Honor Among Spies

by Flea

Bond has been betrayed. A mole in MI6 has blown 007's cover on assignment in Lebanon. Bond escapes, and finds himself in a race against time to finish his mission and stop the son of an old enemy from acheiving his bloody wishes.

46

1

"Know your enemy, know yourself," –Sun Tzu

LEBANON

FIVE YEARS isolated in the war ravaged desert turns a man's soul to stone. Five years James Bond had been working undercover in the Middle East's capital of terrorism: Beirut. It was different than any assignment he had ever had before. Five years of establishing trust and listening to radical garbage, pretending he had no problem with the way these terrorists were desecrating a decent and honorable religion. It seemed like an eternity ago when Bond had sat in the office of M and the rest of his superiors at MI6 and been briefed for this mission.

"A mission of honor," Chief of Staff Bill Tanner had told him, "And exceptionally dangerous. You are about to become the first Western agent to infiltrate Hezbollah."

Bond had been given crash courses in Farsi and Arabic to add to his arsenal of languages. He had grown a beard and learned Middle Eastern customs. He was then briefed on his primary objective.

"This is Ibrahim al-Salir," M said crisply, using a pointer to indicate a shadowy reconnaissance photo. "He has been implicated as a major figure in Hezbollah. This photo was taken last year in Iran. He is also a known international arms dealer and a high ranking member of the Mujahedin Shura council, an umbrella organization coordinating attacks between radical insurgent factions. Your job, 007, is to make contact with al-Salir. Your cover is James Alton, a.k.a. Mohamed Bengazi, an English business man exiled from your country for changing your name and faith. You are on every terrorist watch list in the West, and are interested in funding al-Salir's activities."

M had paused and slid a thick dossier on his cover and target across her antique oak desk inherited from her predecessor, Sir Miles Messervy. Ever since the creation of the Secret Intelligence Service in 1922, the Chief, at that time Commander Sir Mansfield Cumming, had used green ink and signed themselves using the first letter of their last name. The newest M, Barbara Mawdsley, the second chief Bond had served under, was no exception to the tradition. Sometimes Bond forgot she had a real name altogether and wondered if she did as well.

That day had started off normal enough: paperwork, flirtatious banter with M's ever proficient secretary Miss Moneypenny, and finally a request by Bond's superior to meet her in her office. Bond had, not guiltily, dumped his workload on his assistant, Nigel Smith, and entered M's office.

Apart from the antique desk, Bond doubted his old mentor Sir Miles would have recognized the office as that of a Chief of MI6. The Service's new headquarters at Vauxhall Cross were state of the art, and every available space had been crammed with sleek electronic equipment. Bond had sat in the black leather visitor's chair as M sat a drink in front of him; she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't refuse if asked.

"Good morning, 007," M had begun, "How are you?"

Bond had replied with his usual, "Not bad, ma'am. And yourself?"

But it had been at that moment he noticed the worry etched in M's aging face. Although she would never tell him, Bond knew M thought of him as their best agent. Bond figured he was about to be assigned a dangerous and critical assignment. His thoughts were confirmed when Commander Charles Robinson, Chief of Staff Bill Tanner, Intelligence Services Commissioner Lord Tony Byron, and Sir William Perry, head of the Joint Intelligence and Security Committee entered the office.

Three hours later Bond had his objective: establish al-Salir's trust, use him to locate the meetings of the Mujahedin Shura council, and assist in the takedown and assassination of the council's members.

Bond was in for the longest five years of his life.

BOND STOOD on a war torn street corner in Beirut. It was growing dark, and the nocturnal terrorists were beginning to emerge into the narrow streets which had been all but completely devastated by Israeli bombs. Bond was dressed in stained white robes and a turban, his overgrown messy beard itching his face. He rapped his knuckles on a thick steel door, covered in peeling green paint. He had been to this building many times. Moments later the door opened a crack, and dark bloodshot eyes peered out at him.

"Allahu akbar," Bond greeted the man. Praise Allah.

The door swung open, revealing a scrawny dark man cradling an AK-47. This was Abu, the nightshift gatekeeper. He knew Bond only as the generous Western-born supporting their cause. He nodded to Bond.

"Ibrahim is waiting," Abu mumbled in Arabic. He didn't speak Farsi.

Bond walked past the man into the building's dimly lit inner chamber. More men watched him from the shadows as he walked up a set of creaking wooden stairs to al-Salir's inner office. When the terrorist saw Bond he smiled, his nearly black eyes staring into Bond's.

"Ah, Mohamed. Come, sit," he rasped. Ibrahim al-Salir must have been the best fed man in all of Palestine. He was bordering on morbidly obese. Food clung to his short graying beard and his beady eyes were constantly moving. Bond sat on the floor of the cramped room, trying to make as much room as possible between him and the repulsive terrorist. He was constantly aware on al-Salir's bodyguards lurking in the darkness. Not all of them trusted him, Bond was sure. An AK-47 was always pointed in Bond's direction.

"I have something to show you, my friend," al-Salir cackled giddily, leaning conspiratorially towards Bond, "Compliments of Hafiz."

Bond had learned Hafiz was the name the terrorists used to refer to the leader of the Mujahedin Shura council, a man who claimed to be a Prophet to Allah.

"I'm interested," Bond said in Farsi. He kept his gaze focused on the terrorist's eyes.

Al-Salir turned and whispered into one of his bodyguard's ears. The man left the room. Al-Salir turned back to Bond, a smile on his face.

The bodyguard and another man returned moments later, carrying a giant wooden crate. They set the crate down at al-Salir and Bond's feet.

"Open it," al-Salir commanded.

The two men nodded, and proceeded to pry the lid off the crate with a wrecking bar.

"Stand my friend," al-Salir said to Bond, "And look at the future of our noble cause."

Bond stood warily and bent to look inside the crate. The inside was piled high with RPGs, rocket launchers, Stinger missiles, and state of the art machine guns.

"More of the same are on the way," al-Salir said, smiling gleefully. He reached down and picked up a Stinger missile launcher and held it out to Bond. "For your mission," he said.

"My mission?" Bond inquired.

"Would you give your life in the name of Allah?" al-Salir asked innocently.

Bond was startled. His faith had never been questioned before.

When he hesitated, al-Salir lifted a hand and a bodyguard fired a burst from his sidearm, hitting Bond in the leg. Bond howled in pain and collapsed.

"Death comes cheap…Mr. Bond," al-Salir hissed in his ear. "If you don't die for your beliefs, why die at all?" He raised a fist and brought it down on Bond's head.

Bond's vision blurred, and as he slipped into unconsciousness from the pain, he wondered how the mission had been compromised.

2

BOND AWOKE what seemed like several hours later in a state of complete darkness. Everywhere he looked he couldn't see a thing. He stuck his arms out if front of his face until he found the brick wall. He crouched down and waited for his eyes to adjust. His leg was on fire with pain. He looked around at his dismal surroundings. There was a single chair in the center of the room that his captors apparently didn't have the courtesy to place him in. A flickering bulb was the only illumination in the room, hanging from a swinging wire. The one thing Bond could not believe was the cold. There was a severe shill in the room. After spending years in the sweltering heat of the desert, the cold was only intensified. The pain, the cold, and the feeling of failure seeped into his numb mind. He felt, in a word, like crap.

He rested for a few minutes and then gathered enough strength to stand. He needed to find a weapon. He had been stripped of his Walther PPK way back in Lebanon. And, Bond realized his robe. He was dressed only in a dirty undershirt and boxer shorts. He had scars and on his bare arms and blood still trickled down the gaping wound in his leg where he had been shot.

Working quickly, Bond stood on the chair and pulled the light bulb and wire out of the ceiling. He smashed the bulb and kept the wire. Then he dragged the chair over to the lone locked door and waited patiently.

Breathing deeply, Bond waited what seemed like an hour, but in reality was only a few moments. Then he heard footsteps. Talking, but in what language Bond could not hear. When the footsteps got closer Bond could hear the voices clearer. He frowned. It sounded like…Russian.

There was a bang on the door and the knob turned. Bond tried to breathe easy as his heart raced. The door opened and a man entered the room. Before the man could notice Bond was right next to him, he swung the chair and it collided with the man's chest. Bond gave a swift kick to the man's abdomen, knocking him over. The other man grabbed for his sidearm and Bond punched him in the face, knocking him off balance. He took the wire and used it as a garrote, pulling it tight around the man's neck. The man went limp and Bond threw him down next to his unconscious comrade. He took off one of the men's leather jacket and jeans and put them on. Next he took the man's sidearm, a silenced 9mm Beretta. He stepped from his cell into the cold, dark stone hallway. In the distance he could distinctly hear the chatter of gunfire. Cautiously, Bond made his way down the hall until he reached a stairway. The gunfire grew louder. Bond grimaced. The staircase was the only way out. He moved stealthily down the stairs and peered around the corner. More men dressed casually in leather coats and jeans were firing what looked like aging AK-47s at a team dressed in Special Forces gear. The leader of the team fired a burst from his weapon and the men dropped to the ground. Bond decided to make a move. It was risky, but these people seemed to be on his side.

He quickly moved out of the staircase and out into the hallway in front of the Special Forces team with his hands raised.

"Don't shoot!" Bond yelled. "I'm English, I'm a captive."

"Throw down your weapon!" The leader of the group yelled. The voice was female and sounded distinctly familiar.

Bond threw down the stolen Beretta and the team leader's feet.

"Wait, James Bond?" the women asked incredulously. She lifted her mask, and Bond was struck with recognition.

"Agent XXX, it certainly has been a long time," Bond replied.

"That's just Anya Amasova now," the women said. "I don't know if you British have noticed, but the KGB is no longer around." She barked an order to team in Russian. "Sorry James, but it's time for us to leave. We can drop you off at your embassy on the way."

BOND BLINKED in surprise as he exited the building, which seemed to be the basement of a condemned warehouse. He recognized immediately that he was in Moscow, for he had been there many times. He heard Major Amasova bark something into a radio that sounded like "mission accomplished" in Russian. A light snow was falling onto the bare sidewalk as they approached a convoy of black trucks that the Russian strike team had arrived in. Bond was extremely confused as the memories of his capture flooded back to him. How had he been betrayed and how had he ended up in Moscow?

