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dorminchu · 9 months

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Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 06

a\n: Commissioned art by @marianaillust and @addictivities respectively.

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VI: WHY CAN’T I FORGET YOU, AND START MY LIFE ANEW?

At twenty eight Safin had no family or friends to call upon, nor piety. Nothing left to cling to but indomitable rage, sluiced away to expose the rot beneath artifice. The matter of his survival depended entirely on his abilities. For twenty eight years, he sought the wrong answer to his existence. A fleeting moment of vengeance could never compare to a legacy. Gostan endeavored to leave himself behind in a more permeable way than obituary.

Gostan's facility in the Kuril Islands, The Poison Garden. Before it was repossessed by the FSB, his father and a man called The Cipher worked together. Gostan had the knowledge of myriad poisons while The Cipher provided funding. Assassinations became suicides. Alternatives to euthanasia. Guntram Shatterhand, a colleague of The Cipher's, took command after Gostan died. An affluent horticulturalist, he could never appreciate its beauty.

Safin’s first job for QUANTUM began with Guntram Shatterhand and The Pale King. “You’ve worked for Shatterhand before,” said the contact. “In ’96, the Austria job.” Safin disguised his ignorance with a protracted stare. “Lucky for you, The Pale King isn’t one to hold a grudge. All that matters is that you accomplish the job.”

A colleague of The Pale King, The Cipher, otherwise known as Le Chiffre, was the kind of man who bet his entire fund in a short sale. If he crippled smaller economies in the process, so be it. The Pale King had functioned as QUANTUM’s head of finance until the mid-nineties, when Le Chiffre took control and spent the next decade at his own whims. Funding wars, drug cartels, human trafficking, gambling, nothing was below Le Chiffre’s interest. The Pale King had enough of it.

MI6’s new operative, 007, was his own complication. A real wildcard, with no problem blowing up an embassy in Madagascar to apprehend Le Chiffre’s bomb-maker. His recent attack on a private airbase put Le Chiffre in the public headlines and cost his latest stock investment. Not to be outdone, Le Chiffre decided to host a last-ditch game of poker at the Casino Royale in Royale-les-Eatix in order to break-even.

Vesper Lynd, a British Treasury agent with no prior field experience. After her lover was detained out of MI6’s jurisdiction, she struck a deal with Le Chiffre for his survival. The prize money should be transferred through Le Chiffre’s account back to The Pale King.

007 waltzed into the casino and introduced himself to the socialites as James Bond, as though he were a celebrity. He did not smoke. Drank steadily. Not to excess. Played well, up until one of Le Chiffre’s associates slipped digitalis in his martini. As 007 drank, the regulars at the table had not touched their own. And when 007 excused himself, staggering away from the table, the game proceeded as if nothing had happened.

Lynd excused herself as well. When 007 walked back into the casino, perspiring but otherwise unbowed, Le Chiffre’s confidence could not recover. By the end of the night 007 walked out of the Royale a very rich man, arm-in-arm with Vesper Lynd.

At around five in the morning, Safin was given the order. Le Chiffre was holding them both north of Dieppe.

The vehicle used to transport 007 and Lynd, parked in front of the gate to the French-style summer villa. A hasty departure from the Royale left less time to tighten security. No men on post outside the villa. Aside from his silenced PB and bulletproof mask, at a distance Safin could pass for a standard concierge. Two guards playing cards under the naked bulb, summarily dispatched. The woman, bound at the wrists and ankles, did not look up. With a pistol to the back of her head she shuddered to life, hackles raising.

“Vesper Lynd?” Her trembling worsened against the gun’s barrel. “Where is the money?”

“Password,” she whispered. “It’s an account I have to transfer, there’s a password—”

“Who else knows?”

“No one.” Lynd shuddered. “Just me.”

The gun lifted. From his breast pocket he produced a small cloth. "Thank you." His gloved hand clapped over her mouth and nose. She struggled but could do little with her arms and legs tied. The chair rattled with her resistance. When she went limp, Safin pocketed the rag and moved over to the unlocked door. The stench of stale blood and sweat mingling with freshly-brewed coffee.

007, tightly secured at the ankles and wrists against an upturned chair, stripped naked. The outline of Le Chiffre, crouched with a knife. He rose on the balls of his feet but did not look at the door directly.

“Is the car ready?” Safin did not answer. 007 struggled against the dirty floor, punch-drunk. Le Chiffre nudged the side of his head with a polished shoe, eliciting an animal sound of distress. “Inform the driver I will be running late.”

Safin raised the pistol and shot Le Chiffre in the knee. Le Chiffre cried out, crumpled to the dirty floor, dropping the knife. As he scrambled for it, Safin closed the distance and stepped on his hand. Physical violence itself was often redundant during an interrogation. Psychological warfare, the anticipation of a threat, could give a better indication of a man’s psyche and frailties.

Safin kicked him in the stomach. A gurgling rasp, Le Chiffre doubled over and wheezed. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“The money? Look—I’ll get the money. You go back up those stairs and tell—”

“Either you’re a degenerate,” said Safin coldly, “or grossly incompetent. Perhaps both. I’ve waited twenty eight years to speak with you.”

Le Chiffre swallowed dryly, his eyes flickering to the PB. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Safin’s grip tensed. “Gostan Radinovich. You sold his weapons to the highest bidder and slaughtered the rest of his family. But you weren’t careful.”

