SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1Chapter Eight: Foxes Guarding the Hen House
James Bond slept, again blissfully unaware of his surroundings, but he was not so far gone that he did not appreciate the feel of a feminine hand being coursed through his hair. And unless his senses had completely abandoned him, he was laying in a woman's lap as well, his head firmly cradled against taunt, full breasts.
However, the flesh beneath him was quivering, and as his hearing began to join his other senses in their return to the waking world, he became aware of the sound of crying.
Few things disturbed Bond more than the sounds of a woman's wailing. In most, it brought out sympathetic overtones, some long buried masculine guilt that gelded men and turned them into subservient zombies. Feminine hysterics, to Bond's ears and eyes, were either a ploy, or a weakness, neither of which were useful commodities to him.
The juxtaposition of these two extremes; the comforting feel of a woman's embrace, and the cacophonous grating of a woman's sobs, were enough to bring him out of his sleeping state momentarily, where his body's pain was waiting to claim him, and remind him that all was not well in his world. Well, at least he was still alive, McCann had not slit his throat during the night, and he did take some solace in that.
His eyes cracked open, to find himself back in Marc-Ange's house, once again in the little room appointed to him.
The warm embrace, and the tears, belonged to Marie, his green-eyed angel of the night before. He was still dreadfully tired, and his body begged him for more healing time, but alas, there would be no sleeping while this woman insisted on dripping tears on his face.
She was still beautiful in the morning light, something that couldn't be truthfully told about many of the women he'd encountered over the years. Her festival dress of the night before was gone now, replaced by a peasant garb of rough, beige fabric, but the woman beneath was still the same. Her head was bent over him so that her long, black hair cascaded over him like the canopy of a dark rich forest, and her eyes shone down through that forest like an emerald sun onto his own waking pools of blue-grey.
She gasped, and blessedly, the bawling ceased.
"You are awake," she told him.
"Somewhat," he groaned through a dry, unused throat.
She smiled at this, and kissed him full on the lips. There was nothing too drawn out, or passionate, about the contact, but he took a moment to enjoy it all the same. She tasted sweet, and her full lips were inviting. There was no passion now, but there was a hint of what that passion could be, and it was substantial.
Marie broke away from the kiss, still smiling down at him. There was relief in her eyes, but something else as well. When he moved his head about in her lap to get a better look, Bond could feel the fabric sliding across bare skin; there was no need to use imagination when it came to what she was wearing beneath her gown.
"Let's see what else we can awaken," she told him, as she lowered her mouth to his once again. This time, the joining was harder as their lips met for the warm embrace. Once again, Bond was more than up for the challenge; he was sore, but it had been his experience that there was nothing to make the injured body recover faster than a little increased blood flow. And yet, there was still something reluctant in her caresses.
"Where is Mark-Ange?" he asked when they finally separated.
"He and Che Che went into Vizzavona to fetch some medical supplies to help repair your side. They should be gone for another hour or so, we have time."
With this, she stood and gently laid his head back to rest on the bed, where they had been residing.
Bond attempted to keep her in view by propping himself up on his elbows, but his side screamed out at him. His ribs were either very badly bruised or fractured. He would have to make do with craning his neck up from the bed.
Marie-Claude reached behind her head to grab the back collar of her dress, and then, in one simple motion, drew it above her head, and stood before Bond as God had certainly intended.
"Am I beautiful to you?" she asked innocently.
Bond smiled. This was the voice of a girl from a small village, doubting her own beauty in broken French. Wondering if she had something to offer this stranger from beyond her town, her country that would stand up against the women he'd encountered in his travels. She did.
"You are one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen," Bond told her. An accepting smile came to her face. "Any man who would tell you different would need a cane to tap in front of him."
The dark colour of her skin lightened slightly as it approached her breasts, which were cream-coloured, compared to the chocolate of her arms and face. Her body was full, yet athletic, and he longed to be along side of it, wrapped within it. But with his appraisal, he could still see the tracts from her eyes where the tears had flowed a few minutes earlier.
"All right, Marie," he began. "What sort of game is this?"
Her smile faltered for a moment, and then returned like an actress who'd been shocked out of the part she'd been playing.
"It's just… I haven't been with anyone other than Che Che before," she replied. There was truth to this, Bond suspected, but there was more as well.
"Then why would you suddenly throw yourself upon a stranger whom you'd only met the night before?"
This brought a frown, and Bond had inkling he was walking a line and might soon encounter the infamous Corsican feminine temper himself.
"Throw myself?" she exclaimed, her nostrils flaring slightly. "Do you think I am some common woman who offers herself up to every man who wanders by? I try to give you the greatest complement a man can be offered by a woman, and you return it with insults?"
Bond had to work to contain his smile; there was no reason to incite more emotion from this woman.
"I do this out of love," she told him.
"Love?" he replied. "You hardly know me."
She gave him a scoffing shrug.
"Are all Englishmen so conceited?" she replied. "Not love for you; although I know more about you than you think."
Some of this was starting to make sense to Bond's sleep-ridden mind.
"You're worried about Che Che? I don't know if you've noticed, but the man seems quite capable of handling himself."
Marie's eyes darted about the room and came to settle on the wooden chair next to the bed, where Bond's shoulder holster had been laid to rest, the Walther residing comfortably in its sheath.
"I know more than I did then." she told him. She seemed to be blissfully unaware she still stood naked before him. She'd made no motion to recover her clothes, even though it was becoming more and more apparent little more than words would be exchanged between them this morning.
Her naked flesh still had an effect on him, however. It was almost hypnotic watching this woman sway and banter before him. She was truly magnificent, and Marc-Ange's words about Corsican women came back to him from the night before.
