Doubleshot

FOUR

CHASING CLUES

BOND RECALLED HIS APPOINTMENTS WITH DR. FEARE. HE HAD ANSWERED ALL her questions negatively, including “Have you had any other fainting spells or perhaps hallucinations since the incident in Jamaica?”

At the time, his answers had been the truth. But now? He had experienced both in one day!

And what about the man he had seen on the street? Had the man really looked like him? Had he been a hallucination, like the woman who had resembled Tracy?

Bond was aware of the supernatural concepts of doubles, or doppelgängers, and that supposedly they were apparitions of living persons. Popular occult theory held that a double was a projection of an astral body. English and Irish folklore called the phenomenon a “fetch,” and, as the fortune cookie warned, seeing one’s fetch indeed meant that one was going to die. Legend had it that Shelley saw his double before his death by drowning.

But Bond never bothered with superstitions. There had to be another explanation.

Dr. Feare had told him to come back and see her if there were any change, especially if he began to have new symptoms or if the headaches got worse. Bond had to admit that both of these conditions were true.

Bond was very concerned, playing possible scenarios in his head.

His mind raced frantically as he considered every alternative for the future and simultaneously attempted to calm down. But what if it was all in his mind and he was finally going mad after all these years of living on the edge?

Bond threw the glass of whiskey across the room. The glass shattered against the wall.

To hell with it! All he needed was an attitude adjustment.

He decided to go to the office and dig into Helena’s case and track down the Union members who had recruited her in London. That should keep his mind focused. First, though, he would call Dr. Feare.

He paused a moment as he considered a positive aspect in having to go to the doctor again. Dr. Feare—Kimberley—was a gorgeous woman. Perhaps all he needed was some female companionship for a night. Since Helena’s death, Bond had been celibate. Two months is a long time. His close friend in America, Felix Leiter, would have simply advised, “James, my boy, all you really need is to get laid.”

He looked up her number and picked up the phone. When Miss Reilly answered, Bond asked to speak with the doctor personally.

“Dr. Feare is in surgery. You’ll have to leave a message,” the nurse snapped.

“Will she get it today?”

“I should think so.”

“Fine. This is James Bond. I saw her a little over a month ago. I would like to see her again. It’s rather urgent.”

“Would you like to make an appointment? If so, I’ll have to call you back.”

“Please. As soon as possible.” He left the phone number for his answering service.

Adhering to the no-driving rule, Bond took a taxi to SIS headquarters on the Thames and arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon. When he walked past the security officer and through the X ray, Bond suddenly realized that he must look terrible. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning, and his casual clothes—a Sea Island cotton shirt, navy trousers, and a light-gray jacket—were a bit wrinkled.

Bond ignored the guard’s stare and went straight to the lift. He strode onto his floor and was grateful that no one was about. It was fortunate that the offices were rarely occupied, as Double-O agents were usually abroad, and the secretarial pool was very small.

Bond slipped into his small, uncluttered office, and sat at the desk. Two folders from Records were sitting on top of his “IN” tray. Bond took them and saw that they were an update on the investigation into Helena’s murder and the latest file on the Union. The former hadn’t been sealed, but it was hardly helpful. Everything had been turned over to the Metropolitan Police, who were in charge of the case. Bond noted the contact name at New Scotland Yard and picked up the phone.

“Howard,” the man answered.

“Detective Inspector Howard?” Bond asked.

“Yes, who’s calling?”

“This is James Bond at SIS.”

“Oh yes, Commander Bond, how are you?” Detective Inspector Howard had met Bond while investigating the murder of M’s friend, Alfred Hutchinson, a while back.

“Fine, thanks. I’d like to have a word with you. It’s rather urgent. Are you free this afternoon?”

Howard paused to check his diary. “I could see you at five o’clock, but I’ll only have fifteen minutes or so. Will that do?”

“That’s fine, I’ll see you then. Thank you.”

Bond hung up and felt somewhat gratified that at least someone capable was on the case. Stuart Howard was a good man.

He turned his attention to the other folder, which was actually a thick binder containing a hard-copy collection of information, images, and the latest intelligence from SIS’s Visual Library file on the Union.

There hadn’t been much progress in unveiling the Union’s mysteries since Bond first became involved in their cases. The report reiterated what he already knew: Taylor Michael Harris, an American militant in Portland, Oregon, created the Union circa 1993–1995. A self-professed white supremacist, Harris was arrested in 1993 for disturbing the peace during a rally that became violent and was run out of the state. He returned six months later with a large amount of capital, and with this money he founded the Union. Harris had apparently gone into business with unknown partners from the Middle East and North Africa.