Le Chiffre’s eyes flickered. His mouth thinned. “Wasn’t anything personal. If you put that gun down, I’ll come quietly.” His hand shifted underneath him. A hidden weapon. A pager. It made little difference, with Lynd’s word.

“There’s only one thing you can do for me,” said Safin quietly.

A silenced shot. Le Chiffre’s expression froze. The rivulet of blood bloomed from his forehead. He convulsed softly where he lay, his body exhuming itself of waste, Safin lowered the gun, regaining his composure.

A low, animal groan. 007, semiconscious in the dirt. His skin crusted with blood, as was the metal cane laid beside the upturned chair. Safin averted his eyes out of respect.

That same morning, 007 and Lynd were relocated to a private clinic to receive medical attention. The Pale King’s money was transferred into the account a few months later.

⁂

During the late-aughts, Safin was offered a long-term contract as a fixer by Marco Sciarra, one of SPECTRE’s assassins. Concerned for his wife’s security as well as his own, Sciarra was looking for someone reliable and discerning. Just a button man, as Sciarra put it. His colleagues would gather, talking about anything that came to mind over alcohol and perhaps. The occasional trouble with spouses. If there was a mistress who’d overdosed in the guest bathroom, or a subordinate who couldn’t keep his hands away from someone’s daughter, Safin would take care of it. In this way, Safin gained a deeper understanding into their company woes.

Le Chiffre’s death was weatherable—outside of his monetary value, he had always been weak-willed and perverse. The loss of Dominic Greene, along with the Pale King’s kidnapping, put several more QUANTUM members in the public eye. They already had informants within the CIA, INTERPOL, and to a lesser degree MI6. After the deal in Bolivia fell through, The Pale King began liquidizing QUANTUM’s assets. While this was a significant loss, it presented an opportunity for redemption. Establishing connections with more disciplined operatives, and requesting favours—by 2012, he had amassed enough power and funds to create a private intelligence agency in QUANTUM’s shadow. The Pale King would never reach the level of success he had once had, his loyalty to the company was paramount.

SPECTRE had to diversify its portfolio. Collaborating frequently with smaller, unscrupulous groups looking for a cut of their earnings. Exceptions had to be made for their cohorts, undeserving of a seat around the table at the Palazzo Cadenza. A wordless divide formed between the old blood and new. The head of SPECTRE became increasingly utilitarian and ruthless. Like Le Chiffre before him, he was never “too good” for any business. SPECTRE’s pursuits branched out into counterfeit pharmaceuticals and human trafficking and terrorism.

Their latest operative, a Brazilian with bleached hair, was making the rounds, introducing himself. Safin happened to make eye contact, the Brazilian sauntered over and said, "Lucifer, isn’t it?"

Safin noted the concave in his jaw, slight droop of his eyelid. "Tiago Rodriguez."

The Brazilian huffed. "I haven’t been called Tiago since my resignation from MI6." He took up a spot on the wall next to Safin, as if they were having a casual conversation. "I confess, I assumed you would be older." They sized each other up. “Sciarra is a good friend of mine. He spoke highly of you.” Silva’s eyes scanned his face. The scars imbued. “You dealt with Le Chiffre and 007. Yet you’re still only a fixer.”

“It’s my assignment.”

Silva’s mouth curled. “You learn a lot about a man, in his final moments. It’s very intimate. I’m curious. What was Le Chiffre like?”

“How much does SPECTRE pay for your dental?”

The room went quiet.

Silva, unmoved, looked him in the eyes. Something cold and precise. The same part of him that woke up every morning, in Hong Kong.

His melodic laugh cut through the tension. “That’s very good!” Safin hesitated. This wasn’t really working out the way he’d intended. "It’s strange, Lucy," Silva was saying, glued to his spot along the wall, "you’re the only one here I seem to have any commonality with. Both of us, intelligence officers. Abandoned by superiors in the line of service. Out for revenge in our own ways.”

No one in his life had ever called him Lucy. If they had, it would’ve lasted all of two seconds before they were summarily dealt with. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of Silva. “How long have you spent rehearsing this?”

"I’ve always had a knack for improvisation."

Best to humour his ego a little. “What is your business with SPECTRE?”

"Cybersecurity. It’s far from my only endeavor. Just between us—I’ve been fortunate enough to establish a contact in Hong Kong. By the next quarter I should have my own investment." Safin said nothing. "I’d even be willing to give you a discount."

"I’m not interested."

Silva huffed. "Oh, come now. No one is that antiquated."

"It’s bad for business, to shit where you eat. Look what happened to Greene."

Silva hummed, as if this was a point worth meditation. "You’ll learn to compromise, if you ever come to work for SPECTRE. Don’t let your intelligence get in the way of an opportunity." He clapped him on the shoulder.

That same year Silva’s quest for vengeance ended with MI6’s head of SIS, Olivia Mansfield. 007’s interference cost them intel on a dozen NATO agents, and their hitman Patrice; Safin assumed his seat. The surviving members of SPECTRE assembled at the Palazzo Cadenza.

Their leader, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, surveyed them with a look of polite but unmistakable disapproval. Time and time again, Blofeld pulled the organisation away from certain collapse. Despite the string of incidents over the last six years, there was no lasting ill-will felt towards him from any member at the table. They were bound together by something deeper than the need for money or power.

