Chapter 3
Flight 409
James Bond sat in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport with a glass of duty-free scotch resting in his stomach. The mission ahead seemed relatively straight-forward, trying to find the link between Steele and the Triad smuggling cocaine into England, but nevertheless he remained concerned, knowing that death was always a possibility. It was his responsibility to stay cold about death, like a surgeon or a general, but no amount of training could harden a man completely. He surveyed the area, looking for anything to help pass the time, checking his watch frequently. Finally, his plane, a weathered DC-10, arrived and he boarded.
Airline travel was something which Bond found quite tedious, yet relaxing. He was accustomed to long journeys, jetting across the globe on dangerous missions, yet the time always passed slowly. Even the comforts of the business class section, particularly the complimentary champagne, failed to meet his satisfaction. After a fruitless half-hour endeavour to catch some sleep, he called an attendant, an aging, grey-haired woman, and had her bring him a plate of scrambled eggs. The sub-standard airline food left him satiated, and he soon nodded off.
The arrival at Leonardo Da Vinci Airport, on the coast fifteen miles southwest of the city and more of a shopping plaza than a transportation centre, went flawlessly. His luggage had, thanks to Q-Branch's handy briefcase, made it through customs, despite the fact that it carried Bond's Walther, silencer, six clips, listening devices, and enough C4 explosive to destroy a good-sized planet.
He followed the signs to the luggage carousel, making note of the London departure times for his return. One, a British Airways flight, on a stopover from Beijing, left in one hour. He decided that one week would probably give him enough time, and made a mental note to take the same flight in seven days' time. Carrying a suitcase in either hand, he found his way to the main entrance and exit. This area of the airport was enormous, with a three-storey high roof and a floor tiled in two shades of blue, with the artistic pattern resembling Italy when viewed from above. The tiled area was surrounded by stores, mainly duty free, trying to cash in on the departing travellers. Looking, as was his habit, at all the faces in the crowd, one caught his eye. A short, squat man, dressed casually, was plodding through the automatic doors with a large, blue suitcase in his right hand. Hugo Laforge.
Bond's mentally checked his options. He could have tailed Laforge and discovered his planned destination. He could also have pulled him aside and confronted him. However, he knew that Laforge's mission may well be to assassinate him, so Bond decided to try and slip by unnoticed, which would buy him much more time before a confrontation. This way, Steele would not realise he was onto him for at least another day, perhaps two. Bond ducked into the nearest store, a souvenir outlet, and hid himself behind a rack of Italian flags and Leaning Tower of Pisa models. From this vantage point, Bond had a clear, unobstructed view, and was able to follow Laforge's movements closely.
However, his position soon became worse. Laforge looked up and examined several of the stores around him, and finally the souvenir store in which Bond was hiding. For what seemed an eternity, the pair made eye contact, seemingly staring into each other's minds. He checked his watch, mumbled something to himself, and made his way over. Bond once again weighed up the situation. He felt certain that Laforge had sighted him. The squat man strolled, for what seemed an eternity towards the shop, every step laboured, the sound of his footsteps now distinguishable. 007 looked around the store for another place to hide, but the whole room was barely twenty feet long by fifteen feet wide. His predicament was dire. He stood facing a corner filled by shelves containing cheap glassware and cutlery, and watched the reflections through a well-polished wine glass.
Laforge finally entered the tiny souvenir outlet and walked to the rear wall, within arms reach of Bond. He glanced over at Bond, and picked up a long, shiny, stainless steel knife from the third shelf. He examined it carefully, then shook his head deliberately and returned it, unsatisfied. Bond continued to watch the reflection, and as he saw Laforge take a second knife, a seven-inch utility knife with a red, white and green striped handle, he took hold of a nearby decorative bottle and prepared to shatter it, giving him an improvised deadly weapon. Again, Laforge laid the knife back on the shelf and glanced over at Bond. Bond's grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles turning white as his pulse gained speed.
