The Parisian avenue was loud, crowded, and expensive, as were most of the prominent shop-lined streets.  Bewildered tourists window-shopped at the expensive boutiques and dress stores, while experienced endemic patrons darted from shop to shop, avoiding the tourists and picking up only what they needed.

In a gated-off café in the center of the avenue, James Bond sat at a table for two, drinking his second Americano and watching the pedestrian adventure that was unfolding before him.  He noticed the policemen, striding down the street in dark blue uniforms waving at madame such-and-such, and nodding at monsieur so-and-so.  Bond watched the seniors—the old men who sat on benches and talked about old times and told lies about the new ones; the old women who complained about their husbands.  He watched the French women, the rich, married ones, as they sat at bistro tables sipping coffee and gossiping about what happened to the lady-down-the-street.  He watched the children, running around their parents and chasing their brother or sister, causing innocent mischief, as children tend to do.

Bond himself hated these French avenues, the crowded street stores and tasteless cafés.  The one he was seated at was particularly nice, and served Bond well since he knew the manager.

James Bond sat and sipped as his Americano, a mixture of bitter Campari, Cinzano, and Perrier soda, augmented by a thick slice of lemon peel.  The drink was not a hard mixture; a French street café was no place for the harder liquors Bond enjoyed: vodka, whiskey, or gin.  He knew this fact and responded to it without hesitation.  Besides, Bond had a fond affinity for the Americano; memories tainted by time but still fresh in Bond's sharp mind.

Across the table from Bond, the Frenchman sat staring back at the Englishman without an expression on his face.  He was quietly sipping his cappuccino, watching the events on the avenue just as Bond had been moments before.

"Is it not incredible, m'sieur Bond?" the Frenchman suddenly spoke, his deep voice booming from underneath his bushy mustache.  "The very fact of life, the simple things that keep us going each day.  It is truly one of the most fascinating aspects of the human existence."

Bond contemplated this slightly as he looked over the Frenchman.  There was more than the fact of human existence running through the mind of secret agent James Bond.  Bond knew how dangerous this mission was.  The mission's very success depended on this Frenchman and his knowledge.  Bond prayed that the operation would be a success.

Pierre Aubergine did not look like a criminal.  In fact, he looked more like a banker or a doctor than anything else.  He was shorter than Bond, of average build, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, thick eyebrows, and a bushy mustache.  He wore a brown tweed jacket and similar slacks, with a tan Oxford and no necktie.  He was unassuming, unpretentious, and calm, as if the Frenchman didn't even known he was sitting across from a secret agent.

He didn't look like a criminal.  But Pierre Aubergine was a criminal.

There was no doubt about that fact.  Pierre Aubergine had broken the law many times but had managed to evade justice thus far.  Aubergine, like many criminals, was not above bribery and greed, a fact that served Bond well.  If Aubergine was indeed who M said he was, the Frenchman could be one of Bond's greatest assets.

If indeed Aubergine was who M said he was, Bond thought.  The secret agent had no doubt whatsoever in the word of his boss, but there was, of course, the customary suspicion that went with every mission.  But, then again, this was no ordinary mission.  So often in the life of a secret agent, an operation takes place exactly as it is planned.  Nothing deviates from the set course—at least nothing under the agent's control.  James Bond had been set on many of these missions in his lifetime.

But this time, just this one time, Bond had deviated from his mission.

James Bond was never supposed to have met Pierre Aubergine.  The Frenchman wasn't notorious enough to be well known, even among agents of Bond's caliber.  This was one of the reasons Bond had been selected for his mission against Aubergine.  Bond knew nothing about the Frenchman.

But M had seen the situation differently than the analysists that had provided a mission outline and the Minister of Defense that had ordered M to carry out the mission.  This mission was not the one Bond was supposed to be undertaking.  To everyone at SIS except Bond, M, and a very few others, this meeting was not taking place.

●          ●          ●

It had all started a few weeks before, in dreary London.  Bond had been ordered to M's office, but when he arrived in the spacious room overlooking Hyde Park, the secret agent knew something was wrong.  There was an air of disparity in the room; Bond sensed that a struggle was occurring even within the old woman herself.

The first sign had been M's manner.  Quiet, withdrawn—there had been no welcome when the secret agent walked through the door.  The second clue had been her drink.  Bond noticed the straight whiskey sitting on the woman's desk.  Not a good sign.  Times were few and far between when the head of Bond's department drank whiskey, especially straight.  The old lady was tough, but straight whiskey was even strong for Bond's tastes.

"Sit down," had been the commanding order from M, accompanied by a motion towards one of the office's two armchairs.  Bond complied, sitting in the one closest to M's desk.  As he did, she flicked her wrist and flung at him a dossier, which slid across the desk so fast that the secret agent had to lunge to keep it from falling on the floor.

She stood then, moving towards the window on the opposite wall.  The window gave a commanding view of downtown London's Hyde Park and the hustle and bustle that went on around it.  M watched the traffic for a few moments, and then turned back to Bond.

"What do you know about MAX, Double-0h Seven?" M asked.

The secret agent thought.  "Not much," he replied.  "Then again, not many people know much about him.  Big-time terrorist, dealing mainly in information.  Sells his info to the highest bidder, if the price suits.  Reclusive fellow.  Nobody's ever seen him, as far as we know.  CIA's been after him for some time now."

"Us too," M replied, now pacing.  "MAX's deals have left a total of four of our agents in Eastern Europe dead.  Two CIA chaps as well.  He stole a list of our undercover men a few months ago and sold it to various groups, preventing us from recovering it.  We pulled out as many agents as we could, but we weren't fast enough.  Four were killed, in various countries."  She motioned to the dossier.  "It's in there, too," she explained.  "The PM's been on our tail to get MAX as soon as possible.  Minister of Defense has even organized a special analysis team to research him."

Now Bond remembered MAX.  There had been another case, the agent recalled as he sat in M's office, concerning a certain Frenchman in Rome.  The Frenchman, possibly one within MAX's organization, had given himself up to British authorities in Italy, claiming to have knowledge about MAX's top projects.  But the man was found dead in a hotel room two days later, with a mysterious 'flame' mark on his back.  The flame mark, a tattoo, had been attributed to MAX's entire organization as something of a logo.  The flame had been found on the backs of two of MAX's other victims—the four British agents and two American ones that M had spoken of only moments earlier.

M stopped pacing then, turning and looking straight at Bond.  Her tone dropped an octave as she continued, adding dread to the already somber ambiance of the discussion.  "The analysts think they may have uncovered his identity."

Suddenly, the lights in the room darkened.  A portion of the wall behind M's desk slid up, revealing a large monitor.  The monitor flashed to life, displaying a large image of the diminutive Frenchman from the café.  "This is Pierre Aubergine," M said.  Bond knew the old woman was controlling the state-of-the-art display unit from a spot behind him.  "His is a familiar name in the French underworld.  He's wanted by us, CIA, DGSE, Mossad, INTERPOL, and a handful of others for drug trafficking and prostitution, just to name a few of his indisgretions.  They'll never pick him up, and neither will we.  He's too useful for that.

"Aubergine sold his soul a long time ago, Double-Oh Seven.  The man's been taking bribes from various intelligence agencies since he first arrived on the scene.  His knowledge of the black market and his assortment of contacts make him an invaluable asset to the entire intelligence community.  Nobody's the wiser, and nobody gets hurt, except for the person he squeals on.  He always prospers.  And everybody keeps coming back."

It wasn't unheard of in the intelligence community to pick up an asset outside the normal field of operating parameters.  Bond had found outside sources of information hundreds of times in the past.  It was just another part of his work, as far as he was concerned.  For the contact, it was a way to make an easy buck and to screw over somebody who had hurt them in the past.  Aubergine was no different than the others Bond had turned to for information.

"The Minister's analysts think that Pierre Aubergine is MAX," M finally said, getting to the point.  "He's got all the right connections, and the perfect alibis.  They've prepared a twenty-page brief on it, but I won't bore you with all that.  They've supposedly covered every aspect.  However, they conveniently left out the fact that Aubergine has provided sound, knowledgeable intelligence to us in the past, which those same analysts were unable to obtain themselves."

M shut down the monitor and turned the lights back on.  "They're wrong, Double-Oh Seven," the woman said confidently.  There was no uncertainty in her voice; she was positive.  "I've had my own analysts draw up some information on Aubergine, too, and they concluded it can't possibly be him.  Too many loopholes in the other brief.  Besides, the PM's been harassing the Minister to get rid of MAX for months now.  He's just looking for a quick way out, Bond.  And this is the wrong way out.

"I've been ordered to have you kill Aubergine, Double-Oh Seven," M conceded.  "The mission came direct from the Minister's office, priority.  Right here is it," M said, motioning to the thick file in her IN box.  "But you're not getting it.  As much as I hate to do this, I'm not sending you on that mission."

Then what am I here for? Bond wondered impatiently.  Paperwork was piling up on his desk downstairs, and if M had called him up here for no purpose, he was going to be extremely displeased.

