(no subject)
Title: Falling Without a Parachute
Author: musegaarid
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Sex and violence. Character death. (Sort of.) You know, the usual.
Disclaimers: Anthony Crowley and A. Fell belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. James Bond and M belong to Ian Fleming's estate. six_millennia was sadly neglected because this story wouldn't get out of my head or let me write anything else until it was done. I'll get back to it soon. Promise! Large portions of the discussion on good and evil were taken verbatim from the first James Bond novel, Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. (I can't recommend the novel. It's rather terrible. But in a terribly amusing way. The movie is much better. Imagine Daniel Craig. You'll be happy.) Tiny hint of PotC, just because it's a crossover and I can.
Dedication: This one is for _serpensortia who mused, betaed, and dragged me all the way through, providing half the plot and all the sense. Thanks, darling. Thanks, too, to use_theforce_em and the NO chat gang whose idea of a Bond/Crowley crossover got this all started in the first place.
Summary: James Bond is having a hell of a time in his most controversial adventure.
In all of my recorded adventures, you've read about how the brave and dashing James Bond always got his man and the girl besides. But you've never heard of the one time where the man was the girl and still got away...
***
We first met on a train in Switzerland. It was the summer of 1955 and I was on my way to Zürich to meet Peterson, my Swiss contact, to interrogate a man believed to be involved in financing the agents of SMERSH. At noon, I headed to the dining car where the headwaiter apologized, saying there weren't enough tables in the car for everyone and would I mind eating with another gentleman who was traveling alone? I didn't and was led to a table where a dark-haired man stood up at my approach. In my line of work, I've learned to read a person quite well upon first impression but I confess that my first impression was only surprise. I could almost have been looking into a mirror; same suit, same sunglasses, same smirk. Pulling off my glasses with my left hand, I extended my right. "Bond," I said, by way of introduction. "James Bond."
He took my hand but didn't remove his sunglasses. I thought it quite suspicious. We sat.
"Would messieurs care for a drink?" the waiter asked.
I glanced at my companion and, thinking that his reaction might tell me something about him, said briskly, "A dry martini in a deep champagne goblet. Three measures of Gordons, one of Vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Stir it very well until it's ice cold, then add a thin slice of lemon peel."
The dark-haired man looked vaguely amused. "Or in other words, a vodka martini. I think I'll have the same. But shaken, not stirred."
The waiter bowed and left.
"Interesting drink," he observed.
"It's called a Vesper." I tried to see his eyes through the dark lenses and added, "Why shaken? It bruises the gin."
He gave an ironical little smile. "But it adds an element of chaos."
"You thrive on chaos?" I countered.
"You've no idea."
Pondering that, I took up the menu, studying him as much as it. He was an exceptionally handsome man, as far as another man recognizes such things, with thick, dark hair, full lips, and good cheekbones. But there was something clearly masculine in his features that prevented him from looking too beautiful. His jaw perhaps. Or his arch expression. His voice was in the mid-range, but had a rich, velvety quality. Considering his clothes, he looked almost like an agent, but I knew all of them by sight, if not by name. I had just decided that he was a wealthy only child used to getting what he wanted when his voice interrupted my thoughts.
"And what conclusions have you drawn about me, Mr. Bond?"
I must have looked startled because the corner of his mouth twitched up. But I couldn't let him think I was intimidated.
"I had just decided that you live alone. Incidentally, what part of London do you hail from?"
"I didn't say I was from London."
"No," I said, showing off a bit perhaps, "you didn't need to." I thought I had him there.
"Mayfair," he responded, looking pleased. "And I do live alone. As do you."
"Is that all you've garnered?" I asked cockily.
"Certainly not. But it may be all you wish to hear."
"No, by all means enlighten me."
"If you insist. You're a top secret agent working for Her Majesty's Secret Service. One of the double O's, I'd wager, which means you've killed in cold blood. But you're not as tough as you'd like people to believe. You're attracted to unavailable women, probably as a self-defense mechanism so that it isn't your fault when it doesn't work out, and it never does. For all your training and expertise, you're gullible and easily manipulated and a remarkable streak of luck features as much in your success as planning. Money doesn't matter to you, though you like the luxuries it provides, and you do enjoy having power over others. You also regularly take cold showers to test your willpower."
I'm certain I looked gob-smacked, because I was, and I must have made some motion toward my weapon, but he said, "Your pistol isn't loaded, Bond, so don't bother."
And as he said it, I knew that it was true, though it normally was kept ready at all times.
Before I could puzzle that out, the waiter arrived with our drinks. "And have you decided, messieurs?"
The man coolly ordered the lamb and I, whatever headed the menu; some sort of shrimp, I believe. The waiter took the menus and his leave.
"Who are you?" I asked, not bothering to confirm or deny his suspicions.
He smirked. "Crowley. Anthony Crowley."
I narrowed my eyes. I didn't recognize the name, but I did memorize it. "And is there a reason you've been studying me?"
"Only because you sat opposite me and did the same."
I didn't believe it for a second. He knew more than any person could read in such a short time. "I have a fair few friends in Mayfair. Perhaps we have an acquaintance in common."
He smirked again. I was very much coming to despise that expression. "Oh, I very much doubt it."
Then his hand tensed almost imperceptibly around his glass. I only noticed because it was completely at odds with the rest of his relaxed demeanor. I looked at it for a few seconds before opening my mouth to speak again and then the world exploded.
I know now that it was a bomb in the dining car. But then all I knew was noise, smoke, and confusion. I heard screaming as the car rolled onto its side and I was pinned to the wall by the table, which took the brunt of the blast. Wriggling out, I searched for my companion but the man had disappeared. The acrid air burned my throat as I fought my way over burning furniture and bodies, scaled some chairs, and climbed out an open window to escape. It seemed I was unhurt but for some scratches and bruises; something of a miracle really.
There were only a handful of survivors: myself, the headwaiter, and a couple who had been at the table nearest the door. The rescue crew arrived some time later and began pulling scorched bodies out of the wreckage. I didn't see Crowley among them. In the end, about sixty people died. I wanted to know why. And how he knew it was about to happen.
***
I made it to the hotel late that night, exhausted, battered, and in some slight shock. Simplifying my usual checks, I went over the room quickly, and, finding no bugs or other worrying objects, I made my way back downstairs and requested a telegram form from the concierge. Mathis told me once that if the concierge wasn't on your payroll, you had to assume he was on the other guy's, so the message to my go-between in Jamaica was coded.
Arrived in town. Not good trip. Train accident. Hurt a little. Only bruised. Nothing bad. You don't have to worry. Coming home soon. Right after I visit the bank. Open on Monday. Will be prompt. Leave afterward. Everything fine. You'll see me in a week. -James
I also sent a quick note to Peterson to let him know that I was in town. That taken care of, I returned to my room directly and fell immediately into a series of explosive nightmares.
***
As I had requested, Crowley's file arrived on Monday in the arms of a pretty blonde who also brought my car. For once, though, I was more interested in what she was carrying than what was down her dress and she left disappointed. I retreated to my room to read the report. The first page was a list of Jamaican sugar export prices - cover in case someone should see me open the envelope - with a scrawled message in the margin: I think this is a bad investment. It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. M.
I ignored it and read the file.
To: 007
From: Head of R
Subject: Anthony Crowley
Aliases: None known
Address: 14 Adams Row, Mayfair, London
Age: 29, according to his Stateless Passport No. 307-295.
Birthdate: October 21, 1926
Description: Height 6 ft 0 ins. Weight 12 stones. Complexion lightly tanned. Clean shaven. Hair very dark. Eye colour unknown. Appears to be quite wealthy, dresses well and meticulously in fashionable black suits, drives a large vintage automobile, and maintains an expensive flat.
Habits: Often eats at the Ritz Hotel, where he is known as a demanding diner and a wine connoisseur. Goes nowhere else with any regularity apart from a bookshop in Soho. (see below) Tends to wander about the city at all hours of the day and night with no apparent goal or pattern to his movements. No known vices or excesses.
There is very little known about this subject. He showed up first in our records at the end of the war. No known parents, country of origin, or source of income. Although quite handsome, he's never been seen with female company, or without his dark glasses. We think it safe to assume that he's concealing something - an injury, perhaps. We've kept an eye on him for the past few years as nasty things tend to happen when he's nearby, but we've never been able to trace any of them to him.
Crowley has only one known associate, a Mr. A. Fell, definitely a pseudonym. His picture is included.
I looked at the picture. Fell was a cheerful-looking, plump, sandy-haired, middle-aged man with startlingly blue eyes. He wore a fashionable tweed coat and looked like a professor or someone's kindly uncle.
Fell, who also arrived after the war with no known family or country of origin, owns a bookshop, located at 20 Adam and Eve Court, Soho, that specializes in rare bibles and books of prophecy. We believe it must be either a front or a fencing operation as he's had a grand total of fifteen sales in the past ten years. However, we don't see any movement of peoples or goods through there, and Crowley is, in fact, his only regular visitor. The shop is open infrequently and at odd hours and Fell is often absent. The money boys have been over his accounts religiously but can't pin a thing on him. Crowley's visits to the unnamed bookshop are sporadic but he tends to stay the night on these occasions. We must conclude them to be lovers. If Crowley is indeed homosexual, this might be to your advantage, but be careful. We have no idea who he's working for and he may be dangerous.
