"Peer Review"
A James Bond Story
By Who Is Caligula, 2007
Part I
Bond was guided to a rusted platform where the metal lattice floor allowed beams of white light to flicker around his boots in a curious fashion. The faint stench of formaldehyde lingered in his sinuses, despite being several meters away from the main hallway. Bond found it tolerable at best. A man with his experience wants no reminder of the many odorous memories he must bear till the end of his days.
"Doctor Wiseman will be with you in a moment" piped the statuesque grad student who took it upon herself to be Bond's tour guide shortly after he'd entered the building. She nearly skipped down the stairs like a schoolgirl on Christmas morning. For someone so bubbly, Bond found her departure to be unusually quick. Perhaps he should have been more amiable; she seemed silly and flirtatious during their little walk, but time constraints kept him from playing the role of the flattered bachelor. He wasn't normally one to appear prudish, but his goal was-
"Can I help you?"
Bond's thoughts were interrupted by the researcher's voice at the other side of the dark observation post. There was a partially illuminated silhouette somewhere in the blackness, cast in a dull shade of blue. Bond guessed there was a computer monitor nearby. He approached the figure with an outstretched hand, hoping to use friendly charm to buy himself some extra time.
"Good evening. My name is Bond".
"Bond?" she barked abruptly, the echo of rubber soles on metal as she stepped into the light to meet him. He was not altogether impressed when the harsh light of the laboratory struck her wrinkled face. Perhaps his initial meeting with the grad student had spoiled him.
"Bond, yeah. I remember. You called about someone you were lookin' for this mornin', right?" Her eyes darted up from her laptop only after she'd finished speaking. Seeing his extended palm, she took it, and shook weakly.
Cold, as expected. Bond was glad, yet he allowed his posture to relax far more than his mind.
"You've got a sharp memory, ma'am. Yes, I was looking for an old friend. A researcher by the name of Alex Kratovsky. I believe he was working under your tutelage here recently."
Bond's impatience was making him sound a bit too much like someone from law enforcement. He had to watch that.
"Recently?" she snapped back. There was an unrestrained New York twang to her voice. Bond was surprised he hadn't noticed it sooner.
"Yes, in the past month or so. You wouldn't happen to-"
"Yeah, I remember Alex. Haven't seen him in a few weeks, though. Left for some business trip, but I forgot where. You want his cell number?"
Hardly any effort was made to snag an r onto the end of number. She spoke quickly, too. Definitely New York.
"Certainly, if you have it. Seems like he's a tough fellow to get a hold of".
"Gimme a sec, hon. I'll see if I can dig it up for ya."
He watched as she clicked her fingers on the keyboard for several seconds before snatching a manila folder in her clawed appendages and heading into a nearby office area. Bond followed behind her at a modest distance, ever the submissive guest.
"Alex was the pale guy, right? Thinning hair and thick glasses. I do faces much better than names".
Bond reached into his breast pocket and extracted a casual looking headshot of the grinning Alex Kratovsky. She squinted at it for a brief moment, nodding once before ruffling through a messy mountain of papers on her desk.
Bond studied the small office space with the insatiable curiosity of an American tourist. He really was a foreigner here, so she probably wouldn't find his probing eyes terribly distressing. That was his hope, anyway.
Most of the office was lined with papers, some bearing harsh creases and crumpled edges. It magnified the pale color of the room, from the pearly furniture to the harsh white walls and cracking ceiling. Still, Bond found it unusually Spartan, not what one would expect from an old woman. There were no colorful trinkets lining the shelves or showy diplomas hanging on the walls. The walls were extremely bare, in fact. The only outstanding item he noticed was a small, metal picture frame housing a black and white photo. A handsome young couple grinned silently, with the man's smile appearing somewhat forced. Bond guessed the good doctor was a widow from an intense, but probably happy marriage. She obviously wouldn't have this singularly framed picture in her office if it didn't mean anything to her. He considered asking her about the photo, but thought better of it.
"Here ya go. You can keep that, if ya want. It's all stored on the network, so we don't need it anyway".
Bond took the thin red folder from her trembling hand. He glanced through it, and was surprised to find an assortment of contact information, including a home address and two emergency contacts in the event of a crisis. This would give him quite a bit to work with. But before starting, there was one last thing he needed to do.
"This will be helpful. Thank you, Doctor Wiseman."
She grinned meekly before rising back to full height, a trying task for a person her age.
"I'd still like to ask you a few questions about Alex, if you have a moment to-"
"Look, I gave ya everything I have on this fellah. If ya want something else, you'll have to look someplace else. I only worked with him on two projects, so I don't know much about him."
"But you know some things about him, yes? Even small details might be helpful in locating him. I could meet you later in the evening, when you have some free time."
Bond studied the doctor's aged, tired features. She had her plate full as it was, and didn't want to be bothered by some foreigner in fancy clothes. This authoritative appeal wasn't going over well. He needed to win her over, and not let his impatience drive his actions.
"Let me buy you dinner, at least. To thank you for your help."
"Fine. I was gonna meet my daughter tonight at Angelo's, but I'm sure she won't mind if you show up with me. She just got back from California. She's a very nice girl, you know. Not half bad-lookin' for a gal with thirty some years on her".
Bond smiled and nodded politely, pretending as best he could to have an interest in the good doctor's personal affairs. In truth, he was beginning to feel like he could trust her a bit more than his initial feelings allowed him. She was either completely unaware of the danger she was in, or she was a very good actor.
Danger.
