SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1CHAPTER TEN: ALL THE QUEEN'S HORSES
Under different circumstances, in a saner world, two exhausted, new lovers might have had the opportunity to spend the night in each other's arms, curled together in the warm womb of the maquis. But their world was far from sane, and their new day began long before the sun could bridge the cloudy sky.
Bond awoke to the sound of the Cane Corsos barking in the distance, teamed with calling voices. It was still pitch black outside as he gently removed Feale's nestled head from the crook of his arm. She stirred, and then sat up quickly as the sound of the dogs came to her.
He found his clothes by feeling with his hands along the side of the ravine. They were soaking wet, and covered in mud, but they were better than nothing at all. After rinsing his peasant shirt in the river, and carefully wringing it dry, he tossed it to Feale.
Without thanks, without so much as even a glance of recognition, Feale pulled the top on, attempting to cover herself appropriately.
The Cane Corsos had reached the edge of the ravine, and were now showering them with a rain of barks and howls.
Bond had just finished adjusting his pants, and struggling into his water-logged boots when the first beams of lanterns began to pierce the night above them.
"Sweet Jesus," he heard a voice say as the lights fell upon the lifeless body of Connolly. The dogs paused for a moment to sniff at the corpse, but then ambled on down the embankment.
Feale greeted the arrival of the Mastiffs with open arms, hugging the animals and working the loose flesh about their necks with fond attention. Bond lowered a hand for those few who approached him; they scented him idly, and then returned to Feale for their share of affection.
The lantern light followed the path of the huge dogs down from the ravine's edge, and finally came to rest on him.
"James, thank God," he heard Marc-Ange's voice boom from above. Looking up he could see his father-in-law's face reflected in the glow of the lanterns. There were at least ten other people gathered behind him, including Che Che, Colleen, and Troy, her remaining, handpicked man.
"We heard the explosion," he continued, Bond was surprised the old man could have heard anything at all through the din earlier. "And the gunfire. Are you all right? Where the devil is your shirt?"
Bond was about to offer up a reply, when the searching lantern light moved over to where Feale was still sitting on the ground with the dogs, her bare legs protruding from Bond's shirt which was doing an inadequate job of covering her appropriately.
"Oh," he heard Marc-Ange say from above. "There it is."
There was some muffled laughter from the assembled crowd. When Bond looked up again, he could see that an embarrassed Che Che was attempting to avert his eyes, as were most of those gathered.
But one pair of eyes still shone down on them with intensity. Colleen's gaze locked with his own for a few moments, before flashing back over to Feale, and for that brief time he could feel the intense hatred burning within the beautiful, dark haired woman. As if realising she was dropping her cover, Colleen forced a grin, and joined the rest of them in their amusement, but there had been no mistaking the malice there a moment before. Even as she laughed, her eyes laid heavily on Feale, who finally returned her gaze, at first with profound sadness written upon her features, but as the two women continued to look at each other, Feale's glare became almost defiant.
Bond's thoughts returned to earlier, when he'd wondered if there might have been something more than friendly between the two Irish women. Was Colleen simply upset at the lack of discipline in sleeping with the enemy, or was she angry at the fact that Bond was still breathing? After all, some of her handpicked men had apparently rotted on the vine, which cast no little suspicion upon her.
* * *
With the exception of Marc-Ange, the walk back to Monte Paese was a quiet one. The forest forced them into a single line formation with Che Che taking the lead, followed by some of the townsmen. Bond, Marc-Ange, Feale, Colleen, and Troy were all in the middle of the pack. Now with some sleep in him, Bond was back to being on edge, his eyes scanning the still dark foliage for any sign of life. Strung out like this, it would have been easy for Donn to pick and choose his targets at will, and there was no telling how many of those amongst them might be playing on the wrong team.
"So," Marc-Ange prodded him. "Would you like to tell me why my beautiful countryside is now filled with craters and bodies?"
"I believe you are asking the wrong person, Marc-Ange," Bond shot back.
He couldn't see the face of the man behind him, but he could feel the angry gaze which flared at his backside.
"Are you trying to imply…" his father-in-law began.
"I'm implying nothing," Bond now let his own temper show. Sometimes, the only way to deal with Old-World types like Marc-Ange was to match laughs with laughs, and screams with screams. "Two men I was assured were here to protect me, just attempted to murder Feale and myself. If you want to discuss this further, we can do so when the company is a little more select."