Reading the information through twice, I burned the papers very thoroughly in my fireplace and scattered the ashes before retreating to the bathroom for my usual cold shower. I switched the water to warm halfway through, and then, annoyed with second guessing myself and for yielding to his snide assessment, changed it back. It felt a lot colder afterward. Toweling off quickly, I crawled into bed and tried to formulate plans for the next time we met. I had no doubt that we would.
***
I found him three days later in the parking lot in front of the hotel looking at my car. Wanting to see what he was up to, I attempted to keep a low profile, but he turned his head immediately and looked right at me, as collected as he had been on the train. The suspicious part of my mind was wondering if he'd just sabotaged it or if I'd interrupted before he could.
"Nice car," he said approvingly, as if nothing unusual had happened that week. He didn't disguise the fact that he knew it was mine.
"1933 Bentley," I replied smugly. Some capriciousness made me add, "Silver, of course," though it was perfectly obvious what colour it was. Perhaps I thought he couldn't see it through his dark glasses in the dim twilight. In a pique of pride - I was rather fond of that car - I added, "Is yours here?"
He pointed across the lot. "1926 Bentley," he mimicked. "Black, of course."
Damn the man.
I smiled anyway, as if it were pleasantly amusing to be one-upped constantly, and remembered the file. Maybe there was a way to get information from him...
"I was just heading out to dinner. As our previous meal was so rudely interrupted, perhaps you'd care to join me?"
His lips curled into a sultry smile that should not have affected me as strongly as it did. "I was going to eat here."
Nodding, I turned and traced my footsteps back into the hotel. The restaurant was fully booked that evening and we had no reservation, but Crowley pulled the maitre d' aside for a moment and though I saw no money changing hands, the man turned and led us immediately to the best table.
Thinking over the matter, I sat and ordered a scotch. I had no intention of ordering a Vesper again, champagne would only have been appropriate if he were a woman, and I didn't care to have my taste in wine sneered at. He ordered an expensive Bordeaux.
Sitting there and looking over a menu with him across from me felt oddly familiar. It was more than a sense of déjà vu; it was comfortable, as if we'd known each other for years. I guess it was because we understood each other so well, he and I. I've often wondered if we were two sides of the same coin. Regardless, the meal was pleasant and convivial. I watched his hands, but he showed no sign of anxiety during the evening.
"So, what do you do?" I asked after the waiter left with our orders. It was a standard opening conversational gambit between men. In such situations, I usually said that I was a plantation owner in Jamaica, but of course he'd discovered differently.
Rather than come up with a lie of his own, however, he merely shook his head, looking amused. "Guess."
I answered his challenge with a question. "Do you enjoy playing games?"
"Isn't everything a game?"
"Someone tried to kill us a few days ago. Forgive me if I can't think of that as a game."
"But it is," he said. "Two sides battling for control of the board. The pieces may change, but the game remains the same."
"I disagree," I said. And perhaps I'd had too much to drink, too quickly, or this subject had been pent up inside too long. Perhaps I thought that revealing a confidence on my side would encourage him to do the same. Or maybe it was just him. But I found myself continuing, when I wouldn't normally. Opening up, exposing my true thoughts. It felt wrong at first, dangerous, but it didn't take me long to get used to it. It was just a different sort of danger.
"You see, when one's young, it seems very easy to distinguish between right and wrong, but as one gets older it becomes more difficult. At school it's easy to pick out one's own villains and heroes and one grows up wanting to be a hero and kill the villains. Well, in the last few years I've killed two villains. Felt pretty clever and got a reputation for being good and tough. Now, that's all very fine. The hero kills two villains. But those villains thought they were the heroes before they were killed by the villain Bond, and you see the other side of the medal. The villains and heroes get all mixed up. The pieces stay the same and the game changes.
"Of course," I added before he could expostulate, "patriotism comes along and makes it seem fairly all right, but this country-right-or-wrong business is getting a little out-of-date. Today we are fighting Communism. Okay. If I'd been alive fifty years ago, the brand of Conservatism we have today would have been damn near called Communism and we should have been told to go and fight that. History is moving pretty quickly these days and the heroes and villains keep changing parts."
He looked intrigued and leaned forward. "Do you have an example?"
I did. A rather painful one. "There was a man I'll call X who hurt me very badly not too long ago. It's simple enough to say he was an evil man, at least it's simple enough for me because he did evil things to me. If he was here now, I wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but out of personal revenge and not, I'm afraid, for some moral reason or for the sake of my country."
He nodded to show that he understood and made an encouraging gesture. "Do go on. This is rather fascinating. So you believe your job is to fight evil on behalf of others, only you can't recognize it unless it does personal harm to you." He looked thoughtful. "I've found that general evil - that is, the idea of evilness taken as a whole - is a rather complicated concept for people to deal with. I'm not surprised you're having difficulty."
"Exactly," I said. "Now in order to tell the difference between good and evil, we have manufactured two images representing the extremes - representing the deepest black and the purest white - and we call them God and the Devil. But in doing so we have cheated a bit. God is a clear image, you can see every hair on His beard. But the Devil. What does he look like?" I looked triumphantly at him.
He laughed ironically. "I think I've got a pretty good idea."
"It's all very fine for you to joke," I continued, "but I've been thinking about these things and I'm wondering whose side I ought to be on. I'm getting very sorry for the Devil and his disciples such as the good Mr. X. The Devil has a rotten time and I always like to be on the side of the underdog. We don't give the poor chap a chance. There's a Good Book about goodness and how to be good and so forth, but there's no Evil Book about evil and how to be bad. The Devil has no prophets to write his Ten Commandments and no team of authors to write his biography. His case has gone completely by default. We know nothing about him but a lot of fairy stories from our parents and schoolmasters. He has no book from which we can learn the nature of evil in all its forms, with parables about evil people, proverbs about evil people, folk-lore about evil people. All we have is the living example of the people who are least good, or our own intuition."
He had a rather odd expression on his face. One I don't think I could explain even now. It gave me pause at the time, but I soldiered on in spite of his doubt.
"So," I went on, warming to my argument, "X was serving a wonderful purpose, a really vital purpose, perhaps the best and highest purpose of all. By his evil existence, which foolishly I have helped to destroy, he was creating a norm of badness by which, and by which alone, an opposite norm of goodness could exist. We were privileged, in our short knowledge of him, to see and estimate his wickedness and we emerge from the acquaintanceship better and more virtuous men."
After I'd finished, there was a sharp instant during which I couldn't breathe, the air seemed so thick and portentous. My muscles were unaccountably tense and I felt surrounded by ominous shadows. What little of his face that I could see was dark and hollow. But a moment later the feeling had gone and I exhaled with relief.
"Bravo," said he brightly, not seeming to notice my distress. "I really must remember to do something evil this evening. I already have a few small marks in my favour, but I'll work harder now that I've seen the light.
"Now about that little problem of yours, of not knowing good men from bad men and villains from heroes. It is a difficult problem in the abstract. But the secret lies in your personal experience. When you get back to London, you'll find that there are other Xs seeking to destroy you and your friends and your country. And now that you've seen a really evil man, you'll know how evil they can be. You'll go after them and destroy them in order to protect yourself and the people you care about. You won't wait to argue about it. You know what they look like now and what they can do. You may be a bit more choosy about the jobs you take on. You may want to be certain that the target really is black, but there are plenty of really black targets around. There's still plenty for you to do. And you'll do it. And when you fall in love and have someone else to look after, it will seem all the easier. People are easier to fight for than principles."
I eyed him carefully. "You sound as though you speak from experience."
A sharp laugh. "No," he said shortly. It didn't tell me what I wanted to know, but maybe it told me just enough.
"You've learned this through observation, then."
He didn't answer. Just stared at me expressionlessly through smoky lenses. The mood was tense, but not like before. More... expectant.
The waiter arrived then with the bill. Pulling a sleek black pen out of his jacket pocket, he wrote his room number, 405, neatly at the bottom of the receipt and signed his name in a spiky hand. Arching his eyebrow significantly, he stood and left the table without another word.
I watched him go. Now, if I read that right, he'd just invited me to his room. I drained my glass.
***
The difficult thing in writing these reminiscences is that thirty years later, one doesn't really remember why one did anything at the time. It seems foolish now, as I certainly didn't trust the man, but there was something compelling about him; something fiery and electric that I will never be able to set in mere words. I wanted to shatter that smug composure, that know-it-all attitude. Then, I thought it was because I wished to regain the upper hand. Now, I don't know...
I followed.
***
He smiled when he opened the door. He'd clearly been expecting me. I was only pleased to have read him correctly. There was a chilled bottle of champagne on the table near the window and I began to wonder just what I'd gotten myself into. Pressing a glass into my hand, he sat me in a comfortable armchair as he expertly popped the cork and poured. I had to admire his technique. It's just what I would have done to set a woman at ease, though it didn't seem to work well in my case. I wondered if it ever had.
The lights in the room were low, but the sunglasses were still firmly in place, and he took off his jacket, inviting me to do the same.
"I know why you're here, Bond," he said.
"Do you?" I replied neutrally.