He used specialist magazines to advertise for “mercenaries” to carry out dangerous jobs in Third World countries. Surprisingly, a great deal of men applied, looking for work as soldiers of fortune. After a six-month advertising campaign, it was estimated that nearly a thousand men had joined the organization. They trained at the Oregon facility, but no jobs were carried out before the FBI raided the place in December 1996 for illegal arms possession and distribution. Taylor Harris had been gunned down, gangland-style, in a Portland restaurant a month earlier, believed to be murdered by his own lieutenants. These three men, Samuel Anderson, James Powers, and Julius Wilcox, fled the country, and at least one of them was a suspect in the murder. The killer had paused in the restaurant long enough to slit Harris’s throat from ear to ear: an act that became the Union trademark.

Harris’s organization, however, lived on. Whether or not the three lieutenants were responsible for keeping it going, no one was certain.

It became a more sinister organization after publicly taking responsibility for several serious terrorist acts committed between 1997 and 1999. No longer merely a band of “soldiers of fortune,” the Union became an international network of spies, killers, and militants. They were particularly adept at infiltrating intelligence organizations. The Union quickly became one of the most dangerous organized crime syndicates in the world, on a par with the Italian and Russian mafias, Chinese Triads, and SPECTRE. SIS had experienced a serious encounter with the Union within the last year, and Bond could attest to their loyalty, tenacity, and dangerousness.

Discovering the location of their headquarters was a top priority for SIS, the CIA, and other intelligence organizations. Recent reports from America indicated that the Union was probably located in North Africa, perhaps in Morocco or Algeria.

Bond did find something new in the folder. Interrogation of a Union member who had been arrested in France after a nasty bank bombing revealed that the Union’s leader was someone they called Le Gérant. The prisoner claimed that no one knew whom he really was, not even the “commanders” who made up the “inner circle” of underlings. The Union was structured much like a mafia, with an executive boss, a number of immediate subordinates—the cercle fermé—and branches of groups and leaders extending from there. It was valuable information, but before any further interrogation could be performed, the prisoner had managed to hang himself in his cell.

Bond had a thought and picked up the phone. He quickly consulted his Rolodex and found Felix Leiter’s number in the States. His longtime friend, formerly with the CIA, Pinkerton’s, and the DEA, was now working as a freelance intelligence agent out of his home in Austin, Texas.

A woman with a lovely Spanish accent answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Manuela?” Manuela Montemayor was Leiter’s live-in companion and a formidable FBI agent.

“Yes?”

“James Bond calling from London.”

“James! How are you?”

“I’d be better if you were standing in front of me, but I’m fine. How are you and Felix?”

“We’re great. It’s so nice to hear your voice! Wait a second, I’ll put Felix on.” Bond heard their Dalmatian barking in the background and Manuela shushing him. After a moment, Bond recognized the easy drawl that he knew so well.

“James! How the hell are ya, my friend?”

“Hello, Felix. I’m fine. And you?”

“We’re happier than pigs in slop. Hey, I increased the horsepower in my wheelchair so that it now goes seventeen miles an hour!” Leiter was referring to the Action Arrow power chair he had been using for the past couple of years since the deterioration of his leg muscles.

“That’s impressive, Felix, but I hear the Texas highway patrol just loves to give speeding tickets.”

Leiter laughed. “What’s up? You coming to the States?”

“No, but this is a business call, I’m afraid. I need some information.”

“Sure, how can I help?”

“The Union. I need everything you have on them.”

Leiter whistled. “You and everyone else. Those guys are just gettin’ to be too damned popular, you know what I mean? Why, are you havin’ more trouble with ’em?”

“Something like that. I’d like to see if your government has any updated information about them—the suspected location of their HQ, leadership, the organization and … I’d be interested in any leads you can track down in the Portland area, where Taylor Harris was killed. Are there any Union members left there? Where did his three lieutenants go? What became of them?”

“Hold on, Manuela is just handing me a file,” Leiter said. “You know about their leader? He has a French name.…”

“Le Gérant. I’ve just read about him.”

Bond heard him turning pages. “The lieutenants. You talkin’ about Samuel Anderson, James Powers, and Julius Wilcox?”

“Yes.”

“Right. According to the file we have here, those three guys left the U.S.A. in 1996 and haven’t been heard fromsince. But I’ll see what I can do. I have a contact in Portland. I’ll get the latest from Washington, too.”

“Great, Felix. It’s always a little slow-going for other intelligence agencies to share information. You know how it is.”

“You bet I do. When do you need this stuff?”

“The sooner the better. Can you fax whatever you find to my office?”

“Sure thing. Give me two or three hours, is that all right?”

