Chapter 6 – A too familiar face

It was sweet to wake up besides Sára, thought Bond, contemplating her body half-covered by the sheets. At this early hour of the morning, a shy rising sun was bathing her skin in its rose gold light, through the Venetian blinds. Outside, the traffic was starting its humming, nagging noise, and a new day was on its way. But at the moment, there was only the two of them in this room, and nothing else mattered. For how long? How many days would it take before she got tired of him, like Tiffany and many others, he thought with a disillusioned smile? Probably his fault... too much of a loner, and his profession didn't help. Maybe he was good at making love, not at sharing it...

Since his arrival in Budapest, some days earlier, he had spent almost all his nights with her. Most of her spare time, she was at the British embassy, working on the Mercurius data, but they usually met in the evening for a late dinner. She had an art for making every moment special, be it having a drink, lovemaking or chatting, in her direct and refreshing manner. She had an art for calming down the bitter anger that had been lying down inside him for weeks. But they belonged to different worlds, worlds they had both chosen and that would soon swallow them back...

He couldn't help extending an arm to brush a lock of blond hair out of her face. She briefly opened her eyes, smiled at him and said in a drowsy tone:

- "You never sleep, do you?", before rolling to snuggle up against him, her back pressed against his stomach. He held his breath for a handful of seconds, then simply put an arm around her waist and nested his head in her neck.

His mobile phone rang before the alarm clock, and the ringtone meant that it was a call from the MI6 headquarters. With a sigh, Bond got up as gently as he could, and smiled at the soft moan uttered by Sára when their entwined bodies parted. He found his jacket and quickly searched it for the phone.

- "Bond speaking."

At the other end, the cold, impersonal voice of an operator announced:

- "Good morning, sir. Channel 16, please."

Bond swiftly dialed a code, and the operator added:

- "Thank you, sir. Connection established. I put you through."

A beeping sound, and he recognized a familiar female voice...

- "Hello James! How is it in your part of the world?"

- "Just as in yours, Moneypenny: it's early... To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

- "Business, James, business... As your current mission shouldn't be full-time, M wants you for a quick job tonight. In fact, you'll just have to attend a conference. It's at the Budapest Hilton, at 18:00, and your name is already on the guest's list."

- "Attend a conference? What is it about?"

- "Peace enforcement! She wants you to check on this Russian tycoon, Maxim Fokin. Nothing special: just attend his lecture, and see if you can grab something interesting to thicken his file."

Bond frowned. It was not precisely a job for a Double-0 agent...

- "Last time I checked, it seemed to me thick enough," he protested wryly. "Besides, don't we have any other agent here more... suited for this kind of job, like an analyst?"

- "To tell you the truth, not at the moment... Come on, James," she chuckled, "if you bring back enough intelligence on this Max Fokin, maybe M will send you after him!"

- "Fine then," he sighed, "I'll do my best."

- "Fine. I send you the documents, check your mails. And about the Mercurius data, how is it going?"

- "Quite well. My Hungarian contact is working on the files, she's made headway but it proves to be a quite difficult task. She needs some more days."

- "Oh, yes, her name is Kiss, isn't it?" she added with a hint of irony. "I saw her file... She seems to be a very beautiful woman..." There was a pause at the other end of the phone. She continued slyly : "I guess she gives you a regular account of the job. Blow-by-blow..."

He smirked. Their old quips and bickering... But he decided to play along with her:

- "Penny," he said reproachfully, "why do you always have such a sharp tongue on me?"

She giggled.

- "It's up to you if you want this to change, James! Bye," and she hung up.

Bond sighed, and turned to Sára, who was fully awake now. She ran her hand through her hair and stretched like a cat...

- "A friend of yours?"

He smiled:

- "Yes. An old friend."