"Oh, yes. You want information. And you're willing to do anything to get it."
I shivered.
"But are you truly committed?" he went on, touching my bare wrist. "How far will you really go?"
Quickly I made a decision. If I continued to do nothing but react to him, he would dominate this encounter as he had every one we'd ever had. So I put my glass down, seized his collar, and pulled him into a fierce kiss. He responded in kind and for some time we fought with lips, tongues, and teeth. In many ways it wasn't so different from kissing a woman, but he was strong and solid beneath my hands; firm where I was used to softness, rough where I was used to gentleness. He was like a wild stallion, proud and aggressively male. I found I didn't mind so much. In fact, I believe I was eager to discover what it would be like to have an equal in bed.
Some minutes of warring found him sitting on my lap in the armchair, tie gone, and the first button of his shirt undone. I reached for his sunglasses and his grip on my wrist tightened. It was amazing what strength he contained in that lithe body, like a coil of steel under constant tension, and I let my hand fall. Without a word, he stood, turned off all the lights in the room, drew the curtains, and returned to my lap. My hands found his face again and this time he let me remove his glasses. Carefully, I felt his eyes but didn't detect any scarring or defects. They felt as perfect as the rest of him.
"What colour are they?" I whispered.
"What colour would you like them to be?"
The word was wrenched out of me, as though I had no say in the response. I only knew that I desperately wanted and needed them to be, "Brown."
He laughed soft and low. "Then they're brown."
And in that moment I almost believed that he could change them just for me, such was the spell he had me under.
"So if that's all you wanted to know..."
He stood and pulled away, I stretched out to grab him and, overbalancing in the dark, we both tumbled to the floor.
"Why do you wear the glasses?" I asked.
"My eyes are sensitive to light," he replied, trying to roll out from under me.
I was considerably bulkier than he and I put most of my weight onto his shoulders, trying to keep him pinned as I stole another kiss.
"What were you..." I began, but he interrupted.
"Don't I get to ask any questions?"
"No," I replied, keeping control of the situation. Or so I thought. But somehow he managed to get my trousers open without my knowing it and in an almost serpentine squirm, slid a few feet beneath me in order to take my manhood into his mouth. I gasped and made to move away, but he gently applied his teeth and I decided to stay where I was.
***
How can I describe to you what it was like? The writhing battle for dominance in the dark? I've never had sex like that before or since. I've never had sex with another man, either, but I don't believe that was the unusual factor. I couldn't see him, couldn't read him, couldn't predict at all what he'd do next. All I knew was the feel of him that I garnered through bruising kisses and rough touches. His breathing was remarkably soft and regular considering the exertion we were sharing and though he didn't speak, the pleased noises he made were oddly sibilant.
I tried to gain control, despite not knowing what I was about. I'd heard rumours during the war, of course; millions of young men away from their girlfriends and wives for months or years... It had all sounded rather sordid and I'd never paid attention to the detail - so I was astonished when all that wiry strength was brought to bear and I found myself on my back being straddled. I knew that no good could come of having the submissive posture and I tried to form a negative when he sat back against me and I found myself engulfed in him. I was lost. How can one object to a repulsive act when one discovers that it isn't remotely so?
Far from being disgusted, I let him take the lead and I was glad I did. His hands and mouth wandered over my body as he rocked back and forth, wringing every possible drop of pleasure from me. Several times he brought me to the brink of completion and left me teetering on the knife's edge for what felt like hours. After a while, it became almost torturous and I began to struggle, moving counter to his rhythm, trying to get the last bit of friction that I needed. He merely adjusted to prevent it. Finally, with no more fight left, I broke down and begged. "Please," I said. "Please."
He sat back, hard, touched something deep within my body, and the world exploded again. I couldn't prevent a great yell, which made my throat feel torn and raw. As I gasped for breath, he sat up and lay atop me, his need straining against my stomach, though he made no move to alleviate it.
It was some moments before I could catch my breath and some more to figure out what to do next. He wasn't giving me any clues. I wondered if it was another test, but I hadn't even finished that thought before immediately chastising myself. Of course it was. Well, I won't have it said that I'm an insensitive lover, whatever gender my partner. And while I didn't know what to do with my mouth and wasn't willing to offer my body, I did have one choice left. As any man, I had done this to myself and knew what I liked, so maybe I could try it on him, too.
I rolled him off me, a little more roughly than necessary, perhaps, and sat up. Then I sat him in front of me, my chest to his back, our legs spread wide. I remember thinking at the time that it was odd how well-developed the muscles in his back were compared to the rest of him. Not that the rest of him was lacking in any way; I just thought it strange. I couldn't really imagine how he'd done it without having an equally well-developed chest. But it didn't signify. Moving instinctively so as not to overthink the matter and talk myself out of the act, I reached around and seized him firmly and he gasped rather satisfyingly.
To my surprise, he was cut, though he didn't appear to be a Jew. It was only another mystery surrounding the man. But I couldn't think about that. I needed to focus my attention on lowering his defenses. So I tightened my grasp and began to manipulate him. At first I tried to pretend I was doing it to myself, but after his head fell back on my shoulder and he moaned, I couldn't pretend any longer. I knew it was him. Everything was him. When he was in a room, no one else seemed to matter. He was sharper, brighter, more present than anyone I'd ever met and pleasing him, being noticed by him, became paramount to me. Wrapping my ankles around his calves, I tugged sharply and slid my hand slowly back down, trying to encourage his release.
When his hand wrapped around my own, I froze, afraid I was doing something wrong. But he began to move our hands together, showing me the speed and pressure he preferred. It was quite possibly the most erotic thing I've ever felt. I squeezed my eyes shut, buried my nose in his hair, and once again followed his lead.
"Did you plant that bomb?" I murmured in his ear. He shook his head no. "But you know who did." Arching his back, he hissed as our joined hands moved faster. "Tell me, Crowley," I continued, insistent, the intensity of the room palpable, "Whose side are you on?"
"Mine," he gasped, and dissolved into shouts as he reached his completion. Carefully I removed my sticky hand and placed it on his hip as he brought his breathing under control. After a moment, I had the oddest impression that he wasn't breathing at all.
"Are we friends or enemies?" I asked quietly, our nude bodies still pressed together, the evidence of our activity all around. I needed to know.
I could feel the vibration from his laugh under my own ribs. "Right now? Definitely friends. Tomorrow? Who knows?"
It was probably as much of an answer as I had any right to.
We shared a cigarette. He closed his eyes as I lit it and his face was angelic in the shadows of the faint red glow; the smoke haloing around his head. When it was down to the filter, I stubbed it out, dressed without awkwardness, and left for my own room.
***
When I woke the next morning there was a note on my pillow, two inches from my eyes. Jumping out of bed, I checked my security measures, which were all in place and untriggered. The door was locked and bolted from the inside, the window was braced, none of the powder trails in front of the vents or fireplace were smudged, and not a single one of my other little precautions were dismantled, which should have needed to be done for anyone or anything to even approach my bed without my knowledge. My brows knitted and I'm certain that I scowled. I knew who it was, of course, but how the hell had he done it?
The envelope simply said 'Bond' in his distinctive, almost glyph-like writing; I just stared at it. Eventually, I opened it carefully. It was remarkable only in being unremarkable. Written on the hotel's stationary it merely said, Come and had an address. What can I say? I went.
***
The address was for a church on the west bank of the river. It was four hundred years old and glorious in its majesty, as well as supremely empty on a Friday morning. I drew my Beretta and crept in.
I wasn't expecting to find Crowley and Peterson, my contact in Zürich, holding pistols on each other at the altar.
"It's too late for you now," Crowley was saying, "It's the only thing left."
"No!" exclaimed Peterson. "I won't."
I frowned. It seemed that Crowley was the enemy after all. I think that I'd always known, but perhaps part of me had naively hoped he could be redeemed in the end...
"Drop your weapons," I yelled. Peterson swiveled to look at me immediately, relief in his eyes. Crowley was watching Peterson. I couldn't see his eyes, of course, but his body language didn't read as distraught or guilty. "Both of you!"
"Bond," Peterson began. "You don't really need me to..."
"Drop it," I repeated. Peterson did, his gun clattering on the stone floor. "And you, Crowley."
"You know this man?" asked Peterson.
"Apparently not," said I, disappointed.
Crowley didn't look hurt or worried. In fact, I think he was smiling just a little; a quirk to the lips, barely noticeable in the dappled, coloured light of the stained glass windows. He dropped his gun. Before it had stopped spinning, he was gone, running out the back of the church. I bolted after him as Peterson fumbled for his weapon.
"Shoot him!" he screamed.
"Not in a church," I replied coolly, finally back in my element. I could put emotions aside as long as I needed to in order to get the job done. "Head him off." And then I was gone.
As I chased him through the graveyard behind the church, I couldn't help but remember the feel of his long, lean muscles under my hands. He was definitely built for speed. I was panting to keep up, but it seemed effortless to him, as everything did. I've since often envied his sangfroid.
"Bond!" he yelled at me over his shoulder, not slowing. "You've got the wrong man."
"Of course you'd say that," I said, hard on his heels. He jumped a six foot wall, and turned down a main thoroughfare, weaving between clumps of startled bankers and housewives. I pursued him doggedly, wondering where Peterson was. "Why did you plant the bomb on the train?"
