the gas mask had managed to attach a tank of cyanogen chloride to the water line. The chemical was classified as a “blood agent” because it attacked blood cells and spread quickly throughout the body. If it had made contact with Bond’s skin, he would have been a dead man. Investigators believed that this same assassin was responsible for the attack on the fire teams. More disturbing was that it was a blatant attempt on Niki Mirakos’s life.

That evening, the search-and-rescue personnel made their reports. The hijacked Wessex was found abandoned, floating in the sea about a hundred miles south of Cyprus. The saltwater flotation cans had been activated, allowing the helicopter to land on the water safely. The pilot’s body was found on board. He had been shot in the back of the head. It was surmised that the killer and his accomplice had somehow hijacked the craft and forced the pilot to fly them in and out of the base. It must have been met by a boat or a seaplane, for there was no trace of them.

After the briefing, Bond and Niki rode in her rented Honda Civic into town. They found a loud, festive restaurant, but managed to be seated at a small table for two in the back, away from the noise.

“How do you feel?” she asked. The candle on the table cast a glow across her bronze face.

“That fight with the sea today exhausted me, but otherwise I couldn’t be better,” Bond said. “I’m hungry, how about you?”

“Famished.”

They shared a Cypriot mixed grill—ham, sausage, and beef burgers—and halloumi, a chewy cheese, all grilled over charcoal. The house wine was Ambelida, a dry, light wine made from the Xynistri white grape.

“Why is it that Cypriot cuisine normally consists of an enormous amount of meat?” Bond asked.

Niki laughed. “I don’t know. We eat a lot of meat in Greece too, but not this much. Maybe it’s the reason for the high level of testosterone on this island.”

“Why do you think someone tried to kill you in the shower, Niki? That dirty trick was meant for you,” he said.

“I don’t have a clue. Someone obviously knew I would come to investigate. I’ve been on this case since they found your man Whitten. Maybe whoever’s responsible knew that. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can. When do you go back?”

“Tomorrow morning, same as you,” she said.

Bond settled the bill, even though she wanted to pay for her own meal. In the car on the way back to the base, he asked her if they would see each other again. She nodded.

“My middle name is Cassandra,” she said. “Believe it or not, I think I’ve always had the ability to see into people’s hearts, and sometimes into the future.”

“Oh, really?” Bond asked, smiling. “And what does the future hold for us?”

“We’ll see each other again at least once,” she said as they pulled into the front gate of the base.

After saying goodnight, he returned to his barracks room and slipped under the blanket of one of the cots. He was about to drift off to sleep when a knock at the door jarred him awake. “Come in,” he said.

Niki Mirakos, still wearing civilian clothes, stepped into the dark room. “I told you we’d see each other at least one more time. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were all right. You must be very sore after that fall into the sea.”

She moved closer to him. He sat up in the bed, about to protest, but she gently pushed him back down. She turned him onto his stomach and began to massage his broad shoulders.

“This will work out all the … uhm, how do you say in English … kinkies?” she asked.

Bond turned over onto his back and pulled her down on top of him. “The word is ‘kinks,’ ” he said, chuckling. “But I’ll be happy to show you what ‘kinky’ means….”

With that, his mouth met hers and she moaned aloud.

TWO

A DAY IN THE CITY

THE BEGINNING OF NOVEMBER BROUGHT A BONE-CHILLING RAIN TO LONDON, and it looked as if winter would come very early this year. Gray days always made James Bond feel a little melancholy himself. He stood at the bay window of the sitting room in his flat off the King’s Road in Chelsea, looking out at the square of plane trees that occupied the center of his street. The trees had lost their leaves, which made the scene even more dreary. If he hadn’t been on call, Bond would have flown to Jamaica to spend a few days at Shamelady, his recently purchased holiday home on the north shore of the island. After returning from Cyprus, however, M had given him strict orders to remain on call. The business of the terrorist attacks was far from over.

“Yer watchin’ the time—sir?” came the familiar mother hen voice behind him. May, his elderly Scottish housekeeper, was his cook, maid, and alarm clock. The way she pronounced “sir” came out as “suh.” Apart from Bond, she would never call anyone else “sir” except for royalty and men of the cloth.

“Yes, May,” Bond said. “I won’t be late. I’m not expected for another hour or so.”

May gave her obligatory ‘Tsk … tsk … tsk …” and said, “I don’t like to see you this way—sir. Yer hardly touched your breakfast. ’Tisn’t like you.”

