The Harkness Supremacy - 5 of 12
Apr. 27th, 2007 02:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fangrrl_squeesTitle: The Harkness Supremacy - Chapter 5 of 12
Overall Rating: 15 (some violence, a tiny bit of slash, strong language)
Chapter Rating: PG-15 (language, violence)
Total Length: 11,100 words - which is why it's been broken down into 12 parts!
Disclaimer: This is an homage. The characters are not mine.
Summary: What happens when a member of MI6, an assassin and a former time agent run into each other in Hong Kong? Quite a lot.
Part 1 - James Bond hated Hong Kong...
Part 2 - 'You're not about to win any awards for safe driving.'
Part 3 - 'I must have *really* pissed M off.'
Part 4 - 'One man's trash is another man's treasure'
***
It was a point in Harkness’ favor, Bond had to admit, that his information had proven correct. Wallace Keenan occupied a mid-level condominium in the Savoy Tower, a mile away from the Hong Kong waterfront. Given that it was just past 6PM, Bond was ready to gamble that he’d probably be in residence. After fighting through even-worse-than-usual Hong Kong traffic – people were starting to celebrate the New Year, early - Bond was damned if he was going to ignore a potential lead, just because he felt bloody minded.
A phone call to London had confirmed that Keenan’s background wasn’t as clean as it could be. There were a few too many papers lost en route, a few too many cargoes inspected rather too swiftly to be entirely thorough, et cetera, and that was enough for Bond. Much to M’s ongoing despair, he preferred to act quickly, rather than wait for some dreary eighty-page analysis by some pencil-neck who’d never been in the field.
Bond considered his approach and decided that, despite his mood, a lighter touch was called for, as he knocked on the door to Keenan’s apartment.
“Who is it?” The speaker asked first in English and then in badly accented Cantonese.
“My name’s Bond. I’m a friend of Bob Silver’s.” James took on the rough tone of east London, expecting Keenan to make the usual classist assumptions.
The door opened, a safety chain apparent. “What do you want?” The sliver of face visible to Bond showed a thirty-something Anglo with light brown eyes and an expensive haircut. A plain shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and no jacket in evidence. Bond caught a whiff of beer on the man’s breath and started to hope that his luck might be in.
“Bob said I could come to you about some business. Something I didn’t want to discuss over the phone.” Bond made a point of looking over his shoulder, an amateur worried about security. “A staffing issue.” He added with heavy emphasis.
“Fucking hell.” The voice sighed. “I could kill that man.”
So you don’t know he’s already dead? Interesting.
“Yeah, well, that’s between you two, innit? Are you going to let me in or what?” If Keenan decided not to, Bond could always take the hard-line approach.
The door closed and Bond heard the safety chain being disengaged. The door re-opened and Wallace Keenan stepped back to let Bond in. Following Keenan, Bond walked into the undersized living room of what passed for six-figure living in Hong Kong. Technically the apartment offered a view of the bay, if one stood on the coffee table and squinted at the space between two skyscrapers, although standing on that table would be difficult, given the several beer bottles, half-empty takeout containers and a half-full ashtray that covered its surface.
“I’m sorry mate, did I catch you at dinner?” Bond counted bottles and wondered if perhaps Keenan had heard about Silver’s death. It’s only human to have a few drinks after hearing bad news…
“It’s alright.” Keenan insisted with a smile. Bond heard the strictly shortened vowels of elocution lessons – a vanity that many a boostrapper had fallen to, Bond knew. Or maybe the guy only had BBC newscasts to learn from on his UFO. Jesus, Harkness must be getting to me. Bond dragged his attention back to the matter at hand.
“Any friend of Bob’s…” Keenan gestured at an overstuffed, rather cheap-looking chair. “Get you a drink?”
Bond nodded. Keenan seemed to be half in the bag already, and such people were easier to deal with. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, thanks.” He sat down.