Bond said the last loud enough for it to carry on down the line. Colleen, who'd been having a hushed, one-sided conversation with a dejected looking Feale, stopped talking for a few moments.
Marc-Ange surprised him by laughing, but when he spoke again, there was little humour in his voice.
"Be careful, James. There is a line your bravado should not cross."
Or what, Bond thought to himself. I'll end up dead? Threats were almost laughable to him at this point. He'd been on edge on since Houston, and his wits were now burned to the point where his life seemed to be in free fall. For God's sake, he was sleeping in the home of the leader of a terrorist organisation, and he'd just made love to an IRA assassin. A week earlier, all of this would have seemed comical. Somehow, he doubted if M would see the humour in it all.
As if reading his thoughts, Marc-Ange spoke up.
"Oh, and your man, Tanner, he's been calling almost non-stop. Something about prophylactics and horses."
Bond stopped so suddenly Marc-Ange nearly walked into him.
If things could get any worse, he believed they were about to.
"Marc-Ange, did he say, "All the king's horses?""
"Yes, that would be it," he replied. "What does it mean?"
Very quietly, Bond muttered, "It means agents in the field are dead. It means that I'm on my own."
* * *
"What happened?" Bond asked the phone, scrambler in place. It was good to be back in his room at Marc-Ange's home, but he was uneasy with the way Feale had gone off to the barracks with Colleen. Almost sheepishly following the taller woman like a drone, without even so much as a look back at Bond.
Tanner told him about the ferry, and the crude bomb that had killed over forty people, leaving only a handful of horribly maimed survivors.
"Bill's alive, but he's critical, I'm afraid the best he can hope for is to be in a wheelchair the rest of his life, and he's lost an eye. The rest of his team was below deck; they didn't stand a chance. Needless to say, you're going to have to make due for a few days. How are Colleen's people holding up?"
"They aren't," Bond replied, before relating the events of the evening. At the end, Tanner whistled.
"Well, I can talk to the old man, but you can pretty well imagine what he's going to say."
"He'll tell me to get the hell out of here. The only problem is, there's nowhere to go. I've got to assume Colleen and her remaining man are compromised, and although I still think Marc-Ange is playing me straight, his people are something of a mixed hand."
"How about this McCann woman, where do you think her alliances lay?"
Bond paused.
"I've checked her out, but there still might be questions. However things go, though, I plan on going to ground this evening. How long before we can get a new team in?"
"Of good people? A day, day and a half, maybe."
"Tell them to meet me in Vizzavona in two day's time. I'll take Marc-Ange's cell phone with me, but I'll be travelling light." They went over a few more details of when and where, but by the end of the call, Bond was resigned to trading his comfortable bed at Monte Paese for the maquis. But there were still two people he had to speak to."
* * *
"You're mad," Marc-Ange raged, pacing back and forth in his room like a caged animal. "There is no where on this island safer than Monte Paese for you. If you go to the hills, the bandits will take care of Donn's work for him, and if you go into the maquis, it will be like walking into the mouth of a giant predator. I'm afraid it is quite impossible. I owe my dear Teresa more than that. I cannot let you commit suicide."
Bond was content to let him vent for a few moments.
"I'll have some men slap you into our little jail. Then when your precious M's men arrive, we can just hand them the key."
"That isn't how things are going to be," Bond said.
"Oh, and why is that?" the older man looked over to find Bond now held the Walther in his hand.
"You say you train soldiers here, Marc-Ange. Well, then you should understand that I am a soldier, and that I have been given an order."
It seemed to be a peculiar Corsican trait that the men smiled when they were endangered. Marc-Ange held true to his lineage.
"So, this is how it goes. I invite you into my home to protect you, and you draw your pistol on me? This is a strange way for guests in my country to behave?"
"Is it any stranger," Bond replied. "Than a host threatening to imprison a guest?"
Draco shook his head and dismissively swiped his hand in the air at Bond.
"Put the thing away, you're embarrassing both of us."
Against his better judgement, Bond complied.
"I wish you could just trust Colleen," Marc-Ange said.
"There are four dead Englishmen tonight who trusted her, and a better man than I is in a hospital is being held together by surgical tape and gauze because of me. I at least owe it to them to try and keep myself alive."
