Chapter 2

On the Job

"Excuse me, sir."

James Bond paused at the sound of the deep voice, and turned on the stool at the bar to face the speaker.

Standing over him, about two feet away, were two men in suits. One was white, lean, with a small scar on his left cheek. The other was black, with a hint of muscular bulk under his suit. Both had the look of hired thugs or goons, and both wore sour expressions. He could see small bulges at their armpits, under their jackets.

Bond had spent the last two days trailing Karl Rossburg, a German national with links to drug and arms dealers in the former Eastern Bloc, as part of a NATO counter-proliferation operation. Starting as a drug courier, Rossburg had recently transitioned to smuggling weapons instead of opium. His clients had always been the shady sort, but now, he was serving as an arms supplier to various terrorist organisations and antigovernment extremists.

Bond's objective had been to plant a small tracker/listening device on him, so that NATO intelligence agencies could follow him to what was believed to be a large shipment of Soviet-era weapons headed for north Africa. Rossburg had already been shadowed by German and Polish intelligence agencies for a while – in fact, a German BfV agent had already planted a GPS tracker on his Maybach during a stop for fuel in Hamburg – but planting a tracker on his person was also important; he was expected to go to the handover for the weapons on the outskirts of Warsaw right after this stop, and both the ABW and the GROM unit moving in to arrest everyone wanted to hear what was going on as part of the operation.

One of Rossburg's favourite haunts was a large casino in Warsaw – one of several that had been established following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Apparently, he was partial to the odd game of poker or blackjack. To plant the tracker, Bond was to make contact with Rossburg inside – his own penchant for card games was well-known to the upper echelons of the SIS, making him the 'natural' choice.

It wasn't easy, finding a way to get so close to him without making his intentions obvious or arousing suspicion, but Bond managed to slip a tracker into the pocket of Rossburg's dinner jacket after a game of poker. Just for good measure, Bond managed to deprive him of €50,000 in the course of said game. Rossburg had been less than pleased; Bond had briefly wondered whether it was the loss of face, or perhaps he had put an end to a winning streak. Either way, who wouldn't be pissed off at the prospect of losing such a large sum of money?

Rossburg had a small retinue with him – three bodyguards. He had wondered if this would happen – Rossburg using his thugs to intimidate or beat him into giving the man his money back. The man hadn't exactly wasted time, either – Bond hadn't even cashed in his winnings yet.

"Can I help you?" Bond asked politely.

"You'll have to come with us, sir," the white man said with a faint German accent.

"What for?" Bond asked, feigning ignorance as he slid himself carefully from the stool. Upon standing, he noted each of them was maybe an inch taller than him.

"Let's not have a scene, sir," the black man replied. "We need you to come with us right now."

Bond took a step forward, and paused. He briefly looked around. The casino was far from full, and there were only half a dozen or so patrons at the bar. Most of the rest seemed focused on the gaming tables.

A few metres away, leaning against a wall, Rossburg glowered at him, with a man who was probably a third thug standing next to him.

He turned his attention back to the two men standing in front of him. The black man was in the process of drawing a pistol from under his jacket.

He gestured to the bar. "Something to drink?"

"I don't think – "

The white thug didn't finish his sentence. Bond flicked his left arm out, his fingers clamping on the pistol and wrenching it from the black thug's hand as he was levelling it at him from his hip. At the same time, he latched on to the black man's collar with his right hand and pulled him towards himself, bringing his right knee up into the man's gut as he did so.

The black man gasped with breathless shock. Still holding the man by the collar, Bond deftly stepped to the left and yanked back with his right arm, slamming him against the bar. His forehead connected with the top of the bar, and he fell to the floor, dazed.

Before the black man's head hit the bar, Bond swung out with the pistol, the butt striking the white thug against his left temple. He staggered back, tripped, and fell to the carpeted floor, his head bouncing against a bar stool on the way down.

Rossburg's third bodyguard, another wiry-looking white man, roared as he ran up to him, drawing the attention of several casino patrons. His right fist was raised, ready for a strike.

Bond swung his right arm up and out, blocking the punch and sending the man's arm crossed over his chest. He stepped to the left and tripped the man, turning his own momentum against him. He lost his balance and fell, his head striking the bar as he, too, fell to the floor.

"Uhh... sir..."

Bond turned. The bartender, a pale-faced young man, was just standing there behind the bar, holding a martini glass in one slightly shaking hand. He was staring dumbfounded at him, as were all the patrons at the bar and several casino-goers nearby. He heard several murmurs and gasps of shock.

"Ah, thank you." Bond stepped back to the bar and calmly set the pistol, a Browning Hi-Power, down on the bar. He then took the drink – a vodka martini, naturally – with a curt nod and turned around.

Several metres away, Karl Rossburg just stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth open in shock.

Leaning slightly against the bar, Bond smiled, and raised the martini glass as if in a toast.