Chapter Eleven: A Funny Thing Happened on the Road to Vizzavona



After the first few hours, Che Che began to sing as they walked, following the game trail steadily higher into the mountains. Bond's rough knowledge of Corsican was not enough to keep pace with the words, but from the few he could discern, is seemed to be a rather bawdy, traveller's tale, one which kept easy pace with their own footfalls. The other man's voice was pleasant enough, what the Corsicans would have described as a secunda, a midrange voice, so Bond let him continue undisturbed.

When Bond enquired, Che Che told him the music was known as paghjella, and was intended to keep people content while working on manual tasks. The songs were filled with high emotions, he said, often telling of seductions, or adventures beyond the menial world of shepherds and crop workers. Although he was nearly blind to its meaning, Bond let his mind drift with the music through much of the day's journey.

The air had become noticeably thinner, and the going had become more laboured. Steam rolled off of them as they ascended into the cooler arms of the Haute Corsica, billowing off into the cool mountain air.

At one point on the climb, there had been some rustling from the brush off to one side of the road. Che Che had raised one giant hand signalling Bond to a stop. The man placed a finger to his lips, and then silently drew an ancient looking Ruger. He then made a throwing motion with his free hand, and pointed to Bond.

James nodded, and silently knelt down to pluck a rock from the trail they'd been following. They'd seen an abundance of wildlife on their trek up the mountain, and when he cast the stone into the bushes at the side of the road, Bond was not disappointed.

The rabbit broke cover and began to dart away from them, searching amongst the scarce foliage for a new, more secure, hiding place. It hadn't made more than a half dozen steps, however, before Che Che's gun barked, and the animal fell.

Che Che retrieved the brown and white bundle from the ground, and after trussing its feet with a string from his backpack, carried it like a woman's handbag in his left hand.

"It will allow us to conserve the food I packed," he informed Bond. "We'll need it tomorrow. The higher we go, the harder it's going to become to find game. It's easier when you're a shepherd, if all else fails, you still have a supply of milk to get you through."

His song silenced, Che Che filled his time catching Bond's occasional questions about the land they traversed, and sometimes pausing to pick some herbs, or in one case, berries along the trailside.

As the sun sank, both men had to pull jackets from their packs, as the cool breezes of the mountains became less than bearable.

"How much further are we going to make it today?" Bond finally asked when they paused for a water break.

Che Che took a few moments to assess where they'd come from, and then looking north, further up the path.

"There's a stream about half an hour away. There's a field there where we can camp tonight out in the open, which should be a treat for you. Early tomorrow, we'll reach some shepherd huts, and from there, Vizzavona is less than half a day's travel by foot."

Later that evening, Bond lay looking up at the unspoiled Corsican sky through the face slit of his sleeping roll. With no manmade lights to interfere, and the high, clear mountain air, the stars were brilliant and plentiful, almost dizzying in their magnitude. But the beauty stood opposed to the litany of dark thoughts that claimed his mind, not to mention the obtrusive snoring of the sleeping giant on the far side of the smouldering coals of their campfire.

They'd refilled their water bottles in the stream when they'd first arrived, the water so cold it was hard to thrust a hand into it. There was more than enough deadfall, and loose brush about to start a serviceable fire, and Bond busied himself with the task. Although Che Che assured him the chances of their being disturbed was minimal, Bond still took care to avoid the use of any green wood or foliage, keeping the smoke from the fire to a minimum. Once they'd were prepared to turn in for the evening, he would make sure to douse the flames, and leave only the tinkers to give them what little comfort they could through the night.

As Bond addressed the fire, Che Che cleaned the rabbit in the stream, using a surgeon's deft hands to skin and gut the animal in matter of seconds. He stuffed the corpse's cavities with some of the herbs he'd collected along the way. There was a large pod bearing tree nearby that he claimed several huge, fan-like leaves from. These he drenched in the stream, and then wrapped tightly about the rabbit, securing them with a length of wire he'd taken from his pack.