"I am, however, sending you on another mission," M said.  "A few of my own field contacts have arranged a meeting between you and Aubergine for tomorrow afternoon.  The Courtyard Café, downtown Paris.  I know you like the place, which is why I selected it.  Aubergine has promised to give us some intelligence on MAX.  There will need to be an exchange.  Funds have been arranged and are waiting in a bank account in the Cayman Islands.  Moneypenny has all the paperwork drawn up already.  All you need to do is go to the meeting."

Bond rolled all this around in his head.  It certainly was against M's usual demeanor to go against the Minister to Defense.  It had to be important if she was going to arrange her own mission and give it to Bond.  He drummed his thumbs on the dossier.

"Your plane leaves in two hours," M said.  "Red-eye flight straight into Paris.  You'll spend the night in Paris and meet Aubergine later that afternoon."

Bond nodded and stood.  "Thank you, ma'am," he said.

"Like I said, Moneypenny has the rest of your information.  That dossier has a complete outline of the operation.  Please read it during the flight."

Bond promised to and headed for the door.  M stopped him again.  "James?"

It was not common for the woman to call the secret agent by his Christian name, so he turned immediately.  "Yes?"

"Thank you," she said.  "And good luck."

●          ●          ●

Now, a day later, here Bond was, sipping an Americano across from the contact that was going to give him information about MAX.  Nothing had been said about their 'mutual connection' yet, but Bond knew it was coming.

"I know what you are thinking, m'sieur Bond," Aubergine said, once again startling the agent.  His voice, deep and commanding, reached out like a strong hand and slapped Bond from his reverie.

"And what is that?" Bond replied.

"You know," Aubergine replied.  "You know."

Slowly setting his glass down on the table, the secret agent continued normally.  "Is that so?" Bond replied.

"Don't patronize me, Mr. Bond," Aubergine remarked strongly.  "I know more about you than you think.  Her Majesty's Secret Servant, Agent Double-Oh Seven, licensed to kill or be killed.  Still using the same Walther PPK, aren't' you, mon ami?  There are so many better firearms available today.  Walther has been an antique for years."  The Frenchman seemed to smirk at this.

Bond let the comment about his firearm use roll off his back.  He was more interested in how Aubergine had come into the knowledge of his agent number—anonymity was an agent's greatest ally, and Bond had just lost his.

"I see you've done your homework, m'sieur," Bond replied, studying Aubergine's face for some kind of betraying emotion.  There were none.  His entire being seemed devoid of readable emotions, something Bond had not noticed when the meeting began.  "You seem to be quite relaxed sitting there," Bond continued.  "Would I be right in assuming that I am in the sight of a sniper's rifle?"

Aubergine grinned.  "Bravo, m'sieur Bond.  I see that you too have done your homework.  I commend you on this."

Bond stared the Frenchman in the eyes.  "I'm afraid you didn't answer my question."  Bond's hand slowly moved into his jacket.

Aubergine did not flinch.

"That would not be wise, Mr. Bond," Aubergine replied.  "There are two snipers ready to kill you if you so much as stretch without my permission."  There was nothing comical about the way Aubergine spoke; Bond knew the man meant business.

The secret agent relaxed his hand, leaning back in his chair.  "I'm impressed by your flippancy, m'sieur," Bond quipped, watching as Aubergine's mouth twisted into a cold sneer.  "If I was in your position, I think I'd be more apprehensive."

The Frenchman's gaze did not break Bond's own.  "Your attitude amuses me, Bond.  I don't think you realize just how worrying your predicament is."

What? Bond wondered.  Who was this man sitting across from him?  Bond knew that Aubergine had connections throughout the underworld, but he had no idea that the Frenchman had access to information about SIS, and especially about Bond himself.  Did Aubergine still think that Bond had been sent to kill him?  Or was the Frenchman just taking the necessary precautions?

Needless to say the secret agent was not sitting comfortably.

"M'sieur Bond, your predicament is most enjoyable," the Frenchman said.  "Relax, mon ami.  Rest assured that I have no intentions to utilize the 'assets' I've spoken of."

Again, Bond was slightly bewildered.  This man—this simple Frenchman—was more complex than the hundreds of other criminals Bond had faced.  A moment ago, Aubergine had sneered at Bond about the use of two snipers at the Frenchman's beckon and call.  Now, the Frenchman was joking about it.  To Bond, the situation was no laughing matter.

The Minister of Defense had certainly been wrong about monsieur Pierre Aubergine.

"I want to thank you for agreeing to this meeting, m'sieur," Aubergine said.  "And I know that you must have many questions about everything that is going on—but, I assure you, in time, all things will be made clear."

The waiter returned to their table, interrupting the conversation.  "Can I get you anything else, messieurs?"

Before Bond could reply, he was interrupted by a scream.

Then another scream, this one male.

Then, more screaming.

Finally, a gunshot rang out.

Spinning, James Bond saw the source of the commotion.

A gunman was rushing towards the café, towards Bond in particular, brandishing a revolver.  Finally, the assassin stopped, frozen in the middle of the street, and saw what he was looking for. 

The man raised his weapon and took aim at his target.

James Bond dropped from his seat onto the ground, reaching inside his jacket and retrieving his Walther PPK from the chamois shoulder holster in which it rested.  Turning, he could see that Aubergine too had dropped from his seat and taking cover behind the table.  Other patrons, Bond could both hear and see, had ducked down.  All around them, it was chaos.  People were running for cover; those who weren't had ducked down behind tables or whatever was close enough to provide suitable protection.  Women screamed, children cried, and men wrapped their arms tightly around their wives as if that action alone would save their love.

But Bond did not have time to focus on that now.

Spinning, he took aim with his Walther.  By now, the gunman had fired another round from the revolver, the bullet sailing high over the heads of the café patrons and slamming with great force into the brick wall of the café.  As the man took aim for another shot, Bond took advantage of the situation and readied his own shot.

But he was too slow.  A nearby police officer had moved quickly to apprehend the madman who had opened fire on the crowded street.  Crouching into an aiming position, the cop fired one round from his weapon into the attacker.  The bullet cut into the middle of the man's back, and the would-be assassin jerked as if he had been hit by a strong bat.  His body bowed, then went taut.  His gun clattered to the ground.  The entire avenue seemed to be silent as the gunman's body fell to the ground with a thud.

The blast from the policeman's gun echoed down the street.

Bond looked around.  The carnage was over.  Around them, the patrons of the café, and the patrons everywhere on the street, were rising to see what had become of the madman.  The policeman had rushed over to the fallen man to check his pulse and radio back to headquarters for support.  Bond stood, slowly, covertly returning his pistol to its holster.  Aubergine rose, dusting off his jacket as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Bond's eyes narrowed as he sized up the Frenchman.  "Is he—?"

"Mine?"  Aubergine seemed to have read Bond's mind.  "Of course not, m'sieur."

"Than whose?"

One word escaped the mouth of Pierre Aubergine.

"MAX."

●          ●          ●

The two men left the café and headed to the sidewalk, where they waited for less than a minute.  A long black limousine pulled up, its sleek exterior shining in the bright afternoon sun.  The driver climbed from the front seat and opened the door for Aubergine and Bond, who quickly climbed in.

As Bond climbed into the car, the secret agent realized that he and the Frenchman were not alone.  Across from Bond sat one of the most striking French women the secret agent had ever met.  Dressed in a business-like tan jacket and pants suit over a white blouse, the woman had pearly-white skin that was only augmented by her silky black hair, pulled back into a tight bun at the back of her head.  Her green eyes stared into Bond's own, inquisitive and fascinated by the handsome Englishman.  She wore pointed Stilettos and a silver bracelet around her wrist.  A pair of thin black glasses rested simply on the bridge of her nose.  She had an air of affluence and intelligence around her, an aura that Bond found alluring and sexy.

Aubergine slid into the limo and slammed the door shut, signaling for the driver to take off.  "Forgive me, m'sieur," Aubergine said.  "Please allow me to introduce m'amoiselle Charlize Veraut, one of my closest advisors."

"A pleasure," Bond said, extending his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," she said, staring at him but refusing to accept his handshake.

"M'amoiselle Veraut has been working with me since the beginning," Aubergine began.  "She has a very close understanding of my contacts and my network.  I've been grooming her to follow in my footsteps.  She's very gifted, not only behind a desk but also as a field operative.  Though I have little need for an agent such as yourself, m'sieur Bond, I find as many chances as I can get to utilize Charlize's many talents.

"Now, I understand that your organization is interested in receiving information about the enigma known as MAX," Aubergine said.  "I must admit that even I, with my extensive contacts, was hard-pressed to uncover information about the man.  Had it not been for my personal connection to him, I would have very little information whatsoever."

Personal connection? Bond wondered.

"A few months ago, an attempt was made on my life in Monte Carlo.  I escaped safely, thank God, but we were skeptical, trying to discover who had tried to kill me.  We traced the assassin back to MAX, who had, for some reason, decided that I was a threat to his organization.  We caught up with the assassin a few days later in Bordeaux.  He was trying to find a train ticket out of the city.  He was permanently silenced later that day.

"That man was part of a group called the Eternals," Aubergine continued.  "I've been following their work for some time now.  They are MAX's top assassins, totally silent and deadly, but highly intelligent.  The one we eliminated in Bordeaux seemed to be the exception to the rule, but most are incredibly talented.  Some were recruited from the KGB after it dissolved; some are discharged intelligence agents; others are freelance killers.