She was right. Bond felt the malaise that never failed to plague him when he was “on call” or between assignments. He always became restless and bored.

Bond sighed heavily and moved away from the window. He sat down at the ornate Empire desk and stared at the room around him. The white and gold Cole wallpaper was terribly out of date, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t changed a single thing in his converted Regency flat since he moved in many years ago. He disliked change, which was one of the main reasons he had remained a widower since the death of his only bride.

Bond managed a smile when he reflected back to an evening he’d had a few weeks ago at his favorite club, Blades. He’d been having drinks with Sir James Molony, the Service’s staff neurologist, who jokingly accused Bond of being so obsessive about details and set in his ways that he walked a thin line between sanity and sociopathy.

“Look at you, James!” Molony had said. “You were painfully specific about how you wanted that martini made. No one does that except someone who’s obsessed with minutiae. You don’t want just any martini, you want your martini! A Bic lighter won’t do for you! It’s got to be a Ronson lighter and nothing else! You’ve got to have your tobacco made specially for you, because you have to smoke your cigarettes! I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re wearing the same kind of underwear you wore as a boy.”

“As a matter of fact, Sir James, I am,” Bond replied. “And if you get any more personal than that, I’ll have to ask you to step outside.”

Molony chuckled and shook his head. “It’s all right, James.” He finished his drink and said, “Given the life you’ve led and the work you do for our good government … it’s a small wonder you’re not already in the madhouse. Whatever it takes to keep you on this side of the line, then so be it.”

Bond was brought back to the present when May entered the room with a cup of his favorite strong coffee from De Bry in New Oxford Street. “I brought you somethin’ to perk you up—sir,” she said.

“Thank you, May, you’re a dear,” he said. He took the cup and set it down in front of him. He liked his coffee black, with no sugar.

Bond stared at the pile of mail he needed to go through. It was one of his least favored activities. May stood at the doorway watching him with concern. Bond looked up at her. “What is it?”

“Tsk … tsk … tsk …” was all she said; then she turned and left the room.

Bond took a sip of the coffee and felt it warm him up a little. The piece of correspondence now on the top of the pile had somehow got buried under other papers when it arrived. It was an invitation to a dinner party at the home of Sir Miles Messervy, the former M. The party was that night, to be held at Quarterdeck, his home near Windsor Great Park. Bond supposed he would go, although it would be full of people he really didn’t want to meet. There would be the usual crowd of Sir Miles’s parliamentary friends, retired Royal Navy officers and their wives, and colleagues from SIS whom he saw every day anyway, but he did enjoy seeing his old boss from time to time. Since Sir Miles’s retirement as M, he and Bond had developed even more of a mentor-pupil relationship than they had had when the old man was in charge. A more apt description was perhaps that of a father-son relationship, and it had lasted.

Bond picked up the phone and called Quarterdeck. He spoke to Davison, Sir Miles’s butler and manservant, and said he hoped he could still RSVP. Davison replied that Sir Miles would be very happy to hear that Bond was coming.

An hour later, Bond drove his ageing but reliable Bentley Turbo R onto the Embankment, then to the gaudy building by the Thames that housed SIS headquarters. Stepping out of the lift onto the fourth floor, he was greeted by Helena Marksbury, his attractive personal assistant. Her warm smile and sparkling large green eyes never failed to cheer him up, even when he was in the darkest of moods. She had recently cut her silky brown hair in a pageboy style that some of the newer fashion models seemed to favor. Bond also found her to be highly intelligent, a hard worker, and easygoing—all of which made her that much more desirable.

“Good afternoon, James,” she said.

“Helena, you’re looking lovely,” he said with a nod.

“James, if you smiled when you said that, I might believe you.”

Bond managed to form his normally cruel mouth into a grin. “I never lie to women, Helena, you should know that by now.”

“Of course you don’t, James …” She quickly changed the subject. “There’s a new file on your desk concerning the incidents in Cyprus, and M would like to see you in an hour.”

Bond smiled, nodded, then turned and walked toward his private office.

The file on his desk contained a number of reports—the forensic findings from the murder sites in Cyprus and Athens, analyses of the chemical weapons used in the attacks, and various other documents. Bond sat down and studied each report, losing himself in the work so that he might climb out of the dark hole he was in.