"And what exactly have you found out about me?" Bond asked. He didn't think Marc-Ange would be talking out of school about him, especially considering his current circumstances.
"I've been told you are death to those around you. I hear you kill men you do not like, and people you love end up dead as well. I am going to marry Che Che, God be willing. I have no qualms about letting you use me; you are handsome, but if it helps to keep Che Che alive, then there is no choice in the matter at all. You may use me as you will, I welcome it, just let him live."
With this, she came forward, and laid herself on her back next to him.
This time, Bond couldn't help himself, he laughed out loud.
"Would you get out of my bed?!" he told the shocked woman. "Who told you such things, and what in God's name made you think you could exchange yourself for Che Che's safety?"
"I was told that is how you do things."
"By whom?" he used a sterner voice this time.
The girl remained quiet.
Bond sighed.
"For someone who up until a few moments ago was convinced I was going to bring death down upon everyone she knows, you aren't being very co-operative."
"So, if I tell you, you will leave my Che Che alone?"
Bond nodded.
"It was the Irish woman, Feale. She told me you are a hired killer for the British, and you use people, especially women," she paused. "But if this is the case, then why don't you use me?"
Bond looked down at the body next to him, a body crying out for his touch, his caress.
"Believe me, Marie, I'd like to. But sometimes doing what one wants, and doing what one knows to be right, are different things. I'm afraid someone has misled you, and done both of us a disservice. I'm going to rest some more, and I think you and your worries can do the same."
Without much fanfare, she arose from the bed, got dressed, and gave him a kiss on the cheek before leaving.
"Thank you," she whispered to him.
Once she'd gone, Bond thought about opportunities missed, but even more, he thought about Feale McCann. Obviously, she'd recognised him as well, now it was just a matter of what kind of game she was going to play, and how did Donn fit into it all.
His aching body continued to remind him it needed more time to recover. James Bond laid his head back down and drifted away.
* * *
His internal alarm clock brought him back to a murky waking world a few hours later. As he stirred, the sound of rustling came to James Bond's semi-conscious mind. Someone was once again in the room with him.
He lay still, keeping his breathing measured, feigning sleep. He was flat on his back with the light, cotton sheets pulled over his aching frame. His torso had been bandaged to protect his ribs on the right side since his encounter with Marie; it was a professional job, too. His mind swam with clouds, and there was no doubt he'd been drugged. A musky breeze was blowing into the room, drying the sweat on his exposed arms.
The scraping sounds claimed his attention once again, but this time a distinctive mewing followed the tussling noises.
James Bond opened his eyes and watched from his bed as two kittens wrestled across the bare, wooden floor. One was striped grey, the other calico, and they tumbled like the eight-week-old gymnasts they were. Despite the flames from his ribs leaping every time he took a breath, Bond smiled at his own skittishness.
He and the kittens were alone in his room. His PPK was still in its shoulder holster, strung over the back of the chair. The door to the room was ajar, which had probably been the kittens' handiwork.
Given the moment of solitude, he played back the events of the night before and this morning.
At some point, he was going to have to contact Tanner. There was no escaping it. Anytime an enemy operative was encountered unexpectedly in the field it was imperative the details and location be reported immediately. Feale McCann, unlike Donn, was an active IRA terrorist. Like Donn, however, she had a reputation as an assassin par excellence. There was more to her file than that, as well, but he would have to refresh the details with Bill. She was prettier than her file's pictures had given her credit for.
Slowly, he began to take a mental inventory of his body by flexing individual muscles. Besides for some aches, and his ribs, he seemed to have escaped the festivities the night before relatively intact.
There were voices elsewhere in the house. Bond could recognise the speakers, Marc-Ange and his new, personal wrestling partner, Che Che, but he couldn't make out the words. They were, however, drawing closer.
There were footsteps on the stairs, now, and Bond attempted to draw himself into a seated position. The pain was enough to make him grimace, but it was bearable.
Che Che's face appeared at the crack in the door.
"Ah, good, you're awake," he said in a curt, professional manner, after which he and Marc-Ange entered the room.
"And have you come back now to finish me off?" Bond asked.
The large man shook his head while wearing an embarrassed expression. It struck Bond that even though he appeared an ugly brute, like his father, this was a man who did not take enjoyment in others' pain, and seemed honestly sorry for his actions.
The giant rubbed the back of his neck.
"I realise I owe you quite an apology, Mr. Bond. There was no excuse for what happened last night. But I am Corsican, and Marie...she drives me crazy some times."
Watching such a huge man behaving so timid and awkward brought another smile to Bond's face.
"I think a woman like that could drive any man to do crazy things, you're quite lucky. And call me, James"
"You are lucky as well, James," Che Che replied. "It's hard to be sure without x-rays, but your ribs appear to be just bruised, and aside from a few other contusions, you're in amazingly good condition."
Now, it was Bond's turn to look awkward.
"The dressing...you're a doctor?"
"I told you I'd paid for his education," Marc-Ange interjected. "Did you think I was sending him to shepherding school?"
"Almost, a doctor," Che Che continued. "I have completed six years at the Marseille Medical School, and am now in the tertiary cycle. I have four more months of preceptorship before I am finished. I work every other week with a physician out of Vizzavona."
The giant paused to reach into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle, which he placed, on the nightstand next to the bed.
"I apologise, even in town, our resources are limited. The best that I can do for a pain killer is codeine." Bond, whose world was still swaying from the initial dose, looked at the bottle of small white pills that he intended to never use. It had been demonstrated to him well enough Monte Paese was a place he needed to remain sharp if he was to survive.
"Aside from that, you'll want to avoid any unnecessary movement or strenuous activity for several weeks."
