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dorminchu · 4 months

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Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 08 [Revised]

VIII: SENSE OF DOUBT

At twenty seven, Safin required organ transplants to mitigate the risk of cancer and other long-term effects. Once stabilized, he was transferred out of Severo-Kurilsk’s hospital into Kazan, for further treatments. A subsistence of weaning morphine injections, physical therapy. Relocation to a private clinic in Algeria.

Under the bright, bare ceiling, he continued to subsist. He could move around unassisted, as long as he wasn’t barefoot. He could load a pistol and aim without shaking too badly. These lesions across his face, down his abdomen, arms, would soften with time. He could not raise his voice above a guttural rasp. His first concern, after convalescence, was to go after the ones who took over his father’s company, and eliminated his family.

"You have a visitor," the nurse said.

There must have been a mistake. Safin had no one left to mourn him. He told the nurse to let this visitor in, and pushed himself to stand. Walking slowly over to the desk, he opened a set of drawers, pushing old documents aside, withdrawing the Makarov PM at the bottom.

The man who stepped into the room was well-built, dressed in a leather jacket and cargo pants. His right eye sat inert and glassy in his skull. Perhaps working for the SVR under an alias. Klebb was fond of using illegal agents rather than Russians for operations abroad. More likely, one of Zorin’s men sent to finish him off.

“Before your father's retirement,” the man said, “he worked with an Algerian sponsor, Cipher. Gostan knew his way around toxins, and this Cipher had enough funds to keep things running out of Russian jurisdiction. When Gostan’s wife turned informant to the Russian government, it was Cipher who invited the family to dinner to take their minds off the collapse of the USSR.”

“Foodborne botulism,” Safin said, glancing over at the desk. "That was Zorin's statement."

The man followed his gaze. “You read the reports.”

“At sea level, the spores can survive boiling water. If the bacterium survives long enough to produce toxins, you get botulinum.” A ragged inhale, exhale. His mouth dried up. “Pathoanatomical analysis confirmed the cause as a toxin of vegetative origin. It only takes three-hundred fifty nanograms, about a quarter of a grain of sand.” Safin looked at the man. “Where is this Cipher?”

"A contact of his expressed interest in meeting you."

Safin turned, pointed the Makarov PK squarely at the man's breast. "I don't have friends. Or family. On whose behalf were you sent?"

"Rene Mathis," the man said, hardly flinching. "He's worked with the Cipher and his associates before. He'll be able to tell you more." Safin's hand trembled. He gripped the gun tighter. "You've every right to be angry," the man said. "But vengeance alone isn't going to help you."

Safin cocked the gun. "What are you offering in return for this information?"

"Your father wouldn't have wished to see you rot away in hospital. I'm here to get you where you need to be." The man walked up to him and grabbed his trembling wrist. "You're still recuperating."

“That is a luxury I cannot afford,” Safin said. “There’s work to be done.”

⁂

At thirty six, Safin clung onto consciousness, playing limp on the floor of the hotel room. Dragging himself upright, he touched his ear. "Primo," he rasped, "we've been compromised."

Static his only answer. As if the situation would change, he demanded:

"Primo."

Harsh static in his ears. Safin ripped out the earpiece and wire. Panic closing in, on the brink of violence, he tempered himself. Now was not the time to lose composure. He had to get out of here. It was him or Madeleine now, and given the choice he'd already made up his mind.

The door opened before he could reach it. A hand half the size of his face covered him, lifting off of his feet and shoving him into the same laundry basket. No need to sedate him. Safin couldn't see, buried by laundry. The sound of wheels on carpet giving way to the harsh clatter-and-scrape of bare flooring. The elevator doors closing. The lift shuddered downward. All he could hear past the blood in his ears was his own ragged breathing and the hum of the elevator. Eventually the lift doors opened. Wheeling down a hall, there was an echoing clatter of the wheels on the floor.

The cart stopped moving. The same broad arm plunged into the hamper, dragging Safin out. A non-descript storage room, occupied by Klebb. As Safin was wrenched to his feet, he caught sight of a crumpled body in the corner. The maid met his eyes with a glassy stare. No matter what her saviour had told her, she was expendable. Only in those last moments did she realize the truth.

