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Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 07 [Revised]

a/n: Commissioned illustrations by Daniel Purnama, @addictivities & @marianaillust. This chapter wouldn't go as hard without their awesome work! <3

VII: A MOMENTARY LAPSE OF REASON THAT BINDS A LIFE FOR LIFE

Safin exited the hotel alone. He was staying in a different facility, a few blocks away from all the noise. Yet, even as he put more distance between himself and Swann, he couldn’t bring himself to accept what he’d done as a mistake. If he kept her close, she’d put another bullet in him. Push her away, and she’d find someone less merciful. Perhaps that was his fault. He’d made himself too convenient to discard, and now Swann felt powerful.

As far as Safin was concerned, the culmination of the evening was a means of securing Madeleine’s trust. Deep down, she would concede there was no way out of this so-called honorable life beyond termination, or acceptance of one’s circumstances. Denial bred its own strain of unshakeable commitment. Just as his actions left a stain on her conscience, so too had she percolated his better sense. The woman he’d met in Guinea and the woman in Oslo weren’t disparate. One evolved from the other’s catalyst.

A broad sandy-haired man looked over from across the street, catching his eye, and nodded. Safin continued walking. His destination was on the opposite side of the street, a block past the crosswalk. The man was travelling parallel to him on the other side of the street. When Safin crossed over at the light, as he approached, he kept a hand stowed in his coat pocket. As Safin got close enough to make out the distinctive watch around the man's wrist, the man said, “Do you have the time?”

“James Bond, Universal Exports,” said Safin with a cursory glance. “Or do you still go by Arlington Beech?” The man wasn’t as amicable as he had been a moment before. No doubt he was used to leading the conversations on the back of charisma alone. “It’s been eight years. You should consider a different alias.”

“It’s never been an issue.” 007 studied him. “Zahov, isn’t it?”

Safin exhaled in a plume of steam. “Our business was settled.”

“We were never formally introduced,” 007 said. “I thought this would be prudent.”

Safin said, “If all you want is to talk, find a woman to listen to you.”

007’s lip curled. “I’m afraid tonight is strictly business. Though it’s been terribly dull. So, what’s a man of your profession doing in Norway?”

Safin considered his options. Bluffing could only get him so far. “Medical evaluation.”

“Oh, those are terrible,” 007 said, with a sympathetic half-smile. “Work has been keeping me on a shorter leash. I don’t drink half as much as I used to.” He side-eyed Safin, as though this was meant to break the ice. “It’s been a while since Montenegro. I haven’t thought about it in—damn, it’ll be eight years.” A flicker of remorse crossed his features. Whether it was genuine or practised remained to be seen. “Things seemed much easier, back then. I was willing to give up my future. Honest to God, I’d almost convinced myself I would be happier that way.” He sighed and shook his head. “Hope’s a dangerous thing.”

“Indubitably,” said Safin. “But you still work for the English.”

“For Queen and country. Beats a desk job, though I suppose it’s all the same to you.”

Safin continued walking past the hotel. 007 fell in-line beside him, speaking over the white noise of passing traffic and civilians,

“Word gets around. All of these terrorist attacks, these bombings, the chemical attacks in Africa—I think we’d agree that they’re not exactly coincidental. As would your friend from the clinic. Swann, isn’t it?” 007 lowered his tone. “You didn’t hear this from me, but it’s likely that whoever sponsored the donor gala is fronting for a larger cover-up. Swann might try to run like she did in France. Whether or not she succeeds, all the intel she’s got leaves with her.”

They’d stopped in front of the hotel. “What are you suggesting?”

“We might have a chance at stopping whoever’s been behind those chemical attacks. But that depends on Swann. Obviously, we’d be happy to bring her in and question her. She’ll be relocated, no harm, no foul.”

“Must be a slow day for MI6, if you are doing what is expected of you.” Safin masked the slight tremor in his free hand which he stowed in his pocket, drawn to a fist. Despite his alcoholic tendencies, James Bond was not enfeebled by dioxin poisoning. He had about twenty-to-fifty pounds on Safin and a reputation for killing enemy operatives during field-missions. Unlikely, that it would happen out here. The only loss for SPECTRE would be a spot on Sciarra’s security team and an empty seat at the Palazzo Cadenza. “Yet it seems the loss of your British Treasury agent and SAS have not tempered your insolence. I wonder what will?”

007 scoffed. “I’ve got four hundred and thirty seven days left ‘til retirement. I’m on my best behaviour.” Safin turned about-face towards the hotel doors, as 007 added, “One shouldn’t get discouraged, Zahov. Sexpionage isn’t for everyone.”