The fire had begun to come to life by then. Che Che stripped some green branches from the pod tree and bowed them into a simple stand that he tied together with the other end of his wire, and then placed over the fire. The makeshift tripod held the rabbit suspended just above the flames.

"The givings of a well-spent childhood," Che Che explained with a shrug later, as they devoured the steamed rabbit sitting across from one another in the starlit night. Then, lying in their sleeping rolls, they talked for a while. Mostly it was Che Che, telling stories of his boyhood, and shepherding in these hills and mountains during his youth, when there were still bandits hiding in every nook and valley, and vendettas aplenty. As the giant's words became slower and more sleep-filled, he spoke of Marie-Claude, and of the plans they were making together. She wanted him to move to Bastia, to join a practice there, where the money and prestige of being a city doctor's wife could soothe her longings to escape the day-to-day doldrums of living in Monte Paese. He knew that Marc-Ange would not fight such a move, if he asked, but just the thought of the old man being disappointed in him was more than he was able to bear.

"And besides, as I've explained to her a thousand times, we owe something to the village. I grew up an orphan in Marc-Ange's home, and that entire community had a hand in raising me. Those children you see scuttling about in the street; I delivered more than half of them, usually in their own homes, without so much as a midwife by my side. Marc-Ange has told me he will fund the construction of a clinic, so the people of the countryside, and the surrounding villages can seek help as well. Not only will I serve as a doctor, but the flow of people coming to Monte Paese will boost trade, and help the entire village economically."

Not to mention, Bond thought to himself. A chance for Marc-Ange to widen his recruit base for the FLNC, and generate a tidy increase in Monte Paese's other economy, the one that dealt with arms and ammunition.

"And what of Marie-Claude? Aren't you afraid of losing her?" he asked.

Che Che shrugged.

"She is Corsican. She may torture me for the rest of my life with her velvet abuse, but in the end, she will respect my wishes."

"You know, that kind of thinking, is enough to get you pillared in the West these days," Bond quipped.

There was relative silence for a few moments, broken only by the night sounds of the insects and animals about them. They both continued to look up at the glorious night sky. Finally, Che Che replied, already half-asleep.

"Then, I guess I'm happy to be in Corsica."

Now, with his pleasantly filled stomach, Bond lay awake with the crickets, his thoughts of Donn, and where this dance of theirs might take him. Once the team rendezvoused with him in Vizzavona and whisked him back to London, it would leave him in the same position as before. Donn would still be going on about his merry way, disrupting, and destroying Bond's life with abject glee. Who was to say Felix might not be the next target, or Tanner, Moneypenny, hell, even M himself? It was obvious they couldn't depend upon the IRA's assistance. Maybe now, with one "00" already near death, and certain to never return to active duty, M would be willing to send Bond after Donn. It would mean returning to Northern Ireland, and Ireland proper, places he never truly felt comfortable, never felt like he belonged, after the whole Smite affair.

He watched as the quarter moon rose, and then slowly etched a path across the sky, struggling to find a comfortable position for his sore ribs while lying on the cold, hard ground. It had been less than a week earlier he'd spoken to Felix about "down time" and now here he was again, bared to an emotional and physical core, his body's needs and misgivings peeled away like the shell fragments from one of his beloved three-and-a-third-minute eggs.

Somewhere during the night, he fell asleep, unable to set a mental agenda for the next day. The course of events would dictate themselves, and all he could hope to do was react with honour.

* * *

Che Che arose easily with the breaking sun the next morning. Bond stirred as he rolled and secured his bag, but the doctor saw no reason to disturb his difficult patient. The man's ribs needed time to heal, and here he was climbing about the hills like a goat. The least he could do was let the other man sleep for a while.

He drug a splayed hand through his hair, allowing the morning dew gathered there to help push it back from the course features of his face. There were places further up the path, and further upstream, where the water widened out, and he might be able to snag some fish, or at least gather enough berries, and nuts, to make a passable breakfast for the two of them. Taking fishing line and hooks from his bag, he regained the game trail and trekked further north, never intending to be gone more than a few minutes.

