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The Golden Key - a Batman / James Bond Adventure
(Batman owned by DC Comics, James Bond owned by Ian Fleming Publications)
1
He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, because Vesper was there. It was the good dream, the one where she was at the prow of the boat, her back to him, her body shimmering in the Mediterranean sun. Christ, she looked good. So good that just watching her was a pleasure. She turned and saw him, and she smiled. Her smile warmed him, touching a place in his heart that no other woman had.
"Come here, James," she said. She held out her hand. He smiled, and walked to her. In a moment, he would take her in his arms again. It was four years ago. It was a lifetime ago, when Vesper was alive, and life was good…
Then something gently touched his face, and the dream was over.
By instinct, Bond reached under his pillow; the gun was in his hand before he even awoke. He made the assessment in the flash of a single second—someone standing over him, a woman, a dark shape in her hand.
He sprung up and instantly had the woman by the throat, and his Walther PPK jammed against her forehead. Light spilled from the opened bathroom door, enough to reveal the look of terror in her pleading eyes. The sleep finally cleared from his senses.
"J…James! I, I was only trying to wake you. Your phone," the frightened woman stammered, waving his mobile phone with her left hand. "It's your office. They…they insisted that I wake you."
He slipped the gun back under his pillow. "I'm sorry, darling," he said, trying to remember the woman's name. Hilldy? Something like that. "Are you all right?"
"Yes…I think so."
"I have to take this call, I'm sorry."
He took the mobile from the woman (Hanna?), and got up. He didn't bother with his robe. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen everything up close just a few hours ago. He walked into his bathroom, locked the door, and turned the tap on. Noise to drown out the conversation.
"Bond here."
"007, this is a priority activation ca…"
"I'm on leave, Moneypenny. Call someone else."
"I'm sorry, James. This comes straight from the top. You're to report to M's office as soon as possible."
"Damn. You know, Moneypenny, even we double-0's need to get a little relaxation from time to time."
"Is that what you were getting, James? Relaxation? What was the young woman's name, anyway?
"Hailey. I think. Definitely an 'H'"
"Well, tell Hailey goodbye. M expects you here within the hour."
Bond flicked the mobile off, and scanned his reflection in the mirror. Scars, many faded, some not; a shadow of stubble on his chin that would have to wait. The bleary eyes from last night's wine could also wait…but the smell of last night's sex could not. He jumped into the shower, keeping the water icy cold to sting the drowse from his senses. Seconds later, he stepped out and toweled off. When he looked in the mirror again, he didn't see his own face, but hers.
Vesper. It had been four years. How many more would it take to forget her? He loved her. She betrayed him. She died in his arms. The only thing that filled the void was action. Bond flicked the light off, and closed the door.
As he rooted through his closet, last night's charming companion came into the room, carrying a tray of coffee and a plate of fresh fruit. She had on one of his shirts, and nothing else...
Keep your mind on business, Bond.
"Oh," she said. "Are you leaving?"
"Sorry, darling." What the hell was her name? Harriet? Holly? "Something's come up, I've got to go."
"I never imagined art dealers kept such early hours. Surely you have time for a bite?" The pretty brunette looked particularly fetching with that plate of fruit. An image came to Bond's mind; Eve, forbidden fruit in hand, temping sin. The shirt rode up her thigh...
Keep your bloody mind on business, Bond!
"I'm afraid not," Bond said, looping the tie around collar. "Big client. The kind that can't be put off. I'll likely be gone all day, but you're welcome to stay as long as you want."
As he slipped into his Armani, Bond turned to find the woman standing at the bed. She had his Walther in the palm of her hand.
"You have a gun," she murmured. "Why do you have a gun, James?"
Bond walked over. He took the weapon, and kissed her. "The art world can be murder." He slipped the gun into the holster underneath his jacket, and headed to the door. The woman called out.
"Will I see you again?
Bond turned, spying the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed; a skirt, bra and panties, and an attractive little hat. Hat! With his best smile, he lied to the woman.
"I'll call you as soon as this business is wrapped up…Hattie."
Vauxhal Hall, London
Fifty-nine minutes later, Bond walked into the headquarters of MI-6, Great Britain's intelligence and espionage agency. There were the initial access points to negotiate, then came the checkpoint that required bio-scans. As the guard admitted him through the doors of the true MI-6, Bond saw Moneypenny waiting. She was frowning.
"You took your time about it. She's in a mood, and she's waiting for you," the dark-skinned beauty said, pointing to the imposing oaken doors. James smiled and plopped down on Moneypenny's desk.
"Is this how you say hello? No 'nice to see you, James', no 'how was your holiday?'. By the way, you're looking particularly lovely this morning, Moneypenny."
The woman rolled her eyes. She was about to reply when the intercom sounded.
"Moneypenney, send Commander Bond in. Immediately."
Bond sighed as the doors swung open. He stepped inside the office, where M, seated behind her desk like a national monument, greeted him with a hard stare. She wasted no time with pleasantries.