Safin stopped mid-stride and looked over to assess what he had heard. He hadn’t been at a loss for words like this since Raoul Silva. As 007’s eyes, arrestingly blue, fixed on his, he experienced that dull unease that came with being outmaneuvered.

“You continue to meddle,” Safin said quietly, “and it has cost you greatly. Perhaps it is time you learnt to cut your losses.”

“You see,” said 007 in a flat voice, “that’s your problem, Zahov. You’ve been talking as if you think it’ll never happen to you.”

Safin smiled, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “One is only as good as his last mistake.”

007 returned to an air of amicability without missing a beat. “I’m willing to learn from mine. Put aside our differences, if it’ll spare more bloodshed.”

Perhaps it was time to start tying up loose ends. 007’s cooperation would come as surely as Vesper Lynd’s. But 007 still had his uses, even if he wouldn’t live to understand the gravity of his contribution. SPECTRE’s battle of attrition with outside parties could not go on forever. A temporary truce was an acceptable alternative to another year of disrupted operations, ending in 007’s clean retirement from MI6. To dismiss the opportunity would be a terrible mistake, indeed.

“I’m listening.”

⁂

By the next morning, Madeleine was going into work, seeing the usual clientele. The world didn’t stop for anyone’s mid-life crisis. It would have been easy, before, to reassure herself that she was in no real danger. The occasional slight from a disgruntled patient was just that. No real harm would ever befall White’s daughter, because she was careful not to overstep her responsibilities. Her upbringing left little room for reflection, but it was the only way she could bear to live with herself.

Ever since coming to Oslo, she had allowed herself to be frozen over. Clients came and left with irregular familiarity. There was a comfort in the façade, of looking the other way, not asking questions. As long as she could separate her secrets from her own work, she’d be able to help others. Putting up a front, not just for her own sake but for the betterment of others. With enough time and patience, she could delude herself into acceptance. Of all the options afforded, this was the lesser evil. Reapplying gauze to the same old wound, as if enough smothering would stop the rot.

Her ordinary colleagues never could grasp the root of her distress, and her father had been distancing himself from his mistakes all her life. Her past relationships weren’t built for longevity. Sure, there was an occasional snag of self-doubt or remorse, but she’d always find a way to assuage it. The men that found her attractive weren’t going to look deeply into her problems. Men like Safin had an emotional range tied to the extent of their control. When he’d tracked her down, following her to the hotel, he made it a point to not coerce or impose. If she told him to leave, she had no doubt that he would. Most people in his position would be asking for a favour. An early clearance, a lesser sentence, as if she wouldn’t have to answer to Kęstutis regardless.

At the end of each day, she’d turn off the lights and close the blinds, and be faced with the same epiphany. Maybe it hadn’t mattered who and what Safin was, at the tango bar, the safehouse, or the hotel in Guinea. He’d given her the truth when her father’s associates refused. To dwell any deeper on her own shortcomings wouldn’t make Klebb’s assignment easier. It was too close to hypocrisy, for her tastes.

By the end of the week, she’d submitted Safin’s evaluation. He should be cleared for work. The next morning, Klebb was in the waiting area. “Dr. Swann,” she said. “I was hoping to speak with you.” Madeleine’s next client was an hour from now. She unlocked her office door, and Klebb invited herself in. The blinds were still drawn from last night. Klebb flicked the light on. “Your personal evaluation of Lyutsifer Safin, what is it?”

Madeleine paused, taking Klebb’s silence as a grant to speak. “He’s pragmatic. He spoke about his job as a purpose, and he has revealed very little about himself in all the time I’ve known him. Even outside of work.” She looked at Klebb. “He followed me, last week, but asked for no favours. He’s not made contact since.”

Klebb nodded. “We’ve provided women before, some of them younger than you. It never worked. He had other ambitions.” Her eyes raked over Madeleine, as one might appraise a prized race-horse. “It seems I have underestimated your competences.”

“Our methods differ.” Refusing to acknowledge Klebb’s statement for what it was, Madeleine walked over to her desk. She wasn’t the first Klebb had spoken to about handling an operative, and she likely wouldn’t be the last. Dealing with snide remarks from the patients was easier to stomach than the notion of her own complicity, but given the alternatives, it was a necessary discomfort. “I doubt he’s going to give you what you’re looking for so easily.”

A cruel twist played on Klebb’s mouth. “There’s no guilt to be had, Doctor. You’ve found an approach. Now it is a matter of assuming control.” She walked up to the desk and grasped Madeleine’s wrist in short, strong fingers, as if to shake her hand. “On behalf of the syndicate, I must acknowledge your achievement.” Madeleine drew away before she thought better of it. Klebb did not rebuke her. “Now that we know what you’re willing to do, the rest should be easy.”

