Chapter 1

The Adversary

 

He looked at his watch… 2:01 am.  He pulled his hat down tighter over his ears and slipped further into the shadows.  It was the darkest it could have been in that city, and it was as cold as this man’s heart.  He was a professional.  He was waiting, waiting for something unknown, he didn’t care; he knew that he could handle it.

He waited longer… 2:10 am.  He walked out of his hiding spot.

“It’s not going to happen, he would’ve been here by now,” he thought to himself, and he had to be back at the rendezvous point by 2:16.  All of a sudden he heard a noise behind him.  He spun around and in an instant he had his Sig Sauer 9 millimeter drawn, and pointed it into the darkness.  Nothing…  Holstering his weapon, he knew he’d have to move on.  As he walked he heard something again.  Spinning around he saw nothing.  He began to get nervous and his heart began to beat louder… Faster.  He heard something, looked, and saw nothing.

His heart beat so loud that he was inclined to put his gloved hand over it to attempt to suppress it.  He was afraid for his life.  Suddenly he realised that he wasn’t so sure of himself as a killer.  He questioned his ability, the worst thing for a man in his profession to do.  He turned a corner stopped and listened, he heard nothing but he could feel the impending danger and he knew it was on his heels.  His heart was now a giant drum and he was afraid that it might burst through his chest.  He quickened his pace to avoid the sound of his follower.

He came to a junction where the alleys split into four ways.  He couldn’t remember a thing that they had told him; he couldn’t remember a way out of this damnable city.  In his panic he wasn’t listening and just then he felt the barrel of a gun at the bottom of his spine.  His hands shot involuntarily into the air.  His heart burst inside his chest and the pounding stopped. 

“It’s over, it’s all over! Run!!!” his mind screamed at him.  His mind told him the command, but his legs just wouldn’t listen.  Instead of the coldness he had experienced all night, he felt hot and he began to sweat.

  The gun moved upwards very slowly towards the back of his skull.  He could feel the cold metal against his head.  The silent thing behind him uttered two words…

“Smiert Spionam,” and pulled the trigger.*  All he saw was a flash of light, and than… Darkness.

                The killer put away the Glock 17 converted 7.65 millimeter, and walked to the passageway to his right.  He had walked about ten minutes until he came to a door, guarded by a uniformed officer.  He flashed an ID card to the guard, and was let through when the guard was halfway through reading the identification and the killer walked through.

                “You are ten minutes late, Colonel… What is your excuse?” a broad man at the end of a diamond-shape table asked.

                “I’m sorry sir. I hesitated when getting rid of our adversaries assassin.” The cloaked man said, once he sat down in a chair at a long table and put his weapon in front of him.  All nineteen pairs of eyes of the other members were glaring at him for his tardiness.

                “Your excuse is accepted, Colonel. Now, on to more important matters, one of our operatives is taking care of a British SIS agent as we speak, one that has gotten in the way too much…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

The Adversaries Assassin

 

“Ha, ha, ha!” a little voice giggled inside the “Swiss Pitz Restaurant”.

“James! What a good sense of humor you have!” the little voice squealed.

                “Why, oh why am I doing this?” Bond thought to himself.

                James Bond, agent Double-O-Seven of the British SIS, hated mingling with unknown people, but for Helena von Grü se, he made a great exception.

                They met in the Swiss Pitz Elem, by bumping into each other.  Of course, like everything else in Bond’s profession, it wasn’t an accident.  When Bond was ‘eating’ his lunch the previous day, he slipped a homing device in Helena’s ski jacket.  He ‘ate’ his lunch by placing a hologram device on the chair, which in turn flashed up an image of him eating a ‘Grilled Cheese Chicken Sandwich’, which in the Pitz Elem Skyview Diner, was his favorite sandwich.

                Helena von Grüse was suspected by SIS to be an operative for the ‘Compata’, an organization that used the infamous motto “Smiert Spionam” of SMERSH, the Russian spy eliminating organization that didn’t last as long as the Cold War.  Compata were a dedicated bunch, did it all by the book, and killed coldly… Ruthlessly.  All they really did was get rid of foreign spies outside of Switzerland, but their real motivation was to spread communism over Switzerland.  These men worked very quickly.  Their trademark was a 7.65-millimeter bullet in the tip of the spine nearest to the skull, and they did this so the victim went quickly, and painlessly.

                Bond didn’t want to kill Helena, but it had been ordered by M.  He formulated his entire plan while eating lunch and while pretending to listen to the nonsensical jabbering of Helena, a skill that he had honed and mastered over the years. 