"It is a shame," he said, "that we have lost two of our operatives. I will commend Patrice for his efforts, with NATO. And Silva for his tenacity. Yet, he also drew SPECTRE’s name into the light. We have made this mistake before, with Mr. Greene. There will be no repetitions, going forward." His voice was light and flat. He had an enigmatic smile and childlike gleam about his eyes whenever discussing a topic of interest, or destroying his enemies—there was little difference. Silence around the table in anticipation of his decree. Blofeld smiled. "At the same time, it would be foolish not take advantage of this opportunity. MI6’s standing has been brought into question. We are already in the process of infiltrating their numbers. Now we will see to it that they devour each other.”

⁂

By 2014, the hot topic of contention among SPECTRE operatives was the new head of SIS. "Mallory is a thorn in our side," said Max Denbigh, the latest import from MI5. "But not impermeable. He’s just cleared out a derelict lab down in London for construction. We believe he plans to manufacture a biological weapon, similar to the one used during the false flag operation in West Africa."

A former SAS Lieutenant Colonel, the only stain on Mallory’s immaculate record was Project Heracles. Peace did not exist without the threat of consequence. The cruelest man could not return to a family of distended corpses. In theory, Heracles was more efficient than a traditional assassination or malfunctioning automobile. Somewhere down the line, every man became expendable. Most did not appreciate this truth while they were alive.

Denbigh was on pace to become Director-General of the Joint Security Service—a proposed merge of MI5 and MI6 into one branch for the sake of transparency, which should go into effect next year. During this period, a series of global terrorist incidents would generate favour towards the proposed global surveillance initiative, “Nine Eyes”. SPECTRE would be given immediate, unrestricted access through the Centre for National Security. Contact had been quietly established from a private intelligence compound in the Saharan desert.

"SPECTRE’s machinations were achieved with careful planning," Dr Vogel said. "If we allow Heracles to fall into the wrong hands, the weapon will point back to the scientists.”

"We can simply dispose of them as necessary."

"The nanobots require DNA samples," Blofeld said. "By what means would these be acquired?"

"You’re familiar with Smart Blood? That’s a tracking device we inject into the arm of every operative in the Joint Security Service. With Heracles, an injection won’t even be necessary. All it takes is a little DNA and skin contact."

“But it will be impossible to control,” said Abrika. “What is to stop a group with ill-intent from targeting our families?”

Denbigh shook his head. "It’s only an idea. It will be fine-tuned during development. Progress will be much smoother once the Nine Eyes programme is complete."

"What worked in Africa," said Safin coolly, "will not suffice for the rest of the world."

Denbigh glared across the table at Abrika. “We could be accomplishing far more than we have been, relying on ground missions.” His eyes fell on Safin as he said this. “With no disrespect to our operatives, perhaps it’s time we reevaluated our approach.”

“Doctor Vogel,” said Blofeld, “has already delivered on her shipments. It is Mr. White who came up short. A quarter of a million.” Blofeld’s hands on the table remained still, like a taxidermized model. "Since last year, we’re just not pulling in numbers like we used to." A casual glance in White’s direction provoked no response. "I don’t wish to diminish your contributions, Mr. White. You’ve been a loyal friend from the beginning. No doubt, this is just another rough quarter we have to endure. But given our current diplomatic standing in Africa,” Blofeld said, “I believe Sciarra and Guerra should be capable of handling Safin’s responsibilities for the time being. Field missions are well and good, but if you spend all of your life on the ground it’s easy to neglect the bigger picture." The smile on Blofeld’s face never touched the eyes; it was just another mechanical action. "If there are no objections," said Blofeld, "then we’ll conclude the meeting here."

Safin turned his head to the head of the table. His voice was taut. "With respect to your decision, I think 007 is more of a threat to our operation than—"

"—I fail to see how this is your concern," Blofeld said with a wave of his hand. "Denbigh is keeping tabs on him."

"James Bond has lost us more funding and connections in five years than in the syndicate’s history. If our goal is to weaken the new SIS, as you suggested last year, then we should target their rogue agent."

"I assure you," said Blofeld curtly, "it is within our interest to be patient. It is imperative that we do not fall prey to obsessive suspicion.”

Safin held his tongue.

⁂

Twelve hundred miles away, Madeleine opened the door to her apartment. She kicked off her shoes and set them aside in the closet. She stumbled into her laundered clothes in the basket, from the day before. She cursed and sat down on the side of the freshly-made bed. After three months, she was falling into her new life. The apartment in Lakkegata, a twin room on the topmost floor. Split between kitchen and bedroom, with separate a bathroom. Glass doors on the furthest wall led to a red-brick patio. Amenities included in the bill. No locks on the bedroom doors. Bi-weekly cleaning.

Most affluent twenty-somethings wouldn’t have the presence of mind to think like a criminal. They were caught up in more pressing dilemmas, like aging parents and taxes and strained friendships. Substance abuse. Lack of self-fulfillment. In a clean, well-lit apartment complex, you didn’t need a portable safe stored between the coats and the shoes. Why ever think about installing a hidden camera in the potted plant, unless you were prone to paranoia?

