Underground War

by Midge Wood

James Bond hated two types of missions the most: the ones where he was made to interfere in personal affairs, and the ones where he was made to kill in cold blood. His current mission encompassed both.

He stared at the distant back of Sayid Jarrah's head with a frown, wishing he could at least stop for a drink to make the mission go faster. But Jarrah had been on the go as of 15 minutes prior, and as the phone call he received at the start of those 15 minutes had inspired this journey, Bond assumed he was going somewhere important. The information he could get out of this man would be as useful as ending his life, if not more. Gathering intelligence would certainly be less splashy than killing a celebrity.

Bond knew enough about Jarrah to be cautious in his approach. He knew Jarrah was a former intelligence officer for the Iraqi Republican Guard and that assassination was his present occupation. He knew that Jarrah had a recognizable face due to being one of the so-called Oceanic 6, lucky survivors of the infamous Oceanic flight 815 crash. In short, he knew very well that he could not attack in the dark without expecting a fight, and he could not attack in the light while evading notice.

As an assassin, Jarrah had managed to keep a low profile, traveling around the world with minimal attention directed his way. It helped that the homecoming of the Oceanic 6 happened over a year ago, and recognition rarely went beyond a vague inquiry as to whether one had seen his face before. Because of that lack of interest, Bond presumed, Jarrah managed to be quite successful as an assassin. He hadn't killed any major political figures, anyone who wasn't a criminal. Officially speaking, there was no reason why the MI6 would send one of its agents to kill him. The only reason why Bond was following him was because Jarrah happened to get on the bad side of a rich man with power: Charles Widmore, a businessman whose fingers were entrenched in several industries, who made a saint of himself through philanthropy, and who happened to be good friends with M, the otherwise hardened leader of the MI6 who had been somehow swayed by Widmore's concern for his own daughter. According to Widmore, this man, Jarrah, was hot on her trail.

What Bond didn't understand was why Widmore insisted that the government waste its resources to clear up a personal drama, nor could he understand why he was going after Jarrah and not Jarrah's boss. Jarrah clearly wasn't a free agent. There were no records on the books of any agency that showed he was for hire, and yet all his kills had been of people in no way connected to him. Someone was clearly sending Jarrah to kill these people, someone who might have the resources to hire another assassin if Jarrah wound up dead. Bond assumed Jarrah was on his way to speak to this someone now.

Presently Jarrah stopped in front of a store. He knocked on the door, waiting a few minutes before he was admitted in. Bond had been following Jarrah from the other side of the street and had kept himself hidden during this stop. He took note of the store -- a veterinarian's office -- and walked away.

He would come back later, much later, to investigate.

He awoke to the sound of dogs barking. He felt himself restrained against a hard, cold metal table, and could see, through the peach colored shade of his eyelids, a bright light pouring down on him. He only felt sore at the back of his head and around the restraints; there had been no struggle to drag his unconscious body from the alley into the inside of the building. Oh, something else was wounded – his pride, for being so easily caught – but, like the pain in his head, was something Bond could overcome without effort. The restraints, on the other hand...

"You're awake," droned a voice. American. Certainly not Jarrah. Bond turned his head in the voice's direction, his eyelids flying open. All he could see was the haze of the light and the faintest hints of a man sitting beyond it, his light colored shirt and his white vinyl gloves. Bond could not see his face.

"Who are you?" he groaned.

"I'm Sayid's boss. I believe you were looking for me? I know your orders were to find and kill Sayid, but I know you have a habit of embellishing upon your orders." The man walked closer. Bond still could see no more than his clothes and his gloves. "I know a lot about you, Mr. Bond. I know you work for the MI6, I know your code name is 007. I know you answer to M, the head of the MI6. I even know what M's name is. But that's irrelevant. What is relevant is the name of the man on whose behalf M sent you: Charles Widmore."

Bond turned his face back up towards the light, his eyes closed. "I don't know who you're talking about."

"Of course you don't. Denials are pointless, anyway. I just want you to listen to what I have to say." He paused. "Are you listening?"

"Go on."

"All right. I want to warn you ahead of time that you're going to lose this battle, and that your involvement in this war between myself and Mr. Widmore goes no further than this brief incident. No matter what you do, what you deny, after tonight you won't be on our trail. Now I won't tell you how you're going to lose, but rest assured, you will."

Bond scoffed. "Don't be so sure of that."

"But I do want to tell you why you're going to lose," the man continued, disregarding Bond's taunt. "Or, I should say, why this whole mission is futile. This war is between Charles Widmore and myself. Not between myself and England. Charles Widmore may have an inflated opinion of himself, but his interests are not the country's interests."

"What about his daughter?"

"Mr. Bond, does the MI6 send its best agents to hunt down the people trying to kill the daughter of any old citizen of England? Charles Widmore got a favor because he's wealthy and in with M, but M wouldn't have sent you here if he at all thought this mission would take longer than a gunshot. Believe me, Bond. It will take longer than a gunshot. People who have more invested in this war than you have been trying to find me and kill me, and they've all been unsuccessful. It's in your best interests and England's best interests that you stop this wild goose chase right now. Anyway, as I said, you won't have much of a choice but to stop, after that."

The man had come closer. Faintly, he could see his face, but not so well that he could identify him on the street. What Bond could see, clear as day, was the man's gloved hands hovering over him with a needle. He began to fight against the restraints, knowing the act was futile. "What are you going to do, kill me?" Bond said.

The man laughed. "No. But when you wake up, you'll be far away from here."

The last thing Bond felt was the needle sticking in to his skin.

"The shop's been cleaned out."

"And no trace of Jarrah or his boss?"

"None. They vanished."

M, Bill Tanner (the Chief of Staff), and Bond were sitting in M's office. Bond hadn't said a word during the meeting, opting instead to stare out the window behind M's desk.

M folded his hands beneath his chin, looking at his desk thoughtfully. "And you don't recall anything about your transportation from Berlin to your home?"

"No," replied Bond, finally shifting his eyes from the window to M.

"We spoke to his maid, May," Tanner added. "She doesn't recall seeing anyone strange around the house, and there were no signs of forced entry." He paused. Bond sensed Tanner was holding in his frustration. After a moment, Tanner resumed: "So what do we do now? I doubt Widmore will be pleased to hear we failed him, but then I don't give a damn what Widmore thinks."

Bond smirked to himself.

"I doubt he would be pleased to hear that the man who's going to kill his daughter is still on the loose," said M, "but there's little we can do about it. Unless," he looked at Bond, "you're willing to still look for him."

"It would be a waste of my time," Bond said coolly.

"Haven't you any sympathy for the man or his daughter?"

Bond shrugged, and reached into his pocket for his gunmetal cigarette case. "If he's that concerned he'll find someone else to do it for him."

M looked at Bond thoughtfully for a moment, then sighed. "You're dismissed," he curtly said to both men.

With a nod to M and the Chief of Staff, Bond left M's office, barely acknowledging Miss Moneypenny as she looked hopefully at him as he passed. It was an honor she shared with all others who passed Bond, more interested in returning to his office than saying hello to his colleagues. Once there he shut the door behind him, lit the cigarette he had been carrying all the way from M's office, and stood in front of the window, wondering where Jarrah was now, wondering what would happen to Widmore's daughter now that the MI6 was off the case.

He told himself he didn't care.

He couldn't help a bit of concerned curiosity, nevertheless.