"So how did you end up in Moscow, James?" Anya asked. "It's a little far from you home turf."

"The world is my office, Miss Amasova," James replied. "You know how it is."

"It's Mrs. now, James. I'm married," Anya said. "Before, you said you were a captive. I couldn't believe that. You once told me you never failed a mission."

Touché, Bond thought. Unable to think of a witty comeback, he remained silent. Looking at Anya brought back many memories. Anya had been one in a long line of disposable woman. Another woman, another mission, another time… It had been a joint KGB/SIS mission to find and recover the plans for a tracking device used to locate nuclear submarines. It had fallen into the hands of deranged billionaire shipping magnate Karl Stromberg, who planning to use it to hijack several nuclear submarines and attack New York and Moscow. Bond and Anya had foiled the billionaire's plot, but Anya had been kidnapped in the process. Bond rescued Anya with moments to spare as Americans bombarded Stromberg's underwater fortress with missiles from their Navy.

Bond and Anya had a long and complicated history. Bond had admired Anya has an equal. She was strong willed and a very good agent, although from a rival superpower. But Bond later learned that on a mission in Austria he had crossed paths with Anya's fiancée and killed him in the shootout that followed. Apparently, years later, Anya had forgiven him.

"What was your mission?" Bond asked.

"I can't tell you, 007," Anya said. "You know how it is."

"I figured we might be able to help each other."

She said nothing.

Bond waited as she thought about it.

The silence was broken as the truck pulled up beside the British embassy. The driver turned to Bond.

"We're here."

"Thank you," Bond replied. He climbed out of the back and into the stinging cold of the Russian morning, "Nice to see you Anya."

She returned the farewell and smiled as Bond departed the truck. He opened the door to the embassy and approached the front desk.

"My name is Bond, James Bond," he said to the young woman at the front desk, who looked startled at his appearance. "Put me in touch with the MI6 station chief here, will you? Thanks," he finished before the woman could respond. He sat in and overstuffed chair and watched as the confused clerk dialed a number. Moments later she looked up at Bond.

"What did you say your name was, sir?"

"Bond, James…nevermind."

"He doesn't believe you are who you say you are," the clerk sad nervously. "He says James Bond is in Lebanon."

"Then why doesn't he come done here and see for himself? Then he'll know for sure," Bond replied, annoyed.

More telephone talk.

"Alright, Mr. Bond. Mr. Kilborn is on the second floor waiting for you."

"Thank you, miss."

Bond proceeded up the stairs to the second floor and found a very tidy looking man in an expensive Armani suit and blue tie staring disapprovingly at his appearance. He was bald with glasses to large for his face.

"You must be Mr. Bond," Kilborn said.

"You sure about that? I could be an imposter," Bond replied.

He didn't say anything.

"I need to get I touch with M," Bond said.

"I still need some form of ID before I can let you into the communications room," Kilborn said. It was obvious already that the two were not going to get along.

"I'm sorry; I must have left it in Beirut. Get a secure line ready and tell M 007, clearance code 'Predator', is here with some important information regarding his mission."

Kilborn disappeared into his office momentarily. When he came back, he had a sour look on his face.

"Your clearance code is correct. Follow me to the communications room."

Bond smiled innocently and followed the older man to a tiny room the size of a large telephone booth. The glass on the door was tinted black. Bond entered and sat on a stool in front of a large shelf of electronic equipment. A red telephone sat on a desk in front of him. Bond had already begun to feel claustrophobic.

A speaker crackled overhead.

"OK, Mr. Bond. M in London is on the line. Pick up the phone when you're ready. You have one hour."

Bond picked up the red telephone and put it up to his ear.

"007?" he heard M's voice say, "What are you doing in Moscow."

"The mission was compromised. I was captured in Beirut and taken here. I'm sorry to tell you you have a mole in the Service, ma'am."

There was a sigh over the line.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Bond responded. "I'm only slightly wounded. I'm sure there are doctors at the embassy to take care of me."

"I need you straight back in London for your debriefing."

"I have important information and I don't know if it can wait."

"Tell me."

"Well first off, I have the location of the next council meeting," he rattled off a latitude and longitude. "It's in Afghanistan and major figures from al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, and Hamas will be attending. Also, I have a feeling al-Salir is planning something big. He had crates of weapons shipped in from his supplier known as Hafiz, and he has been recruiting nuclear scientists from Iran and North Korea."

"Wait, 007," M interrupted, "Did you say Hafiz?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"We uncovered an encrypted note on a suspected terrorist's computer that we took into custody yesterday," M said, "It read: Primary targets selected on order of Hafiz. Strike planned for New Year…And then listed a latitude/longitude. We pinpointed the location on an island in the Black Sea, 300 miles off the coast of Istanbul."

"New Year, ma'am? Why, that's only a week away!"

"I'm aware, 007. We'll have to wait to bring you back to England. I'm sending you to Turkey. We'll have your things sent to the hotel, including a new car from Major Boothroyd. Pack your bags, you're leaving tonight."

3

THE BLACK SEA

OFF THE COAST OF ISTANBUL

THE TERRORIST known as Hafiz stepped off the boat and onto his private island at precisely six. The sun was setting and the sky was stained a blood red. The island was nothing more than a spit of land, visible from no coast of the sea. It housed a gigantic glass structure that took up the entire island. The building was complete with a helicopter pad, a dock, and a well hidden missile silo in the center. The silo was what Hafiz had come to see.

Hafiz wasn't Middle Eastern, though he was a devout Muslim, and nobody seemed to mind. They only cared about the plan that he had been the mastermind behind, and whether or not he went ahead in carrying it out. Hafiz was actually from Sardinia and raised in the United States. He had inherited millions from his father, had a degree in Middle Eastern studies from Harvard. He was a nuclear scientist by trade. His real name was Nicolas Stromberg.

Stromberg entered the giant headquarters and was immediately greeted by his two private aides, a tall dark haired woman named Naomi, daughter of his father's late assistant, and a giant of a man nicknamed Kraken. Kraken was six foot five, had bulging muscles and a thick red scar that crossed his left eye. He was bald, wore an expensive suit, and always carried and Uzi at his side. Kraken was, in a word, lethal. Naomi was almost even more so, since you wouldn't know it by looking at her. She was just like her mother, who Nicolas had only met once before she and his father were killed by James Bond.

Nicolas was the first to speak. "I want an update on the missiles."

Naomi responded, "They are finished. Three missiles, three targets. The nuclear warheads are safely attached."

Nicolas smiled. He was about to finish what his father had begun. "And what of James Bond?"

"The mole provided excellent intelligence. Ibrahim al-Salir successfully captured Agent 007 and sent him to our friends in the Russian Mafiya for interrogation."

"Good. Remind them not to kill him until I get there."

"Consider it done," Naomi responded.

"What about the estimated damage reports?" Nicolas inquired.

Naomi handed over three separate satellite photos, one of London, one of Washington, and one of Tel Aviv. Circles were drawn in at the blast radius, including the figures of the estimated death toll.

Seeing the numbers, Nicolas grinned wickedly. "Perfect. You have done well, Naomi. Now show me the silo. I want to see my tools of Armageddon."

ISTANBUL

THREE HUNDRED MILES away, James Bond arrived off his flight to Istanbul at Istanbul International Airport. He was now in his hotel room in the European section of downtown Istanbul, drinking a shot of Smirnoff vodka. Istanbul is the only city in the world to be divided between to continents, Europe and Asia. The Bosporous, a narrow strait that connects the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara, separates the European and Asian sides. Istanbul is rich in beautiful architecture and known for warm summers and mild winters, making it a huge spot for international tourism. Bond didn't think he was going to fit in much tourism. He was supposed to investigate the location from the message intercepted by MI6 that night. At the moment, he was relaxing and waiting for his car and luggage to arrive.

One half hour later two cars pulled up outside the hotel. The concierge called Bond's room and told him there were people "from his office" here to see him. Bond told him to send the up.

Nigel Smith and the aging Major Boothroyd entered Bond's room. Major Boothroyd was the head of MI6's "Q" Branch, in charge of designing and testing special devices and gadgets for agents to use while in the field. Q Branch's gadgets had saved Bond's life on many occasions, although he had a notorious reputation of never returning an item from Q Branch unscathed, especially his cars, something that the Major found a hard time trying to overlook.

"Good evening, 007," the old man said to James, shaking his hand.

"Evening, James," Nigel said.

Bond responded to both greetings and offered the two men from MI6 a drink. Q refused but Nigel accepted.

"As you may have noticed, 007, I parked your new car outside the hotel," Boothroyd said, settling himself into a chair by the window.

"It looks familiar," Bond responded, admiring the Aston Martin V12 Vanquish parked outside.

"Well, it is the same model, but you smashed your last one up beyond repair," Boothroyd reminded him sternly. "All the usual refinements, heat-seeking rockets behind the headlights, hood-mounted auto aiming machine guns, thermal imaging in the dashboard along with a direct link to MI6, and a GPS navigation system. It can accelerate to 100 miles an hour in under ten seconds, and of course, can turn "invisible" using microscopic cameras that reflect the image they see on the other side of the car, so it blends in with its surroundings. It also can be driven underwater, like your old Lotus Espirit. It is a beautiful piece of machinery and I expect it returned in pristine condition."

Bond just smiled.

"Also: a new laser watch, a "Q-Copter" to scope out potentially dangerous situations, a camera that automatically transmits the picture it sees to MI6 and has a built in self-destruct function, and, this I'm particularly proud of, your new stealth boat. It is equipped with most of the same refinements as the car, except for the invisibility function."

"What would I do without you, Major?" Bond said, smiling down at the car.

"I often wonder that myself. Evening, 007," and the legendary head of Q Branch departed.

"I took the liberty of packing and delivering your person effects," Nigel said, finishing off his vodka. He handed Bond a large black suitcase. "I hope you're leg is feeling better."

"It's fine, Nigel. Thanks," Bond responded.

"Well, if it starts to hurt, I packed some painkillers," Nigel said. "Take it easy, 007."

"Unfortunately, I don't think that will be an option," Bond said. "Oh, and Nigel? I'll need a weapon."

"Of course," Nigel said, and tossed Bond a new Walther, "Knock yourself out."

