A New James Bond Adventure, Part Two: Zero Minus Ten

The British Airways flight that carried James Pickard, Esquire, of Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick arrived on time at Kai Tak Airport. "Representatives" from Eurasia Enterprises were waiting, not in the gate area or in the greeting hall beyond immigration, but in the movable bridge that connected to the hatch of the aircraft.

Two Chinese men in business suits stopped Pickard as he stepped off the aircraft.

"Mr. Pickard?"

"Yes?"

"Come with us, please. We take you to hotel."

The men opened a service door in the bridge and gestured toward a set of metal steps leading down to the tarmac. Pickard was confused.

"Don't I have to go through immigration?" he asked.

"That already taken care of," one of the men said in broken English.

Pickard shrugged, chalked it up to Chinese efficiency and was pleased he was getting the VIP treatment. He walked happily down the steps and into a waiting limousine. As soon as the car was away, James Bond ascended the same set of steps and entered the bridge. He walked through it and into the terminal. As he had not gotten much sleep the night before anyway, he looked and felt as if he really had just flown from London to Hong Kong. He was dressed in an Armani suit borrowed from Li Xu Nan, and he carried a briefcase full of law books. He was unarmed, having reluctantly left his Walther PPK with Li.

The passport and travel documents with which Li's people provided him were top-notch forgeries. As James Pickard, British citizen, he sailed through immigration and customs, and was met in the greeting hall by an attractive blonde woman and a Chinese man, both in their 30s.

"Mr. Pickard?" the woman said. She was English.

"Yes?"

"I'm Corinne Bates from the public relations office at Eurasia." She held out her hand.

Bond shook it. "Hello. James Pickard."

"How was your flight?"

"Long."

"Isn't it, though? I find it dreadful. This is Johnny Leung, assistant to the interim general manager."

"How do you do?" Bond said, and shook the man's hand.

"Fine, thank you," Leung said. "We have a car waiting."

Bond allowed himself to be guided outside and into a Rolls-Royce. So far, the operation was going smoothly.

"All the hotels were booked because of the July first transition," Corinne Bates said. "We're putting you up for the night in a corporate flat in the Mid-Levels. Is that all right?"

"Sounds lovely," Bond said.

The car drove through the Cross-Harbor Tunnel to the island and made its way through Central and up into the Mid-Levels, an area of prominence but just a step down from the elite Victoria Peak. It finally entered a complex on Po Shan Road, just off Conduit Road.

They let him into the flat, a lovely two-bedroom affair with a parquet floor and a view of Central.

"We'll pick you up at 6:30 in the morning, Mr. Pickard. The train leaves from Kowloon at 7:50," Bates said.

"We're taking the train?" Bond asked.

"It's the easiest way," she said. "And that way you can see a bit of the Chinese countryside. It's about a two-and-a-half-hour ride to Guangzhou."

The Kowloon--Guangzhou Express left precisely at 7:50. Corinne Bates and Johnny Leung saw "James Pickard" to the station and made sure that Bond got through immigration and aboard the right train. Apparently General Wong had insisted that the new solicitor from Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick make the journey to China alone. The train was surprisingly comfortable, with plenty of room in the aisles. Bond sat by a window and watched as the several stops within the New Territories came and went. The train finally crossed the border into southern China.

Shenzhen was the first major city just beyond the border, and at first glance it appeared to be just another part of Hong Kong. Something was different, though, and Bond couldn't put his finger on it until the train had traveled a few minutes into the country: There were no English signs. Throughout most of Hong Kong, public signs were written in both Chinese and English. Here, the world was strictly Chinese.

Shenzhen looked extremely commercial and urbanized. Bond expected to see an obligatory McDonald's or two along the way, but when he saw the famous rabbit logo of Playboy on a building, he was quite surprised. Before long, the train pulled into the chaotic, crowded Guangzhou station.