In the safe; prepaid phone, false identification. Voice protector. Beretta, untouched since Zürich. Spare ammo. Cleaning kit. License to carry.

In the space behind the wall, behind the outlets you could make a crawlspace. Store money, jewels. Anything small or easy to misplace from drawers.

As a child, her father’s colleagues were faceless men in double-breasted suits. After her mother died, he figured he could stop dragging Madeleine along to business parties. Feigning interest in her schooling. Her hobbies. Choice of friends. Her mother would have a lot to say about her taste in men.

Last week, her receptionist pulled her aside during lunch and explained she really couldn’t keep fielding her calls. It wasn’t her father. Just a recruiter from the MSF, who knew her from a friend of a friend. "I’m in the middle of putting together a charity gala. You know the conference hall at the Raddison Blu hotel? I was wondering if you would be interested in attending, since you’ve been so loyal to our foundation." To make the MSF look good. Another injection into the public eye. Madeleine called back and said she would love to.

Living alone, there were no prerequisites for her behavior. A copy of Les Fleurs du Mal placed strategically on the end-table. If it was moved, the cleaner had been here. The television was only useful if she was in the mood to listen to music. White noise. Reading aloud to herself in the empty room, or working. On a clearer day she’d sit on the patio and look across at the buildings opposite. The gentler breeze on her face, sunlight. Ambient traffic below. Perhaps she’d rise from her seat just in time for the silenced shot to pierce her breast. Falling back into the chair, blood staining the red brick. Perhaps it would be more subtle. The patio door sliding open. A hand on her back sending her headfirst over the metal railing. It could be the maid.

Another empty casket and eulogy. A small handful of colleagues she hadn’t talked to in years would materialize, offer their condolences. Then everyone would go home. Her father's final mistake, rectified.

Without the emotional baggage, her gun was a necessary evil. Without practise, it was simply taking up space. So she had taken to frequenting the nearest gun club, twice a week.

She'd reached a point of stability, not comfort. Taking point. Raising the gun. Eyes on the target. Her hands trembled a little. Each shot, a new perforation in the target. Stench of gunpowder. Acrid taste of human rot in the back of her throat. Rush of saliva flooding her mouth. Standing in the snow, clutching the gun in her freezing hands. In the gallery. What guiltless monster said, I did it, and it was nothing personal. You won’t go the way of your mother? What drove a killer towards empathy, if not a different kind of madness?

The one constant in her life was Hinx, her new CPO. He went with her to the range. He had a wrestler’s build, dark eyes. His forearms were thicker than her neck, and he hardly said more than a few sentences to her. His silence was a comfort where Safin’s offered ambiguity.

The other constant, she'd encountered during her first foray to the Raddison Blu hotel. It was her father's idea to visit for her birthday. A quiet, awkward dinner, engaged in a one-sided conversation. All she had to do was nod along, but she brought up her mother. In Zürich, she left behind her old shame. Cowardice masked as civility. She said, without using names, that she'd figured it out herself. She made some excuse to get away.

Conrad was a little older than her but not by much. Clean-cut. Sandy hair. He didn’t give his last name, but he bought her a drink at the bar two floors down. The staff in the restaurant were rather aloof, they both agreed. And there was no harm in a drink. She told him about her clinical psychiatry and he told her about his work in business. It really didn’t matter much. Plenty of men saw the veneer of a well-dressed, attractive woman out drinking by herself and looked no further than the enigma in her eyes. Vulnerability molded into dependence.

But surely, said Madeleine, he didn’t invite her to drink with out of the goodness of his heart.

He got a kick out of that, for some reason. She was awfully cynical.

But you haven’t denied it, she said, offering a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

Of course, she didn’t sit down out of the goodness of her heart either. There was no such thing as a free lunch. She took another sip. Her head buzzing.

It took very little effort to convince him into going back into his apartment. A meaningless affair to staunch the void inside her heart. It never solved anything but it was something to do to escape the alternative of being left alone with her own reflection. Better, to be percieved as enigmatic and untouchable and desirable. She was picturing his face in the newscast. Another dead body. Someone’s son, perhaps. The only stakes were another dead body. No exploded cars. No broken bodies decorating the pavement. Polite good-byes, no excitement there.

She had very little time or interest in ingratiating herself with another person. Desire was flattering, but pointless in the long-term, once the spark subsided and there was nothing left to barter. As she got older, the ache in her chest became easier to weather.

Conrad was someone to hold in the dark. Their trajectories were so far removed there was no sense in comparing them.

She woke up early. The sun had yet to surface. There was hardly any sunlight in Norway, this time of year. That morning in Zürich felt years apart, yet inescapable. The overwhelming promise of dread at her door. That sense of peace, clarity, in its wake.

Two hours from now, she had to be in the office.

Conrad was awake.

He said that he’d like to get to know her better. He’d enjoyed talking to her.

Considering his offer. A means of staving off that emptiness, just for a while. Of rebuilding what was once lost. Smothering all of her unreasonable fears with a veneer of safety. Conrad didn’t have to learn every secret. Nor did she have to understand all of his.

She’d gotten off on normalcy in France, and to a larger degree in her father’s care. There wasn’t anyone in her new life to miss her.

