Chapter 4

Chapter 4
Hotel Olimpico

Rome is indeed one of the most exciting and beautiful capitals in the Western World. From the ancient structures such as the Circus Maximus and Colosseum to the fine restaurants, there is something new around every corner. It is also the noisiest, filthiest and loudest city in Italy with the average speed of traffic in the city estimated at 4 miles per hour.

James Bond, practically trapped in the taxi, resorted to travelling by foot to reach his prepaid hotel room at the Hotel Olimipico on the Corso di Francia. Bond stood out only slightly in the city. His tailored suit, a navy blue Brioni, and dark hair and complexion helped to hide him among the other citizens. Bond was about six feet tall, weighed around twelve stone, and was generally lean and clean-cut, so he was perfectly designed to fit in with the European crowd.

The walk from Viale Trastevere took a little over an hour, but as a man in peak physical condition it allowed him to get a feel for the city, its layout and its people. He had always found knowledge of his environment to be a useful tool in espionage.

Hotel Olimpico, located near the Stadia Olimpico, is a five-star hotel, suited to the likes of high-flying businessmen and promiscuous spies. A middle-aged porter with a ridiculous red toy-soldier suit and a deep scowl took the agent's luggage as he walked through the automatic revolving glass door. Two security guards stood as sentinels at the entrance, examining every new arrival with trained eyes. Bond admired the spacious lobby, with its high ceilings and tiled floor, then shifted his gaze to the desk clerk, a tall, attractive Italian girl.

Ciao, Signore. What can I do for you? said the clerk in a thickly accented, slightly husky voice.

Oh, I can think of a great many things, smiled Bond, maintaining contact with her deep brown eyes. My name is James Bond.

She smiled and punched the name into her keyboard. Ah, yes. Number 802. The penthouse. I trust it will be more than satisfactory.

He glanced down at her name tag. Do we have a spa, Rosetta?



Sorry, I.

Why, yes, of course.

Bond winked and strode over to the elevator with a key in his hand and a broad grin on his face. He turned and waved to his new acquaintance as the doors closed.

* * *

In the Corona Casino's underground communications room, a cheer rang out.

What is it? asked the tense Laforge through gritted teeth, examining the stolen paring knife he still held in his soft hands.

I found Bond, said a small, slightly built man with oily brown hair and thin-rimmed glasses, sitting at one of the many computer terminals in the poorly lit room. He's staying at the Hotel Olimpico in Room 802. He even signed in under his real name. You see, I've managed to penetrate the firewalls at all of...

Laforge gave him no chance to finish. He picked up his gun from atop a nearby filing cabinet and ordered the three armed guards present to join him. They rushed to the armoury, and from there to the Hotel Olimpico.

* * *

Bond was satisfied by his new surroundings. The suite was divided into three rooms, a bathroom, a bedroom and a lounge. The lounge, largest of the three rooms, was where he found himself standing upon entry, with the bedroom on his right, concealed by folding doors, and the bathroom adjoined to the bedroom. The room he was standing was relatively deep and broad, with an unorthodox nine-foot ceiling and a large window on the opposite wall, the northern side. The window was equipped with blackout curtains, but as these would only obscure the marvellous eighth story view of Rome's city centre he left them open. There was seating sufficient for ten, including a leather sofa on the western side, a wide screen television set in the north-eastern corner, a dining setting on the left hand side of the door and a kitchenette opposite. Rather than relaxing immediately after his brisk walk through the city, he entered the bedroom and placed his suitcase on the double bed to check the contents.

His Walther and the explosives remained intact, thankfully, as did his dinner suit. The miniature camera hidden in his bow tie, and the listening device in the third button would act as the eyes and ears for the covert Italian Headquarters for MI-6, who would, according to the brief, be monitoring the mission. His other personal effects and spare clothes remained in order, so he set about planning his moves as best he could. The first step was to report in at HQ, a less than pleasant task before a life-threatening mission, but nevertheless it was necessary. He attached his shoulder holster and placed the handgun inside, in the likely event that it would be required, unpacked the unnecessary clothing, then returned his tuxedo and explosives to the case. He straightened his tie in the mirror above the bed, then left the room and drank a glass of water from the kitchenette. After he had left the room, he plucked a solitary black hair from his head and placed it across the door and door jamb. If the hair was gone when he returned, he could almost be certain that someone had broken in. He locked the door using the key card and went on his way.

* * *

James Bond! greeted the regional director, as he rose energetically from his chair. I am honoured to meet you!

Not at all, replied Bond with a warm handshake.

The great 007 in our humble little outpost, of course it's an honour, said the indefatigable man rapidly, as he withdrew his hand and placed around Bond's shoulder. The regional director, Alexander Norton, had been posted in Italy for the past twelve years. The years had been far from kind to him, balding and white-haired prematurely, he looked fifty-five rather than forty, and his pale, blotchy hands shook visibly as he retrieved his coffee mug from the briefing table. Still, paradoxically, he seemed to have all the vigour of a man half his age as he returned to his chair and introduced Bond to his colleagues.

