A British Assassin
Andrew Berry's new short story plunges 007 into
deepest Russia with only his wits, and a bullet,
to accompany him on his cold-blooded mission...
Excerpt
"No gadgets on this mission Bond, you’ve
got one rifle, one bullet, and no second chances.
You’re an assassin. A British Assassin, a
weapon of the British government. Usual capture
rules apply” M barked.
“Whom will I be flying with?” Bond
joked.
“Russian cargo plane. Departs from Heathrow”,
she replied, with not a hint of humour in her voice.
“Cargo class.”
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|
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| Author |
Andrew Berry |
| Released |
January 2004 |
| Format |
Short Story |
| Cover Art |
Odd Job |
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"A British Assassin" by Andrew Berry
-27 Degrees Celsius read the thermometer Bond removed from his
jacket pocket. He sighed, returned it from whence it came, and
worked the sniper rifle’s bolt for the ninth time that hour.
After all, a ‘government assassin’ (as M had unofficially
christened him), couldn’t afford for his assassination weapon
to freeze shut, could he? Why are none of these jobs ever simple?
Bond silently remarked to himself. Extreme temperatures –too
hot, too cold – wild locations, and a near infinite supply
of powerful, but ultimately flawed, rogues. The life of a 00 Agent
is a foul one.
But still, he longed for the days where fouling diabolical schemes
required far-away travel, dangerous action, and seducing beautiful
women. Now it was just paper work and menial tasks. How he wished
he could be fighting world domination in the bowels of some exotic
hollowed-out volcano, instead of freezing slowly in some communist
hellhole.
Sadly, that life seemed to be behind him now, a shell of his
former self, a pawn in a giant political game.
“For Queen And Country” Bond quietly mocked
He worked the bolt for the tenth time.
The assignment was really beginning to take its toll on his
body, and his demeanour, as he monitored the harsh, freezing,
snowy wastelands of Russia, he thought back to the meeting, thousands
of miles away, in M’s warm Thames-side office. One cosy
meeting of many. And most of them ended like this, a section of
persistent boredom, although at least the other missions had other,
more feminine attractions, but the weather was too cold for slinky
dresses, high-heeled shoes, and delicate perfume. No one except
an over-worked British Agent, and a terrorist with his deadly
entourage would be found in this weather, and in this dangerous
(and monotonous) territory.
Indeed, even he wished he wasn’t here. This may have been
an “easy assignment”, a “walk-in-the-park”
(M’s words, not his own); but was beginning to affect his
state of mind, so many thoughts running through his head. Where
to begin?
It was 12 noon exactly when Bond walked up the steps of the SIS
Building in London, true, he was late, but taking the scenic route
(strolling along the river-bank), easily beat the steaming-hot
‘public’ transport that London kindly provided. He
stepped into the refreshingly cool, and surprisingly modern, building,
hit the lift button, and took the un-interrupted route to the
fifth floor. He breezed through the outer office, and straight
into M’s government home. Another working day had begun.
“Sit down 007” M motioned to a chair facing her desk,
and herself. She seemed not to notice his slight delay. The head-of-MI6
thumbed through several documents positioned neatly on her desk,
before sliding a curiously thick dossier over to Bond.
“Tell me what you know of this man”
Bond opened the file and was treated to a large report on a Russian
terrorist, accompanied by the mandatory covert photograph. Bond
quickly scanned the document, resealed it, and faced M.
“I know of the situation, but not of the character here,”
He admitted truthfully. “ So what is this all about?”
“I require you to provide the British government, with
yet another favour,” she jeered, “Although this will
be a relatively easy assignment, a ‘walk-in-the-park, I
daresay. We need you to eliminate a potentially deadly villain”
“Potentially?” He questioned
“We aim to destroy the worm before it can become a serpent,
so to speak” M replied smugly. “Here are your flight
tickets, you’ve got twenty-five minutes to get ready. No
gadgets on this mission Bond, you’ve got one rifle, one
bullet, and no second chances. You’re an assassin. A British
Assassin, a weapon of the British government. Usual capture rules
apply.”
“Whom will I be flying with?” Bond joked.
“Russian cargo plane. Departs from Heathrow”, she
replied, with not a hint of humour in her voice. “Cargo
class.”
The plane engine’s sound drilled incessantly into his skull.
He attempted sleep, but his alert mind resisted it, keeping him
awake to listen to the un-eventful, droning noises, and to hear
the snores of the other crewmembers. Who thought that Cargo Class
could be this bad? These problems did not bode well for the impending
mission. Touchdown near Moscow continued the same pattern as the
previous 6-hour flight, continuous noise, and zero remotely interesting
occurrences. The plane slowed quickly, and pulled towards the
airport. The sounds from outside signified the usual procedures,
support devices, fuelling equipment, and other expensive tools
and machinery. The side door opened, and Bond was greeted with
a flurry of snow forcing it’s way into the cabin.
A silhouette outside shouted loudly to be heard above the airport
noises, and the gusts of wind, his strong Russian accent penetrated
the sound problems and reached Bond’s ears:
“Welcome to Russia, gentlemen”.
Bond walked to the door, followed by the now awake, crewmembers.
