The compound occupied a half-moon of cleared forest at the peak of the hill: inside the walls, a grid of tents surrounded a stone barracks. At the rear of the compound, a soldier guarding the service entrance stood whistling the same few bars of a song. He seemed to be having trouble finding the bridge. It wouldn’t bother him for long. He slumped forward.
009 caught the man’s Makarov PM before it could clatter across the ground. The favorite pistol of Soviet policemen, before Bashir’s time. Eight rounds in the chamber. Hauling the body into the shadows, Bashir stripped the man of his jacket and pulled it on. He skirted around to the kitchen, a tent with wires straggling from it like the tangled limbs of a dead octopus. Bashir ducked through the door, and found the cook reading on a cot—a skinny man who, Bashir imagined, lived on leftovers. The man started up. With one hand, Bashir covered the cook’s mouth. With the other, he held the pistol to his head.
“One chance,” Bashir whispered, and then switched to Levantine Arabic. “The back door is open. Disappear, quietly. Or burn to death.”
The hand Bashir had clamped over the man’s mouth grew clammy with sweat. The cook nodded. Bashir let go. The cook glanced around, as if the fire had already started and he was considering what to save. Then he looked back into Bashir’s eyes, where he seemed to recognize something. He swallowed, picked up his book, and ducked through the back.
Bashir made a study of the kitchen. He wanted as big an explosion as possible. If he was right, it would draw most of the Syrian troops from their posts, and at least half Rattenfänger, who would have the urge to take command of a crisis. Bashir supposed four or five Rattenfänger had been ordered to remain with the prisoner at all times, and would not stir despite the kitchen finally doing what everyone on base would have joked about at one time or another, given the state of this generator: gone up in flames. Their fear would be the fire spreading to other tents, hovering in the wind, roosting in trees. It would be the forest that killed them, a slow collapse of blazing timber.
Well, there was no point being subtle about it. Bashir kicked over the petrol generator. The back end clunked to the ground. Liquid oozed onto the dirt floor. He popped the back of the camera, prized out the battery, and chucked it in the microwave. He set the thing to one minute, maximum heat. This represented only a marginal departure from his usual culinary skills anyway.
Bashir grabbed a small knife that smelled of onions from the sink, and retreated out the back. After forty-two seconds a bolt of hot air and flame shot from the tent. Twelve seconds later, the whole kitchen went up, slapping the night white with shock. The air twanged, and then there was the sound of boots running and soldiers shouting.
Bashir raced toward the stone barracks, keeping his head down, buffeted by the panic of running Syrian soldiers, who saw his jacket and did not question him. Inside was the usual filth of men in close quarters. Bashir hurried past the Officers’ Mess, where a game of cards had been left abandoned. He was about to take the next turn when he heard orders barked in choppy English. Bashir drew up against the wall, and held his breath as at least five Rattenfänger passed by without looking around the corner.
As the fifth man passed, Bashir grabbed him by the collar and jerked him back. The man twisted in his grip. Bashir slammed his elbow down on the man’s wrist. He dropped his gun in shock.
Bashir jammed his gun into the man’s gut. “Take me to her.”
A moment’s hesitation, then a quick nod.
Bashir followed the soldier deeper into the compound, tracking left turns and right. The hallway lights were doused, replaced by the flickering aqua of a backup generator. He noticed prison tattoos crawling up the man’s neck.
“In there,” the soldier whispered. “The bitch is in there.”
Bashir peered around the next corner. At the end of the short passage was a locked steel door.
“Do you have the key?”
“No.”
“And you had so much potential.”
Bashir struck the man with the butt of the pistol. He stepped over his unconscious body and around the corner, considering the locked door. And him without a wall charge to his name.
Bashir was slinging the RPK-74M around when he heard the door rattle. He pulled back to the corner.
Three soldiers came out, locking the door behind them, and formed up in front of it: the Rattenfänger men ordered to stay with the prisoner.
He could take them with a burst from the machine gun, but that would draw the others back—if they heard it over the hunger of the fire.
Regardless of whether the troops outside heard it, the Rattenfänger undoubtedly behind the door with a gun to her head would. A steel door could muffle only so much. And the man would follow his orders without question, just as Bashir would.