Bond didn't mention that he'd almost had some unnecessary movement and strenuous activity with the man's fiancée a few hours earlier.
Che Che continued with a more detailed breakdown of his injuries. He followed along easily, having been hospitalised in so many countries, with such a variety of injuries, that he had gained near fluency with medical jargon around the globe.
He was given the quick once over by Che Che, just to rule out the possibility of concussion, or any hidden injuries. He winced at some of the prodding, but in the end the young physician seemed satisfied.
"Is there a chance I might speak to my father-in-law privately?" Bond asked after the other man seemed satisfied with his condition.
Che Che traded a sharp look with Marc-Ange, and the latter nodded.
"Just make sure you get some bed rest, James," the young physician told him before exiting the room. "You strike me as someone whose lifestyle doesn't lend itself toward laying still, but if there are any internal injuries, the last thing you need is a broken rib poking around at your innards when the nearest hospital is hours away."
Bond nodded, without really listening to the man's warnings. Sometimes doing nothing was the easiest way to end up dead. He could live with pain, but he couldn't live with death.
As the door closed, Bond noticed the kittens had suspended their wrestling and now lay in a patch of sunlight beneath the window, grooming each other. He turned to Marc-Ange with a stern look.
"This town, my town, needed a doctor. He was the brightest of the children, and I owed it to his mother to make sure she didn't loose her son as well. Che Che is too good for the kind of life our profession would have offered him." His father-in-law knew perfectly well Bond's concerns weren't centred on the giant Corsican.
"What the hell is she doing here, Marc-Ange?"
Marc-Ange took a deep breath, and then pulled up the chair next to the bed, pausing to look at Bond's holster.
"You create a problem for me, James. I know, and respect, that whatever you hear and see has to be reported to you superiors back in London, but you ask me to compromise the security of my people and their cause."
The old Corsican's face had lost some of its joviality, but not all. Bond could tell he would tell him the story, given time and a few gentle prods.
"Your people are not my enemies, nor Britain's," Bond said. "But this woman is. She has killed, or helped to kill, hundreds of my countrymen, and undoubtedly, without your grace here, she would have killed me by now. Unless you intend upon eliminating me yourself, or holding me captive, you know I'll put the answers together with, or without, your help."
Here he paused.
"But I would rather hear your side of things, than draw conclusions...or rely on the conclusions of others."
The old Capu nodded.
"There was a time in my life, James, where you would be dead already. But age begets sentimentality. You know me too well." Marc-Ange smiled and shook his head.
"Feale and I are... symbiotic, I believe is the word."
Bond closed his eyes. A part of him feared the next words. Was it possible that the new romantic trappings of his father-in-law were aimed at this young girl?
The Capu, ever perceptive, shook his head.
"No, no, nothing like that. Corsicans are at their core, peasant folk. We have been beaten down by occupying forces for hundreds of years, so when more hardships are placed upon us, we shrug our shoulders and continue on, oblivious to what government is in control. It has only been over the last thirty years or so we have begun to develop a more worldly view, thanks to the invasion of Western television. Many peasants began to see the French government for what it was, a parasite milking our beautiful island and it's culture for tourism and taxes. So, we wish to free ourselves, but the few political voices we have in France, are outvoted by the interests of the motherland." He spat at this.
"So, we are Corsicans, we know how to fight with knives, but armed revolt? Now, along comes the IRA. They approach men of power, such as myself, and they say things like, "We can provide you with weapons, we can provide your men with training, we can show you how to bring France to its knees. All we ask in return is financing, and places to store our arms and our soldiers." Your country has done a fine job of sealing the IRA off from the rest of the world, so they find their allies where they can; with us, with the African nations, with the Arabs, the peoples the rest of the world would like to forget."
"And the barracks outside your compound?" Bond asked.
"Are filled with FLNC men from all over Corsica, along with five men from the IRA, and Feale, herself, who is in charge of the entire encampment. There are many, many more such operations located across Corsica. She is quite a capable young woman."
"What do you get from it all?" This was the true crux of it all, for Bond.
"Beyond helping Corsica? The FLNC pays to have their compound here, they are on my land, and their supplies come through my lines, but I would do it for free. This late in life, I have little need for money; it just seems to find its way to me on its own. When I told you Feale and I are symbiotic, I meant it. She was brought to me by my IRA contact; a woman named Colleen who has come to mean a great deal to me. It seems that Feale is afraid for her life, afraid of your mutual acquaintance, Donn, who wants her breathing to cease with much haste. So she hides here, under my protection, and in return, she trains these brave men of Corsica to do the dirty jobs that need to be done."
The speaking, and his upright position in his bed, had begun to make Bond's side begin to ache more diligently. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead from the pain, and he knew he had to rest soon.
"You know," his father-in-law continued. "If you gave this young girl a chance, she might surprise you."
Marc-Ange raised his eyebrows at the last, and the implication was not lost on Bond.
"Her "surprising me" is exactly what I'm worried about," he replied.
"Well, have no fear, I have arranged a meeting between you two this evening, you can hear her story first hand, for it is one a man cannot properly convey. If, afterwards, you are not content, then we shall make other plans. Maybe, I should have a bottle of champagne chilled, no?"
"No," Bond said. "This meeting, it would be just the two of us? None of her playmates?"
"Now, that's more like the James that I know!"
"You know perfectly well what I mean."
"Yes," Marc-Ange assured him, feigning disappointment. "Just the two of you, and thanks to your present condition, it would be here in your room. They'll be running the men through their field exercises until dusk, and then she'll be here."
The two men spoke a little longer, during which time Bond attempted to find out more about this "arrangement" with the IRA, and about his father-in-law's new "friend", Colleen. But the old man just assured him that he would be able to form his own opinions, and answer his own questions in a very short time, for she would be arriving later in the evening as well.