His father-in-law sat down on the edge of the bed he'd shared the night before with the woman in question.
"James, if you insist on being crazy, at least let me go with you. I know the language, and there isn't a bandit on this island who would dare touch me." Bond was already shaking his head, but the old man went on. "There are places higher up in the mountains, shepherd huts made of stone, I've known them as well as my face since the time I was a boy. Certainly you have not lost your trust in me as well."
Bond thought hard on this for a moment, and then chose his words as carefully as he could.
"No, but you are sleeping with the enemy."
"And what is that clever expression you English have about the pot calling the kettle black?"
Bond held his hand up to silence the older man.
"I'm not arguing with you, Marc-Ange, but I have to turn down your offer. You've already risked too much just having me here." The Capu started to protest, but now it was Bond's turn to override the other man's complaints. " I'm not dragging a 70-year-old man up a mountain, I owe our dear Tracey more than that. This monster, Donn, has threatened to kill the one's I care for before my eyes. I'd rather not give him the chance."
Marc-Ange made his disagreement clear while staring down at his open palms resting in his lap.
"Always with your head, and never with your heart, James. You give age too much credit. How about this then, I pick a man to go with you? Someone to be a guide, maybe a former shepherd, who could at least get you where you are going. And, need I remind you, you are not exactly the pinnacle of health yourself at the moment, an extra pair of hands, or an extra gun, may be of use. If you cannot trust Colleen's men, at least you could trust mine."
Bond began to reject this, but then thought it through again. There was no guarantee he could even find his way to Vizzavona.
"Alright then, but I have to agree with your choice. And if so much as a whisper of my leaving reaches Feale or Colleen, you'll have to cut him down from a tree."
But the old Capu had achieved his victory.
"Agreed, then," he said, handing over his cell phone.
"Agreed," Bond replied. "Tell your man to meet us near the gate at noon, and to bring whatever he needs with him."
On his way out, James Bond opened the front door, to find himself face to face with Colleen, the ever-present Troy hovering just a few feet behind her.
"Are you done interrogating Feale?" he bitterly asked, still standing in the doorway, blocking her entrance, and his own exit.
A cloud made its way across the beautiful woman's features, but then dissipated.
"Obviously, you have your reasons to be upset, Mr. Bond. Feale told me what happened, and I know an apology will not suffice."
"That's a damn understatement," he told her bluntly.
"We've attempted to keep this within the family, so to speak," she continued, as if she'd never been interrupted. "The men I chose, and myself, we all came through the hostel at Saint Peter's. After what happened to Tom Barry, I just assumed some of his prize pupils would be the ones most up for the mission. Unfortunately, we all knew Peter Sullivan as well. But don't forget, one of my men died fighting at your side."
"So," he asked. "Have you told Feale about Barry yet?"
The woman looked away, somewhat guiltily.
"No, and I wouldn't suggest you do so either. He was closer to Peter and Feale, than any of us. They were ... they were a real family. If you tell her now, in her current state," she paused here, giving him an accusing look meant to tell him his recent escapades hadn't done much to improve Feale's mental condition, "it wouldn't be very constructive. If Donn is out there somewhere, then she needs to be sharp if she is going to survive. Do us both a favour, and give her some distance."
Bond wanted to tell her, if she were truly concerned about Feale's mental state, then she should have assembled her team more carefully. What good was well being when one is dead?
But there was no time to argue with the woman. The attempt on Feale's life the night before may have been something Donn could have ordered from a distance, but the man was sure to enter the play before too long. If the purpose of the dance was to lead to Bond's own death, then the assassin would certainly want to end it himself. His inner sense told him Donn was near, and if he wanted to clear out, it would have to be soon. If he isolated himself, Bond hoped, there would be no sense for the man to attempt to kill Marc-Ange, or any of the others. Donn wasn't a joy killer, every death was meant to achieve an end, and if the end was to torment Bond, then there was no point in killing when Bond wouldn't even be aware of it.
"Well, say "hello" to Dad for me," he said, brushing past her, out into the street, where the morning light was becoming more pronounced.
"Where are you going?" she asked. "We still have a job to do. Troy will accompany you."
The man took a few steps after him as if to follow, but Bond turned around and addressed them while walking backwards.
"If Troy follows me more than ten metres, he'll breathe through a tube for the rest of his God-given life," he informed her.
