Raymond Benson: Doubleshot

His hands were shaking now. He carefully stood and tested his balance. Nothing wrong there. The dizziness he had felt earlier was gone. He looked at his watch.

It was 2:47.

My God! He had lost over an hour!

Had he walked home and let himself in without remembering any of it? He had heard of people having these extended blackouts and not recalling anything that happened during the period of time they were “out of it.” In actuality, these people carried on mechanically, often finding themselves in a different location from where they were when the blackout first occurred.

Bond immediately went to the cupboard, removed a bottle of Scotch, dropped two ice cubes into a glass, and filled it. He took a long, burning draught, then sat back in the armchair.

Now he knew something was really wrong with him. He had just had a second blackout and didn’t have a clue what had happened in the interim.

FOUR

CHASING CLUES

BOND RECALLED HIS APPOINTMENTS WITH DR. FEARE. HE HAD ANSWERED ALL her questions negatively, including “Have you had any other fainting spells or perhaps hallucinations since the incident in Jamaica?”

At the time, his answers had been the truth. But now? He had experienced both in one day!

And what about the man he had seen on the street? Had the man really looked like him? Had he been a hallucination, like the woman who had resembled Tracy?

Bond was aware of the supernatural concepts of doubles, or doppelgängers, and that supposedly they were apparitions of living persons. Popular occult theory held that a double was a projection of an astral body. English and Irish folklore called the phenomenon a “fetch,” and, as the fortune cookie warned, seeing one’s fetch indeed meant that one was going to die. Legend had it that Shelley saw his double before his death by drowning.

But Bond never bothered with superstitions. There had to be another explanation.

Dr. Feare had told him to come back and see her if there were any change, especially if he began to have new symptoms or if the headaches got worse. Bond had to admit that both of these conditions were true.

Bond was very concerned, playing possible scenarios in his head.

His mind raced frantically as he considered every alternative for the future and simultaneously attempted to calm down. But what if it was all in his mind and he was finally going mad after all these years of living on the edge?

Bond threw the glass of whiskey across the room. The glass shattered against the wall.

To hell with it! All he needed was an attitude adjustment.

He decided to go to the office and dig into Helena’s case and track down the Union members who had recruited her in London. That should keep his mind focused. First, though, he would call Dr. Feare.

He paused a moment as he considered a positive aspect in having to go to the doctor again. Dr. Feare—Kimberley—was a gorgeous woman. Perhaps all he needed was some female companionship for a night. Since Helena’s death, Bond had been celibate. Two months is a long time. His close friend in America, Felix Leiter, would have simply advised, “James, my boy, all you really need is to get laid.”

He looked up her number and picked up the phone. When Miss Reilly answered, Bond asked to speak with the doctor personally.

“Dr. Feare is in surgery. You’ll have to leave a message,” the nurse snapped.

“Will she get it today?”

“I should think so.”

“Fine. This is James Bond. I saw her a little over a month ago. I would like to see her again. It’s rather urgent.”

“Would you like to make an appointment? If so, I’ll have to call you back.”

“Please. As soon as possible.” He left the phone number for his answering service.

Adhering to the no-driving rule, Bond took a taxi to SIS headquarters on the Thames and arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon. When he walked past the security officer and through the X ray, Bond suddenly realized that he must look terrible. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning, and his casual clothes—a Sea Island cotton shirt, navy trousers, and a light-gray jacket—were a bit wrinkled.

Bond ignored the guard’s stare and went straight to the lift. He strode onto his floor and was grateful that no one was about. It was fortunate that the offices were rarely occupied, as Double-O agents were usually abroad, and the secretarial pool was very small.

Bond slipped into his small, uncluttered office, and sat at the desk. Two folders from Records were sitting on top of his “IN” tray. Bond took them and saw that they were an update on the investigation into Helena’s murder and the latest file on the Union. The former hadn’t been sealed, but it was hardly helpful. Everything had been turned over to the Metropolitan Police, who were in charge of the case. Bond noted the contact name at New Scotland Yard and picked up the phone.

“Howard,” the man answered.

“Detective Inspector Howard?” Bond asked.

“Yes, who’s calling?”

“This is James Bond at SIS.”

“Oh yes, Commander Bond, how are you?” Detective Inspector Howard had met Bond while investigating the murder of M’s friend, Alfred Hutchinson, a while back.

“Fine, thanks. I’d like to have a word with you. It’s rather urgent. Are you free this afternoon?”

Howard paused to check his diary. “I could see you at five o’clock, but I’ll only have fifteen minutes or so. Will that do?”

“That’s fine, I’ll see you then. Thank you.”

Bond hung up and felt somewhat gratified that at least someone capable was on the case. Stuart Howard was a good man.

He turned his attention to the other folder, which was actually a thick binder containing a hard-copy collection of information, images, and the latest intelligence from SIS’s Visual Library file on the Union.

There hadn’t been much progress in unveiling the Union’s mysteries since Bond first became involved in their cases. The report reiterated what he already knew: Taylor Michael Harris, an American militant in Portland, Oregon, created the Union circa 1993–1995. A self-professed white supremacist, Harris was arrested in 1993 for disturbing the peace during a rally that became violent and was run out of the state. He returned six months later with a large amount of capital, and with this money he founded the Union. Harris had apparently gone into business with unknown partners from the Middle East and North Africa.

He used specialist magazines to advertise for “mercenaries” to carry out dangerous jobs in Third World countries. Surprisingly, a great deal of men applied, looking for work as soldiers of fortune. After a six-month advertising campaign, it was estimated that nearly a thousand men had joined the organization. They trained at the Oregon facility, but no jobs were carried out before the FBI raided the place in December 1996 for illegal arms possession and distribution. Taylor Harris had been gunned down, gangland-style, in a Portland restaurant a month earlier, believed to be murdered by his own lieutenants. These three men, Samuel Anderson, James Powers, and Julius Wilcox, fled the country, and at least one of them was a suspect in the murder. The killer had paused in the restaurant long enough to slit Harris’s throat from ear to ear: an act that became the Union trademark.

Harris’s organization, however, lived on. Whether or not the three lieutenants were responsible for keeping it going, no one was certain.

It became a more sinister organization after publicly taking responsibility for several serious terrorist acts committed between 1997 and 1999. No longer merely a band of “soldiers of fortune,” the Union became an international network of spies, killers, and militants. They were particularly adept at infiltrating intelligence organizations. The Union quickly became one of the most dangerous organized crime syndicates in the world, on a par with the Italian and Russian mafias, Chinese Triads, and SPECTRE. SIS had experienced a serious encounter with the Union within the last year, and Bond could attest to their loyalty, tenacity, and dangerousness.