They stepped off the plane, one after another and Bond was motioned
towards a Mercedes S-Class saloon-car. “This might not be
so bad” he muttered to himself.
“No Commander” spoke the thick Russian accent once
again, “Your transport is over there”
Bond bit his tongue, followed the man over to the ex-army truck,
and got into its cab. Judging by the state of both the interior
and exterior, this must have taken quite a few hits in the heat
of battle. It appeared as if the rust was keeping the entire truck
together, Bond wondered if the manufacturer even existed anymore…
As Bond made himself comfortable in the –27 Degrees Celsius
truck (it was minus-thirty outside), he silently cursed M for
sending him on this ‘mission’, surely the army, or
even the SAS, had it’s own snipers? Surely they could suffer
instead?
The vehicle jolted as it started up, then jolted again as it
reached 10-miles per hour, and once more as it limped out of the
airport.
“How far?” Asked Bond in his best Russian
“25 miles” the driver replied, with not an inkling
of friendliness, interest or curiosity.
“Welcome to Russia, indeed” he murmured.
The truck, seemingly inept at travel along the slightest incline,
as demonstrated at the airport, struggled horrendously as its
roles tore it up the looming mountainside. The driver violently
shifted through the gears, the grinding may times louder than
the engine, but not loud enough to cover the slipping, sliding
scream that the wheels were making below them. The truck was eerily
silent, save for their breathing, and the driver’s Russian
curses. The men stared at the floor in solemn resignation; it
was a long walk to the camp.
Nearly an hour later, the truck had covered the mile-and-a-half,
to Bond’s rendezvous point, he climbed out, and walked as
behind him the truck slowly tore away, ten minutes later the vehicle’s
struggles could not be heard.
Taking a map out of his left-jacket pocket, he followed the freshly
beat path into the woods, occasionally rustling a tree or a bush,
the 20 miles-per-hour winds saw to it that no one (save for a
few alert squirrels) could ear him coming. Three hours after landing
in Russia, he had teamed up with his partner, a Silence M82 sniper
rifle, complete with (contrary to M’s dramatic briefing)
a full magazine of ammunition. He disassembled the rifle, placed
it back into its camouflaged brief case, fastened his guile suit
around himself, and trudged (albeit more slower this time) back
into the undergrowth. He was only 200 metres away from his final
post. This was it.
As he exited the thick woods, Bond crouched slowly, and edged nearer
to the two rocks that would be his companions, shields, and saviours,
for the next two hours. He crouched behind one, withdrew a pair
of binoculars from his ‘case, and scanned the area. No snipers.
Yet.
He set to work. Carefully, emptying the briefcase, he fitted
the rifle together, and screwed on the scope. It was a nice rifle;
he thought to himself, well calibrated, pity he would be leaving
it behind. As he extended the legs of the bipod, he heard a rustling
in some bushes to his right. He turned the rifle, pointed it at
the bush, put his finger on the trigger and waited.
A second rustle.
A third, still he waited. And then,
Silence.
Bond waited several moments longer, before crawling to the edge
of the out-crop. Once again scanning the area. His binoculars
came to a rest on a series of three huts, all made out of a non-descript
wood, the nearest one, contained his target. There were three
windows on each of the huts, except this one. It contained on
skylight, bullet proof no doubt, and a heavy, suspicious-looking
steel door. This was definitely his victim’s locale.
Bond continued staring through the binoculars, and then lowered
them, raised his rifle, re-checked the magazine, and positioned
the weapon.
Ten minutes later, a mission, Bond reflected that relied heavily
on the passage of time, he heard the sound of a steel lock being
turned. Still with the scope cap on, he turned the rifle, covered
the scope with his hand, and aimed it at the source of the noise.
Cocking the rifle, he steadied his aim, moved his hand to the
scope cap, lifted it, then,
Silence.
The door stopped sounding, and Bond un-cocked the rifle, and
balanced it back onto it’s stock. He took this second-chance
as time to study the (surprisingly) good quality photograph of
his subject. The victims name was written in reverse order: Durham,
Chalfont. Bond smirked.
More time passed. Then another half-hour. Bond had lost track
of the period he had been laying her, the cold slowly creeping
into his elbows and penetrating the rest of his body. He was preparing
for a ‘half-sleep’, when he heard movement below.
Slowly raising the rifle, he aimed it at the steel door’s
path. He heard a door open, and three men strolled out of one
of the wooden huts. He was among them.
Bond cocked the rifle for the final time that night.
He shunted the rifle further forward until the muzzle pointed
out from between the rocks. Only the most keen of spotters could
spot the dull-metal tube, which was now exposed. Certainly it
was not visible to the three unsuspecting fools traipsing around
the camp below.
Bond raised his rifle, removed the scope cover, held his breath
and fired. Once.
The bullet slammed into his desired victim, the .50 calibre rifle
could hit targets up to three miles away, penetrate tank armour,
bullet-proof glass and concrete bunkers. At barely 500 metres
away, and into a human skull, the effect would be devastating.
As the solemn sound of the shot echoed around the mountains,
Bond slowly crawled back into the undergrowth and set off upon
his travels.
He was in London by morning.
