High Time To Kill

Raymond Benson

HIGH TIME TO KILL

1999

James Bond fights for his life on the icy slopes of the Himalayas as he faces a terrifying new criminal society in a race to retrieve missing military secrets.

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 from the 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’t mind showing it off. It just proved that nobody was 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, almond-shaped 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 l\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 comer 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 Gov-ernor 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 club-house, 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 great grandfather, 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 the man 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 stiff-shafted 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 pitied 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 custom made,” 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.

As Bond predicted, it started to rain on the thirteenth hole, but it wasn’t heavy, and they continued to play. Apart from Marquis’s birdie on the eleventh, everyone had made par on the first three holes of the back nine. With Marquis and Harding still in the lead, the game had become a contest of machismo between Bond and Marquis. The tension between them was palpable; it even made Tanner and Harding uncomfortable. The rain didn’t help matters. Everyone but Marquis was in a foul mood when they approached the fourteenth tee.

The score remained constant after the fourteenth and fifteenth holes. Bond had to do something to better theirs. Hole sixteen had recently been redesigned. It was a par 4 at 320 yards. The old green had been tree-lined on both sides and protected by a bunker in front and a greenside bunker to the left. Now the green was farther back, closer to the small pond, so that an overshot would be a disaster. It was another opportunity for Bond to try his backspin. His tee-off sent the ball 210 yards straight down the fairway, where it landed in an excellent position. Marquis performed an equally impressive shot, dropping a mere six feet away from Bond’s ball. Tanner and Harding did well enough, both driving their balls 175 yards onto the fairway. Bond approached the ball with the Lyconite wedge once again. If he could make this shot, he would narrow the gap between the scores.

The rain had subsided, so now the grass was wet and heavy. It made the task even more difficult.

“That little backspin might work for you this time, Bond,” Marquis said. He perceived that Bond was about to try it again and simply wanted to rattle his nerves.

Bond paid no attention and concentrated on the ball. He shook his shoulders, rotated his head, and felt his neck crack, then took his stance over the ball. He was ready.

Tanner watched, biting his lower lip. Harding, who hadn’t said more than twenty-five words all day, nervously chewed on a scoring pencil. Marquis stood with casual indifference, expecting Bond to muck it up.

Bond swung, snapped the ball into the air, and watched as it fell neatly on the back of the green. Would it roll off, away from the hole and into the pond? He held his breath.

The ball, propelled by a perfect backspin, rolled toward the hole and stopped an inch from the pin. If it weren’t for the moisture on the green, the ball would have dropped in the cup.

Tanner and Harding both cheered. Marquis didn’t say a word. His feathers ruffled, he knocked his ball straight into the bunker on the side of the green.

As they approached the eighteenth tee, the score was 70 to 69 in favor of Marquis and Harding. It was a par 4 at 406 yards. With a magnificent view of the mansion, the hole was uphill with bunkers on the right at 184 yards and out of bounds on the left from the tee. What made the hole extra difficult was the second shot, which had to go over a hollow just short of the green. The green was slightly ele-vated and bunkered on both sides, and it sloped from left to right.

Bond knocked the ball to a position nearly 180 yards from the green. Marquis made an identical shot, knocking his ball into Bond’s and causing it to roll a few feet forward.

“Thanks, that’s where I really wanted to be,” Bond said.

“As the song goes, Bond, ‘anything you can do, I can do better,’ “ Marquis said. He had meant to hit Bond’s ball just to prove something. All four men made par on the hole. After Harding sank the last putt of the game, Tanner sighed heavily and looked at Bond. They had lost the game with the score at 74 to 73. Now they had to come up with five hundred pounds.

“Bad luck, Bond,” Marquis said, holding out his hand.

Bond shook it and said, “You played a fine game.”

Marquis shook Tanner’s hand and said, “Bill, your game has improved a great deal. I think you ought to have your handicap updated.”

Tanner grunted and shook Harding’s hand.

“Shall we meet back on the patio for drinks after changing?” Marquis suggested.

“Fine,” Bond said. He and Tanner left their clubs at the starter shed, went to the dressing room to shower and change clothes, and emerged feeling fresher, if not altogether happy. Tanner hadn’t said a word to Bond since the game had ended.

“Bill, I know you’re terribly upset with me. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it all,” Bond said as they took a seat at a table. The sun had, in inimitable English-weather fashion, reappeared.

“Don’t be silly, James,” Tanner said. “I’ll pay my share. Don’t worry about it. I’ll write you a check now and you can pay them in one lump sum.”

Tanner began writing the check and murmured, “Why the hell does Marquis always call me by my Christian name, but he always addresses you as Bond?”

“Because the man is a complete bastard who thinks he’s a superior being. I’m doing my best to swallow my pride and put this behind me, but if he says ‘bad luck’ one more time, I’m going to punch him in the nose.”

Tanner nodded in agreement. “Too bad he’s working with us, or I’d kick him in the arse myself!”

“What is this top secret project, anyway?”

“James, it’s classified. M and I are privy to it, but it’s something that the DERA have been working on for quite some time. I can tell you more later, at the office. I had no idea Marquis was the RAF liaison with the project.”

“You’ve aroused my interest. Can you give me a hint?”

“Let’s just say that when the project is completed, it will change the way wars are fought.”

Right on cue, Marquis and Harding joined them.

“Excellent game, gentlemen,” Marquis said. “I’m so glad we ran into you. It made the day so much more interesting.”

Bond took out his checkbook. “Shall I make it out to you or to Dr. Harding?”

“Oh, to me, by all means. I want to watch you write my name on that check,” said Marquis. He turned to Harding and said, “Don’t worry doctor, I’ll give you your share.”

Harding smiled complacently. He gazed at Bond’s check as a sparrow might eye a worm.

Bond tore out the check and handed it to Marquis. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you, Bond,” Marquis said, pocketing it. “‘You played admirably. Someday you just might be able to beat me.”

Bond stood up and said, “That might give you an inferiority complex, Roland, and that would be so unlike you.”

Marquis glared at Bond.

“Bill and I must be going,” Bond said quickly. “It was good to see you again, Roland. Nice meeting you, Dr. Harding.” He held out his hand to both of them. “Take care.”

“Rushing off so soon?” Harding asked.

Tanner stood up, following Bond’s lead. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. We have to be back at Vauxhall before the end of the workday.”

“Well, by all means, you’ve got to keep our precious country safe and sound,” Marquis said with mock sincerity. “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you boys are on the watch.”

After they said their good-byes. Bond and Tanner walked around the clubhouse to pick up their bags. As men who were quite used to winning or losing, they quickly put the loss of money and the game behind them.

Bond drove the old Aston Martin DB5 back to London, and instead of heading straight for Chelsea, went into West Kensington. The car had been kept in excellent condition, but Bond wanted something new. What he really had his eye on was the company’s Jaguar XK8 that he had recently used in Greece. Sadly, it would probably be a while before Q Branch removed the “extras” and sold it as an ordinary secondhand car, as they had done with the DB5. He kept the Aston Martin in a garage in Chelsea along with the other dinosaur he owned, the Bentley Turbo R. His friend and American mechanic Melvin Heckman, made sure that both cars were always in prime condition.

Helena Marksbury lived on the third floor of a block of flats near the Barons Court underground station. All day he had been glad to be away from her. Oddly, now he was starving for her.

Bond parked the car in front of her building, got out, and buzzed the intercom. It was just after four. He knew that she had been planning to leave the office early that day.

“Yes? Who is it?” Her voice, usually soft and seductive, sounded odd and metallic through the small speaker.

“It’s me,” he said.

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the buzzer sounded.

Bond took the stairs two at a time and found her waiting in the doorway of her flat. Her hair was wet, and she was wearing one of his shirts and nothing else.

“I just got out of the shower,” she said.

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll dry you off.”

“How did you know I left the office early today?”

“It was a hunch. I had a feeling that you were thinking about me,” he said.

“Oh, really? Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“And I have a tension headache that needs some tender loving care.”

She made a face, whispered “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” and ran her fingers through his hair.

He took her by the waist and pulled her inside, closing the door behind them. Their mouths met as she hopped up and wrapped her smooth, bare legs around his waist. He carried her into the bedroom, where they spent the next two hours releasing the stress that had been dogging them both for the past two weeks.

THREE

SKIN 17

THE DEFENCE EVALUATION AND RESEARCH AGENCY runs, on a commercial basis, the research establishments that were formerly part of the Ministry of Defence Procurement Executive. With locations scattered around the UK—both public and private—the DERA is, in part, responsible for research in aerodynamics and materials used to build aircraft for the RAF One of their larger facilities is located in Farnborough, southwest of London, at the former Royal Aircraft Establishment and home of the Farnborough air show. While most of the DERAS work is done at such official sites, which are guarded by heavy security, a few laboratories and offices are located in seemingly innocuous, unmarked buildings. Some of the agency’s most sensitive and classified secrets are generated at these locations as a preventive measure, should there ever be any industrial espionage attempts against the DERA.

Not far from Farnborough is the small village of Fleet, a quiet residential community surrounded by warehouses and industrial complexes of neighboring towns. It has a railway station used daily by commuters to and from London. Its convenience to both London and Farnborough was one of the reasons the DERA hid their most secret and important project in a warehouse that appeared to be unused.

The exterior had been treated to look old. Windows were boarded and posted signs read NO TRESPASSING. All doors were locked. It was always dark and quiet. As the warehouse was off one of the main roads, the residents of Fleet took no notice of a building that one day looked much older and decrepit than it really was. In actuality, the building contained a secret entrance, a 20-foot-by-500-foot wind tunnel, foundry equipment, a sealed pressure vessel called an autoclave, and the offices and laboratory of a small research team headed by the noted aeronautics physicist and engineer Dr. Thomas Wood.

Two years previously, the DERA had hired Dr. Wood away from Oxford to work on a classified assignment. He was an expert in ceramics, especially when it came to designing “smart skins” for air-craft fuselages.

Wood was fifty-three, a warm and intelligent man with a family. He loved his new job, for he found “government work” exciting. He had missed out on military service because of a heart murmur and other indications of an unstable condition. An insensitive army doctor had told him that he wouldn’t live to see forty. He had fooled them all. Even though he was overweight, he felt great and was enthusiastic about the project. If tonight’s tests on the l\8-scale prototype were positive, and Skin 17 was indeed a success, he might be on his way to a Nobel Prize.

Skin 15 had almost worked. There were some minor flaws. The scalable autoclaved material showed possible defects in the built-in photo electrolysis that served to change the skin’s resistance to abuse. The impedance sensitivity was weak. When his assistant, Dr. Steven Harding, suggested that they keep trying, Wood concurred. That had been three months ago. What they thought would be a week’s tinkering resulted in a major overhaul, and out of the ashes rose Skin 16.

Wood considered that particular version of the formula to be his most brilliant creation. The team had almost declared themselves victorious; but the prototype skin failed one of several key tests. Despite the material’s radio frequency transparency, one sensor was unable to transmit and receive through an aperture. There were glitches, but they were closer than ever to the goal. The biggest hurdle was always how scalable the material could be so that prototype models might be built and tested in extreme conditions. Another month’s work perfected Skin 16 to Dr. Wood’s satisfaction. Today he was to see the results of the tests conducted on Skin 17’s prototype. If it worked, the carbon-fiber and silica ceramic that he and his small team had developed could change the world of aviation forever.

An admitted eccentric, Wood gave his team the day off so that he could work alone. He had, however, asked his second in command, Dr. Harding, to come in that evening.

Wood sat at a computer terminal, punching in data at a furious speed. Harding watched him from across the room near the autoclave, which contained a prototype of Skin 17.

“You didn’t say how your golf game was,” Wood remarked, still typing.

“It was lovely. We won,” Harding said. “I actually made a little money.”

“Splendid!” Wood said. “I hope you didn’t mind me kicking you out today. I just needed to work on these figures alone. You understand, don’t you, Steven?”

“Of course, Tom,” Harding said. “Don’t worry about it. I thoroughly enjoyed myself! Except for the bit of rain we got, it was a lovely day. I must admit that I found it difficult to concentrate on the golf. I kept thinking that you might finish it today.”

“Well, Steven,” Wood said as he clicked a button to execute a program that he had written himself, then sat back with his arms folded. “We’ll know in a few minutes, won’t we?”

Harding nervously tapped his fingers on the oval-shaped autoclave that looked like a pressure chamber used by divers. “The waiting is dreadful! I must say, this is very exciting.” He looked at his watch intently. The physicist’s birdlike qualities always seemed more pronounced when he was agitated or tense. His hair tended to stand up, and he involuntarily made jerking movements with his head. Wood presumed that Harding had some kind of tic.

“Staring at the minute hand on your watch will only make the time seem slower,” Wood said, laughing. “It’s hard to believe it’s been two years since we started.”

Harding got out of his seat, stepped over to Wood, and looked over his shoulder. They watched the figures appear on the monitor at an alarming rate.

“Steven, go over to the Mac and punch up the juice,” Wood ordered.

Harding adjusted the level of temperature in the autoclave’s chamber.

No one said anything for ten minutes as the printer began spewing out a long stream of perforated paper. It was filled with equations, letters, numbers, and symbols.

Skin 17.

When it was done, Wood peered at his monitor and a smile played on his lips. He took a deep breath, then swiveled around and faced his assistant.

“Dr. Harding, Skin 17 is a success. It’s passed every test.”

Harding beamed and said, “Congratulations! My God, this is bloody marvelous! I knew it, Tom, I knew you’d do it.” He clasped Wood’s shoulder.

“Oh, come now,” Wood said. “You and the others were a tremendous help, and so were the boys at Farnborough. I didn’t do it all alone.”

“But it’s in your contract that you get the credit,” Harding reminded him.

“Well, there is that!” Wood laughed. “Shall we have some wine? I think there’s still some in the refrigerator. Now I’m sorry I sent everyone home today. I feel our entire team should have been here.”

“We were all grateful for the holiday, Tom. Jenny and Carol were both going away for the weekend, and Spencer and John had family coming to London. But they’ll hear about it soon enough.”

Wood got up from the desk and started to walk toward the kitchen.

“Shouldn’t we save it to disk?” Harding asked.

“You’re right,” Wood said. “I’ll burn a disk. It’ll be the gold master.”