"I'm sure you are familiar with the strange flame symbol that has been associated with MAX and his organization.  The symbol is a sign of MAX's assassins, his Eternals.  Each of them has a blue flame tattooed onto their arm.  After each kill, they mark their victim with a small red flame denoting the fact that that particular victim was unable to escape the Eternals."

Bond nodded, taking this all in.  Strange, he thought.  M's analysts had been unable to uncover this information concerning the flame markings on the victims, yet Aubergine had seemed to expose it so quickly and speak of it so openly.  His connections were deeper than Bond thought.

Aubergine went on.  "My contacts tried to uncover why MAX was so interested in eliminating me, but they failed to find a reason.  A specific reason, that is.  A few weeks after the first attempt on my life, another one of my rivals was eliminated in Berlin.  I believe MAX may have been trying to eliminate any competition on the black market.  In any case, MAX turned his attention away from me.  Or so we thought. 

"We assumed he had given up on me.  That is, until you showed up.  For some time now we had known that MAX had inserted double agents into both the CIA and your own  organization.  We never believed, though, that he would go so far as this."

"As far as what?" Bond asked.

"MAX's agents sent you on this mission, m'sieur," Aubergine completed.  "They infiltrated your organization, fed your boss some false information, and arranged for my death.  I suppose MAX thought you would succeed where his own agents had failed."

Bond was stunned.  He knew that MAX's connections were extensive, but he had no idea that the criminal's reach extended into SIS and CIA.  Did he have agents in other intelligence groups as well?  More importantly, the men that had arranged Bond's original mission—the one intended to kill Aubergine—were SIS's top analysts.  The utter fact that those men were double agent put MAX's spanning network of agents into a whole new light.

"That is not all, m'sieur," Aubergine still went on.  "My agents have learned that my planned assassination by you was to coincide with another of MAX's big deals.  He has recovered a full list of the agents in Europe.  A full list.  We know that he has also found a buyer for the list."  He looked at Bond for a gauged response.  "I'm sure that I don't have to remind you, of all people, of the repercussions of this information getting out on the black market."

Bond was shocked by the information.  A full list of all SIS agents operating in Europe!  Information like that, leaked onto the black market, would cause panic within SIS.  Agents would be pulled out of the field immediately, possibly ruining years of undercover work.  Long-standing operations would be ruined.  Surely a few of the agents would lose their jobs, possibly even their lives.

Bond intended to take action at once.  "I appreciate all this," Bond said to the Frenchman.  "And I have something in exchange.  We've set up a closed bank account for you, to the sum of fifty thousand euros.  I'm sure it will more than make up for all the work you've put into this." 

The Frenchman held up a hand in protest.  "Non, m'sieur," he contested.  "No.  I have a better proposition for you.  Something that will be beneficial for the both of us.

"I want to propose a union, a coalition of sorts, to take down MAX.  Totally organized by my own agents and financed by myself.  It will cost your organization nothing, including my fee for the information I've shared with you.  M'amoiselle Veraut has already organized much of the operation, including the crew we'll be taking, a combination of freelance agents and mercenaries from all across Europe.  The transaction between MAX and his buyer will take place on a train from France to England, through the Chunnel.  The tickets have already been purchased for myself, m'amoiselle Veraut, and the rest of my crew—plus one more ticket for you, if you'll take it."  Aubergine turned expectantly toward Bond.

The secret agent was unsure what to say.  This mission was already strange and unorthodox enough—should he take it a step further and stop MAX now?  Couldn't he just organize his own group of agents to prevent the transaction?  Besides, Aubergine was trustworthy as far as information was concerned, but this?  Could this be too far?

"I realize this may be unconventional," Aubergine said, "but what else could you do?  Your organization won't provide agents, legally at least, because supposedly you're to be killing me right now."  He smiled sadistically.  "And even if you were to find a team, how would you explain your actions to your boss?"

Bond shook his head, not knowing how to answer.

"You see my point?  If you want to get this man, m'sieur, you have to join me.  What do you say?" he finally asked.

Bond couldn't respond immediately.  He was totally stunned by everything.  Bond wasn't against teaming with the man.  Bond had teamed with criminals before, but those times Bond had been under orders from M.  This instance was not—though Bond doubted M would have much of a problem with Bond joining forces with Aubergine to defeat MAX.  A familiar mantra kept running through Bond's head: The enemy of your enemy is your friend.

"Deal," Bond said, extending his hand to Aubergine.

The Frenchman accepted it and shook it heartily.

As Bond released the Frenchman's hand, the limo slowly stopped and the engine died.  Bond looked about curiously.

"Where are we?" the secret agent asked.

The chauffer had already opened the door and the Frenchman was allowing the lady, Charlize, to climb out.  "Juste un moment, m'sieur," the Frenchman said.  "All your questions will be answered."

Bond waited for Aubergine to exit the limo, then finally stepped out himself.  He found that the limo had stopped in front of an imposing hotel on the Champs-Élysées.  Behind Bond, the chauffer was now unloading suitcases from the boot of the car and setting them on the sidewalk for the bellhop to take into the building.

"What are we doing here?" Bond asked Aubergine, who was standing nearby with the girl.

"I've taken the liberty of reserving two rooms in the hotel for you this evening," Aubergine said as if Bond had known him for years and it would be perfectly acceptable for the Frenchman to do something of that sort.  "You've been followed since you first landed, m'sieur Bond, by one of the Eternals.  Your hotel is not safe any longer.  They know where you're staying and they know that you've met with me instead of killing me.  It's only a matter of time before they put—how do you British say it?—'two and two together,' and figure out that I've told you everything."

Bond nodded.  It made sense.  But if the Eternals had followed him since the airport, where were they now?  Did they know he was at the hotel?

Bond expressed his concern to the Frenchman.  "No, m'sieur," Aubergine replied.  "We are safe here.  We lost your shadow at the café."

Bond nodded.

"We'd better get inside," Aubergine said, checking his watch.  "I've made dinner reservations and you must unpack."

Bond raised an eyebrow, then turned and noticed that the chauffer had also unloaded Bond's bag from the limo.  "We picked up your belongings at the hotel during lunch," Aubergine explained.  "They'll be ready for you when you get to your room."  The Frenchman looked up at the towering establishment before them.  "Shall we?"

●          ●          ●

The hotel turned out to be the Sofitel Champs- Élysées, one of the most popular and glamorous hotels in Paris.  The hotel offered a five-star restaurant on its ground floor, where Aubergine had arranged for Bond and Charlize to meet him around six, once they were settled in their separate rooms.  As it turned out, their rooms were directly across the hall from one another.  Bond indeed found the girl attractive, but Bond had decided anything more than distanced attraction would be inappropriate.

Bond headed down to the restaurant as soon as he was done with his unpacking.  He made sure he was armed as he headed down to the main floor.  Regardless of what Aubergine had said, Bond was still concerned about MAX's men.  If they could infiltrate SIS, they could certainly find Bond in Paris.

The restaurant, Les Signatures, was quite attractive.  Based off the modern-looking reception area, with its large potted plants and high-arched pillars, the brightly lit room was designed contemporarily, with heavily cushioned chairs situated around large, linen-covered tables.  A potted plant centerpiece sat in the center of each table, adding a fresh look.  Large glass windows looked out on the street, where cars were slowly making their way down the Champs-Élysées.

As he entered, a waiter tried to assist Bond with finding a table.

"No, thank you," Bond replied in French.  "I'm meeting someone."

"M'sieur!" Aubergine exclaimed, standing as he spotted Bond.  Their table was near one of the windows, and Bond quickly moved through the room to reach them.  In the background, the soft sounds of Bach played quietly.

"Bonsoir," Aubergine greeted Bond as the secret agent took his seat.  The girl, Charlize Veraut, was already seated to Bond's left.  Aubergine was directly across from Bond.

A waiter arrived seconds after Bond was seated, with a menu for the new guest.  The secret agent glanced over it, while Aubergine ordered filet mignon for himself and Charlize.  Bond finally decided on the lobster au gratin with kidney beans in a special sauce.  Aubergine had already ordered a wine from the restaurant's fine selection.  The bottle, chilled, was already at the table when Bond sat down.

"I've made a few telephone calls," Aubergine said while they waited for their food, sipping the vintage merlot that Bond found quite pleasant despite his disparaging palate.  "MAX arrived in the city today.  My contact has learned that he has finalized his plans for tomorrow.  He'll take the Chunnel train into London.  The transaction will take place via an Internet connection.  My contact has also learned that the transaction will be encoded and protected, preventing us from stopping the information via another computer."

Bond took a quick sip of his wine.  "Meaning?"

"Meaning we'll have to go in on foot and stop the transaction," Veraut said.  Bond turned and looked at the girl.  Her words came with a tone of intelligence and erudition, proving to Bond that the girl was quite gifted indeed.

Bond noted that the woman had changed clothes since the last time he had seen her.  She now wore a plain black silk evening gown, with spaghetti straps covering the shoulders and a long slit running halfway up her thigh.  The dress was simple and elegant, accented by a string of diamonds around her neck that attracted attention to her cleavage.  Her hair, still looking just as silky-smooth as before, now hung down, barely touching her shoulders.  Her delicate wrist was still adorned with the same silver bracelet she had worn before.