“That’s better than all right. Thanks, Felix.”

“Take care, James.”

Bond hung up the phone and rubbed the back of his head. The headache was manageable now, but it was still a nuisance.

A blinking red light on the auxiliary telephone caught his attention. This was the line he used for incoming messages, usually filtered through a number of security checkpoints. He picked up the receiver, punched in the code, and listened.

“Hello, Commander Bond, this is Deborah Reilly at Dr. Feare’s office.” Bond detected a distinct, punctilious sniff. “I’ve had a chat with the doctor. I’m afraid she can’t see you today. She will be tied up for the rest of the day in surgery. This evening she will be attending a meeting at the hospital and will be having dinner at The Ivy with some colleagues at around eight o’clock. She asked me to tell you that if this is an emergency, I can page her, of course. Otherwise you can expect a call from her in the morning.”

Snooty bitch, Bond thought, as he erased the message and set down the receiver. She must have thought that mentioning the doctor’s plans to dine at a fashionable restaurant would elevate her feeling of self-importance.

Glancing at his “IN” tray again, he noticed the corner of a brown padded envelope beneath several sheets of interoffice memorandums. He pulled it out and saw that it was addressed to him, marked “Personal,” and had been sent through the post. SIS had stamped it “Cleared by X Ray.”

He tore it open, found a paperback book inside, and was shocked and puzzled by its title: Helena’s House of Pain. It was a pornographic book, with a cover illustration showing a dominatrix spanking an “innocent” schoolgirl on the bare bottom. Inside the book was a sales receipt for £5.99 from a shop called “Adult News,” with an address in Soho.

Scrawled in ink on the back were the words “She had it coming.”

What kind of sick joke was this? Who would send this to him?

Once again, the all-too-familiar waves of nausea and dizziness enveloped him. Was he about to black out again? He felt a rush of warmth to his face and perspiration under his arms. He thought he was about to be sick.…

Bond gripped the side of his desk, shut his eyes, and willed the uncomfortable sensations away. Again, his heart was pounding in his chest and he felt suffocated by a blanket of anxiety.

“Are you all right, James?”

Bond opened his eyes and saw Bill Tanner, M’s Chief-of-Staff, standing in the doorway. He was holding a stack of files and looked concerned.

Bond nodded grimly. “Just feeling a bit under the weather,” he managed to say.

“Well, you look bloody awful,” Tanner said, coming into the office. “Should you go to the infirmary?”

Bond shook his head. “I’ll be all right in a minute. Just something … I ate, I think.”

Tanner sat down in the chair on the other side of Bond’s desk. “You’re supposed to be on leave anyway, James. What are you doing here?”

“I can’t stay away, Bill. If M isn’t going to put me on the case, I’m doing it myself.”

“I didn’t hear you say that.”

“The bloody Union is still out there, Helena’s murder isn’t solved, and I’m a bloody sitting duck here in London. I should be out there looking for them, Bill! I’m no good doing nothing. You know that.

Isn’t there anything you can say to M?”

“Actually, I’ve tried, James,” Tanner said. “She’s quite adamant about you staying away for a while. For one thing, you’re on medical leave. You have to be cleared for duty. And she also feels that, and I’m afraid I agree with her, you wouldn’t treat the case objectively. You’re too close to it, James.”

“But that’s what makes me the best man for the job!” Bond spat, slamming his fist on the desk. “I’m beginning to know these people—the Union. You have to get close to them to understand them. Damn it, they want me as much as I want them! One has to be emotionally involved!”

“James,” Tanner said gently. “Don’t turn this into an obsession. You know the Union is a very high priority, but right now we have our hands full with the Gibraltar situation. You’ve heard what happened this morning?”

“No.”

“Domingo Espada’s supporters threw rocks and bottles at the Immigration officials at the La Linea border. There was gunfire. We don’t know if anyone was hurt yet. It’s becoming ugly. Espada’s a menace.”

Bond vaguely remembered reading the memorandum on Espada. He was a Spanish millionaire, a businessman with a political agenda. He had recently made a loud noise in southern Spain with renewed calls for the U.K. to give back Gibraltar. He was even at odds with the government in Madrid but apparently had an enormous amount of influence in the country.

“Go home,” Tanner said. “You look terrible and obviously need some rest. Don’t let M see you like this. Please. Do yourself a favor.”

Bond shut his eyes again and took a deep breath, forcing the headache to subside a little. Finally, he nodded.

“Good,” Tanner said. He got up. “Call if you need anything.”

After the Chief-of-Staff had left the room, Bond slipped the Adult News receipt into his pocket, threw the book into a desk drawer, and made his way to the lift.