The minibus turned into the intimidating gate of Guangzhou's main government building, a tan seven-story structure with a red roof. The gate was set within a brick facade with a blue roof, and was connected to a high fence that surrounded the building. The driver spoke to a guard, the gate opened and the minibus pulled into a parking lot full of military vehicles--jeeps, a couple of troop transports and one tank.

When they got out of the minibus, the guard pointed across the road. "Sun Yatsen Memorial Hall," he said. "Nice tourist attraction." He gestured to the building in front of them. "This is our local government building. General Wong will see you here."

The guard escorted Bond into the building, where he had to sign a visitors' book under the watchful eyes of other soldiers. The next thing they did was curious--Bond was frisked from head to toe. Why would they do that to a visiting solicitor? He attributed it to the rigors of communist China. He was then led to a lift and taken to the third floor, where the guard let Bond into a small office.

"Wait here," the guard said, then he left Bond alone.

Bond sat in a straight-backed chair. The room was bare except for a conference table, a few chairs and a water cooler that sat in a corner. It was very hot. The air-conditioning was either off, or broken, or they didn't have air conditioning at all. This was the humid summer for which south China is known. Bond had to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief.

After a moment, a man came to the doorway. He was dressed in Chinese military regalia and appeared to be about 60 years old. The man was short, probably no more than five and a half feet tall, but was broad-shouldered and muscular. He had white hair cut short and a pug nose and he wore spectacles with round lenses.

"Mr. Pickard?" he asked in English.

"I am General Wong." Bond stood and shook his hand.

"How do you do?"

The man didn't smile. "I trust you had a pleasant journey."

"It was fine, thank you."

"Very well. Come." He stood. "You want water? Very hot today."

Bond would have loved to drink some water, but he was wary of its purity. "No, thank you, I'm fine."

He followed the general into what was presumably his private office. In contrast to the rest of the building, it was full of expensive furniture, antiques and fine art. A tiger's head was mounted on the wall, and there were objets d'art scattered around the room. What appeared to be a gold-plated bust of Mao Tse-tung sat on a bookshelf. The most impressive artifact in the room was a life-size terra-cotta horse and soldier. Bond imagined that it had been part of the fantastic archaeological dig at the tomb of Ch'in Dynasty emperor Qin Shi Huang near the city of Xi'an, where more than 6000 clay soldiers and horses were arrayed in battle formation as an artistic representation of the emperor's great army. Most of the terra-cotta figures were left in place, but a few had made it to museums around China. General Wong must have spent a fortune in order to obtain one. Anyone who had seen this opulent office would not have believed that its inhabitant was a communist.

General Wong pushed back a curtain behind his desk and revealed a safe. He twisted the knob a few times, unlocked it and carefully removed a large parchment in a transparent plastic cover.

The document was brown with age, but the lettering was intact. One side was written in English and the other in Chinese. The wording and legality of the agreement seemed to be in order.

"This is quite an artifact," Bond said after studying it. "I'll need a photocopy to take back to England."

Wong didn't say a word. He took the document off the table and replaced it in his safe. Then he picked up his phone and pushed a button. He spoke into the receiver and hung up. Bond heard footsteps in the hall. Guards came straight into the room and stood on either side of Bond.

Wong said, "You are impostor. You are not lawyer. You are spy."

"Now wait just a minute--" Bond began, but one of the guards punched him hard in the stomach. Bond doubled over and fell to his knees.

"Who are you? Who do you work for?" Wong demanded.

Bond stood up slowly but didn't say anything. What had happened? Where had something gone wrong?

"I got phone call before you arrive," Wong said. "Mr. James Pickard never stepped into Hong Kong airport. My people were there." He held up a photograph of the real Pickard. "You are not this man."

Bond didn't move.

"Are you going to tell me who you are? Talk! I'll give you one more chance. Who do you work for?"

Bond stood silent and at attention, like a soldier.

"Very well," the general said. "We move on to next step."

"Remove your clothes," Wong commanded in Cantonese.

