The Birth of Evil: A Short Story

frostbitten

The Birth Of Evil

A Bedtime Story

"Face it, James. When it comes to true vengefulness and cruelty, males have nothing on us females. There's a reason why people say "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned", the young woman with the perfect cafe au lait skin cooed as she swung one long, toned leg over Bond and turned her body to rest her head on his shoulder. The scent of her shampoo, a tangy mix of orange zest and mango, filled his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply. Beneath the aroma, he could detect the faint smell of her sweat, a reminder of their recent vigorous love-making, and Bond found the mixture of scents and memories intoxicating.

On the small black-and-white television perched on the small rattan dresser at the foot of the Queen Anne bed, the end credits of a movie were rolling slowly upward. The film was one of those potboilers that seemed tailor-made for late-night slots in the television schedule of every country on earth, and told the story of an abandoned woman who took grisly revenge on her philandering husband and his much-younger mistress. This kind of movie was not Bond's cup of tea, but he had not been concentrating on the plot, but rather on the more pleasant aspects of femininity as displayed by his companion, the delectable Jacquie Tremelle.

"My dear Jacquie," Bond replied while running his right hand through the chestnut curls of her frisee hair, "when it comes to cruelty toward another human being, members of both sexes are equally adept. It just takes the right provocation to bring the claws out of even the meekest person."

"Oh really? Do I sense another of your stories coming?", Jacquie said facetiously. "I just love your stories. They always take me to new, exciting places. Places far away from this boring island..."

"I wouldn't call Jamaica boring. Many people would love to spend their lives here", Bond observed.

"Well, when you've been here all your life, and the island is all you've ever known, you tend to have a different view of it. Anyway, I believe you were going to tell me a tale about human cruelty?", Jacquie turned her brown eyes toward Bond and gave him the look of a child waiting for her bedtime story.

"All right", Bond sighed, " but don't blame me if you become depressed afterward."

"I'm not worried", Jacquie giggled. "I know you can always cheer me up with, you know, the things that you can do". She made it clear to Bond with her eyes and her body what "things" she was referring to. He gave her an affectionate slap on her bare, delicious buttocks, and she responded with a yelp of fake pain, followed by another of her trademark, child-like giggles. Bond had to smile at the face that she made. Then, his eyes drifted upward, toward the slowly spinning ceiling fan that was pushing wisps of cool air down on their naked, entwined bodies. He gazed at the fan blades without really seeing them, as his mind's eye wandered back across the years to a place far removed from the warm, cozy Jamaican hideaway he was sharing with the French-Nigerian beauty next to him.


In the Land of the Midnight Sun

It was strange, James Bond thought, to go to bed at night with the sun shining brightly outside one's window, only to wake up the following morning and see it at exactly the same spot in the sky. Nature was not supposed to work this way, he reflected somewhat angrily. He had not been able to get a decent night's sleep ever since arriving at Kulkinnen, a tiny speck of a town only a couple of miles away from the Finno-Russian border.

Being located at the northern tip of Finland, well above the Arctic Circle, Kulkinnen enjoyed summer days that lasted 73 times longer than the 24-hour days that were the norm in most parts of the world. "It took me a whole week to get used to sleeping with the bloody sunlight pouring into my room from everywhere", 004, who had been to Kulkinnen before, told Bond. "The best advice I can give you is to tape up all the windows with newspapers. Otherwise, you might as well kiss sleep good-bye. For a few days, anyway."

"Thanks for the tip", Bond had replied, and then promptly forgotten his colleague's words of wisdom. Now, he wished he had taken the man's advice more seriously.

A discreet knock on the bedroom door brought Bond's mind back to the present. Wearily, he got up from the narrow bed and walked bare-footed across the small, sparsely furnished room. He opened the door. Outside stood his host, a tall, bookish man in his mid-thirties. He had a very pale complexion, which made the mop of unkempt red hair on top of his head all the more garish. His steel-rimmed spectacles, well-worn tweed coat with the leather elbow patches, and brown khaki pants that looked like they had never been touched by an iron, made him look like the absent-minded professor from some children's tale.

"Didn't wake you, did I?", enquired Charles Billings, MI6's field agent in Kulkinnen. "If we want to get to the rendezvous on time, we'd better get ready to leave in half an hour."

"I can only be awakened if I'd been sleeping", Bond answered with enough sarcasm in his voice that Billings had to laugh.

"Look on the bright side, 007. At least you had plenty of time last night to think about what to do once we get to the border. Anyway, the first couple of nights are the worst. Tonight, you'll sleep like a baby. Wait and see", Billings said without much conviction. Then, he turned and shuffled away down the hall, leaving Bond alone once again.

As he got dressed, Bond thought about the upcoming meeting. It was a rather routine affair, and when M had first told him about the assignment, Bond had protested.

"With all due respect, M, I don't think this is a job for a Double-O. Can't Head of Section F handle it?"

"His father just passed away, so Andrews is back in England to take care of the funeral. You know the rules. Defections must be handled jointly by the local field agent and a high-ranking officer from either the Branch or Central HQ. Since you'll be finishing up your training exercise in Helsinki around that time, I believe you are the natural candidate to take Andrews' place and oversee the crossover", M told him.

Bond had hoped to take a couple of days off after his training camp to visit a woman he knew in Helsinki, a leggy, blonde stewardess who had a soft spot for mysterious, good-looking men with a British accent. Now that the plan had gone up in smoke, he was deeply disappointed. However, he hid his disappointment well, since he knew that M really disapproved of his womanizing ways. Things had been simpler when his superior had been a man.

"Our man in Kulkinnen, a chap by the name of Billings, has planned out everything to the last detail. He has been in frequent contact with the defector, Yuri Varilenko, a young and brilliant scientist who has become disenchanted with how most of the research grants in the Soviet Union have been funneled into military programs", M continued with her briefing. "Billings also knows exactly when and where the crossing will be made. All you have to do is accompany him to the border, make sure that everything goes smoothly, collect Varilenko and escort him back to England."

A babysitting job, Bond thought as he now headed downstairs to join Charles Billings at the breakfast table. That's what this assignment boils down to, a damn babysitting job. Hardly the kind of mission that requires the presence of someone with his very specialised skill set. Bond felt like a stork, sent out to pick up a baby and deliver it into the lap of Mother England.

"Ah, there you are. Come, let's finish breakfast quickly. We have to get to the rendezvous place and do a quick sweep of the grounds before Varilenko shows up," Billings said, full of enthusiasm. It was obvious this was the man's first major operation, something that he was personally responsible for, and he could barely contain his excitement.

Bond, on the other hand, could barely disguise his boredom. "Relax. I have done this before. And thanks, but I'm not feeling hungry. Perhaps we should just get going."

"Well, at least you should have a drink to warm yourself up. Here, have a glass of Charles' famous Glogi," a woman spoke.

Bond turned around and found himself looking at Petra Silvan's smiling face. He had seen a lot of Ms. Silvan, Charles Billings' girlfriend, over the last couple of days, but every time he set eyes upon her, Bond was still impressed by her natural beauty. She wore almost no make-up, and still looked like a Hollywood starlet. In fact, her face and slim figure reminded Bond of a young Vivien Leigh, when she was playing the role of Scarlett O'Hara.

"Take it," she again offered Bond the glass of warm, cinnamon-flavored red wine. "It's a Christmas drink, but Charles loves it so much, I make it for him almost every day. Try it. It's really quite good, you know."

"Oh for God's sake, Petra, don't force the man to drink it if he doesn't want to," Billings chimed in. "You can give it to me. I won't turn it down." He walked over, took the glass from her and planted a loud kiss on her cheek.

