High Time To Kill

“Look, we can’t help it if Lindenbeek got caught. I had to see that he was eliminated. We couldn’t have him identifying us. The Union had to make last-minute changes, all right? The original plan with you flying out of Brussels to Beijing just wouldn’t have worked. They’ve probably got both of our faces plastered on every Immigration desk in Belgium. You would have been arrested before stepping on the plane.”

Harding sounded more sure of himself than he felt. Ever since the encounter in the Métropole, he had been a nervous wreck. Everything had begun to fall apart. Basil had been hired to guard Lee, but instead had fouled up. The Chinese thought that Lee was going to be on a plane to Beijing, but that plan had to be changed at the last minute.

“I would have you know,” Harding said, “that the Union fulfilled their end of the deal. We got the formula on a microdot, and we got that microdot inside of you. It was your problem to get back to China with it.”

“No,” Lee said. “It was part of the Union’s bargain with my people that you would see me safely into China.”

“We were going to do that, weren’t we? All right, so we changed the original plan. The new plan is more complicated and will take more time, but it will get you to China. Relax.”

“I don’t particularly want to go to India,” Lee said.

“I can’t do anything about it,” Harding said. “These are the orders from my superiors. I am to take you to the Paris airport, and there you’ll get on a flight to Delhi. You’ll be there only a short while. Then you’ll get on a plane to Kathmandu. That’s in Nepal.”

“I’m not stupid.”

Harding shrugged. “You will be contacted by someone in Kathmandu. They’ll find you at your hotel. All of that information is in the packet I gave you. Arrangements are being made to smuggle you across the border into Tibet. From there, you’re home free. But you’ll have to make your way to Beijing from Tibet.”

“It sounds very tiresome. Don’t forget I just underwent surgery.”

“You could be a little more grateful, you know,” Harding said. “The Union are going to all this trouble to get you to Tibet as a favor. We don’t have to do this. Like I said, our obligation stopped with getting you the formula. The Union simply want our clients to be happy, so we’re taking this extra step to see that you get home safely. After all, we don’t get the other half of our money until you’re back in Beijing.”

“What about you?” Lee asked. “You are a traitor to your country. Where will you go? How much of the fifty million dollars is your percentage?”

“I can’t go back to England, that’s certain. Don’t worry about my percentage. I am being paid enough to make all this worthwhile. I have to leave my home, my country, my job . . . I plan on retiring on an island somewhere in the South Pacific.”

“Stay away from the Philippines,” Lee said. “That place is no fun.”

As they drove out of Belgium and into France, Harding worried about the next phase of the plan once Lee got to Nepal. At least he would be through with his end of the operation after he dropped Lee off at the Paris airport. What happened next was out of his hands, although he had helped plan it. If only that damned secret service agent hadn’t poked his nose into it. What was his name? Bond? That’s right . . . the golfer.

Keeping track of him would be easy enough.

James Bond and Gina Hollander sat in her office, staring at the computer monitor. Her spare laptop had been set up next to it so that they could work simultaneously. They had patched into Interpol’s database using Gina’s authorized password. The mug shots of Asians had been flashing on the screens for three hours and they had yet to make a match to Lee Ming.

“They’re all too young,” Bond said. “Is there any way we can narrow our parameters?”

“Not really,” she said. “Not from here. You ask for active Chinese agents, you get active Chinese agents.”

“This is getting us nowhere. We must have looked at hundreds of faces, and frankly, they really are starting to look alike. I don’t mean that derogatorily.”

“Perhaps he’s not a criminal. Maybe he’s an ordinary Chinese citizen. Maybe he’s not from China at all,” she suggested.

“Look up inactive Chinese agents. He’s in his late fifties. He could be retired.”

Gina typed on the keypad until a different set of screens appeared. As expected, the faces looked older, more seasoned.

“This is more like it,” Bond said.

She typed on the laptop and brought up the same database there. “I’ll take N through Z, all right?”

They worked for the next hour.

“At least there are not as many inactive agents,” she said.

Bond was coming to the end of his half, when a face popped on the screen that looked familiar. He stopped and studied it closely. The man was identified as Ming Chow, a former member of China’s dreaded secret police. He had retired in 1988 due to a heart problem.

“This is him,” Bond whispered.

“Really?”

The photo was twenty years old, so the man appeared much younger than Bond recalled. He clicked on the “details” button and more biographical information flashed onto the screen.

Gina read aloud: “Ming Chow worked in counterintelligence through the seventies and later became an officer in the People’s External Security Force. He distinguished himself with the investigation and arrest of a British spy stationed in Shanghai. MI6 agent Martin Dudley was caught red-handed with Chinese military secrets being smuggled in antiquities. Before Dudley could stand trial, he was found dead in a jail cell. Ming Chow was promoted shortly afterward.”

“Of course! Now I remember why this man looked so familiar. Martin Dudley was providing intelligence to MI6 for years when they finally caught up with him. There was quite a stink between Britain and China at the time. I was sent to China with a delegation of diplomats to testify at his trial. He was found dead the morning his trial was supposed to have begun. We were convinced he had been murdered, but the Chinese claimed he hanged himself. Ming Chow— how could I forget him?—he was the man in charge. When we suggested that perhaps Mr. Dudley had been killed, Ming Chow just grinned. ‘So sorry,’ he said, ‘accidents happen.’ I knew the bastard was lying. I could see it in his eyes.”

Bond tapped the monitor with the back of his index finger. “He’s older now, but our Lee Ming is Ming Chow.”

“So he’s not inactive at all?”

“Not necessarily. He may not be officially working for China’s secret service. Many times, as you know, former agents hire themselves out for ‘freelance’ work.”

“The Union, perhaps?”

“I smell them in this, all right. Their fingerprints are all over this case.”

“We had better get this mug shot out to all the Immigration stations in Belgium.”

“We’ll do better than that. This fellow’s face is going out all over the world,” he said.

Lee Ming, alias Ming Chow, had just checked in for his flight to Delhi when his mug shot was transmitted by Interpol to all Western immigration authorities. Unfortunately, he had already cleared Customs and Immigration and was waiting at the gate for boarding to begin. As it was, he probably would not have been caught. The Interpol information accompanying the photo of the Chinese man failed to mention that the man being sought was at least twenty years older than he was in the photo.

A young British Airlines customer service representative named George Almond happened to be on break and was sitting with a sketch pad in a cafe across from Lee’s gate. George considered himself a fairly good artist, and he especially enjoyed drawing people.

The Chinese man sitting across the way was a good subject. He had a lot of character and there was a timeless expression of world-weariness about him that George was determined to capture on paper.

It wasn’t long before he had quite a decent drawing of Lee Ming.

Thirty minutes later, as Lee Ming was flying toward Asia, George Almond went back to his post in customer service. One way that he amused himself between customers (who invariably wanted to complain about the airline’s food or lost luggage) was to look at Interpol’s broadcasts. He liked to get ideas for sketches by viewing the mug shots. The criminals always had character.

When he saw Lee Ming’s photo, his heart started to pound. He opened his sketchbook to the drawing he had done less than an hour earlier and compared the two faces.

“My God,” he said aloud, then picked up the phone to call security.

The scratchy substance he had used to age and wrinkle the skin on his face had worked beautifully. Steven Harding looked at himself in the mirror and was pleased. He now had crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and droopy bags beneath them.

For the second time, he applied spirit gum to the false mustache. He hated the smell of the stuff, and it was awfully tacky. His first attempt to disguise himself with it had failed miserably. He had used too much and it got all over his fingers. It took him a half hour to clean them with nail polish remover.

He nervously looked at the clock. He had a little less than an hour before he had to go to the Paris airport and catch his own flight.

Harding carefully pressed the mustache on his upper lip. He held it in place with the dry sponge for thirty seconds, then examined his handiwork. The mustache was straight, symmetrical, and looked great. He was pleased. Now the hair.

It was an ingenious device that the Union had given him. It looked like a small harmonica, but in reality it was hair whitener. By removing the metal comb hidden inside and running it through one’s hair a few times, a person could age himself considerably. Harding did as he had been instructed to do, and within minutes he was a graying man of sixty.

After Bond and Gina had found Lee’s face, both the Chinese man’s and Steven Harding’s mug shots were broadcast simultaneously to law enforcement agencies all over the world once again.

When the gray-haired man with a mustache and glasses approached Immigration and presented a British passport, the officer had no reason to connect him with any of the most-wanted faces that continually flashed across his screen.

“May I see your ticket, please?” the man asked. Harding complied. “Morocco, eh? It will be hot there.”

“It’s good for my asthma,” Harding said.

“Be careful with the water.” The officer, who had no idea that the passenger was wanted for international espionage, stamped the passport and handed everything back.

No one paid further attention to the small man who breezed through security, checked in at the gate with no problems, and then boarded a flight to Casablanca.

TEN

FIGHT INTO OBLIVION

“IT’S OUT OF YOUR HANDS, DOUBLE-O SEVEN,” M SAID SHARPLY.

“All I need to do is catch a flight to Delhi and—”

“That is all, Double-O Seven.” The finality in her voice shut him up.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bond said after a pause.

They stood in her office at the end of the day. He had just returned from Belgium and made his report. The meeting did not go well. Steven Harding was missing, presumably out of Europe. Lee Ming, thanks to the astute airline representative in Paris, was traced to Delhi and then Nepal.

Bill Tanner had received a report from the Delhi authorities saying that Lee Ming had come through the airport and had boarded a flight to Kathmandu. As requested, the Immigration officers in Delhi had stopped Lee before he got on the plane. They had orders to search him, but due to some unforseen bureaucratic foul-up, they had no idea what they were looking for. They searched Lee’s luggage and forced him to strip anyway, hoping they would find something incriminating. They failed. Noting that the Chinese gentleman had a recent implant scar, they became confused. Had they grabbed the wrong man? He certainly seemed perfectly innocent. What should they do now?

They had let him go. Lee got on the flight and was now somewhere in Nepal. It had never occurred to the Indian authorities to hold Lee until they received further instructions.

Tanner had said, “You can’t win them all, James,” but it hadn’t helped. Now Bond felt frustrated and angry that Steven Harding had slipped through his fingers. He was particularly sensitive about traitors. Bond had encountered his fair share of betrayal in his lifetime.

“Station I is in charge now,” M said. “By the time you could get to Nepal, Lee Ming or Ming Chow—whatever the hell his name is— would be in China. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that Station I is successful in stopping him from leaving Nepal. As I understand it, they’ve traced him to a hotel in Kathmandu. We’ve been told that an arrest is imminent. You’re to go back to regular duty until further notice. Of much further concern, I think, is the leak from our office here. There’s been a breach of security at home, and I don’t like that. I don’t like it one bit, do I make myself clear?”

She seemed to think that it was his fault somehow. “Ma’am, I assure you, I’ve treated this assignment with the same discretion that I’ve afforded every other one,” Bond said.

“Stop it, I’m not blaming you,” she said. There were times when she really did sound like a mother hen. It was as if she were upset with her eldest son and, although she still loved him, held him more accountable than her “other” children.

“It’s a short list of people who knew you were going to Brussels,” she said. “Do we have a traitor here at SIS? The thought is horrifying to me.”

“I agree, ma’am. It’s been a long time since something like that’s happened.”

“I don’t want it happening on my watch. Mr. Tanner, tell him what we’ve learned.”

Tanner cleared his throat and said, “An autopsy was performed on the remains of Dr. Thomas Wood. Besides being shot in the head and leg, it appeared that his throat had been cut. From ear to ear.”

“That’s the Union’s signature,” Bond said.

“Could be,” Tanner agreed. “The slugs recovered from the body were nine millimeter, but they were too badly damaged to indicate what gun fired them.”

M said, “Our analysts believe that Union involvement is entirely possible, especially considering that strange fax that Dr. Wood received. You know that they have recently gained a reputation for being quite good at infiltrating intelligence organizations.”

“So, it’s possible,” Bond said, “that the Union are responsible for the breach of security.”

M looked hard at him. “I’m afraid you have to play plumber for a while, Double-O Seven, and plug that leak.”

Zakir Bedi, an Indian national based in Delhi, had been employed by the British Secret Service for nearly three decades. Over the years he had assisted in arresting terrorists, spied on Pakistan, smuggled Russian military secrets out of Afghanistan, and served as bodyguard and guide to visiting dignitaries. Now approaching retirement, Bedi wanted to perform one last exciting assignment for the firm before hanging up his hat. He would then go out with a nice pension and perhaps a service medal that he could display with pride.

It looked as if he might realize his goal that afternoon in Kathmandu. It was just after lunch and he was sitting in a blue Tata jeep, one of the many used by the Nepalese police. Across the road was the famed Hotel Everest, isolated out on the Ring Road away from the central city in the section known as Baneshwar. One of the top hotels in Nepal, it was formerly the Everest Sheraton and it still maintained a very high standard with a bar, restaurants, sports facilities, disco, casino, and mountain views from upper floors.

The sergeant to his left was speaking Nepali into a walkie-talkie. Three policemen were ready to enter the hotel, burst into the room occupied by a Chinese man, Mr. Lee Ming, and arrest him for inter-national espionage. Extradition papers had been filed in a hurry, and after intense negotiations between Britain, India, and Nepal, it was agreed that Zakir Bedi, in representing Britain, could enter the country, observe the arrest, and take charge of the prisoner. Inside his air-conditioned room, Lee Ming lay on his bed, fighting the stomach cramps that had held him in a viselike grip since the night before. As he had become older and developed heart problems, he didn’t travel well. He realized that he never should have volunteered for this assignment. Still, the money would be good if he ever made it back to Beijing.

He had been in Kathmandu a little over twenty-four hours and had slept very little. His body wasn’t adjusting to the time change. After all, he had been in Belgium for three weeks and had undergone exhausting surgery. Now he was very tired and wished he could just sleep for a few hours. The problem was the edginess he felt because he didn’t know when he would be contacted for the surreptitious escape into Tibet. He had to be ready at a moment’s notice, which meant he couldn’t leave the hotel—not that he felt like doing so.

He was just beginning to doze, when there was a loud knock at the door. Lee groaned, then pulled himself out of bed to answer it. When he opened the door, three rough-looking Nepalese men rushed inside.

“Shhh,” one said, holding his finger to his lips. All three were short and stocky, and one had a black mustache. Obviously the leader of the group, he went to a window and pulled back the shades an inch. He gestured for Lee to come and look.

The blue jeep and two men were down below. One was dressed in the traditional dark blue trousers, light blue shirt, and V-necked woolen sweater with badges of rank and medals attached. He wore a faded maroon beret and black combat boots.

“Police?” Lee asked.

The man nodded. “Come with us now. We get you out of Nepal,” he said in hesitant English.

Lee said, “Okay. Let me grab my—”

“No. Just come.” The man spoke a stream of Nepali to his companions. One of them opened the door and looked in the hallway. He waved, indicating that it was all clear.

The men ushered Lee out of the room and to the fire escape stairs. Lee, unable to move quickly, was immediately a burden. Two of the men locked arms, picked him up, and allowed him to sit on them as they carried him down the stairs.

The Nepalese policemen entered the hotel and took the lift to Lee’s floor. They arrived just as Lee and his rescuers came out of the stairwell on the ground floor and made their way toward one of the restaurants.

They pushed around a group of tourists, then went through the restaurant and into the kitchen. There, the leader spoke Nepali to one of the chefs, who gave him a large burlap bag normally used to sack potatoes.

“Put this on,” the man said to Lee.

“What?”

Without wasting any more time, the man threw the bag over Lee’s head. Lee began to protest, and the man said, “Shut up! Don’t make a sound!”

Lee quieted down and allowed himself to go through this humiliation. The burlap bag completely covered him. Since he was a small, lightweight man, it was easy for one of the men to pick up the bag and haul it over his shoulder—like a sack of potatoes.

The three men hurried out into an alley with the bundle. There they loaded Lee into the back of a pickup that was full of real sacks of potatoes. He grunted loudly as they dropped the bag on top.

“Quiet!” the leader said again. “You are in truck. We drive to airport. Silence!”

The men got into the truck, backed out of its space, and took off down Arniko Rajmarg toward the Kathmandu airport.

Zakir Bedi noticed the potato truck pulling out from behind the hotel and heading southeast, but there were dozens of such trucks making deliveries to hotels in the area. He turned his gaze back to the front of the hotel, awaiting word from the men inside.

Upstairs, one of the Nepalese policeman raised his hand to knock on Lees door but realized that it was ajar. He kicked it open to find the room empty. He swung the walkie-talkie to his mouth and shouted.

Bedi, who understood Nepali, heard the report and cursed.

We have to find him!” he said to the sergeant. They got out of the Jeep and ran inside the hotel. The two policemen met them in the lobby. They agreed to spread out and cover every conceivable exit.

Bedi was running toward the casino when he passed the restaurant. Going on a gut feeling, he asked the maître d’ if he had seen a Chinese man come through there. He flashed a photo of Lee. The maître d’ made an affirmative noise and pointed to the kitchen. Bedi shouted into his own walkie-talkie and ran through the restaurant.

The other policemen met him in the kitchen, where the leader questioned the chefs. Finally, one of them admitted being paid to hide the Chinese man in a potato sack.

“Potatoes?” Bedi asked. “I just saw a potato truck leave the hotel. They’re headed for the airport! Let’s go!”

The policemen and Bedi rushed outside to the jeep and took off in pursuit.

Tribhuvan International Airport is located four kilometers southeast of Kathmandu and is the country’s single international air entry point. Built in 1989, it handles over a thousand passengers per hour, quite an improvement over the old terminal with lines trailing out the doorway and an open-air waiting lounge. Among the international and domestic flights that operated out of Tribhuvan, several private tourist agencies offered sightseeing trips from the airport.

The potato truck sped into the airport, jostling Lee Ming and the potato sacks with every bump in the road. They passed the main terminal and drove around to the private hangars. One sight-seeing operation, a British-run company called Above the Earth Flights, was preparing to send a twin-propeller plane around the Himalayas with a group of ten to fourteen British and American passengers. The truck, however, shot past the line of tourists and headed for another hangar, where a single-prop plane was fueled and waiting with the pilot on board.

The truck halted with a screech and the men poured out. They quickly pulled the burlap bag out of the back and freed their Chinese client.

“You fools!” Lee cried. “All that bumping could have opened up my chest!”

“Shut up and get in the plane,” the leader ordered. “Do as we say or you’ll be arrested. The police are right behind us!”

Lee grumbled and walked toward the plane. “Is this thing safe?” he asked.

Behind Lee’s back, the leader looked at his other two companions and gave the signal they were waiting for.

The jeep, meanwhile, drove into the airport complex at a high speed. The sergeant contacted airport security and was told that a potato truck had been seen near the private hangars. He directed the driver to pull around the terminal. They also passed Above the Earth Flights, and then saw the single-engined four-man plane taxiing, ready to move toward the runway.

“Stop that plane!” Bedi shouted.

The jeep swerved in front of the aircraft. The three policemen jumped out and aimed FN 7.62mm self-loading rifles at the cockpit. The sergeant grabbed a bullhorn and ordered the pilot to stop.

The plane came to a halt as the officers approached it. Bedi got out of the jeep and went to the side of the aircraft. As the door opened, he leaped up the steps and stuck his head in the cabin.

It was completely empty.

Confounded, he turned to the pilot and asked where his Chinese passenger was. The pilot shook his head as if he didn’t understand. Bedi drew a Browning Hi-Power 9mm handgun, the same pistol used by the Nepalese police.

