Timothy Dalton in "The Mirage of Fate"

CHAPTER FIVE

“For Whom the Bells Toll”

As darkness descended Bond and Elektra were brought to one of the houses on the island. Their few hours in captivity had gone sluggishly. Both had been tied to wooden posts around the bell in the clocktower and now they were briefly untied to be allowed to walk. Inside they found Silva sat alone at the head of a small table with chairs either side adjacent to him. He wore an open neck shirt that was starched. He held aloft a bottle of red wine. “Wouldn’t you join us, Commander Bond?”
Bond sat to Silva’s left adjusting his own collar feeling soiled and dirtied. He had not changed in a day and appearances were everything. Silva went to pour Bond some of the wine but Bond put a hand out. “May I?”
Silva frowned and then realised what Bond wanted. Bond took the wine and regarded it for a moment. “Merlot, from Spain,” Bond made a deliberate sceptical sound which made Silva darken and then poured a drop. He took a sip swilling it about his mouth and swallowed hard. “Seems to have peaked, Silva. Anything else from the cellar?”
“It comes from a vineyard in my family for generations.”
Seeing that Bond was not to be placated Silva had another bottle brought. This one was a white from a vineyard in Nice and Bond took a glass. The meal was served. Squid with ornate Italian dressing. Bond arched an eyebrow and glanced at Elektra.
“Seems we’re under the eye.”
“You must be thinking what I am to do with you, Bond.”
“Not really, Silva,” Bond lied. He had plenty of time when locked in the tower. He also had time to do something else but that was for later. He began to eat whilst Silva, glass in hand, spoke.
“I shall use you as SIS once used me and you will do my bidding.”
“Sounds awfully melodramatic,” Bond said swilling some of the wine. It was not up to his standards but beggars could not be choosers. This was not exactly Blades and so Bond had to make do. “I’d imagine you would want to continue baiting M. That seems to be your bugbear. Tell me, what has M done exactly to warrant this?”
“He betrayed me. I was doing my job, trying to save that woman in Hong Kong and breaking the Tri-ad’s grip.”
“You crossed the line, like I said. Once you do that, you’re out.”
“What about you, Bond? Haven’t you ever crossed the line?”
Bond smiled thinly reaching for the wine bottle. Elektra was watching the pair with a pale face as if they were about to start fencing. “I’ve passed it once or twice but I never took matters into my own hands.”
“Sanchez.”
“That was different.”
“Why?”
Bond hesitated filling his glass and looked into it for a moment, turning the glass in his hand. “It just was.”
“So you see, James, I have every right. It is about time that that monument in his office gets shocked into action. Is it true he is being forced out?”
Bond frowned wondering how Silva would know. “No.”
“If it is true, I am not surprised.”
“It’s largely your fault if it were true,” Bond said his voice hard. “You’re ruining everything we’ve set out to do.”
“Hmm, perhaps so but I am doing what I think is right.” Silva regarded Elektra with a faint smile. “Our time together is coming to an end. My plans will not be involving you my dear. I would not worry though, they will not involve Mr Bond at the rate things are going.”
Bond chuckled. “You appear somewhat manic Silva in your moods. The perfect tonic might just be to give yourself up.”
Silva stood proceeding to a chest of drawers off to the side under a vivid painting of a sunset over the Riviera. From a drawer he pulled out a manila envelope coming back to Bond he opened it and laid a photo before Bond’s plate. The black and white glossy was a clear headshot –taken from a distance- of a young woman wearing a headscarf. Bond’s throat tightened as he was sure he recognised her. Silva smiled knowingly.
“In five hours her name will be realised, for a fee of course. You know her as Annabelle Sharpe or Agent 144 or Passphrase SINAI TIGER. The Iranians know her as Saheeda Mohammed.”
Bond punched the table making the plates and glasses rattle. “You can’t do that! She’s in deep cover. You blow her cover and not only will you kill her but you’ll set back the Middle East for years if not decades.”
“James, what does it mean?” Elektra asked her mouth thick. Inwardly she was scared witless by Silva’s thinly veiled threat. Outwardly she wanted to know what was going on.
“She’s a deep cover agent with access to the hierarchy of Iran,” Bond said not taking his eyes off the photo. “She’s ‘married’ to a member of the Revolutionary Guard who has access to the Ayatollah. There are sects who are interested in making better ties with the West to safeguard the future for Iran. It’ll help the Middle East but if she dies, if she’s revealed as a spy it’s all undone.”
“She’ll die, don’t you worry,” Silva laughed and took the photo tearing it in half.
“Unless…?”
“Unless nothing. Quite soon I’ll get my revenge on M but these things take time. I think a spy for every other day will do nicely.”
“You’ll ruin everything.”
“Including your perfect world, Bond James Bond,” Silva snapped sending spit in all directions. “No more shaken martinis and fast cars and loose girls. No more Chelsea flat and hidden garages. No more perks. You’ll be fighting to live from day to day…”
“Go to hell you mad bastard,” Bond muttered and picked up his glass. He downed its contents and looked to Silva. “Get on with it then.”
Silva seemed at a loss momentarily then recovered. “Take them to the tower. Come dawn we’ll have our fun.”
Bond let his hands be re-bound then followed Elektra out. Once in the tower once more he banged his right heel on the floor several times then stopped.

**

Dawn came with a brilliant red sky that dipped down towards the Riviera coast and began to fade into blue as Bond and Elektra were led from the clocktower out into the courtyard. It was warm and humid making Bond sweat in spite of himself. Silva stood by a small wooden table which had a bottle of something on it as well as two Magnum 44’s. At a curt nod by Silva three of the goons took Elektra roughly towards the quay stopping at a wooden pole which they tied her to. Bond’s hands were untied, he rubbed at his wrists warily.
“Drink?” Silva asked.
Bond went up to him going over his options. He was poured and then handed a glass of the drink –an old Malt which after a gulp Bond reluctantly approved. As the fire clawed into his belly he spoke hoarsely. “What gives, Silva?”
“A bit of sport you might say. A way of tying up loose ends as well as seeing just how well the great 007 shoots. I always heard you were one of the best.” Silva handed Bond a 44 by the barrel. Bond took the gun checking it over. Flicking open the chamber he observed it had three rounds in it. “The .44 will make it interesting with its recoil. Turn around.”
Bond did so whilst Silva went to stand beside him. Elektra was tied firmly to the pole. Silva then walked to put a glass on Elektra’s head and kissed her as she trembled.
“Soon, we’ll always have Nice.”
Returning to Bond’s side Silva nodded. “Okay, Mr Bond, you know the stakes. You go first.”
Bond raised the .44 holding it with both hands and taking a breath. Only a blind man would not see that the barrel wavered ever so slightly. Bond could see the tears running down Elektra’s cheeks. He fired, the gun jerked upwards.
Silva made a tutting sound. Elektra was breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling like an ocean swell.
“Can’t handle your drink, Mr Bond.”
Bond checked his chamber as Silva took aim with one hand and fired. He also missed but he had nicked the wooden pole that was slightly visible by her neck. Elektra had screamed but her bind stifled her. Blood trickled from the flesh wound on her throat where splinters tore into her.
“Time is running out, Bond,” Silva said close to Bond’s ear. Bond’s teeth bore as he grimaced. He looked to the sky for a moment then levelled his gun with one hand this time. He tried to avoid her pleading gaze, the tears running down her cheeks.
He fired.
“Bravo!” Silva cried clapping his hands. “Now, you’ll agree that is one way to tie up loose ends.”
Elektra’s body slumped forwards, sagging at the knees, her head was a ruin now largely covered by her hair as it slipped forward. The glass finally toppled onto the gravel of the courtyard. Bond bowed his head as if grief whilst Silva rambled on.
“Loose ends,” he said levelling the Magnum to his left and fired. His shot killed one of Silva’s goons and clipped another standing behind him. As they fell Bond pivoted lashing out with his right leg at Silva kicking him over. As three of the other goons came over Bond picked up Silva’s Magnum and quickly fired at them controlling the recoil. Whilst two more of Silva’s men ran from the quayside a shadow fell over them then another.
Two Royal Navy Harrier FA3 jumpjets swooped low and angled their noses at the goons whilst a Sea King helicopter glided in and settled on the courtyard away from the bodies. Bond wandered up to Elektra, untying her he collected her body in his arms and laid her down gently. He stroked hair from her face.
“Commander Bond!” a voice breathlessly announced behind him.
“Bloody took your time!” Bond shouted turning to address the helmeted figure in Fleet Air Arm overalls. “Get Silva and get me to the ship immediately, I must contact SIS in London!”
The lieutenant saluted hastily and hurried off.
Within a minute Bond and Silva were onboard the Sea King and blazing towards the waiting aircraft carrier. Not long after landing Bond got word out. A long process started in London that would soon end with the pre-planned withdrawal of a deep-cover agent in Iran.
In the meantime, HMS Illustrious resumed her journey to Portsmouth as if nothing had happened in the Mediterranean.

