Doubleshot

by Raymond Benson

  Bond jackknifed to his feet, spun on one leg, and kicked with the other, causing the man to fall into van Breeschooten’s open doorway, knocking them all down as if they were bowling pins. Bond immediately ran for the stairs as a bullet whizzed past his head. The other man from the storeroom was below him, on the second landing, pointing a revolver at Bond.

  “Don’t move!” the man shouted.

  Bond did the opposite, jumping back out of the line of sight, just in time to meet the first thug head-on. It was then that Bond realized how physically out-of-shape he really was. The man hit him hard, causing the corridor to spin. For a moment, Bond thought he was going to collapse, but he was able to steady himself on the edge of the stair railing. He was truly stunned.

  Van Breeschooten shouted, “Don’t kill him!”

  The big man paid no attention. He lifted Bond by the shoulders and threw the limp body at the fire escape window. Bond crashed through the glass and fell onto the metal platform just outside the building, and he couldn’t stop himself from rolling off it. He tumbled down the steel stairs, blindly reaching for the nearest solid object that could prevent him from falling three stories to his death. Luckily, it was the railing around the intermediary landing above the second floor fire escape.

  Above him, the first thug leaned out of the broken window and fired his gun. Bond ducked and pressed himself against the glass. Bond drew his Walther PPK and returned fire, shooting through the holes of the third-floor fire escape landing.

  He heard police sirens squealing in the distance and they were growing louder. He had to disappear, and quickly. He didn’t dare risk going back into the building.

  More gunfire zipped around his head and he heard Clayton and the Dutchman both shouting, “Don’t shoot him! Let him go!”

  Bond heard the men arguing above him but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He looked around him and saw that the adjoining building was one story shorter than the one he was in. There was a gap of approximately ten feet. He wouldn’t get much of a running start on the little fire escape platform. Nevertheless, Bond holstered his gun, carefully calculated the distance, and leaped.

  He landed hard on the edge of the other roof, and it knocked the wind out of him. He held on, gasping for breath until he was able to suck in some air. He swung his legs up and over the side, fell to the roof, and lay there for a few seconds before peering over at the other building.

  The men had disappeared from the third-floor fire escape. The police sirens were just moments away.

  Bond got up and ran to the other side of the roof. It was another ten-foot gap to the next building. Now that he had more room, Bond performed a broad jump and this time landed on his feet. He kept going, looking for a way down. A metal-rung fire escape ladder extended from the roof to the pavement below.

  Bond swung his body over the top of the ladder and began to descend, when he felt a sudden jolt in his chest and a searing pain knifed through his head. For a moment he thought he had been shot.

  His heart pounded frantically and the world was spinning. Bond wasn’t sure if he was standing up or falling. He thought he was going to die, right then and there.

  Fight it! he commanded. Bond continued to descend, but in his state, he lost his footing on a rung. He slipped and attempted to catch the ladder, but instead he missed and slid down, crumpling with a slam onto the ground below.

  In pain, Bond rolled over and sat up. His vision was blurred.

  The wind was cool on his face. He reached up and rubbed his eyes and pressed the sides of his aching temples. As his eyesight returned, he could see a man and woman staring down at him. They appeared to be Japanese tourists. When they saw that he was stirring, they quickly ran away.

  He had fallen into an alley, some twenty feet from a pedestrianfilled street.

  After a minute, Bond slowly got to his feet and looked around, disoriented. His head was still pounding, but the awful nausea and dizziness had disappeared. He had a few aches and pains from the fight, and his jaw hurt, but otherwise he was in one piece.

  Bond made his way to the street, not far from the Adult News bookshop. He walked south, back to the apartment building where the office was located, and saw a constable patrolling the pavement in front.

  Rather than make anymore trouble for himself, Bond decided to get away from Soho. He had two hours before he could catch Kimberley Feare, and there were still a few things he needed to take care of.

  Of least priority to Bond was his state of mind.

  As he hailed a taxi, three men watched him from the third-floor flat in the building overlooking the street. One of them was on the phone.

  “That’s right, he’s fine. He just got in a taxi. Right.”

  Walter van Breeschooten hung up and said to Clayton, “Come on, let’s get going. We have to get to the airport.”

  The third man waved them on. “Go on, get out of here. I’ll keep close tabs on our boy,” Jimmy Powers said.

  SEVEN

  DAZED AND CONFUSED

  BOND TOOK THE TAXI BACK TO SIS. THE SETTING SUN SHONE BRIGHTLY OFF the green reflective surfaces of the building, suggesting that it might belong more in the Emerald City of Oz than in London.

  He took the lift back to his floor, slipped past the few secretaries, and entered his office. There were no new messages, but there was a fax from Felix Leiter. Bond snatched it from the machine and read it.