"Now, if you're done with me," Marc-Ange said. "It is obvious, even to these old eyes, you need to rest that body of yours. I'll have a light meal brought up when you awaken."
Bond welcomed the opportunity to recuperate a little more, but there was one more duty to perform.
"Marc-Ange," he asked. "You know I have to report in, is there a phone I can use?"
The older man frowned, and then wagged a finger at Bond.
"You are in Monte Paese, and therefore, under my protection, but the IRA people here also share that umbrella with you. I've little doubt your country would love to have Miss McCann lying in a casket, and I know you are one of their greatest morticians. I need to have your word you will not shed blood at Monte Paese, with the understanding, that if you do, my hospitalities will no longer be extended to you, and I will no longer be able to look upon you as family."
In short, Bond thought to himself. I'll be dead.
It brought the uncomfortable situation to life again. Marc-Ange was taking a chance having him here, and he wanted to repay that trust by proving himself worthy of it, but if Tanner, or M, gave him a direct order, there was no way about shirking his duty. He had lied for his country many times, sometimes to those he loved, sometimes to himself, but ultimately, the only one he was always truthful to was the old man in Regent's Park.
"I can promise I will only defend myself. These people you're in bed with," Bond paused to register the sour look on Marc-Ange's face, his own implication not lost, "have proven themselves less than trustworthy in my past. And I will not lay down for them, so they can slit my throat more easily."
Marc-Ange lifted his shoulders, and then let them drop.
"Funny," he remarked. "She said the same thing."
"But as it is, I could ask no more." He unclipped a cell phone from his waist, and tossed it to Bond, who caught it deftly, but not without a wince. "Until later, James." He said with a waive of his hand as he made for the door. Before closing it, he made a cluck, cluck sound and the two kittens came scurrying after him.
Bond rolled painfully to the edge of the bed where his suitcase was tucked underneath. Checking to make sure his security fail-safes were still intact, he opened the case, and from a side compartment extracted a scrambler that Q branch had developed for simple, dedicated, two-way communications. It was just a basic mouthpiece, a few computer boards, and a rubber flange that could extend over the mouthpiece of any standard or cell phone. Those at the office had dubbed it "The Condom," much to the chagrin of the armourer. Bond hadn't brought a phone along with him, as there was a chance his signal could have been traced, and his position triangulated, but this device allowed him universal protection. He also removed a "bugger" from the same pouch, set the range for fifteen metres, and flipped it on. If there were a listening device transmitting within range, the bugger would emit an audible squeal that would increase in volume as one approached the unwanted ear.
Somewhat surprisingly, his room was clear.
Bond leaned back on the bed, and rolled the device over Marc-Ange's cell phone, while staring at the ceiling. He dialled the number Moneypenny had given him before leaving on his "vacation". It was a direct line to Bill Tanner, M's Chief of Staff.
The phone rang once, and Bond was relieved to hear a friendly voice from the world of sanity.
"Put on your condom, Bill," he said into the device.
He knew that on the other end, Tanner had just received an earful of static only the sister unit of his own could match and decode. There was a pause of a few moments, during Bond could picture his friend taking out his own scrambler and affixing it to his phone. There was a click as the other man came on line.
"So, James, how is Monte Paese?"
Taken aback, Bond stumbled.
"How did you know?"
"In a moment. You've taken your time checking in, and there's quite a bit of ground to cover. First, your report,"
Had his cover been blown so easily, and by his own people?
"The most pressing thing is I've encountered a cell of IRA terrorists, that have been training FLNC troops. I'm not sure how much it bears on my current situation, but it seems like one hell of a coincidence. Also, the group is being directed by an old friend of ours."
"Feale McCann," Tanner finished for him, flummoxing Bond even further.
"Bill, would you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?"
Tanner laughed at this, which came across rather cold on Bond's end.
"We've had a large influx of information from an outside source, James. And so far, most of it seems to be rather accurate. It would appear we are not the only ones looking for Donn, and I'm afraid this has become a case of very strange bedfellows, indeed."
Things we're becoming a bit clearer for Bond.
"I'll tell you what, Bill. Why don't you report, and then I'll fill in, since you seem to know so much?"
"Very well then, find a seat, James. This is some wild stuff."
Bond gathered that his current position would suffice.
"Go ahead."
"Starting about three days ago, the IRA lost at least eighteen mole operatives on three continents. Needless to say, they were a little put out. Apparently, all of them could be traced back through one point of origin, a recruitment centre they all shared in Dublin called Saint Peter's Youth Hostel, and a man named Tom Barry who ran it. Would you like to take a crack at whom Barry's top pupil was?"
"Peter O'Sullivan," Bond answered with a sigh.
"Quite right. Mr. Barry had been in charge of recruiting, and then positioning these boys and girls, and I do not use those terms lightly, the oldest one was 21, James, and the youngest, 15. Now, when we were provided with a list of the dead, and their locations, we noticed something rather peculiar. They were all located within easy distance of friends and professional acquaintances, of one of our agents. It seems that a web was cast for you, James, and Donn only had to wait for you to happen by, as you did in Texas."
"How did he know?"
"The think tank has been working on that one, but it would appear some of your files had definitely been compromised. They even had someone in Japan on Mr. Tanaka. "It seems a few days ago, many of these operatives were given the others as targets, and then one party eliminated all of the remainders. Donn apparently cleaned up his network quite well."
"And what about Barry," Bond asked. It looked to him like Tanner's connection had provided them with some in depth IRA intelligence and he wondered who the hell they were working with.