“She was a useful proxy,” Klebb's voice came from the other side of the room. “But she’s served her purpose.”

Safin had consoled himself with the idea that Blofeld had no reason to get rid of him. Now there seemed no point in denying it. What had taken him weeks to parse out through observation took her only a handful of conversations as he tipped his hand. Remorse had corroded his intentions too far to be forgiven. As long as Blofeld lived to pick apart her head, Madeleine would be as good as his enemy. All she’d had to was respond, initiate, and he hadn’t thought twice.

Hinx dragged him to his feet, arms behind him.

“You've led him to us,” Safin said, wrenching uselessly against Hinx’s grip. "All that's left to do is eradicate him." Klebb said nothing. She crossed over to a table opposite him and Hinx. “I tell you this for SPECTRE’s sake,” Safin said. “Blofeld's operation is running on borrowed time.”

Klebb’s mouth thinned. “If it were up to me, you would have never left Severo-Kuslik.” She reached into the bag and produced a syringe. “But it is not.”

Safin’s jaw set. There wasn’t much he could do, realistically. No point in asking, are you going to kill me. He could buy a few more seconds by reminding her of his loyalties—there wasn’t much point in grovelling. When Blofeld made a decision, it was final. His father’s island would be left in the hands of those who could never appreciate its true potential. Bond wouldn't keep his end of the bargain. But his frustation finally got the better of his patience. "Killing me won't salvage anything!" he snapped. "Your enemy must be dealt with." Hinx grabbed his head and held him still.

“All in good time,” said Klebb. "You have your own debt to repay."

The needle pierced his neck. A sharp, white-hot pain lanced through him but he did not lose consciousness. Hinx shoved his body back into the basket.

⁂

On floor twenty four, 007 and Madeleine were making their way towards the elevators. Between the pair of jilted lovers, Swann seemed to be handling the situation better. The tension in her shoulders easy to miss under that bulky black coat. She was a little harried. Scrutinizing him, not in an unkind way. It was methodical. Even a harsh, cold man could be tipped over into sentiment.

“Ordinarily, I’d say that we ought to stop running into each other like this,” said 007, stepping into the elevator after her, “and that it might give your friends the wrong idea. But I suppose we're past that point. They’ve been swarming the halls ever since that alarm tripped.”

Madeleine said nothing. Her hair still damp at the edges. She kept her eyes averse of his, fixed on a point over his shoulder. As the elevator descended, she gripped the rail tightly.

“I know these events can be rather hectic,” 007 said, “but I can keep you safe if you tell me who’s put you up to this.”

Still, nothing.

“Paloma,” he said, watching her face for a reaction. “She's a friend of mine. You haven't seen her around?"

“We talked briefly before the donor gala, and once when I went back up to my room. That's the last I saw of her.” She held his gaze without fear or hesitation. She'd make a pretty good informant if she lived long enough. Her blue eyes hardened as she added, “This isn’t going to work on me.”

“Well, you can either trust me, or take your chances with whoever is waiting for us downstairs,” Bond said.

A muscle jumped in her delicate face. “And you are the new guard?”

“Of a sort,” 007 said, as the counter dropped down to single-digits. “I was hoping to get an idea of whoever you’re working for before I have to turn you over to MI6.”

“I'm afraid I won’t be able to help you,” she said. “They don’t tell me much.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” 007 said, closing the distance in a few, deliberate steps. She shrunk back against the guard rail but there was nowhere for her to go. “You've ingratiated yourself with a contract killer. You're already surrounded by men with criminal ties. Perhaps you've gotten this far by playing naive, but there's a limit to how far that will take you. For the sake of your life, if not your lover—”

“You've misunderstood,” said Swann. “I'm just a rubber stamp. If you were after information, you should’ve kidnapped him. All I'll buy you is a few minutes.”

She was bluffing, and remarkably confident. Whether or not Paloma was in on this as well remained to be seen. All of these younger agents seemed to be under the impression that a nice resume and connections could make up for a glaring lack of common sense. Leiter was going to be very unhappy if the events of tonight led them to yet another dead-end. But not as much as M.

