Timothy Dalton in "The Mirage of Fate"

the tracks "Show Me the Money"/"Come in 007, Your Time Is Up" were referenced.

PROLOGUE

“Monday at SIS”

James Bond exhaled his cigarette smoke, blowing it towards the red circle on his window that said “No Smoking”. The current and rather new SIS Headquarters had taken on the building craze for health and safety that Bond found tedious. Only two years old, the building had become known as “Babylon-On-Thames” owing to its design but also as “Legoland”. Bond missed the old Regent’s Park HQ which was rather ordinary compared to this. He stood going to the window and opening it a fraction. He had a decent view of the Thames as it curled away from Vauxhall down river towards Battersea. Rather this view than the one on the back of the building over Vauxhall Train Station and the approaches to Waterloo.
His squawk box lived up to its name prompting Bond to go to it and press a switch.
“007.”
“James,” the dulcet tones of the chief of staff Bill Tanner came through crisply. “He wants you.”
Bond nodded. “On my way, Bill.”
‘He’ being M of course. Bond was not scheduled a meeting but the Old Man did not need to be kept waiting. It did not take long for Bond to negotiate the way to M’s office. Moneypenny sat in the rather large anteroom with its pastel colours and woodwork that made her look like she was in a Swedish psychiatrist’s office.
“You can go right on in, James.”
“Oh, Penny, so swift.”
“I hope you’re not always that way,” Moneypenny grinned at him as he headed for the door. M’s office was as big with a rather more decent view of the river. When Bond entered a woman sat before M’s desk rose holding a hand out.
“Hello, Bond, I’m Miranda MacPherson.”
Bond shook the hand noting the firmness whilst glancing at M questioningly.
“Miss MacPherson is from the Select Committee for Security,” M said rather dryly inviting both to sit.
“Ms,” corrected MacPherson pointedly. She watched as Bond lit a cigarette. M had his pipe lit so Bond assumed it was okay. His chief seemed withdrawn somehow. Bond was instinctively on guard. “I’m here because we consider SIS to be in desperate need of overhaul. In spite of the budget cuts it should be doing better.”
Bond felt a dislike for this politician who was one of the few who would be allowed to know certain things. Select Committees enjoyed privileges regular politicians dreamt of. He blew his smoke at her which she waved away not bothering to hide her disdain.
“Such as?” he asked.
“Such as the recent spate of leaks that SIS seem to enjoy…”
“That is not our fault,” Bond cut in.
“No? Then how do you explain the names of secret agents, emphasis on SECRET, revealed on the internet –such as it is- and in a national newspaper? Covers blown…?”
Bond looked to his boss and saw M’s grey complexion. Just what was going on? Was M on his way out?
“We’re on the tail of the man responsible.”
MacPherson leant forward with such energy it made Bond lean back. “So you know who it is?”
“We believe we do,” M said his voice like gravel. “A former agent from Station M in Madrid. Eduardo Silva.”
Bond shook his head. “Sir…”
“Relax, 007. Ms MacPherson needs to know.”
“What are you doing to get this man, M…a former agent no less?”
“Everything,” Bond said icily. “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of this, Ms MacPherson. Thanks to this man Silva, two agents have been killed. Somehow he got the information, somehow he still knows enough and somehow he revealed the names to the Express.”
The agents in question had been deep cover assignments. One had been masquerading as the benevolent military dictator of a middle-African country and another a moll of an arms dealer in China. Both had suffered hideous deaths once the identities had been revealed.
“I used to be in the military myself,” MacPherson said quietly. “I understand what goes on Bond, more than you can imagine but it does not excuse the fact that SIS appear to be lacking.”
“Lacking?” Bond said with bite. “Silva…”
“When did he leave? How…?”
“He left two years ago,” M said. “With disgrace. He tried to take matters into his own hand concerning a woman in Hong Kong. It went wrong. She died. He was cast out.”
“As I said to M, the situation is grim…”
“I’m looking at ‘voluntary retirement’,” M said deeply. He tapped his pipe against an ashtray. Bond felt his stomach drop as if in a lift. They were forcing his chief out. For apparently not doing his job.
“You can’t do that…,” Bond began.
He was cut off by a rumbling that became a loud explosion. The floor pitched upwards. Bond automatically dove at MacPherson forcing her down whilst trying to reach out for his boss. He saw flames shoot past the windows followed by the wailing of an alarm and screaming from below. He stood checking to make sure M was alright before going to the window hand inside his jacket. On the Thames he made out a white speedboat with a woman standing on the rear. Bond turned to run.
“007!” M shouted.
In a minute or two Bond descended into the bowels of SIS just as he heard the thud-thud of a machine gun. Turning into Q-Branch he saw at the far end where a hatch had opened, the speedboat with the woman on its stern firing into Q-Branch. Two people already lay dead on the floor, the red staining their white labcoats. Others were sheltering including Q who held his hands over his head. Seeing Bond the armourer appeared to smile. Bond looked around and gave a smile of his own, a grim ‘on with the job’ sort of smile. He sprinted down to where there was a small inlet of water that had secretly extended in from the Thames on which hung a small boat. It was effectively a one-man speedboat-cum-fighter. The roof extended a fraction over the cockpit and it had a slight sleekness to it. Bond leapt into it swiftly punching buttons. Seconds later a flame shot from the stern and the Q-Boat shot ahead out of the front of SIS into the air. Landing with a wet thump in the middle of the river, Bond hit the throttle control on the steering column and swerved the boat around in a lazy circle. The woman on the speedboat was clambering forward as Bond closed in on her then her larger craft lurched ahead with speed downriver. Bond followed already damp with the river splashing him as it was slapped by the Q-Boat. On a small display screen Bond was shown a readout of the Thames.
