Mac slammed the receiver onto the hook of the public phone booth.  Vasili hadn’t yet arrived in Switzerland, and wasn’t answering his phone at his apartment.  His wife was frantic, sure he had been taken by the KGB.  She might just be right.  Or he might have spotted someone tailing him, and decided to find a different, longer route.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford to wait around to see if Nazlimov eventually arrived.  If the man had been identified as a possible spy, he would need rescue now, before they either tortured and killed him, or sent him off to some gulag in Siberia.

          Yet how was he going to try to rescue Vasili at the same time he was trying to protect Vaclav Havel?  He started as he was nudged by someone wanting to use the phone he was monopolizing, and stepped back.  Well, there was one place to turn to for help, and it was always easier to ask forgiveness than permission.  He clamped down on the hot surge of pride that made him want to handle the crisis himself.  Pride had no place when people’s lives were at stake.  Just as it had been the British Intelligence service that stepped in to protect Havel because it was their informant who had the information, it should also be British Intelligence who protected the informant himself.  He wasn’t about to trust Vasili’s life to anyone else.

          The Section Chief’s look at him was long, silent and nearly lethal after he confessed he had attempted to smuggle their inside man out of the country without her knowledge or permission.  The woman had a knack for making you feel like a bumbling, stupid fool without ever raising her voice, just a twitch of her mouth, a cock of her eyebrow, and a tone of voice that lowered the room temperature to sub arctic.  Mac recalled a similar trait in Queen Anne when she had dressed him down some two and a half centuries before for wanting to defy her wishes regarding a certain arrogant Immortal English cock-o-the-walk who had deliberately taunted and killed a mortal friend.  He almost smiled when he considered how much worse he might feel were he a few decades rather than a few centuries old, but smiling at that moment seemed to be ill advised.

          “So, Duncan,” she said smoothly, except that the way she said his name made it sound like something vaguely obscene. “You disobeyed a direct order, used contacts outside the Service, jeopardized an ongoing mission designed to protect someone you were assigned to guard and about whom you purport to care, and you want me to fix it for you now that it has gone wrong?  Do I have that correct?”

          “Yes, Ma’m,” he answered simply.  He hadn’t tried to justify or gloss over any of his obvious transgressions.  At the moment, his only concern was Vasili’s safety.

          She sat in silence for a moment, contemplating him, her face an unreadable mask.  At last she leaned forward onto her desk, clasping her hands in front of her.  “I suppose that if Nazlimov has been taken, his knowledge could jeopardize the Service.”

          Mac was tempted to agree, but he owed the Chief his complete honesty, especially in this situation.  “Actually, I have been his only contact from the first time we recruited him.  He knows what information he has passed along, but that knowledge hasn’t been in the form of secret codes or other information which, if known by the Soviets, could damage our own information network.  I took that into consideration when I made my decision to…” he stopped when she raised her hand in a sharp gesture.

          “My problem, MacLeod, is that if that is the case, I do not wish to risk the Soviets identifying any other agents they do not already know.  Just suppose for a moment that I offer anyone to assist you in finding and extricating Nazlimov, a high risk proposition in any case, and in the process they end up with the identity of a previously unknown agent.  All because you decided you knew better than your superiors in MI6.”

          “I understand, Ma’m,” Mac responded.  “But this man risked his life for the last three years for something he believed in.  We recruited the man, put him in danger.  It was wrong to let him and his family fend for themselves in the hope that he could escape their notice until after Havel had left.”

          Her smile was thin, her eyes cold.  “I’ll be sure to pass your opinion along to ‘M,’ Mr. MacLeod.” 

          The two sets of eyes met and neither backed down for a long, tense moment.

          The Chief finally broke the silence.  “Intercepted telex traffic from this morning indicates that they are holding your friend in the Soviet Embassy, but plan to fly him to Moscow tonight.”

          Mac had to raise an eyebrow.  Obviously, she had known Vasili had been taken even before Mac had told her.  He had a choice, he could be miffed that she had kept the knowledge from him, forcing him into a humiliating confession, or he could work to get Nazlimov out of the Soviet’s hands.  “That means they will have to transport him to the airport.”