As soon as the door closed, Madeleine took a shaky breath and exhaled too quickly to assuage her hammering heart. She’d assumed Safin would have a history of misconduct. Someone who got a rush out of vigilantism, righting wrongs, would want to play the hero. What better way to ingratiate oneself into her life than as a saviour? A confession he couldn’t excuse, getting in the way of his usual MO, forcing him to overcorrect to the point of vulnerability. He wouldn’t form the same attachment to a stranger, or an obvious foil.

A man in control would never have pursued her to the hotel directly. He would have convinced her that she might be unsafe otherwise. She’d been looking over her shoulder since she was a little girl. There were less dramatic explanations, of course. The client and therapist had a very intimate bond of trust. It wasn’t uncommon, during the process, for some patients to mistake their own feelings of gratitude as infatuation. Whether or not Safin had a history of this conduct, it was a possibility worth considering.

In the back of the filing cabinet were the documents Klebb had left her. Madeleine took out an old photocopy of a dossier from 1985. He would have been six going-on seven. Already she could see it in his eyes, he was no stranger to violence. Without studying him in-person, she could only project Klebb’s words onto the image. Or perhaps she was only noticing what she’d overlooked in the eyes of the adult.

To kill him, at this stage, would be a waste. He’d yet to disappoint her.

⁂

Ernst Stavro Blofeld was having a peaceful afternoon at his home in Morocco. The house itself had been built within the crater’s depths. He’d been coming back here each year, since QUANTUM was dissolved. Solomon, the white blue-eyed Turkish Angora, was his only companion aside from the workers on-site. Construction on the meteorite base was well underway. Once finished, there would be enough rooms to accommodate their latest scheme. A string of apparent terrorist attacks across Europe and Africa would no doubt convince the right world leaders that mass surveillance was an inevitable response to such uncontrollable danger. With the merging of MI5 and MI6, there would be less incentive to rely on field agents, in spite of the drawbacks that came with automation. No solution was perfect, of course. But in time, SPECTRE would be just as much a part of the CNS without the latter knowing the wiser.

Swann’s conduct at the clinic remained acceptable. No serious complaints from her patients or coworkers. Her actions outside of work were more interesting. She’d ignored the mole from the CIA after a few meetings. As an educated guess, she’d treat Safin accordingly—whether or not Safin would keep his distance remained to be seen. Pitting less-disciplined operatives against each other was one of Klebb’s favorite pastimes, a vice Blofeld tolerated for the sake of maintaining an iron grip over the syndicate. Seducing a former patient suggested a level of callousness and or compartmentalization beyond her own father’s ability.

This March, next year, would be James’s last in active service. It was a shame, but a man like James would never have fit in the syndicate anyway. Despite his talents for espionage and conditional empathy, he clung to duty for his country as if it was enough to absolve him. Blofeld could not adhere to such man-made limitations, not as the head of SPECTRE. He and James were destined to lead, while those of lesser stock would fall in line. James had a harder time accepting this fact.

The phone rang. Blofeld picked up.

“Her report was inconclusive.”

“So I’ve heard.” Solomon passed through the room, barely glancing at him. “The evaluation was more of a courtesy.”

“James Bond has infiltrated our operation. He’s made contact with Safin.”

Blofeld nodded. “That’s an interesting development.”

“With all due respect, sir, we have let this side-operation with Swann go on for too long. She is not delivering the results we had hoped for.”

Solomon bumped against his naked ankle. Blofeld reached down to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Dr Swann might not be the hardened operative that Safin was, but she was no fool. “Dr Swann has seen an opportunity you and I have overlooked. That is to be commended.” A strained silence on the other end of the line. Blofeld’s bony shoulders lifted. “It was your decision to bring Safin into her office. If anything changes, she’ll report to Kęstutis as we discussed. Your job is to ensure the good doctor is not killed while her father is alive to witness it. Let Safin dig his own grave.”

Klebb, on the other end, would no doubt be very unhappy about this affront, not only to her mission but to her headship. She was not going to accept defeat by an outsider, let alone this thankless little bitch with no respect for their syndicate. But she’d come around, she was not ruled so closely by emotion. It was why Blofeld had picked her as an advisor.

“Of course, sir.”

“Excellent,” Blofeld clicked off. He looked down at Solomon, who had sequestered himself around his foot. “I think we may have the candidate we’re looking for.”

Solomon mewed, indifferent to anything but attention.