To the left the Houses of Parliament played by, the Gothic structure overshadowed by the overcast sky. Members of both the Commons and the Lords enjoying tea or lunch on the promenade level at its rear stood in disbelieve as Bond and the woman sped past. They swept under Westminster Bridge close to the Embankment swamping tourists who were waiting on a pier for a boat upriver to Kew. Bond went back out into the middle of the Thames skipping like a stone as he did so and around two tugs that were manoeuvring a row of barges into shape. He spat out river-water more out of reflex than for the factor it was a dirty river. Here as they passed under Hungerford Bridge the river widened as it bent round at Waterloo. Bond found himself under mortar attack. From the white speedboat as it curved across his bows by three hundred metres there came puffs of smoke then almighty explosions rent the Thames asunder either side of him. Bond shook his head mouth open to lessen the pressure on his ears. He hit the accelerator tearing back after her darting under Waterloo Bridge where commuters and passer-bys were watching. Blazing under it Bond closed in on the speedboat just as more mortars thumped down. One missed Bond, bounced off a pleasure boat and exploded mid-air showering the bridge with shrapnel.
Bond checked his controls quickly. He reached and hoped for the best.
Two torpedoes popped out of the front whizzing on the surface towards the speedboat. Seeing the danger, the woman turned to her left at Cannon Street Bridge. Bond cursed as the torpedoes tracked past exploding violently against the side of the river.
The chase continued on to Tower Bridge where they shot past the World War II cruiser HMS Belfast. How the navy man in Bond yearned to blow her out of the water with those 14 inch guns. As it was the two craft blazed under the famous bridge passing by a DUKW craft on a tourist cruise. Bond checked his map and noticed that if they kept on they’d pass Rotherhithe and Canary Wharf. The chase had to be stopped but how? The speedboat was opening up a gap. Bond took a punt and swept right into St. Saviour’s Dock –a narrow inlet where the River Neckinger enters the Thames separated by what are now luxury flats at Shad Thames on either side but once were dingy warehouses. The whole area was once immortalised in Oliver Twist in its old, hideous, guise of Jacob’s Island.
Either way it was a dead end. Bond rocketed down the inlet the sound of his engine deafening and then he was up over the end onto Jamaica Street. He veered left and howled down the road side-slipping buses, taxis and the like. Horns hooted, people shouted but Bond’s focus was on the road as well as his readout display which showed the speedboat was still tracking down the Thames passing Rotherhithe. Bond was able to navigate the streets effectively though by now a phalanx of police cars were closing in. Cutting across the thumb of the city as it jutted into the Thames he vaulted back onto the river facing the Isle of Dogs and the rising colossus of the new financial district around Canary Wharf. He had emerged just ahead of the speedboat which turned towards the economic heart of London. They shot over a small strip of land onto the water inlets that still lay in and around Canary Wharf. Startled bankers looked on from the skyscrapers as the two boats hared past. They skipped back onto the Thames a few kilometres on.
Bond just couldn’t keep pace. The little Q-Boat had a punch but not nearly enough. Grimly he pushed the throttle feeling the seat push into his back. Gamely the Q-Boat closed the gap. Bond selected ‘HMG’ and was pleased to see two machine guns rise from the bow. He opened fire watching as his tracer tore into the stern of the speedboat. Up ahead there was a black surge of smoke then flames gushed upwards. The woman turned the crippled boat and Bond saw ahead London City Airport. He stifled a curse and tried desperately to get closer. She nonetheless crashed her boat over the meagre river bank into the water alongside the airport. Having been built on an old dry-dock London City Airport was all the same still surrounded by water. Bond’s boat took the leap hard and crashed into the water behind the speedboat which had come to a stop by the edge of the airport’s perimeter. Bond leapt out splashing in the shallows and following her as she ran across the runway. She had long brown hair but beyond that Bond could not make her out. He saw her clamber onto a small executive jet which immediately began to taxi down the runway. Bond stopped and pulled his Walther PPK out. Legs braced apart he took aim. She was prepared. She had come to City Airport to get this plane. It was all planned. SIS HQ, even the chase…
The jet screamed down the runway at Bond and he found himself closing one eye to get a bead on the cockpit.
“Come on you bastard,” he whispered.
As it drew closer Bond fired three precise shots that hit the cockpit window. He saw the window frost as it nearly shattered but the plane all the same climbed into the air overhead knocking him down. He put one hand over an ear then turned over to see the jet waggle its wings and the continue its ascent before vanishing over the city out west.
Then before he knew it he was pulled up, his arms shoved behind his back by armed police who had ran clean across the airport to him. Overhead police helicopters were taking position. Bond’s PPK was gone in seconds.
His gaze remained steely, remained on where the jet had gone even as the police shouted at him.
As Mondays went, it was quite unusual.