          The Chief nodded.  “They will be using Roissy, where they keep their small jets.  That hangar is heavily guarded, which will only leave the transport route available for possible intercept.  The Soviet’s greatest vulnerability is their lack of imagination,” she continued, tapping the desk as she thought out loud.  “We know the route they took the last few times they transported prisoners to the airport, and it was the same each time.”

          Mac was the one to hold up a hand this time.  “I’m sorry, Chief, but what about your concerns about identifying your local agents.  I don’t wish to put anyone else at risk.”

          She sat back with a small smile.  “Which is why we won’t be using 007 on this.  He’ll be busy guarding Havel.  I’ll bring in someone to drive an interception vehicle, have a couple of men in heavy camouflage, with you and one other agent as the only individuals at real risk for identification.  And obviously, if they have been at all effective in questioning Nazlimov, you are probably now known to them.”

          “And the other agent?”

           “Well, Mr. MacLeod, I have no doubt they are aware of who is the Service’s Section Chief for Paris.”

          Mac lurched forward in his chair.  “No!”  But the Chief’s cold look stopped him before he could voice further protest.

          “You think I got to this position entirely by pushing papers, Mr. MacLeod?” Her expression dared him to challenge her.

          “But…”

          “Or perhaps it was because of my incredible sex appeal?”

          Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, man of nearly 400 years who was equally at home at an opera premier or a ritual of the Lakota Sioux, was left blushing and stuttering.

          They worked out the details of a plan, then MacLeod left, taking the Metro back to the left bank.  He really should get some sleep, he knew.  The next few days were going to be tense and difficult and he needed to stay sharp.  But instead of turning towards his apartment, he walked towards the river and crossed the bridge at the Ile de La Cite, pausing at the Quay to watch the pedestrian and river traffic.  The air felt freshest here, the light always remarkable when it reflected off the river, the golden stonework of the Quay, and the surrounding buildings. 

          Not for the first time in the last couple of days, the image of the young tourist guide intruded on his thoughts, her laughing eyes and teasing mouth, her struggle to keep her golden hair away from her face as the wind tossed the long strands of silk around her head.  There was something about her, the way she challenged him, not backing down one bit, the perceptive intelligence in her blue eyes, the way she engaged the audience as she spoke passionately about a city she clearly loved. 

          A tourist barge passed by, and he leaned forward, hoping to catch sight of her, but of course it was not the same boat.  He didn’t even know her name.  He stayed where he was, now watching with a purpose.  There would be another boat along soon.

          Commander James Bond hung up the phone, a tight frown marring his aristocratically handsome face.  MacLeod had been pulled off guarding his hero, Vaclav Havel, for the evening.  Admittedly, the next several hours were unlikely to present much of a risk, with Havel attending a private dinner with a bunch of pre-screened, well-known literati, but MacLeod had demonstrated a great deal of dedication and zeal.  What would the Section Chief have possibly had for him to do that was more important than Havel’s safety?

          Bond took a quick trip down to the Section Headquarters located in a tiny side street just off bd. St. Martin.  The brass plaque noting the offices of “Universal Exports” was discretely located next to the door, with a buzzer underneath.  He pressed on the button and looked up towards the security cameras of the square, otherwise anonymous building, listening for the lock release.  Once in, he wound his way through the several innocuous offices, nodding at the secretaries as he went, working to recall each of their names.  He had found it both pleasant and useful to cultivate flirtatious relationships with the women in the office.  You never knew when that extra little bit of cooperation might come in handy.  Besides, it was a game they seemed to enjoy, and one he enjoyed playing with them.

          Mrs. Hawkins, the Lady Bulldog’s secretary, however, seemed virtually impervious to his charms.  It only made him all the more determined to crack her formidable façade. 

          “She’s not in,” Mrs. Hawkins announced as he stepped into her alcove just outside the Section Chief’s office.  “And aren’t you supposed to be with Mr. Havel?” she asked, one carefully penciled eyebrow arching.

          Bond leaned one hip on the edge of her desk and produced a small nosegay of flowers.  “He is safe and well-guarded in his hotel room for the moment.  But I saw these, thought of your beautiful blue eyes, and couldn't resist.”