As Nigel and Major Boothroyd drove away, Bond began to unpack. He desperately needed a shave and change of clothes. Nigel had somehow gotten into Bond's London flat and packed his clothes, and on top of it all, a photo of Bond's late wife, Tracy.

Bond had met Tracy many years ago when he saved her from drowning. On their wedding day, however, he was unable to save her as Irma Bundt, Ernst Stavro Blofeld's SPECTRE henchman ended Tracy's wife in a burst of gunfire.

Bond set the photo beside his bed and sat in silence.

4

VAUXHALL CROSS

LONDON

AN EMERGENCY MEETING had been called between high ranking members of the British intelligence community at MI6. At the head of the table, M stood, preparing to start her briefing on the threat situation. At the other end sat the Prime Minister.

M cleared her throat and began.

"On the screen behind me you see a live satellite picture of an island in the Black Sea, where activity is taking place around the main building which we believe is a missile silo. The second surveillance picture is of a known terrorist camp in Lebanon, where radical terrorist forces seem to be mobilizing armed with what a reliable intelligence source calls "state of the art weaponry." We believe that an attack has been planned on New Year's Eve between these two forces. Three targets have been planned. We have no idea what these targets are, but are best guesses are Tel Aviv, London, and Washington."

Behind M the screen should a computer simulation of the repercussions of a missile strike, and the fallout if it was a nuclear attack. A final death toll was charted at the top of the screen, and the final number was one no one in the room wanted to say aloud. There were gasps filling the silence.

"As you can see, the results of a nuclear strike against these three would be catastrophic," M said bluntly.

"What evidence do you have that it is a nuclear strike?" The Prime Minister asked.

The screen abruptly changed to show photos of three men.

"Theses three men are nuclear scientists from Iran, Russia, and North Korea, respectively," M said, "They have all been seen entering the compound in the Black Sea."

She paused to let the information sink in.

"We have our best man on assignment as we speak in Istanbul, but we are worried about the security surrounding this investigation. The agent in question was sold out by a suspected mole on a recent mission in Lebanon."

ONE HOUR later, M and Charles Robinson were walking out to their cars. The work day was over, and the two had already worked more than twenty-four hours non-stop. Before they entered their respective vehicles, Charles glanced over at M.

"What should are next move be?" he inquired.

M looked at him and said bluntly, "Find the mole."

M got into her car and drove out of the secure parking garage beneath SIS. The sky was still dumping rain into the River Thames and flashes of lightning flashed on the horizon. M looked forward to finally going home. The current situation was taking its toll on everyone, especially the Special Branch and Double-0 Section. M was about to turn into an intersection when a car sped directly through a red light and rammed into the front of her car. Then everything faded to black.

ACROSS EUROPE on the bank of the Bosporous in European Istanbul, James Bond prepared for his assignment. He had found the stealth boat docked in a nearby harbor. The night had closed in Turkey and the harbor was pitch black. Bond started up the engine of the boat and began maneuvering out to open water, not knowing that the fate of the free world was in his hands.

5

LONDON

CHARLES ROBINSON stood in the lobby of the hospital, soaking wet from the unstoppable rain. It was late, and Charles was tired, but the horrific news had been enough to shock his system into full alertness. A nurse appeared out M's room and Robinson flagged her done.

"How is she?" he asked, concerned.

"Not too good," the nurse said reluctantly. "None of the wounds are life threatening, but the pain was so great we had to put her into a medical induced coma. She'll be fine…eventually," the nurse's voice trailed off. "Did they catch the driver who did this to her?"

"No," Robinson responded. "It was a hit and run, and late at night. No witnesses have come forward to identify the vehicle."

The nurse left and Chief of Staff Bill Tanner approached Charles. "What does this mean?" he asked solemnly. "Who is the acting Chief of MI6?"

"Technically, Sir Perry," Robinson said grimly.

Bill Tanner scoffed.

"I was afraid you would say that. The man is an incompetent ass. I'll be dammed if Perry can control any agency this size, especially in the time of a crisis for God's sake!"

Robinson stifled a yawn. The time was catching up with him.

"You know I agree with you, Bill, but there's nothing we can do about it. Chain of command and all that."

"Do you have any news from 007 in Turkey?" Tanner inquired.

"Not yet, but it's still early," Robinson responded. "I suppose I can forget going home and sleeping. Perry will want us all back at SIS."

As if on cue, the two men's pagers beeped.

THE BLACK SEA

JAMES BOND, 007, was skillfully piloting the sleek black stealth boat supplied by Major Boothroyd across the slightly choppy waters of the Black Sea. The lights of Istanbul had faded and the sky and water were both pitch black. James slipped on a pair of night vision goggles, known as "Q-Specs", also supplied by Q branch, over his eyes. There wasn't much to see around him, but with the glasses he could at least see what was ahead of him in a greenish tinge.

Finally, the island that was his target came into view. Any room on the tiny island was taken up by a gigantic glassy structure, lit by floodlights every few meters. A dock jutted out into the icy water on one side, and a tall building that Bond guessed was the silo towered above the rest. He could vaguely make out a helicopter landing pad on the top of the tower.

Bond began to look for a spot where he could enter the premises. He scoped out the dock, but soon found that it would be impossible. At least three guards dressed in tuxedos, wearing earpieces, and carrying gigantic machine guns stood station across the dock. Bond would have to find another way in. He wanted to avoid any unnecessary contact with the guards.

Suddenly, Bond heard a noise behind him. James spun around and saw a small stealth boat, similar to the one that Bond was piloting, approaching. Bond immediately and instinctively grabbed his Walther.

The boat in front pulled up beside Bond's and a shadowy figure in a stealth outfit turned towards him. Bond frowned. Even in the grainy, greenish light from the glasses he could tell the slender figure was female. His interest perked up considerably.

"Well, well. Beat to the punch as you British say," said the unmistakably familiar Russian accented voice of Anya Amasova.

"Anya must you and your cronies insist on following me around?" Bond said, slightly amused. The adrenaline was slowly fading from his body.

"I resent that," a man in Anya's boat responded.

Before Bond could respond, a large bullet smashed through Anya's windshield, catching the man in the chest. Bond spun around and looked back at the building, where he saw a sniped outlined on top of the tower, pointing a BMG AR-15 sniper rifle. Bond knew the powerful weapon was armor piercing and had a range up to seventy four hundred meters. They needed to get out of there. Now.

Another shot rang out and Anya leaped from her craft onto Bond's. The round smashed into Anya's boat, exactly where she had been standing. She was looking back at her fallen comrade anxiously, but Bond stopped her.

"Anya! Listen to me. He's already dead. Now we have to get going or we will be too!" Anya nodded reluctantly.

Bond looked over at the dock and saw that the guards had taken interest in what was occurring and were chattering rapidly into their headsets.

So much for the element of surprise, Bond thought.

INSIDE THE FORTRESS, Nicolas Stromberg was shaken from a dreamless sleep by his bodyguard, Kraken.

"What?" Stromberg snapped.

"Sir, there has been a security breach!" Kraken said in his annoying accent that Stromberg had never been able to place.

"What?" Stromberg snarled, "How is that possible?"

"There were two boats lurking outside. Our man on the roof took one out, but the other is still out there."

"Bond…" Stromberg hissed.

"But sir, how is that possible?" Kraken responded, "Bond is in our custody in Moscow."

"I know he's here. Somehow he escaped."

Kraken waited obediently for a command.

"Now is our chance. I want Bond dead," Stromberg ordered. "Don't screw this up!"

BOND WATCHED in horror as what seemed like a small army of men on jet skis flooded out of the docks. Remembering Boothroyd's instructions, Bond hit a button and a large machine gun emerged from the back of the boat.

"Whoa," Anya said. "Mine couldn't do that."

"Anya, you man the gun," Bond said anxiously. "Get them off our tail as I try to outmaneuver them!"

As soon as Bond spoke machine gun fire spat from the first of the jet skis. The men had guns built into their skis!

"Now would be a good time to start, Anya!" Bond yelled. He fired up the engine and gunned the boat as fast as it could go, maneuvering it around the outside of the island fortress. Anya returned fire towards the group of thugs, but none of the spray of bullets found their mark. Bond pressed another button and a rocket fired from the back of the boat, striking the water between a group of the men and exploding, causing three of the thugs to go flying into the air.

"Nice trick," Anya muttered as she prepared to fire another round.

All of a sudden Bond heard a familiar hissing sound and veered to the right just as a missile fired from the bottom of one of the jet skies glided passed the boat. Anya was knocked to the floor of the boat. She cursed in Russian and quickly picked herself up, firing another round from the machine gun, this time striking two of the men, throwing them off their vehicles.

"Good shot!" Bond yelled over the roar of the boat. He continued to steer the boat around the side of the island, swerving occasionally to get away from the missiles gliding through the dark water. Without the night vision glasses he wouldn't even have been able to see them.

"Do you have a plan for getting us out of here, James?" Anya yelled.

"Not yet! I'm working on it. It isn't like I have any time to think!" Bond yelled back.

Suddenly from out of the darkness, the looming silhouette of the docks appeared in front of them.

"Oh hell," Bond murmured. Suddenly he had an idea. He grabbed Anya and leaped off the front of the boat. They landed on the dock and rolled. Then James pulled out the keys to the boat and pressed the button marked "SD." Self Destruct.

The stealth boat exploded in a burst of flames and flying shrapnel. The remaining thugs were thrown into air. Some unlucky ones couldn't stop their jet skies in time and were lighted on fire by the blast. Screaming, they crashed head on into the dock.

Bond and Anya slowly got up, dazed. They found themselves surrounded by a trio of gun-toting tuxedoed guards. Acting quickly, Bond smashed his hand against the first guard's throat. The man fell over and Anya grabbed his weapon, blasting away the other guards.

Finally, they were alone.

"Now what?" Anya sighed. "We have no way to leave. The mission is blown. The entire island is searching for us by now."

Bond nodded reluctantly. "You're right. We need to get out of here."

"How? You blew up our boat."

"I'm aware," Bond said, grimacing. Major Boothroyd was not going to be happy.

Bond began to search the dock for any for of transportation. Before he could do anything, the metal door behind them opened. A gigantic monster of a man strolled out and cracked his knuckles.