TIMOTHY DALTON returns as IAN FLEMING’S JAMES BOND 007 in

THE MIRAGE OF FATE

Starring

ROBERT BROWN as M
ANTONIO BANDERAS as Eduardo Silva
HELEN MIRREN as Miranda MacPherson
CAROLE BOUQET as Elektra
MICHAEL KITCHEN as Bill Tanner
CAROLINE BLISS as Moneypenny
ANTHONY HOPKINS as Kincaide
And
CHARLES DANCE as Robert King


as a point of interest this is St. Saviour's Dock which does feature in the TWINE boat chase where Cigar Woman turns into. I've been down there (when looking for Dickens' locations of all things) and it truly is a dead end (though the Neckinger rises from under Jamaica Street out into the Thames). The building marked "Jay & Wharf" on the right is seen in TWINE (if you pause it on this moment in the film you'll see the dead end)



entrance to the Dock as seen in TWINE



as mentioned the area was known as Jacob's Island in Victorian times, one of the most deprived areas and where Fagin and Bill Sykes are based in Oliver Twist. Now even though the shape of the area remains (the roads lie on what was once waterways) it's home to the Design Museum, fashionable flats and Jacob Street film studios.

CHAPTER ONE

“In Which We Serve”

M laid a hand on the nearest coffin gently pinching the Union flag that lay draped across it. His gaze settled out over the dozen coffins arranged in a row within St. Martin-in-the-Fields on the northeast corner of Trafalgar Square. The church had long been the Royal Navy’s church and here M had wanted the service for his fallen. A couple of the dead had been Navy and that was a bond M cherished. In the west end of the church in the open area before the pews, M was finding his place in the world. These twelve men and women represented his follies and his errors.
“Silva,” he said aloud and then saw James Bond waiting by the entrance. “Bond.”
Bond walked down the aisle with head slightly down as if hesitant. He wore his naval uniform complete with ribbon denoting his CMG. He paused near M looking down the row of coffins. Each with the Union flag, each a man or woman who had died.
“Major Boothroyd says that the explosive was your average type of semtex. It’s possible that it came into the building via a package. Somehow it got past our security scanners and procedures.”
“Silva knows all the tricks, Bond, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Bond did not add that the bomb was clearly designed to kill not just to be a ruse to get Bond out of the building and presumably kill him. Nine of the twelve dead had been in the central analysis room where the package had been opened.
Bond knew of Silva by reputation. An agent who had been recruited from an orphanage in Northern Madrid, whose parents had been killed on Franco’s orders in his last month’s having tried to kill the dictator by bombing. Silva had shown that kind of aptitude that all good agents had and within a few years was based at Station M in Madrid. The Hong Kong mission had been to stop a planned attempt by Tri-ads to ferment rebellion against China for the coming handover. The woman had been Silva’s girlfriend, his mistress even and when she died Silva went over the line. It was akin to Bond going after Sanchez.
“We have no ID on the woman,” Bond did add. “There is no one matching her description in the database.”
M snorted. “Q’s little box of tricks could not place her?” he referred to the Q Branch E-fit computer which Bond had once used to find the criminal Locque. The smile faded. “I lost twelve people, Bond. When I commanded a ship, that was the worst thing. The letters to a lost ones parents. Each of these people had to make up what they did to their parents.”
It was not quite the case nowadays, Bond thought. Whereas to the world at large James Bond was a civil servant, the men and women killed last Monday were both civil servants and SIS employees. To an extent though they would have made something up.
“Sir, I want to go after Silva. We have to now.”
“We can’t find him, Bond, no matter what.”
“I find that woman and I find him.”
M shook his head. “You think like yourself, Silva will let his body parts do the thinking and therefore the woman will track him down for us?”
M held a hand up. “Sorry…”
“Forget it, sir,” Bond glanced as someone stuck their head through the open door.
“Gentlemen, we need to start the service.”
“Send them in,” M called and quietly to Bond. “Where would you begin?”
“France, the south. I gave details of the plane to the usual sources and it was sighted heading into the Riviera,” Bond paused. “I’d imagine it’s in Nice. Short hop into Monaco. That’s if it made it that far. Could have been a double but it’s something to go on.”
“Then go, James,” the rare use of Bond’s forename was oddly moving but Bond did not let on. “After the service.”
“Yes, sir.”

