Zero Minus Ten rbb-1 Read online

  Bond walked over to her and took the gun. “If it’s a matter of not blowing one’s cover, a good agent may have to kill an ally or a friend. Don’t ever forget that. You gave yourself away, 05. In the old days, if I had been KGB, or worse, I would have immediately perceived that you not only recognized 03 here, but knew him well.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “You’re right. You really get the unexpected thrown at you in these training missions. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d win the fight—it confused me.”

  “Double-Os must expect nothing but the unexpected,” Bond said. He crouched down to the man he now called 03.

  “How are you, 03? You put up a bloody good fight, lad. You almost had me at one point,” Bond said with good humour. “You blew the mission, Michaels, but you’ll get good marks, don’t worry.”

  The man groaned and then vomited.

  “Yes, well, sorry about that, 03,” Bond said. “You’ll feel all right in a few hours. Sometimes Double-Os have to learn their lessons the hard way. Remember what you learned about vital-point targets. God knows I did! Better luck next time.”

  Bond stood, turned, and walked up the stone steps, and Stephanie ran after him.

  “So did you know he was going to be here?” she asked.

  Bond shook his head. “No, but I suspected something, especially when you didn’t try to help me. These Double-O training sessions you two are taking are also exercises for me. I’m unaware of your objectives and you are unaware of mine. Someone in London orchestrated the entire scenario. Apparently my challenge was dealing with someone who has penetrated the privacy of my home. And I take it you two had a mission to assassinate me?”

  She laughed. “Yes, real kamikaze stuff, isn’t it? A Single-O agent assassinating a Double-O!” Bond smiled too.

  “Is Agent Michaels going to be okay? Not that he was one of my favourite people. He was always chatting me up.”

  “He’ll be fine. I don’t fight dirty unless I have to, but he left me no choice. Besides, he was careless. I didn’t hurt him badly—he’ll be up and on his way back to Kingston in no time. In any other situation he would have been killed. My kick was nothing compared to a carpet beater.”

  “A what?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” he said as he led her on to the top of the cliff. In contrast to the darkness below, up here the moon was very bright, flooding the grounds of the estate in a chalky white light.

  Bond had purchased the property a year ago. Even though the heyday of a British Jamaica was long gone, Bond had always loved the island. For years, the memories and dreams he’d had of Jamaica haunted him. He had a compelling desire to be there. When a wellknown British journalist and author died, the property became available and Bond bought it. Thus, in addition to his flat in London, he now owned a secluded holiday home on his favourite island. Since buying it, Bond had spent all his available time between missions at the sparsely furnished house. He called it Shamelady, after a plant that grows wild along Jamaica’s North Shore, a sensitive plant that curls up if touched.

  Stephanie Lane followed Bond inside. He immediately began removing his wet suit, stripping down to briefs. He seemed oblivious to the fact that a beautiful woman was watching him undress. “You know, you should be dead, too,” Bond said. “If you can’t hide convincingly behind a cover, then the cover’s no good.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she promised. She watched him with increasing interest as she fingered the Walther PPK that he had placed on a coffee table. “Isn’t this gun a little old-fashioned?” she asked. “It’s not standard issue, is it?”

  “No, it was once, though,” Bond said. “I was using an ASP for a few years, and I just recently got an urge to use the old one again. I don’t know, it feels very … familiar, and I’ve decided to use the Walther again from now on. Old habits die hard.”

  Stephanie picked up the gun and pointed it at him.

  “So if I shoot you now, I will achieve my Primary Objective after all,” she said with no trace of humour.

  Bond squinted at her. There was silence. His cold stare dared her to fire.

  She pulled the trigger. It clicked empty. Her mouth dropped open.

  Bond held out the clip in his hand. “You don’t think I’d put a loaded pistol down with a stranger in the room, do you? Sorry, 05. You flunked this one.” Bond walked into the bedroom. “I’m going to take a shower. Make yourself comfortable. But before you get too relaxed, turn on the transmitter and see if there’s anything from London.”

  Did Stephanie detect a hint of flirtation in his voice? She smiled. When she heard the shower running, she opened an attache case she had left in the house earlier. Inside was a small black device that looked like an ordinary beeper. She flicked a switch and the code “33” appeared on an illuminated display. Bond would want to know this.

