3. Piecing the Puzzle
Once Bond was cleared by customs, he was whisked off to MI6 headquarters in London by a private car from the airport. He arrived on time, and M, for once, was pleased.
"Come in, 007." M showed Bond to a seat in the situation room. Also there was Tanner, M's head of intelligence, and Villiers, M's secretary.
The table they were sitting at also doubled as a touch-screen computer—new from Q Branch. A picture of Mitchell and his information was on the computer.
"Craig Mitchell," Tanner began. "45-years-old, no living family, gave generously to charity."
M scoffed, "Tell me you know more than that!"
Tanner interrupted, " He passes a full lie detector and security check every year. Been M's bodyguard for two years. He, as well as his two accomplices, were paid through a bank account in Port au Prince, Haiti, a man named 'Greene', no first name wired the money, a total of three hundred thousand Euros each from a bank in Bern, Switzerland. Plus our men went through every bill in Mitchell's wallet and house. He had less than a hundred pounds sterling, and about the same in Euros and US dollars."
"What about Mitchell's men?" Bond asked.
Two coroners photos appeared on the computer as Mitchell and his information were dragged off to the side. "American, both CIA—Special Activities Division. They entered Siena last night on fake passports. There was a business card of a military contractor in one's pocket, but no other useful information."
Bond jumped on the clue. "The military contractor, does he have a name?"
Tanner brought up another photo of a blonde man, like Bond, but younger. It was a driver's license photo, so the man was dressed in a sleeveless polo shirt and smiling without showing teeth. "Mr. Edmund Slate, a British contractor and former SAS operative. He telephoned Mitchell and the two American sleepers from Haiti with a prepaid cell phone, purchased at a shopping mall in Miami the day before. He also is on the bank account of Greene."
"Is he still in Port au Prince?"
"Yes. At the Hotel Dessalines, room 325."
"I'm there." Bond said, straight-forward.
M spoke up, feeling quite fine after surviving her close-call in Siena. "Villiers, organize a flight from London to Port au Prince for 007."
Villiers nodded and left the room to get the paperwork ready.
M turned to Bond. "Bond, I'm giving you carte blanche on this operation. Find Mr. Slate and apply the necessary pressure to find out who Greene and Quantum are. I don't expect you to kill him. We don't want another incident like Siena."
Bond nodded and left the room. Villiers, who had Bond's plane ticket and clean passport with him, gave it to Bond. "Good luck, 007." He said, before getting back to work.
Bond remembered it vividly on the Virgin Airlines plane from London to Port au Prince. While the lights dimmed over the fuselage and the sky grew darker as the plane rose into the clouds, Bond fell back into a deep sleep. And then it began:
"Bond, I got your note," M said, "We'll talk about that later—right now I have an anxious, but lovely man from the Treasury, wondering if you're ever going to deposit the winnings."
Bond, laying at the foot of the bed, immediately sprang up. "That's a shame—I didn't think they'd miss it."
"I told them not to worry, and that you'll be depositing it today."
"I'm on my way to the bank right now." Bond hung up. He put on his shoes and raced out of the hotel, going down the grand staircase two steps at a time. While doing this he placed a call to Mr. Salvatore Mendel, head of the Basel Bank, the bank that sponsored the poker game in Montenegro. "Hello?"
"Mr. Mendel?" Bond said, "I'm having trouble accessing the funds in my account."
"It was transferred to the account number your company gave us, Mr. Bond." There was a pause, and then, "It appears the funds are being withdrawn as we speak."
Bond stopped, his heart skipped a beat. "Where?"
"The Venice branch, St. Mark's Square. Is there a problem, Mr. Bond?
Bond dropped the phone into his pocket and burst out of the hotel, scraping into several people in the process. He ran into the crowded streets looking for Vesper, identified only by her red cocktail dress and pinned-up black hair. Bond reached the Basel Bank, kicking in the door and looking inside. The line for withdraws was long, but Vesper wasn't among them. Juping out of the bank, Bond ducked into the alleys over the Venice canals. He was madly searching for Vesper, like an obsessed fan of a pop star. It seemed to confuse Bond because some of the people he passed resembled her, having the same hair but not in the dress. After several Vesper "look-alikes", Bond finally found his target.
She was still wearing the dress, but her hair was loose and dangling. She had a briefcase in her hand about the size of a DVD player—the winnings from Casino Royale.