The elevator stopped on floor five. The doors opened. On the other side stood a broad man, dressed as an attendant. 007 caught his eyes and offered an easy, mechanical smile that was not requitted. Swann was staring at the man with great concentration. Through the side of his mouth, 007 said, "I'll handle the negotiations. Just look aggrieved and they'll buy it."

Swann glared at him. He found it difficult, as he aged, to extend sympathy. At Safin's age he had desire for self-preservation bordering on nihilism. Drifting in and out of consciousness as Le Chiffre bled to death. The reversal of their roles was not exactly what Bond was thinking of. An affair was one thing, 007 had assessed that tension as soon as they stepped into the elevator. But the possibility of a double-cross made the situation far more delicate than he'd first assumed. He had no idea of Swann's history with Safin other than a recent, turbulent intimacy. She could be spurned, or simply putting on an air to spare him. Bond's strength was in seduction and extraction, and the occasional show of force when the situation demanded. What was a callous and unfeeling response to her was just part of the job for him.

Swann's eyes were lucid, indignance fallen away into fear. 007 turned his body as if to shield her and his hand hovered over the gun at his hip. The man began to advance towards them and 007 said, "This will only be a moment."

On the ground floor, the elevator doors opened. Hinx grasped Madeleine by the arm and steered her towards Primo, waiting by the reception. Swann said nothing as they cleared the ground floor, out of the Raddison Blu and across the sidewalk. She was shivering as he opened the door of the car by the curb and pushed her inside.

On the other side of the car was Safin. He glanced over as the door opened, but said nothing to her. Hinx circled around the other side and Primo pulled out with the other chauffers. “It would appear,” said Safin quietly, boring a hole into the side of Madeleine's head, "that someone has set us up."

Primo glanced at them. "What was that?"

Madeleine took an unsteady breath. “Klebb took me aside and asked to monitor Safin discreetly.”

In all his time working for SPECTRE or any syndicate, Safin did not allow himself to be misdirected by personal sentiment. Primo was no different. Safin didn't appear to be upset by this revelation. He nodded to himself and said, “What was her price?”

“My loyalty for your life.”

Just like that, fifteen years of service were under scrutiny. The perfect foil, created inadvertently.

“What will happen to her?” Swann asked. "The woman?"

“That’s not your concern,” said Primo.

She took a serrated breath. Her hands on her lap, white-knuckled, but her voice was steady. “You think I don’t know how this works?” Her eyes locked on his working one in the rear-view mirror. “Somewhere down the line, every one of us is expendable.” A look in the blue eyes like she'd been gutted. “My father is my only insurance.”

Primo paused. It wasn’t his business, but a woman like this was going to keep prodding at him until he said whatever she wanted to hear. “You have nothing to worry about.”

The silence held, strained. Her anger felt perfunctory and desperate. She was beseeching Primo with her eyes for something he was unable to reciprocate. She’d armed herself with vulnerability as an offensive. It might have worked on Safin, but Primo’s feelings hadn’t changed since their paths crossed in Guinea.

It was as if he were the only one who could see it. This emotional caveat had diverted Safin from his original cause, to his own detriment. He’d been making Swann an exception from the day their paths recrossed. He never told Primo anything about his past jobs, and Primo didn't think much of Safin's insistence in Zurich. Convincing himself of the lesser evil, while a hassle in of itself, was less taxing than listening to Swann despair about how lucky she was to be alive.

She laughed softly to herself, looked downward. “At least, before, I could delude myself into thinking it was only ego. That he saw me as something to be protected, or won—but I don’t think I ever realised just how—”

“Why don't you ask him,” Primo said curtly.

Safin said, "Drive. We'll discuss this later."

⁂

An hour later, they were in the safehouse. The curtains drawn, but the overhead light was on. Safin felt no nausea or disorientation, or assorted aftereffects. If it wasn't a lethal injection, what else could it be?

The soft scratching of a pen against paper drew him from thought. Movement in his peripherals. She hadn't removed the black coat. Her head turned in his direction and she seemed to flinch at his approach. "I didn't realise what would happen. You must understand that."

"I'm not angry," he said. "Not with you."

Her mouth drew to a line. There was no point for her to argue on. The exhaustion in her eyes and her shoulders remained palpable. Blofeld had taken measures to secure her loyalty, but not her trust.