For lack of a better term, the reports now referred to the perpetrators as the “Number Killer” because of the numerals left at the sites. The Number Killer was believed to be several individuals—a team of terrorists—although evidence seemed to indicate that only one person was involved in the actual attacks. Because no communication from the perpetrators had been received, the motives were still unclear. At present, there was no connection between the victims except that two were groups of military personnel on Cyprus. Since three different chemical weapons were used in the attacks, investigators speculated that the terrorists were receiving their supplies from a separate and sophisticated source. In other words, it was unlikely that a Middle Eastern or Mediterranean terrorist group would have the means to manufacture so many different types of chemical weapons. Bond doubted the reasoning behind that report. He believed that there were groups entirely capable of creating such deadly materials. Recipes were widely available in books sold in alternative bookstores and even on the Internet.

Another document listed known terrorist groups around the world and their bases of operation. Among these were the ones already in the headlines, such as the Islamic militant groups working out of the Middle East, the Aryan Nation factions in the northwestern United States, the IRA, and the Weathermen. Some of the names Bond wasn’t familiar with, such as the Suppliers, an American outfit working out of the southwestern U.S. Bond made a point to study the lists of lesser-known groups, especially those working out of Europe.

The biggest question was—what were these people after?

“I assume you’ve read all the relevant reports, 007?” M asked, swiveling around in her chair to face him.

“Yes, ma’am. I can’t say they’ve added to what I already knew.”

M made a gesture with her eyebrows as if to say, “Right, of course not.” Since she took over as the head of SIS, James Bond’s relationship with his boss had not always been comfortable. The woman had respect for the man who some said was her top agent, but he always felt she saw him as a loose cannon. She was also more vocal than her predecessor had been in criticizing Bond’s womanizing and sometimes unorthodox methods of working. Still, 007 had proved his worth to her more than once, and she had learned quickly that she had to put up with his lifestyle if she wanted to keep him.

“All right, then,” she said. “What’s your guess about the terrorists?”

“There’s not a lot to go on, really,” he replied. “Without knowing their motives, it’s difficult to analyze what it’s all about. I’ll admit I’m baffled by the whole affair.”

“We’re having some professional profiles drawn up based on the crime scene evidence. There’s something you don’t know about our man Whitten. He was working on something top-secret.”

“Oh?”

“As you know, he was a field agent temporarily working out of Station G. About six months ago, the Athens police confiscated two suitcases full of chemical weapons at the airport. They were unclaimed, and they were never traced to their rightful owners. You’ll never guess what the toxins were smuggled in.”

“Tell me.”

“Sperm,” she said with a straight face. “Frozen sperm. Vials of frozen sperm. They were in refrigerated cartons—very sophisticated, with timers and locks. Acting on a tip, Whitten had learned of some sort of pipeline of chemicals being shipped to Athens from London. This one, supposedly a second shipment, was confiscated, and Whitten was about to pin down exactly where it had come from. He believed the shipments did not originate in London. That was on the day before his death.”

“Then Whitten’s murder may have been nothing more than an act to silence him.”

“Correct. Perhaps he learned more than our terrorist friends wanted him to know. His office and files have been thoroughly searched. So far nothing has turned up.”

“Any more news on the Cyprus incidents?”

“Only that there was hell to pay in their security areas. How the assassin and the accomplice hijacked a helicopter is a mystery. There may have been an insider. The Greek Secret Service are very concerned, because an eyewitness described the man holding a gun to the pilot’s head as ‘Greek-looking.’ How did you get on with their agent, by the way?”

At first Bond didn’t know who M was talking about. “Ma’am?”

“Mirakos. That was her name, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, right. She seemed very … capable, ma’am.”

“Hmpf.” M could see right through him.

“Other than the possibility of the hijacker being Greek, why are the Greeks so concerned? These were our people.”

“Cyprus is a very touchy issue with them. You’re aware of all the trouble that island has gone through. When we allowed the Cypriots to form their own country in 1960, it opened up a can of worms. There aren’t many races who hate each other more than the Greeks and Turks. It’s gone on forever, and it’s one of those things that will go on forever, I’m afraid. It’s as bad as Northern Ireland, or Israel and the Arab states.”

“Do you think the attacks on our troops have something to do with the Cyprus problem?” Bond asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “The Cypriots look at our presence there with disdain. In my opinion, the Greek Cypriots would like to see us out of there, although if it came down to a matter of life or death—such as a further Turkish invasion—then I’m sure they would reverse their stance and be grateful we were there to help. On the other hand, I have a feeling that Turkey doesn’t mind our being there. They want to propagate the notion to the world that they are peace-loving and cooperative.”

