Silhouettes: A James Bond Story

Silhouettes Part 9

Bond woke early the next morning after an usually sound and refreshing sleep-the result of jet lag, sexual fulfillment, and a post-coital adrenaline dump. He packed his belongings and checked out of the hotel. Q-Branch didn't have any specialized vehicles in the field in this part of the world, so he used a standard embassy surveillance vehicle, a non-descript Toyota sedan.

He spotted the tail fairly early on in his sweep of Wibowo's properties. The heavy traffic easily choked the old, winding streets around Central Market, and it was easy to pick up the tail vehicles. They were a couple of bulky Toyota Hiluxes-SUVs which had a reputation for being nigh-indestructible, but they were also large and cumbersome in traffic, and once Bond found a gap in the turgid stream of cars he hammered the gas, while simultaneously activating the ECM app on his smart phone. The little sedan surged through a narrow gauntlet of taxicabs, and zipped into oncoming traffic as a flood of scooters filled the gap Bond had exploited. Horns blared as he ran counter to the flow of traffic for about fifty meters before turning into the intersection and falling into normal traffic. He checked his mirrors. The Hiluxes were stranded a solid block behind him and unable to radio any other members of the team who might be mobile.

Bond followed traffic around Central Market while his phone chirped on a regular interval as it searched for any type of encrypted signal. The buildings here were old concrete apartment buildings whose cracked and crumbling faces had once been painted bright shades of yellow and orange and pink, but had since faded under the onslaught of humidity, exhaust fumes, and time. Little India's bright, smiling face had moved to another neighborhood, and Bond very quickly ascertained that this neighborhood was for the low castes, the migrants, and the people whose options had dwindled to the point that they were here in country that only tangentially shared their culture.

The phone yelped a long, steady alarm as Bond in front of a tired six-story tenement. He dumped the car in a crowded underground lot and checked the phone's locator. He had to hand it Q; the technology was impressive. It had identified the signal as an encrypted VHF transmission and spat out a set of MGRS coordinates.

Bond stepped out of the car and into the sweltering parking garage. He wore a short-sleeved batik shirt unbuttoned over an Under Armor T-shirt and loose-fitting cargo pants to afford some relief from the heat, but he still felt perspiration snaking down his legs and the small of his back almost immediately. He clipped the holster with the PPK/s behind his right kidney and clipped three spare magazines to his belt behind the left.

The stairwell was cool and lit with cold, fluorescent lights and smelled like mold and wet concrete. He heard a cacophony of voices and the heavy footfalls of children playing above him, so he kept the gun holstered. The transmission detector put the signal on the sixth floor, and Bond took the steps at a steady pace. Even in the clammy chill of the stairwell, perspiration slicked the back of his neck and bristled along his scalp.

He had to weave his way through a few rambunctious gangs, but the kids barely paid attention to him past whatever games or mischief they were up to. Luckily, the sixth floor was empty. Bond drew his gun and kicked the fire door open sweeping the hallway for any signs of a threat, but there were none. Here, outside the concrete insulation of the stairwell, he could hear the low throb of life in the poorly-maintained tenement.

He didn't need to check the phone's MGRS to know which unit was Manyam's safe-house-it would be the one opposite the stairs to provide a faster egress in an emergency. It would be solid-core with reinforced hinges and a deadbolt. Bond grabbed four of Q's coin-explosives and tossed them at the door, then stormed into the blast and kicked the damaged door beneath the scorched knob.

Indira Manyam was in a low crouch near the center of the room. She had a polymer sub-compact automatic leveled at him, and his gun was pointed at her.

"Agent Manyam," he said.

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

They both fired