Ducking behind a pillar, Bond dug out his Walther P99 and the silencer, attaching it to the end of the gun. He put a full clip into the P99 and stuffed two more clips into his pockets. All this time he was feeling rage and resentment towards Vesper. He had remembered the gentlemen who she was scared of, a man distinguished by a black lens on his glasses. After asking around, Bond found out that the man was Gettler, a Swiss watch enthusiast who was in Venice on holiday. Why would Vesper be scared of a Swiss watch enthusiast?
Obviously Gettler had something to do with Le Chieffe's operation. There was an organization behind him, maybe another one behind the one pulling Le Chieffe's strings. The winnings had something to do with Vesper—this was planned from the beginning, when Bond first laid eyes on her on the train to Montenegro. Ever since she uttered the code word: "I'm the money." Bond was instantly smitten with her, and it was a match made in heaven.
But this was just getting interesting.
Bond was keeping his cool as he trailed Vesper along the canal. There was a construction site ahead of them, and in front of that, a courtyard. Bond walked over a bridge leading to the courtyard and stopped when he saw a shadow. It wasn't Vesper, nor Gettler, but a lookout. It was a man in an Armani suit with an H&K machine pistol. Bond surprised the man, and as he raised his gun to fire, Bond shot him between the eyes. Stepping over the lookout's body, Bond heard voices coming from the courtyard. It was Vesper and another man, presumably Gettler. Bond peered out from behind his hiding place and saw a grinning Gettler as Vesper presented him the silver briefcase with the money. Another man, about 6'00" tall was idling by the fountain. Bond could see a gun bulging under his coat.
Bond watched as Gettler retrieved the briefcase and handed it to the man next to the fountain. Bond ducked behind the pillar again, scraping his body against the stone. It made too much noise, and Gettler spun around, grabbing a knife and holding it to Vesper's throat. "Whoever you are, I'll kill her!" he yelled.
"Allow me." Bond broke away from the pillar to fire at Gettler, but the sounds of automatic fire made Bond duck back behind cover as Gettler, Vesper, and his accomplice made a break for the construction site. From the building across the street, two sharpshooters with UMP submachine guns rained lead onto Bond's cover. Taking a chance, Bond sprinted across the courtyard, ducking behind the fountain, and then sliding to the tunnel leading to the construction site. The shooting suddenly stopped as the sharpshooters ran after Bond, reloading on the move.
Following Vesper's cries, Bond reached the mouth of the tunnel where the renovated canal-side building sat abandoned because of the weekend. As he came out of the tunnel, he saw the tall man, Gettler's accomplice, firing a pistol at him from behind a stack of crates. Bond fired the H&K through the wooden crates, sending the man sprawling and crawling out from behind his shattered cover. Bond shot the man in the chest as he crawled on his hands and knees back to the renovated house. Bond reloaded his gun, slung it over his shoulder, and pulled the Walther from his shirt pocket. He advanced, stepping over the tall man's body and crouching behind the door. Peering through the slats, Bond could see three tethered air bags, about the size of beer kegs, floating in the water. Bond also heard noise and looked up, and saw movement and activity from the iron cage elevator. He heard Gettler hiss to Vesper, "You agreed you'll come alone!"
"I tried." Vesper said, "But I couldn't stop him from following us."
"Worthless bitch!" A slap, and Vesper cried out, "James!"
Bond composed himself and burst through the doors, seeing a thug with a pistol and dispatching him. As the man fell to the floor, the two sharpshooters reappeared, their UMPs locked-and-loaded. Before they could fire, Bond shot one of the air bags and ducked behind a peeled wall. The air bag exploded and the house began to shake as the water beneath the house bubbled furiously. The sharpshooters relocated, climbing up a flight of creaky stairs to get a better vantage point and kill the intruder, but the British agent outsmarted them, and emptied his eleven-round clip into the two men. As they collapsed to the floor, Bond heard a crack-crack of a .45 automatic and saw Gettler firing down from the floor above. Bond ducked as Gettler emptied his pistol, and then reloaded. Then Bond heard Gettler yell, "Do it!" and then, a plop and then something hit Bond's feet. It looked like a pinecone, but in reality, a hand grenade, World War II-style. Bond uttered a four-letter obscenity and tossed the grenade into the water.
The grenade blew, and the air bags blew; now the house was at the mercy of the canal. And as the water rose, Bond moved up the stairs and to the second floor, grabbing a hold of the railing as the house shook and moaned, as if it were haunted and spontaneously became alive. He turned to find Gettler and another thug reloading their weapons. Bond fired at them, making them duck back behind the elevator. Then the house groaned and lurched forward, making the men fall off balance. Gettler's man with the suitcase lost his footing and fell down into the rising water, the winnings from Casino Royale floating away from the drowning-man's corpse.