* * *

Bond awoke a few minuets later at 6:30 a.m. He still retained the unique ability to visualise a time as he fell asleep, and then awaken at almost that exact moment. It had served him well in the field over the years.

He was surprised to find Che Che gone; Bond was generally a nervous sleeper; the large man must have been very light on his feet to slip away undetected. Pinned to the man's backpack was a note in simple English that read, "GONE FISHING".

Bond chuckled, and began going about an amended version of his morning routine. The agonisingly slow push-ups licked at his wounded ribs, but the pain was becoming more bearable with every day. Still, by the time he'd finished with the leg lifts, and light callisthenics, he was bathed in sweat, as much from the pain, as from the exercise. He then stripped to his shorts and let the cold, morning air prick at his body like a hundred thousand needles hungry for blood.

Digging through his own pack, he found the washcloth, scant towel, and a tube of bath gel that he'd brought along. He then made his way over to the stream, which would be even more bracing with the sun just beginning to edge above the peaks to the east. It was one thing to step into a shower with the water scalding hot, or chillingly cold, but it was another to undertake what nature could dish out.

He dipped the cloth into the stream, and began to sponge bathe himself, working up what lather he could with the soap. He body screamed awake at the water's touch, and he was thankful for it. It would be much easier to forgo his morning coffee now. Bending down beside the stream, he cupped some water in his hands, and brought it to his mouth where he swished it about chasing away the greasy aftertaste of the rabbit from the night before, He then spat it back into the coursing water. Again, he cupped his hands, this time splashing the water against his face, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. He repeated this a few more times, dampening his hair, and finally working his scalp, face and neck with the soap.

He was shaking with the cold now, and what had been slightly painful, but invigorating, was becoming unbearable. A few more rinsing handfuls and he was done, working himself with the towel to get the damning water off his body before he froze to death.

Turning back to the fire, he found he was not alone.

Feale McCann squatted next to the remains of the fire from the night before. She'd tossed on some more dry brush, and was slowly stroking the flames back to life with sharp breaths and the prodding ministrations of a stick.

James Bond quickly looked to where his gun lay with his clothing in a neat pile behind her.

"Relax," she informed him. "If I had wanted to kill you…" She just shrugged and let the cliché hang in the air. "And don't look so surprised, it isn't exactly difficult to track you when your keeping company with Goliath."

Feale now gingerly stood on her injured feet, walked over to Bond's Walther and holster, and tossed them to him. He snagged it easily, and quickly strapped it on over his naked, goose-fleshed chest.

"So why are you here?" he asked, walking past her to where his clothes lay. He immediately began to dress, tempering himself to the chilling air.

"To warn you…and to let you know that you were right."

The last must have been very difficult for her to say. Theirs had been a love-hate relationship from the start, and as she voiced the words, she looked to the ground, avoiding his eyes like a little girl in a confessional booth.

"How so?" he prodded her along.

She crossed her arms defensively before her, and drew her lower lip between her teeth. Her beauty again struck Bond. She was wearing her combat fatigues with a thick khaki vest strapped over top, but unzipped to her waist. She looked up at him again, catching his appreciative glance, smiled, seemingly taking courage from it, and then began to speak.

"I went looking for Colleen as you suggested, to find out if it was true about Tom…" an emotional clutch here, but she quickly fell back into her rhythm. "She and her lap dog, Troy, had disappeared. Marc-Ange told me they'd said something about supplies and headed out yesterday in one of the Humvees. He was acting peculiar, I think on some level he knew that something was wrong, you having disappeared and all. So, I called St. Pete's myself, and spoke to Maelisa."

"And," he said.

"And you were right." No tears, no hysterics, Bond thankfully noted. She seemed to be going on a soldier's mental autopilot now with her short staccato sentences.

"We spoke for awhile. She'll be OK. We're good about taking care of our own."

Bond, fully clothed, and standing behind her now, placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. She turned, and looked directly up into his eyes, her own, vacant.