**

Almost immediately after the service, Bond went to his Chelsea flat to put together a bag with some clothes and items before getting his travel details from Q Branch. There was no time for pleasantries. The armourer –still wearing his mourning suit- quietly gave Bond a new PPK.
“This one has finger print ID on the grip,” Q pressed the gun into Bond’s palm. Small green lights blinked and flashed. “That’s it. It’s now sealed to you and you alone.”
“Touching,” Bond remarked. He nodded to the nearby Q-Boat which was back on its cradle. “Sorry about the boat, Q.”
“That’s neither here nor there. I lost two good…people,” Major Boothroyd’s voice briefly faltered and he turned away to pick up a briefcase. Turning back round he handed it over. “The usual set-up. Hidden explosives, currency and a compartment for whatever you need.”
“A trip down memory lane,” Bond smiled remembering times of old aboard the Orient Express.
“You have your requisite travel details. Evening ferry to Calais but you’re taking a car I take it?”
“Yes. I prefer to drive down.” Bond did not mention that it was his way of visiting Royale-les-Eaux as he did whenever he could. To lay flowers in the small cemetery at the grave that simply read VESPER LYND. “I’ll take the Aston.”
“Which one?” Q said with a slight smile.
“The new one, of course.”
Bond loved the chance to drive the latest Aston Martin and the department was lucky to get the latest DB7 model before everyone else could. The ‘company car’ was a Vantage Coupe in matte black. It had all the mod cons with missiles, lasers on the hubcaps, radar and the rest.
“If you need any help in the field, 007…”
“No, I’ll be fine, my thanks Major.”
“Anytime, 007.”

Yes! Skyfall/TWINE rolled into one? Sign me up!

Most kind. I figured...it'd round the trilogy out a little :)

In what year would this be taking place? I'm trying to picture the correct Aston model in my head.

I've imagined it to be about 1995/96. With LTK being 1989, Whisper of Hate would've been 1991 and Crimson Hour 1993 so about 95. Thus allowing Carole Bouqet to 'return' :)

I'm not a fan of the DB7 personally. Quite similar to a Jag in looks and it just seems too samey for an Aston. Raymond Benson in one of his books has a line about Bond hoping the new car would be a DB7 but BMW got in first.

According to the net DB7's were in production about this time, 1995 and the Vantage Coupe seems about right.



or not...I dunno. I sort of imagine Bond gets the jump on cars before they get into production.

There was a fear of a sudden block now that after two months I've concluded my literary Bondathon but we'll press on.

--

CHAPTER TWO

“Riviera Touch”

Once off the ferry Bond drove the short distance to Royale and spent a night there after his obligation in the cemetery. In the circumstances it was frivolous yet Bond had his reasons and one day would not damage the hunt too much. In the morning after a cold shower and strong black coffee Bond headed south. Ten hours later he arrived in Nice.
The Cote d’Azur had its charms and few were lost on Bond even if in this decade the place had changed somewhat. It was no longer the domain of the rich and wealthy Britons who made it what it became but it had its wealth in abundance through other sources. Indeed, Bond’s hotel was on the Place Massena, the grand plaza that featured trams that ran through seemingly in and out of the pedestrians.
Bond was able to park the DB7 a street over and proceeded to the hotel. It was a well to do five star hotel with a high-class of clientele some of whom were in the lobby. The receptionist –a demure blonde with a light accent greeted Bond.
“Bonjour Monsieur.”
“Bonjour,” Bond replied and spoke in French. “I have a room. Stock, James Stock.”
“Ah, oui. Your room is on the fourth floor. Number 401,” she handed over a key. Bon thanked her and took his bag to the lift. Once alone in his room after tipping the lift operator who had come to show the door to Bond, the agent went about checking his room. Old habits died hard and Bond spent a few minutes checking for bugs and the kind. Satisfied, he changed into a light white suit making sure his PPK was hidden.
Bond went to the Promenade des Anglais heading down towards Chateau and the harbour. The promenade spanned much of the bay here at Nice, suggested by the English visitors in Victorian times and expanded with gusto by the citizens. Records showed that the woman’s plane had landed in Nice though this was up for debate. Bond had wounded the plane in some way it was possible and yet if it had made it to Nice this would suggest flying at low levels akin to a World War II raid.