"Have we a plan for that scenario?" Bond asked.

Aubergine nodded.  "That was the plan all along, m'sieur," the Frenchman replied.  "We'll be able to electronically link into MAX's server and follow his transaction.  We wont' be able to stop it online, but we'll be able to find him and stop him."

Bond nodded.  "Excellent."

Aubergine smiled.  "Yes, very much so.  It won't be easy, though, m'sieur Bond, I assure you of that.  MAX has covered his tracks.  He chose the EuroTunnel and made his decision carefully.  Once the train enters the tunnel, the online connection will be broken.  This will erase any record of the transaction, preventing authorities from tracking it after the fact.  We, however, know that they will be making the deal on the train and won't have to investigate afterwards.  We'll be right there when he does so."

Bond moved on to another topic.  "What equipment will be necessary?"

"A few of my other contacts have already begun to gather the necessary materials.  A detailed plan of the train has been stolen and analyzed by my best men.  The security at the station won't be hard to bypass.  I have a few contacts in the station as well.  Nothing will go wrong."

Bond almost choked on his wine.  Necessary materials?  Stolen train plans?  Bypassing security?  This all sounded like too much for Bond.  Teaming with illicit criminals on a mission to stop a dangerous information broker with a list of SIS agents in Europe.  The secret agent slowly relaxed in his seat.

Am I in too deep?  The entire impact of the situation had finally overcome Bond.  He needed to rest, to think this over once more.  Had he acted on impulse?  No, Bond corrected himself.  He had no choice.  He trusted this man, and there was no alternative.  If he turned to M, the woman would be powerless.  She had gone against the wishes of the Minister of Defense and sent Bond on a mission to make contact with a feared international terrorist.  She would not be able to supply a team to counterattack the real MAX.  She would be thoroughly reprimanded by the Minister, and Bond would be evaluated and placed on sabbatical for some time.  No, Bond thought once more.  I can't do that.  If Bond wanted the job done, he would have to team with this man to do it.

"I'm glad to hear that you've covered your tracks, so to speak," Bond said.  "I assume you've established a full plan to counteract MAX's plan?"

Aubergine nodded.  "Quite a detailed one, in fact.  I'll give the full briefing tomorrow morning, but in the meantime you can study up on the background information.  M'amoiselle Veraut has much of that data with her now.  She'll share some of it with you this evening, perhaps after dinner.  I'm sure you two will get along quite well."  Bond looked over at the girl, who was quietly sipping her wine, and received a flirtatious smile.  Her eyes seemed to sparkle with coyness.

The secret agent cleared his throat, a smirk appearing on his face as he looked back over at Aubergine.  "Yes, I think I would enjoy that very much," he replied, looking out the corner of his eye at the girl, who still looked as beautiful as she had the first time he had seen her.

"Good, good," Aubergine replied.

Just then, the food arrived, and the group spoke only of current events and the recent weather as they ate, content to leave business behind them.  Nevertheless, Bond knew what was in store for the next day.  He needed to be prepared, both mentally and physically.  He sipped the wine and watched Aubergine.  Twenty-four hours beforehand, Bond had been a skeptic, thinking that this man would be nothing more than a traitorous criminal with no information to offer SIS.  Now, he was sitting here preparing to take down one of the world's most intelligent terrorist masterminds.

Content and full, Bond excused himself to his room.  Aubergine encouraged the girl to go with him, and mademoiselle Charlize Veraut excused herself from the table and gladly accepted Bond's arm.  The two headed to the elevator and then to their rooms.

●          ●          ●

Sitting in his posh hotel room, relaxing in one of the plush chairs and drinking straight Smirnoff vodka, James Bond tried to forget the events of the day.  A small glass table sat beside his chair, upon which rested a longneck Smirnoff bottle, a small shot glass, and his Walther PPK, silenced now.  A single red rose in a glass vase sat there too, an atmospheric decoration giving a peaceful ambiance to the room.

The secret agent rested his head in his hand as his elbow balanced on the arm of the chair.  He could not escape the thought that MAX's assassins were following him.  The slightest noise in the hallway sent his nerves jumping, and his hand scrambling for his PPK.  He had placed the weapon on his table just in case.

His mind slowly rejected the thoughts of MAX's Eternals and moved on to happier reflections.  The secret agent thought of Charlize.  The girl had the whole package; intelligence, beauty, grace, and a wit that impressive even James Bond's stoic sense of humor.  She had promised to visit his room when she had finished preparing the background information on the MAX operation.  But he wasn't looking forward to her return simply for the reports she would bring with her.  Bond continued to think of her perfect body, her striking green eyes, her attractive sense of style.  He continued to remind himself, though, that she was the enemy, and he wasn't going sleep with the enemy just for the sheer thrill of it.  In his line of work, it was sometimes conceivable to sleep with the enemy for information; in fact, Bond had done it many times.  But there were times for that action and times where that action wasn't necessary.

This instance was not one of those times.

A knock at the door alerted Bond's senses, sending his hand onto the PPK.  Gripping the weapon, he watched the door.  "Come in," Bond said sullenly.  The door slowly opened, and Charlize peeked inside.

"M'sieur," she asked.  Bond released the weapon, realizing who it was.

"Come in," Bond replied, slowly standing.  Only then did he realize how badly dressed he was.  His tie was gone; his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down; his shirt cuffs were unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows.

Charlize didn't seem to care.  She stepped into the room, holding an armful of files and folders.  She looked even more beautiful than she had before.  She wore the same black dress, but Bond had never noticed just how incredibly beautiful she looked in it.

She sat the files down on the bed.  "I just went through these and marked the important things," she said.  "Go ahead and take a look."  She turned to leave, but Bond stopped her.  Something inside seemed to be pulling him to keep her in the room.

"Wait a minute," he said.  "Stay here.  I might have a few questions."  The girl shrugged, walking across the room and looking out the large window onto the street below.

Bond sat on the bed, opening the top file and attempting to read it.  He couldn't stop looking at Charlize.  Her beautiful figure, framed in the window, looked more desirable than it ever had before.

"How long have you worked for Aubergine?" Bond asked.

She turned to him, smiling seductively.  "A few years," she replied.

Bond could not stop looking at her.  She was so beautiful.

Suddenly, the girl drew the window curtains and turned to Bond.  A flame of passion was visible in her eyes.  She moved slowly towards Bond, who remained silent.

"Charlize?" he asked suddenly as the girl wrapped her arms around Bond.

The files fell from the bed, out of the way.  She said nothing, pressing her finger against the secret agent's lips.  Tearing away the last few buttons of Bond's shirt, Charlize pushed Bond back onto the bed.  She straddled his body, her hands running against the rugged features of his face.  Bond did not argue, instead allowing the beautiful woman to get the better of him.  His inhibitions gone, he allowed the girl to lean forward and kiss him passionately.

Bond ran his hand up the girl's silky-smooth thigh, his hand pushing up her dress as he did.  She kicked off her heels, her body arching with passion as his hand ran further up her leg.  Mid-thigh, her hand reached down and met his, both hands pushing the skirt further to reveal a lacy black garter.  The girl pushed Bond's hand away, and leaned up from the man below her.

From the secret holster on the inside of her thigh, Charlize Veraut pulled a silver Heckler & Koch P7K3 and leveled it at Bond's face.

Backing off the bed, she never took her eyes off the stunned secret agent.  "I'm sorry about this, James," she said.  "I didn't want it to come to this, but Aubergine has people following us too."

What? Bond thought.

"I don't work for Pierre Aubergine," she admitted.  "I'm DGSE, James.  I've been working undercover in Aubergine's organization for the past eight years.  We've been curious about his connections to MAX for some time now.  I was the DGSE's only link between Aubergine and the authorities.  I'm sorry for the deception, but it was necessary for your protection.  Your boss didn't want us interfering with this, understandably so.  But once Aubergine brought me to meet you, I knew I didn't have a choice.  My organization established a long time ago that Aubergine was indeed not MAX, but my boss thought it would be better to leave me undercover to prevent situations like this.  Your Minister refused to listen to my own boss and sent you kill Aubergine anyway."

Bond shook his head.  The Minister had sent Bond into this mission as blind as a bat.  "And Aubergine doesn't know?" Bond asked.

"No," she replied.  "Absolutely not."

James Bond stared up at the girl who still pointed her gun at him.  Just hours before, Bond had considered the girl an enemy—an innocent girl in the grand scheme of this chaos.  Now she was an agent, on the same level as Bond, who had been following this case for months.  Everything had changed.  Just the mere fact that she was holding Bond hostage had put the girl in a whole new light.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked, motioning towards the weapon.

She loosened her grip.  "I suppose not," she replied, smiling.  "Just keeping you on your toes.  I like a man who isn't afraid of a real woman."  She turned and placed the weapon on the dresser top.

She moved closer to Bond, who had moved to the edge of the bed.  "And what kind of a man is that?" he asked.

She leaned in, allowing Bond to wrap his arms around her waist.  "A man like you," she said, once again pushing the secret agent onto the bed.  She kissed him passionately.

Charlize never returned to her room that night.