          Mrs. Hawkins’ red mouth pursed in a slightly disapproving, but amusingly tolerant expression, then glanced over to a miniature African violet in a delicate antique blue delft bowl sitting prominently on her desk.  “I do seem to be popular today.  Mr. MacLeod dropped that by earlier.”

          “And he and the Chief left together?” Bond asked, letting the flash of annoyance wash over him, unacknowledged.

          Mrs. Hawkins reached around to carefully smooth a non-existent loose auburn hair back towards the tight French twist that complemented her highly professional, yet subtly provocative look.  “I’m sure the Chief will inform you of anything she believes is important for you to know, Mr. Bond.”

          Bond smiled, reaching out to tweak one of the tiny pink petals of the African violent.  “No doubt,” he said. 

          Bond wandered back to the Communications Center in the rear of the building’s basement, leaned up against the counter and casually appropriated a form from the various stacks lined up in boxes for easy access.  He pulled a gold Montblanc from his pocket, went through the motions of unscrewing the cap and considering the various boxes to be filled in, well aware of the eyes of the seven or eight men and women behind the counter watching him out of the corners of their eyes.

          “May I help you?” The man behind the counter perused him over half-glasses perched on the bridge of his impressive Gallic nose.  Bond would have preferred a woman, but one had to work with what one was given.  Bond flashed a quick, business-like smile.

          “Name’s Bond.  Double 07,” he snapped, watching for a flicker of recognition that the name frequently generated.  It manifested itself in a tiny twitch around the eyelids.  Good.  “I need to check on the telex traffic over the last twenty-four hours from the Czechoslovakian and Soviet Embassies.”

          “I will need authorization from the Chief for that, Mr. Bond,” the man announced, but turned towards an “In” box on the desk behind him, reaching for a stack of telex messages.  Bond angled the pen carefully over the form he had been examining.

         “She’s not in at the moment.  If you will go through them carefully, you will see that one of them discusses me specifically.  That’s the one I’m interested in,” Bond smiled encouragingly as the man behind the counter pushed his glasses up his nose a little, turned, picked up the box, and one by one, examined each piece of paper, then turned them face down on the desk behind him.  Bond waited patiently.

          Finally, the man turned back around.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bond, but I see nothing that relates to you.  You’ll have to talk to the Chief to get access to the telex messages.”

          “I understand.  Absolutely.  I’ll wait until she returns, then,” Bond nodded curtly, put down the form he had held, recapped his pen and slipped it back into his pocket.  He let his eyes sweep the rest of the room, smiling at the female faces that dared catch his eye as well as those that jerked away just before they were caught staring.

          Bond sat in his Astin Martin, pulled out the pen “Q” had supplied, unscrewed the bottom portion and slipped the tiny capsule of exposed microfilm into his palm.  The eccentric and creative head of the Research Division had never intended for the miniature camera hidden in the device to be used in spying on his own service, but Bond hated being left out of a mission that might have a direct impact on his own.  He ignored the tiny, amused voice in his head that reminded him of the unwelcome feeling of one-ups-manship when MacLeod had managed to both snare the Section Chief’s undivided attention and trump his attempt to get in the good graces of Mrs. Hawkins.

          No, he was just concerned that the Lady Bulldog had trusted the enigmatic MacLeod once too often, and was being dragged into a situation best handled by someone with Bond’s knowledge and training.  The powerful rumble of the car’s engine was a nice counterpoint to his dark and dangerous thoughts as he pulled off the narrow side street into traffic, headed to a very discrete and well-equipped photo shop that would, for a price, let him use their darkroom.

          Two hours later he was back at Havel’s hotel, escorting the writer into a private dining room where his literary friends awaited him.  The fifty or so invitees applauded when Havel entered, and the dissident leader stopped, blushed and shook his head before he made the rounds of all the tables, greeting each person by name and speaking to them quietly.  Bond had begun to understand and share MacLeod’s admiration for the man’s unassuming courage.  He scanned the room again as he stayed within an arm’s length of Havel’s side, checking the exits, nodding at each of his men as they caught his eye.