"You have got to be kidding me," Bond snarled.

The giant bald man pulled an Uzi from his belt and advanced towards the two spies. He smiled a sick, twisted smile that made the scar that crossed his eye curl maliciously. He looked like he was going to have fun.

"We can do this the easy way or the fun way, Mr. Bond," the monster called out. "Either way you're coming with me. And the lady, too."

Bond dropped his weapon and slowly raised his hands in the air.

Anya did the same.

The man called Kraken grinned. He took out two pairs of handcuffs. He threw them to his captives.

"Put these on," he said, barely concealing his smile. The man really looked like he was enjoying himself.

The two complied with the request. Kraken moved behind them and ushered them towards the door. He opened it for the handcuffed prisoners and motioned for them to enter.

As soon as he turned around to close the door, Bond made his move. He lifted his hands over Kraken's bald head and pulled the handcuffs across his throat, using them as a garrote. He pulled the thug's head back and then pushed the big man into the wall. Kraken seemed unfazed and for a moment it looked like he would overpower Bond, until Bond managed to press a small button on the side of his watch, and a thin red laser sliced into Kraken's scull. The man went limp and collapsed to the floor. Bond used the laser watch to cut through his handcuffs and the searched the big fellow's corpse for the keys to Anya's. He found them and set her free. Anya rewarded Bond with a short kiss.

As Anya pulled away, Bond felt a short feeling of sorrow that it was over. It had been more than five years since he had been with a woman, and he had his assignment in Lebanon to thank for that. Then the feeling passed and Bond and Anya were left to think of what to do next.

Bond looked around the hallway and saw a vent in the ceiling. Suddenly he was struck with inspiration. He took his silenced sidearm and blasted off the cover. It clanged to the ground.

"What are you doing?" Anya hissed.

"You'll see," Bond replied. He slipped off the black backpack he was wearing and took out the "Q-Copter" and camera. The tiny helicopter had a built in tiny camera that broadcast the image it saw to the small screen on the back of the camera, therefore making it able to transmit the picture back to MI6. The Q Copter took off, hovering overhead as Bond controlled its motion using a tiny joystick on the back of the camera. He smoothly glided the copter through the air duct until on the screen he could see a square of light ahead.

"I can't believe this is actually working," Bond said to himself. He maneuvered the small helicopter to the end of the tunnel and found himself looking into an enormous room, bustling with men in gray uniforms. Three giant missiles painted with a strange red insignia of a raven stood in the center of the room. Bond began snapping pictures of the room.

In the middle of the area, an observation deck jutted forward. Two figures stood at the end, watching the progress taking place. There was a tall man dressed in an expensive looking suit standing next to an even taller, slender woman with dark hair and pale skin standing close by in a blood red dress. Bond pressed zoom on the camera until the two figures filled the screen. He took a picture and pressed a button for the 'copter to return.

He turned to show the picture to Anya.

"Do those two look familiar to you, Anya? I feel like I've seen them before."

Anya shook her head.

"Maybe your people at MI6 can identify them."

The camera finished uploading the pictures to MI6, and the Q-Copter returned shortly after.

"Now we just need to find a way out of here," Bond said.

NICOLAS STROMBERG was not a patient man. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Kraken to return with James Bond as his prisoner, and was disappointed every time.

"That bloke should be back by now," he hissed to Naomi.

"I'm on it," she replied quickly, already walking towards the exit, Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistol already in hand.

Naomi was completely loyal, always efficient and a clever and brutal killer. She could succeed in all the areas in which thugs like Kraken failed. Most notably, common sense. She stalked stealthily through the long corridor, her sidearm ready. She frowned. There was no sign of Kraken or the captives. She burst through the steel door with surprising agility just in time to see a motorboat roaring out of the docks. She swore silently, lifting her gun and letting loose a round of gunfire. All the bullets hit their mark, but inflicted minimal damage. Naomi lifted a radio to her ear.

"They got away," she snarled.

The voice at the other end was surprisingly calm. Naomi expected Nicolas Stromberg to be furious.

"It doesn't matter," Stromberg replied. "They have nowhere to go. Wait until they get back to shore…and then kill them."

Naomi nodded to herself. She climbed into her own private speedboat and started the engine. The boat took off out onto the dark, icy sea.

6

DAMIAN FALCO entered his office, late as usual and threw his coat onto his leather desk chair. The newly promoted head of the Counterterrorism Center in Washington, DC was freezing. The Virginia winter was uncommonly bitter this year, making up for a sweltering summer he figured. In addition to the cold, Falco was furious.

He pressed a button on his speakerphone and almost yelled, "Get Agent Nightshade in here now."

Moments later a tall blond woman stepped into Falco's untidy office.

"Yes, Mr. Falco?" she asked politely.

"Hm? Yeah. Sit if you want to, I don't give a crap," Falco said, trying desperately to put on his tie.

"I'm fine, thank you," Nightshade replied.

"We have a situation in Turkey. The British think they have evidence that there is a joint terrorist faction planning on firing three nuclear missiles at targets in Tel Aviv, London, and Washington. They're ranking it about 9 out of 10 on the "We're All Gonna Die" scale. CIA operative Jack Wade confirmed the threat this morning when he found these in the hotel room of a suspected terrorist sleeper cell member in Los Angeles. Guy by the name of Jazeera, or something."

Falco pulled out three colored satellite photos of Tel Aviv, London, and Washington and sat them on the desk in front of him. Blast radiuses and rings representing nuclear fallout had been drawn in.

"My God," Agent Nightshade gasped.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Falco said, grimacing. "I tell ya, at times like this I wish the Company still had people like Felix Leiter."

"What do you want me to do?" Nightshade inquired worriedly.

"I'm sending you to Istanbul to be part of the investigative team. I'm not leaving this in the hands of the British."

AT THE SAME TIME Agent Nightshade was on a plane out of Washington DC, another agent from the elite Israeli Mossad was flying out of Tel Aviv. The final members of the team were coming to Istanbul.

THE FOUR SEASONS Istanbul was the most expensive, and the fanciest hotel in probably all of Turkey. It was a converted prison in the historic Sultanahmet district with stunning views of the Hagia Sophia, a basilica dating back to the sixth century, when it had been constructed for the Byzantine Emperor Justinian. Anya and Bond had two adjoining rooms on the top floor of the hotel, with one of the most impressive views Bond had ever seen in all of his travel. The hotel had an excellent, if pricy dinner of Turkish and international foods, and served delicious Turkish coffee, after which fortuned tellers would look into your cups and tell your future for free.

Bond had been contacted the night by his superiors at MI6. He took the call inside his Aston Martin, after Anya had gone up to bed. An ally she may be, but still one from a rival superpower. That hadn't changed. Moneypenny's came on the line, sounding stressed and tired. First she told Bond the identity of the two people he had seen in the fortress.

"The man you saw was Nicolas Stromberg…"

"Stromberg?" Bond interrupted. "As in Karl Stromberg?

"Yes," Moneypenny replied. "It's his son. He was the full heir to the Stromberg fortune, and head of a notorious criminal agency known as RedRaven. His assistant was Naomi Scarlatti, daughter of Stromberg's henchman you killed in Sardinia during the Atlantis affair. It's no surprise they want you dead."

"They want everyone dead," Bond growled. "Those monsters are planning a nuclear attack that will kill millions. You have the photos of the missiles, why can't we just send in a strike team and get this over with?"

"We had an expert analyze the photos of the nukes and he told us they are definitely operational. If we sent in a strike team, it may scare them into launching the missile. We'd need a small army to occupy that island."

"Well then what do you expect me to do? My cover is already blown," Bond shot back.

"There's an official NATO conference on Sunday to discuss our options. Until then we need you to sit tight and collect as much intelligence as possible. Operatives from the CIA and Mossad are on their way over as we speak, and our Special Forces guys in Afghanistan are planning to raid the Mujahedin Shura council meeting tomorrow and interrogate the members that we capture…" Moneypenny's voice trailed off.

"Is there something else?" Bond inquired.

"It's M, James," Moneypenny said quietly. "She's hurt. She was in an accident of some type."

"Is she alright?" Bond asked, worried.

"It's hard to say at the moment. She's in a medical induced coma. Sir Perry is running things over at MI6."

Bond grimaced.

"Thanks for the update, Moneypenny. I'll get back to you as soon as I have something else to report."

BOND RETURNED to his room, and sat at an overstuffed chair gazing out the window. The Hagia Sofia was alive in floodlights. It was a beautiful sight. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly three in the morning, but Bond could've fallen asleep if he tried. Knowing you could be all that stood between the free world and nuclear devastation was not good for sleep. Plus his leg was starting to act up again. He rummaged through his things until he found the bottle of painkillers. He popped on into his mouth and washed it down with more of the vodka. Then he sat staring out into the streets of winter Istanbul.

TWENTY KILOMETERS from Bond's hotel, Agent Zoë Nightshade of the CIA's Counterterrorism Center and Eli Freedman of Mossad arrived at Ataturk Airport. They met outside the airport and introduced themselves, both using fake names. They climbed into a waiting limo that was to take them to the Four Seasons hotel. They barely had started driving when the limo exploded, spewing fire that shot in a plume overhead, and scorching the night sky. Hidden from view in an expensive BMW Z4, the Naomi smiled wickedly. She raised a radio to her lips.

"Secondary mission accomplished. Now for James Bond."

Beside her a man shifted in his seat anxiously.

"Now what about my money?" the man demanded.

"You'll get it," Naomi sighed. "In your next life."

With that, Naomi pulled out the Desert Eagle and pulled the trigger, the soundproof car muffling the sounds of the gunfire and the sounds of Nigel Smith's screams.

Naomi quietly exited the car, wiping her gloved hands of blood. She picked up her radio again and lifted up to her mouth.

"I'm heading over to the Four Seasons Hotel now. Oh, and send a clean up crew to get that corpse out of my car."