⁂

With one thing and another, the night of the donor gala arrived. On the twenty-fourth floor of the Raddison Blu, Madeleine was getting ready. The double silk georgette gown wasn’t out of her price range, but it wasn’t too expensive to be worn once and discarded. Despite the offer extended on behalf of Klebb to cover costs, Madeleine insisted on buying everything herself. The last thing she needed was to be indebted to anyone from her father’s ilk.

Directly adjacent to her room was Safin’s. Last week, Kęstutis mentioned that he’d been indiscreetly reassigned to her, but nothing more. Safin hadn’t spoken to her since February. Hinx had been chauffeuring her to-and-from work, and to the Raddison Blu, without ever mentioning the change in itinerary. Still, it was in her best interest not to ask too many questions.

The door adjacent to her room opened and closed. “Dr. Swann.” The dark suit jacket and dress pants were closer to a deep purple than black. Under the warm lights, he looked less sickly. A tiny opaque cord attached to an earpiece wound down the side of his neck into his dress shirt. “This event will be crawling with other operatives. It’s best to be cautious.”

She struggled to redirect her thoughts. The lack of unease was becoming its own stressor. “I don’t have much in common with these people aside from sharing a tax bracket.”

“You don’t enjoy yourself?”

“It’s tolerable.” Putting up a front seemed like a pointless expenditure. “I cannot imagine it's as difficult as your own responsibilities.”

“I’m just following through.”

Something was off. His usual detachment wasn’t there. He didn’t have to look at her directly, but even as he scanned the room his attention kept coming back to her. Not stifling or predatory, just—direct. She said, “It seems you still have some reservations.” He turned to look at her, but didn’t elaborate. “All these other times I was followed around by strange men, they would come to the door. They would tail me on the street, but they never followed me to an address.”

“The man you met was a CIA source.” The look in his eyes was sharper. “Were you unaware?”

“I’m aware of what you are.”

His expression was easy to read. Acrimonious, but still in control. “It’s unwise to be so careless, even if you feel you can afford to be.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“A daughter of SPECTRE will always have enemies.”

“I try not to linger on possibilities. It never helps.”

Safin turned as if to leave. His tie was a little loose, uncharacteristic of his usual fastidiousness. Without thinking consciously, Madeleine closed the distance, straightened his tie. He went very still, but didn’t say a word. As she drew back, the expression on his face have been a trick of the light, but it wasn’t mistakable. She said, “Shall we?”

Out the door, down the carpeted hall. The well-dressed man waiting for the elevator caught her eye and smiled. A twinkle in his eyes, electric blue, said he’d be nothing but trouble for whoever caught his interest. “James Bond,” he said. “Retired professional gambler. I’m here on behalf of an old friend.”

“Dr Swann,” said Madeleine. “On behalf of my colleagues in non-profit.” It was difficult to act natural with Safin drilling a hole in the back of her skull with his eyes, but not impossible.

Bond’s attention went to Safin, who merely said, “Security.”

Bond nodded, with the tiniest flicker of emotion in his eyes. The elevator doors opened. A glass entry-point led into the elevator itself. As Bond was saying, “Seems they’ve done some work on the elevators,” his eyes passed over her and Safin. It was not overt. Just a tilt of the head in their direction, but Madeleine was not going to implicate herself any further. “You were in Guinea, last year, wasn’t it?”

Madeleine turned. “Yes.”

“My colleague is an avid supporter of non-profit organisations. She should be downstairs already.”

“I’d be happy to speak with her,” Madeleine said.

Under his ear rested a similar opaque cord. Her stomach lurched with the elevator’s descent, still in the double-digits, as James Bond leant casually along the arm of the cabin. Safin hadn’t looked anywhere but the doors and Bond, briefly.

“Why does a retired gambler find himself at a charity gala?”

“Money,” Bond said simply. “I’ve got enough of it.”

A career chauvinist, perhaps. He wasn’t here to socialise. Madeleine looked at the doors. Past floor nineteen, eighteen. “I haven’t been to one of these events in some time.”

Bond was polite enough to be taken aback. “You seem like you’d fit right in.”

Madeleine forced a scoff. “I can’t remember the last time I actually sat down and talked to someone. If I had that much in common with the people here, I’d start drinking and talk about my real problems. I’d end up in the river by Tuesday.”

Bond smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “And you’ve got a good sense of humour.” Her pulse quickened. A laugh she smothered in her throat with a blithe smile. Down to the single-digits. Madeleine would rather be socializing within a crowd than trapped in this elevator for another minute. “Are you feeling all right?” Bond had the decency to sound concerned, but his eyes were scanning her.

“I’ve never felt better,” she said.

The doors opened. She moved past Bond, into the crowd.

