1. Archangel: Act IV, Scene 1
Sunlight filters in through the heavy bars on the window, hitting 007’s closed eyes. Gradually, they blink open, as Bond wakes from his slumber. Ashlyn had left him around 2 o’clock last night, and Bond had immediately fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. Now, he looks around, and guesses that the time is probably around 7 a.m. Bond feels in desperate need of a drink, and a cigarette.
Suddenly, the door opens again. There he is, standing in the doorway: Archangel. Framed by the door, he looks even taller than his 6′2” height. In his right hand is a small, black leather traveling bag. His piercing eyes travel up and down Bond’s body, noting with amusement Bond’s weary, disheveled, unshaven state. Smiling, he walks inside the room, and closes the door.
Archangel: Looks like you had a rough night. I told Ashlyn to take it easy on you, but she does get carried away sometimes.
Bond: On the contrary, she was the perfect … hostess.
Archangel: Well, the fun part of your stay is over. From now on, you’re mine.
Bond (defiantly): Whatever you have planned, just do it, and get it over with.
Archangel: Oh, I bet you’d want me to kill you now. But that would be too easy on you. No, I intend to have some fun with you first, just like Ashlyn did. But don’t worry, it’s a different kind of fun I’m talking about.
He walks over to the corner of the room, and puts his bag down on a low-slung table. He pulls out a silver laptop computer, puts it on the table, and punches some keys. Then, he turns it, so that Bond can see the screen.
Archangel: Don’t you at least want to know why I picked you as the target?
Bond: I always assumed it was because you like my dashing good looks.
Archangel: (laughing) You’re a cool customer, Bond, I’ll give you that much. But seriously, even though the challenge of going up against the famous 007 was tempting, it alone wouldn’t be enough to make me come to England, reveal myself to MI6 to lure that fool of an agent in, then use him as bait to catch you. No, I’m a mercenary, Bond, and I don’t do anything unless there’s a profit in it for me. Let me tell you a little story.
He pulls the only other chair in the room up next to the table, and sits down.
Archangel: You see, a long time ago, you did something quite nasty to a particular individual, rendering him totally paralyzed. Now, he can’t take a piss without being hooked up. He can’t even talk without using a computer. Even in such a condition, he has survived for all these years, and all the while he has been plotting his revenge against you. And he has chosen me to be his avenging angel, which seems kind of appropriate, considering my name.
At this point, Archangel punches some keys on the laptop, and the screen lights up, showing the DVD picture of an austere, sterile room that looks like a hospital room. A huge bed is the centerpiece, and next to it is a small computer with a glowing LCD screen. A man is lying in the bed, a shrunken, all-skin-and-bones figure, with so many wires and tubes connected to him that he looks like a pathetic, bed-ridden porcupine. His skin is almost as pale as the sheet under him, due to extreme lack of exposure to sunlight. Bond can’t even imagine living in such a condition for a week, let alone years.
Now, the man’s little finger on his right hand moves on a little pad next to the computer, and from the computer’s speakers comes a metallic, robot-like male voice that is eerily unnerving due to its obvious artificiality:
Good morning, Mr. Bond. I bet you don’t recognize me, your old nemesis, Ernst Stavro Blofeld.
A chill runs down Bond’s spine. As he realizes who that pathetic figure is, a strange, but powerful, combination of hatred, pity, repulsion, and yes, even fear, courses through him. Any man who can WILL himself to live for so many years in such a state is someone to admire, and be very afraid of.
Blofeld: When you dropped me from the helicopter down that industrial chimney, Mr. Bond, almost every bone on my body was broken. My spinal cord suffered irrepairable damages. I even suffered a skull fracture, and the part of my brain that controls the vocal cords was crushed. The only part on my body that I can still move is my right little finger, which is why I can still talk to you through this rather ingenious voice generator here.
Now, Blofeld stops talking. It seems it has taken him a lot of effort to say what he has said, and he now has to rest a little, to gather up enough energy to continue. After a couple of minutes, the emotionless, computer-generated voice starts up again:
Fortunately, some of my lieutenants are very loyal. They fixed me up, as much as they can anyway, and stayed with me, took care of me through all these years. Most of SPECTRE, though, withered away. Now, just like me, the organization is just a ghost of its former self. You also helped speed up its decline by killing the only person, besides myself, strong enough to lead it: my daughter, my beautiful Nena. Do you know how terrible it is for a father to hear about his daughter’s death, at the hands of his most hated enemy? And why did you have to kill her in such a brutal, merciless way, feeding her to that giant snake, in the Louisiana marshlands? (Another long pause). You have caused me a great deal of pain, physically and emotionally. You have destroyed what I held most dear in life: my daughter, and my organization. But now, if you are watching this, it means that the time for my revenge has come. You see, I have never stopped planning for your demise, Mr. Bond. I know that I can no longer exact my revenge on you personally, so I have waited patiently, until I found the perfect candidate to do it for me. He must be ruthless, daring, intelligent, and more skilled than you in all the ways of violence. It took me years, but I have found that man: Archangel. (Pause). I don’t have much time left, Mr. Bond. By the time you watch this, I’m probably dead. But I’ll die with the reassuring knowledge that you will soon join me, because once Archangel accepts a contract, he never fails. So, let me now bid you adieu, Mr. Bond. Until we meet again. In H E L L.
