The Facts Of Death

by Raymond Benson

  He picked her up and carried her out of the laboratory. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to attempt to disarm the explosives. If the Suppliers’ headquarters and laboratory were destroyed, it would be fine with him.

  He carried her body out of an emergency exit and onto Thirtyeighth Street, and ran across the road. Cars screeched to a stop when the drivers saw a man rushing across the street carrying a woman with blood on her face. They assumed he was rushing her to the hospital just down the block.

  ReproCare exploded with a boom that could be heard for a mile around. The blast had a direct effect on the electric and utility lines underneath the building, immediately cutting off power and water to the surrounding streets. Two cars collided in the road, and pedestrians screamed. The entire block turned into chaos.

  Bond laid Ashley Anderson down on the pavement and grabbed his mobile phone. The first call he made was to the local fire department and police. The second call was to Felix Leiter.

  Bastrop, Texas, is a quiet farming and ranching community about thirty miles southeast of Austin. It is known for its lush greenery and fields of cattle and is on a well-traveled route between Austin and Houston.

  At sunrise on the morning after the ReproCare clinic was destroyed, an FBI SWAT team assembled on the perimeter of a ranch property that was a mile away from Highway 71. Manuela Montemayor had requested a raid after James Bond supplied the address he had found in the computer at the clinic. Bond and Leiter went along as “observers” and were told to stay back and let the FBI do their job.

  “That’s easier said than done,” Felix told Manuela. “If we start shooting, James here is going to go absolutely nuts. He’ll want a piece of the action, and so will I! Isn’t that right, James?” He looked at his old friend for approval.

  Bond shook his head. “Don’t look at me, Felix. I’m just an observer.”

  “Quiet,” Manuela said.

  They were crouched in the trees just beyond a barbed-wire fence surrounding the property, which consisted of a ranch house, a barn, a silo, and thirty acres of grazing land. About thirty cows were lazily chewing their cud on the field. Leiter was in his Action Arrow power chair, but Bond could tell he was itching to jump out and join in the fun. They were both dressed in borrowed FBI team jackets and bulletproof vests, just in case.

  Manuela introduced Bond to the man in charge of the raid, Agent James Goodner. He was a tall man with a cruel jowl but sparkling, pleasant eyes.

  “Any friend of Felix Leiter’s a friend of mine,” Goodner said, shaking Bond’s hand. “Just keep yourselves back and out of trouble. Hopefully this will be over quickly.”

  “What do you know about this place?” Bond asked.

  “The property is owned by a rancher named Bill Johnson. He legitimately raises cattle and wasn’t on any of our lists. If he works for the Suppliers, then he’s done a good job hiding it. We’re going to send some men to the front door of the ranch house there and present him with a warrant. If a team is allowed in to search the place peacefully, we may not be needed. Somehow, though, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “We don’t want to end up with another Waco,” Leiter said. Bond remembered the disastrous raid the FBI made on a militant cult group in that Texas town a few years ago.

  Manuela approached Goodner and said, “Your men are ready. I’m going to the door with them.”

  “What for?” Leiter asked.

  “Sweetheart, it’s my case. This is my territory. It’s my job!”

  “Well then, be careful, honey,” Leiter said. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Don’t worry. Just think about what tonight will be like,” she said. She winked at Bond, then left with two other agents.

  “Tonight?” Bond asked.

  Leiter shrugged and had a mischievous grin on his face. “There’s something about gunfights that really turns her on. Must be that spicy Hispanic blood in her, I don’t know. She turns into a hot tamale. One night—”

  “Quiet,” Goodner whispered. They could see Manuela and two agents approaching the front of the house, fifty yards away. From their vantage point, they could see the house, the barn, and part of the silo. Another group of men had assembled on the opposite side of the property. The place was surrounded.

  Goodner was watching through binoculars. “They just knocked on the door. They’re waiting… . All right, the door’s opening. Manuela’s presenting her credentials and warrant. A woman answered the door. Must be Mrs. Johnson. She’s letting them inside.”

