The Facts Of Death

by Raymond Benson

  The four Greek commandos looked at Bond. “What happens now?” one of them asked. Bond scanned the faces of the Turkish soldiers, but he didn’t see the man he was looking for.

  “Steady, men,” Bond said quietly. “This has to be a mistake …”

  Then, two men in civilian clothes marched through the gate and spoke quietly to the sergeant in charge of the soldiers. The sergeant nodded and barked a command to his men. They immediately lowered their weapons and stood at ease. The two men in civilian clothes then walked toward Bond and the Greek commandos. One fellow, a large man with a thick mustache and big brown eyes, resembled someone from Bond’s past.

  “It’s all right,” Bond said to the men. “He’s here.”

  Bond stepped forward and stood in front of the men, then held out his hand. The mustached man looked Bond up and down, then grinned broadly. He vigorously shook hands and said, “Mr. Bond, it is so good to see you again.”

  “You too, Tempo,” Bond said. He had not seen Stefan Tempo, the son of Bond’s Turkish friend Darko Kerim, in many years. Bond remembered well that fateful day aboard the Orient Express when he had found Kerim’s body, murdered by the Russian assassin Red Grant. Later, Kerim’s son Stefan had assisted Bond on that assignment, which seemed a lifetime ago. The mature Stefan Tempo was the spitting image of his father.

  “How’s Station T these days?” Bond asked.

  “We do a lot of desk work now,” Tempo said. “But when the British start requesting permission to perform commando raids in northern Cyprus with the help of the Greeks, we put down our pencils and take notice.”

  “Tempo, we don’t have much time. We have to get to the Presidential Palace,” Bond said.

  “We’ll lead the way,” Tempo said. He barked an order in Turkish to the soldiers, then gestured for Bond to follow them out of the gates. The four Greek commandos looked at the Turks warily, but they went along with the group without complaint.

  They all rushed through the gates and onto Tanzimat Street, which was packed with civilians. The men ran in formation, the crowd parting for them as they moved toward the elegant white building.

  The TRNC guards in front of the palace were taken by surprise. Tempo and the Turkish sergeant approached the guardhouse and presented papers. They were to be allowed in quietly. Bond had planned it so that Duncan would not be forewarned of their arrival; hence, the TRNC knew nothing about it. At first the guards could not believe that they had a security breach on their hands. Tempo’s credentials convinced them otherwise. Finally, the palace head of security nodded his head and let them through the gates.

  The TRNC guards led the way into the building. Bond looked at his watch. It was precisely 9:30. They stepped quietly up the grand marble staircase to the second floor and were ushered to the President’s greeting room, where the breakfast party was still in progress.

  Manville Duncan had his gold ballpoint pen in hand. The President was standing at the food table, pouring a cup of Turkish coffee. All Duncan had to do was press the pen point into the President’s arm or leg, and then push the button on the end to release the pellet. The President would feel only a slight pressure and maybe a pinprick.

  “Mr. President,” Duncan said, leveling the pen at his target’s hip. “I am expected back at the British high commissioner’s residence very shortly, and I wanted to thank—”

  The door burst open. Three of the Turkish soldiers and a TRNC guard came into the room and pulled their guns. They shouted in Turkish for everyone to freeze. Bond pushed his way inside the door.

  Duncan, panicking, lunged at the President and grabbed him around the chest. He held the pen at his neck and shouted, “Stay back!” He started to back up to the bay window with the frightened President in the crook of his arm, but the President tripped and fell backward. Duncan dropped the ballpoint pen and reached into his jacket for the .38 Special.

  A shot rang out and caught him in the chest before the gun was out of its holster. He flew backward into the food table. Dishes crashed to the floor. Bond lowered the Walther P99 and replaced it in the holster he was wearing on his back. He approached Duncan and knelt beside him. The man was coughing up blood and clutching his chest.

  Stefan Tempo rushed to the bewildered and frightened President and spoke rapidly in Turkish, taking him out of the room. Other TRNC officials began to reassure the rest of the guests that everything was under control.

