Bond could see himself reflected in the warped steel of the lift. A distorted, ugly shape. The skin sallow under the harsh lighting. Like something out of a Francis Bacon painting. When the lift came to a halt, the doors slid open and the guard manhandled Bond out. There was a network of old tunnels down here. Perhaps they once connected dungeons or storage cellars, or they might be more recent additions, like the tunnels at the foot of the hill, built during the war.

  They had to pass through another security door and Canner impatiently went through the ritual with his ID card. Then they were passing along a high, enclosed walkway, a sort of bridge, with reinforced glass walls. It crossed over the top of what looked like a city trading floor. Busy even at this time of night. It no doubt ran around the clock, accessing every market and stock exchange in the world. Ragnheiður had been telling the truth when she’d described this part of the castle. There must have been 20 or 30 people down there, excitedly studying monitors, or looking up at the trading display that covered an entire wall. It was like a casino in Vegas. No windows or natural light to give any indication of whether it was day or night. A casino owner had once told him that “Money exists outside time.”

  Bond looked at the list of data on the big screen. The workings of the market were all a mystery to him.

  No one bothered to glance up as the little group made its way over their heads and through another security door. They were now back in the old part of the castle, in a tunnel carved out of the solid rock. They turned a corner, opened another door and then Bond found himself unexpectedly being shoved into a brightly lit TV studio.

  Three pedestal-mounted robot cameras turned to watch him come in, like curious, one-eyed creatures. Bond had been in a couple of automated studios before, where everything was remotely controlled. No need for cameramen. There was a presenting area, a seating area with brightly coloured sofas and a low table, and a bigger, circular table with chairs around it in a third area.

  The wall was a wide, curved semi-circle with a grid pattern on it. In a virtual studio like this, computers would fill in any background you wanted.

  Lyle frogmarched Bond to a black office chair standing in the centre of the presenting area and sat him down.

  ‘So, did you enjoy having my sweet Ragnheiður in your room, Bond? Stealing all your secrets?’

  ‘I don’t know what the silly, scheming little bitch has been telling you, Canner. But aren’t you going to let me have my say?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Did you really think she really wanted to rut with you? She’s my bitch, Bond.’

  Canner nodded to Ragnheiður and tossed her a bundle of cable ties. She came round behind Bond, roughly jerked his hands behind his back and secured his wrists to the chrome back support with a single tie. Canner was circling him, watching Ragnheiður work, enjoying it. When she was done, he put his thick, meaty arm round Bond’s neck and squeezed, cutting off the blood flow to his head and the air flow to his lungs. Bond’s face felt hot and tight with trapped blood. His brain fizzed and his vision was clouded with bright dots.

  ‘I could break your neck and pull your head off if I wanted,’ said Canner. Bond could smell the man’s body. A musky stink of dried sweat and glandular secretions. He passed out, the blackness of oblivion hitting him like a hammer blow.

  He had no idea how long he was out for, but his head jerked him awake as it straightened up. The torn muscles hurt like hell. He looked around the studio, waiting for his vision to clear. He felt sick as a cat but wasn’t going to give Canner the satisfaction of seeing him puke.

  And now the big South African took out a folding knife and opened its wide, curved blade.

  ‘So, where shall we start?’ he said.

  ‘What is it you want from me?’ said Bond.

  ‘You’re going to star in our very first broadcast, Mister Bond,’ said Æthelstan. ‘We can learn a lot from the likes of Isis. Like the value of a good propaganda video. Shared and shared and shared again all around the world.

  ‘This little film will let your masters know just how badly you failed. How badly they failed. How puny they will look on the world stage. We’ve prepared a little confession for you to make.’ As he spoke, Kenny led over a camera with an autocue attachment on the front. Bond ran his eyes over the first few lines.

  My name is James Bond. I am an agent of the deep state. Of the one world government. I am a hired killer. I was sent to illegally murder an innocent civilian …

  ‘You expect me to read this?’ he said dismissively.

  ‘Yes. Once we’ve softened you up.’

  ‘What are you going to do, play one of your tedious speeches on a loop until I crack?’