                Bond’s plan was to lead Helena onto an unknown slope and head straight down… Fast.  Bond’s top speed on his K2 fibre skies was about 45 miles an hour.  By the way Bond saw the way that Helena skied, she wouldn’t be able to keep up.  So she’d die of dehydration or starvation.  Bond knew it wasn’t really the best way to go, but it had to be done.

                The ‘Company’ let 007 use the Jaguar XK8 on this particular mission.  Bond loved the XK8; he could reach from zero to seventy-five miles an hour in two point five seconds with the Q Branch modified V8, 5.7 litre engine.

                SIS, or the Secret Intelligence Service; formally MI6 (Military Intelligence 6) in the Cold War era, had hidden behind the front of many names.  Names like Universal Export Ltd., MicroGlobe One, both of which had long since been retired due to enemy penetration, and was currently behind the front of Transworld Consortium.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

The Briefing

 

                The entire thing started back a month ago when M asked Bond to a dinner party with a few other employees from SIS on June 6^th.  When he had heard about it, he was a little reluctant, but then he saw the guest list.  It had read:

 

Bill Tanner

Charles Robinson

James Bond

Lois Moneypenny

Lolia Posonby

Robert Fairbanks Jr.

John Curry

Richard von Grüse…

 

All Bond had to read was ‘Richard von Grüse’, who was, by all means, one of the oldest, and most respected Swiss spies of World War II.  His identify was to be kept a secret, but to the very few secret service agencies left in the world, his name was known throughout.

                Bond was very fond of Sir Richard.  In the war, he had taken over one of Adolf Hitler’s underground bunkers in Stuttgart, Germany.  Sir Robert also had a daughter… A very beautiful daughter at that.

Bond was greeted warmly by M personally, at 6:00 pm at her modest two story home, ‘Shirewood’, in East London.

                “Hello ma’am…”

                “James, this is out of the office. We’re on first name terms…” M mumbled.

                “Well than… Good evening Barbara.” Bond said.  Bond found it very awkward addressing his superior by her first name.

                “Good evening James,” M replied.

                Barbara Mawdsley, the new M.  After the committee that ran SIS for about six years failed to meet the Prime Minister’s expectations with handling the British Secret Service, and after the old M, Sir Miles Messervey resigned from the Service with a ‘Pretty good, pretty big pension. And for added effect, a wink and a smile’ as he called it.  Bond didn’t have the same fondness for the new M as he did Sir Miles.                  Barbara didn’t exactly like Bond that much either.  In fact, she described him as ‘A sexist misogynist dinosaur. A relic of the Cold War’…  Her exact words.  But a certain fondness had grown between them.  Bond got comfortable with a feminist boss, and M got used to Bond’s womanizing.

                The dinner had been delicious.  It started off with steamed crab, and smoked salmon.  Then came the prime rib and roast chicken for the main course, and to top it all off, homemade cheesecake, with the compliments of M’s housekeeper and chef, Fortey.

                Before the dinner, Bond had spotted a couple of familiar faces.  Moneypenny, M’s personal secretary, John Curry who Bond had known for about six years in the British Royal Navy, M’s Chief of Staff, Bill Tanner, Lolia Posonby, Bond’s personal secretary when he was working a desk job, and William Fairbanks Jr., who’s father was killed Francisco Scaramanga in Beirut. 

But he noticed one face before them all… Richard von Grüse.  Bond was too hungry to go over and chat with Sir Richard before dinner, so he made a mental note to go and introduce himself after the meal. 

Bond hadn’t seen John for about seventeen years since their last mission in the Cold War, so he was the first person he walked up to.  John had gotten married and had three kids.  Ever since the Cold War had ended, he’d been working a desk job, and not really taking interest in any missions.

Then Bond had gone right up to Sir Richard who was talking with M. 

“Ah, James, there you are! I want you to meet someone…”

“Sir Richard von Grüse… It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir.” Bond said, cutting M off.

“James Bond… Ms. Mawdsley told me much about you.” Sir Richard replied.

“Yes, I’m sure she has. I heard you got into a nasty car crash a few weeks ago. I take it the other driver has gotten what’s been coming to him?” Bond said.

“Yes, a lawsuit has been enforced upon him.” Sir Richard replied.  Bond didn’t really like politics, or really care about auto accidents either, but he was fairly interested in this one, for the sole reason that it looked as if the entire thing was set up…

After dinner, M invited Bond into her study where she produced a manila envelope with a seal on it that read in bold letters:

 

O.H.M.S.S.

NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL OFFICALLY AUTHORISED

 

Bond dismissed the warning and cracked open the paper seal. Inside he found photographs of Helena von Grüse at the scene of a murder with a gun that appeared to be a Glock 17 in her hand standing over what Bond could faintly make out as a pool of blood.

                “That was taken six months ago in Geneva Switzerland, Double-O-Seven,” M said calmly.

“Hmm, so now we’re back on official terms,” Bond thought to himself.

                “Yes, I remember. Charles was murdered in Geneva about that time…” Bond replied, referring to another Double-O agent; Double-O-Twelve.

                “That is Double-O-Twelve, Bond, and those,” she said pointing to the photographs, “are surveillance photos that were taken by a miniature camera in his room’s mirror,” she added.

                “Do we have any idea who she’s working for?” Bond asked quizzically.

                “The Compata, 007, the Compata,” she said, and right when Bond opened his mouth, she cut him off, “have you ever heard of them?” she asked.

                “Yes. The Compata is a Swiss espionage group whose motivation is only the sole purpose of getting rid of foreign spies who are in Switzerland, and they have been known to strike in France as well. Their real motivation has been trying to spread communism over Switzerland, and they also copy the infamous motto ‘Smiert Spionam’ of the extinct SMERSH… Does her father know about this?” Bond asked, and as if by cue, Richard von Grüse walked into M’s study with a look of worry on his face, and fear in his eyes. M got up out of her chair.

                “Richard, what on earth is the matter?” she asked with a sense of urgency in her voice.

                “A, m-man was j-just found outside dead,” he replied with fear in his voice, and his hands shaking.

                “Who, Richard, who?” M asked as she headed for the door, Bond following suit.

                “A John Curry, he was a good friend of mine in the War,” Richard said. Tears of anguish and frustration filled his eyes, as well as Bond’s, for he had known this man for years, and was one of the best friends he had ever had.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Tears, Agony, and Betrayal

 

                When all three of them walked out of the study, the entire house was empty except for Fortey, who was on the phone with the police. They all walked outside, and saw the gruesome sight of John Curry in a pool of blood with a black mark in the tip of the spine nearest to the skull; one woman involuntary heaved.

                Soon, the police were there and talking to M about arrangements to have the body transported to SIS headquarters. Bond was over the limp body of John Curry, and for the first time in his entire life since his first and only wife was murdered, he cried. When he got back inside, he poured himself a stiff drink, but soon enough after one sip; he threw the glass against the wall and cursed the Compata.

After M had finally gotten back inside the house, she invited Bond and Sir Richard back into her study where she showed Sir Richard the photographs of his daughter hovering over Double-O-Twelve with the gun in her hand.

“My god! B-but that’s Helena! No, no, I can’t believe this… I…” his voice trailed off into nothingness as he buried his face into his hands and started to sob.

“Well Sir Richard,” Bond said, “all we can tell you is that your daughter is guilty of murder, treason, and espionage,” he added.

“Richard, all you can do at this point is try to help us,” M said.

“I… I don’t know if I can. This is my daughter!” he yelled burying his face back into his hands.

“Richard, the more you tell us, the faster we can solve this,” M said convincingly. Sir Richard sobbed a little, and then raised his head, looking as if he were going to tell a story about how his only child, his baby girl, got mixed up into all of this.

Then, all a sudden, his frown turned into a broad grin as his reached into his inner jacket pocket, the right inner pocket where the wallet is kept, and pulled out his wallet. Confused and bewildered by his sudden change of behavior, both M and Bond sat there. They both knew, and they stood still. No words were said as Sir Richard pointed the front of his wallet towards Bond, and the sadness that had been inside Bond that entire night suddenly turned into fear. In a matter of seconds his heart began to pound, his palms began to sweat, and his mouth turned dry all at once. He suddenly lunged at von Grüse, and tackled him to the ground. Bond gave one hard blow to the back of Sir Richard’s neck, causing him to go limp, and slump in his chair.

Bond took Sir Richard’s wallet off the floor, and opened it, fully exposing the small but effective 9-millimeter bullet concealed inside. M picked up the red phone on her desk, and depressed a few numbers and started speaking into the receiver, saying that Sir Richard was out cold, and needed to be transported back to SIS headquarters along with John Curry.