"You're a dead man!" Gettler yelled and fired wildly into Bond's cover. Bond could also hear Vesper whimpering and screaming out for salvation. Bond set his jaw, spun around, and fired at Gettler, getting him in the arm. He disappeared into the clamor of the sinking house.
Vesper was on the next floor up, and Bond moved to where she was, trapped and defenseless. As he reached the elevator, Vesper was panicky and scared. "Look out!" she yelled.
Bond turned around and saw Gettler with a knife coming at him. Bond was too late to stop the knife from slicing into his arm. Bond grabbed the knife by the hilt and twisted Gettler's wrist. The stiletto clattered to the ground. Bond then pushed Gettler away and punched him. But now Gettler had found a new weapon, a semiautomatic nail-gun. Both men fought for control of this device, and it was only after Bond had head-butted Gettler, that Bond swung the nail-gun into Gettler's face and pulled the trigger. There was a plinking noise and a nail protruded grotesquely from Gettler's eye, the one with the dark lens over it.
Then a noise, Vesper screaming, a gun cocking, Bond seeing an Armani-clad thug with a pistol aimed at him. Bond fired the nail-gun twice, and the man went limp.
"Nailed them both." Bond quipped.
The elevator groaned and the water level was rising dangerously fast. The elevator's antiquated brakes couldn't take all the commotion, and it plunged into the water like a stone, Vesper screaming all the way down.
Bond took off his shoes and discarded his guns. He dove into the water after Vesper, reaching the elevator and seeing her look at him with those hazelnut-brown eyes. She looked sorry for him.
Bond tried to open the door, but the weight of the water was pressing on the metal frame. He was able to get an arm in and tried to grab her. She reached out and took his hand, balling it into a fist and kissing it, tenderly, gently. Bond felt it and went limp. Then Vesper backed away, her mouth open, sucking in the water, killing herself. Bond screamed at her, and it was only after she went sagged into the aqua-blue abyss that Bond was able to wrench open the elevator doors with all his might, pulling her from the elevator cabin, and rising up to the surface, which was now the house's sparsely-furnished roof.
The CPR: Chest compressions, mouth-to-mouth, repeat. Touching her wet hair, kissing her soggy lips madly—trying to revive her, to keep her alive.
All of it was futile.
Somewhere away from the commotion, a man in sharp Armani suit walked away holding a briefcase containing more than 150 million in Euros.
"The bitch is dead."
"The bitch is dead."
"The bitch is dead."—
A surprised voice inquired, "What?"
Bond awoke from his nightmare/flashback to find a stewardess hovering over him, concerned. "Sir, are you alright?" she asked.
"I'm fine." Bond replied gruffly, "It's been a rough flight."
"Would you like some Ambien?" the stewardess offered. She held out a small green capsule along with a paper cup of water.
"Why not?" Bond took the sleeping pill and swallowed it, then guzzled down the water and sighed openly. "Thank you."
"We land in Haiti in the morning." The stewardess reminded. "It's important to get some sleep. Good night, sir."
Bond hoped that in Haiti, he would find some closure. That maybe Mr. Slate would provide him with more clues.
Bond could only wait until morning to find out.
Haiti was still recovering from the recent cholera epidemic that ravaged the country as well as other unsightly waves of crime, unsanitary conditions, the decline of the dollar. The streets of Port au Prince looked like Deadwood or Dodge City from the American Wild West. Dusty streets, barely-furnished buildings, stray dogs begging for scraps, and gang members looking to rape, pillage, and plunder the town dry soured Bond's taste. This poor Caribbean island also was a hub for voodoo practices, brought back to life by a crazed dictator in the early 1970s. It was a shame to Bond that this nation had gone down the toilet after winning independence from the French in 1804. But, nonetheless, the people were happy, living day by day.
Bond took a taxi from the airport to the Hotel Dessalines. He paid the driver in advance and when the cab stopped in front of the hotel, Bond got out and stretched his aching limbs. He then walked into the hotel and found a map showing the rooms. Room 325 was on the third floor, and the hotel had an elevator—busted beyond repair. The stairs were the only way up.
Bond found the hotel to be adequate and well-kept, rather than most of the second-class hotels he had seen in Bermuda, Jamaica, and Aruba. He was looking around through the blue-tinted Tom Ford sunglasses when he found Room 325. Bond tried the door, it was locked. Bond took out his wallet and dug out his credit card. He inserted it between the door and the doorframe and got the door open in a jiffy. He looked around and stepped inside, pocketing the card as he entered the room.