"You were right," this time without a hint of emotion. "You were right about almost everything. I did contact Peter when I found out you were coming."

"But why?" he asked.

"Because it was the only reason I'm here. Tom and Peter we're the one's that placed me here; I was to wait, years if necessary, until you arrived, then contact them."

"But what about Colleen and Troy, how does she fit into all of this? I find it hard to believe your story about Donn was just lies. I've been lied to by the best, and yours would have been a command performance."

She shook her head violently.

"There's still so much you don't know. Everything I told you about Peter, about what he did to me was God's truth."

* * *

As he knew it would, the stream widened out, and plateaued about two miles further up the trail. Che Che had to leave the path a ways into the shrub to reach the running water, but for him, all of this was a welcome return to the playgrounds of his youth.

He'd begun to cut into the brush at a diagonal from the path, hoping to make a short path to an old, favoured fishing hole, when the sound of voices came to him. Somewhere, further up the game trail, a man and a woman stood speaking in rapid French. Che Che silently thanked his natural instincts for moving quietly when in the maquis. Just as they'd surprised the rabbit the evening before, the two figures were oblivious to his presence.

Through a line of bushes, Che Che could make out the figure of Colleen, who was facing him, but the man with the peasant Corsican clothing with his back to Che Che remained a mystery. He struggled to identify the low voice, but at this distance, only the higher, Irish-lilted French of the woman came to him.

"There, you see. Moral questions always equate to financial terms. It's been one of the only great truths of my life. Make the job clean, and they'll blame it on the Englishman. Several people heard the two of them arguing the other night, and those who didn't, will say they were there anyway. By the time all of this is over, you'll be so rich that you'll be the one running Monte Paese. And believe me, my people will be happy to have the uncooperative, moralistic old windbag out, and someone more reasonable, someone who knows the value of power, in charge."

The unknown Corsican lifted his hand to her face, drawing it along the edge of her jaw line, across her neck, and then curved and cupped it about her breast. He mumbled something and the woman laughed.

"Oh, you'll have that as well. If you think you can handle it."

Another grumbled response.

"Very well, then. Just remember to bring me his eyes. I'd like to show them to the Inglese before he leaves this sad veil of tears."

The man nodded and then turned, beginning to walk back down the path toward Monte Paese. Colleen watched him go for a few moments, and then turned north, heading further up into the mountains. Che Che swallowed his shock and disgust and pulled further away into the woods. He had a head start on the man, but he wanted to give Colleen more time to distance herself, and move further out of earshot. He quickly glided across the rough terrain, leaving no more for his passing than a rustle of underbrush.

Finally picking his spot behind a crop of trees, he waited for the confident footfalls of his former friend to come down the trail to him. When they arrived, Che Che stepped out into the early morning sunlight.

"Hello, Emil," he said.

The other man started for a moment, but then quickly recovered.

"Che Che," he stumbled over the words, trying to vainly turn on the disarming smile that had charmed so many of the village girls when they'd been so much younger. "Thank God you are alright. Marc-Ange sent me up here to find you and the man, Bond, and bring you back. They captured this Donn last evening in the woods outside of du peaese. He's hanging from one of the chestnut trees as we speak, throat slit, and drained dry."

"Is that so?" the giant quipped.

"Quite," Emiliano continued.

"So, Marc-Ange sent you and Colleen up here to find us?"

Now, the man showed his first true signs of concern since turning on his beacon of a smile.

"Colleen?" he asked.

"Yes, I saw the two of you talking further up the path."

"Oh, yes. There's a whole army of us combing the trails for you, half the village is out. I'm surprised I'm the first you've run into."

"I'm sure of that," Che Che agreed with a laugh. Emiliano laughed with him, but he wore a puzzled expression beneath his joviality. "And now that you've found me, what next?"

"Once we've collected your English friend, we should head back to the village. But first, we'll need to let the others know I've found you."

Che Che nodded.

"Alright then, lead the way," with this, he swept one giant arm open palmed up the path, ushering his friend along."

