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Basil smiled, then lunged at Bond. Bond swung. The razor-edged broken bottle scraped across the black man’s face, creating five even tracks of blood on his skin. Whereas any other man would have been blinded by the attack, Basil merely seemed annoyed.

Bond swiped the bottle at him again, but this time Basil caught Bond’s arm and squeezed it. In pain, Bond dropped his weapon. Basil flung Bond over the writing desk and into the window. Like everything else in the beautiful hotel suite, it shattered on impact.

The desk was between him and the black man. Bond kicked and toppled it over, but Basil easily brushed it aside. Before the man could catch him, Bond spun around and dived between Basil’s legs for a space on the floor behind him. This maneuver gave Bond the two seconds he needed to get back on his feet.

Just as his sense of balance returned, his opponent got up and lunged. With split-second timing, Bond grabbed the man’s head and used the momentum to pull him hard and fast to his side.

Basil’s head crashed into the television set that Lee had left on. It exploded with great force. There was a cloud of sparks and gray smoke as the black man suddenly tensed, then started shaking violently. After, a few seconds he went limp. With the television still fitted around his head, he slumped to the carpet. It was over.

Bond took stock of the damage to his body. His lower back was screaming in pain, and his ribs hurt like hell. One or two might be broken. His kidneys might be damaged. He was bleeding from sev-eral contusions on his face and hands.

But he was alive.

He found the phone on the floor and called Gina’s mobile.

When she answered, he said, “Harding and a Chinese man just left the hotel. Did you see them?”

“No. When did they leave?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“Damn. They must have gone out the back.”

“Try to find them. Call me in my room in ten minutes.”

“Are you coming down?” she asked.

The pain in Bond’s back was making him dizzy. “In a while” was all he could manage to say. He hung up, then opened the minibar and removed a bottle of bourbon. He unscrewed the top and took a long swig. The liquor made him cough once, but the warmth felt great.

He limped to the bathroom and picked up his gun, then left the suite. Surprisingly, no one had heard the commotion. The corridor was empty.

Bond climbed the stairs to his own floor and the sanctity of his room. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. There was a nasty gash above his right eyebrow, and there was a darkening bruise on his left cheekbone. He washed his hands and saw that the cuts on his knuckles were superficial. His lower back and ribs were the main problems.

He plugged the drain in his own bathtub and ran the hot water until it was steaming. He undressed, gingerly pulling off his shirt and trousers. By the time he was naked, the tub was full.

Wincing, Bond lowered his bruised and battered body into the near-scalding water and fell asleep within two minutes.

EIGHT

A TASTE OF BELGIUM

THE NEXT MORNING, bond allowed Gina to take him to a private infirmary, where he submitted to an examination. Sore and stiff from the ordeal in the hotel suite, he felt particularly irritable. His conversation with M on the phone the night before hadn’t helped.

“So you let Dr. Harding get away?” she had asked.

“Ma’am, I didn’t let him do anything,” Bond had replied. “He escaped while I was fighting for my life.”

“Hmpfh.” She was beginning to sound more and more like her predecessor.

“And where was Ms. Hollander at the time?” she asked.

“Doing her job. Harding and the Chinese man slipped out by a back exit. We know they haven’t left Brussels.”

“How can you be sure? You seem to have butterfingers lately, Double-O Seven.”

Bond wanted to snap at her but took a deep breath instead. “Ma’am, Ms. Hollander has unshakable connections with immigration here. We would know if they had left by plane or train.”

“What about by car?” she asked. “They could get in a car and drive right out of Belgium and no one would know.”

The conversation ended badly. Bond promised to do his best to find Harding, and M said something to the effect that his best wasn’t enough. After he rang off, he threw a glass of whisky against the wall.

Things hadn’t improved in the morning. He got up feeling as if his body had been the target of a battering ram.

The doctor spoke in French to Gina. Bond understood him perfectly. He had a cracked rib.

“I see no damage to your kidneys other than bruising,” the doctor told him in English. “If you notice blood in your urine, then of course you must come in for more tests.”

The doctor wrapped Bond’s chest in a tight harness and told him to wear it for at least a week. It had Velcro straps, so he could take it on and off for bathing, but he should certainly wear it to bed.

As they left the clinic, Gina led him to her own car, a red Citroen ZX. “We’ll go and see that doctor now,” she said. She moved the ever-present toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other. “I checked him out. Dr. Hendrik Lindenbeek is a cardiologist, and from what I gather, a good one.”

Bond was silent in the car as they drove southeast. Away from the central historical section, Brussels became like any other modern European city. Vestiges of the old world disappeared and were replaced by late-twentieth-century architecture, shopping malls, office buildings, and elegant town homes. Franklin Roosevelt Avenue might have been Park Lane in London.

“Don’t worry,” Gina said, uncomfortable with Bond’s sullen mood. “We’ll find him. My gut tells me he hasn’t left Brussels.”

“My gut tells me that I should leave this ghastly business and take early retirement,” Bond said bitterly.

“Come now. Surely this isn’t the first time something has gone wrong for you?”

“No, it isn’t. It’s just that sometimes I wonder why I bother. In the old days, the enemy was clear cut. Communism was a worldwide threat and we were motivated by ideology. Today it’s different. I feel as if I’ve become a glorified policeman. There must be a better Way to die.”

“Stop it,” she said, her voice stern. “You do your best. What else is there? Everyone has his or her limit.”

“I’ve been to my limit. Many times.”

“James,” she said. “There will come a time, probably very soon, when you will push yourself past your limit. When that happens, you will come to terms with your life and this job of yours.”

Bond was too weary to argue.

“What you need is an evening out,” she said brightly. “A good Belgian dinner, some drinks . . . How about it?”

Bond looked sideways at her. “Are you asking me for a date?”

She grinned in her pixielike way. “Is that all right? Providing we are free tonight, of course.”

Bond allowed himself a smile. “Sure.”

They arrived at their destination and she parked in front of Dr. Lindenbeek’s building. They got out, pressed the intercom button, and explained that they were “police.” A nurse met them at the door and said that Dr. Lindenbeek was with a patient.

“We’ll wait,” Gina said in Flemish. She showed the woman her credentials and they were led into the austere waiting room.

“It shouldn’t be long,” the nurse said, then left them alone. They could hear a man’s voice speaking softly through the wall. After a few minutes, an elderly woman emerged, followed by the doctor. He said good-bye to her in French, then turned to Gina and Bond.