Wood placed a blank compact disk into the recorder and punched the computer keypad. The entire Skin 17 formula was saved on the disk. He removed the disk and placed it in an unmarked jewel box. Wood found a red marker on the desk and wrote “Skin 17 Gold Master” on the cover.

“I better put this in the safe so it won’t get lost,” Wood said. “I’ll make some more copies later.”

“Nonsense, Tom, go and get the wine!” Harding said, laughing. “There’s no one else here! Put it in the safe later.”

Wood felt foolish for a few seconds, then his better judgment took over. “No, I’ll just put it in quickly,” he said.

He walked to a twenty-four-inch safe embedded in a wall and carefully turned the combination knob. The door swung open and Wood placed the jewel box inside.

“Now, about that wine,” Wood said, closing the safe and starting to move toward the kitchen again. He was stopped by the front office buzzer. Wood looked at Harding with a furrowed brow.

“Who in hell could that be?”

Harding punched the intercom and said, “Yes?”

A voice announced, “It’s Marquis. Code Clearance 1999 Skin.”

Wood was surprised. “He didn’t say he was coming by tonight. What does he want?”

“Shall I not let him in?” Harding asked.

“No, no, let him in. He’s the messenger boy from our employers, you know,” Wood said. “I just didn’t want to have to share our victory with him tonight, that’s all. I find him rather rude.”

Harding pushed the button and a portion of the building’s back wall opened just enough for a man to slip through. A passage led through a vacant ground floor that had been treated with dust and cobwebs, then up a flight of stairs to a false wall. By slightly rotating an electrical fixture hung there, a visitor could open the wall and get inside the DERA laboratory. Marquis had been there several times, so he knew the way. In a few moments Harding got up and went to the lab door to let their visitor in.

Group Captain Marquis was dressed in full uniform and was carrying a small black box. He was a physically imposing man in his own right—but when he wore his RAF uniform, he always com-manded attention. The epitome of a disciplined British officer, he looked sharp, stern, and efficient.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I have new orders. I’ll explain after you tell me about your test results, Dr. Wood.”

“New orders?” Wood asked. “What do you mean? How did you know we were testing tonight?” He looked at Harding.

Harding’s beady eyes widened as he shook his head.

“Dr. Harding didn’t tell me,” Marquis said. “I knew. It’s my job.” He placed the black box on a counter.

Wood looked uncertain. Marquis had visited the office a few times over the last year, but it was always during the day and with a specific administrative agenda.

“All right,” he said, “but I find this highly irregular.”

“Dr. Wood, you’re among friends,” Marquis said. “I, too, have an emotional investment in the success of your project—our project.”

“You’re right,” Wood said, relaxing a little. “Steven, why don’t you tell our friend what we’ve just learned.”

Marquis looked at Harding, who grinned and said, “We did it. Tom did it. Skin 17 is a success.”

“Unbelievable!” Marquis said. “Well done. Dr. Wood! This calls for a celebration,” Marquis said. “Where’s that wine you said you had?”

Wood pointed to the kitchen. “It’s in the—” He stopped abruptly and looked at Marquis. “How did you know I said anything about wine?”

Marquis reached into his jacket with his right hand and pulled out a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol. He revealed a small black rectangular object with a short antenna in his left hand.

“I heard you, of course,” he said. “This is a two-channel UHF receiver. And the transmitter is over there in Dr. Harding’s wrist-watch. I was right outside the building all the time, listening to your conversation. I only had to wait for my cue. Dr. Harding was certain you would strike gold tonight, and you did.”

Wood looked at Harding, but the traitor couldn’t look his colleague in the eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Wood said. “What’s going on? Steven?”

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Harding said.

Before Wood could move, Marquis shot him in the right thigh. Wood screamed and fell to the ground. Howling in pain, he writhed and squirmed on the wood floor. Blood poured from a huge hole in his leg.

Marquis calmly stood over Wood and said, “Mmmm, bad luck, eh, doctor? Now, about those new orders. Dr. Harding is to take the formula for Skin 17 and see that there are no copies left. I’m to make sure he does.” He handed the gun to Harding. “He’s all yours.”

Harding squatted down to Wood. He waved the gun barrel at his colleague’s head and said, “I’m sorry, Tom, but you have to give me the combination to the safe. I need that disk.”

Wood was in agony, but he managed to spit out, “You . . . traitor!”

“Come, come,” Harding said. “Let’s not be like that. I’ll make sure you still get the credit for developing Skin 17. It’s just not going to be Great Britain that uses it first.”

“Go to hell,” Wood cried.

Harding sighed, then stood up. He held on to the edge of a counter for leverage, then placed his shoe on Wood’s wounded thigh.

“The combination, Tom?” he asked one more time.

Wood glared at Harding but said nothing. Harding thrust all his weight onto the physicist’s leg. Wood screamed horribly.

“Yes, yes, go ahead and scream,” Harding said. “No one can hear you. The warehouse is closed, it’s night, the street is deserted. We can go on for hours like this, but I’m sure you’d rather not.” He continued to apply pressure to the wound.

Marquis stood idly by, examining the computer monitor and trying to make sense of the hieroglyphics displayed on the screen.

Two minutes later Harding had the answer he wanted. Wood curled up in the fetal position on the floor, sobbing. Harding wiped the blood from his shoe on Wood’s trousers, then went to the safe. Using the combination Wood had given him, Harding had it open in seconds. He removed the Skin 17 master disk and all the backup copies of the previous versions of the specification. He placed everything except the master disk into a plastic bag, then went to the physicist’s desk and rummaged for specific file folders. He found what he was looking for, took the new printout, and stuffed all of it into the bag as well.

“Make sure there are no copies of anything,” Marquis said.

Harding went back to Wood and knelt beside him. “Tom, we have to make sure there are no traces of the formula left. Now, tell me. Do you have any copies at home? Where are the backups?”

“All the backups . . . are with the DERA . . .” Wood gasped.

Harding looked at Marquis. Marquis nodded and said, “Yes, I already got those. They’ve been destroyed.”

“Nothing at your house?” Harding asked again.

Wood shook his head. “Please . . .” he muttered. “I need a doctor . . .

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Tom,” Harding said. He stood up and walked away to his own desk. He began to pack, placing personal items and other file folders that he might need in a brown attaché case. Wood began to moan loudly.

After a few minutes Marquis said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Harding! Don’t leave him like that!”

Harding stopped what he was doing and looked at Wood. The traitor nodded grimly, then stepped over to Wood and pointed the gun at his head.

“Thanks for all your hard work, Dr. Wood,” Harding said. He fired once, and the moaning ceased. He then set down the gun on a counter and extracted a long, thin dagger from his attaché case. Harding squatted down, trying his best not to get blood on his clothes, grabbed Wood’s hair, and pulled back his head to expose his neck. Harding positioned the blade against the dead man’s skin as Marquis said, “Oh, must you do that?”

Harding replied, “It’s our way. I know it seems rather superfluous at this point, but I have my orders, too.” He swiftly slit Wood’s throat from ear to ear. The deed done, he dropped the man’s head and stepped away with a disgusted look on his face. Harding wiped the dagger on Woods trousers and put it away, then picked up Marquis’s gun and gave it back to him.

Marquis holstered the pistol and said, “Doctor, make sure you delete all the files from that hard drive. Give me the master disk.”

Harding handed him the disk and began to work on the computer. Marquis opened the black box he had brought with him. It was a peculiar but efficient device with a laptop computer, CD-ROM drive, microdot camera, and developer. He inserted the disk into the machine, adjusted tiny knobs, and closed the cover. He pressed a button and copied the disk’s files onto the hard drive. Marquis punched in more commands, then carefully removed a glass slide from the edge of the developer. He placed it in a tray and maneuvered a magnifier over the slide. A tiny microdot, produced on positive-type film and practically invisible to the naked eye, was now on the glass. Marquis took a piece of thin, transparent film from the black box and pressed it smoothly over the glass slide. The microdot was transferred from the slide to the film. Marquis placed the film in a small plastic envelope and sealed it. He then removed the Skin 17 master disk from the machine, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it with his heel.

The next thing Marquis did struck Harding as strange. He opened the autoclave and removed the Skin 17 prototype—a small piece of rubberlike material stretched on a specimen tray. He placed it inside the jacket pocket on Wood’s body.

“There,” Marquis said. “The only existing record of Skin 17 is now on this microdot. Take good care of it.”

He handed the envelope to Harding, who took it and said, “Right, this hard drive is blank.” Harding put the envelope in his attaché case. “I’ll get the petrol.” He went out of the lab, down the stairs, and into a storage closet in back of the office space, where he had left two five-gallon cans of petrol. He carried them back up to the lab, opened one, and began pouring the petrol all over the floor and furniture. Marquis had placed the plastic bag full of the backup copies and printouts on the floor next to Wood.

“Make sure you gel the computers and the autoclave,” Marquis said, taking the other can, and he poured petrol over the other side of the room. He made sure the body and the prototype were com-pletely covered. The smell was overpowering, but the traitors continued until the containers were almost empty.

Marquis grabbed the black box and Harding took the attaché case. They backed down the stairs, pouring petrol as they went. They made their way to the lower, vacant level, through the darkness to the exit, where they dropped the empty cans. Harding punched in the code that opened the trick door and held it open. Marquis paused long enough to remove a handkerchief from his pocket and set it on fire with a lighter. He calmly tossed it onto the floor behind him. The petrol immediately ignited and the flames spread quickly.

The two men shut the door behind them and walked to a BMW 750 that was parked twenty yards away from the building. Marquis got behind the wheel and they drove toward London. No one saw them.

Firefighters were alerted to the emergency within five minutes, but by then it was too late. The flames had spread into the laboratory, where the concentration of petrol was most intense. The building became a fireball. The firefighters did everything they could, but it was no use. Within fifteen minutes the secret DERA facility in Fleet was completely destroyed.

In the BMW, Harding reached for a mobile phone. “I need to call my headquarters,” he said.

Marquis put a hand on his arm. “Not on my mobile. Use a pay phone at the station.”

Marquis dropped Harding off in front of Waterloo Station. Harding took the attaché case and a bag that was already in the trunk. He had already purchased a ticket on the last Eurostar of the day to Brussels. Before boarding the train, he entered a phone booth and called a number in Morocco.

As he waited for someone to pick up, he thought about how much money Skin 17 was going to make for him. The plan had gone smoothly so far.

After several pips, a man finally answered. “Yes?”

“Mongoose calling from London. Phase One complete. I have it. Commencing Phase Two.”

“Very good. I’ll relay the message. You have a reservation at the Hotel Métropole in the name of Donald Peters.”

“Right.”

The man hung up. Harding sat for a few seconds, tapping his fingers on the attaché case. Then he picked up the phone again, put in some coins, and made one more call before getting on the train.

The number he dialed was a private line at SIS headquarters.

FOUR

EMERGENCY

JAMES BOND walked briskly past Helena Marksbury’s desk on the way to his office. Usually she greeted him with a warm smile in the mornings, but today she swiveled her chair around so that her back was to him. He was sure she had heard him coming. Bond thought that their unscheduled coupling yesterday after the golf game had perhaps confused and upset her.

“It was my understanding that we were supposed to ‘cool it’ while we’re in London,” she had said. He reiterated that indeed they should do so, but he also convinced her that she was just as hungry for him as he was for her. In the privacy of her flat, what harm could be done? They had thrown caution to the wind and allowed their passion to overwhelm them.

Afterward, however, Bond brought up the subject of their relationship again. Feelings were hurt, emotions were frayed, and this time it ended in a terrible fight. Helena accused him of “taking what he wanted, when he wanted,” and he admitted that there was some truth to that. She called him a “selfish bastard.”

He knew then that their affair had to end, especially if he wanted to keep her in place as his personal assistant at MI6.

“Do you want to continue working for me?” he had asked her.

Yes, of course,” she replied.

“Then you know as well as I that we can’t keep doing this.”

“You’re the one who surprised me at my door.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He had been a bloody fool. He had let his loins do his thinking for him once again.

They had agreed to end their romantic involvement—again—and, with tears in her eyes, she had sent him packing. Now he only hoped that they could get past it and that things at the office would be normal again, if such a thing was possible, without anyone losing their job.

He closed the door to his office and found a notice from Records indicating that the updated file on the Union was ready for his review. It was the information he had been waiting for. At least that would kill some time.

Bond sat down at his desk, took a cigarette from his gunmetal case, and lit it. Dammit all, he thought. How could he have been so bloody stupid? He should have realized that she was becoming more emotionally involved in the relationship than he wanted her to be. She would just have to get over it.

Lost in thought, he sat in the quiet solitude of his office and finished his cigarette.

One of the many improvements M made after she took charge was in the area of information technology. Old Sir Miles Messervy had been completely computer illiterate and hardly ever approved funding to update technology at MI6. Barbara Mawdsley, the new M, was all for it. The most controversial thing she did during her first year in office was to spend nearly a half million pounds to upgrade the computer equipment and network systems. Part of this money went to Records, where a state-of-the-art multimedia center was developed and built. The “Visual Library,” as it was called, was a computerized encyclopedia on a grand scale. One merely had to punch in a topic and the Visual Library would find every file available on the subject and organize it into a cohesive multimedia presentation. A full-time staff maintained the various sound, photo, video, and music files so that information was constantly kept up-to-date. Hard copies of the text could be printed and distributed as well, but it was infinitely more instructive when one could sit and view information in much the same way as one watched television.

Bond thought it would be appalling, until he saw the Library in action. It was an impressive feat of design and engineering. Now he enjoyed locking himself in one of the cubicles, putting on the headset, and watching the large wall-sized monitor in front of him. All he had to do was type the commands on a keypad and watch. He didn’t have to take notes; a “memo” button on the keypad automatically saved any particular segment and printed it.

After getting a cup of SIS’s mediocre coffee, he made himself comfortable in one of the Visual Library booths and punched in the code for the new file on the Union. The lights dimmed as he put on the headset.

Using a mouse, Bond clicked on the “intro” main menu button. The presentation began much like a newsreel of old. There was a bit of military music, a quick series of logos and credits, and the show began.