●          ●          ●

The next morning, Aubergine was waiting in the hotel's main foyer.  Bond and Charlize, dressed and ready for the day, came down around nine o'clock.

"Bonjour, m'sieur Bond et m'amoiselle Veraut," the Frenchman said.  He was smoking a cigar.  He wore a handsome blue jacket and pair of slacks over a white Oxford shirt and gray tie.  He looked cheery and awake despite the impending adventure the trio was about to undertake.

"Bonjour, m'sieur Aubergine," Bond said.  His arm was wrapped around the waist of the girl who stood beside him, now dressed in a pair of black flare slacks and a dark blue blouse. Charlize's hair was tied behind her head in the same bun it had been tied in the day before.  The two had already shared a breakfast in Bond's room, before the two had showered and prepared for the day.  Bond now wore a tan jacket and matching slacks, with a light blue Oxford and no tie.  His shoes were brown leather, a pair he had picked up from his tailor on Saville Row.

"I trust you slept well?" Aubergine asked.

The two looked at each other.  "Very well," Bond replied with a grin.

"Well, then," he said, "we had better get going.  We have a long day ahead of us.  My limo is waiting outside.  Let's go."

Bond and Charlize followed Aubergine out of the hotel.  Bond knew the girl was armed with the same weapon she had been carrying last night.  Bond too was armed.  He wondered if Aubergine was carrying a weapon.

They climbed into the car and took a long ride.  Aubergine asked if the two had looked over some of the background work, and they both lied, saying that they had.  Aubergine nodded happily, then moved on to other topics.  They talked briefly as the limo weaved in and out of the crowded Parisian streets.

The car ended up pulling up to a dingy warehouse by the Seine River.  Climbing from the car, Bond noticed that the entire dock area had been disused for some time.  Rust and mold covered the metal warehouses.  Old boat parts were scattered around the warehouses; boxes, crates, and oil drums, some broken and rusted apart, were also strewn across the area.  No boats were docked in the wharf, and judging by the overall raggedy look of the place, Bond guessed that no boats had been there in years.

"Where are we?" Bond asked.  He looked at Charlize, whose cool eyes betrayed no clues about their surroundings.  He wondered if she knew where they were.

"You will see," Aubergine said, climbing from the car.  The limo driver had already stepped out and was at the large loading doors of the warehouse, opening the padlock and unwrapping the chain from the lock.  When that was done, he pulled the doors open, just enough so that they could slide in, then close them up again.

Bond found himself in a cavernous, damp room.  The dark surroundings were hard to see, and Bond had trouble focusing on what was around him.  Charlize stood nearby.

"Welcome!" Aubergine exclaimed.  He must have been standing near a light switch, because as soon as he spoke the lights of the warehouse flashed on, revealing a room packed roof-high with crates and boxes in aisles that stretched across the room.  Paths lead to a rear room, though Bond saw nobody there.

Aubergine walked over to Bond and Charlize.  "I found these warehouses years ago, m'sieur Bond," the Frenchman explained.  "They had been disused for some time, and I found no reason to clean them up.  In fact, I found that their derelict look kept unwanted interest from them, and I went as far as to ruin them more.  They've served my organization well, as bases for meetings and stockpiling supplies."  Bond looked around, wondering what 'supplies' were in the crates and boxes.  Weapons?  Explosives?  The list seemed nearly infinite.

Suddenly, from around a corner, several men stepped out towards Bond, Charlize, and Aubergine.  They were unkempt, with oil and grease splattered across their various forms of coveralls.  The man who seemed to be the leader, a tall man with black hair and a worker's figure, stood in front of all the rest, wearing a wife beater T-shirt and a pair of old khaki slacks.  A red bandanna was tied around his head.

"Frommer!" Aubergine exclaimed as the men turned the corner.  The Frenchman stepped over to the leader, the one he had called Frommer, and gripped his hand.  The two greeted each other in French before Aubergine turned back to Bond and Charlize.

"M'sieur Bond, may I introduce you to Jean-Luc Frommer, a close associate of mine."  Aubergine stepped out of the way as Bond and Frommer shook hands.  Bond noticed that the man smelt of lubricant and gunpowder.

"M'sieur Frommer has been preparing the equipment for our operation this afternoon," Aubergine explained to Bond.  He then turned to the other Frenchman.  "I assume you have something to show us?"

Frommer nodded, his mouth twisting into a sadistic grin.  "Oui.  Follow me," he said with a thick accent.

Bond and Charlize followed Aubergine, Frommer, and the rest of the crew to the back room Bond had noticed before.  When the lights flickered on, Bond was amazed at what he saw.  The room was like a miniature armory inside the warehouse.  Each wall was covered by a glass display case housing the latest in military weaponry and technology.  The entire left wall was dedicated to submachine guns and rifles, with spaces only for workbenches and two windows looking out into the rest of the warehouse.  The right wall was technology, and all the latest stuff—flak jackets, frag and smoke grenades, night-vision goggles, EMP bombs, tasers, plastic explosives.  It was as if Aubergine had financed his own personal army.  The wall directly across from Bond was pistols, all the kinds the secret agent could imagine.  Behind him, a small case was set aside for special equipment, like grenade launchers and sniper's rifles.  In the center of the room sat a long workbench, where several K&H MP5 machine guns were being greased up.  A rack at the end of the bench held several M16 rifles ready for use.

"What do you think?" Aubergine asked Bond as the secret agent looked around at the impressive stockpiling.  "Frommer has outdone himself, non?"  Aubergine elbowed the Frenchman standing beside him, smiling at the small army of weaponry he had amassed.

"Quite impressive," Bond said.  "What are we using today?"

Frommer took over for Aubergine.  His accent was much thicker than the other Frenchman's—it was more southern French than the Parisian that Aubergine spoke.  His voice was raspy and his eyes moved slowly, inspecting his particular target with a keen insight and slow precision.

"MP5's, mainly," Frommer began.  "I will have a few men with Uzis near the exits.  Nothing big, I'm afraid, for safety reasons.  The train station may not have the same tight security that the big airports have, but even they can detect something like an M16."

Bond nodded, moving towards the pistol case.  "And small-caliber?"

"Berettas," Frommer said.  "I use a Luger when I can, but my men tend to prefer the lower-caliber Berettas."

Bond nodded.  He disliked the American weapon.  "I trust you won't be disappointed if I choose to use my own weapon."

Frommer raised an eyebrow, scanning Bond over.  "Not at all," he lied.

Bond nodded.  "Well then, let's get to work.  Aubergine, what else do you have for us?"

The Frenchman smiled.  "Agent Double-Oh Seven, always ready for the next adventure."  He chuckled.  "The train leaves from the Gare Saint Lazare at one-thirty.  We've purchased six tickets; one for you, myself, m'amoiselle Veraut, Frommer, and two of his men.  We'll establish initial visual contact with MAX and his agents and try to subdue them one at a time.  I'll have to stay out of sight.  I'm afraid MAX will recognize me.  I would also recommend that you stay as far away as possible, m'sieur Bond.  He knows who you are, and even though he won't be looking for you, he'll be suspicious if he spots you.

"One of Frommer's men is a computer expert, and he'll be able to trace the connection between the two computers.  One will be MAX's, the other will belong to his buyer.  If we can establish a connection between the two computers, Frommer seems to think he's whipped something up that will spike both connections and let us nab the buyer."

"Spike them?" Charlize asked.

"Oui," Frommer spoke up.  "A spike is a computer virus that tracks the person, or persons, using a certain connection.  It will jam their modem so that they can't hang up.  We'll be able to trace them even with their blocks up.  Quite simple."

"And we know this will work?" Bond asked.

Frommer nodded.  "Never doubt me, m'sieur Bond."

Bond turned to Aubergine, ignoring Frommer.  "Anything else?"

"That's all for now, m'sieur," Aubergine said.  "Frommer, get everything ready.  We'll be waiting while you prepare it all."

Bond and Charlize walked out of the room and stopped by the boxes, out of earshot of Aubergine and his men.  "James," Charlize said.  "What are we going to do?"

"About what?" Bond asked.

"You're just going to go with this man?  Take sides with a criminal?"

Bond touched Charlize on her cheek.  "Charlize, I have no choice.  The only way we can get rid of MAX is to trust Aubergine.  He knows the man, and he knows his ways.  I have nowhere else to turn."

"But my agency—"

"Your agency will contact my agency as soon as they find out I'm involved.  This way, we have access to the same weaponry, the same technology, and we'll get the same results.  I'll make sure Aubergine doesn't get away with anything else."

There was seriousness in his words.  Charlize found it hard to believe that James Bond actually trusted a known criminal, regardless of his connections.  Then again, she knew that Bond was restricted in this mission.  He had no other choice.  He had to either side with Aubergine or let MAX go.  Either way, he was going to lose something.

"I understand," she said, kissing him.

"You trust him, don't you?" Bond said.

She nodded slowly.

"Then lets do this."

●          ●          ●

The van was waiting outside the warehouse.  The two warehouse doors had been pulled wide open and the vehicle was being loaded with boxes.

James Bond sat in the rear part of the van, loading a clip into his Walther PPK.  Beside him, Charlize was loading a clip into the Beretta she had been given by Aubergine's man Frommer.  Clearly, the Frenchman didn't know about the girl's other hidden 'asset.'