  He spoke into his wireless headset. “All right, keep cool, everyone. They’re inside the house. Hopefully this will all end peacefully.”

  Three minutes went by, and the house was still quiet. Suddenly, the back door flung open and a large man dressed as a cowboy ran outside. He was headed for the barn and was carrying a shotgun.

  Goodner held up a loudspeaker and said, “Stop where you are! This is the FBI! Halt or we’ll shoot!”

  Bill Johnson swung the gun up and fired in the direction of the voice. At the same time, three other men emerged from the house with what looked like AK-47s. They began to sweep the trees with bullets.

  “Go! Go! Go!” shouted Goodner into the headset.

  The FBI team shot a tear gas shell at the cowboys, then fired their own guns.

  The barn door opened and more men with automatic weapons poured out. There were at least ten of them. They ran to various objects in the yard for cover.

  “Where’s Manuela?” Leiter shouted. “Is she okay?”

  “Quiet, Felix,” Bond said, watching intently. He felt like joining the action too. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  The volley of bullets continued for several minutes. Two FBI agents were hit, but their bulletproof vests saved their lives. Three of the Suppliers went down.

  Bill Johnson made a run back to the house while his men covered him with a barrage of gunfire. He got inside, then returned holding Manuela in front of him. He had a pistol to her head.

  “Put down your guns, or the bitch gets it!” he yelled. Manuela was struggling against him, but he was just too big.

  “He’s got Manuela!” Felix cried.

  “Easy, Felix,” Bond said. “Let the FBI handle it.”

  Goodner said into the headset, “Hold your fire, men.”

  After the tremendous cacophony, the abrupt silence was unnerving.

  “All right, we’re gonna get in a truck and leave,” Johnson yelled. “You’re gonna let us out of here or the bitch gets a hole in her head!”

  Goodner held up the loudspeaker. “You’ll never get away with this, Johnson. The place is surrounded. Let her go and tell your men to put down their weapons. None of you will leave here alive if you don’t!”

  “Bullshit!” Johnson yelled back. He moved, clutching Manuela, toward the barn.

  Bond glanced at the supply of weapons the FBI had at their disposal. There was an American M21, a modified version of the old M14. It was a perfect sniper rifle. He picked it up and whispered to Goodner, “I’m pretty good with this. Let me move over there and see if I can get a bead on him.”

  “This is highly irregular, Mr. Bond,” Goodner said. “We have our own sharpshooters.”

  “But we’re in the perfect spot. If he moves into the barn with her, our chances will be slimmer.”

  “All right, but I know nothing about it.”

  “Keep him talking,” Bond said, then moved a few yards away, next to a large oak tree. He quietly climbed up to a large branch. From there he could see the entire area.

  Goodner said into the speaker, “Johnson, just what is it you want? Talk to me!”

  “Fuck you!” Johnson yelled.

  “Let me at that bastard,” Leiter said. He opened the secret compartment in the wheelchair and pulled out the ASP.

  Johnson moved Manuela closer to the barn. There were several of his men around him, crouched behind food troughs and barrels.

  “We need to distract the a
sshole so James can get a better aim,” Leiter said.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Goodner said.

  Johnson got to a large door on the barn and gestured for one of the men to open it. Inside was a Ford pickup truck. The man got in and started it.

  “Damn it, they’re going to get away!” Leiter mumbled. He looked up at Bond and said, “Can you get that son of a bitch, James?”

  Bond aimed the rifle. Johnson was not in a good position: Manuela’s face was in the way. “Not yet,” he whispered.

  “Fuck it,” Leiter said. He suddenly burst out of the cover of the trees and drove the wheelchair at full speed onto the field toward the house.

  “Leiter! What the hell … !” Goodner shouted.

  “Yeeeee-haaaaa!” Leiter hollered.