“Tell me where he is or your brains will be all over your nice, clean windscreen,” he said. Although Bedi had been raised a Hindu and still believed that the taking of human life was a grave sin, he had never hesitated doing so in the line of duty. As he had grown older, religion became less and less important to him. He figured that Shiva the Destroyer was on his side since he worked for law and order.

The pilot pointed to a hangar some two hundred yards away. It was the tourist company’s outfit.

Bedi jumped out of the plane and shouted for the policemen to get into the jeep.

“He’s over there!” he yelled, pointing to the twin prop that was just leaving the hangar.

The words ABOVE THE EARTH FLIGHTS were painted on the sides of the plane. It was beginning to pick up speed on the runway. The jeep sped after it, and the sergeant blasted orders with the bullhorn. The pilot refused to stop. The sergeant contacted the control tower and ordered them to halt the takeoff. He was told that the pilot was not responding.

Had they been able to see inside the cockpit, they would have understood why the pilot was incommunicado. The leader of the three Nepalese men was holding a pistol to his head.

“Just take off and get in the air,” he commanded.

The other two hijackers were holding guns on the eleven frightened passengers, all British or American adults of both sexes. Lee Ming was sitting among them, next to a window. He didn’t know what the hell was going on. Was this the Union’s plan? Hijack a tourist plane? Where did they think they were going to go? Surely they couldn’t cross the border into Tibet in a tourist plane!

Zakir Bedi ordered the jeep’s driver to speed up, although the plane was now gaining momentum and would soon be off the ground.

“Shoot at them!” he ordered. One of the policemen aimed his SLR and fired. A bullet pinged off the tail, damaging it slightly, but it didn’t slow the plane.

The aircraft reached its top speed and lifted off. It sailed neatly over the terminal and into the sky.

“Call your air force! We have to stop that plane!” Bedi shouted at the sergeant.

“Air force? We don’t have an air force!”

Zakir Bedi put his head in his hands. After taking ten seconds to count to himself, he said, “Tell the control tower to keep track of that plane. I want to know where it goes.”

Passengers were beginning to panic inside the aircraft. One of the Nepalese men told them to shut up.

The leader told the other man to keep the gun on the pilot, then went into the small, cramped cabin to address the people.

“Please remain calm,” he said. “This plane is not going to look at Mount Everest as originally scheduled. We’re taking a little side trip to Darjeeling. No one will be harmed if you stay quiet and cooperate. You’ll be back in Kathmandu in a few hours.”

Darjeeling? Lee Ming thought. Why Darjeeling? They were supposed to be going to Tibet! Was this a new, roundabout way of getting there? One of the passengers, a man in his fifties, said, “Excuse me, I’m Senator Mitchell from the United States, and this is my wife.” He indicated a man and a woman across the aisle. “That’s Mr. Roth and his wife. He’s a Member of Parliament in Britain. I’ll have you know that both our governments will not tolerate—”

“Shut up!” the leader said, pointing the gun at him. The senator complied.

Lee gestured for the leader. “What is going on? Since this is all about me, I demand you tell me what is happening.”

The leader smiled and said, “I’m sorry I could not say before. We’re taking you to a safe place in Daijeeling. What becomes of you there is not our responsibility.”

“What do you mean? I thought I was going to Tibet.”

“Plans change” was all the man said.

Smelling a rat, Lee Ming suddenly became very agitated. He felt his heart start to pound, but the pacemaker kicked in after a few seconds. Still, he felt very anxious. Something was very wrong. These men weren’t Union.

Relying on old skills and the experience of a man who was in his prime, a formidable secret service agent, Lee Ming jumped out of his seat and attacked the leader. They struggled in the aisle as passengers screamed. The Browning went off accidentally. The hijacker holding a gun to the pilot’s head was hit in the throat. He fell back against the controls, gagging.

The plane swerved dangerously before the pilot was able to level it and set a course for east Nepal.

The leader punched Lee hard in the face. The Chinese man fell back into his seat, unconscious. The leader told the woman next to “Fasten his seat belt.”

He went back to the cockpit and pulled his companion out and kid him in the aisle. He was dead. The other conspirator looked frightened. Now what would they do? In answer to the unstated question, the leader said, “We continue as planned. It just means more money for the two of us, right?”

The other man hadn’t thought of that. He grinned nervously and nodded.

“Keep an eye on the passengers, and especially that Chinese piece of dirt,” the leader said, then went back to the cockpit.

The pilot said, “There’s a storm over east Nepal. Looks like a bad one. We should not fly that way.”

“Just get us to Darjeeling,” the leader said.

“I can’t without going through the storm. We don’t have enough fuel to skirt around it. We’ll have to go back to Kathmandu.”

“No! Fly into the storm. We’ll take our chances.”

“Are you mad? We could crash into one of the mountains!”

The leader shoved the barrel into the pilot’s temple, hurting him. “Get us to Darjeeling, or you’re dead.”

“If you shoot me,” the pilot stammered, “then you will die, too.”

“So be it. You want me to shoot you now and get it over with?”

The pilot hesitated, then turned the plane eastward.

A half hour later, they felt the effects of the storm. High winds, sleet, and snow battered the little plane. The turbulence bounced it up and down, frightening the passengers even more. Some of them were praying aloud, others were sobbing and holding on to their loved ones, and a few were sitting silently, staring ahead in horror. The senator from America was sweating profusely. The Member of Parliament was biting his lower lip.

They were over Taplejung when visibility became impossible. Now even the leader was concerned.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked.

The pilot shrugged. “Somewhere over east Nepal. The navigation isn’t working. They shot at our tail earlier, on the ground. There’s something wrong with it. I can’t maneuver the plane very well. We should turn back.”

“Keep going.”

The pilot, who was not accustomed to anything more complicated than sight-seeing flights over the Himalayas, didn’t know how to handle the situation. He was lost, and he had no clue as to which way was north or south. For all he knew, he could be flying completely off course.

The storm assaulted the plane with intensity. At one point the aircraft dipped so abruptly that the pilot thought for certain that it was all over. He managed to pull the aircraft back up into the thick white wall of horror and kept going. He didn’t know that the plane was now headed northeast into the Himalayas.

“She’s not responding!” he cried. “I can’t get a decent reading on where we are! For the love of God, we must turn back!”

For once the leader was quiet, staring out the windshield at the whiteness. His eyes widened when he saw the summit of a large mountain materialize out of the milk-colored curtain.

“Look out!” he yelled, but it was too late.

The plane scraped the edge of the mountain and went careening off into oblivion. This time the pilot screamed as he fought for control of the little plane. He pulled the stick back as far as he could so that the aircraft would climb as high as possible. Miraculously, it worked. After a minute of sheer terror, the plane leveled.

“What kind of damage did that do?” the pilot asked the leader. The man peered out the windshield but couldn’t see a thing.

“I think we hit a wing, but we’re still flying,” he said. Then he noticed that the right propeller was behaving erratically. “That propeller—is it all right?”

The pilot looked at his controls. “No, we’re losing it. We’re going to crash. There’s no way we can get back to Kathmandu now.”

“What about Darjeeling?”

“Forget it,” the pilot said. “We’re in the Himalayas. I don’t know how to get there. We can try to save ourselves by turning back.”

The leader thought a minute, then said, “Okay, let’s try. Turn her around.”

The pilot couldn’t see a thing. He punched in new navigation coordinates, but something wasn’t right. The controls weren’t responding.

Navigation is completely out,” he said quietly.

“What do we do now?” the leader asked. His abrupt, authoritarian manner had completely vanished.

“Pray.”

Through the ice and snow that was assaulting the windshield, the two men saw a dark shape getting closer. Given the conditions, it was impossible to determine how far away the peak was, but they could see that it was a monster.

The pilot reacted and tried to turn away from it. The dark shape loomed even nearer until it filled the entire windshield.

“Pull up! Pull up!” the leader shouted.

“I can’t!” was the last thing the pilot yelled.

The plane hit a relatively flat ledge not far from the summit of Kangchenjunga, the third tallest mountain in the world. The wings were snapped off immediately and the fuselage slid along the rocky ice and caught fire. It smashed against a wall of rock and ice, rolled over twice, and finally settled on a slanting but near-level patch of glacier.

The impact, the freezing cold, and the lack of oxygen at such a high altitude were immediately fatal to nearly everyone aboard. Three people, however, extraordinarily survived the ordeal but were knocked unconscious. Their hell would begin shortly.

ELEVEN

THE GREEN LIGHT

THE WALTHER P99 ROARED WITH A BARRAGE OF AMPLIFIED NOISE.

The walls of the underground room bounced the crashing sound back and forth until he had emptied the magazine. James Bond remained with his arms outstretched and his grip firm, then’ slowly relaxed and ejected the magazine and placed the pistol on the counter. He pushed the button on the wall to his right to move the target.

The silhouette of a “bad man” slid forward on the track so that Bond could examine how well he had done. Each bullet had hit the bull’s-eye inside the outlined heart.

“Not bad, Double-O Seven,” the instructor said. Reinhardt was a veteran of the service, a man in his sixties who had refused early retirement and still worked part-time in the firing range in the basement of SIS headquarters. A Canadian of German ancestry, the instructor had come to England and joined the secret service during its glory days after the Second World War. Bond thought he was an excellent tutor, and at times felt that he owed his life to the man who had taught him a thing or two about weaponry.

“Not bad?” Bond exclaimed. “I blew his heart to bits, Dave.”

“Not bad” in Reinhardt’s book was to be interpreted as “excellent,” for Bond had never received higher praise from him. Reinhardt never handed out compliments. In fact, the instructor considered 007 the best shot in the entire building, but he believed that too much praise was anathema to the soul.

“But what did he do to you? He could very well have blown your head off,” Reinhardt said. He punched a button on the machine behind them. A computerized image of Bond appeared on the attached television monitor. The instructor pushed another button; the tape rewound to the beginning. Bond’s silhouette could be seen drawing his pistol, taking a stance, and aiming at the camera. Flashes of white light swarmed around the gun as he fired, but at the same time, red pinpoints began to dot his torso. The instructor pressed a button and froze the image.

“There, you see?” Reinhardt said. “He got you in the . . . shoulder, the right lung, and just below the neck. Not fatal, but enough to spoil your aim on your last few rounds. You’d have to go to hospital in a hurry, or you’d be dead within the hour.”

“My first shot would have killed him,” Bond countered.

“Perhaps,” the instructor acknowledged. He knew full well that Bond was right; he just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a pat on the back. It was his way, and he was aware that Bond knew it.

Bond removed the Zeiss Scopz shooting glasses and Aearo Peltor Tactical 7 ear defenders, and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow. “I think that’s all for today, Dave, I need to get back upstairs,” he said.

“Fine, Double-O Seven. It’s good to see you haven’t lost your edge.”

“But you’re saying there’s room for improvement?”

“There’s always room for improvement, Double-O Seven. Never get it in your head that you’re the best shot on the planet. Look what happened to Billy the Kid.”

“What happened to Billy the Kid other than that he was shot by Pat Garrett?” Bond asked.

“He got careless and cocky. It was his downfall. That’s how Garrett got to him. Never think that you’re better than the other guy, or you won’t try as hard. You’ll let down your guard. Remember that.”

“Thanks, Dave. But isn’t it also psychologically helpful to have the self-confidence to believe you’re going to win, no matter what?”

“Of course! I don’t claim to make perfect sense when I tell you these things!” He chuckled. “You’re supposed to assimilate everything I say, even if it’s contradictory!”

Bond holstered his gun and said good-bye. He normally kept the old PPK in his shoulder holster and used the newer P99 for backup. The trouble was that the P99 was slightly bulkier and was less easily concealed beneath a jacket. A lot of men used the P99 in a shoulder holster, but Bond’s habits died hard. He loved the old PPK as much as he had once adored the Beretta. He would never be able to make a permanent switch.

He took the elevator to his floor and walked into the reception area. Using his key card to gain access to the work space, Bond said hello to one of the newer secretaries and made his way down the aisle toward Helena Marksbury’s desk.

Her back was to him as she typed; a phone receiver was cradled between her left shoulder and her ear. As he walked past, he lightly squeezed her other shoulder. She looked up at him, forced a grin, and waved slightly. Bond walked on into his private office.

It was an awkward situation. Obviously everything wasn’t back to normal. At least he felt better physically. His body had healed quickly He didn’t have to wear the harness around his torso any longer, and the cracked rib was a vague memory.

The in tray held a report from Foreign Intelligence regarding the search for Steven Harding. It was inconclusive, but preliminary findings indicated that he might have left Europe for North Africa or the Middle East. Bond thought that this wasn’t much of a leap in logic. The Union’s headquarters was rumored to be located in either of those two places. As for Lee Ming, the last word received at SIS was that Station I’s attempt to arrest him had failed. Word on his whereabouts was expected at any time.

Helena, now off the phone, stuck her head in the door and said, “I’m glad you’re back. M wants to see you in ten minutes.” She started to leave, but Bond stopped her.

“Helena.”

She paused and looked at him.

“Come in here,” he said.

She swallowed, made a face of resignation, then stepped inside the office.

“Are you handling this all right? You’re not thinking of transferring to another department, are you?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. How are you handling it?” She said it with a touch of sarcasm.

The inflection in her voice was just enough to make Bond’s blood rise. He hated it when relationships broke down into pettiness.

“Helena, sit down.” She sat in the leather chair across from his desk and looked at him as if he were a headmaster and she, the naughty girl, had received a summons.

“Now, look. We’ve had a fine time, you and I. We both agreed that it was not the best idea for us to continue this affair while we’re here in London. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“But you seem to be having a problem with it.”

She bit her lower lip to keep from saying something she might regret, then said instead, “James, I will be fine. Don’t worry about me. Now I must get back to work.”

“Wait,” he said. “Let’s leave us for a moment. I have to ask you about the leak.”

Helena regained her composure. At least she could display the facade of professionalism when she had to, even when she was suffering inside.

“They questioned me for two hours,” she said. “I had nothing to tell them, of course. There is no way that the information could have been leaked out of my office.”

Bond didn’t say anything.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

He did. “Helena, I trust you implicitly. It’s just bloody disconcerting that someone knew my movements in Belgium before I made them. Do you have any idea who could have done this?”

She shook her head. “I answered that question at least twenty times. James. No. Now, can I go back to work? I have to get out a report.”

He nodded, giving her permission to stand and leave the room.

Her manner was cold and abrupt. It was to be expected, Bond thought, considering the nature of their relationship now.

Why did his love affairs, whenever they became somewhat SERIOUS, always end up so messy? Salvaging them was always a problem, which is why he rarely remained friends with former lovers. It was a pattern that he had long ago resigned himself to, even THOUGH he would never grow accustomed to it. He had met few women who were able to distinguish the difference between sex and A relationship, or who could have one without the other. In his own perfect world, men would be completely happy going through life from partner to partner, loving their mates equally but not exclu-sively. Cynically, Bond liked to think that women invented the concept of relationships and marriage in an effort to exert control over their male counterparts.

She would get over it. It would take some time, and then perhaps they could renew their passion on another extended holiday away from England. In the meantime, though, Bond decided he must keep Helena Marksbury at arm’s length until things cooled down—or warmed up, as the case might be.

“Something’s up, James,” Moneypenny said as he stood beside her desk, waiting to be buzzed into M’s inner sanctum.

“News on Skin 17?”

“I think so. She’s been with the Minister of Defence most of the day and just got back.”

“That sounds interesting.”

The green light flashed above the door.

“In you go,” she said, giving Bond the warm smile he knew so well.

M was sitting in her black leather swivel armchair, studying images on the monitors behind her desk. Bill Tanner was standing next to her, pointing out some detail in a picture. If Bond wasn’t mistaken, they were photographs of Himalayan peaks.

Sit down, Double-O Seven,” M said without looking at him. Then, to Tanner, “How can we be sure there are bodies intact inside the fuselage? It looks to me as if it was burned badly.”

“Yes, ma’am, but as you can see from this shot”—Tanner pressed a button and zoomed in on what appeared to be the wreckage of an aircraft—”the entire fuselage is intact. The burn marks are back here, all over the tail end. The front is relatively damage free. The wings are gone, of course.”

“You don’t suppose anyone could have survived that crash?” she asked.

“Highly doubtful,” Tanner answered. “If anyone did, they would certainly be dead by now. The abrupt change in altitude from a pressurized cabin to twenty-six thousand feet above sea level would kill a man quite quickly. Not to mention the freezing temperatures and the fact that it was unlikely that any of the passengers were dressed for exposure of that kind.”

M swiveled her chair to face Bond. “Double-O Seven, you’re an experienced mountaineer, aren’t you?” she asked.

Not sure how to reply, Bond said, “Well, yes, I used to take great pleasure in the sport, but I haven’t done it in a while.”

“Haven’t you climbed Everest?”

“Yes, ma’am, and Elbrus, too. Most of my experience has been in the Alps and Austrian Tyrol. Why?”

With pen in hand she pointed to the image of the plane wreckage on the monitor. “Skin 17 is here, in this airplane, high on one of the Himalayas’ tallest peaks.”

Bond raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Tanner filled him in on what they had learned that morning from Station I. Lee Ming had boarded a sight-seeing flight that had apparently been hijacked. Its final destination was unknown, but the plane was tracked eastward, into a bad storm. The aircraft went down less than two thousand feet from the summit of Kangchenjunga, located in the northeast corner of Nepal on the border with Sikkim.

“We now have a very good excuse to go up there and find Mr. Lee’s body,” M said. “Because the travel agency that owned the plane is British, we have a compelling reason for the Nepalese government to give us a permit to climb the mountain. There were American and British citizens aboard the flight, and their families want to salvage the bodies and see what personal belongings can be found. More significantly, the plane was carrying an MP and an American senator and their wives.”

“That’s normally not done, ma’am,” Bond said. “Hundreds of people have died in climbing accidents over the years. Everest has claimed the lives of at least a hundred and fifty people, and their bodies have remained on the mountain to this day—no matter who they were. I’m sure there are many such corpses on Kangchenjunga.”

“I understand that, Double-O Seven, but we have to tell the Nepalese something reasonable. We can tell them that we want to perform a salvage operation for humanitarian reasons so that the victims loved ones can give their family members a proper burial. And there’S the matter with the government officials being aboard. What we’re really going to do is find that bloody pacemaker.”

Bond’s heart started to race. He knew what was coming, and he was already well aware that it would be a difficult and challenging assignment.

“The Ministry of Defence is organizing an expedition. They’re arranging with the government of Nepal for permission to climb the mountain, which I understand is sacred to the people there.”

“Kangchenjunga is a special case, ma’am,” Bond said. “It is indeed sacred, and as I understand it, people are allowed to climb it as long as they don’t summit. Many do anyway. I’ve always heard the mountain referred to as ‘Kangch.’ ”

“Whatever. As I was saying, the Ministry are organizing an expedition to climb the north face, as this is a route that has proven successful in the past, and it’s the best way to the plane. I think you should tag along and pick up that pacemaker for us.”

Bond thought for a moment before replying carefully “Ma’am, Kangchenjunga is the third tallest mountain in the world. What is it, Bill, twenty-eight thousand feet?”

Twenty-eight thousand two hundred and eight feet, to be exact,” Tanner said. “Or eight-thousand five hundred and ninety-eight meters.”

Bond continued. “Any peak over eight thousand meters is considered extremely formidable. Everest isn’t that much taller, and it’s a hell a lot easier. Not that Everest is a piece of cake, either. Kangchenjunga is one of the most difficult climbs anywhere.”

“What’s your point, Double-0 Seven?” M asked.

“That it’s not a walk in the park. I hope the Ministry are gathering very experienced people for this job.”

