Silhouettes: A James Bond Story

Silhouettes Part 1

"There must be no regrets. No false sentiment. He must play the role which she expected of him. The tough man of the world. The Secret Agent. The man who was only a silhouette."--Ian Fleming, Moonraker.

Prologue

Kuala Lumpur

James Bond kicked open the metal fire door that secured the stairway and swept the landing with his Walther PPK/s, looking over the sights for any sign of a threat. There were none. Although the low-rent apartment building throbbed and pulsed with life, this small stretch of hallway was dead quiet. The running, laughing, wailing children with their exasperated parents chasing behind them, the loud drunken arguments or shouted greetings; all of the usual chaos of life in an overcrowded, poorly-maintained Southeast Asian slum building seemed to be taking place everyplace except here. It's absence caused the hair on the back of Bond's neck to rise.

The safe-house's door was almost directly across from the emergency stairs—that was just good protocol—and Bond stormed to the doorway, letting his momentum and power build, knowing that speed and force would be his only advantages if any surveillance had picked him up. He tossed a handful of concussions charges molded to look like Malaysian coins at the doorknob and turned his head away from the blast. In the enclosed hallway, it was loud enough to leave his ears ringing. Whatever element of surprise he'd had was just lost, but he knew that the lock, hinges and frame would be reinforced.

Bond put all the power he had into a kick, and felt the door give way. He stormed the apartment, found himself in a sparsely-furnished common area. He flowed, tactically, keeping the gun at high ready, following the swiveling of his head as he scanned his surroundings.

The woman was in a low crouch near the center of the room. She was more beautiful than the pictures in her dossier—life giving her beauty a realness that photos could never capture. The thin, linen slacks and white tank-top she wore accentuated the generous curves of her hips, and the immodest swell of her breasts. Her brownish-black hair was tied back, but sweat-sparkled ringlets stuck to her forehead, and an azure crystal pendant hung in a choker around her long neck. Her eyes were deepest brown he'd ever seen.

She had a polymer sub-compact automatic leveled at him, and his PPK/s was pointed at her.

"Agent Manyam," he said.

"So," she replied, "you are the one they sent."

They both fired.

1.

At the time it began--when the flash-traffic reports came in from Kuala Lumpur station, through the massive information clearing-house embedded in the American Embassy in Afghanistan which sucked up signal information like the baleen-lined jaws of a whale, and then shot directly to London—when the writhing jumble of contradictory and semi-accurate reports finally smoothed and coalesced into a coherent story and the alarm bells went off at the highest level of Her Majesty's government, James Bond was abjectly regarding the sapphire-blue face of his Omega DeVille and mulling whether he wanted to end the evening by getting drunk or sleeping with the woman at the baccarat table.

The slashing lines of the Omega's hands told him that it was nearly eleven o'clock, and while Le Cercle casino was barely hitting its stride—even on a Tuesday night—Bond was already bored. He'd already won three hands at Texas Hold'em, and then promptly lost a chunk of his winnings at the roulette wheel, and neither of fortune's swings had brought him much excitement. Hence his next set of options: alcohol or sex.

She certainly had the air of someone who was inclined toward a reckless act every now and then. The way her cold, blue eyes swept the table, and the slightly dismissive purse to her plump, red lips standing in contrast to the immaculately high, twisting coif of glossy, black hair gave Bond the distinct impression of the type of boredom unique to the idle rich. She had an exquisitely aquiline nose, and a matching cleft chin, which stood as testament to high breeding, which was already readily evident in the manner in which she deigned not notice the effect her shoulderless chiffon wrap was having on the men around her, gathering close, pretending to be transfixed by the bets she played.

Bond sat in for a few rounds; betting on her, just to see what would happen. The woman played the game recklessly, pulling her bets off the banker prematurely, betting on the tie, and then riding the player long past the point of prudence. Money, it seemed, was not something she was deeply concerned with. Only when Bond followed her lead, and put the remainder of his poker winnings on the tie, and then, to a low chorus of chortles and cheers from the assembled admirers flanking her, watched the bet improbably pay out did she deign to make eye-contact.

"I admire your courage," Bond told her across the smoky table. Le Cercle had steadfastedly resisted any prohibitions on tobacco use, and the air between them was begging grow gray.

"I admire your luck, Mr...?"

Before he could answer, Bond felt a light touch on his shoulder and one of the concierges whispered in his ear, "Phone call, Monsieur."

Bond stood. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me," he said, trying to tamp down the tightness working its way into his voice. He did not receive phone calls to this place except under extraordinary circumstances, and already he felt a crackle of electricity beneath his skin.

"Such a pity. We were just getting off to a lovely start," the woman said, a subtle taunt in her voice daring him to be reckless, ignore the call, and join her.

"And I'm sure it will be equally lovely ending someday," Bond replied, collecting his chips. "Good evening." He left her there amid the hushed mutterings of her many admirers, with her money, games, and boredom.