In the ornate women’s bathroom, her hands clenched on the cool marble rim of the sink.

She’d never pictured an existence where she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. This was no different than one of her father’s business parties, sticking to the sidelines. She wouldn’t have to endure the smell of tobacco. She’d make connections that had nothing to do with her father’s ilk, and perhaps say a few words about the horrible tragedy of last year, and no one would be the wiser. They’d call her brave and enduring.

In the mirror she found the woman reflected. The wave of calm she’d felt in Zurich. She wasn’t going to survive the night if she couldn’t pull herself together. She’d always been running on borrowed time. Within her shrinking social circle, all of her closest associates seemed to be criminals in one way or another.

If she was to survive the night, she’d just as well learn to improvise.

The door opened. Madeleine turned on the sink.

“Are you all right?” The dark-haired woman in the black dress might’ve been in her early twenties. She was tall and lithe, could be a dancer or a soldier’s build. Her nails were painted burgundy. Smell of cologne followed in her wake.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, grateful to talk to someone who expressed concern. “Thank you.”

“You’re Dr. Swann, is that right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I understand you’ve met James,” the woman said. “He was just telling me about your charity work. Oh, where are my manners?” She laughed easily. “I’m Paloma.”

⁂

After the dinner, the raffle had been going on for half-an-hour and it seemed pointless to linger when little else was expected of her. Paloma, who seemed eager to socialise but was sympathetic to her plight, elected to go with her.

“I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well,” she said. In the reception hall, Madeleine stopped and said, “Your cologne. Did you change it sometime during the night?”

Paloma chuckled. “I’m not sure what you mean. I didn’t wear any this evening.”

Madeleine forced a polite laugh, feigning embarrassment. Her gaze wandered to Paloma’s hands. The nails weren’t manicured. “It’s been a long night. I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

When they got up to the rooms, there was a tab on the door reserved for housekeeping. “That’s strange. I’m the one that asked for housekeeping.” Paloma glanced at her. “Are you sure it’s your room?” Madeleine shook her head, unlocking the door with her card-key. Paloma said, “It’s all right. I’ll ask downstairs. Maybe there was a mix-up.”

As soon as Madeleine was alone, she unlocked the door with a cold weight behind her navel. In the tall mirror adjacent to the door, Madeleine could see a sliver of light through the cracked bathroom door. She’d turned it off when she left the room. The maid opened the door.

“Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t aware you were coming back.” Her hand shifted on the doorjamb, fingernails painted. She smiled and said, “I’ll just finish straightening out the towels.”

Madeleine nodded. “All right.”

The maid closed the door behind her. She didn’t have any towels with her, or a cart for that matter.

In a haze of calm, Madeleine walked over to the bedside table. She withdrew the Glock. Forced herself to breathe evenly, inching herself towards the wall beside the bathroom door. On the other side of the door, the maid was moving around.

Madeleine grit her jaw, taking aim. Inhaling, holding, exhaling. At this range, she’d hit the woman in the stomach.

All movement on the other side of the door stopped. The door opened.

Madeleine squeezed the trigger. Gunshot permeated the room. The maid staggered backwards. She twisted her body around and her foot caught over the rim of the bathtub. She collided into the wall opposite with a pained grunt, slumped to meet the tile, trailing blood in her wake, unable to brace herself. Madeleine levelled the gun.

“Are you alone?” The maid’s wide eyes snapped up to the gun, then to Madeleine. “If there are others, you must call them off. Or do you want to make this more difficult?”

She took a breath and raised a hand and touched her ear. Her voice carried no suggestion of pain. “Sir. No, I’ve got it under control.”

Madeleine did not lower the gun. She moved over to the cabinet. Opened the drawers, took out a bottle of painkillers, placed it on the edge of the sink. She eyed a bath-towel and tossed it to the woman. She switched into a less-aggressive register. “I have—” no intention of killing you? No, that offered a window for negotiation. She had to establish control. “—a few questions. If you cooperate, I will call someone down to see to your injuries.”

The woman’s eyes were fixed on her. Trickle of blood issued lazily from her mouth, the same colour as her lipstick. The predominant stain from where she’d been shot was seeping onto the white tiles, forming a puddle.

“You must tell me why you are here,” said Madeleine, “so I can phone for help.”

The woman’s lip curled on a laugh. Blood stained her teeth, seeping over her tongue. “Do you know what your friends do to people like me? They’re only ever going to find pieces.”

“If you don’t say anything, it’s likely you will die. You have nothing to lose.” The operative’s eyes flickered to the phone. She muttered something under her breath. “What was that?”

“Oberhauser is who you want.” Madeleine hesitated. “I’ve given you a name,” the operative snapped. “Now make the damn call.”