          “I think you should go.”

          Bond started as he realized Havel was addressing him.  “Sir?”

          “You’re worried about Duncan.  So am I.  Nothing is going to happen to me here, my friend.  Go.  Find him.  Make sure everything is okay.”

          Havel was almost right. Bond wasn’t really worried about Duncan MacLeod.  Well, perhaps he was a little worried, but mostly concerned that the stubborn Scot had talked the Chief into something that put her in the line of fire.  As smart and trained as she was, she had not been a field agent for almost five years, and it was easy to lose the edge that kept yourself and those around you alive.

          Andre had orchestrated a wonderful, romantic dinner at their favorite bistro, complete with candles on the table.  He had been unusually quiet and attentive, reverting back to the more soft spoken man she had originally found so attractive.  She told him about her adventurous and intrusive passenger on the tour boat, but Andre’s reaction had been indignance at the man’s effrontery. 

          “I don’t think he meant any harm,” Tessa found herself rising to the man’s defense, even blushing a little at the memory of a brilliant, teasing smile and dark, laughing eyes.  She didn’t tell Andre that she had spent the whole next day half-hoping the man would return.  She even thought she saw him, at one point, watching from a bridge above the quay.  She had almost waved.

          “He could have been a thief on the run from the police,” Andre frowned. 

          “Oh, you are just jealous,” she laughed.

          “Jealous?”  He seemed to be struck by the word.  “Is there some reason I would be jealous?”

          “Just because an attractive man flirts with me, you get all protective,” Tessa explained.

          “So now he’s attractive, eh?  Maybe I should be jealous.” 

          Tessa suddenly wasn’t sure if her lover was teasing or serious.  Then Andre reached across the table for her hand.

          “Tessa, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I realized I have been being a thoughtless idiot, trying to pressure you into living a life that I had designed without thinking of your needs.  It’s just that with the gallery wanting me to contribute at least five works in the next few months, and graduation coming, and everything suddenly about to change, I wanted to make sure you were a part of my life.  I love you, Tessa.”

          The small speech seemed to take all the air out of Andre and he lowered his head, his lanky brown hair falling forward to cover his expression before he looked up again.  Thin lips pressed together and he reached into his coat pocket and put a small jeweler’s box on the table between them.

          Tessa was speechless.  She stared at the box, then at Andre, who met her eyes with a pleading, hopeful look.  With trembling hands, she opened the lid, revealing a ring with a modest, solitary diamond winking at her in the candlelight.

          “Oh, Andre,” she breathed.  “I…I don’t know what to say.”

          “I think ‘yes’ would be a good answer,” he said, trying to project a little humor.

          It had taken relatively little effort to discern that MacLeod’s concern was to retrieve Mr. Nazlimov, and that the Chief had decided to throw the resources of the agency behind the task.  That they had both left him out of the loop as though he was an inconsequential player just plain pissed Bond off.

          Havel was safe for the moment, sound asleep in his heavily guarded hotel room.  Further inquiries through the agency, perfectly legitimate in his role as local coordinator of Havel’s protection, led him to a rooftop on Rue de la Chapelle, scanning the street with a pair of high powered binoculars.  Ah, yes, just as he would have planned it.  A utility truck was parked in the middle of the street, the manhole cover off and bright orange cones were set to create a small barricade protecting the worker who could be seen just at the opening.

          He was in overalls and a hardhat that obscured his face, but Bond’s close inspection of the bulky clothing made him certain that underneath those clothes was a bullet-proof vest.  It was MacLeod, no doubt.  And while there were few other people on the street at that time of night, Bond scanned the area carefully, switching the Q Division-issue binoculars to a heat-sensing mode.

          There.  A total of five agents in dark camouflage, three in the shadows of nearby doorways, and two in the utility van.  And unless he was very much mistaken, Chief Mawdsley herself was somewhere in the vicinity.  He lowered the binoculars, pursing his lips in thought.  He was only here to make sure nothing went awry.  He pulled up the collar of his black leather jacket, then ducked behind the building’s ledge as the lights from a garbage truck making its rounds swept through the alley behind him, threatening to throw his shadow into relief if anyone happened to be looking his direction.