My God, Bond thought. What are they going to do? He felt cold fear. He suddenly had total recall of another time long ago when he had been tortured with nothing on. It had been hours of excruciating agony, and it damn near killed him.

"You heard me!" Wong shouted.

Bond did as he was told. As he undressed, Wong opened a cabinet behind the desk and removed a white bedsheet. He walked to the middle of the room and spread out the sheet. It floated down and settled neatly onto the carpet. It wasn't completely white. Several suspicious stains were on it.

When Bond was naked, Wong gestured for him to stand in the middle of the sheet. Bond stood at attention in front of him. Wong slowly walked around him, inspecting him, admiring the man's body.

"You think you are fit, Englishman?" Wong said. "We shall see how fit you really are."

One guard trained an AK-47 on Bond while General Wong returned to the cabinet and removed a long, white stick that was covered with ridges. He held the stick in front of the vulnerable man. For the first time since Bond arrived, Wong smiled. In fact, he had become a different person. The sour face and unpleasant demeanor were completely gone.

"This is a rattan cane, Mr. Pickard, or whoever you are," he said. "I have friends in Singapore who not only employ it for punishment but swear it is also an effective persuader. Now, I ask again. Who do you work for?"

Bond said nothing. He knew he was in for a great deal of pain. In Singapore, the maximum number of strokes with the cane was usually five; ten for extreme cases. What kind of damage could it do? He knew the lashes would leave welts on his skin, possibly permanent scars. What if he was caned many, many times? Could he force himself to pass out, as he had trained himself to do? It was one of the most difficult tests of willpower he knew of.

"Bend over and grab your ankles," Wong said.

Bond did so. He felt humiliated and dangerously exposed.

Wong took a position on Bond's left side and held the cane to 007's buttocks. He rubbed the rough stick against the skin there, indicating to Bond how the cane might feel if it struck him hard.

"Who are you and who do you work for?" Wong asked again, his voice trembling with excitement.

Bond kept his mouth shut. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Concentrate! Focus on something! He opened his eyes and saw a dark stain on the bedsheet a few inches from his face. It was probably dried blood. Bond stared at it, willing himself to fall deep within the confines of that dark, shapeless haven.

The cane struck him with such force that he nearly lost his balance and fell forward. There was an intense, burning pain across the middle of his buttocks. They felt as if they were on fire.

Bond gritted his teeth harder and continued to stare at the spot. He began to sweat; a drop slid down his forehead and onto his nose and then fell onto the sheet.

"You see what it can do?" Wong asked pleasantly. "Now will you talk?"

Bond concentrated on the spot in front of him, attempting to conjure up whatever peaceful thoughts he could manage. My God, give me something of beauty to look at. Give me something pure.

The cane struck again, slightly lower than the first blow. Christ, it hurt! He kept up his internal litany, forming mental pictures in his mind. Give me my house in Jamaica. . . . Give me my flat in Chelsea.

The third blow slashed Bond across the tops of his thighs. It was dangerously close to more vulnerable parts of his body. God, not that again! He might not be able to take that.

The fourth blow landed on the buttocks again, overlapping the first two red marks.

A fifth stroke tore his skin an inch below the last blow. Sweat was now rolling off his face. His heart was pounding. He wanted to scream, but he dared not. He knew the general took pleasure in the torture. The more the victim suffered, the more the sadist enjoyed it. Bond was determined to be the most disappointing whipping boy General Wong had ever had.

The sixth stroke nearly knocked Bond over again. The madman was putting his weight into it now. He was breathing heavily. "Well?" he asked. "Have you had enough?"

Bond sensed the general was surprised and perturbed that Bond's reaction to torture was not quite what he had expected.

Bond turned his head to the left and spat, "Please, sir. May I have another, you bloody bastard?"

The seventh blow knocked Bond forward and onto the sheet. He curled up into a ball on his right side and felt the blood seeping down the backs of his thighs. "Get up!" Wong shouted.