"Take a seat, Commander."
Bond complied, saying nothing. He knew when to talk, and when to stay silent. M appreciated that about him, just as he appreciated her directness. There was no misunderstanding where you stood when you worked for M. She was a woman of many years service in what was still predominantly a man's field. She was head of one of the world's premiere spy organizations, a position she attained by being tougher, smarter, and more determined than those around her. Many in the trade dreaded working under the woman. She demanded perfection. In the pursuit of her duty, she was relentless. Bond admired those qualities in her, for they were his qualities, as well. M did not suffer fools, lightly or otherwise, nor did she accept failure as an option. That suited Bond fine.
"We have a situation," M said, activating the computer screen on the far wall. A technical schematic popped up, reams of data scrolling by, none of which made a lick of sense to Bond. "Are you familiar with the term The Golden Key?"
"Yes. It's the Holy Grail of computer programming, the perfect, self-correcting, all-purpose algorithm. In theory, the Golden Key could penetrate any system, control or crash the entire global communication grid, wipeout financial transactions…"
"Override nuclear launch codes," M interjected.
"Yes," Bond said. "That's the theory."
"It stopped being theory nine months ago."
"Someone actually did it?"
"We did it. But a hostile player has gotten their hands on our technology. You are going to get it back for us, Commander. If you cannot retrieve our stolen tech, you are to destroy it. Do you understand your mission?"
"Of course. How did they acquire it?"
M touched the intercom button.
"Is Commander Bond's requisition ready?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. We will be down shortly." M turned her attention back to Bond. "Technically, they did not acquire it. The algorithm is stored here, at MI-6. It exists only on one of our supercomputers. It's kept off-line, in our nuclear bunker, utterly secure. But they've acquired the next best thing to the algorithm itself. They have the man who created it."
M brought up a new file on the computer screen. Bond's eyes widened at the sight. Staring back at him from that screen was the face of a man he knew well.
"Q…"
"Yes, the head of our Quartermaster Branch."
"Where's he being held? Who has him?"
"I'll get to that. First, I need to be perfectly clear on the nature of your mission. Q succeeded in creating the ultimate programming tool. No doubt, his captors are eager for him to recreate it, and that is something we cannot allow. Our missing tech, Commander Bond, is Q."
M paused and looked Bond squarely in the eye. "If that technology cannot be retrieved, then it must be destroyed. So I ask you again...do you understand your mission?"
Bond's gaze rested on the screen for several long seconds. His expression was stone. Only his slate-grey eyes betrayed any turmoil, but soon, he mastered even that. Commander James Bond, code-name: 007, the most capable and dangerous agent in Her Majesty's Secret Service turned his icy gaze towards M, and answered her.
"Yes."
"Good. Let's head downstairs. I'll brief you as we go."
M gave a quick sketch of the situation to Bond as they walked. He listened, and asked no questions. As they stepped into the elevator, M quieted for a moment.
"Your mission…" She hesitated, and looked at Bond. "You may be forced to take the second option. It won't be easy."
"No mission is easy. I've had to make tough calls before."
"This is different. You were friends."
"We are friends," Bond said. "Until I find otherwise, I operate under the assumption that he's still alive."
"Will that friendship make you hesitate?"
Bond leveled a hard stare at M. "I know my duty."
"That's not an answer."
"You're wrong. It's the only answer. If you don't trust me, why am I here?"
"Because you are the best."
Bond faced forward. "Then trust me to do my job."
The elevator doors opened, and they headed out into the lower levels of the MI-6 complex, which housed the Weapons Armory, Research and Development, and the Department of Technology. Collectively, it was Q Branch, home to a staggering array of cutting-edge weapons and tools of spycraft. By long tradition, the head of this department, whose official title was Chief Quartermaster, was simply called 'Q'. It had been that way sixty years ago, it was that way today. The current Q was a young man—shockingly young for such a critical position; but there was no doubt he was the man for the job. He was brilliant, and infuriatingly aware of it. He was also a good man, someone Bond not only trusted, but someone he liked. In this business, it did not pay to form personal attachments. Bond knew Q's real name, but he put it out of his head.
Bond could feel all eyes on him as he and M entered the complex. The men and women who made up the Quartermaster Branch knew why he was here. They may not have been field agents, but they were not fools; they understood the stakes. They said nothing about it, doing their best to maintain a professional attitude. Admirable, Bond thought. But he could still feel their eyes on him.
The absence of Q haunted the space where he would normally be standing, and no one wanted to disturb that empty spot. Bond stood silently for a moment, waiting for someone to speak up. No one did, so he took the lead.
"Who's in charge here?"
A plump but pretty woman edged forward. Bond did not know her. Late thirties, scant makeup, hair pulled back, thick glasses. Textbook geek, or was she trying to look the part? Probably both.
"I…I am. I'm Deputy Quartermaster," the woman answered, softy. Bond shook his head.
"Wrong. You are the Quartermaster. What's your name?"
"Miss Jennings."