Woah! Wasn't expecting that last turn of events.

Spoiler:

Classic Bondian dinner scene with the villain. More great writing!

Yes, I was channelling a little of the dinner scene in Octopussy with Kamal Khan. A little.

I guess I didn't see an use for Elektra. Almost like LTK it's purely between Bond and Silva rather than TLD with Bond and Koskov and Kara tacked on.

I suspect for my sins I have gone onto the rail marked SKYFALL and ignored TWINE. Still...there's a long road.

I just re-read the last chapter and hadn't caught that it was in fact Bond who killed Elektra. Wow! That's cold and intense.

Yes, somehow I figured that Bond would be forced into doing it. More in line with Dalton. Or at least something Dalton's Bond could get away with. Some kind of mercy killing, rather at his hand than Silva who could've just kept toying with him and Elektra.

sort of bumping a certain way, so we'll see how this goes.

--

CHAPTER SIX

“Death to Spies, Minister”

M lit his pipe waving the match as he finished. He ignored the looks from the men and women sat at the table across from him. Next to him Tanner cleared his throat and leant in holding a hand over a microphone: “Sir, they’re waiting.”
M ignored him as well then took the pipe from his mouth in a cloud of smoke. “Ladies and gentlemen of the enquiry, I cannot give total answers. I am bound by the Official Secrets Act.”
Miranda MacPherson sat centre of the table consisting of three men and two women peered at M over her glasses: “We realise this, M. This is a closed session. All of us here are under oath and all of us will not divulge what happens here.” A name card before her next to her microphone read ‘COMMISSION CHAIR’. Behind M and Tanner were a dozen or so people who made up the audience. It was a queer moment, M considered. Here he was, head of SIS, in a ‘closed session’ and yet there were a panel of MPs and civil servants before him. Behind him were more civil servants and even a member of the press. Cameras recorded this from two corners. He missed the days of the Cold War and did not envy the task of keeping this secret. Loose lips sink ships.
“Eduardo Silva was apprehended yesterday and arrived at RAF Northolt during the night along with my man 007. Silva is being held in SIS custody.”
“Where?” a MP asked.
“Here and there,” M said. “Secret or not, I’ll not divulge that information.”
Tanner was scribbling notes on a pad next to an open file. A couple of hours ago the evacuation of Agent 144 from Tehran had been completed. It left a mess that could unravel provided a Plan B was implemented soon.
“Your man 007, why didn’t he kill Silva?” someone else asked.
“He likely considered it better for Silva to be kept alive for interrogation. I believe this was prudent. 007 wouldn’t do something unless he has reason.”
“You trust him then?” Macpherson asked archly.
“I do,” M said in a similar tone. Tanner cleared his throat but M ignored him. “This country owes its existence to 007, more times than it knows. In that I trust him.”
“Even to let him run the gambit?” Macpherson took off her spectacles and peered at M intently. “Your sentiment is touching but it just that, sentiment. Under your tenure the SIS have been involved in operations that have gone wrong. An operation two years ago to extract a scientist in Iraq skilled in bio-chemicals…”
M scowled; next to him Tanner heard the faint growl. “That is classified, even in this enquiry, Minister!”
She was unfazed; a couple of the MPs had gone red as if they were embarrassed for her. “On the contrary, it belongs in this domain. The operation –codenamed BULLFINCH- was to extract this scientist from Basra and take him to Jordan before here. Instead, as he was being taken to the border he and his SIS bodyguard were ambushed…”
Tanner tried to close out her droning voice. As Chief of Staff this had been something he knew intimately. They had sent 003 to get the scientist out. The theory being that this scientist could help the British (and her allies) out with this particular knowledge. Double Oh-Three spent two months in getting the operation going. That night after a two day journey out to the border, they were caught between tanks of the Republican Guard. Somehow, somewhere, they were betrayed or it was just luck on the Iraqis side. Either way they were killed within minutes. Little was left of the car they were in. their bodies were removed and desecrated before being buried.
“Losing men, and women, is part the job,” M was saying heavily. Tanner caught him out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly the Old Man seemed ancient. “As a former commander of a warship, I am aware of this more than ever. Each man I have lost, I have felt and each time is no less…No…Operations don’t go to plan always but without the SIS the world, Britain, would be a much worse place.”
Macpherson put her glasses back on. “We shall continue this tomorrow. Session adjourned.”
In the car heading the short distance back to SIS, M was quiet until they reached Millbank just before turning onto Lambeth Bridge. “Is it true that Macpherson was in Northern Ireland in the early 70s?”
“So they say, sir. I can’t seem to find anything concrete. I think she might have been working for Five.”
The mention of SIS’ rival department (neither would like to be thought of as rivals but historically MI5 and MI6 had had their moments) made M snort. He looked out at the Thames as the car got stuck in traffic on the bridge. “It explains her toughness perhaps. Explains, if she worked for MI5, that her background was sketchy when I looked into her.”
“Sir, what about Silva? What do we do?”
M looked to Tanner, there was no humour in his voice. “He’ll be eliminated in time, Tanner. I’ll be damned if this plague persists in our house.”

**

“James, darling, come back to bed.”
Bond did not hear the woman who lay naked on the hotel bed. He stood with his back to her at the window. Her long blonde hair framed her face as she lay on her belly head on hands. He watched the sky over Hyde Park from this suite in the Dorchester. The woman was one of those he sometimes called in a quiet moment. A married woman. Lady Pamela Hattersley-Bowes.
“James, didn’t you hear me?”
Bond turned frowning. “Sorry, Hatt?”
“Bed. Now.”
Bond did not always respond to orders like this but on this occasion he walked back to the bed and sat next to her. She turned onto her back pulling the duvet up halfway and smiling. Bond looked down at her wondering why he was here. Ordinarily he had no compunction rifling through his book of numbers and calling an old flame yet he felt restless here. He assumed his mind was on the enquiry as well as Silva.
“Doesn’t your husband ever wonder?”
“I shan’t imagine so, darling. He’s always out of the country or likely boffing one of his women at the office I imagine.”
Bond found himself drifting away from this line of conversation. That is until he thought she said a certain name and asked her to repeat.
“Robert King. He was at the house last night, not long before you phoned. Spoke to Michael and said about Elektra.”
Bond’s voice hardened. Michael was her husband. Robert King…Elektra…he saw her head exploding as he fired.
“…he was talking about some kind of business deal.”
Bond frowned. “Oh?”
“He didn’t say what. I was in another room. Said it would benefit him enormously. Said Elektra’s death was key to it.”
Bond rubbed his forehead. He was jumping at shadows. Tomorrow the enquiry would move on and hopefully conclude. Robert King was neither here nor there.
Elektra’s death benefitted him…
…just didn’t make sense.
Bond felt her tug on his elbow and opened his eyes. “One more time, James…”
Bond smiled and lowered his head.
“I’m sure something can be arranged.”

A very interesting turn of events! Excited to see where this diverges from the current Skyfall-esque path of the story.

I hope it'll hold together. The idea for the change came after the fact it looked like I would just be re-writing Skyfall but got the idea about RObert King and thus I rushed out the chapter above. Whether it sticks, whether I can craft it properly is another matter. Complicated plots have never been a strong suit, as much as I try.

Much of this next chapter was written last Sunday but I sort of ran out of energy and didn't want to rush it. I also was using Tennyson/Enquiry from the Skyfall soundtrack. I also...didn't want to be purely rewriting Skyfall but this scene was always in my mind when writing this.
It's imagining Dalton, Kitchen and Brown. Oddly Helen Mirren I can quite imagine as Macpherson.