Even twenty feet away I heard his laugh as he zig-zagged down the high street, staying just out of range or behind cover so that I couldn't get a clear shot, even if I could draw my gun. "Don't be stupid. I've already told you it wasn't me. I only realized it was there a few seconds before it went off."
I cut down a side street, hoping it would act as a shortcut. I wanted desperately to believe him, but I couldn't. It was too easy to recall his sarcastic words at dinner, "I really must remember to do something evil this evening. I already have a few small marks in my favour."
Bursting out the end of the street, I had narrowed the gap. There was an apple cart directly in his path and I thought I had him, but he leapt over the thing like it wasn't there, landing in a roll and jumping back to his feet. By the time I got there, the cart had moved, and I passed by, closer than ever.
In apparent desperation, he ducked between two buildings down near the waterfront and I knew I had him. The river was lined on both sides with twenty foot stone walls and though it looked like there were pass-throughs, there weren't. Still, I approached the corner cautiously, not knowing if he had another weapon and well aware of how good a target I'd make outlined against the mouth of the alley.
"Crowley," I called around the corner, my back to the wall and gun drawn. "I know you're trapped in there. Tell me the truth and you may get out of this alive."
I could almost picture his arch expression as he replied. "The truth? Fine. Peterson is a double agent for the Russians. He's the one that planted the bomb."
"Peterson has been a loyal agent for twenty years. No one knows who you work for."
He made a frustrated noise. "Peterson was a loyal agent for seventeen years. But the Russians pay better. And I already told you who I work for."
Inching closer to the edge, I said, "I don't believe you. I think I'm your target and you're trying to frame Peterson."
I heard an odd tearing sound under his words, like fabric ripping, and the faint rush of wind. "Think, would you? I was sitting next to you on the train. I wouldn't bloody well blow myself up, along with dozens of other people, to get you. If I'd wanted to kill you, I could have done it much more easily last night or this morning when I had the opportunity. It's ludicrous."
In the middle of taking another half-step nearer to the corner, I hesitated, doubting myself. It was true that we'd been alone together for a significant period of time when I had been at my most vulnerable and he hadn't hurt me; had, in fact, done much the opposite.
"Last night you wanted to keep me alive long enough to get information," I said, hating that it almost sounded like a question.
"Try again." His voice was almost amused. "That can't be true because last night I didn't get any information. Other than how to make you scream when you come. Do you think the Reds want to know that?"
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to control my breathing and not get lost in memory. "That was a mistake. I know you're a homosexual, and I knew you'd try to seduce me. But I shouldn't have gone along with it."
His laugh seemed to come from a long way off. "Why? Enjoy it too much? Worried about your masculinity? Your tough guy reputation? Let me tell you something. I'm not a homosexual. I just wanted you, James."
My throat tightened. For a moment, I was tempted to just walk away and let him go while I investigated his claim against Peterson. But his early assessment of my character came back to me. "You're gullible and easily manipulated..." The bastard was doing just that. Using me. And I was falling for it again.
Furious, I pointed my gun around the corner and my eye followed. I crouched quickly, aiming. The alley was a box, like I had predicted, with no doors or windows leading out of it and walls too high to scale even if the river weren't on the other side, but to my great surprise, it was also entirely empty save for a few dead leaves and an iridescent black feather. Crowley was gone.
With a vehement curse, I took off running again, pressing past the exhaustion point, following my instincts as to where to go. I moved along the river, keeping to a steady downward course until I heard an unexpected gunshot. I tore around the corner in time to see his black clad body stagger and fall into the river, not ten yards from me. Peterson held the smoking gun with a smug grin. "Got him."
***
There are times in one's life when one can tell, even in the moment, that nothing will ever be the same. That was one such moment. I'd only known him a week and yet it seemed like the brightness of my world rested in him, for good or evil. I couldn't tell you why, even now. But my heart turned to steel in my chest, melting and twisting into the cold, hard lump that people had always assumed was there. Just then I became the blunt instrument that the MI6 wanted, the ruthless bastard who could do the dirty work of government. It was the true beginning of my career.
***
I was looking into the water for his body when seconds later a shot whizzed by my left ear. I spun to see Peterson only a few yards away, his expression manic. Fortunately, I was wearing my electromagnetic watch, which must have been what deflected the bullet, because at that distance he shouldn't have missed. Then his gun seemed to jam, which gave me a precious few seconds to duck into the nearest doorway. Apparently Crowley had been right after all. I only hoped I'd survive my mistake.
Finding myself in some kind of warehouse, I threw myself behind a large wooden crate. Suppressing my breathing, I listened carefully for his footsteps. There was the slightest snick off to my left and I rolled out of the way just as a second bullet missed me by inches.
"Why did you do it, Peterson? Why turn traitor after so long? Why blow up the train?"
Peterson's voice was low and furious. "Because, you flash bastard, the MI6 doesn't appreciate the grunts. The people who make your job possible. It's all about the bloody double-o's who sweep in to finish the job and get all the credit after you've put in hundreds of hours of tedious research and watching."
I gave a bitter laugh as I crawled behind another crate and sighted him over it, creeping through the dim room. "So it comes down to you not feeling appreciated. And the Russians believe in the common man, right? But you don't. You killed dozens of innocent people."
Angry, he fired again towards my voice but it went several feet wide. The next crate over burst open revealing raw wool.
"Collateral damage," he said. "But it was worth it even if I didn't get you. I destroyed the wheels of capitalist commerce and the bourgeois pigs who travel its bloody highways."
Sliding against the far wall, I began to despair. Peterson had clearly bought the party line. But it was bureau policy that suspected double agents be captured alive for questioning. It was harder to do damage control if we didn't know what had been leaked. I moved stealthily along the wall to get nearer to him.
"The Russians know how valuable I am," he was saying, clearly thinking he could draw me out if he angered me enough. "They know what I can give them. And I can give them a dead secret agent, unfortunately killed by his partner in crime, one Anthony Crowley, to whom he was trading valuable government secrets for, let's see now, I'll say sexual favours. That sounds damaging enough. Nothing more perverse than a traitorous, homosexual communist. And that's how you'll be known forever, Bond. It's sad that you'll be losing not only your life and your honour but you'll be improving my status with both of my employers and giving me access to more sensitive information while conveniently explaining away previous leaks."
Knowing I was being baited, I made no noise, but crept even closer. When he finished speaking, I leapt on him, keeping my attention on knocking his gun away. He went over easily and we struggled. I was stronger, but he fought dirty, scratching and kicking. I ended up with a nasty bite on the ear. As I reared back to give him a black eye, his right hand escaped my grasp and his pistol made its way between us.
"Such a shame you can't kill me. All those rules. Shame, too, about Crowley's suicide. He was a handsome man. Now he's so much fish food." Peterson pulled up on the safety and I desperately seized his wrist, trying to bend it away from my chest. As we fought for control, the gun went off, shooting harmlessly into the wall. I punched him then, hard, and as he reeled, I drew my Beretta and shot him through the heart.
After a long moment, I stood, panting, and holstered my weapon. "It's really more of a guideline than an actual rule," I said and staggered out.
***
I went back to the hotel, again rattled and bleeding. After getting a message to M, I headed to the bar and put ice on my ear. "Vodka martini," I said. "Shaken, not stirred."
"People are easier to fight for than principles."
I drove back to London that afternoon and got my next assignment in the morning.
***
I saw him the other day at St. James park: that old clandestine meeting place for secret agents. He was jumping out of the black Bentley and heading for a bench near the lake where a sandy haired man in a tweed coat was sitting. He looked exactly as I remembered him all those years ago and it ached. The old wound, which I'd thought long since scabbed over, suddenly broke open, raw and bleeding, the pain as fresh as ever. "Crowley!" I called. "Crowley, wait!"
He turned, looking startled, but waited for me. I'm not so fast as I once was, but I got there eventually and couldn't help but stare at his flawless face, eyes as ever hidden behind dark glasses.
"Who are you?" he asked, and my god, even his voice was the same.
"An old friend of your father's," I managed.
He had an odd expression then. One I thought I'd seen thirty years before and I marveled at the genetics that could have produced so perfect a copy. Crowley had been, what, twenty-nine when I'd met him? His son looked the same age. I did some fast sums.
"Please forgive my impertinence," I added, "but I must know. When were you born?"
Seeming to study me for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his expression, but that couldn't be possible. He did give me his father's smile, though, and I nearly laughed to see it. When you're older, emotions are closer to the surface, but I can still keep excellent control.
"1956," he said.
My breath caught. The words, "What month?" felt pulled out of my very soul.
"October."
My heart squeezed so painfully I thought it would stop, but that wasn't important. He had survived. Somehow, he'd escaped the shot and the river and survived. All this time and I'd never known.
I couldn't bring myself to ask if his father was still alive. I didn't want to know. If I didn't know for certain, I could pretend that he was - forever young and playing his eternal spy games, meeting friendly enemies in the park and always on his own side...
"May I ask one more thing? What's your name?"
"Crowley," he said, that beautifully grating smirk firmly in place. "Anthony James Crowley."
I kissed his cheek impulsively and managed to make it all the way home before the tears began to flow.