A familiar male narrator from the BBC began to speak over a montage of famous terrorist scenes from history: Nazis with concentration camp prisoners; the American embassy crisis in Iran; a hooded man holding a gun to an airline pilot’s head; the Ku Klux Klan; and Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

“Terrorists have been with us since the dawn of man. When we think of terrorists, we imagine groups of men and women who will do anything for a cause. They almost always have a political agenda and perform acts of violence to further their aims. But there is another kind of terrorist that has been cropping up more and more in the past thirty years. We have seen the rise of nonpolitical, commercial terrorists, or, to put it another way, terrorists who are in it only for the money. The difference between a political terrorist and a commercial one is important in our analysis, for the reasons that motivate these individuals are the keys to understanding them. Whereas a political terrorist may be willing to die for what he believes, a commercial one may not be so inclined. Usually very intelligent, the commercial terrorist will weigh situations as they occur and decide whether it’s worth continuing in his present course of action.”

Shots of large amounts of money; hunters in the wild; a soldier walking alone in a jungle . . .

“However, the lure of big money is a powerful enough temptation for the commercial terrorist to take a risk. If this enticement is combined with certain psychological factors in specific individuals, they may be persuaded to do anything. We believe these people possess an inherent desire for high adventure, danger, and excitement. Profit is the primary reason for their actions, but they also have a strong desire to do something that ‘normal’ people don’t do. This makes the commercial terrorist totally unpredictable, and, therefore, extremely dangerous. The Union are the most recent group of commercial terrorists to come to the attention of SIS and other law enforcement agencies around the world. They are not the first nor will they be the last. But at the moment they could very well be the most influential.”

Bond stilled a laugh. The report had been rushed. The narration was terribly clichéd, but it was the truth. He clicked on the “history” button.

“They began innocently enough.” A Hired Gun magazine appeared on the monitor. Inside was an advertisement showing a smiling man dressed in fatigues and holding a rifle. “ ‘Come join the Union and be a mercenary! See the world! Earn top dollar!’ These words appeared three years ago in magazines such as this one. The advertisements were printed in publications in the United States, most western European countries, the former Soviet Union, and throughout the Middle East. The union were the brainchild of an American named Taylor Michael Harris, an ex-Marine who worked as a security guard in the state of Oregon.”

Taylor Harris’s mug shot filled the screen. He had a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his forehead. “In earLy.1995, at age thirty-six, Harris founded a small militia group who proclaimed themselves white supremacists. After the local authorities arrested several of his members during a rally that turned violent, he was run out of the state. Harris traveled to Europe and the Middle East, then came back to Oregon with a large amount of capital six months later. He had apparently gone into business with foreign investors located either in the Middle East or North Africa. With this funding, he created the Union, which certain specialist magazines touted to be a freelance mercenary outfit. Qualified men with proper military training could get a high-paying job with the Union—as long as they were willing to travel, be discreet, and show that they had the stuff. The ‘stuff,’ it turned out, was having the ability to commit murder, arson, burglary, kidnapping, and other serious crimes.”

The visuals changed to a grainy black and white film of men in fatigues doing push-ups on a field, running around a track, shadow boxing. . . . “The ad campaign lasted six months, and men from all over the world joined the Union. This film of early trainees was confiscated during a raid, on the Union’s Oregon headquarters in December 1996. The American authorities became aware of their activities after Taylor Harris was gunned down in a restaurant in Portland, Oregon, a month earlier.”

The screens filled with police photographs of Taylor Harris, lying on the floor in a pool of blood and spaghetti.

“It is believed that Harris was murdered by his lieutenants, all of whom fled the country. Prior to this incident, no Union ‘jobs’ had ever been reported. Recruiting advertisements disappeared after the raid, and it appeared that the Union had been only a crazy whim of a deranged ex-Marine.”

Maps of the world popped up on the screen. “The truth became clear in 1997 as evidence began to surface that former Union members were involved in terrorist-style operations. It is believed that unknown foreigners now control the Union, and that they are managed as an underground, networked organization. Recruitment occurs only by word of mouth. SIS is convinced that the Union already have a strong base of tough, talented men. To date, this group of criminals and mercenaries have struck around the world half a dozen times. Besides hiring themselves out to countries and govern-ments, members often initiate their own projects in the hope that they might prove to be profitable later.”

The camera focused on the Mediterranean. “The Union are a rapidly growing network of tough professionals, and it is believed that they are coordinated from somewhere in the Mediterranean region It is estimated that there may be as many as three hundred Union members worldwide.”

A man’s silhouette was superimposed over the map, and a big question mark hung over his head. “The Union boss is thought to be a businessman, very wealthy and very powerful. Likely suspects are Taylor Harris’s three lieutenants, all of whom fled the United States after his murder and are wanted for that crime. They are”—the monitor lingered on mug shots of the three men—”Samuel Loggins Anderson, age thirty-five, ex-Marine and former insurance salesman.” He was bald, had long sideburns and crooked teeth.

“James Jimmy’ Wayne Powers, age thirty-three, former National Guardsman who spent time in jail for armed robbery.” He was thin, and had large dark eyes and black hair.

“And Julius Stanley Wilcox, age thirty-six, another ex-Marine and former forest ranger.” Wilcox was the ugliest and meanest-looking, with a scar above his right eye, a hawk nose, and greasy, slicked-back gray hair.

“None of these three men has been seen since they left the United States.”

A flowchart appeared on the monitor. “Like the Mafia, the Union are run by a manager or president whom they call Le Gérant. Beneath him are three or four trusted lieutenants—all men high in hierarchy who each control a vast worldwide network of murderers, arsonists, safe-crackers, loan sharks, prostitutes, mercenaries, and blackmailers.”

Bond clicked on the “projects” button.

Another mug shot flashed on the screen. He was a small man with fear in his eyes. “This is Abraham Charles Duvall. He was arrested in Washington, D.C., after the armed robbery of the Georgetown Savings and Loan in April 1997. He kept telling authorities that he was ‘Union,’ and that he would never go to jail. An uncle’ posted bail, and Duvall was never seen again. Washington, D C., police later received a notice from individuals claiming responsibility for the robbery. They called themselves ‘the Union.’ “

The image on the monitor changed to that of a newspaper front page. The photograph below the headline featured American soldiers carrying a wounded man on a stretcher. “Rumors that the Union was a real organization were not taken seriously by Interpol until a car bomb killed several American soldiers in Saudi Arabia in mid-1997. What was first dismissed as a political attack on the West was later revealed to be the work of a group of individuals hired by the Libyan government. Four suspects were killed when authorities attempted to arrest them. They put up a fierce fight, and one of the dying men had this to say—”

Low-quality video footage showed an Arab in fatigues lying in the dusty street of a North African village. A medic was tending to his wounds, which appeared to be massive. The cameraman asked the man something unintelligible, but the Arab’s answer was quite clear: “I am proud to die for the Union.”

“Even though some members have been arrested, thus far the Union have been successful at every crime they have committed and claimed responsibility for. The world’s law enforcement agencies now take the Union very seriously. It appears that they have an uncanny ability to infiltrate legitimate intelligence organizations. One of the Union’s most notorious achievements was recruiting a mole in the Central Intelligence Agency”

A mug shot of a man with glasses and a pockmarked face flashed on the screen. “Norman Nicholas Kalway, a midlevel official at the CIA, was caught red-handed with classified documents. It was learned that he had provided over ten million dollars’ worth of data to the Union. His story was that he had been blackmailed by the organization with evidence of unusual and felonious sexual practices (all of which came out publicly after Kalway was caught). Whether the CIA agent was a victim or not, his case is indicative of the lengths that the Union will go to in order to ensnare workers.”

Another mug shot replaced Kalway’s, an attractive woman in her twenties, except that she had bruises on her face and hate in her eyes.

“The Mossad experienced a similar scandal when one of the:r agents, Katherine Laven, was found to be Union after she had poisoned her lover, Israeli cabinet member Eliahu Digar. Digar had a number of enemies, any one of whom might have tempted agent Laven with a large payoff to get rid of him. It was this case that alerted authorities to what has been called the Union’s ‘signature’ when it comes to assassinations. Apparently poisoning Mr. Digir wasn’t enough. After he had died, Miss Laven slit the man’s throat from ear to ear with an extremely sharp instrument. Other murders in which the victims’ throats were cut in this manner have been reported as being Union-related.”

Bond was familiar with all of the Union’s alleged cases. He clicked back to the “projects” menu and clicked on the most recent addition. The picture changed again to that of Bond’s friend.

“The latest notch on the Union’s board is the March 1999 assassination of the former governor of the Bahamas.”

The photo was replaced by one of the Bahamian man who had cut the governor’s throat. “Lawrence Littleby, aged twenty-seven, was responsible for the murder. He was a troublemaker who had been in and out of the local jails on various misdemeanors. He had most likely been approached with the lure of a sizable amount of money. Investigators found ten thousand U.S. dollars hidden in the man’s bedroom.”

Bond clicked out of “projects” and clicked on the “exit” button.

The visuals became a full-motion montage of newspaper headlines, news photos, and newsreel footage of soldiers in various forms of combat. “We believe that the Union have become more powerful in the last year. When they cannot buy someone’s services, they find other, less pleasant means to persuade them to work. They are experts at everything from petty street crime to elaborate espionage schemes. It cannot be stressed enough that the Union should never be underestimated and that they should always be considered extremely dangerous.”

The presentation ended. Bond thought of his old enemies, SPECTRE. They were a lot like the Union. They had been interested only in making money, and Ernst Stavro Blofeld had run the cabal with the efficiency of a corporation. The Union were different in that their tactics were more guerrilla oriented. SPECTRE had gone for grand, world-shaking events. The Union weren’t particular in the jobs they performed. There was no social status or class prejudices in the Union. It was one of the keys to their success in recruiting members.

The phone by the keypad buzzed. Bond picked it up. “Yes?”

It was Miss Moneypenny. “James, I thought you were in there. You’re wanted in the Briefing Room at eleven hundred sharp.” Bond glanced at his watch. It was 10:50.

“Nothing like twenty-four hours’ notice, Penny,” he said.

“Never mind that. This is serious. Some big brass will be sitting in. See you there.” She rang off and left Bond to ponder the empty, dark monitor in front of him. He sighed heavily, gathered his materials, punched the keypad so that a complete printout of the Union presentation would be delivered to his office, then left the Visual Library and took the lift to the top floor.

The place was buzzing with activity. Secretaries were rushing back and forth and phones were ringing. Bond caught up with Miss Moneypenny, who was walking fast and carrying a stack of folders toward the briefing room.

“What the hell is going on?” Bond asked.

“M declared a Code Three a few minutes ago, James. You had better get in there. The Minister of Defence and a lot of military brass are here.”

“Someone probably lost a contact lens,” Bond muttered, and went into the room.

The Briefing Room could easily sit a hundred people or more. Similar to the Situation Room, it contained large screens on the walls for multimedia presentations, rows of school-type chairs with attached desktops arranged in a semicircle facing the podium, and an abundance of electronic equipment. Bond eased into the room and found a place near the end of a row of chairs. Looking around, he was surprised to see some of the people there.

M was quietly conversing with the Minister of Defence near the podium. Bill Tanner was standing by, awaiting instructions. Occupying the other chairs were various top staff members such, as Head of S., Head of Records, and Head of Counterintelligence. There were several visitors next to them, including Air Marshal Whipple, the head of MI5, and none other than Group Captain Roland Marquis.

Tanner called the meeting to order. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Minister of Defence wishes to address you first.”

The Minister took the stand and cleared his throat. “Last night an act of industrial espionage and terrorism was committed against our country. A top secret formula for a hot plasma bonding process known as Skin 17 was stolen from one of the DERAs secret research facilities in Fleet. It is of vital importance to Great Britain that we track down the individuals responsible for this and retrieve the formula. Christopher Drake, a director of the DERA, will explain further.”

The Minister relinquished the floor to Mr. Drake, a tall, distinguished man of fifty.

“Good morning. I’ve been asked to explain in layman’s terms what we at the DERA were developing for the RAF It has been a longtime goal for the UK to be the first country in the world to develop an aircraft material that could withstand a speed of Mach 7. An as-yet-unattainable speed, Mach 7 is the Holy Grail in the aerospace industry. Now, we all know that the technology has existed for years to create the power to push a plane to that speed, and the materials exist to build an airplane. Think of it. The benefits to both civil and especially military aviation are self-evident. One could fly from London to New York in forty minutes—or bomb three countries in a half hour. Two years ago the Minister of Defence ordered us, along with the RAF, to develop a material that could stand up to the wear and tear that would occur at a speed of Mach 7.

“The problem has always been that at such a high speed mere atmospheric dust is sufficient to dent and tear the skin off the plane. The way around this dilemma is found in the science of fluid dynamics. An object traveling through a fluid creates around itself a boundary layer which essentially pushes the elements of the fluid out of the way, creating a ‘tunnel effect.’ It’s through this tunnel that the object travels relatively unimpeded. Turbulence issues abound in this science; the mathematics are extremely complicated; the engineering problems are bigger. The trick is to create ‘Smart Skin’ materials for the plane that would expand and alter this boundary layer, essentially forming the optimal aerodynamic configuration through which the plane would fly. This material would be a carbon-fiber and silica ceramic. But because carbon-fiber and silica do not easily bond, the DERA spent two years developing a hot plasma bonding process.”

Slides began to appear on the large screens. The first was a photo of Dr. Wood.

“Yesterday Dr. Thomas Wood, whom we hired to work on the project at our secret warehouse in Fleet, successfully completed the formula— or so we believe. The DERA and the British military establishment have kept this project top secret and we were quite eager to unveil the results—giving the UK a much-needed leg up, strategically speaking, over our allies and enemies. Commercially, it is worth billions.”

The slide changed to an exterior shot of the Fleet warehouse.

“Shortly after twenty-one hundred hours last night, someone infiltrated the lab in Fleet. The entire facility was burned to the ground. Records were destroyed and there was virtually nothing salvageable. We did unfortunately find the remains of Dr. Wood, who had been shot in the leg and in the head. All traces of Skin 17, the specification he created, have disappeared. The thieves were also successful in stealing backup copies of previous versions of the formula that were kept at the DERA facility in Farnborough, indicating that, I’m sorry to say, a DERA employee may have been involved in the crime. Unfortunately there are no other copies of this important work, which represents two years of intensive research and development. Needless to say, it is vital that no copies of the Skin 17 specification fall into the wrong hands.”

