Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

Nevertheless, Bond was convinced that he could beat whatever mental or physical ailment he might have by simply getting back into action. That was the key to clearing his head.

He sat at his desk and turned on the computer. He got into the airline schedules’ program and found what he was looking for.

British Airways had one flight a week to Tangier, and Clayton and van Breeschooten were on it. It was also completely booked. Luckily, Royal Air Maroc had two flights a week, and one of them was the next morning.

He glanced at his watch: 6:50. He had an hour to go home, get cleaned up, pack a bag, and try to find Kimberley Feare at the Ivy. Before leaving, though, he wanted to stop by Q Branch.

Major Boothroyd had left for the day, but technicians worked round the clock in the little laboratory in the basement of the building. Located near the gun practice range, Q Branch was accessible only to privileged members of SIS, a group that included Double-O agents. Therefore, Bond had no problem walking in through the security check.

“Can I help you, Double-O Seven?” the man at the front desk asked.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I’m just inquiring about a piece of equipment I left for repair. Be right back.”

The official let Bond through the doors, not thinking anything of it. Bond went to the small-arms cage and said hello to the attendant. There it was, in the glass case with the other semi-automatics. Bond liked the new Walther P99 in .40 caliber S&W, but he hadn’t yet talked Q Branch into issuing him one. Certainly more powerful than the standard 9mm, it looked the same, was designed the same, but used more potent ammunition. This resulted in a slow round, due to its added weight and size, but packed a stronger punch at the other end. With laser sight and flashlight accessories, the new P99 was a powerful handgun, but not ideal for hiding under a jacket. Bond had used the earlier model P99 and preferred to keep it in his luggage or automobile as backup. When he did wear it, Bond used an ISP-3 slotted-belt attachment holster, custom-made for the P99 by Del Fatti Leather.

When the attendant wasn’t looking, Bond took the gun from the case and put it in his waistband. He then grabbed the holster and thrust it into his pocket, turned and said, “See you later,” to the attendant, and left the building.

He hailed a taxi and directed the driver to a travel agency. There, he booked a one-way trip in economy on the Royal Air Maroc flight to Tangier. He paid with cash and gave his name as John Cork. The Cork identity, one of several aliases he used, was one that even SIS didn’t know about.

Bond felt better as he entered his flat minutes later. He showered, shaved, and put on a clean white shirt, a navy jacket, red and blue tie, and dark trousers. Underneath the jacket was the Bianchi X15 leather shoulder holster and Walther PPK, still his choice of weapon for concealment. He had loaded the magazine with prefragmented ammunition. He chose Glaser Silvers for better penetration.

Bond packed a bag for the trip to Morocco and left instructions for May, his housekeeper.

At 7:45, he left the flat and took another taxi back to the theater district.

EIGHT

THE HEAT OF THE

MOMENT

THE IVY IS A CHIC, OLD ESTABLISHED RESTAURANT FREQUENTED BY THE theater community, and by professionals in television, film, publishing, advertising, and journalism. In many ways, it is a modern, living Poets’ Corner. Located at the junction of West and Litchfield streets in London’s busy theater district, the Ivy’s history dates back to 1917, when it was a modest café that quickly gained a reputation among the theater society.

But it was not James Bond’s kind of place. While he appreciated the food at the Ivy, which was always excellent, the idea of going to a restaurant to see and be seen was not his style. He preferred anonymity and quiet. The Ivy can be a noisy place when it was crowded, which it usually is. Tables have to be booked weeks, if not months, in advance.

When he entered the Ivy shortly after 8:15, the maître d’ asked, “May I help you, sir?”

Bond peered past him. “I’m meeting someone. May I take a look and see if they’re already here?”

“What is the name?”

“I’m not sure whose name the reservation was under. They’re doctors.”

The maître d’ shrugged and gestured toward the dining room as if to say, “Be my guest.” Bond nodded and walked past him. He entered the crowded dining room that was buzzing with noise and excitement. London’s favorites were out in force, all deeply animated in conversation and luxuriating in culinary delights. At least a halfdozen people were on their feet talking and laughing with diners.

He finally spotted her at a large table conversing with two other women and two men. Bond guessed that they were all physicians.

Dr. Feare was the youngest and most attractive in the group. She had bright blue eyes, a long but pretty nose, thin lips that seemed to be always on the verge of a sexy smile, and shoulder-length blond hair. Bond had found her to be good-looking, but the clinical atmosphere of a physician’s office tends to neutralize any thoughts of sex. Here, in the restaurant’s golden illumination, Kimberley Feare looked marvelous.

Bond turned and slipped out of the room. As he passed the maître d’ he said, “Wrong restaurant. Sorry.”

He went outside and quickly crossed the street. Luckily, the light was fading; loitering in the shadows would be less noticeable. Bond took a position under an awning, leaned against the building, and waited.

The pounding in his head seemed to mark the seconds.…

At one point, Bond felt that he was being watched. He scanned the street and buildings around him, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. His nerves were acting up again, he told himself.

It was nearly an hour later, long after the sun had vanished, when Dr. Feare emerged from the restaurant. The others were with her. They noisily said good-bye to one another, shaking hands and hugging, then all went their separate ways. Dr. Feare got into a waiting taxi.

Another taxi pulled around the corner. A stroke of luck! Bond hailed it and got inside.

“Follow that taxi, please,” Bond said.

The driver accepted this as a challenge and said, “Right.”

After a brief uneventful drive, Dr. Feare’s taxi pulled up in front of her building on Harley Street. It was the same building in which Sir James Molony kept his office, as well as his own flat. A battery of doctors who all had private offices in the building shared the groundfloor waiting room. A few of them lived there as well.

Bond instructed his driver to stop fifty feet behind it. He got out, paid, and approached the doctor just as she was completing the transaction with her own driver.

“Dr. Feare?” Bond asked.

She looked up, startled, but then she relaxed when she recognized a familiar face. “Yes?”

“james Bond. I saw you a few weeks ago.…”

“Right! My nurse told me that you had called. Mr. Bond, how are you?” She smiled.

“I was hoping that you could tell me, ” Bond said. “Please excuse the invasion of your privacy, but I simply had to see you.”

The cab drove away and left them standing in front of the building. The porter was just inside the glass windows, watching them.

Her expression changed to one of concern. “Oh dear, what’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving the country tomorrow morning on classified business. There wasn’t time to make a proper appointment.”