Norton gave him a personal tour of the headquarters, quite a brief affair as it consisted of fourteen rooms in all. Nine agents plus clerical staff were stationed there, holed up like voles underneath a department store in the centre of the city. Their presence was known, but not appreciated by the Italian authorities, who allowed them to operate under very strict conditions and a watchful eye. Bond was introduced to many of the residents, but the two operatives who would be assisting were already at the casino, so their first meeting would be during the mission itself. The pair returned to the briefing room and ran through the plan. Bond's equipment was checked by the resident Q-Branch member, and calibrated to ensure secure communication lines. He was introduced to three police who would be assisting, operating undercover, and adding firepower in case of emergency.

The report went smoothly, and found the information he had received extremely useful. The officers would be instructed to play designated poker machines, while the operatives would be moving about freely, wearing distinctive emerald green shoes. While this was perhaps not the best form of identification, it was certainly better than nothing. Blueprints were provided for Bond to study, and as it was five o'clock, he figured he had approximately three hours to study them, eat, prepare, and travel before the scheduled commencement of the mission at eight o'clock. Once again, he took a cab and walked through the revolving doors at the entrance to his hotel, this time in a slight hurry. Rosetta, presumably finishing her shift, winked an almond-shaped eye as he passed. Summoning a great deal of self-control, Bond merely nodded in acknowledgement and continued to the elevator.

* * *

Something was quite obviously amiss. The hair he had placed across the door frame had been dislodged. Someone must have been able to defeat the hotel's locks. He placed put his case down gently, drew his gun, attached the silencer and knocked loudly on door 802.

Room service! he shouted with a false Italian accent, still knocking. Open up!

A voice inside responded, with a genuine Italian accent, Go away, I'm busy now!

Bond listened for the origin of the voice, but as it was unclear where exactly the voice was coming from, he tried again, using the sound of his voice to cover the deactivation of the door lock. I'm bringin' you a complimentary bottle of wine! It won't take a minute!

I don't drink! replied the gruff male voice. Take it away!

Now certain that the intruder was slightly left of the door, probably on the sofa, Bond aimed in the general direction of the voice, then threw the door open, startling the attacker. Two silenced shots pierced the man's chest as he slumped to the floor, dead. The blackout curtains were drawn, but enough light streamed into the suite to give Bond a clear view of the lounge. Realising he would also be clearly visible to any additional assailants, so he stepped clear to the right and plunged into relative darkness. A whisper from the bedroom, intended to be silent, was clearly audible from where Bond was standing. He began to creep over toward the open door, his gun held in front of him, watching for the slightest movement.

A shadowy figure spun into the doorway and filled the room with silenced automatic fire. Bond threw himself behind the kitchenette counter, unnoticed and waited for the shooting to stop. The muzzle flashes provided a disconcerting light as the bullets flew, penetrating the room's plaster walls. After what seemed an eternity, the clip was expended, and the gunman moved over to the sofa to check on his companion while drawing a second clip from his waist-belt. Bond, still hidden in the kitchenette, took careful aim and fired his third and fourth rounds into his target's temple, and he joined his dead companion.

Logically, Bond suspected that his second victim was more than likely whispering to a third intruder when he had heard them in the bedroom. With that in mind, he crawled over to his victims, removed the first attackers loaded weapon from his limp, bloodied hand. Closer inspection revealed that the weapon was a Heckler & Koch MP-5 sub-machine, modified to accommodate the use of a silencer. The third attacker was obviously a cautious, and possibly cowardly man, as he remained in Bond's bedroom, quite silent. Bond chose to use his limited knowledge of Italian to dispose of him.

All clear! he half-whispered, half yelled, in an attempt to conceal his voice.

The third attacker responded by entering the doorway. Bond, crouched by his first two victims, finished him with the silenced MP-5. Cautiously, Bond rose and moved into the bedroom, his eyes having rapidly adjusted to the poor light, to make sure he was now alone.

At first glance, it seemed that way. He checked the walk-in wardrobe, under the bed, all of the usual places for unimaginative assassins, then walked through into the bathroom. It too was empty. Satisfied, Bond dragged the bodies into the wardrobe, and went back outside to retrieve his case. He now had only two hours and fifty minutes to prepare, so he put his mind on the job.

When he opened the blackout curtains to improve the wan lighting, he noticed a familiar short, squat man leaning against a black sedan on the other side of the street, watching the window intently.

Laforge, stunned to see the British agent still alive, took a few moments to recover. Mindful of his own criminal record, he avoided drawing attention in a public place. Without a licence to kill, shootings in public places seldom just go away. He opened the driver's side door with a false calm and waited for a break in the rush hour traffic before pulling away.

Rather than pursue the killer, Bond returned his attentions to the blueprints and prepared himself for yet another task.