"I'm getting there. We were provided with Donn's home address, so to speak, he was living on one of the Blasketts, in a rebuilt monastery. 008 led an SIS team, with Irish co-operation, of coarse, to raid the place. Scraggly little island, they had to drop in by helicopter. The building was a virtual armoury, but there were no traps or safeguards in place, the door wasn't even locked. Inside, they found Tom Barry's body with the back of its head blown out. Suicide, or forced suicide, by appearance. From all reports this guy was like a father to Donn, it just makes you wonder how cracked this fellow is. He'd flown the proverbial coop already, and I think it is safe to assume, that if he's closed his network down, he probably knows your present location."
"So there's most likely a mole here as well."
"Either that, or Donn still has some friends within the IRA who are providing him with information. Maybe both. The thing is, you're going to have to be careful until we can get a team in there to extract you. 008 is already in route."
This was not what he wanted to hear. Bond wanted to end this thing, he didn't want to be a moving target, waiting God knows how long to be put back on active service, and remaining a living bull's-eye until then.
"Bill, this is personal for Donn. Chances are he's going to come at me face to face, wouldn't it be better for me to remain here to flush him out into the open?"
"No doing, James." There wasn't much give in the chief of staff's voice. "Chances are isn't good enough. And let's not forget, this man would like nothing more than to make you suffer; he might decide to kill Draco, or anyone else he perceives as being close to you. In addition, there's a good chance McCann would be a target of his as well, and I don't think that would be wise at this time."
Bond finally couldn't hold back any longer.
"Would you mind sharing your little secret with me, Bill? How you came about all this information, how could you know Donn wants Feale dead, and why in God's name should we care? In all honesty, I was expecting you to tell me to take her out myself." He was being careless, he knew. Just because there weren't bugs to be detected in his room didn't mean his conversation was private.
"Has it occurred to you, James, she could have just as easily killed you? Especially given your current condition."
Now, things had gone too far, and he was about to tell Tanner as much, when the other man struck first.
"Strange bedfellows, James. The IRA hasn't taken kindly to what it feels to be a betrayal from within. Fifteen of their people are dead, not counting Barry. They spent a lot of time and money training these moles. They obviously knew about your…our situation with the man, and in the new found spirit of co-operation, and all that other blah blah, they've decided to help us track down their rogue soldier. This is all on the sly, of coarse, and only a few of the high ups know about it on either side. The thought is, if they kill Donn themselves, they will create a lot of animosity within their organisation; regardless of the circumstances, the man is almost a mythic figure within the Sein Fenn, and they already have enough splinter groups to deal with. But if we kill him, then he becomes a martyr, as well as a myth, a great soldier fallen in battle."
Bond had to breathe deep. It was hard enough to work with the Russians on occasion, now the IRA? How many friends had he lost to these bastards over the years?
"Feale McCann and her men have already been contacted by her IRA liaison, and they have been informed to help you any way possible. If her liaison is to be believed, the girl hates Donn more than the British anyway. I guess they used to be quite the item."
Now, there was a surprise to Bond.
"Imagine the children," he muttered, which was followed by an awkward silence from Tanner's end. Bond felt as if he'd unintentionally stepped into something nasty. He attempted to recover. "This liaison's name wouldn't happen to be "Colleen," would it?"
Tanner clucked on the other end of the line.
"Now it's my turn to be surprised. Why, yes. Now that you mention it, her name is Colleen Moran. I met her just yesterday, along with some of the hand picked men she's going to be travelling with. Quite an impressive lady, and very attractive."
"Apparently, my father-in-law would agree."
"That lucky, old bastard," Tanner quipped. "I hope I can do half as well when I'm his age. Anyway, she and her men should be…"
"Arriving tonight?" Bond finished.
"Right. They'll be joining McCann's people to provide extra protection for you until 008 arrives sometime tomorrow. If you do encounter Donn, then do what you must. But I have it directly from M that you are to lay low. Is that clear, James?"
"Clear enough," he answered.
Tanner asked if there was anything else, and then he signed off, giving Bond the contact number for their next communication.
Bond put the phone down on his bedside table, checked the position of the Walther, and then lay back down on the pillow. His side ached from all the talking, and he could feel his consciousness waning. He felt about as safe as a hen could, when being minding by foxes.
James Bond let himself drift off, finding that picturing Feale McCann's face did lend him comfort of a kind.
He was awake again, this time without the lethargic fog of codeine to dull him. The light from the window was dim; evening had fallen, and his stomach was reminding him he'd not eaten since the night before. His room was filled with shadows, drawn away from the window like cloaked contour lines.
For a few moments, he listened to the sounds of the house, catching his own measured breathing and a little street noise. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gained his feet.
The pain was still tearing at him, but by now he'd grown accustomed to it. The light in the bathroom was blinding at first, but to see himself in the mirror was even harder on his eyes.
There was a cropping of stubble about his face, it had been several days since he shaved last and the beginnings of a beard were in full bloom. His eyes were red and crusted, and his face was covered with dirt and a few minor scratches from his tussle the night before.
He filled the sink with cold water, and then immersed his head beneath it. The shock was welcome, and when he pulled his head out and slicked his soaking hair back from his face, he was beginning to feel alive again. He reached into the shower and let the hot water run so it would be near scalding when it hit his skin.
Always bound by his habits, he turned the water to the coolest setting half way through the shower, and enjoyed welcomed the shock to his system. There was a rustic smell and taste to the water, and Bond felt a brief longing to be back in London. Besides for the brief stopover after Houston, he'd had precious little time to fall back into his home routine. It was a continuous battle within him; he craved the assignments that challenged him the most, but at the same time, he needed the stability of his habits. What he would have given for a descent three-minute egg, or a chance to explore the countryside in his Aston Martin.