Looking at the two of them together, Bond couldn't help wondering what it was that she saw in this tall, awkward man? What attracted her to him? They looked like the classic case of Beauty and the Beast. However, Bond believed that such couples only existed in fairy tales, and even there, the Beast was a king who had been transformed. For the life of him, Bond couldn't figure out what Charles Billings' kingdom was.

frostbitten

Petra, though, didn't seem to mind that her lover was more Pauper than Prince. She returned his kiss, and straightened out the collar of his jacket.

"Off you go, you two", she said cheerily. "Be sure to get home by noon, though. I'm making Karelian lamb stew today, and it won't taste so good when it's cold."

"Isn't she the sweetest thing?", Billings said to Bond. Then he gave Petra a bear hug: "You're too good for me. I don't deserve you, really I don't."

"I know that. Now go, before you talk me into leaving you," she said with a mischievous smile, and pretended to shove him out the door.

Bond was relieved when he and Billings finally left the house. He didn't know how much more of this saccharine lovers' banter he could take. This scene of domestic bliss was starting to bring back memories that he had kept buried deep in the back of his mind. It wasn't as if he didn't cherish the memories of his time with Tracy. However, he had to be careful with them. He could only afford to bring them to the surface when he was in the right state of mind, and had the time to reflect upon and enjoy them while still having the emotional strength to deal with the painful memories that inevitably came next. That meant Bond would never allow himself to think about his greatest love and loss when he was on a mission.

They got in Billings' old Audi and drove in silence through most of Kulkinnen. The town consisted of a few blocks of buildings, most of them dating back to the early 1900's. There was only one main street, the one that they were on, and almost all the places of interest were lined up along this street. From his front passenger's seat, Bond could see a church, a couple of restaurants, and a few shops. He believed it would take someone less time to do a complete tour of Kulkinnen than to have a dinner in one of the local restaurants.

"Do you think she will ever leave me?"

"I beg your pardon?", Bond asked. He was taken completely by surprise by Billings' unexpected and strange question.

"Back at the house, Petra and I were joking around, and she said something about leaving. You heard her. She wasn't serious, of course, but those words somehow stuck in my mind."

"Don't be so paranoid, man," Bond chided him. "You two are obviously happy together. I believe she loves you as much as you love her."

"Does she? I wonder why sometimes. Just look at us. I'm sure you know what I'm getting at. She looks like she just stepped out of the silver screen down at the local movie theatre, and I, well, I'm no Clark Gable, if you know what I mean."

"It's not all about looks. Perhaps she sees the goodness in you. Maybe you make her feel more special than anybody else ever did. I don't know. All I know is you should not sell yourself short. You must love yourself before you can expect anyone else to love you."

Billings pondered all this for a moment. Then he said: "I suppose you're right. Well, if nothing else, at least nobody else can ever love her as much as I do. She is my whole world, Bond. I don't know what I would do if she ever decides to leave me."

Bond didn't know what to say to that, so he stayed silent, giving Billings the freedom to take the conversation wherever he wanted to from there.

A couple of minutes passed. When he spoke again, Billings' tone had softened. He spoke in a happy, slightly excited, manner.

"Let me tell you about how we first met, Petra and I. I had been living in Kulkinnen for just over a year. I had settled into a rather comfortable routine. During the day, I worked as a math teacher at the local high school. That was my cover. I had majored in Applied Mathematics, so this was easy work for me. At night, I put on my "spy" hat", he winked at Bond. "I communicated with a couple of moles that MI6 had in Russia. They gave me information, nothing too earth-shattering, since they both were in the middle echelons of the KGB, and didn't have the top-level clearance. For my part, I passed on to them MI6's requests for information, and informed them of any change in when and where the payments were delivered. It was pretty much a long-distance operation. We only had to meet face-to-face on a few occasions, and that was not a big deal either. Since Finland and Russia had signed the YYA Treaty - the so-called Pact of Friendship, Cooperation, and Mutual Assistance - relations between the two countries were good, or at least better than those between Russia and any other non-communist, neighboring country. The border between Finland and Russia was not very heavily guarded, especially here in Kulkinnen. There's a low but rather steep mountain range running along the Russian side of the border, which acts as a kind of natural wall, so the Russians don't even patrol a section of the border that starts a couple of miles south of Kulkinnen and ends about one mile north. That's why MI6 decided to station me here. The Russian moles know a trail that cuts through the mountain. It's rugged but manageable for someone who's in good physical shape and knows a bit about mountaineering. That's the path they always took when we had to meet. By the way, that's also Varilenko's escape route today. We are going to pick him up at the Finnish entrance to the trail.

Anyway, let me get back to my story. It was a rather comfortable existence for me. Comfortable, but dull. I was lonely, sure, but I was kept occupied most of the time by my teaching job and my MI6 duties. I certainly wasn't looking to start a long-term relationship. But things always happen when you least expect them to. I've been coming to this restaurant called The Crazy Lobster - you might remember seeing it when we were driving through the town - every Friday and Saturday nights ever since I've been in Kulkinnen. It's a seafood place, and it's the only restaurant in town that serves a decent fish'n'chips. I know the owner and all the staff members there by name. Then one Friday night, I was sitting at my usual table near the fireplace. The restaurant was packed with the usual crowd of timber mill workers and young couples out on date nights. I was looking around for Immie, the pleasant, middle-aged waitress who was on duty every Friday, when I saw this ... angel walking toward me. She was wearing this ill-fitting blue dress with a white, gravy-stained apron in front, which was the uniform that all the waitresses at The Crazy Lobster wore. She was carrying a tray full of dishes over one shoulder, and her face showed every bit of the strain that she was under, handling that heavy load while dealing with the abuse from a bunch of fat slobs who thought that their dinners should have been delivered yesterday. And you know what? I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I couldn't even speak when she came over to take my order. It took me several tries to ask for a poached salmon! I still don't know how I worked up the courage to wait for her outside the restaurant that night, in the freezing snow. When her shift got over and she came out, I walked up to her and told her that she was the loveliest lady I'd ever met, and asked if she would give me the honour of taking her out on a date the following Saturday night. To my amazement, instead of slapping me in the face, she actually thought about it, then said: "All right, but only because you look like a nice, kind-hearted man. And let's go out for lunch first, and see how it goes."

Well, surprisingly enough, it went well, and she agreed to another lunch date, then another. Pretty soon, we moved on to the next level, which was dinner, and soon after that, dinner and a movie. In the process, she told me about her life, and it was a rather sad story.

She had been born into a middle-class family. Her father was an Army man, a real disciplinarian, and her mother was a housewife. Dad was always very strict with her, and disapproved of every boy that she ever brought home. This, of course, only ensured that as soon as she turned eighteen, she ran away from home with a hip, fast-talking photographer. The guy worked for a women's fashion magazine, and talked her into believing that if she went with him, he would make her the next supermodel, and she would be able to live the high life, flying to Milan and Paris to headline fashion shows, and having people falling all over themselves to take her pictures and ask for her autographs. What naive, pretty young thing with a rebellious streak wouldn't fall for an offer like that?

Well, they did have a pretty good time together for a while. He did get her some gigs as the model in some local department stores' advertisements. They went around the country, doing fashion shoots and spending every penny they earned as if there were no tomorrow. Then one day, they came to Kulkinnen for a romantic weekend getaway. It was here that young Petra made the cardinal mistake of telling her photographer that she was madly in love with him, and wanted to settle down, give up her burgeoning career, become his trophy wife and give him a couple of rugrats to play with after his hard days at the office taking pictures of beautiful women. Well, that was just too horrible of a future for our playboy to sign up for, so the cad left her. He just up and left her when she was sleeping in their hotel room, without leaving so much as a note apologising for running out on her. So there she was, waking up alone in a strange town, without any money, or even enough warm clothings to survive in the harsh winter here. She probably could have hitchhiked her way back to Daddy, fallen to her knees in front of him and asked for his forgiveness. But Petra was just too proud for that. So she went around the tiny town, looking for a job and a place to stay. Every shop that she went to turned her down. Then, at her wits' end, Petra wandered into The Crazy Lobster. It just so happened that one of the girls working there had just quit to go have a career as a cancan dancer in Helsinki. So when Oskari, the owner, saw this beautiful nineteen-year-old come in to apply for a job, he realised that having such an attractive waitress walking around his restaurant could only help business, and he immediately took her in. Still, the man was a shark. He knew that Petra was in a desperate situation, so he offered her a deal that only someone in her position would accept: work for room and board only. For every back-breaking twelve-hour day that she worked for him, she got to eat the left-over food, and spend the night in the minuscule attic above the restaurant. That was still a damn sight better than starving, freezing in the street, or selling her body for food and shelter, so she jumped at his offer. She had been working and living at The Crazy Lobster for only a week when I met her."