On his way down to Nice Monepenny had sent Bond details via satellite. In a service station a few miles outside of the city he had taken a look. Three airports had registered a plane landing for brief refuelling across France. The last airport was Nice which registered that there were two passengers and one pilot.
So, where had she gone? Nice was a big city.
Monaco? Marseille? Toulon? Corsica?
Bond stopped to lean on a railing near where the promenade ended and swept up towards the harbour at the Pointe de Rauba-Capeu. On a little jetty young people were jumping into the blue water and laughing. Bond thought of childhood and golden beaches. For a moment, as his gaze travelled up to the distant coastline and Monaco. He headed back to the hotel ruing the time he was wasting trying to find his bearings. It was unlike Bond and he found that perhaps the incident of the past week was affecting him. It had become personal when members of his organisation had been killed and it was more so with the fact his master was being edged towards the door.
“Monsieur Stock, a man came to see you while you were out,” the receptionist at the hotel handed Bond a note. “A Mr Xavier.”
Bond frowned taking the note he unfolded it but it just had a name. “Is he still here?”
“I last saw him head into the casino.”
Bond nodded and walked across the lobby to a door that opened into a broad casino room. At the far end there was a stage. In lieu of a singer there was a band playing soft jazz. Bond scanned the casino then saw a man in black sat by himself at a blackjack table. He walked up and sat next to him. Adjusting his suit he reached for his cigarette case.
“Mind if I join?”
“If you insist.”
“Virginian or Turkish?”
“I don’t smoke.”
Bond smiled tightly watching as his cards were dealt. The man next to him wore a rather plain if cheaply made suit. His face was red from a recent shave and he smelt of cheap aftershave. His French was good but sounded far too English. The man did not look at Bond as he spoke again.
“Bond, I presume?”
“Xavier,” Bond’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. He took a look at his cards. Not good.
“Timothy Wedgewood,” the man said with half a smile. He turned his cards over. “We’ll start afresh Laurent.”
“Our monsieur.”
“I’m your man in Nice; or rather I’m the British Consulate.”
Bond looked him up and down. “You seem rather athletic for a consulate.”
Wedgewood sighed. “Really, Bond. You know as well as I do that not all consulates are shiny buildings with the old flag outside. Check that, mine is a room in a rather decent set of flats up by the police station and I have a nice little flag hanging out the window.”
In this the consular-generals of the world were not all that different from station heads or deep-cover agents. For every New York British Consulate there was a tawdry hotel room that doubled as a consulate in some forgotten corner of empire.
The cards were re-dealt and Bond was pleased. “Hit me.”
“I had a look into the plane that landed and the passenger list. According to its flight manifest it was an executive business jet bound for Nice in the first place. No clue onto who booked it originally. Airport security says a woman left the plane matching your description but she left the airport on her own. Nice Police suggest via CCTV that she was last spotted around the seafront.”
As Bond was about to remark on Wedgewood’s efficiency and sense of intuition the consular-general reached into his pocket and handed Bond a sheet of paper. Bond unfurled it and saw it was a printout of a security camera image.
“That’s the woman, I’m sure of it.”
“Anything to help. What happens if you bump into Silva?”
Bond glanced sharply. “How do you know about him?”
“I’m a CG dear boy. I get security files from time to time and this boy Silva is enemy numero uno.”
“You watch yourself. He’s dangerous.”
“Word taken.”
Bond got up from his chair stubbing out his cigarette on an ashtray. “See you.”
He left the hotel going to his DB7. It was getting dark and he slipped inside with ease. He fed the printout into his dashboard programming settings and waited. What was Silva up to? A personal vendetta against SIS it seemed but attacking SIS HQ itself did not seem right. It didn’t kill M, the explosion was nowhere near M’s office but it drew out Bond and led him to City Airport and to here.
Bond’s blood ran cold. His sixth sense was starting to run into gear just as his dashboard beeped and a small piece of paper came out.