  ‘Oh, you’re so amusing, Mister Bond. But I can assure you, Canner can be very persuasive. His reputation precedes him.’

  With that, Canner lashed out with a foot, kicking Bond in the chest, and sending him rolling away across the studio floor, still attached to the chair. The cameras following his progress. Kenny yelped with laughter.

  ‘Good shot, boss,’ he said.

  Bond took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, assessing the damage. Nothing serious had been done to his chest. The chair flying back had taken the force out of the kick.

  Canner nodded to Ragnheiður and she wheeled Bond back onto his mark.

  ‘Hold him still this time.’

  ‘What are you going to—’

  Bond’s words were brutally cut off as Canner delivered a whip-fast kick to his left knee. Pain shot up and down his leg and he clenched his teeth waiting for it to pass. He remembered seeing the sickening photographs of 009’s body. How it had been covered in bruises. Canner must have beaten him all over, using fists and feet and elbows. Starting by bruising the flesh and moving on to breaking the bones. One by one. But always careful to leave his victim alive. It wasn’t subtle or clever. It was an act of blunt savagery. 009 had been preternaturally brave. He hadn’t broken. Hadn’t told Æthelstan anything. Bond wondered just how brave he was. How long he could hold out before he agreed to read the words on the autocue. He had to play for time. Try to keep Æthelstan talking.

  ‘You can have me beaten to a pulp, Æthelstan,’ he said. ‘You can force me to read that damned message. But it won’t make your crazy plan any more likely to succeed.’

  ‘Oh, really? What makes you think that? Have you written me off as just another mad fanatic?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re insane, Æthelstan. Far from it. It would be easier to accept you if you were. I think you’re a cold, scheming bastard. Which is why I have to ask you – do you seriously believe you can sit on the throne of England?’

  Æthelstan laughed. ‘Do I seriously believe I can sit on the throne of England? No. Of course not. What a ridiculous idea. I don’t believe it. You don’t believe it. The only important thing is that they believe it. My stout-hearted men of war at the bottom of the hill.’

  ‘So, what’s the bloody point of it all?’

  ‘Oh, come along. You don’t have to sit on the throne to be in charge, Bond. After all, Charlie-boy doesn’t hold any real power. He’s a figurehead, a sock puppet, a marketing mascot for the UK. Hell, the British monarchy started to give it all away when King John signed the Magna Carta in 1215.

  ‘Truth is, the government doesn’t hold any real power, either. They’re at the whim of global forces way beyond their control. So, they tinker with the few things they can have an effect on – transport, education, arts funding.

  ‘It’s very simple. There’s one great power in the world. Money. You know the old saying “Remember the golden rule – he who has the gold makes the rules”. Hahahaha!’

  Kenny joined in the laughter. ‘I’ve not heard that one before, boss.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a moron,’ said Canner.

  ‘That I am,’ said Kenny. ‘A happy moron.’

  ‘How I love morons,’ said Æthelstan. ‘I already have a small army of morons in England. Fanatics, waiting to be activated. The followers of my followers, the likes of John Tyler and Anthony Birkett, the muppets who hang on my every word. And down in my compound, as you well know, I have properly trained, elite troops at my command.’

  ‘You won’t even get your men into the country.’

  ‘Do you think a government that can’t even stop overloaded rubber dinghies full of illegal immigrants crossing the channel, can stop my boys? Forget the Capitol riots, the disruption is going to be unprecedented! And if anything happens to me, if my grand plan is thwarted, I told you, Mister Bond, I have a backup plan. I’m going to celebrate my birthday whatever happens.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see you on the stamps,’ said Bond.

  ‘Ha-ha. Yes. Of course, I can’t actually, physically, depose Charles … yet. But I can put the wheels in motion because I have the money. Sooner or later he’ll be out on his ear. It may take a year, five years … ten. But eventually, I will be running the country.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll score the winning goal for England in the next World Cup,’ said Bond. ‘You’ll never convince me that any of this is going to work.’

