James had read through the one page file on the man known only as Scaramanga umpteen times. To call it sparse was an understatement. Any information that could be gleamed from its pitiful script was near useless, bar one lead. A member of the SDU (Special Duties Unit) in Hong Kong had found a lead on a gun-maker. One legendary in skill, enough to suit a man like Scaramnaga's needs. Other than that, all he could find from the document was that his target was likely to be from a Spanish or Portuguese speaking country, and from how long he'd been operating had to be at the very least in his 50s.
It was nothing at all to go on, really. But a fools hope was all that Bond had.
The plane touched down in the afternoon and by night Bond had gotten his bearings. He'd found his hotel, had a few drinks, and been aquainted with his new Aston Martin. It was now time to do some proper sureillance.
Bond had left his hotel with the only lead being the gunmaker. Preliminary contact with the MI6 associates in Hong Kong had led him to their only source in the night market. Rain battered down on the neon stained streets of Chongqing, mixing with steam that rose from food stalls packed shoulder beneath hanging gardens of signs and exposed electrical wiring. A place like this was more similar to London than most would realise. It was loud, humid, and overcrowded - a city constantly speaking over itself.
Bond moved through the night market like he'd lived there for years. His hands were stuffed in his overcoat pockets and his collar turned up as he passed gamblers, sailors, triad, prostitutes, and businessmen without drawing a second glance. Somewhere above him a woman laughed from an apartment balcony while Cantonese opera crackled through a battered radio nearby.
His contact in the SDU - a young Lieutenant by the name of, Hip - had given him only a name before disappearing back into the crowds.
Liao Wei.If the rumours surrounding the man were true, he was less an engineer and more a sculptor who happened to work in firearms. Custom pieces. Precision rifles. Exotic ammunition. Supposedly half the professional killers operating east of Europe had carried one of his creations at some point. Including - Bond hoped - Scaramanga.
A narrow staircase hidden between two food vendors led upward into darkness. Bond climbed slowly, each wooden step creaking beneath his shoes until the sounds of the market dulled into a distant murmur. At the end of the corridor sat a rusted metal door. Bond knocked twice and waited. Nothing happened for some time and he considered other ways in just as the hatch slid open - an old pair of eyes gazing out and studying the agent carefully.
"You are lost."
"Story of my life." Bond produced a cigarette, lighting it calmly.
"I'm looking for someone who appreciates craftsmanship."The eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of craftsmanship?"
"The expensive and deadly kind."A long silence followed. Both sets of eyes staring back at each other waiting for the other to break. Finally the hatch shut again. Several locks disengaged one after another before the door creaked inward.
The workshop beyond looked more like a watchmaker's laboratory than an armoury. Precision tools hung from immaculate walls while disassembled firearms rested beneath hanging lamps. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and burnt metal.
At the centre of the room sat Liao Wei himself - impossibly old and thin, spectacles low on his nose as he adjusted something microscopic beneath a magnifying lens. He didn't look up as Bond stepped further into the room, his helper - the one who had opened the door - stood by the side of it, glaring at him.
"You are the police?"
Bond wandered slowly through the room, examining the craftsmanship around him.
"Do I look like police?""Not quite. You look worse."
On one workbench rested an assortment of bizarre weapons: pistols with skeletal frames, hollow-point rounds with strange grooves carved into them, even what appeared to be a fountain pen with a trigger mechanism built into the cap. He felt like he was in an evil inversion of Q's workshop.
"I was told you manufacture speciality items.""I manufacture for clients."
"And if one of your clients happened to specialise in gold bullets?"For the first time the old man paused. He held what he was working with still in his hand before calmly placing it on the workbench behind him, his gaze still fixed on it. Liao slowly removed his glasses. "You should leave."
"Ah." Bond nodded slightly.
"So we're finally getting somewhere.""I do not know this man."
"But you've heard of him. That's more than most can say."The room fell to silence, Liao still avoiding Bond's gaze. Bond picked up the strange fountain pen from the workbench, turning it over in his fingers. "I wouldn't do that." Liao warned reaching a hand out towards him.