  Dear James—

  Not much luck. Probably things you already know. Taylor Michael Harris left no relatives in Portland. What leads we have on the three lieutenants are sketchy and speculative. One of them, Samuel Anderson, was confirmed dead just two months ago. His body was found in Algeria, riddled with bullets. The other two, James Powers and Julius Wilcox, are thought to be alive and stationed somewhere in North Africa. Le Gérant is believed to be an Arab, citizenship unknown, although a Mossad report claims that he might be French. It’s possible that Le Gérant was the business partner of Taylor Harris when he first solicited financing for the Union. The FBI believe that Julius Wilcox was the man who killed Harris at the restaurant in Portland. Eyewitnesses identified his mug shot. Wilcox was an ex-Marine and forest ranger before joining the Union. Immigration reports that he made several trips to Morocco before disappearing from the U.S. for good. Will overnight further information on the Union. Hope this helps.

  —FELIX

  Bond picked up the phone and dialed Detective Inspector Howard. He got one of the deputy inspectors, who said that Howard was in a meeting.

  “Tell him it’s James Bond, and it’s urgent.”

  He waited three minutes, then Howard came to the phone.

  “Commander Bond?”

  “Inspector Howard,” Bond said. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting but I have some information for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Michael Clayton and Walter van Breeschooten are both Union members.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I overheard them talking about it just a couple of hours ago.”

  “You what?”

  “I paid a visit to their office in Soho. I overheard them talking about a job that was going to occur tonight … and they definitely have ties to Le Gérant. I think you need to pick them up.”

  He heard Howard sigh. “Commander Bond, to be frank, I don’t appreciate you taking this matter into your own hands. You spied on them without authorization.”

  “It needed to be done. You were overlooking them.”

  “Commander Bond, I have a mind to inform M about this. You’re out of order. Now, is there anything else?”

  Bond decided against telling him about the plane tickets to Morocco.

  “No. But I still suggest that you pay a visit to their office tonight.” He gave Howard the address.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Now let us do our job, Commander.”

  Howard rang off and left Bond holding the phone. He slammed it down and cursed aloud.

  He paced the floor a m
inute, considering his options. Finally, he picked up the red phone and dialed Miss Moneypenny’s line. It was possible she had left for the day, but …

  “Executive Director’s office.”

  “Moneypenny, it’s James.”

  “James! How are you? You’re in the building? At this hour?” Miss Moneypenny had long been an ally of Bond’s, through thick and thin. He could depend on her.

  “I was just going to say the same thing about you. It’s past six.”

  “This intelligence racket never stops, didn’t you know that, James? M’s got me looking into this Spaniard’s background. You know who I mean?”

  “Espada?”

  “That’s right. He’s stirring up trouble in Spain.”

  “I know. You say M is in the office?”

  “She’s here, but not for long. Why?”

  “I’m coming up.” He hung up before Moneypenny could protest.

  Five minutes later, he entered the outer office of M’s sanctuary. Moneypenny was standing at the filing cabinets, digging through folders. When she turned and saw Bond, her mouth opened.

  “My God, James, where have you been?” she asked, concerned.

  “Why?” he countered sarcastically.

  “You look like you’ve been up for days. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  “I’m fine. I … haven’t slept much lately. Didn’t shave this morning, that’s all.”

  Bond strode toward M’s office.

  “Wait, James, I don’t think—”

  But he was already at the door, opening it. He gave a cursory knock and stuck his head in.

  M was behind her desk, wearing reading glasses, intently poring over a tall stack of legal documents.

  “Ma’am?”

  She looked up and blinked. “Double-O Seven?”

  “May I disturb you a minute?”

  M gave a brief smile. “You already have. Come on in.” The smile dropped and her eyes widened when she got a good look at his appearance. He closed the door and sat down in the comfortable leather chair in front of the desk.

  “How’s your leave going?” she asked with a slight hesitation in her voice.

  “Fine, although I’m quite ready to come back to work,” he said.

  “You look … tired.”

  “I’m very restless, ma’am,” he slapped his hands on the arms of the chair in frustration. “You should know how inactivity is the worst thing for me. I need an assignment. I need to be on the Union case. Please, I’m asking you. I need the work.”

  M leaned back in her chair. She obviously saw something in her top agent that disturbed her.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?” she asked.

  “I can’t keep away from the case,” he replied. “I’ve been doing some digging of my own.”

  “Double-O Seven, you are not assigned to the—”

  “I know, ma’am … please, hear me out.”

  She folded her arms and raised her eyebrows, indicating that he should go on.

  “Helena Marksbury’s landlord, a man named Michael Clayton, is a Union member and is probably the man who recruited her. He’s a partner of a Dutch fellow, Walter van Breeschooten. Together they own some residential buildings, adult bookshops in Soho, and some nightclubs. They’re into some shady business, and in fact I think they have something planned for tonight.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea. I think they’re planning to kill someone.”

  “How do you know all this?” M asked. She wasn’t particularly impressed with the information, but was perturbed that Bond had knowledge of it.

  “I overheard them this afternoon. I … happened to be near their office so I did some eavesdropping.”

  “Double-O Seven, I must say that I don’t approve of this. The Metropolitan Police are handling the case. MI5 are involved as well.”

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, I am quite prepared to pursue this alone, with or without your blessing.”