"Poor girl", Bond observed. "I can see why she would be very grateful when a stranger showed up, treated her nicely and didn't take advantage of her situation."

Billings took a long look at Bond, and said: "You look like a man of the world, Bond, and I suppose that by your standards, Petra and I were behaving like a couple of hopelessly old-fashioned prudes. We didn't even sleep together until three months later. But I was glad we took it slow, because it gave both of us a chance to really get to know the other person without sex getting in the way and blinding us with the fires of passion. And I couldn't be happier with how things turned out, because I feel like I have found not just a lover, but a soul mate."

Bond had stayed mostly silent, listening to the man go on and on about his courtship of Petra, but he was not bored as he had half expected to be. Instead, he found Billings' love story rather charming in its innocence. Perhaps, Bond thought, after a lifetime of walking through a world that did its best to turn him into a jaded cynic, he had stumbled upon the proof that true, uncomplicated love could indeed survive, and even thrive, and nice guys didn't always have to finish last.

"Congratulations, my friend. You are a lucky man, but then again, you took charge and created your own luck. So you deserve every bit of happiness that you're enjoying. So relax, feel good about yourself, be confident, and Petra will never leave you."

"Thank you. I hope you're right. Besides, I do intend to make more out of my life. I won't be doing this forever, and Petra will not be stuck in this town for the rest of her life. After I've achieved some success in MI6, I intend to move into the field of diplomacy. Hopefully, one day, I will become an ambassador to a foreign country. Then, Petra can have the life that she deserves, living in the ambassador's mansion, with a staff of servants catering to her every need."

"That's a very nice dream," Bond told him. "Keep working hard and, who knows, you may one day be living your dream."

frostbitten

A Taste of Fear

The Audi finally came to a stop in front of an abandoned farmhouse. As he got out of the car, Bond took a quick look around him. The building in front of him looked like it had not been lived in for a long time. The front door was slightly ajar, and some of the shutters had fallen off the windows. The front yard was overgrown with weeds. About fifty yards to one side of the main building stood a barn, with its doors wide open. It was probably vacant, just like the house itself.

Beyond the house was a wide, empty field that extended about a quarter of a mile north before running into a dense forest populated by tall, thick pine trees. The Finno-Russian border here was marked by a low fence that ran through the field about mid-way between the farmhouse and the forest on the Russian side. Behind the forest, a mountain range rose up like a windscreen that shielded the rest of Russia from prying Western eyes. There were some signs that were hung at regular intervals along the fence to announce, in both Russian and Finnish, that this was a boundary between two countries. Other than that, there was nothing distinctive about this stretch of the border. There were no guard towers, no barbed wire, and no soldiers on patrol accompanied by growling dobermans.

"Come inside," Billings called out to Bond from one of the open windows. He had gone into the house while Bond was doing the quick survey of the grounds.

As Bond walked through the door, he found himself in a space that was part living room, part dining room. The furniture consisted of an old couch with torn cushions, a couple of dirty wingback chairs, and a pine dining set. "This is where I always waited for the Russians when we had to meet face-to-face," Billings said. "The house really came in handy for winter-time meetings. Look, there's even a working fireplace."

The tall MI6 agent then walked across the room and opened up a window, which gave an unobstructed view of the field behind the house, the border, and the forest beyond. Then he pulled a couple of wooden chairs from the dining set and placed them in front of the window. He sat down and motioned to Bond to come join him.

"Might as well make ourselves comfortable while we're waiting. Shouldn't be too much longer now. He should be here within the next thirty minutes."

"Tell me more about this Varilenko," Bond asked as he took out a pair of Zeiss binoculars from his coat pocket and started scanning the tree line of the forest.

"Well, he's your typical Russian scientist. Graduated from high school, at the top of his class, when he was only twelve years old. When you're a prodigy in the good old USSR, the State really takes care of you. He got a scholarship to attend the prestigious Moscow State University, where he studied under some of the brightest scientific minds the Soviet Union has ever produced. He was a part of the research team in the Material Sciences Department who created a new superalloy that was ten times lighter than aluminum, yet a hundred times stronger. This achievement earned Varilenko a job in a top-secret research project sponsored by the Russian Department of Defense. The goal of this project was reportedly to create the next-generation Soviet fighter plane, one that could fly higher and faster than any aircraft in existence. However, Varilenko apparently wanted the fruits of his labor to be used for commercial purposes, to better the lives of the long-suffering Soviet people, rather than to build yet another machine designed for war and destruction. Rumours of his discontent were picked up by our moles inside the Soviet Union, and they soon contacted him and put the idea of defection into his head. After several months of courtship, they were finally able to convince him to attempt an escape to the West. So, here we are. I dare say that if we can get him safely back to England, we would have scored one of the greatest successes in the history of MI6," Billings proudly concluded.

Bond did another sweep of the tree line with his binoculars. Suddenly, his hands stopped as his eyes spotted a lone figure emerging from the trees: “I believe our Russian friend is here.”

“Let me see!” Billings exclaimed as he seized the binoculars from Bond’s hands. He took one look through the lenses and shouted: “That’s him! That’s Varilenko! The man actually made it through the mountains. Not bad for an academic!”

He started to run outside, but Bond held him back. “No. Stay here! Let’s wait inside until he gets a bit closer.”

“Why? He might think that there’s no one here to meet him. We should show ourselves.”

“What is he going to do? Turn around and head back to Moscow because he doesn’t see a welcoming party? I don’t think so. Trust me. I’ve handled a few of these operations before.”

Billings didn’t look convinced, but he stayed next to Bond. They watched as Varilenko continued making his way across the empty field. He was dragging his feet slightly, and his back was bent under the weight of his backpack. The man was big, and apparently in good shape, but the long, taxing hike through the mountains had obviously taken its toll on him.

As the Russian came to within a few feet of the fence marking the border, Billings could no longer contain himself. He ran out the front door and waved his arms wildly in the air, shouting: “Hey Yuri! I’m here! Welcome to the West, Comrade!”

The Russian stopped and looked up. His face broke into a wide grin, as happiness shone through his mask of exhaustion. He waved back, and started to walk quickly toward the fence.

The rifle shot sounded like the loud cracking of a whip. Varilenko stopped in his track, as his body jerked once, and a hole appeared as if by magic on the front of his parka. Thick drops of blood, mixed with bits of flesh and clothings, spewed forth from the orifice. The scientist stared down at it, his eyes wide, incredulous, his brain not quite comprehending the grievous damage that had been inflicted upon him. Slowly, he looked upward, his eyes fixed on the border sign, the sign of freedom, just a few feet ahead of him. Then the second shot blew out the back of his head, and he toppled forward, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Sniper! Get back here!” Bond yelled, while launching himself forward, grabbing Billings by the arm and yanking him back into the house. A third shot blew up a cloud of dirt from the spot where Billings had been standing a split second before.

“Oh God! They killed him! But how…? How did they find out?” Billings stammered, his eyes wild. He was obviously still in shock over what happened in the last thirty seconds. His mind was still reeling from the two traumatic experiences: his first time seeing a man shot and killed, and also his first time being shot at himself.

