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Say You Love Me

Chapter 9.

Bedtime Stories

The big man was tied to a small wooden chair, barely big enough to hold him. He'd been tied there for twenty seven hours. Whenever he tried to drift off, agents of the Istanbul office would drench him with cold water. Whenever he lied or failed to answer questions they beat him with a rubber baton. His face was purpled and puffy.

Running square against the grain of Istanbul fashion, Starling entered the room with a light and airy summer dress. Bond followed in tow and stood back in the room to watch his female counterpart at work. She proceeded up to Poledouris and stood there until he lifted puffy eyelids.

"You remember me?"

Poledouris took one glance and let his head fall.

"HEY! You remember me?"

He looked up again and managed a nod before letting his head fall again.

"Wake him up," she said to station T associates. One young field agent picked up a plastic pitcher of ice water and threw it in the face of Poledouris. He gasped and them blew out a mouthful of water he'd inhaled. At last he seemed to fully comprehend agent Starling.

"Are you with us now?"

He nodded, this time a bit more convincingly.

"Good. Now where do we find Andrei Syncilly?"

He shook his head. "Don't know him," he managed in unpolished English.

"You're lying – he's in your phone – in your contact list."

"No. No he's not."

"Yes he is. His alias: Sergei Isilander – in your phone," she insisted.

"I don't know. I don't know anything."

"We're running out of time – and we'll fucking kill you; do you understand?"

He looked up briefly at Starling and then dropped his head as before. Bond could see she had failed to earn the man's fear. She would have to do something to prove she was willing to kill him. Would she do that? Or the correct question might be: could she?"

She stood there, knowingly repulsed, and getting angrier by the minute. She reached out to smack the sweat and water drenched head. Droplets of water went flying. She had her man's attention once again.

"Look at me," she said. As the man lifted his head, she lifted her skirt and held it there for a few moments. The eyes of Poledouris widened. Standing well behind her, Bond couldn't see what she was showing him.

She then reached across, probably to a left thigh holster and pulled the Glock 19 and dropped the skirt. Bond would have guess she carried it on her right thigh, but maybe that interfered with one of her prized Taekwondo kicks.

"I'm going to blow your ballocks off," she said flatly and informatively. "First your right and then your left."

Now Bond understood that little play with the skirt. She was reminding him exactly what his balls were good for.

The man's eyes widened but failed to show real fear. The explosion of the 9mm in the basement office was deafening. The man jumped, but with legs and arms tied, the chair rocked but never toppled.

There was a pencil sized hole in the chair an inch from the man's groin.

"Are you going to talk? Are you going to tell us how to find Andrei Syncilly?"

Once again the fool looked up unconvincingly and let his head fall.

"I can't see his nuts – pull his waistband tight," she instructed the Station T agents. The same agent pulled the corners of his mouth into a grin. With Poledouris' legs bound to the chair the two agents did as Starling instructed until the man's testicles were clearly outlined by the tight fabric.

"Your last chance," she warned. "Are you gonna talk?"

He looked up groggy but still unresponsive.

Starling made a show of taking careful aim, giving the man every opportunity to put an end to his own demise. Bond could see the muscles in her jaw tighten imperceptibly.

Once more the gun barked, deafening in the small room. Every muscle in the man's body jerked convulsively at that moment. This time the chair nearly came off the ground, rocked, and then toppled over. Jerking so hard the right armrest wall pulled loose. Starling immediately took a bead on the man's head in case he managed to pull himself free.

The two Station T agents quickly righted the chair and used some extra nylon rope to bind the man's arm to his side. The right side of his crotch was a bloody mess.

"Good," said Starling. "Hold him this time."

The two agents held Poledouris by the shoulders. Slowly, Starling extended the weapon and took aim.

"The next one will be between the eyes," she said. Now Bond could see real fear and confusion in the man's eyes.

"No. NO," he pleaded just at the moment the next explosion would have occurred.

"Where is he?" she responded and lowered the gun.

"I talk – I talk."

"Good decision." Starling made a show of lifting the skirt and re-holstered the weapon.

"You tell these men what they want to know. If you don't I'll be back in..." she pointed at the man's crotch. "...and the other one comes off."

