Blast from the Past

  Table of Contents

  Blast From the Past

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  Blast from the Past

  By Raymond Benson

  Who'd want to kill James Bond's son?

  After a bomb blast, a car chase, and an encounter with an old enemy, 007 finds the deadly answer.

  Pictures by Gregory Manchess

  James Bond Short Story, first published Playboy Magazine, January 1997, Volume 44, Number 1.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Fed Ex letter was delivered at 9:30 James Bond had completed his morning ritual of a cold shower, 20 slow push-ups, as many leg lifts as he could manage, 20 reps of touching his toes, and 15 minutes of arm and chest exercises combined with deep breathing.

  He was sitting and reading The Times at his ornate Empire desk in the book lined sitting room of his flat off King's road in Chelsea when the bell rang.

  Bond signed for the letter and took it back into the sitting room. It was from "J. Suzuki" in New York. He opened it and read:

  dear dad -- terribly urgent

  that you come to new york!

  i need your help! fail not!

  with love -- james

  He rarely heard from his son, a young man working as a banker in the U.S. James' mother, Kissy Suzuki, had died of cancer years ago. Bond had fathered the child while suffering from amnesia during a dark period of his life when he lived as a simple fisherman with Kissy on a small island in Japan. Bond had left her in search of his identity, unaware that she was pregnant with their son. It was much later, after he had recovered from what could clinically be classified as a mental breakdown, that he learned of James Suzuki's existence. Bond had helped Kissy support the child, even after she had moved to the States. She had succumbed to her illness when the boy was a teenager and Bond had put him through college.

  The memories of Kissy Suzuki and the island in Japan brought back other nightmares that Bond had pushed back into his subconscious. M had sent him to Japan in the hopes he would snap out of the depression he suffered after the murder of his wife, Tracy di Vicenzo, at the hands of Ernst Stavro Blofeld and his partner-in-crime, Erma Bunt. This was the main reason Bond had little contact with his son -- the links in the chain of memories always led back to Tracy.

  Although they were buried deep within his psyche, recollections of the events of that era featured in Bond's dreams every now and then. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night with one of several recurring images lingering in his mind: Blofeld's bulging eyes as Bond strangled him to death, Fräulein Bunt slumping to the floor after Bond hit her with a staff, the castle exploding as Bond watched clinging from a helium-filled weather balloon and, most often, the blood on Tracy's golden hair as he cradled her in the front seat of the Lancia that spirited the couple away from their wedding.

  Many years had passed and Bond had lived through further adventures and dangers. He had managed to bury those painful scars by committing himself to his work. The women he encountered along the way were diversions, to be sure, but none had touched his heart the way Tracy had. He couldn't help but feel that there was something still unresolved, something he had to accomplish before he could exorcise those demons.

  Bond phoned his son, but there was no answer at James' home number. When he called the bank where James worked, they confirmed that James hadn't been in for days. Bond booked a flight to New York.

  CHAPTER 2

  He arrived at Kennedy Airport at midday and took a taxi into Manhattan. The city was alive with the energy that made New York the premiere cosmopolitan city. It was a sunny, unseasonably warm spring day, and the Manhattanites were out in force. Horns bellowed and endless swarms of pedestrians darted across intersections.

  Bond had dressed casually in a light-blue cotton short-sleeve polo shirt and navy-blue cotton twill trousers. He wore a light, gray silk basket-weave jacket, under which he kept his Walther PPK 7.65 mm in a chamois shoulder holster. The PPK was not standard issue anymore, but there was something about its history, its familiarity, that gave Bond a sense of security.

  The taxi took him to the Upper East Side, where James Suzuki lived in a studio apartment at 75th Street and First Avenue, not far from the East River. Bond paid the driver and stepped out onto the pavement. The area was residential, made up of six-story brownstone apartment houses and small shops. Bond surveyed the street before entering the building. A mother pushed a pram, chatting with another woman as they walked, a toadlike bag lady, dressed in rags and waddling behind a stolen shopping cart filled with garbage and bundles, stopped in front of the door of James' building. Two teenagers threw coins against a brick wall a few yards away. Someone shouted across the street. The traffic was terribly noisy.