"Wrong. Look, I have a job to do, and I have precious little time to waste. I'll ask again. What's your name?"
The woman adjusted her glasses. "My name is Q."
"Good. Make sure that everyone on your team knows it." Bond cast a glance around the room, where technicians were shifting uncomfortably. "If my mission is to succeed, if I'm to bring him back alive, then I need everyone here to be at their best. Put your feelings aside, and concentrate on your jobs. Understood?"
The group murmured its assent.
"Good. Because Q is counting on you. Isn't that right, Q?" he said, resting his gaze on the woman. She straightened her shoulders and nodded at her people, who were her people now.
"Quite right," M said, smiling for the briefest moment at Bond. She turned to the woman. "Is the requisition ready?"
"Yes," Q answered. "We've had it loaded aboard the jet. I'll just run down the particulars…"
"There's no time for that," M interrupted. "Email the specs to Commander Bond, he can read-up during his flight. I want you and your people ready to provide all necessary support the moment he touches down."
"Yes ma'am," Q answered. She turned to Bond "Good luck, double-0-seven."
Bond and M headed out to the underground tramline that connected MI-6 to the outer world of London, a secret transportation system reserved for critical situations. This was one of them. Jumping on the waiting tram, Bond was surprised to see that M had followed him aboard.
"Fancy a little taste of field work, do you, M?"
M glared. "I made my grade in the field when you were still in short pants, Commander. I'm only going as far as Heathrow. I wanted to cover the final details with you."
"Good, you still haven't told me who it is we're dealing with."
M handed Bond a file. It made him smile; he was perfectly expert at any and all forms of electronic communication—as all agents, of course, had to be—but like M, he had a certain fondness for the old ways. Paper reports pleased him.
"The details are enclosed," she said. "Q's plane crashed into Lake Ontario, the American side. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to make it look like an accident. We recovered a badly burned body. It wasn't him. Cosmetic alteration, right down to duplicated fingerprints and dental work. But it wasn't him."
"Sophisticated. Not to mention expensive," Bond said.
"Quite. This was a well-planned operation. Indications point to CIA."
"You don't sound convinced."
"This is a little cold-blooded for our friends across the pond. There were two hundred people aboard that flight, mostly US citizens."
"Who, then? Quantum?"
"Possibly. But there is another organization in the mix, one we know even less about than we do Quantum. Very shadowy group, ties to Asia and the Middle East."
"Islamic?"
"No, more like eco-terrorist," M answered. "The two factions may be working together. The details are in your packet."
"I take it this mission is dark?"
"It is. You are operating without knowledge or sanction of the United States government. If you are captured, we will disavow all knowledge of your actions. Understood?"
Bond quietly laughed. "Yes."
"You've worked with an American agent a time or two in the past, correct?"
Bond nodded. Felix.
"Not this time. CIA involvement is still a possibility. There isn't a nation or a terrorist group on the planet that wouldn't want to get their hands on the Golden Key. So trust no one."
"I never do. It's safer that way."
The tram emerged into a private parking garage just off the main concourse of Heathrow. Outside the garage, a private jet waited, fueled up for a transatlantic flight. Bond was nearly at the ramp when M called out.
"One last thing, Bond."
She walked over, a second file in hand. "There is a wildcard in this operation. We have reason to believe that Q is being held in Gotham City, so that is your destination. It may bring your mission into contact with this man."
Bond took the file and opened it. Clipped to a slim stack of printouts were three photographs. He looked them over, an incredulous look on his face.
"I've heard of him. I though he was an urban myth."
"He's no myth," M replied. "These reports are from a Gotham police task force. Read them, and familiarize yourself with the man. He's…quite remarkable. These are the only known photos of him."
Bond eyed the pictures, wryly. "Has a flair for the dramatic," he said, smirking a little.
"Don't let that fool you. It would be easy to write him off as a deranged thrill seeker. Don't. He is very much for real, and he is very dangerous. He has been waging a one-man war on crime in his city. If he gets wind of this operation, he will doubtless involve himself."
Bond looked the photos over for a second time. That outfit was like something out of a Kabuki nightmare, outlandish and almost mesmerizing. It made the man look like nothing so less than a demon in black. Easy to see why the criminals feared him. So, this was the legendary Batman? Bond smiled, and put the photos back in the file.
"And if he gets in my way?"
"Then remove him."
Bond tucked the files under his arm and boarded the jet. He was soon in his seat, and the jet in the air. The flight was a charter. His cover was that of the head of a firm that designed custom-made luxury cars. It explained the impressive automobile stored in the hold, along with the crates of material marked 'Electronics, Handle with Care.'
As Bond flipped through the files M had given him, the flight attendant came up the aisle. He made the assessment in the flash of a second: twenty-something, no ring, pretty face, dazzling smile.
"Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Bond?"
Bond scanned her name badge, coming away with a smile of his own.
"Yes, please. I'd love a bit of fresh fruit, Heather. I'm feeling sinfully hungry."