With a quick turn, she left the room. It was a good move, thought Bond. There was no need to express further dialogue with Poledouris and perhaps show him her softer side. There was only one thought he was left with. And that was talk or lose the last of his ballocks.

:

Outside Starling squeezed her temples between her thumb and forefinger through an anguished expression.

"You alright?" asked Bond.

"No – of course not."

"You feel like a raki – let's go for a raki."

"It's eleven thirty in the morning James."

"Hell, it's all the more reason then."

Starling chuckled. "Oh, what the hell."

Out on the street, the crowds mingled amid a bright Turkish mid-day sun. Bond was already sweating under the collar of his cotton jacket. They ducked under a pair of large umbrellas into a small establishment that Bond was familiar with.

Bond and Starling were seated around the çilingir sofrası or 'locksmith table'. Making a decent attempt at the language, Bond requested two glasses of raki. Raki, also known as Lions Milk, was made from the juice of twice-distilled grapes and aniseed. It was about forty five percent alcohol and milky in color. The old woman shot him a dubious glace but returned with the two glasses.

Starling took a full taste and then slammed the glass down.

"Damn, that's strong."

"Yes, it is," answered Bond.

"You like this stuff?"

"Not really," he said and grinned.

Starling laughed and took another sip.

"I didn't like doing that. Just wanted you to know."

"Well, don't start feeling sorry for him. You may have to make good on your promise."

"Yeah, and I will – but I just wanted you to know I'm not the kind if woman that looks for opportunities to take a man's balls off."

Bond grinned. "That's good to know, but all the same I'll try not to cross you."

Starling smiled and looked at him a bit dreamily. Perhaps it was the raki or the çilingir sofrası taking effect.

"You know, I've often wondered but..."

"But what?" she asked.

"...well, I've never worked with a woman..."

"That's rather obvious."

"...and it's not generally the kind of question one colleague asks another..."

"Well then, why ask me?"

Bond paused and wrinkled his brows.

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"Oh shit James – go ahead."

"It's about your double-o. I was wondering..."

"About my first kill. Is that's what's bothering you?"

"Curious would be a better word."

"Oh, okay, curious then. So what do you want to know – whether it was a he or a she?"

Bond nodded, too greedy to speak.

"It was a man."

Bond threw up his hand to stop her.

"Don't answer if you had to do something compromising."

Starling couldn't stop from laughing. "Compromising? Why would it be compromising? It was a job. You ever have to shag anyone in the line of duty James?"

Bond smiled. "You're getting away from your story."

"I'll take that as a yes. He was an Eastern European double – had been killing our field agents as well some American friends," she explained and took another taste of rake. "The hit was to be clean, discreet – and nothing in public – no CCTV cameras. Nothing to connect the job to MI6."

Bond nodded approvingly. "How'd it go?" Starling looked a little put off but continued on.

"Well, the target was a ladies man and frequented several well known clubs. So, I pretty much just waited for him."

"For him to find you?"

She nodded. "You know what the hardest part was – avoiding the lot you didn't want to kill. It didn't take too long, but still it must have been a hundred guys that tried to buy me a drink. A couple did – the one's I felt might be happy with just talking."

She knocked back the last of the raki and sighed.

"He wasn't too bad – as a guy that is. Hated to kill him really, but I kept thinking of the families of those field agents."

"Use a gun?"

"No. It needed to be quiet, and I didn't have the time to attach a suppressor. He followed me up to my room but was very suspicious. But I was dressed for the job – short skirts with high splits, low necklines, heels, and that kind of shite. He should have known better," she confessed and shook her head. "It was quiet. He pushed me down on the bed. I had a dagger under the pillow and a gun under the mattress in the case the knife didn't work."

Starling took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Well," she said and waved her hand dismissively. "After a time, when he was suitably distracted, I pulled the dagger out from under the pillow. It was his last kiss. I put it right between the cervical vertebrae with a little twist. He never knew what hit him. Made a hell of a mess though."

Bond smiled wryly.

"So," she said and looked hard at Bond. "Am I one of the guys now? A regular mate?"