-James Bond
Mayfair, London
June 1985
Author: musegaarid
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Sex and violence. Character death. (Sort of.) You know, the usual.
Disclaimers: Anthony Crowley and A. Fell belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. James Bond and M belong to Ian Fleming's estate. six_millennia was sadly neglected because this story wouldn't get out of my head or let me write anything else until it was done. I'll get back to it soon. Promise! Large portions of the discussion on good and evil were taken verbatim from the first James Bond novel, Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. (I can't recommend the novel. It's rather terrible. But in a terribly amusing way. The movie is much better. Imagine Daniel Craig. You'll be happy.) Tiny hint of PotC, just because it's a crossover and I can.
Dedication: This one is for _serpensortia who mused, betaed, and dragged me all the way through, providing half the plot and all the sense. Thanks, darling. Thanks, too, to use_theforce_em and the NO chat gang whose idea of a Bond/Crowley crossover got this all started in the first place.
Summary: James Bond is having a hell of a time in his most controversial adventure.
In all of my recorded adventures, you've read about how the brave and dashing James Bond always got his man and the girl besides. But you've never heard of the one time where the man was the girl and still got away...
***
We first met on a train in Switzerland. It was the summer of 1955 and I was on my way to Zürich to meet Peterson, my Swiss contact, to interrogate a man believed to be involved in financing the agents of SMERSH. At noon, I headed to the dining car where the headwaiter apologized, saying there weren't enough tables in the car for everyone and would I mind eating with another gentleman who was traveling alone? I didn't and was led to a table where a dark-haired man stood up at my approach. In my line of work, I've learned to read a person quite well upon first impression but I confess that my first impression was only surprise. I could almost have been looking into a mirror; same suit, same sunglasses, same smirk. Pulling off my glasses with my left hand, I extended my right. "Bond," I said, by way of introduction. "James Bond."
He took my hand but didn't remove his sunglasses. I thought it quite suspicious. We sat.
"Would messieurs care for a drink?" the waiter asked.
I glanced at my companion and, thinking that his reaction might tell me something about him, said briskly, "A dry martini in a deep champagne goblet. Three measures of Gordons, one of Vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Stir it very well until it's ice cold, then add a thin slice of lemon peel."
The dark-haired man looked vaguely amused. "Or in other words, a vodka martini. I think I'll have the same. But shaken, not stirred."
The waiter bowed and left.
"Interesting drink," he observed.
"It's called a Vesper." I tried to see his eyes through the dark lenses and added, "Why shaken? It bruises the gin."
He gave an ironical little smile. "But it adds an element of chaos."
"You thrive on chaos?" I countered.
"You've no idea."
Pondering that, I took up the menu, studying him as much as it. He was an exceptionally handsome man, as far as another man recognizes such things, with thick, dark hair, full lips, and good cheekbones. But there was something clearly masculine in his features that prevented him from looking too beautiful. His jaw perhaps. Or his arch expression. His voice was in the mid-range, but had a rich, velvety quality. Considering his clothes, he looked almost like an agent, but I knew all of them by sight, if not by name. I had just decided that he was a wealthy only child used to getting what he wanted when his voice interrupted my thoughts.
"And what conclusions have you drawn about me, Mr. Bond?"
I must have looked startled because the corner of his mouth twitched up. But I couldn't let him think I was intimidated.
"I had just decided that you live alone. Incidentally, what part of London do you hail from?"
"I didn't say I was from London."
"No," I said, showing off a bit perhaps, "you didn't need to." I thought I had him there.
"Mayfair," he responded, looking pleased. "And I do live alone. As do you."
"Is that all you've garnered?" I asked cockily.
"Certainly not. But it may be all you wish to hear."
"No, by all means enlighten me."
"If you insist. You're a top secret agent working for Her Majesty's Secret Service. One of the double O's, I'd wager, which means you've killed in cold blood. But you're not as tough as you'd like people to believe. You're attracted to unavailable women, probably as a self-defense mechanism so that it isn't your fault when it doesn't work out, and it never does. For all your training and expertise, you're gullible and easily manipulated and a remarkable streak of luck features as much in your success as planning. Money doesn't matter to you, though you like the luxuries it provides, and you do enjoy having power over others. You also regularly take cold showers to test your willpower."
I'm certain I looked gob-smacked, because I was, and I must have made some motion toward my weapon, but he said, "Your pistol isn't loaded, Bond, so don't bother."
And as he said it, I knew that it was true, though it normally was kept ready at all times.
Before I could puzzle that out, the waiter arrived with our drinks. "And have you decided, messieurs?"
The man coolly ordered the lamb and I, whatever headed the menu; some sort of shrimp, I believe. The waiter took the menus and his leave.
"Who are you?" I asked, not bothering to confirm or deny his suspicions.
He smirked. "Crowley. Anthony Crowley."
I narrowed my eyes. I didn't recognize the name, but I did memorize it. "And is there a reason you've been studying me?"
"Only because you sat opposite me and did the same."
I didn't believe it for a second. He knew more than any person could read in such a short time. "I have a fair few friends in Mayfair. Perhaps we have an acquaintance in common."
He smirked again. I was very much coming to despise that expression. "Oh, I very much doubt it."
Then his hand tensed almost imperceptibly around his glass. I only noticed because it was completely at odds with the rest of his relaxed demeanor. I looked at it for a few seconds before opening my mouth to speak again and then the world exploded.
I know now that it was a bomb in the dining car. But then all I knew was noise, smoke, and confusion. I heard screaming as the car rolled onto its side and I was pinned to the wall by the table, which took the brunt of the blast. Wriggling out, I searched for my companion but the man had disappeared. The acrid air burned my throat as I fought my way over burning furniture and bodies, scaled some chairs, and climbed out an open window to escape. It seemed I was unhurt but for some scratches and bruises; something of a miracle really.
There were only a handful of survivors: myself, the headwaiter, and a couple who had been at the table nearest the door. The rescue crew arrived some time later and began pulling scorched bodies out of the wreckage. I didn't see Crowley among them. In the end, about sixty people died. I wanted to know why. And how he knew it was about to happen.
***
I made it to the hotel late that night, exhausted, battered, and in some slight shock. Simplifying my usual checks, I went over the room quickly, and, finding no bugs or other worrying objects, I made my way back downstairs and requested a telegram form from the concierge. Mathis told me once that if the concierge wasn't on your payroll, you had to assume he was on the other guy's, so the message to my go-between in Jamaica was coded.
Arrived in town. Not good trip. Train accident. Hurt a little. Only bruised. Nothing bad. You don't have to worry. Coming home soon. Right after I visit the bank. Open on Monday. Will be prompt. Leave afterward. Everything fine. You'll see me in a week. -James
I also sent a quick note to Peterson to let him know that I was in town. That taken care of, I returned to my room directly and fell immediately into a series of explosive nightmares.
***
As I had requested, Crowley's file arrived on Monday in the arms of a pretty blonde who also brought my car. For once, though, I was more interested in what she was carrying than what was down her dress and she left disappointed. I retreated to my room to read the report. The first page was a list of Jamaican sugar export prices - cover in case someone should see me open the envelope - with a scrawled message in the margin: I think this is a bad investment. It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. M.
I ignored it and read the file.
To: 007
From: Head of R
Subject: Anthony Crowley
Aliases: None known
Address: 14 Adams Row, Mayfair, London
Age: 29, according to his Stateless Passport No. 307-295.
Birthdate: October 21, 1926
Description: Height 6 ft 0 ins. Weight 12 stones. Complexion lightly tanned. Clean shaven. Hair very dark. Eye colour unknown. Appears to be quite wealthy, dresses well and meticulously in fashionable black suits, drives a large vintage automobile, and maintains an expensive flat.
Habits: Often eats at the Ritz Hotel, where he is known as a demanding diner and a wine connoisseur. Goes nowhere else with any regularity apart from a bookshop in Soho. (see below) Tends to wander about the city at all hours of the day and night with no apparent goal or pattern to his movements. No known vices or excesses.
There is very little known about this subject. He showed up first in our records at the end of the war. No known parents, country of origin, or source of income. Although quite handsome, he's never been seen with female company, or without his dark glasses. We think it safe to assume that he's concealing something - an injury, perhaps. We've kept an eye on him for the past few years as nasty things tend to happen when he's nearby, but we've never been able to trace any of them to him.
Crowley has only one known associate, a Mr. A. Fell, definitely a pseudonym. His picture is included.
I looked at the picture. Fell was a cheerful-looking, plump, sandy-haired, middle-aged man with startlingly blue eyes. He wore a fashionable tweed coat and looked like a professor or someone's kindly uncle.
Fell, who also arrived after the war with no known family or country of origin, owns a bookshop, located at 20 Adam and Eve Court, Soho, that specializes in rare bibles and books of prophecy. We believe it must be either a front or a fencing operation as he's had a grand total of fifteen sales in the past ten years. However, we don't see any movement of peoples or goods through there, and Crowley is, in fact, his only regular visitor. The shop is open infrequently and at odd hours and Fell is often absent. The money boys have been over his accounts religiously but can't pin a thing on him. Crowley's visits to the unnamed bookshop are sporadic but he tends to stay the night on these occasions. We must conclude them to be lovers. If Crowley is indeed homosexual, this might be to your advantage, but be careful. We have no idea who he's working for and he may be dangerous.