Quiet it is.
Let’s call it a sample of convenience. Can two knives kill three guards?
Bashir moved into the open, registering three masked soldiers coiled with excitement, fingers on triggers. Before any of them could make a sound, Bashir threw his own knife and the kitchen knife, picking off the left and right men. The man on the right staggered and fell, eliminated. The kitchen knife was poorly weighted and found the cheek of the man on the left. He was about to howl, just as the man in the middle raised his rifle. Bashir rolled forward, hooked one foot behind the man’s ankle, and then smashed the man’s knee. He went down flat. The rifle clattered away. Bashir pulled the knife out of the cheek of the man on the left and slashed his throat just as the man in the middle clambered to his feet. Bashir elbowed back. The soldier hit the wall, drawing his pistol for a point-blank shot. Bashir slammed him into the wall, nothing clever in it, just body against body. Bashir’s ribs shuddered, close to breaking. He held on.
“You think you beat Rattenfänger?” the man spat. “Pied Piper is unbeatable.”
Bashir clamped his hand over the soldier’s mouth, as he had the cook’s, only this time he did not let go. The soldier thrashed and pounded. Bashir held on.
As the man sagged, Bashir panted: “I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“I see you don’t like to give your enemy the chance to surrender, Mr. Bashir.”
Bashir hunched, absurdly readying himself for a bullet to the back of the head. None came. The next thought: they know my name. Bashir turned, his back to the steel door now. At the end of the short passage stood a man whose presence seemed to make the nearby crash of fire seem irrelevant, foolish even. He was a giant, with at least fifteen years on Bashir. He had buzzed graying hair. He wore the uniform with no flag of Rattenfänger. His arms were unusually long, his empty hands hanging by his sides unusually big, seeming to wait for something. The stripes on his shoulder said he was a colonel. The king, and probably the only man who knew who was funding Rattenfänger, who was calling the shots. In the flickering light, Bashir could see the man was smiling indulgently.
The colonel gestured to the bodies. “Not very sporting. I thought you Englishmen had rules.”
“I skipped civics,” said Bashir, and hurled the kitchen knife.
The colonel plucked it from the air. He laughed, and then weighed the blade in his great palm. “Next time, I suggest stealing a bigger knife.”
Bashir was about to pull the Makarov PM and fire when he remembered the gun to her head, just behind the door.
“No need to give less than your best,” said the colonel. “It doesn’t matter who hears. She’s already dead.”
Bashir rocked a little, then planted his feet. “She’s a high-value target. You’d keep her alive as long as possible.”
The colonel shrugged. “She broke.” He said it lightly, as if they were discussing a faulty bicycle. “We extracted what we wanted, and disposed of the remains.”
Bashir listened, tried to locate noises from behind the door. There were none.
“And now all that’s left,” said the colonel, “is to break you.” He tossed the knife away, and came on with his arms still hanging loosely.
Instinct told Bashir to shoot. There was no sound from behind the door. She was dead. He was too late, and she was dead. But he did not draw. His mission was to bring her home. So what if this man said she was dead? A certain event with a probability rate of one hundred percent still might not occur.
Bashir crouched forward in the starting position of Krav Maga. He threw a right. The colonel swayed back, quicker than Bashir imagined, despite his bulk. Then the colonel’s hand shot out, his fingers stiff, and jabbed Bashir in the brachial plexus.
Bashir almost threw up. His right hand went numb. It would not form a fist. Shock sliced through him.
The colonel stabbed Bashir’s tibialis anterior muscle with his boot. Bashir folded to his knees. He swung with his left.
The colonel caught the punch, and dug his thumb between Bashir’s fingers. Bashir’s hand was suddenly boneless. He was attacking Bashir’s nerve points. The colonel knocked behind Bashir’s ear with one knuckle, finding the pit between jaw and neck. Bashir choked. He couldn’t move. He was paralyzed.
The colonel sniffed. He seized Bashir by the lapel and hauled. Bashir swung from his fist. His eyes were streaming.