7

ISTANBUL

STROMBERG was perched lazily on one of the leather chairs on the observation deck that stuck out over the main floor of the private club. The club was dark, bathed in blue light with red lasers criss-crossing the dance floor. A sea of gyrating bodies churned beneath him, turning to the bombardment of terrible European techno music blasting over the speakers. The drink in his hand, a costly crystal snifter of champagne, was free. Stromberg personally knew the club's owner, who was a good friend of his and was obviously impressed with Stromberg's power and fortune. He seemed to be hoping it would rub off on him. Now the owner sat beside him in a luxurious loveseat, surrounded by an assemblage of scantily clad women.

Nicolas Stromberg thought he deserved the celebration, spending the diminishing hours of the evening in Istanbul's Beyoglu district, famous for its superior nightlife. The plan was finally finished. The loose ends were tied.

Well, except for Bond.

Just the thought of the name brought a grimace to Stromberg's increasing intoxicated visage. He tried to summon the confidence that his beautiful and efficient counterpart, Naomi, would accomplish the job of killing the British assassin, but he had his doubts. From what Stromberg had heard of Bond, he was a force to be reckoned with.

Stromberg glanced at the platinum Rolex that graced his wrist just as the hour hand ticked over to midnight. A sneer appeared on the terrorist's face. New Year's Eve had begun, and somewhere inside RedRaven Corp, a countdown had begun.

JAMES BOND must have dazed off at least for a moment, because he awoke in a haze, still sitting in the same chair with his feet still propped up on the windowsill. The clock was claiming it was still only four in the morning. Bond groaned. He hadn't slept for as long as he would have liked, and it probably wasn't even worth it to try again. He heard movement in the adjoining room, and rapped his knuckles on the door. Anya Amasova quickly opened it and let Bond in. She was wearing nothing but a white towel draped around her body.

"You can't sleep either," Bond stated the obvious.

Anya shook her head, her long red brown hair swaying. She sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed her bare legs. Bond observed the sight for a moment, taking in her lovely alabaster skin, before pulling himself away.

"I've been meaning to ask you about Moscow. What exactly were you doing there? I mean, now that we're obviously in this together."

She sighed. "James, you know that's confidential, even in our current situation, I don't think…"

"Anya, we're trying to stop a nuclear catastrophe that could kill millions of people. I don't think your superiors at the SVR would mind. I just want to know how Russia is involved in all this."

Anya still seemed unsure of what to do. She raised a hand to her forehead, deep in thought. Finally, she responded.

"We were raiding the warehouse because of suspected ties to the Russian Mafiya's arms trading programs led by a notorious thug named Sevastyan Aristarkh. We captured him and eliminated the rest of the hostiles. That was our mission. What does it have to do with this assignment?"

"It proves Stromberg has lots of resources at his disposal if nothing else," Bond mused.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the conversation ceased. Anya flicked on the television set in the corner of the room, and they were instantly greeted with the image of a burning car wreck on a live news report. The caption read the scene was taking place outside of the Ataturk Airport.

Bond's heart pounded. "That's only twenty kilometers away."

The tired looking newswoman said something in Russian about two bodies being found.

"Wait, James," Anya said, panicked, "Could it have been the CIA and Mossad agents?"

"I'd say it's likely," Bond replied grimly. "And we're next on the hit list."

8

A DICTATORSHIP was being established back at SIS. Sir William Perry, acting chief of the Secret Intelligence Service observed the "War Room" like a hawk, leaning over the shoulders of increasingly annoyed intelligence analysts and barking meaningless orders at those not currently occupied. Charles Robinson and Bill Tanner were participating in a video conference between intelligence leaders in England, the US, and Israel. It had been going on for at least forty minutes.

Perry finally retreated to the Chief's office after his the fact that he was unwelcome became obvious. Perry marched past a stubbornly silent and obviously displeased Moneypenny and kept walking into M's inner sanctum. He collapsed into the leather seat and poured himself a drink. He felt rather foolish after yelling at his troops to get to work when in fact he had nothing of his own to actually do. He began glancing around the office he had always hoped of one day inhabiting, and rubbed his stubbled chin. His interest became fixated on a slit in the ceiling from which a glass bulletproof screen could be dropped at the touch of a button. Rumor had it around SIS this very feature had once saved Sir Miles Messervy from a brainwashed 007 acting on orders of the KGB.

Perry's thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the inner door, revealing Charles and the Chief of Staff.

"We've been authorized to use the military option," Robinson reported. "A team of Navy SEALS, along with one of our own SAS units, are receiving their mission briefing as we speak. They will be in the air in two hours."

"Good," was all Perry had to offer.

Robinson and Tanner waited patiently for an order. When there was none, Robinson rolled his eyes and the two men left the room.

A few moments later, the phone rang on Perry's desk.

"Hello?"

"It is me," came the voice Perry only knew as Hafiz. What he did know is that Hafiz was paying him handsomely for betraying the Service.

"They're sending in Special Forces to Istanbul. You sure you can pull this off?"

"Don't worry about me, my friend. I have a task for you."

"What…what sort of task?"

"It is simple. Plug the flash drive sitting on your desk into the computer and upload the contents."

"There is no flash drive," Perry began. Then he looked down and gulped with surprise. His heart speeding up considerably, Perry picked up the tiny object lying on the antique desk in front of him and glanced at it curiously.

"What's it for?" Perry wondered allowed.

Hafiz said nothing.

"Hello?"

There was a sigh. "Just do it, Sir William."

"What about my deal?" Perry inquired. "How will you get my out of the blast radius?"

"You can do that yourself," Hafiz snorted. "Heard of an airport?"

"And my money?" Perry asked suspiciously.

"You'll get it," Hafiz responded. "Now I must go. If you are correct, we will have to push forward our launch schedule. Do your task, then get of there."

He hung up.

Perry glanced warily at the small, innocent looking device in his hand. How much could it possibly do? Not that it mattered, Perry reflected. The entire city would be completely destroyed by the end of the day. Perry plugged the flash drive into his USB port and called up the data inside. Typing rapidly, he uploaded the information and activated it. Without warning, his screen went black. Perry heard yells from outside in the operations center and realization struck him.

The virus had crippled SIS' computer network. Perry picked up his encrypted phone to find that the phone lines were also affected.

His heart pounding, Sir William Perry stood up. Now he just needed to get out of the county and he would be home free. A traitor to his country, yes, but a rich one at that.

Perry nearly ran out of his office, and was stopped by Moneypenny.

"What's going on?" Perry barked.

"I don't know," Moneypenny responded. "All of our systems just crashed."

Perry pushed past her and stormed into the operations center where analysts were still yelling in alarm and the SIS' cyber unit was trying desperately to fix the problem. Perry kept moving, the elevator was in his sight. He was only a few steps away when he heard someone yelling his name. He turned around to see Charles Robinson hustling towards him.

"Damn it," Perry muttered.

"Where do you think you're going?" Robinson asked suspiciously.

Perry said nothing.

What a biting irony, he thought. I'm a bureaucratic spook who can't lie to save his life.

"You wouldn't just be trying to escape London, would you?" Charles sneered.

"Charles, please. I am the acting chief of MI6. For your information I have an important meeting with the Prime Minister."

"About what?"

"What the hell do you think about, Charles? If you hadn't noticed, we are in a bit of a situation."

"Believe it or not, sir," Robinson spat condescendingly. "I, unlike you, was actually a real field agent once. I can tell when someone is lying."

Perry said nothing; he just stood straight and attempted to out glare the man in front of him.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about the systems failure, would you?" Robinson asked, hoisting Perry up with one hand and pinning him against the wall. A small crowd was starting to grow.

"Robinson, please," Perry coughed. "Let me go."

"I don't think so. You're staying right here in London to share the fate of the rest of us in case this thing happens."

9

BOND AWOKE from a fitful sleep after only two hours. The sun was rising outside his window as he immediately got up and dressed. He and Anya walked down to the restaurant and ordered a decidedly Western breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and also two cups of Turkish coffee. The day ahead of them was going to be a trying one, and Bond had gotten word from MI6 before he went to sleep that a unit of Special Forces troops was on their way. They would be attacking the island base right after sundown.

NAOMI stood at the entrance to the restaurant, hidden from view behind a large potted plant. She couldn't see Bond or his accomplice, but she knew they were inside. She stepped out into the entranceway and grabbed the shoulder of when of the fortune tellers, a short older woman. Naomi stuffed a handful of euros into her hands.

"I need you to walk in there and tell me if you see a tall Englishman with a scar on the side of his face. He is sitting with a long haired Russian woman," Naomi hissed.

The short Turkish woman did as she was told and waddled off into the crowd, her eyes searching for someone who fit that description.

BOND and Anya had finished breakfast and were about to get up when an old Turkish woman dressed in the garb of a fortune teller arrived at their table. She pretended to peer into Bond's coffee cup and then glanced at them nervously.

"Run!" she whispered. "There is a woman with a gun at the door. She is looking for you!"

Bond looked up at could make out the slender figure of Naomi Scarlatti, Stromberg's beautiful paid assassin.

"It's Naomi," Bond said to Anya. "We have to leave."

They dashed out of the restaurant and out into the street, Naomi hot on their tail. The two spies ran across the crowded streets of Sultanahmet Square, past impressive towering landmarks like the Blue Mosque. They turned into a side street and got lost in a crowd of people entering the Hagia Sophia. The dashed past a startled clerk and found themselves inside a dimly lit cavernous room, which for 1000 years was the largest enclosed space in the world. Small stained glass windows allowed shafts of light to enter the domed area, and relics of all kinds hung from the walls in display.

Bond and Anya ran up a stone ramp to the left of the entrance and found themselves in an enclosed place displaying stunning mosaics. They crouched down from view and watched the door.

Suddenly there was yelling as a group of men dressed in black and wearing ski masks entered, wielding M-16s and shouting. Naomi, dressed in a tight black skirt and blood red blouse, stood at the center of the crowd, carry an Uzi. Her dark eyes searched the room. A security guard approached them and was instantly gunned down by one of the masked men. Screams filled the museum and wailing sirens could be heard, approaching quickly.