  It was such an incongruous sight that both sides stared in disbelief. There, in the middle of a gunfight standoff, a man in an electric wheelchair was barreling out into the wide open and yelling like a madman.

  “Felix!” Manuela shouted.

  The surprise proved to be enough for Johnson to involuntarily loosen his grip on her. She felt the release, then elbowed the man hard in the stomach.

  At that moment, James Bond got a clear aim at Johnson’s forehead. He squeezed the trigger. Bill Johnson’s face burst into a red mess, and his body flew back against the barn door. Manuela ran away from him and toward Leiter.

  The other Suppliers started firing into the trees again. The FBI resumed shooting as well. James Bond watched in horror as Leiter and Manuela met each other in the middle of the field, yet somehow the flying bullets avoided them. Manuela jumped into Leiter’s lap, and together they sped in the chair back toward the trees.

  Before they were safely out of there, Leiter let out another “Yeeeehaaaa,” popped a wheelie with the chair, turned, and soared over the field into the midst of the cattle. The cows, totally unnerved by the gunfire and the sight of the strange wheeled vehicle, began to panic. Backed up against the barbed wire, they had no choice but to run forward, toward the barn. Rushing past the wheelchair, the cattle began to stampede, driving the Suppliers out from behind their cover. The cattle also supplied adequate cover for Leiter and Manuela, who rolled back into the trees and safety.

  Bond couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.

  In five minutes, it was all over. Once the Suppliers were running in the open, they were easy targets. Two more of them were killed, and the rest surrendered. The cattle were rounded up and penned with the help of one of the arrested men, who gladly cooperated with the FBI.

  The barn was full of containers of chemical weapons and crates of illegal arms. Goodner said there was enough material there to start a small war. Bond was especially interested in the chemical and biological weapons.

  “We have a special team for that stuff,” Goodner said. “We ain’t touching it.”

  Bond found Leiter and Manuela at the side of the barn. She was still in his lap.

  “James! Great shot!” Leiter said.

  “Thank you,” Manuela said. “You saved my life. Well, you both did.”

  “Felix, you damned fool, you could have been killed!” Bond said.

  “Hey, the risk was worth it,” Leiter said, nuzzling Manuela’s neck. “We’ve been in worse situations than that, my friend.” He held up his prosthetic hand. “I’ve got nine lives, remember? I’ve only used up a couple of ’em.”

  Bond glanced over at the team and noticed that one man was carrying a metal briefcase similar to the one Charles Hutchinson had been carrying.

  “Wait!” he called. The man stopped. Bond took a look at the case. He called Goodner over to see it.

  “Your chemical and biological weapons team should open this one. I have a feeling there’s something nasty inside.”

  “Will do,” Goodner said. “After hearing about what’s going on in L.A., you couldn’t pay me a million bucks to handle that thing.”

  “Oh? What’s going on in L.A.?”

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s some kind of weird epidemic. One of those Legionnaires’ disease things. Only in L.A.—wouldn’t you know it? Well, thanks for all your help, Mr. Bond.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Bond paid little attention to the irrelevant news about Los Angeles and forgot about it completely when he turned back to his friends and saw that they were fixed in a passionate embrace. He quietly withdrew, allowing them a little more breathing room. He walked round the barn, lit a cigarette, and thanked his lucky stars that they were alive.

  ELEVEN

  THE NEXT THREE STRIKES

  NICOSIA, THE CAPITAL OF CYPRUS, IS A FORTIFIED, TIGHT-WALLED CITY WITH a circumference of just three miles. The Turks and Turkish Cypriots call their side of the city Lefkosia, Nicosia’s official name prior to the twelfth century, when the country was under Byzantine rule. The Turks reverted the city’s name to its former one after the invasion of 1974. They refer to the occupied northern area of Cyprus as the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, founded in 1983 by Rauf Denktash, once a friend and colleague of Archbishop Makarios, the first president of the Republic of Cyprus.