“They are. You’re going to have some help, too. I’ve arranged with the First Royal Gurkha Rifles to lend you a man who is an experienced mountaineer. You’re to go meet him down at Church Crookham, near Aldershot, this afternoon.”

“A Gurkha, ma’am?”

“That’s right. A sergeant, I believe. Comes from Nepal, of course, and happens to be an expert climber. Gets along well with Sherpas. I thought you should have Nepalese backup.”

Although he preferred to work alone, Bond didn’t protest. If this mission was going to be as dangerous as he thought it might be, he could use the extra help.

“Now,” she said. “It’s vitally important that you retrieve what is left of Lee Ming. You’re to get the pacemaker with the microdot—before anyone else does. It’s in the interest of Britain’s national security. Not only that, the Minister has told me that my job is on the line with this one. He wants that formula and wants it bad. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We believe that whoever arranged to have it stolen in the first place will send their own expedition to retrieve it. If the Union are involved, our analysts believe that they will mount an expedition as well. Your job will be performed with the utmost discretion. No one on the team will know of your mission except for your Gurkha companion and the expedition leader.”

“Who is . . . ?”

M leaned over to her intercom and pressed a button. “Miss Moneypenny?”

“Yes?” came the voice.

“Send in our guest, please.”

Bond looked at Tanner questioningly. The Chief of Staff averted his eyes, warning him that he wasn’t going to be pleased with what was coming. M watched Bond closely to evaluate his reaction.

The door opened, and Group Captain Roland Marquis entered the room.

TEN

NOT QUITE IMPOSSIBLE

“GROUP CAPTAIN MARQUIS? Commander Bond?” M said. “I understand you already know each other. And you know my Chief of Staff.”

“Right, how are you, Bond—er, James?” Marquis said a bit too warmly. “Colonel Tanner.”

Bond stood halfway up, shook hands, and retook his seat. “Fine, Roland. You?”

“Good.” Marquis sat in the other chair facing M, next to Bond, and placed the briefcase he was carrying on the carpet.

“Group Captain Marquis,” M said, “Mr. Bond is one of our Double-O operatives. He will be accompanying you on the expedition, as we discussed. His mission to retrieve the specification for skin 17 is classified. Double-0 Seven, your cover is that of a Foreign Office liaison.”

“What about the Gurkha?” Bond asked.

Gurkha?” Marquis furrowed his brow.

“I’m assigning a man from the Royal Gurkha Rifles to accompany Double-O Seven. He’s an experienced mountaineer and knows the area. He’ll take his orders from Double-O Seven. Aside from you, he’s the only other person on the team who will know of Mr. Bond’s assignment.”

Marquis flashed his white teeth and said, “The more the merrier.”

Not impressed by Marquis’s levity, M said, “I must emphasize that SIS would greatly appreciate any help that you can provide Double-O Seven so that he can accomplish his mission.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” Marquis said. “However, when I lead a team, I must insist that safety take precedence over everything else. If I’m asked to do something that might endanger the lives of any other team members, I will refuse. An authority figure is important in an expedition of this magnitude. As team leader, we must agree that my word is final.”

M looked at Bond for approval. He shrugged. “I would expect nothing less if I were leading,” he said.

Marquis seemed happy with the response. “Right. I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly. Bond and I are old schoolmates, isn’t that right, Bond?”

Before Bond could answer, M jumped in with “Tell us about the other team members, please.”

“Of course. I’ve managed to snare some very good people at such short notice. The team’s doctor will be Hope Kendall, an experienced mountaineer from New Zealand. I’ve climbed with her before. She’s thirty-two and very fit. Our communications officer is a Dutchman named Paul Baack. He was recommended to me by the ministry. I met him this morning and I’m confident that he will be more than adequate. He comes with some sophisticated equipment that the ministry is lending us. Two mountaineers who have worked with me before, Thomas Barlow and Carl Glass, will be my immediate lieutenants. The American State Department are sending over three well-known climbers. They’ll be looking after the American interests in the expedition.” He went on to name a man to be in charge of Nepalese relations and hiring the Sherpa porters and cooks in Taplejung, a famed French climber to be the equipment manager, and explained that the rest of the team would be filled out with dozens of Sherpa porters and other climbers who will assist in hauling down whatever might be left of the plane’s passengers and their belongings.

“SIS will be conducting security checks on everyone, of course Tanner interjected.

“Now, I’ve drawn up a preliminary schedule,” Marquis continued He pulled some notes out of the briefcase.

“Beginning tomorrow there will be three days of intense physical exercise and training, followed by a medical examination.”

“Most people train for months for an expedition like this,” Bond said.

“You’re right,” Marquis said. “But the Ministry wants this job done as soon as possible. We need to get to that plane before the monsoon season starts in June. It’s already the twenty-third of April. We can’t afford the luxury of a long training period. We don’t want to be caught on that mountain when the storms come in.”

Bond understood and nodded. “Go on.”

“We’ll fly to Delhi, spend the night, then go on to Kathmandu, where we’ll rendezvous with the Americans and the others. We’ll spend three days there acclimatizing and making further preparations for the expedition.”

He unfolded a large trekking map of Nepal. A route was highlighted in yellow. “We’ll fly in a chartered aircraft to Taplejung, here.” He pointed to a dot in eastern Nepal. “It’s normally an eight-day trek to the Kanchenjunga Base Camp from there, but we’re going to cut it down to six. We’ll have to push extra hard to do it, but the more time we save, the better. Base Camp is here, at 5,140 meters.” He indicated an X on the north side of a triangle marked “Kanchenjunga,” which straddled the border between Nepal and Sikkim.

“We’ll have to spend a week there acclimatizing. No getting around that.”

“Why?” M asked.

“A human being’s body adjusts slowly to the change in altitude,” Bond explained. “Ascent has to be taken in stages, or one can become extremely ill.”

“We don’t want any altitude sickness on this expedition,” Marquis said. “After the week at Base Camp, we’ll slowly lay siege to the mountain within three weeks.” Marquis opened a detailed map of the side OF the mountain. “We’ll set up five camps on the north face. Camp One will be here at 5,500 meters. Camp Two is at 6,000 meters. When we get to Camp Three at 6,600 meters, we’ll need to spend another week acclimatizing. I’m hoping that’s all the time we’ll need. There may be some of us who can’t ascend as quickly to Camp Four, which will be set up here at 7,300 meters. Camp Five will be at 7,900 meters, right next to the site of the plane wreckage. We’re extremely fortunate that the aircraft is on this relatively level plain. It’s called the Great Scree Terrace. It’s less than 2,000 feet from the summit.”

Marquis sat back and looked at Bond.

Bond frowned. “It’s an extremely ambitious schedule.”

Marquis replied, “I agree. I’m not saying it will be a picnic. We’ll have to push ourselves to the limit, but we can do it.”

There was that word again, Bond thought.

“We will do it,” Marquis continued. “I’ve been asked to get us up the mountain in the safest but quickest amount of time possible. I aim to do that. This schedule gives us just a little over a month. The weather will be unpredictable toward the end of May. We’re sure to encounter storms as it is, being that near the monsoon season. We have to race against time.”

Bond had no choice but to go along with the plan. Nevertheless, he foresaw possible personality conflicts with the expedition leader. M looked at Bond. “Well, Double-O Seven?”

“As he said, it won’t be easy. But I think I’m up to it, ma’am.”

“Fine. Moneypenny will draw up the details for you to attend the training sessions. Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all, Group Captain.”

Marquis started to get up, then asked, “So, Bond, do you think this Chinaman, Lee Ming—or whoever he is—still has the specification?”

“We have every indication that he does,” Bond replied. “Where would he have hidden it?” Marquis asked. “Do you know?”

“That’s classified,” M said. “Even to you. I’m sorry.”

Marquis nodded and said, “Of course. I meant only that if it had been placed somewhere in his clothing or hand luggage, the crash could very well have—”

“We know exactly where the formula is hidden,” M repeated. “Let Double-O Seven handle that end of things. You just get him up and down that mountain in one piece, all right?”

Marquis stood and bowed slightly. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to Bond and said, “We’ll see you tomorrow, eh, Bond? Bright and early?

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Bond said dryly.

The drive in the DB5 was extremely pleasant. It was a beautiful April day without a cloud in the sky. Bond almost wished he were driving a convertible, but he could never own one. They were enjoyable as a novelty every once in a while, but Bond preferred hardtops.

Church Crookham is a quiet village not far, coincidentally, from Fleet, and is the home of the 1st Battalion of the Royal Gurkha Rifles. Bond had never known any Gurkhas personally, but he had a great deal of respect for them. When M had mentioned that he would be working with a partner, Bond had momentarily stiffened. He relaxed when she told him that his companion would be a Gurkha. Bond was intrigued with the prospect of working with a member of what he considered to be the world’s fiercest and bravest fighting force.

Made up of hardy hillmen from Nepal, the Gurkhas have been a part of British military history since the Anglo-Nepali conflict of 1814. Bond thought wryly of the British army at that time. He admired the tenacity with which his country had attempted to expand the empire. Britain, already in control of India and hoping to extend the border, pushed northward into Nepal. They were met with such determined, independent, and resourceful soldiers, many not more than five feet four inches tall, the British army was surprised and impressed. Britain eventually won the war, but a friendly, long-lasting relationship was created with the Nepalese government. It was agreed that the British army could recruit soldiers, and being selected became an honor to the Nepalese people. The pay a Gurkha received from the British army was considerable when compared to that of his countrymen, and he could look after his entire family with it.

The Gurkhas were later incorporated into the Indian Army, and when India became independent after the Second World War, the Gurkhas were split between the two countries. Several regiments remained in the Indian Army. Britain retained four—the 2, 6, 7, and 10 Gurkha Rifles. In July 1994, due to “options for change,” the regiments were amalgamated into one regiment—the Royal Gurkha Rifles, consisting of two battalions, the I RGR based in the UK and the 2 RGR based in Brunei. The Gurkhas stationed in England were originally the 2 and 6 Gurkha Rifles.

As he had reviewed this history before driving out from London, Bond couldn’t help but visualize the stereotypical Gurkha: a short, stocky man with legs the size of tree trunks, running through the jungle after an enemy, wearing the traditional Nepalese topi, a white cotton cap that was decorated with colored designs (although in battle they would wear a camouflaged jungle hat or helmet) and waving the deadly khukri knife. They were known to behead their opponents during hand-to-hand combat. Such was their fierce reputation that during the Falklands conflict, Argentine forces supposedly fled when they heard that the Gurkhas were coming. “Ayo Gurkhali!”—the famous Gurkha war cry meaning “The Gurkhas are upon you!”—was intended to strike terror in the heart of the enemy.

Bond pulled into the compound after showing his credentials to the sentry, then drove past the barracks, which were painted black with white trim. When he presented himself at the officers’ mess, he was greeted by a tall young Englishman in civilian clothes.

“Mr. Bond?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Captain Alexander Howard.” They shook hands briefly. “Come this way”

He led Bond into a magnificent room that could have served as a museum for the entire history of the Royal Gurkha Rifles. The lounge was decorated with a blend of British colonialism and Nepalese culture. Along with the more westernized brown vinyl-covered chairs and green carpet, there were real ivory tusks mounted on a non-working black wooden fireplace with a grand carving of the Hindu god Ganesh in the front. A tiger skin covered the carpet, and there were silver trophies and ornaments all over the room. Bond took a moment to admire the famous paintings portraying the Battle for Sari Bair, Gallipoli, August 9, 1915, and the Battle of Kandahar on September 1, 1880. A portrait of Prince Charles, who serves as colonel in chief of the regiment, hung over an impressive display of khukris medals, and awards. A painting of Field Marshal the Viscount Slim the most famous Gurkha officer, was also on display. Bond greatly admired his book about the Gurkhas’ exploits during World War II, which is now required reading at Sandhurst.

Captain Howard said, “Have a seat and Sergeant Chandra will be with you soon.”

“I thought his name was Gurung,” Bond said.

“The Nepalese automatically adopt their tribal name at birth, like you and I would adopt our parents’ surname. Because there are only a handful of the main tribes, there are an awful lot of people with the same surname,” Howard said. “Hence, we have several men whose last name is Gurung. A lot of Gurkhas are Gurungs. They’re mostly either Gurungs or Magars, from the western part of Nepal, and there are subtribes within those. There are a few from the eastern tribes, the Rais and Limbus. We refer to the men around here either by their first names or by their numbers. It’s much less formal here than in other regiments.”

“I see.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Vodka martini, please.”

Howard smiled with approval. “Excellent choice.” He moved to fetch the drink, but Bond stopped him.

“Could you please shake it? Don’t stir it.”

Howard looked at Bond curiously, then said, “Yes, sir.” He left Bond alone in the room that contained so much history: monuments and memorials to the ghosts of foreign men who had died for Britain, as well as the proudly displayed commendations and trophies for those who had survived.

The captain returned with the drink and said, “I understand that what you have to discuss with the sergeant is classified, so I will take my leave.”

Thank you, captain,” Bond said. He sipped the drink and said, “You make a fine martini.”

Howard gave a slight bow and left the room.

After a few moments, Sergeant Chandra came into the room. He, too, was dressed in civilian clothes consisting of dark trousers and a green pullover sweater. He was a stocky five feet two inches tall and weighed roughly one hundred and fifty pounds. He had shiny black hair slicked back on his head, and his skin was the olive brown color prevalent among the middle-Asian races who appeared to be mixtures of Indian and Chinese. What was immediately striking about the man was his huge, warm smile, which seemed to transform his entire face into a pleasant configuration of dimples and lines, especially around his sparkling, friendly eyes.

“Namaste. I am Sergeant Chandra Bahadur Gurung,” he said in good English. Namaste is the traditional Nepali greeting. Gurkhas are required to learn English, just as British officers serving in the regiment are required to learn Nepali, or Gurkhali, as the military calls it. The reason for this is that many words used are specific to the army and wouldn’t necessarily be part of normal conversation in Nepal.

Bond stood up and shook the man’s hand. He noted that it was a firm, dry handclasp, one that was full of strength and confidence. Chandra looked to be in his thirties, and there was experience and intelligence in his eyes. Bond knew from his record that the sergeant had been in the army since he was eighteen years old.

“James Bond,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Please, sit down.” Chandra gestured to the chair and waited until Bond had sat before taking the chair across from him.

“Sergeant, I understand you’ve been briefed on all aspects of the mission.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bond put up his hand. “Let’s forget the sir, all right? This isn’t a military operation, and I’m not your commanding officer. As far as I’m concerned, we’re equals.”

Chandra smiled again. “My orders are to follow your orders.”

“Well, yes, unless they are totally without merit. In the Himalayas, they might often be.”

Chandra laughed. “You have climbed before?”

Bond nodded. “Oh, yes, but I’m no expert. I’ve been to the top of Everest and several big peaks in Switzerland and the Austrian Tyrol.

“Never on Kangchenjunga?”

“Never. What about you?”

“I went halfway up Kangchenjunga once. I was forced down by an avalanche and then a bad storm. I am eager to try again.”

“How did you get to be such a climber?” Bond asked.

“We live our entire lives going up and down hills and mountains,” Chandra said. “That’s why the muscles in our legs are so big. When I was a boy I went on a climbing expedition with my father, who was friends with some Sherpas in Kathmandu. They operated one of the first trekking services there. As I grew older, I made frequent trips to THE Himalayas and climbed. I guess I just like it.”

“You get on well with the Sherpas?” Bond asked. Sherpas are the tribe of Nepalese hill people more prominent in eastern and northern Nepal who are expert climbers and are almost always hired to haul equipment and luggage for western tourists wishing to trek across the country or up into the mountains.

“Yes, absolutely. Although Nepal has many dialects and tribes, Nepali is understood by everyone. Sherpas have called me their ‘climbing cousin’ because not many Gurungs have shown much interest in mountain climbing. I am an exception. Every time I go home to Nepal, my wife gets angry with me because I take some time to go climbing!”

“She’s in Nepal?”

“Yes,” Chandra said. He smiled broadly, obviously pleased with the thought of his mate. “Our wives remain in Nepal. They are not allowed to visit very often. Every three years we can go home for six months. That is in addition to our normal block leave of one month and the family leave in which she was with me for two years in the Far East. So I see her every now and then.”

“What do you think of Group Captain Marquis’s schedule for getting up Kangch?”

Chandra shook his head. “Not quite impossible.”

“But almost.”

Chandra’s smile said a thousand words. Then he added, “We must the monsoon. It’s the only way.”

“What do you think our chances for success are?”

Chandra looked hard at Bond. “Sixty-five percent.”

Bond leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What do you know about the Union?”

Chandra frowned. “Not much. I spent most of last night reading the file your people gave me. Very interesting group of people. I am interested in their psychology.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I am interested in how their minds work,” Chandra clarified. “I don’t understand men who will do that sort of thing for money. I come from one of the poorest countries on earth. The con-cept of working hard for a living is an accepted way of life for us. To turn to crime, especially betraying one’s country, is confounding to me.”

“They are very dangerous,” Bond said. “We’ll have to have eyes in the backs of our heads.”

“If they are responsible for the theft of Skin 17, then I’m sure we will encounter them along the way,” Chandra surmised. “They will try to sabotage the mission.”

Bond sat back in his chair and raised his martini glass to his new companion. “Oh, of that I am sure, sergeant. You can count on it.”

THIRTEEN

LE GÉRANT

STEVEN HARDING HATED North Africa. It smelled, the vast culture shock frightened him, he was suspicious of everyone he met, and it was hot. It was so hot that he was afraid the sweat would ruin the carefully applied makeup that had enabled him to get to Morocco as Randall Rice.

At least Casablanca was a bit more westernized than other places Harding had been to. By far Morocco’s largest city with a population of three million, it is the country’s industrial center and port, and the most attractive tourist stop in western North Africa. The famed Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman film is, in part, responsible for the attention that Casablanca receives. As it is the place to go when Moroccans aspire to fame and fortune, Casablanca has all the trappings of a western metropolis, with a hint of the decadent ambience of southern European cities. Alongside the business suits, long legs, high heels, and designer sunglasses are the willowy robes of djellabas and burnooses of traditional Morocco.

Wearing a suit much too heavy for the climate, Harding stepped out into the bright sunlight and donned his sunglasses. The heat was barely tolerable, and it was only midmorning. Frowning, he walked away from the Sheraton and went south on Rue Chaoui, ignoring the cluster of beggars, old and young, who reached out to people entering and exiting the hotel.

He walked along what seemed to be a fairly modern street with western architecture. The atmosphere completely changed two blocks away, when Harding entered the Central Market bazaar. Here he felt as if he’d walked into another century. As colorful and noisy as any Hollywood film depiction, the market was an overwhelming assault on the senses. Harding focused straight ahead, walking quickly through the mass of veils, fezes, turbans, and fedoras. The visual display of the distinctive customs and clothing of local tribes-people who had come to buy and sell didn’t excite him. He didn’t want to buy fruits, vegetables, or spices.

No, thank you, he thought as he rudely brushed past a vendor. He was not interested in the “special” on rich, golden argan oil. There was another one tugging on his sleeve. Sorry, he hadn’t any money today. That flatwoven carpet is indeed a beauty, but he didn’t want to buy one, thank you anyway.

Harding was drenched with sweat by the lime he got all the way across the bazaar to its southeast corner, where a dilapidated shanty was built against a larger stone building. A beggar, who seemed at least ninety years old, sat cross-legged on the dirt in front of the door, which was simply an open space in the wood covered by a cloth hanging from an eave. There was a bent metal dish next to the beggar.

Harding knew he had to do something specific. He reached into his pocket and found ten dirhams in coins and dropped them into the tin. The old man mumbled something and gestured to the cloth. Harding turned to make sure no one was watching, then he ducked under the drape and went inside the shack.