Tanner had inched along the wall and was now standing next to Bond’s seat.

“I assume this was the project you were referring to yesterday,” Bond whispered.

Tanner whispered back, “Uh-huh.”

The slide changed to a picture of Steven Harding.

“This is Dr. Steven Harding, who was serving as Dr. Wood’s right-hand man. The rest of his team have been summoned back from various parts of the country and are here in this room. Dr. Wood had given them the day off yesterday because he wanted to make the final tests on the scalable prototype alone. We know that Wood left instructions for Dr. Harding to come to the lab at nine o’clock last night. Whether or not he did this is unknown, but we find it disturbing that Dr. Harding is missing. He is simply nowhere to be found.”

Bond whispered to Tanner, “Christ, we just played golf with him yesterday!”

“I know,” Tanner replied. “This is all very bizarre.”

Mr. Drake said, “I’d like to call to the stand Group Captain Roland Marquis, who was the RAF liaison to the ‘Smart Skin’ project.”

Marquis stood up and stiffly walked to the front of the room. “Before I field questions,” he said, “I want to say that I am extremely proud of the work Dr. Wood and his team did on this project. Great Britain has lost a national treasure in him. Now, Minister, M, distinguished colleagues, I am at your disposal.”

The Minister spoke first. “Group Captain, we understand that you saw Dr. Harding yesterday.”

“Yes, sir,” Marquis replied. “I played golf with him at Stoke Poges. It was around seventeen hundred hours when we said good-bye and parted company,”

“Did he indicate to you what his plans were?”

“No, sir, I knew that Dr. Wood had given the team the day off, and that he was close to finishing Skin 17. Dr. Harding was quite eager to hear news from Dr. Wood. He made at least two phone calls from the club to find out what was going on. I knew that Dr. Harding would be visiting the lab later that evening, that is, last night. Other than that, he didn’t say much. He’s a professional and would never talk about the work outside the DERA complex, even with me.”

M asked, “How well do you know this Dr. Harding?”

“Not very well. I got to know him over the last two years during the normal day-to-day administrative work I did in supervising Skin 17. One day we discovered a mutual interest in golf. That’s all. Yesterday was the third time we had played together.”

“How close to the project were you?” she asked.

“I had no idea what they were actually doing, technically. I mean, I knew what their goal was and I knew generally how they were going about it. But I’m no physicist, ma’am. My job was to control the budget, make sure they had what they needed, and make monthly reports to my superiors in the RAF.”

“And you have no idea where Dr. Harding is now?”

“None, ma’am.”

“Do you think he is capable of doing something like this?”

Marquis paused a moment before answering. Finally, he said, “I don’t think so, ma’am. Dr. Harding always struck me as an introvert, a quiet type with a high intellect. I never once saw him get angry. I can’t imagine that he’d have a violent bone in his body, much less be a traitor to his country. He has no criminal record. I know that stranger things have happened in our government’s history with regard to spies and counterspies. Nevertheless, it is my opinion that Dr. Harding may have come to an untimely end, along with Dr. Wood.”

After a moment’s silence. Bond raised his hand. Marquis raised his eyebrows when he saw who it was. “Yes, uhm, Mr. Bond?”

“Have there been any communications at all claiming responsibility for this act?”

“No, not yet.”

“In your opinion, do you think it’s the work of a foreign power?”

“At this point, I’m not ruling out anything. MI5 is handling the investigation. However, as you will see in your briefing packet, there is a copy of a fax that was received at the DERA Fleet facility exactly nine and half months ago. Dr. Wood had shown it to me, thinking it was some kind of prank. I kept the note since the fax number at the facility had always been classified. Can we show that slide, please?”

The slide on the wall changed again to reveal a blurry copy of a faxed piece of paper. There was no mistaking the wording, however.

GOOD LUCK WITH THE SKIN PROJECT WE ARE VERY INTERESTED IN YOUR PROGRESS.

THE UNION

Bond felt a chill slither down his spine.

Marquis continued. “I don’t know a lot about this Union, but I was briefed this morning on the group’s recent activities. It sounds to me like the kind of job they would pull off. Any other questions?”

When there were none, M stood up. “Thank you, Group Captain. We’ll start the debriefing with you and the rest of Dr. Woods team after lunch.”

Bond stepped into M’s office to find her alone with Bill Tanner.

“Come in, Double-O Seven,” she said. “Sit down.”

He sat across from the woman whom he had grown to admire more and more during the past two years. There had been a considerable amount of friction between them when she first took over MI6, but now they had mutual respect. Bond had especially proved his value to her during her personal crisis during the Decada affair a year earlier.

“I understand you and the Chief of Staff played golf with Group Captain Marquis and Dr. Harding yesterday,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want to hear what you think.”

Bond shrugged. “I’m just as puzzled as anyone. I agree with Marquis’s assessment of Harding—that he really didn’t seem the type to do something like this. My suspicions would be directed more toward Marquis.”

M’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Why?”

“Because he’s an arrogant son of a bitch.”

Bond’s outspokenness didn’t faze her. “I know all about your history together,” she said. “Please don’t carry schoolboy, prejudices into this, Double-O Seven.”

“Nevertheless, ma’am,” Bond said, “I don’t think too highly of him.”

“Group Captain Marquis is a distinguished officer and a national hero of sorts. You’re aware of his mountaineering achievements?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re absolutely right, I’m allowing my personal feelings about the man to influence my opinion of him. And my opinion is that he is an ass.”

“Your opinion is noted,” M said, “but I’m afraid you’ll need more than professional jealousy as evidence of Group Captain Marquis’s guilt.”

That stung.

She nodded to Tanner. He handed an eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photograph to Bond. It was taken by a security camera and revealed a fuzzy shot of Steven Harding in a line of people. He was carrying an attaché case and a travel bag.

“We just got this,” Tanner said. “It was taken last night around ten-thirty by one of the customs security cameras at Waterloo Station—at the Eurostar terminal. Dr. Steven Harding boarded the last train to Brussels.”

“Why Belgium?” Bond asked.

“Who knows? We’ve contacted Station B to see if we can have his movements traced. MI5 have turned the investigation over to us. We believe that Skin 17 is no longer in the UK.”

M spoke up. “Double-O Seven, I want you to go to Brussels and rendezvous with Station B. Your job is to track down Dr. Harding. If he has Skin 17, you’re to do everything in your power to get it back. The Minister of Defence is obsessed with this Mach 7 business and with Great Britain being the first to achieve this goal. He’s told me in no uncertain terms that the formula must be recovered. I’m afraid I agree with him that it would be disastrous should Skin 17 get into the hands of a country like, say, Iraq or Iran . . . or Red China. I wouldn’t want the Russian Mafia to get hold of it. I wouldn’t want Japan to have it. Double-O Seven, it’s also a matter of principle. We developed it. Here in Britain. Dr. Wood was a brilliant British physicist. We want the credit for developing the process. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good luck, then.”

Bond stopped by his office to gather his things, then paused by Helena Marksbury’s desk.

“I, uhm, have to go to Brussels,” he said.

Helena was typing furiously and didn’t stop to look at him “I know. You’re to pick up the Jaguar from Q Branch before you leave today. I’m making arrangements for you to use the channel tunnel so you can drive across. I thought you’d prefer that.”

“Thank you.”

“Station B is handling your hotel. The contact’s name is Gina Hollander. She’ll meet you at the Manneken-Pis at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“Good luck.”

Bond placed his hand over hers to stop her typing. “Helena . . .”

“Please, James,” she said softly. “Just go. I’ll be fine. When you get back, everything will be . . . as before.”

Bond removed his hand and nodded. Without saying another word, he turned and walked toward the elevator.

FIVE

THE GOLDEN PACEMAKER

APPROXIMATELY twelve hours before James Bond received his assignment to track Dr. Steven Harding to Belgium, the physicist arrived at the Midi station in Brussels and took a taxi to the Metropole, the only nineteenth-century hotel in the famed city. Located in the heart of Brussels in the Place de Brouckère, the historical center, the Hotel Métropole is more like a palace than a hotel. French architect Alhan Chambon brought a mixture of styles to the interior by infusing it with an air of luxury and richness of materials— paneling, polished teak, Numidian marble, gilded bronze, and forged iron.

Most visitors find the French Renaissance main entrance and the Empire-style reception hall breathtaking, but Harding wasn’t interested in the historical or aesthetic qualities of the hotel. He was tired and frightened, and he wanted to get Phase Two out of the way as soon as possible so that he could collect his money and flee to some island in the South Pacific.

“Oui, monsieur?” the receptionist asked.

Harding stammered, “Uhm, sorry, I only speak English.”

The receptionist, used to foreign visitors, smoothly switched languages. “What can I do for you, sir?”

I have a reservation. Peters. Donald Peters.”

The young woman looked it up on the computer. “Yes, Mr. Peters. Your room has been paid for. How many nights will you be staying?”

“I’m not sure. Possibly three?”

“That’s fine, just let us know. Do you have bags?”

“Just what I’m carrying.”

He wrote false information on the registration card, then took the key.

“You’re in the Sarah Bernhardt Room, Number 1919 on the third floor.”

“Thank you,” Harding said. He took the key and carried his luggage to the elevator, waving away the porter. The elevator was an old-fashioned cagelike contraption with impressive metallic beams rising up through the ceiling.

Sarah Bernhardt’s autograph was engraved on a gold plaque on the door of his room. Apparently the famous actress had once lived in the suite. The hotel was indeed the spot for the rich and famous throughout the last century.

Harding locked the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good. He hadn’t noticed anyone tailing him. There were no suspicious characters lurking about. Perhaps he was really going to get away with it.

Feeling more confident than he had in weeks, Harding went straight to the minibar in the sitting room, unlocked it, and found a small bottle of vodka. He opened it and drank it straight, out of the | bottle. Only then did he begin to appreciate the splendor of the hotel.

The suite was divided into two large rooms. The sitting room was equipped with a large wood desk, the minibar, a television, a glass-top coffee table, green chairs and a sofa, a closet with a full-length mirror, potted plants, and a large window that opened onto a terrace. The walls were yellow with white molding. The bedroom was just as spacious, with a king-sized bed, another glass-top table, chairs with the same green upholstery, a second television oak dresser and cabinet, and small tables by the bed. Another large window opened to the terrace. The bathroom was in brown tile and contained all the amenities one could ask for. A frosted-glass panel covered half the area above the bathtub for showering.

“This is great!” Harding said aloud, rubbing his hands with glee. He was not accustomed to such luxury. Working for the Union certainly had its perks.

The taxi driver was curious as to why Harding wanted to go to a doctor’s surgery after midnight.

“They closed, they closed,” the driver said in imperfect English.

“He’s expecting me,” Harding insisted. He handed the man one thousand Belgian francs. “Here, I’ll pay you the fare when we get there. And I’ll need you to wait for me.”

The driver shrugged and took the money. The cab took Harding to Avenue Franklin-Roosevelt, located in an elegant area of the city near the Hippodrome. It is full of lush green parks and expensive town homes, but in the dark it looked like anywhere else.

The driver let him out at Dr. Hendrik Lindenbeek’s residence. As in most European countries, doctors in Belgium usually carried on their practice from their homes.

Harding rang the bell, and Lindenbeek answered the door after a few seconds. He was a young Flemish cardiologist.

“Come in,” he said in English. Harding noted that Dr. Lindenbeek’s hand shook as he gestured him inside.

Lindenbeek led him through the patient waiting area, which consisted of wicker furniture in a white room, and into the large examination room. Besides the examining table, there was a large wooden desk, bookshelves, trays with equipment, and an X-ray machine with lead wall partitions.

“Is our patient ready to go?” Harding asked.

Dr. Lindenbeek nodded. “The surgery is scheduled for eight O’clock tomorrow morning. I need to get some sleep so I don’t make any mistakes!” He laughed nervously.

You had better not make any mistakes. Now, tell me exactly what you’re going to do.”

Dr. Lindenbeek took some stationery from his desk and drew a sketch of a man’s torso. He made a small square on the figure’s upper left breast. “The pacemaker will be inserted here. It’s a routine operation. Takes about three to four hours, maybe less.”

Does the patient go home the same day?”

“He can, but I prefer him to remain in the hospital overnight. He can go home the following day.”

Harding didn’t like that. He was on a tight schedule.

“What about traveling? Will he be able to fly?”

“Sure,” Lindenbeek said. “He just needs to take it easy for a few days to make sure the skin heals. The pocket of skin where we put the pacemaker might open up. It could get infected. We wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Harding agreed. “But could he handle a long aeroplane flight?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Good.” Harding took the sketch and opened the attaché case. He dropped it inside, then removed the envelope containing the Skin 17 microdot. “This is it. It’s attached to a piece of film. Whatever you do, don’t lose it. It’ll be your neck. Remember what the Union have on you.”

Lindenbeek swallowed hard. “How can I forget?” He gingerly took the envelope from Harding.

Hospital Erasme, located on Route de Lennik south of Brussels, is one of the most modern and largest facilities in all of Belgium. As it is also a university hospital, Erasme is considered to have the best equipment and technology in the country, as well as the most sophisticated and professional staff.

At exactly 7:55 A.M., a few hours before Bond would attend the Skin 17 emergency briefing, Dr. Lindenbeek walked into surgery on the second floor wearing greens, mask, and a cap. He scrubbed his hands and allowed a nurse to fit rubber gloves over them. The patient, a fifty-eight-year-old Chinese man named Lee Ming, was already on the table and was groggy from the drugs he had been given. Preparing the patient for surgery had taken nearly an hour.

A local anesthetic was applied to Lee’s left side, under the collarbone. Lindenbeek examined his equipment while he waited for the drugs to work. The pacemaker was a top-line “demand” model made by Sulzer Intermedics Inc., which meant that the device sensed the heart’s activity and stimulated it only when the natural rate fell below a certain level. Lindenbeek preferred Sulzer Intermedics, an American company, not only because they had a convenient office in Belgium, but because he considered them the best.

“He’s ready, doctor,” the anesthetist said in Flemish.

Dr. Lindenbeek inserted a needle to find the subclavian vein under the left collarbone. After he found it, he made a subcutaneous incision to one side of the needle. He then slid an introducer over the needle, which looked like a big syringe with no plunger. The next step was to insert the pacemaker leads through the introducer down the vein into the heart. Fluoroscopy was used to visualize the lead in the patient.