Bond nodded a bit sideways.

"I'll try and picture you as a regular mate."

There was a quiet pause and then Starling's phone went off. She recognized the number and listened for a few moments before returning the phone to a small bag.

"It's time for us to go back. They want us to look at the transcript, but they think we've got enough."

"That's good. This was well handled Sam. We didn't have a minute to spare."

The mid-day sun outside the Turkish pub was blinding now. He followed Starling's swishing summer dress back to the station office. So they were on first names basis now. Wasn't that cozy. Still, after listening to her story, and watching her coldly remove Poledouris' right nut, this might not be a woman to get warm with.

‡‡‡‡‡

"No," Bond said flatly. "I know you despise Istanbul but it makes no sense returning to London."

Rebuked, Starling sat stoically over their morning meal.

"So what do we do in the interim?" she snarled.

"We go back over everything Poledouris told us."

"But we've done that and gotten nowhere – every day we sit here the trail gets a day colder."

Bond shook his head. "I know, but it wastes less money killing time here than in London. Besides, we should get word from Bradley in a few days – maybe sooner." Bond put his fork down and pointed a finger. "And you should get used to this."

"And why the hell is that?" she asked suspiciously.

"You'll often find yourself stuck in some undesirable port of call. It makes you think. It makes you learn to be resourceful, and good things often follow."

"Oh," she said with animation. "Thanks dad."

Bond nodded deeply. "Alright, be a smart arse then."

She instantly regretted the offensive quip. She put her hand over his.

"Sorry James, I know you're right – Istanbul, it's just a bit stifling you know."

Bond instantly caught her eye and accepted her gesture as repentance. It was enough. He liked the new Starling much better than the old one. The last thing he needed now was her slipping backwards into melancholy.

"It won't be long," he said and went back to the poached eggs and toast.

:

It was five days. And during that time, Starling's mood was morose but alert and entirely professional. She kept her head in her phone, often checking it for news and the connections that seemed to Bond as a trademark of her generation.

"James," she announced over lunch, "it's new from Bradley!"

"Anything solid?"

"Yes, and guess where?" she said with the first excitement in a week.

"I give up," he surrendered after a pause. "What... and where?"

"Syncilly silly – electronic activity shows him in Paris."

"You're not serious?"

"I am – when can we leave."

"Hell, let's pack now..."

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond would have expected some hole in the world far more boring than Istanbul. But Paris? It just felt like an unlikely destination for a man who knew he was wanted. Syncilly had jumped Istanbul just as soon as he Poledouris was apprehended. No doubt the man knew he was a target. He must of have connections in Paris to travel to a city in the middle of the law enforcement capital headquarters of Europe.

After a longer than normal and bumpy flight they settled down at the Charles De Gaulle International. Quickly gathering in baggage they moved straight away toward the area for passenger departures. Dressed in business professional, Starling was back into trousers and the bulky jacket. Viewed from the back, she could almost be mistaken for a man if it weren't for the shoulder length pageboy. Her mouse-brown hair had been lightened from the Turkish sun even though it had done nothing to improve her spirits.

One phone call to 'Universal Exports' verified the car and driver as authentic. With the driver's help Bond stowed his and Starling's gear and joined his colleague in the back seat.

"The Lancaster," Bond said to the driver, a young man in his mid twenties. The young man appeared pleased, but Starling looked puzzled.

"I thought we were going to the Eiffel Seine," she said with obvious disappointment.

"I changed our bookings."

"You didn't tell me," she retorted.

"Take my word for it – you'll feel better at the Lancaster," Bond replied.

"It's an excellent hotel Miss," piped in the driver, with better than average English.

"I'm sure you're right," she said to Bond, "but you should have told me."

"Sorry – you were in a hurry, remember?"

Starling gave him a sour look and went back to her closest friend – her phone.

:

The Lancaster was a smaller hotel than many, but staffed with helpful employees and lavishly furnished. Unlike the bigger chain hotels that suffered you through any inconvenience and then tried to rectify the problem by offering a discount for the next visit, the 'Lancaster' got it right the first time.