He brutally whacked Bond across his left arm, directly over the stitches of a previous wound. Oh, bloody hell! Bond screamed to himself. He didn't want to be hit there again. Getting lashed on the backside was immeasurably preferable, mainly because he was beginning to grow numb there. He weakly pulled himself up and assumed the position again.

The ninth blow seared his thighs once more. Again, Bond wanted to yell, simply to release the anger, humiliation and tension that enveloped his body. He remained stubbornly silent.

The tenth stroke sent Bond to the sheet again. It was the hardest, most savage blow yet. He didn't know if he could manage to pull himself up off the floor.

At that moment, there was a loud knock on the door. Wong shouted something. The guard with the gun opened the door slightly and listened to a hurried whisper from another man in the hallway. He closed the door and whispered something to Wong.

Suddenly, Wong threw down the cane. "Bah!" he shouted. He said something that implied that Bond was nothing but excrement. He spoke quickly to the guard, retrieved the cane and put it back in the cabinet.

"I have appointment," Wong said. "We will continue in little while." With that, he left the room.

The guard lifted Bond from the bloodied sheet. He stood weakly, his legs shaking like mad. The guard threw Bond's clothes at his feet and spoke in Mandarin. Bond picked up the sheet and wrapped it around himself, soaking up the blood and pressing his wounds. It was going to be a while before he could sit comfortably.

The guard shouted at him, indicating with the machine gun that he should get moving. Bond swore at the man in English, dropped the sheet and pulled on his clothes. Contact with his trousers was excruciating. Unable to sit to put on his shoes, Bond went down on his left knee. He got the right shoe on, then painfully changed positions and rested on his right knee. The (continued on page 142)zero minus ten(continued from page 84) guard was looking out of the door into the hallway, the gun half trained on Bond.

Bond quickly removed the pry tool from his left shoe. He snapped open the heel and removed the plastic dagger. He slipped on the shoe, snapping the heel back in place as he did so. He tucked the dagger under the flexible Rolex watchband on his left wrist, then slowly raised himself up off the floor.

The guard gestured with the AK-47 for Bond to leave the room. Another guard stood in the hall and moved toward the lift.

The lift descended to the basement level. They came out in a stark white hallway, at the end of which was a locked steel door. The lead man unlocked it and held it open for Bond and the other man to go through, to another long hallway lined with five or six other steel doors. Each of these contained a small barred window at eye level, obviously opening into cells. Bond wondered how many individuals entered this building and never came out. If he was going to make a move, Bond knew it had to be now.

The guards turned right and led him to the end of the hall. The first man unlocked the door there and held it open. Bond reached for his left wrist and firmly grasped the small handle of the plastic dagger. He knew that his timing had to be perfect or he would be a dead man.

Bond turned to the man holding the AK-47 behind him and said in Cantonese, "Would you mind not pushing that thing into my back?" The guard relaxed, giving 007 the space he needed. He pushed the AK-47 away from his body with his left hand and simultaneously swung the dagger straight up with his right. The three-inch blade pierced the soft skin of the man's jaw just under the chin, thrusting up and into the mouth. In the next half second, Bond grasped the machine gun and chopped the man's arm with a right spear-hand, causing the guard to release his grip on the weapon. By now, the other guard had begun to react by pulling a pistol from a holster on his belt. Bond swung the AK-47 around and fired one quick burst at the second man, throwing him back into the open cell. The first guard was now clutching at the dagger in his jaw, an expression of surprise, pain and horror on his face. Bond used the butt of the machine gun to smash the man's nose, knocking him unconscious. He moved quickly into the cell to inspect the guard he had shot. Four bullets had caught him in the chest. He was quite dead. Next Bond retrieved his plastic dagger, wiped it clean on the first man's shirt, then replaced it under his watchband. He prayed there were no other guards in the basement. The burst of gunfire had been quick. He hoped the noise had not penetrated to the upper levels of the building.

Bond had to get out and find Li Xu Nan's men, who must be watching the building. It was not going to be an easy escape. First, however, he had to accomplish the task he came to perform. He had to go back to the third floor and get that document.