“Get a grip on yourself,” Bond hissed. “And keep your head down, or you’ll get it blown off! This sniper is a good shot.”

He had seen the sunlight reflected off the scope of the sniper’s rifle just as the first shot came, and Bond knew the killer was hidden behind a thick pine tree almost directly in front of the window that he and Billings had been standing at. His mind raced as he quickly formulated a plan of counter-attack.

“Listen to me carefully! Did you bring a gun?” Bond asked.

“Y… Yes. I brought this,” Billings fumbled in his coat and pulled out a Colt Python. Despite the dangerous situation that they found themselves in, Bond almost laughed out loud. It’s almost comical how some amateurs who can barely handle firearms always go for the biggest, most powerful guns.

“How many bullets did you bring?”

“Three clips,” Billings answered. He had calmed down a bit by now.

“Good. Now, here is what I want you to do. The sniper is behind that tree straight ahead. On my signal, I want you to give me some covering fire. Don’t worry if you can’t actually hit him. I just want you to pin him down while I try to flank him. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try,” Billings said bravely, even though his hands still trembled as he held the gun in a double-handed grip.

Bond positioned himself next to the front door, Walther PPK in hand. He knew he was about to place his life in Billings’ hands, and the thought made him quite nervous. He just hoped that the man could be reasonably accurate with his shots so that the sniper would have to respect them. Otherwise, Bond would be a sitting duck as he tried to make his way to the tree line.

“Now!” Bond yelled as he jumped outside and broke into a crouching, zigzagging run, heading toward the empty barn. One rifle shot rang out, and Bond was quite relieved when he felt no impact. Then, he heard Billings opening up with the Python. Judging by the fact that no more rifle shot came after that, he guessed that the man was doing a commendable job keeping the sniper pinned down. Of course, he nurtured no false hope that Billings had actually killed the gunman, since that would be impossible for someone other than an expert marksman to do with a revolver at that range.

Bond counted Billings’ shots as he ran. He had to make sure that he reached the cover of the barn before the man ran out of ammunition and had to reload. When Bond reached his target, he took a moment to gulp in some air and slow his heartbeat down, preparing himself for the next long sprint that would, hopefully, take him to the fence.

As soon as Billings started firing again, Bond bolted out into the open and ran as fast as he could. He made it to the fence and flattened himself on the ground. His heart was beating so hard that it seemed on the verge of bursting out of his chest at any moment. He struggled mightily to catch his breath. Bond was in very good shape, but at moments like these, he found himself wishing that he didn’t have his nasty, chain-smoking habit.

Billings had started firing his last clip of ammunition. It was now or never if Bond wanted to get to the tree line, so he sprang up, dove head-first over the fence, rolled once on the ground and came up running. It seemed to take an eternity but he finally made it to the trees, barely before Billings ran out of ammo. Bond fell to the ground, completely spent. His lungs were on fire, and his heart felt as though it was going to give out on him.

It took him a couple of minutes to get back to a state where he could start to move again. Then, Bond got up and slowly inched forward, PPK at the ready. He quickly reoriented himself, and moved in a direction that would take him to the sniper’s position. However, when he got there, the sniper was nowhere to be found.

Bond cursed himself for underestimating his opponent. This man is smart, and I’ve walked right into his trap, Bond thought. At that moment, the dreaded rifle shot came, and the bullet whizzed by so close to Bond’s ear that he could feel its heat as it went by. He immediately dropped to the ground and stayed completely still. He silently counted his blessings because he knew that the trap had been laid out perfectly, and it was only by sheer luck that he was still alive.

Slowly turning his head, Bond realised that today, Lady Luck was definitely on his side. On his right, a few feet away, was a large boulder, which would shield him from the sniper’s view. That meant the sniper couldn’t get a clean shot at him and, furthermore, he probably didn’t see the bullet hit the ground after missing Bond. All that the Russian would have seen through his scope would be Bond dropping face-first to the ground right after he pulled the trigger. For all he knew, Bond could already be dead. However, Bond didn’t expect this sniper to just leave because his opponent might have been killed. Bond believed he knew exactly the type of man he was dealing with: a smart, confident hotshot who was probably very proud of his skills and took pleasure in his deadly work. Such a man would not consider the battle over until he had confirmed his kill beyond the shadow of a doubt. In fact, Bond was counting on his opponent doing just that. So he lay perfectly still and waited for the Russian to come and check on him. That was the only way he could hope to even the odds, armed as he was with only a PPK, and going up against a skilled marksman with a Mosin-Nagant rifle with a range of 2000 yards.

As Bond waited for the sniper to come, fear came into his mind, then seemed to spread throughout his body. It dried his mouth up, and its presence was so strong that he could almost taste it. However, Bond welcomed the fear because, as long as he didn't allow it to paralyze his mind and body, it would actually activate his instinct of self-preservation, and hone all of his senses to a razor-sharp edge. Thus, Bond waited, bathed in his own cold sweat, alert to any change, no matter how small, in the environment around him. He knew that once the enemy arrived, he had only one chance to use the element of surprise in his favour and get off the first, and hopefully deciding, shot.

The end of the cat-and-mouse game came quickly, without prior warning. The Russian sniper had, quietly and skillfully, crept up behind Bond. When he saw Bond lying on the ground, immobile, and still unaware of his proximity, a wicked smile appeared across his face. He slowly stood up, brought up his weapon, and took a step forward to get a clear shot at Bond's head. However, his combat boot came down on a willow warbler's nest, hidden underneath some dense weeds. The cracking of broken eggs was followed by the distinctive descending whistle of the mother bird. Enraged by the destruction of her unborn children, the willow warbler launched herself at the face of the sniper, her sharp beak aiming for his eyes, forcing him to bring one hand up to protect himself. Meanwhile, alerted by the bird's whistle, Bond spun around on the ground with the Walther pointing upward. The Russian, by that time, had swatted the bird away from his face, and started to bring the rifle down to target Bond, but he was too late. The PPK spoke twice, with authority, and the sniper spun around and went down hard, with a third eye in his forehead and a hole in his neck both gushing blood.

Bond stood up, and wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. A guardian angel must be watching over me today, he thought. Twice within the last five minutes, Fate had intervened and saved Bond's life, allowing him to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. I must be losing my touch, Bond thought angrily. Perhaps I have taken this assignment too lightly, and have not prepared myself mentally as I normally would. Well, I won't make that mistake again, Bond silently vowed as he started making his way back across the border.

frostbitten

The Black Rose

When they got home, Billings made a quick call on a scrambled line to London to report that the mission was a failure. Then, he locked himself up in the small den, and didn't even answer when Petra knocked on the door and tried to talk to him. Bond understood what the man was going through and left him alone. He could see that Billings had developed a liking for the Russian Varilenko, and probably felt personally responsible for his death.

It wasn't until early the next morning when Billings came out of the room. He had fallen asleep, and now that he was awake, he felt a splitting headache. Dazed, in pain and hungry, he wandered to the kitchen to get a drink and something to eat. The house was eerily silent. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. It was five A.M. Everybody must still be sound asleep, he thought.

When he opened the door to the kitchen, Billings was surprised to see Bond sitting at the dining table, nursing a glass of brandy. Every window in the small kitchen was covered with wooden blinds, which were only partly open, so the room was dimly lit.

"Why are you up so early?", Billings asked as he walked in and turned on the overhead light.

"I haven't been sleeping," Bond answered absent-mindedly.

"The sunlight still bothering you?", Billings said, then gasped as Bond turned to face him. On the right side of Bond's head was a cut, about three inches long, that started below his ear and ran downward, parallel to the jaw line. If the cut had been a bit lower, it would have severed Bond's carotid artery. A bandage had been roughly applied over the wound, but some blood had still seeped through.

"My God, what happened to you?" Billings exclaimed.

"Oh this?" Bond pointed toward the injury. "Just a little souvenir of my encounter with an old friend from the KGB last night."