Madeleine nodded. She took the phone and dialed the number. Waiting, chest tight.

“Stockmann speaking.”

Madeleine froze. She’d heard this voice before. Beginning to weather with age, but unmistakable after all these years. Not since she was young enough to stay home with maman, back when her father was still visiting L’Americain with his family. That gnawing, icy sensation of attempting to outpace the inevitable tightened her chest. She opened her mouth but the words didn’t come as naturally as before. “I—” she cut off, struggling to compose herself, “—I need your help.”

“Dr. Swann,” the voice immediately thawed into sympathy, an expert salesman, “I wasn’t expecting to hear your voice. Is something the matter?”

“There’s—a woman in my bathroom. She’s injured.”

“I see. We’ll send someone up to take care of it.”

“She needs immediate medical attention.”

“Of course,” Blofeld said. “You’ll be escorted out as well. Just sit tight.”

The call ended. The operative had grabbed the towel, putting pressure on her stomach. It was inundated in blood. “How do you know this man?” The woman balked at her. Her eyes darted to the large mirror in front of the sink. Madeleine, despite her own terror, was running out of patience. “I made the call. Now answer—"

“—shut the fuck up,” the woman said through gritted teeth, “right now, or you’re going to get us both killed.”

The wound looked bad. Madeleine grabbed another towel and knelt down on the tile to assist.

“The hell are you—?”

“Don’t move,” Madeleine muttered. The woman did not relax. But she did comply. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“You’re going to ruin your gown,” said the maid, in an incredulous tone. Madeleine ignored her. There was no great shock, no time for the epiphany. All that remained was cold lucidity.

“I’ve never killed a person before,” she said. “Though I almost did.”

The operative hesitated. “Recently?”

“No,” Madeleine said. “I was a little girl.”

Soon enough, the door opened and in walked Hinx. He grabbed the housekeeper off the floor as though she weighed nothing and shoved her into a laundry hamper. As he was about to wheel it out, the door to the adjoining room clicked open. Hinx, with his hands on the rim of the laundry hamper, turned to watch as Safin walked in.

“Sciarra is with the target,” Safin said. “I’ll handle this.”

Hinx nodded, and wheeled the operative out, leaving them alone. Safin glanced at the bathroom, then to Madeleine’s state of dress. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He looked at her. “You left early.”

“I excused myself,” Madeleine said, careful to avoid any undercurrent of accusation. “There was a mix-up at the front desk. Evidently this woman wasn’t here to refill the soap bottles.”

“She’s alive,” Safin said.

“I’m not a killer.” Madeleine's lip curled into a scowl. “She gave me the name Oberhauser.”

Safin went very still. He seemed to process this, then went along tightly, “For what reason?”

“I told her to call off her friends.” Even without all the pieces, Madeleine was getting closer to what Klebb was after. She had not imagined it would be so simple. She just had to push him a little more. “Oberhauser called the phone and told me someone would take care of it.”

“You were under no authority to ask her for anything.” Lapsing into dangerous quiet, his posture simmering on the edge of violence.

As her heart thrashed against her ribs, she said, “You wouldn't take your eyes off of me all evening. Did you think I would not notice?” He did not answer. Her mouth curled, trembling. “Perhaps you suspected something was amiss.” Goading him into complicity, the same sense of inertia as running across the ice. “You knew that there was an operative hidden among the donors and you were happy to use me as bait. It didn’t matter whether I survived.” Safin held her gaze, the flash of a warning in his eyes. A vindictive sense of satisfaction counteracted by her own entrapment. “Or perhaps you’ve set me up? What, to erase your mistake? I bet it’s not even the first—”

He caught her by the throat, and in two strides she was backed up against the wall.

Grabbing for his wrist for what little it would do, Safin’s expression didn’t change. “The only negotiation,” he said, “is whether or not you are sent back to your father in a box.” The hand around her throat didn’t compress. He turned his mouth into her cheek, and hissed, “Hit me.”

It clicked.

Before Madeleine could act, he grabbing the front of the dress as though it were a shirt-collar, wrenching sharply upward.

The fabric tore. Madeleine decked him. Safin did not flinch. He corralled her by the shoulder, maneuvering them both into the bathroom. He shut the door and let go of her. Walked over to the shower, turned on the hot water.

“You’re in shock,” he said in a flat, deliberate voice. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

He’d torn the gown across her clavicle. She covered herself on reflex, but her mouth trembled anyway. Safin muttered something to himself that wasn't in English.

“Take a shower,” he said curtly, eyes flickering to the mirror behind her. “I’ll be back.”