Emiliano took a hesitant step forward. Che Che knew the man was at a grave tactical disadvantage. The giant had always been by far the stronger of the two, and Emil's only chance of overcoming him would have been to take him from behind. Now, the other man's only hope was to get to Colleen, and have Che Che outnumbered. As if suddenly realising this, the other man's feet began to fall faster now.

"So, how is Amelie? The boys?" he asked over the man's shoulder..

"They're well," he replied. "Although we hardly see little Curtuis any longer. He's either out with the flock, or running about with the other children. Sometimes, I think they get into more trouble than even we used to."

Che Che had been doubling over the fishing line again and again in his hands, listening to his friend's idle lies.

"Oh, I doubt that," he replied.

The other man stopped.

"It's possible they might be able to hear us from here," Emiliano said, raising his cupped hands to his mouth to shout.

Che Che doubted Colleen would have heard him, but he couldn't take the chance. The fishing line had become a garrotte in his hands and he quickly wrapped it about his friend's throat from behind, inadvertently catching the other man's upraised fingers as he did so.

Being a doctor had cleared Che Che's mind of the misconception that a garrotte killed by cutting off oxygen to the brain. The trick of the weapon was speed and force, the object being to crush the trachea and then let the victim's own fractured airway finish him off.

"Better to let you die than to let them see you for the traitorous bastard you've become," he whispered into Emiliano's ear as he increased the pressure on the line.

Emil prolonged the battle with his fingers beneath the wire, but at the same time, he was unable to free himself to reach for the knife at his belt. Che Che's own hands were now bleeding where the line had cut into them, but he was oblivious to the pain, he had to finish things quickly. He turned his own back to Emiliano's, the garrotte now held by both hands over his right shoulder as if he was grasping a heavy sack. He then put his considerable muscle to the task, and pulled forward with his arms, taking the other man off his feet entirely. There were some sickening crushing sounds from the other man's throat and the body, which now lay across his own back, went limp and still.

Che Che wanted to be sick, and for a few moments, he thought he might be just that. The man had been a boyhood friend, one of his closest.  He'd even toyed with the idea of asking him to be best man at his and Marie's wedding. He fought back the nausea, as he stood there bent over, bleeding hands on knees, looking down into the brown Corsican dirt of the trail.

Giving the body as brief a glance as possible, he hefted it, and carried it behind the bank of trees where he'd stood concealed earlier. There was little time for sentimentality, he knew, Colleen now had at least a fifteen minute head start. If he didn't catch up to her, and find out where she'd gone, he knew the roles of the hunter, and the hunted, would soon switch back over to their disadvantage.

He began to hurry up the trail; trying not to think of the body he'd left behind, and of the faces of that body's children. Che Che had to hope James would be all right left to his own devices for the time being.

* * *

Bond and Feale sat next to the rekindled fire; the former unaware of his new friend's life and death struggle only a few miles distant, the latter so wrapped up in her dark, emotional torrents she was barely aware of the fire before her and the man beside her.

"You have no idea how much he hates you, how far he's gone for his revenge. I was just another tool for him to drag you closer to him like a fly to a spider. Everything else, me, the baby, and now I'm certain, Tom, we were either useful, or we were emotional liabilities. The baby could never have been of any use against you; it could only have held Peter back, so it had to die. When he killed Tom, I'm sure he felt Pa had exhausted his usefulness. But me, he knew you would come to Marc-Ange sooner or later, and once he'd announced his intentions to your people, he knew you would seek me out. I was to be the staked goat that would draw you in, and the only reason I'm still alive, is because he thinks I'm still serving a purpose. You must realise, he has absolutely no intention of coming out of this alive. His whole life as been dedicated to ending yours, and he's going to scorch every inch of ground he treads until his goddam game is over."

Some of it made sense to Bond in an insane sort of way, but there were so many questions.

"So why not kill him, yourself? Certainly you've seen him by now."

She laughed in a high, nervous fashion that made Bond concerned for her own sanity. It was obvious she was in a rather fragile state.