  “All right, Duncan,” Bond said. “Now’s your chance to tell me what you know. Where is Hera? What’s Strike Number Nine?”

  Duncan spat bloody phlegm from his mouth and gasped, “The One … will … become … the Many …”

  He exhaled loudly and died. Bond searched his pockets and found a piece of paper with the number “8” scrawled in red and the alabaster statuette. In his other pocket was a map of Lefkosia and a piece of Saray Hotel stationery. A building on the map was marked in a yellow highlight. The notepaper had something scribbled in pencil—

  #Numbers, 17:00

  Bond wasn’t sure what that meant, but he put the paper in his pocket, then looked at the map again.

  “Tempo, what’s this building?” Bond asked, showing him the map.

  “That’s the Saray Hotel.”

  “Get your men and let’s go. We’re finished here.”

  The Saray Hotel was eight stories tall and provided a magnificent view of Lefkosia/Nicosia from the roof. Hera Volopoulos, dressed in her Number Killer uniform, had completed setting up the M79 grenade launcher and had armed it with one of the shells containing sarin nerve gas. The shells would explode in the air and distribute the chemical, and the breeze would do the rest. Hundreds of people would be affected. All Hera had to do was fire the four shells in different directions, take her previously prepared escape route down to the first floor, run to the rental car she had parked a block away, and drive to the area north of the city where she had hidden the gyrocopter. No one would notice her amidst all the celebration going on in the streets. The Turkish Cypriots were out in force, and nothing could distract them. Hera thought that it was devilishly appropriate that the strike was being made on their independence day.

  At ten o’clock, she looked over at the temporary stage that was set up in the square across from the hotel. The President hadn’t shown up. Had he died from Duncan’s pellet too soon? Or had Duncan failed in his mission?

  She wasn’t about to wait until 10:05. She examined the grenade launcher one more time, checked her gas mask, and prepared to fire the first shell.

  “Hold it, Hera!” Bond’s voice rang out from the roof entrance to the lift. He stood thirty feet away, the P99 pointed at her, daring her to make another move. Behind him were several Turkish soldiers with their weapons trained on her. They were all dressed in gas masks and protective gear.

  “Step away from the launcher.” Bond’s voice sounded metallic through the mask’s filter.

  Her finger was on the trigger. “Just one of these shells will be enough, James,” she said through her mask. “It will only take a reflex to pull the trigger. If you shoot me, I can’t guarantee that I won’t fire the launcher involuntarily.”

  Bond knew that she would fire the launcher no matter what happened. If he had only been a little closer to her, a shot from the Walther might have knocked her away from the weapon. But at this range it wouldn’t do the trick.

  Before anyone could move, they all heard a low rumbling sound headed in their direction. Something they couldn’t see was rising from the ground. It sounded like a lawn mower at first, but it grew louder. Bond recognized the noise and knew that the stalemate would be over in a moment. It was right on time.

  The Wessex helicopter suddenly pulled up and over the Saray Hotel, skimming the edge of the roof where Hera was poised. Niki expertly brought the aircraft across the building, knocking her away from the launcher before the woman had time to react. Hera fell to the roof, rolled and jumped to her feet on the ledge of the building. She reached for a submachine gun strapped
on her shoulder and swung it around at Bond.

  “Fire,” he said, and the men let loose a volley of ammunition. But before the bullets could slam into her, the woman had calmly stepped backward off the building.

  Bond ran to the ledge and looked down. She was nowhere in sight! Then he saw the rope. It had been attached to a gutter on the side of the building, and ran down to an open window. Given the ropeclimbing ability she had demonstrated in Monemvasia, Bond knew she had got away.

  The commandos ran down the stairs and spent a half hour searching the hotel, but there was no trace of Hera Volopoulos except a protective suit and a gas mask, which she had dropped in the hotel room. Giving up, Bond went back up to the roof.

  The Wessex hovered over the hotel. Niki waved at Bond and he gave her the “okay” sign. He then carefully retrieved the four shells and put them back in the foam case.