As he emerged from the shower, his skin beet red from the tempering abuse, but his mind ever sharper, he heard a knock upon his room door.
"Just a moment," he called from the bathroom, quickly wrapping a towel about his waist.
There was no peephole, so he had to risk cracking the door. There on the other side, was Marc-Ange's little ball of hate, staring back at him with a pair of clear, green eyes that required no make-up to make him check his breath.
Feale McCann stood there bearing a tray laden with a bowl of soup, a crusty baguette, and a bottle of wine.
"Your host has decided I should deliver your dinner this evening," she informed him though the crack in a less-than-warm tone of voice.
Backing away from the door, he adjusted his falling towel.
"It will be just a moment, I've just stepped out of the bath," he told her.
Without hesitation, she nudged the door open the remainder of the way and stepped into the room.
"For God's sake, why are British men such women?" she asked, staring boldly at him. I live in a barracks with twenty-eight men, do you think you have something I haven't seen before, Mr. James Bond?"
He couldn't help but smile, even if she was a cold-hearted, murdering bitch.
"I've been around my fair share of half-naked women myself, but I still haven't let it affect my manners," he shot back.
Feale frowned at this, looking around for a place to set down her tray. "So much the gentleman, are you, that you couldn't even help me with this thing."
Like most men, Bond found the Irish lilt attractive in a woman's voice, even when it was tinged with such poorly hidden hatred. He'd known an American agent with the CIA who'd requested to be transferred to the IRA terrorist response team for the sole reason that the female terrorists were much more appealing than their counterparts about the globe.
As Feale cleared a space on his bedside table for the food, Bond had to concur with his colleague's assessment. She was compact, standing no more than 5'6", but her frame was tight and muscular beneath the fatigues she wore. Her breasts, although not large, were perfectly formed and rode high on her frame. He normally didn't find shorthaired women attractive, but Feale's hair hung freely about her face, providing a loose, copper frame for her beauty.
She turned quick enough to catch part of his appraisal, which ticked her frown down yet another notch. "Don't be getting any ideas, Bond. I'd sooner kill you than kiss you, but unfortunately, those above me see things a little differently at the moment. Still, your reputation precedes you, and if you try your wiles on me…let's just say I've been told to keep you alive, not necessarily intact." She glanced at his holster strung over his chair. "A Walther PPK? So, you carry a woman's gun as well?"
Bond was now to the point of ignoring her jibes.
"They say you're supposed to be resting, and I'm not to get you all riled up, so why don't you get back on that bed?" she told him.
Biting back a few more witty remarks, Bond decided to drop all pretences.
"Well, since modesty isn't your strong point," he turned from her, leaving her at his back for the first time she'd entered the room, and removed his towel, which he absently tossed onto the bed. He grabbed a pair of trousers from the suitcase next to the bed, and pulled them on. When he turned back to her, it was his turn to find himself being assessed.
At least there will be no more of those "woman" comments, he thought to himself, sitting on the bed with his back straight against the backboard. He winced a little while trying to gain a more comfortable position, and with this, he swore he could see Feale's frown waiver for a moment.
"The kick may have been unnecessary," she said as she flipped the chair Marc-Ange had been sitting in around, his holster and weapon jingling about as she did so. She kept the back of the seat facing him, straddling the chair so it was a wall between them. "But you must realise, most of my adult life, I've wanted you dead, and once this episode is over with, I'll still want you dead."
This statement was delivered in such a matter of fact fashion that even Bond was surprised at its coldness. He may have to kill people as part of his job, but he never took it lightly, and weighed each victim on his conscious. This woman made it sound as if killing were akin to washing dishes, or taking out garbage to the curb side. And there was something else there as well.
"You say "me"?" he began to ask. "Do you mean me in particular, or just all British soldiers?"
She hesitated, directing those amazing green eyes out the window where night reigned. For a moment, she was gone, Bond saw, probably revisiting something in her past from the forlorn look which worked itself upon her. When her gaze returned, she placed it on the towel he'd discarded on the bed.
"Come on," she prodded him, hefting the linen. "Your back is still wet."
Not quite understanding the mixed signals he was receiving from this woman, Bond obediently turned, grimacing as he did so. The towel remained between her hands and his back and shoulders, but the thought of contact being so close was not lost upon him, neither was the fact that she did not rush through her work.
"I'm not ignoring your question, but there is a story to it, and it isn't one which I enjoy telling. But I know at some point we're going to have to talk about…about him," she began.
Discarding the towel, she reached for the bowl of soup, and a spoon.
"They call this Suppa di pesce," she told him. "It reminds me a bit of the fish soup they served on Fridays where I grew up back in Dublin. Except there aren't any potatoes, and it's spicier."
She ladled the spoon in the broth, and offered it up to him. Reminded of his hunger, he gladly took the soup, and his palate thanked him for the delight of it. Watching him snatch at the offering, she finally graced him with a smile, and continued to feed him the soup as well as words.
"I assume you've spoken to your superiors?" she asked, receiving a nod in return. "Then, I'm sure Colleen has shared some of my past with your people."
"They just told me you and Donn were lovers," he watched her reaction to this, and was rewarded with a visible flinch of disgust. "And that you wanted him dead, and the feeling was mutual."
She paused thoughtfully, before dishing out another bite of soup.
"Fair enough. There's nothing I'm going to tell you your government does not already know, so you can turn off your instincts for a few minutes. Peter and I both grew up together at a youth hostel in Ireland run by a wonderful man and woman who raised us as brother and sister, as if we were their own children. I was abandoned by my mother in a church, I don't really remember her at all now, just fleeting images really. For all intents, the people who raised Donn and I were our true parents."
