Sidestory-3 (James Bond)

The second in our series of invited stories for Carter to tell Samantha after making love each night–this story was sent in by Edward who lives in Queens, New York:

The beautiful girl in the image is Miorela–an adorable young lady kind enough to allow me to photograph her on the Downtown Mall a few days ago. She reminded me a little of  the Bond girl in this story–except this young lady would never do what the girl in the story did:)

007 smelled a set-up as he walked briskly across Times Square.

Here in this part of town the roar and noise and milling tangle of traffic and pedestrians seemed normal but he sensed something was pending. The series of coincidences and little clues that were leading him away from the crowded, bright sidewalks lined with outdoor cafes and theaters—and into one of the darker parts of Manhattan—were patently transparent.

The night before—sitting at his favorite table in the bar off the Algonquin Dining Room—Bond sipped his vodka martini and dispassionately studied the scene before him—one person in particular caught his eye.

Finally the unusually attractive, unaccompanied young woman who had been watching him for the last 5 minutes walked by the agent’s table dropping and spilling her purse at his feet.

“I’m so sorry,” she offered in an embarrassed voice.

Bond bent over from his chair retrieving some of her effects, slipping them into her handbag.

“For dropping the purse or for being so obvious,” he responded with a wry, cold but sensuous smile.

“I guess I was pretty obvious,” she blushed and whimpered—a sweetly vulnerable, awkward smile met Bond’s piercing gaze.

The girl—who had the most beautiful, penetrating green eyes the British agent had ever seen—explained she had seen him in the main lobby earlier and contrived to meet him.

“Yes—well—it happens to me quite often too,” he smiled looking down and taking in her cleavage as she knelt in front of him.

Bond invited her to have dinner with him. He called his friend and CIA counterpart, Felix Leitner and told him not to come—something had come up. Using a code phrase, 007 tipped off his friend he was being manipulated.

As they waited for their meals Bond noticed a waiter observing him and the girl a bit too closely.

“Probably her handler,” he thought.

Still she was a very attractive young woman. Even the tightly controlled Bond had trouble not being drawn into her exquisite green eyes. And the British agent hadn’t been with a woman in several days.

He doubted Al Qaeda would be so clumsy as to send the girl to kill him—he had checked her handbag carefully when he picked up her things earlier and studied her gown—looking for places a weapon might be secreted.

No—he decided—something more lethal and fool-proof would be brought to bear at a later time.

He found her to be an unusually passionate and beguiling lover. He particularly enjoyed a little girl-vulnerable quality she employed with a deliciously subtle and most effective skill—he chuckled as he found himself thinking of Little Red Riding Hood at times–only Little Red Riding Hood with the most beautiful breasts he had seen in some time..

He caught her in a lie—when he inquired about her perfume as they lie in bed after making love.

“Beautiful fragrance love. Isn’t it Issey Miyake Eau d’Issey?” Bond probed—“where did you find it? I thought they stopped making it after Guerlain’s death in 1998.”

“Oh—so glad you like it James. I got it at Aedes—on the Champs-de Elysees.”

Bond knew that was a lie—the clumsy Voleur de Roses note clashed with the citrus accords. It was a Miyake Eau d’Issey knock off—almost certainly from that pretentious Maison Des Parfums in Bucharest. Everybody in the spy game knew Bucharest was where Al Qaeda had it’s biggest IT resources—most of their planning and recruiting came out of there. Bond wondered how he would have been otherwise manipulated if he hadn’t asked about the very unusual perfume.

He suspected a set-up.

The next morning—when he “accidentally” overheard a conversation in Farsi in the hotel elevator mentioning Ay Ayoub El Iquai—someone both the CIA and M-16 wanted dead—would be at a meeting in an empty warehouse a few blocks off West 42nd street—he was quite certain he was being led into an ambush and targeted. The ambush was probably in retaliation for recent covert work he had been doing in the Middle East. The clincher came when he asked the girl to meet him for dinner that evening. He could see just the faintest glimmer of a knowing smirk flit across her pretty features and the pupils of her eyes dilate a bit.