“So you think that Greek Cypriots are behind this?”

“If the terrorists aren’t Cypriots or Greek nationalists, then their sympathies lie with that side. I think the attacks on our bases were meant to be warnings of some kind.”

“The numbers would indicate that there will be more attacks,” Bond said.

“It will be interesting to see what the next target or targets are.”

“What would you like me to do, ma’am?”

“Nothing at the moment except study everything you can get your hands on about terrorist factions in Europe and the Middle East. Brush up on the history of Greece, Turkey, and Cyprus. I’m afraid we haven’t much to go on until they strike again. Just be where I can find you should I need you in a hurry. Don’t go running off.”

“Of course not.”

“Good. That’s all, 007.”

He stood up to leave and she asked, “Will I see you tonight at Sir Miles’s dinner party?”

“I thought I might make an appearance,” he said.

“There’s someone I’ll want you to meet,” she said. “Until tonight then.”

Did he detect a hint of excitement in her clear blue eyes? If he wasn’t mistaken, M had just betrayed the fact that she would be accompanied by a man. Interesting …

Bond stepped out of the office and caught the ever faithful Miss Moneypenny at the filing cabinet.

“Penny?”

“Yes, James?”

“M’s divorced, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

“James, really. Now I know she’s not your type.”

Bond leaned in to kiss Moneypenny’s cheek. “Of course not. You know the truth, as always.” He opened the door and turned back to her. She was looking at him expectantly. “I don’t have a type,” he said as he closed the door.

Major Boothroyd lit the cigarette, puffed once or twice, then threw it as far as he could across the room. The cigarette landed in a pile of hay in the middle of a fireproof container. The hay burst into flames. Technicians immediately rushed in with fire extinguishers to put it out. Boothroyd coughed and gasped for air.

“I don’t know how you can smoke those things, 007,” he said, wheezing. “Didn’t you cough the first time you inhaled tobacco smoke?”

“I’m sure I did. I really don’t remember,” Bond said.

“Well, it’s the body’s natural way of warning you to stay away! I need a glass of water …”

The major had been with SIS longer than Bond could remember. Boothroyd had run Q Branch with a keen eye for detail and the imagination of a science fiction author. His knowledge of weaponry and technical devices was unmatched. Bond enjoyed teasing him, but the truth was that Boothroyd would always have Bond’s respect.

“How are you getting on with the P99?” Boothroyd asked.

“It’s quite an improvement, I must admit,” Bond said. “I like the way I can operate the magazine release, the decocker, or the trigger without changing the position of the gun in my hand.”

“Yes, Walther has certainly stepped up the technology,” Boothroyd added. “I like the way the magazine release is ambidextrous and can be operated with the thumb or index finger.”

The Walther P99 9mm Parabellum was a new gun, advertised by Carl Walther GMBH as the gun “designed for the next century.” It was a hammerless pistol with single and double action, developed in strict conformity with the technical list of requirements of the German police. With a high-quality polymer used for the frame and other parts, the weight of the gun with an empty magazine was only 700g. The steel sheet magazine had a capacity of sixteen rounds, with an additional round in the chamber. A very special advantage of the P99 was the ability to fire more rapidly than most other semiautomatic pistols. Due to the missing hammer, the barrel was positioned low over the hand, which reduced recoil. Bond loved the new gun, but he still preferred to carry the thinner PPK in his shoulder holster. He used the P99 when he didn’t need to conceal the weapon under clothing.

“How’s the new car coming along?” Bond asked.

“It’s nearly finished. Come and have a look.” Boothroyd led Bond into another area of the laboratory. The Jaguar XK8 coupe sat on a platform as technicians made last-minute modifications to it. It had a solid blue base paint with a zinc coating, giving it a sheen that was undeniably glamorous. Bond had been wary of the car’s future when Ford took Jaguar under its wing, but the move proved to be a wise one. While it remained a British-made and -designed car, Jaguar adapted Ford’s maintenance program. This improved its service reliability immensely in other countries, particularly the U.S.

Bond had given the XK8 a test drive when they first hit the market in 1996 and he fell in love with it, but the price tag had prevented him from purchasing one himself. When he learned that Q Branch had bought a coupe for company use, 007 took an active interest in it. For once, he made the time to collaborate with Major Boothroyd on the features it would have, something that was unprecedented.