She's not mentioning names to protect them. Doesn't she know Tom Barry is dead? was all Bond could think to himself. Why wouldn't they tell her? Certainly SIS had informed the IRA regarding the results of their raid.
"We were trained to be soldiers at a very early age. At first, it was necessary so we could defend ourselves." Another long pause, another distracted glance out the window. "And later so we could help to unify Ireland. We both excelled, and since our dedication was unquestioned, when we became teenagers, we began to take on very serious roles in the People's Army."
"Terrorists," Bond said.
"Assassins," she corrected. "Not much different from yourself."
Bond wanted to illuminate for her the differences between killing menaces to society and innocent civilians, but he did not wish to interrupt her, and saw little chance of correcting a lifetime of brain washing and self-justification.
"Our "parents" at the hostel we're good people, But Peter and I were unique in our upbringing, and there was no one who could relate to what we felt except one another, it was natural for us to become lovers. By our late teens, we no longer lived at the hostel. We shuffled from city to city around Europe, living in safe houses and occasionally apartments for short periods of time. We existed like that for years, loving each other, helping each other, both very proficient at what we did. It never bothered me when Peter's fame within the cause began to grow. He had taken his new name by then, knowing the IRA was using him as a figure of national pride as well as a tool of fear with the British, he didn't want to endanger the two of us. It may be hard for you to understand, but we were happy. If it wasn't for our breaking apart, there is a strong chance you would have never heard of Feale McCann or Peter Sullivan, just the legend of Donn would have lived on."
Bond felt sad for this woman, who saw such a murderous way of life as bliss. "So what happened?" he asked. She had abandoned the soup by now, and was becoming fidgety in her chair, obviously uncomfortable with what she was about to say.
"About six years ago, I became pregnant. We were stationed in Syria at the time, running a training operation much like this. I guess there was a part of me that thought a baby was just a natural evolution of what we had between us. I knew it would mean being taken out of service, at least for a while, but when you grow up without a normal family, there is something important about having a family of your own. Of doing things better, being the kind of parent you wish you could have had. Peter and I had so much love for eachother; there would have been more than enough to share. I was raised Catholic, every Sunday we attended mass at the Parish that supported the hostel; it is not a joke or a cliché, to say we take families seriously, it stands at the heart of the Irish cause."
"I take it Donn wasn't as enamoured of the idea, as you were," Bond prodded her along.
"When I told him, something happened, something snapped inside of him. The warning signs had always been there, I guess I just ignored them. Even when we were children, he would never play house with me. He never spoke of children, shied away from the topic when I brought it up. He never even talked about the future between us. He didn't talk about the future at all. I guess he may not have felt like he had one. After a few days of not talking to me, he told me I would have to get an abortion."
James Bond watched her delicate face as she spoke. When she came to the last, she paused. He waited for the flood gates to open, for the inevitable crying to break her story down, and make her tale unintelligible. But although ripples of emotion made the muscles beneath her amazing features twitch and quiver, her voice hardly wavered at all. Duly impressed, he wondered if forced to recall events such as this from his own life, if he could have contained himself any better.
"He told me in bed, there in the desert, out in the middle of nothing. The thought went against everything I believed in, everything I thought we believed in. I told him as much, I told him all the death was getting to him, making him immune to the difference between killing someone in war, killing for a cause, and murdering an innocent life we had created together. I told him I was going to leave him, go back to Ireland, the hostel, and raise the child by myself if I had to."
"There were a lot of reactions I might have anticipated, but what happened wasn't one of them. He cried, the only time I ever saw him that way. He curled up against me in a ball, and he sobbed like a babe. He said I was wrong about the killing having callused him, he told me the damage had been done long before we'd even met, when he was just a child. I guess I thought since I couldn't remember my time before the hostel, his earlier life was lost to him as well. He told me about his childhood, about his mother and father, and then he told me about you."
Bond shifted his position on the bed, as a look of hatred directed at him burned from her. Any romantic thoughts he'd harboured toward this woman were dashed at that moment, or at least for that moment.
"Peter said he couldn't afford to have a family, he couldn't let them be used against him. He said once his mother passed away, I didn't even know his mother was still alive, he had never even mentioned her until then, once she passed away, he would be untouchable. That they would never be able to use the ones he loved against him, the way you'd done against his father."
So that was it, Bond realised. In Feale's world, he was at fault. Rather than having laid the blame on the man she loved, it was easier to project part of that evil upon someone she hadn't known at all. As with so many other tragic things that had befallen Ireland over the years, it was just easier to blame the English. He ignored the voice in the back of his own mind telling him maybe he was one attempting to shed responsibility as well.
"So I asked him what about us? Wasn't he frightened about them using me against him? And without even pausing to blink, he tells me I am a soldier like him, and I had accepted the responsibility of my own death the moment I had signed onto the cause. I shoved his foetal-balled self off the bed and screamed at him how could he speak of my death so lightly, even contemplate the death of our child. I could hear the other men in the camp beginning to stir in the tents around us. There were shouts for quiet, and even a few who wanted to know what the hell was going on. He shouted back at them, and the way they shut up you would have thought God himself had spoken."
"He was enraged. He walked around the bed and grabbed me by my hair, yanking my head about to face him. He waived a finger in my face with his free hand. This man that I had loved, that I had wanted to spend my life with, screamed at me, told me neither me, nor a baby, were going to get in the way of the revenge he'd pledged his life to."
"More out of instinctive training, than anything else, I flat handed him to the face, knocked him back to the ground. I told him if he ever laid part of his body on me again, he'd lose that part, and I was going to leave when the supply helicopter arrived the next day. I was going to go back to our home in Ireland, Tech Duinn, clear out my things, and he would never have to worry about seeing our child or me again. So, like the excited fool I was, I turned my back on him to leave."