Unable to retreat into his own façade of indifference. Perhaps in all of her previous affairs, she’d hide herself in plain sight. Never allowing her true nature at the forefront. The power and the thrill of wielding such power usually lent itself to a fleeting thrill and longer-lasting disappointment. She had deluded herself into assuming he would be no different. There was something within her, a trace of that vulnerability worth preserving. The same principle to restore a garden from nothing.

“There is a meeting in Rome tomorrow. On your father's behalf, you will be expected to attend.”

"On SPECTRE's," she said.

"Your cooperation is better than the alternative."

Madeleine scoffed. “What difference would it make if I were willing?”

⁂

The cabin of White's private plane carried a sombre tension. Madeleine had been placed on a separate flight with Marco Sciarra and his wife. It was the first time since Vienna that White had been in the same room as Safin. Aside from the pilot and Primo, they had the cabin to themselves.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” White was saying. “This Heracles Project. Say it goes into mass production under MI6's watch. All the enemy has to do is collect our medical records, take the DNA—and that’s it. We’re history. One of the largest companies the world has never known, and its legacy will be known as the advent of some mistake. A power vacuum the likes of which—oh, hell, I shouldn’t go on.” White glanced over at Safin as though in apology. “What do you think?”

“It’s not important what I think.”

“That’s what cushy men like Denbigh say to get the papers signed,” White said with a scoff. “It’s the last thing I expect from a man on the ground.”

White hadn’t been on-the-ground since the mid-eighties. “Most people are already content to live as they are told and die quietly. Give them an invisible God flowing through their veins, and they'll understand it is better to concede than resist.”

White chuckled, but there was a hint of unease in his tone. “You’d have gotten on well with Gostan.”

“In the right hands, such a weapon would prevent collateral.”

“Yes, yes, always the right hands—and what are the chances it will be misused?” Safin held his tongue while White took his silence as a concession. “Ah, that's the trouble. You're so focused on the potential of this weapon that you cannot give any failsafes, or alternatives to its misuse. I’m surprised you and Denbigh don’t see eye-to-eye on the matter.” An intentional barb. Safin ignored it. Silence gripped the cabin. “How is Madeleine?”

“Unharmed.”

White scoffed, but there wasn’t any humour. “You’ve compromised yourself, pulling her into my dealings. She had no right to know about Blofeld.”

“Blofeld introduced himself into her life before I ever could,” Safin said. “Is that not how he operates with SPECTRE's offspring?”

A muscle jumped in White's thin jaw. “Truthfully, I've never been very fond of her taste in men. I'm not even sure she was fond of them, half the time. Perhaps she was trying to assuage my concerns, whatever she assumed them to be. But none of them ever used her as a bartering chip.”

“It was only a matter of time before her connections were brought to SPECTRE's attention.” The outcome was decided when he opened his mouth in Zurich. Before then, in the car while Klebb looked him in the eyes. Even now, Safin was faced with the same level of detachment which Swann had cultivated and White had mastered over a lifetime. A professional did not resort to petty envy.

“She's cleverer than I,” White said. "But she is a daughter of SPECTRE." The lines in his face stood out sharply. "Just as you are a son of SPECTRE."

"I gave you my word," Safin said. "She won't be harmed."

⁂

Under the arched room of the Cadenza, the same strained tension followed from the private jet. As Blofeld discussed the proceedings, Safin fixed his attention on him casually. When the discussion of the incident with 007 at the Raddison Blu came up, he remained calm on the surface, even as White expressed his interest.

"Are you aware, White, that your daughter has been targeted by the CIA?"

White went very still. In the warm light he had paled. He was looking at Blofeld. "I was not."

The grey eyes held briefly on the face of Safin, two seats adjacent. "You will be thankful to know that she has come away from the matter unharmed. No need to worry. She's proven to be a very resourceful asset."

White's reaction was subtle but immediate. He looked at Safin. He was trying to keep himself in check but coming to an understanding that something else had transpired. Safin held the eyes of Blofeld once addressed and did not stray. He could feel White's eyes digging at him. He did not allow his own tension to show in body language. There was no point in arguing. Blofeld was not a man that could be convinced so much as humoured. This was just about keeping White in check, not bartering for Swann's life.