On the way to headquarters, Bond recalled Sir Richard talking with John Curry discussing a business deal that they had been discussing for a long time. The rest was a blur, but he did overhear John Curry say ‘…the man, Bond, he has to be taken out…’

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

A Dark, Sunny Day

 

It was finally confirmed by SIS that both Curry and von Grüse were working for the Compata, and were planning to take out Bond and M the night of the party, but, as it seemed, von Grüse killed Curry to create a diversion and get Bond and M alone in one room to finish them both off with his wallet gun. They found in von Grüse’s wallet a phone number that read: 0181 939 1066, a word was also written on top that said: ‘COMPAMET’, which in a matter of seconds was decoded as ‘Compata Meeting’.

“ I think I know that number,” Bond said. “It’s the Petersham Hotel, in Richmond – Upon – Thames I believe… They have large meeting rooms that they could be hosting this meeting in.”

“Well, you better get on it Bond,” M said. “Before you go, pop into Q Branch for your equipment…” she let the sentence hang in the air, and then left the examination room.

 

 

“Hello, Assistant Equipment Officer, er, Q rather,” Bond said to a man in a white lab coat who was sitting down at a bench working on a little ‘explosive device’ as he called it.

“Ah! Double-O-Seven, you’re finally here,” the man said tiresomely.

“Hmmm…” Bond said, picking up a little key chain device and tinkering with it.

“Don’t touch that! Those are my car keys! I don’t want you destroying them like you do all other things… ” the man blurted out; he left the sentence to wisp into thin air. “Ah, well, I’ve heard about your new assignment, and I’ve scrounged up a few little things for you, as well as the Jaguar, if you can be trusted to bring them all back intact that is…” the man left the sentence lingering, and finally moved over to a table with a watch, and a couple other trinkets that Bond knew would save his life in due course.

Corporal John Miles, the new Q. He had the same temperament, and quality workmanship as the old Q, but alas, he was younger, and was the replacement for the old Q, Major Geoffrey Boothroyd, who had passed away a couple months earlier in a car crash.

“Well, here’s everything,” Q said as he picked up a watch. “Omega Seamaster Professional Diver series watch,” he said proudly.

“Hmmm, that’s the same watch I’m wearing,” Bond said.

“But alas, this one is with improvements,” Q retaliated.

“Please, continue,” Bond said.

“You see the ring around the crystal?” Bond nodded, “Well, this is called a bezel. When turned, it activates a highly magnetized field around you, and has the power to deflect a bullet!” he said proudly. “To turn the bezel, you put your fore finger and thumb on the edges, thus, and turn to the left, thus…” he was cut off by Bond.

“I know you were told to explain to me the features, but please, could you summarize it?” Bond asked.

“But of course, so sorry… Anyway, you turn the bezel to the left, until you hit the nine o’clock position with this little marker right here. Now there is a magnetic field around us, but only to certain metals, such as steel-zinc alloy, which is used in bullets,” he said. “When a shot is fired, all the hands on the watch turn towards that direction, telling you where the person is located…”

“Yes, but where does the bullet go?” Bond asked inquisitively.

 “Straight up, whoosh!” he said while pointing up at the ceiling, “It also includes a small point twenty-two bullet where the crown is, in case you have been disarmed,” he added. “Sunglasses,” he said while picking up a silver pair for sunglasses. “You see the lenses?” Bond nodded and looked attentively, “Bullet-proof. These also have a strong magnet inside the frame, which directs the bullet towards the glasses; the bullet also goes up into the air, as with the watch. In case your watch magnet isn’t on, they are always on, responding to the same metals as the watch. I bet you’re wondering about what will happen to your bullet when you fire it, correct?” he didn’t even wait for an answer, “It will never redirect a round discharged from the host wearing them; in other words, don’t worry about it…”

Bond was dismissed from the Q Branch headquarters after he was supplied with his weapons...  But he paused for a moment to take in a memorial plaque near the door stating:

 

 

 

In Loving Memory of Major Geoffrey Boothroyd

 Quartermaster of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, 1914-1999. 

Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant

 

He smiled sadly, brushing the plaque with his fingers. Q noticed Bond standing there. 

“We all miss him, James,” he said quietly. 

“But you've succeeded him in fine form,” 007 reassured him.

Major Boothroyd, how Bond always thought of him like a father that he had never had, for his real father and mother died in a climbing accident in the French alps when he was only a small boy of eleven. Bond knew it wasn’t an accident.

