Author's note: Hey everyone! Thanks so much for the reviews! Sorry for the late late update... been having exams the past week and I still have papers to sit for this week and next, but I just HAD to get this outta my system and take a break at the same time! I'm a bit afraid that it might seem too close to Casino Royale, but I had no choice but to stick to my plan, so hopefully this chappie is a good one!
Also, I've corrected the silly mistakes I've made for the previous chapters... rereading through them and spotting them were painful, and I couldn't believe my clumsiness! Gargh!
And as always, review, and review constructively (to quote another author on the site)! You know I need them! Hehe! Wish me luck for my exams and enjoy!
Chapter 7: First, Do No Harm
They had shaken the last hand and uttered the last polite comment when the call came. Evelyn couldn't help but watch him, albeit a little nervously, as he answered it in a discreet manner. It had been three hours since Bond had left the restaurant. It had been a further five since the orders to capture him had been issued.
Finally, Sorescu ended the call and said to her, "They've got him."
They left the restaurant soon after, but instead of going straight back to their penthouse suite, he returned to the conference room they had convened earlier in the evening, where some of Sorescu's men were waiting for them.
"Mr. Sorescu, sir," greeted one as he came up to them.
"Ah, Grigor. Just the man I wanted to see," answered Sorescu with a smile, coming to a halt at the desk in the middle of the room. Then on a more serious note: "Have you got him?"
Grigor nodded.
"How much of a fight did he put up?"
"He has fought before, and he fought well," was all that Grigor could say. He was a tall, solidly-built man who was only getting the hang of the smart suits and diplomacies that came with being a strong arm of Mikhail Sorescu. Usually he let his fists and guns do the talking.
Sorescu cast a glance at the rest of his soldiers gathered in the room. "How many of us were hurt?"
"Two were shot and another – "
"Total?"
"Four injured, sir," said Grigor at last, hanging his head.
Sorescu turned to look at his wife, who returned his look steadily and unwaveringly. She looked so sure and confident that he was almost ready to believe that what she had told him regarding Bond was the whole truth. There was no hint of a liar in that steely expression: no twitching, no blinking nor a flicker of guilt in her eyes. But he still had to confirm.
He held out his hand and Grigor instantly removed a Sony Ericsson mobile phone from his coat pocket and placed it in his employer's palm. Bond's mobile phone.
Evelyn took the phone from him, her heart thudding wildly as she did so. She was aware of his eyes fixed on her as she removed the back cover, the battery and the SIM card. Grigor placed a metallic grey briefcase in front of her, unlocked it and removed a laptop from it. Evelyn booted it up, which took no time at all, attached the SIM card reader device that came with the briefcase, and inserted Bond's SIM card into the reader slot. A successful attempt at connecting with the British mobile network service provider Bond used revealed a comprehensive list of all the messages and calls that he had made with his phone, regardless of how long ago they were and if he had initially deleted them. She located the most recent call entry to a British telephone number and played the recorded call.
"It's not about her," Bond's voice was instantly recognisable, "I'm doing this for my country. This is the surefire way to get in. A personal confirmation from the high-ranking government official who sent me on this mission is just the thing to get Sorescu to pay attention."
"Her?" said Sorescu with a sharp frown at Evelyn.
"White's contact in Venice," she replied with as much as steadiness as she could muster, "the woman named Vesper Lynd."
"Oh. Well," was all that Sorescu could say, albeit with a little relief. He admitted to himself that he was almost expecting the 'her' to refer to his wife. Once again, he looked directly into her eyes, and, once again, she was strong and clear and honest. "Well," he cleared his throat and nodded, "get this back to Pazcarek. And tell him thanks for letting us use his toy."
When Sorescu turned his back to leave, he didn't notice the glances exchanged between Evelyn and Grigor, and he certainly didn't hear the silent 'thank you' that she mouthed to him when Grigor promptly placed Bond's mobile phone and SIM card into a light brown envelope with a Greek stamp attached onto it.
Bond was brought rudely back to consciousness by an abrupt splash of cold water. The first sound he registered was of a plastic bucket thrown onto the floor, the vibration of the ensuing echoes reached one side of Bond's cheeks. His eyes opened at once to assess the hostile surroundings. He had half a thought to wipe the water from his eyes and nose; water was dripping from his hair and all angles of his face, but his wrists and ankles were bound so tightly that he could feel the rough material of the rope cutting into his flesh.
He couldn't resist a short, dry, humourless laugh even with the side of his mouth pressed to the damp stone floor. Excellent, more torture, he thought to himself. At least he still had his clothes on, even though his coat was missing.