If only there was some way to see Dalton do Skyfall

--


CHAPTER SEVEN

“Not to Yield”


M settled his briefcase on the table or rather Tanner did for M decided to fiddle with his pipe, regarding the committee as they too did their faffing and fiddling. How many of them had seen a dead man? How many had pulled the trigger that killed that man? He wondered. As he sat the doors to the room were closed, uniformed policemen marked the two entrances into the room.
“This enquiry has been committed to finding answers as to the running of the security services,” Miranda Macpherson began crisply. Her long dark blonde hair was loose today and her eyes red-ringed from lack of sleep it would appear. “Hence why your position has been under review M. One senses that no amount of enquiry will ever solve the problems nor convince SIS or MI5 to change its ways. There are those in this country who question the role of the services. Do they do more than they appear to? Do they control the governments? Dictate foreign policy…do they set up national outrages like an IRA bombing for example, for their own agenda?...We’ll never know…”
Tanner laid his pager on the table wishing it would go off now. Macpherson was known for being vaguely anti-SIS and MI5 but tangents were never pleasant to listen to. It made him miss his old instructor in the army.
“Madam Chairman, if I may interject,” M said surprising Tanner who blinked and Macpherson whose words rang to a stop like a freight train applying brakes late. “There are always avenues that SIS cannot reveal to the wider world, even a closed committee such at this one. Hammering home your point will do little.”
“M might be right,” said one of the MPs who questioned M yesterday. The young man representing a small corner of Kent adjusted his microphone and smiled at M. “Sir, could it be that SIS is struggling in this world? New enemies, enemies we don’t know but economically?”
M chuckled. “SIS has always struggled against new enemies, as you put it, since far before even your father was born. Yes, it’s true that our enemy is more faceless than before but part of our job is to find them and so we will. German spies in World War One and Two did not go round announcing they were here, we rooted them out. Or rather MI5 did in most cases here in Britain. Economics have always been a hindrance. In an ideal world, we would have a blank cheque, yet this is a brave new world where we don’t and we cut our cloth accordingly. The recent downturn has affected us. I have lost valuable personnel in the headquarters and personally, I hope to get them back or,” he paused looking at Macpherson, “my successor will.”
Macpherson darted her gaze to a sheet of paper before her. “Quite. Let’s move on shall we from this soapbox we find ourselves on. The matter of Operation FELIX…”

**

Bond was the duty officer this morning and thus found himself in what passed as SIS’ situation room in the new building in the basement level adjacent to Q Branch. Were he to open a door and look across the aisle into the hangar-like interior of Q Branch, he would see Q’s little boat hanging from the ceiling. Bond would likely be shot if he went back to the boat anytime soon. As it was he prowled the situation room with its banks of monitors, computers and the like. There were times Bond felt he was more a pawn of the world than the other way round. Situations controlled him, technology controlled him. Bond was just a tool in the 1990s. Sometimes he missed the 60s.
A blonde appeared at his elbow as he sat on the edge of a conference table watching CCTV that showed Silva in his holding cell. Bond stood taking the coffee she handed him in a Styrofoam cup. “Thanks, it’s…Bridges?”
“No, sir. Shaw, Martine Shaw,” she said with a pleasant Devon accent. She wore a tight black skirt down to her knees and a white blouse unbuttoned at the top. “You served with my father once.”
Bond almost coughed up his coffee. The embarrassment was total by Martine Shaw walking away to her computer. Bond knew her father alright. An ex-SBS officer, Lieutenant-Commander Leo Shaw who became head of Station V in Vienna for a time. Bond’s embarrassment faded as he recalled it was to Shaw who Bond had to report Saunders’ death to after Necros’ horrific sabotage at the funfair.
“Yes, I got the message,” Bond murmured to himself. He glanced at the CCTV image again. Silva was being held in a cell which was actually in a wing of SIS that extended under Vauxhall Tube Station and partly under the nearby Thames. The cell had no bars, instead Silva was held back by a kind of forcefield. Generators kept electricity fizzing across the gap. Silva had also not moved in several hours.
“Sir,” a young man (they all seemed to be young now, these desk jockeys, thought Bond) with swept hair interrupted Bond’s vigil. He held a sheet of paper. “Robert King.”
Bond took the sheet with thanks. The paper listed King’s recent activities. Of note there were several transactions into a Swiss bank. King had also been in France for a time but then with a French ex-wife and large business interests in the country, this was hardly a surprise. Bond walked over to the man who had given him the info. “Are you able to show Silva’s financial activities?”
“I can try, sir.”
There went fifteen minutes where the desk officer did a fair amount of searching. Bond finished his coffee and drew a chair up to watch. Computers still remained beyond his grasp for the most part. Eventually a list of transactions appeared glowing in green.
“You see, I had to go through several shadow accounts, find out where he’s been, use his old aliases…”
“Thank you,” Bond interrupted. “Anything go in via a Swiss account?”
“Three towards the bottom here, sir. Each transaction was around one million francs –French- and over a week period about three weeks ago.”
“The origin?”
“Can’t say, sir. It was rerouted from two accounts elsewhere. Would take time.”
Maddeningly, technology, Bond thought. Of course this meant nothing. As he stood the lights flickered, dimmed then went out followed by the computers. Bond cursed as the desk officers began calling to each other.
“It’s the main generator…”
“Something’s got to it, I thought it was impenetrable!”
“Not the main generator, it’s the local area one. We do get tapped up to London eventually, people.”
A minute passed before the lights returned, the computers took a little longer as did CCTV images. Just as Bond settled his eyes on Silva’s camera an alarm sounded.
Silva’s cell was empty.
“Bloody hell!” Bond shouted going to the phone on the wall above Martine Shaw’s desk as it rang. “Duty Officer, what the hell happened?”
“Sir, security wing here, suspect Silva escaped. I don’t know how, must’ve been during the blackout. He can’t have gotten far.”
“Seal this place tight, no one gets out or in. I mean no-one.”
“Clear, sir.”
Bond slammed the receiver down. “Search the cameras, use the detection equipment.”
It got to Bond that the power cut originated at a power station in Battersea near the famous landmark and had taken out power in parts of Battersea and all of Vauxhall. A desk officer reported that trains at Vauxhall station and the Tube were stuck where they were at the time of the outage. Exterior cameras showed pandemonium at Vauxhall Station as people crammed the platforms of both overground and underground. Bond took off out of the room going to get his gun and left someone in charge as he ran down to the cell block. Reaching it he saw amidst the flashing lights SIS medics crouching by the body of a security guard.
“What happened?”
“Silva must’ve attacked him after getting out, his neck’s broken 007.”
Bond checked his PPK was loaded and looked about. Silva would know new SIS HQ reasonably well. If he could leak agents to the world he could figure out SIS HQ. Bond walked away from the cell block and saw a door swinging open at the end of a short corridor marked FIRE EXIT. He crept towards it then was through. Bond found himself standing in a rail tunnel. The heat trapped beneath ground was stifling and instantly sweat began trickling down his brow. He was about to press on when one of the medics called his name. Bond returned to find that a wall phone was being thrust at him.
“007,” he snapped.
“Sir, this is Shaw, our radar equipment showed activity in the tunnel running past the cell. The eastbound on the Victoria Line. Going further there were Vauxhall Council vehicles at the neighbouring bus station.”
“And?” Bond said impatiently.
“There is no Vauxhall Council, sir and certainly the real council couldn’t get vehicles in that quickly.”
“Where did they go?”
“Checking…,” Bond heard Shaw snap at someone. A chatter of voices then, “Last seen at Chelsea Embankment heading east sir.”
“Damn…, M,” Bond cursed. He hung up and ran for Q Branch. Seeing him Q gave a shout. “No, Bond, no. My systems are all rebooting…”
“I need a car, Silva’s after M!”
Q went to a desk against the wall nearest the door and tossed Bond keys. “The Lotus, upstairs.”
Bond had no time to quibble. He ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time he did not take long to reach the small car park in front of SIS. The Lotus was actually an Elan and getting in Bond found it had some optional extras. He flicked on the communications device then raced off. The streets were absolute chaos in the aftermath of the brief power cut. Buses were backed out of the bus station that sat between SIS HQ and the train station. Traffic lights blinked red-amber-green alternately. Bond threaded his way through the cars and was soon on the embankment road.
“Shaw, can you hear me?”
“Shaw here, sir.”
“Anything new?”
“Lost sight of the council vehicles once they got to Westminster, sir.”
“M’s enquiry is on Whitehall…try to get in touch with Tanner. Get M out of there!”

**

During one of Macpherson’s long cross-examinations Tanner’s beeper vibrated. He quickly picked it up scanning the display screen.
DUTY ROOM.
Tanner frowned and pressed a message option. Like an old fashioned ticker tape it scrolled across.
M IN DANGER. EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY.
Tanner put the beeper away and leant towards M. “Sir, we need to get out. Something’s happened.”
“I’m not showing my back to that woman there, Tanner.”
“Sir…!”
“Something more pressing, Mr Tanner?” asked Macpherson loudly. Tanner sat straight like a chastened schoolchild.
“No, ma’am, just…”
“Then kindly let me finish.”
Tanner fished his beeper out.
GET M OUT. 007. GET M OUT.007.