          He pulled his PPK out and checked it again, its weight always a comfort in his hand, although there were still days when he missed his old Baretta.  Once the truck had passed he carefully looked out over the ledge again.  A small movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention and he tensed.  It was a woman bundled up in a coat and big fur hat, pushing a baby stroller.  Lady Bulldog.  Tough as nails and as smart as they come, but it offended him that MacLeod had recruited her into cleaning up the mess he had so obviously created.  That she was a woman…well yes, that also bothered him despite all the political correctness indoctrination the Service had attempted in the last decade.

          But if she had appeared at the corner, it meant that someone had alerted them that the transport vehicle was getting close.  He watched as a small utility van came up the street, flanked by what appeared to be normal traffic.  The car immediately in front of the van slowed inexplicably, then sped ahead just in time to make the light at the corner.  The move was well executed, with all cars but the van making it through the traffic stop, and crowding the vehicle up against the sidewalk by the “utility work” in the right hand lane.

          The light changed, the van moved, and the Chief stepped into the street, pushing the stroller in front of her.  A few quick steps, a masterful move and the stroller flew up over the front of the van, smashing into the windshield.  The van veered violently, knocking over a couple of the yellow cones and bringing the ‘utility worker’ up out onto the street about the same time the woman began screaming, “Mon bébé! Vous avez tué mon bébé!”

          The van came to a screeching halt, but no one got out, and the fact that the windshield had not been cracked by the heavy baby carriage was clear evidence that it was reinforced with bulletproof glass.  But now MacLeod rose up, shouting obscenities in French and pounding on the door.  At last the driver side door opened, and a man in a suit stepped out, waving his hands to placate the obviously excited onlookers.  In a move so quick as to be invisible, MacLeod had the man on the ground, his arm twisted high up behind him.

          The scene erupted into chaos as camouflage-clad men appeared like magic out of the shadows, rushing to commandeer the van.  But Bond’s skin went cold as, just as it appeared the mission had been flawlessly executed, a dark sedan – standard Soviet embassy issue -- came screeching up behind, slewed sideways, and stopped only a few meters from the back doors of the first vehicle.

          Bond lay his arm carefully on the rooftop ledge to steady his aim, which with a handgun was uncertain at this distance.  The Chief had managed to pull a Soviet agent away from the passenger side, throwing him to the ground while MacLeod disappeared into the van as her agents swarmed into the vehicle.

          Bond’s mind had already automatically worked through the scenario.  Separate the van and the guard vehicle, find a way to persuade someone in the transport van to open a door, then swarm it.  Unfortunately, it appeared the distraction for the following sedan had not worked, and now they had more Soviet agents on their hands than they could handle.  Bond took a quick shot at the sedan but was totally out of position to be of any use.  Making a fast decision, he turned his attention to the lighting in the street, sighting carefully and taking out the three nearest street lamps.  Now the agents in dark camouflage would have a slightly better chance.  Then he dashed to the stairway.  If he were going to make a difference, he needed to be closer to the action.

          Barbara Mawdsley, in her secret heart of hearts, had to admit she loved field work – the planning, the anticipation, the adrenaline rush of confrontation, the life-and-death instantaneous decisions that had to be made on the fly – she rarely felt quite as alive as when in the middle of the climax of a covert operation.  MacLeod couldn’t have kept her out of this particular fray no matter his rational arguments to the contrary.

          The sharp smell of gunpowder and blood, sweat and fear was almost overpowering in the small space of the van.  They had overpowered the three guards, knocking them unconscious and then tying them.  And although one of them had a gunshot in his shoulder, none of their wounds were life threatening.  That was mostly due to MacLeod’s exhortation to the agents beforehand that they were not out to kill anyone, just to get Nazlimov back.  Left to her own devices, she would have been tempted to executed them, just for expediency’s sake.  Now she had to use two of her agents just to keep an eye on them.

          She watched as MacLeod unbuttoned Nazlimov's shirt, hissing at the already-purpling bruises that covered the man's chest.  The diplomat may have been battered, but he seemed almost elated to have his rescue so close at hand and cooperated as best he could.