  Stefan Tempo stepped up to Bond and said, “We must go back to Turkey. This never happened. Our government has no record of these incidents today.”

  “Nor does mine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bond. You have done a great service for Turkey, Greece, and Cyprus. My father was a man of tolerance. He befriended everyone—the Gypsies, the Bulgars, the Russians, even Greeks. He was made of different substance than most of us.”

  “Your father was a great man, Tempo,” Bond said. “I’m sure that had he lived, he would be working very hard to keep the peace between your people and the Greeks.”

  Tempo shook hands with the Greek commandos, then watched as the Wessex came back around. A rope ladder was lowered to the roof of the hotel. Bond and the four men climbed up and into the aircraft. He looked down as the Wessex ascended, and waved to the son of his old friend. Bond then leaned over to the pilot’s seat and kissed Niki on the cheek.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  GHOST TOWN

  EVEN IN MID-NOVEMBER THE SUN WAS SHINING BRIGHTLY IN AKROTIRI, Cyprus. Bond and Niki sat in a hangar at a folding card table studying the material they had received by fax from the Greek National Intelligence Service, as well as the items found on Duncan.

  “You think this might be related to the Decada?” Niki asked, reading him a translation of the report, as it was written in Greek.

  TO: NIKI MIRAKOS

  FROM: RECORDS

  DATE: NOVEMBER 15, 1998

  WITH REGARD TO YOUR QUERY ON ANY MILITARY INCIDENTS WITHIN PAST TWO MONTHS, WE HAVE FOUND THE FOLLOWING:

  CASE 443383: Three privates charged with possession of marijuana. Athens.

  CASE 250221: Stolen property (stereo, compact discs, computer, etc.) reported by colonel. Athens.

  CASE 449932: Sergeant major found shot. Attempted murder under investigation. Chios.

  CASE 957732: Four privates and two sergeants found guilty of disorderly conduct. Crete.

  CASE 554212: Sergeant killed in traffic accident with civilian. Civilian arrested for driving while intoxicated. Crete.

  “Where’s Chios?” Bond asked.

  “It’s the Greek island closest to Turkey. It’s not much of a tourist center.”

  “What is there?”

  “Mostly military camps. Gum trees.”

  “Why would this sergeant major be murdered? Does that happen often in the Greek Army?”

  “Not at all. You want more details?”

  “Please.”

  As Niki sent a message via her laptop’s E-mail system, Bond looked at the map with the coordinates of Istanbul that was on Hutchinson’s computer file.

  “They have a missile, that’s got to be the answer,” he said. “Have them search your records for anything unusual involving a missile.”

  “That’s a rather broad search request, isn’t it?”

  “Just do it, please,” Bond said. He was weary and hot. Someone brought them soft drinks, but he chose to drink bottled water.

  Niki sent the request through and waited until a list appeared on the screen.

  “There’s … two hundred and thirty-three instances involving a missile,” she said. “You want to take a look?” She saved the message and logged off the Internet.

  Bond studied the monitor. Greece was a country that depended on NATO for any nuclear support. If the missile was something used to deploy nuclear weapons, NATO might be a link. He looked for any matches that involved NATO. There were twenty-three.

  One entry struck him as curious. In 1986, a NATO Pershing 1a missile was reported missing in France. A thorough investigation indicated that the missile might have been lost in a transport accident that occurred outside of Paris. What was especially interesting was that a Greek officer, First Lieutenant Dimitris Georgiou, was in charge of the transport. There was some question as to whether there had been a Pershing in the shipment at all or whether it had been listed by mistake.

  Niki was looking at the other materials on the table. She picked up the piece of paper that Bond had found in Duncan’s pocket.

  “What does this mean? ‘Numbers seventeen hundred’?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s a code for something.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “I know what it is. This is an IRC address.”

  “A what?”

  “On the Internet, people can set up IRC addresses and ‘chat’ live in what they call a private room, or channel. If you know the location of the channel, or the name the creator or operator gave it, then you can join the chat.”

  “I knew that, I’ve just never used one. I know that the benefit of using an IRC channel is that it can’t be traced.”