Bond clicked the top experimentally and a bullet violently shot from the end with a metallic snap and embedded itself into the wall opposite. Bond raised an eyebrow.
"Charming." "I asked you not to do that."
Bond casually stepped closer, holding the weapon loosely now. He swung it between his fingers, allowing the end to swing towards the gunmaker haphazardly as casual as he liked. "Here's the problem, Mr. Wei. Somewhere out there is a professional assassin trying to kill me, and your name has appeared beside his."
The old man's expression hardened immediately. He made micro movements trying to avoid the path of the deadly writing utensil. "You should not say such things here."
"Why? Afraid he'll hear me?""No." Liao's voice lowered carefully. "That's something you should be afraid of yourself."
Bond slowly lowered the weapon, though he did not put it down.
"I'm not here to arrest you." he said calmly.
"In fact, if we're both careful, then this conversation never happened."Liao studied him for several moments, considering his options. In his line of work he'd met men like this many times. They weren't to be trifled with. He let out a sigh. "I've never met him personally, I just supply the bullets." The old man moved toward a locked drawer and carefully removed a single golden bullet before placing it onto the table between them. "He sends a courier to have them delivered. Never the same person twice, but there is one constant."
Bond looked down at the round. He had to admire the craftmanship, it was almost elegant in design, like gazing at a Caravaggio painting.
"He collects these from a nightclub singer in Wan Chai."
"A second courier?""I did not say that. My part of the job ends there."
"But she handles deliveries." Liao remained silent, replying instead by scribbling an address onto a scrap of paper and sliding it across the table reluctantly. Bond glanced down at the name.
Club Éclipse."How often does the handover take place?""Tonight." Bond looked back up sharply. Liao's face had gone pale with regret already, as though he'd realised too late he'd said far too much. "If he learns I spoke to you-"
"He won't.""You cannot promise that."
"No." Bond admitted.
"But I can promise something else." He calmly pocketed the pen in his inside pocket.
"I intend to kill Scaramanga before he has the chance to kill me. If you're lucky, this will be well before he catches wind of any of this."
Club Éclipse wasn't at all what Bond had expected. Far from the seedy back-alley gambling establishment with cheap alcohol and cheaper women that he'd come to expect from missions like these, it was in fact an up market establishment, complete with a black-tie dress code and better yet a live band. The lead of which Bond was eager to make contact with.
The club sat high above the harbour inside one of the newer luxury towers. Its entrance was guarded by polished marble, velvet ropes, and men in black suits who looked more military than security. Jazz drifted softly through hidden speakers while wealthy patrons laughed over baccarat tables beneath crystal chandeliers that reflected gold light across the room.
Bond adjusted the cuffs of his dinner jacket as he stepped inside and glanced around the room. If Scaramanga truly operated through places like this, it told him something important already.
The man had taste.
He resisted the urge to play a quick game of chance, (One that would no doubt turn into a long session of multiple games) and made his way over to the main lounge. A singers voice floated above the muted conversations dotted around the room at various candlelit tables.
It didn't take him long to spot her. She stood beneath a single spotlight atop the circular stage, draped in a black silk dress that shimmered like oil beneath the lights. Her voice was low and smoky, effortless in a way that suggested she'd been performing in places like this her entire life. Dark hair framed sharp features and intelligent eyes that wandered lazily across the crowd without ever settling anywhere for too long.
Bond took a seat near the stage, close enough that he could see her clearly without drawing too much attention to himself, and ordered a whisky without taking his eyes off her. | 
____________________________________ |
Around him, politicians, businessmen and triad lieutenants sat hypnotised by the performance, but Bond noticed what they didn't. She was looking for someone. She was a professional for sure, but through her entire performance she was searching for her courier.
The song ended to a sea of applause. The singer gave a graceful bow before disappearing behind a velvet curtain at the rear of the stage. Bond savoured his drink for a moment, before finishing it and rising from his chair. Time to work.