The other man gritted his teeth.
"I'd like to see you try," the Irishman muttered with a dockside accent. Colleen just rolled her eyes.
"It's your funeral," she said to his Bond's back.
A tired-looking Emiliano was still on gate duty, he gave a wave to Bond as the man walked through the now open main entrance.
"Try not to kill anyone this time," the Corsican yelled out.
Bond just flashed him his own tired smile and waved.
The mud was still thick, but his journey to the barracks was much more uneventful in the morning light. The scene from the previous evening was still an ugly scar on the beauty of the forest. The flames were long since dead, and there weren't even any traces of whisping smoke to mark Ryan's grave. The charred branches and fallen trees looked like a scab at the edge of the maquis. Bond poked about the ashes, trying to turn up anything of value, but the scene had already been cleared. Apparently Ryan's body had been removed along with Mullet's, and even the Tango 51 was now missing. The area had been very effectively swept and cleaned.
He wondered absently where all the bodies had gone, or parts of bodies. Remembering the ornate graves Toussaint had shown him on their way in, he somehow doubted the would-be assassins from the evening before had warranted such extravagance. It was much more likely, Corsican respect for the dead aside, they had ended up in a ditch somewhere, covered with dirt and waiting for the dark soil to quickly claim them.
James Bond took a moment to think of where his body would have found its rest if things had turned out differently. He decided it would depend upon who had found the body. If it were Marc-Ange, most likely he'd be next to Teresa, a thought he found comforting, knowing they would finally find the time together in death they'd been denied in life. However, if it were Donn, or his men, the most he could hope for was an unmarked hole in the ground. Most likely, he'd just be left to rot in the maquis, his body eventually becoming one with the Corsican earth.
He trudged back to the barracks, and put his ear to the door of the one Feale had sought refuge in the night before. Having heard nothing, he quietly entered through the unlocked door, using a lifetime of experience to remain unnoticed.
The banks of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling were off, so the only light filtered in through the curtainless windows. The entire length of the barrack lay before him, and he could clearly make out that only one bed was made up, and it was occupied with a sleeping figure.
Goldilocks, Bond absently thought as he treaded the distance between Feale and himself. She finally awoke as he sat down on the edge of the bunk she occupied, causing the latticework of springs and coils beneath to scream with strain.
She was up quickly, with an unannounced knife in hand that stretched out to caress his throat. Bond caught her hand deftly, removing the blade that until a few moments earlier had been concealed beneath her pillow.
His eyes locked on hers, he set the knife aside.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, the lilt of her voice as intoxicating as ever.
Rather than answer out loud, he just cocked his head slightly at her.
After a few moments she muttered, "Oh."
Bond smiled down at her.
"Listen, Mr. Bond," she began.
"James," he interrupted.
"Listen Bond," she began again. "Just because last night I was out of sorts gives you no right to come sneaking…"
Bond quickly reached out with his right hand and grabbed her violently by the hair at the back of her skull. Before she could so much as scream, he brought his mouth down on her own in a savage caress, which she fought at first, but then finally succumbed to, entwining her own arms around his and gripping his back. When they finally separated, she was unable to contain the little smirk working its way across her scowling lips.
"Someday, I'll pull your arm out of your socket for that," she informed him.
Never letting his steel blue eyes fall from her own, he whispered, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much." Their lips met again, and this time, other body parts followed in tune.
Somewhere during the lovemaking, while astride him, she paused long enough to look down at him with dawning affection in her amazing eyes.
"I guess I was wrong," she admitted. "Englishmen are good for something."
Afterward, they lay together for a while, listening to each other breathe. Unlike Samantha, Bond knew there was no foundation here. If they were to survive this episode, any future meetings between the two of them would certainly end in an arrest, or death. This thing between them was something born of the moment, and in truth, it was the sort of relationship Bond had become more accustomed to. The lack of depth gave him the opportunity to do, and say, the things necessary for the proper execution of his job.
"There's just one thing I don't understand," he asked her while brushing his fingertips up and down her exposed mid-drift. "Why did you tell Donn I was coming if you knew he wanted to kill you as well?"
So much for Colleen's request not to cause Feale any more stress. The woman recoiled away from him so hard she nearly fell out of the narrow bed. She gained her feet and began to back away from him.