“Swann has her purpose,” Safin said. “But a temp is all she need be.”

"Well, I see no reason to leave her out of our dealings," said Blofeld. "She has proven that she possesses both the intellect and resourcefulness to be trusted. She will be reinstated at the Hoeffler Klinik in Austria. A promotion, for the job well done in Oslo. There, she will be kept in good condition until we have need of her."

The chair beside Safin's shifted, wood scraping against marble. "She is useful as long as she is malleable," Safin continued, "007 is too great of a wildcard. We've already dealt with the aftermath. It gave MI6 the advantage. In the long-term, she's no different than Lynd." White's hand closed around his arm. Safin reached up and brushed his hand away. “My loyalty is to the syndicate,” he said flatly.

No reason to expend any emotion. White was frustrated with the uneven turn of events. The outlier was an easy target.

"Mr White," said Blofeld coolly, "is there something you and Mr Safin wish to discuss?"

White scoffed. Wrenching his hand away from Safin, he said, “This isn’t about him, no more than it is about me, or any one of us gathered here tonight. You and I both know that, Franz.” The room was very still. “Since QUANTUM was lost, I have watched you drive yourself mad to make James Bond’s life a living hell. I’ve watched us sink lower. It caught up to Le Chiffre. If James was a genuine threat to our syndicate, you would not have hesitated to get rid of him. We had the advantage two years ago, when Olivia Mansfield still headed MI6, yet you allowed Silva to enact his revenge plot. Now we’re playing catch-up while our enemies bolster their defenses. This goddamned Heracles Project is a pipe-dream. There are too many drawbacks, and we’ve no alternatives! All of this has cost us. Le Chiffre, Greene, Yusef, and—”

“—you're speaking of necessary losses.”

“Appointed by YOU, Franz!” White exploded. He continued in a level voice, “For too long, I've stood by and watch you dismantle what has taken us decades to build, and rebuild, all for the sake of a childhood grudge. You’ve taken more than I can give.”

Blofeld’s face became stony. “You wish to resign?”

White stood up. “With what little dignity I have left, yes.”

Blofeld sighed. “Frederich, I’d advise you to reconsider.” His eyes flickered to the balcony. “Not in front of your daughter.”

White froze where he stood. A look between resignation and cold contempt crossed his features. “Ernst….”

Another one of Blofeld’s favourite games. Pitting two operatives against one another. Their fates were decided by him alone. Safin was looking ahead.

White's breathing changed. His days in the French Foreign Legion were well behind him. Even if he were still in peak condition it would not have made much difference. He grabbed the front of Safin’s suit with fingers that would not obey, to brace his own weight or apprehend the man responsible for his daughter's fate. His mouth foamed, a mixture of saliva and blood. Safin could not avert his eyes. He croaked out a word that was indecipherable, blood bubbling from his throat. Collapsing into himself, he began to seize.

Vogel disguised a flinch and shifted her feet away from the encroaching pool of blood and bodily waste.

Safin turned his attention towards the head of the table, where Blofeld sat, statuesque. His grey eyes glittered.

“Denbigh,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Inform your scientist that this weapon will need a little fine-tuning.”

Denbigh sounded as though he was going to be sick. “It’s still a prototype, sir.”

“Yes, and I kept him talking for quite a while,” Blofeld said with a wave of his hand. “Given Obruchev's description, he ought to have died a few minutes ago.” He signaled to the man behind his chair. “Kestutis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Largo’s release date should be coming up soon. Send him to Dr. Swann. He will replace Frederich before the end of the month.”

“Of course, sir.”

“All of this was possible thanks to the joint effort of our latest fill-in.”

All eyes turned to Safin, who was looking at Blofeld. Blofeld’s attention rose to the balcony above and Safin followed his gaze. “A means of assassination without guns or typical poisons. It is only a prototype, as Denbigh says. But in a few years, along with the Nine Eyes programme, we will have an unprecedented level of flexibility over our operations.”