At the apartment, the only signs of activity were her misplaced sheets. The running washer-and-dryer combo. The dishwasher to be emptied. Groceries in the fridge. No alcohol. Maybe go out and have a drink, what could that hurt? It forced improvisation, socialization. Blending in with the people on the street. Waiting for the car to explode. Each night, the weight on the bed was only hers. She showered, redressed and took a couple painkillers. No one was offering her tea.

⁂

The private clinic ran several different operations, including a diversion program. Their focus was on rehabilitative incarceration. Madeleine’s pool of patients came from a selective list. Kęstutis, the senior corrective counsellor, called her a rubber stamp. A short man with heavy-rimmed glasses and thinning brown hair, he was usually fair when it came to the bureaucratic side of her job.

Her office was a bit more spacious. Cream walls, dark wood furniture. Everything was too clean and smelled a little like disinfectant. About as reassuring as a trip to the dentist. No amount of tireless work was going to erase her status as Mr. White’s daughter. Every morning, she placed the gun on the front desk, the staff avoided eye contact. Secure in her office, buried in papers.

The clientele possessed a debonair that would suggest opulence. Always looking to talk their way out of their situation. Offering bribes. Some would attempt charm. They’d take notice of how well she was dressed. Her perfume. Making small talk that only wasted their allotted time with her. She took down their reactions with a detached interest. Yes, of course you’re feeling disrespected. It’s natural. You were in the right, you had to defend yourself.

Guerra, her latest client, in his late thirties. He dressed in a two-piece suit. Madeleine watched him through the window, speaking to the receptionist. Leaning on the counter a little too long. Guerra was here on drug charges. When the door opened he took a seat, body language placid. "You’re new," he said. "How long have you been working here?"

"A few months."

Guerra’s eyes shifted past her, toward the window. "Your receptionist is a little uptight. You’re not going to be like that, are you?"

Madeleine’s attention flickered to follow. The receptionist’s interest in her paperwork a little too protracted. During each session, Hinx was never out of sight. Through the slats of the blinds, on the other side of the door.

“I mean, I don’t know whose dick she had to suck to get this job. It’s a disgrace.” He shrugged. “You’re White’s daughter? Guess you’d know a thing or two about it.”

That didn’t take very long. Madeleine looked him in the eyes. “You will conduct yourself appropriately, while you’re in this office.” Guerra stared back, indifferent on the surface. “Do you not want to be cleared of these charges?”

The flash of insult in his eyes. Shoulders tense. “I was referring to nepotism.”

“You understand,” said Madeleine, “this process requires your cooperation. When I write this report, it doesn’t only reflect on my judgement, but your competence.” Her hand slipped under the desk, on a small button under the lip. She kept her voice stable. “My verdict is the only thing keeping you out of prison. You really think it’s prudent to disrespect me?”

Guerra was unpleasant, but his weakness made it easy enough to corral him into submission. Just another spawn of a successful businessman who’d never faced the consequences for his behavior. He’d brood or make idle threats and take it out on someone else who didn’t have a CPO like Hinx to look after them. Another bloated corpse on the cover of that day’s tabloid, hauled from the belly of the Akerselva river.

The only difference between her and the trust-funds cycling through her office was her clean record.

⁂

Next morning, Madeleine came into work. Guerra had canceled their meeting without so much as an explanation. A stocky woman with greying hair and sharp eyes sitting in the reception area, introduced herself as Klebb.

Madeleine bade her into the office. "You’ll have to excuse me. My last client cancelled this morning. I wasn’t expecting anyone else."

The woman did not sit. Under her arm, a manilla folder. Closing the door behind her, she drew the blinds. "You’ve been reassigned."

"I wasn’t notified. You will have to speak to my—"

“I am not here to be coached, Doctor." The woman set the folder down on the desk. "When did you last speak to Lyutsifer Safin?"

Madeleine hesitated. The woman’s eyes scanned her face. "Three—months ago."

"In the seventeen years I have known him, he has never spoken as openly to an outsider as he did to you."

Madeleine hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone a word about Zürich.

"We have eyes everywhere," said Klebb, with the barest hint of a smile. "The recording from the safehouse provides fragments. Not the whole picture. Safin is the son of an intelligence officer who dealt with many poisons. Before he was discharged from service, he was quite formidable."

"He was discharged? For what reason, if I may ask?"

Klebb smiled. It was not a pleasant or natural look on her face. More like something practised. The cruelty shone through. "A canister of herbicide ruptured and exploded at close-quarters. Most of the documents were destroyed to erase his identity." At last, she took a seat opposite Madeleine's desk. “While he was old enough to be attending school in the orphanage, there were many physical fights with other children.”

"Did he initiate these fights?” Klebb stared at her. "Perhaps he felt as if he had no one to protect him from harm."

"It is possible," said Klebb. "He was given many psychological evaluations, but was able to clear all of them. Nevertheless he kept getting in trouble. When he was nine years old, he was set to be counselled on the threat of expulsion. A month after this, the psychologist assigned to him was found dead in his office. It was suspected at the time to be Safin’s doing but unable to be proven. The case was overlooked.”

"Did he get in any more fights after this incident?"

Klebb paused. "If so, they were struck from the record. He was only an orphan."

“I don’t follow your logic.”

