Raymond Benson: Doubleshot

Discovering the location of their headquarters was a top priority for SIS, the CIA, and other intelligence organizations. Recent reports from America indicated that the Union was probably located in North Africa, perhaps in Morocco or Algeria.

Bond did find something new in the folder. Interrogation of a Union member who had been arrested in France after a nasty bank bombing revealed that the Union’s leader was someone they called Le Gérant. The prisoner claimed that no one knew whom he really was, not even the “commanders” who made up the “inner circle” of underlings. The Union was structured much like a mafia, with an executive boss, a number of immediate subordinates—the cercle fermé —and branches of groups and leaders extending from there. It was valuable information, but before any further interrogation could be performed, the prisoner had managed to hang himself in his cell.

Bond had a thought and picked up the phone. He quickly consulted his Rolodex and found Felix Leiter’s number in the States. His longtime friend, formerly with the CIA, Pinkerton’s, and the DEA, was now working as a freelance intelligence agent out of his home in Austin, Texas.

A woman with a lovely Spanish accent answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Manuela?” Manuela Montemayor was Leiter’s live-in companion and a formidable FBI agent.

“Yes?”

“James Bond calling from London.”

“James! How are you?”

“I’d be better if you were standing in front of me, but I’m fine. How are you and Felix?”

“We’re great. It’s so nice to hear your voice! Wait a second, I’ll put Felix on.” Bond heard their Dalmatian barking in the background and Manuela shushing him. After a moment, Bond recognized the easy drawl that he knew so well.

“James! How the hell are ya, my friend?”

“Hello, Felix. I’m fine. And you?”

“We’re happier than pigs in slop. Hey, I increased the horsepower in my wheelchair so that it now goes seventeen miles an hour!” Leiter was referring to the Action Arrow power chair he had been using for the past couple of years since the deterioration of his leg muscles.

“That’s impressive, Felix, but I hear the Texas highway patrol just loves to give speeding tickets.”

Leiter laughed. “What’s up? You coming to the States?”

“No, but this is a business call, I’m afraid. I need some information.”

“Sure, how can I help?”

“The Union. I need everything you have on them.”

Leiter whistled. “You and everyone else. Those guys are just gettin’ to be too damned popular, you know what I mean? Why, are you havin’ more trouble with ’em?”

“Something like that. I’d like to see if your government has any updated information about them—the suspected location of their HQ, leadership, the organization and … I’d be interested in any leads you can track down in the Portland area, where Taylor Harris was killed. Are there any Union members left there? Where did his three lieutenants go? What became of them?”

“Hold on, Manuela is just handing me a file,” Leiter said. “You know about their leader? He has a French name.…”

“ Le Gérant. I’ve just read about him.”

Bond heard him turning pages. “The lieutenants. You talkin’ about Samuel Anderson, James Powers, and Julius Wilcox?”

“Yes.”

“Right. According to the file we have here, those three guys left the U.S.A. in 1996 and haven’t been heard fromsince. But I’ll see what I can do. I have a contact in Portland. I’ll get the latest from Washington, too.”

“Great, Felix. It’s always a little slow-going for other intelligence agencies to share information. You know how it is.”

“You bet I do. When do you need this stuff?”

“The sooner the better. Can you fax whatever you find to my office?”

“Sure thing. Give me two or three hours, is that all right?”

“That’s better than all right. Thanks, Felix.”

“Take care, James.”

Bond hung up the phone and rubbed the back of his head. The headache was manageable now, but it was still a nuisance.

A blinking red light on the auxiliary telephone caught his attention. This was the line he used for incoming messages, usually filtered through a number of security checkpoints. He picked up the receiver, punched in the code, and listened.

“Hello, Commander Bond, this is Deborah Reilly at Dr. Feare’s office.” Bond detected a distinct, punctilious sniff . “I’ve had a chat with the doctor. I’m afraid she can’t see you today. She will be tied up for the rest of the day in surgery. This evening she will be attending a meeting at the hospital and will be having dinner at The Ivy with some colleagues at around eight o’clock. She asked me to tell you that if this is an emergency, I can page her, of course. Otherwise you can expect a call from her in the morning.”

Snooty bitch, Bond thought, as he erased the message and set down the receiver. She must have thought that mentioning the doctor’s plans to dine at a fashionable restaurant would elevate her feeling of self-importance.

Glancing at his “IN” tray again, he noticed the corner of a brown padded envelope beneath several sheets of interoffice memorandums. He pulled it out and saw that it was addressed to him, marked “Personal,” and had been sent through the post. SIS had stamped it “Cleared by X Ray.”

He tore it open, found a paperback book inside, and was shocked and puzzled by its title: Helena’s House of Pain. It was a pornographic book, with a cover illustration showing a dominatrix spanking an “innocent” schoolgirl on the bare bottom. Inside the book was a sales receipt for £5.99 from a shop called “Adult News,” with an address in Soho.

Scrawled in ink on the back were the words “She had it coming.”

What kind of sick joke was this? Who would send this to him?

Once again, the all-too-familiar waves of nausea and dizziness enveloped him. Was he about to black out again? He felt a rush of warmth to his face and perspiration under his arms. He thought he was about to be sick.…

Bond gripped the side of his desk, shut his eyes, and willed the uncomfortable sensations away. Again, his heart was pounding in his chest and he felt suffocated by a blanket of anxiety.

“Are you all right, James?”

Bond opened his eyes and saw Bill Tanner, M’s Chief-of-Staff, standing in the doorway. He was holding a stack of files and looked concerned.

Bond nodded grimly. “Just feeling a bit under the weather,” he managed to say.

“Well, you look bloody awful,” Tanner said, coming into the office. “Should you go to the infirmary?”

Bond shook his head. “I’ll be all right in a minute. Just something … I ate, I think.”

Tanner sat down in the chair on the other side of Bond’s desk. “You’re supposed to be on leave anyway, James. What are you doing here?”

“I can’t stay away, Bill. If M isn’t going to put me on the case, I’m doing it myself.”

“I didn’t hear you say that.”

“The bloody Union is still out there, Helena’s murder isn’t solved, and I’m a bloody sitting duck here in London. I should be out there looking for them, Bill! I’m no good doing nothing. You know that.

Isn’t there anything you can say to M?”

“Actually, I’ve tried, James,” Tanner said. “She’s quite adamant about you staying away for a while. For one thing, you’re on medical leave. You have to be cleared for duty. And she also feels that, and I’m afraid I agree with her, you wouldn’t treat the case objectively. You’re too close to it, James.”

“But that’s what makes me the best man for the job!” Bond spat, slamming his fist on the desk. “I’m beginning to know these people—the Union. You have to get close to them to understand them. Damn it, they want me as much as I want them! One has to be emotionally involved!”