Frederich Konig died for nothing. Safin was as little a threat to Blofeld's schemes as the temp who'd charmed her way into lowering his defenses. It was no fault of hers. He could be honest with her in a way he could not have before, not while her father lived. But before he explained his true purpose to Madeleine, there was something he must do.

⁂

At short-notice, Obruchev had agreed to meet SPECTRE's benefactor through Primo at a safehouse in London. He had been promised a better sum of money than Shatterhand could offer in return for intelligence about Gareth Mallory's dealings, off-shore. Silva had never mentioned anything about London or Heracles beyond his quest for revenge against Olivia Mansfield. It was possible, then, that Silva had not known or been complicit.

Before he stepped into the safehouse, Safin told Primo, "I'll handle this alone."

Primo bade him entry.

Valdo Obruchev, a balding man of smaller stature, looked up. “My client has informed me that you oversee the Heracles Project in London, is that correct?”

“Since 2011.” Obruchev glanced up at him over his glasses. “I am sorry. Have we met before?”

“My father was a client of Guntram Shatterhand’s.” Safin stepped closer. “I’m here to continue what he started.”

Obruchev looked at his face. A sudden flash of comprehension. “But you’re—”

“Just a can of herbicide.” Safin’s hand in his pocket curled around the butt of the gun. “Three days ago, one of your clients injected me with a strain of Heracles. It was used to eliminate Frederich Konig, alias Pale King.”

Obruchev struggled to find his voice. “Look, I only supervise the other scientists. Is it possible one of the strains was coded to this, uh—Konig.”

“It shouldn’t be an issue to verify.”

“Well, I don’t confer with Mr. Shatterhand personally. If you’d like, I can put you into contact the research team.”

His hand on the desk slipped out of sight. Safin reached over, caught Obruchev by the back of the head, slammed him into the desk. Wrenched him up, knocking his glasses askew. Obruchev yelped but made no effort to free himself. With the barrel under his chin.

“Put your hands where I can see them.” Obruchev scrambled to oblige. Blood began to stream from his nose. “How is Heracles meant to be utilised?”

“Once Heracles is introduced into the bloodstream, the target will exhibit symptoms characteristic of a chemical attack. If a person is inoculated and he is not the intended target, the weapon will do nothing.”

“Can it be transferred?”

“Yes, through physical contact. The nanomachines are crude, but efficient. They should become more difficult to detect as technology improves.” Perhaps Madeleine wasn't the target, after all. What reason would Blofeld have to eliminate his favourite temp? “As technology improves, we would utilize the weapon on a broader scale. Entire families could be eradicated with the right DNA, you see—but at this moment, that’s only an idea!” He winced. “The initial strategy was to target the intended victims under the guise of mandatory inoculation.”

“Such as West Africa.”

Obruchev began to nod before he caught himself pressing into the gun barrel, shrinking back into terror. “Ah—y-yes, that’s correct. The medical staff in Guinea were told they were getting a vaccine. We used their ignorance as a proxy, the perfect circumstance for testing Heracles without suspicion. But—what you’re suggesting is impossible. The bioweapon is under close surveillance, there’s no evidence of it being used outside of MI6’s jurisdiction. Look, I-I’ve told you as much as I can.”

Safin let him drop. He put himself between the desk and Safin. "

⁂

Three days since Rome, Madeleine was already back in Norway. It wasn't enough time to grieve her father. No amount of platitudes or promises from SPECTRE's ilk could soothe the panic that kept her up at night. The very paranoia that had kept her alive was slowing eating its way through her instinct for self-preservation. Alone in the early hours, she could almost fool herself that it was remorse, not survivor's guilt.

A sense of security from the last place she’d ever hope for. She’d been toying with the idea ever since coming to Oslo, but now she was forced to accept it as a lesser evil. In her previous life, she would’ve had the luxury of disdain. In pursuit of that dream of normalcy, she’d do anything to survive. Perhaps there was as much difference between putting her trust in Safin and coming into work as a rubber stamp for liars and killers.

Apart from his job, a few vulnerabilities, she knew as much about him now as she had last time they spoke. For her sake, he’d kept his distance. But sooner or later he'd let his guard down, and the only question was whether he deemed her worthy to live carrying his own secrets. A stranger with no ties to her wouldn’t be coming and going as he saw fit. Nor would she be opening her door to him. Her father never once talked about how he and her mother met. That part of their lives, she wasn’t meant to think of—it would make them human and fallible. As if they could be anything but. She wasn’t a child anymore.