"KGB? What are you talking about?" Then Billings' eyes widened with fear. "Petra, where is she? Is she ...?"

"She's fine," Bond reassured him. "Probably still sleeping in the master bedroom. Don't worry. The KGB man didn't come here. I met him when I went out last night, after you had fallen asleep."

"It seems a lot has happened while I was sleeping. Tell me, what did I miss?" Billings pulled out a chair and sat down.

Bond took another sip of brandy, and looked at Billings with a distant, vaguely troubled look in his blue-gray eyes. It appeared to Billings that 007 was trying to find a way to tell him some particularly bad news.

"What is it? You look like you're about to tell me I only have a month to live," Billings laughed at his own joke. "Come on, out with it. Whatever it is that you have to tell me, I'm a big boy and I can take it."

Instead of answering him, Bond put a photograph on the table and slid it across the cherrywood surface toward the other man.

"What's this? Where did you get this?" It was a photo of a man and a woman. Even though the latter wore a scarf tied around her head, and black sunglasses that covered half of her face, Billings immediately recognised that the woman was none other than Petra. However, he didn't recognise the man who was with her. He was tall, rail-thin, with a narrow, cruel-looking face.

"I took the picture myself," Bond replied. When Billings gave him a puzzled look, he continued:

"Soon after you had locked yourself in the den, I saw Petra leaving the house from my bedroom window. I thought it rather strange that she left without saying anything. Also, she had her scarf and sunglasses on, and it looked to me as if she didn’t want to be recognised. So I followed her. She went to The Crazy Lobster. At first, I thought she was going inside to talk to the owner. However, she actually went around to the back of the restaurant, where she met up with the man you see in the photo. I thought he looked familiar, and it took me a moment to recall where I’d seen him before."

Bond stopped to light a cigarette, while Billings waited, his face showing a mixture of rapt attention and the look of someone dreading what he was about to hear.

"Our friend’s name is Vladimir Sarkovsky. He was one of the best assassins the KGB machine has ever produced. I was once called in to assist in an emergency operation when MI6 was trying to track down the killer of an English diplomat stationed in West Berlin. A witness had managed to snap a picture of the killer as he was making his escape on a motorbike after shooting the diplomat right in front of his house. That photo was not of the highest quality, but it still showed the killer’s face clearly enough, and he was unmistakably Sarkovsky. We almost caught up with him, but at the last minute, he managed to slip away into East Berlin just before I and 005 could gun him down."

Billings looked again at the photo lying on the table, showing Petra and the KGB hitman. What was it that Bond detected in the poor man’s eyes? Sadness and despair, certainly, but was there also a hint of building anger, the first raindrops that were nothing but a forewarning of the coming thunderstorm?

"When I saw Petra having a rendezvous with this assassin, I knew I’d better give you some proof of their meeting, so I took this picture. I’m sure Sarkovsky is not here for sightseeing. Probably news of the sniper’s death have reached the Kremlin, and the KGB brass are not all too pleased with this development. Snipers of that caliber don’t grow on trees, and I’m sure they want some kind of revenge for his death. Sarkovsky was probably sent here to settle the score, and he was undoubtedly going to pay me a visit if I didn’t get to him first."

"So you killed him? And what about Petra? Did you find out anything about her role in all of this?" Billings asked in a rush.

Bond held up a hand telling the man to slow down.

"After a few minutes, Petra left," Bond continued. "Sarkovsky was going to get into his car, but I wasn’t about to let him slip through my fingers a second time. I confronted him, and held him at gunpoint. He started spilling the beans, probably to buy himself some time to think of a way to get me rather than out of fear that I was going to kill him. The b@stard almost succeeded, too. As I began to pay more attention to his story than him, he suddenly slashed at me with a knife that seemed to come from nowhere. Now that I think about it, he must have worn it in a spring-loaded scabbard concealed inside his sleeve. A flick of the wrist would be all that's needed to deliver the knife into his hand. He managed to cut me, and if he had struck about an inch lower, we wouldn't be having this conversation now. Anyway, he missed the vital area, and I didn't give him a chance to try again. I got him in the gut with my first bullet. It took him a few moments to die, and it must have been a painful death."

Bond paused, and gulped down the rest of his brandy.

"I did get some good information from him before he attacked me. Basically, he told me what I’ve suspected all along, that Petra was a swallow."

"A swallow?" Billings was apparently not familiar with the term.

"An operative trained to work as the lure in honey traps," Bond explained. "Our Petra is, apparently, one such operative. She goes by the code name Black Rose and, according to Sarkovsky, is a recent graduate from the school run by the infamous Svetlana Tarasova."

In Bond’s mind, he could again see that low but imposing, Gothic Revival-style building located a few city blocks away from the eastern end of Red Square. The sign above the entrance read "Red Star Ballet Academy", and there was always a constant stream of young, pretty girls walking through the heavy, mahogany double doors. From its outward appearance, the building did fit the popular image of a well-respected, Russian school of dance.

To bring Bond to the school, Sergei Fedoseev, his local contact, had led him through Red Square, past the extravagant GUM department store. As 007 had gazed upon the Red Star Academy, he couldn't help but think about how the wildly contrasting architectures of the conservative, rather somber, post-Revolution school and the ornate GUM store with its magnificent steel and glass roof, built in a czarist time, spoke volumes about the moods and values of the Russian people in those two periods.

"Looks like a regular school to me," he had told Fedoseev, to which the burly guide had replied: "Ah it does, doesn't it? But look more closely, my friend, and you'll see the true nature of the beast. See how the young women who go in and out of that building, although all attractive, represent a wide range of body types? You have the tall, willowy beauties, the petite, delicate charmers, and the curvaceous, Sophia Loren-like sirens. Can all of them be true aspiring ballerinas? You see, ballet schools tend to only accept girls who fit a very specific ideal, namely the Camargo figure."

"The Camargo figure?" Bond had never heard of the phrase.

"Yes, Marie Camargo was a very famous ballerina in the eighteenth century. She was short and slender, had small breasts and narrow hips, and was also extraordinarily successful. She became the reason why young ballerina wannabes the world over wallow in despair once their bodies start growing past five feet five and their breasts and hips start reaching more womanly proportions. Based on this strict ideal, a large number of the "students" of Red Star Academy would have been rejected by any true, self-respecting ballet school."

"Now that you've mentioned it, I do agree that some of these girls, attractive though they may be, don't look like the types who could pull off a grand jete or entrechats," Bond had observed. However, he had also noticed that they did, on the other hand, represent the various cultural definitions of female beauty rather well. The delicate petites of the group would certainly appeal to possible Asian male targets, while the more curvaceous, full-bodied beauties would be very appreciated by men from the Middle Eastern region. One can never fault the Russians for not being thorough and not covering all their bases.

"So who is this Svetlana Tarasova?" Billings' voice pulled 007 back to the present.

"She is the daughter of Irina Tarasova, the famous socialite. In the upper circles of the pre-Revolution Russian society, the Tarasovs were almost as well-known as the Romanovs. Needless to say, this fame only served to bring the wrath of the people down on this family of blue-bloods after the triumph of the Communists. Irina Tarasova and her husband were put in prison, their considerable assets confiscated. However, little Svetlana, cute as a button, reportedly caught the eye of a communist general, who adopted her and raised her as his own daughter. She grew up to be every bit as beautiful as her mother, and men were drawn to her like moths to a flame, just as they had been drawn to Irina. She had many love affairs with important and wealthy men, and one of her lovers was none other than Sergei Kaminsky, a Director of the KGB. He firmly believed that the natural beauty of Soviet women, when properly used, could become a great weapon in the clandestine wars that the KGB was always waging against the enemies of the USSR. Therefore, he talked Svetlana Tarasova into heading up a new school that he had just established to train beautiful young girls to become a new breed of female secret agents, whose weapons are their powers of seduction rather than bullets. Under Svetlana's tutelage, the school, which operated under the cover of being a ballet academy, has produced some of the best swallows in the business."

