Zero Minus Ten

THREE

CALL TO DUTY

ZERO MINUS TEN: 21 JUNE 1997, 10:15 A.M., ENGLAND

James Bond never had trouble sleeping on a plane, and the flight from Jamaica to England was no exception. He felt refreshed and alert when the office car pulled into the high-security SIS parking garage by the Thames. Things were so open now: Bond was one of the few veterans still around who could remember a time when SIS hid behind the front of Universal Export Ltd.

The British Secret Service had a relatively new leader. Her name was no longer a secret, but Bond would never dare address her by name, just as he had never addressed his irascible former chief, Sir Miles Messervy, that way. Since his retirement, Sir Miles had mellowed considerably. He often invited Bond to Quarterdeck, his home on the edge of Windsor Great Park, for a dinner party or a game of bridge. They still met from time to time at Blades. Once they were strictly a superior officer and a civil servant with mutual respect for each other; but now, after all the years, they were close friends. Even so, Bond had consciously to refrain from addressing the man as “sir.”

Bond couldn’t say he was friends with the new M. He wasn’t even sure he liked her, but he respected her. In her short tenure, she had already shown she was capable of being an effective leader. She wasn’t afraid of proactive operations, something Bond had feared might be discontinued. If some dirty work needed to be performed, she had no problem with ordering Bond, or one of the other Double-Os, to carry it out. She wasn’t squeamish, and she wasn’t gullible. Bond felt he could say whatever he wanted to her, and he would receive an honest response. He also knew what the woman thought of him personally. Bond was a chauvinist and, in her words, “a coldhearted bastard.” She had said it one evening over a working dinner. Bond understood why the woman had called him that, and he didn’t hold it against her because, for one thing, she was right.

He stopped in at his private office on the fourth floor before going up to see M. His Personal Assistant (Bond couldn’t help still thinking of her as a “secretary”), Ms. (not Miss) Helena Marksbury, was busy holding the fort. Helena worked for all of the Double-Os, having been with SIS for about a year. Since the days of Loelia Ponsonby and Mary Goodnight, there had been a steady succession of lissome blondes, brunettes, and redheads occupying the front desk. As for Helena Marksbury, she was a brunette with large green eyes. She was bright, quick-witted, and damnably attractive. Bond thought that had she not been his Personal Assistant, the lovely Helena would have made an enjoyable dinner date … with an option for breakfast the next morning.

“Good morning, James,” she said. She had a lilting Welsh accent, something Bond found extremely attractive.

“How are things, Helena?”

“I was called in the middle of the night. Again,” she said with a sigh.

Bond had been briefed about the Australian incident. By now every department was digging into the matter.

“It happens to the best of us,” Bond replied.

“I imagine you have no problem rising in the middle of the night,” Helena said with a twinkle in her eye.

Bond smiled and said, “Don’t believe everything you hear, Ms. Marksbury.”

“Well, if you ever find that you are up and can’t sleep, Mr. Bond, I have a very nice herbal tea that is very relaxing.”

“I avoid tea at all costs,” Bond said. “You should know that by now.”

“As a matter of fact, I have noticed. You don’t drink tea at all, James? How un-English of you!”

“I’d as soon drink a cup of mud.” He shrugged. “And besides, I’m half Scots, half Swiss.” He smiled warmly at her, then stepped into his office.

Bond had never been keen on office decoration. The one piece of artwork on display was an obscure artist’s watercolour of the clubhouse at the Royal St. George’s Golf Course. The one framed photograph on the desk featured Bond and his closest American friend, former CIA agent Felix Leiter, sitting in a bar in New York City. It was an old photo, and the two men looked surprised and slightly drunk. It never failed to make Bond smile.

He had no urgent messages, so he picked up the phone and dialled Miss Moneypenny’s line (one of the few women at SIS who still didn’t mind being called “Miss”). She answered after the first ring.

“Hello, James, welcome back.”

“Penny, you have a wonderful phone voice, did you know that?” he said. “You could start a second career entertaining lonely men with sweet nothings.”

“Hmmm, and I dare say you’d be a regular client. But I’d have to go the Chinese route and entertain you with sweet and sour nothings.”