She reached over and uncorked the bottle of wine on the tray. Foregoing a glass, she took a long draught from the bottle. "You shouldn't be drinking this stuff anyway, if you're on meds," she told Bond. He would have corrected her, told her he wasn't going to touch the codeine next to his bed, but there was no way he was going to bring a pause to her story.
"He hit me from behind at the base of my skull, put me out cold. I'd like to think he did it carefully, that he didn't want to endanger my life, but honestly, I doubt it. When I awoke, it was morning and my whole world had become pain and blood. He had strapped me down on our bed, tying my wrists and ankles to the bedposts. I was naked, and in terrible pain from the waist down. My mouth had been gagged so my screams would go unheard. I was bound tight, so I couldn't even see what the monster had done, but I could feel it; I could feel the blood beneath my lower body, where it had dried to the bed, caking the sheets to my bare skin, and the wetness of what still pumped forth from me. The doctors determined he'd used a coat hanger and a combat knife to perform his makeshift abortion, nearly killing me in the process as well."
Her mind was on autopilot now, Bond observed. She stared out the window with an unwavering gaze, and any emotion that might have escaped was locked deep inside her mind, her words falling out of her mouth like lifeless things.
"He'd left a note, telling me he was leaving me and the IRA. He would ship my things to the hostel. He made it quite clear if I attempted to see him he would kill me. I found out later, he'd also contacted the Sein Fenn, and told them he was still dedicated to the cause, and would assist whenever called upon, but he would contract openly in order to start building a personal estate. After attempting to leave, teamed with what he'd done to me, I'd assumed he would be dead within days. But they quickly silenced me, and anyone who was aware of what had happened. His acts, especially the murder of our child, would not set well with Irish Catholics, and they needed their poster boy, and his legacy, to remain unscathed. Over the next few months, I recovered in a hospital in Dublin dealing with the physical rehabilitation, and the medical reality I would never be able to have children after my injuries, while he began building his reputation, and his fortune. I couldn't tell anyone, not even the people who'd raised me, what had really happened. They just assumed we'd had a falling out after I'd "miscarried"."
"But you told Marc-Ange," Bond said. "And now you're telling me."
She nodded.
"Things changed. About two years ago, I received word from him. Have no doubt, I hated him then, and still wanted him dead, but there was a part of me that wanted an explanation, maybe even an apology. I'd spend a decade of my life with the man, and even if he'd gone insane to some degree, it's hard to give up on people. This was during his "missing years". The IRA had kept tabs on him, even when he ceased being an assassin. The man who raised me told me Peter had holed himself up at Tech Duinn, and hadn't even been seen for years. If it wasn't for the occasional letter, my "father" would have assumed he was dead. Now, an envelope arrived for me at my "parent's" from him. He said his real mother had died, and that even though I must hate him for what he'd done, he needed me to be there with him at the funeral. He said that he still loved me."
"And you went?" Bond asked.
She nodded. "God help me, yes, I believed him. The service was in Belfast, at graveside in some small parish yard. There were only a few people there along with the priest. I was shocked when I saw Peter. He'd lost so much weight, and his face was hollow. We didn't really say much at all, I just stood next to him during the service, even holding his hand at points, giving him reassuring squeezes now and then. He looked over at me at one point and tried to smile, but it was obvious he'd gone dead inside. After the service, he asked if we could go for a walk. At first, it was perfectly normal; he started telling me what he could remember of his mother, and how he never felt an ounce of anger at having been essentially abandoned.
"She did the best she could, given the circumstances," he told me, tombstones all around us. Then he said something along the lines of, "I could have never brought myself to hate her, to hurt her." And I start to get this feeling I hadn't been asked to be there to comfort him at all. Now, with his mother dead, I was one of his last emotional ties, and you think I would have known by then he saw those ties as weaknesses."
"He came at me with a knife, but this time I was conscious and could defend myself. His mind wasn't really in the game. I disarmed him with a simple fade move, and then put him down with an elbow. Someone hidden amongst the tombstones began shooting at me, before I could finish the job on Peter, or Donn, or whatever the hell he'd become. I ran, dodging through the markers, trying to make myself as poor of target as I could. When I finally emerged from the graveyard, "father" was waiting there for me with his car. He said he hadn't trusted Peter, and that now the IRA would have to do something to protect me. He was right. They were still unwilling to do anything about their "hero", but they were willing to secretly move me to this training facility. There are a hundred like it across three continents, and even if Donn could find me, they knew Marc-Ange and his people well enough to know I'd be protected."
Bond nodded. Corsicans took the concept of guests seriously.
"Your father-in-law is a good man. He's kept me safe over these last few years, allowed me to be part of his family here. When he asked me why the IRA was so hush-hush about keeping me here, I felt I owed it to him to tell him the truth. He thanked me for the trust I showed in him, and when he told me you were coming, and why, he asked me to extend the same trust to you. I didn't tell him I knew your name quite well, and I guarantee you, if not for Marc-Ange you would have had my knife in your stomach instead of my foot."
She stood up, with this, just as the sounds of an approaching vehicle, married with a series of honks, droned up through the open window.
"So you blame me?" he asked as she recovered the tray and the now cold bowl of soup, preparing to make for the door.
"You're a British agent, I'd kill you for that alone. But if not for you, Peter's mind would still be whole, and my baby might be alive. Where the blame lies doesn't really matter, does it?" And then, before he could reply. "That will be Colleen. So if you can drag your sorry arse out of bed for a few moments, you can come meet the new love of your father-in-law's life."