Reading the information through twice, I burned the papers very thoroughly in my fireplace and scattered the ashes before retreating to the bathroom for my usual cold shower. I switched the water to warm halfway through, and then, annoyed with second guessing myself and for yielding to his snide assessment, changed it back. It felt a lot colder afterward. Toweling off quickly, I crawled into bed and tried to formulate plans for the next time we met. I had no doubt that we would.
***
I found him three days later in the parking lot in front of the hotel looking at my car. Wanting to see what he was up to, I attempted to keep a low profile, but he turned his head immediately and looked right at me, as collected as he had been on the train. The suspicious part of my mind was wondering if he'd just sabotaged it or if I'd interrupted before he could.
"Nice car," he said approvingly, as if nothing unusual had happened that week. He didn't disguise the fact that he knew it was mine.
"1933 Bentley," I replied smugly. Some capriciousness made me add, "Silver, of course," though it was perfectly obvious what colour it was. Perhaps I thought he couldn't see it through his dark glasses in the dim twilight. In a pique of pride - I was rather fond of that car - I added, "Is yours here?"
He pointed across the lot. "1926 Bentley," he mimicked. "Black, of course."
Damn the man.
I smiled anyway, as if it were pleasantly amusing to be one-upped constantly, and remembered the file. Maybe there was a way to get information from him...
"I was just heading out to dinner. As our previous meal was so rudely interrupted, perhaps you'd care to join me?"
His lips curled into a sultry smile that should not have affected me as strongly as it did. "I was going to eat here."
Nodding, I turned and traced my footsteps back into the hotel. The restaurant was fully booked that evening and we had no reservation, but Crowley pulled the maitre d' aside for a moment and though I saw no money changing hands, the man turned and led us immediately to the best table.
Thinking over the matter, I sat and ordered a scotch. I had no intention of ordering a Vesper again, champagne would only have been appropriate if he were a woman, and I didn't care to have my taste in wine sneered at. He ordered an expensive Bordeaux.
Sitting there and looking over a menu with him across from me felt oddly familiar. It was more than a sense of déjà vu; it was comfortable, as if we'd known each other for years. I guess it was because we understood each other so well, he and I. I've often wondered if we were two sides of the same coin. Regardless, the meal was pleasant and convivial. I watched his hands, but he showed no sign of anxiety during the evening.
"So, what do you do?" I asked after the waiter left with our orders. It was a standard opening conversational gambit between men. In such situations, I usually said that I was a plantation owner in Jamaica, but of course he'd discovered differently.
Rather than come up with a lie of his own, however, he merely shook his head, looking amused. "Guess."
I answered his challenge with a question. "Do you enjoy playing games?"
"Isn't everything a game?"
"Someone tried to kill us a few days ago. Forgive me if I can't think of that as a game."
"But it is," he said. "Two sides battling for control of the board. The pieces may change, but the game remains the same."
"I disagree," I said. And perhaps I'd had too much to drink, too quickly, or this subject had been pent up inside too long. Perhaps I thought that revealing a confidence on my side would encourage him to do the same. Or maybe it was just him. But I found myself continuing, when I wouldn't normally. Opening up, exposing my true thoughts. It felt wrong at first, dangerous, but it didn't take me long to get used to it. It was just a different sort of danger.
"You see, when one's young, it seems very easy to distinguish between right and wrong, but as one gets older it becomes more difficult. At school it's easy to pick out one's own villains and heroes and one grows up wanting to be a hero and kill the villains. Well, in the last few years I've killed two villains. Felt pretty clever and got a reputation for being good and tough. Now, that's all very fine. The hero kills two villains. But those villains thought they were the heroes before they were killed by the villain Bond, and you see the other side of the medal. The villains and heroes get all mixed up. The pieces stay the same and the game changes.
"Of course," I added before he could expostulate, "patriotism comes along and makes it seem fairly all right, but this country-right-or-wrong business is getting a little out-of-date. Today we are fighting Communism. Okay. If I'd been alive fifty years ago, the brand of Conservatism we have today would have been damn near called Communism and we should have been told to go and fight that. History is moving pretty quickly these days and the heroes and villains keep changing parts."
He looked intrigued and leaned forward. "Do you have an example?"
I did. A rather painful one. "There was a man I'll call X who hurt me very badly not too long ago. It's simple enough to say he was an evil man, at least it's simple enough for me because he did evil things to me. If he was here now, I wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but out of personal revenge and not, I'm afraid, for some moral reason or for the sake of my country."
He nodded to show that he understood and made an encouraging gesture. "Do go on. This is rather fascinating. So you believe your job is to fight evil on behalf of others, only you can't recognize it unless it does personal harm to you." He looked thoughtful. "I've found that general evil - that is, the idea of evilness taken as a whole - is a rather complicated concept for people to deal with. I'm not surprised you're having difficulty."
"Exactly," I said. "Now in order to tell the difference between good and evil, we have manufactured two images representing the extremes - representing the deepest black and the purest white - and we call them God and the Devil. But in doing so we have cheated a bit. God is a clear image, you can see every hair on His beard. But the Devil. What does he look like?" I looked triumphantly at him.
He laughed ironically. "I think I've got a pretty good idea."
"It's all very fine for you to joke," I continued, "but I've been thinking about these things and I'm wondering whose side I ought to be on. I'm getting very sorry for the Devil and his disciples such as the good Mr. X. The Devil has a rotten time and I always like to be on the side of the underdog. We don't give the poor chap a chance. There's a Good Book about goodness and how to be good and so forth, but there's no Evil Book about evil and how to be bad. The Devil has no prophets to write his Ten Commandments and no team of authors to write his biography. His case has gone completely by default. We know nothing about him but a lot of fairy stories from our parents and schoolmasters. He has no book from which we can learn the nature of evil in all its forms, with parables about evil people, proverbs about evil people, folk-lore about evil people. All we have is the living example of the people who are least good, or our own intuition."
He had a rather odd expression on his face. One I don't think I could explain even now. It gave me pause at the time, but I soldiered on in spite of his doubt.
"So," I went on, warming to my argument, "X was serving a wonderful purpose, a really vital purpose, perhaps the best and highest purpose of all. By his evil existence, which foolishly I have helped to destroy, he was creating a norm of badness by which, and by which alone, an opposite norm of goodness could exist. We were privileged, in our short knowledge of him, to see and estimate his wickedness and we emerge from the acquaintanceship better and more virtuous men."
After I'd finished, there was a sharp instant during which I couldn't breathe, the air seemed so thick and portentous. My muscles were unaccountably tense and I felt surrounded by ominous shadows. What little of his face that I could see was dark and hollow. But a moment later the feeling had gone and I exhaled with relief.
"Bravo," said he brightly, not seeming to notice my distress. "I really must remember to do something evil this evening. I already have a few small marks in my favour, but I'll work harder now that I've seen the light.
"Now about that little problem of yours, of not knowing good men from bad men and villains from heroes. It is a difficult problem in the abstract. But the secret lies in your personal experience. When you get back to London, you'll find that there are other Xs seeking to destroy you and your friends and your country. And now that you've seen a really evil man, you'll know how evil they can be. You'll go after them and destroy them in order to protect yourself and the people you care about. You won't wait to argue about it. You know what they look like now and what they can do. You may be a bit more choosy about the jobs you take on. You may want to be certain that the target really is black, but there are plenty of really black targets around. There's still plenty for you to do. And you'll do it. And when you fall in love and have someone else to look after, it will seem all the easier. People are easier to fight for than principles."
I eyed him carefully. "You sound as though you speak from experience."
A sharp laugh. "No," he said shortly. It didn't tell me what I wanted to know, but maybe it told me just enough.
"You've learned this through observation, then."
He didn't answer. Just stared at me expressionlessly through smoky lenses. The mood was tense, but not like before. More... expectant.
The waiter arrived then with the bill. Pulling a sleek black pen out of his jacket pocket, he wrote his room number, 405, neatly at the bottom of the receipt and signed his name in a spiky hand. Arching his eyebrow significantly, he stood and left the table without another word.
I watched him go. Now, if I read that right, he'd just invited me to his room. I drained my glass.
***
The difficult thing in writing these reminiscences is that thirty years later, one doesn't really remember why one did anything at the time. It seems foolish now, as I certainly didn't trust the man, but there was something compelling about him; something fiery and electric that I will never be able to set in mere words. I wanted to shatter that smug composure, that know-it-all attitude. Then, I thought it was because I wished to regain the upper hand. Now, I don't know...
I followed.
***
He smiled when he opened the door. He'd clearly been expecting me. I was only pleased to have read him correctly. There was a chilled bottle of champagne on the table near the window and I began to wonder just what I'd gotten myself into. Pressing a glass into my hand, he sat me in a comfortable armchair as he expertly popped the cork and poured. I had to admire his technique. It's just what I would have done to set a woman at ease, though it didn't seem to work well in my case. I wondered if it ever had.
The lights in the room were low, but the sunglasses were still firmly in place, and he took off his jacket, inviting me to do the same.
"I know why you're here, Bond," he said.
"Do you?" I replied neutrally.
"Oh, yes. You want information. And you're willing to do anything to get it."