When he had moved in with his aunt a week after they died, he overheard a discussion, with her lawyer, stating Thomas Bond’s achievements in the line duty of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. All the rest was a blur except for a small tidbit that he was assassinated by a 7.65 millimeter bullet in the tip of his spine, nearest to the skull, and that the entire thing was conspired by a group named the Compata, who, in Bond’s mind, were solely going to pay for what they had done; for from his perspective, he who strikes first, will be stricken the next. Bond was dwarfed by the thought of taking on an entire organisation by himself, but he had done it may times before, and he knew he could do it again…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

Let the Fun Begin…

 

                Bond always enjoyed pleasant drives along the countryside, especially in Richmond. There, life seems to pop out at you in all shapes and colors. The Petersham Hotel, which stands proudly on Richmond Hill, seems more like a princesses palace than an actual hotel, for the blend of dull pink and olive yellow for the exterior color, gives it a more vibrant feel to the outside. The most notable feature of the interior is its magnificent Portland stone staircase, one of the largest unsupported stone staircases in the country. The paintings on its ceiling were executed by Ferdinando Galli, an Italian painter then briefly working in England; he exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1866.

                “Bond, James Bond, I have a reservation for two days,” Bond said as he approached the concierge.

                “Ah, yes, we’ve been expecting you mister Bond, you’re in room two-o-five… If you could sign here please,” Bond signed the paper that proudly stated that he was with the import/export firm ‘Transworld Consortium’.

                “Room two-o-five. Bathroom is over here, and to switch the light in the bathroom on, you have to flip the switch outside the door,” the woman explained. “Is everything satisfactory, mister Bond?” the woman asked.

                “Yes, very. Thank you,” he said as he tipped the porter and the woman.

He walked around the room after both people had left; minutely inspecting the room for microphones and bugging devices behind mirrors, in the lighting, or behind paintings. After he had found none whatsoever, he walked down the staircase to the ground floor. He walked into the bar, which was adjacent to the Nightingales Restaurant, and also had a wonderful view of the Royal Parkland, as well as the River Thames.

“Hullo, sir,” said the bartender as Bond walked up to the bar. “What can I get you today?”

“Hmmm… Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred with a large slice of lemon peel,” Bond replied.

“Very good, sir,” the bartender replied while pouring Bond’s drink.

“Excuse me, but where can I find the meeting room?” Bond asked politely.

“Yes, sir. Right down where you came from, and it’s the second door to your left,” the bartender replied.

“Thank you,” Bond said. He walked down the hall, and entered the Meeting Room, where he was greeted by a gloved hand with a gun, a gun held by a killer; a cold, ruthless killer. This, in Bond’s mind, was the masked hand of death. This was the life he lived for: the dangerous life.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the cloaked thing uttered.

“I’m just…” Bond cut himself off, drew his Walther PPK with a silencer, which he had affixed earlier in his room. He rolled behind a table, and pushed it on its side. He felt seven sudden jolts on the tabletop, responded by letting his steel hand speak it’s two words, both of which hit the cloaked assassin. The man slumped onto the ground, and lie face down. The door opened, and two men similarly dressed as that of the assassin stood in the doorway. Once they saw their companion on the ground, pools of blood quickly spreading on the carpet, they quickly and decisively drew their weapons and started firing in Bond’s direction; all the bullets went upwards, with all the hands of Bond’s watch facing the men.

“Thank you, Q!” Bond thought as he responded fire, hitting both men; one shot still hit him in the left shoulder, causing him to involuntary yelp in pain.

 “Very exceptional shot, mister Bond,” a dark and eerie voice said from behind him. Bond turned, and saw yet another cloaked man standing behind him, but with no weapons.

“Why thank you, mister?” Bond asked.

“Mister is fine,” the man replied.

“How long have you been standing there?” Bond asked quizzically.

“Long enough to see that you are a potential threat to my organisation,” the man replied.

“Compata. You were to have a meeting here, correct?” Bond asked flatly.

“Yes, but we received the news that one of the British Secret Service men was going to, how do the Americans say… ‘Crash the party’, correct, am I not?” the man said.

“Correct,” Bond replied. All of a sudden, two men emerged from behind the man, guns drawn.

“This is where the chase ends mister Bond. Either you come with us quietly, or you will die. The choice is yours mister Bond. You have thirty seconds,” the man started to count slowly from thirty to one. At around twenty five, Bond suddenly held his PPK tightly, and brought it up, making a whistling sound in the air as he did so, and shot both of the guards at point blank range, causing them both to fly back into the wall behind them, unconscious; they were saved because of the Kevlar heavy body armor beneath their coats.