“I think I’ll need a stylet,” Lindenbeek said. He removed the lead and placed a wire stylet on it so that it would be a little suffer. This would aid in positioning the lead.

It was a tedious process but one that had to be performed with precision and care. The first lead took nearly an hour to position, and there was still a second one to insert. Ninety minutes into the operation, Lindenbeek was ready to go on to the next step.

The electrical status of the leads was checked to see how much energy was actually needed to pace the heart. Lindenbeek cautiously adjusted the electricity, then took the gold-colored pacemaker from the tray. He attached the leads to the pacemaker, then gave the order to check everything on the EKG.

“Looks good, doctor,” the nurse said.

He nodded, then proceeded to carry on with the final phase of the operation. He carefully made a “pocket” under the incision by blunt dissection between the pectoral muscle and the skin. Once that was done, Lindenbeek inserted the sealed pacer into the pocket and closed the incision.

Right,” Lindenbeek said. “You’re all finished, Mr. Lee.”

Lee blinked. “I think I fell asleep.”

You did fine. We’re going to take you to the recovery room now. 1see you in a little bit. Try not to move too much.”

Lee was wheeled out of surgery and Lindenbeek removed his gloves and mask. He went to the waiting room, where he found Steven Harding reading a magazine. Harding saw him and stood up.

“Well?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine,” Lindenbeek said. “He can go home tonight if you really want, but I recommend he stay until tomorrow morning.”

Harding considered this and said, “All right. I’d rather be safe than sorry.” He then lowered his voice and asked, “So . . . where exactly is it?”

Lindenbeek whispered, “The microdot is attached to the battery inside the pacemaker. I had to do it that way in order to seal the pacemaker and sterilize it.”

Harding nodded. “Good. That’s fine, then. Well done.”

“I’m glad you are pleased. Now, will this nightmare finally end?”

Harding smiled, his beady, birdlike eyes sparkling. “I will speak to my superiors this afternoon. I’m sure they will be in touch. Thank you, doctor.”

As Harding left the waiting room, Dr. Lindenbeek stood and watched him. He didn’t like that man. He didn’t like anyone associated with the so-called Union. At least he had done what they wanted. Now he prayed that he could get on with his life in peace.

Harding took a taxi back to the hotel and indulged himself in a fine lunch at the M6tropole cafe. It consisted of creamed potato soup with smoked eel, salmon in flaky pastry with sevruga caviar, asparagus, and a bottle of Duvel beer. After lunch he went to the Rue d’Aerschot, Brussels’s meager red light district, where he spent several thousand Belgian francs in the company of a plump but serviceable prostitute.

When he got back to his room that evening, the message light on his phone was blinking. He retrieved the message, frowned, and returned the call.

It was not good news.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself. He hung up the phone, then dialed a local contact in Brussels.

“Hello?” he muttered to the Frenchman who answered. “I don’t speak French. Listen, this is Mongoose, right? I’ve just learned that A British secret service agent is driving here tomorrow in a BLUE JAGUAR XK8. He’s on to us. He’ll be on the E19, coming into Brussels, between noon and two o’clock. Is there something you can do about him?”

SIX

THE ROAD TO BRUSSELS

JAMES BOND picked up the Jaguar XK8 from Q branch after receiving a brief admonition from Major Boothroyd concerning a couple of new features he had added since Bond had used the car last. One of these was a supercharger, an Eaton Ml 12, which normally delivered 370 bhp and 387-pound-foot torque. Bond had insisted on a modification to increase the boost to give 500 bhp, which Boothroyd had reluctantly made.

He took the M20 motorway to the Channel Tunnel Terminal between Dover and Folkestone and boarded Le Shuttle auto-transporter, which, in thirty-five minutes, unloaded cars at Calais. Bond skirted south toward Lille, then got on the E19, the Paris to Brussels autoroute. Recent rains and sunny weather made the landscape rich with green, yellow, and orange brushstrokes. The countryside whipped past Bond as he tested the new supercharger on the open road. It felt great to get away from England and finally make headway on the case.

The Jaguar was twenty miles from “the Ring,” the busy roadway that encircled the main city, when Bond noticed two high-speed motorcycles gaining on him. They appeared to be identical dark green Kawasaki ZZ-R1100 superbikes. Bond was familiar with the vehicles and knew them to be powerful, heavy, and very fast.

Obtaining an extra boost from a ram-air system that ducted cool air from a slot in the fairing nose to a pressurized air box, they could easily keep up with the Jaguar.

A third ZZ-R1100 pulled out onto the highway from an entrance ramp in front of him just as the other two reached a point fifty yards behind Bond’s car. He was certain that they were performing rehearsed maneuvers—the timing was just too skillful. Bond sat straight in the seat, gripped the wheel, and increased his speed to ninety in order to overtake the motorcycle in the right lane in front of him. It didn’t help that traffic was moderately heavy.

Bond veered into the center lane so that he could pass the rider and get a good look at him. At that angle he appeared to be dressed in army-fatigues and an olive green crash helmet, neatly color coordinated with the bike. Was it a costume? Perhaps the three riders were part of some kind of auto show and weren’t dangerous at all?

The motorcycle suddenly swerved into Bond’s lane, preventing him from passing. Bond was forced to ease his speed down to seventy, which gave the two men behind him an opportunity to close the gap.

Now at a distance of thirty feet, the two pursuers were side by side in the same lane behind Bond. Bond swerved into the far left lane, but all three motorcycles followed suit as if they were operating by remote control.

There was no doubt now, Bond thought, these men had to be professionals. He changed lanes again, back to the center, and then to the far right, as the superbikes immediately adjusted to pin him in again.

Bond was peering at the riders behind him in the rearview mirror when he noticed a sudden puff of black smoke just below one of the windshields. He felt a series of fast, hard jolts in the back of the Jaguar.

Bond set his jaw. The bastard had fired a volley of machine gun bullets at his petrol tank.

The two riders looked at each other as if to ask. “Why didn’t the car explode?” Bond allowed himself a smile. The body’s chobam armor was impenetrable and had reactive skins that exploded when hit, thereby deflecting the bullets. The metal was self-healing by virtue of viscous fluid.

Apparently able to communicate with each other via headsets, the riders prepared a new strategy. One of the men behind Bond pulled into the right-hand lane and sped up so that he was parallel to the Jaguar. The rider looked at Bond and mouthed what must have been an unsavory epithet.

Bond pulled the wheel sharply to the right, ramming into the motorcycle. The Kawasaki was knocked off the road and onto the shoulder, where it fell on its side and skidded for a hundred feet before stopping. Bond had hoped the cycle would be completely wrecked, but the rider apparently wasn’t harmed and would be back on the road in a minute or two. He moved the J mechanism into manual mode and floored the accelerator. The Jaguar shot ahead of the front cycle, then maneuvered around slower civilian vehicles to put some distance between him and the green bikers. Bond hoped that he wouldn’t have to use deadly force against these men on such a busy highway, and wondered if he should telephone the Belgian police on his mobile phone.

The remaining two cyclists darted in and out of the traffic to catch up with Bond. Road repairs had caused the far left lane to be closed at one point. Now relegated to only two lanes, the traffic was thicker. Bond sped up and soon found himself tailgating two ten-wheel lorries that were blocking both lanes. They were both traveling at unsafe speeds, attempting to outrace each other. Bond honked the horn, hoping that one would pull into the other’s lane. The driver in the lorry in front of him blasted his own horn, challenging Bond to do something about it.

“Defense systems on,” Bond said aloud. One of the new features that Q Branch had put in the car was voice activation for all systems— phone, audio, lighting, and, of course, weaponry. An icon flashed on the telematics screen on the dashboard, indicating that Bond’s command had been executed.

“Activate flying scout,” he said. An outline of the scout, a device the size of a small model airplane, appeared on the screen. It was stored underneath the chassis until it was activated from inside the car. The scout could fly out from under the vehicle and reach an altitude of Bond’s choosing. It was steerable by joystick or satellite navigation.

The display changed to read SCOUT READY.

“Launch scout,” he commanded. He felt a sudden whoosh behind the Jaguar as the scout ejected from its bay. The batlike vehicle soared out and up into the air, then turned so that it was traveling thirty feet above and parallel with the Jaguar. The two motorcyclists couldn’t believe their eyes. One of them pointed to the scout and shouted something.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Bond used his left hand to manipulate the joystick. He sent the scout forward and increased its speed so that it would move up beside the lorries, which were still barreling down the road neck and neck.

Bond lowered the scout slowly without decreasing its speed. Like a hummingbird, the aircraft gently positioned itself so that it was flying at door level in between the two lorries. The driver of the Lorry on the right looked to his left and saw the strange contraption flying just outside his window. He gasped and almost ran off the road, but he managed to straighten the wheel in time.

The chobam armor, which also coated the scout, was quite effective for battering purposes. Bond moved the joystick so that the plane swung to the right with great force, shattering the driver’s window with its wing. He pulled the scout up and out of the way as the driver then completely lost control of the lorry. It careened off the road, over the shoulder, then turned over and crashed into the ditch.

That should get the attention of the police, Bond thought. He increased the speed and shot past the other lorry, whose frightened driver had dropped his speed to forty. The scout, meanwhile, returned to its place above the Jaguar.

Surprisingly, a stretch of road ahead of Bond was relatively traffic free. He opened up, hoping that the two pursuers would follow him into the clear area. In a moment he saw them zoom past the lorry that he had left behind. One Kawasaki was gaining fast, the other dropping back a bit.

“Prepare silicon fluid bomb,” Bond said. Another new feature on the car, the oil or silicon fluid explosives could be dropped from the rear bumper into the path of a pursuing vehicle. They were more direct and caused “cleaner” damage than the Jaguar’s heat-seeking rockets, which were meant for heavier targets.

The Kawasaki moved into position behind Bond, and the rider fired its machine gun again. Bond felt the impact ricochet off the back of the car, then said, “Launch bomb.”

A device the size of a compact disc dropped out of the bumper and rolled out onto the road. The rider on the motorcycle saw it and attempted to swerve around it, but it was too late. The device exploded with a tremendous blast, sending pieces of the Kawasaki and its rider into the air. The highway was soon littered with black smoke, burnt metal, and seared body parts.

The other rider pulled into the left lane and zigzagged around the debris, staying on Bond’s tail. When he was in range, he fired his guns at the Jaguar, too.

“Ready rear laser,” Bond said. The icon appeared on the screen.

The cycle moved closer, the bullets still flying. One of the back tires burst, but the car was engineered so that it could run on flats.

“Count of three for one-second laser flash,” Bond said. “One . . . two . . . three.”

The sudden bright light confused the rider behind him. At first he thought it was glare from the sun, bouncing off a piece of reflective metal on the back of the Jaguar. Momentarily blinded, he kept the handlebars straight, hoping that his sight would clear in a few seconds— but then the pain began. His eyes felt as if they were being burned with hot pokers, and then there was nothing but darkness. The laser flash had permanently seared his retinas.

Bond watched in the rearview mirror as the Kawasaki wobbled and veered to the left. It crashed through the repair lane and guardrail, then slid into the oncoming traffic on the other side of the road. Horns blared and drivers slammed on their brakes. Several cars crashed into one another in an effort to avoid hitting the motorcycle, but the Kawasaki was run over by a van and dragged at least two hundred yards before both hunks of metal came to a stop.

Bond could hear sirens in the distance. They were coming from the city, the opposite direction from which he was traveling. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw that the third motorcycle, the one he had bumped off the road earlier, had rejoined the chase Bond presumed correctly that this rider was unaware of the flying scout soaring above the Jaguar at a safe distance. He gently pushed the joystick so that the scout decreased speed, then made an about-face. Bond brought the scout down to a level equal to that of the cyclist, then pushed the throttle. It shot back toward the cycle at full speed.

The rider gasped when he saw the strange, birdlike thing headed straight for him. He barely had time to scream.

The scout met the cycle head-on, knocking the rider off the bike. Bond pulled the scout up and away as the motorcycle skidded on its side and eventually came to rest in the ditch.

“Prepare to dock scout,” Bond said as he maneuvered the remarkable device back behind the Jaguar.

He gave the command, and the bird pulled underneath the chassis] and locked into place just as Bond entered “the Ring.” Blending in with heavy traffic, the Jaguar safely drove past the power plants, car dealerships, and business parks that dotted the landscape.

Bond activated the mobile speaker phone, then called out the speed dial code for headquarters in London. After the normal security checks, he was put through to Bill Tanner’s office. His secretary answered and told Bond that M and the Chief of Staff were off-site at a meeting.

“Damn,” he said. “Put me through to Helena Marksbury please.”

In a moment he heard his personal assistant’s lilting voice.

“James?” she answered. Bond could hear her apprehension. She probably had looked forward to a few days of his absence.

“Helena, we have a problem,” he said. “Someone knew I was on my way to Brussels, and three men on motorcycles tried to kill me.”

“My God, James, are you all right?” she asked with concern.

“Yes. I need you to get this message to the Chief of Staff immediately. He and M are at a meeting off-site.” He gave her the detail “Find them and tell them that a Code Eighty is in effect.” This MEANT that a security breach had occurred.

“Right,” she said. “I’m on it now, James. Are you in Brussels?”

“Almost. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Be careful,” she said, then rang off. Despite the awkward situation that existed between them, Bond was thankful that Helena was capable of carrying on in a professional manner.

He soon got off the Ring road and onto Industrial Boulevard, which led toward the center of Brussels, and once again offered a silent thanks to Major Boothroyd and the rest of Q Branch.

It was a beautiful, sunny, spring day. Bond parked the car in a garage near the Grand Place, the magnificent square that is considered the centerpiece of Brussels. Bordered on all four sides by icons of Belgium’s royal history, the Grand Place is a dazzling display of ornamental gables, gilded facades, medieval banners, and gold-filigreed rooftop sculptures. The Gothic Town Hall, dating back to the early 1400s, remains intact; the other buildings, the neo-Gothic King’s House and the Brewers Guild House, date from the late 1600s. The Brussels aldermen continue to meet in the Town Hall, the exterior of which is decorated in part by fifteenth- and sixteenth-century insider’s jokes. The sculptures include a group of drinking monks, a sleeping Moor and his harem, a heap of chairs resembling the medieval torture called strappado, and St. Michael slaying a female-breasted devil. Bond had once heard a story that the architect, Jan van Ruysbroeck, committed suicide by leaping from the belfry when he realized that it is off center and has an off-center entrance.