Aubergine sat across from Bond, now without his tie or jacket, wearing a heavy black wool coat.  The man looked sullen and primed, a direct contrast to his cheery attitude earlier this morning.  He worked loading a MP5 submachine gun.  Frommer and his two men had changed from their work clothes into handsome designer shirts and slacks.  Like Aubergine, they wore heavy black wool coats.  "Ready, m'sieur Bond?" Frommer asked as the final box was loaded into the van.

"Always," he replied.

Frommer climbed into the van and the doors were thrown shut.  The two other men climbed into the van's front two seats and took off.

Bond pulled open one of the boxes, revealing a case full of flak jackets.  He handed one to Charlize, Aubergine, and Frommer.  They each pulled one on underneath their clothes.  Charlize hid hers underneath a long tan overcoat.

The next box contained MP5 submachine guns.  Frommer had stashed several pieces of luggage in the back of the van.

"These are completely x-ray proof," Frommer said of the suitcases as he loaded two MP5s into the first piece of luggage and threw some clothing in with them.  "Nobody at security will be able to spot them."

Bond nodded.  Frommer, Aubergine, and the two other men would use the machine weapons.  Bond and Charlize would stick to their pistols.  Bond knew that the two guards in the front were also carrying Uzis with them; he didn't know how they would sneak those onto the train.

The van rolled up to the front of the Gare Saint Lazare.  It was one o'clock, and the cold French weather was already nipping at those on the streets.  A chill was in the air as Bond threw open the van door and climbed out, carrying one of the suitcases and lending a hand to Charlize as she too climbed from the vehicle.

Aubergine and Frommer followed behind Bond and Charlize as they headed into the building.  The train station at Gare Saint Lazare was amazing.  Its impressive façade dominated the skyline.  A large statue stood sentry at the front entrance.  Inside, hundreds of tourists and vacationers milled about the main room, buying tickets and studying the large arrival and departure display board on the far wall.

The group headed for their train.  Their tickets would not be checked until they were on the train.  Aubergine and Frommer wanted to arrive early so that they would be able to discreetly set up their computer system.  Bond and Charlize hurried onboard, finding their seats.  The six seats were together, facing one another, with a table separating them.  What luck, Bond thought, then wondering if Aubergine had planned it that way.

The secret agent allowed everyone else to get situated while he loaded the bags into the overhead compartments.  If there had been security, he hadn't noticed.  There had probably been scanners in a doorway on their way to the platform.

One of Aubergine's men had carried a briefcase with him and had now pulled a laptop computer from that case.  A cellular telephone with an inconspicuous chord attaching it to the laptop sat nearby.  Bond wondered what connection the two devices had, and he thought of Q Branch back in London.

"He's scanning the local systems for a link," Charlize leaned over to Bond, whispering in his ear.  "The program he's using will allow him to locate MAX's computer based on the system that MAX's computer is using.  Once we have that established, we'll move out to the other areas of the train looking for him.  Stick by me, James."  Bond looked at her pleading eyes.

He nodded.  "Of course."            

The computer whirred and buzzed as it checked the various links.  Bond felt the weight of his PPK in his shoulder holster.  How would they take out MAX?  Just put a gun to his head and arrest him?  Certainly not.  They didn't have the authority for that.  But they also couldn't just shoot him to death, not in the middle of this train with all these people around.  Bond had his license to kill, but a location this public was not a good place to show that off.

The secret agent continued to listen.  He looked at his watch.  One twenty-five.  The train would be leaving in five minutes.  The whistle blew, signaling the impending departure.  Outside, passengers scrambled onboard.

Aubergine had been looking out the window, but suddenly turned away.  "Don't look," he said to Bond, whom he was sitting across from.  "MAX is out there.  Climbing aboard now.  Three men are with him.  They all are wearing black jackets.  MAX has the blonde hair."  Aubergine slowly turned his head back.  "Look now."

Bond turned and saw the man climbing onto the train.  Is the contact already on board? he wondered.  Is he sitting nearby?  Bond checked the seats in close relation to their own.  All those seats were occupied.  But by whom?

MAX and his agents climbed on one of the other train cars and did not pass Bond at his seat.  Just the thought that he was so close to the crime lord made Bond want to get up and find him now.  The case, when he had first received it, had not been personal.  Now, it was.  After the incident at the café, after learning he had been manipulated by MAX, Bond wanted revenge.

The final whistle sounded, and Bond watched as the train began to move away.  It sped from the station and into the countryside in a matter of minutes.  Bond became more anxious as the train continued.  He looked at the computer and the man running it.  What is taking so long? he wondered.

"Got it!" the computer man whispered just then.  "Locking onto target now."

Bond smiled.  It won't be long now.

Charlize reached over and took Bond's hand, as if to say they were about to get what they had been looking for.

"Look," Frommer said, reaching inside his jacket and producing a folded envelope.  He laid it on the table and delicately opened it, pulling out a small object no larger than a dime.

"This is a portable radio transmitter," he said in a low tone.  "Fits right into your ear.  Nearly invisible.  Talk regularly and we will be able to hear you."  He handed one out to everybody, and they placed it in their ears.  "Let's split up.  M'sieur Bond, m'amoiselle Veraut—you two go together.  I'll go with m'sieur Aubergine."  Frommer turned to his other man.  "You watch the door," he ordered.  "Let's move.  Keep your eyes open and let us know what you see.  My man at the computer will let us know what goes on between MAX and his buyer."

With that, they scattered.  Bond and Charlize went out the door at the rear of the train, heading into the next car.  Aubergine and Frommer went the other way.

"I don't see him," Charlize whispered to Bond.

He shook his head.  "Me either."

They scanned the group circumspectly, looking for a computer, or any sign of the Eternals that had come aboard the train with MAX.  Certainly they would be guarding exits around MAX, and possibly the buyer as well.

"I've got a location," came a voice from the transmitter in Bond's ear.  The voice was the man from the computer.  "He's in the fourth car from the front."

Next, Frommer's voice: "We're coming, Bond."

Bond and Charlize were already on the third car, so they moved ahead, as energized as ever.  Now, they would have to be more careful.  Eternals would be up ahead.

Bond pushed open the door to the next car.  Suddenly, a man in a black trench coat stepped in his way.

"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly but still with menace.  He had dark hair and an imposing face.  He wore dark sunglasses that prevented Bond from seeing the man's eyes.

"Looking for the lav, chap," Bond said, lying.  The man eyed Bond over once, and then moved out of the way.  None of the passengers sitting nearby seemed to notice this.  Nobody noticed anything, Bond thought.  They were all either looking at a computer, or reading a book, or doing some other work.  Nobody was paying attention.

Bond moved on through the train.  Charlize leaned in close.  "Was that—?"

Bond nodded.  "I think so."

They continued down the long row of seats.  Bond looked at the people, not directly, but subtly.  He could almost feel the gaze of the Eternal at the door following him.

Suddenly, the computer man's voice was back in the earpiece.  "Uh, I've got a problem here," he said.  "The connection just died."

"What?" Bond replied.

"It's like I said—the connection's gone.  Just shut off."

Bond narrowed his eyes.

"Could he be done already?" came Frommer's voice from the transmitter.

"No," Bond responded.  "No he couldn't."  Bond looked up at the people around him.  "He knows.  He knows we're here.  Get your computer off now.  Get offline.  He knows that we're here and he's tracking us."

Suddenly, from a set of seats a few rows ahead, Bond watched as two men in black trench coats and a man in a sharp designer suit stood and walked towards the rear of the car.

"MAX!" Bond turned and said to Charlize.  He was after them in an instant, rushing towards the men.  Charlize spun, seeing the Eternal from the doorway moving quickly towards her.  She reached out, hitting him in the face.  He doubled over, and she brought her boot up into his face.  He fell to the ground.

By now, the people in the train car had turned to see the commotion.  Bond threw open the door that separated the two cars, and found himself in the service car, where a few stewardesses had stopped their work.  But looked at them, then saw what they had stopped for.  In the opposite doorway, weapons drawn, stood the two Eternals that had run from the car with MAX.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion after that.  Bond reached into his jacket, pulling out his Walther, but he was two slow.  Gunshots erupted from the doorway across from him.

But the shots had not come from the Eternals.  Instead, they had come from behind the Eternals.  The two men collapsed in the doorway, their body riddled with bullets from someone's gun. 

Not Bond's.

MAX's. 

MAX had rushed through the service car, into the car behind it.  Bond turned to the stewardesses.  "Where does that go?" he asked.

They cowered, looking frightened, but one spoke up.  "That's the baggage car, sir," one of the girls said.

Bond turned and rushed off without a thank-you.  There was no time for that now.  MAX had known that they were coming on the train.  He had just shot dead two of his Eternals.  He was desperate to get away.  He had lied about the transaction.  Did he have a real list of agents?  Bond would bet that he did, but the secret agent wasn't about to risk it.  Bond, weapon drawn, rushed into the baggage car after the terrorist.

Charlize heard the gunshots just as Aubergine and Frommer were coming into the fourth car.  She shot the two Frenchmen a look, then ran into the service car after Bond, drawing her weapon.  Two of the men in the black jackets had been gunned down.  By Bond?  No, she saw.  He said something to the stewardesses in the corner and then rushed into the next car.  She yelled his name and ran after him.