          “Is the back-up car here yet?” MacLeod asked breathlessly.  Then they heard three distant shots, and the light coming in through the translucent, reinforced back windows suddenly dimmed.  MacLeod froze.  “What the hell?”

          “Report!” the Chief snapped into her radio.

          “Someone on a rooftop!” the voice sounded a little too excited for her comfort, but she’d have to deal with that another time.  “Shot out the streetlights.  But the Soviet backup car is here!”  More shots were heard, this time very close, and the slap and zing of bullets striking the van reverberated in the closed space.

          The Chief’s eyes met MacLeod’s.  “Bond?” he queried, pulling off his hardhat and handing it to Nazlimov.

          Mawdsley didn’t know and had no way of finding out, but she shared the Scot’s suspicions.  “Whoever it is did us a favor,” she equivocated.  “Duncan, listen to me.  This is an order.  Don't take any more chances than absolutely necessary.”

          He nodded, but didn’t reply.

          Bond had reached the corner of the building and was now at a better angle to take a shot at the driver of the backup car, but also was in greater danger of getting caught in any crossfire.  The guards inside the sedan suddenly opened the doors in unison, kneeling and firing automatic weapons at the scattering of agents to either side of the van, and at the van itself, peppering it noisily with hundreds of rounds in only seconds.  As the Soviets ducked behind the doors to their car, Bond took careful aim and fired, taking out the sedan driver, who fell like a stone.  Then his attention was yanked back to the van when the back doors flew open again and a disheveled man stumbled out in a panicked rush, yanking out of the arms of the Chief and MacLeod, and turning defiantly to his former captors.

          “I won’t go back!” he shouted in Russian to a startled audience.  “But I won’t let you kill anyone else.”  And he ran, limping heavily, running for the nearest alley, and straight towards Bond.  His shirt was half out of his pants, his thinning hair in wild disarray.  The Russian agents ducked behind their doors as the air thundered with automatic weapons.  In only seconds Nazlimov was picked up off his feet by the force of the multiple bullets smashing into his body and thrown forward, landing like a broken doll on the asphalt, his shattered glasses landing a few feet away.

          The firing stopped. 

          The silence was deafening.  After a long, tense moment, everyone slowly lowered their weapons.

          The Chief finally broke the momentary impasse by stepping out of the van with MacLeod right behind her.   Both glanced in his direction as Bond stepped towards the body, but Bond ducked back into the shadows at a hard glance from his superior, mindful that his face had not yet been seen by the Russian agents.  MacLeod and the Chief approached Nazlimov and knelt so the Scot could check for a pulse, but the amount of blood that had already spread in a wide pool on the pavement told its own story.

          Mawdsley turned to the Russians.  “It’s over,” she said in Russian, accented with her sharp British overtones.  “Go home.”  When the closest Soviet agent moved towards the body, all the guns on all sides raised again with an ominous metallic click, and the man paused.

          “I must check for myself,” the man snarled.

          MacLeod and the Chief shared a cautious look, then stepped back a couple of paces.  The Soviet eyed them suspiciously before moving closer, finally reaching down to roll the body onto its back.  It looked as though one bullet had ripped through the jugular vein, spattering blood all over the body’s face and shirt.  If none of the other shots had killed him, the man would have bled out in seconds from that wound alone.

          The agent stood, nodded curtly to his English counterparts, signaled to his men and within thirty seconds, the van, the sedan, the sedan driver’s body, and all their original occupants, save one, were gone.

          Without a word, the camouflage-clad British agents moved in, picked up the body and loaded it into the utility truck.   Bond heard the approach of multiple police sirens and ducked back into the shadows towards his car, mentally cursing the whole way.  What a complete fuck-up.  He didn’t know whether to be angry with MacLeod or feel sorry for the man.  Certainly he had been correct in his assessment that Nazlimov had been in danger, but they had acted too late and not professionally enough, unprepared for the firepower the Soviets had been so ready to use.

          Someone’s head was going to end up on a platter for this one, and he was just as glad he hadn’t been directly involved.  Although perhaps if he had, things might have gone differently.