City of Dust and Ghosts: A James Bond Halloween Story

The Last Time He Saw Her

M had changed around the oil paintings in his office, and Bond was finding the new print—some pastoral landscape featuring idiotic children and horses--difficult to focus on. It was a distinct step down from the heroic Trafalgar battle scene, which Bond was accustomed to admiring while M reviewed his reports.

"Well, this is slim," M said at last, closing the plastic cover and fixing his gaze on Bond.

"I felt like brevity was a virtue in this instance," Bond shrugged.

"In this instance you're right. The PM's already going to have a long day trying to distance himself from Burkhalter and his business holdings. Best not to add more fuel to that fire."

"It wouldn't do to be too closely associated with an illegal organ trafficker," Bond nodded. M scowled at him, then looked back down at Bond's report.

"Ghastly business, that," he said. "And you're certain of Spectre's involvement in it?"

"Burkhalter all but admitted it before he died, and it fits their M.O."

"Well, Scotland Yard managed to trump the American FBI, and is sending a forensics team to try and identify the remains in that..." M waved a hand airily, at a loss for words, "boneyard...wherever it was they took you. In the meantime, this gives us a new avenue of attack."

"Were there any other intelligence services following that particular lead?" Bond asked.

M cocked his head quizzically. "What do you mean? The organ-harvesting? No. The intelligence community was shocked by it. Why?"

"No reason," Bond said.

He did see her again, though, and sooner than he'd expected. It was some two months later, as the city turned glittering and festive in preparation for the holidays, and Bond had returned to his office late from a working dinner with a few of his intelligence contacts attached to assorted embassies. His desk lamp was one of the few sources of light in the otherwise dim hallway, and striding down the darkened corridor had reminded him of the confrontation with Burkhalter—something he hadn't thought of since he'd filed his report with M. When he got to his office, he was surprised to find a thin manila file squarely in the center of his otherwise-empty desk; the centerpiece of a pool of light. The cover sheet was stark blue with white lettering:

EYES ONLY

POSITIVE IDENTIFICATIONS FOR RECOVERY AND POSSIBLE RETRIEVAL FROM SITE PR-2018-00112 (N'DJAMENA, REPUBLIC DU CHAD)

Bond had no idea why a copy was delivered to him, and there was no inter-office envelope for him to ascertain who'd sent it. Curious, he sat down and read through the file. What followed were information packets of the identities of the bodies excavated from Reichlin and N'Gozi's killing ground. Each had a photo of a smiling, hopeful person clipped to a summary sheet, then compiled medical forms outlining the data used to make the positive identification. The last page was a photo of the excavated corpse. In all, each packet made up an account of one person's journey to death.

Hers was the last packet, the photo taken on some tropical beach someplace, eyes squinting, smile broad and showing perfect white teeth, her braids cascading over her shoulders. She even wore the same khaki top and yoga pants she'd had at the Hotel du Citadelle bar.

Patterson, Linnea Yohanna...Arrived NJA: 3/12/18; Last Known Contact: 10/1/18. No social media usage since date. No contact friends/family/coworkers since date. Last seen in company of a local national (UPDATE: Intelligence suggests named N'Gozi, FNU, no photo on file). Positive ID ascertained through dental records and matched DNA to sample on file with Canadian National Institute of Health. Status now changed to deceased.