The vital thing was the engine, a completely new four-liter V-8 of advanced specification that set it apart from Ford and maintained Jaguar’s individuality. The AJ V-8 four-valve-per-cylinder engine normally had a maximum output of 290 horsepower at 6,100 rpm and 284 foot pounds of torque at 4,200 rpm. It was the first V-8 engine designed by Jaguar. Major Boothroyd, however, commissioned Jaguar’s Special Vehicle Operations unit to improve the car’s power to do 400 bhp. The rev limiter, which would otherwise limit top speed to a paltry 155 miles per hour, was removed. The car was equipped with a Z 5HP24 automatic transmission, which offered five forward gear ratios to optimize performance. First through fourth gears were selected for sharp response and effortless acceleration, while fifth was an overdrive ratio for fuel economy. The transmission’s versatility began with two driver selectable gear modes, Sport and Normal. Switching into Sport mode timed the gear changes for peak response. Bond had never cared for automatic transmissions, but the XK8 offered something different.

“I’m sorry to say that M has decided that you are to be the lucky man to test-drive it in the field,” Boothroyd said. “It was nice knowing this car. I’m sure I’ll never see it again.”

“Bollocks, Major,” Bond said. “I’m in love with this car. I promise I’ll take good care of it. When can I have it?”

“It’ll be ready in a day or two. I don’t know where you’ll be, but I’ll have it shipped to you. We want to find out how the car handles in extreme conditions.”

“So you’re giving it to me.”

“Right.”

“I’m glad to hear that everyone thinks so highly of me.”

“Now pay attention, 007,” Boothroyd said, stepping up to the car and tapping the hood. “We’ve coated the car with chobam armor, which is impenetrable. We use it with reactive skins that explode when they’re hit. This deflects the bullets. It’s a case of an equal and opposite force negating the energy of the bullet.”

“Naturally,” Bond said.

“Not only that,” Boothroyd said, very proud of himself, “the metal is self-healing. On being pierced, the skin can heal itself by virtue of viscous fluid.”

“Remarkable.”

“We’ve also used certain paints that have electrically sensitive pigments which will change color. Used in conjunction with the electronically controlled standard interchangeable license plate, the car can change identity a number of times.

“Now, as you know, the Jaguar is fitted with an intelligent automatic gearbox, and gears are changed by means of a combined manual and automatic five-speed adaptive system through a ‘J’ gate mechanism. When you want to use the manual system, you merely select the left hand side of the J gate mechanism and change gear in the normal way, except that there is no clutch pedal. On the right side of the J gate is the switchable adaptive system, which electronically changes to suit individual styles of driving. If you want to wind the engine up and drive aggressively, electronic software will recognize that you’re in a hurry and will allow the engine to reach higher revs before changing to the next gear—thus giving you better performance. Alternatively, if you choose to drive the car more gently, which is highly unlikely in your case, the adaptive system will switch and change up earlier. The gear patterns are computer-controlled, yet driver-dependent.”

“I knew that,” Bond said smugly.

“Well, did you know that there are sensors which recognize wheel slip? If that happens, the power will be cut until traction is established again. Sensors on the rack tell the gearbox not to change gear when cutting a corner. You can behave like a complete lunatic and floor the throttle midway through a bend—but you’ll find that the electronics will take over and never permit the car to go out of control. Clearly, the combined gearbox system has advantages over manual only. Specifically, in your case, in conjunction with GPS navigation, it’s a matter of hands off the driving and hands on your female passenger!”

“I resent that remark,” Bond said. “What about offensive features? Did you get what I asked for?”

“If you’re referring to satellite navigation … yes. The car will drive to a set of coordinates and can actually drive itself with you in place or not. I daresay that it runs less of a risk on the road without you.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, look here”—Boothroyd got into the car and pointed to various devices—“the heat-seeking rockets and cruise missiles are used in conjunction with the satellite navigation. They’re deployed to a set of coordinates, or they can follow a moving target selected by the screen and joystick on the dash.

“Inside the car you have a deployable air bag on the passenger side—guaranteed to smother someone with safety. Notice the windscreen. Optical systems magnify available light or heat at night to produce an image on this screen.” Boothroyd pulled down a sun visor. “You can drive in the dark without headlamps, through smoke, fog, whatever—and because of the satellite navigation and intelligent cruise control, the vehicle will drive, steer, and avoid obstacles electronically. By the way, the car’s microprocessors are stored in a box in the boot.”

The major released the latch of the center-console armrest storage compartment. “Under the storage tray you’ll find a holster for your P99.”

“Very handy,” Bond said.