"And Petra is one of them," Billings spoke up. He buried his face in his hands. "I still can't believe it! The whole tragic story about an unhappy childhood, and being abandoned by her lover..."

"A clever tale, designed to appeal to the romantic notion of chivalry on the part of a lonely, relatively naive and inexperienced British agent," Bond completed the other man's thought. He felt cruel in saying this, but he had to make Billings see things the way they were, without sugarcoating them.

"So, that's how the Russians knew about Varilenko's defection," Billings said, gritting his teeth. "But wait! How did they find out his escape route, and the exact location where he was going to cross the border? I never discussed these things with Petra, and I never took her along whenever I had to meet with the moles."

"They probably intercepted the messages between you and the moles. I assume you were using teletype machines?"

"Yes, but without the appropriate cipher machine or code book, how could they decode the messages? We were using a cipher that, in terms of complexity, is comparable to the Enigma cipher used by the Nazis in the last World War."

"You must have a decoder here, in this house," Bond pointed out.

"Yes, but I always keep it and the code book locked up in a chest in my den, and I keep the key to the chest here," Billings pulled out a locket hanging from a chain that he wore around his neck. "There's no way someone can get the key from the locket without my knowing it, unless ..." his eyes widened as the truth finally hit him.

"Unless what?" Bond asked.

"Unless I'm not wearing the chain," Billings almost shouted. "That's how she did it! After we started having sex, one day Petra told me that the locket always scratched her skin and hurt her whenever we were, you know, doing it, and asked me if I could take the chain off during those times. I said of course I could, and never thought twice about it. I always took it off, and put it back on afterward. However, on a few occasions, I would fall asleep without wearing the chain, and I suppose she could have taken advantage of those occasions to have the key duplicated, or to make a copy of the code book, and then return the original key before I woke up."

"That must have been it," Bond concurred. "Once the KGB got a copy of the code book, it wouldn't take them too long to build a machine to decode the messages that you and your spies were sending to one another. That's how they knew when and where Varilenko was going to make his escape, and were able to send their best sniper to pick him off as he made his crossing."

"The little wh0re!" Billings suddenly exploded. He jumped up, grabbed his chair and threw it across the room. Then he walked over to the wall and drove his right fist into the hard bricks a few times, until the skin over his knuckles split open. Finally, having let off some steam, he collapsed on the living room's sofa. He wrapped his bloodied hand inside his jacket. Then, he started to sob, and his whole body shook uncontrollably, while tears of pain and rage ran down his face.

The outburst came as a shock to Bond, who hadn't thought the meek MI6 agent capable of such fury. You always have to watch out for the quiet ones, he mused, because you never know what they have inside.

"Charles? What's going on down there? What's all that noise?" Petra's voice drifted down from the top of the stairs. She had probably been awakened by the sound of the chair crashing into the wall.

Billings stopped crying at the sound of her voice. He looked up, but Bond was too far away to see the expression on his face. Slowly, he wiped the tears from his face with his good hand. Then he stood up and walked toward the stairs.

As Bond got up to follow, Charles Billings turned around to address him, and 007 was surprised to see that a strange, unnatural calmness had descended upon his face like a mask. The man spoke in an even, almost emotionless voice: "I have to ask a favour of you, Bond. Petra and I are not married, but we have been through a lot together, so I would ask that you let us handle this matter as a problem between man and wife. So no matter what happens next, all I ask of you is to not interfere. Do I have your word that you will respect my wishes?"

Bond didn't know what to say. However, he felt that in a way, the man was right. Billings was the one who had been tricked and cheated, and he was entitled to a chance to sort things out on his own, to see that justice was carried out in the way that he saw fit. So he silently nodded his head, and watched as Billings ascended the stairs.

frostbitten

The Screams of a Rose

Petra was sitting at her make-up table and brushing her hair when Billings entered the master bedroom. He stared at her reflection in the oval mirror. Petra was used to her lover admiring her, but today, something in his eyes told her that admiration was the furthest thing from his mind. Slowly, she put down the brush and turned toward him.

"What is it, Charles? Why the serious look?" she asked, while flashing one of her winning smiles.

"Who are you?" he answered her question with his own.

"What do you mean, who am I?" she laughed. "Are you suffering from a sudden case of amnesia?"

Billings walked up to her and threw the photograph that Bond had given him on the table. As Petra realised what was in the photo, blood drained from her face. She almost panicked, but then managed to regain her composure.

"So, this is what's got you all worked up? You think that I'm having an affair with this guy? Oh Charles, you silly man. This is Jarmo, Oskari's cousin. He sometimes helps manage The Crazy Lobster when Oskari has to go out of town. I just came over to ask for some stuff that I'd left in the attic and forgotten about until now."

"Drop the act, Petra," Billings shouted. "Well, that is not even your real name, is it? Why don't you start by telling me what it is, or would you prefer that I call you Black Rose?"

She flinched when he spat out her code name, but Billings had to give her some credit. The girl is tough, he thought, as she pretended to become angry, playing the part of the innocent maiden whose virtue had been wrongfully called into question.

"Have you gone mad? I don't know why you are acting this way. If this is your idea of a joke, let me tell you, Charles, it is not funny. Not at all, and I want you to stop it, right now."

"Oh, I don't find this humorous either, I can assure you. Look, I know that this man is - actually, I should say was - Vladimir Sarkovsky, a KGB thug. He was sent here to take out Bond, and maybe even me, in retaliation for Bond killing the sniper. So what were you two talking about? Were you giving him the key to our house, and telling him when's the best time to surprise me?" Billings raged. He suddenly grabbed her arm in a vise-like grip that made her wince in pain. "TELL ME!" he bellowed.

"You're hurting me!" she shouted. "Let me go!"

Their voices reached Bond, and he finally decided that he had to do something before Billings went too far. He rushed up the stairs, but as he got to the narrow hallway that led to the master bedroom, 007 saw Billings closing the door.

"No! Wait!" Bond yelled, but the other man slammed the door shut. Then there was a sharp, metallic sound as Billings slid a deadbolt home, locking Petra and himself in the room.

Bond threw himself at the door, hitting it squarely with his shoulder, but the heavy wooden door hardly moved. Like their owners, the houses in this town were a sturdy breed, built to last through decades, maybe even centuries, of unforgiving weather. Bond could feel that this door would stand up to anything that he could throw at it, and knew that the only way he was going to get into the room beyond was if Billings let him in. All he could do now was to watch the drama unfold through a narrow crack between two of the massive oak planks that made up the barrier in front of him.

"Listen to me, Billings," he tried to reason with the man. "Don't do anything foolish. Let me bring her back to MI6 headquarters. We have people who are experts at making prisoners talk, and I guarantee you they'll make her give up her secrets, every last one of them."

However, Billings didn't seem to hear what Bond was saying. He gave Petra a hard shove, and she went flying across the room and fell across the bed. Slowly, he walked toward her, while pulling out the Colt Python that he had kept tucked into his waistband. Almost nonchalantly, he came over and stood towering above her, pointing the huge gun at her head, with the muzzle touching her forehead.

"I'm afraid I am completely ignorant when it comes to the art of interrogation, and how to extract information with skills and finesse. Therefore, I'm just going to have to rely on my trusty, not-so-little friend here. The game's very simple, really. Either you tell me everything I want to know, or I blow your brains out. Now, shall we play?"

"Charles, listen to yourself. You're insane. Please, put away the gun," she begged him. "I'm Petra, and you love me, remember?"

"You're right, I love Petra. However, you are not her. In fact, the woman that I love is dead, and I truly want to kill you for taking her away from me. So if I were you, I would start talking as if my life depended on it, because it does."

Tears started running down Petra's face, as she began to realise how hopeless her situation was. At that moment, she decided whatever information she had was not worth going to her grave for, and words began to come out of her in a rush.