FROM: MONEY
TO: 007

SUBJECT IS RECORDED AS BEING ONE ELEKTRA MENOIR FORMERLY ELEKTRA KING DAUGHTER OF OIL BARON ROBERT. NAME CHANGE AFTER ESTRANGEMENT. MOTHER FRENCH. HOLDS A FIRST CLASS HONOURS DEGREE IN INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS AND ENVIRONMENTALISM.

Bond skimmed the biography with a sigh.

VANISHED FROM NICE TWO YEARS AGO. CONSIDERED KIDNAPPED.

HOPE THIS HELPS JAMES. CAN I GO HOME NOW?

Bond smiled and put the note away. So this Elektra had vanished from home and now resurfaced in London. Robert King…yes, Bond had heard of the name. Had made a mint after the Gulf War and more-so when Russia collapsed and Western companies went into take advantage. Perhaps she had linked up with Silva somehow. How…
Bond got out of his car and headed back up to the Promenade des Anglais and started to check the casinos and hotels along the route. Occasionally he was asked by a restaurateur if he wanted to go in but he politely declined.
At the fourth hotel he went to adjacent to the famous Negresco, Bond showed the image of Elektra Menoir to a man on the door who beamed.
“Ah, oui, monsieur. Mademoiselle Elektra arrived earlier today. She will be in the casino tonight. Such a shame.”
“Oh?” Bond said lighting a cigarette. He flicked the match away.
“Ever since her father disowned her she has been flittering her money away. But we have not seen her much since then.”
“Ah, well thanks for your help,” Bond slipped the man five francs and went into the casino of the hotel. Unlike his hotel this one had a larger casino and it was livelier. A woman with a plunging neckline in a gold sequinned dress walked past him. His gaze followed her and led to Elektra. She was sat at a roulette table head on hand looking bored. She wore a long red dress that suggested moderate if inviting cleavage. He went up to her and sat next to her. “I always go for black five.”
She looked at him then gasped.
“Can I offer you a cigarette,” Bond stared at her, “Miss Menoir.”
Elektra’s lips trembled. “You found me, Monsieur Bond.”
“And you know who I am. Delightful,” Bond handed her his case and she took a slim Turkish cigarette. He lit it for her. “A woman vanishes from her home city two years ago and reappears at MI6. You’d agree this seems suspicious.”
Elektra watched the roulette table as it spun. There was a cry of triumph from a large man in a fez as it stopped. “You have no idea what you’re letting yourself in to Monsieur Bond.”
“James. Do enlighten me.”
“I can’t…he…”
“Silva,” Bond said so icily Elektra shivered. He took her by the wrist holding it under the table and leant close. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Elektra. Silva is leaking secrets that are killing good people. He’s already killed people at our headquarters and I have to stop him. If you’re involved, god help you because he’s the only one that can.”
“I…look, I have no choice. I met him when he was in Nice on a mission. I helped him break a Corsican mafia chokehold…”
Bond remembered that. Silva’s last mission before he went rogue. The Corsican mafia had been getting as far afield as Spain in their dealings and took matters too far by killing an undercover Madrid policeman acting as a connection. Silva was ordered to give the mafia a lesson. It was not quite strictly SIS’ way of doing things, mafia lords and all that, so he did it under Interpol’s direction.
“And you’ve been with him since?”
“I have no choice like I said,” Bond gently released her. The croupier asked Bond if he wanted to play. Bond looked at him almost sneering.
“Black five, fifty francs.”
That done she continued to Bond. “He makes me do things and you have no idea what. I’m his slave.”
“And you’re only here to lure me in,” Bond said.
“Yes,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. Bond looked to the roulette wheel and saw it spin out.
“Black five,” he nodded. “Why me?”
“I don’t know. He said sins of the father or something.”
Sins of the father.
M.
Something M had done, Bond reasoned. M had given orders after Silva’s break to have him eliminated. He was effectively a Double-O with his skills and knowledge. If he had gone rogue he’d have to be put down. Yet it failed.
“It seems I’m out of time,” Elektra said looking past Bond.
Bond swivelled on his chair seeing two heavyset types stand at the casino’s entrance. Two more were at the fire exit across the room. Bond nodded to himself and smiled at Elektra.
“I’ll get you out of this.”
“You can’t. He…he seems to be too powerful.”
Bond found it quietly laughable as he stood. The croupier handed him his winnings which were small beer to Bond’s usual pot. He put his cigarette out and hefted the bag in one hand.
“Come with me.”
Elektra hesitantly got up and followed him towards the door. One of the neckless goons moved to block Bond’s exit. “You don’t leave. Not with her.”
“The lady is with me.”
“No.”
Bond hefted the bag again and this time threw it hard. The chips smacked into the first goon’s face surprising him. The other was reaching for his gun as Bond grabbed at his tree-trunk of an arm and brought it crashing down into his thigh. Bond lashed his right leg up into the thug’s face hearing his nose break. The first goon started to react now, Bond pivoted punching twice into his face and then headbutting him. standing over the writhing goons he saw everyone look at him.
“Some people will do anything for a tip,” he grabbed Elektra’s hand. “Can you run?”
“I’ll have to ditch my shoes!”
“Do it!”
This done they ran out into the night. A couple of minutes later they were in the DB7 and blazing out of Nice’s city centre.

Excellent chapter. Nice shades of Skyfall, TWINE and OHMSS.  

Yes, it all got a bit mixed even a bit of Goldeneye what with Bond getting his intel in the car from Moneypenny.

From what I understand some Consulates actually do operate out of someone's home or hotel room. Weird but true.

Alrighty, this is what people get for when I listen to the FYEO soundtrack.

--

CHAPTER THREE

“Take the Money and Run”

