One was around forty, the other twenty-five. Despite their cover roles as rural officers, they'd come girded for battle. They carried heavy Beretta pistols and swaths of ammunition.
In the backseat of their borrowed police car, a Volkswagen Jetta, there were two green-camouflaged Kalashnikov machine guns, an Uzi and a canvas bag of fragmentation hand grenades — serious ones, Swiss HG 85s. Bond turned to the older agent but before he spoke he heard a fierce slapping from behind. His hand moving to his Walther PPS, he whirled round — to see the younger Serb ramming a pack of cigarettes into his palm, a ritual that Bond, a former smoker, had always found absurdly self-conscious and unnecessary.
What was the man thinking? No smoking. Looks more normal than not smoking in Serbia. The young agent had let slip — probably intentionally, for he had said it with pride — that big brother had fought with Arkan's Tigers, a ruthless gang that had committed some of the worst atrocities in the fighting in Croatia, Bosnia and Kosovo. Put them away. He seemed about to say something to his partner, then thought better of it, perhaps recalling that Bond had a working knowledge of Serbo-Croatian.
Bond looked again into the restaurant and saw that the Irishman was laying some dinars on the metal tray — no traceable credit card, of course. The partner was pulling on a jacket. It's time. In the police car they would follow the Irishman's Mercedes out of the drive and along the road until he was a mile or so from the restaurant. The Serbian agents would then pull the car over, telling him it matched a vehicle used in a drug crime in Novi Sad.
The Irishman would be asked politely to get out and would be handcuffed. His mobile phone, wallet and identity papers would be placed on the boot of the Mercedes and he'd be led aside and made to sit facing away from the car. Meanwhile Bond would slip out of the backseat, photograph the documents, download what he could from the phone, look through laptops and luggage, then plant tracking devices.
By then the Irishman would have caught on that this was a shake-down and offered a suitable bribe. He'd be freed to go on his way. If the local partner left the restaurant with him, they'd execute essentially the same plan with both men. I need him alive. Aim to wound in the arm he favors, near the elbow, not the shoulder. The Irishman now stepped outside, feet splayed.
He looked around, pausing to study the area. Was anything different? New cars had arrived since they'd entered; was there anything significant about them? He apparently decided there was no threat and both men climbed into the Mercedes.
The lights flashed on. Bond oriented his hand on his Walther, snug in the D. Bullard leather pancake holster, and climbed into the backseat of the police car, noticing an empty tin on the floor. One of his comrades had enjoyed a Jelen Pivo, a Deer Beer, while Bond had been conducting surveillance. The insubordination bothered him less than the carelessness. The Irishman might grow suspicious when stopped by a cop with beer on his breath. Another man's ego and greed can be helpful, Bond believed, but incompetence is simply a useless and inexcusable danger.
The Serbs got into the front. The engine hummed to life. Bond tapped the earpiece of his SRAC, the short-range agent communication device used for cloaked radio transmissions on tactical operations. They both plugged in earpieces. And James Bond asked himself yet again: Had he planned this properly? Despite the speed with which the operation had been put together, he'd spent hours formulating the tactics. He believed he'd anticipated every possible variation. Except one, it appeared.
The Irishman did not do what he absolutely had to. He didn't leave. The Mercedes turned away from the drive and rolled out of the car park on to the lawn beside the restaurant, on the other side of a tall hedge, unseen by the staff and diners.
It was heading for a weed-riddled field to the east. The younger agent snapped, " Govno! James Bond as you've never sen him before A Night Action alert calls James Bond away from dinner with a beautiful woman. Headquarters has decrypted an electronic whisper—plans for a devastating attack: Casualties estimated in the thousands, British interests adversely affected.
James Bond, in his early thirties and already a veteran of the Afghan War, has been recruited to a new organization. Its aim: to protect the Realm, by any means necessary. And Agent has been given carte blanche to do whatever it takes to fulfill his mission Fiction Thriller. Availability can change throughout the month based on the library's budget.
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Headquarters has decrypted an electronic whisper—plans for a devastating attack: Casualties estimated in the thousands, British interests adversely affected. James Bond, in his early thirties and already a veteran of the Afghan War, has been recruited to a new organization. Its aim: to protect the Realm, by any means necessary. And Agent has been given carte blanche to do whatever it takes to fulfill his mission Fiction Thriller. Availability can change throughout the month based on the library's budget.
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