It stank like a toilet. Harding was forced to take a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and hold it over his mouth. Other than the rancid smell, the room was empty. Harding immediately went to the stone wall and put his hand out to touch it. He felt the ridges along a crack, searching for a catch that couldn’t be seen. He found it, then pushed it with the requisite force. The secret door slid open, revealing a passage lined in steel. Harding stepped through, and the door closed behind him.

At last! Air-conditioning! And his ticket out of this dreary place. The hard work was over. He had come to claim his reward and move on to the next phase of his life, which would resemble nothing of what he had left behind in England. He hoped that Le Gérant wouldn’t create a problem about Lee Ming’s plane being hijacked. He had done his job and that part of the operation was completely out of his hands. Harding had delivered Skin 17 in precisely the manner that the Union wanted him to. They had better not renege on the five million U.S. dollars he was being paid!

Harding knew, however, that Le Gérant was capable of anything. He would consider himself lucky to get out of Morocco alive.

An Arab dressed in fatigues appeared and gestured for Harding to follow him. It was unnerving, especially when the clank-clank of the man’s boots on the metal floor echoed throughout the tunnel. The corridor took a right turn, and they went down eight steps to a wider, open area with a table, computer terminals, banks of video surveillance screens, and other sophisticated, high-tech equipment. Two more guards were waiting there.

“Spread your legs and arms,” one of them said.

Harding did so while the other one ran a metal detector around his body.

“Look into here,” the first man said. He pointed to a device that resembled a microscope. Harding stepped to it and looked in. He knew that this would identify the tattoo that had been burned into the back of his retina when he initially joined the Union. He often wondered what an optometrist might say about the tattoo during an examination. Luckily, it looked more like scar tissue than any recognizable symbol.

It was discernible only to members of the Union.

Harding felt the beam of light pass over his eye. He straightened up and looked at the guards, one of whom studied a computer terminal on the table. The other one stared at him with a look of distaste.

“All right, he checks,” said the man at the computer. Harding’s escort tapped his shoulder and led him around the table to a door.

The guards pressed a button and released a lock. The escort pushed the door open and held it for Harding.

“Le Gérant is waiting,” he said.

Harding nodded and grinned nervously, then went through the door.

The room was dark, long, and had a very low ceiling. The only illumination was provided by lamps hung over the seven men and three women who sat at a conference table, each with a legal pad in front of them. However, there was no light hanging over the man at the head of the table, the one sitting in shadow.

Le Gérant. The Manager.

Harding had never met him face-to-face. Very few Union members had. The inner circle, those sitting around this table, were the only individuals who were so entitled. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to discern what Le Gérant looked like. His silhouette disclosed that he was tall and broad-shouldered, but thin and fit. The face and hands were in shadow, but there was just enough illumination to reveal him to be Caucasian. He was more likely a Berber, a descendant of an ancient race that has inhabited Morocco since Neolithic times Berbers characteristically had light skin, blue eyes, and often blond or red hair. Harding knew that they were famous throughout history as warriors and notoriously resistant to being controlled by any system beyond the tribe.

Le Gérant wore a beret and was dressed in dark clothing. His face was further shielded by dark glasses that completely hid his eyes. Harding had once heard a rumor that Le Gérant was blind. Perhaps he really was . . . .

As the doctor stepped into the room, conversation halted abruptly and everyone turned to look at him.

“Come in, Dr. Harding,” Le Gérant said. His voice was educated and smooth, and its deep timbre sounded vaguely French. If the man was indeed a Berber, he didn’t sound like one. “Sit down there at the end of the table. We have saved a seat for you.”

Harding took the chair and swallowed. Now he was nervous as hell.

“It is good to meet you at last, doctor,” the leader said. “We have been following your progress on the Skin 17 project with great interest. I must congratulate you on everything you’ve done on behalf of the Union. It must not have been easy to find the courage to betray your country and steal the specification right out from under the noses of the DERA.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harding said.

“You also did a splendid job getting the formula to Belgium and into our client’s pacemaker. Was that your idea, planting it there?”

“Yes, sir,” Harding said. He felt a thrill that perhaps the meeting was going to go well after all.

“You also acted responsibly with regard to the physician who was caught in Brussels. Having him eliminated was the right thing to do. I’m still a little confused as to how he was caught in the first place, but nothing ever goes perfectly, does it?”

“No, sir,” Harding said, swallowing and managing a smile.

Le Gérant took a moment to extract a cigarette from a gunmetal case that he removed from the inside of his jacket. He kept his head straight, staring ahead at a spot on the wall just behind Harding. The man was blind! the doctor thought. How extraordinary! The head of the Union couldn’t see a damn thing.\

Le Gérant lit the cigarette with a gold-plated Dunhill lighter, took a deep drag, exhaled, and spoke again.

“That brings us to the problem of what has happened to Skin 17.”

Harding involuntarily closed his eyes with dread.

Le Gérant continued. “As I understand it, Lee Ming was in Kathmandu, awaiting instructions for his transfer to Tibet. However, precisely one day earlier than scheduled, he was kidnapped from his hotel and taken to the airport. There, he was shoved aboard a tourist Himalayan sight-seeing flight that was hijacked by his kidnappers and flown into the mountains, where a storm knocked it down. Do I have the facts right?”

Harding cleared his throat. “That’s what I understand happened, sir, yes, I think that’s what happened.”

Le Gérant took another drag on the cigarette and shifted slightly in his chair.

“This is highly embarrassing for the Union, you understand that, Dr. Harding? We’ve let down our Chinese clients. They want their money back. After all, the Skin 17 specification wasn’t delivered as promised.”

“We did our part, sir,” Harding protested. “Our obligation was to get him to Kathmandu. We did that. Our people in Nepal didn’t keep a close watch on Lee. Apparently the Union weren’t the only ones that wanted that spec. Someone got to him first.”

“But how did anyone else know he had it?”

“Perhaps the British agent who tracked me to Belgium . . . ?” Harding mused.

“Oh, yes. The British agent. What’s his name? Oh, I remember now. Bond. James Bond. I think you were a bit careless leaving England, Dr. Harding. One of our first rules is to cover your tracks in such a way that no one can follow you. Unfortunately, this man did.”

“It was unavoidable, sir,” Harding said. He was beginning to sweat despite the cool temperature in the room. His heart was pounding and his stomach cramped.

“What about the RAF officer who helped you steal the formula? Could he have betrayed you?”

“I don’t think so,” Harding said. How did Le Gérant know about Roland Marquis? Harding had been given free rein to pick and choose his team. No one was privy to the information.

“How much was he paid?” the leader asked.

“Fifteen thousand pounds sterling,” Harding replied.

“Do you believe that’s enough to persuade him to keep his mouth shut?”

“Yes.”

For the first time, Le Gérant raised his voice. There was such internal animosity in it that everyone in the room felt a chill run down their spine. “Then who hijacked that plane and took potentially one of the Union’s biggest moneymaking ventures away from us?”

Harding was speechless. The meeting had taken a turn for the worse.

“Well, Dr. Harding?”

“I . . . I have no idea. Sir.” Harding was shaking now.

“Shall I tell you, Dr. Harding?”

“Sir?”

The leader took another drag on the cigarette, then snuffed it out an ashtray attached to the arm of his chair. He had lowered his voice and appeared to be calm once again. “Shall I tell you who foiled our plans to sell Skin 17 to the Chinese?”

“Please do, sir,” Harding stammered.

“It was someone trying to double-cross the Union. Someone on the inside. Someone who thought they were smarter than we. Not delivering Skin 17 as promised makes us look bad and damages our reputation. That makes me extremely unhappy. We may be losing two other prospective deals because of this mess. Do you know anyone in the Union who may be trying to outsmart us and get away with something, Dr. Harding?”

Now there was a ringing in Harding’s ears. Had he been caught? “N-no, sir. How do you know? I mean, how do you know it’s someone on the inside?”

“I know much more than anyone in this room could ever dream,” Le Gérant said. “I believe that whoever is responsible for kidnapping Lee Ming was planning to take Skin 17 for their own. Perhaps they were going to try to sell it back to us for a higher price. After all, we’re not the only ones in the extortion business. But no one can treat the Union that way.”

Le Gérant flicked a switch on the control panel in front of him and a bright photograph appeared on the back wall. It was a picture of the three Nepalese men who had abducted Lee Ming from the Everest Hotel and whisked him away in a potato sack.

“These are the three men who are responsible,” Le Gérant said.

They are Nepalese, but they do not reside in Nepal.”

He knows! Harding thought. My God, he knows!

“Now, help me understand something, Dr. Harding,” the boss said.

We know that Dr. Lindenbeek was caught in Brussels, and he probably talked a little before he was . . . uhm, put out of action. Right?”

“Possibly,” Harding said. How much did he know about the Union?” Virtually nothing. He knew that we were going to expose him if he didn’t perform the surgical procedure. He was killed so that he couldn’t identify me and Mr. Lee. I covered my tracks there.”

“Yes, you did,” Le Gérant said. “What about our operative inside SIS?”

“In London?”

“Where else?”

“The operative there knows very little about the Union. We receive reports on the movements SIS are making to track down Skin 17. We stay one step ahead of them, so to speak.”

“And this Bond fellow. He’s the one they’ve sent?”

Harding nodded. “He was in Belgium. I have no idea if they’re sending him to Nepal. I’ve been traveling.”

Le Gérant withdrew another cigarette from his case and lit it. “I have news for you, Dr. Harding. They are indeed sending him to Nepal to join a little expedition that the Ministry of Defence is organizing. They’re going to climb that mountain and retrieve the specification.”

“Well,” Harding said, faking a laugh. “That gives us another opportunity, then, doesn’t it? We can get it back!”

“Perhaps,” the leader said. He took another moment to relish his tobacco. “Dr. Harding, do you know these men on the screen behind me?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never seen them before!”

“Never?”

“No, sir.”

Le Gérant flicked another switch on the control panel and the slide changed. This time it was a shot at a pub, one that Harding recognized. When he saw who was in the picture, his heart skipped a beat.

The three Nepalese men were sitting with pints of beer talking to none other than himself.

“This photograph was taken three days before the Skin 17 operation went down,” Le Gérant said. “In the Lake and Goose public house, not far from Aldershot. You know it well, don’t you, doctor?

Harding closed his eyes. It was all over.

“You hired these men to steal the specification, didn’t you, Harding?” This time the voice was menacing, trembling with anger.

“No—I—it’s that I . . .” Harding was blubbering.

“Shut up!” Le Gérant pushed another switch on the panel and the door behind Harding opened. One of the guards came in and stood behind him. Terribly frightened now, Harding glanced over his shoulder and back at the rest of the people at the table. They were all staring at him, expressionless.

“Le Gérant,” Harding said. “Please, I didn’t know . . . I was going to—”

“You were going to betray the Union, divert the formula, and make more money than we were paying you by selling it to someone else. You got greedy. Isn’t that right, doctor?”

“No, sir. I mean yes, sir, it was! I didn’t do this! Honest to God I—”

“You’re a fool,” Le Gérant said. “And I do not suffer fools.” He gave an imperceptible nod to the guard behind Harding.

The guard roughly grabbed Harding’s hair with his left hand and pulled back his head. The man produced a long, thin dagger in his right hand and with one smooth, swift stroke, slit Harding’s throat from ear to ear. Blood splattered the table in front of him as he gurgled horribly. He writhed and struggled for a grip on life for a full minute before he finally slid out of the chair and onto the floor. The other Union members at the table were shocked, frightened, and speechless. None of the blood had splattered on them, but the memory of what they had just witnessed would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

The guard behind Harding lowered his dagger, stooped to the body, and wiped it clean on the dead man’s clothes.

“Thank you, sergeant,” Le Gérant said. “You can go. Have the cleanup crew come in five minutes. We’ll be finished then.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, saluting. He turned and left the room.

The others couldn’t tear their eyes away from Harding’s body and the mess on the table. One woman involuntarily heaved. After a moment, though, they regained their composure and looked at the Man in shadow. If there had been any doubt, he was now unquestionably their leader.

“I want Skin 17 before anyone else gets it,” he said. Now his voice was controlled and even, but it was laced with venom. “We have learned that there are at least three expeditions being organized to climb Kangchenjunga and retrieve that specification. One is from England and is, of course, the one that is our most formidable adversary. Another is from Russia, manned by our friends in the Russian Mafia. The Chinese are mounting an expedition as well, with the hopes of retrieving the formula before we do—thereby giving them a reason to never pay us for the work we’ve already done for them. There may be more.”

Le Gérant pulled another cigarette from his case and lit it. He inhaled, pausing for calculated dramatic effect. “Plans are now under way for the Union to accompany one of these expeditions to the great mountain. We will be the first to retrieve Skin 17. It could be the most important venture we undertake this year. Many of you will be called on to help arrange this. There will be no failure. Is that clear?”

Everyone nodded, but Le Gérant couldn’t see them. Several of them turned back to look at the disgusting pool of red liquid dripping off the end of the table. A few felt physically ill.

“IS THAT CLEAR?” he shouted.

They quickly turned back to him and cried, “Yes, Le Gérant!”

Le Gérant smiled. “Good. Then let’s have lunch. Is everybody hungry?”

FOURTEEN

WELCOMING RECEPTION

AFTER SPENDING ALL DAY climbing up and down staircases while wearing heavy backpacks with Marquis and other members of the team on an officer’s training course near Oakhanger, James Bond drove to SIS headquarters for a late meeting with Major Boothroyd in Q Branch.

“I want you to know that I postponed a very important dinner date to be here this evening,” Boothroyd said, punching in the security code to let Bond into the laboratory. “With a very beautiful woman, I might add.”

“Really?”

Don’t act so surprised, Double-O Seven. I may be an old man, but I’m still very healthy in that regard.”

“I didn’t say a word, Major,” Bond said, smiling. “She is a very lucky woman.”

I should say so,” Boothroyd replied. “We’ve been married twenty-eight years. Its our anniversary, and here I am, spending the evening with you.”

“Well, let’s make it brief, shall we?”

“Quite. Now, pay attention, Double-O Seven.” He led Bond to a metal table that was covered with various items. “I pulled these out of st0rage this afternoon after I learned the nature of your assignment. We’re also working with the Ministry in supplying some sophisticated communications equipment to the expedition. The Dutchman, what’s-his-name, he’ll have all that.”

“Paul Baack?”

“That’s right.”

Boothroyd went on, handing him a small tube with a mouthpiece on it. “This is similar to our underwater emergency breather, except it’s for use at high altitudes. It holds about fifteen minutes of oxygen and fits into a pocket of your parka. Again, it’s only for emergencies.”

The major indicated a pair of boots. “These are the best One Sport ‘Everest’ boots with alveolite liners and built-in supergaiters. They’re ultra light, and I think you’ll find them quite comfortable. The unique thing about them is that they’ve been designed with our special field compartments in the heels. In the right boot you’ll find medical and first aid equipment. In the left one you’ll find a set of small tools. Screwdriver, pliers, wrench . . . they might come in useful.”

Bond examined the bivouac sack made by North Face. “Ah, that,” the major said. “It’s a bivouac sack for when you’re caught outside of camp at night. We’ve installed a special battery-operated power pack that will heat it up like an electric blanket. It also expands to allow room for a second person.”

“How convenient,” Bond said.

“You have your P99 on you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me have it.”

Bond handed him the Walther P99 and Boothroyd put it in what Bond hadn’t realized was a fur-lined holster.

“I could just imagine you attempting to draw your gun out from under all those layers of clothing and the down parka you’ll most likely be wearing. By the time you got it out, you’d be a dead man. I think this outer holster should solve that little problem. It can be worn on top of your parka, but it’s still disguised to look like another pocket.”

Boothroyd removed the gun and handed it back to Bond. “We’ll have your own gear sent to you in Kathmandu. We’ve ordered all the clothing and tools you’ll need, and we’ve spared no expense. Apparently M feels that this mission is important enough to spend a few hundred pounds on a sleeping bag. If you have any questions regarding any of it when you get there, send me a fax.”

“What if I have a question in the middle of the Himalayas?”

“You can still send a fax. Paul Baack will have direct satellite linkup to the Internet, fax, and telephone. You can send me a digital snapshot from the summit of Mount Everest if you’d like.”

“I’m not climbing Everest.”

Boothroyd shrugged. “It’s much the same thing, isn’t it?”

Finally, the major opened a box and pulled out a package of plastic. “Inside this is an inflatable, portable seven-kilogram Gamow Bag. As you know, a Gamow Bag is a hyperbaric chamber used in an emergency to treat altitude sickness. This one is special because it’s got its own air pump and generator, eliminating the need for another person to use bellows on it.”

Bond picked up a strange contraption that looked like an oxygen regulator, but it had two mouthpieces on it.

Boothroyd smiled. “Ah, it figures that you would be attracted to that particular item.”

“What is it?”

“It’s an oxygen regulator, of course.”

“Why two mouthpieces?”

Boothroyd shook his head. “I know you all too well, Double-O Seven. It’s a two-person regulator. You both can share the same oxygen at a pinch.”

Seeing that most of the other members of the team are men, I resent that remark,” Bond said.

The flight to Delhi was horrendous, and the overnight stay in the hotel closest to the airport was even worse. Even though the team arrived in the city at nearly midnight, the streets were heavily con-gested with traffic, pedestrians, and cows.

Symbols of India’s religions were everywhere—Hindu images of Shiva, Ganesh, and Krishna, Buddhist statues, Sikh turbans, and even crucifixes. Nepal, though, would be completely Hindu and Buddhist. In fact, Nepal officially designated itself as the “only Hindu country in the world.”

Not normally a religious person, Bond respected Eastern beliefs. Even so, he had fitful dreams of these various religious icons and woke up irritable and stiff. Sergeant Chandra, with whom he shared a room, seemed to take it all in his stride. Gurkhas are typically good-natured, no matter how unpleasant conditions may be, and Chandra was no exception. When Bond awoke, the Gurkha was humming to himself, standing at the counter dressed only in boxer shorts, making coffee with a ten-year-old Mr. Coffee machine that, surprisingly, came with the room.

“Good morning, sir,” Chandra said, a large grin spread over his face. “Coffee?”

Bond groaned and pulled himself out of bed. “Please. Black. Strong. Hot. I’m going to take a cold shower.”

“That’s all there is,” Chandra said. “Apparently the hotel lost its hot water last night.”

Bond told himself that he must get used to these little inconveniences. Once they had embarked on the trek to the Himalayas and set about ascending Kangch, all remnants of a civilized world would be long gone.

Shortly before lunch the party met back at the airport to catch an Indian Airlines flight to Kathmandu.

Because they were officials representing the British government, the team passed quickly through Immigration. They were met by the Nepalese Liaison Officer, an official who is always assigned to climbing expeditions. His duties include making sure proper permits and paperwork are submitted, and seeing that the expedition doesn’t stray from its allotted peak.

The team piled into a rickety bus that must have been at least thirty years old. Bond gazed out the window at the streets, finally taking in that he was truly in the third world. It was such a contrast, even from Delhi. The blending of cultures in Kathmandu was striking The traffic snaked around water buffalo pulling wagons caring rice. There were open sewers along the sides of the roads. The people were dressed in an odd mixture of western fashions (T-shirts, blue jeans) and Nepalese and Tibetan dress. Barefoot, skinny children ran up to the bus when it stopped at a traffic light, holding out their hands and calling out, “Bonbon! Rupees! Iskul pens!” Apparently the universal English word for “sweets” in Nepal was “bonbon,” and as some tourists were prone to hand out pencils and pens, the children often asked for “iskul pens,” claiming that they needed them for “school.”