It was nearly two o’clock. Bond put on a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers sunglasses that would identify him to his contact, then walked southwest through the colorful and narrow cobblestoned streets to the intersection of Rue du Chene and Rue de l’Étuve. There, surrounded by camera-snapping tourists, was the famous statue of the urinating little boy known as Manneken-Pis. Although not the original statue (which was subject to vandalism and was removed), the current idol is an exact replica and is perhaps the most well known symbol of Brussels. Bond didn’t know what its origins were, but he knew that it dated from the early 1400s and was perhaps the effigy of a patriotic Belgian lad who sprinkled a hated Spanish sentry who had passed beneath his window. Another story -was that he had saved the Town Hall from a small fire by extinguishing it using the only means avail-able. Today, “Little Julian,” as he is called, was dressed in a strange red cloak with a white fur collar. Louis XV of France began the tradition of presenting colorful costumes to the little boy and since then he has acquired hundreds of outfits.

“He must have a very large bladder to keep peeing like that,” a female voice said in English, but with a thick European accent.

Bond glanced to his left and saw in attractive woman dressed in a smart beige trouser suit and a light jacket. She was wearing Ray-Bans; had strawberry-blond, short, curly hair, a light cream complexion; and her sensual lips were painted with light red lipstick. A toothpick lodged at the corner of her mouth. She appeared to be around thirty, and she had the figure of a fashion model.

“I’m just glad this isn’t considered a drinking fountain,” Bond replied.

She removed the sunglasses to reveal bright blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. She held cut her hand and said, “Gina Hollander. Station B.”

Bond took her hand, which felt smooth and warm. “Fond. James Bond.”

“Come on,” she said, gesturing with her head, “let’s go to the station house, then we’ll get your car and take it to your hotel.” Her English was good, but Bond could tell she wasn’t terribly comfortable with it.

“Parlez-vous français?” he asked.

“Oui,” she said, then switched “back to English, “but my first language is Dutch, Flemish. You speak Dutch?”

“Not nearly as well as you speak English,” he replied.

“Then let’s stick to English, I need the practice.”

She was not beautiful, but Bond found, her very appealing. The short, curly hairstyle gave her a pixielike quality that most people would describe as cute, an adjective Bond always avoided. She was petite, but she walked with confidence and grace, as if she were six feet tall.

“Which is my hotel, by the way?” he asked.

“The Métropole. It’s one of the best in town.”

“I know it. I’ve stayed there before.”

“Our target is staying there, too.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when we get to the station house. It’s just over here.”

She led him into a very narrow street off Petite Rue des Bouchers, near the famous folk puppet showcase Theatre Toone, and into a pastry shop. The smell of baked goods was overpowering.

“Care for a cream puff?” she asked.

He smiled and said, “Later, perhaps.”

Gina said something in Flemish to the woman behind the counter, then led Bond through a door, into the kitchen, where a large, sweating man was loading a tray of rolls into an oven. She went through another door to a staircase that led to a second-floor loft: the headquarters of Station B.

It was a comfortable one room/one bathroom flat that had been transformed into an office, just barely large enough for an operative and some equipment. Besides the usual computer gear, file cabinets, fax machine, and copier, there was a sofa bed, a television, and kitchenette. It was decorated with a decidedly feminine touch, and there was an abundance of Belgian lace draped over the furniture.

“I don’t live here, but the sofa bed is handy if I ever have to stay late,” she said as they entered. “Have a seat anywhere. You want something to drink?”

“Vodka with ice, please. Before we do anything, though, I have to call London. We have a little problem.”

“What’s that?”

“We have a security leak. Someone knew I was coming. I was attacked on the E19.”

“Really? That was you? I heard about the accidents on the road! Are you all right?”

Bond removed his gunmetal case and took out a cigarette. He offered one to her, but she shook her head.

“I’m fine, but they’re not,” he said. “Three men on motorcycles. Came from nowhere, tried to kill me. I’m afraid a lorry was smashed, and a few passenger cars, too. I tried to call London earlier, but everyone was in a bloody meeting.”

She pointed to the desk. “I assure you there’s been no security breach here. The phone is there. Please.”

Bond reached for the phone and removed from the inside pocket of his jacket a device that looked like a small black light meter. He pulled out a three-inch antenna and flicked a switch. He scanned the phone with the detector.

“I do that every morning, Mr. Bond,” Gina said. “With more sophisticated equipment.”

“I doubt it could do much better than this little toy,” Bond said, satisfied with the reading he got. The CSS 8700V Bug Alert was usually accurate. “Sorry, I had to check.”

“That’s all right.” She went to the kitchenette to get the drinks.

Bond picked up the phone and called the secure line again. This time Tanner picked up.

“Hello, James, sorry I was away earlier. M wanted me to—”

“Never mind, did Helena give you the message?”

“Yes, she did. We’re looking into it now. How many people knew you were on the way to Brussels?”

“Just you and M. Moneypenny and Helena, of course. Major Boothroyd, Head of S., Records . . . well, I suppose there could be quite a few people, Bill.”

“No one outside the firm?”

“No, not even my housekeeper. She never knows where I am.”

“Right,” Tanner said. “Look, don’t worry, we’ll see if we can find the hole and plug it. In the meantime, M has new orders for you.”

“Oh?”

“Since Agent Hollander has tracked down Harding, you are to observe him. Repeat, observe him. We want to find out who he’s working for or dealing with. He must have Skin 17 or he wouldn’t have fled the UK.”

“Understood. You do realize that there is the possibility that he doesn’t have it anymore. . . . What would you like me to do when he makes a move?”

“Use your judgment. We’d like him brought back to the UK, certainly. We’re already making arrangements for extradition. If it looks like we might lose Skin 17, do whatever it takes to retrieve it.”

Bond signed off and stretched back in the large reclining leather armchair behind the desk. Right on cue, Gina brought Bond’s vodka and a bottle of Orval beer for herself. She sat on the sofa bed and put her feet up.

He held up his glass and said, “Cheers.” He took a sip of the ice cold vodka and was pleasantly surprised. “Wolfschmidt from Riga. Well done. I think you and I will get along splendidly.”

“Thanks. I save it for special occasions,” she said. “I heard that Brits are hard to impress.” She laughed.

“Quite the opposite. England is such a bore most of the time, so we’re really quite easy. Anyway, you impressed this one. Is that the stuff made by Trappist monks?” he asked, indicating her beer.

She nodded, taking a long drink from the bottle. She managed to keep the toothpick sticking out of her mouth as she swallowed. For the first time, Bond noticed how fit she really was. Her shapely, strong leg muscles could be traced through her clothing. Her arms were also well toned. Although she was dressed as if she might be the manager of an upmarket women’s department store, the toothpick in her mouth gave her an impish, mischievous quality. There was no mistaking that this woman was streetwise. She was a mature little Peter Pan with breasts, which also happened to be quite shapely.

“So, tell me about Dr. Harding,” Bond said.

“When I got the alert on him from London, I ran a routine check with immigration at the Midi terminal. They caught him on camera, coming through as Donald Peters. Once I knew that, it was a matter of finding the right hotel with a Donald Peters registered there. He was at the Métropole. I waited at the cafe just outside. I drank a hell °f a lot of coffee! He finally came out last night after dinner.” She giggled slightly and said, “He went to the street where women . . . where Women sell sexual favors.”

Bond smiled with her. “Did he have a good time?”

She blushed. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “Afterward he went back to the hotel. I tipped a bellhop to phone my pager if he left. He was there all night. This morning he took a taxi somewhere . . . and I lost him. He hasn’t checked out of the hotel, though.”

“So there was nearly a complete period of twenty-four hours when he could have done anything.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And he could be making a deal right now.”

“It’s possible.”

“We had better go,” he said, sitting up. “I want to get into his room.”

SEVEN

BITTER SUITE

BOND LEFT GINA, drove the Jaguar to the hotel, and left it with the valet. She followed him and sat in her usual seat in the sidewalk cafe outside the building. The plan was that she would watch the front while Bond was inside.

As he checked in, he was reminded of the time he had stayed at the Métropole when he was a young man. He had become involved with a French film star who had a husband in Paris and a career in London. They would meet in Brussels to escape the press. It was a stormy, passionate affair that went on for several months before she landed a role in a picture being shot in the Far East. He never saw her again.

As a hotel catering to the rich and famous, the Métropole’s staff respected the guests’ privacy. It was everything Bond expected from a good hotel with tasteful luxury and unique personal character. Full °f gilded coffers, Italian stucco, modern wrought iron, Renaissance-style blue stained-glass windows, and glittering chandeliers, it was a true palace. Bond was given a room on the fifth floor that he thought would do nicely. He unpacked his bag and removed an electric toothbrush. He snapped off the brush and unscrewed the bottom of the device. Next to the three C-cell batteries was a set of thin, stiff wires. Old-fashioned skeleton keys were still being used at the hotel, so Q Branch’s electric pick gun would be the best tool for the job. Made of aluminum, it could pick pin tumbler locks much faster and easier than hand picks and could even open some of the pick-resistant locks that other tools wouldn’t.

Bond slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, then reached for the phone. He called the front desk and asked to be connected to Donald Peters’s room. There was no answer. Good. That was what Bond wanted.

He checked the magazine in his Walther PPK and slipped the gun in the custom-made Berns chamois shoulder holster, then left the room. He descended the grand staircase two floors and peered down the corridor. There was no one around. He moved quickly to Room 1919 and knocked. When there was no answer, he took out the pick gun, selected an attachment, and had the door unlocked in three seconds.

Closing the door behind him, he moved from the entry hall to the sitting room, where Harding had deposited his attaché case and other personal items. Harding had written “Hospital Erasme” on a notepad next to the phone. Bond tried the briefcase, but it was locked. He selected another attachment for the pick gun and inserted the wires into the keyholes. The snaps flipped open.

There wasn’t much there. A map of Brussels, rail timetables, calculator, paper, pens . . . and a strange sketch on a piece of physician’s stationery.

It was the torso of a man with a small rectangle drawn over his left breast. Bond noted the name and address on the stationery and replaced everything.

He quickly went through the cupboard and found nothing of interest, then went into the bedroom. Harding’s suitcase was in the wardrobe, along with a few items of clothing he had hung up. Bond reached for the suitcase but stopped cold when he heard a rattling of keys outside the door.

He bolted forward and slipped into the small bathroom. He quickly closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar, then stepped behind the frosted glass panel over the bathtub. Bond heard the suite door open, and the approaching voices of three men.

“You have to take it easy, Mr. Lee,” one of them said. Bond recognized Harding’s voice. “Basil here will make sure you get on the flight. How do you feel now?”

The door closed and the men went into the sitting room.

“It’s not too sore,” another man said with an Asian accent. “Except when I laugh.” Mr. Lee . . . Chinese, perhaps?

“Basil,” Harding said, “I’m leaving Brussels now. My job is done. You follow Mr. Lee and make damn sure he gets on that flight without any problems. Understand?”

“Yeah,” came a deep voice.

“Sit down, Mr. Lee, while I pack,” Harding said. “You want something out of the minibar?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just watch TV.” Bond heard the television in the sitting room switch on. A newscaster spoke in French.

“I want a beer after I go piss,” Basil said. He had a pronounced French accent, but Bond thought he might be Senegalese.

“Go ahead, it’s right in there,” Harding said.

Christ! There was nowhere to hide. Bond’s shape could easily be seen through the frosted glass. He squatted in the tub and drew the gun.

The door swung open. Through the foggy glass Bond could see a huge bulk of a man. He was black, and was dressed in a dark T-shirt and trousers. Although the image was distorted through the glass, his shoulders looked as wide as a dam’s.

Basil stood in front of the toilet and started to urinate. Bond couldn’t help but think that he was looking at the evil counterpart to Manneken-Pis.

“Basil?” Harding called from the other room.

“One minute, monsieur!” he yelled.

Bond didn’t wait for him to finish. He stood up slowly and stepped out from behind the glass. Basil was so busy watching his stream that he didn’t notice. When he felt the nuzzle of the gun in his back, he didn’t stop urinating.

“Don’t say a word,” said Bond. “Just finish up.”

The man nodded. After a few seconds, his bladder was empty.

Go on, give it a good shake and zip up.”

The man did as he was told.

“Better flush. Someone else may want to use it.”

Basil reached out and pulled the steel bulb on top of the commode. The toilet flush was loud. Bond took the opportunity to cold-cock the man on the back of the head.

Unfortunately it was like hitting an anvil. This took Bond by surprise, and Basil took advantage of the hesitation. He swung around, using his huge girth to slam Bond against the frosted glass panel, shattering it. The Walther PPK fell to the floor of the bathroom, discharging a round.

Basil grabbed Bond by his jacket collar and lifted him as if he were paper. Now that he was face-to-face with the thug, Bond could see that he was well over six feet tall and probably weighed in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds. His upper arms had a circumference of at least twenty inches.

Like a cat with a mouse, the big man slammed Bond back and forth against the walls around the bathtub. The tiles broke off in chunks.

“What the hell?” Harding looked in the bathroom. He stood in horror for a second, then turned to Lee, who was behind him. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

Bond caught a glimpse of Harding and the Chinese man before Basil grabbed hold of his hair with one hand, then punched him in the face with the other. It might as well have been a wrecking ball. Once again Bond crashed back into the tub on top of shards of broken glass. Basil then raised his left leg and stomped on Bond’s chest with his heavy boot, over and over.

Harding ran into the sitting room, gathered his attaché case and a couple of items from the bedroom, and pulled Lee out of the room. “Leave them, come on!” he shouted.

Bond was stunned, nearly unconscious. He could feel the boot slamming down on his rib cage and felt a terrible sharp pain. If he didn’t get out of that tub fast, the man would kick him so hard that his chest cavity would collapse.

Blinded and in agony, Bond groped beside him and felt pieces of broken glass. His fingers wrapped around a long one with a sharp point. When the boot came down again, Bond thrust the weapon as hard as he could into Basil’s calf.