Someone grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him upright. A torchlight was shined directly at his face, causing him to squint. Suddenly the light was shut off, and as his vision regained focus, a body, then a face, came into view.
And it was a familiar one.
"You," he spluttered.
"Oops," said Evelyn Foster, her voice and her expression cool and merciless, and still dressed in the black dress that she had worn to dinner. "Wrong word." She stood and gestured at the man who had a fistful of Bond's shirt in his grip. He was immediately dragged on his knees out of the small room that he had been contained in, down a dimly lit corridor, and into another room, this time brightly lit, smelling of disinfectant, and filled with some machinery that looked like they hadn't been used since World War II.
Where the hell was he? What was going on? And Foster…
She was a traitor.
That thought alone was enough to drive Bond mad. A thousand thoughts rushed into his mind, but one emotion was clear: rage. He had been tricked, again, by a woman he had thought he could trust. He had been promised himself to be extra vigilant, extra wary the moment he had set his eyes on her picture in M's file. Women, always women! And what about Woodwick? Was his disappearing act part of the charade too?
But there was something he didn't understand. If Foster had planned to betray him to Sorescu all along, why had she come to his room before the meeting? Why had she given him the gun and told him 'not to worry'? What was she up to?
A metallic table stood meekly in the middle of the room and Bond was, quite literally, flung onto it. His arms were yanked upwards and strapped to the table with a few layers of duct tape. Another man appeared and, using a pen knife, cut and tore his shirt away from him so that Bond was stripped to his chest. And all the while Foster just stood there with her arms folded, staring at him with an unfathomable expression. He glared back at her while he could, trying to see if there was a flicker of regret, perhaps, or even sympathy.
But there was nothing.
Then the men stepped back from him, leaving him cold and exposed and vulnerable. Movement bustled around him: there were the sound of squeaking wheels and footsteps and murmurs, and when he saw a trolley coming to stop just where his feet ended, he began to feel a tremour of panic.
"So, Mr. Bond," said a familiar voice, which drew Bond's attention at once. His head shot up and Sorescu's smiling face came into view. He put one hand on the table and leaned on it as if he was talking to his secretary. "You must have guessed by now that I have guessed everything, which is true, of course. I know that the deal that you and M had set up for me was a false one. A trap, to be more precise, eh?" He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "I must admit, though, that it was a very clever plan, but unfortunately, I am the cleverer one here instead.
"But there is still something which I don't know, and which I am just dying to know," said Sorescu, pacing up and down his side like an agitated tiger, making Bond feel restless as well. "The MI6 agents that were sent to spy on me and my associates," he stopped and looked sharply at Bond. "The agents that, I'm sure you know, are dead under my orders. My own intelligence tells me that there is still at least one spy left implanted amongst my organization. I believe, Mr. Bond, that you know who it is. And before the night is over, you will tell me. Everything."
Bond didn't reply. He couldn't. He was caught in a crossfire. He had the perfect opportunity to blurt out that his wife, the woman who Sorescu knew to be Emiliana Sorescu, was actually the mole he was looking for, and God knows what could happen. The tables would be turned and Foster could actually get hurt, maybe killed. Bond was seriously tempted to do it; that would be an excellent reward for her treachery.
"Be careful. And no matter what happens, don't worry."
Only God knew what she meant and why that one sentence was holding him back from lashing out and saving his own skin.
"You know, Mr. Bond, I have my own people in the British government as well," said Sorescu with a dry smile, "But don't worry, I won't tell you who and where they are. I'm no traitor," he laughed. "But one thing is for sure, they are people who are higher in position than your dear director of MI6. Do you remember the little fake meeting we had before dinner? Of course you do. Now, being the clever person I am, that whole… masquerade has been recorded on videotape and is ready for delivery. All I need to do is to give that tape to my dear British allies, and you, as well as that very pretty old woman who played along with you, are as good as dead."
Panic rose up in Bond's throat. M! He had thought that the game he had coaxed her to play in was a harmless one, merely a modus operandi to get the cat out of the bag, but now everything had backfired. He didn't mind if his life was the one at stake. Sorescu could threaten to feed him to a safari full of predators and Bond could still, at least, try and wriggle his way out of it. But M…
He trusted her to have a damn good escape plan for herself.
"What do you want?" asked Bond brusquely.
"A deal. A real one this time. Tell me the name, or names, of the remaining MI6 rats who are still in my organization, the ones who are helping you out here in Bucharest, in short, and in return, I will discard the tape that will destroy both of your lives. What do you say to that, eh?"