  “Right. Unless you know the name of the channel, it’s totally secure.”

  Bond looked at his watch. It was 4:40 p.m. “It’s almost seventeen hundred hours. Do you know how to find that channel?”

  “Sure, it’s easy. Let’s go on-line again and I’ll show you.”

  Niki took control of the laptop and logged on under her own screen name of “PilotGrl.” Once she was connected, she started a program that handled IRC communications. She then scanned the active list of IRC channels. Sure enough, there was one in use called “#Numbers.”

  “Now we can see who is in that room.” She used the mouse to click on the highlighted “#Numbers” designation, then a menu popped up that listed only one screen name, which meant that only one person was in the room. It was the name “monad.” She used the mouse again to click on the “Who Is” icon. The information that appeared was “monad@ppp.chios.hol.gr.”

  “Monad,” Bond said. “That’s Romanos.”

  “And he’s on an on-line service in Chios. See?”

  “He’s on Chios?”

  “I would bet money on it.”

  “So Duncan and Hera were probably supposed to contact Romanos by this IRC channel at five today. Probably to make a report?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Say hello to Romanos.”

  “What?”

  “Say hello to him. Shake him up.”

  “Since he’s the operator of the channel, he’ll have the ability to kick me out if he wants.”

  “Then say something immediately to him.”

  Niki entered the room with a couple of mouse clicks. Her screen name “PilotGrl@spidernet.com.cy” appeared on the list of room users. She began typing and downloaded the following transcript onto the hard drive as they “talked”:

  PilotGrl: Hello. Number Two sent me. Is Number Three not here yet?

  Monad: Who are you?

  PilotGrl: No one you know.

  Monad: This is a private IRC channel. Please leave or I will kick you out.

  PilotGrl: You are expecting Manville Duncan, your Number Three? …

  PilotGrl: I don’t think he’s coming.

  There was a long pause before Romanos responded.

  Monad: Who are you?

  PilotGrl: Just a friend. :) I don’t think Duncan is going to show.

  Monad: Why not?

  PilotGrl: I’m afraid he got shot. Pity.

  Monad: You must be
working for Bond.

  PilotGrl: Bond who? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you want to …

  PilotGrl: have cybersex?

  At that point, the listing for “Monad@ppp.chios.hol.gr” disappeared from the list of users.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “We scared him off.”

  “We have to get to Chios. Try your people again and see what they’ve found out.”

  She sent another E-mail and immediately received an Instant Message from her superior in Athens.

  “They say that the sergeant major on Chios, a young man named Sambrakos, wasn’t killed. He was shot and has been in a coma since the shooting. He’s in a military hospital on the island.”

  “Ask them who the commanding officer is there.”

  Niki typed the question. After a moment, the answer came back.

  “Brigadier General Dimitris Georgiou,” she read.

  “That confirms it,” Bond said. “Let’s go. Get them to alert the base that we’re coming, but to keep the brigadier general in the dark.”

  She typed in the request, and in a moment got another reply. “They say that the brigadier general is currently on leave. They’ll be expecting us at Giala—that’s the military headquarters on Chios. Wait a second … there’s a message for you. From F Leiter?”

  “That’s my friend Felix, in Texas. Let me see.” Bond looked at the screen and read:

  CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL CONFIRMS YOUR BUG IS IDEN-TICAL TO BUGS IN L.A. AND TOKYO. THE CIA AND JAPANESE SECRET SERVICE ARE NOW AFTER YOUR GUY TOO. HOPE YOU GET HIM BEFORE THEY DO.

  —FELIX

  Bond jumped up to make yet another request of the British Forces Cyprus.

  The RAF arranged for Bond, Niki, and the four Greek commandos to travel on an Olympic Airways flight that was leaving from Larnaca airport for Athens at six-thirty P.M. With the help of the Greek government, the flight was diverted to Chios, much to the chagrin of the thirty-six other passengers. They arrived there at approximately eight-thirty, after the sun had already set. A young Greek soldier met them at the gate and led them to a Mercedes jeep in the parking lot.