Laforge took a third knife, a practical four-inch paring knife, and glanced over at the shop attendant, a tall, fatigued young man. Seeing that his attention was elsewhere, he prepared to make his move. He adjusted his grip and charged at Bond, thrusting furiously at the agent's throat.
Bond reacted with moments to spare. He broke the bottle on the shelf while twisting out of his assailant's reach. The noise was lost in the airport's acoustics, leaving much of the crowd oblivious to the face-off.
The two men paused for a beat, balanced low to the ground, knees bent, circling around each other to find a weakness. Both were ready to act at the instant the other made his move. Laforge's breathing became heavy, sweat beading on his forehead as nerves took hold.
He thrust wildly at the right side of Bond's torso, but the poorly aimed blow struck nothing but air as Bond dodged rapidly to his left. The cramped store which served as their arena made free movement difficult, and Bond was forced to step behind a rack of souvenirs to put some distance between him and his squat opponent. Using his superior reach, Bond kept Laforge at arm's length with a few tentative swipes of the bottle, before bringing up his right leg in a crescent kick. The kick pushed Laforge's knife arm to the side as Bond stepped in with a left jab to the chin before thrusting the bottle into Laforge's right arm.
He dropped the knife as blood flowed freely from the wound, and clutched at it in vain as Bond knocked him unconscious with a hay-maker.
Bond bolted out of the store and through a set of automatic doors onto the footpath. Dozens of taxis were lined up, either collecting or delivering travellers. Bond threw open the door of the nearest one and, using his best Italian, instructed the taxi driver to azionamento'.
As woke up on the cold, tiled floor, Laforge, battered and bleeding, made another call to his employer and informed him of the double-oh agent's presence in Rome. With that unpleasant task taken care of, he pushed aside the onlookers and hired himself a taxi to make his way into the city, his head aching beyond belief, hoping to regain the scent, or perhaps even catch sight of his foe.
* * * * * * *
Almost the instant that Steele had replaced his private office phone in its cradle, he raised it again dialled.
said the high-pitched, Chinese accented female voice on the other end.
Hello, this is Sanford Steele calling from Rome, replied Steele, speaking slowly and clearly so that the non-native speaker could comprehend, partly because of their rather poor connection. Is Mr Cheung available? he inquired.
answered the secretary using one of the words of her vocabulary of fifty. I'll put you through immediately.
Steele thanked the girl and settled back into his comfortable burgundy leather armchair. Steele's office was relatively small for a man of his economic stature, with two of the four light grey walls lined with books of all kinds, from the classics to biographies. The only furnishings were four chairs, including the armchair behind his desk and three other smaller, wooden framed chairs, his desk, filled with the paperwork pertaining to his casino and other investments, a small locked cabinet, and the bookshelves. The floor was carpeted in the same colour as his armchair, and the lamps in the high ceiling were often required as there were no windows, unusual for a fourteen storey high office, and the only natural lighting came through a small skylight. Steele felt at home in his casino office, having made much of his fortune through machiavellian deals settled in this place. Of course, he had inherited a large sum and the casino when his father died of a heart attack at fifty-eight, when Sanford was only twenty-one, but through a lack of honesty and a willingness to plant the proverbial knife in the back, he had multiplied it one hundred fold. In addition, he had several associates', such as Laforge, willing to plant the literal knife in the back, which helped to keep his own hands clean.
said Mr Cheung in his flat, unemotive drone, it is indeed happy to hear from you.
I must apologise for the incident on the train. However, we're both in danger of losing a great deal. British intelligence is on the case...
Ah, British Intelligence, interrupted Cheung in his broken English, a classic oxymoron, he added, impressed with his own wit and vocabulary in the foreign language. They are five steps behind us always. Why do you calling me, Steele? Are you afraid?
It's more of a healthy concern, snapped Steele, offended by Cheung's suggestion. I thought I should let you know, out of courtesy.
Then I thank you. I will send my lieutenant in Rome to meet with you. You may trust them.
I, in turn, thank you. It will no doubt be beneficial for our mutual causes to discuss this matter further. I look forward to it. Until next time?
Goodbye, Steele. Click.