The roar of the V12 shattered the night peace of the rolling hillside northeast of Nice that the M1019 took. As with most things in life, there was no clear plan to this improvised act of madness. Bond aimed to use the M1019 away from Nice for the short hop over into Italy. He figured, however, that borders meant little to Silva’s goons.
“There are at least two cars behind us,” Elektra said breathlessly as the DB7 climbed up into the green (albeit darkened) landscape at Col de Braus. They were now some miles west of Sospel. Get onto the D2204 and find a way south of Sospel into Italy. Bond’s eyes flicked to his rear-view mirror. “I know.”
He punched a button on his dashboard. The familiar panel of instruments and dials changed to show a LCD screen. A map of the area appeared with a blue dot. Behind the blue dot lay two red dots. Bond caught her expression and remembered a past memory.
“Optional extras.”
“You really are a spy!”
Bond chuckled and changed gears. “You could say that.”
Behind them the pursuing cars drew closer, their lights played across the surrounding pines that lined the route. Bond changed gears again and flicked the top of his gear-stick to reveal a red button. He deplored the use of gadgets missing the days when brain and brawn were often enough but sometimes they had their uses. Two crosshairs appeared on the windscreen closing together to form one. With a flick of his left hand he jerked the steering wheel and slowed the DB7. The pursuing cars shot past Bond, their brake lights shone brightly as they realised their error. Bond squeezed the top of the gear-stick. Two missiles shot from behind Bond’s headlights soaring across the road and hitting one of the cars. As the fireball lit the night sky, Bond hit the accelerator closing the top on his gear-stick and swung around the exploding car. He gave it a cursory glance –a black Ford Mondeo. Fairly bland car for this type of racket.
“Hold on,” he told her as he swerved round a bend gaining distance on the other car. The other car though was soon upon them and Bond saw it was a Saab 9000 which had a bit more in the tank than a Mondeo. Up through the Alpine hilltops they raced not even seeing another car. Bond gritted his teeth then noticed the Saab was drawing alongside. He gave it a look and saw in the gloom, lit by a dashboard light, the passenger. There was a sort of passing admiration then the ripple of a machine gun. Bond flinched automatically as bullets rained upon his driver’s window. Elektra shrieked then covered her eyes and ducked. Bond swung the wheel to his left putting a hand down on Elektra to hold her.
The DB7 nosed into the Saab then again as Bond jerked the wheel. The Saab started to weave as one of its tyres punctured and settled on the rim. Bond hit the Saab again and jammed the accelerator down as far as it would go. The Saab fell behind then upturned onto its roof.
“Swedish car manufacturers,” Bond remarked and gestured for Elektra to sit up. He kept his eyes on the road with his display showing only a few miles now to the Italian border. In the melee they had managed to go south of Sospel.
“He’s determined to get us.”
“You could say that.”
“I’ve seen him kill people. To get what he wants like your information.”
Bond frowned. “You mean the names of the agents?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Elektra gave a shrug that Bond could not see in the dark. “I don’t know exactly. He met with people all over the world.”
As yet computers were not as easy to hack as they would become and certainly there was not always the means to hack. Not everything though was on mainframes and floppy discs (and hard discs too). Silva would know most of the people who he could use to get information on double agents and deep-cover agents. He could get a list of names. He could find out the weakest part of a building to blow up…
“Damn!” Bond shouted as up ahead roughly where the Italian border would be he saw a blockade. There Alfa Romeo’s lining across the road with men in black standing in front. The Aston slewed to a stop and in the same instance as well as a welt of smoke began to reverse. Bond and Elektra ducked as a hailstorm of bullets began to thud into the windscreen. Under this assault even Q’s mixture could not hold and the windscreen shattered in on the couple. Bond dusted himself down and grunted as the DB7 veered backwards off the road onto the hillside. He brought up night-vision on his display and turned the headlights off. Swinging the DB7 around he raced down the hillside. Elektra seeing what he was doing let out a low moan. Behind them the Alfa’s had joined the hunt.
Bond felt the car trying to get away from him as the gradient steepened. He also felt a slight prick of fear in his chest as the shadowy outlines of trees rushed past him but with the help of his display and some degree of luck he was able to miss them. The car bounced and jerked violently as it descended. Ahead of them lights pierced the forest casting the trees as monstrous shadowy outlines. Bond turned the wheel heading to his left, still trying for Italy. More lights ahead of them with one reaching for the DB7. A damned searchlight!
Finally Bond’s DB7 broke into the open on a small road which in England would be classed as a B-road. Gravel flew up as Bond sought to correct a steer but it was pointless. On all sides now cars converged. In the long distance Bond was sure he could make out lights of a city. Of Italy.
Three cars blocked his path and Bond tried to ram them at speed but the DB7 wedged between them. “Get out!” he commanded reaching for his PPK. Kicking open his door he shot the driver of the car on his left and aimed for another whilst hands grabbed him and hauled him backwards legs kicking. He was disarmed and punched hard in the ribs. As he went to his knees he heard Elektra scream until she was subdued. A voice in raspy Italian declared: “For you, the chase is over. You come with us.”
“Go to bloody hell,” Bond wheezed and was punched for his effort. Landing on his side he saw Elektra bundled into a car before he too was carted off.

**

The sky was starting to turn an inky blue by the time the small convoy of Italian cars reached Nice. Bond was faintly surprised to have returned to the city and assumed Silva, was he about, was here after all. They were driven into the harbour where fishermen were preparing for their day and seemed uncaring of the four cars driving up. Bond and Elektra were bundled out of the Alfa they were in and shepherded to stone steps that led down onto a jetty at which a moderately sized yacht was moored. It had a small superstructure in the centre with a single mast. No one was about as the couple boarded. They were sent below and a few minutes later the boat moved off with a smooth putter of its engine.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Bond asked Elektra as he rubbed his wrists. They had not bound them so Bond assumed they had next to no chance of escape. Elektra sat on a bed head in hands. Her voice was muffled.
“No. I don’t think so. No.”
She was beyond confused and Bond went to sit with her. “It’s me Silva will want. I’ll find a way out of this for you.”
“No, James, no. We’re both going to die.”
Bond found words would not help so took to kiss her turning her mouth to his. Effortlessly they fell back onto the bed.

A couple of hours later they were summoned on dark. The sky had brightened a fraction with a streak of orange extending across the horizon. Bond and Elektra headed to the bow where they stood. Behind them the goons also stood but with guns half-aimed at the couple.
“A nice little mystery tour,” Bond quietly remarked.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing,” Bond put an arm around her. He felt her stiffen, she then extended an arm to point.
“St. Vincent.”
“What?”
“We’re heading for St. Vincent.”
Bond followed her arm and saw, growing closer, a small island no bigger than a mile or so wide. He made out a clock-tower on one side and a few small buildings. He dropped his arm from her and glanced behind him before saying.
“I guess we’ve reached the end of the line then.”
Squaring his shoulders, Bond readied for what was to come.

--

ugh, my writing used to be better than this I'm sure. More variation in descriptives and the like.

for the island I am vaguely influenced by an island I ssaw when flying into Nice in 2010. Sadly I can't remember the name and cursory looks at Google maps etc don't help. The closest I can find is one that actually sits off Saint Raphael down the coast from Nice by a few miles, the Ile d'Or.