  She stepped into the bedroom and called to him: “It says 33!”

  Bond shouted back from the shower, “Damn! That means I have to go back to London as soon as possible. Some kind of emergency …”

  Stephanie was disappointed. Well, she thought, she had to take what she could get. She unzipped her wet suit, peeled it off, and stepped into the bathroom.

  She had failed in accomplishing her Primary Objective that evening … but if she acted now she would have a little time. It was a shame that the night of pleasure she had anticipated earlier would not last until dawn. If she was lucky, though, she still had an hour or two.

  At least she had got the right man. Secondary Objective accomplished! Naked, she pushed back the shower curtain, and got in with him.

  TWO

  THREE EVENTS

  17 JUNE 1997, 11:45 P.M., ENGLAND

  Approximately seventy-two hours earlier, a large cargo vessel called the Melbourne sailed into the bay between the Isle of Wight and West Sussex, facing Portsmouth. She had travelled thousands of miles in the last few weeks. From Hong Kong, her point of departure, she went to Perth in Western Australia, unloaded cargo, picked up containers, and refuelled. From there, she sailed west through the Indian Ocean and around the southern tip of Africa into the Atlantic and on to New York. She stayed in New York Harbour for three days, then finally began the last leg of the voyage to the United Kingdom.

  When word of the Melbourne’s arrival reached the desk of the Hampshire Constabulary Tactical Firearms Unit, Sergeant David Marsh picked up the telephone and called his Detective Chief Inspector. The TFUs, along with Firearms Support Teams, are tactical special weapons groups within UK police forces, available twentyfour hours a day. Many of the members of these elite police units are ex-British Forces personnel.

  “She’s here, sir,” Marsh said when the DCI answered. Marsh listened closely to his instructions and nodded. “Consider it done, sir.” He rang off and dialled a new number. If the tip they had received was correct, there could be trouble.

  A lighter had already begun to deliver cargo from the Melbourne to shore. A group of four Chinese men unloaded the large wooden crates from the lighter as soon as it docked and used a forklift to transfer them on to a waiting lorry.

  The two token Hampshire Police officers on duty that night, Charles Thorn and Gary Mitchell, walked along the dock area, noting that the weather was unusually pleasant for a June night. Unfortunately, due to a breakdown in communications, they were not apprised of the message that was received by TFU Police Sergeant David Marsh. Even more calamitous was the fact that neither of them was armed.

  Thorn suddenly stopped in mid-stride and asked his partner, “Do you hear anything?” In the distance was the whirr of a hydraulic crane used to unload cargo.

  Mitchell nodded. “Sounds like someone’s unloading. I wasn’t aware of a scheduled docking tonight, were you?”

  Thorn shook his head. “Customs and Excise didn’t tell me about it. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  The two men hurried around a corner past a warehouse where they could get an unobstructed view of the harbour. Sure enough, four men were
loading crates on to a lorry.

  “Where are Customs and Excise? They should be supervising the unloading, shouldn’t they?” Mitchell asked.

  “Unless this is an unscheduled unloading,” Thorn said. He quickly radioed his office to request additional officers. The Communication Centre Dispatcher informed them that the Hampshire Constabulary TFU was on the way and to stay put.

  The Chinese were finished with the lighter and it was already pulling away. The lorry was nearly full—only two crates remained on the ground. They would be gone in minutes.

  “We have to stop them,” Thorn said. “Come on.”

  The two men stepped into view of the Chinese men. “Good evening,” Thorn called out to them. “Like to tell us what you’re doing?”

  One of the Chinese stepped out of the truck and produced some papers. Thorn glanced at them. “You know this is highly irregular, sir. Customs and Excise are supposed to clear your unloading. What have you got in those crates?” The Chinese man, who apparently spoke little English, pointed to the papers.

  “Right,” said Sergeant Thorn, looking closely at the shipping numbers and comparing them to the crates. One was still on the ground, the other on the forklift. “That one has half a ton of tea, and the other one is what?”

  The Chinese man smiled. “Toys. Made in Hong Kong.”