"Oh, yes, I've seen him. He's here, so to speak."

"Well, you say you care about Marc-Ange, you say you care about me..."

"I do," she assured him.

"Well then, kill him before he kills us, before he decides you've outlived your usefulness. Or, at least, help me to do it."

"I can't," she whimpered.

"And why the hell not!" Bond couldn't help but shout, the woman was infuriating, even more so than most.

"I...I love him."

Bond started to reply to this, obviously enraged, but she cut him off. "He was the first person in my entire life who ever cared about me. If you could roll your father, mother, brother, and husband into one person, then you might be able to understand what Peter is to me."

Bond thought of telling her he'd never really known his own parents, and he hadn't tied any such anchor around his neck. But he let her continue on undisturbed in the same emotionless, droning tone as before.

"When we were both teenagers, he saved me once. Hell, he saved me a thousand times, but this time was different. I was about twelve, and just starting to grown into my body. There were two Albanian boys staying at the hostel, named Dashmir and Tie, and whenever I was around them, their eyes would follow me like two hungry wolves waiting for a lamb to stray too far from the flock. I was terrified of them, and told Pa as much, but they were two of the "special ones". The hostel was my home, though, and I guess it gave me a false sense of security. One day, I came out of a stall in the public privy, and the two of them were there, waiting for me. I was able to get off one good yell before they were on me. Tie slapped me hard enough to knock the scream from my lips, and then Dashmir stuffed a rolled sock in my mouth."

Bond watched her face as she spoke, not daring to interrupt. Wherever the story was taking her, he knew it was obviously important to her, and he knew if he attempted to stop her now, he would have an enemy for life.

"They had my undergarments off, and my skirt up so quickly, I never had a chance to use the basic defence moves I'd already been taught. The fact is, a twelve-year-old girl simply cannot contend with two seventeen-year-old boys, and I came to understand this the hard way.

Tie had hold of my arms from behind, and Dashmir was preparing to do what they had come for. Aside from when Peter and I would take baths together as small children, it was the first time I'd ever seen a man naked, and believe me, it left me with ill feelings for your sex for quite some time."

"When Peter came through the door at a dead run, neither of them were in a very good position to defend themselves. Peter had already been to Syria by then, and he acted quickly. In one motion through the door, he loosed a knife he had been carrying. It buried itself in Dashmir's neck. I was drenched in his blood, and he collapsed before me, exposed, and clawing at the knife like the dying animal he was. Tie did not have it so easy. He put my head in the crook of his elbow, and put his free hand aside my ear. He jabbered his broken English the whole time, keeping me between Peter and himself, making it clear he would break my neck if Peter tried to touch him."

"Peter just kept walking forward, smiling the whole time. He went to the body of Dashmir, stepped on the boy's head, and jerked his knife free of the corpse's neck. He never gave Tie the chance to think about whether he would make good on his threat to me. Tie was backed up against a wall, and Peter just walked up and smacked the Albanian's nose with the hilt of the knife. Tie's hands dropped from my head, and I ran from the bathroom and back to our section of the house. I heard about the rest of it later, from some of the other kids. Apparently, Peter choked Tie to death by shoving a severed piece of Dashmir's anatomy down the other boy's throat. They probably still talk about it at Saint Pete's. Up until the day I left, no boy would get within ten feet of me, and except for Peter, that was exactly the way I'd wanted it."

She saw Bond shaking his head slightly.

"In ways you won't let yourself understand, James. He is like a god. Peter works for the greater good. Most of what he has done, he has done for the betterment of my people. He gives them hope in a cause that seems so hopeless so often. He's a hero. I hate him for what he did to me… to my baby, but it's like being angry with God. If I were to kill him, I'd be killing the hope of the Irish people. I couldn't do that to them. What I feel, and what I want, mean nothing when compared to what he has done."