“Now that’s an appetizing idea for a takeaway, Penny,” he said, chuckling.

She laughed too. “Listen, you’d better get up here right away. She asked for you just five minutes ago.”

“I’m on my way. Bill there?”

“He’s here too.”

“Right.” Bond hung up, left the sanctity of the one quiet place in the building, and took the elevator to the eighth floor.

Miss Moneypenny’s manner was no-nonsense, but her blue eyes betrayed how pleased she was to see Bond. Throughout the years, their relationship had been a mutually flirtatious one, and it had settled into a comfortable friendship. Like most of Sir Miles’s staff, she had been reticent about working for someone new after such a long time, but for her the new M was a pleasure. They got along splendidly, and Miss Moneypenny had decided not to transfer out but to stay on. It was a good thing, for many believed that SIS wouldn’t function properly without Miss Moneypenny’s vast knowledge of the entire organization and its history.

Bill Tanner, the Chief of Staff, was also a Service veteran who had been around even longer than Bond. He remained 007’s closest friend inside SIS and one of the few with whom Bond regularly socialized. They enjoyed the occasional game of golf, but the Chief of Staff’s forte was tennis. Tanner had originally resigned when Sir Miles retired, but he was asked by the new M to stay on during what was called the “transition period” of six months. Those six months became a full year, and now Tanner had no intention of leaving.

“Hello, James, welcome back,” Bill said.

“Bill … Penny …” Bond nodded with a smile.

“Sorry you couldn’t spend more time in Jamaica, James,” Moneypenny said. “I received a report on the exercise. It went well, I heard.”

“I have no complaints,” Bond said, vividly recalling the sight of Stephanie Lane stepping into his shower. “This is about Australia, I suppose?”

“Isn’t that appalling?” Tanner exclaimed, shaking his head. “No one knows what the bloody hell is going on. Unfortunately, it’s not officially in our laps yet. Australia wants it handled her way for the moment and the PM has agreed to stay away for the time being. God knows, America and Russia are sticking their noses into it. Anyway, that isn’t what she called you in for.”

Bond was surprised. The atomic blast, even in the few hours since it had happened, had become international news.

Moneypenny picked up the phone and buzzed M. “007’s here, ma’am.” The green light above the door flashed, indicating that Bond should go in. Some things never changed.

On the other hand, M’s office had changed drastically with the new regime. Sir Miles’s domain had been the “captain’s quarters” of a naval vessel, while the new look was more akin to a posh psychiatrist’s office. Sparse, ultra-modern furnishings filled the place with a stark black-and-white scheme that was surprisingly pleasing to the eye. There was a lot of shiny metal, glass, and black leather, as well as an array of artwork of all types, including an original Kandinsky on the wall behind the desk.

M sat at her glass-topped desk, looking down at an open folder. Bond stood in the doorway until she motioned to the black leather chair in front of the desk. Her eyes never left the page until Bond was sitting and facing her. Then she looked up at him. M’s striking blue eyes were much like Bond’s—very cool, with thin streaks of white in the irises. She was in her late fifties, had short greyish hair, and a rather severe face. Not a slender woman nor a tall one, M nevertheless possessed a charisma that commanded attention, due mostly to the obvious intelligence within her ice-cold blue eyes. Their shape hinted at some distant Asian blood, but that was only speculation on Bond’s part.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Bond said.

“Hello, 007, how was your flight?” Her voice was calm, even, and soft.

“Fine, thank you.”

“I understand the training exercise went well.”

Bond nodded.

“Your report can wait,” M said. “I’m sure 03 will fill us in. Or do you think 05 will have a more favourable view of events?”

M looked hard at Bond. He shifted uncomfortably. Sir Miles had never approved of Bond’s womanizing, and it was one of the bones of contention between the new M and 007. Bond swallowed and managed to say, “I’m sure either agent will give you an accurate reconstruction of the exercise.”

M frowned but nodded briskly.

Bond quickly changed the subject. “What do we know about this explosion in Australia?”