He was still bleeding, and the pain was nearly unbearable. He stepped into the cell and removed his trousers again. He slipped off the right shoe and again pried open the heel. He used a sheet from a cot to dab himself, then did his best to apply antiseptic to the wounds. He ripped the sheet into strips and layered them around his thighs and buttocks. It would have to do until he could get medical attention. Bond then swallowed a couple of painkillers, replaced the items and put his shoe back on.

Bond left the cell holding the AK-47, prepared to blast the first obstacle that stood in his way. He used the guard's keys to open the main door and entered the hallway leading to the lift.

Once he was back on the third floor, Bond silently made his way toward Wong's office. The hallway was unusually quiet and empty. The general's staff was obviously not a large one.

The office door was closed. Bond put his ear to it and heard a woman moaning with pleasure. The general was having a little afternoon delight. Good, Bond thought. Now it would be the general's turn to be caught with his pants down.

Bond burst into the room and trained the machine gun on the couple behind the desk. General Wong was sitting in his large leather rocking chair, and a woman in her 30s was sitting on his lap, facing him. Her skirt was pulled up above her waist, and her legs were bare. Wong's trousers were around his ankles, and the look on his face was truly priceless. The woman gasped, frozen. Her military blouse was unbuttoned.

Bond closed the door behind him. "Get up," he said in Cantonese to the woman. When she didn't move, he shouted, "Now!" The woman jumped up and hurriedly put herself back together. Wong sat there, exposed.

"What's the matter, General?" Bond asked in Cantonese. "Is the humidity causing you to wilt?"

"What do you want?" Wong said through his teeth.

"Open the safe, and be quick."

Wong stood. "I pull pants up?"

"Slowly. First place your pistol on the desk with your left hand."

The general carefully took the pistol from the holster on his belt and laid it on the desk. It looked like a Russian Tokarev but was most likely a Chinese copy. Then he bent over, pulled up his trousers and fastened them before turning to the safe in the wall and opening it. "The document," Bond said. "Put it on the desk." The general did as he was told.

Bond didn't expect the woman to come to the general's defense. She attacked him, screaming a bloodcurdling war cry. The move so surprised him that he lost his balance. The woman successfully tackled him, and they fell to the carpet where only a little while ago Bond had been lying in agony. She went for the gun, obviously quite prepared not only to sleep with her general but to die for him as well. Wong moved around the desk and kicked Bond hard in the face. The woman managed to wrestle away the AK-47 as Bond rolled away. Wong took the machine gun from her and pointed it at Bond.

In one swift, graceful maneuver, Bond took hold of the plastic dagger, rocked back on his shoulders, lunged forward and threw the knife at the general. The blade spun across the room and lodged in Wong's throat, directly below his Adam's apple. His eyes widened, and for a moment he stood as stationary as his terra-cotta statue. The AK-47 fell to the carpet as he reached for his neck with both hands. He made choking, gurgling noises as blood gushed out of his mouth.

Bond took no chances. He grabbed Wong's shirt to steady him and punched the man hard in the jaw. Wong fell back across the desk and rolled over onto the floor. Bond turned to the now-terrified woman. He was so full of violence and fury that he might have killed her, too, had she not been unarmed. Instead, he backhanded her, knocking her unconscious.

The general was still writhing on the floor. He had pulled the knife out of his (continued on page 148)zero minus ten(continued from page 142) throat and was struggling for air. His trachea had been severed and his lungs were filling with blood. Bond stood over him and watched him die. It took three long, excruciating minutes.

Bond grabbed the document and stuffed it into the briefcase he had brought with him from Hong Kong, which was still sitting where he had left it earlier. He took the AK-47, then picked up the dagger and returned it to his shoe.

His trousers were wet with blood. The sheet strips had not lasted long.

How the hell was he going to get out? He glanced out the window that overlooked the front of the building and counted four guards outside by the gate. Across the street was the Sun Yatsen Memorial Hall. Maybe he could make it over there somehow and hope that Li's men were close by.