The Yak and Yeti is one of the few luxury hotels in Kathmandu. Located on Durbar Marg, built around a wing of an old Rana palace, the lavishly decorated 270-room building is “modern” in every sense of the word, yet its history is thoroughly integrated in the design. Bond noticed that the architecture was both westernized and Nepali-Victorian.

“This hotel is a beautiful one,” Chandra said as they got out of the bus. “For many centuries Nepal was cut off from the outside-world. Initially it was ruled by the Mallas, but Prithivi Narayan Shah established a kingdom in Kathmandu. During his tenure, a young army general, Jung Bahadur Rana, usurped power from the monarchy and established himself as the Prime Minister, with the title of maharaja and powers superior to those of the sovereign.”

Bond and the others walked into the lobby through double glass doors and onto sparkling granite flooring. To the left was a large gazebo with huge French windows. The reception desk, built with a black granite top, was to the right. A magnificent and traditional Newari wooden window, exquisitely hand-carved by local artisans, stood above Reception, where a smiling Guest Relations Officer gracefully draped in a sari sat. Beyond the reception area was a lounge furnished with yellow and green upholstered chairs. The lounge overlooked the hotel’s lovely, well-manicured and landscaped lawns through picture windows.

Chandra continued. “The Rana regime lasted for a hundred and four years, until 1951, and contributed to the country’s ornate neoclassical palaces. One of the reminders of this Rana period is the Red Palace, or Lai Durbar. It was built, oh, I think it was around 1855. This reconstructed palace now houses two fine restaurants—the Naachghar and the Chimney, as well as the Yak and Yeti Bar—all under one roof. Did you know that the Chimney owns the original copper fireplace from Boris Lissanevitch’s famous Royal Hotel? The bar there was called the Yak and Yeti, which is how this hotel got its name. Boris Lissanevitch opened the first western hotel in Nepal.”

“Fascinating,” Bond said.

The strong smells from the streets were not present inside the hotel. Instead, there was the pungent aroma of curry coming from one of the restaurants.

Bond and Chandra were put in what was called a Tibetan suite. Rich silk was used to cover the walls of the room with typical Tibetan motifs in green and blue. The living room had a comfortable seating area containing furnishings of intricately carved wood. The walls and ceiling were adorned with brass and copper work. A private terrace offered a spectacular view of the Himalayan range and the Kathmandu valley. The master bedroom contained two queen-sized beds covered in silk in the same rich Tibetan colors. The bathroom was in marble with an oval-shaped bathtub and a separate shower.

“Enjoy the luxury while you can!” Chandra said, dropping his bags on the floor. “In three days we leave all of this behind!”

“Indeed. However, we’re supposed to meet our man from Station I at the hotel bar in an hour. What time is our orientation with the team?”

Chandra looked at his itinerary. “Tonight, before dinner. We have the rest of the afternoon free.”

“Good,” Bond said. “We’ll want to go to the temporary station house in Kathmandu and see what our man has for us.”

Bond changed into lightweight khaki trousers and a Sea Island cotton navy shirt, while Chandra wore fatigues from his regiment. They went down to the Piano Lounge, just off the lobby, where the Mixture Trio Band were playing standards from the fifties, sixties, and seventies. Bond ordered a double vodka with ice. Chandra ordered Iceberg, the local Nepalese beer.

“Are you going to see your wife?” Bond asked.

“She is coming to Kathmandu and we’ll meet before we leave for the mountain. It’s a long journey for her. Most of the way has to be on foot.”

“What’s her name?”

“Manmeya.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“She’s a pretty woman,” Chandra said, his grin stretching across his face.

They finished their drinks just as Zakir Bedi came into the bar. He spotted Bond and Chandra and approached their table.

“Mr. Bond?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“The tour you arranged is ready. Would you like to come with me?”

“Certainly.” Bond charged the bill to his room, and he and Chandra followed Bedi outside.

The midday sun was strong. The dust and heat and smell of the street assaulted Bond as they walked a mile to Durbar Square, the heart of old Kathmandu city. Clustered around the central square are the old Royal Palace and several temples designed with the multiroof Nepali pagoda style of architecture that spread to China and East Asia. Many of the temples are oddly adorned with erotic art on the roof struts. Unlike those in India, where the erotic carvings are sometimes sensuous, these are smaller, cruder, and even cartoonlike. Chandra told Bond a legend suggesting that the goddess of lightning was a shy virgin and wouldn’t dare strike a temple with such “goings-on.”

The square was noisy and full of life. Taxis and cows shared the same roads. Street vendors huddled around their wares, barking for attention. At least three sadhus, or holy men, sat on blankets in the dirt, half naked, smeared in dust, their hair and beard matted. Several women carried dokos on their backs. These large wicker baskets were filled with a variety of items from vegetables to firewood, and were fixed to the body by means of a namlo, a strap around the forehead.

The three of them walked behind the Shiva temple known as the Maju Deval, one of the larger temples in the square, and into a quieter side street. Bedi led them to an antiques shop that still bore the name Universal Exports Ltd.

“We never changed to Transworld Consortium,” Bedi explained, “I rarely had to open the Nepal office, so we kept it the same. It’s normally unmanned. Saves money.”

Bedi unlocked the door and ushered Bond and Chandra inside. The place was musty and filled with bric-a-brac, some of which might have been worth something in the tourist trade. Most of it however, was junk that was in place to create the illusion that the shop was legitimate.

“Please excuse the dust,” Bedi said. “I had not been here for months until we tried to arrest Lee Ming. Come over here, I have something to show you.”

They went through hanging drapes and into a passage leading to a door with a padlock on it. Bedi unlocked it, saying, “We’re not so sophisticated in Nepal, Mr. Bond. No keycards, no electronic steel doors, nothing like that. Just an ordinary key gets you into the Nepalese branch of the British secret service!” He laughed heartily.

The “office” was a very small room containing a computer and monitor, file cabinets, a small refrigerator, a desk, and four chairs.

They had worked up a sweat simply walking across town, so Bedi opened the refrigerator and took out three bottles of Iceberg beer. The beer was refreshing, but Bond didn’t care much for it. It had a curiously sweet taste, unlike some Indian beers that he enjoyed, such as Cobra.

“I’ve learned something about the three hijackers,” Bedi said. He removed some eight-by-ten glossy photographs from an envelope on the desk. “They were Nepalese nationals who escaped from prison five years ago and were believed to be dead. They were identified by two workers at the hangar where the tourist plane was kept.”

“Do we know if they’re Union?” Bond asked.

“We’ve been unable to determine that. It’s possible, I suppose, but they’ve been living in Nepal for the last five years. If they were Union - it seems that we would have had more evidence of their activities. We think they were living in the hills somewhere. What we did learn 15 that they were part of the old Thuggee cult that originated in India in the 1800s.”

The “Thugs” were a religious organization that murdered and robbed in the service of a goddess.

“If I remember correctly, the British government supposedly hanged the last Thug in 1882,” Bond said.

“Mostly true,” replied Bedi. “But remnants of their group exist. I would think present-day Thugs would be prime recruitment candidates for the Union. You want to know the most interesting thing?”

“What?”

“They were in England briefly, shortly before the Skin 17 formula was stolen. Flew in one day, flew out the next.”

“How did they get in?”

“The visas were issued for ‘family reasons.’ We have since discovered that their so-called families in England never existed.”

Bond studied the photographs, then turned his attention to three more pictures that Bedi laid on the table. They were aerial views of the crash site on Kangchenjunga. The fuselage was plainly visible, surprisingly intact.

“Reconnaissance photos reveal that the plane is quite accessible once you get up to the Great Scree Terrace,” Bedi said. “But look at this detail.” He showed them another photo that magnified one of the aerial shots.

Footprints were evident around the open door of the aircraft.

“Someone survived the crash,” Bond observed.

“They couldn’t have survived the altitude,” Chandra remarked. They may have gotten out of the wreckage, but they wouldn’t have lived long at that height. None of those people was prepared for those conditions.”

Do you have any other pictures? Where do the footprints lead?”

Bedi shrugged. “We tried to take more shots, but the winds and snow had covered the tracks by the time we went back. You can see that they went off in this direction, toward the south, but beyond that we don’t know. He’s right, they couldn’t have survived at that altitude for very long. They hadn’t acclimatized themselves at all.

Whoever it was, you’ll probably find their frozen body in a crevasse somewhere.”

The men went through various other documents and reports. Zakir Bedi had no solid evidence that the Union were involved in the plane hijacking. To his knowledge, the Union had not operated on the Indian subcontinent at all.

By late afternoon they were finished. Bedi offered to walk them back to the hotel and led them out of the makeshift intelligence office.

The streets were still crowded, but the heat was beginning to subside as dusk approached and they walked into Durbar Square.

High above them, inside the Maju Deval temple, a Nepalese man held a Galil Sniping Rifle, a 7.62mm semiautomatic weapon that is manufactured in Israel. Designed with battlefield reliability in mind, the Galil could score head shots at 300 meters, half-body hits at 600 meters, and full-figure hits at 800 to 900 meters. The man was a good shot, but he wasn’t an expert. A sniper must have special training and technique, for bullets don’t fly in a completely straight line. Gravity and friction pull on a flight path; snipers must allow for “rise and drop” conditions. Some telescopic sights incorporate range finders to help the marksman in calculations, but intense practice is necessary to get it right.

It was this factor that saved James Bond’s life.

The first bullet hit the dirt at Bond’s feet. All three men dropped to the ground, then attempted to determine where the sniper was located. Bond squinted into the sun, almost certain that the shot had been fired from the large triple-roofed temple in front of him.

“He’s up there!” Bond pointed. He got to his feet and started to run toward the building. The other two followed him, but a passing rickshaw momentarily blocked their passage. When the man pulled the contraption away, Bedi was in front of Bond, peering at the temple.

“Is he still there?” he asked.

Up above, the sniper took a bead on Bond’s head. He didn’t know who the other two were. His others were to kill the Englishman. The crosshairs centered neatly on Bond’s nose, then the man squeezed the trigger Somehow, though, the Indian man got in the way.

The bullet struck Zakir Bedi on the side of the face, knocking him back into Bond.

“I see him!” Chandra shouted, running toward the temple. Bond dropped Bedi’s corpse on the ground, drew his Walther, and ran after Chandra.

The Gurkha stopped Bond at the door. “You can’t come in,” he said. “It’s forbidden to non-Hindus.”

“To hell with that!” Bond spat out.

“I’m sorry, James,” Chandra insisted. “Let me go. You wait here.”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

Chandra made a face, then went into the temple. In Nepal, there was a fine line between Hinduism and Buddhism. A well-known Shiva lingam was inside, but the roof was topped by a pinnacle shaped like a Buddhist stupa. It was dark, and Bond almost choked from the thick incense smoke. Worshippers looked up in horror at the westerner who had run inside the sacred place with a gun.

Bond followed Chandra to a set of stairs in the back that led to the layered roof. Another shot rang out, this time inside the building. Women screamed, got up, and ran out of the temple. The men who were there didn’t move, but instead watched with interest. They hadn’t seen this much excitement in a long time.

Chandra and Bond saw the sniper attempting to climb onto the sloping roof so that he could jump down to the ground below. Chandra was remarkably fast, scuttling out on the roof just in time to catch the man’s leg. The rifle fell as the two men struggled. Bond rolled out on the roof, halting his descent by lodging the heels of his boots in the shingles. Before he could lend the Gurkha a hand, the sniper twisted away and slipped off the edge of the roof. The man screamed as he fell, but the sound was abruptly cut short as he hit the hard ground.

Bond and Chandra climbed back into the temple and ran down the stairs. Chandra spoke Nepali to the spectators, explaining that they were policemen. Outside, they found the sniper had fallen on his bead. His neck was broken.

Chandra examined him and said, “He’s a local man. I can’t believe that he would have had much experience in shooting people.”

“That fits with Union recruiting practices, doesn’t it?” Bond asked.

“In Nepal, I would say, yes. Those bullets were meant for you.”

“Obviously,” said Bond. “That bloody leak at SIS is getting worse. There is no way that anyone in Nepal could have known of my presence. Bedi was the only one.”

They heard police sirens approaching. “Come on,” Chandra said. “We don’t want to get involved in this.”

They ran through the crowd and lost themselves before the police arrived.

FIFTEEN

TEAM WORK

THE TEAM MET in one of the yak and yeti’s impressive meeting rooms normally used for business functions. It was seven-thirty, and dinner was scheduled for eight o’clock in the fabulous Chimney Restaurant. Everyone was tired and hungry, but there was still excitement and anticipation in the air.

Marquis sat beside Bond and Chandra while waiting for two late arrivals. He leaned over and whispered, “I hear there was an Indian found shot to death today in Durbar Square. A Nepalese, it appears, was the killer. He’s dead, too. I was questioned this afternoon by police. Apparently, a Caucasian man and another Nepalese were observed fleeing the scene of the crime. Do you know anything about this?”

“Lord, no,” Bond lied. “Who was it that was killed?”

Some Indian businessman. Sorry, Bond, I had to ask. You two are the only Caucasian/Nepalese combination I know at the moment. Never mind, it’s time to start.”

Marquis got up as the two missing stragglers came into the room, and from the podium said, “May I have your attention, please?”

Many of the eighteen people who had assembled in the room were acquaintances from previous expeditions and were therefore embroiled in lively conversation. There was one Nepalese Liaison ®8tcer, sixteen male team members, and one female.

“Please, lets get on with this, so we can eat!” Marquis said even louder.

Finally everyone stopped talking and focused their attention on the leader.

“I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not addressing members of the air force,” Marquis muttered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. They laughed. “Well. Its good to see old friends and nice to meet new ones. Welcome. I’m glad you all could make it. You’re probably wondering why I asked you here. . . .”

There were more chuckles in the room, but less enthusiastic. Bond was put off by Marquis’s manner. He projected unquestionable authority over the team, but he also tried too hard to entertain them.

“Seriously, we’re on a very important mission for the governments of Great Britain and the United States,” Marquis said with thin sincerity. “I’m sure we all want to get to know each other well over the next few days, but tonight we want to eat and go to bed! This is a very nice hotel, and I for one want to take advantage of it while I’m here! So, let’s get on with the introductions. I’m Group Captain Roland Marquis, RAF, and something of a mountain climber in my spare time . . . .”

There was some applause from two or three members of the audience, including the girl.

“Thank you.” Marquis beamed. He indicated two Nepalese men standing near the wall, apart from the others. “You all met Mr. Chitrakar at the airport this afternoon. He’s our Liaison Officer. He is our contact here in Kathmandu.” The man on the right smiled and gave a little bow. “Mr. Chitrakar needs to say a few words. Mr. Chitrakar?”

“Thank you,” he said. His accent was thick. He proceeded to rattle off the various governmental rules and regulations the team should abide by when trekking across the countryside and when ascending the mountain.

“Of most importance,” he said, “is that you do not summit Kangchenjunga. This is a very sacred mountain to our people. You may go as high as you need in order to perform salvage operations, but no higher.” He smiled, and said, “You might anger the goddess who lives there.”

Indeed, Kangchenjunga means “Five Treasures of the Great Snows,” and is thought to be the home of Nepalese gods, as are other Himalayan peaks.

“Thank you, Mr. Chitrakar. I can assure you that none of us has any intention of summiting the mountain. Now, next to Mr. Chitrakar is Ang Tshering, a splendid sirdar, with whom I’ve worked before,” Marquis said.

The man on the left smiled and waved. The same two or three people who applauded before did so again. Bond thought that Tshering looked competent. The role of a sirdar, or Sherpa trekking leader, was important. He would run the Base Camp while everyone else climbed.

“Now I’d like to introduce the most beautiful person in the room! She comes from New Zealand, so those of us who know her sometimes call her Kiwi Kendall. Meet our team doctor, Hope Kendall.”

Red-faced, Dr. Kendall stood to the loudest applause anyone had received thus far. Bond thought that Marquis was right in one respect—she was stunningly beautiful. Hope Kendall had blond hair, green eyes, and a wide smile. She was in her early thirties and was obviously fit and healthy. She was over six feet tall, with long legs that were hidden by khaki trousers. Due to social customs in Nepal, Bond knew that he might never get a glimpse of those legs, since women revealing bare legs in shorts or miniskirts were frowned upon.

“Hello, everybody,” she said. “I just have a few words to say because I’m your doctor for the next few weeks. I know you are all fit as buck rats, and you know everything I’m going to tell you now, but I’m actually required by law to give you the ‘talk.’ “

She managed to exert a great deal of authority over the men, and not just because of her physical beauty. Even Marquis sat down and gave her his undivided attention.

We’re going to be climbing much more quickly than any of us have ever done before. The schedule is extremely tight, and I know we all want to be off the mountain before the monsoons hit. Nevertheless, we must be conscious of any symptoms of acute mountain sickness. It can strike anyone at any time. It is each and everyone’s job to recognize the symptoms in your teammates, because many J times an individual cannot recognize them in himself. You must 3 understand that the atmospheric condition at high altitude is the same as at sea level, with twenty percent oxygen, but a reduction in atmospheric pressure reduces the amount of oxygen you can take in with each breath. You’re really breathing roughly half the oxygen you’re accustomed to when you’re above five thousand meters. The first signs are a general malaise, loss of appetite, then headache. This is followed by increasing weakness and a loss of interest in the climb. If you start to experience apathy, nausea, dizziness, or sleepiness, there’s a good chance you’ve got AMS.”

Bond knew all of this, but Dr. Kendall had such powerful charisma that he hung on every word.

“Note that these symptoms can occur at relatively low altitudes. So make sure you use what we call ‘rest steps’ to give your leg muscles little rests all the way up and help you maintain measured, methodical breathing. Take occasional full rest stops with forced deep breathing. Drink lots of water, and I mean it. Eat frequently to keep your nourishment up. Now, you should be aware of the two severe types of AMS, and these are High Altitude Pulmonary Edema, or HAPE, and High Altitude Cerebral Edema, or HACE. HAPE is when there is leakage of blood and other fluids into the lungs, restricting the air sacs in exchanging oxygen and carbon dioxide in the blood. The symptoms are similar to pneumonia. HAPE can kill you and kill you fast. Fortunately, it rarely occurs in healthy people below nine thousand feet or so. HACE, the other one, is worse. That’s when there is accumulation of fluid in the brain, and symptoms begin with a severe, relentless headache that is a result of pressure due to the swelling of brain tissue. You’ll soon have difficulties with physical coordination, slurred speech, irrational behavior, collapse, and eventually you die. Descent is the only treatment for these things. Forget drugs like Diamox and dexamethasone. Although they might treat the symptoms of AMS, they don’t make the damaging effects go away. As your doctor, here and now I forbid the use of these drugs, got it?”

Several people in the room, mumbled, “Uh-huh.”

“Finally, be aware of what we call retinal hemorrhaging. This is very serious, and it’s caused by damage to the retina due to pressure changes and the tiny bundles of arteries in your eyes rupturing. If you contract it up on that mountain, you’re in deep trouble. You may not regain your eyesight until weeks after descending, if you’re able to descend safely at all! I’m not trying to scare you, I just want you to be aware of all this. I’ll be performing routine examinations on every member of the team, so get used to it.”

“I’m looking forward to that!” Marquis said with a laugh. Some of the others chuckled.

She glared at him but smiled. “Roland has told me that I have the authority to send anyone down the mountain who I think is unfit to continue the climb. That goes for you, too, Mr. Marquis!”

Bond wondered if there was something romantic between the two of them.