  “You’re too emotionally involved in it!” she snapped. “I can see that from here.” She attempted a softer approach. “You look terrible, Double-O Seven. Are you getting enough rest? How’s that head of yours?”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that I look terrible today.”

  “Well, you do. You look ill. What’s the matter?”

  “I need an assignment!”

  The intensity in Bond’s voice frightened M for the first time since she had known him. She waited a beat, then leaned forward and looked Bond in the eyes.

  “James,” she said. “I care about you a great deal. We all do. You’re under a great deal of stress. We can all see it. You know what your medical report from June revealed. You’ve been ordered to get at least three months’ rest and this is only the first Tuesday in August. Now … I know you’re troubled about Miss Marksbury. I understand. I felt a great deal of guilt when Alfred was murdered. I’m sure that what you’re feeling is not at all dissimilar. Now I want you to go home, and get some rest. I don’t want you thinking about this. We have a team working on the Union night and day. MI5 and the Metropolitan Police have Miss Marksbury’s case. We must let them do their job.”

  The sincerity in M’s voice calmed him down. Bond looked away from her, feeling ashamed of his behavior.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Good. Why don’t you come back in two weeks? Go back to your place in Jamaica for a while.”

  Bond nodded grimly, stood up, and started to walk out of the office without another word.

  “Double-O Seven?”

  He stopped and looked back.

  “It’s for your own good. Surely you know that.” He forced a smile, nodded, and left the room.

  Damn her and everyone else!

  He paced the floor of his little office as he mulled over what M had said. The events of the day had frightened and infuriated him, but he had no intention of giving up now.

  Bond refused to believe that there was anything “wrong” with him. It was just not a possibility, he told himself. The blackouts—stress related, surely. But what about the hallucinations? The stress and headaches probably brought them on. That had to be it. Perhaps Dr. Feare could tell him more. He didn’t want to wait another day to see her. Bond thought that the best thing to do would be to track her down at The Ivy that night.

  Nevertheless, Bond was convinced that he could beat whatever mental or physical ailment he might have by simply getting back into action. That was the key to clearing his head.

  He sat at his desk and turned on the computer. He got into the airline schedules’ program and found what he was looking for.

  British Airways had one flight a week to Tangier, and Clayton and van Breeschooten were on it. It was also completely booked. Luckily, Royal Air Maroc had two flights a week, and one of them was the next morning.

  He glanced at his watch: 6:50. He had an hour to go home, get cleaned up, pack a bag, and try to find Kimberley Feare at the Ivy. Before leaving, though, he wanted to stop by Q Branch.

  Major Boothroyd had left for the day, but technicians worked round the clock in the little laboratory in the basement of the building. Located near the gun practice range, Q Branch was accessible only to privileged members of SIS, a group that included Double-O agents. Therefore, Bond had no problem walking in through the security check.

  “Can I help you, Double-O Seven?” the man at the front desk asked.

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “I’m just inquiring about a piece of equipment I left for repair. Be right back.”

  The official let Bond through the doors, not thinking anything of it. Bond went to the small-arms cage and said hello to the attendant. There it was, in the glass case with the other semi-automatics. Bond liked the new Walther P99 in .40 caliber S&W, but he hadn’t yet talked Q Branch into issuing him one. Certainly more powerful than the standard 9mm, it looked the same, was designed the same, but used more potent ammunition. This resulted in a slow round, due to its add
ed weight and size, but packed a stronger punch at the other end. With laser sight and flashlight accessories, the new P99 was a powerful handgun, but not ideal for hiding under a jacket. Bond had used the earlier model P99 and preferred to keep it in his luggage or automobile as backup. When he did wear it, Bond used an ISP-3 slotted-belt attachment holster, custom-made for the P99 by Del Fatti Leather.

  When the attendant wasn’t looking, Bond took the gun from the case and put it in his waistband. He then grabbed the holster and thrust it into his pocket, turned and said, “See you later,” to the attendant, and left the building.

  He hailed a taxi and directed the driver to a travel agency. There, he booked a one-way trip in economy on the Royal Air Maroc flight to Tangier. He paid with cash and gave his name as John Cork. The Cork identity, one of several aliases he used, was one that even SIS didn’t know about.

  Bond felt better as he entered his flat minutes later. He showered, shaved, and put on a clean white shirt, a navy jacket, red and blue tie, and dark trousers. Underneath the jacket was the Bianchi X15 leather shoulder holster and Walther PPK, still his choice of weapon for concealment. He had loaded the magazine with prefragmented ammunition. He chose Glaser Silvers for better penetration.

  Bond packed a bag for the trip to Morocco and left instructions for May, his housekeeper.

  At 7:45, he left the flat and took another taxi back to the theater district.

  EIGHT

  THE HEAT OF THE

  MOMENT

  THE IVY IS A CHIC, OLD ESTABLISHED RESTAURANT FREQUENTED BY THE theater community, and by professionals in television, film, publishing, advertising, and journalism. In many ways, it is a modern, living Poets’ Corner. Located at the junction of West and Litchfield streets in London’s busy theater district, the Ivy’s history dates back to 1917, when it was a modest café that quickly gained a reputation among the theater society.