Bond never ceased to be amazed at what people with charisma could accomplish. Here was a woman he'd come to admire in a very short span of time, and yet, he never would have known she was a babbling fanatic on the inside. It made him sad, but at the same time, it gave him one more reason to hate Donn. She continued with her drivel, as if she were still trying to convince herself there was some logic hidden beneath the sand.

"When it's about the greater good, you forgive great men their shortcomings. You give them what they want in trade for what they do, or what they represent."

"So you would give him your life?" Bond asked, knowing it was useless to fight such hazy thinking.

"Yes," she answered.

"Would you give him my life?"

She paused to exhale, and then reached her hand over to hold his.

"There was a time when I'd have killed you myself, but I'm here now, aren't I?"

* * *

The Humvee was parked on the game trail about a hundred feet from where Che Che lay close to the ground, concealed in the long grass.

Troy stood outside the vehicle, a Colt M4A1 strapped over his shoulder, engaging in a conversation with a handheld radio. They must have ascended one of the other dozen or so trails that fed into the road to Vizzavona, and now lay waiting for Bond and him to come stumbling along. There was no sign of the woman, nor of the other man, Donn, whom James had spoke of, so Che Che was careful to stay alert, not wanting a second party to catch him blind sided.

Finding himself out-armed and possibly out-manned, the giant knew the best strategy would be to return to the clearing and alert Bond of their company on the mountainside. Now, with the wolves driven from the herd, the Englishman would be safer back in Monte Paese.

Che Che followed alongside the path, using whatever foliage and cover he came across to hide himself from the main trail. The sun was beginning to wear through the morning haze, and by the time he was approaching the spot where Emiliano's body should have been, the giant was sweating profusely and more than a little winded. Even so, it still made his skin prickle when he saw that Emiliano's body had mysteriously migrated from the bank of trees where it had been concealed to the middle of the road.

He broke cover and strolled over to his former friend's corpse. It lay on its back, arms extended, and legs crossed, in what was obviously intended to be a mock crucifixion. Before he could come to grips with what sort of sick individual could play with dead bodies, someone spoke from behind him.

"Che Che, why hath thou forsaken me?"

Recognising the voice, Che Che wheeled to face the speaker.

"You sick bitch," he spat at Colleen who was calmly holding a Colt of her own, its working end pointed with steady hands at his mid-section.

"Tsk, tsk," she muttered. "One should keep one's manners in the presence of a lady. And after all, aren't you the one who betrayed your friend here?"

He shook his huge, scarred head.

"You're the one who poured the poison in his ear, the man I grew up with was only guilty of having a weak mind and a light wallet. Now, look at him," he motioned back over his shoulder, feeling his own anger rising like a serpent in his belly and mind. "If you weren't a woman…"

"You'd what?" she chuckled. "Put me in my place? Now, that would be original."

She took the gun strap off her shoulder, and to his surprise, tossed it to the side of the road. Colleen then held her arms out to her sides, away from her body.

"There you are, all even. Now, you have the chance to be the hero. All you have to do is get by me, and you can run off and warn your little English friend so the two of you can scurry back to Papa Draco for protection."

She motioned with a waving hand for him to come closer, but he hesitated. She was right, he knew, all he had to do was disable her, and most likely the hand was won. But just her sheer cockiness put him on guard. Bandits in Corsica could still be honourable, but terrorists never were.

"Come on, Doctor," she goaded him. "A culchie like yourself shouldn't see anything wrong with slapping around a woman." There was a time when he might have looked upon her as a woman, but now she was just the enemy. It didn't matter how beautiful she was in her sleek black slacks, and matching pull over sweater, she was barely even human in his eyes.

Why was she trying so hard to prod him?

"For an dochtúir, you're putting way too much into this female thing. Come on, I heard about what you did to Bond, one of Her Majesty's best. Of coarse, that's nothing compared to what we're going to do to him. He'll wish you'd killed him. And don't worry, we're going to take care of that old plonker, Marc-Ange. And then, just as a reward, I think I'll give that little tart of yours to Troy as an after dinner treat."

That was it for his debating. Either she was going to kill him, or he could at least take a chance.

