5. A Night at the Opera

Dominic Greene sat in the Ford Edge SUV, driving down a dirt road towards a desolate airstrip. As the SUV got closer to the runway, the likeness of a Learjet G6, twin-engine small private jet materialized from beyond the tall grass.

Greene smiled. He enjoyed having pleasant things, and rich people very often loved to fly away on vacations, maybe some private island in the South Pacific.
But not for now. Today's flight was purely for business. Greene leaned back in the seat as the Ford came to a stop beside the G6. He got out, and was met by his trusted aide, a tall, lanky man with a bowl cut and an eagle beak. Greene called him "Elvis".

"Bonjour." Elvis greeted, and stepped aside so that Greene could get into the jet first. As they did so, Elvis retracted the folding stairs and they made their way towards their seats. Also in the plane were two other men. One was of average height, sporting a moustache, a pair of glasses over his eyes and wearing a blue suit. He greeted Dominic Greene in his best French.

The other man was black, with a jet-black beard and a yellow-cream-colored suit and brown loafers. He was sitting at the rear of the plane, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
Dominic Greene took a seat in the captain's chair, stitched with smooth brown leather, and announced, "Welcome aboard my private plane, gentlemen."

The blue-suited man spoke with a Texan accent, "Nice to meet ya, Mr. Greene."

"Please, Mr. Beam, my friends call me 'Dominic.'"

"Sorry." Gregory Beam turned to his black-skinned colleague and introduced, "Mr. Greene, meet my friend Felix Leiter. 'Agent' Leiter, that is."

An annoyed Felix Leiter waved a hand to shush the Texan.

Now the pilot announced into the main cabin through a microphone, "Welcome aboard everyone, we have just been given clearance for takeoff for Innsbruck. Please keep your seatbelts securely fastened until we reach our standard cruising altitude. Our total flight time to Innsbruck is five hours and forty-three minutes. Welcome aboard everyone and have a pleasant flight."

As the G6 taxied off the runway and reached its cruising altitude, Greene went into the bathroom and changed from his cotton shirt and pants to a dinner jacket, a crisp white shirt, and black slacks with matching shoes. Afterwards, Beam began to discuss matters with the CEO of Greene Planet. "I'd like to discuss your matters in South America, Mr. Greene."

Greene smiled and replied, "Don't worry, Mr. Beam, from what I have to say, you won't be disappointed."

Thirty minutes later, and five miles above the earth, the captain turns off the seatbelt sign. Almost on cue, a shapely female steward began cabin service. After a few rounds of scotch, Beam was in a good mood. Dominic Greene spoke up and began his business proposition. "Do we have an understanding, Mr. Beam?"

"Loud and clear. We in the CIA do nothing to stop a coup in Bolivia, and in exchange, the new government gives America the lease to any oil found."

"If it's oil you want?"

Beam belched. "We'll have to verify the find."

"Mon ami, you are getting this for free. You see, you are tied up in the Middle East with oil in Iraq and Al Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan. South America is where the real action is. Venezuela, Brazil, now Bolivia, they are all falling like dominoes."

Beam took another swig of scotch. "I will assure you that the CIA will take no action against the coup in La Paz that we know nothing about."

"Bon. Thank you, Mr. Beam." Greene then motioned for Elvis, who removed a cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. "I also have a pest."

Elvis tossed Beam the phone, the screen showing a security camera photo of a blonde man with blue eyes. Beam looked at the screen, and then tossed the iPhone to Leiter. "Do you have any idea who that is?"

Leiter caught the phone and looked at the screen, studying it. He then handed the phone back to Elvis with a puzzling shrug. "Sorry."

Beam stared into Leiter's skull, a frown on his face. "That's James Bond, British Secret Service. 'Licensed to kill' I believe he is?"

"Yeah."

"I thought he was in custody."

Leiter looked down at the floor. "No, sir."