Madeleine had nothing to lose. She stayed under the shower and let herself be warmed. Eyes on the flawless white tile. Same bottles on the ledge, devoid of blood. The bare skin on her throat tingled. There was no point on which to focus without wandering back to her own lack of agency. You could not lose that which you never had to begin with.

The maid, or operative, had looked at the mirror. There must be something in this room used to transmit audio or video. The only way she and Safin were getting out of this was to play along with what was expected. Klebb, it seemed, would anticipate a scandal.

Madeleine turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. The mirror was fogged over and she could not distinguish a face. Madeleine hit the switch. Overhead fan whirred to life.

⁂

As Safin checked the adjoining room, he was already wasting time. Ostensibly, Blofeld had sent him to take over the operation. This agent posing as a maid was another distraction, no different than the CIA-boyfriend. 007, no doubt livening up the party on floor two, was the real threat, and here Safin was, trapped in another one of Klebb’s tests.

Swann was a good actor, but she had betrayed her own intentions under pressure. Frightened and seeking an escape, it was natural to pin the blame on him. Aside from her father’s presence, her contact with Blofeld was her only insurance. After all, her ignorance was the real reason she’d survived this long. Despite the slip-up, she’d been savvy enough to disarm the operative without killing her, and play along with the ruse. If she remained in the dark about Bond, she had a chance to survive another year unscathed.

This shouldn’t be difficult. Contact Kęstutis before the inevitable call down to Rome, courtesy of Blofeld. He’d explain that there was an attempt on Swann’s life, and it was dispelled without incident. Easy to the point of convenience, which sounded more like a test than a genuine attempt on Swann’s life. With that in mind, Safin circled back to her room. The bathroom door was closed, but the fan was on. A sliver of light crept under the door. He rapped twice, said, “It’s me.”

The door opened. She was covered only in the white towel. Fair hair clung to her face, saturated with water. A tangible shift in her demeanor, from alarm to conviction, a look in her eyes that was ruinous and bright.

She grabbed his lapels. Pressing her mouth over his. Safin didn’t reciprocate, or pull away. She raised a hand to touch his face, side of his neck, as if he were made of something more delicate than flesh and blood. She breathed, “It’s all right,” twisting in his guts more intimately than a knife.

If you leave, her eyes screamed, they will kill me.

If Safin stayed, if he gave even the slightest impression of empathy, he was a dead man. If he walked away, nothing would be suspected, but any intel she possessed would vanish with her. Putting himself in dangerous situations wasn’t his style, but there was a time for exceptions. So it wasn’t much of a debate, letting her pull him into the bathroom. They’d be listening. Not much point looking under the bath towels, the tiny overpriced bottles of shampoo, soap. A hidden microphone could pick up noise within a twenty foot radius. His attention caught, briefly, on the faux-plant on the counter, next to the sink.

Permitting her to lead, divesting him of the suit jacket, setting it aside on the black countertop. Unfastening his tie. He blocked her from the mirror with his body. Svelte. Beautiful in a cold, unyielding sense without implying fragility. She smelled like the hotel soap. Her hair still damp from the shower, one hand furled against his breast. The pulse in her throat fluttered under his palm. She wasn’t looking at him.

When he took her by the chin, he got no reaction beyond a slight intake of breath. Stray droplets of water rolled down her hair and scattered onto his shirt. Her eyes flickered from the mirror to his face in tacit understanding. Their lives depended on their ability to put on a charade.

⁂

James Bond was running out of patience. The raffle wasn’t close to finished. He’d excused himself from the proceedings, to the dismay of the partygoers who were a little too tipsy to register the precise reason for his exit. All the better, as he moved out of the ball-room and into the reception hall. You could only drink so much mineral water without eying the alcohol. He’d learnt his lesson from Montenegro about accepting drinks at a QUANTUM function. Make no mistake about the sponsors, this was, in some way or another, the same crowd and the same intent. Dr. Swann’s role in their scheme wasn’t clear, but Bond was willing to get to the bottom of it.

Paloma was on the way back to the party. “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“Dr. Swann wasn’t feeling well,” she said. “I went up with her to the twenty-fourth floor, but there was a mix-up with housekeeping. I thought I’d notify someone on-staff before I came back.”

“She must have left early,” Bond muttered, watching Paloma carefully.

“The CPO was around,” Paloma said. “He left a few minutes ago.”

Bond nodded. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit under-the-weather myself. Give them my regards, won’t you?”

Paloma nodded. “Of course.”

He stepped into the reception hall and touched his ear. “Leiter, I’m starting to think Swann never spoke to your charming protégé.”

“Her tracker is registering her location,” Q said. “She’s on the fifth floor.”

