1 / The Finish Line

Rain in London always made people run for their homes or businesses. The streets were like glass, and few actually had umbrellas when they were needed. James Bond strode through the rain like it was nothing. The large building overlooking Regent's Park was his destination, and its sillhouette in the cloudy morning looked even more gloomy than usual. He pushed open the door, greeted the receptionist, and took the elevator to the floor not indicated by any button, but by a key, which only a select few had.

He walked the halls, stopping at his office to put his coat over his chair. He passed by the Double Oh Section's secretary, Ms. Mary Goodnight, and gave her a small greeting, then knocked on M's door. She allowed him in and told him to sit down. It was a full five minutes before she said anything. "What do you know about race horses, 007?"

He shrugged. "Not much. A dozen or so horses run around a track, why?"

She slid a paper across her desk. "This is a race in Mashhad, Iran. They just built a new stadium there, specifically for this race."

"What's so special about it?" He took a look at the paper. It was a newspaper article about the race and the track.

"You see the man in off to the left of the two jockeys?"

Bond focused on the left side of the paper. A nearly balding man stood there, holding on to a whipping cane. "What of him?"

"His name, Double Oh Seven," M said from behind him, "is Milton Kaine, and as of yesterday, he's a person of extreme interest."

Goodnight smiled, and turned her chair around. Bond spun around and saw M, carrying a similar newspaper article. "Ma'am."

"Good evening, James. I'll see you in my office?"

"Right away."

111

"Milton Kaine is a philantropist, and a buyer of very sensitive materials in hot spots throughout the Middle East."

Bond looked up from the table and asked, "What kind of sensitive materials?"

Bill Tanner, M's Chief of Staff, handed him a dossier. "We believe he's purchased six nuclear suitcase weapons left over from the days of the Soviet Union. We know he's a supporter of Russia's hardliners, and not exactly a friend to the American government either."

"Have the Americans or Russians sent anyone to deal with him?"

"You're looking at them," M said, pointing to the two jockys, "those two are Russian agent Pavel Norsoff and American Terrance Berg. Neither one of them has been heard from since the infiltration mission."

"You think Norsoff and Berg are dead?"

"So does the CIA and FSB. That's why we're not sending you undercover. There's a race, this Saturday, at the Mashhad track. You've already got a seat directly behind Kaine, and a weapon will be smuggled to you once you're seated."

"I prefer to go in armed."

"Not an option this time, 007. There are probably a half dozen security checkpoints all throughout the track. One of our moles, a vendor, can get the weapon in unnoticed. All you'll need to do is find an opportune time to put a bullet in the back of Kaine's head."

111

Bond flashed his falsified passport to the man at the security checkpoint. It read 'Robert Sterling', and had a picture of Bond enhanced with a moustache, corresponding with the fake one he was wearing. The track looked like any other horse race track, or like any other race track, for that matter. This new one was one of the largest in the world, and it seemed as though the entire Razavi Khorasan Province was in attendance.

Milton Kaine's seat was on row 18, seat 42. Bond's was the corresponding seat in row 19, where his shot would have maximum efficency. His weapon would be his trusty Walther P99, set under the seat when the specific vendor passed by and happened to drop something in front of Bond.

There were ten specific races that day, each with their own five horses and five riders and five owners. What M had not told him, either by choice or by absence of knowledge, was that Kaine would not be there until the tenth and final race, as he was cheering for his son's horse. Bond had to sit through four hours of races until the moment when Kaine finally arrived.

They were into the race when the vendor—Bond recognized him from the photo Tanner had shown him back at headquarters—finally came by with the handgun, a suppressor attached to it. Bond had decided when he would make the shot. Kaine never stood up when anyone else in the stands cheered, for his horse or any other. It would be very easy for Bond to keep the handgun concealed beneath his jacket, along his right leg, and then fire when the crowd was cheering.

His moment came once Kaine's horse hit the finish line first, and everyone stood except for Bond and Kaine. Bond squeezed the trigger, and the bullet hit its mark: the one patch of hair Kaine had on the back of his head. Since the man still had dark hair, the wound would go unnoticed until they started to leave.

Bond made his exit first, stashing the gun beneath Kaine's own seat and quickly making for the stairs to the left. When he passed a trash recepticle, he dumped both the moustache and his jacket, which would throw off anyone who'd seen him enter somewhat easily.

As he walked down the entrance steps to return to the parking lot, he passed a rather attractive blonde walking in. "Excuse, me, miss?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think you'll want to go in there. The races are over."

"Oh! I thought I had at least another hour left."

"Sorry." He smiled. "Shall I make it up to you? Drinks, at my hotel?"

She smiled. "I'm not sure. Should I get drinks with a tall, blonde stranger?"

"I insist."

"Very well." She walked toward him. "Naomi Fisher, Mr., uh?"

"Bond. James Bond."