CHAPTER 9
The harsh crunch of gravel beneath his shoes. His heart thumping loudly
in his ears, deafening him. Sweat dripping down his forehead. All of
these things were a distraction to Bond.
He and Forester were crouched low behind a stone wall. On the
opposite side was the mansion where the party was taking place. If one
were to stand fully upright they would be at least one head taller than the
stone wall.
Forester was panting loudly. She moved a sweat soaked strand of hair
out of her face and turned to Bond. "What do we do now?" she asked.
Bond shrugged. He pulled off his tie and stuck it in his coat's inner
pocket. Then he proceeded to undo the top two buttons of his shirt, in
order to allow more air to circulate to his body. He knew heshould have
given up smoking years ago' his oxygen starved lungs screaming for relief.
"If we move again they may hear our footsteps on the gravel driveway,"
Bond said.
"But if we wait here any longer, then we could be spotted," Forester
suggested.
"We have to kill Polanoa," Bond said. "If we leave now we may never
find him again . . . until its too late, anyway."
"I know Polanoa too well, James. He is heavily guarded, and I'm sure
he knows of our escape by now. We don't have any weapons and we
don't have the element of surprise. We must leave now," Forester
explained.
"And how should we do that?" Bond asked with a cocked eyebrow.
"Stealth," she replied quickly.
"Stealth. What a novel idea," Bond said, as if never having considered that
option before in most of his professional life.
A moment later Forester was on the other side of the stone wall. She
was on a well kept lawn. She eased onto her belly and began to crawl
away from the mansion. Bond followed suit. They traveled for a long
time and finally scaled a large fence before leaving Polanoa's property.
About a minute after they were away a large party of armed men
searched the compound and found nothing.
"Damn, my things are all at the hotel and I have no way of ever getting
them back," Bond grumbled.
"You're right, James. Polanoa must have sent men to your hotel room by
now . . . and my place has definetly been searched," Forester added
glumly.
"So tell me where you are from," Bond asked.
"Holland, originally. Then I attended Oxford University, with a complete
academic scholarship. Afterward I went on to Harvard Law School in
the United States. I was recruited by the CIA, trained, then I
disappeared and started working for the highest bidder," Forester
explained.
"I'm very impressed," Bond said. "And beautiful to boot. I bet my friend
Felix Leiter at the CIA would be happy to know of your whereabouts."
Felix Leiter was know working as an advisor on CIA missions after he had
lost his hand and leg to a drug dealer he and Bond had apprihended. Felix
had also lost his wife, as James had lost his wife. Bond had made sure
that the man had paid for that, with his life.
"I'm sure he would," said Forester with a sly grin. Her voice bringing Bond's
thoughts to the here and now.
They had escaped to the city. They went to the harbor and found a
deserted area beneath one of the docks. Here they intended to spend
the entire night. A full moon was shining and Bond could see the cold
moonlight highlight Forester's exquisit face, and her beautiful dark hair.
He felt his heart throb. She was one of the most breathtaking woman he had
ever seen . . . nearly as beautiful than his late wife. He was eager to
see how things would progress.
Forester shivered. Bond removed his coat and wrapped it around her
exposed shoulders. She thanked him and leaned back. Within moments
she was asleep. Bond stood vigil over her that night, watching for
Polanoa's men.
They never came.
Polanoa was in trouble. As he sat sipping tea in his office, he wondered
how to kill James Bond. Pahlavi probably couldn't do it. This man,
Bond, was too good. After he escaped Palanoa had his men dig up
information on Bond. Polanoa had been shocked to see the record of
the man who was his enemy. The number of experts who had tried to
kill him and failed was amazing. The man didn't even take good care of
his body, yet he was still alive and in incredible health. No, Pahlavi could
try but he would die. What Polanoa could do was find someone the
likes of whom Bond had never faced before.
Then the idea came to him. Bond would surely return and try to kill him.
He would have to set a trap for him here. And he knew just what to do.
In the morning Bond was a tired man. He had been awake all night,
standing guard. No one had found him yet. Whether he was going to
walk into a trap trying to return and kill Polanoa or not, he knew he had
to do it.
Forester could help, but she would not be enough. Bond would have to
find that fellow that he freed. Then at least he would have another man
on his team. He would have to hurry, though. Soon, the world would be
in criminal control. He had to stop that auction. The trouble would be
trying to find him.
Pahlavi was crouched down on a building overlooking the wharf. His
sniper rifle was aiming for the back of Bond's head. Where everyone
else failed, he would succeed. He would kill 007. He had a feeling of
bliss run through him with this thought. Polanoa had an army of
informants throughout the city. He simply paid them off to follow Bond's
tracks. A white, British male and an attractive white woman in Morroco
were quite easy to find. He was about to be victorious.
And now all he had to do was pull the . . .
Pahlavi never finished this thought as he was killed in the middle of it, by
a certain unkillable Mr. White.