**

Bond punched on the horn several times then mounted the pavement racing up it and scattering what few people were out in Millbank. He swept onto the pavement in front of a red bus which sounded its horn balefully. Bond could see the Houses of Parliament rise before him from the Victoria Tower down when a roadblock took shape adjacent to the College Green. He screeched to a stop and got out as a uniformed policeman walked up.
“Sorry, sir. We’ve had to close down Parliament Square and Whitehall. This power-cut’s knocked on traffic all over the place. That and we’ve had a security…”
“Damnit man, I’m…,” Bond fished out his ID –his official one- and flashed it. The officer licked his lips as if they had dried up suddenly.
“Sorry, sir…I can’t…”
Bond grunted and ducked into the car. “Shaw, I’m heading on foot. Anything from Tanner?”
“He’s still there, sir.”
Bond switched off the radio then opened the glove box to take out the gun he knew was there. A Desert Eagle no less. Slamming the door shut he took off at a sprint through the roadblock and towards Parliament Square.

**

“I always believed in the words of Winston Churchill,” M was saying having managed to get a word in amongst the latest tirade of one of the other MPs on the committee. “Never give in, never, never, never!” his words echoed in the room which was now silent save for the vibrating of Tanner’s beeper which he held in his palm, right knee tapping a fervent pattern against the table.
“I also believe in his words of 1940 when the country stood on the edge of a great abyss: If we fail, we all fail and if we fall all fall together. And so I believe that is so now. Never in the history of this nation have we faced the threats we are currently combating or are about to. This country needs SIS –and dare I say, MI5- more than ever. Cost cutting exercises by present and past governments have damaged us but importantly, this country as well.”
“M, really,” began Macpherson but like a small cutter M was across her bows.
“No, madam, no. Silva is merely the icing on this particular cake. There are more out there and there will always be more. Ever since SIS was created there have been threats be it the Germans, the Irish, the Libyans, Iraqis, Iranians or even their own people. I’ll be damned if you open it up to more attacks. If you want my resignation you’re welcome to it.”
Tanner dropped the pager which bounced and broke. Macpherson went red, M had virtually made public his resignation discussion. She stood.
“This session…”
There was a commotion outside. Shouts then bangs and finally a distinctive popping sound that drew closer. Tanner recognised it and without due ceremony tipped his chair into M and flung the Old Man down with himself spread across him. The double doors to the enquiry room were flung open and in stormed a group of men all wearing a variety of khaki or black and looking suitably thuggish. They fired automatic weapons into the room raking down two of the police guards on the other entrance and hitting some of the audience members in the process.
M turned over forcing Tanner away and saw Silva in the back of the group watching.

**

Bond was powering across Parliament Square arms pumping, chest straining. Cars were jammed everywhere around the famous square and as he darted across the road at Robert Peel’s statue onto Whitehall he narrowly missed an errant motorcyclist. Up ahead he saw sirens flashing from the direction of Trafalgar Square. Bond ran like he had never ran before. He hurtled onto Parliament Square, jumped onto a car’s bonnet to get over and by then veered sharply off Whitehall onto King Charles II Street under its arch.
He heard the gunfire before he reached the door to the building which sat around from the Foreign Office. He paused at the door holding his Desert Eagle up noting the fake council van parked askew down towards where steps led down to St. James’ Park. He dove in sweeping the lobby and saw the three dead Ministry security men by the desk. Face set, Bond jogged through the metal detector following the carnage. A woman in police uniform lay at an angle halfway down the corridor her blood contrasting with the chequerboard pattern. He heard the shouts and screams coming from the open doors at the end and took a detour entering via the cloakroom. He sidled through the rather expansive room (it was effectively a common room) and cracked open the door. He saw from the right hand side the enquiry room. The committee hid behind their desk which had upturned. Bond then saw Tanner atop M and then he saw Silva. The bastard was watching his men just aim and fire but they weren’t coming in…why? Waiting for all to be dead?
Bond scowled, he kicked open the door spraying shots towards Silva’s men taking one out then he fired down at a fire extinguisher which spurted a cloud of vapour into the room. Bond saw Miranda Macpherson look up and winked at her. A damn fool thing to do yet it felt appropriate. He kicked one of the fallen policeman’s gun to her and took cover behind the desk. He was somehow not surprised to see her check the gun in a professional manner and then began to return fire through the vapour. He suspected the moment he met her that there was more to her than there appeared.
Bond slipped from behind the desk and scuttled to where M was. He helped M up who merely shook his head.
“007, thank God.”
“I think He has his hands busy, sir. Bill, get him out back, I’ll catch you up.”
Bond looked through the growing mist and saw Silva’s face go wild with rage. Bond levelled his gun and fired but missed. He then ran after Tanner and M. At the same time Silva and what was left of his group fled.
Miranda Macpherson swept some hair from her brow and puffed out her cheeks. She saw one of the MPs looking at her with some amazement.
“Session’s closed,” she said.
Outside Bond led Tanner and M to Whitehall where the traffic jam continued. Bond went up to a Saab 900 and opened the driver’s door. The startled commuter in his Savile Row suit looked up. “Hey, what the Hell…?”
“Emergency, this man here needs a transplant!” Bond pulled the businessman out of the car and got in. M got in on the passenger’s side and Tanner in the back. Doors closed Bond accelerated, he turned in a cycle towards Horse Guards’ entrance. he managed to dodge the two soldiers on duty who shouted and raised rifles to fire and then was on the famous gravel of Horse Guards Parade before eventually joining the Mall. He saw the car had a mobile car phone and handed the receiver to Tanner.
“Call Shaw at SIS. She’s been helping. Tell her we’re heading undercover and we’ll need her help.”
Tanner began to press numbers. “Pass-phrase?”
“Wellington.”
M glanced at Bond as he threaded the Saab past the palace. “You sound like you know what’s going on, Bond.”
“Someone orchestrated Silva’s breakout from SIS. Localised power-cut in Battersea took out all our systems long enough for the jail to be open. It’s almost as if this was all set up just to be caught and then to be sprung.”
“Who?” M demanded.
Bond hesitated. “Who? Silva but he’s got help from Robert King. For whatever reason, King has been paying Silva. Elektra was unrelated to this. She just happened to get caught up. I imagine after King got in touch, Silva met her, they fell for each other and then he had to…well, she died,” Bond cleared his throat navigating Victoria’s clogged streets. “Silva started off by himself but needed money. Robert King has been fairly anti-establishment in the past but not like this. Silva perhaps needed the funds to get the leaks out there. King could use some of these leaks for his own gain. Shame people and so on…”
M held a hand up indicating for Bond to stop talking. “But he’s one of the most respected…Bloody Hell!” he swore which was rare enough. “And me?”
“Silva genuinely wants you dead.”
M managed a smile. “You have a succinct if blunt way of putting things, 007.”
Bond chuckled. “Yes, sir.”
Tanner put the receiver back on the armrest cradle. “Shaw says there’s a house in Wimbledon. West Side Common. She’ll be there in an hour.”
Bond nodded and changed lanes. An idea was formulating and he would need all the help he could get.

Dalton driving a Lotus =

Tense, gripping action. Interesting spin on the SKYFALL narrative. Excited to see where the Robert King twist takes the story!

I kind of wanted to make it an Esprit but figured it'd be a bit dated for 1996-97 so opted for an Elan which would like vaguely like this:



still...the classic, Emma Peel Elan looks like this:



if the former we'll assume it's Major Bothroyd's personal car :)

as for King...time for some head-scratching.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Sins of the Father”