I shivered.
"But are you truly committed?" he went on, touching my bare wrist. "How far will you really go?"
Quickly I made a decision. If I continued to do nothing but react to him, he would dominate this encounter as he had every one we'd ever had. So I put my glass down, seized his collar, and pulled him into a fierce kiss. He responded in kind and for some time we fought with lips, tongues, and teeth. In many ways it wasn't so different from kissing a woman, but he was strong and solid beneath my hands; firm where I was used to softness, rough where I was used to gentleness. He was like a wild stallion, proud and aggressively male. I found I didn't mind so much. In fact, I believe I was eager to discover what it would be like to have an equal in bed.
Some minutes of warring found him sitting on my lap in the armchair, tie gone, and the first button of his shirt undone. I reached for his sunglasses and his grip on my wrist tightened. It was amazing what strength he contained in that lithe body, like a coil of steel under constant tension, and I let my hand fall. Without a word, he stood, turned off all the lights in the room, drew the curtains, and returned to my lap. My hands found his face again and this time he let me remove his glasses. Carefully, I felt his eyes but didn't detect any scarring or defects. They felt as perfect as the rest of him.
"What colour are they?" I whispered.
"What colour would you like them to be?"
The word was wrenched out of me, as though I had no say in the response. I only knew that I desperately wanted and needed them to be, "Brown."
He laughed soft and low. "Then they're brown."
And in that moment I almost believed that he could change them just for me, such was the spell he had me under.
"So if that's all you wanted to know..."
He stood and pulled away, I stretched out to grab him and, overbalancing in the dark, we both tumbled to the floor.
"Why do you wear the glasses?" I asked.
"My eyes are sensitive to light," he replied, trying to roll out from under me.
I was considerably bulkier than he and I put most of my weight onto his shoulders, trying to keep him pinned as I stole another kiss.
"What were you..." I began, but he interrupted.
"Don't I get to ask any questions?"
"No," I replied, keeping control of the situation. Or so I thought. But somehow he managed to get my trousers open without my knowing it and in an almost serpentine squirm, slid a few feet beneath me in order to take my manhood into his mouth. I gasped and made to move away, but he gently applied his teeth and I decided to stay where I was.
***
How can I describe to you what it was like? The writhing battle for dominance in the dark? I've never had sex like that before or since. I've never had sex with another man, either, but I don't believe that was the unusual factor. I couldn't see him, couldn't read him, couldn't predict at all what he'd do next. All I knew was the feel of him that I garnered through bruising kisses and rough touches. His breathing was remarkably soft and regular considering the exertion we were sharing and though he didn't speak, the pleased noises he made were oddly sibilant.
I tried to gain control, despite not knowing what I was about. I'd heard rumours during the war, of course; millions of young men away from their girlfriends and wives for months or years... It had all sounded rather sordid and I'd never paid attention to the detail - so I was astonished when all that wiry strength was brought to bear and I found myself on my back being straddled. I knew that no good could come of having the submissive posture and I tried to form a negative when he sat back against me and I found myself engulfed in him. I was lost. How can one object to a repulsive act when one discovers that it isn't remotely so?
Far from being disgusted, I let him take the lead and I was glad I did. His hands and mouth wandered over my body as he rocked back and forth, wringing every possible drop of pleasure from me. Several times he brought me to the brink of completion and left me teetering on the knife's edge for what felt like hours. After a while, it became almost torturous and I began to struggle, moving counter to his rhythm, trying to get the last bit of friction that I needed. He merely adjusted to prevent it. Finally, with no more fight left, I broke down and begged. "Please," I said. "Please."
He sat back, hard, touched something deep within my body, and the world exploded again. I couldn't prevent a great yell, which made my throat feel torn and raw. As I gasped for breath, he sat up and lay atop me, his need straining against my stomach, though he made no move to alleviate it.
It was some moments before I could catch my breath and some more to figure out what to do next. He wasn't giving me any clues. I wondered if it was another test, but I hadn't even finished that thought before immediately chastising myself. Of course it was. Well, I won't have it said that I'm an insensitive lover, whatever gender my partner. And while I didn't know what to do with my mouth and wasn't willing to offer my body, I did have one choice left. As any man, I had done this to myself and knew what I liked, so maybe I could try it on him, too.
I rolled him off me, a little more roughly than necessary, perhaps, and sat up. Then I sat him in front of me, my chest to his back, our legs spread wide. I remember thinking at the time that it was odd how well-developed the muscles in his back were compared to the rest of him. Not that the rest of him was lacking in any way; I just thought it strange. I couldn't really imagine how he'd done it without having an equally well-developed chest. But it didn't signify. Moving instinctively so as not to overthink the matter and talk myself out of the act, I reached around and seized him firmly and he gasped rather satisfyingly.
To my surprise, he was cut, though he didn't appear to be a Jew. It was only another mystery surrounding the man. But I couldn't think about that. I needed to focus my attention on lowering his defenses. So I tightened my grasp and began to manipulate him. At first I tried to pretend I was doing it to myself, but after his head fell back on my shoulder and he moaned, I couldn't pretend any longer. I knew it was him. Everything was him. When he was in a room, no one else seemed to matter. He was sharper, brighter, more present than anyone I'd ever met and pleasing him, being noticed by him, became paramount to me. Wrapping my ankles around his calves, I tugged sharply and slid my hand slowly back down, trying to encourage his release.
When his hand wrapped around my own, I froze, afraid I was doing something wrong. But he began to move our hands together, showing me the speed and pressure he preferred. It was quite possibly the most erotic thing I've ever felt. I squeezed my eyes shut, buried my nose in his hair, and once again followed his lead.
"Did you plant that bomb?" I murmured in his ear. He shook his head no. "But you know who did." Arching his back, he hissed as our joined hands moved faster. "Tell me, Crowley," I continued, insistent, the intensity of the room palpable, "Whose side are you on?"
"Mine," he gasped, and dissolved into shouts as he reached his completion. Carefully I removed my sticky hand and placed it on his hip as he brought his breathing under control. After a moment, I had the oddest impression that he wasn't breathing at all.
"Are we friends or enemies?" I asked quietly, our nude bodies still pressed together, the evidence of our activity all around. I needed to know.
I could feel the vibration from his laugh under my own ribs. "Right now? Definitely friends. Tomorrow? Who knows?"
It was probably as much of an answer as I had any right to.
We shared a cigarette. He closed his eyes as I lit it and his face was angelic in the shadows of the faint red glow; the smoke haloing around his head. When it was down to the filter, I stubbed it out, dressed without awkwardness, and left for my own room.
***
When I woke the next morning there was a note on my pillow, two inches from my eyes. Jumping out of bed, I checked my security measures, which were all in place and untriggered. The door was locked and bolted from the inside, the window was braced, none of the powder trails in front of the vents or fireplace were smudged, and not a single one of my other little precautions were dismantled, which should have needed to be done for anyone or anything to even approach my bed without my knowledge. My brows knitted and I'm certain that I scowled. I knew who it was, of course, but how the hell had he done it?
The envelope simply said 'Bond' in his distinctive, almost glyph-like writing; I just stared at it. Eventually, I opened it carefully. It was remarkable only in being unremarkable. Written on the hotel's stationary it merely said, Come and had an address. What can I say? I went.
***
The address was for a church on the west bank of the river. It was four hundred years old and glorious in its majesty, as well as supremely empty on a Friday morning. I drew my Beretta and crept in.
I wasn't expecting to find Crowley and Peterson, my contact in Zürich, holding pistols on each other at the altar.
"It's too late for you now," Crowley was saying, "It's the only thing left."
"No!" exclaimed Peterson. "I won't."
I frowned. It seemed that Crowley was the enemy after all. I think that I'd always known, but perhaps part of me had naively hoped he could be redeemed in the end...
"Drop your weapons," I yelled. Peterson swiveled to look at me immediately, relief in his eyes. Crowley was watching Peterson. I couldn't see his eyes, of course, but his body language didn't read as distraught or guilty. "Both of you!"
"Bond," Peterson began. "You don't really need me to..."
"Drop it," I repeated. Peterson did, his gun clattering on the stone floor. "And you, Crowley."
"You know this man?" asked Peterson.
"Apparently not," said I, disappointed.
Crowley didn't look hurt or worried. In fact, I think he was smiling just a little; a quirk to the lips, barely noticeable in the dappled, coloured light of the stained glass windows. He dropped his gun. Before it had stopped spinning, he was gone, running out the back of the church. I bolted after him as Peterson fumbled for his weapon.
"Shoot him!" he screamed.
"Not in a church," I replied coolly, finally back in my element. I could put emotions aside as long as I needed to in order to get the job done. "Head him off." And then I was gone.
As I chased him through the graveyard behind the church, I couldn't help but remember the feel of his long, lean muscles under my hands. He was definitely built for speed. I was panting to keep up, but it seemed effortless to him, as everything did. I've since often envied his sangfroid.
"Bond!" he yelled at me over his shoulder, not slowing. "You've got the wrong man."
"Of course you'd say that," I said, hard on his heels. He jumped a six foot wall, and turned down a main thoroughfare, weaving between clumps of startled bankers and housewives. I pursued him doggedly, wondering where Peterson was. "Why did you plant the bomb on the train?"