“Never mind about that, 007,” M said. “We’ve been told to stay out of it for the moment. Regardless of those orders, I have Section A doing reconnaissance. There’s hardly any information at the moment. Until we hear from the party or parties responsible, I’ve got something else for you to look into.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bond, do you know what’s happening to Hong Kong on the first of July?” M asked.

“Well, yes ma’am,” Bond said. Didn’t everyone? “It reverts back to the People’s Republic of China after a century and a half of British rule.”

“That’s less than two weeks away, 007.”

Bond nodded, his brow creased. What was all this about? He vaguely remembered a report he’d read before leaving for Jamaica. Could it involve that solicitor who was killed in a bomb blast earlier in the month?

“Do you know what’s happened there in the past few days?” M asked.

“There was a car bomb in the business district—what, a week ago?”

“On the eleventh of June, just over a week, yes. What else do you know about it?”

“It was a solicitor visiting from England, wasn’t it? Someone in a large firm here.”

“Gregory Donaldson, of Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick. A partner in one of our most prestigious law practices.”

“Do we know who was behind the bombing, and why he was targeted?” Bond asked.

“An anonymous caller phoned Government House and claimed that the People’s Republic was behind it. Why Donaldson was targeted is still a mystery.”

“Why was Donaldson in Hong Kong?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment. You know about the two Red Chinese officials who were assassinated?” she asked.

Bond remembered. “Oh, yes. That was a few days later, wasn’t it?”

“The 13th.”

“Yes, ma’am, two officials from Beijing were killed in a shopping mall by a man dressed in a military uniform.”

“A British army uniform, to be exact. The two men were working with the local government on last-minute preparations for the changeover. They had taken some time off and were buying souvenirs or something to take back to China. Some loose cannon in uniform calmly walked up to the men, pulled out an automatic pistol, and shot them dead. Witnesses said the “officer” ran out of the store and disappeared into the crowd. All we know is that the man was certainly Caucasian.”

“There’s been a lot of tension over the past year. People have been waking up to what’s happening to them,” Bond said. “It had to come to a head eventually.”

“ ‘Waking up’ is only the half of it,” M said. “People are starting to panic. Something else happened in Hong Kong two nights ago that has escalated the problem.”

“What’s that?”

“A bomb exploded on a floating restaurant off Aberdeen, killing thirty-three people. All of them were important members of the British business community in Hong Kong.”

This was news to Bond.

“The report is probably on your desk. The first incident was disturbing, the second one was bewildering, but this third one has caused the PM to sit up and take notice. Something’s going on, 007, and it isn’t pretty. Fingers are pointing. There was another anonymous call to Government House the morning after the bombing.”

“China.”

“Right.”

“That’s it? Just ‘the People’s Republic of China?’ Nothing more specific?”

“There were allusions to some general in Guangzhou, north of the Hong Kong colony. His name is Wong. It was enough to get the rumour mill churning. The press got hold of it, and needless to say there is a lot of tension in the air. Anti-Communist groups are making themselves heard, and the democracy foes are just as loud. The PM has been talking with Beijing …”

“But the official party line denies all knowledge of the actions?”

“Correct, 007. And they are just as quick to accuse us of killing their two officials in the shopping mall.”

“Sounds like someone is stirring up trouble just before the takeover.”

“Well, there’s going to be trouble. Chinese troops are massing along the border, just above the New Territories. The Hong Kong people are afraid that they’re going to invade and do away with the idea of a peaceful transition. It didn’t help when a group of Hong Kong teenagers threw rocks at the soldiers. There was gunfire but no one was hurt. There was also some kind of panic-induced incident in one of the tourist areas in Kowloon just yesterday. The memory of Tienanmen Square is still very vivid.”

“Isn’t this a job for the politicians?”

“Normally it would be,” M said. “But something else has come up that interests me.”

She waited until Bond asked, “And what is that, ma’am?” The new M tended to have a flair for the dramatic.

“The three incidents—the car bomb that killed Donaldson, the assassination of the two Chinese men, and the bombing of the floating restaurant—are all connected to a multi-billion dollar international shipping and trading corporation that is privately owned and operated by a long-established British family in Hong Kong.”