"What are you saying?" there was anger in her voice, but not enough in Bond's opinion to feign honesty.
"I'm saying my father-in-law told his people at Monte Paese I was coming, and he told you. Now, for me to survive, I have to trust Marc-Ange, and I'm familiar with the loyalty a village gives their Capu." This was a broad-faced lie; Bond had little, if any, faith in the trustfulness of Draco's men. He'd been betrayed by the best, and wouldn't even bare his back to a priest. But his instincts told him there was a rabbit to be flushed here, and if he lost Feale in the process, then it was a burden he was willing to shoulder.
"So this is how you do things, James?" she had backed up against her storage locker, standing naked before him. "First you pump the girl, then you pump her for information? I certainly hope you have more to accuse me with than blind trust of a bunch of bandits." Even though her words and beautiful defencelessness had a dramatic effect on him, he carried on.
"I checked your rifle last night," he told her. "The chamber was empty, and the action was clean; there was no jam. You could have shot Connolly last night, and yet you risked your own life, even made a spectacle of yourself to warn him. What was wrong? Were you worried it was Donn behind us?"
No scathing comebacks this time, nor a verbal confession of guilt, but for a brief moment she her gaze did drop from his. He'd just been fishing; hoping his concerns were unfounded, but now he knew his suspicious mind had won out over his emotions once again.
"F*** you," she finally told him, producing a beautiful .45 from behind the storage cabinet so swiftly he didn't even have an opportunity to reach for his own weapon.
"I think we already took care of that," he replied coolly while quickly assessing his options.
"You think you know so much, but you don't know shite, Mister," she told him, the gun's aim never wavering from the middle of his chest. If she chose, she could open a tunnel the size of a grapefruit through his upper body with the weapon.
Would there even be a chance to go for his own gun, which was strewn with his own clothes on the empty bunk next to her own? Probably not, he decided, but was there any other chance of getting out of here.
"Get the hell out of here?" she told him as if she were reading his thoughts, tears actually starting to well within her eyes.
What the hell? he thought. Was there a chance he was wrong about her?
"Feale," he started to ask, but she'd begun to cry for real now, shaking with the strength of her emotions.
The gun roared, and the pillow on the bed exploded like a feathery bomb.
"Just get your clothes and get the hell out of here, you bastard."
Rather than tempt fate twice, he took her advice.
Bond did as he was told; he'd always tried not to lend too much faith to hysterical women. Getting the f*** out of here, as she'd put it so well, was exactly what he intended. As he slipped into his pants, and rough peasant top, he wondered one last time why this woman would cover for Donn. But there was one last task to accomplish.
"He killed Tom Barry, you know," he said as he cautiously backed his way to the door.
A look crossed her already emotion filled features like a cold wind. It took her several moments to collect herself, and Bond was nearly to the door.
"You lie, you British always lie," she spat. "Tom is our father."
"He blew his head off at Tech Duinn. Right in the kitchen, I hear. Just ask your friend Colleen, if you don't believe me."
The woman screamed, and loosed another volley of bullets in his direction, but even if there had been an attempt to aim at him, he was already out the door.
"I'll kill you if you come back," she screamed after him.
"Get in line," he said to himself as he began his last long walk back to Monte Paese.
If she was working with Donn, or even had an inkling of where he was, he knew that he'd just fired a very deadly bullet at his would be assassin.
Upon re-entering the town, Bond was accosted by Emiliano and Che Che at the gate.
"There, you see," Emiliano remarked to the giant. "I told you it would take him more than an hour."
Che Che just shook his head.
"You're a pig, Emil," he told the other man with a grin, as he matched Bond's gait.
"How are the ribs, James?" he asked.
"Sufferable," Bond replied.
"And you think you're ready to travel by foot?"
Bond looked up into the scarred and ugly face of the young physician.
"He wants to send you," Bond asked incredulously. "Is he insane? He talks about how his town needs a doctor, and about how much he has spent on your education, and then he tries to send you off to the slaughter."
Che Che shrugged.
"As you found out the other night, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. I'm a Corsican before I am a doctor. There isn't a better man in this village to lead you to wherever you're going. I was a shepherd as a young boy, and I know every rock along the mountains, and every town and nook for 50 kilometres. In addition, it might help to have a doctor along, I have an idea you may need one."
Arguing with both Marc-Ange and Feale had left Bond drained, and Che Che could read the quick defeat in his face.