When Bond sat in the conference room of the Budapest Hilton, he couldn't help asking himself how many men and women in the audience were agents from various intelligence services, strained by a day spent learning by heart a dull cover story presenting them as journalists, like him. No face was familiar to him in the hall, until Max Fokin appeared and made his way to the rostrum. Bond immediately recognized the figure of the Russian tycoon, and also identified his usual bodyguards, two bulky fair-haired men with crew cuts who took discreet position on each side of the stage. Both in their early thirties, they were dressed in similar dark suits, with a slight bulge under the left armpit. Yevgeniy Korovin, on the left, was a former FSB agent, like Fokin, and his military background was still evident in his posture. Dmitri Sokolov, on the right, had a more tortuous curriculum: no military record for him, but an impressive police record… Since his teenage years, he had been involved in violent actions, and had quickly spent some years in prison for bludgeoning a man to death during a burglary. When he was released, he got in touch with the Moscow Mafia. Recruited for some low-grade jobs, he must have proved efficient, as he soon became a renowned executioner with particular skills for torturing his targets, skills that were said to be far beyond simple 'professionalism'. Certainly a dangerous and unpredictable fellow, thought Bond. But not as dangerous as his boss... Conscientiously playing his part as a journalist, he took some notes, listening attentively to Fokin while he was praising the necessity of solidarity and fraternity in today's world and unfolding the details of his actions in Central Asia. Of course, there were no obvious hints, but all his speech seemed to confirm his intention to reinforce the influence of his organisation, camouflaging smugglings and intelligence activity under the mask of humanitarian action. Certainly not a very original plan, but given Fokin's position, it revealed a thirst for power and an ambition to extend his influence that could be seen, in itself, as a potential threat. After one hour and a half, the conference was over, and Bond felt a bit weary and frustrated by what should have been an analyst's job. As he was getting up to leave, his eyes met those of Dmitri Sokolov, one of the bodyguards, and his senses became immediately alert. At the look on the man's face, he was sure he had identified him: it was almost insensible, but this imperceptible lingering, these harder and warier eyes and the deliberate effort to continue scanning the crowd left him no doubt. The question was: how did this man knew who he was? Bond could have understood if Max Fokin, or even his other bodyguard, had identified him: both of them were former FSB agents, and could have seen his zapiska during their intelligence career. But Dmitri Sokolov, a low-grade hoodlum, promoted executioner and torturer of the Moscow Mafia thanks to his sadistic propensity, how could he have had in hands his file or photograph, to be able to identify him on sight? There was only one possible explanation: Fokin had defined him as a potential threat or target for his organisation, and given his men a file about him... and possibly about many other MI6 agents. Bond didn't like that, and he felt the urge to make a move. On an impulse, he decided to confront Fokin directly: maybe by provoking him he could extract some more information. He made his way through the men and women gathered around the rostrum. He noticed the slight tension in the two bodyguards when he approached, confirming his first impression. Without paying attention to them, he headed towards the Russian tycoon, and addressed him with a dry smile:

- "Mr. Fokin, very interesting lecture. Very... instructive!"

From the very first look of the piercing blue eyes, he knew the man had recognised him too. Why in hell was he such a well-known face in this outfit?

- "Well, I thank you, Mr. ... ?"

- "Bond. James Bond." There was no point at this stage in keeping his journalist cover.

- "Yes, I think I've heard your name before, Mr. Bond. Glad to meet you. I hope you didn't find my ideas about peace too... unsettling?"

- "Not at all! To tell you the truth, I found them quite predictable. What else could a man like you aspire to?"

Fokin's smile and eyes were impenetrable.

- "I take it as a compliment, from a man like you, Mr. Bond. I'm sure we have a lot in common."

- "A least, we share an interest for certain affairs. That's something, isn't it?"

In spite of Fokin's very professional self-control, Bond thought he could read the shadow of an irritation.

- "Certainly. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm already quite late, I'm afraid..."

With a polite nod, the respectable Russian businessman took leave, closely followed by his bodyguards.

Bond, on the steps of the Hilton, was still trying to weigh consequences of Fokin's apparent interest in his own person, or maybe in the entire Double-0 section. Absent-mindedly, he felt the soft purr of his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket, and answered.

- "Bond."

- "James, it's Sára. I discovered something about the Mercurius data. There is a problem... I think some of the files are not original and have been forged and..."

Bond froze.

- "Don't tell over the phone. Are you at the embassy?"

- "Yes..."

- "Don't move, and don't talk to anybody. I'll join you immediately."