“He has no tolerance for what he perceives as a lack of professionalism." Klebb said with a slight scoff. "He has always been this way, even as a boy. Forward-minded. The whims of a progressive activist serve no purpose in his line of work.” Klebb paused. “That is our issue, Doctor. If he is willing to be so open with you, what else is he willing to give up?”

Madeleine was staring at the binder full of Guerra's documents. “If you cannot provide anything more substantial than allegations, I'm afraid I cannot help you.”

Klebb’s eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting I am mistaken?"

“You are asking me to profile a man I knew for all of one week. You asked for my opinion. I don’t see the correlation you’re making.” Klebb’s scowl deepened. Madeleine said, "I’d like to prepare for my next client."

Klebb left without a word.

Kęstutis came down for a visit. “Ms. Klebb was here to see you.”

“I cannot help her.”

Kęstutis paused. "Is it safe to say, that you would be able to profile Safin accurately if he were in-person?"

Madeleine stared at the stack of papers regarding Guerra’s case. “I imagine so.”

"And you are due to attend the charity event in March?"

"That’s correct."

"Very good," said Kęstutis, smiling the same way Klebb had. "I believe we can negotiate."

⁂

After Silva’s termination, Blofeld enforced a new policy. Every operative and guard at the Palazzo Cadenza must undergo mandatory visits to a specialized clinic, selected by Blofeld. The operative’s families and associates must be vetted, in the interest of preventing another crisis.

As long as he said whatever the therapist was looking to hear, he’d get out in a matter of hours.

The clerk at the front desk—a lithe man in his mid-twenties—was speaking to the client, in this case an elderly woman with dyed hair and too much makeup. "I haven’t seen you before."

"Yes, I’m new to Oslo." He readjusted his glasses. "I take it you’re here for an appointment?"

Ms. Bartlett confirmed this. "Are you English?"

"Originally," said the clerk. "I’m sorry, I’m rather busy."

The plate on his desk read Winston.

Safin gave his name—Zahov—and appointment—issues relating to peripheral neuropathy.

"Dr Swann is running behind schedule," the clerk said. "She’ll be with you in a few minutes."

Dr Swann.

Safin nodded curtly. The waiting room, sterile, uninteresting. Guerra, who had been coming here for weeks, was sitting opposite the window into the office. The blinds were drawn. Hinx stood by the door.

He caught Safin’s eye and nodded. Just a pair of white-collar businessmen. “Cancelled. Now I’m stuck sitting on my ass waiting for a new therapist.” He scoffed. "No hard feelings about the assignment, eh?"

Safin said nothing. His mind was consumed by the scope of his approach. The usual story wouldn’t work as easily with a familiar party. Swann’s veritable grudge against him and his family. Whatever she had been told might not be true.

Guerra made some blasé remark about urine sample and/or collection. Company perks. Perhaps if he didn’t fuck, Safin said, he would not be in this situation.

The corner of Hinx’s mouth turned up.

Guerra’s scoff was mirthless. “Now you can talk.”

“I have no choice but to listen.”

“Mr. Zahov?”

Safin stood up, tense. Walked into the office. Dr Swann glanced up over her desk. Indifferent to him. "Have a seat and we’ll begin."

No sign of familiarity. Dr Swann levelled with him. He did not break eye contact or hesitate to answer anything. Walking through general questions. "What is your relationship to your parents?"

"My father was an officer. I have two brothers and a sister. We are not close."

"You grew up in Russia?"

"Moscow."

"And you attended military school from 1993 to ‘96."

"Transferred."

Dr Swann paused. "There is a discrepancy, between what you have told me and what I have here." Safin glanced up sharply. "Psychological evaluation in ‘92, followed by hospitalization. Three weeks. Then, military school."

Safin told her a story of a kid who coerced him to steal eggs from the industrial refrigerator. It fell onto him and killed him. He’d only heard about it secondhand, from the older kids. But Dr Swann listened attentively. "These kinds of situations aren’t always so cut and dry. There are a lot of factors, in your life and I’m willing to guess, in this boy’s situation as well."

His tone lowered. "Your life is different from mine."

"In what way?"

He looked at her outfit. The well-tailored suit and dress. Shoes to match. "You understand the theory. You see patients on the other side of a desk. You go home. You do not live as they do."

"It’s common for children who have gone through to place the blame on themselves."

Safin scowled at her. "It’s fear of harm that keeps men in line." He glanced at the bowl of pink candies. "Upset a power structure, you create a vacuum. Many smaller operations fighting for control. There are no scruples. They impose their will upon the same people who were promised civility under the original hierarchy. Someone must keep the peace."

“Is that how you view yourself? As a lesser evil?”

"Where they cannot act, I have no qualms." He sat back in the chair. "My options are… limited, with respect to my condition."

"Does it concern you, that you might die with your work unfinished?"

He frowned slightly. "I will die at the whims of my failing body." At the hands of an enemy operative; whichever comes first. "I’ve made peace with it."

"And what if you were to become so sick, you couldn’t continue?"

He looked her directly in the eyes. "That’s inevitable for every one of us, Dr Swann." A small smile she did not return. He let the silence hold, studying her past the point of normalcy. She did not break it, nor acknowledge his attention.

The meeting concluded. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, I think so.” She paused. “You’re only scheduled here for one meeting.”

“You seem preoccupied,” he said.

“I’ve had a busy morning.”

He stood as though to leave.