Bond opened the office door and looked into the hallway. All clear. He crept to the lift and pushed the button. When it opened, a guard stepped out. Bond killed him swiftly and quietly and entered the lift. At the ground floor, flattening himself against the side of the car, he pressed the Open Door button and held it.

The ruse worked. When a lone guard got curious and decided to see why the lift door hadn't closed, Bond brought the man's head down hard on his right knee, then hit him on the back of the neck with the butt of the AK-47.

Two armed guards stood in the building's foyer. They saw Bond and immediately pulled their pistols. Bond acted with split-second timing, boosted by the adrenaline rushing through his body. He opened fire and the two guards slammed back against the wall, leaving bloody trails as they slid to the floor.

Bond stood there a moment, breathing heavily. He was still filled with rage, an emotion he usually tried to avoid because it could cause recklessness. This time, however, it served as a goad. Blasting away the guards had actually felt good. My God, he thought. This is what he lived for. It was no wonder he inevitably became restless and bored when he was between assignments. Living so close to death was what invigorated him and gave him the edge that had kept him going for so many years.

Feeling invincible, Bond walked into the broad daylight of the courtyard. He didn't care that his clothes were wet and bloody. He didn't care if the entire Chinese army were waiting for him. He was quite prepared to blast his way out of Guangzhou until he had no more ammunition or he was dead, whichever came first.

There were only the four guards at the gate. They looked up and saw Bond. Their jaws dropped. So stupefied were they at the gweilo's appearance that they were unsure of what to do. Bond trained the machine gun on them. They slowly raised their hands above their heads.

"Open the gate," Bond said to one of them. The guard nodded furiously, then did as he was told. Bond walked backward out of the gate, keeping the gun trained on the soldiers.

It was mid afternoon and traffic was quite heavy. Bond looked in both directions and quickly calculated when he might make a mad dash across the street. When the moment came, he turned and ran. The guards immediately began to chase him. Their timing wasn't so good, and they had to dart between vehicles to get across.

Bond ran up the steps past the statue of Sun Yat-sen and into the Memorial Hall. The lobby was narrow and dimly lit. He went straight into the arena-style auditorium, which had two balconies and a stage at one end. It was dilapidated and had a decidedly musty smell, and it was empty and dark.

He ran down the center aisle to the stage, jumped up to the apron and ran stage right to the wings. A staircase led down to some sort of greenroom. He heard the guards enter the auditorium above, calling out to one another. Sooner or later they would find him.

Bond made his way to the other side of the auditorium basement, then slowly climbed the staircase there to the other side of the stage. The guards were searching the aisles. He slid along a counterweight system to the back of the stage behind a faded, torn cyclorama. What he was looking for was there--a loading door for bringing scenery in and out. Bond pushed back the bolt and kicked the door open. He jumped down to the pavement and ran around the side of the building to a parking lot. Tourists were walking from their vehicles to the front of the building. Many of them stopped and stared at the bloody Caucasian running across the pavement.

It was then that a black car screeched into the parking lot and stopped in front of him. A Chinese man in a business suit jumped out and held open the back door.

"Get in, Mr. Bond!" he said in English. "Hurry!"

Bond jumped into the backseat, and the car squealed from the parking lot out to the busy street. There were two of them--the driver and the man who had spoken. Bond thought they looked familiar, then realized he had seen them at the initiation ceremony in Kowloon.

The man in the passenger seat looked back at Bond. His brow was creased.

"What happened to you?"

Bond was not sitting down. He was on his knees, facing out the rear window.

"They gave me a beating," Bond said. "Where are we going?"

"Back to Kowloon, of course. Try to relax. It's a three-hour drive."

Bond didn't know how he could possibly relax in his position, but he had to admit he felt a hundred times better just being out of the hellhole from which he had escaped.