Even twenty feet away I heard his laugh as he zig-zagged down the high street, staying just out of range or behind cover so that I couldn't get a clear shot, even if I could draw my gun. "Don't be stupid. I've already told you it wasn't me. I only realized it was there a few seconds before it went off."
I cut down a side street, hoping it would act as a shortcut. I wanted desperately to believe him, but I couldn't. It was too easy to recall his sarcastic words at dinner, "I really must remember to do something evil this evening. I already have a few small marks in my favour."
Bursting out the end of the street, I had narrowed the gap. There was an apple cart directly in his path and I thought I had him, but he leapt over the thing like it wasn't there, landing in a roll and jumping back to his feet. By the time I got there, the cart had moved, and I passed by, closer than ever.
In apparent desperation, he ducked between two buildings down near the waterfront and I knew I had him. The river was lined on both sides with twenty foot stone walls and though it looked like there were pass-throughs, there weren't. Still, I approached the corner cautiously, not knowing if he had another weapon and well aware of how good a target I'd make outlined against the mouth of the alley.
"Crowley," I called around the corner, my back to the wall and gun drawn. "I know you're trapped in there. Tell me the truth and you may get out of this alive."
I could almost picture his arch expression as he replied. "The truth? Fine. Peterson is a double agent for the Russians. He's the one that planted the bomb."
"Peterson has been a loyal agent for twenty years. No one knows who you work for."
He made a frustrated noise. "Peterson was a loyal agent for seventeen years. But the Russians pay better. And I already told you who I work for."
Inching closer to the edge, I said, "I don't believe you. I think I'm your target and you're trying to frame Peterson."
I heard an odd tearing sound under his words, like fabric ripping, and the faint rush of wind. "Think, would you? I was sitting next to you on the train. I wouldn't bloody well blow myself up, along with dozens of other people, to get you. If I'd wanted to kill you, I could have done it much more easily last night or this morning when I had the opportunity. It's ludicrous."
In the middle of taking another half-step nearer to the corner, I hesitated, doubting myself. It was true that we'd been alone together for a significant period of time when I had been at my most vulnerable and he hadn't hurt me; had, in fact, done much the opposite.
"Last night you wanted to keep me alive long enough to get information," I said, hating that it almost sounded like a question.
"Try again." His voice was almost amused. "That can't be true because last night I didn't get any information. Other than how to make you scream when you come. Do you think the Reds want to know that?"
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to control my breathing and not get lost in memory. "That was a mistake. I know you're a homosexual, and I knew you'd try to seduce me. But I shouldn't have gone along with it."
His laugh seemed to come from a long way off. "Why? Enjoy it too much? Worried about your masculinity? Your tough guy reputation? Let me tell you something. I'm not a homosexual. I just wanted you, James."
My throat tightened. For a moment, I was tempted to just walk away and let him go while I investigated his claim against Peterson. But his early assessment of my character came back to me. "You're gullible and easily manipulated..." The bastard was doing just that. Using me. And I was falling for it again.
Furious, I pointed my gun around the corner and my eye followed. I crouched quickly, aiming. The alley was a box, like I had predicted, with no doors or windows leading out of it and walls too high to scale even if the river weren't on the other side, but to my great surprise, it was also entirely empty save for a few dead leaves and an iridescent black feather. Crowley was gone.
With a vehement curse, I took off running again, pressing past the exhaustion point, following my instincts as to where to go. I moved along the river, keeping to a steady downward course until I heard an unexpected gunshot. I tore around the corner in time to see his black clad body stagger and fall into the river, not ten yards from me. Peterson held the smoking gun with a smug grin. "Got him."
***
There are times in one's life when one can tell, even in the moment, that nothing will ever be the same. That was one such moment. I'd only known him a week and yet it seemed like the brightness of my world rested in him, for good or evil. I couldn't tell you why, even now. But my heart turned to steel in my chest, melting and twisting into the cold, hard lump that people had always assumed was there. Just then I became the blunt instrument that the MI6 wanted, the ruthless bastard who could do the dirty work of government. It was the true beginning of my career.
***
I was looking into the water for his body when seconds later a shot whizzed by my left ear. I spun to see Peterson only a few yards away, his expression manic. Fortunately, I was wearing my electromagnetic watch, which must have been what deflected the bullet, because at that distance he shouldn't have missed. Then his gun seemed to jam, which gave me a precious few seconds to duck into the nearest doorway. Apparently Crowley had been right after all. I only hoped I'd survive my mistake.
Finding myself in some kind of warehouse, I threw myself behind a large wooden crate. Suppressing my breathing, I listened carefully for his footsteps. There was the slightest snick off to my left and I rolled out of the way just as a second bullet missed me by inches.
"Why did you do it, Peterson? Why turn traitor after so long? Why blow up the train?"
Peterson's voice was low and furious. "Because, you flash bastard, the MI6 doesn't appreciate the grunts. The people who make your job possible. It's all about the bloody double-o's who sweep in to finish the job and get all the credit after you've put in hundreds of hours of tedious research and watching."
I gave a bitter laugh as I crawled behind another crate and sighted him over it, creeping through the dim room. "So it comes down to you not feeling appreciated. And the Russians believe in the common man, right? But you don't. You killed dozens of innocent people."
Angry, he fired again towards my voice but it went several feet wide. The next crate over burst open revealing raw wool.
"Collateral damage," he said. "But it was worth it even if I didn't get you. I destroyed the wheels of capitalist commerce and the bourgeois pigs who travel its bloody highways."
Sliding against the far wall, I began to despair. Peterson had clearly bought the party line. But it was bureau policy that suspected double agents be captured alive for questioning. It was harder to do damage control if we didn't know what had been leaked. I moved stealthily along the wall to get nearer to him.
"The Russians know how valuable I am," he was saying, clearly thinking he could draw me out if he angered me enough. "They know what I can give them. And I can give them a dead secret agent, unfortunately killed by his partner in crime, one Anthony Crowley, to whom he was trading valuable government secrets for, let's see now, I'll say sexual favours. That sounds damaging enough. Nothing more perverse than a traitorous, homosexual communist. And that's how you'll be known forever, Bond. It's sad that you'll be losing not only your life and your honour but you'll be improving my status with both of my employers and giving me access to more sensitive information while conveniently explaining away previous leaks."
Knowing I was being baited, I made no noise, but crept even closer. When he finished speaking, I leapt on him, keeping my attention on knocking his gun away. He went over easily and we struggled. I was stronger, but he fought dirty, scratching and kicking. I ended up with a nasty bite on the ear. As I reared back to give him a black eye, his right hand escaped my grasp and his pistol made its way between us.
"Such a shame you can't kill me. All those rules. Shame, too, about Crowley's suicide. He was a handsome man. Now he's so much fish food." Peterson pulled up on the safety and I desperately seized his wrist, trying to bend it away from my chest. As we fought for control, the gun went off, shooting harmlessly into the wall. I punched him then, hard, and as he reeled, I drew my Beretta and shot him through the heart.
After a long moment, I stood, panting, and holstered my weapon. "It's really more of a guideline than an actual rule," I said and staggered out.
***
I went back to the hotel, again rattled and bleeding. After getting a message to M, I headed to the bar and put ice on my ear. "Vodka martini," I said. "Shaken, not stirred."
"People are easier to fight for than principles."
I drove back to London that afternoon and got my next assignment in the morning.
***
I saw him the other day at St. James park: that old clandestine meeting place for secret agents. He was jumping out of the black Bentley and heading for a bench near the lake where a sandy haired man in a tweed coat was sitting. He looked exactly as I remembered him all those years ago and it ached. The old wound, which I'd thought long since scabbed over, suddenly broke open, raw and bleeding, the pain as fresh as ever. "Crowley!" I called. "Crowley, wait!"
He turned, looking startled, but waited for me. I'm not so fast as I once was, but I got there eventually and couldn't help but stare at his flawless face, eyes as ever hidden behind dark glasses.
"Who are you?" he asked, and my god, even his voice was the same.
"An old friend of your father's," I managed.
He had an odd expression then. One I thought I'd seen thirty years before and I marveled at the genetics that could have produced so perfect a copy. Crowley had been, what, twenty-nine when I'd met him? His son looked the same age. I did some fast sums.
"Please forgive my impertinence," I added, "but I must know. When were you born?"
Seeming to study me for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his expression, but that couldn't be possible. He did give me his father's smile, though, and I nearly laughed to see it. When you're older, emotions are closer to the surface, but I can still keep excellent control.
"1956," he said.
My breath caught. The words, "What month?" felt pulled out of my very soul.
"October."
My heart squeezed so painfully I thought it would stop, but that wasn't important. He had survived. Somehow, he'd escaped the shot and the river and survived. All this time and I'd never known.
I couldn't bring myself to ask if his father was still alive. I didn't want to know. If I didn't know for certain, I could pretend that he was - forever young and playing his eternal spy games, meeting friendly enemies in the park and always on his own side...
"May I ask one more thing? What's your name?"
"Crowley," he said, that beautifully grating smirk firmly in place. "Anthony James Crowley."
I kissed his cheek impulsively and managed to make it all the way home before the tears began to flow.
-James Bond
Mayfair, London
June 1985