Beam, eager to please Greene, offered, "I will talk to the Deputy Director at Langley. I'll get him back, no matter what it takes."

Greene shook his head. "I do not want him caught." He paused for effect, "I want him taken care of."

"I didn't know how we could've missed that." Beam then smiled. "That's not going to be a problem."

The men in the cabin then sat silent as the plane neared the border of Portugal. There, at a seaside airstrip, the G6 was refueled. At around 5 pm, the plane took off for Innsbruck, Austria. After a final round of cabin service, the Learjet finally touched down at a quiet, private airport in Innsbruck. A Bentley Continental luxury car had preceded the jet's arrival, and rushed to the tarmac to collect Greene and Elvis. Greene looked at his American business associate, who waved him goodbye. As the Bentley took off for the drive to Bregenz, Leiter asked Beam a serious question. "Are we really in bed with Greene, sir?"

Beam scoffed, "Yeah, right. We should just deal with nicer people."

"But, sir—"

Beam interrupted, "I need to know that you're on the team, Felix. Tell me right now that you understand."
Leiter sighed, "Yes, sir."

Both men then went through the airport terminal to get on another plane for the long nine-hour flight to Bolivia. Beam, the CIA Section Chief to South America, and Felix Leiter, the top American agent, had just signed a deal to keep their mouths shut.
Leiter seemed powerless to stop it, and that's what he feared the most.

The Ford Taurus SE kept a sedate 60 mph speed on the A10, the main highway that ran from Bregenz to the west, to Vienna in the east. James Bond used the homer on Elvis's cell phone to keep a safe distance behind the Bentley. It was a two-hour drive to Bregenz, Greene's real destination was unknown, however.

Bregenz, Austria was home to several popular sights, including the old town hall and Lake Constance, which was near the town. Bond bypassed them all as he continued to track the Bentley as it left the A10 and turned onto the narrow cobblestone streets. A few minutes later, the Bentley stopped in the valet lot of a large building. It was the local opera house. The banners advertised the premier of the classic Italian opera Tosca.

Bond watched Greene get out of the Bentley, followed by Elvis, the driver, and two bodyguards. They then walked into the opera house all together and disappeared inside.
Ditching the car in the alley, Bond found the back way in, down a hallway that led to several dressing rooms. A clothes rack featured several eighteenth-century costumes and some tuxedoes. Bond found a tux that fit him and ditched his black shirt and tan khaki jeans. He also put on a new pair of loafers. As a final touch, he tucked the Walther P99 in the armpit holster of his shirt, secured his backup Walther PPK to his ankle, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Ready to do business, Bond left the dressing room and avoided the main hall, where Greene was present and security was tight. He walked through a door to a flight of stairs and took them up to the top. When he opened a door to the outside, Bond was surrounded by guests in suits and evening gowns. Many of them were drinking champagne. Bond ignored them and went out to the balcony that led to the lobby. In the lavish room, guests were given their tickets and a gift bag, and then were screened at metal detectors by security. From this, entire Bond could see the line in which guests were receiving gift bags. A blonde-haired man in glasses approached the counter. The woman behind it slid her hand underneath the table, retrieving a black bag and handing it to the man. This was odd, as the other guests were receiving gift bags from the top of the table.

Bond's ice-blue eyes locked onto his target, tailing him all the way to the mezzanine. In a few minutes, Bond had gotten through to the man, pulling him into the men's bathroom out of sight from the other viewers. The fight was swift and without warning, Bond moved at the speed of a wild animal. He chopped the man's neck with a flat hand, knocking him out. Bond then sat him on the toilet seat, took the gift bag, and emptied the contents into the sink.

The contents of the gift bag included the program of Tosca—Giacomo Puccini's famous opera set during the Napoleonic Wars in Italy. The program said the play lasted for three hours, beginning at 09:00 with a twenty-minute intermission in-between the third and fourth acts. This absolutely made no sense to Bond, asking himself Why would Greene go to an opera on a business trip?