The thug yelled so loudly that it snapped Bond out of the fog. He clutched the boot with both hands and shoved upward, throwing the big man off balance so that he toppled to the bathroom floor.

Bond jackknifed to his feet and leaped over the edge of the tub. He saw the Walther lying in the opposite corner, near the door. He tried to jump over Basil’s body, but the brute managed to trip him and shove him against the toilet. Bond landed hard against the porcelain, striking his lower back. He felt the edge of the toilet dig into his kidneys, sending jolts of anguish up his spine.

Basil rose and put his hands around Bond’s throat. He began to tighten his viselike grip. The man was so strong that he wouldn’t merely choke Bond to death. The man was about to crush his windpipe, and possibly his neck.

Bond’s eyes rolled into the back of head as the pressure on his neck increased. Instinctively, he reached up to the counter by the sink to his left to feel for a weapon—anything that might give him an advantage. He found it in a can of spray deodorant. With the thumb and fingers of one hand, Bond flicked the top off and positioned his index finger on the button. He aimed it in front of him and sprayed.

Basil screamed again and let go of Bond’s neck.

Bond immediately brought his legs up to his chest and kicked forward, knocking Basil off him and back against the bathroom wall.

There was barely enough room for one person in the bathroom, let alone two grown men, one of whom was a giant. Bond struggled to get to his feet, gasping for air as the black man bounced off the wall. The glass shard was still in his leg. Bond scooped the rest of Harding’s toiletries off the counter into Basil’s face. It gave Bond just enough time to get up and leap for the gun. The black man was just as fast, though. He tackled Bond and the two of them burst out of the bathroom into the entry hall. The gun was still in the bathroom.

They had a little more room here. Bond rolled backward so that he could get to his feet in the bedroom. Basil thundered after him. Bond picked up one of the chairs and threw it at the black man, who brushed it away as if he were swatting a mosquito. The chair smashed against the full-length mirror, breaking it into a hundred pieces.

“Now look what you went and did,” Bond said, completely out of breath. “Your seven years of bad luck is just beginning.”

Basil made a grotesque sound that resembled the roar of a lion, then charged Bond. They both fell back onto the king-sized bed, then rolled off the other side onto the floor. Bond got in two good punches, but the man was so strong, they didn’t seem to bother him at all. Bond twisted out from under him and got to his feet. He performed a neat back kick and struck Basil in the face. Basil, in retaliation, simply lifted the huge mattress off the bed as if it were a pillow. He threw it at Bond with the strength of a rhinoceros. The mattress knocked Bond into the dresser. Bond grabbed a lamp and clubbed the black man with it, smashing the lamp shade and bulb.

The fight moved into the sitting room, where they had even more space in which to move. There was an open bottle of wine on top of the wet bar. Bond took it by the neck and broke it against the wall, splashing bloodred liquid all over the place. Now he had a jagged weapon. The two men faced and circled each other slowly. Bond kept Basil at a distance with the sharp edge of the bottle.

Basil smiled, then lunged at Bond. Bond swung. The razor-edged broken bottle scraped across the black man’s face, creating five even tracks of blood on his skin. Whereas any other man would have been blinded by the attack, Basil merely seemed annoyed.

Bond swiped the bottle at him again, but this time Basil caught Bond’s arm and squeezed it. In pain, Bond dropped his weapon. Basil flung Bond over the writing desk and into the window. Like everything else in the beautiful hotel suite, it shattered on impact.

The desk was between him and the black man. Bond kicked and toppled it over, but Basil easily brushed it aside. Before the man could catch him, Bond spun around and dived between Basil’s legs for a space on the floor behind him. This maneuver gave Bond the two seconds he needed to get back on his feet.

Just as his sense of balance returned, his opponent got up and lunged. With split-second timing, Bond grabbed the man’s head and used the momentum to pull him hard and fast to his side.

Basil’s head crashed into the television set that Lee had left on. It exploded with great force. There was a cloud of sparks and gray smoke as the black man suddenly tensed, then started shaking violently. After, a few seconds he went limp. With the television still fitted around his head, he slumped to the carpet. It was over.

Bond took stock of the damage to his body. His lower back was screaming in pain, and his ribs hurt like hell. One or two might be broken. His kidneys might be damaged. He was bleeding from sev-eral contusions on his face and hands.

But he was alive.

He found the phone on the floor and called Gina’s mobile.

When she answered, he said, “Harding and a Chinese man just left the hotel. Did you see them?”

“No. When did they leave?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“Damn. They must have gone out the back.”

“Try to find them. Call me in my room in ten minutes.”

“Are you coming down?” she asked.

The pain in Bond’s back was making him dizzy. “In a while” was all he could manage to say. He hung up, then opened the minibar and removed a bottle of bourbon. He unscrewed the top and took a long swig. The liquor made him cough once, but the warmth felt great.

He limped to the bathroom and picked up his gun, then left the suite. Surprisingly, no one had heard the commotion. The corridor was empty.

Bond climbed the stairs to his own floor and the sanctity of his room. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. There was a nasty gash above his right eyebrow, and there was a darkening bruise on his left cheekbone. He washed his hands and saw that the cuts on his knuckles were superficial. His lower back and ribs were the main problems.

He plugged the drain in his own bathtub and ran the hot water until it was steaming. He undressed, gingerly pulling off his shirt and trousers. By the time he was naked, the tub was full.

Wincing, Bond lowered his bruised and battered body into the near-scalding water and fell asleep within two minutes.

EIGHT

A TASTE OF BELGIUM

THE NEXT MORNING, bond allowed Gina to take him to a private infirmary, where he submitted to an examination. Sore and stiff from the ordeal in the hotel suite, he felt particularly irritable. His conversation with M on the phone the night before hadn’t helped.

“So you let Dr. Harding get away?” she had asked.

“Ma’am, I didn’t let him do anything,” Bond had replied. “He escaped while I was fighting for my life.”

“Hmpfh.” She was beginning to sound more and more like her predecessor.

“And where was Ms. Hollander at the time?” she asked.

“Doing her job. Harding and the Chinese man slipped out by a back exit. We know they haven’t left Brussels.”

“How can you be sure? You seem to have butterfingers lately, Double-O Seven.”

Bond wanted to snap at her but took a deep breath instead. “Ma’am, Ms. Hollander has unshakable connections with immigration here. We would know if they had left by plane or train.”

“What about by car?” she asked. “They could get in a car and drive right out of Belgium and no one would know.”

The conversation ended badly. Bond promised to do his best to find Harding, and M said something to the effect that his best wasn’t enough. After he rang off, he threw a glass of whisky against the wall.

Things hadn’t improved in the morning. He got up feeling as if his body had been the target of a battering ram.

The doctor spoke in French to Gina. Bond understood him perfectly. He had a cracked rib.

“I see no damage to your kidneys other than bruising,” the doctor told him in English. “If you notice blood in your urine, then of course you must come in for more tests.”

The doctor wrapped Bond’s chest in a tight harness and told him to wear it for at least a week. It had Velcro straps, so he could take it on and off for bathing, but he should certainly wear it to bed.

As they left the clinic, Gina led him to her own car, a red Citroen ZX. “We’ll go and see that doctor now,” she said. She moved the ever-present toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other. “I checked him out. Dr. Hendrik Lindenbeek is a cardiologist, and from what I gather, a good one.”

Bond was silent in the car as they drove southeast. Away from the central historical section, Brussels became like any other modern European city. Vestiges of the old world disappeared and were replaced by late-twentieth-century architecture, shopping malls, office buildings, and elegant town homes. Franklin Roosevelt Avenue might have been Park Lane in London.

“Don’t worry,” Gina said, uncomfortable with Bond’s sullen mood. “We’ll find him. My gut tells me he hasn’t left Brussels.”

“My gut tells me that I should leave this ghastly business and take early retirement,” Bond said bitterly.

“Come now. Surely this isn’t the first time something has gone wrong for you?”

“No, it isn’t. It’s just that sometimes I wonder why I bother. In the old days, the enemy was clear cut. Communism was a worldwide threat and we were motivated by ideology. Today it’s different. I feel as if I’ve become a glorified policeman. There must be a better Way to die.”

“Stop it,” she said, her voice stern. “You do your best. What else is there? Everyone has his or her limit.”

“I’ve been to my limit. Many times.”

“James,” she said. “There will come a time, probably very soon, when you will push yourself past your limit. When that happens, you will come to terms with your life and this job of yours.”

Bond was too weary to argue.

“What you need is an evening out,” she said brightly. “A good Belgian dinner, some drinks . . . How about it?”

Bond looked sideways at her. “Are you asking me for a date?”

She grinned in her pixielike way. “Is that all right? Providing we are free tonight, of course.”

Bond allowed himself a smile. “Sure.”

They arrived at their destination and she parked in front of Dr. Lindenbeek’s building. They got out, pressed the intercom button, and explained that they were “police.” A nurse met them at the door and said that Dr. Lindenbeek was with a patient.

“We’ll wait,” Gina said in Flemish. She showed the woman her credentials and they were led into the austere waiting room.

“It shouldn’t be long,” the nurse said, then left them alone. They could hear a man’s voice speaking softly through the wall. After a few minutes, an elderly woman emerged, followed by the doctor. He said good-bye to her in French, then turned to Gina and Bond.

Gina spoke in Flemish, explaining that they were from the government and wanted to ask him some questions. Immediately, Bond knew that the man was involved. Lindenbeek’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard.

“Come in,” he said in English, gesturing toward his office.

Bond asked, “Dr. Lindenbeek, do you recall making a sketch that looks like this?” He took a pen from the doctor’s desk and drew a torso on the prescription pad. When he outlined the pacemaker position, Dr. Lindenbeek slumped back in his chair and held his head in his hands.

“Well?” Bond asked.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“Not yet. But it will help if you tell us everything.”

“I must keep my patients confidentiality . . .” he muttered.

Bond perceived that this man was merely a pawn. Perhaps if he scared him a bit, he would open up.

“Dr. Lindenbeek,” Bond said. “We’re here on a serious matter of espionage. I can assure you that if you don’t cooperate with us, then you will be under arrest. Espionage is a major crime. It can carry the death penalty. At the very least, you would lose your licence to practice medicine. Now, are you going to talk to us, or are we going to have to take you to the police?”

The doctor almost whimpered. “Yes, I performed the operation. I was forced to.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Gina suggested. The toothpick went from one side of her mouth to the other.

Again Lindenbeek hesitated.

Bond added, “Dr. Lindenbeek, you could also be in serious danger. The people you’re dealing with are quite ruthless. They’re killers.”

Lindenbeek poured a glass of water from a pitcher on his desk. He offered some to his visitors, but they shook their heads.

“If I tell you everything, can you guarantee me protection?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Bond said. “It depends on how much you tell us and how helpful it is.”

The doctor nodded and began to speak. “Five . . . no, six months ago, I got into a little trouble. There was a patient, a woman. I’m not married, and sometimes it is difficult for me to meet women. I was attracted to a patient and I may have gone too far. She certainly encouraged me, though. It was, how do you say, mutual?”

“Consensual,” Bond said.

“Yes. But somehow photographs were taken of us, here in this examination room. I had been set up. Afterward, this woman filed charges against me for rape and malpractice. The truth is that she is a member of something called the Union.”

He looked at Bond and Gina for a sign of recognition when he mentioned the name.

Bond nodded and said, “Go on.”

“You know of them?”

“Yes. Please continue, doctor.”

The doctor seemed relieved. “Thank God. I was afraid you would think I was crazy. This Union, they contacted me and said they could make this malpractice suit go away if I did something for them. At the time, I was defiant and thought I could prove in court that the woman wasn’t raped. Then they did something horrible. I began to receive photographs in the mail—child pornography. The packets would come two or three times a week. I burned them, but the Union got in touch with me again and said that I was now on some kind of list of child molesters. If I didn’t help them with a service, they would make sure that I was arrested and charged with dealing in that filth.”

“How did they contact you?” Bond asked.

“Always by phone. Some Frenchman. It was a local exchange, I’m pretty sure.”

“Then what happened?” Gina asked.

“What could I do? I agreed to help them,” he said. Lindenbeek was sweating and his hands were shaking as he poured himself another glass of water.

“What did they want you to do?”

“I was told that a Chinese man, Mr. Lee Ming, would come to see me. He was in his late fifties and actually needed the pacemaker. His heart rhythm went up and down. I was told to schedule an operation at Erasme for this man. I was to obtain a pacemaker and have everything ready. The night before the operation, I was told that an Englishman would visit me and deliver what they called a microdot. It would be on a piece of film. I was to put this microdot inside the pacemaker before performing the operation. As it seemed harmless, I did it.”

“When was this?”

“The operation was two days ago.”

“Can we see Mr. Lee’s file?” Gina asked.

At first Lindenbeek hesitated, but then he nodded. “It’s right here. He handed it over. Bond examined it, but there wasn’t much there. “Lee Ming” could very well be an alias. The patient’s address was listed as the Pullman Astoria Hotel.

“Did they ever tell you what was on the microdot?”

Lindenbeek shook his head. “I didn’t want to know.”

Bond believed him. The man was too scared to lie.

“Do you know where Mr. Lee is now?” Bond asked.

Lindenbeek shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. He’s a Chinese citizen visiting this country. The Englishman asked how soon Mr. Lee would be able to travel. I assumed that he was going back to China.”

“And you’re sure that the people who wanted this done called themselves the Union?”

“Yes.”

Bond stood up. “Right. Dr. Lindenbeek, I think it would be best if you come with us. We’ll want to interrogate you in more detail and show you some mug shots. This is for your own safety. If the Union are indeed behind this, and they learn that you’ve talked, you could be a dead man.”

“I’m under arrest?”

Gina nodded. “It’s better that way, doctor. You’ll be safer. We’ll take you to the police station downtown. Once we get this sorted out, we can move you somewhere else. We will need you for a trial if and when we catch the people responsible for this.”

“You mean . . . testify?”

Bond nodded. “You’re the only one who can prove that our man, Harding, gave you this microdot.”

“He told me his name was Donald Peters.”

“He lied. Come on, doctor. Better cancel the rest of your appointments today Let’s go.”