The backstage corridors were narrow and dimly lit compared to the glamour outside. Staff hurried past carrying drinks, makeup kits and armfuls of costumes without paying Bond much attention. Wealthy men wandered in and out of private rooms here often enough that confidence alone functioned as identification.
Bond found her near a dressing table lined with glowing bulbs. Up close she was even more beautiful than on stage. But her beauty did little to hide the sad expression that stared back at her in the mirror. She looked at him through that same mirror before speaking.
"Fans usually wait until after the second set."
Bond smiled faintly.
"And miss the opportunity to be the first compliment?""That depends." She turned slightly in her chair. "Are you
actually here to compliment me?"
"Amongst other things."She gave him a smirk, turning in her chair and motioning to another chair. "Then take a seat, Mr...?"
"Bond." He took the chair opposite her.
"James Bond."That was intentional. A tester to see her reaction. He immediately saw the flicker in her eyes at the mention of his name. Any employee of Scaramanga was unlikely to know his target, this indicated she was closer to him than just someone he paid.
She recovered quickly, reaching for a cigarette from a silver case resting beside the mirror. Bond moved before she could light it.
"Those'll kill you." He produced Q's cigarette case from his jacket instead and offered one toward her. She hesitated only briefly before accepting.
"English cigarettes?" she asked.
"One of our few successful exports." He lit it for her. As she leaned closer the faintest smile touched Bond's lips.
"Here. Take the box, a memento from a fan." He offered her up the rest, only to be met with a palm that rejected them.
"I'm afraid I've got my own, Mr. Bond." She inhaled slowly before studying him again through the smoke. "So what does an Englishman want with a nightclub singer?"
"Honestly?""That would be refreshing."
"I was told someone here might know where to find a man."Her expression changed again. From curiosity to concern. "What kind of man?"
Bond leaned back casually.
"The sort who prefers gold bullets."The atmosphere shifted immediately. You could cut the tension with a knife. Then her laughter broke the electric in the air. "I think you've had too much to drink, Mr. Bond."
"Entirely possible.""You should leave this alone."
"I've heard that before. I have trouble taking advice.""Take it this time."
Bond watched her carefully now. Every instinct told him she knew far more than she wanted to admit. But he also sensed something else beneath the composure. She crossed the room toward a small cabinet and poured herself another drink before finally speaking again. "Men who search for Scaramanga disappear."
"I'm used to disappearing. I do it on my own terms though.""You don't understand." She turned back toward him fully now. "He sees things before they happen. Knows where people will stand. Where they'll run. When they'll panic." Her voice lowered slightly. "You don't hunt a man like that. You survive him if you're lucky. And no one.
No one has been lucky yet."
Bond rose slowly from his chair.
"And yet you still know where I might find him."For several moments she said nothing. Then finally she spoke. "Tomorrow night. Kowloon." She moved to her dressing table and scribbled something onto a napkin before handing it over reluctantly. "An abandoned rooftop overlooking the night market. If your man exists, that's where he'll be."
Bond glanced down at the address. It didn't take a genius to work out this was a snipers nest.
"You're very helpful for someone who wanted me to stay away from this."Something almost sad crossed her expression. "Maybe I don't like watching men walk blindly toward their deaths. At least with this you'll know where you're going to die."
Before Bond could answer, a voice called from further down the corridor. "Linh! Five minutes!"
She looked toward the doorway before turning back to Bond. By the time she did, the composure had returned completely. She was a perfect performer. "You should go now, Mr. Bond."
Bond slipped the napkin into his pocket and offered her one final smile.
"You know, most women buy me dinner before trying to have me killed."For the first time all evening, she genuinely smiled back. "Then perhaps I'm old fashioned. Maybe it should be you buying me dinner."
Bond turned and disappeared back into the noise and glamour of Club Éclipse. As much as he'd have loved to have dinner with Miss. Linh, there was no time to waste.
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