Bond watched the traffic behind the sedan and saw no signs of pursuit. It was curious that there hadn't been many soldiers at Wong's building. He counted himself extremely lucky. If an entire regiment had been there, he would probably be dead by now.

The man in the passenger seat dialed a cellular phone and spoke Cantonese into it. Bond heard him say they had picked up the gweilo. The man turned to Bond.

"Mr. Li wants to know if you got it."

Bond said, "Tell him I have what he wants."

The automobile spent the next half hour navigating the crowded streets of Guangzhou and finally made it out onto the open highway, heading southeast toward Dongguan and Shekou.

By the time the hovercraft from Shekou had arrived at the China Ferry Terminal in Tsim Sha Tsui, many of the world's governments had learned of Bond's actions that day. The story, relayed over hotlines all around the globe, was that General Wong Tsu Kam had been murdered by a mysterious Brit. There was speculation that it was the same Brit who had killed the two visiting officials in Hong Kong on June 13. China was accusing England of espionage and murder. Four witnesses in the Chinese military force testified that they had been forced by an armed but wounded Caucasian to let him leave the governmental building in the heart of Guangzhou. Several soldiers had been killed inside the building. For the time being, China was keeping the news from the press, but there was no telling when it might be leaked.

The prime minister attempted to assure China that no British hit man was operating on its soil. The idea was absurd--England certainly didn't want a confrontation with China. China refused to listen.

Adding fuel to the fire was the release of James Pickard, Esquire, at six p.m. He had been blindfolded and taken from an undisclosed location in Kowloon to Kai Tak Airport to be left standing on the departures level. He was unharmed, but he went immediately to the police and reported what had happened to him. An hour later, he was surrounded by reporters and photographers. He would receive his 15 minutes of fame, and then would be shipped back to London in the morning. This bit of public spectacle only added to the mysteries that had plagued Hong Kong over the past month.

Government officials in Hong Kong were alarmed. What if the allegations were true? The Chinese troops along the border were under new command within the hour, and word had it that tanks were now moving up to the line. An early takeover was a frightening possibility. It was important to keep the people in the dark, but it was entirely likely that some reporter would stumble across the news at any time and splash it across the papers. A colonywide panic had to be avoided at all costs. The Royal Navy was due to move into Victoria harbor within 24 hours, joining the Hong Kong naval forces. Britain had sent a destroyer and two Duke-class Type 23 frigates to join the three RN Peacock-class patrol craft permanently deployed in Hong Kong. The colony's own naval force was operated by the Marine Region of the Royal Hong Kong Police, mostly a Coast Guard force responsible for the territorial waters of Hong Kong and all surrounding islands. As far as the public was concerned, the Royal Navy's intention was simply to be on hand for the transition, but in reality it was on full alert. The Royal Marines had been dispatched and would form a line south of the Chinese border. The U.S. issued a private statement urging restraint, but her nearby fleets were watching and waiting. The Japanese government offered to mediate, but China refused to acknowledge the gesture.

As for James Bond, getting out of China had been relatively simple. The car had been driven to Dongguan, where they stopped at a small hotel so Bond could shower, dress his wounds and change clothes. Li had sent yet another Armani suit for 007 to wear. After a stand-up meal at a food stall, the group continued along the highway to the rapidly expanding Shekou. There they boarded a hovercraft to Kowloon. A new passport had been prepared for Bond (complete with a false exit stamp from Hong Kong immigration), this time in the name of John Hunter. The presence of the ethnic Chinese deflected any suspicions on the part of Chinese immigration that Bond might be the man wanted for General Wong's murder.

A car drove Bond from the hovercraft terminal to Li's office building in Kowloon. The Cho Kun greeted him as an old friend. He smiled broadly and clasped Bond's hand.

Bond handed over the document. He was tired and in pain, and didn't relish the idea that he had done something to help a Triad. He was angry with himself.

"Here it is," Bond said. "I can't imagine it's worth much now."

The woman attacked, screaming a war cry. The move so surprised Bond that he lost his balance.