00 Chapter 11
"She confessed to me how terrified she was of him," Naadir moaned staring into his drink, "I should have listened to her. I should have protected her."
"If I could," Bond assured, face lined with stress and exhaustion, "I would do anything to change the last 12 hours. I couldn't do anything to stop it, I watched him attack her and it was like I'd been drugged-"
Naadir laughed with a pained tone of nostalgia, "She always had a way, my bhen, of fixing the strongest drinks. Nadimah always was quite a favourite at parties."
The Agent frowned shaking his head, "It took me out cold, Naadir. I couldn't move to save her. Silva- it was not like him. He's mad, but he always knows exactly what he's doing ten steps before anyone else. I could not have predicted-"
"I don't blame you, Mister Bond, you could not have known what kind of evil lurked in that man's heart. He deceived you. He deceived me. The only one who saw what he truly was is dead now. To think, to be so deranged with jealousy you could take another's life. In the blink of an eye, he snuffed out her existence as one might do a candle flame. So easy he took her from me. From you. I cannot understand how one could commit such a heinous act of hate. I cannot understand... but what does any of it matter." Naadir grimly sighed. "It is such a waste."
The Agent peered up at him thoughtfully from across the small desk, "The day before last night, Naadir, I stood beside your sister on a cliff overlooking the sea-"
"Yes, she went there often I think, she used to always talk of our family. Always, she grieved their loss. It has always been my hope to bring to her some small measure of happiness, but now, it is all meaningless. What can I do? She is gone from me forever. I just hope that she has found her peace."
Bond downed his drink and poured them another round.
"What has become of him?"
"Who? Silva? He's locked away in containment. Restrained, heavily sedated. He poses no more danger to anyone. I've seen to it," Naadir informed, "Later this afternoon, he'll be transported to HQ. Upstairs wants to interrogate him before they put him down like the dog he is."
"That is fitting," Bond callously replied before looking down with a reflective expression, "Perhaps he does deserve to die."
Naadir tilted his head regarding his companion curiously, "How do you mean?"
"I think he died long ago and was replaced by someone else, the man he was once I believe was honourable. Good," the Agent quietly sighed, lost in reverie, "But that man became a shadow; a ghost. Silva is a haunted damaged, empty shell of his former self."
"Do you believe that?"
"I thought maybe that ghost could be resurrected. Enough times, I thought-" Bond snorted darkly and shook his head dismissing the thought, "Never mind, it doesn't matter. I've clearly had too much to drink."
Naadir watched the Agent coolly before changing the subject.
"With regard to my employers, your meeting is still on. I thought you might like to know that."
Bond glanced up and frowned, "What use could they have for me without Silva?"
"They have discussed the situation amongst themselves and seem to have come to a unanimous decision that they might benefit from your particularly unique brand of service," Naadir explained, "Being that you're an ex operative, they believe you possess a set of skills and knowledge of the inner-workings of the SIS. Tomorrow morning, I have arranged to have you meet for negotiations."
The man sighed as he regarded the Agent and shrugged, "At the end of the day, no matter what tragedy or another may befall us, life goes on, with or without us."
"Indeed," Bond agreed contemplatively. It seemed, even if Silva was no longer in the picture, his mission was still on target for potential success.
00
Once again waking up in containment, Silva scowled unhappily as he appraised his situation. Upon testing the integrity of his bindings, he realized, this time, they were more than adequately secure and he knew precisely the reason why as all the puzzle pieces fell into place.
Silva groaned, furious at himself for being so stupid. Before he'd been contained so he could easily escape and fill his end of Naadir's impeccably designed master plan. The bastard had arranged everything down to the last letter to make him look as culpable as possible. He wanted Bond for himself, obviously to turn over to his employers as a tidy little present to put himself back in their good graces. He needed Silva disposed of in order to ensure his position would not be compromised, and all along the way he used his sister to complete his agenda.
Breathing in deeply, he tried to console himself with the fact that Bond was alive and counting back from ten, placed himself into a calming, meditative trance.
When he reopened his eyes he looked around with renewed clarity and observed the details: Small, dim, air-tight room, completely alone, tied securely to a chair, the binding nearly cutting off his circulation, disallowing him any freedom of movement.
Finding his breathing come short on the verge of panic he shut his eyes again and started over the process, counting down from ten.
Ten: he was not in Hong Kong.
Nine: he had not been tortured (yet).
Eight: he was in full possession of his mental faculties.
Seven: James was not dead...
But, Silva cringed, the man would think he'd murdered Nadimah in cold blood.
Silva huffed and started over the process, repeating Ten through Eight before he recited the rest adding an amendment to Seven.
Seven: James was not dead and could be convinced to see the truth with the evidence laid out before him.