Keenan went into the kitchen and returned shortly thereafter with two open bottles of Tsing Tao. Bond tried not to pull a face at what he considered a decidedly inferior drink. Bond accepted the bottle and otherwise ignored it.
Keenan sat down on the unoccupied sofa, took a significant swig and said in a world-weary voice. “What has my big-mouthed brother in business promised now?”
Bond was surprised. He hadn’t expected Keenan to be quite that obvious. Then again, if the man liked money… He thought fast. “I’m here for a friend-”
“A friend, huh?” Keenan smiled, an expression that knocked some ten years off his face. “It’s always a friend. And what’s this ‘friend’ need, then?”
“If you’re going to be like that about it,” Bond shrugged. “Fine, it’s me. Long story short, I just got stuck with two hundred bloody acres of strawberries in Kent that need picking and no-one to do it.”
“You don’t strike me as the farming type.”
Bond glared at him. “I don’t give a stuff what I ‘strike you’ as. I need some cheap labor and I heard you could hook me up with some without resorting to bloody Polacks. If you can’t…” Bond put his drink down, and made as if ready to leave.
“Hey, hey,” Keenan made a conciliatory gesture. “Don’t get like that. Just y’know… Bow bells and strawberries. Odd match.”
“A hundred years ago, it would have been hops.” Bond said, defensive. “The farm came to me… in payment for something. I’ve got to work with what I have.”
“A high-interest something?” Keenan inquired and immediately backed down as Bond glowered at him again. “Alright. Alright, none of my business.”
How drunk is this guy? Bond wondered. Talk like that could get him killed. “Have you heard from Bob?” James hazarded. “He said he was going to call you, let you know I was coming.”
Keenan shook his head. “Not for a couple of days, actually.” Bond heard the strain in his voice, and wondered if Keenan lied, or was simply worried by the lack of contact.
“That’s too bad. Would have spared you the surprise, huh?”
Keenan nodded and then shrugged. “It’s not the first time Bob’s dropped a clanger on me. Always a one for the last-minute bright ideas, he was.” Keenan apparently didn’t notice the slip of the tongue amongst his increasingly slurred speech, but Bond did. “Moving people,” Keenan pulled at his beer. “Moving parts of people-”
Bond sat up, alert, and considered pushing the issue when someone took it out of his hands. Keenan’s living-room window shattered and Bond reflexively hit the ground, rolling behind his chair for cover. Less than a second later, Bond realized what had smashed its way through the glass but it was still too late. Even as he realized the businessman’s vulnerability, a second high-velocity bullet tore through Keenan’s skull.
Bond stayed down. Some cover was better than none and it gave him a moment to stare at Keenan’s corpse. Dark-green blood soaked into the carpet, and the nearby wall.
“Shit. He was right.” Bond muttered. He wasn’t quite sure what annoyed him more – the probability that he was the sniper’s next target or that Torchwood wasn’t some institutional joke, after all.
Seconds passed, stretching into several minutes. Bond decided that either he wasn’t worth the sniper’s time or he was waiting for a clear shot. Therefore, I can’t give him a clear shot. Bond thought about the layout of the apartment and decided on a direct, if messy, solution.
Being careful to remain behind the flimsy cover of the chair he had recently occupied, Bond pulled his gun out from inside his jacket and aimed at the sprinkler mounted in the middle of the ceiling. Fortunately, the first shot blasted it free and the living room became the center of a torrential downpour. The incoming updraft from the city below helped further muddle things, whipping the water and living-room drapery around.
Bond trusted to luck and ran for the door, practically taking it off its hinges as he lunged into the hallway, unharmed.
Even in a don’t-ask-questions town such as this, Bond knew that unwanted attention was bound to manifest, shortly. If nothing else, the downstairs neighbor was about to get an unpleasant surprise when green-tinted water started seeping through their ceiling and would probably want the building manager to take a look at the source of the problem. He ran for the emergency stairs and prayed he wouldn’t encounter anyone on the way back to Harkness’ hotel. It seems that I need a brief from that Yank, after all.