"My name is Ludmilla Veranova, and I'm a KGB agent. My mission was to seduce you and gain your trust in order to get access to confidential MI6 information."

"And you've succeeded brilliantly, by making a copy of my code book and giving it to the KGB, enabling them to break our cipher and decode our secret messages," Billings continued.

"Yes," Ludmilla admitted, "but I didn't know that they were going to kill that scientist. That's the truth, I swear."

Billings ignored her and went on: "What about my contacts in Russia? Did the KGB find out who they were?"

"Yes. Based on the nature of the information that was being leaked out to MI6, the KGB was able to gradually narrow down the list of suspects until they finally figured out the moles' identities."

"So they know about both of them?" Billings asked.

"Yes, they know about Mihailov, and Armenienko."

"Why haven't they been arrested, and even executed?"

"They are still free because the KGB is using them for counter-intelligence purposes. That's Kaminsky's idea. The KGB has been feeding your moles false information for months. MI6 has been getting exactly what Kaminsky wanted them to have."

"Oh God," Billings exclaimed in despair. "All the damages that this false intel must have caused... And it's all because of YOU!" he shouted, and pressed the gun against her head again. Ludmilla recoiled away from him at first, but then something snapped inside her, and she decided to stand up to him and call his bluff, not believing that he was truly capable of hurting her.

"If you're going to kill me, go ahead. Do it," she said defiantly, while leaning forward to press her head to the muzzle of the Colt. When Billings hesitated, she gave a harsh laugh. "Just as I thought, you're all talk. I knew that you couldn't kill me. You don't have what it takes to be a killer."

As her words grew bolder, a visible transformation occurred in Ludmilla. Her pretty features hardened, and her face became a cold mask, smirking at Billings, daring him to prove her wrong, and mocking his inability to do so.

"So you found out that I'm a Russian agent. Well, you have your job, and I have mine. We just happen to be on opposite sides of this little thing called the Cold War. It's nothing personal, really. I'm sorry if your feelings got hurt, but you can't tell me that you didn't have fun having a woman like me as a lover. In a way, it's your fault that you're now in this mess. How could you seriously believe that I could have fallen for someone like yourself?"

"Shut up," Billings said while backing away, pressing his hands to his ears to block out her words, which were as painful to him as little daggers piercing his body.

However, Ludmilla would not stop now, not when she could sense that the balance of power had shifted, and she was hurting him, and gradually gaining the upper hand.

"I may be young, but I've had some beautiful men, men who are younger, stronger, and better lovers than you. Did you know what our teacher, Svetlana, used to do? She would, from time to time, organise these parties where a group of us girls would be driven to Director Kaminsky's private villa. There, a bunch of young KGB officers would already be waiting, and we were to practice our seduction skills on them. We would have a competition among ourselves to see who could pick up the best men of the lot. I almost always won. The last officer that I was with was so young and handsome. His name was Alexei Diemetrovich, and he was a striker on the Russian national soccer team before joining the KGB. He was so strong, he could probably put you in the hospital with one blow. On top of all that, he was a great lover. In fact, sometimes when you and I were together, I used to pretend that it was him I was making love to, not you."

"You b!tch!" Billings shouted, and struck Ludmilla hard across the face with the back of his hand. She screamed and fell back on the bed. Her hand went up to touch the red mark on her cheek, while her eyes opened wide with shock. Bond thought he could also detect fear in them. This must have been the first time Billings had ever hit her, and she must have suddenly realised that she had pushed him past a line that should have never been crossed.

Billings turned away from her for a moment and faced the door. His face was just a couple of feet away from Bond, and through the crack, 007 could see that some profound change had just taken place inside the man. People always say that one of the first casualties of war is innocence, and Bond felt that this was just as true in the Cold War that they were in. Certainly he saw the innocence in Billings die at that moment, to be replaced by something else, something cold, sinister and ugly, and as old as time itself. As he looked through that hole in the wooden door and into the other man's eyes, Bond saw a glimmer of the madness and malice that had suddenly flared up and were now taking over the formerly shy, harmless MI6 agent. In his line of work, Bond had come across many brutal, ruthless men in his time. However, the evil that was lurking in those men had been there for so long, it had become an integral part of their nature. This was the first time that 007 witnessed the birth of evil inside another human being, and it chilled him to the bones.

As Billings turned back toward her, Ludmilla stammered: "I.. I've told you what you wanted to know, so please let me go."

"No," he replied flatly.

"You can let that man take me back to MI6 headquarters," she desperately tried another tactic, while pointing at where Bond was standing. "I know a lot more about what goes on inside the KGB, and I'm sure there are people back in London who would love to hear some of the things that I have to tell."

"You've told us quite enough, my dear," Billings said, while rummaging through the top drawer of the dresser next to the bed. He pulled out a little box that had been hidden under some clothes.

Terrified by his cold, detached demeanor, Ludmilla fell to her knees in front of him and threw herself on his mercy: "Please, Charles, I beg you. Whatever you're thinking, please reconsider. If I had ever meant anything to you, please listen to me now. Let Bond take me back to England. They'll lock me up and throw away the key, and you'll never have to see me again."

"Petra meant the world to me, but she's dead. You, on the other hand, mean nothing to me. In fact, I've decided that prison is too good for you. You've killed Petra, and you've killed me as well, or at least the part that's good and decent in me. Why should you be allowed to live? No, you should not. I'm going to enjoy watching you die," Billings replied, while enjoying the pain and terror that his words were inflicting upon her.

"No, Billings! Don't do it! Don't throw your career and your life away because of her. Let me take her back alive, and let MI6 deal with her. They'll make sure she pays for what she has done!" Bond yelled. He gave the door a couple of violent kicks, which had absolutely no effect.

Billings ignored him completely. He pulled Ludmilla up roughly by the arm and pushed her onto the bed again. Then, he dragged the chair in front of the make-up table over and positioned it between himself and her. He placed the Colt and the small box he had retrieved from the dresser on the chair. After he was finished, he knelt down on one knee, placed his hand under her chin and lifted her head up to make her look at the two objects arranged side by side on the wooden chair.

"I'll let you decide how you'll die," he addressed her like a professor explaining a scientific experiment to a particularly dense student. "I can either shoot you in the face with this gun, or you can take what's in this box here. It's your choice. Now, I must warn you that should you choose the first option, it is very likely that all this God-given perfection (he tenderly traced the contour of her face with his right index finger) will be completely obliterated. You see, this weapon fires .357-caliber bullets. With you being a swallow instead of a field agent who may have to face combat, I don't expect you to be familiar with types of firearms and ammunition, so I won't blame you for not knowing what such bullets can do. You'll just have to take my word when I tell you that when fired at point-blank range, this kind of bullet will cause so much destruction that the victim's face will simply be damaged beyond recognition. The good thing about this scenario is that death will surely be instantaneous, and if you're dead, perhaps you don't care what your face will look like. Then again, vanity is a powerful thing in women, especially those who look like you do, so I just thought that I ought to give you this warning."

The horror that filled Ludmilla's eyes gave Billings the answer, and the gratification, that he was looking for. He then proceeded to explain the second option:

"The other way for you to check out is to take the pill that's in this box. It's a cyanide pill, and it's a common practice, at least within MI6, for all field operatives whose jobs entail the risk of being captured and interrogated, to be given such pills. This is my pill, but I'll be glad to give it to you, unless you have one of your own?"

Ludmilla slowly shook her head, causing Billings to give a short laugh.

"Your superiors must have so much confidence in your ability to blind me with your charms that they don't even bother to give you a quick-exit pill. Well, as I said, you are welcome to use mine. I don't mind it at all. With this pill, all the damage will be on the inside, so you won't have to worry about that pretty face of yours. However, death won't come so quickly, and you'll suffer a bit. The question is: is that a price you're willing to pay?"