  Bond moved past the bag lady blocking the door to the building and stepped inside. As he moved past her, Bond was perplexed by what he could see underneath the rags shielding her face, a strange skin condition with a waxen look. He shrugged and examined the building directory. He rang the bell marked j. suzuki and waited. The intercom remained silent. He rang the bell again. Nothing happened.

  One bell was marked super, and he tried it. A moment later, the intercom blurted, "Yeah, who is it?"

  "I'm looking for James Suzuki in 3A. I'm his father. Can you let me in?" Bond barked into the speaker.

  He heard some grumbling, and then the lock on the inner door buzzed. Bond pushed it open and entered a dingy corridor facing a flight of stairs. The super's door opened at the back of the hall. A fat man in an undershirt and boxer shorts peered out.

  "You got ID?" the man asked. He had a fairly thick Bronx accent.

  After looking at Bond's Ministry of Defense credentials, the man heaved himself up the stairs, far too slowly for Bond's patience, then wrestled with the key ring and unlocked the door.

  Bond recognized the foul stench as soon as the door swung open. He bolted past the fat man into the small apartment. "Stay out!" he shouted to the super.

  James Suzuki lay on his back in the middle of the floor, his body in an advanced state of putrefaction, its features bloated.

  Bond knelt heavily beside the body of his only son.

  CHAPTER 3

  Special Agent Cheryl Haven scribbled in a small notebook as Bond spoke.

  "You didn't touch anything? She asked in a northern England accent.

  Bond shook his head, still stunned by his discovery.

  He had contacted the city's British Secret Service branch after convincing the super, with the aid of a $50 bill, that there was no need for the local police.

  Within minutes, Cheryl Haven and an American investigative team had arrived at the apartment. The crime scene personnel -- a forensic specialist, a photographer and a medical examiner -- were already at work on the body and the room.

  Bond gestured toward the kitchen counter. "There's an envelope addressed to me. I haven't opened it."

  Agent Haven said, "We'll make it top priority." She turned to the forensic specialist. "Dan? Dust the envelope on the counter so we can see what's inside. Paul, could you take some photos of the kitchen before Dan dusts that envelope?" She turned back to Bond. "He was due to check in next week." Family members of all secret service personnel residing in foreign countries were required to contact the local branch once a month. "I know, because he usually spoke with me. He was a nice young man. I'm sorry."

  Bond nodded abruptly and averted his eyes.

  She quickly returned to business. "We still have time to go by his bank. You have no idea why you received the Fed Ex?"

  "No."

  The medical examiner cleared his throat. "I have some
preliminary results. We still need to do an autopsy, of course."

  "What did you find?" she asked.

  "He's been dead for four days, give or take 12 hours. From the looks of it, he was poisoned. Look at this wound on his arm here."

  Bond and the woman stood and looked closely at the corpse. There was an incision about an inch long on James' left forearm. It was swollen and dark.

  "A very sharp, thin blade. That's where the poison entered the bloodstream. A razor blade, perhaps. You can see the edema around the wound. There's dried blood on his shirt there, see? It must have been powerful stuff. He died of respiratory paralysis. Some kind of inebriant, I imagine, something exotic."

  The forensic man finished dusting the envelope and handed it to Bond. Bond carefully opened it and emptied the contents onto the counter. A small silver key fell out. The number 366 was embossed on it.

  "Looks like a safe-deposit key," Agent Haven said. She named a well-known Japanese bank. "It's got their logo on it."

  "My son's employer," Bond said.

  He needed to get out of that apartment and clear his head. He had to think. Who would want to kill his son? Was it an attempt to get at him? Bond rubbed his brow, forcing his mind to go back over the past few weeks. Had there been any kind of warning? Had he any reason to suspect someone? Anyone? He couldn't think of a single thing that was relevant. Maybe James had been in trouble. Perhaps the contents of the safe-deposit box would provide the answers.