"When are we leaving?" he asked.
"Can you meet me at Marc-Ange's at noon?" Bond asked.
Che Che shook his head.
"If you are attempting to avoid Colleen and her little friend. It would be wiser for you to meet me, let's say, at the church."
"Fine, fine," Bond agreed. "Between you and Marc-Ange, it's amazing the two of you let me wipe my arse by myself. Take what you'll need for a couple of days travel."
The large man slapped him on the back, and then left him standing there alone in the middle of the dirt street. Bond looked around one last time, taking in the town with its white walls, red roofs, and the continual soundtrack of children's happy voices playing in the background. It was a good world...but not his world. It was time to get back to the things he knew best.
As Bond entered the house, he could hear Draco and Colleen's voices coming from the dining room accompanied by the traditional sounds of eating.
Marc-Ange called out for him to join them, but Bond refused, saying it was time that he caught up on lost sleep. He did lie down for half an hour, listening to the sounds of the house, and using some relaxation exercises to ease the strain on his body. His ribs hurt like hell, but he was becoming quite adept at blocking it out.
Satisfied with his own readiness, he arose and packed a pull string sack with supplies, and some of the tools of his trade. He looked out his window onto the small back alley below. Making sure no eyes were upon him, he tossed the sack to the ground, and then followed, dangling himself from the ledge by his fingertips, and then dropping to the ground. The jarred landing would have been enough to make a lesser man cry out in agony, but Bond swallowed the pain like a familiar, but bitter, medicine.
Sticking to the small alleys between the houses, Bond was able to make his way to the Church. His head ducked, he crossed a nearly empty street and quickly entered the threshold.
Like most Corsican villages, the church was the centre of town, as well as the tallest building therein, an architectural statement about the importance of worship to the people of Napoleon's island.
As he entered the dark, unairconditioned building, he paused a few moments to let his eyes adjust. The only lighting seemed to be coming from the small sanctuary, which was directly before him. There were a few high windows allowing the morning light to creep into the room, leaving a sea of shadowy recesses. There was some flickering candlelight from where worshippers had placed their remembrances to their holy mother.
Bond squinted, but couldn't make out anyone seated in the rows of pews. In fact, with the exception of the unchecked confessional booths, he appeared to have the building to himself. That was until the huge hand came from the shadows behind the door just to his right, and laid itself on his shoulder.
"Tag, you're it," Che Che's voice came to him in Americanised English.
Bond hadn't startled at the touch, he just turned and looked up into the thankfully hidden facial features of the giant.
"So, where do we go from here?" Bond inquired.
Che Che motioned with his hand, waiving him forward into the darkness, off to the side of the sanctuary. Bond followed in silence.
He heard, more than saw the man before him open a door, and then there was a near-blinding light as they stepped into a crude wash room with a high window in one corner.
"No electricity," Che Che told him. "The church has been here for centuries, the town grew up around it, and then the walls grew around the town. In fact, the church was known as Monte Paese, before the locals gave the name to the town herself."
Bond wanted to let him know the bathroom smelled as if it had been there for centuries, but there was nothing to be gained from insulting what the giant obviously held so dear.
There was another door within the room, this one a typical lightweight, slated wood closet door. When Che Che opened it, Bond's eyes were greeted by exactly what he'd expected. There was a rough looking floor sink with a tired mop hanging on a hook above it. A large metallic waste container rested in the rear of the closet, and it was this Che Che gripped with his huge arms. The giant grunted and the container scooted off to one side revealing a hidden stone stairway leading down into absolute darkness.
Whatever was down there in the musty black, Bond thought, made the bathroom smell like roses in comparison.
Che Che pulled a large knapsack from within the trash container, and worked it onto his shoulder. He withdrew an electric torch and handed it to Bond. The stairway entrance was less than a metre high, and Bond had to take to his knees and back into crevasse.
Once inside, he could gain his feet again, although he was still unable to rise to his full height without scraping his head on the ceiling.
Che Che shut the door to the closet, and then followed him into the crawlspace, filling the small cavity of the entrance with his bulk like a total eclipse of the sun. Bond wondered for a moment if he would have to pull the other man through by the legs, but then Che Che bean to descend the steps behind him.
Bond turned the torch to the stairway going down before him, struggling to make out a landing several metres below them in the murky, cobwebbed passage.