Digging some more, Bond found a pair of cufflinks, platinum with an elaborate "Q" fastened to it. Obviously this was the symbol for "Quantum". Now another clue had revealed itself, Greene and other Quantum members were meeting here to discuss business possibly during the intermission.

Then, another clue, this one the damning smoking gun. Bond found a small black-velvet box, like the kind used in jewelry stores for engagement rings. Opening the box, he found a small earpiece, inspected it, and screwed it into his ear. In doing so, he noted the earpiece's frequency and sent it to MI6 to be passed onto analysts, who would decipher the chatter into actionable intelligence. Bond hoped that this would seal the fate of Greene, Greene Planet, and Quantum. Satisfied with his findings, Bond packed up the cufflink, program, and empty box into the gift bag, and then went over to the dazed man that had been lying on the toilet. Bond placed the gift bag on the man's lap, stepped away from the body, and then went outside to the atrium. To prevent the man from raising the alarm, Bond broke the door handle and tossed the curved piece of metal aside. Now no-one would interrupt the meeting.

Bond walked around the atrium to the stage entrance. Below him, more than 200 people were flooding into the audience to take their seats. He saw Greene, Elvis, and three other men walk away from the crowd. An aide escorted them away from Bond's view, up a flight of steps labeled "VIP BOXES ↑ ENTRY RESTRICTED." Out of all the Quantum operatives planted within the opera audience, Greene presumably had the "best seat in the house".

By this time, Bond had reached the stage, gone under the orchestra pit, and climbed up a flight of steps that gave a great view of Lake Constance. He had climbed up more steps and two ladders, finally reaching a vantage point embedded in the framework. It was just in time too, for the orchestra flared up and the play had begun, the tens of hundreds of audience members in their seat, with a few Quantum operatives spread among them.

It was then the frequency chatter came into Bond's ear, clear as crystal. A woman's exotic voice, possibly Venezuelan, came first,, "Any word from Canadian Intelligence?"

Another voice, Russian heavily accented in English shushed her, "We'll get to that later. How much more pipeline do we need?"

Greene's voice came online, sitting comfortably in the VIP skybox, surrounded by Elvis and his bodyguards. Greene said, "Ideally, two-thousand kilometers. We are ready to begin drilling within the week. Any objections?"

There was a long pause, then voices of all different accents and dialects came online.

A Pakistani voice replied, "No."

The Venezuelan whispered, "No."

A Japanese voice chimed, "No."

The Russian replied, "Not here."

An Israeli piped up, "No objections."

Greene took control of the meeting. "Good, transfer the funds from our Siberian holdings, Mr. Karakov."

The Russian's voice, Karakov, obliged, "No problem."

The opera continued for a moment, with one of the characters, Baron Scarpia, the head of the secret police, barges into a chapel, looking for another character, the escapee Angelotti.

About five minutes later, the meeting changed to a new topic. "Where do the Americans stand?" The Venezuelan whispered.

Greene reminded her, "The CIA doesn't care about another dictator in South America as long as we give them their end."

The Israeli cautioned, "But when the CIA finds out that they've been cheated—duped—dimed?"

Another voice, a British one, reassured him, "Mr. Soref, Her Majesty's government is working on that."

That made Bond gulp loudly, his knees go weak. Surely Quantum had many friends, but inside the British government? The corruption had now spread too far.
Bond calmed down to listen in again. The Pakistani attendee was the holdout. "Perhaps the Tierra Project isn't the best use of Quantum's time. I think we shall shift our focus to the Canadian."

Greene hid the frustration in his voice, telling everyone , "Let me assure you that the Tierra Project is completely foolproof. This is the world's most precious and important resource, we need to control as much of it as we can. I've already begun destabilizing the government. Bolivia is and must be a top priority." He paused for effect.

Bond had realized that he had enough of listening in. He inquired coolly, "Gentlemen, may I offer an opinion?"