  Mitchell whispered to Thorn, “Imports from the Far East generally come into Southampton.”

  Thorn nodded and said aloud, “Let’s open ’em up now, all right?”

  Mitchell took a crowbar from the side of the hydraulic crane and prised the lid off the wooden crate. It was filled with straw, styrofoam, and large bags labelled with Chinese characters. Mitchell opened one of the bags and found dozens of smaller bags inside marked with similar characters. He tossed one of the small bags to Thorn, who promptly used a pocket knife to open it. It was full of tea.

  “Fine,” Thorn said. “Let’s open the other one.”

  As the forklift was pulled in front of the officers, a fully marked TFU jeep containing four men, including Sergeant Marsh, sped quickly into the cargo area of the dock and stopped.

  “Sergeant Marsh,” Thorn said. “Good to see you. It seems these chaps aren’t aware of Customs and Excise standard operating procedures.”

  “A word with you, Sergeant?” Marsh said, gesturing towards the jeep. Mitchell watched Marsh whisper to Thorn, then glanced over to the four Chinese men who had gathered near the fork-lift. They were all young, probably in their late teens or early-twenties.

  The conference was over. Marsh took the crowbar from Thorn and slammed it into the side of the crate containing the tea, cracking one of the side panels. He then worked the panel off, exposing a mess of straw packing. Marsh dug into the packing with the crowbar, pulling it out.

  “We have reason to believe you’ve got something hidden in here,” Marsh said to one of the Chinese. The sharp end of the crowbar struck a large canvas bag, bursting it. A white, crystalline powder oozed out of the tear. Having just completed a two-year tour of duty in the Hampshire Constabulary’s Drug Squad, Marsh hadn’t shaken the habit of carrying a drug test kit with him. He quickly retrieved a plastic vial from the kit, opened it, and scooped a bit of the white powder into the vial with his finger. He replaced the cap and shook the vial vigorously, mixing the white powder with a reagent. The clear liquid changed colour.

  Marsh turned to the Chinese men. “I have reason to believe this is heroin. Now I’m going to have to place you under …”

  Fully automatic machine-gun blasts interrupted him. Taken by surprise, Mitchell and Thorn were the first to fall. Fortunately for Marsh, his team had come prepared.

  Marsh hit the ground and quickly rolled behind the crate, shielding himself from the barrage of bullets. The three other officers also leaped for cover. Using MP5 Standard Operating Rifles, the TFU returned fire on the Chinese. Even though the weapons were singleshot only, the TFU were sharpshooters. One Chinese went down.

  Marsh was armed with a Smith and Wesson 15 Mag Self Loading pistol. He peered around the container and got off a couple of shots before a hail of bullets tore into the side of the crate, forcing him back.

  The Chinese were formidable opponents who knew how to use their guns, which to Marsh looked like MACH 10s. He knew that they were really COBRAYs, a 9mm machine gun modelled after the MACHs. Even though they were not well-made, criminal gangs favoured COBRAYs because they were sold and traded in pieces and were therefore easily concealed.

  After a minute it was almost over. All but one of the Chinese were dead. There were no casualties on Marsh’s team. The lone Chinese gunman realized the predicament he was in and attempted a kamikaze stunt. He yelled something in Cantonese and ran towards Marsh, his gun blasting wildly. Marsh threw caution to the wind. He stood up, used both hands to steady his pistol, aimed at the running man, and squeezed the trigger. The man jerked back and fell to the ground.

  Marsh breathed a sigh of relief, then ran to where Thorn and Mitchell lay. The TFU member everyone called “Doc” was attending to the two constables, but he turned to Marsh and shook his head.

  Marsh frowned, then barked an order to one of his men. “Get Doc some help for these officers and get in touch with the DCI. Tell him the tip was good. Tell him the villains would have got away if they hadn’t been detained by two brave Hampshire Police officers.”

  18 JUNE 1997, 8:00 P.M., HONG KONG

  Of Hong Kong’s many attractions, elegant restaurants on boats provide visitors not only with a superb dinner, but with one of the best tourist attractions of Aberdeen’s Shum Wan Harbour on the South Shore of the island. Most of them are linked together by walkways, and their ornate gilded and painted façades look particularly glorious lit up at night. One such “floating restaurant,” the Emerald Palace, had been booked for a special event on 18 June and was closed to the public.

