CHAPTER 2
In a bit more than an hour, Bond had arrived at a small bungalow in a charming residential neighborhood in Helsinki. Malcolm Glenn, the head of Station H, was there waiting for his arrival.
Bond quickly debriefed Glenn on what had happened and about Andre Santoni and the exploding Range Rover. Glenn reported back to London while Bond took a shower and scrounged up something to eat. Bond was just finishing a plate of scrambled eggs when Glenn poked his head around the corner.
"It's M," he said. "He wants to talk to you."
Bond followed Glenn down the stairs into the cinder block-walled basement. Glenn closed the door behind them, and they were in a small room replete with an array of communications devices.
"Fully secure now, OO7," Glenn said, taking a seat with Bond at the small conference table in the center of the room. He punched a series of buttons on the control panel, and the face of Bill Tanner soon filled the large screen on the far wall.
"Right, we've got them now," Tanner said, looking over his shoulder and then stepping out of frame. The familiar visage of M behind the large desk in the upper floor office appeared into the camera's vision.
M had been instrumental in recruiting Bond to MI6 from the Royal Navy. Few outside of that paneled office in Regent's Park knew M's full background. M had moved to MI6 himself, from SAS, just a few years earlier after a long and distinguished career, leading some of SAS's most decorated missions – Operation Trent in Afghanistan in 2001 and a little-discussed operation on the ground in Libya as rebels took down the Gadhafi regime. Tanner noted he was virtually unflappable, except for that time the Minister of Defense got under M's skin by pointing out his resemblance to the actor Idris Elba.
"OO7, glad to see you're still with us," M began. "Quite the spot you're in here."
"What the hell is going on?" Bond asked sharply. "Why is a Coriscan hitman following me in Finland?"
"It's quite the tale that we've unraveled here in the last couple of days. Goes back to that job in Mexico you worked with the Americans on. Based on your report, we had figured that Antonio Alvarez, the head of the Tijuana cartel, had perished in the explosion. Turns out he's still alive, and he's got a desire to see you dead."
"Well, I didn't exactly have time to hang around and collect DNA samples."
M harumphed. "Right. Tanner's got all the details."
Tanner moved back into sight behind M.
"Last week, NCA picked up a member of a gang in Manchester as part of an ongoing undercover operation. He was given the chance to flip in return for leniency, and he told the investigators an interesting story. NCA contacted us to check it out."
"We sent two of our best up there to sweat him out," M said. "The chap stuck with it for two days. Then, we got verification through our Paris station – they had a contact in the Marseilles underworld with the same information."
"Spit it out already," Bond interjected, growing tired of the exposition.
"To put it bluntly, Alvarez has put a hit on you," Tanner replied. "Fifty million American dollars to anyone who can bring him your dead body. An additional ten million if you are brought in alive so Alvarez can witness the deed himself."
"We've been able to determine that Alvarez broadcast it to every organized crime group across the Continent and Middle East," M continued. "It's possible that affiliates of our Russian and Chinese friends might get involved as well – with sufficient deniability, of course – in order to take a piece off the board."
"Fifty million?" Bond said. "That makes me quite the prize."
"Indeed, it does," M said. "We need you back in London as soon as possible so we can get under the best possible protection."
"We've tasked Glenn with getting you out of Finland," Tanner added. "We should have you back on home soil within 24 hours."
"So how did one – and probably two – hitmen know where to find me?"
"We're trying to find out," Tanner explained. "But it is entirely possible at this point that we have a leak. We're furiously checking the seals but haven't found anything yet."
"One other thing, Bond," M interjected. "I heard about your Beretta. I told you this was going to happen. There's a reason it is not our service weapon."
"I've used the Beretta for years, sir," Bond responded. "This could have happened with any weapon."
"Could have? Theoretically, yes. But it actually happened with the Beretta. Q Branch's testing has consistently shown it to be less reliable. We've invested a lot into you, Bond: time and training and trust. A license to kill is only earned by a select few and I will not lose one of them because of substandard equipment. From now on you use our issued weapon, OO7. Is that understood?"
Glenn slid a box across the table. Bond opened it to reveal a Glock 19. He took it out of the box and examined it. Bond had fired one many times before and knew in his brain it was the better gun, but the Beretta had gotten him through many tough situations.
"Understood, sir."
"I have but one piece of advice for you, Bond," M said with a somber tone to his voice. "Trust no one. It's easy to get information when you're working with up to sixty million dollars on the line. Trust no one."
With that, the picture blinked off - with what felt like a bit more finality than Bond would have liked.
Bond and Glenn returned upstairs to the quaint living room of the bungalow. Bond sat in the armchair facing the fireplace, while Glenn poured two whiskeys over ice and handed one to Bond as crossed the room to sit on the small couch along the opposite wall.
Bond swirled the caramel liquid around for a moment, then downed it in one quick motion. He focused his attention on Glenn.
While they had never met in person, Malcolm Glenn was one of the most renowned figures in MI6 history. He was one the few Double-Os to ever successfully transition to a non-field role after retiring and his exploits as a station chief in Athens in the years following the fall of the Soviet empire and during the two Persian Gulf conflicts were legendary. To this day, he still held weightlifting records in the underground physical training center used by the OO section. And although Glenn was now in his mid-sixties, he remained powerfully built, standing three inches taller than Bond with broad shoulders and a barrel chest - if perhaps a little softer around the midsection. His hair was close cropped and salt-and-pepper in color and his jaw was still powerful and angular. He had given up the chance to glide path his way into retirement by taking a station head role in the Caribbean to come instead to Helsinki following the Russian invasion of Ukraine.
"Bizarre stuff, eh, Bond?" Glenn broke the silence. "Let me fill you in on the plan. We'll move you out of here just before dawn. We'll load you in a van and quietly convoy you to Tampere, about two hours north. We've chartered a plane to Stockholm, and from there we'll switch you on to another jet headed to London."
"If it's all the same, Glenn, I'd rather do this on my own. If the word is out and has spread so pervasively, I'm sure folks are all over the airport, looking for suspicious flights, no matter how well you've got it disguised."
Glenn shrugged.
"It's your funeral. But I get it. Probably would do the same thing if I were in your shoes. I'll leave you to it, but your head's still my responsibility while you're in Finland."
"Your boys? Where are they?"
"Outside. Have a look."
Glenn stood and walked to the window. He peeled one of the slats on the louvered blinds down. Bond placed himself behind his left shoulder, using his body as a shield, just in case.
"One in the silver car parked behind the black Tesla, the other just crossing the street – he's walking laps around the block."
Bond peered out. The car was a Skoda Octavia RS. Should be easy to outrun if the need arose, he noted.
The men returned to the center of the room.
"I know you want to be on your own Bond. But you know how to get a hold of me if you need it. Good luck, OO7."
Glenn held out his hand. Bond ignored it.
"I don't believe in luck. I believe in myself."
Glenn frowned slightly, and left Bond to make his preparations.