The baggage car was dark, except for the thin slits of light that filtered through the blinds on the windows.  High metal racks of passenger bags filled the room.  Bond could hear the train rushing by its surroundings as he stood in the silent room, his back pressed up against one of the racks.  MAX was in this room, armed, and waiting.  Bond wanted this man.

"Drop your weapon!" he shouted.  "Put yours hands above your head!"

No response.

"James!" Charlize shouted from the doorway.  Not now! he thought, not responding to her call.  These blasted women always got in the way.  Couldn't she just stay away from him now?  He had thought she was a smart girl.  Why was she coming in here, yelling his name?

More gunfire erupted, three quick bursts.  Charlize screamed as the bullets whizzed near her, slamming into luggage on one of the nearby racks.  She fired two blind shots, not seeing the location of her attacker.

"Drop your weapon now!" Bond shouted, spinning from his place.

No sign of MAX.

"Come out now with your hands up!" Bond shouted.

No response.

Aubergine and Frommer arrived in the doorway, scanning for Bond or MAX.  No sign of either of them.  Aubergine turned to his left, then his right.  Then left again.

Another gunshot rang out.  Aubergine ducked to his right.  Frommer was too late.  The shot caught him square in the chest.  He fell to the ground, blood pouring from the wound.  The Frenchman kneeled down beside his friend, but he was gone already.  Aubergine whispered a prayer as he crouched down, moving slowly through the luggage racks.

Bond took a deep breath.  His back was pressed against another rack now, closer to the rear of the baggage car.  He knew the only other way out of the car was the rear entrance, which lead into the caboose.  A member of train personnel would be there, but MAX had killed already and Bond was sure he would kill again.  Plus, the secret agent was sure that the terrorist had something even more sinister up his sleeve.  Bond would not give up until he had caught MAX.

Bond counted to three, then spun out again with his weapon ready.  No sign of MAX.  Where is he?

Two shots rang out, near Bond's head.  He spun back to his original spot, catching his breath.  The shots had been unexpected.  He had seen no shooter.  In fact, he had heard nothing more from Charlize either.  Where was the girl?

Silence echoed through the car.  "Charlize?" Bond said.  "Charlize?"

James Bond stepped around the luggage rack and heard a hammer click behind him.  He spun immediately, gun up.  But there was no use.

In front of him stood MAX, dressed in the same handsome designer suit he had been wearing before.  The man wore a pair of sunglasses and smiled wickedly at the secret agent.  In one arm MAX held Charlize, his hand over her mouth.  In the other hand he held his pistol.  The barrel of the gun pressed ever-so-slightly into Charlize's temple.

"Lower your gun, m'sieur Bond," MAX said in a normal tone.  He did not shout.  He was totally cool and collected.  Bond did not waver.

"M'sieur Bond, I am a patient man," MAX continued, "but I will only ask one more time.  Put your gun down."  His voice was firm, but still he did not shout.  "Or I will be forced to take care of m'amoiselle Veraut."

How does he know her name? Bond wondered.  Still, he did not lower his weapon.

Aubergine shouted behind him.  Bond did not turn.  The Frenchman slid alongside Bond, pistol drawn.  Bond wondered about Frommer, but said nothing.  He was concentrating on MAX.  The girl was expendable, but Bond wanted the list.

"Ah, m'sieur Aubergine, how good of you to join us."  MAX stared at the Frenchman.  Bond caught the terrorist's glare only too late.  He moved the weapon away from Charlize's head and pointed it at Aubergine.  Bond tried to yell, but was too late.  A quick flash, an echoing gunshot.  Aubergine flew back to the ground and landed with a sickening wump.

Bond kept his eyes on MAX.  He flared his nostrils as his hatred for the man grew even greater.  His brow was lined with sweat, but he was not concentrating on it.

"This is your last chance, Bond," MAX said.  Behind the man, Bond could see the open door to the caboose car.  Bond guessed that it would only take a few seconds for the man to escape into the doorway.  Bond could lose precious time there.  He had to act quickly.

Bond's finger tightened on the trigger.  MAX moved the weapon away from the girl's once more.  Before either could fire, another gunshot rang out.

The bullet grazed MAX's left shoulder, the one not handling his weapon.  He shouted in pain, tossing Charlize to the ground.  Bond spun to see Aubergine balancing on his elbows, weapon aimed up at MAX.  "I'll see you in Hell," he sneered at the terrorist.

MAX ran then, towards the door.  Bond sprang into action.  Two shots from the Walther went wide.  One shot from MAX's gun caused Bond to roll back against one of the luggage racks for support.  Another shot was nowhere near Bond.  Then another wide shot.  Someone screamed.

Bond realized then for whom those two shots had been intended.  Charlize's limp body lay spread-eagle on the floor.  A small trickle of blood drained from the side of her mouth.  In an instant, Bond knew she was gone.

"No!" he shouted as MAX turned the corner into the caboose car.

"Go!" Aubergine shouted, pulling himself up.  "Go, Bond!  Catch him."

Bond turned and looked at Aubergine, then at Charlize.

"She was one of his!" Aubergine shouted in reply.  "She was a double agent!  Get him!  He has the list!"

Bond was shocked by Aubergine's comment.  A double agent?  Charlize?  But… she was DGSE!  Or was she?  Bond didn't know.  But he knew someone that would.

MAX.

The secret agent ran to the caboose car doorway.  It was sliding closed on its hydraulic hinge, and Bond barely had time to slid through before it sealed shut.  As it did, Bond turned and found himself in a short hallway that lead to another doorway: the caboose doorway.  The hall was dark, but up ahead he could see light.

Back pressed against the wall, Bond slid towards the caboose door, wondering what he would find inside.  His mind was racing—was Charlize a double agent?  Had he slept unknowingly with the enemy?  Even more important, did MAX indeed have a list of the SIS agents in Europe?  If so, what did he intend to do with it?  Bond needed the answers to these questions.  He would stop at nothing to get them.

"No!  Please don't!" came the shout from inside the caboose car.

Bond spun inside, gun ready.  MAX stood in the center of the car, gun trained.  The diminutive train attendant groveled on the ground, not wanting to die.

"Give up, MAX," Bond said.  "This is the end of the line."

The man slowly turned to face Bond.  "You just don't give up, do you m'sieur Bond?"  He still wore the dark glasses that impeded Bond from seeing his true face.

Only then did Bond notice where they were.  Rushing through the mountains of northern France, the train was speeding along a metal support bridge high above the Scarpe River, in the river valley just south of Arras.  The view from the caboose car was incredible, but Bond had no time for that now.  MAX was standing less than five feet away from him.  Bond's focus had to be perfect.

"Give up!" Bond shouted.  "Throw down you gun now!"

Then the terrorist did a curious thing: he began to chuckle.

Bond's face twisted into a look of confusion.

"My dear m'sieur Bond," the man chuckled, "I have nothing to fear from you.  In five minutes, this train will be gone and you will be alone in this car with nobody to help you."  The man smiled sadistically.  "This is the end of your line, m'sieur Bond."

As MAX talked, Bond spotted the lump on his back.  A parachute!  MAX was going to jump off the train!  But what had he meant by the train being 'gone'?

The reverberating explosion that ripped through the train in the next seconds sent Bond and MAX staggering backwards.  A bomb!  MAX had planted a bomb.  Suddenly, Bond's thoughts turned to those with him—Aubergine, Frommer.  Were they hurt?

No, Bond thought, forcing himself to concentrate on the moment.  He had to kill MAX.  He had to take him out now.  This had gone far enough.

Bond fired once, and MAX ducked out of the way just in time.  The bullet shattered the glass windshield of the caboose car.  A howling wind pulled everything towards it, just as if Bond had shot out a window in an airplane.  The train attendant, having nothing to grip, flew out the window into oblivion.  Bond caught one of the straps hanging from the roof of the train car, the kind normally used for support during braking.  MAX steadied himself against the panel at the front of the car.

"Where is the disk?" Bond shouted at MAX.

"In time," he said, "all things will be made clear."

What? Bond thought.  Aubergine had said that exact phrase to him only days before.  What did MAX mean by it?

Bond didn't have time to ponder it.  The bullet that flew from the terrorist's weapon tore through the leather strap Bond clung to.  The secret agent fell to the floor, sliding towards MAX as he was pulled by the suction of the train window.  His foot collided with MAX's leg, causing the terrorist to cry out in pain.

MAX kicked Bond in the ribs.  The secret agent spun defensively on his side, hoping for protection against another such assault.  His PPK was still in his hand.  He spun quickly to fire on MAX.  But the terrorist was gone.

Bond pulled himself up with help from the panel.  MAX had moved to the other side of the room, near the door from the baggage car.  Another locked door, a service door, was MAX's only chance of escape from the now-burning train.  Bond wondered what damage the bomb had caused.  The train was still moving, so it hadn't interfered with the engine.

MAX steadied himself against the far wall as he shot open the lock of the service door.  More howling wind flew into the room as Bond pressed his body against the panel for support.  Slowly, with great effort, he lifted his weapon to fire on MAX.  It was his last chance.  The terrorist had already steadied himself in the doorway in preparation for the jump.