Noting the weariness in her posture, spine a little too stiff. Beneath the immutable shell, what else was there?

“Are you all right, Madeleine?”

She stiffened. The erosion of that formal barrier into a tacit acknowledgement. Better to give one’s enemy an out than close every door. “I’m fine, thank you.” She met his gaze. The color of her irises, closer to grey than blue. This would not be the last time they spoke.

Clearance took anywhere from a couple weeks to a month, irrespective of orders. Blofeld preferred to keep each operative in the dark, working as usual. This way the verdict was a surprise.

Without new orders from Blofeld, he had to lie low. This was not strictly unusual. Mr. White told him to keep an eye on his daughter, and this did not necessitate making his presence known to the outside world.

Hinx confirmed a few key points: Madeleine did see her father in November, according to the staff at the restaurant in Raddison Blu. She frequented the gun range twice a week. She would go out with a handful of colleagues from the clinic, but never took anyone home.

The bug in her apartment, planted by the housekeeping, depicted another side to Dr Swann. Still going through the motions. Alone, with a glass of white wine. She drank more often when she was alone, but never to excess. The door would close after the sound of the pneumatic hiss. Anything to fill the empty space.

Her instinctual fight-or-flight response rewritten into a constant, soothing panic.

Conrad was Dr Swann’s longest-running foray. He’d talked her into Kavakava to learn Argentine tango. Despite the pretense of familiarity, Madeleine was never seen with him, or spoke of him outside of work. Safin would be able to get what he was after without any complications. He waited for Conrad to arrive home from work. "Waiting for someone?"

Conrad side-eyed him over his glasses. "Yeah. My girlfriend." Fumbling with a cigarette. Older than he looked, at a glance. "She’s not usually this late."

"How long have you been engaged?"

"A couple weeks." Conrad frowned slightly. "We’re not—sorry, I’ve got to take this."

“Put the phone down. She’s still at the clinic.” Conrad’s hand went still. “You’re just something to occupy her time.”

“What the hell?”

"You’re a sensible man," said Safin, "and I have no qualms with you." Eye-to-eye. “I’m letting you off easily. You are not to contact her again.”

Standing against the wall further back, in a white dress shirt and black dress which hugged her ass but didn’t cling. She looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else, but the trouble wasn’t worth the effort of moving her feet.

Madeleine didn’t strike him as the type to become overtly attached. They understood each other well, in that sense.

They locked eyes across the room. Recognition flashed over her face like a shadow. She inclined her head.

Leading him through the outer ring of dancers. Away from the centre. His only frame of reference was ballroom dancing at Kazan military school. This wasn’t the same. To be led, and follow, in lockstep with the other dancers. No words exchanged.

Under different circumstances, they might have met. A harmless, miserable existence, ignorant of the intimate relationship with one's mortality. He had surrendered his purpose to a singular goal. He felt that same urgency which she so desperately chased after. That tireless imperative for security. To blend into the shape of normalcy, among this crowd. Understood, if only for a few minutes.

⁂

The people working at the clinic, said Madeleine, were especially callous. She never appreciated what she had before, too busy pushing others away. The stamp of nepotism she couldn’t quite shake, no matter how many hours she put in.

Madeleine scoffed. “You insert yourself into my evening and don’t have the decency to explain yourself?”

"I see."

"You don’t seem surprised."

“You’re becoming a better actor than you were in France.” The look in her eyes did nothing to deter him from studying her.

“How long have you been following me?” There was a lower pitch to her voice. A frenzy beneath the anger. Safin said nothing. “Perhaps I misled you. But you need to let this go.”

Safin looked at her clearly. “This?”

“It is not conducive to my interests, to be seen with someone from work.”

"I’ll walk with you," he said. She looked up. "It was not my intention to disturb you."

At the slightly dilapidated front desk of the hotel, she checked in under an alias. Long corridors in a faux Soviet-style. “There’s a piano bar, here. I haven’t gone there myself. You’d like it.” Up the lift. Following down the hall. Unable to outpace her loneliness. He couldn’t take his attention off her. The artificial smell of her perfume, permeative on his clothes, burned into his senses if he inhaled too deeply. Eating away at his restraint. She stopped at her room, unlocked the door.

“Well, this is it.” Her shoulder pushed the door a little wider. “It’s rather cold,” she said. “I needn’t have asked you to accompany me all this way.”

For each life she cast aside to spare her own, she only injured herself. So he would have a little coffee, for her sake.

This occupation and lifestyle left no time for conventional relationships. A psychological evaluation did not stop him from considering her in ways best left tacit. It was her profession to get into the heads of clients unsure of themselves.

Madeleine’s room was a suite with separate bedrooms. L’Occitane products in the bathroom. With a little scowl, she mentioned how the establishment down the street was rented to a loud party. “It’s usually like this, the later it gets.” She glanced at the window. Expression shifting. “But I don’t mind the noise as much as I used to.” Even with the windows closed, the beat of the synth permeated through the room. The strobe flickered, as did her resolve. “I don’t—usually do this.”

“With one of your clients?”

Madeleine hummed. “There’s a first for everything, isn’t there?” Plush carpet muffled the sound of her approaching footsteps. His window of opportunity or entrapment, shrinking around him. This close, all she had to do was wrap her arms around his neck. A hidden lens in the lamp within a twenty-foot radius. Her eyes, closer to grey than blue, fixed on him. Caught in an epiphany. “Oh, come on,” she muttered, “that was a joke. I would never do something so indecent.”