  ‘You saw my centre of operations when we came here,’ said Æthelstan, and Bond could see Canner shifting his weight from one foot to the other, bored, wanting to get on with it. Kenny and the guard had relaxed, their gun barrels drooping. They’d obviously heard one too many of Æthelstan’s rants and knew they were in for the long haul.

  ‘You probably surmised that it’s a trading floor. A marketplace. Connected to the world. Do you know, I’m one of the few people that didn’t take a massive hit when the western economy collapsed in 2008.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you.’

  ‘Please, Bond. Enough with the childish quips. Do you want to know how I made a profit out of others’ loss? Because I’m smart. I’m smarter than everyone else. Why, just recently I’ve made several million out of the collapse of Credit Suisse. A Swiss bank, Bond! Imagine that! A Swiss bank failing. Nobody expected that – except me!

  ‘Most people are still mystified by the crash of 2008. Which means they won’t learn from their mistakes. The average man on the street will never understand what happened, or how, or why. And that general ignorance can be exploited. It’s easy to lay the blame at the feet of your chosen target – poor people, foreigners, immigrants, liberals, the intelligentsia, Jews … And the one big thing that most people don’t know is where all the money went. What happened to the billions upon billions of dollars lost by individuals, organisations, cities, countries … It didn’t all just disappear. It wasn’t tossed into a fiery pit and incinerated. Money flows. It circulates like blood. Oh, people think that maybe it went to some other countries? Or maybe a secretive, one world, Global, Jewish, Freemason, Knights Templar, Illuminati organisation stole it all? No, Mister Bond. It all ended up in the hands of individuals. Clever men, who bet against the banks. Who bet against countries. They personally got hold of all that money. And they’re now, if they so desire, in a position to control things.

  ‘As I say, it’s quite simple, Mister Bond. You’ve probably even worked it out for yourself in that unimaginative, little civil service brain of yours.’

  ‘You’re betting against the UK.’

  ‘Ta-daa! The penny drops – as does the value of the pound! Yes, I’m shorting the British economy. Everyone is banking on the coronation being a boost for the economy, a chance for the UK to step up in the world. But what if the UK is shown to be a chaotic, badly defended, dangerous, rickety little banana republic? At the mercy of internal forces that want to tear it apart? Well then, the markets crash, the money flows. It will flow into my pockets.’

  ‘You don’t care a damn about England.’

  ‘Oh, you’re so bloody right. I long ago stopped caring. It’s not a country worth caring for anymore. Because it’s not a country that cares about itself. About what it once was. It’s not a United Kingdom, it’s a disunited kingdom. There will be chaos in the markets and when there’s chaos there’s always a great deal of money to be made. In this case – by me. I have some useful idiots who will run around making a lot of noise and breaking things. And I have some clever men, who have the wherewithal to damage infrastructure and make the country seize up. Grind to a halt. And me? I’ll be here. Inviolate. Untouchable. Even if you had managed to get a message out, to send for the cavalry, I’m in bed with the Hungarians. It’s in Orban’s interests to keep me safe.’

  ‘You’re war-mongering scum, Æthelstan.’

  ‘You say that as if war’s a bad thing.’

  Kenny laughed and Æthelstan grinned. Enjoying playing to the crowd.

  ‘I suppose to most people it is. They only see war as a bringer of death and destruction and misery, but if you’re an arms manufacturer at the start of the First World War, you’ll be rubbing your hands together with glee. If you make tanks, 1939 is going to be a bumper year for you. Every time a drone is shot down in the Ukraine, a drone manufacturer pops another bottle of champagne. And covid. My word there was a lot of money to be made from covid. It wouldn’t surprise me if some clever man had created that virus and spread it around the world as a way of making a fortune. If I’d had the knowhow, I’d have done it myself. But manipulating the markets is my thing. In times of stability, the markets are stable, so there aren’t massive, instant gains to be made. You can only take a long-term view, slow and strong and steady. When the markets are volatile, however, there are huge losses, but those losses are somebody else’s gains.’

  ‘All of this just to line your pockets.’