“This does not reflect well,” said the colonel. “Not well at all. I was led to believe you were something special. 009: the next bright thing from Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Strategic, smart, ruthless. First-class degree with honors in philosophy and mathematics from King’s. Fights with tenacity. High threshold for pain. A promising young man with an exciting future as a professional murderer. Only weakness that big brain of his, persuading him to take measures a mere mortal might shudder at. But this overthinking looks very much like not thinking at all. You are letting yourself down, boy. You couldn’t even die for her. You’re too late. You failed her. And now you’re failing me. Come on, son. Play up, play up and play the game—isn’t that what M would say?”
Bashir flailed about inside, but his limbs would not respond. He’d been rendered impotent with just a few jabs. Fear and revulsion gripped him.
Remember your training. Remember Bond’s words. At the heart of every agent is a hurricane room: in the tropics, the room a house keeps empty at its center so that when a storm begins to shake the skies, the family can retreat to this citadel without fear of flying chairs or the shrapnel of smashed crockery. The hurricane room inside you is painted white, so clean it shines. You retreat there when a situation is beyond your control and no other action can be taken—retreat there, and wait for the storm to rage into exhaustion, for the moment you can step out and ask the heavens: Is that all you’ve got? The moment you can say: Give me your worst, I’ll take it. So, retreat to your hurricane room, and wait for your nerves to come back. They’ll come back to you, and then you’ll stick your thumb into this man’s eye. Until then, lock the door, Sid. For God’s sake, lock the door.
“What would dear Moneypenny think, if she could see you now? Her shiny new toy, to replace all the toys she’s lost, but you’re broken out of the box. Bête noire of the world’s terrorists and criminals?” He laughed. “You’re just a scared little boy, hoping Mother will come along and save him—and knowing she never will.”
The hurricane door burst open. The storm was coming in.
Bashir kicked out, aiming for the colonel’s groin. The colonel caught his ankle, and hurled him against the wall. Bashir hit the floor.
He was trying to shift his arms when the colonel stamped on Bashir’s solar plexus, with all the pressure he’d give a cockroach.
Bashir almost blacked out.
When the colonel knelt down on his chest, the weight was an ocean. Bashir tried to buck and thrash, but he could not move the monster an inch—he could not move.
Hands like giant pink crabs closed around his throat.
He could not scream.
The walls of Bashir’s hurricane room caved in. She was dead. He had failed her. He could not move, could not breathe, could not scream. He was a child, screaming from night terrors after his mum’s funeral. There was a malevolent ghost squatting on his chest. For all he’d prayed, it was not his mum’s spirit that returned to comfort him, but something vicious and hateful, and his mum did not cross over to save him.
This is how he would die. A child again. A failure. Alone.
As the light faded, Bashir noticed a tattoo spread over the colonel’s chest and neck. A death’s-head hawk moth. His mother had designed her garden to attract butterflies and taught Bashir their names. Must report the tattoo to M, Bashir thought, and then laughed at himself. The moth’s wings fluttered as the cords in the colonel’s neck bulged, and then began to flap as the colonel started to pant, not from any exertion—he batted away Bashir’s protests—but from pleasure. The moth came closer. It wanted to smother him. The monster seemed to want to drink his last gasp. The fingers squeezed. Bashir could not breathe. He could not breathe.
A single gunshot.
The moth panicked, wings hot against his face, and then reared away.
Bashir gasped, swallowing the bitter smell of gunpowder.
The colonel lay on his side next to Bashir. Blood pooled under him, warming Bashir’s fingers back to life.
Air rushed into him. His stomach folded inside out. His nerves blazed. He sat up.
003 stepped through the smoke.
Bashir rested his head against the wall. Breathed out. Tried to laugh. “I’m here to rescue you.”
Harwood smiled back at him. “I can see that.”
She put out her hand. Bashir’s skin crawled as he moved his arm, took her hand, and got shakily to his feet. He looked over her shoulder. The steel door was open, revealing a room with no windows, a chair with restraints hanging from the back, a table with a box of used syringes, and a man lying on the floor, bleeding from the temple.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said.
Her eyes glittered in the half-light. “I thought you might.”
“You got any plans this evening?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“How about breakfast in Istanbul?”