Night was settling across London when Eduardo Silva arrived on the top floor of the NatWest building in the City. The view from what had been London’s tallest building until Canary Wharf, was impressive. Still, he hated being here. By now all of the police forces (the Met and City of London) would be after him on top of MI5 and MI6. There was hiding in plain sight and there was this. The bar atop the tower was empty save for a dark haired man at a window-table. He rose and held a hand out.
“Silva.”
“King.”
That done they sat down, King ordered drinks for the pair of them before speaking again. “I see he survived the kidnap attempt.”
“Bond.”
King sighed smoothing his tie down. He appeared distinguished though grey flecked at his sides and lines weathered his brow. “James Bond has a nasty habit of getting in the way of most plans and in this, he will be stopped. I imagine your intelligence has dried up.”
For a moment Silva considered that he was being insulted then he responded. “I still have some access to information, yes. What about you? What can you offer now?”
“Money to keep your little enterprise going. You’re doing well so far.”
At this Silva bore his teeth in a scowl that appeared animalistic. “Look, I work for myself. Yes you pay me, but that is so I can bring down SIS and him, M! I’m sorry for Elektra…”
“Firstly, you’re not sorry and secondly, do not speak of her to me. This has had nothing to do with her,” King’s voice had not risen yet colour had, to his cheeks. He waited for the drinks to be settled on the table and a sip taken from his glass before continuing. “This has been about M as well. We’ve done well so far. James Bond allowing.”
Silva settled back in his chair reaching for his glass. He swirled the liquid around watching the cubes bounce off each other. “When I was dismissed, I was angry at him for letting me but then angrier for trying to kill me. I knew it would happen but the betrayal felt raw. I was a loyal servant for that organisation for most of my life. I don’t forgive easy Mr King but then I don’t understand why you’d take me on-board as you did.”
King had gotten in touch with Silva from the blue not long after his dismissal from MI6. Lying low in a Shanghai safe-house, Silva suddenly heard from King. It seemed King had a network all of his own. Owning a large oil company with interests all throughout Europe, Asia and the Middle East he likely had his own form of intelligence network.
“SIS started taking out some of my allies in the Middle East,” King saw Silva’s look. “They were not always the most honest of men, Silva. One man’s terrorist is, well you know how the saying goes. What didn’t help was that one chap who held territory around one of my pipelines had killed three British subjects he took hostage. SIS went in and took him out. Quite horribly I understand.”
“So…it’s revenge for…”
“Money,” King laughed a sound that was hollow. “He cost me and he cost me big.”
So it was that simple. And yet Silva, in spite of all he did in the past two years and beyond, felt sadness. He now remembered one night in bed with Elektra as she curled against him.
“You have no idea how single-minded my father is. Why my mother left him and why we don’t speak. Oil flows in his blood and it flows in mine. The difference is, I am human. He is not.”
At the time he had laughed off her passionate speech. Now he regarded King anew.
“Bond took M.”
“We’ll find him and then you can kill him.”
“Which one?”
“Either. Or both.”

**

M puffed on his pipe arms folded looking all the while the archetypal sitcom father of old. After a moment he snapped irritably.
“Stop pacing 007, the carpet is thin enough.”
Bond stopped fists clenched in the small living room of an otherwise fine house just off the corner of Wimbledon Common. It was dark and the room was lit by a single lamp.
“Waiting will do us no good, sir.”
“He hasn’t found us.”
“Yet,” Bond said pointlessly. He sat down in a rather well stuffed armchair that immediately dug into his back and calves. Arriving in Wimbledon Bond drove them up into the Village and then to the historic windmill halfway up the common’s side and left it there before leading on foot. What a strange sight they must’ve looked as they walked. Bond in his smart if ruffled suit, Tanner in his and looking strained then M distinguished yet clearly rattled by something. Bond glanced up as Martine Shaw and Tanner entered the living room. Tanner perched on a chair adjacent to M whilst Shaw stayed standing hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.
“I took the liberty of finding where Robert King was, sir,” Shaw said to Bond which only served to make him feel ancient. “He’s been in and out of his London office on Piccadilly all day. It’s possible he met Silva.”
“Details,” M said glaring at Bond. “King is irrelevant.”
“Sir, he’s paying Silva and giving him the means to come after you. I should say he’s quite relevant.”
Tanner pinched the knees of his suit and leant forward, M looked at him as if he had just appeared from thin air. “Sir, James had an idea and I think we should go with it.”
“ ‘Go with’?” M said dryly.
Bond hesitated then stood pacing to the window. “Sir I’ll take you out of London to a safe place and we wait for Silva. It’s not ideal, it’s flawed but it’s a way of ending this. We can’t let him dictate events anymore.”
There was silence save for a car outside passing by, headlights lit the room bright for one moment, M puffed on his pipe then took it from his mouth. “Where?”
“North.”
Tanner spoke hesitantly. “It’s something, sir. I don’t like it one hundred per cent though it is an idea. We can get Silva…”
“Just me, Bill,” Bond said.
“But James!”
“The fewer involved the better,” Bond said crisply. Pointing to Shaw he added. “And not you.”
“I can help from HQ. Systems are safeguarded…”
“You leave breadcrumbs as to where we are.”
Shaw looked confused. “Why? I know you want to see Silva on your own terms but letting him know…”
“Just do it,” Bond went back to his chair fixing M with a steady look. “Final word, sir?”
“I’m not altogether happy as being used for bait, 007, though I’ll place myself in your trusty hands. Now?”
“Now, sir.”
The two got up, Bond said they would head to Southfields Tube which was a little beneath M but he acquiesced. There was a brief if awkward final few words with Tanner and Shaw then they were gone.
“We get back to SIS immediately,” Tanner told Shaw. “Can you plot a route for Silva?”
“It’ll be easy, sir.”
Tanner aimed a brief look heavenwards. “Terrific.”

**

After almost twenty minutes on the District Line- long enough for Bond and M- they alighted at Sloane Square and walked away towards the King’s Road. Down past some boutiques Bond turned off the road down a darkly lit street to a garage with ‘NO ENTRY’ painted in white across the door. Bond stooped to unlock the door then stepped back as it flew up. He pulled a switch just inside and lit up the interior with a yellowy shade. M stepped inside frowning.
“Some of this…is odd.”
Bond stepped past a bobsled propped against the wall which had a yellow and black chequerboard nose. “Nothing too odd, sir. Accumulated this over the years, must get rid of some of it,” Bond knocked a box off a shelf which spilt tarot cards onto the floor. He stepped past these and grabbed at grey canvas which covered something in the middle of the garage. He tugged and whipped off the cover revealing a sleek black-grey Aston Martin 1987 V8 Vantage. “Get in, sir. Time’s against us.”
A little while on they were motoring out of the capital via the North Circular. M was checking the insides of the car out. “This looks like a company vehicle, 007.”
“I took on the spare after the Koskov business. Shame to waste it.”
“Yes, considering the other one was blown to bits in the Alps and God knows about the one you left in Nice. I imagine the DGSE lot have sliced it to ribbons since then.”
“Good luck to them,” Bond smiled in the darkness. He reached to press a button marked JET. M saw this. “Want to get there quickly?”
“My stomach cannot handle the thrust,” M lit his pipe. Bond shrugged joining a motorway. It was a little odd being so close to M in all manners. Bond felt almost like a minder more than an agent. A concerned son with a forgetful father more than a man with a licence to kill. His face tightened as he thought about Silva and King. It was a peculiar alliance and plot yet nothing was straightforward and Bond had been involved in some odd schemes before. Fighting atop the Golden Gate Bridge came to mind.
The hours past and it would indeed be hours before they reached their destination. M slept and Bond made do with winding the window down to feel the cold on his unshaven face. A few hours in, midway between Preston and Lancaster adjacent to the Forest of Bowland they stopped a petrol station with a small café. The sight of the expensive car drew some looks from the occupants inside who did not seem to mind the look of Bond and M as they walked in and ordered food.
An hour later they resumed their journey.
A couple of hours on, just after Carlisle they entered Scotland.

Another nice chapter that sets up (what I presume is) the final act of the story.

Really loved the scene with Bond's storage unit full of old tokens from earlier missions. Reminded me of the Q Branch scene from DAD, but less silly, of course.

King's motivations are simple but believable. Who ya got playing him in your mind?

I don't know, Charles Dance perhaps. As King is a bigger part of the story I imagine a well known name. David Calder is one of these chaps who either does TV or very small roles like in Phantom Menace and TWINE.

As for the garage, it might've been OTT for the actual Skyfall, but I found myself wishing for the glimpse of the OHMSS bobsled behind the DB5. Nothing like DAD though only 007 would have his old bits and bobs stored away in the lair for 'Dead Agents'.

We're getting near the end. Trick is to do it with some originality.

Lor' I just saw the first page and I had Topol's Colombo 'returning'. I must've had an idea I promptly forgot for Colombo to return.

Charles Dance…Good choice!