  EurAsia Enterprises, an old-established shipping and trading corporation owned privately by a British family since the mid-nineteenth century, was holding a dinner for its chairman who was retiring after thirty years of service. A swing band, made up entirely of Chinese musicians, was playing surprisingly faithful renditions of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman hits as the dance floor filled with formally dressed British men and women.

  Guy Thackeray, the corporation’s forty-eight-year-old CEO, had lived in Hong Kong all his life. His great-great-grandfather had founded EurAsia Enterprises in 1850, not long after Hong Kong was ceded to Britain. The family had steadfastly refused to allow the corporation to go public, and Guy Thackeray presently found himself the sole owner of 59 per cent of the company’s stock. The remaining stock was held by other members of the Board of Directors, including John Desmond, the retiring chairman. All of them were present, sitting with their spouses at the top table.

  Guy Thackeray felt out of place at his own company’s events. The past month had been hell. As the first of July deadline approached, he was becoming more desperate and anxious. The secret burden he held on his shoulders regarding EurAsia Enterprises’ future was taking its toll. He knew that very soon he would have to make public a fateful bit of knowledge, but it would not be tonight.

  Thackeray surveyed the dance floor, catching the eye of a friendly face here and there and nodding his head in acknowledgement. He glanced at his watch. It was almost time for his speech. He took a last swig of his gin and tonic and approached the podium.

  Back in the kitchen, the sixty-one-year-old Chinese cook, Chan Wo, grumbled to himself. He enjoyed cooking and considered himself one of the best chefs in Hong Kong. In fact, the Emerald Palace’s reputation had been built on Chan’s ability to create magnificent concoctions in the Szechuan, Cantonese, and Mandarin styles of Chinese cuisine.

  Glancing at the new order brought to him by a waiter, he shrugged and walked over to the large metal refrigerator to fetch more previously prepared uncooked dumplings. Much to his dismay, they weren’t inside. Had he used them all already? Chan Wo silently cursed
his assistant. Bobby Ling must have forgotten to make more that afternoon.

  “Bobby!” he called. The kid was probably in the storeroom. “Bobby!” he shouted again. Chan slammed the refrigerator shut and left the kitchen.

  The storeroom was adjacent to the kitchen, conveniently soundproofed from the noise in the dining areas. Chan thought he wouldn’t mind hiding in the storeroom for a while, too; he couldn’t blame Bobby for taking a break. Chan entered the container-filled room. It was dark, which was odd. He could have sworn Bobby was here. Chan flicked on the light switch. Nothing but boxes piled on other boxes, cans and containers. “Bobby, where the hell are you?” Chan Wo asked in Cantonese. Then he saw the tennis shoes.

  Bobby Ling was out cold, lying between two stacks of cardboard boxes. Chan bent down to examine the motionless body. “Bobby?”

  Chan never knew what hit him. All he felt was a lightning bolt in the back of his neck, and then there was blackness.

  The instrument that broke Chan Wo’s neck was a heavily callused hand belonging to a man whose appearance was undoubtedly unusual, even in a densely populated area like Hong Kong. He was Chinese, but his hair was white as snow, his skin very pale—almost pink—and behind the dark sunglasses were pinkish-blue eyes. He was about thirty years old, and he had the build of a weight-lifter.

  The albino Chinese grunted at the two dead figures on the floor, then moved to the only porthole in the room. He opened it, leaned out, and looked down at the water where a rowing boat containing two other men was rocking steadily next to the larger floating restaurant. The albino loosened a coil of rope he had over his shoulder and threw one end out of the window. Next, he braced himself by placing one foot on the wall beneath the window, and clutched the rope tightly. One of the men from the boat took hold of the rope and swiftly climbed up to the window. The albino was strong enough to hold the rope and the other man’s weight.

  The other figure appeared in the porthole and snaked through, dropping to the floor. He also had a full head of white hair, pinkish skin, and sunglasses, and was about thirty years old. While the first albino secured the rope to a post, the second opened a backpack, removed some instruments, and set to work.