Bond's room was small but comfortably cozy and attractively decorated. He tossed his bags on the bed and peeled off the jacket and threw it over a chair. Starling had declined his invitation for dinner, so he went down to the bar for couple of beers.

Bored with the Parisian coverage of sporting event and two flat beers, he went for a stroll around the building. It was pretty much the same as his last visit, but it never hurt to familiarize oneself with one's surroundings.

He returned to the lift and pushed the UP button. He was clueless about the evening and was thinking of looking up some old friends when the doors popped open to reveal Starling in the back dressed in spandex with a towel around her neck. She's been using the workout machines in the basement. Her hair was tied behind her and droplets of perspiration gathered on her forehead and between her breasts.

She looked up. "Oh, it's you." For a brief self-conscious moment, she looked uncomfortable and wiped her brow and tamped her chest lightly with the towel. Suddenly, she let the towel fall as if embarrassed by the show of vanity.

"Been working out," he said as a statement and not as a question. "I guess I should do that sometimes."

"Yes – you ought to."

There was an awkward moment of silence and the lift doors popped open. They both walked away in silence.

Back in the room, Bond changed into a bathrobe while waiting for the water to get hot. He stripped out of the bathrobe and had one foot in the shower when he heard the phone. With three quick strides he had the device in hand. It was Starling's number.

"This-s Bond."

"James."

"Yeah, you alright?"

"No – not quite. Is it too late to accept your invitation for dinner?"

"Let me check my calender," he said and paused playfully. "Uhmmm, I think I can just squeeze you in."

"Super – what time?"

"Let's say six o'clock in the garden behind the hotel."

"Fine, and what's the dress – formal?"

"You want an honest answer?"

"Of course not – I'll meet you at six."

:

At five thirty, showered and fresh, Bond went down to the 'La Table Du Lancaster'. He took a seat in the far corner of the garden restaurant and enjoyed a beer while waiting for Starling. Fifteen minutes later he spotted her checking in with the Maitre d'. The man mumbled something in French and escorted her in Bond's direction.

She paused in front of the table and modeled her dress.

"It's the only fresh thing I've got left. I was afraid to wear it in Istanbul."

Bond laughed. "I'm glad you didn't – we'd would never got you out."

The khaki colored shirt dress was well above the knee. Even with short heels she was all legs. It was clearly unbuttoned an extra button or two down the front.

"Have a seat – please." He'd decided in Istanbul to drop formalities and just be his ballsy chauvinistic self. And so far, Starling appeared to appreciate the effort.

"It's perfect," he said, still focused on the frock. "Where do you hide a gun in that?"

She didn't reply but made a move with four fingers inside her placket. He guessed it was tucked under her left breast in one of those fancy holsters that clipped to the bottom of her bra.

"Clever. I like that," he said, and motioned for the sommelier.

The young man came running up and stopped at their table and handed Bond the wine list.

"Nous avons un vin régional spécial disponible," he said, invitingly.

Bond took one look and handed the menu back to the waiter.

"Ce sera parfait," he replied. The waiter smiled understandably and scampered off to return a minute later with the wine.

After he had poured them a glass and disappeared Starling began.

"Shouldn't we be moving on Syncilly?"

Bond nodded. "I suppose – yes, but since we're relying on Bradley to provide the trail of breadcrumbs we should do it carefully. We sure as hell don't need another Brazil."

"Has Bradley said anything as to why the hell he's here?" she asked.

"Don't think so. But it must be something here besides work. I mean, there's safer places than Paris to crack banks."

Finally, an exuberant waiter approached the table to take their orders.

"Comment se fait le vin? Bonne?" he asked.

"Oui, très bon," replied Starling and returned her back to the menu. The menu was divided into separate selections for men and women.

"This damn thing is sexist."

"That's the French for you."

After a proper period of deliberation, with too short being rude and too long as being frivolous, Starling began.

"I'll have the Dublin bay prawns and Seabass."

"Excellent choice madam."

The waiter then turned to Bond.

"For me: the Pan fried foie gras, and Fillet of poultry."

The waiter smiled and followed that with curt bow before scampering off.

"Did we get anything useful from Bradley today?"