"Don't make me do this, please!" she begged again. "Let me live! What I did, I did for my country. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Ah, but you did hurt me. You destroyed my dream. Did you know that I was thinking of bringing you back to England, starting a family, and working hard so that I could make something of myself and give you and our children a life of carefree luxury? Now I realise I'm nothing but the King in the Fools' Hall of Fame. You killed my dream, and with it the best part of me. So you see, you have to pay the ultimate price. Now, what's it going to be? Bullet or pill? Don't try my patience any longer."

As Ludmilla realised that there was no mercy left in Billings to appeal to, a look of resignation came over her. Sobbing softly, she looked at the two instruments of death on the chair. It took her a couple of minutes to make her decision, but to Bond looking on helplessly, it seemed like an eternity had passed before her trembling hand reached for the black box. She lifted it up and held it gingerly in her hands as if she were handling a live rattlesnake. With her right hand, she reached inside the box and pulled out a small, gray pill. She turned it over a few times in her palm. How can something so small and ordinary-looking have such a deadly power, she thought. Then, she straightened up, wiped away her tears, and settled herself down. She had decided that if she had to die, she would do so with dignity and defiance. She fixed her eyes, cold with hatred, upon Billings and said simply: "Enjoy this now, but I'll see you in He!l!" Then she threw the pill into her mouth, tossed her head back and gulped it down in one quick motion.

In such a concentrated dose, cyanide is a very fast-acting poison. Still, to Bond, it seemed that Ludmilla's death throes went on forever. First, her mouth gaped wide open as she laboured to suck in air in short, agonising gasps. Then, as the poison reached her nervous system, she fell to the floor, where her thin body started to thrash and jerk as a series of seizures hit her. At the same time, her wheezing and gasping for air went on, as death by cyanide has symptoms that are very similar to death by suffocation. Ironically, while the lethal substance was killing her by denying the cells in her body access to oxygen, it also had the startling effect of bringing blood closer to her skin's surface, making her skin glow with a warm, pink radiance. Thus, in dying, Ludmilla Veranova looked more ravishingly beautiful than ever.

Meanwhile, Billings sat immobile in his chair, watching his former lover writhe and suffer at his feet. His face showed a rapt fascination, like the expression of a science student observing the death of one of his lab rats in an experiment, and nothing more.

Bond had seen, and heard, enough. He turned away, walked downstairs and out into the street, where he could no longer hear Ludmilla struggling to draw her last breaths. Bond had once told someone, rather facetiously, that flowers screamed when they were plucked. He himself never believed in such nonsense, of course, but on that day, Bond heard the dying screams of a Rose, and he found them pitiful and unbearable. The early morning air outside was chilly, and a cutting wind was blowing, but Bond felt relieved to escape into its embrace, away from the confines of the little cottage where, on this particular morning, evil reigned supreme.


Epilogue

Rain had started to come down on the northern corner of Jamaica, and the sound of raindrops pitter-pattering on the roof filled the silence that came over the bedroom after Bond had stopped telling the story. Both he and Jacquie didn't speak for a while. His mind was still back in Finland, in the house where he witnessed the death of love and innocence. Jacquie was also profoundly affected by the tragedy, as it opened her eyes to a side of human nature that she hadn't known even existed. It was she, however, who finally broke the silence:

"What a sad story! Things always get ugly when love turns into hatred, but I have never imagined that someone can go so far to get his revenge," she shuddered. "I suppose Billings had to spend the rest of his life in prison to pay for his crime."

"He paid for it all right, but not by going to prison. When I took him back to England, when he was being interrogated by MI6, he asked for permission to speak to M, my boss."

"He did? Whatever for?"

"He wanted to make her a deal he knew she couldn't refuse. You see, he was damaged goods, and even worse, an embarrassment to MI6. Just imagine the headlines if the papers ever got a hold of this racy story of a British spy who was seduced by a beautiful KGB agent, then unwittingly passed on false information to MI6 for months, before finding out the truth and murdering the KGB agent in a fit of rage. They would make it the scandal of the decade, and Her Majesty's Secret Service's reputation and credibility would be permanently tarnished. However, M couldn't simply order that Billings be executed. Having him serve a lengthy prison sentence would achieve nothing other than wasting a good chunk of taxpayers' money. Billings knew all this, and offered her a way to make him disappear while potentially turning a major debacle into a stunning victory. He volunteered for what basically amounted to a suicide mission: go into Russia alone, seek out and assassinate Sergei Kaminsky, the Director of the KGB, and his lover, Svetlana Tarasova, head of the program that produced agents like Ludmilla. Of course, MI6 would first kick him out of the organisation, which they were going to do anyway, so that they could wash their hands of him and anything that he might attempt to do. If he were captured during the mission, they would have what's called total deniability. Furthermore, there was no fear that Billings might give up valuable information if he were interrogated by the KGB. They already knew about the moles that he was running, and the cipher that he was using (which would never be used again, of course). Besides those bits of now-useless information, our man didn't know anything that could hurt the British Secret Service in case the Russians were able to pry it out of him. It was a win-win scenario and M took the not-so-risky gamble. She sent him off on his personal vendetta, knowing that if he were to succeed, she would have scored what was probably the greatest coup of her career."

"Poor man. In a way, I felt sorry for Billings," Jacquie said while snuggling up to Bond. "He probably felt he had nothing to live for any more. What happened to him in the end?"

"Billings had two things going for him: determination, and a total disregard for his own safety. That made him a dangerous man. A few weeks after he had made the deal with M, MI6 learned that Kaminsky was going to spend a weekend at his private dacha on the shore of Lake Ladega, accompanied by Svetlana Tarasova. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, so a plan was quickly put together. Billings went to Helsinki where, disguised as a Finnish sailor, he boarded a freighter carrying tons of canned fish that were to be exported to Russia. The freighter went across the Gulf of Finland, then navigated up the long Neva River, and finally docked at a port along the shore of Lake Ladega. Billings slipped ashore, and went to a predetermined drop spot where some clothings, fake Russian identification documents, some money, and most importantly, a disassembled sniper's rifle, had been placed for him to pick up. Armed and ready, he positioned himself along the narrow country road that led to Kaminsky's vacation home, and waited for the KGB Director and his girlfriend to show up. When the black sedans came (the bodyguards' car, followed by Kaminsky's car), Billings opened fire and killed all the occupants of the second Mercedes. However, Kaminsky was a cagey old fox. Unbeknownst to everyone except those in his innermost circle of trust, he always traveled disguised as one of his bodyguards, while the bodyguard would take his place in the main car. That was how he barely escaped Billings' ambush. Enraged that someone had come so close to killing one of the most important men in the Soviet Union, the formidable KGB machine kicked into overdrive. They tripled the security forces along the border, and conducted an intensive manhunt. Within a few days, they had captured Charles Billings. They put him through a rigorous interrogation that went on and on because they didn't believe what he was telling them. Kaminsky's ego didn't allow him to accept that a rogue agent acting alone, without on-going support from the British Secret Service, could have almost succeeded in killing him. Hence, Billings was subjected to all kinds of terrible torture the KGB could dream up. It was as if Fate had decided that he had to pay for what he did to Ludmilla. However, no matter what they put him through, Billings refused to sign a confession stating that he had been sent by M, and that the assassination was an MI6 operation. At the end, Kaminsky gave up and ordered that Billings be shot. The Russians didn't know that they were giving the poor bugger exactly what he was looking for. He probably faced the firing squad with open arms and a smile on his face."

Bond's voice trailed off, and silence once again descended upon the small cottage. He could find nothing more to add to his story, while Jacquie reflected upon the tale of betrayed love and shattered dreams. After a few minutes, she reached for Bond, pulled him toward her and started to make passionate, almost feverish, love to him. It was as if the act of love and its primal healing power were the only things that could, for a few moments at least, erase the memories of the tragedy of Charles Billings from her mind.