Bond fired, catching the terrorist in the shoulder.  He swung out of the doorway, pushing against the wall.  "Fool," he spat at the secret agent.  MAX reached for his weapon, which he had holstered.  He raised it and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

He was out of bullets.

Bond smiled.  "Give up," he whispered.  "I have you now."

"Or so you think, m'sieur Bond."  He snickered.  "Give my regards to M.  The old woman always was a bit cleverer than your Defense Minister.  Tell her she has my vote."  He smiled wickedly.  With that, he threw himself from the train.

Bond ran to the doorway.  The terrorist was flying off the bridge, towards the valley below, his limbs stuck out to form an 'X' shape with his body.  As MAX plummeted towards the ground, he pulled his chute.  Bond watched as the man slowly glided to the surface, taking the list with him.

Aubergine rushed into the room seconds after the terrorist jumped.  Covered in black dust, Bond guessed he had been caught in the explosion.

"Mon ami?" Aubergine asked, an expression of surprise and anticipation on his face.

Bond lowered his head.  "He jumped."

Aubergine lowered his head as well.

●          ●          ●

The train stopped at a small station in Arras.  The explosion had ripped a gaping hole in the baggage car.  Several racks of luggage had been lost.  There had been no casualties to report.  Bond and Aubergine both knew what had happened to Charlize.

Aubergine and Bond walked quickly off the train, followed by the two men Frommer had brought.  His body, too, had been lost when the baggage car exploded.  Aubergine had barely been able to escape the detonation.

Bond contacted headquarters from the train station.  Nobody on the train had seen Bond's weaponry, and nobody knew who he was.  He was told to wait at the station.  An escort would arrive in a half-hour.

Bond and Aubergine stood in one of the vestibules and waited.  The man's face was weary with fatigue and depression.  Bond, too, was dejected.  He had had every chance to take out MAX, but he had refused to take them.  Now, the man was gone, probably with the list.  Bond would never find him again.

"Well, mon ami," Aubergine said.  "This is where we part."

Bond nodded.  "Yes, I'm afraid it is."  He reached inside his jacket and produced an envelope.

"This is the key to a safe deposit box in Georgetown, on the Cayman Islands.  They have some of the most secure banks in the world there.  Inside the box you'll find a checkbook.  The account number should be 056392AW.  The line of credit will be fifty thousand euros, with the option of six other accounts across the world.  The money is yours, m'sieur.  A thank you from SIS.  Take it and leave.  Don't return to Paris.  MAX will be looking for you, this time with a vengeance.  Your organization will have to be shut up.  Agents within my organization will handle that.  Lay low for some time while the smoke clears.  I realize this will have been a great sacrifice for you.  But at least you are getting away with your life."

Aubergine did not smile, but seemed appreciative.  He knew this day would come and, now that it had, he accepted it with a solemn reception.  "Merci, m'sieur Bond," he said, accepting the envelope.  "I have always thought that the Caymans would be a nice place for a vacation.  Now I have that opportunity."

A cab pulled up outside the vestibule.  "My ride," he said.  "Thank you, m'sieur Bond."  Aubergine climbed into the car and, with a screeching of tires and a large puff of smoke from the exhaust pipe, was gone.

●          ●          ●

Bond's 'escort' arrived fifteen minutes late.  An entourage of SUVs and a single limousine pulled up to the front of the small train station.  M and the Minister of Defense Thomas Faulkland stepped from their car and made their way into the station.

James Bond sat upstairs in one of the station's offices, that of the station manager.  The fifteen-by-fifteen room was on the second floor of the train station, and contained nothing but a desk, a single metal filing cabinet, and a desk lamp.  The manager was a small portly man named Moore, who wore a cheap blue button-up and a pair of old khakis.  He sat behind the desk, drumming his fingers on the top.  The conductor was in the room as well, a slimmer, older man named Vichy.  Bond had explained the situation to the two men after Aubergine left; neither of them knew a thing about the Frenchman that had come aboard the train with Bond.  They had both been distrustful of Bond when he had first come to them, but now they were content that soon they would be repaid for all the damages.

M and Minister Faulkland were lead up to the office by one of aides.  Bond rose as his two superiors walked in. 

"Ma'am," he said, shaking M's hand.

"Bond," she replied.

He took the Minister's hand as well.  "Good to see you, Double-Oh Seven," the man said in his thick Cockney accent.  His handshake was cold and obligatory.

Both M and the Minister greeted the station manager, and the pleasantries were complete.  They stood to discuss the matter.

"We wanted to come down ourselves," M said.  "What happened?"

"Is he gone?" the Minister asked.

Bond nodded.  "Yes," the secret agent replied.  "He knew I was coming though," Bond lied.  He had crafted the story that he would report on.  Nobody would be the wiser.  "I think   we may have a mole in our analysis section."

"Preposterous," the Minister blew it off.

"Still, we may need to check into it."  M stood by her agent.

"Very well," the Minister conceded, with no intention of checking into it.  "We'll leave all that for later.  Just glad to see you back in one piece, old boy."  He slapped Bond on the back.

They walked from the office, Bond with M and the Minister staying behind to speak with the station manager.  A row of armed SIS security guards lined the front door.  M and Bond spoke in low tones as they moved slowly down the steps and out into the vehicles.

"What happened?" she asked.

"We'll talk about it later," Bond said, with every intention of giving his boss the entire story, leaving nothing out.  There were so many unanswered questions, questions Bond knew he would never find the answer to.  But there were some he thought M would be able to help with.  He wanted to know if Charlize had been DGSE.  He wanted to know if a copy of the European agents had been stolen.  He wanted to know so many different things.

Like MAX and Aubergine had said: In time, all things will be made clear.

●          ●          ●

Two weeks later, the boat that pulled up to the dock just below the Credit Dauphine bank in Georgetown, Cayman Islands, sputtered a few times before finally shutting off.  The captain, a short man of average build, had familiar salt-and-pepper hair, thick eyebrows, and a bushy mustache.  His clothes, however, were quite different.  He wore a short-sleeved Hawaiian-style button-up with a pack of Marlboros rolled into one sleeve; a pair of frayed khaki shorts; and a pair of straw sandals that looked quite worn.  A pair of tinted sunglasses rested on the peak of his nose.

He climbed from the boat and onto the dock.  Waiting for him was a handsome man with blonde hair.  Sunglasses prevented anyone from seeing his eyes too.  Wrapped in his arms was a beautiful girl named Charlize Veraut.

"M'sieur Aubergine," the man with the blonde hair greeted his friend.  "Job well done."

Aubergine nodded.  He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to his boss.  "The key to the SIS safe deposit box inside," he said.  "Fifty thousand euros."

The man with the blonde hair nodded.  "Excellent."

Aubergine turned to the girl.  "A miraculous recovery."

She smiled.  "Indeed."

The man with the blonde hair turned to Aubergine.  "MAX is dead forever," he said.  "Bond will think I am still at large, and with that list of agents."  There was no real list of agents, and both men knew it.  "We will lay low for some time.  They will take out your organization and all your bases.  Wait for a while.  After that is done, eliminate Bond.  He must not stay alive."

Aubergine shook his head in bold defiance.  "No," he said, speaking in a thick French accent.  "Bond suspects nothing.  He will do nothing further.  He bought into everything we told him.  Don't jeopardize us by killing him."

The man with the blonde hair narrowed his eyes, studying the Frenchman.  "Very well, Aubergine.  I suppose you deserve that.  Just make sure he doesn't interfere with the next phase of our operation."

Aubergine nodded.  "Yes, sir."

"I'll have the money deposited in our own account," Aubergine added.  "SIS will not be able to trace it that way."

"Very well."

Aubergine nodded once more, than said his farewell.  As he turned, the rolled-up cuff of his shirt revealed the blue flame tattoo on his bicep.

The mark of an Eternal.

The Eternal flame.

Pierre Aubergine waited until the man and the girl had walked away to start up the motor of his boat once more.  The aging piece of junk had belonged to the Frenchman for some time, ever since he first started working for the man with the blonde hair, the man once known as MAX.

As he maneuvered his boat out of the dock and into the water, he thought about the man in SIS, the one know as James Bond.  Bond had fallen for everything Aubergine had told him.  The Minister had been right all along.  Bond should have killed Aubergine when he had the chance.

As the Frenchman's boat passed one of the marker buoys in the water, the entire vessel erupted in a ball of flame.  The mushroom cloud of fire and metal that engulfed the boat and its captain flew high in the air and caused a terrible noise.  At the dock, the man with the blonde hair turned and watched as his most important asset burned alive.

Forty feet away, sitting at a small bar on the beach, James Bond lowered the binoculars and watched the fire with his own eyes.  The raging inferno was just as visible this far from the chaos.  He smiled to himself as he took a sip of his Americano.  Pierre Aubergine the Eternal got just what he was bargaining for.

Lifting the binoculars again, he watched the man with the blonde hair and Charlize Veraut turn and quickly walk away.  Soon, he thought.  You'll get yours soon enough.

Sitting back, he remembered what Pierre Aubergine had once said.  'In time, all things will be made clear.'

How true, he thought.

How true.