Bond lay of the cold stone floor, observing the scene below through the handrail on the balcony. If he could just get a clear shot…

He raised his Walther and squeezed the trigger. The first gunman crumpled to the ground. The rest began yelling, firing wildly until Naomi told them to shut up. Bond raised his weapon again and fired, sending another man to his knees, clutching his stomach. Two men and Naomi remained. The three hostiles spread out, searching for their target in the direction of the firing. Bond and Anya quietly crept down the ramp making for the exit. As they were about to reach the door, one of the gunman saw them and yelled, raising his M-16. There was a blast from the machine gun that sent tiny bits of stone showering upon Bond. Bond quickly dived, aimed, and fired. The man fell to the floor, his weapon still firing. The scene seemed to be unfolding in slow motion. Naomi and the other terrorist started to approach as Bond and Anya ran out the exit, dodging torrents of gunfire. The ducked and rolled to the side, and found themselves back out on the street.

"Now what?" Anya asked as they dashed through the startled New Year's Eve tourists.

"Working on it," Bond replied bluntly. They stopped shortly to get a look at their surroundings. They were back near the hotel, with the two villains far behind them but approaching quickly. "Follow me," Bond said. They dashed into the hotel parking lot and got into Bond's Aston Martin. Bond quickly threw it in gear and accelerated into the street.

Moments later, Bond's adrenaline was finally starting to fade when suddenly Anya screamed his name. Bond looked behind him to see a BMW Z4 quickly approaching, with Naomi Scarlatti behind the wheel. Bond cursed and pulled into a less crowded street that bordered the Sea of Marmara. The BMW followed.

"She's very persistent," Bond growled. He suddenly jerked the steering wheel to the side, spinning the car into a u-turn. He pressed a button on the dash board and a rocket streaked out of the hidden compartment behind the Vanquish's headlights. It narrowly missed the BMW and exploded, almost flipping Naomi's car over. The goon riding shotgun in Scarlatti's BMW stuck his weapon out the window and fired a long burst, hitting Bond's car but not inflicting major damage. The bulletproof glass prevented the windows from shattering.

Bond tried to look for a way to escape. The camouflage would do him no good on this narrow of a road. Suddenly he saw a dock approaching and an idea formulated in his mind. He sped up, much to the confusion of Anya, and drove the Aston Martin out onto the dock and accelerated off the end, crashing to the dark sea below. Naomi's BMW skidded to a halt, and the two terrorist emerged, firing their weapons into the water.

Bond flicked a switch and immediately the tires of the car turned to propellers, and a radar screen appeared on the dashboard. Recognition appeared on Anya's face.

"Déjà vu?" Bond asked, grinning.

BACK ON the dock, Naomi snarled in disbelief. She turned to her aide.

"Get the RPG out of the trunk."

The goon obeyed, hustling over to the BMW and returning with a long rocket launcher, which he mounted on his shoulder and aimed it to face the water's surface. He fired, sending the rocket propelled explosive thundering into the waves.

BOND'S CAR was suddenly shaken by an incredible explosion. The glass of the windows shattered and water began flooding into the car. Bond quickly kicked out the windshield, grabbed Anya and pulled her out into the biting cold water. He swam as far away from the sinking wreck of the Aston Martin as possible, let go of Anya, and began swimming to the surface.

When he stuck his head above water, he could no longer see the two terrorists on the dock. He glanced around, waiting for Anya to appear above water. She never did.

Bond's heart picked up speed. He dove back underneath the surface to see Anya struggling wildly deep below, blood flowing from wounds on her shoulder and head, undoubtedly caused by the explosion. She seemed only half conscious, and Bond thought concernedly that she might even have a concussion. He swam down and grabbed the Russian spy, awkwardly keeping an arm around her as he swam to the shallows. He deposited her on the sand and they both collapsed, breathing heavy.

"You saved my life… again," Anya got out weakly between ragged breaths.

"Yes, I'm aware," Bond said, forcing a smile. The moment was short lived, however, when the sound of footsteps thundered on the dock overhead.

Bond looked up to see Naomi standing above the, sneering. Her Uzi was pointed directly at Bond's head. Bond felt a wave of helplessness. He had lost his weapon. They were completely unprotected.

"I have waited a long time to do this, James Bond." Naomi said sternly, though her eyes were laughing and her mouth was twisted into a devilish grin. "Goodbye, 007."

Before she could fire her weapon, Anya grabbed a throwing knife from a holster on her thigh and threw it with lightning fast reflexes. It hit the beautiful killer in the chest. A startled look appeared on Naomi's face as she kneeled over and collapsed, falling from the dock and sinking into the depths of the black water, trailed by blood.

"Let's call it even," Anya said, smiling.

10

NICOLAS STROMBERG entered his glassy fortress. His expression, as always was entirely unreadable, but inside adrenaline coursed through his veins. Now was the moment he had been waiting for so long. Stromberg walked up to the missiles' brilliant planner, a North Korean nuclear scientist named Jin Ho-Shin.

"I need the missile primed and ready immediately. We need to move up the launch schedule."

The tiny Korean man nodded silently.

"Set the missiles to launch at sundown, and the self destruct detonators for immediately after."

Stromberg then walked up a long flight of metal stairs and reached his observatory. It was a very comfortable space with a large panoramic window overlooking the launch site. Stromberg poured himself a glass of champagne and turned to his two guests, both of whom belonged to the highest echelons of RedRaven Corp, who were seated on red velvet sofas, drinking and smoking Cuban cigars. Sheikh Hikmat Anas and Ibrahim al-Salir nodded their welcomes. The two terrorists had been the first and most important contributors to Stromberg's cause.

"I'm afraid to say our fourth member, Sevastyan Aristarkh, did not make it to see this moment. He was arrested in Moscow two days ago. Try not to let it put a damper on the occasion," Stromberg began, grinning. "We are also having some security trouble and we have had to move up the launch."

"The sooner the West is struck, the better," Hikmat Anas said in Farsi.

"That's the spirit," Stromberg said, his grin widening. "And you will get to watch the rockets carry death and destruction too the infidels safely in this very room. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. Soon we will have victory."

From outside the window on the speaker system, and electronic voice coldly echoed through the cavernous room: "Missile one primed."

THE CHOPPER touched down at a restricted airfield at Istanbul International Airport. It was carrying a cargo of ten of the highest trained commandos in the world. Five were Navy SEALS representing the interests of the United States, the other half were from Britain's elite SAS.

Bond and Anya, dressed in fresh, dry clothes stood inside a hanger bay, waiting.

The leaders of the two teams approached and introduced themselves to the two intelligence agents. While the rest of the men were getting their equipment prepared, the SAS man, a friend of Bond's from his Navy days named Jack Salmon, went over his plan. He laid out the satellite photos of Stromberg's fortress on a metal table for him and Bond to see. Two areas were circled in red.

"This is the best entry point," the SAS man said. "It's a small service entrance, barely visible at night. Our best bet would be to leave the boats a few meters away and swim to the service area."

Bond was only half listening. There had been an idea formulating in his mind. He told the SAS man it, and Salmon smiled.

"I like it, 007."

"ETA, 20 MINUTES," came the voice of Jack Salmon over Bond's radio.

"Affirmative. Alpha Team has reached the docks. Over," Bond replied. The plan was in motion. There would be three teams of four in three boats. Alpha Team, led by Bond and Anya, would go straight to the dock of the RedRaven fortress, using the ill fated Naomi's speedboat, which was still docked where she had left it. Hopefully the guards would recognize the boat, and seeing a woman behind the wheel, let them dock before Bond's crew hit them with a surprise attack. Beta Team, led by Salmon, would use the service entrance while Charlie Team, a group of four SEALS, covered them.

When the teams arrived at the dock, Bond pulled Anya aside.

"Are you sure you're up to this, Anya? No one would blame you if you stayed behind because of your injuries," Bond asked, concerned.

"I'm fine, 007. If it starts to hurt just give me some of those painkillers you're always carrying around," Anya retorted, and she stormed past him towards the boat.

Bond frowned. She had a good point.

It was five and approaching sundown as the three teams departed, making their way across the Black Sea, tense and ready for action. Apart from the humming of the speedboat engines and occasional crackling from the radios, the dusk was still. The surface of the sea was calm.

Despite having the Special Forces reinforcements, Bond felt an uneasy feeling in his gut. He had tried and failed to get in touch with his superiors at MI6. Even on the emergency line, which was never supposed to be busy, the only answer was a monotonous beep. Something was wrong.

Anya was behind the wheel of the boat and Bond and the two SAS men were crouched in back, out of view from anyone watching from the RedRaven Corp building.

There was another crackle from the radio in Bond's hand.

"Beta Team in position."

"Charlie Team in position."

Bond raised the radio to his mouth. "Copy that. Alpha Team is approaching the dock. Repeat: we are approaching the dock. We are a go."

The command was given. Behind the monstrous structure, Beta Team was abandoning their speedboat and approaching the entry point.

The dock was now entirely visible. Guards began waving Anya in and she skillfully maneuvered the craft towards the docks. The guise was working.

"Get ready," Bond murmured to the SAS men. They checked over their weapons a final time.

The guards were preparing to dock the boat when suddenly they realized the driver wasn't Naomi. The leader barked a command, but before the guards could respond Anya grabbed her silenced sidearm and fired three shots. The guards crumpled to the ground. With Anya leading the way, the team exited the boat and glanced at their surroundings. A voice over the radio confirmed Charlie Team had eliminated the sniper on the roof. The group walked over to the dead men and collected their weapons and walkie-talkies. Then they moved forward to the doorway. Bond kicked upon the door and motioned for the team to follow, all of whom had their weapons poised and ready. The hallway was clear. Anya glanced around the corner down a long hallway. She cursed.

"What is it?" Bond asked.

"Security cameras."

"Charlie Team, see if you can find away to disable the security cameras," Bond said into the radio.

"We can do better than that," a voice responded. A moment later, all power ceased. The hallway went dark and Bond's team slipped on their night vision gear. "Unfortunately, it seems the missile silo is controlled by a completely separate, safeguarded power grid in the heart of the building."

Bond's team moved slowly and stealthily through the long hallway. Finally, they came to a flight of winding metal stairs. Bond motioned for the team to climb. It was a long and painstaking slow process, with the team moving in a crouch, weapons ready. After the long climb had finally ended, a short hall led to a door. Bond's team moved silently too the door. Before he could open it, a voice boomed from inside.

"Glad you could join us, Mr. Bond. The fun is about to begin."

NICOLAS STROMBERG sneered. He stood in front of the panoramic window, clutching a specialized H&K XM8 lightweight assault rifle. It was pointed straight at the door, the laser sight dancing exactly where Bond's head was behind the door.