Six: there was a camera installed in the corner of the holding cell, he but need to make it known he was awake and draw them to him.
Five: Though he was not particularly as quick with improvisation as James, he wasn't terrible. He'd been a field-agent long before he'd ever taken a position behind the monitors, and was more than capable of managing an exit strategy.
Four: He would exact his revenge upon Naadir, and it would be wonderfully gratifying.
Three: He would find a solution that would allow he and James to successfully complete their mission.
Two: Having completed Three, at the very end, he would have James.
And finally...
One: Silva opened his eyes and grinned with determination.
00
Congregating within a small grove outside of Mesaria, Nadimah was laid to rest.
The funeral was a brief and very private affair consisting of only Bond, Naadir and a few guards watching respectfully from behind. As custom to tradition, Nadimah was lowered into the earth without delay, her burial plot pointing toward Mecca. Though, as Naadir has explained to him, neither of the two had actively practiced their religion, he had still ensured the ceremony be held according to their family's heritage.
The Agent watched solemnly as the bereaved man placed a stone and branch upon the mound of dirt over his buried sister and bowed his head, reciting quietly a few short verses from the Koran.
As the sun set low across the horizon, at last Naadir decided proper respects had been paid and they returned to the Lagana. Offering his condolences once more, Bond excused himself, retiring to his room.
Sans Silva the spacious suite seemed cold and sterile in spite of it's superficial charm. The bleak atmosphere was fitting for the Agent- he felt bleak.
Wandering over to the dresser he pulled out a small case from his luggage and unclasping his watch, he replaced it within the box.
Silva's single diamond cufflink gleamed out at him under the dim glow; sparkling a full spectrum of colours in a domed, radiant prism and Bond found himself strangely drawn to it.
In the palm of his hand it seemed to possess a strange weight; a metaphoric and literal pull of gravity. Curling his fingers into a fist around the small bejeweled accessory, the Agent decisively concluded he'd need a copious amount of liquor.
Having espied a half-consumed bottle of brandy sitting abandoned atop the bureau when he'd initially reentered the suite, Bond finally made his way over to retrieve it with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for it's mere existence. Taking down a long pull of the amber liquid from within, he divested himself of his coat and stripped off the vest beneath. Removing his tie, he unfastened several buttons at his neck, loosening the stiff, restrictive collar and once liberated from his confining garments; inhaled deeply.
Carefully he hung everything in the closet, beside several characteristically ostentatious, designer suits belonging to his former companion. At once, Bond observed how dull; how drab his clothing seemed in comparison. Closing shut the door, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against it's surface suddenly stricken by an overwhelmingly blacker mood than he'd been prior to this moment.
Meandering aimlessly about, the Agent distractedly tidied up, continuing to take deep swigs of the warming brandy in an attempt to quell that keen, indeterminate discomfort twisting him from within. At last, Bond glanced around, discovering he'd wandered into the main bedroom. Kicking off his shoes, he collapsed backward over the top of the large, vacant bed in boneless exhaustion.
Staring up at the stucco ceiling, he heaved a weary sigh; one hand gripping the neck of the bottle while the other lay loosely at his side holding that damned diamond cufflink.
Quietly, he began to chuckle without reason or purpose; the disturbingly unfamiliar sound foreign to his ears as it filled the eery silence of the room. Increasing in decibel the laugh devolved into a terrible cacophony echoing off the walls around him, and the Agent found he could barely catch a breath; wracked by a tortuous onslaught of short, sharp gasps, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes with the force of his mirth.
The Brandy and the cufflink rolled out of his grasp abandoned in the wake of his unremitting torment.
Like a man possessed by some violent entity, Bond, choked, suffocating; consumed by the torrential flood of shattering madness bursting outward from within as he hated himself with blinding, soul-fracturing vehemence for breaking that vow he'd sworn to himself he'd keep until his dying breath.
It was Vesper all over again and yet a thousand times worse.
Rolling upon his side, tears streamed down the Agent's feverish, searing hot face and mustering up any last shred of coherence he retained, he desperately attempted to summon back his errant sense of self-constraint.
Where was his training now when he needed it most?
Eyes shut tight and head bowed into the palms of his hands, Bond walked himself step-by-step through the process of relearning how to breathe, and finally, after several long seconds, at last the gripping mania subsided.
With a final, ragged wheeze, Bond wretchedly collapsed face down upon the blankets, recovering from the high-drop nose-dive into the deep-end of insanity and he lay still; his chest aching with the residual aftershocks.
Sluggishly rolling off the bed, he wandered into the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. Looking up with resignation, he glanced into the mirror at his haggard reflection: the bruised, bloodshot eyes staring back at him cold; emptied of all remaining emotion.
He'd always known his existence would be a solitary one.