Bond rarely had a reason to visit New Scotland Yard, the imposing and unsightly twenty-story structure that seemed to be made of nothing but windows. Since MI6 dealt with cases outside the U.K., the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard or the people at MI5 usually handled crimes that were committed within the boundaries of Great Britain. Most of the time this jurisdiction was strictly enforced. Nevertheless, Bond had never paid much attention to protocol. If he needed information from one of SIS’s sister organizations, he wasn’t afraid to go and get it.

Bond took a taxi to 10 Broadway, not far from Westminster Abbey, and gave his credentials to the guard at reception.

“Detective Inspector Howard will see you now,” the man said after calling upstairs.

Bond took the lift and was met at the floor by Stuart Howard, a medium-built man in his forties with a mass of curly brown and gray hair.

“Commander Bond,” he said, offering his hand. He squinted when he saw 007’s unkempt appearance.

“Hello, Inspector. Please excuse the way I look; I’ve been working round the clock.”

“I hate it when that happens,” Howard said, chuckling. “Come on down to my office.”

They walked past a dozen secretaries, both male and female, and into a private office that was cluttered with files, papers, photographs, and faxes.

“It may look like a mess, but I assure you I know where everything is,” Howard said. “Do sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be fine,” Bond said. “Black, please.”

“Right. Be back in a sec …”

Bond sat and rubbed his temples, glancing around the room for anything pertaining to Helena’s case, but the only things that stood out were various unrelated gruesome crime scene photos tacked to the bulletin board.

Howard returned with the coffee and sat behind his desk. Bond took a sip and said, “You fellows must use the same coffee vendor as SIS.”

“Well, it’s not the gourmet stuff,” Howard said, smiling. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Helena Marksbury. I’d like you to tell me how the investigation is progressing.”

Howard frowned.

“Please.”

“Commander Bond, this is slightly irregular, wouldn’t you say?”

Bond leaned forward. “Inspector Howard. Helena was my personal assistant. I had a nasty scrape with the Union a few weeks ago, as you know. I just want information. I’d like the peace of mind of knowing what is happening with the case. That’s all.”

Howard studied the disheveled man in front of him and, against his better judgment, said, “All right. I don’t suppose there can be any harm in telling you what we know. It’s confidential, of course.”

“Of course.”

Howard dug into a pile of folders on his desk and found the appropriate one. He opened it and scanned two or three pages quickly.

“I’m afraid we haven’t got very far,” he said. “Whoever killed her at that hotel in Brighton left no traces. No fingerprints. Nothing. The blue van that was seen outside the hotel was abandoned at Heathrow. It had been stolen.”

“I suppose you’ve investigated her background?” Bond asked. “She had family in America.”

“Yes, with the help of the FBI in California, we were able to locate them. No leads there, but we’ve arranged for their protection. We conducted interviews with Miss Marksbury’s neighbors, people listed in her address book, and her landlord. No clues there either.…”

Bond held out his hand. “May I?”

Howard shrugged and handed the file to him. Bond scanned the typed pages of interviews. There were two or three girlfriends who all stated that Helena never mentioned anything unpleasant, and several neighbors and a building maintenance man who reported that they barely knew or rarely saw her. Bond stopped at the interview with the owner of her building in West Kensington. His name was Michael Clayton.

“You won’t find anything there,” Howard said. “The landlord seemed clean enough. He claimed he had never met his tenant. A superintendent looks after the building and an estate agent handled the lease.”

“English?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This Michael Clayton. Is he English?”

“Yes. Owns a number of residential buildings, a pub, and some bookshops in Soho.”

This news shook Bond. “Bookshops?”

“Yes, what does he say down there near the bottom? About his business partner?”

Bond read further and found the passage Howard was referring to. Michael Clayton had a partner named Walter van Breeschooten. They owned the various properties jointly.

“His partner is Dutch?” Bond asked.

“That’s right. Kind of a sleazy character, but we did a background check and he came up spotless. The bookshops are the adult variety. They sell pornography, you know, videos, magazines, books …”

Bond did his best to keep the excitement of this discovery to himself. Helena had told him before she died that the two men from the Union whom she had “dealt with” were English and Dutch. She had always spoken to one of them on the phone and had never met them until that fateful day in Brighton.

Bond closed the folder and gave it back to Howard.

“I’m sorry there isn’t anything else, Commander Bond,” Howard said. “We’re doing our best.”

“I understand. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble.”

“Do me a favor, please, and keep me informed, would you?” Bond asked.

Howard nodded. “Certainly.”

Bond got up, shook the inspector’s hand, and left the building. Rather than going back to Chelsea, however, Bond grabbed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Soho.