She took no greater pleasure in the constant string of deaths and killings, nor looking the other way. Even with her father gone, that burden of inheritance wasn't lifted with him. In lieu of a target to point all of her misgivings, there was just emptiness. The inevitable, hopelessness of being trapped with another criminal who understood. No way of pushing him away. To be understood by such a man was another violation, as if it had mattered to him in the first place. As though she were really the first person he’d had to break-in for the sake of his clients, no need to flatter herself that he was genuine in his concern. He might be able to lie to himself, but not to Madeleine.

As she stepped into her apartment, the door was ajar. The lights were off, curtains drawn. Her heart skipped a beat or two. She closed the door behind her. The handgun was in the pocket of her trenchcoat, hanging up on the closet door. She reached casually into that pocket, scanning the permiter of the room for any disturbance.

"There's no need for that." Safin was sitting on a chair, facing the front door. He looked as if he'd been sitting here since this morning. She would have noticed if he had. “Before my father died, he dealt in poisons. He owned a chemical facility on the Kuril Islands. Blofeld bought the island from the Russian government and has been renting it out to potential buyers. The attacks in West Africa, for example. ” He looked at her. “I wish to reclaim what’s been taken from me.”

“For your father’s sake?”

He scowled. “Beyond that. Think of the lives that were lost in Guinea. Your father's death. There will be more before our work is done.” Madeleine shrank into herself under the weight of his phrasing. Blofeld must have known. Her father would have known. Perhaps it was why Safin would elect to keep her out of harm's way. “That senseless collateral you witnessed, it was for the sake of testing this bioweapon. As long as you remained ignorant, you would be an outsider, free to live and look the other way."

"I've strived to lead an uninteresting life. Evidently it was never good enough." She said it plainly, but her eyes peered through him, into another place and time. She was reaching into herself, sifting through regrets, back to the same emotion. “My father would not repent. Not while he was alive.”

“It was for your safety that I kept my distance.” In a silent conflict with himself, Safin got to his feet., walked over to her. "What you saw in Rome was one of Blofeld's tests. I had nothing to do with the outcome."

"I believe you." She’d made a habit of internalizing the lack of her longevity since she was a child. The hitman sent to her door. All of her family seemed to meet the same fate, sooner or later. "But I'd feel safer if you stayed."

All she had to do was sound pitiable enough and he'd mistrust his judgement. Without the barriers of formality there was only desire to assuage. She turned and gripped his wrist, and he seemed to tense up. His expression changed. Eyes darted to her face and held there, but he didn't move and she did not react as her father had. Intuitively, she cupped his face and said, “You’re the only one who can protect me.”

He shivered, her touch a live wire. Their mouths met. His hand swept down her back, drawing her against him. Blotting out her grief. The more secure path to revenge was in the unravelling. As long as he was needed, he would go to her. They wound up on the sofa, and he didn’t close his eyes to kiss. She unbuckled his belt, but when her hands reached the hem of his shirt, he brushed her aside.

“Does it bother you?”

He blinked slowly, as if he’d misheard. He inhaled, exhaled, and said, “No.” As he sat up he held eye-contact. It was not benevolent, but the thrill resonated behind her navel.

He took her hand and placed it under his shirt, coming to rest against his sternum. Mottled and cool, the steady rise and fall of his chest. As she dragged her fingers down his stomach the damage pervaded. It was as though he’d caught a blow, or else been splattered with something chemical.

A mark along his jaw stood out and she pressed her mouth to it. His skin tasted bitter, the way memorial roses smelled. As she pushed him supine, moving down his body, he stifled a noise in the back of his throat without deterring her. Closing her eyes, this could be any man. If not for the cool hand on the nape of her neck and his ragged breath, the lie might stick.

SPECTRE would be watching. Just like any other lover she took home, they would glean nothing new.

#nttd #no time to die #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann #rosa klebb #primo #mr hinx #james bond #mr white #ernst stavro blofeld #fanfic #fanfiction

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