Perhaps waiting until dinner was a bit risky. It was alright, though. He had a bit more to work with now, and he could use what few hours remained to do a little digging. She should be safe for the time being, anyway. After all, the poor woman could turn out to be a dead end, in which case Bond would need to resort to more direct methods of operation. He politely bid farewell to the good doctor before exiting her office and made his way down the familiar, metal lattice steps. He took a sharp breath before passing into the hallway, hoping to steel himself against the nauseating stench from cheap containers of chemically preserved corpses. He never really understood the purpose of forcing school children to perform dissections on dead animals. In any case, the pungency of formaldehyde was far more sickening than the sight of any disemboweled frog. It was lucky he'd taken the sharp breath, because he hadn't managed more than a few strides down the hall when something knocked the wind clear out of his lungs and nearly forced him to his knees.
"Hands on the wall, now! Do it, now!"
Bond obeyed the oddly familiar voice, and pressed his palms against the cold blue tile. His pulse raced involuntarily, but he steadied himself quickly with controlled breathing until he came to his senses several seconds later. There had been great power in that voice, but its pitch sounded rather high. A female police officer?
A single hand deftly washed across his body, frisking him with an almost military efficiency. He'd been frisked countless times, and gauged this one to be the result of many years of experience. It was a far cry from the slow, lazy groping of that inattentive Venezuelan mercenary from two summers past. Poor fellow lost a tooth for that sloppy work, but at least Bond hadn't been forced to kill him. Hopefully he'd know better next time. Whoever was frisking him at the moment certainly knew what they were doing. An experienced police officer, perhaps.
Bond instantly recognized the sensation of cold metal at the base of his neck.
"Eyes forward, pal. No sudden moves", came the voice, softer and yet just as menacing.
Actually, Bond had long suspected that people with his skills were largely responsible for the booming PMC industry. Even the United States government couldn't resist the lure of experienced, professional guns for hire anymore. Most U.S. citizens just went about their lives, thinking their country's own military had a good handle on things. Many of them had only a very superficial understanding of their own nation's infrastructure. Sad, really.
The frisk ended as quickly as it began. His Walther P99 was ripped crudely from its holster. Bond was thankful he'd left the safety on; whoever held his gun now probably wouldn't have shed tears over an accidental discharge, particularly if the stray round punctured his stomach.
Hands off. The woman – whoever she was – wisely put some distance between herself and her suspect. It would be very difficult for Bond to disarm her without getting hurt in the process. She obviously was expecting his arrival, and expressed no surprise when she removed the loaded firearm from his person. He was still a very serious threat, but she seemed to take every precaution. Bond considered his predicament while she cuffed him, which allowed him less than three seconds.
"What are you, some police officer? Do you have a badge?"
"Yeah, I got a badge. Now turn around, and do it slowly, before I shove it halfway up your ass."
Americans, Bond thought. They certainly had their way with the English language.
"Listen, I think there's been some mistake-"
"Shut it. Should've played the bystander card before I pulled the gun off ya. Now you're goin' to the station. Open the door."
Now facing his captor, Bond was taken aback by the images his eyes were sending to his brain. This was the grad school student, still clad in a small white tee and low-fitting blue jeans, with a pistol aimed squarely at his chest. Those happy brown eyes were now dark with intent, and her cutesy, musical tone was now sullied with the grit of Brooklyn streets. Her skin was olive and looked tough enough to withstand years of urban chaos. She reminded Bond of a Brazilian woman he'd once spent the evening with, but that woman had been a portrait of polite behavior and traditional Latino femininity. This woman, she was something else. The attack had been so fast, she could have easily killed him a dozen times over by now if she'd wanted to. Bond never saw it coming. She had fooled him well right from the start. A hormonal schoolgirl one moment, and a powerhouse of deadly precision the next.
Bond found this fresh blend of fiery, feral animal and exotic beauty to be more than a little erotic.
"I said open it, pal. Hold the door open and stay right there".
Bond did as he was told, but made no effort to conceal his smirk. She passed very close to him as she exited the corridor and stepped outside, keeping the gun trained on him, their eyes never breaking contact. No chances, indeed. Whoever she was, she obviously knew enough not to take her eyes off him.
Such a fixation could work to his advantage, he thought. He grinned more freely now, breathing the clean autumn air which smelled nothing like formaldehyde. She didn't appear to relax a single muscle in that taut little body. One suspicious move and she would pounce on him like a tiger. Bond's imagination wasn't helping to quiet his libido, but he appeared unworried.
Had the parking lot been busier, they would have seemed quite the conspicuous pair. A well-dressed gentleman in handcuffs being escorted to a squad car by a young woman in street clothes, wielding what Bond correctly believed to be a Glock 19. He'd never seen such a weapon in the hands of an NYPD officer, though. In fact, the last time he'd seen a similar Glock variant was on the mutilated body of a Shin Bet agent back during his investigation of a major terrorist threat in Jerusalem. It had been a close call, but the Israelis knew how to get things done. The severity of that crisis had been completely shielded from the public's eyes, of course.
"Get in the car, go on."
She'd even opened the rear door of the squad car without breaking eye contact. Bond was certain that far fewer Venezuelan teeth would litter the ground had those careless drug lords bothered to hire a real professional like this one.
He still couldn't be sure of her status as an officer of the law. Imitating a police officer was far easier than most people assumed. The usual problem was that the imitators were trying to elevate their perceived power through act of imitation; in this instance, Bond thought it far more likely that this imitator would be trying to diminish her perceived level of authority. Which meant that she knew far more than she let on.
She held the door open with one hand and used the other to keep the Glock sighted on his torso. Only when he ensconced himself in the center of the vehicle did she break eye contact and holster her weapon at last.
"You know, the last time a woman put me in cuffs-"
She slammed the rear door shut. No one paid heed to the NYPD squad car as it left the vacant university parking lot.