  CHAPTER 4

  "It'll be faster if we walk," Agent Haven said, grabbing her purse. Once on the pavement, Bond and the woman walked briskly south.

  It was the First time Bond had actually looked at her. She was in her late 30s or early 40s but had the figure and complexion of a woman in her 20s. She was tall, with long, strong legs, revealed by the short, slim skirt of a light-weight worsted wool business suit. Her thin but silky blonde hair blew behind her as they walked, and her full breasts moved beneath her jacket. Bond thought she was quite attractive.

  "Where are you from, Agent Haven?" Bond asked. "I detected a northern England accent. Blackpool?"

  "You got it right," she said, increasing the speed of her stride. "Call me Cheryl, please, Mr. Bond."

  "Only if you call me James," he said, matching her pace. "How did you get to be station branch head in Manhattan? What happened to Forbes?"

  "Alan got rich playing Lotto. Can you believe it? He retired early and went to live in Texas," she said, laughing. "I was second-in-command and got the promotion. I'm surprised we never met before."

  "I am, too," he said. "So tell me about James. Was he all right? Did he ever sound like he was in trouble?"

  The two had to stop for a red light at a busy intersection.

  "Never," Cheryl said. "He called on time every month and we chatted for a minute or so." She grinned. "He asked me out once. He was a flirt."

  Bond smiled ruefully. The sins of the fathers ....

  "I never received any indication that he was into anything but his work at the bank, the girls he dated and the Knicks," she continued. The light turned green and they continued.

  They reached an intersection just across from the bank. Immediately to their left, a street vendor selling hot dogs shouted and cursed, waving away a short woman dressed in rags and pushing a shopping cart.

  "Poor old lady," Cheryl said.

  Bond was staring at her back when he heard Cheryl say, "Come on, the

  Light's green."

  They crossed the street and went into the bank. Inside, they sought out the bank manager to inform him of James Suzuki's death and explain the situation. Mr. Nishiuye, the manager, expressed appropriate words of dismay and sympathy, then led them downstairs to the safe-deposit area, a small room protected by a barred gate. There was a long table in the center, surrounded by four chairs on rollers. Number 366 was nearly eye-level on the wall. The manager stood in the doorway and watched Bond insert the small silver key into the lock. Once engaged, the key wouldn't turn.

  "Oh dear," Mr. Nishiuye said, apologetically, "I'm afraid we have been having trouble with some of those locks lately. That's the third one this week."

  Bond struggled with it, withdrew the key and reached for his belt buckle. "I have a lock pick here, let me try that."

  "That's from our old friend Major Boothroyd, I take it?" Cheryl asked.

  "I have one, too, but it's the ladies' model."

  "Wait," the manager said. "We have a maintenance man. He is the locksmith. He opened the others easily. Let me find Sam."

  "Hurry," Bond said. After he had left, Bond shrugged and said to Cheryl, "I probably could have had it open by the time he returns."

  "Relax, Mr. B., I mean, James," she said. "I don't think we're going to solve this in one night, and I'll make sure you're allowed to stay as long as you need."

  Bond sat down uneasily in one of the chairs and stared at the safe-deposit box.

  "What is it?" she asked. "You look tired. Do you feel jet-lagged?"

  Bond said, "No, it's the homeless woman we saw outside. There's something, I don't know ...."

  "What?"

  "I'm quite sure I saw her earlier outside James' apartment. When I first got there."

  "Well, that was hours ago. She could have wheeled her little cart this far in that time."

  "I know," Bond reflected, "but there's something else. She reminds me of something, or someone."

  Cheryl sat down beside him and placed her smooth, warm hand on his.

  "Listen, James," she said. "You've had a shock -- not that you're not handling this remarkably well. But still . . . take it easy."