“Finally, I just want to say that although we’re about to embark on a seemingly insurmountable task, there’s an old Maori proverb that says He nui maunga e kore e taea te whakaneke, he nui ngaru moana ma te ihu o te waka e wahi. ‘A great mountain cannot be moved, but a giant wave can be broken by the prow of a canoe.’ In plain English, that means ‘Do not give up too easily—some things are possible.’ That’s all I’ve got,” she said, and sat down.

Marquis took the floor again and said, “Thank you, Dr. Kendall. l’m sure we’ll all put ourselves in your capable hands.”

She smirked and turned red again as the others laughed.

“Right,” Marquis said. He then introduced the man who was in charge of Nepalese relations. He would be working with the sirdar to hire the Sherpa porters once they reached Taplejung. Other climbers Would be hired there to assist in the hauling once the team reached Camp Five and the aircraft.

The equipment manager was a renowned French mountaineer. Bond was aware of his talents. He was probably the only mountaineer the team who was as experienced as Roland Marquis. He was a small man but had extremely broad shoulders and a big, bald head.

“My lieutenants on the team are my friends Tom Barlow and Carl Glass, there in the second row.”

Barlow was tall, lanky, and hirsute with thick glasses, while Glass was stocky, clean shaven, and expressionless.

Marquis then introduced three men representing the Americans, who stood and said hello. One of them seemed very young, probably in his early twenties, and looked even younger. Bond had already heard one of the others refer to him as “the kid.”

Three other men were presented as “haulers.” Two were known British mountaineers. The third, introduced as Otto Schrenk, was a last-minute replacement.

Marquis explained. “Apparently Jack Kubrick was involved in a terrible accident the night before our departure from London. We had to scramble for someone else, and Mr. Schrenk here, from Berlin, volunteered to step in.”

This news took Bond by surprise. He had spent quite some time studying the backgrounds of each and every team member. SIS had done a complete security check on all of them. Bond wasn’t comfortable with an unknown. If the Union were going to infiltrate the team, they would do it at the last minute. Bond made a note to put in a call to SIS and have Schrenk scrutinized.

He leaned over to Chandra and whispered, “Keep an eye on that one.”

Chandra nodded imperceptibly.

Marquis then gestured to them. “Over here are representatives from the Foreign Office, Mr. James Bond and Sergeant Chandra Bahadur Gurung, his assistant. The sergeant is on loan to us from the army. He’s with the Royal Gurkha Rifles, isn’t that right?”

Chandra grinned and nodded. His eyes wrinkled when he smiled, giving the impression that every line in his face was smiling.

Bond nodded at the others, then sat down. He caught Hope Kendall’s eye, and lingered there a moment. She was studying him, attempting to figure him out with a spontaneous first impression.

“Last but not least is Paul Baack, our communications officer, Marquis said, gesturing to a tall, large man with a neat goatee and deep brown eyes. Baack stood up, immediately dispelling the notion that anyone else might be bigger than he.

“Thank you,” he said with a pronounced Dutch accent. “I am hippy 10 be here.” He smiled broadly, then sat down.

In Bond’s opinion, it was Baack who had the most impressive credentials. Not only was the man a top-notch mountaineer, his work in communications was widely respected in intelligence circles. Q Branch routinely consulted the Dutch engineer, but Marquis hadn’t known that. Bond had never met him and looked forward to doing so.

The girl was a big question mark, Bond thought. Was she Marquis’s girlfriend? They certainly flirted with each other a lot in public. She seemed capable, but in Bond’s opinion, bringing a girl along with a team of men was just asking for trouble. She might insist that more effort be expended on providing her with a certain amount of privacy. On the other hand, she might be a distraction if she simply tried to be “one of the boys.”

“One other thing I need to mention,” Marquis said. “There are three other expeditions climbing Kangch.”

Bond knew that there were two. Another must have appeared in the last day or two.

“Permits for a Chinese expedition were applied for on the same day as ours. A Russian expedition was mounted just a few days later. The Chinese are climbing the north face as well, but slightly south of us. If you ask me, they’re doing it the hard way. The Russians are also coming up the north face, and at this point we don’t know what route they’re taking. Just a few days ago a Belgian team applied for permits. I understand that they were granted today.”

Bond raised his hand and was acknowledged by Marquis.

“What do we know about them?”

Not much. They’re all experienced climbers. They came up with the money, and that’s all Nepal cares about. They don’t represent any specific groups. As far as we know, they’re in it only for the sport.” Bond frowned.

Right,” said Marquis. “Are there any other questions?” Otto Schrenk, the newcomer, raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Schrenk?”

“Why are we climbing the north face? That is very difficult.” He had a thick German accent.

“It happens to be the most direct route to the aircraft. Also, the politics involved with obtaining permission to climb from the Sikkim side were too complicated. The north, west, and southwest sides of the mountain are in Nepalese territory. Of these, the north face is the safest. There have been deaths there over the years, to be sure, but several people have made it to the top.”

That seemed to satisfy Schrenk. He nodded and folded his arms.

“Anyone else?”

No one said anything.

“Fine, then,” Marquis said, slapping his stomach. “I’m ready to eat!”

The group stood up and stretched, picking up the conversations they had halted a half hour ago.

Bond looked at Hope Kendall, who was gathering her things. Could she really take the next seven or eight weeks being the only woman among such testosterone-heavy human beings as Roland Marquis . . . and himself?

“Just a second,” Bond said to Chandra. “If I’m not back in sixty seconds, you’ll have to eat without me.”

He walked over to Hope, held out his hand, and said, “Hello, I thought I should come over and introduce myself properly.”

She smiled warmly and shook his hand. “I’m glad to be working with you, Mr. Bond. So far the trip is a beaut, don’t you think? I m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know much about your background.”

“We’ve been here only a day,” Bond said. “The law of inevitable rubbish will descend upon us before we know it. It always happens.

“You’re not going into this with a bad attitude, are you, Mr. Bond? she asked flirtatiously.

“Not at all. As you said, we all have to keep our wits about us. Would you care to accompany me to dinner?”

She shook her head. “I’m already promised to Roland. Some other time, maybe, all right?” She smiled, gave a little wave, then turned and walked away.

Chandra, who had observed the scene, was highly amused. -CHANDRA, if your smile gets any bigger, your face will split in two,” Bond said.

I THINK she’s the wrong girl for you, Commander Bond. Khanu paryo,” he said, meaning that it was time to eat.

Bond replied with what little Nepalese he had learned in the past few days. “Khanu Hos.”

Contrary to popular belief, cuisine in Nepal was quite varied. In Bond’s opinion, Nepalese food in and of itself tended to be rather bland and uninteresting. There was only so much dhal bhat one could eat, and he was going to have plenty of that over the next weeks. In Kathmandu, at least, one could get a variety of international cuisines, and the Chimney in the hotel specialized in some of the finest Russian food he had ever tasted. Founded by Boris Lissanevitch, it is perhaps the oldest western restaurant in Nepal. It took its name from the huge copper chimney and open brick fireplace that occupy the center. It was the perfect place for an intimate dinner with live classical guitar music.

Bond sat with Chandra and Paul Baack. For starters, Bond had Ukrainian borscht made from a famous, “original” Boris Lissanevitch recipe. As a main course Bond chose yogurt-marinated chicken, which was lightly spiced and served skewered with buttered rice pilaf. With it he had aubergine and sun-dried tomato Charlotte with solferino potatoes and a black-eyed-pea stew.

“This is very good,” Baack said, pouncing on an oven-roasted tenderloin with an onion relish and port wine jus. “Why can’t we just stay at this hotel for the next six weeks?”

Chandra had smoked beckti, a Bengal fish. “Yes, it is good, but the Sherpa food is better,” he said, grinning.

“Ha!” Baack laughed. “Are you mad?”

Chandra said, “I’m not mad, but I can be very crazy sometimes.”

The Dutchman laughed again. “What’s your story, Mr. Bond? Why are you on this trip?”

“I was ordered by the men in suits over in Whitehall. They want me to make sure everything is shipshape.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you need a Gurkha to accompany you?”

Bond and Chandra looked at each other. Chandra answered, “Commander Bond is my good friend. We always look after each other.”

“Actually,” Bond said, “the Foreign Office thought it would be helpful for us all to have someone here who knows the territory. Chandra has been on Kangchenjunga before.”

“Really?” Baack asked. He was genuinely interested.

“Only halfway,” Chandra said. “This time I’ll do better. At least to the Great Scree Terrace.”

“Tell me about the equipment our people gave you,” Bond said.

“Ah! Very nice stuff, I can tell you,” Baack said. “Of course, I helped design the satellite linkup. We have an extremely light laptop computer with enough power to last three months. It’s equipped with the linkup, and that will be kept at Base Camp. With the use of cellular phones, every team member can stay in contact with each other and the outside world. We will all use the same channel, although the phones are capable of several private channels. We can even hook up to the Internet from wherever we are. I can send a fax from eight thousand meters if I want.”

“Speaking of faxes, I need to send something to London. You have something handy?” Bond asked.

“Certainly. It’s right here,” he said, indicating a portable computer case at his side. “Would you like to do it now?”

Bond opened his own file folder containing information on the expedition and team members. He found the recently added photo of Otto Schrenk, scribbled a message on a Post-It note, stuck it to the bottom of the photo, then handed it to Baack. The Dutchman opened the case, turned on the computer, noted the phone number that Bond had written, then fed the photo into the machine.

“That should do it,” he said, handing it back to Bond. “I’m in constant contact with London, Mr. Bond, so anytime you want to talk to the Foreign Office, just say so.”

“Thanks. Let me know when you get a reply. And call me James-

He had a good feeling about Baack, and was pleased that he was on the team and looked forward to getting to know him better.

Roland Marquis and Hope Kendall entered the room. She had gone to the trouble to change clothes before coming in to dinner. Instead of the trousers she was wearing at the meeting, she now had on an attractive red evening gown. Marquis had put on a sleek dinner jacket but was still wearing the civilian clothes underneath.

She laughed as she walked by Bond’s table. “I figured that this was mv last chance to be a lady before six weeks of hell.”

“Doesn’t she look marvelous?” Marquis asked.

The three men muttered appreciative comments, then the couple sat at a table isolated from the others.

After a few glances in their direction, Bond decided that the two of them were indeed having some kind of love affair.

Although there was no rational reason for it, this notion gave Bond a twinge of jealousy.

SIXTEEN

THE TREK BEGINS

THE REST OF THE stay in Kathmandu was unremarkable, and local police never connected the deaths of Zakir Bedi and the Nepalese assassin, who might or might not have been Union, to the group of mountaineers staying at the Yak and Yeti. The remaining days were spent exercising and gathering supplies for the trek across eastern Nepal.

One of the more interesting events for Bond occurred the morning after the team meeting. Every member of the expedition had to submit to a physical examination performed by Dr. Hope Kendall. Bond reported to her in one of the hotel suites at the appointed time and found her to be cool, clinical, and objective, as a physician should be. At the same time, though, she seemed overly intrigued by his body and took her time feeling his muscles, testing reflexes, and looking into orifices. In fact, she was somewhat rough with him, pinching him here, jabbing him there. Perhaps, Bond thought, she was merely a very physical person.

“You sure have a lot of scars,” she said, examining the faint mementos of Bond’s illustrious career that adorned various parts of his naked body. “You’re in the Foreign Office?”

“That’s right.”

“How does someone in the Foreign Office get so many scars?”

“I do a number of outdoor activities for sport. Sometimes you get injured,” he said.

“Hmm, and I think you’re lying,” she said. “You’re some kind of policeman, aren’t you? Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.” He didn’t. She turned to her table and put on a rubber glove. “Okay, Mr. Bond, let’s see how your prostate feels.” 5he wasn’t very gentle with that exam, either.

The expedition members flew in two Twin Otters to the Suketar airstrip near a small village called Taplejung in east Nepal. The stretch of dirt runway, located on a high ridge at 2,000 meters, is at a significantly higher altitude than Kathmandu, at 1,300 meters. The plan was to stay in crude lodges that had been erected in the village specifically for trekkers, then take a steep drop down to the Tamur Khola valley the following day. It was a more direct route to go down and north through the valley rather than east, over the alternate route to Khunjari.

The view was spectacular, and this was only the first day. The Himalayas could be seen from Kathmandu, but there they were so far in the distance that one felt they couldn’t possibly be part of the same country. Here, however, it seemed as if the mountains were just over the next hill. The white-covered peaks spread over the northern and eastern sky, some disappearing into white clouds.

Their immediate surroundings were rich with the colors of spring. The hills were terraced so that farming could be accomplished on a steep surface. Bond thought it was a marvel that anyone could live their lives cultivating this difficult land. Yet, nearly everyone in Nepal did, and they did it well.

The wind was brisker here and Bond could immediately feel the thinness of the air, even at this relatively low altitude. He glanced at his Avocet Vertech Alpin watch that Q Branch had given him. It showed altitude, time, barometric pressure, and cumulative vertical ascent rates. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, but it felt later. The change in altitude made it seem as if he had already spent an entire day exerting himself. One of the Americans, Bill Scott, complained of headache shortly after arriving. Hope Kendall examined him and told him to get plenty of sleep that night.

I want everyone to go to bed immediately after dinner,” Marquis said as they gathered at the small building that served as an air terminal. “We’re to have dinner with the respective families who are putting us up. Remember—eat with your right hand, don’t even gesture with the left, and leave your shoes at the door. Don’t enter a Hindu kitchen unless invited. Let your hosts direct you to a seat. Don’t touch any food unless you intend to eat it. Utensils or food is jutho, or impure, once it has touched your lips or tongue. Everyone eats from their own plate and drinks from their own glass. These people know that all food must be cooked, but just in case, don’t eat anything that has to be washed or that isn’t cooked immediately before it’s served. Remember to offer a good hearty belch at the end of the meal, for that’s a sign of contentment in this country.”

Bond and Chandra helped the others unload the equipment. Bone carried most of his gear in a Lowe Alpine Attack 50 backpack, which was designed primarily as a functional, lightweight summit pack. A lot of the tools for climbing would be carried by the Sherpas until it was time to use them.

Perhaps the best known and most widely respected of all Nepal’s ethnic groups, the Sherpas resemble Tibetans more than other Nepalese. Hundreds of years of living in east Nepal have suitably adapted them to living and working in the mountains. Ever since mountaineers discovered them to be excellent companions ant workers, the Sherpas came into a hitherto unforeseen popularity am prosperity. For an expedition the size of Bond’s, nearly sixty porters would need to be hired.

Chandra, Bond, Paul Baack, and the French climber, Philippe Leaud, had been assigned to a family that consisted of a toothless, smiling old couple. Bond noticed that Marquis and Hope Kendall went into a lodge together. Nepalese were generally intolerant of openly displayed affection or sexuality, and he wondered how they would get around that.

Chandra, reading his mind, said, “Marquis claimed that he and Dr. Kendall were man and wife.”

Leaud made a vulgar comment in French that went over the Gurkha’s head, but he got the drift when the others laughed.

Sunset came and dinner was served on a low table inside the lodge. The food was a traditional dhal bhat, a lentil soup over rice. A few vegetables, or sabji, were served with cumin, garlic, and ginger. Hot tea accompanied the meal. By the time they had finished, Bond and Chandra were ready to turn in, the altitude and food having had a soporific effect on them. Bond unrolled his Marmot Col sleeping bag which wasn’t as warm as the more popular Cwm, but was lighter and more versatile at altitude. The wooden floor was hard, but at least there was the luxury of having a roof over their heads.

“Good night, Commander Bond,” Chandra said as he slipped into his own bag. “Don’t let the kichkinni get you.”

“What?”

“The kichkinni. That’s the spirit of a woman who died in childbirth and reappears as a beautiful and insatiable young woman intent on seduction.”

“Sounds quite pleasant to me,” Bond quipped.

“Ah, but her unlucky lover withers away as she saps his vital energies. The only way you can tell if she is a kichkinni is if you happen to notice that her feet are turned backward!”

“Just her feet?” Bond asked, struggling to get comfortable in the confines of the bedroll.

Chandra laughed loudly. It never ceased to amaze Bond that the Gurkha was always in a good humor. He enjoyed talking, sometimes to Bond’s chagrin, but he had already become an entertaining and intelligent companion. He had started to tell stories of his life in the foothills of Lamjung and Annapurna Himal, a region that the Gurungs have farmed and covered with a network of trails paved with precisely cut and fitted stone blocks.

In the higher regions of our homeland, Gurungs retain Buddhist traditions, Chandra said. “In the lower ones, they’ve converted to Hinduism.”

“What are you?” Bond asked.

A little of both,” Chandra said. “Once you’re born a Hindu, that never changes. The Buddhist religion fits neatly around Hinduism. You will find that in Nepal, many people say they are of both religions.”

Baack began to snore loudly, keeping the other three men up for a while. Chandra continued to talk until finally Leaud said politely “Oui, oui, monsieur, please, I need to sleep now. We have another bedtime story tomorrow night, okay?”

Chandra said, “Sure. Shuba ratri.”

“Huh?”

“That means ‘good night.’ “

“Oh. Shuba ratri.”

“Shuba ratri, Commander Bond,” Chandra said, but there was silence. “Commander Bond?”

Bond was already fast asleep.

Mornings are always the most beautiful part of the day in Nepal. A magical mist accumulates in the valleys and lingers until the sun comes up and evaporates the moisture. The land is clear by mid-morning, but the sight of the fog-laden land put Bond in a reflective mood. He was truly in a land quite apart from England, exotic and mystical. The idea of one day going back to the dull office by the Thames seemed impossible.

Bond and Chandra were up early with the lady of the house, whose duty it was to take care of the family’s religious obligations, which meant that first there was worship of household deities fol-lowed by a visit to the neighborhood temple with a tray of small offerings. Bond accompanied Chandra to the temple and watched him perform puja, an offering meant to please divine senses by scattering flower blossoms and red tika powder on images of gods and ringing bells to alert them to his presence. The Gurkha paid special attention to the idol of Ganesh, the portly deity with the head of an elephant. Ganesh is known as the creator and remover of obstacles and brings luck to those who pay special attention to him. Therefore, it was important to pray to him at the onset of any undertaking, otherwise he might convey misfortune and malevolence on travelers.

The Sherpa porters left with the trekking equipment very early in order to set up a campsite in Phurumba by the time the rest of the group arrived there for lunch.

“They’re always so cheerful,” Bond commented to Chandra.

“I would be too if my pay for the expedition would support my family and sometimes my entire village for a year or more,” the Gurkha replied.

Breakfast was served in the lodge at eight o’clock, and it consisted surprisingly of scrambled eggs. They weren’t cooked to Bond’s specifications, but they were nevertheless welcome and he felt rested and ready to begin the mostly-downhill four-hour trek to Phurumba, the first stop on the way to the Base Camp. It would be a long, difficult day. Normally trekkers would stop overnight at Phurumba, but Marquis planned to continue to Chirwa, another four-hour trek . . . uphill.

It wasn’t necessary to wear the heavy warm clothes yet. While it was cool at this altitude, the exertion of trekking could work up a sweat, especially when carrying fifty pounds or more on one’s back. Bond wore a Patagonia Puffball lightweight and windproof shirt, dark denims, thick Smartwool socks, and a pair of Merrell M2 high-top boots. He would save the One Sport boots that Boothroyd had given him for the snow and ice. Water was boiled before leaving the village, and every member of the team got a full canteen and was told to conserve it. They wouldn’t get more until they reached Chirwa.

The trekkers set out by nine o’clock, descending the peak into the misty valley. Dr. Kendall and Marquis walked together at the head of the group. Bond and Chandra trailed along near the back.