On To Part 6
Overall Rating: 15 (some violence, a tiny bit of slash, strong language)
Chapter Rating: PG-15 (language, violence)
Total Length: 11,100 words - which is why it's been broken down into 12 parts!
Disclaimer: This is an homage. The characters are not mine.
Summary: What happens when a member of MI6, an assassin and a former time agent run into each other in Hong Kong? Quite a lot.
Part 1 - James Bond hated Hong Kong...
Part 2 - 'You're not about to win any awards for safe driving.'
Part 3 - 'I must have *really* pissed M off.'
Part 4 - 'One man's trash is another man's treasure'
***
It was a point in Harkness’ favor, Bond had to admit, that his information had proven correct. Wallace Keenan occupied a mid-level condominium in the Savoy Tower, a mile away from the Hong Kong waterfront. Given that it was just past 6PM, Bond was ready to gamble that he’d probably be in residence. After fighting through even-worse-than-usual Hong Kong traffic – people were starting to celebrate the New Year, early - Bond was damned if he was going to ignore a potential lead, just because he felt bloody minded.
A phone call to London had confirmed that Keenan’s background wasn’t as clean as it could be. There were a few too many papers lost en route, a few too many cargoes inspected rather too swiftly to be entirely thorough, et cetera, and that was enough for Bond. Much to M’s ongoing despair, he preferred to act quickly, rather than wait for some dreary eighty-page analysis by some pencil-neck who’d never been in the field.
Bond considered his approach and decided that, despite his mood, a lighter touch was called for, as he knocked on the door to Keenan’s apartment.
“Who is it?” The speaker asked first in English and then in badly accented Cantonese.
“My name’s Bond. I’m a friend of Bob Silver’s.” James took on the rough tone of east London, expecting Keenan to make the usual classist assumptions.
The door opened, a safety chain apparent. “What do you want?” The sliver of face visible to Bond showed a thirty-something Anglo with light brown eyes and an expensive haircut. A plain shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and no jacket in evidence. Bond caught a whiff of beer on the man’s breath and started to hope that his luck might be in.
“Bob said I could come to you about some business. Something I didn’t want to discuss over the phone.” Bond made a point of looking over his shoulder, an amateur worried about security. “A staffing issue.” He added with heavy emphasis.
“Fucking hell.” The voice sighed. “I could kill that man.”
So you don’t know he’s already dead? Interesting.
“Yeah, well, that’s between you two, innit? Are you going to let me in or what?” If Keenan decided not to, Bond could always take the hard-line approach.
The door closed and Bond heard the safety chain being disengaged. The door re-opened and Wallace Keenan stepped back to let Bond in. Following Keenan, Bond walked into the undersized living room of what passed for six-figure living in Hong Kong. Technically the apartment offered a view of the bay, if one stood on the coffee table and squinted at the space between two skyscrapers, although standing on that table would be difficult, given the several beer bottles, half-empty takeout containers and a half-full ashtray that covered its surface.
“I’m sorry mate, did I catch you at dinner?” Bond counted bottles and wondered if perhaps Keenan had heard about Silver’s death. It’s only human to have a few drinks after hearing bad news…
“It’s alright.” Keenan insisted with a smile. Bond heard the strictly shortened vowels of elocution lessons – a vanity that many a boostrapper had fallen to, Bond knew. Or maybe the guy only had BBC newscasts to learn from on his UFO. Jesus, Harkness must be getting to me. Bond dragged his attention back to the matter at hand.
“Any friend of Bob’s…” Keenan gestured at an overstuffed, rather cheap-looking chair. “Get you a drink?”
Bond nodded. Keenan seemed to be half in the bag already, and such people were easier to deal with. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, thanks.” He sat down.
Keenan went into the kitchen and returned shortly thereafter with two open bottles of Tsing Tao. Bond tried not to pull a face at what he considered a decidedly inferior drink. Bond accepted the bottle and otherwise ignored it.