“I think not, mister,” Bond said as he brought the PPK up again, and was about to pull the trigger, when a sharp blow was connected to his neck, causing him to wither on the ground in pain. When he got up and saw who caused him so much pain, he was amazed to see a large man, possibly Dutch, standing next to the cloaked man, who was now holding a gun.

“Either you come quietly, mister Bond, or Hans will make you come with us, quietly,” the man said with a sound of finality pushing in his voice. Bond lunged at the man called Hans, making a clear blow to the man’s chest, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he grabbed Bond’s neck, and started to wring it like a wet towel. Bond fought for air, and when it seemed like it couldn’t get worse, Hans took his free hand, and started to hammer blow after massive blow to Bond’s stomach.

When Bond was let go, he looked up at the cloaked man, then Hans, and finally got up. He made a lunge at the cloaked man, but the man fired. Bond’s left upper-arm was scraped by the bullet, which seemed like a ferocious, but decisive tiger, ripping through his flesh, and causing his teeth to grit. And all of a sudden… It was over. The moment was crucial for Bond to regain his thoughts, and make a counter-attack. He felt the exhaustion rip at his soul, making it a challenge to think straight; he had found his PPK on the ground, but had no idea where to aim it.

“Left… Put gun left… Pull trigger… Now!” his mind worked slowly. He pulled the trigger and hit Hans, but the shot hit his foot. Bond tried to compress all his strength, and finally, his strength and mental thought were eaten away by exhaustion and fatigue. He had suppressed the sleep long enough, and was comforted by the action of just collapsing onto the ground, and letting unconscious go over his mind and body like a blanket. His last thoughts were: I wonder how I’m going to get out of this one…  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

This Promises To Be Full of Thrills…

     

                When Bond came to, he was in a room; a dark room.

                “Pain, such incredible pain… I am in a room, dark room. Dark means no light, no light…” Bond’s mind worked slowly, but soon, he was lulled back into unconscious, letting the sleep envelope his mind and body. When he came to the second time, he saw the cloaked man talking to a guard he also overheard their conversation.

                “The man, Bond, he has to be of some use to us. If he doesn’t lead us to his headquarters or to his contact in ten days… Kill him,” the cloaked man said to the guard. He then noticed Bond had become partially awake. “Mister Bond,” he said with a grin, “how good of you to finally join us.” Bond immediately felt for his shoulder when he heard the creaky voice of the man. Instead of pain and agony that he thought himself to feel, he felt only half of that.

                “No what in the…” he thought to himself

                “As you can see, mister Bond, we have mended your shoulder; don't worry, you'll live,” the man said as he pulled up a chair, still grinning. There was something in this man’s eyes that made Bond yield a hint of recognition.

                “Do… I know… You, you… Bastard…” Bond asked stammering, his mind still registering his surroundings.

                “You might, but I’ll leave the figuring out up to you, you’ll remember soon enough,” the man replied.

                “Where do I know this man from? If only I could rememb… Of course! It’s…” Bond’s thought was cut off by the voice of the man.

                “So, you know of my organisation, yes? I don’t run it, if that’s what you’re wondering. No, no, no, if I ran the Compata, I would be that stupid as to letting a Double-O agent get near me, no, no, no.” the man said.

                “Double-O-Twelve! Charles! It was a staged murder! But why?” Bond felt a sudden flash of pain overcome his thoughts and his body. He cried out in pain, only thinking of the hate that was starting to overcome his mind.

                “What’s happening, doctor?” the man asked a man at a table across the room.

                “The drugs are starting to wear off. He needs another ten, maybe twelve cc’s at the most,” the fat man, presumably American or maybe even French, replied. The ‘doctor’ stuck Bond with a hypodermic needle, causing Bond to wince a little, but soon enough, the sharp pain throughout his body subsided, and his thoughts became unclouded.

                “Why?” Bond asked flatly.

                “Ah, old boy, you’ve figured out the puzzle, eh? Why did Double-O-Twelve get himself killed and join a communist group?” he didn’t leave a second for Bond to answer. “It was the money Bond! Think of it! Me, a government agent with plenty of world secrets to fill a house! The Compata offered me a personal dowry of one million pounds in gold. Think of the possibilities…” Double-O-Twelve let the sentence drift away into thin air, and then let it die.

                “Listen, Bond, I’m going to let you go. I’ve taken up too much of your time with this nonsense that you got mixed up in,” Double-O-Twelve said.