The views were exhilarating. They were in magnificent hills colored m brown and green, and the vast Himalayas were just beyond them. They passed farmers working with water buffalo. The men were dressed in vests and loincloths, while some women were wearing the graceful Indian sari, a five-meter length of cloth draped over a tight, short-sleeved blouse called a choli. The saris were always brightly colored and they fluttered like banners. Nepali women delighted in decoration, layering themselves with jewelry in carnival colors. Their long, black hair was usually braided with red cotton tassels, or they twisted it into a neat bun with a flower set in it. The essential tika mark made on the forehead with red sindhur powder was part of the daily puja.

“In a mystic sense,” Chandra explained, “the tika represents the thirdeye of spiritual insight. For women it’s a cosmetic essential.”

They reached Phurumba, a drop in altitude to 922 meters, right on schedule at one o’clock. The Sherpas had lunch ready, which again con. sisted of dhal bhat. Rumor had it that there would be chicken for dinner.

After two hours’ rest, the team pushed on toward Chirwa, which was a significantly more difficult walk, as the altitude would have I increased to 1,270 meters by the time they arrived. Because they had already trekked a fair distance that morning, it took them nearly six I hours instead of the allotted four to reach their destination.

Again, the scenery was beautiful. At one point Bond noticed a temple built high on a hill, with a single dirt road winding up to it. An old man standing at the foot of the road with a stick for a cane smiled and beckoned them forward, asking for a handout. One of the Americans gave him a few rupees.

“Right,” Marquis said as they approached Chirwa. The village looked similar to Taplejung but was smaller. “Congratulations on a good day’s trekking. I know we’re all tired. I’m certainly feeling the effects of the altitude change. Let’s get another good night’s sleep and will our bodies to acclimatize quickly! The Sherpas will have dinner ready in an hour. There are not enough lodges to go around, I’m afraid. Some of us will have to pitch tents. There is room for ten people in the lodges. We can draw straws for them, if you’d like, unless someone wants to volunteer to stay in their tents.”

“We don’t mind,” Bond said. He looked at Chandra for approval. The Gurkha shrugged.

“I’ll stay in a tent,” Hope Kendall said.

“Uhm, you don’t have to do that,” Marquis said.

“Why not? Just because I’m a woman? Stop giving me special attention, Roland. Pretty soon we’ll all be in tents for a long time. It doesn’t matter to me, really.”

Bond could see that it was Marquis who didn’t particularly want to sleep in a tent that night. Was she attempting to distance herself from him?

“Fine,” Marquis said. “We’ll do that, then.”

“I’d rather stay in my own tent tonight, if you don’t mind,” She said. It was loud enough for the entire group to hear. Marquis was noticeably embarrassed. Something unpleasant must have occurred between them during the previous night.

Marquis made light of the comment, but Bond knew he was cross that she had said something like that in front of everyone. Marquis ended up staying in a lodge.

Bond and Chandra started to erect a two-man Bibler Torre tent, which was sturdy and could withstand high winds and keep the icy chill out when completely sealed. By the time they were done, a campfire had been lit and people gathered around it. The evening developed into a beautiful mild spring night. There were thousands of stars, and the silhouettes of the peaks against them produced a skyscape that Bond had seldom seen.

Dinner was an Indian-style chicken curry that the cook, Girmi, had made less spicy than usual to accommodate the western tastes. Bond was becoming accustomed to the art of eating with his right hand. The Nepalese were experts at flicking a bite of food into the mouth with their thumb. One of the Americans brought a bottle of inexpensive red wine out of his knapsack, saying that he was saving it for Base Camp but knew that drinking alcohol at higher altitudes was not wise. There was just enough for everyone to have a little in a paper cup. Philippe Leaud produced a harmonica and began to play plaintive melodies. One by one people began to wander away from the campfire and settle in for the night.

Bond walked a short distance into the darkness to answer a call of nature. On the way back, he noticed Hope Kendall’s tent, which she had put up a good hundred feet away from the others. An oil lamp was burning inside, and he could see the outline of her figure against the canvas. As he walked past, roughly fifteen feet away from it, he’d see that the tent flap was open. The doctor was squatting on mat in the middle of the tent. She was still dressed in pants, but she had removed her sweater, exposing a white T-shirt. He paused a moment, anticipating a wave.

She didn’t see him. Instead, she took hold of the bottom of the T-shirt pulled it off over her head. She was naked underneath. Her breasts were larger than was readily apparent when she was full dressed, and the nipples were erect and extended. The areolas were also red and large, almost as if blush had been applied to them. The sight of her sitting there topless was very erotic.

Then she looked up and noticed him standing there. Rather than covering herself with a start, she simply looked at him knowingly and didn’t say a word. Without averting her eyes from his, she reached out and unsnapped the flap of the tent, letting it fall to cover the opening.

What the hell was that all about? Bond wondered. Was she Marquis’s girlfriend or not? It was almost as if she didn’t mind that he got a good look at her and was daring him to do something.

He walked back toward the rest of the camp, pondering the mysteries of the opposite sex, when he noticed Paul Baack working at a portable table. He sat on a collapsible stool, and his large frame looked comical on top of it. He was busily typing on the laptop, which was connected to a Microcom-M Global Satellite Telephone.

“How are things back in civilization?” Bond asked.

“Ah, hello,” Baack said. “This is a wonderful device. It’s the world’s smallest and lightest Inmarsat M satellite telephone. I just got a fix on a satellite and made a call to my girlfriend.”

“Where is she?”

“She lives in Utrecht. Ingrid. Nice German girl. I’m glad you came by. I just received a message for you.”

Baack punched a few more keys and brought up an e-mail written in code. “I can’t understand a word of it, but you might be able to.

Bond leaned over to look at the monitor. It was in a standard SIS code that used word associations to get its message across. Bond frowned as he read it, then said, “Thanks. You can delete it.”

Baack shrugged and said, “I hope it’s not bad news.”

“It’s good and bad,” Bond said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Bond.”

He walked back to his own tent, where Chandra had just boiled some water with a Bibler hanging stove. It hung from the tent roof to keep the floor clear, minimizing spillage.

“Want some tea?” he asked. “It’s special herbs from Nepal. Help you sleep.”

“I normally despise tea, but I’ll have some,” Bond said. “I just got message from London.

“Oh?”

“No word on Otto Schrenk. SIS confirms that he is known to be a serious mountaineer, but they’re still doing a background check. More interesting is that Dr. Steven Harding is dead. His body was found washed up on the shore at Gibraltar. His throat was cut. There was a note in his pocket that said, ‘Your traitor has ceased to be useful. We hereby return him to you.’ It was signed The Union.’ “

Chandra gave a low whistle. “Then they are on to us, I expect.”

“Have you observed anything unusual so far?”

He shook his head. “Only that Group Captain Marquis and Dr. Kendall aren’t sleeping together tonight!” He chuckled.

Bond avoided that subject and said, “I have a sneaking suspicion that someone from the Union is here.”

“I feel that, too. If not among us, then they are nearby. Perhaps with the Chinese or the Russian expedition?”

Bond removed his boots and put on Patagonia Activist Fleece sleeveless bibs, perfect sleepwear for chilly high altitudes.

“It’s possible. Let’s just be on our guard. Maybe you and I will take a side trip and take a look at the Chinese group.”

“Okay commander.”

“Chandra?”

“Yes?”

“You can call me James.”

“Fine, James.”

Fatigue must have hit the Gurkha harder than on the previous night, for he was asleep within ten minutes. Bond, however, was wide awake. Sometimes it is difficult to sleep at high altitudes; insomnia is a common malady among mountaineers. Bond often experienced it himself, and he knew it would get worse as they kept ascending. Insomnia, however, wasn’t what was keeping him awake tonight.

His mind was racing with thoughts of Steven Harding, the Union, the dangerous mission they were undertaking . . . and Hope Kendall’s magnificent breasts.

SEVENTEEN

ELEMINATING THE COMPETITION

THE TEAM WERE in relatively good spirits when they awoke and prepared for the second day of trekking. The day’s goal was to reach Ghaiya Bai, which was at an altitude of 2,050 meters—not much of an increase, but it was a good six hours’ hike to get there. The Sherpas left early, as usual, and Bond and Chandra enjoyed a light breakfast of yogurt, known throughout the subcontinent as curd. The buffalo milk curd of Nepal was surprisingly good, Bond thought, but he also imagined that sending overweight people on a trek across Nepal for a month would be an excellent way to diet.

The team met in the center of Chirwa at eight-thirty. The sky was overcast, causing a drop in temperature. Everyone was dressed in more layers—sweaters, jackets—some were even wearing their parkas. Chandra preferred to dress in combat equipment marching order, which basically consisted of a bergen, or rucksack, topped by what he called a “grab bag.” This contained essential bits of kit that he might need in a hurry; such as a radio, small gas stove, articles of warmer clothing, and a waterproof jacket. Ever present was the Gurkha staple, the outstanding khukri knife. It was carried at his waist in a shiny black leather sheath. Two smaller knives, the sharp karta and the blunt jhi, were also part of the khukri package, and these were used to light fires and peel fruit. The larger knife, which was eighteen inches long, was made of tempered steel with a handle 0f buffalo horn.

“The boomerang-like shape symbolizes the Hindu trilogy of Rama, Vishnu, and Shiva,” Chandra explained when Bond asked him about it He pointed to a little nick in the blade near the handle. “You know what this is for? It’s to catch your enemy’s blood as it runs down the blade and keep it from reaching your hand!”

Hope Kendall barely glanced at Bond. It was as if the voyeuristic episode of the previous evening never happened. As the team set off, she began by striding beside Roland Marquis, but after an hour she had dropped back and was walking and talking with one of the Americans. Marquis seemed to be most friendly with Carl Glass, who occasionally looked at Bond as if the “Foreign Office representative” were an outsider and didn’t belong on the expedition. Bond expected a certain lack of acceptance from the other climbers, but Glass in particular looked down his nose at him.

Otto Schrenk always walked alone and rarely said much to anyone. Bond attempted to engage him in conversation, but the man was tight-lipped.

“How did they find you on such short notice?” he asked.

“In eight-thousand-meter climbing, one’s reputation is known,” Schrenk said, as if that explained everything.

A sudden downpour made the second hour into the trek less than pleasant. Everyone scrambled to put on rain parkas, but they kept moving.

Paul Baack caught up to Bond and said, “Hey, Mr. Englishman, there’s your umbrella?” He laughed loudly.

“I left it at home with my bowler hat,” Bond replied.

The rain stopped in thirty minutes, but it left the ground wet and muddy. Marquis gave the order to halt for fifteen minutes to air out the wet parkas. Magically, the sun appeared from behind the clouds and the rest of the day promised to be beautiful.

Bond sat on a rock near Hope Kendall. She was brushing her hair, which glistened in the new sunlight.

“I don’t know about you,” she said offhandedly, “but I’ll be ready for a full aftermatch function when we’re through today, providing I don’t bust my boiler getting to camp.”

“Oh, you like to drink?” Bond asked, referring to her kiwi jargon.

“I’m a doctor, I’m not supposed to drink,” she said. “But I enjoy a pint or two. When I was in college it would make me chunder all the time, but not anymore.”

“How long have you known Marquis?”

“Roland? Uhm . . . six years? I was on an expedition to Everest with him. We met again when he climbed Mount Cook in New Zealand. What about you?”

“Oh, we’re old rivals from Eton. It was a long time ago.”

“I thought there was something between you two,” she said. She began to apply sunblock to her face and other exposed skin areas. “You have to admit that he’s a good head sherang. He always goes for the doctor in everything he does. He’s a hard case.”

“Does that appeal to you?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I like men who are boots and all.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, I meant that I like men who give it everything they’ve got. You haven’t been to New Zealand much, have you?”

“I’m afraid not. Once or twice.”

“Where did you go?” She finished brushing her hair and began to reorganize her pack.

“Auckland, mostly.”

“Ah, well, that’s where I live and work,” she said. “It’s the big smoke of New Zealand, isn’t it? I was born in Taupo. It’s a fairly well- to-do place. I got out of there as soon as I could. I didn’t like the snobbery.”

Bond had thought that she might have come from money. She had an aristocratic air about her that bordered on being snooty. Somehow, though, she had risen above the stereotype and seemed to be a genuinely friendly person. Perhaps it was the medical profession that had changed her.

“I lived for a while on the west coast of the south island, where everyone is basically pretty weird,” she said. “People say it’s a lot like California there. I spent some time around Mount Cook—that’s where I learned to climb.”

“What made you become a doctor?”

“That’s a long story. I was pretty wild when I was young. Hell, I’m still young. When I was younger, I should say. All I wanted to do was live in the outdoors, go camping, climb mountains, that sort of thing. And, uhm, there were men.” She shook her head, whistled, and smiled. “I had a huge men problem. I thought there was something wrong with me! I couldn’t get enough . . . hell, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I hardly know you!”

Bond laughed. “We’re spending the next few weeks together, so I wouldn’t worry about that. As a matter of fact, I sometimes think I have the same problem. With women, of course.”

“Well, I had it with women, too,” she said under her breath and rolling her eyes. “I didn’t think there could be such a thing as sex addiction, but I had it bad. When I was treated for it, I became interested in psychology, and that in turn led to medicine. I hadn’t gone to college yet, so I did a complete turnaround. The wild child became a serious student. I moved to Auckland to study to be a doctor, and now I can name every part of your body and spell it, too. I turned the interest in sex into a specialization in sexology for a while—you know, sexual dysfunction and all that—but then I became more attracted to general practice. I suppose you could say I find the human body a very interesting machine. I’m fascinated by it, the way a bloke knows how to take apart a sports car and put it back together. I like to test the body’s limits.”

That explained the rather rough physical examination he experienced the other day.

“And how’s that addiction now?” he asked.

She stood up and put the pack on her back. “Like any vice, as long as it’s in moderation, it can’t be too bad.” She winked at him and walked away.

She was a “hard case” herself, Bond thought. He knew that he shouldn’t bother attempting to figure her out, but he found that he was very attracted to her. Hope obviously exhibited a great deal of energy and intelligence, but she also possessed a distinct and unsubtle animal magnetism that was inviting.

They reached the picnic site set up by the Sherpas at approximately one o’clock. There was still another two hours or more to go before they reached the day’s stop. Lunch was tama, a Nepali soup made from dried bamboo shoots. Bond found it less than satisfying, but it would have to do.

As they rested for a half hour, Bond wandered over to Paul Baack and asked, “Any new messages from London?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ll let you know. I check the e-mail three times a day. I did receive a note from our liaison in Kathmandu. He says the Chinese are only a mile to the southwest of us and are gaining ground. If we stay on the same schedule, we’ll still beat them to the mountain. But if they happen to double their efforts and attempt to pass us . . .”

“Noted,” Bond said.

The team prepared to leave the site as the Sherpas packed up. The three Americans were standing on a ledge looking at a glorious view of a terraced hill that farmers were plowing. When they turned to join the others, Bill Scott, one of the Americans, tripped over a stone and fell. He cried out in pain and held on to his foot. Hope Kendall rushed to him.

“Now what?” Marquis muttered. He wandered over to the huddle and listened to what the doctor had to say.

Bond and Chandra joined them. Hope had unlashed Scott’s boot and was examining his ankle. It was already swelling badly.

“It’s broken,” she said finally.

“Aw, hell,” Scott said. “What will that mean?”

“You can’t continue on,” she said. “I mean, you could try, but you’re going to be in a lot of pain. Once we reach Base Camp you’ll certainly be in no condition to climb the mountain. I really think you should go back.”

“Go back? Where?”

“To Taplejung,” Marquis said. “You’ll have to wait for us there.”

“For a month?” Scott was angry and humiliated. “Aww, man . . .”

“One of the Sherpas will take you back. You’ll just have to stay put there until we return, unless you can get a flight back to Kathmandu. That’s possible, I suppose.”

Hope did her best to wrap the ankle so that he could hobble. One of the Sherpas found a tree branch that could be used as a crutch.

“It’s going to take you a long time, so you had better get going,” Marquis said. “Bad luck, old man.”

“Yeah.” Scott said his good-byes to the rest of the team and his fellow Americans, then he and Chettan, one of the Sherpas, began the long trek back.

When they were out of earshot, Hope addressed everyone. “I was afraid that would happen. He had been complaining of headaches. He had a mild case of AMS and wasn’t totally with it. It just goes to show you that accidents can happen quickly and unexpectedly.”

“Can AMS really strike at this altitude?” the young American known as “the kid” asked.

“It varies with the individual,” she replied. “We’re really not very high yet, but that doesn’t matter. Some people experience symptoms of AMS just driving a car up to a higher elevation than the one they’re used to. Others have difficulty riding an elevator to the top of a skyscraper. Everyone is different. That’s why you’ve got to be aware of the symptoms.”

‘Fine, fine,” Marquis said impatiently. “Well, we’ve lost one team member, let’s not lose any others, all right? We had better push on.”

They picked up their gear and continued on the faint path that roust have been trampled by a few hundred people over the last fifty years.

The next hour was a tough one. The terrain changed, and although the altitude increase was minimal, the ground was rockier and more difficult to walk on. One of the Sherpas said that a rock fall from the neighboring “hill” had caused the problem.

They eventually got to a smoother path, and Bond caught up with Roland Marquis, who was dressed in khakis and a wool flannel shirt that was embroidered with RAF insignia.

“Hello, Bond,” he said, steadily marching as if he were on a “No, I came forward to see what that horrible smell coming from the front of the team,” Bond said with a straight face.

“Very funny. I suppose you think you can do better, eh?”

“Not at all, Roland. Can’t you take a joke? I think you’re doing a splendid job. I mean it.”

“By Jove, Bond, it almost sounds as if you really do. Well, thanks. It’s not easy, this. You know as well as I that the schedule is damn near impossible,” Marquis said quietly. It was the first time Bond had ever heard him say anything without his macho facade.

“I can’t believe that fool American tripped and broke his bloody ankle,” he continued. “Somehow, when a member of my team gets hurt, I feel responsible.”

“That’s only natural,” Bond said.

“But what happened was stupid. I should have looked at his credentials more carefully.”

“Roland, I’m concerned about the new man, Schrenk,” Bond said. “There wasn’t time for SIS to completely clear him. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing, except that he doesn’t say a bloody word to anyone. I wondered when you were going to mention him to me. I had no choice but to bring him on, Bond. He was the only one. Now with Scott gone, we’ll really need the extra manpower. Besides, it was SIS’s job to check him out, not mine. I reviewed only his mountaineering credentials, which were excellent, so don’t complain to me.” treadmill. Keeping up with him meant not lagging for an instant. “Come to see how it feels to be leader for a while?”

They walked on in silence. Both men were breathing at the same rate, moving with the same speed, and thinking identical things about each other.

“I do love climbing,” Marquis said after a while. “If I didn’t love it so much, I certainly wouldn’t be the leader. But it takes someone with experience to be leader, I suppose. Have you ever led an expedition Bond?”

“No.”

“No, of course you haven’t. You don’t make the sport a habit, do you?”

“Not like you, Roland. I go climbing only once every three or four years”

“That’s too long a gap. What if a golfer played only once every three or four years? He wouldn’t be a very good golfer.”

“It’s a bit different.”

“I’m just making a point, that’s all,” Marquis said.

“What is it?”

“That climbing isn’t a sport for you. You’re an amateur. You’re a good amateur, don’t get me wrong, but you’re still an amateur.”

“You haven’t seen me in action yet, Roland.”

“True, I suppose I should wait until we’re at seven thousand meters before I make that assessment.”

“Everything has to be a contest with you, doesn’t it, Roland?” Bond said rhetorically.