"You're friends are dead," he hissed. From behind the door he heard one of the Special Ops men trying desperately to reach Charlie Team on their radio. He smiled.

"I don't know what you're expecting to accomplish, Mr. Bond."

"I could say the same for you, Stromberg," Bond retorted.

"Me?" Stromberg scoffed. "I'm doing the world a favor. And you are the only one standing in my way of carrying out my father's dream."

"A dream of making everyone else's life a nightmare."

Stromberg's eyes turned to slits. His finger tightened ever so slightly around the trigger.

"You fool. You couldn't possibly see the genius of such a man as Karl Stromberg. You just go about taking orders from your corrupt government. You are their pawn. You do their dirty work. It is so pathetic."

There was silence from behind the door.

Suddenly the door exploded inward in a blast of flame.

Stromberg cursed. The Special Ops men had put explosive charges on the door and blasted their way through. Stromberg fired wildly, sprays of bullets going in every direction. The Middle Eastern men inside the lounge dived for cover.

One of Stromberg's bullets found its target. It ripped into the bulletproof vest of the SAS men in front. The soldier was propelled backwards; he hit the wall and crumpled to the ground.

The other SAS man pulled a smoke grenade from his belt and rolled it into the room. A white haze began to billow upwards, blinding Stromberg. Outside, Bond and Anya fired blindly into the room.

An electronic voice came from the speaker system.

"Ten minutes to launch."

Bond cursed as he pulled behind the wall to reload his weapon. They were running out of time.

"Beta Team!" Bond yelled into his radio. "We need back up now!"

Bond peered around the wall again and fired into the cloud of haze. He heard the bullets ricochet around the room. Bond took aim and fired again. The panoramic window shattered into tiny splinters of razor edged glass. Bond pulled the trigger of his weapon once again. The click of an empty cartridge reached his ears. He threw down the weapon, took out his sidearm and carefully walked into the room, Anya close behind. He had barely entered the wide lounge before nearly stumbling over the two dead bodies of the SAS men. He cursed silently and continued. A fusillade of machine gun fire crackled in the room and Bond dove to the floor, but could not see who had fired through the smoke.

"Goodbye, Mr. Bond," a voice startlingly close to his ear hissed. The XM8 appeared out of the smoke right at his forehead. Adrenaline flowed through Bond's body and he lashed out with his foot, striking Stromberg in the knee. Bond heard the satisfying crunch of snapped bone. Stromberg howled and Bond used the moment to pull himself to his feet and tackle Stromberg. The two men tumbled towards the ground. Then the smoke cleared and Bond saw with horror that they were headed out the smashed window. Bond tried to steady himself but it was too late. The enemies tumble out the shattered window and kept going

Falling into the huge silo, Bond quickly reacted and held out his hand. He managed to grab onto the edge of a catwalk at the instant he fell by it, and hung there desperately with one hand. Suddenly he felt a tremendous increase in weight. He quickly grabbed on with his other hand and glanced down. He was at a dizzying height, suspended directly above one of the three missiles themselves. Stromberg was clutching Bond's ankle with all of his might, hanging loosely above the missile and the chamber below. Bond began kicking out at the lunatic's hand.

Above them, Bond saw Anya lean out the window, eyes searching for them.

"Anya!" Bond yelled. "I'll be fine! You need to stop the launch!"

Anya nodded curtly and pulled herself away from the window, disappearing back inside the lounge.

"You'll be fine?" Stromberg sneered. "I think not, Mr. Bond. We're going down togeth…"

Before Stromberg could finish his sentence, machine gun fire blasted close by. All of a sudden Bond felt Stromberg's grip loosen. He looked down to see the bullet ridden body of Nicolas Stromberg fall into the silo below, bouncing off the nose of one of the missiles and sliding to his doom, unseeing eyes wide in amazement. Bond looked over to see the members of Beta Team, each holding their weapons, standing on another catwalk below them. The head of the team waved.

"Goodbye Stromberg," Bond said silently. He pulled himself up onto the catwalk and retrieved Stromberg's fallen XM8. Bond followed the catwalk down a flight of metal stairs and onto a tiny platform, cluttered with machinery. Lights flashed and men scurried in all directions. Bond met Anya at the bottom of the stairs who was delivering a finishing blow to a nearby guard.

"James," she said. "The controls to the missiles are in there." She pointed to a metal hut like structure in the center of the silo. The two spies dashed towards the control booth, weapons raised. They were stopped in their tracks by two mountains of men holding Raptor Magnum semi-automatic pistols. They moved menacingly towards them. A tiny Korean man stood in the door to the control booth, cackling wildly.

"Not so fast, Mr. Bond," Jin Ho-Shin said. "There is no way you can stop the missiles now. You need the authorization codes, which you will be dead before you can get. And, you only have…"

"Five minutes to launch," the metallic voice answered.

The crack of a sniper shot echoed over head, and one of the thugs toppled to the ground. The other turned around, and was put out of commission by a quick shot from Anya. Beta Team had come through again. The Korean nuclear scientist's eyes widened. He tried to slam the door of the booth, but Bond wedged a booted foot into the door way. He aimed his weapon at Jin Ho-Shin's head.

"Now about those authorization codes…"

11

IT SEEMED LIKE the whole thing was over. The missiles had been deactivated, the terrorists crouched in the lounge arrested, and Nicolas Stromberg and Jin Ho-Shin, the only one who could control the missiles, were taken care of. Backup was on its way to arrest the rest of the RedRaven Corp men. Bond, Anya, and Beta Team were gathered in the middle of the missile silo when suddenly the entire fortress was rocked with a tremendous explosion.

Bond spun to face Jin Ho-Shin.

"What was that?" he barked.

The tiny man was grinning again, which was never a good sign.

"The self destruct mechanism."

Bond swore. "We need to get out of here."

The team of agents sprinted towards the entrance as another explosion occurred, sending pieces of the catwalks crashing down towards the ground. Sparks and flames were erupting everywhere.

"James," Anya gasped. "What about the missiles? If the explosion causes them to detonate…"

Anya was right, Bond thought. A tremendous nuclear explosion would take place on the island. It was too far from shore to do any direct damage to the surrounding countries, but winds could shift and blow clouds of radiation towards Istanbul, and fishing industries important to the economy would be devastated.

"There's nothing we can do," Bond grimaced. "Just hope the missiles don't go off."

They continued sprinting down the long hall, flames and debris chasing them every step of the way. Finally the end was in sight. Bond threw open the door at then end of the hall and a gust of frigid air greeted them like a punch in the face. Bond grabbed Anya by the arm and leaped off the dock and into the water, just as Stromberg's fortress erupted in a blast of superheated air, a colossal plume of fire torching the winter air, breaking the calm of the dark water.

Underneath the water, Bond felt a tremendous shockwave reverberate beneath the waves. He was blinded, his eyes closed and dizzy as hell. He knew he was clutching Anya, but other than that the world seemed to have turned upside down, as if his life was suddenly held in suspended animation beneath the surface of the Black Sea.

In what seemed like an hour later, the moment passed. Bond felt as though he was in a dream. His entire body was numb as he pulled Anya to the surface. He saw fire and wreckage sprayed across the sea, and then his world faded to black.

LONDON

AT VAUXHALL CROSS the mood had gradually turned from panic to relief. SIS' cyber unit had finally managed to stop the virus, and two hours later the system was finally beginning to reboot. Perry was in a cell in MI6's interrogation level, and Bill Tanner had taken over as acting chief of the Service. He exited M's office and walked back into the operation center where the analysts had been working non-stop for almost forty-eight hours. Tanner couldn't wait for the crisis to be over; he felt as though he would fall asleep while walking.

"What's happening with 007 in Istanbul?" he demanded of one of their senior intelligence analysts.

"I'm afraid I lost him," the man responded grimly.

"What?" Tanner shouted. "What do you mean lost him?"

"Look at the aerial image."

Tanner turned to look at the oversize computer monitor on the far wall, which was currently showing a live reconnaissance image being broadcast from a satellite over the Black Sea.

"Oh my God…" Tanner's mouth dropped open when he saw the image. A giant mushroom cloud had engulfed the island. The entire satellite picture was shrouded in an eerie fog, with explosions still visible beneath. "What the hell happened?"

"I have no idea," the analyst said bluntly, shaking his head. "This just happened, and now we can't reach Bond or the strike team. However, to be optimistic, he did stop the missiles from launching."

But Tanner hadn't heard him. He stormed up to Robinson, who promptly handed him a telephone receiver before he could say a word.

"It's M at the hospital. She's awake and wants an update."

Tanner took the phone. "Ma'am, are you alright?"

"It seems we have bigger problems at the moment, but yes, I'm feeling much better," M responded icily. "I was just informed via CNN of the explosion off the coast of Istanbul. I'm coming in."

"That isn't necessary, ma'am. At least consult the doctor first..."

"Oh, grow some balls, Tanner!" M snapped. "Where is Bond?"

"We don't know," Tanner sighed. "We lost him after the explosion."

There was momentary silence at the other end of the line, which was soon interrupted by a shout from Charles.

"We have communications with Jack Salmon, leader of the SAS strike team. Before the explosion they managed to get out of there on the boat. They've got Bond."

"Did you hear that, ma'am?" Tanner said, relief flooding through him.

"Yes, thank God," M responded wearily, showing a brief rare moment of emotion.

"We also have confirmation that the blast was not nuclear," Charles continued. "The three missiles are sunk at the bottom of the Black Sea. Stromberg and his cronies are all dead, and the only fatalities on our side were five of the Special Ops men and a Russian agent…."

OVER THE BLACK SEA

WHEN BOND AWOKE, he could barely see. His eyes were clouded over and there was a constant throbbing in his head. Through the haze he could make out the shapes of several men, and he could distinctly hear the sound of helicopter blades overhead. His vision finally cleared, and he recognized the men as several of the SAS team members. Seeing him awake, Salmon approached him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked concernedly.

"I've been better," Bond murmured dryly, reaching a hand to his aching head. "What happened back there?"

Salmon shrugged. "Stromberg's fortress exploded. Wasn't nuclear, though. We were lucky to make it out alive."