The harsh crunch of gravel beneath his shoes. His heart thumping loudly
in his ears, deafening him. Sweat dripping down his forehead. All of
these things were a distraction to Bond.
He and Forester were crouched low behind a stone wall. On the
opposite side was the mansion where the party was taking place. If one
were to stand fully upright they would be at least one head taller than the
stone wall.
Forester was panting loudly. She moved a sweat soaked strand of hair
out of her face and turned to Bond. "What do we do now?" she asked.
Bond shrugged. He pulled off his tie and stuck it in his coat's inner
pocket. Then he proceeded to undo the top two buttons of his shirt, in
order to allow more air to circulate to his body. He knew heshould have
given up smoking years ago' his oxygen starved lungs screaming for relief.
"If we move again they may hear our footsteps on the gravel driveway,"
Bond said.
"But if we wait here any longer, then we could be spotted," Forester
suggested.
"We have to kill Polanoa," Bond said. "If we leave now we may never
find him again . . . until its too late, anyway."
"I know Polanoa too well, James. He is heavily guarded, and I'm sure
he knows of our escape by now. We don't have any weapons and we
don't have the element of surprise. We must leave now," Forester
explained.
"And how should we do that?" Bond asked with a cocked eyebrow.
"Stealth," she replied quickly.
"Stealth. What a novel idea," Bond said, as if never having considered that
option before in most of his professional life.
A moment later Forester was on the other side of the stone wall. She
was on a well kept lawn. She eased onto her belly and began to crawl
away from the mansion. Bond followed suit. They traveled for a long
time and finally scaled a large fence before leaving Polanoa's property.
About a minute after they were away a large party of armed men
searched the compound and found nothing.
"Damn, my things are all at the hotel and I have no way of ever getting
them back," Bond grumbled.
"You're right, James. Polanoa must have sent men to your hotel room by
now . . . and my place has definetly been searched," Forester added
glumly.
"So tell me where you are from," Bond asked.
"Holland, originally. Then I attended Oxford University, with a complete
academic scholarship. Afterward I went on to Harvard Law School in
the United States. I was recruited by the CIA, trained, then I
disappeared and started working for the highest bidder," Forester
explained.
"I'm very impressed," Bond said. "And beautiful to boot. I bet my friend
Felix Leiter at the CIA would be happy to know of your whereabouts."
Felix Leiter was know working as an advisor on CIA missions after he had
lost his hand and leg to a drug dealer he and Bond had apprihended. Felix
had also lost his wife, as James had lost his wife. Bond had made sure
that the man had paid for that, with his life.
"I'm sure he would," said Forester with a sly grin. Her voice bringing Bond's
thoughts to the here and now.
They had escaped to the city. They went to the harbor and found a
deserted area beneath one of the docks. Here they intended to spend
the entire night. A full moon was shining and Bond could see the cold
moonlight highlight Forester's exquisit face, and her beautiful dark hair.
He felt his heart throb. She was one of the most breathtaking woman he had
ever seen . . . nearly as beautiful than his late wife. He was eager to
see how things would progress.
Forester shivered. Bond removed his coat and wrapped it around her
exposed shoulders. She thanked him and leaned back. Within moments
she was asleep. Bond stood vigil over her that night, watching for
Polanoa's men.
They never came.
Polanoa was in trouble. As he sat sipping tea in his office, he wondered
how to kill James Bond. Pahlavi probably couldn't do it. This man,
Bond, was too good. After he escaped Palanoa had his men dig up
information on Bond. Polanoa had been shocked to see the record of
the man who was his enemy. The number of experts who had tried to
kill him and failed was amazing. The man didn't even take good care of
his body, yet he was still alive and in incredible health. No, Pahlavi could
try but he would die. What Polanoa could do was find someone the
likes of whom Bond had never faced before.
Then the idea came to him. Bond would surely return and try to kill him.
He would have to set a trap for him here. And he knew just what to do.
In the morning Bond was a tired man. He had been awake all night,
standing guard. No one had found him yet. Whether he was going to
walk into a trap trying to return and kill Polanoa or not, he knew he had
to do it.
Forester could help, but she would not be enough. Bond would have to
find that fellow that he freed. Then at least he would have another man
on his team. He would have to hurry, though. Soon, the world would be
in criminal control. He had to stop that auction. The trouble would be
trying to find him.
Pahlavi was crouched down on a building overlooking the wharf. His
sniper rifle was aiming for the back of Bond's head. Where everyone
else failed, he would succeed. He would kill 007. He had a feeling of
bliss run through him with this thought. Polanoa had an army of
informants throughout the city. He simply paid them off to follow Bond's
tracks. A white, British male and an attractive white woman in Morroco
were quite easy to find. He was about to be victorious.
And now all he had to do was pull the . . .
Pahlavi never finished this thought as he was killed in the middle of it, by
a certain unkillable Mr. White.