  ‘No, no, no. Far from it. Once Britain is on its knees, it’ll need a saviour. A strong man with a vision. As I say, it may take a while, but I will be invited to take charge, eventually. Because I will be the banker in this little game. And the banker always wins. So, now then, why don’t you just read your little message and I might find a way to be kind to you.’

  ‘You know I’ll never read that garbage.’

  ‘In that case I will have to let Canner continue. Where do you want to start, Mister Lyle? A finger? A kneecap? Or somewhere more personal? Just leave the face untouched.’

  ‘We don’t want to spoil the handsome boy,’ said Ragnheiður, and she giggled.

  Canner advanced on Bond with his knife.

  ‘Please,’ said Ragnheiður. ‘Let me start?’

  Canner grinned and handed her the knife.

  ‘You’re a bad girl,’ he said.

  ‘That’s why you love me.’

  Bond spat onto the floor.

  ‘You’re just a sad nihilist, Ragnheiður, addicted to seeing things fall.’

  ‘Party on,’ said Ragnheiður, and she came round behind Bond, leant over and bit his ear. Hard. Bond winced. Thought she might bite it off this time.

  ‘Stop it. That’ll show!’ Æthelstan snapped.

  ‘All right. How about I unzip you at the back, Handsome?’

  Bond felt the tip of the blade being pushed into the skin at the nape of his neck. It stung and he felt a trickle of blood creep down his back. Ragnheiður started to drag the blade up into his hairline.

  ‘Once he’s done his star turn, we should deglove him like we did to that girl in Mogadishu,’ said Kenny. ‘Peel his face off from the back.’

  ‘You could wear it as a mask, Kenny,’ said Ragnheiður. ‘Hide that ugly mug of yours.’

  Kenny laughed. ‘I’ve a face only a mother could love,’ he agreed. ‘It’s been my fortune. It helps being a right ugly bugger when you want to scare people.’ He hung his G36 from its strap over his shoulder and framed his cheeks in his hands, pouting like a starlet posing for a shot.

  ‘Let’s get on with this,’ said Æthelstan. ‘It’s nearly four and I want to be back in my bed. Bond? The choice is yours: read the message and sleep. Or resist and enter a whole world of pain.’

  ‘All right. Let’s get it over with,’ said Bond sourly. ‘I’ll read your bloody message, Æthelstan. For all the good it’ll do you.’

  ‘That’s better. Lights, camera, action!’

  The cameras swivelled and focused. Bond stared straight down the barrel of the one with the autocue on it.

  ‘Very good,’ said Æthelstan. ‘For the record, it is 4a.m on the morning of the 13th of April 2023. Over to you, sir.’

  Bond filled his lungs, let his breath out slowly, allowing his pounding heart to settle down. Wanting his voice to be strong and clear.

  ‘The name’s Bond,’ he said. ‘James Bond.’ The next moment there was an earth-shaking tremor, an almighty thump, and it all went dark.

  Things happened quickly after that. Bond felt Ragnheiður slice through the cable tie with the knife. He’d already jiggled the spike hidden up his sleeve loose from his watch strap and he let it slip down into his hand. He’d marked exactly where the guard was standing, calculated the distance, and run through the strike in his mind, like a golfer preparing to drive a ball. As soon as the tie was cut, he was up and out of his chair, gripping the spike in both hands, and lunging at where he knew the guard’s chest would be, driving through, aiming for a spot on the other side of the body. There was a dull thud as he hit the man just to the right of his sternum. The man belched obscenely and fell away from him. When the emergency lighting came on a moment later, he was lying dead on the floor, bathed in an infernal red glow.

  Bond was still moving. Spinning round. This time his lethal spike was homing in on Kenny, who was fumbling with the gun that was still hanging from its shoulder strap, not yet comprehending what was happening. By the time he realised, it was too late. Once again, the cold, merciless spike struck home. Kenny’s harsh bark was the last obscenity to ever come out of his mouth. The spike was jammed between his ribs and he twisted as he fell. It was too slick with blood for Bond to keep a grip on it. He was weapon-less.

  Ragnheiður, meanwhile, had moved on Canner. The knife ready to slash at him.

  ‘I’m nobody’s bitch,’ she snarled.