The hotel room was kept modestly with rotten, soiled furniture and pink walls with peeling wallpaper. There were a wall of beads over the doorway to the bedroom, flickering in the breeze that came in from an open window.
"Mr. Slate?" Bond bellowed. "Mr. Edmund Slate?"
The beads parted violently and Slate appeared, blonde-haired and dressed in a polo shirt, smiling evilly. A switchblade was in his hand, and he slashed at Bond. Bond ducked out of the way, grabbing a vase and smashing it into Slate's head. Slate backpedaled into the bedroom through the wall of beads. Bond followed him inside as Slate reciprocated, slashing with the small stiletto. But Bond countered the blows with kicks and jabs to the torso. It was then that Bond got the knife away from Slate and stabbed him through the neck with it. Both men then crashed through the doors to the outside balcony. During all of this, Slate was twisting on the floor, clutching his neck which was now spurting blood.
"What's Quantum?" Bond asked. "Who's Greene?"
Slate only groaned, his body tired of fighting. His eyes rolled back into his head and he died.
Bond looked at Slate, and then himself. Shit, not this again!
"Way to go, brother." A voice from behind said.
Bond spun around, finding a black man with a beard in a yellow-cream suit with brown loafers standing a few feet away. "Who are you?" Bond asked.
"Don't you remember me, brother?"
It then clicked in Bond's mind. "Felix, is that you?"
"Way to go, James." Felix laughed. "Way to go."
"I didn't mean for this to happen, Felix." Bond protested.
"That's what my ex-wife said when I found her in bed with a white man. The same results happened."
"Death?"
"Frustration. You just silenced our lead. Plus the boys at Langley aren't too happy with you and MI6 these days."
"Why?"
"In Italy you killed two of our Special Activities dicks. Both of them ten-year vets, with families, both wives named Linda, grown-up children."
"They were working against you, Felix."
"That's not what I heard. I've come to take you in." Two men in white cotton suits appeared behind Felix. "It's for your own good, James." Felix said.
Bond gulped. How was M going to get him out of this one? This wasn't Miami where Bond broke FAA and state regulations by rampaging through an airport, or violating international protocol by shooting up an embassy in Madagascar. This was detainment by one of the powerful intelligence departments in America.
One of the men produced a pair of handcuffs. Bond was covered by the other man as the manacles were applied to him. The snapping of the steel handcuffs sealed his fate.
But Bond knew better than to give up.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Felix?" Bond asked as he was carted off. "You're making a big mistake."
"I hope this works out for the both of us, brother."
Bond was led by the two CIA men to the first flight of stairs. Bond pretended to bend over as if sick, so that one of the men holding him bumped into him. "I've done nothing wrong." Bond protested.
"Shut up!" the man holding Bond hissed. The man then spoke into a radio on his sleeve, "Ready transport in five, package coming down."
Bond then retracted his foot back, kicking the man in the groin. Bond, using his elbows and shoulders, pummeled the other man to the ground, and then kneed him in the chin, chipping some teeth and knocking him out. Bond then kicked the other downed man in the face, and then bent down to search for the keys. He found them in the man's jacket and undid the cuffs. Bond then handcuffed both men together and started to go down the steps, stopping midflight. He returned to the men and searched them for weapons. He found a .40 Glock Model 20 in a belt holster along with two extra clips. Bond pocketed the gun and took the radio and earphones off the second man, fastening it to his own head. Bond then turned around and back to the Room 325. Felix wasn't there, but Slate was. Even though Slate was dead, there might still be some clues. Bond searched the ransacked room from nook to cranny, finding a wallet and two kinds of forged passports. A business card was on the night table. It read "GREENE PLANET—PHILANTROPIC AND ECOLOGICAL AWARENESS & SECURITY SINCE 1995."
Bond had heard of Greene Planet in the magazines, how they were buying up large tracts of land in South America, Africa, and Southeast Asia for ecological preserves. Greene Planet also donated $200 million each to Indonesia, Thailand, and New Orleans, Louisiana to rebuild after the tsunamis and the hurricane. The head of Greene Planet was a shady, small man named Dominic Greene, a French national with degrees in colleges in Paris and the United States. He was also a big player in the US and European Stock Markets, and his American mistress had a million-dollar credit line with Tiffany and Cartier diamond and jewelry companies.
Everything started to come together in Bond's head: Greene Planet = Greene.
But what was Quantum?
Bond would have to ask one person, the person who wanted to bring him in. The only problem now was, that they weren't on the same page.
He would have to ask Felix Leiter.