Another solid chapter. Nice, tense action and some great visuals.

It's downhill from here on in... :)

it's not vintage but here goes

--

CHAPTER FOUR

“Silva”

After the boat had moored up at a small stone jetty the couple were herded off the boat and down onto an abandoned small street. Away to the left was the clocktower which itself sat upon a small square church and away to the right were small houses. For a small island it seemed to hold so much. It was almost like a piece of the Cote d’Azur had broken off the coast and into the Mediterranean. Bond took a look behind him. Beyond the boat the coastline was a faint dark line against the horizon and the Alps even broodier and smudged. Ahead they were stopped in a small square.
“Welcome to Saint Vincent,” a voice declared echoing against the square. Bond stayed still. The Spanish accent was notable yet it may not be Eduardo Silva. “Commander Bond.”
Bond said nothing flexing his wrists. They had not bound the two perhaps thinking there was no way of escape that did not involve them being shot to death.
“Quite a little island, no?”
“No,” Bond muttered then he saw a shape appear at the churchyard’s edge where it met the square. It became a man, tall with athletic build and dark hair with cobalt eyes that blazed with hidden energy. He walked with a slight limp.
“Silva,” Bond said.
“Bond,” Silva spread his hands grinning. “I don’t believe we met before but like yourself, I imagine you know all about me and I you.”
“Pleasure’s all yours,” Bond drew closer to Elektra but she was pulled away by two of the goons.
“Have her in the clocktower. Do not harm her, not yet.”
As she was led away Silva stood before Bond by a foot or so. Bond tried not to recoil as he felt himself being studied. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
Silva wagged a finger. “Ah, the famous Bond wit. Did that wit save all the women you loved? No…like Teresa di Vicenzo.”
Bond went for Silva like a coiled spring. He managed to get a right hook on the man before his goons hauled him back by the arms jerking his shirt to all directions. Bond’s face was a different picture now. Red, eyes hard and mouth cruel.
“Touched a nerve,” Silva remarked wiping blood from the corner of his lips smiling again. Bond regretted his action in that he had shown Silva too much. Yet memories of Tracy where always raw. That was another reminder that visiting Royale-des-Eaux the other day had given him.
“You’ve betrayed good people for what?”
Silva’s smile froze. “I am showing that lord and master in London that playing God with people’s lives can cost that very fact. Their lives. And I will continue to do so until I am standing in MI6 a hero.”
Bond laughed and shook his head. “You’re mad. Alright Silva, who are you working for?”
“I work for myself.”
Bond did not believe it but then in this world of the 1990s anything was likely. Enemies were even more hidden and unpredictable than they were when Bond started off in this business. “So you have more people killed just for your personal malaise? You went too far, Silva, that’s why M got rid of you and that’s why you can never return.”
“And why he sent you. To kill me.”
Bond said nothing.
“Have him in the tower as well,” Silva stepped aside. “Come evening we shall have our fun.”
And so Bond was led away like all prisoners, into obscurity.

**

Bill Tanner strode briskly into M’s office. “Sorry, sir. Been waiting for Station F.”
“What do you have, Tanner?”
“Sir, looks like Bond has been kidnapped. No two ways about it. His DB7 was found by French police on a road out of Nice towards the Italian border. Our man in Nice, well not our man he’s the CG out there, says that Bond was seen leaving with a woman. She matches Bond’s description of the woman who shot us up. He reckons she’s Elektra Menoir.”
“Robert King’s daughter?” the pipe worked up and down as M spoke.
“Same.”
“So, Bond caught up with her and tried to get to Italy but Silva got him.”
“Bluntly put but yes, I’d think that’s how it happened, sir.”
“So he could be anywhere,” M stood walking to his window. London lay under a heavy rain cloud. Lights shimmered and winked in the gloom. “Okay, Tanner, have Station F conduct a search and involve Station I too. Bond can’t have gone far. Do you know if the Navy are out there in some capacity?”
Tanner tried not to smile, he had thought ahead like his chief. “Aye, sir. HMS Illustrious. She’s beating up with the Algerian Navy on her way back to Portsmouth.”
“Humph, Algerian Navy,” M said. “Get on the blower to the Admiralty and ask if we can borrow her.”
Tanner smiled now. “Aye, aye sir.”
“And knock that off,” M said dismissing Tanner. He allowed a small smile knowing Tanner liked to remind him of his old days but then the smile faded and M looked back to the rain-streaked windows.

This is definitely the most cinematic-feeling of any of your Dalton stories so far (or maybe it's because I just recently viewed SKYFALL). Hope you take that as a compliment.

coco1997 wrote:

This is definitely the most cinematic-feeling of any of your Dalton stories so far (or maybe it's because I just recently viewed SKYFALL). Hope you take that as a compliment.

Compliment taken. Yes, Skyfall weighs heavily here. It follows a comment of yours on the first Dalton story about Robert Brown's M passing from the series as it were. Skyfall seemed a natural fit but this one will veer a little. Dalton could've done well with SF if he had a chance.

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!