"Restaurant bills, a car rental, and a few other things. The car rental might help us."

"In Paris?" she asked. "It would be great if we had his hotel."

"I'm sure he's using an alias for that. But the car may help. With any luck it has a satellite tracker – most of the newer cars do."

Starling nodded approvingly.

"That's why I'm thinking he's here for some kind of occasion or event," Bond went on. "I'm guessing we have a week and no more."

"Well, tomorrow then," said Starling. "Let's bust his arse."

Bond nodded. "Yeah, let's do that – and without losing our own."

:

Pulled from slumber by Email and text notices popping off on a regular basis, Bond tried to hide under a pillow to no avail. Each innocent sounding aural apostrophe grew louder and more obnoxious until he was finally compelled to investigate.

It was Bradley. No doubt his team had been burning the midnight oil. Damnit all to hell, could they at least wait until a proper hour to send all this shite. Putting the phone back on the table, Bond pulled the blinds up enough to investigate. It was a bright and clear morning. Already, pedestrian and automobile traffic clogged the streets. Now even nature was getting into the act, and everyone wanted him up and moving.

Flashes of the night before ran before his eyes. Starling had tread again into her young but storied past. The more he listened the more he realized they had nothing in common. Yet it was amusing and simple fun to hear her go on. He could have continued through another bottle of wine. He was pulled along by her youth and beauty with no desire to get back to business at hand. Once, she bent over to whisper something confidential and let her top fall open. She didn't seem to give a damn. In the old days that gesture might have meant something, but not now. It was a different time and a different place and shit like that meant nothing.

He had to finish this assignment and move on to where ever his destiny called him. A new job or a retirement home, whichever came first. He'd go mad if he stayed around Starling for much longer.

Finally the phone rang loudly, rattling on the table top. It was Starling's number.

"Bond here."

"James – are you awake?"

"I am now."

She chuckled.

"Have you checked your Email?"

"This morning?

"Yeah, this morning," she said through a chuckle. "And the reports from Bradley?"

"Have I read reports from my phone? No, of course not."

"Well, you missed the news – the have him – they picked up Syncilly. And you're right – there was a tracking device in his Citroën. He got into a traffic accident last night and the police ran the wire on him."

"They have him then?" Bond asked, still half asleep.

"Yes, yes. Him and more. Meet me for breakfast in thirty minutes – can you do that?"

"Yeah – thirty minutes – I'll be there," he said and rang off.

:

It took all of the thirty minutes to get it together. Doing most of the drinking as Starling did the talking had left him hungover and tired. He would have guessed they had a couple of days before having to move on Syncilly. Who would have expected him to be dropped in their lap?

Starling was already seated, glued to her phone over coffee. Dressed in a cotton tee and jeans, he thought casual might be her best look yet.

"Good morning," she said when he neared the table.

"Morning. So what's the big news?" Bond motioned to a waitress carrying a stainless steel carafe of coffee.

"The police have Syncilly now. We intercepted the signal from the tracker and gents from the Paris office helped stage the accident. Apparently, he got into a tussle with our lot and someone called the police. The police were suspicious with all the shit in his car and ran the wire on him – bingo."

The waitress returned with the coffee. Bond fidgeted Impatiently while he waited for her to fill his cup and set the table.

"Okay," he said, "what kind of shit?"

"A gun, electronic devices, all kinds of stuff. They went through his phone and found an interesting invitation for Saturday night."

Bond, tested the coffee and immediately put it back down.

"An invitation? What kind of invitation?"

"To a masked-masquerade party!" she said with a smile. "On a French country estate."

"And that affects us – how?"

"All the guests are members of a criminal network of some kind – it's our best lead yet! They don't think Syncilly had a chance to warn anyone that he's detained."

Bond shook his head. "You're not thinking..."

Starling nodded. "Yes… I am. We should go James – it's perfect."

"Perfect – perfect for what? To get us killed?"

Starling pulled a face.

"No! Of course not – it's on a famous country estate. Besides, I've always wanted to go to one of those. Haven't you?"

:

A/N: Again – much thanks to AmalieNico for comments. Also, deepest grats to all who read, faved, or followed. G.S.