He rushed her, closing the distance with all the speed he could muster, arms outstretched to snag his tormentor's mid-section. It was his intention to crush her in his arms like a chestnut in a vice, but all he found was a knee that struck the bridge of his nose with a distinct cracking.

He screamed, falling back, grasping his shattered nose. His body responded, and tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision when he needed it the most.

"Let's see," she told him as she walked about him in small circles. "You know, I, too, had to learn a great deal about the human anatomy. Done right, it takes almost as much skill to harm people as it does to heal them, and I was an exceptional student. Let me see, that would have been a nasal fracture, with definite damage to the septum. Would you concur?"

Woman or not, Che Che had to accept he was in a battle for his life. He willed himself to his feet and came at her again.

There was momentary surprise in her eyes as he swung a huge, branch sized arm at her head, but she easily ducked beneath it and delivered a counter strike with her own right to his ribs. Her hit was almost surgical in its precision, her whole torso rotating into the open handed blow like a bell hammer.

He doubled up at the force of the strike.

"Fast for a big one, aren't ye?"

Before he could recover for another attack, she brought the heel of her hiking boot down on the side of his knee at a perfect 60-degree angle. Suddenly, the pain in his nose and ribs seemed like nothing but a distant plea for attention. He fell to the ground, hobbled and screaming.

"Now, then," she continued her dissertation with her dissection. "I'd have to say that would be a torn anterior cruciate ligament. I hear it's very painful."

Somehow, through the suffering his mind kept reeling, attempting to make some sense of what was happening to him. This woman fought like no woman, or for that matter, any man, he had ever seen, or heard of. Still a superstitious Corsican at heart, he fleetingly wondered if she were some sort of demon. To see such speed, and such force, exerted from such a small and attractive frame. He had always known the difference between a good fighter and a losing one was the degree of willingness a person had to cause damage to another human being. Not only were her blows coming without hesitation, but they were falling with great skill and exuberance as well.

These would be the last thoughts he had that would be strung together coherently, for the next blow came to his lower back.

"Spinal cord trauma," the bitch's voice came from somewhere distant, somewhere above and beyond the agony. The Corsican dirt was pressed to his face, he could taste it in his mouth, and it seemed like a good and welcome thing to die like this.

Left radius, right ulna, fourth and fifth right side ribs, the litany went on, droning from her mouth like a first year human physiology course. But he was oblivious to her torture now. The last words his ears heard were "temporal plate with possible epidural haematoma," but by then his mind was not listening any longer. He was thinking of Marie-Claude and the faces of their unborn children.

* * *



Obviously, the talking had helped Feale some. Maybe with weeks, and months, he could get through the programming so deeply ingrained in her mind, but James Bond didn't have the luxury of time. He needed information, not stories and feelings, or he, and those close to him, we're going to die.

"So, where does Colleen fit into all of this? Is she one of the Saint Pete kids as she claims?"

"Hmmm. Yes, she was," Feale once again had that distant sound in her voice, as if she were tuned into some far off radio signal. Her eyes were blank. "Would it surprise you if I told you we were once lovers?"

Her timing took him aback a little, but it truly didn't shock him. He'd noticed the appraisals, and the comfortable familiarity the two women had. Surprised, no. Disappointed a little, yes. He was rather old fashioned when it came to such things.

"Not really," he answered, needing to move the conversation along. "I've seen the way she looks at you. And at me, when I'm near you."

It was moving now from morning toward afternoon, and Che Che should have been back some time ago. Something was wrong, he had to get this blasted woman to stop playing games and spit out whatever it was she knew.

A smile now passed her lips, and her eyes finally turned back to meet his, as if the distant broadcast had concluded.

"That's very intuitive of you, James. It's too bad you didn't take it one step further; you could have saved us all so much trouble. You have no idea how far he would go to get his revenge."

"What do you mean?" he asked dumbfounded, and with more than a little anger creeping into his voice.

"I mean that Colleen is Peter. He, rather she, has been here in front of you the entire time, laughing at you."