CHAPTER NINE

“Welcome to Scotland”

Fog was dense in Glencoe and so Bond slowed. M woke feeling irritable, more so when he saw they were still driving.
“My God, where are we?”
“Scotland,” was all Bond said.
The fog lifted a fraction to reveal the rugged, harsh yet beautiful landscape of the Highlands. It felt as if, in spite of the road, they were the only people here. Glen Coe itself was on their right with Loch Leven a dark blue extending in either direction. Before the small town of Ballachulish Bond stopped, turned round and drove a mile before stopping at the edge of a dirt road. He stepped out and M followed holding back as Bond stopped with hands in pockets staring down the road. M followed his gaze seeing how the road ran down a hillside or incline across green-brown fields to a large almost gothic house set against a small lake and rolling hilltops.
“Home, sir.”
M saw there was a stone wall running across the edge of the road with an empty gate that they stood near. On one of the pillars was a deer antlers rampant and the legend beneath.
“Skyfall,” M read aloud.
“Skyfall,” echoed Bond going back to the car. They drove down the incline stopping on the gravel forecourt. M studied Bond for a moment.
“Family home. I should’ve known, should’ve remembered.”
“I haven’t been back here in decades,” Bond murmured his thoughts on the house before him. Childhood memories came back to him, most unwanted and unneeded. He turned round to M. “Sir, we should get inside…”
He was cut short by the appearance of a heavyset man with a thick grey beard and scraggly hair that protruded from under a flat cap. The man held a shotgun levelled at M’s head.
“Ay’, what would ye both be doing here? This is private land.”
“Kincaide you old fossil, I thought you died years ago,” Bond remarked surprised.
The man swung his shotgun to Bond and lowered it. “My God, Master James. You’ve returned.”
“Would you mind?” M said dryly. Kincaide put the shotgun against his right shoulder looking over M.
“This is Kincaide, sir,” Bond said awkwardly. “He was, is…the groundskeeper at Skyfall. My father…”
“Ye’s no need to bore the man,” Kincaide held out his left hand. “Mr…”
Bond interjected hastily. “Admiral Hargreaves.”
“Admiral? Aye, Master James was in the Navy but then he left for better things, so I’m told.”
M studied Kincaide as the Scotsman wheeled about to lead them into the house. M knew that Bond’s parents had died in that freak accident mountain climbing and yet there was something faintly paternal about Kincaide. He imagined the groundskeeper looked after Bond more than his parents, the parents being away for so long on trips. It was true the service recruited orphans for obvious reasons. Some had family but these tended to be the so-called Single-O’s or other staff rather than the Double-Oh’s.
The house felt empty. An obvious statement, however M thought that such a grand house would have some kind of feeling. That he would feel the ghosts of Bond’s past. The house just felt lifeless. It was dark, smelt faintly of damp and mould and was cold. A glimpse of a living room across the lobby showed furniture covered in dusty sheets.
“It’s fallen by the wayside but I’ve fought to keep it going, Master James,” said Kincaide putting his shotgun down on a table in the kitchen. “I stay in the west wing upstairs.”
Bond walked around the kitchen tracing a finger across the sides. He paused looking at Kincaide in the gloom. “Guns?”
Kincaide did not question. “What we had I sold. Except ye father’s rifle,” Kincaide lumbered off. In the silence M sat down on a chair by the door feeling odd.
“James, when this is over I will retire. Whoever takes over I want you to show the same kind of respect you’ve shown me and Sir Miles. I want you to continue as you have done but remember that times change.”
Bond regarded his boss. The use of the name was rare enough and he nodded. “You have my word, that I’ll do my best.”
Kincaide reappeared with an old rifle that was polished and looked to be a few decades old. He showed the butt to M who noted the initials on the butt inscribed ornately.
“AB,” said M.
“Andrew Bond, aye,” Kincaide handed it to Bond. “That’s all we have. Expecting visitors?”
“There’s people after us, yes. A man who worked for the…company and another. Both want us dead and they’ll likely bring help,” Bond cocked the weapon checking the chamber. “Whatever you have, bring to the kitchen. I’ll get the car sorted. Sir…”
“Leave me to it,” M said firmly standing. “Kincaide, I’ll need a torch.”
“I’ll fix ye up,” as Kincaide led M out Bond heard the Scotman’s voice echo, “ye forgive Mr James for being a jumped up little shit!”
Bond chuckled, then with a stern look walked out to the Aston. In the morning mist he paused to survey the horizon. The sky was black over the mountains.
A storm was coming.

**

“The loch is not the best approach and neither is the road. Bond will be waiting. He’ll have time for a trap.”
Robert King nodded at Silva as the Spaniard’s words faded into nothingness in the back of the black Land Rover as it sped up the road from the Borders. They had left Lockerbie behind after stopping at a services. The diner owner was quite helpful in pointing out which way the black Aston Martin had gone.
“Of course he will be. I suspect this is Bond’s plan ever since he took M from the hearing,” King stroked his chin feeling slight stubble rasp against his fingernails. “You can get your men into position?”
“The others are flying up from Glasgow having come in from France. They’re the last of my men,” Silva said warningly. Getting word out to them had been tricky. In the confusion after the enquiry attack, they had to find somewhere to hide long enough to get word out. His men would have flown in by private jet under the guise of oil workers bound for one of the North Sea platforms. They would have the jump on Silva, King and King’s small band of men.
Men, thought Silva dismissively, they were mercenaries. A mixture of South Africans and Americans looking for glory for a high buck. Silva had met some before and was not impressed. They travelled in three Land Rover’s in convoy.
“Bond’s file says he came from Scotland, the Highlands. I wouldn’t know where…”
“You said that already,” King said a little heatedly. His cool façade was being tested by this Spaniard. “We’ll get him. We’ll get them both.”
Silva nodded in turn. “Fine.”

**

For the day the three men worked tirelessly. Skyfall was searched thoroughly for anything that would be of use to them. Bond spent an hour with the Aston setting up her various tricks whilst inside M familiarised himself with the layout of the house in the dark. It reminded him of his early days a boy seaman. Learning to know his way around a battleship blindfolded. Know your ship, know your way in case of attack.
After this was done M started setting up booby traps. The aim was hopefully to kill but disabling would do. Hold the attackers long enough to be killed.
Kincaide took his shotgun out to the back squaring his shots against a set of empty bottles propped on a board. Bond watched him shook his head and headed up the field to the small building at the top nestled in the foothills of a mountain. It was the church that one of his ancestors had built. Family lore had Charles II hiding here for a brief time in his exile. Likely myth, Bond thought as he turned around to look at the landscape. As darkness came it was enshrouded in a light mist that clung to the hills and over the lake like cotton wool. Bond flexed his hands and blew into them. As he stepped forward he paused and cocked his head.
There was a sound on the distant wind that was carrying. At first he could not place it then he realised it was a motor. A car. Or more than one. He hurried down the field into Skyfall just as headlights appeared at the top of the dirt road from the direction of the loch. He made M jump such was the suddenness of his appearance.
“They’re here.”
M picked up Bond’s PPK from the dining table in the kitchen and wordlessly vanished into the darkened interior. Somewhere unseen, Kincaide’s voice floated out to Bond.
“I’m ready for ye bastards, Master James.”
Bond grabbed his father’s rifle briefly running his hand over the initials on the butt then hurried off.
It was time.

Another solid chapter. Looking forward to the big showdown with Silva and King.

Likely need to edit the end of that chapter. I might've opened a plot hole. See what comes to mind with the next one.

I wasn't happy with the ending of the last chapter. I also realised that it wouldn't make sense for Silva's men to arrive in the copter first (this presumes at the moment Silva knows where Bond is. And thus being able to contact his men). So the chapter above is edited, only the last paragraph or so. The difference should be obvious.

--

Here we go. Took a little while to put together, disjointed efforts, much Bond music and probably the longest penultimate chapter ever. Even Sam Neill's DAD and Shatterhand weren't so..lucky.

--

CHAPTER TEN

“Glencoe Royale”

Silva thought King had great patience with the old Scottish man who had come out of the so-called visitors centre on the A82. The man had an accent that Silva could not understand and was also a little deaf.
“Ye after what, now?” he said again.
King bent at the waist being taller than the man. Evening mist swirled around them like something out of a Sherlock Holmes story. The nearby mountains and hills seemed to take on a different quality, a mythic one. Silva was reminded of mountains in Asturias back home.
“The home of the Bond family. The Bond clan.”
“Only Bond round here was Andrew Bond and he died some years ago.”
Silva was getting impatient. The journey up had taken the better part of a day with the picking up of clues along the way. Silva was wary of such clues and had a growing gut feeling something was awry.
“Where is this home?” King asked carefully.
“Up the road yonder beyond the turn. Can’t miss it. Skyfall they called the place, God knows why they did, Godawful name.”
King straightened and nodded. “You’ve been kind, thank you.” To Silva he said. “Let’s go then. We’re almost there.”
“I hope so, any further north we’d be in the Hebrides,” said Silva. He hesitated letting the others go on and followed the old man into the tourist centre. The man was dialling on a telephone in a small office. Silva removed his PPK from its hiding place in his jeans and fired three times. As the old man crumpled, Silva stooped to pick up the receiver and held it from his ear.
“Glencoe Police here…go ahead speaker…are ye there…is that you messing about Arnold?”
Silva hung up and dialled a number he hoped was right. After a pause he got a well-spoken voice.
“Glasgow Heliport speaking.”
“Hello,” Silva levelled out his accent in a hope it would work. “I am checking on a helicopter ident Foxtrot Gulf Sierra Oh-Oh-One.”
“Ah, yes, we have a helicopter here. Are you related to the party that came over from the rig?”
“Yes. My name’s McNally, please advise them to redirect to Glencoe in the Highlands, the place is called Ballachulish. We have arranged a landing site at a manor house on the road to it.”
The man read the notes back and added, “Is that all, Mr McNally?”
“Them to hurry, the work is urgent.”
Silva hung up and hurried outside clambering into King’s Land Rover. As they set off he explained to Silva that he arranged for the others to fly in. From Glasgow it wouldn’t take long.
“I suggest we send in our other men first,” King was driving and half glanced at Silva who managed a smile.
“To test the waters?”
“You could say that. I’m willing to bet that Bond and M will not be so easy to surprise. I wouldn’t wonder if they have planned this all along.”
Silva was not so sure but did not say so out loud. Whereas Silva had planned to be captured and to involve King in London, he suspected Bond and M had never planned all along for this. It did not make sense for a long-standing plan but one made up on the cuff after the enquiry. As he watched the remote landscape he saluted Bond’s ingenuity.
After a few minutes they reached the dirt road pausing a moment. The building –Skyfall- lay enshrouded in mist and the growing evening gloom. Just visible was the jet black Aston Martin. Beyond that a lake.
King leant out of his window having wound it down and shouted. “You two, go!”
Without objection the other Land Rovers containing six men in total raced past and down the dirt road. King turned the engine off then reached between the seats to pick up his Browning handgun.
“I reckon this is where things will get interesting.”