                “Let me go? That’s it?” Bond asked sounding surprised, for he knew that if he didn’t be of any use to the Compata, he would die.

                “Yes, let you go…” Double-O-Twelve replied dryly. Bond’s hands were untied from the chair he was tied to, and he was blindfolded while being driven back to the Petersham. He knew this was going to be a short and sweet victory, and the Compata would go down.

                “They’re going to pay for my father, and this is going to be a large debt to fill…” Bond thought to himself as he drifted into a sweet sleep…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

Questions, Questions

 

               

                M paced up and down the floor of her office in SIS headquarters. She reached for the red phone.

                “Chief of staff, where is Double-O-Seven, any word from him yet?” she asked sounding like a worried mother hen.

                “No ma’am, no word from him. I did call the Petersham though, they said that he was still there, and that some friends had brought him back ‘drunk’,” Tanner replied.

                “And when was that, mister Tanner?” she asked.

                “Last night, ma’am,” Tanner replied. M heard a buzzing sound on the other line.

                “Can you hold on for a second, ma’am?” Tanner asked.

                “Yes,” M replied dryly. She heard Tanner talking into the other phone in the outer office.

                “Ma’am, it’s James, he said that ‘he talked with his opposite numbers, but they let him go due to his time management’. He would also like to tell you that ‘a member from the old firm is working for the one he just talked with’,” Tanner paused, “he says that ‘it’s the twelfth best member from about six months ago’,” Tanner let he sentence go, for both he and M knew what Bond had said. Instead of answering, M hung up the phone, and walked into the outer office, where Tanner and Moneypenny were busily working.

                “Double-O-Twelve, mister Tanner?” she asked in a whisper.

                “So it seems, ma’am,” Tanner replied in the same tone. “The Compata must want government secrets from him. James said that ‘the old member is doing great, and that he’s getting paid about triple as he was here’; that’s about £500,000 a month,” he added.  

                “Did Double-O-Seven give you any indication as to where the Compata headquarters is located?” M asked.

                “He said that he was there, but when he was brought back to the Petersham, they blindfolded him,” Tanner replied. Just then, Bond walked into the outer office, where he was greeted by sighs of relief, as well as a look on M’s face that Bond had never seen before: a look of reprieve.

                “Welcome back, James,” Tanner said cheerfully.

                “Bond,” M said with authority, but also with a small bit of cheerfulness added in, “good work. I’m afraid I have to put you on another case involving the Compata; as well as Helena von Grüse,” she added.

                “Very well,” Bond said, while following M into her office. Bond go into a chair facing M’s desk.

                “We’ve gotten word that Helena is in the Swiss Alps,” M said gravely, “I know you have a grudge to settle with the Compata for your father’s death, but I don’t want personal feelings to get in the way with a mission,” she added.

                “Trust me, M, I won’t let personal feelings to get in the way, but I still want this to be a victory for my family; Orbis non Suffit as we say,” Bond said.

                “What? What does that mean, Bond,” M asked inquisitively.

                “Nothing, never mind,” Bond replied.

                “Humph, well, you’re on the plane to Switzerland in four hours, so I suggest you go and get yourself packed; Moneypenny has your passport and your tickets,” M said.

                “Thank you ma’am,” Bond replied gratefully. Bond didn’t want to stay in England another minute; he thought himself as a man of the world, picking up new knowledge along the way.

                “One airplane ticket, one passport, and Q said he dropped a pair of skis and a jacket off at your flat,” Moneypenny said.

                “Thanks, Penny,” Bond replied.

                “Good luck,” she said.

                “Ciao,” Bond said as he closed the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

On the Mountain

 

So, that was the story of how Bond got to where he was; in the Swiss Alps. Lunch was over, and Bond and Helena where both getting ready to get in their skis, when Bond got a call from ‘the office’ on his cell phone.

                “Yes?” Bond said dryly into the receiver.

                “Bond, have you gotten the mission done,” M asked on the other line.

                “No, not yet, but I will finish the business deal very soon, and then I’ll be on my way home,” Bond replied.

                “All right, Double-O-Seven, and do come back alive,” M replied, and then hung up.

                “Who was that, James?” Helena asked.

                “Oh, just the office, Helena,” Bond replied. The both got on the lift heading up to the top of the mountain. The air was thin near the top, and it pierced Bonds lungs. They were the only people at the top of the mountain, and the view was beautiful; the sun was setting, and rays of light were showing through thin clouds making a serene, as well as eerie, sight.