  Largely supported by the West, the Greek Cypriot side of the city and country has managed to become a tourist attraction and formidable political voice in the Mediterranean during the last several years. In contrast, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus must work at getting tourists to visit. Travelers wishing to travel from Greece or southern Cyprus into the north can only do so for a day trip, and only if they are not Greek Cypriots or Greeks. Travelers who enter the TRNC from Turkey or other countries cannot enter the southern side. As a result, the prosperity of the TRNC has not been equal to that of its southern neighbors.

  Where the Republic of Cyprus expanded its half of the city to include modern shopping malls and business centers, the TRNC’s side remains underdeveloped, underpopulated, and in a state of poverty.

  The Greek and Turkish Cypriots have always been passionate in backing their respective sides of their history. The two viewpoints conflict in their interpretations of the facts, and there is often outright denial of them. Objective parties such as Britain or the United States have been working with the Cypriots in an effort to help settle their problems, but both sides seem to have dug in their heels. A stalemate has been in existence for years. When incidents of violence erupt sporadically in what is now called “the last divided city,” as they often do, further escalation of the tensions between the two factions is an unavoidable outcome.

  A so-called buffer zone along the Green Line ranges from one hundred meters in one spot to up to five hundred in another. It is an eerie no-man’s-land in which time has stopped since the Turkish “intervention” of 1974. Patrolled by the United Nations, the strip cutting through Nicosia and the rest of the country is lined with barbed wire, high fences, and signs forbidding photography. The buildings that remain in the buffer zone are abandoned, bombed out, and achingly quiet. Propaganda of both sides is displayed on the respective borders so that any visitors who choose to cross the line will get both points of view. A banner hangs over the northern gate so that people traveling to the south can read it. “The Clock Cannot Be Turned Back” is what it proclaims in English.

  The buffer zone gateway between southern and northern Nicosia is known as the Ledra Palace Checkpoint. The Ledra Palace was once the most luxurious hotel in Nicosia. Now it is the headquarters for the UN and lies in the middle of the buffer zone between two military gates. Visitors are allowed to walk across the no-man’s-land during the day, but at night access is denied. During the five-minute walk between gates, visitors will see numerous soldiers. On the southern side are the dark brown camouflage uniforms of the Greek Cypriots and Greek Army. On the northern side are the Turks’ green camouflage outfits, and in the middle are the light brown uniforms of the United Nations.

  At five o’clock on the day after the Suppliers’ headquarters was blown to bits in Austin, Texas, things were relatively peaceful along the G
reen Line in Nicosia. The four Turkish soldiers who manned the gate on the northern side officially closed down for the day, and if there were any tourists still in the TRNC then, they would be forced to spend the night at one of northern Lefkosia’s run-down hotels. A small parking lot behind the two-story white guard post was just emptying itself of taxicabs and vehicles belonging to the administrative staff that worked in the building.

  Not far from the guardhouse, a dark green 1987 Plymouth moved slowly along Kemal Zeytinoglu Street. The word “Taksi” was printed in English on the bubble on top of the car, as on all cabs in Lefkosia. The driver waited a minute, watching the empty street leading south. At precisely five-ten, the car tore into the silence of the dusk with squealing tires, bursting out onto the street and speeding down to the avenue. It cut the curve to the right without stopping and was now headed south, straight for the checkpoint gate.

  The Turkish soldiers saw the car coming and thought at first that a taxi driver had had too much to drink. As it approached, however, it increased its speed so that it would smash through the gate and enter the buffer zone illegally. The four men simultaneously jumped up and ran out to the street, ready to draw their weapons. The driver of the Plymouth slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel so that the car made a screeching 180-degree turn in front of the checkpoint building.

  A figure dressed in a gas mask, hood, and camouflage protective gear jumped out of the back seat of the taxi. The soldiers, who were spread out in a semicircle facing the cab, shouted at the figure and prepared to open fire. Before they could, the figure tossed a grenade onto the ground in front of the men. It took them completely by surprise, and they had no time to react before it exploded in their faces.