**

Bond crouched so that only his eyes upwards were visible. He kept playing with the chamber on his father’s rifle then patting in his back –tucked into his trousers- his PPK. The two black Land Rovers trundled down the slope towards the house. He felt a prickling of fear in his chest, trying to dismiss it he recalled many missions where he felt the same thing. war veterans used to say ‘if a man said he wasn’t scared, he was lying’. Bond wouldn’t say he was scared, not feeling fear would make him somewhat inhuman.
The first Rover reached the gravel apron and that was when it started. The headlights on the Aston Martin V8 Vantage rolled down, from them shot two yellow missiles that whooshed towards and into the first Land Rover. The cold evening air was shattered by the thunderous crump of the explosion. As the wreckage settled on the apron –flaming bits of metal landing all around- the other Land Rover tore past the Aston with machine gun fire blazing from the passenger window and the rear left window. Bond ducked as the window above shattered; he heard other windows downstairs shatter and warm casings landing on the floor. Bond resumed his crouch as on the Aston a laser shot out from the rear left wheel slicing into the speeding Land Rover. It half-worked for when the Land Rover came to a stop the rear suspension thumped into the ground. Three men tumbled dressed in black from the Rover running towards the house. Bond straightened and fired. He winged one yet that man kept running. M and Kincaide stayed silent in their hiding spots. All part of the plan.
Silva’s men effected entry individually. One smashed his way through the front door then went face first into the swinging butt of Bond’s rifle. The thug went down then fired at Bond as Bond stood over him. The shot missed but Bond didn’t firing bluntly down at the attacker. Bond ejected his spent cartridges and reloaded noticing his hands were shaking.
“Damn stupid, damn fool!” he cursed himself. He then saw there was a dent in the rifle and smiled grimly. “Sorry father.”
Cradling the rifle he took off at a sprint across the gravel towards the Aston. From inside the house he heard the thud of shotgun blasts. From up ahead he saw a set of headlights.
“Silva,” he said diving into his car. As he did so the house was lit up by bright light. He peered upwards to see a Sikorsky Helicopter come to a hovering position overhead. The occupants of the helicopter opened fire on the house raking the top floor then the Aston. Bond dove out of the car running for the house chased by a fusillade of bullets. Into the house he found Kincaide over the body of one of Silva’s men.
“He outstayed his welcome,” Kincaide said breathing hard. “The Admiral is still here, somewhere.”
“And one more bastard,” Bond growled as outside the shooting stopped. He dreaded to think what the state of his car was now. He took Kincaide by the arm. “Find M and get him to the church. Use the priesthole.”
“But what about these bastards, James?”
Bond smiled and took Kincaide’s shotgun handing him the rifle. “I’ll manage.”
Kincaide checked the rifle briefly. “Be glad ye father’s not here to see this.”
“Go!”

**

M had been hiding in the vast dining room at the rear of the property. He had come to think of this room in the past few hours as his personal project. In here were little tricks of the trade that the Secret Service had employed from the days of Archangel in the 1920s up till now. He felt fearful, yes, but he had fought in a world war and some minor ‘skirmishes’ as they’d call them now. One did not become head of SIS by fear alone. He did not have the reputation of Sir Miles Messervy but he was respected and feared in equal measure.
He wiped a sweaty palm on a curtain that he hid behind and rechecked his Desert Eagle that Bond had given him. He had decided he would take the honourable way out if it came to it rather than let Silva or King have the last laugh.
As the sounds of battle reached him he tensed. From the hallway came a couple of shotgun blasts followed by a third and Kincaide’s accented send-off. Then M sensed rather than saw the intruder. The attacker crept into the dining room holding a MP5K machine-pistol. M could just make him out through the crack in the curtain and carefully went to one knee gun in both hands. As the attacker reached a certain point M pulled on the cord of the curtain. All the curtains abruptly tore off the rail covering the three French windows. From the one nearest the attacker nails and screws were exploded from where they had been harnessed in a small box. They hit the man with enough force to hinder him. As he reacted M shoved the curtain away and fired two precise shots. The attacker went down with a fatal pair of headshots. M quickly stood heading out of the dining room, dodging the trap on the door he had set up here and into a common room of sorts. A bookshelf was lined with old copies of books that had faded and crumbled. M heard footfall outside.
“Come out M!” Silva’s voice rang out. “We won’t hurt you!”
“Lying bastard,” M whispered and paused. He started to double back when he turned he started. “Some warning, Kincaide.”
Kincaide whispered back. “Sorry, sir. Master James wants me to get you to the church so let’s go.”
Just then a door into the corridor between common room and dining room opened. Two men in black who presumably had come down from the ‘copter appeared. M shouldered Kincaide aside bringing his Desert Eagle up. He shot both intruders in the head then a further two shots for good measure into their necks as they fell. Kincaide gave a look of admiration at the head of SIS who remarked: “Let’s go, as you say.”
“This way, sir.”

**

Bond went upstairs whilst Silva’s newcomers and the man himself swept the house inside and out. The helicopter remained hovering with just the pilot and co-pilot aboard. Bond couldn’t see Silva or King outside which remained well lit by the helicopter. He was proved wrong when Silva showed up and made a cutting gesture. The helicopter swung around its huge body causing the house to vibrate as it aimed upwards. It stopped a little way away and smartly did an one eighty. Silva had vanished again, for reason as the helicopter fired two rockets that angled sharply downwards striking Bond’s V8 Vantage squarely amidships. The car crumpled then exploded in all directions. Bond hit the floor covering his head as the window of the bedroom shattered with the force of small flaming bits of metal. Quite incongruously a piece landed near him bearing the famous Aston Martin enamel bade. Bond scowled pressing his hands into the floor and standing. He put down his shotgun and began to rip the curtain down from the window. Wrapping it in his hands like a flag-raiser would he then began to string it out along the curtain rail ribbon. The helicopter started to cautiously approach the house again nose still slightly down.
It was likely that one of the occupants had seen a flicker of the curtain coming down. The helicopter’s lights were still aimed at the house and the burning carcass of the car was providing illumination of its own. They definitely saw Bond climb onto the broken window frame kicking aside glass. The windows were wide enough for Bonds next action. He swung the curtain above his head, then with a shout he slung the thing with all his strength towards the helicopter. Almost like a flying squirrel the curtains sailed at the helicopter landing high enough on the cockpit for the draft of the blades to suck it up into them. In seconds the helicopter reared up like a bucking horse, the blades came to a shuddering stop tearing the curtain to pieces. The helicopter stalled sliding down towards the house as if on an invisible slope. Bond grabbed his shotgun and ran out of the bedroom just as the helicopter slammed into Skyfall. The Sikorsky exploded sending a fireball racing across the top floor of the house chasing Bond across the landing over which he flung himself. There were further explosions as external tanks exploded. The rear façade of Skyfall collapsed on itself taking with it the wreckage of the Sikorsky.
Bond picked himself up on the hallway floor stunned but fine. He started to reach for his shotgun when a foot went down on his hand. He grimaced yet did not otherwise react. He looked upward to see, face reflected in the flickering fire from behind Bond, Robert King with a rifle angled downwards at him.
“Bond, like a rat in a sewer.”
“King, like a shit in the toilet,” Bond carefully came to a half squat one knee on the floor hand still trapped. “All this petty revenge for your two-bit oil operation. Not worth it.”
“Worth it,” King said crisply pushing his foot down. Bond felt something in his hand go. Maybe nothing.
“Elektra?” Bond said quietly.
The foot crashed down with one violent move and stayed there. Bond’s hand throbbed like the blazes. “Don’t mention her!”
Footsteps approached King, three men came up to him wielding various weaponry. One spoke in a South African accent. “Meester King, no sign of anyone else.”
“Maybe they died when the chopper came down,” King looked down at Bond, “or maybe not. Check the grounds. They can’t have gone far.”
“Yees sir!” the white man did a salute and led his comrades off.
“Nice company you keep,” Bond said. The fire behind them was starting to move on from the rear of the house. Sweat trickled down his back and off his brow. “I don’t approve of such house guests.”
“Where’s M?”
“Who?”
The foot twisted and Bond grimaced again biting on his lip. Something definitely went in his hand that time. “M, Bond, M!”
“Go to Hell!” Bond with his left hand swung up into King’s groin hitting him hard. It was enough for King to release Bond’s right hand and for Bond to get to his feet. His right hand flared up like it was on fire but Bond could not concern himself with such minutiae. He crashed his head into King’s making the oil baron cry out like a kicked dog. Bond wrenched the man’s rifle out of his hands swinging it into his face. King went down rolling onto his back, blood flowed from a crease on his forehead.
“Is it worth it, Bond?” he gasped.
“Always,” Bond brought the rifle down again and dropped it. He picked up his shotgun in his left hand and ran to the front of the house. There was at least six more men he assumed plus Silva. There had to be no more. He went back inside the house watching the old interiors burn. There were oil cans in the kitchen used for the oven and other appliances. They would finish old Skyfall off. As he turned to leave his eyes settled on the huge portrait of Sir Thomas Bond 1st Baronet in Stuart regalia with the family motto beneath –Orbis Non Sufficit.
“The world is not enough,” Bond said. Sketching a salute to his predecessor he headed into the night.