What had been covert on the dancefloor, in her office, was no longer so. He allowed her to close the distance.

The truth about women, Silva once told him, is that you can do anything to them, except bore them.

A greater purpose and justification leaving no room for error. That was his only peace. Tracking down his father, obtaining the history of his family’s company, there was no end in sight. This woman offered him the simple pleasure of her company.

Drawing her against his chest. Pressing her to the doorframe. Running his hands over her shoulders, arms, small of her back. His mouth found the pulse beneath her jaw.

Unbuttoning her blouse. Her ribs expanding, deflating. Her attention on him unflinching. The crane of her neck an invitation. He laid his fingers along the jumping pulse.

Tugging her underwear aside, pushing into her. She shuddered, draped her arms around his neck. Forehead to the side of his.

Softer, smaller hands over his clothed stomach. Unfastening his belt. Sliding into his pants to wrap around him. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed down to the bone. The flicker in her eyes, adjacent to fear, carried no hopelessness. A recognition, acknowledgement: I’m a monster, just like you.

Mr. White had always been impartial. She’d been taking the same birth control for years. There was no compunction.

Pointing him into her flesh. The riot of illumination limned the room, over her skin. The glint of her sclera, pupils dilated.

He cradled her face in his palm, never closing his eyes. A flush stained her cheeks, down her throat, below. Her nipples scraped against his clothed chest. Her expression recalling that quiet moment in Zürich, cradling the gun.

In his arms, far more intimate. Her soft, panicked breaths against his cheek. She could order him to kill, and he’d only ask for a name.

Leaning against each other, her mouth just under his ear, she said, “You knew I was being followed.” Safin went still. “You took care of it.” He nodded. So slightly it could be dismissed as turning his face into hers. “Thank you,” she breathed.

⁂

A few hours previously, Conrad walked up the street into a nearby cafe. He passed by the row of booths to his left and had a seat in the furthest corner. The man seated across barely looked up from his laptop. “Were you followed?”

“No.” Conrad handed over a glasses case. “Tell your friend to leave me the hell alone.”

Q's typing slowed. He looked up.

“This guy cornered me,” Conrad muttered. “Outside my apartment. Says I’m not to be speaking to her anymore.” He shook his head. “Thought he was one of yours.”

“Well,” said Q in a practiced tone of indifference, “perhaps you should reconsider your approach.”

“She wasn’t that interested in me to begin with,” Conrad said. “Hell if I know what her taste in men is.”

She’s bored, Conrad. You have to be a little more exciting.

Conrad scoffed, made a half-gesture towards his ear. “He’s got a fucking line for everything.”

Q nodded vaguely. His keystrokes paused. “That’s all I need for now.”

Conrad left toward the bathrooms.

Q left to a rented room two blocks from the cafe. In his room, he took his laptop and removed the glasses from the case and plugged it in, silently reviewing the footage. His earpiece crackled:

Safin, wasn’t it?

“Most of the patients in that psychiatric clinic have had ties with QUANTUM in some form or another,” said Q. “He’s an exception.”

Why’s he interested in her?

“Dr Swann’s father is the Pale King.” A beat of silence. “You remember Le Chiffre?”

A derisive exhale. All too clearly.

“Well, seems he and White and Dominic Greene met in the same division of the French Foreign Legion. There’s another man, Shatterhand. I couldn’t find anything definite on him in the archives.”

She’s our link into their new headquarters.

“Perhaps. Still doesn’t explain Safin’s game.”

It's probably just an affair. Let me handle it. Q exhaled. Smoothing this over to M wasn't his idea of time well-spent. Additional stress went to his aching jaw. Come on, I’d get the information within a fraction of the time.

“You’ve got other uses outside of filling paperwork.”

Let me guess, he brought up parliament again, didn’t he?

“Acatama, actually.”

Scoff from the earpiece. That was eight years ago. Look, Conrad obviously can’t sort out his—

“Double-oh seven,” Q said, “I don’t exactly disagree here, but it’s beside the point.”

What’s the worst I’ve done?

Q paused. “In the field?”

I doubt Dr Swann’s only living here for routine psychological evaluations.

“I suppose not,” said Q dryly. “I’m of no use in that regard.”

I’ll ask around. She still works at the clinic?

Q stiffened. “Double-oh seven—”

Now, Q. I’ll be a good boy. I won’t blow up any buildings.

The call ended.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Q muttered to no one.

Safin's alias, Zahov, is taken from Avakoum Zahov versus 07, an unofficial(?) Bond novel by Andrei Gulyashki. You can read about its creation in this article.

The line about women and boring them comes from the 2013 film The Counselor, coincidentally spoken by a character played by Javier Bardem.

Still trying to get a hold on 007 & Winston | Q’s characterization. I’ve always liked the idea that 007's one-liners amuse him more than anyone else, but he’s charismatic enough to get away with it. Next chapter will be his "on-screen" debut.

#nttd #fanfic #fanfiction #lyutsifer safin #le chiffre #raoul silva #ernst stavro blofeld #madeleine swann #mr hinx #max denbigh #mr. white #james bond 007 #q

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