"Some of the locals will tell you these catacombs were built by the Romans," Che Che spoke out loud now, apparently unconcerned about being overheard beneath the layer of stone and dirt separating them and the chapel above. Bond followed suit.
"But if the whole village knows this place exists, why hide it?"
"The Corsican people have been here a long time, James. Generations have sought refuge down here. From the Nazis, to the Italians, to the French, we've been occupied in one form or another for over five hundred years. And we still are."
As they reached the bottom, and Bond shone the light out into the large chamber before them, he understood completely. As far as the light could reach into the low-ceiling hell, there were crates and crates of what were clearly marked as weapons, ammunitions, foodstuffs, and medical supplies. The people of Monte Paese were capable of running a small war out of their church basement.
Che Che now took the lead, quickly guiding Bond across the sea of boxes. It took them several minutes to reach the far side of the bunker, where embedded in a solid wall of stone, was a steel blast door.
"Marc-Ange did not want you to see all this," Che Che informed him. "But he knew you wanted to leave unannounced, and unseen. So the catacombs were the easiest route."
So M had been more than justified in his concerns, and Bond shook his head at his own naivety. Not only was Marc-Ange training terrorists, but he was concealing a large enough stash of arms to leave little doubt that he was dealing. The old man would certainly be able to have a "Humph" at his expense if Bond lived long enough to report in again.
Che Che produced a key, and the door gave way before them into a tight tunnel that appeared to have been carved directly into the stone. In another, seemingly miraculous, act of contortion, Che Che crawled into the tunnel on his hands and knees, being careful to leave the door propped open with his foot.
"Don't worry, it will swing shut behind us," Che Che assured him. Bond didn't want to admit it, but it was the idea of the door closing behind them, trapping them in this tiny crawlspace that slowly ascended into nowhere, he found unnerving.
"I will attempt to hold any flatulence until the end of our journey," the large man said with a laugh. "But I can make no promises."
When the steel door clanged shut, there was absolute darkness. Finally, Che Che flicked on the lantern, and they began the gruelling climb, the hard stone biting into their knees with every crawl.
Bond had always been proud of his sense of time, but here beneath the ground, wasted from a river of pain flowing from his ribs and knees, it deserted him.
"How far does this go?" he finally asked his guide.
"I've never measured it properly, but I remember it takes more than an hour and a half." Che Che called back without stopping.
Bond was now sweating heavily, and he paused to catch his breath, and absorb what he'd just been told.
"Not claustrophobic are you, James?" the other man asked.
"Not in the least," Bond replied. "I was just coming to grips with how long I would have to look at your ass."
This comment brought a huge booming laugh from the man before him.
"Now, that's more like it," he chortled. "We are what the Americans call "bonding," are we not?"
"Just keep crawling, you ox," Bond told him. "We can bond all you want once we get out of this hell hole."
After what seemed an eternity, the air about them began to warm, and their sweat began to pour forth more earnestly, making their journey more gruelling on the now slippery rock floor, as well as more offensive to their noses.
When they came to the end, it came in the form of a steel runged ladder stretching out to the surface above. At the top was a hatch with a wheel latch, much like the kind Bond had encountered in the older models of submarines.
Che Che quickly spun the wheel loose, and then opened the hatch with another grunt.
After the dim light of the electric torch, the mid-day sun of Corsica was almost painful to his eyes, but the fresh air accompanying it nearly brought him to tears.
They were at the edge of woods, not far from a game trail that ran up into the mountains above.
Once closed, the black steel of the hatch blended back into the forest. Bond doubted if he could find it again if it became necessary.
Upon gaining the path, the two men were able to look down on the village of Monte Paese, now the size of a child's toy castle off in the distance. Bond could just make out the spire of the church from which their journey had begun.
"So, where are we heading, Mon Captain?" Che Che asked.
"Somewhere near Vizzavona, where we shouldn't be seen, and no one will care if we are."
After a short discussion they turned from Monte Paese, and began a long climb up the path into the Haute Corsica.
* * *
The man, who'd watched both men enter the church from his own place of concealment in a doorway across the street, waited for an hour before venturing into the holy place.
Upon finding it empty, he knew where they'd gone. He scurried off to deliver his message to the foreigner who'd been so generous in the recent past. It was such a small betrayal for so great a reward.