**

M took a breath as they reached the church. It had been a rather wild walk down the priest-hole, a legacy of the old days. Emerging in the chill night air M saw Skyfall burning as did Kincaide who let out a low moan.
“Oh, no. Not the house.”
“I’m sure it’s minor,” M said even though the conflagration looked to cover the entire back of the house. Kincaide shook his head appearing quite devastated at the old house’s demise. They went inside the small church. Kincaide went to light candles but M stopped him.
“Silva will see it.”
“We need warmth, sir.”
“May as well go back to the house,” M chuckled and immediately regretted it. He did sit on a pew and stare at the small altar. He noticed to his left a plaque then another, all to various Bonds over the past few centuries. He often ridiculed Bond on various things yet here was a family who stretched back over time. He was seeing a side of Bond that perhaps he would never see again.
Gunfire shattered his peace. The stained glass windows on his left splintered under the onslaught of machine-gun fire. M dove to the floor as did Kincaide. There were shouts outside.
“Looks like they sniffed us out,” Kincaide shouted.
“Lucky guess,” M said referring to the hunters. He crawled to the nearest window and stood pressing against the cold stonework. In the darkness backlit by the burning house he sighted three maybe four men. Kincaide took position a couple of windows down. M nodded curtly.
“Alright, let’s give them the lot.”
As one the two old men opened fire, raking the attackers as if at a shooting gallery. When they paused to reload they could not see any more and tensed for the next attack. It was not long in common. M was spun around by a man wearing a black cap (he assumed a ski mask pulled up) and typical mercenary attire. The man must’ve got in from a back entrance during the gunfire.
“You’re M, then,” the voice snarled with some accent M couldn’t immediately place.
“He’s an Admiral, you wee shit,” Kincaide said as he battered the attacker over the head with the old rifle. The grip on M slackened as the man crumpled at his feet. Kincaide tossed the rifle away. “Seems it’s had its day. Are ye okay?”
“Better days,” M said and started to walk away. The attacker on the ground abruptly stirred grabbing at something on the floor he shoved it up into M’s abdomen. M cried out sagging to his left against a pew. He managed to turn around firing the last of his bullets into the attacker before dropping the gun. Kincaide got to him just as the head of SIS fell onto the chequered floor. Kincaide lifted M’s coat aside to see a purple piece of glass sticking out of the stomach.
“I’ll move…”
“No, don’t…it’s too late,” M croaked his eyes watering with pain. “I’ve…done…my best.”
Outside more gunfire sounded.

**

Bond sprinted onto the darkened field feeling the dense glass under his shoes. It was bitingly cold, his breath trailed in puffy clouds. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness with the glare of the fire at Skyfall. He veered down the left side of the frozen lake running hard.
To strive, to seek…
Suddenly the wind was taken from his sails as someone crashed into him from the side. They went flying onto the lake causing cracks to shoot into the centre. Bond struggled against his assailant smelling sweat and some foul odour that was cheap aftershave. Bond rolled out from under his attacker just as a crack appeared between his spread knees. He stumbled to his feet jumping a flying kick at his opponent. The heavier man went down hard then vanished altogether through a fresh fissure. Bond stood there breathing hard and turned to walk off the lake. He found his shotgun by chance and tested his right hand.
“No, definitely not,” he hissed feeling the pain shoot up his arm. He stopped as a voice called out: “Johan?”
It was American, the voice so definitely not Silva. Bond began to lift the shotgun. A shadow moved into view, tall and dark. Dark…dark…Bond’s vision swam.
“Johan?”
“He’s gone fishing!” Bond called and fired twice. The shotgun bucked against his chest as he did so, his damaged right hand losing its grip. The American went down like a sack. Bond walked up to him, in the faint light of Skyfall he prodded the body then did a quick search. No ID, no wallet, no nothing. He did find a Glock which he pocketed with a nod of thanks then slowly began to walk up to the church. Far behind him now Skyfall lit up brighter like a Roman candle as the fire reached the oil drums. Bond stopped to turn and watch his ancestral home. A memory came unbidden of him as a child hiding in the priest-hole after his parents died in the climbing accident. He had taken some of his John Buchan books with a torch determined never to come out. Kincaide came down to get him.
“Do you think your father would want you hiding down here? No, he’d want ye up and doing something. Not hiding.”
“Not hiding,” Bond said aloud. He started to run to the church feeling a rising fear at what he might find. As he reached the church he saw Silva limp into the building then shouts. A shot. Bond resumed his run skidding through the church door and drawing the Glock. Without pause he fired twice. His shots tore into Silva swirling him around like a wooden-top and down. Bond walked slowly up to him gun trained on him all the while. Silva’s bloodshot eyes stared up at him, his cracked lips moved.
“Seems we both win, Bond. What happened…to King?”
Bond had not looked up, did not see Kincaide eject the empty chamber from M’s Desert Eagle. His shots had gone wide of the mark anyway.
“Cashing his last cheque, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Good…good,” Silva choked as blood poured out over his lips.
“She’s waiting for you,” Bond said lowering his gun and stepping past Silva. That was when he saw M lying propped against the end of one of the pews. His face was ashen. Bond knelt by his master putting a hand on his arm.
“Sir…sir, it’s 007.”
M slowly opened his eyes, they did not focus. “Seems I’ve shot my lost bolt, James. I think…I acquitted myself well…”
“You did admirably, sir,” Bond said quietly his throat tightening. He was inwardly angry that he had not been here to protect his boss. Angry that his plan had in the end not worked. Not totally. Silva was right, they had both won. “Nobody could have done it like you.”
“Stop with this…foolish…claptrap,” M wheezed closing his eyes. “Remember…what I said…about…the next…chief…”
“I will, sir.”
M’s eyes abruptly flew open, widening a fraction. “Just remember…”
At that, Admiral Maxwell Hargreaves –known as M in the Secret Intelligence Service- passed. His Times obituary would read he died following a short illness at his Surrey home. Bond reached to close his eyes and stood. Kincaide saw the look of anguish on Bond’s face.
“He handled himself well, James lad. One of the bastards got him when he wasn’t looking.”
Bond looked around noticing the fallen bodies of Silva’s men. The spent cartridges and the blood. Then back to M.
He patted Kincaide on the arm as a way of saying thanks for everything and left the little church.
Someone always died in this business.

---

Lots of great moments in this chapter. Love the subtle changes from the original film and the AM badge landing near Bond after it explodes.

Looking forward to seeing how you wrap everything up.

thanks. It got violent but then it's Bond so why not? Hate the idea of blowing up the Aston (when it goes in Living Daylights I tend to groan still). Trouble with adapting Skyfall for Dalton is that it followed the film more or less.

As I say I think Skyfall as a Dalton film would've been something else.

I'm a little unclear on how Bond killed King...

I watched "Penny Dreadful" mostly for Dalton.
The show itself leaves much to be desired, but Tim's performance in it was quite enjoyable.