“A shame.” he thought, “Damn good lay.”

Placing a cell phone call during the cab ride to Manhattan and speaking in Navaho, Bond passed along his suspicions to Felix Leiter who asked if he wanted to handle this the same way they took out the sleeper cell in the Saudi Monarchy 8 months ago. Bond concurred.

As the secret agent stepped off the sidewalk on Broadway into a series of connecting alleys—a few hundred feet ahead he noticed a filthy homeless man limping and painfully pushing a shopping cart piled with a variety of odd junk, rags and boxes down the alley toward an intersection with a larger side street.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he thought as he casually put his hand into his inside jacket pocket and released the safety on his Walther PPS 9 mm. He had not yet had a chance to test and observe the effects of the new hollow-point bullets Felix had insisted he try—he prayed Felix knew what he was talking about.

Making sure the pistol was loose in the shoulder holster, Bond continued striding toward the homeless man. The nearly deserted alley away from pedestrian traffic—the cart full of bags and boxes—again—it was quite pat. It bordered on amateurish—a set-up if ever there was one.

“There’ll be more than just this guy,” Bond reflected, “there always is.” Al Qaeda was pretty predictable—in situations like this when you caught sight of an attacker—that meant there were 4 more behind you.

As Bond stepped out of the narrow alley onto the delivery side street, he spotted Felix dressed as a New York street-cleaner pushing a cart with a trash can and brooms mounted on it. The two men made eye contact for less than a second. Felix glanced up at a second story window in a building behind Bond who nodded ever so slightly.

As Bond passed near the man he could just make out the outline of a bullet-proof vest under the disheveled clothing. Without so much as a look at him—the (seemingly) old vagrant suddenly reached into the cart. Before Bond could blink, the operative was pointing a Soviet-era Kalashnikov at him.

Because of excessively steep barrel-rifling and lack of recoil compensation—Soviet-era Kalashnikovs pulled sharply up and to the right when fired in full-out automatic mode. Bond knew this quite well and dove to the shooter’s left.

As the assault rifle barked, slugs ricocheted and shots echoed off surrounding buildings. Bond had his Walther out even before completing his roll. Laying on the pavement he briskly leveled his sights.

”Bad training,” Bond thought, “didn’t teach the poor bastard to start his volley low and to the left—let the percussion loading lift and pull the line of fire toward and across the target—big mistake to aim without considering that.”

Bond’s first round penetrated the shooter’s neck—shattering his spinal cord, the second took off the right side of his head, the third penetrated the upper right quadrant of his chest cavity leaving an exit wound the size of a grapefruit. He was dead even as the last few rounds from the Kalashnikov shattered several painted-over window panes behind the secret agent. Bond resolved to thank Felix at the first opportunity.

As 007 was sitting up he saw his friend aiming a Mujahideen modified Soviet RPG-7V at a window in a building across the street behind him. The curtains remained hanging in the opening but the glass and window lites had been torn from the window to create a clear firing platform. Standing in the window wearing a black tee-shirt and jeans was the girl from last night aiming a Heckler and Koch PSG-1 sniper rifle. Next to her was the waiter from the Algonquin bar aiming a similar weapon.

Before they could pull their triggers, the missile hit the wall of the building just above the heads of the two snipers—exploding—tearing apart an eight foot section of wall sending thousands of pounds of brick, mortar and wood framing collapsing with a roar onto the two shooters who fell twenty feet to the pavement buried in a ton of debris.

Aimlessly floating dust, the smell of burnt sulphur and shattered brick hung in the air—the tattered curtains fluttering down to the street. A van appeared from nowhere and an NYPD SWAT team stormed the building even before the last bits of debris hit the pavement.

Pistol at the ready Bond walked over to the pile of human and masonry rubble. The man lay face down buried in shattered wood and brick, the girl lay still on her back—her beautiful penetrating green eyes wide open staring at the rectangle of indifferent sky between the building rooftops.

The British agent coldly studied her beautiful features a moment then returned his still-warm pistol to its holster.

“A shame.” he thought—“Damn good lay.”

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