c2

Chapter 2
Mission Failed

The fact remains that you failed your mission, 007, growled M from his high-backed leather chair, his voice gruff. M's office at MI-6 Headquarters in London was decorated - at the taxpayer's expense - with only the finest. The office suited Sir Miles Messervy; it was conservative, refined and the very picture of class. He sighed, his weathered hands clasped in front of him on the red leather desktop, and continued. Your job was to give our Triad contact the bugged briefcase so that we could discover the identity of his direct employer. It was routine.

It was suicide, replied Bond, seated comfortably on the opposite side of M's thick, cluttered mahogany desk. One of them knew me.

M was taken aback. The identities of double-oh agents, MI-6's elite licensed to kill' operatives, were kept strictly confidential. Did you kill him? asked M, a touch of concern in his voice.

No, I'm afraid not, replied Bond, his eyes downcast. He escaped. I left him in one of the cars to pursue the Triad contact and the cases. The driver stopped when he realised there'd been a gunfight in his train, and he must have slipped out.

M let the comment about the gunfight' pass. We can't have the identity of one of our top agents common knowledge in criminal circles. Did you recognise him?

I'd never seen him before, replied Bond, shaking his head. He was five foot six, heavy build, brown hair and eyes, about forty, hell of a grip.

He might be on file. Could you ID him? asked M.



M switched turned to the laptop on his desk and began hitting keys very firmly, utilising only his two index fingers, pausing to search for each letter. Within a few minutes he had entered the relevant information into MI-6's criminal database and found 27 possible matches. Nine were in custody, and fourteen were dead, leaving four possibilities. M turned his computer monitor to face Bond, giving him the opportunity to identify the squat man from the train.

Ah, yes, smiled Bond, indicating the second picture. That's him.

Interesting character. Hugo Laforge. Canadian. Quite a long list of charges. No convictions. His lawyers have managed to keep them from sticking.

Which makes him suspicious?

M leaned forward. Yes, quite. His defence was allegedly financed by a casino owner in Rome, a Mr Sanford Steele. Do you know him?

Not socially, no. I know of him. Owns the Corona Casino in Rome, fortune estimated at eight point two billion US dollars, numerous other investments, oil, gold, property, resides just outside Rome with his wife Cynthia. Hobbies include tennis, golf, swimming and gambling, naturally.

For what possible reason would one have that kind of knowledge at their disposal, 007? queried M with a hint of disgust.

Never mind that, retorted Bond, his tone suddenly becoming more serious. We know that Steele is connected with Laforge, and that Laforge is connected with the Triad's cocaine deals.

So perhaps you should pay Steele a visit. Shake him up, and find out what he's up to, if anything. In the unlikely, but favourable, event that he is completely unconnected, go after Laforge, ordered M. He removed a document from within a desk drawer and placed it in front of him, then plucked his gold plated fountain pen from its holder to scrawl a signature with abandon. Moneypenny will shuffle the papers. Your plane leaves for Rome tomorrow.

Excellent. I hear Rome is lovely this time of year. Am I using my Boldman alias? he asked, concealing his aversion to disguises.

M shook his head. If Steele has something to hide, we want him coming after you.

Very considerate of you, sir. Bond rose slowly and took his leave, passing through M's heavy, oak office door. Moneypenny's bright blue eyes lit up as he entered the foyer. The secretary swivelled in her chair and stood, trying unsuccessfully to appear seductive.

Where are we off to, James? she asked, with a flirtatious half-smile.

retorted Bond, pretending he failed to grasp her exact intentions.

I've got a week of leave coming up, and I hear you've been sent on a mission. Maybe we could...link up, she smiled, winking for emphasis.

Sorry, darling, replied James, avoiding eye contact. There's nothing I'd enjoy more, but I get the feeling you'd be far too much of a distraction on this one. You know how the saying - When in Rome...

That's do as the Romans', interrupted Moneypenny.

Ah, I stand corrected, replied Bond, repressing a grin.

He strode out of the room, taking his hat, leaving Moneypenny contemplating what might have been.

* * * * * * *

Meanwhile, Sanford Steele was relaxing, enjoying the fine weather of a peaceful Saturday afternoon in Rome. He and his vice-president, Giovanni Marconi, were competing against a pair of newspaper executives in a doubles' tennis match on Steele's private lawn court at his mansion on the outskirts of the city. Steele was still young enough, his thirty-seventh birthday having been only three weeks before, to play well, and he had something of a natural gift on the sporting arena. He stood five feet eleven inches high, and was built athletically, particularly powerful through the torso. His dark brown hair was now beginning to show flecks of grey, a desirable trait in the business world, but his face, with its strong jaw-line, chiselled features and hazel eyes, remained virtually untouched by age. With his obvious physical strength and ideal posture, one, on first glance, could have been forgiven for mistaking him for a sportsman rather than a businessman. Marconi however, fifteen years older and only a newcomer to the sport, was struggling. Despite this, the pair had managed to draw level at four games all, with Steele to serve. To his delight, his first serve resulted in an ace, swinging wide, away from the returner's forehand. His opposition and partner congratulated him heartily. As he walked to the other side of the baseline, he was interrupted by the mobile phone on the sidelines, and forced to delay the game while taking the call. He apologised and the remaining three carried on their conversation of stocks and bonds while he jogged over to his sports' bag.

Hello, Sanford Steele, he said automatically, putting the phone to his ear while wiping the sweat from his forehead with a white hand-towel.

It's Laforge here, muttered the voice on the other end hurriedly. The muffled sound of traffic could be heard in the background.

Laforge! How did it go? he inquired, keeping his voice down to avoid drawing the others' attention to him.

Bad. We got trouble. MI-6 is involved. It don't look good. Our contact' was James Bond, a spy I met once. Didn't recognise him at first, but the more I looked, the more I knew. He killed Robin and the cases were lost. I slipped out of the train first chance I got.

The Triad won't be pleased, Steele thought aloud. Do you think he'll be back?

said Laforge, still talking hastily. He always is.

Where are you? asked Steele, barely concerned.

Beijing. I figured I'd be safer in the crowds here than back in London.

Right. First cancel the London shipment....

Already done, interrupted Laforge.

Then go back to London. Find Bond and kill him before he tries to come after me. I don't want any more interruptions to our schedule, ordered Steele.



But nothing. This is not negotiable. Your mission is simple. Find and kill James Bond.

He switched the phone off abruptly, leaving Laforge dumbfounded in his Beijing phone booth. He returned to the court, and apologised a second time.

Who was that? inquired Marconi. Marconi, even as did not know about the cocaine, or any of the other illegal activities which Steele ran separate to his legitimate businesses.

Just an ex-employee, said Steele, removing a ball from his pocket. Let's get on with the game.