No one spoke up, Bond probably thought that they were checking their earpieces and looking around for the mysterious, new voice in the crowd of thousands.

Bond continued, "I really think that you people should find a better place to meet?" He thought about saying, "Dominic Greene, I know all about you. Put your hands up and show yourself" (But this was no time for bad jokes.)

Then, a voice, the Englishman's, hissed, "Who is that? Dominic?"

The Pakistani chirped up, "You said that this is a secure location!"

The Russian coughed before exclaiming, "Whoever that was, find him now Dominic! Find him or the deal's off!"

The Japanese said, "Fifteen hours of flight for this?"

Bond smiled at the thought of listening to Greene being chewed out by his associates. Looking down below, Bond saw five individuals scattered around the audience stand up and begin to slowly make their way to the exits. Bond took out his Smartphone, snapping pictures of the profiles of three of them—the Russian, the Brit, and the Israeli. The others were too far away to be photographed. With a push of the button, he sent them back to MI6 for analysis. There, the voices will be matched to the faces, and they would be of important interest in Quantum's doings.

"I guess Tosca isn't for everyone." Bond smiled.

In VIP skybox number three, Dominic Greene was fuming. He thought about his investors, his plans for the future of Bolivia and South America, all squashed by an unsightly pest.

Elvis tapped Greene on the shoulder, whispering, "Let's go. We're blown."

Greene sighed angrily before getting up out of his plush chair to the door. once outside the skybox, he was flanked by a bodyguard on his left, Elvis on his right, his driver and two more Armani-clad thugs behind him, moving very fast down the hallway to get to the car.

Bond had seen a man coming up the stairs, a pistol in his hand. Bond shot him, but the gunman was replaced by another, firing more shots at Bond's location. A stray shot blew the Walther P99 out of his hand, rendering it useless. He reciprocated by drawing the Walther PPK/S, aiming, and firing a shot into the man's forehead. Once he was all clear, he advanced down the stairs, crossed the bridge over Lake Constance to the opera house, and jumped over a small railing that separated the set from the audience. The patrons were fixated on the play, not the British agent pocketing the Walther, walking up the steps towards the mezzanine.

Once inside the opera house, James Bond moved towards the skyboxes, located on the third tier. Crossing around the atrium, he noticed three Quantum connections, the Pakistani, the Japanese, and the Venezuelan, walking with their respective bodyguards out of the building. Bond leaned over the railing with his Smartphone and took snapshots of their profiles, all at this time being discreet. He sent them to MI6, pocketed the phone, and continued his hunt for Greene.

Dominic Greene was at the third tier stairwell, heading downstairs to the car pool. Bordered by his bodyguards and Elvis , they rounded the corner to the other set of stairs heading down them before stopping on the landing. The small, round-headed philanthropist had seen a blonde man stopping just thirty-feet away from him.

Greene's eyes bulged and his heart skipped a beat.

Elvis's mouth hung open, too stiff to say anything.

The British pest had drawn his gun, and a bodyguard nudged Greene's shoulder, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes, asking, Shall I go?

Green nodded, "Take care of him, now!" Like a world leader under imminent threat from assassins, Elvis and the driver pushed Greene down an alternate hallway while the two bodyguards took off after the Brit.

Dominic Greene, now jogging down the hallway, spoke into his earpiece, "We need backup at the restaurant. Target is a blonde man, early-forties, armed and dangerous. Get him!"

Bond turned and sprinted down the hallway leading to the restaurant. He barged in, throwing aside the hostess and a busboy like ragdolls, moving down one aisle of tables. A young waiter in a white suit-jacket tended to a middle-aged couple in a booth by the bar. As he bent over to fill the champagne glasses, Bond brushed him aside, knocking him to the ground. Then, he spun round with the PPK leveled in the direction of the restaurant's main entrance.