Bond frowned. Unless her Smart Blood tracker had been cut out, it seemed impossible. “Is it possible to change a Smart Blood tracker’s ID?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Leiter added. “I’ll have Q and our boys look into it.”

“I suppose the doctor’s having an interesting night,” Bond muttered.

“Evidently,” Q’s tone suggested he wasn’t in the mood for another one-liner, “but she’s not why you’re here, 007.”

Bond conceded. “Where’s Safin now?”

“He got called off,” Q muttered. “Something tripped an alarm system in one of the rooms on the twenty-fourth floor. Must’ve been installed in-advance.”

“I’d figure the gunshot would have tripped the alarm before your plant.”

“That device was administered to you, 007,” Q added curtly. “I’m curious to know how it ended up where it has.”

“It would seem there’s more than one mole,” Bond said. Everything about this mission had reeked of contrivance from the start. To his knowledge, Paloma hadn’t spoken a word to Swann in-person until tonight. Bond simply fed Madeleine the cover story. “We’re being misdirected.” Bond scowled. The younger field agents had a particularly bad habit of getting side-tracked, or caught unawares. All theoretics and no common sense. He made a beeline towards the elevators. “I’ll make this quick.”

Q said, “Keep the collateral to a minimum.”

“Since you asked nicely,” Bond said, as he punched the button and the elevator doors closed.

⁂

On the fifth floor, the door to the laundry room opened and Hinx wheeled in the hamper. Rosa Klebb was waiting patiently. She caught his eye and nodded. Hinx plunged an arm into the hamper, retrieving the operative by the forearm as if she were no heavier than a child’s doll. She was plunked down into a chair. She looked into the face of Klebb, who did not smile. “It’s good of you to join us.”

“Fuck you!” the operative spat. “That bitch pulled a gun on me!”

“007 is on the move,” Hinx said. “How do you want to handle this?”

Klebb nodded. “You know what to do.”

Hinx left them alone. Emboldened by his departure, the operative unleashed her beleaguerment on Klebb. “This operation is a shitshow.”

“I understand your frustration,” said Klebb patiently. “We are in the process of negotiating a deal with your contact. In the meantime you and I will discuss the details of your transference.” Klebb’s smile was warm, genuine. This was the favorite aspect of her work. “On what grounds do you feel you’ve been mistreated?” The operative fell quiet. “Come now,” Klebb said in a gentler voice, “you’ll find I am not as unfeeling as the man I must answer to. It is in your best interest to speak to me.”

“She’s working for Blofeld,” the operative said, as if not able to convince herself of the statement’s verity. “She asked me if I knew anything about the name.”

“Swann knows only what she is told.” Klebb had a small phone in her hand. “Once we have our verdict, you will be let go.”

⁂

On the twenty-fourth floor, Safin began fixing his pants. He didn’t say anything, or look at her. A repeat of the situation last month. If Klebb assumed this to be weakness, as she was wont to, he could simply play along as expected. Her fate was the same, regardless of whatever sentiment he chose to extend. Such matters were corrigible.

The door to the hotel room opened and shut. Fixing his tie, donning the suit jacket, Safin considered his options. Most likely, Hinx had come back to finish the job. It was also possible 007 had charmed his way into entry. An easy lie about his wife’s misplaced card, a careful smile, and the attendant would overlook his lack of a wedding band.

Swann considered him without verbalization. No different from the therapist in the office.

He turned as if to kiss her jaw, and muttered, “Wait here.” He pulled back.

Nothing had changed in the room itself.

Aside from the knife strapped to his ankle and his wits, he had little to work with. Safin hadn’t been informed that anyone else but Hinx would be here. There was no back-up.

The man on the other side of the door forced it open, grabbing Safin by the lapels and driving his knee into his chest.

007 noted the change of clothes set aside. With a glance back at Safin, he muttered, “Q, you’re never going to believe this.” With his attention on Madeleine, he wasn’t paying full attention to his back. “Doctor Swann.” Madeleine recoiled against the wall.

Safin reached down his leg for the ankle holster. Swann’s eyes darted to him. In the second it took 007 to catch up, Safin was on his feet. He aimed for his neck, but 007 turned around and it caught the meat of his shoulder. A chop to the side of the head and he was on the ground, vision flashing.

“Stay down,” 007 growled, “and don’t fucking move.” He looked over at Madeleine. “I’ll get you out of here.”

“What about him?”

“His friends can decide what to do with him.” 007 gesticulated with the Walther PPK. “Get dressed and we’ll go.”

#nttd #fanfic #fanfiction #team safin #james bond 007 #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann

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