The cane struck him with such force that he nearly lost his balance and fell forward. There was an intense, burning pain across the middle of his buttocks. They felt as if they were on fire.
Bond gritted his teeth harder and continued to stare at the spot. He had begun to sweat profusely; a drop slid down his forehead, on to his nose, then fell on to the sheet.
“You see what it can do now?” Wong asked pleasantly. “Now will you talk?”
Bond concentrated on the spot in front of him, attempting to conjure up whatever peaceful thoughts he could manage. My God, give me something of beauty to look at. Give me something pure. Give me …
The cane struck again, slightly lower than the first blow. Christ, it hurt! He kept up his internal litany, forming a mental picture in his mind of the image he invoked. Give me my house in Jamaica … Give me my flat in Chelsea …
The third blow slashed Bond across the tops of his thighs. It was dangerously close to more vulnerable parts of his body. God, not that again! He might not be able to take that … Give me … give me … Sunni …
The fourth blow landed on the buttocks again, overlapping the first red mark.
Sunni … Bond thought of the girl with the almond eyes. The spot on the sheet became her lovely face … Those lips … those eyes …
A fifth stroke tore his skin an inch below the last one.
Sweat was now rolling off his face in a constant flow. His heart was pounding. He wanted to scream, but he dared not. He knew that the general took pleasure in the torture. The more the victim suffered, the more the sadist enjoyed it. Bond was determined to be the most disappointing whipping boy General Wong had ever had.
The sixth stroke nearly knocked Bond over again. The madman was putting his weight into it now. He was breathing heavily. “Well?” he asked. “Have you had enough?”
Bond sensed that the general was surprised and perturbed that Bond’s reaction to the torture was not what he was expecting.
Bond turned his head to the left and spat, “Please … sir. May … I have … another, you … bloody … bastard … ?”
The seventh blow knocked Bond forward and on to the sheet. He curled up in a ball on his right side and felt the blood seeping down the back of his thighs.
“Get up!” Wong shouted.
He brutally whacked Bond across his left arm, directly over the stitches of his previous wound. Oh, bloody hell! Bond screamed to himself. He didn’t want to be hit there again. Getting lashed on the backside was immeasurably preferable, mainly because he was beginning to grow numb there. He weakly pulled himself up and assumed the position again.
The ninth blow seared his thighs once more. Again, Bond wanted to yell, simply to release the anger, humiliation, and tension that enveloped his body. He remained stubbornly silent.
The tenth stroke sent Bond to the sheet again. It was the hardest, most savage yet. He didn’t know if he could manage to pull himself up off the floor.
At that moment, there was a loud knock on the door. Wong shouted something in Mandarin. The guard with the gun opened the door slightly and listened to a hurried whisper from another man in the hallway. He closed the door and whispered something to Wong.
Suddenly, Wong threw down the cane. “Bah!” he shouted. He said something in Mandarin that implied that Bond was nothing but excrement. He said something else to the guard, retrieved the cane, and put it back in the cabinet.
“I have appointment,” Wong said. “We will continue in little while.” With that, he left the room.
The guard lifted Bond from the bloodied sheet. He stood weakly, his legs shaking like mad. The guard threw Bond’s clothes at his feet and said something in Mandarin. Bond picked up the sheet and wrapped it around himself, soaking up the blood and pressing his wounds. It was going to be a while before he could sit comfortably.
The guard shouted at him, indicating with the machine gun that he should get moving. Bond swore at the man in English, dropped the sheet, and pulled on his clothes. Contact with his trousers was excruciating. Unable to sit to put on his shoes, Bond went down on the left knee. He got the right shoe on, then painfully changed positions and rested on his right knee. The guard was looking out of the door into the hallway, the gun half trained on Bond.
Bond quickly removed the pry tool from his left shoe. He snapped open the heel and removed the plastic dagger. He slipped on the shoe, snapping the heel back in place as he did so. He tucked the dagger under the Rolex flexible watchband on his left wrist, then slowly raised himself up off the floor.
The guard gestured with the AK-47 for Bond to leave the room. Another guard stood in the hall and moved towards the lift.
The lift descended to the basement level. They came out into a stark white hallway, at the end of which was a locked steel door. The lead man unlocked it and held it open for Bond and the other man to go through, into another long hallway lined with five or six other steel doors. Each of these contained a small barred window at eye level, obviously opening into cells. He wondered how many individuals entered this building and never came out.
If he was going to make a move, Bond knew it had to be now or never.
The guards turned right and led him to the end of the hall. The first man unlocked the door there and held it open. Bond reached for his left wrist and firmly grasped the small handle of the plastic dagger. He knew that his timing had to be perfect or he would be a dead man.
Bond turned to the man holding the AK-47 behind him and said in Cantonese, “Would you mind not pushing that thing into my back?” The guard relaxed, giving 007 the space he needed. He pushed the AK-47 away from his body with his left hand and simultaneously swung the dagger straight up with his right. The three-inch blade pierced the soft skin of the man’s jaw just under the chin, thrusting up and into the mouth. In the next half-second, Bond grasped the machine gun and chopped the man’s arm with a right spear-hand, causing the guard to release his grip on the weapon. By now, the other guard had begun to react by pulling a pistol out of a holster on his belt. Bond swung the AK-47 around and fired one quick burst at the second man, throwing him back into the open cell. The first guard was now clutching at the dagger in his jaw, an expression of surprise, pain, and horror on his face. Bond used the butt of the machine gun to smash the man’s nose, knocking him unconscious. He moved quickly into the cell to inspect the guard he had shot. The four bullets had caught him in the chest. He was quite dead. Bond retrieved his plastic dagger, wiped it clean on the man’s shirt, then replaced it under his wristwatch band. He prayed that there were no other guards in the basement. The burst of gunfire had been quick. He hoped that the noise had not penetrated the upper levels of the building.
Bond had to get out and find Li Xu Nan’s men, who must be watching the building. It was not going to be an easy escape. First, however, he had to accomplish the task he came to perform. He had to go back to the third floor and get that bloody document.
He was still bleeding, and the pain was nearly unbearable. He stepped into the cell and removed his trousers again. He slipped off the right shoe and once again pried open the heel. He used a sheet from a bed to wipe himself, then did his best to apply antiseptic to the wounds. He ripped the sheet into strips and layered them around his thighs and buttocks. It would have to do until he could get medical attention. Bond then swallowed a couple of pain-killers, replaced the items, and put his shoe back on.
He stepped over the bodies of the guards and went into the hallway. He looked through the barred windows of each door on his way out. A body, covered by a sheet, lay on top of a stretcher in one of the cells. Could it be … ?
Bond tried the door, but it was locked. He went back and searched the pockets of the dead guard who had held the keys. He found them and went back to the locked door, unlocked it and stepped inside. He approached the body quietly, all too sure of what he would find underneath the sheet.
It was T.Y. Woo. He was lying on his stomach with his head turned to the side. He had been shot in the back of the skull. The entire front of his face was blown away.
Bond was overcome by an immense feeling of guilt and rage. He slammed his fist down on the stretcher. The bastards actually did it. Woo had probably been tailing him, keeping an eye on him, watching his back, and Bond had betrayed him. They had executed him, and it was he who had helped to send his friend and ally to his death.
Damn it, get hold of yourself! he screamed silently. It was unavoidable. It was a matter of keeping one’s