The first target appeared, dressed in a tux with his pistol out. Bond shot him in the neck, before the other gunmen burst through the door, firing wildly and spraying rounds all over the dining area. Bond, a relaxed and disciplined marksman, returned fire with pinpoint accuracy, dropping the man beside his dead partner.

However, more tuxedo-clad hostiles rushed in, toting pistols and at least one submachine gun. Outnumbered, and outgunned, Bond jumped over the bar between a lovely blonde sitting at the counter, and a buzzed elderly man beside her, shouldering open the door to the kitchen and brushing past several stunned cooks. He rounded the corner, seeing the other door open to find a man standing there, a Glock 19 double-action pistol in his hand. Bond ducked down to avoid the shots, tipping over a tray of hot oil onto a burning stove in the process. The searing heat and woompf of the flame gave Bond a temporary smokescreen as he bolted towards the emergency exit, towards a stairwell He ran up a flight then burst through the door leading to the roof.

In the auditorium, seat 26K, a middle-aged man sat next to his lovely wife of thirty years. He wore an earpiece and was listening to the entire fracas going on in the restaurant area. Gunshots and cries for pain, shouts of "Shut this area down now,", "We've got casualties!", and "I've spotted the target!" all filled his ear. The shots being fired were so loud that the man flung the device from his ear and dropped it to the floor.

His wife looked over to him, "Darling, are you alright?"

Mr. White looked at her and smiled, "I'm fine, just enjoy the performance, will you?"

The door flung open to find a man in a black tux, holding a Glock 19 9-mm pistol. He didn't know that his target was preparing an ambush, finding out only when the muzzle of a Walther PPK/S was pressed into his neck. "Drop it!" Bond yelled.

The man dropped the Glock to the metal scaffold.

Bond pulled the man down the scaffold and crossed to the roof. He asked him, "Who are you working for?" in English and in German.

What Bond got was a British euphuism of: "Piss off!"

Double-O Seven had had enough of this. He swung the man around so that his back faced the ledge of the roof. It was a good twenty-meter to the ground. Bond asked him again, "I asked you: 'who are you working for?'"to punctuate the threat, he raised the PPK at the man's face and tilted the hammer to full-cock.
The man didn't say a word.

Greene had made his way out to the Bentley Continental, the driver opening the door for him. Greene stepped inside, followed by Elvis, and the driver lastly got behind the helm of the luxury automobile.

Elvis touched the earpiece fitted in his head, saying, "None of the men are answering their radios."

Greene replied, "It doesn't matter." He then barked at his driver, a man with an eagle beak-nose and large cheekbones "Get us out of here!"

The Brit and his captive were still above the car pool on the roof. The man who had earlier shot at Bond brushed him away, grabbing onto Bond's jacket to avoid being hurled over the ledge.
Bond simply brushed the man away, and his body landed spread-eagled on a Bentley car below.
Putting away the PPK and fixing his cufflinks, Double-O Seven walked away to an adjacent scaffolding—a fire escape, that led to the ground. Bond climbed down the ladder and the stairs, reaching the pavement.

Greene had heard a thump which jolted him for a bit. He looked and saw a blonde man lying on his back on the Bentley's bonnet. It wasn't Bond, but a Quantum bodyguard, judging by his cufflinks.

Greene looked at Elvis, who was dumbstruck as to what this man was. "Is he one of ours?" he asked Elvis.

Elvis shook his head, "No."

Greene acted like a scared star being swarmed by envious paparazzi, covering his face with his hands and tilting his head down. "He shouldn't be looking at me. Get rid of him."
The driver nodded, got out of the car, and pulled a Steyr M-9 pistol from his jacket. By this time, the blonde Quantum lackey had regained his footing beside the Bentley. He raised a hand to ask for a reprievement. But the driver fired three shots into the man's chest. Then, he stepped forward and shot him in the face. Satisfied, the driver tucked the gun in his armpit holster and then got back into the Bentley, moved the gearshift lever into D, and drove away from the opera house.