"Where's Anya?"

There was a sudden silence, and Bond looked up to see a look of grief come over Salmon's face. His heart felt as if it had plummeted. He knew what was coming.

"I'm sorry…" he paused. "We never found her after the explosion. We presume she was killed in the blast or drowned afterward."

Bond collapsed backwards and closed his eyes again.

"Don't blame yourself, Bond. You were barely alive when we found you either," he warned, seeing what was coming. "You'll drive yourself crazy. It was Stromberg's finger on the trigger in the end, not yours."

"She had a husband," Bond said quietly, not bothering to move or open his eyes.

Salmon looked confused. "Really? I'm sorry, I just figured…"

"That was along time ago," Bond responded.

Salmon paused. "Well, the SVR will alert her husband once they learn what's happened."

Bond shook his head. "No. I'm going to do it."

Salmon frowned. "Why?"

"I don't know. I feel like…I feel like I have to."

Outside the chopper a blood red sun rose steadily above the sea, reflecting in the water as the color of fire. A new year had begun.

12

ST. PETERSBURG

TWO WEEKS LATER

"LET'S MOVE OUT."

The words were spoken in Russian, with a flat, dead tone. None of the men were particularly excited to sit around inside the back of a truck with a captured Mafiya man. In was a long trip to The Compound, and it didn't seem to them that the ragged, angry looking man handcuffed inside the truck was much of an escape risk.

The three gun toting FSB men piled into the truck and closed the door, shutting out the cold January morning air. The sun had not yet risen, and a light snow was falling from the dark clouds above. The leader of the FSB agents sat down heavily facing the prisoner. He felt the truck starting to move, and leaned forward towards the man so they were face to face. He smiled. It was time to have some fun.

"You know where we're going, Sevastyan?" he asked menacingly.

The prisoner remained silent. He just sat and glared at his captor.

"Hey. Answer me!" the man from the FSB reached out and slapped Sevastyan with a gloved hand. "I'm talking to you."

"Of course I know where we're going," Sevastyan murmured.

"You've heard of The Compound then," the agent said, smiling mysteriously.

Sevastyan nodded.

"And what they do to people there."

Sevastyan nodded again.

"Good. It does have quite a reputation. A noble place, unbeknownst to the public, where people like you get what they have coming to them. Don't think you won't talk, Sevastyan. Everybody talks."

Sevastyan eyes blazed with fury. He spat in the FSB man's face and sneered.

"Bastard," the FSB man swore, slapping the Mafiya across the face.

"You'll pay for that," Sevastyan responded confidently. As if on cue, a tremendous explosion rocked the vehicle off balance. Tires screeched as the truck was lifted off the ground and landed precariously on its two side wheels. It fell heavily on its side. One of the FSB agents received a massive blow to the head after falling against the wall and lay still. The remaining two cradled their automatic weapons in their hands, poised and ready. They threw open the back door and were promptly shot in the head.

Three RedRaven Corp men approached the vehicle, Uzis drawn and firing. They were dressed in all black tactical gear and wearing black masks. One approached the driver side window and dispatched the driver with a single shot to the forehead. Then the three Russian terrorists entered the back door, grabbed the handcuff keys from the body of the dead FSB man, and uncuffed Sevastyan Aristarkh.

"About bloody time, Alexei," Sevastyan said, addressing the leader of the group.

Alexei grinned. "I come with great news. You're the new head of RedRaven Corp."

Aristarkh frowned. "What happened to Stromberg and the Arabs?"

"What happened?" Vladimir, another of the gunmen, scoffed. "James Bond happened. He killed the three of them and completely destroyed the Black Sea complex. NEST teams on loan from the United States are down there now digging up the missiles. In other words, Bond shot Stromberg's entire plan to hell."

"What do you want to do?" Alexei asked.

Sevastyan paused for a moment. "Where is Bond now?" he demanded.

"Our sources tell us he's here, in Russia," Alexei replied.

"Good," Sevastyan sneered. "Let's kill him."

13

JAMES BOND walked briskly down the cold streets of St. Petersburg. The sidewalks were covered in filthy black snow now that the snow had stopped falling. He checked the address once again and then proceeded up the steps to the small, anonymous looking home where Anya had once lived.

As he approached, the door opened a crack and an unshaven, intense looking man with hard brown eyes appeared.

"You're English," the man said bluntly in a deep baritone voice, in English for Bond's benefit.

"What gave it away?" Bond responded.

"I can tell these things. Now what the hell do you want?"

"My name is James Bond, from MI6 in England," Bond said after a moments pause.

The Russian chuckled deeply. "I certainly didn't expect that. Whether or not you're lying, why would I let you in anyway?" the man asked, humor in his voice. Bond thought he saw a hint of recognition in the man's steely gaze when he had mentioned his name, but it was gone instantly. Bond knew he was dealing with a fellow spy.

"It's about your wife, Anya," Bond said deliberately. "I have some bad news."

Ivan Arykov's face softened ever so slightly, and a frown appeared steadily, accompanied by glare from his piercing dark eyes.

"What is this?" he warned warily.

"She's dead," Bond's voice was without emotion; a simple statement.

There was a long silence during which Bond became aware that Ivan was holding a small gun in his left hand.

"Did you kill her?" Ivan's voice cracked and his chin jutted forward.

"No. I worked with her on her last mission. She was killed on assignment by a man named Nicolas Stromberg, a terrorist. It was quick. She didn't suffer," Bond guessed, but kept his voice steady and his face unreadable.

"And why are you telling me this?" Ivan replied.

Bond broke down and softened. "Anya and I…knew each other for a long time."

"Come in," Arykov said grudgingly. "I need to sit down."

Bond slowly stepped through the door into a dark, sparsely furnished room, containing only a couch and a small reading lamp. Ivan collapsed into the sofa. Bond stood.

"I'm sorry," Bond said truthfully.

Ivan remained quiet for a few moments, his head resting on his fist. "Anya guessed it could be coming. She said she was on to something big. Dangerous." Ivan cursed in Russian. He got up and walked into another room. When he returned he was carrying a sleek black laptop computer case. "Anya said if anything ever happened to her to give this to a James Bond. Apparently that's you." He handed the case to Bond, who looked quizzically at it.

"What is on the computer?" he inquired.

Ivan shook his head. "I don't know. She used it for work related stuff. Confidential even to me, her husband and an FSB agent," Suddenly his eyes narrowed and flew to the window. "Friends of yours?"

Bond glanced out the window to see two black SUVs pull up in front of the house. "Doubtful," Bond grimaced. "Nobody knows I'm here. Is there another way out?"

"Back door," Ivan said. "I have weapons in the back room."

Bond and Ivan quickly and silently made their way through the small house to the back, where Ivan pried a print of a Moscow cityscape of the wall to reveal a shelf containing weapons and ammunition. Bond grabbed an Uzi off the shelf and loaded it while Ivan pulled out his sidearm and flicked off the safety.

The two spies exited the house and Bond found himself in a narrow alley with a short driveway to the street. Ivan's vehicle, an old black Mercedes, sat next to a chain link fence. Ivan started up the car with an automatic started and then he and Bond crept closer. When they were right next to the car, the silence was suddenly interrupted by the chatter of machine gun fire from over the fence. The rear windows of the Mercedes were blown to glass shards that rained down on the two agents, who had dived to the ground.

Ivan cursed in Russian. "Who are these guys?" he demanded.

"I'm guessing, the same organization that killed Anya," Bond responded. Then he stood up and let loose a barrage of gunfire from the Uzi. A man wearing a black ski mask and cradling an assault rifle collapsed across the way. Another assailant jumped out in place of his fallen comrade and returned fire. Ivan bent around the vehicle and fired two quick bursts from his weapon, catching the terrorist in the chest. The man cried out and fell to the ground.

Suddenly Bond heard a familiar noise in the distance.

"Get down!" he screamed.

Bond and Ivan both flung themselves away from the car just as a missile came hurtling through the air. It crashed into the car and exploded, letting loose a ferocious blast of superheated air, scorching Bond. He rolled across the gravel drive to smother the flames and then leapt to his feat, firing another round of bullets from his weapon. "We need to get out of here," he said to Ivan.

The Russian nodded and the two ran into the street, staying low to the ground. A few meters up the road, the two SUVs and their owners became visible. One Bond recognized immediately as the Russian terrorist, Sevastyan Aristarkh. Bond pressed his back to the side of the house, out of view from the terrorists. With any luck they thought the two spies were dead.

He craned his head around the corner and fired his weapon, dispatching of the man with the missile launcher: the primary threat. The other three terrorists automatically leapt to the ground, searching for where the shots had been fired from. Bond nodded to Ivan and the two ran around the corner, guns blazing. The terrorists fell to the ground.

Bond approached the bodies in the snow slowly and cautiously until he stood overhead. Sevastyan was still alive. He spat blood at Bond.

"Well well. Sevastyan Aristarkh. We meet at last."

Bond raised his weapon and shot the Russian in the head.

14

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" M asked tersely as Bond entered her office back at Vauxhall Cross.

"I'm guessing you already know. What happened in Moscow, I mean," Bond responded.

M sighed. "It seems we have a lot to talk about, 007. And quite a bit of paperwork after what happened in Iran, Istanbul, and Moscow in addition to this whole traitor business, the SVR agent's death, and those painkillers you seem to continue to frequent even after the gunshot wound should be substantially better."

"We'll talk about all that. Some other time," Bond responded, sitting down on the opposite side of M's antique desk. "Now, about my inquiry for leave of absence? It's been along time since I last visited Shamelady."

"Granted," M responded reluctantly. "Go to your house in Jamaica and drink yourself under the table like you always do. Just expect a rigorous medical examination when you get back. I'd hate to see one of our best agents self destruct."

"Thank you, Ma'am. I'll see you when I return."

JUST HOURS LATER Bond stood calmly on the crystal white beachfront outside of his home on the Jamaican coast, a clear azure surf lapping lazily at his ankles. He didn't make a sound. He placed another painkiller in his mouth to dull the aching of the bullet wound and washed it down with a shot of vodka. He looked up at the fiery red sunset and thought about Anya, and the computer, and decided that this wasn't over.

James Bond Will Return In

Requiem for a Kill