  The manager returned with another man who was dressed in overalls and carrying a tool kit.

  "Number 366, Sam." Mr. Nishiuye pointed to the wall of box fronts.

  The man set his tool kit on the floor and removed a screwdriver.

  "May I offer you anything?" the manager asked them. "Coffee?"

  "No, thank you," said Bond, "but I would like to see my son's desk. Can I do that while our man works on the lock?"

  "Certainly," the manager said. "Follow me."

  James Suzuki's desk was clean and uncluttered. A photo of his mother was framed and sitting on top of a computer monitor. Adjacent to it was a framed color snapshot of him as a boy with Bond. It had been taken when James was about 12 years old, during a rare visit to London. They were posing in front of one of the Trafalgar Square lions. Kissy had taken the photo. It could very well have been the only photo James had of his father.

  Bond did a quick pass through the desk and found nothing of interest.

  The manager asked, "How is James' aunt doing?"

  Bond looked at him. "What?"

  "His aunt. She was here a couple of days ago and used the safe-deposit box," the manager said. Bond stared at him, incredulous. "She showed me written authorization---"

  Before the man could finish, Bond and Cheryl bolted for the stairs and ran back to the safe-deposit room. They stepped through the open door just as Sam said, "I think I have it," and turned the lock.

  A tremendous noise and blinding flash of white light shook the room. The force of the explosion knocked Bond and Cheryl from the doorway and onto the floor of the corridor outside. Smoke began to fill the place, and alarms sounded immediately.

  "Are you all right?" Bond shouted to Cheryl.

  "Yes!"

  "Wait here!" He jumped up and into the next room. A large gaping hole in the wall marked where the safety-deposit box had once been.

  He dashed to the corridor and took hold of Cheryl. "We have to get out of here or we'll suffocate."

  Together they found the stairs up to the ground floor, and outside. Mr. Nishiuye was helping a couple of employees when he saw them.

  "I thought you were dead!" he exclaimed. "What about Sam?"

  Bond shook his head. "He took the blast intended for me, I think," he said.

  The fire engine's siren screamed in the distance, Bond and Cheryl joined the
crowd of people in front of the bank. They both had dark smudges on their clothes and faces. Then he saw her. The bag lady was standing on the other side of Park Avenue, watching. Bond could swear she was not looking at the bank and the pandemonium in front of it -- she was staring straight at him.

  "Stay here," he said to Cheryl and started to cross the avenue. As soon as the woman saw Bond approaching, she moved quickly around the corner onto a one-way street heading west. Bond began to run. He reached the other side just in time to see her step into the backseat of an idling black town car. He rushed to it, leaped and reached for the door handle. The driver stepped on the gas, Bond fell back and immediately jumped up. By then, Cheryl had crossed the street and was running after him.

  He reached Madison Avenue, but the car had already crossed it and was continuing west. He ran against the red light, dodging around cars moving up Madison. A taxi almost hit him and the horn blared.

  "James! Wait!" Cheryl called, and she caught up to him on the other side of Madison.

  An empty taxicab was idling in front of a delicatessen about 100 feet west of them. The off duty light was on; the driver had stepped out and gone inside the deli. Bond sprinted toward it and jumped into the driver's seat. Cheryl ran to the passenger side. As Bond drove off, the cabdriver ran out of the delicatessen, shouting.

  "I'm not sure what you just did was entirely legal," Cheryl said.

  They do it in the movies all the time," Bond said, speeding toward Fifth Avenue. The car had crossed Fifth and was heading toward Sixth Avenue, but traffic had brought it to a halt. Bond crossed the intersection and pulled into the line of traffic on the narrow street. Four vehicles were between the cab and the other car. Suddenly, it tore out of the line of stalled traffic, pulled onto the pavement, and then sped along the shop fronts toward Sixth Avenue. Scared pedestrians screamed and jumped out of the way. The town car pulled down a canopy in front of a shop as it raced recklessly toward the intersection.