Bond had heard three distant pops followed by a fourth, and rushed to investigate, drawing the PPK. He reached the car pool to find the man he had thrown off the roof, lying motionless on the ground. Tucking away the Walther, Bond noticed several opera patrons rushing from the exit, presumably after the shootout in the restaurant. A policeman appeared, speaking into a radio. When he saw Bond standing over the body of the dead bodyguard, he drew his pistol.

Bond shouted in German, "He's dead, get him an ambulance!"

The policeman holstered his pistol and spoke into the radio, calling in a medevac. When he looked up again, Bond was gone.
This was obviously bad. Bond was involved in a shootout in an opera house, with several dead and injured, and Greene getting away. He thought that shooting and blowing up an embassy in Madagascar was bad and stupid enough. By the time that Bond had reached the Ford Fusion, his Smartphone rang. It was M. "Bond, where are you, I need an update."

Bond started the Ford and drove away from the oncoming police and ambulance vehicles racing to the opera house. "Did you get my pictures?" he asked M.

"Was this a conversation? Can you link these people?"

"Is that stress in your voice?"

"Bond, I need you to come in and debrief."

"Ma'am, I don't have time."

"I want you on the first plane to London as quick as you can."

"And I would." Bond paused, and then said, "But right now I need to find the man who tried to kill you. Good night." He tossed the phone aside and steered the car onto the A-10, not making the two-hour journey to Innsbruck, but a nearby town with a small commercial airport. He was hoping to get on a flight to Vienna, with a trip to La Paz, Bolivia.
Hopefully, Greene wouldn't be too hard to catch this time.

M sighed angrily and replied, "Get me Tanner."

The videophone whirred before connecting through to MI6. Tanner, a short man with a cool, authoritative voice, was in much need of sleep. He asked M, "Yes, Ma'am?"
"Show me the pictures that Bond sent."

"Coming right up." He then punched a button on his computer and sent the pictures and files through to the videophone of M's private apartment. Four men and a woman appeared on the videophone screen as Tanner began a running commentary:

The first picture was of the Russian, shaped like two eggs with multiple chins. "Gregor Karakov, former Vladivostok minister, now owns most of the diamond mines in Siberia."

The second was of the Pakistani, olive skinned with thick glasses and a square chin. "Waleed Hassan, former Pakistani ISI, now a information and arms trader."

The third featured the Israeli, with a long face with penny-brown eyes. "Moshe Soref, former Mossad, now telecom giant."

The Jap's picture appeared next, with a Fu Manchu moustache, and quite sinister-looking indeed. "Saito Otomo, former Security Minister to the Japanese government, now a multimillionaire electronics mogul."

A woman's face appeared with a file attached. She was curvy, with blonde-brownish hair with clear evidence of plastic surgery from Beverly Hills. "Fabiana Guzman, former actress and socialite, currently a holder of oil shares in Venezuela. Has connections with the Chavez regime in Caracas."

Finally, the British man's picture and anecdote appeared last. He was tall, lanky, with a normal nose and greying, black hair. "Guy Haines, special envoy to the British Prime Minister."

M, having reviewed the information, replied, "Get Bond."

Tanner almost forgot another picture, this one of a blonde man's file photograph from Special Branch. Another picture was of the same man lying dead in a street in Austria, shot execution-style. "It appears Bond shot Haines's bodyguard and threw him off a roof. It gets worse; he's a member of MI5 Special Branch."

M was going to regret the words that she would say next, "Restrict Bond's movements. Cancel his cards, put an alert out on his passports—all of them. I want him detained under heavy guard and on a flight to London within forty-eight hours."

"Yes, Ma'am." Tanner sighed, a bit of heartbreak in his voice.

"Tanner, be careful who you trust with this. Hopefully you're a better judge of character than I am."

Tanner signed off, and M was left to silently contemplate the fact that Double-O Seven was out of control, running amok, and going rogue.
I knew it was too early to promote him.