Hendrik Lindenbeek was taken to the police station at Rue Marché au Charbon, a more than fifty-year-old dark brown brick building. The Brussels authorities had been contacted by the Ministry of Defence and were now aware of the situation. Lindenbeek would be held pending a hearing that would take place the next day at the Palais de Justice. A public prosecutor had been assigned to consider espionage charges against Steven Harding and Lee Ming, and an all points alert had been issued for their arrest. Extraditing the suspects would be another matter altogether, as Belgium would hold its own hearings on whether or not they could indeed be sent to England. Bond figured that they would hold on to Lindenbeek, as he was a Belgian citizen. A Chinese national would probably be sent back home. Harding, however, was English, and belonged back in the UK.

Bond and Gina spent the afternoon at the police station and saw that Lindenbeek was put in a cell alone. Inspector Opsomer assured them that they would be contacted as soon as he heard something. Belgium’s state security force, the Securité d’État, was taking charge of the investigation. From then on, there was nothing more that could be done.

Before leaving the station, Gina phoned the Pullman Astoria Hotel and learned that Lee Ming had checked out.

Although they had caught a big fish, Bond felt frustrated. He knew M wouldn’t be completely happy, either.

They went back to the Métropole. Gina collapsed in an armchair while Bond sat at the desk to phone London. After the ritualistic security checks, he was put through to his chief.

“Double-O Seven?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How are you feeling? I heard about your injuries,” she said. Her concern sounded genuine.

“I’ll live, ma’am. Just a cracked rib and some bruises.”

“I dare say you’ve survived much worse.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to report. Dr. Lindenbeek is in custody and the matter is being handled by the Securité d’État. We’re out of the loop as far as he is concerned.”

“That’s all right, as long as the Belgians hold on to him. For the time being anyway. No leads regarding Harding or this Chinese man?

“None. They could very well still be in Brussels. Then again . . .”

“I understand. Double-O Seven, I want you to continue your work with Station B for at least another day. If nothing turns up, come back to England. I’m afraid I’ll have to give the Minister news he’s not going to like.”

Bond could hear the disappointment in her voice. He had let her down. “Ms. Hollander and I are going to go through Interpol files tomorrow and try to determine who Lee Ming really is. He looked familiar somehow.”

“Fine. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Bond hung up and said nothing. Gina picked up on Bond’s gloom and said, “Hey, remember what I said you needed tonight? Come on, let’s go have dinner. The restaurant downstairs is fabulous. Change your clothes or do whatever it is you Brits do to get ready for an evening out with a gorgeous, fun-loving Belgian girl.”

They met again in the hotel’s luxurious bar, Le 19ème, which was laid out in the style of a gentleman’s club, with Corinthian columns and deep leather chairs.

She was dressed in a low-cut, short black cocktail dress that revealed more of her legs than Bond had previously seen. The single pearl on her necklace dangled teasingly at the top of her pronounced cleavage. Her eyes sparkled.

“You look good enough to eat,” Bond said.

“So do you,” she said, taking his arm. He was dressed in a tailor-made Brioni dinner suit.

L’Alban Chambon is considered one of Belgium’s finest restaurants. It is tastefully designed with wood floors, white walls, and intricately carved blue molding. There are mirrors on two sides of the room, creating the illusion that the room is much larger than it really is. The head-waiter showed Bond and Gina to a small round table covered by a white tablecloth on top of a blue one.

As they sat, a tall man wearing a chef’s hat approached them.

“Monsieur Bond?” he asked.

“Dominique!” Bond said. He shook hands with the chef de cuisine.

How good to see you again. This is my colleague, Gina Hollander. Gina, this is one of Europe’s best chefs, Dominique Michou.”

She spoke to him in French. “Pleased to meet you.” Mr. Michou kissed her hand, then said, “I would like you to try our featured special tonight.”

“We’d be delighted.”

“Splendid. I’ll turn you over to Frederick, then. Enjoy your meal.”

Michou bowed and returned to the kitchen. Frederick, the head-waiter, presented them with menus and a wine list. Bond ordered a full-bodied red wine, Chateau Magdaleine Bouhou.

New Age solo piano music was playing softly over the sound system. A plaintive, high-pitched male voice began to improvise lyrics over the music. Gina closed her eyes and smiled.

“You know this music?” Bond asked.

She nodded. “It’s a Belgian composer named Wim Mertens. He’s contemporary and does some beautiful things. I find his music very sad at times.”

Bond shrugged. “If I have any taste in music at all, it’s for jazz and big band. Ever hear of the Ink Spots?”

“I don’t think so.”

When the wine came, Bond toasted Gina and they drank together. Then he asked, “Gina, what is your cover?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you use a cover? In the old days when MI6 was known as Universal Exports, and later Transworld Consortium, I traveled the world as an importer/exporter. What do you tell people when they ask you what you do?”

“My memoir in college was in fashion design,” she said. “I really am a designer, so that’s what I say. I’m partners with a friend of mine from school. She owns a dress shop in Brussels. We design things together.”

“You look the part, then.”

“Thank you. And what do you tell people now that MI6 is no longer an ‘importer/exporter’?”

Bond smiled wryly. “Usually I say I’m a civil servant. That tends to shut them up right away.”

A waiter brought them salade d’asperges a l’oeuf sur le plat et crème d’estragon, which was made of tender white and green Belgian asparagus with a poached egg on top and creamy tarragon sauce on the side.

“You’re not like other Brits,” she said after a while.

“Oh?”

“We have always seen Brits as very serious and easily shocked. Except for the ones who come over and booze it up for a weekend.”

“I am neither,” Bond said.

“No! You like your alcohol, but it does not seem like you would be easily shocked. Another way I’ve always thought of British men is that they are ‘real’ gentlemen. You are a gentleman.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“What do you think of Belgian women?” she asked, licking a bit of sauce from the corner of her mouth. Bond realized that this was the first time he had seen her without a toothpick in her mouth.

“Are you a typical Belgian woman?”

She laughed. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure we can be classified, since Belgium is such a multilingual country. The French girls in the south are a little different from the Flemish girls in the north, and so on. We are perhaps not as wild and sexy as Dutch girls.”

“You’re not? Bloody hell . .

That made her laugh. “I mean, we’re as sexually open as any other European girls, I suppose, we just don’t talk about it. It depends on the level of education, I think. Am I making sense?”

“You’re saying that actions speak louder than words?”

She knew he was teasing her. “I had better be careful,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “My English is not so good. You will twist my words and make me say something I’ll be sorry for later!”

The main courses came. She was having filet de boeuf poele, legumes de saison frits, et sauce choron—sauteed fillet of beef with fried vegetables and choron sauce. He tried the chef’s special, medallion de veau de lait et risotto aux legumes et parmesan—fillet of milk-fed veal and rice with vegetables and Parmesan cheese. The rice was packed in the shape of a hockey puck with potatoes mixed in.

“This is delicious,” she said, taking a dainty bite of beef.

“Monsieur Michou does it again,” Bond said. The veal was light and tender, cooked a perfect medium so that the pink center was juicy and succulent.

“How important is this formula that was stolen?” she asked.

“Quite, although I think it’s more important to Britain for political reasons than for scientific ones.”

“Why?”

“Britain is no longer the empire it once was. My superiors believe that this process will give us more face, I suppose, and it’s worth a fortune. Our Ministry of Defence have visions of profits dancing before their eyes, but it’s more about proving to the world that we can still come up with technological advances.”

Dessert was a Belgian specialty, one of Bond’s favorites—veritable “Cafe Litgeois”—a cold, creamy coffee milk shake that left white mustaches on their upper lips. Gina gently scraped hers clean with her index finger and then licked off the excess cream. Bond found the sight incredibly erotic.

When Bond and Gina finished, it was nearly eleven o’clock.

“It is said that in Belgium, dinner is the evening’s entertainment,” Gina said. “Usually, a night out might consist of the theater or a show, or perhaps a dinner—but not both. Dinner in Belgium is a ritual to be savored and never rushed. It sometimes lasts hours. The time flew by, didn’t it?” Bond could see that she was slightly nervous about how the rest of the evening might go. After they had drunk two bottles of the wine between them, she was more relaxed and flirtatious.

As they left the restaurant, he asked, “What now? Shall we take a walk?”

She wrapped her arm in his and pulled him down closer to her lips, then whispered, “No. Take me to your room.”

“Why, I’m shocked! Positively shocked!”

A dim golden light seeped in from the bedroom window and splashed across the bed. She let the cocktail dress slip off her shoulders to reveal a pink, scalloped daisy lace underwired bra and thong. She gingerly undressed him and removed the rib harness, and gently pushed him back on the bed. She straddled him, then leaned over to kiss him.

Her agile tongue darted around inside his mouth. Considering that she was able to perform tricks with a toothpick, Bond wasn’t surprised. He sucked it and probed her mouth with his own.

She sat back up and slipped the bra off. Her breasts were full and firm, the nipples erect and hard. He reached up and touched them, rubbing the tips lightly in the palms of his hands. She moaned softly and closed her eyes. She moved back a little so that she could touch him. Bond let her manipulate him until he was as hard as stone. Gina removed her thong and slid her wetness down over him. She rocked back and forth on his body, slowly and purposefully at first, then faster and faster in wild abandon as their passion increased. Her tight, compact body writhed and wiggled over him, sending spasms of pleasure to the very depths of their souls.

“Oh, James,” she cried as she approached climax. “It’s perfect. . . perfect . . .”

He could feel her spasms around him, triggering his own release. For those few moments, they were both lost in each other, melding into one living being with fire for a heart and electricity for a soul.

Perfect indeed.

NINE

COVERING TRACKS

AT PRECISELY EIGHT-THIRTY A.M., the Belgian police removed Hendrik Lindenbeek from his cell in Police Headquarters and prepared to take him to the Palais de Justice for a preliminary hearing. It was standard operating procedure for the police to transfer all the prisoners who were arrested during the night to the massive ornate building dating from 1883.

Bond had suggested that they transport Lindenbeek under cover, for the Union might very well attempt to assassinate him if they could get a clean shot. Inspector Opsomer, an efficient but impetuous officer, humored the British agent and assured him that they would take every precaution.

Nevertheless, Opsomer was not present in the morning. He was called away on another matter and left the transfer of prisoners to his assistant, Sergeant Poelaert.

Poelaert, who hadn’t been apprised of the seriousness of Lindenbeck’s crime and his importance to an ongoing investigation, put the doctor and two other prisoners in an ordinary police van. Under special circumstances, armored cars were used, but this didn’t seem necessary to Poelaert, as it would have required more time and manpower.

Lindenbeek, handcuffed and in leg chains, was escorted to the garage by two gendarmes. The two other prisoners had been arrested for mugging a tourist and were already inside the olive green Mercedes van. Lindenbeek climbed in the back and sat down, nervous and frightened since his arrest. He wasn’t accustomed to this kind of treatment. He was a medical doctor! He had a respectable list of patients! He hoped that all this could be sorted out quickly and that he would be sent to a safe hiding place. His lawyer was confident that everything would turn out for the best, but Lindenbeek wondered if he would ever practice medicine again.

Sergeant Poelaert locked the back of the van and got in the passenger side. He gave the signal to open the garage door.

A small seventy-year-old chapel stood less than a half block away from the police station. A window in the steeple was conveniently placed so that anyone crouched inside could see the entire street.

Dr. Steven Harding sat at the window, his eyes locked on police headquarters. He held a CSS 300 VHF/UHF radio transceiver to his face.

“Stand by,” he said.

The garage door opened.

“Okay, they’re coming out,” he said. “Send in the bird.”

“Roger that,” came a voice at the other end.

The van pulled out of the garage to begin its ten-minute journey to the Justice Palace.

“It’s a green van,” Harding reported. “Two men in the front. Looks like there are others in the back with Lindenbeek. I can’t tell how many.”

“Does it matter?” came the other voice.

Harding snickered. “Not at all. A prisoner is a prisoner, right?”

The van inched along the narrow road in traffic. Aside from the normal rush hour congestion, the transfer was on schedule. Poelaert saw nothing out of the ordinary on the streets. It was going to be an easy delivery.

As Brussels is a large metropolitan city, the presence of helicopters in the air is never a cause for alarm. The Soviet-made Mi-24 Hind assault chopper had been painted white so that it wouldn’t be conspicuous; in fact, it was completely ignored when it appeared in the sky over the heart of the city.

The van turned down Rue des Minimes, a wider artery, and headed southwest toward the Palace.

Harding said, “I see the bird. It’s all yours now. Over and out.” He pushed in the antenna and got up from his cramped position in the steeple. He quickly climbed down the steps and slipped out the back, where he had left a rented dark blue Mercedes 500 SEL. Lee Ming was in the passenger seat, his eyes closed.

Harding got in the car and pulled away from the chapel. Lee woke up and asked, “How did it go?”

“We’ll know in a few minutes. Let’s get out of here,” Harding said.

The van progressed slowly down the large, crowded street. The helicopter hovered overhead. Armed with thirty-two 57mm projectiles in rocket pods located on the stub wings, the Hind is particu-larly adept at hitting small targets with precision.

When the van stopped at a red light, the driver heard the chopper and looked out the window. He pointed it out to Poelaert. The sergeant peered at the sky, but the sun was in his eyes. All he could see was the silhouette of the helicopter and that it was white.

“It’s from a TV news channel,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

The driver laughed. “ ‘Don’t worry about it’ is at the top of the list of best famous last words.”

The light turned green and the van moved out into the intersection.

Up above, the Union member with his hand on the trigger saw that the van was clear of most of the other traffic. The timing was perfect.

Two rockets shot out from underneath the helicopter and zoomed down to the van so quickly that witnesses were not sure what had really happened. All they knew was that the van exploded with powerful force. Pedestrians screamed. Other vehicles skidded and slammed into each other in an effort to avoid the blast. For several minutes there was utter chaos on the street. When the smoke finally cleared, the only thing left of the van was a burning chassis with five charred corpses.

The Hind pulled away and sped to the south. By the time the authorities determined that the van had been shot at from the sky, the helicopter was long gone.

Meanwhile, the Mercedes SEL made it to “the Ring,” and headed toward the E19 exit.

“How long to Paris?” Lee asked.

“I don’t know,” Harding said. “Just sit back and enjoy the scenery. I’ll get you to your plane on time.”

“My superiors are not happy with the change of plans.” Over the past couple of days, Harding had been holed up with the Chinese man and found him to be cantankerous and annoying.