Bond couldn't resist a laugh that shook his entire body. The whole scene was, in an odd way, amusing. The mole that Sorescu was looking for, the one whose identity he was willing to kill to discover, was actually standing right next to him. It would make Sorescu look like a complete idiot if he knew, and they would all be killed, including him. It was seriously quite funny. "Do you seriously think that I'll be as easy to persuade as that?" he scoffed directly at Sorescu's face. "Don't you know that people like me need a bit more encouragement? Maybe a lifetime supply of the Reader's Digest?"
Sorescu broke into a wide grin. "Oh, is that how you operate, Mr. Bond? Sorry, my bad. I should have known better. Get me the trolley, Emiliana. Mr. Bond wants to be baited and tempted, and we will give it to him, won't we?"
Foster did as she was told, and this time she met Bond's eyes directly. Her gaze was wide and touched with a tinge of fear. If he looked hard enough, maybe she was even shaking her head. But he couldn't, and he didn't want to, care.
"Let me ask you a question, Mr. Bond," said Sorescu as he peered at the contents of the trolley. Bond raised his head a bit and what he saw made his heart stop. A tray full of knives was laid out on the trolley. And they looked none too clean. There was also a bottle of clear liquid, which Bond assumed to be vodka or some sort of spirit, and there was a hotel sewing kit, with the emblem of the Napoleon upon it. Sorescu picked a knife, which actually looked thin and sharp enough to be a scalpel, and resumed speaking: "have you ever had appendicitis before?"
"Maybe, who knows? My medical records are all on the MI6 database. You can ask your wife to look it up for you if you want to know," he replied carelessly.
"Good one, Mr. Bond," said Sorescu with a brisk laugh, "your apparent lack of love for your well-being amuses me. Well, I did, Mr Bond; I had appendicitis when I was young. Very young. And when I was young, I was so poor and deprived that I could not afford to go to the hospital and have my appendix removed. But in the end my father managed to take it out." He smiled at Bond. "He did it with nothing but a knife, a dinner fork, his cheapest vodka, my mama's sewing box, a lot of towels and a lot of painkillers. It was all done on the kitchen table, and I am still alive today to prove that appendicitis is not a big deal after all." He shrugged. "Nothing to it, really, come to think about it. And so you, Mr. Bond, such a tough guy like yourself, should be able to deal with it, no?"
"Sure, why not?" Those words were out of Bond's mouth before he could censor them. Shit. But he had said them and he couldn't take it back. The scalpel glinted dangerously in his hand.
"One last chance, Mr. Bond," said Sorescu, this time his voice was ruthless and cold, "who – is – the – mole?"
Bond stared at him defiantly, making sure that every ounce of his determination to keep his will straight and unbent showed in every plane of his face. Sorescu wasn't the first person who had tried to intimidate him, and he certainly won't be the last. So to hell with it, and he wouldn't make a sound either.
"Me," he growled.
"Very well." He sank his blade into his lower right abdomen, slowly and forcefully, then jerking it several centimeters to the side to make a messy, bloody incision. Bond screamed; the sharp, blinding pain was excruciating; worse than having his bollocks whipped. Every nerve ending in his body writhed and convulsed in agony. But Sorescu was not even done.
"Oh goodness, what a lousy doctor I am. We mustn't get you infected or else you'll sue the hospital and I will lose my job," said Sorescu with sarcasm that did not amuse Bond at all, grabbing the bottle of vodka, uncapping it and sloshing half the bottle over where he had cut into his flesh. Another anguished scream ripped through Bond's lungs as the alcohol seared mercilessly into the cut and brought with it an entirely new dimension of pain. By now his mind was spinning and hurtling itself through a senseless void. Physically, he was tortured and in extreme pain, but mentally, he was numbed.
"So what now, eh?" asked Sorescu, laughing as he held the bloody scalpel so close to Bond's nose and mouth that the blade almost grazed his skin. "Smell it, smell your own blood. It is you who are doing this to yourself. I gave you such an easy option: names in exchange for your own safety. But you, you are one hell of an arrogant fool, are you not?" With the other hand, he delivered such an astounding blow to Bond's jaw that he could feel the bones break and blood seep into his mouth. But he laughed. Laughed in the face of the pain. Oh God, it felt good. Strangely good and cleansing and… well, good.
"Names, please," hissed Sorescu into his ear.
Bond merely grinned maniacally back at him. Seriously, did Sorescu expect him to be able to continue talking coherently with a broken jaw? "Y-y-you've got to d-do a little better than th-that, darling."
And the torture resumed.
Well, it wasn't easy to think of something that's worse than walloping you-know-what! Hehe, anyway, let me know what you think, CONSTRUCTIVELY. Thanks!