They started down the mountain easy, but soon were heading at around twenty-five miles an hour, with Helena still keeping pace with Bond.

“When will she start to slow down,” Bond thought to himself. It was getting dark, and Bond’s watch was getting harder to see. They both stopped, and Bond took out a trail map, and surveyed it with a flashlight.

“We're here, at about half way down the mountain,” Bond said.

“James, I’m not a member of the Compata,” Helena suddenly said.

“What? What are you talking about?” Bond asked, sounding like he knew nothing about it.

“ Oh, please, don’t you think I know what’s going on? My father had numerous meetings a week back, and I found a piece of paper in his wallet about four days ago that said ‘COMPAMET’ at the top. Then he suddenly gets arrested by SIS? Don’t worry, I know who you are, and I know who you work for; Barbara’s daughter and I are old friends,” Helena said.

“Well, if…” Bond was cut off by the deafening crack of a gunshot. The hands on Bond’s watch pointed towards the north; the nine o’clock position.

“You go to the east, and curve around that bend of trees, I’ll meet you there,” Bond said quickly as he started to head down the mountain. He felt the impending danger on his heels, and its form was nine-millimeter bullets being fired from a sub-machine gun. Every single shot that went towards him, shot straight up into the air. Bond lifted up his left ski, and in one fluid motion, turned himself around, facing his opponent. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced his Walther PPK, and fired off three rounds, all of which hit the man. The man involuntarily screamed out in pain; a scream that pierced the cold and harsh night like a knife.

When Bond reached the edge of the trees where he told Helena to meet him at, she was no where to be seen. Instead, he was greeted by a man, Double-O-Twelve, holding a gun to Helena’s head.

“I thought you weren’t the head of Compata, Charles,” Bond said on an impulse.

“I lied,” Double-O-Twelve said with a smart smirk painted on his face. “Do exactly as I say, Bond, or the girl dies.”

“Leave her out of this, she has nothing to do you either you or I,” Bond replied.

“No, no, no, she does have something to do with both you and I, Bond. You see, when we staged my death, we needed a person to blame, and good old Sir Richard piped up and volunteered his daughter. So, we drugged her, and put a replica gun in her hand, while standing over a man looking like me, and volia! Instant government conspiracy, with a rich man’s daughter to blame. It couldn’t be simpler.” He said, smiling the smile of death. “Now,” the smile turned to a frown, “Helena, go over and fetch mister Bond’s gun from his hand, using your right hand; thumb and fore finger,” she did what she was told. “Now, throw it to your left,” she absent mindedly threw the gun only yards to her left. She went back to Double-O-Twelve, who kept the gun pointed to her head. “This is where the chase ends Bond. You come up here now, and you die quickly or painlessly. You come up here in less than ten seconds, then your death will be one long scream,” he started to count from ten down to one.

Bond thought he was beaten, and was about to step forward, when he remembered the .22 round in his watch that Q gave him. Bond brought up his wrist slowly to his hip, and pressed the helium release valve near the nine o’clock position, and the small bullet flew out of his watch, and dug itself neatly into Double-O-Twelve’s right leg, causing him to fall backwards on his skis; he also threw his gun into the soft snow. He hopped up on his skis, Bond retrieved his PPK, and the chase began.

“Faster… Go back for Helena? No. Keep going…” Bond’s primitive mind thought to him. He was gaining on Double-O-Twelve, when a helicopter suddenly appeared and picked Double-O-Twelve up, bringing him out of harms way. Bond fired off five shots, but he was out, and the helicopter sped away with the head of Compata in it. Bond went back for Helena.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine, just a little shaken up, where’d he go?” she asked.

“He got away. I’ll make it a priority to M that SIS try to track him down,” Bond replied.

“I remember Barbara was talking of some mission with a Blofeld?” she asked. Bond looked into her eyes and said.

“Yes, there was, and very similar to this, but it ended very differently…” his sentence was eaten by the cold wind, and died. “A very close person to me died because of him,” he ended. Helena looked at him, but she saw nothing, just a man: a man doing his job… “Well, let’s get out of here, and back to the lodge; I think we’ve been out here long enough, eh?” Bond said semi-cheerfully.

“Yes, I think we should,” Helena replied, as she looked into Bond’s eyes; his cruel, but lovable eyes.

 

 

 

* - In chapter one, first five paragraphs written by Will Rosenberry (with a few moderations made by Jack)