Keenan sat down on the unoccupied sofa, took a significant swig and said in a world-weary voice. “What has my big-mouthed brother in business promised now?”
Bond was surprised. He hadn’t expected Keenan to be quite that obvious. Then again, if the man liked money… He thought fast. “I’m here for a friend-”
“A friend, huh?” Keenan smiled, an expression that knocked some ten years off his face. “It’s always a friend. And what’s this ‘friend’ need, then?”
“If you’re going to be like that about it,” Bond shrugged. “Fine, it’s me. Long story short, I just got stuck with two hundred bloody acres of strawberries in Kent that need picking and no-one to do it.”
“You don’t strike me as the farming type.”
Bond glared at him. “I don’t give a stuff what I ‘strike you’ as. I need some cheap labor and I heard you could hook me up with some without resorting to bloody Polacks. If you can’t…” Bond put his drink down, and made as if ready to leave.
“Hey, hey,” Keenan made a conciliatory gesture. “Don’t get like that. Just y’know… Bow bells and strawberries. Odd match.”
“A hundred years ago, it would have been hops.” Bond said, defensive. “The farm came to me… in payment for something. I’ve got to work with what I have.”
“A high-interest something?” Keenan inquired and immediately backed down as Bond glowered at him again. “Alright. Alright, none of my business.”
How drunk is this guy? Bond wondered. Talk like that could get him killed. “Have you heard from Bob?” James hazarded. “He said he was going to call you, let you know I was coming.”
Keenan shook his head. “Not for a couple of days, actually.” Bond heard the strain in his voice, and wondered if Keenan lied, or was simply worried by the lack of contact.
“That’s too bad. Would have spared you the surprise, huh?”
Keenan nodded and then shrugged. “It’s not the first time Bob’s dropped a clanger on me. Always a one for the last-minute bright ideas, he was.” Keenan apparently didn’t notice the slip of the tongue amongst his increasingly slurred speech, but Bond did. “Moving people,” Keenan pulled at his beer. “Moving parts of people-”
Bond sat up, alert, and considered pushing the issue when someone took it out of his hands. Keenan’s living-room window shattered and Bond reflexively hit the ground, rolling behind his chair for cover. Less than a second later, Bond realized what had smashed its way through the glass but it was still too late. Even as he realized the businessman’s vulnerability, a second high-velocity bullet tore through Keenan’s skull.
Bond stayed down. Some cover was better than none and it gave him a moment to stare at Keenan’s corpse. Dark-green blood soaked into the carpet, and the nearby wall.
“Shit. He was right.” Bond muttered. He wasn’t quite sure what annoyed him more – the probability that he was the sniper’s next target or that Torchwood wasn’t some institutional joke, after all.
Seconds passed, stretching into several minutes. Bond decided that either he wasn’t worth the sniper’s time or he was waiting for a clear shot. Therefore, I can’t give him a clear shot. Bond thought about the layout of the apartment and decided on a direct, if messy, solution.
Being careful to remain behind the flimsy cover of the chair he had recently occupied, Bond pulled his gun out from inside his jacket and aimed at the sprinkler mounted in the middle of the ceiling. Fortunately, the first shot blasted it free and the living room became the center of a torrential downpour. The incoming updraft from the city below helped further muddle things, whipping the water and living-room drapery around.
Bond trusted to luck and ran for the door, practically taking it off its hinges as he lunged into the hallway, unharmed.
Even in a don’t-ask-questions town such as this, Bond knew that unwanted attention was bound to manifest, shortly. If nothing else, the downstairs neighbor was about to get an unpleasant surprise when green-tinted water started seeping through their ceiling and would probably want the building manager to take a look at the source of the problem. He ran for the emergency stairs and prayed he wouldn’t encounter anyone on the way back to Harkness’ hotel. It seems that I need a brief from that Yank, after all.
On To Part 6