Marquis laughed aloud. “Admit it, Bond, you’ve always been a little jealous of me. I beat you too many times on the wrestling mat back when we were boys.”

“Once more, I seem to remember it the other way around.”

“There you go again distorting history,” Marquis said.

“I wouldn’t think of it.” It took everything to keep Bond from losing his sense of humor. They walked for ten minutes in silence again.

Finally, Marquis asked, “So, Bond, what do you think of our good doctor?”

“She seems capable,” Bond said tactfully.

Marquis laughed. “Oh, she’s a fine doctor. I meant, what do you think of her as a woman?”

Again, Bond said, “She seems capable.”

Marquis snorted. “I think she’s simply amazing.”

Bond normally didn’t like to discuss other people’s relationships. He was curious, though, to see what Marquis might have to say about her. He was the type of man who enjoyed boasting and had a loose tongue when it came to sexual exploits. The trouble was that his kind man also tended to exaggerate.

“I know what you’re thinking, Bond,” Marquis said. “You’re wondering what kind of relationship I have with her. We’re not lovers, if that’s what you think. We were once, a few years ago. We tried to rekindle it at the beginning of this little venture, but it didn’t work out. We’re just friends now.”

“Are you saying she’s fair game?” Bond asked.

Marquis stopped dramatically in his tracks. Bond almost stumbled, then halted and looked at Marquis, who had a glint in his eye that was full of menace.

“She’s absolutely fair game, if you can manage it,” he said. There was, however, an implicit warning in the voice.

At that moment Hope walked up and stood between them. Her long, golden tresses blew in the wind and around the pack on her back. Even with no makeup and none of the normal day-to-day personal conveniences enjoyed by western women, she was wholesomely attractive.

“I expected to find you two arm-wrestling up here,” she said. “Roland, you look like you’re ready to hit your friend, here. Did he say something mean?”

“It’s nothing, my dear,” Marquis said. “Bond and I go way back, that’s all.”

“So I’ve heard. You two had better behave. The smell of testosterone over here is overpowering. I don’t want to have to patch up either of you after you’ve beaten each other into a pulp.”

“We’re not fighting,” Marquis said.

“Not even over me?” she asked facetiously, but Bond thought she was more earnest than she let on.

Marquis turned to her and said, “Yes, Hope, my dear, that’s precisely what we’re doing. We’re fighting over you.”

She didn’t rise to his anger at all. She turned up her nose flirtatiously and said, “Well, in that case, may the best man win.” With that, she moved back toward the others, who had all interpreted Marquis’s stopping as a signal for them to halt and rest.

“What are you doing sitting on your arses?” he shouted at them. “We’ve had our rest already! Get up! There’s still about an hour to go before we reach camp.”

Irritably, he turned and began trekking forward. Bond let him lead on and waited until Chandra caught up with him. Hope passed him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye but not saying a word.

Bond thought that she was the biggest tease in the Eastern Hemisphere. Normally he disdained women of that ilk, but with her, the come-on was more of a challenge. He was beginning to understand her better. By her own admission, this was an intelligent woman who liked to get physical. She was unable to separate her rough, clinical manner as a medical practitioner from the rather coarse nature of her individual sexuality. Just as she liked to see what made human beings tick, she was stimulated by the primal rituals between males and females. She enjoyed the mating game in its purest sense. Perhaps this explained her love for the outdoors and for adventure. Bond was convinced that she probably had a healthy percentage of testosterone in her own body. He wondered what she might be like in bed. . . .

Bond continued up the path with Chandra and Paul Baack. The camp was a welcome sight when they finally reached it at four o’clock in the afternoon.

The overnight stay in Ghaiya Bai was uneventful, and the team had settled into a daily routine that would vary little until they reached the Base Camp. The goal for the day was to reach Kyapra, at 2,700 meters. The following day the team would ascend to a relatively major village called Ghunsa, located at 3,440 meters. Normally, a few days would be spent there acclimatizing, but that wasn’t in Marquis’s plan.

Bond stayed with Chandra most of the morning, purposefully avoiding any contact with either Roland Marquis or Hope Kendall. He had enough to worry about without getting into a match of wills with one or the other. Instead, he concentrated on the day’s goal and tried to enjoy the scenery. They were seeing fewer and fewer signs of civilization as they ascended above 2,500 meters.

At lunchtime Paul Baack approached Bond and said, “The Chinese are less than a mile that way.” He pointed toward the southwest. The big man handed him a pair of binoculars. Bond stood on a rock and looked through them.

He could see a group of at least ten men moving slowly across the side of a hill toward a site where many Sherpas had set up their own lunch stop.

Marquis climbed on the rock and asked, “What do you see?”

“We have company,” Bond said. He handed the binoculars to Marquis so that he could look, then asked, “I think Chandra and I should leave you here and do a little reconnaissance. We’ll meet you in Ghunsa tomorrow afternoon.”

“What, you’ll do a bivouac tonight?”

“That’s right,” Bond said, “we’ll go without a tent. We both have bivouac sacks. We each have copies of the trekking route. We’ll be fine. We’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

“I don’t like the idea of you wandering off, Bond,” Marquis said.

“Sorry, Roland,” Bond said. “We’re going.” He jumped down from the rock and went to explain the plan to Chandra.

Roland Marquis frowned to himself. He needed Bond in one piece, at least until they found Skin 17.

Bond and Chandra slipped away from the others and made their way as surreptitiously as possible toward the Chinese expedition. They got within one hundred meters of them, close enough to make an assessment of their group.

“There are eleven of them,” Chandra said, looking through binoculars. “And a lot of porters.” He scanned each man carefully and noted, “At least three of the men are carrying rifles. Why would anyone want a rifle on an expedition up Kangchenjunga?”

“Unless they were planning to do someone some harm when they get there,” Bond suggested. “Come on, they’re moving.”

Chandra moved stealthily, and Bond followed. The Gurkha was superior mountaineer. He also knew tricks and techniques to move around the hills unseen. Bond gladly turned over the leadership of their side venture to him.

Shortly before sundown the Chinese set up camp not far from Kyapra. They pitched tents and were settling down for the night. Bond and Chandra took up a position above them, nestled in an array of rock formations surrounded by a few trees.

“Well wait until dark, when they’re asleep,” Bond said. “Then we’ll see what there is to see.”

Chandra grinned. “I haven’t had this much fun since Bosnia.”

“Bosnia was fun?”

“Yes, sir! Any kind of action is better than sitting in England twiddling our thumbs. I’ve been to Zaire. The Gulf War was interesting. I had never been in that part of the world. I’m still waiting for the chance to use my khukri the way my ancestors did.”

“You mean that you haven’t killed anyone with it yet?”

“That’s right,” Chandra said. “I’ve chopped plenty of fruits and vegetables with it, but no enemy necks. Someday I make a good tossed salad with heads, and I don’t mean lettuce, eh, James?”

“You Gurkhas have a morbid sense of humor, did anyone ever tell you that?”

“All the time.”

“Chandra, if you’re part Buddhist, how is it that you could kill if you had to?”

“That’s a good question, James,” the Gurkha said. “Buddhists are not supposed to kill any living creature. However, I am a soldier and a Gurkha. We are here to preserve the dignity and freedom of man. I know it’s a contradiction in terms, but the Gurkhas have been a contradiction in terms for nearly two hundred years!”

Nightfall finally came, and they waited until the last embers of the Chinese campfire died. Then, slowly and silently, they crept down the hill toward the site. Bond had observed the group carefully so that he could pinpoint which tents held humans and which ones only equipment and food supplies. The portable kitchen, similar to their own, was built near there. The Sherpas were sleeping in tents close to this area, and Bond knew that they would probably be lighter keepers than the Chinese.

Using a penlight, Bond found sacks of rice and lentils. Another group of bags held tea. There was a sack of dried figs and other fruits.

He whispered to Chandra, “They seem fairly ill equipped, wouldn’t you say I’m afraid we have to play a dirty trick on them and contaminate the food somehow Then they’ll have to turn back to resupply themselves, and by then they’ll be too late to catch up. Got any ideas?”

Chandra whispered back, “That’s easy!” He removed the khukri from its sheath, then neatly slit open the bag of rice. He did it so swiftly that it didn’t make a sound. The rice poured out onto the ground. The next thing he did flabbergasted Bond. The Gurkha unzipped his fly and proceeded to urinate all over the spilled rice. He grinned at Bond the entire time.

“Hand me your knife,” Bond said, stifling a laugh. Chandra handed it over, still relieving himself. Bond slit open the other bags of food and poured the contents onto the pile of freshly sprayed rice. He took a stick and mixed it all up. Chandra zipped up, then removed the two tiny knives from the khukri sheath. He squatted down and rubbed the two blades together on the burlap sacks. A spark flew, then another, and another. After four tries, the burlap caught fire.

“I think it’s time we run now, James,” Chandra said.

A gunshot startled them, and they turned to flee. They heard several men shouting in Chinese. The flames grew in intensity as they climbed away from the camp. More gunshots whizzed past them, but by that time they were in the dark. The marksmen were firing blindly. Some of them retrieved torches and cast the beams over the hill, but they were ineffective. Bond could hear at least three men scrambling up the rocks after them. After more gunshots, the entire camp was up, running about and shouting. The Sherpas were busy trying to put out the fire, which had engulfed all their supplies. Bond and Chandra climbed back into their niche in the cliff and watched the chaos below. The pursuers had given up and returned to the campsite to help salvage what they could.

It took them half an hour to extinguish the fire. Bond and Chandra had achieved their goal. The Chinese expedition was completely sabotaged. They could hear them arguing and shouting at one another. The Sherpas began to argue as well, and Chandra could pick up a little of what they were saying.

“The Sherpas are very upset that the Chinese fired guns here. They say the gods will not be pleased and will bring misfortune on them. They refuse to go farther. They are now without any food. They are turning back in the morning.”

The Chinese calmed down after an hour. Someone had apparently brought out a couple of bottles of alcohol, and that did the trick. Eventually, they crawled back into their tents, leaving just one man with a rifle on guard.

Bond opened his North Face bivouac sack and secured it behind a large stone, where there was just enough room for him to stretch out. Chandra found a hole where he could curl up in his own sack.

“Shuba ratri, James,” Chandra said quietly.

When they awoke the next morning, the Chinese expedition had given up, packed, and left.

EIGHTEEN

TENSIONS RISE

WHEN BOND AND CHANDRA saw the village of Ghunsa perched on the side of a snow-covered peak, they breathed a sigh of relief. The ascent to 3,440 meters had taken its toll on them, and Bond found himself becoming winded quickly and having to stop and rest more often. Chandra, on the other hand, seemed to be unaffected by the altitude.

There were some yak herders living there, and Bond admired how people could live this high in the mountains and make ends meet. The villagers stopped and stared at the two of them, more curious about the man who was obviously a Gurkha soldier than the Caucasian encroaching on their land.

They rounded a bend and saw a campsite some two hundred meters away.

“That must be us,” Bond said. “I hope lunch is ready, I’m starving.”

They climbed up a slick wet rock face to a ledge. It wasn’t necessary to use climbing tools yet, but they knew they would be employing the ice axes soon enough. The trek from Ghunsa to the Base Camp was substantially steeper. The next two days would be more strenuous.

Bond and Chandra turned to continue toward the camp, when a bullet whizzed past them and struck the snow. Both men instinctively dived to the ground. Two more shots hit the snow around them

Chandra rolled next to a rock for better cover. Bond crawled on his belly to a large tree stump that must have been hundreds of years old.

“Do you see him?” Bond whispered.

Chandra carefully raised his head and looked about. “I don’t see anything.”

Bond looked up and saw a whiff of smoke on a cliff face overlooking the village. He pointed. “He’s up there. See?”

Chandra squinted and nodded. “What do we do?”

“I suppose we wait.”

“Who could it be?”

“Obviously someone who knows we’re here and doesn’t want us to rejoin our group.”

“The Chinese?”

Bond shook his head. “I don’t think so. There was no trace of them this morning. They went back the way they came.”

Chandra took a good look at their surroundings and pointed to a ledge fifty meters away. “If we can make it to that ledge, we can climb down, go around the cliff here, and come up on the other side of the camp.”

“Good thinking,” Bond said. “Let’s go together. It’ll give the sniper too many targets to aim for. On three. One . . . two . . . three!”

The men leaped from their cover and scrambled toward the ledge. Two more bullets zipped into the snow at their feet. Chandra reached the edge first, squatted, put his hands on a sturdy rock, and hurled himself over the side. Bond did the same thing, although not as gracefully. Together they hung for a few seconds, then gained a foothold on the side of the rock face. Carefully, they inched down ten feet to level ground.

That was an impressive move,” Bond said, completely out of breath. He coughed, then collapsed into a sitting position.

“Are you all right?”

He coughed again. “Yeah, I’ve already got climber’s cough. You know how it is. I’m surprised I’m getting it so soon.” He took slow deeP breaths for a few minutes.

Do you have a headache?” Chandra asked.

“No, thank God. It’s not that bad. Come on, let’s go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let’s go, dammit!” Bond was annoyed with himself. He wanted to be as resilient as his partner, but there was no competing with a native Nepalese, especially a Gurkha.

They skirted around the cliff and found another place to ascend. They came up on the other side of the camp and wandered in, keeping an eye on the cliff where the sniper had been. There was no sign of any movement there now

Roland Marquis was deep in conversation with Carl Glass when he saw them coming and waved. “We were about to give up!” he called. “We have to make it to Kambachan before sunset.”

“Christ,” Bond said. “How far is that?”

Marquis shrugged. “Four and a half hours. Why? You’re up to it, aren’t you, Bond?”

Bond coughed and nodded.

“Sounds as if a night in a bivouac didn’t do you much good,” Marquis said. “Bad luck.” Bond noted that there was a certain degree of pleasure in the man’s voice. “What did you find out about our Chinese friends?”

“They won’t be bothering us anytime soon. Is there anyone from the team missing?” Bond asked.

“You mean right now?”

“Yes.”

“Uhm, three or four people are in the village. They’re supposed to be back”—he looked at his watch—”any minute now. The plan was to leave at twelve-thirty. It’s twelve-fifteen.”

“Who’s gone?”

“Why?”

“Never mind, Roland, just tell me!” Bond snapped.

Marquis’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Bond. Don’t forget who’s leader here.”

Bond grabbed the man’s parka and pulled him forward. Chandra interceded, saying, “Hey, hey, stop it. Move back, commander.”

Bond let go and stepped back. “Roland, you’re the leader, but you also have orders from SIS to assist me. Now, who went into the village?”

Marquis relaxed a little, then said, “Dr. Kendall, Paul Baack, Otto Schrenk, and the American kid.”

Schrenk, Bond thought. The sniper was Schrenk.

At that moment Baack and Hope were seen coming down the path toward the campsite. Baack was wearing a bright, distinctive yellow and green parka that he hadn’t worn earlier. Bond sat down on a collapsible stool and coughed some more. Hope approached him and said, “Hey, you already got the cough.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Bond said. “I appreciate the diagnosis. Where have you two been?”

Hope looked at Marquis and Baack. “You feeling all right, James?”

Chandra said, “We’ve had a rough night and day, that’s all.”

Baack said, “I was bartering with one of those yak herders for a gourd.” He held it up. “It’s supposed to taste like pumpkin. The good doctor appeared just in time. The old man must have had a thing for Caucasian women, for he went down in price when he saw she was with me.”

Hope held up a necklace. “And I traded five packs of chewing gum for this. Not bad, eh? It’s probably worthless, but it’s pretty.”

“Hey!” a voice called. They all turned to see Otto Schrenk running slowly toward them. He, too, was out of breath and had to stop every few steps. Finally, he got to the site and collapsed onto a tarp. He began to hack and it was several seconds before he got his wind back. Finally, he said, “The kid . . . he’s dead . . . he’s been shot.”

“What?” Marquis and Hope said simultaneously.

“Where?” Bond asked.

Schrenk pointed to the cliff where the sniper had been. “Just below that cliff there. Come, I’ll show you.”

As they walked toward the site, Bond wondered where Schrenk might have hidden his gun. It had to have been a rifle. Where in his §ear could he have stashed it? Did he abandon it on the cliff?

“The kid,” whose name was David Black, was sprawled on the path where snow had given way to mud. Blood was seeping onto the ground where he lay.

Hope Kendall got on her knees to examine him. “Help me turn him,” she said.

“Shouldn’t we leave the body alone?” Baack asked.

“What, do you think the police are going to come and seal off the area?” Marquis said.

“Actually, there is a Nepalese police post in Ghunsa. They will be coming to check our permits before long,” Baack replied.

Bond helped her turn Black over. The bullet had entered the center of his chest.

“This was done at point-blank range,” Bond observed. Hope nodded in concurrence.

His eyes met Chandra’s. They both knew what had happened. David Black had most likely stumbled upon or had heard the sniper fire. He was eliminated because he had seen the sniper.

The trek to Kambachan was called off and the team settled to spend the night at Ghunsa. Marquis was sullen and frustrated with the turn of events. Bond and Chandra took care of removing the body from the site and also spent some time on the cliff looking for evidence. Chandra found a 7.62mm shell and showed it to Bond.

“This is from a semi-automatic. A sniper rifle. A Dragunov, maybe?” Bond surmised.

“I fired an LI A1 rifle once. It used ammunition like this.” The LI A1 was the British version of the Belgian FN FAL, one of the most widely used modern self-loading rifles. It was gas operated and held a twenty-round magazine.

“Chandra, I think you might be right.”

“It has to be one of our team. No one living in Ghunsa would have this rifle,” Chandra said. “Should we search Schrenk’s belongings?”

“We might have to. Come on, let’s make our report.”

The team was bewildered and shocked that David Black had been murdered. When Bond announced that the killer was possibly one of their own, several of them protested.

“Are you out of your mind?” a climber named Delpy asked. “Why would any of us want to do such a thing?” “Is there something about this expedition you’re not telling us?” asked Doug McKee, the sole remaining American on the team.

“Calm down, Marquis said. “We’re on a salvage mission, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Who would want to shoot at us, then?” Philippe Leaud asked.

“The Russians,” Paul Baack answered. They all looked at him. “I just got word that their team will reach Base Camp tomorrow. Maybe they think there’s something up there at that plane.”

Everyone looked at Marquis. “Is there?” Hope asked.

“Just bodies,” he said. “British and American ones.”

Bond considered the possibility that the Russians might be involved. Could their team be Union members? They had been known to deal with the Russian Mafia. What if that entire expedition was made up of Union criminals?

“Are we in some kind of danger?” Tom Barlow asked. “I mean, danger from human beings, not danger from the elements.”

“Of course not,” Marquis said, attempting to reassure them. “I think what happened to Mr. Black was some kind of freak accident.”

“How can being shot at point-blank range be a freak accident?” Baack asked. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Me, too,” another said.

“And me,” one more ventured.

“Fine!” Marquis shouted. “Then you can all turn back. Look, you were hired to perform a mission and you’re being paid bloody good money for it! Now, tomorrow morning, I’m going on to Kambachan, and then I’m going to push to Lhonak so that I will be at Base Camp the day after tomorrow. I’ll be happy to lead whoever wants to join me!”

Hope cleared her throat. “From here to Lhonak is an increase in altitude of a little over a thousand meters. That’s going to be difficult.”

We all knew this would be difficult,” Marquis said. “You all knew the risks. If anyone wants to turn back, he’s welcome. I for one am going on. Who’s going with me?”

No one said anything until Bond raised his hand. “The way I see it, there’s altitude sickness, HACE, HAPE, avalanches, frostbite, snow blindness, and dozens of other catastrophes that could happen. What’s a little gunfire aimed in our direction?”