The screen goes blank. Archangel folds up the laptop, and turns to Bond:
The poor, old son-of-a-b i t c h! He died a couple of months after making that video. You know, when he contacted me back in 1999, his organization was almost extinct. But he still had a lot of money, about 500 million to be exact, and a few good contacts. He offered to give it all to me, if I accept the contract on you, Bond. I was doing OK for myself back then, but 500 million in cash, and a chance to take over and revive an organization like SPECTRE, are just too good to pass up. So I took the job, and since that point, you were as good as dead. I spent a lot of time studying you, following your exploits, trying to pinpoint your strengths and weaknesses, and putting together my plan to take you down. Except for the time when you surprised me back at Irina’s house, everything else has worked out exactly like I had planned. So, here we are. Almost time to make your last request.
Bond (spitting out the words): My last request is for you to kindly go to hell.
Archangel: Oh I will, Bond, but long after you. Ah, but before I kill you, there’s some recreation to be had.
He pulls out something that looks like a money belt, tightly wrapped up in a bundle, from the traveling bag. Untying the cord that holds the belt together, he lays the belt flat on the table. In its many compartments, instead of wads of money, there are thin, shiny metal spikes that look like those used to skewer meats in a rotisserie, except these are much thinner and sharper.
Archangel opens the door, and calls a couple of thugs in. He orders them to bring the table over and place it in front of Bond’s chair, then to untie Bond’s hands and place them flat on the table. Bond notices that there are metal shackles fixed to the table top, and the thugs now force his wrists into these shackles, and lock them up. Archangel then orders them to remove Bond’s shoes and socks as well. After that, the thugs step back, and Archangel pulls up the other chair, and sits across the table from Bond.
Archangel (talking with great enthusiasm, like a scientist sharing with his best friend his latest invention): This is something I picked up when I was with the KGB. You see, the most sensitive parts on the human body are the flesh areas under the fingernails and toe nails. These spikes here are designed to go in under the nails, so that I can explore these areas. I will start with your fingers first, then move on to your toes. I will try to prevent you from passing out for as long as I can, but a lot also depends on your threshold of pain tolerance. So, what do you think?
Bond (trying his best to put on a brave front, in spite of the almost nauseating fear that rises up from the depths of his stomach): I think you KGB boys need to get out more often.
Archangel (giving a short laugh): All right then, let’s start.
Bond tries to make fists out of his hands, but Archangel patiently pries open the fingers of Bond’s right hand. Then, he picks up one of the spikes, and with the care of a surgeon, starts slipping it in under the nail of Bond’s right index finger.
Bond remembers what Q has once told him: “Never let them see you bleed”, which he takes to mean never let your enemy see how hurt you are. So, he tells himself never to scream, regardless of what Archangel is doing to his body. But, as Archangel methodically pulls the spikes out from the belt and uses them on him, and as droplets of his blood start to drip onto the tabletop, and then the floor, the screaming comes. And it goes on and on, echoed and amplified by the bare stone walls, while the sun outside moves further and further up in the sky like an ascending ball of fire.
2. Archangel: Act IV, Scene 2
The wind is howling around the Eiffel Tower. It is around midnight, and everything is bathed in the pale light from the full moon overhead. There are no tourist to be found anywhere around or on the tower. However, now comes a pair of headlights: a black Audi S8 glides up the boulevard, and stops near the base of the tower. Three figures emerge from the car, and walk to the entrance. Bond walks ahead, his hands held together in front of him by a pair of handcuffs. Archangel comes next, holding his H&K P7 leveled at Bond’s mid-section. Ashlyn Harms is the last in the group.
Now, Archangel pulls out a device called the universal key, and fiddles with the lock. He gets it open within 30 seconds, and they all go inside. Archangel pushes Bond ahead of him, as they head toward the express elevator that goes straight to the observation deck at the top of the tower.
After the elevator ride, Bond walks out onto the deserted deck. The view is incredible: the whole of Paris lit up like a sea of lights, spread out to the horizon in all directions. The Seine river forms a dark ribbon circling around the back of the tower. Bond turns his face away from the wind, which howls even more maniacally up here than it did at ground level.
With his gun, Archangel motions Bond to walk up to the edge of the observation deck. He shouts, for his voice to be heard over the wind:
This is how it ends, Bond. Blofeld told me specifically to make you jump from this tower. It’s his idea of poetic justice, you see: he wants you to die in exactly the same way that you almost killed him, with every bone broken by the fall.
Bond looks downward; the ground looks so very, very far away.
Archangel: Come on, Bond. Jump. You die alone tonight, with no friends or colleagues to mourn you. No tears for heroes.
Bond looks again at the city beneath him. Maybe it’s not a bad way to go, he thinks, to take a dive right into the embrace of the City of Light. And the prospect of dying alone, without a loved one around to give him some comfort, doesn’t fill him with despair as it would another man, simply because he has been preparing himself, steeling himself, to face it ever since he joined the Double-O section. It is as if he has always known that such a death would be his destiny. He takes another step toward the edge, then hesitates.
Archangel: Jump! You are going to jump off this tower in one way or another, by free will or with one of my bullets in your back.
Then, suddenly, Ashlyn speaks:
No, Archangel! Drop your gun.
Bond glances over his shoulder. Ashlyn has pulled out a Beretta, which she now points at Archangel’s head.
Archangel: Number 2, what are you doing?
Ashlyn: I can’t let you kill him like this, in cold blood.
Archangel (his voice filled with fury): Number 2, you’re mad! Put that f u c k i n g gun away!
He stared at her with those awful eyes of his. With her hair blown by the wind all around her face, Ashlyn forces herself to stare back at him.
Now, Archangel speaks again, and his voice is filled with a pain and sadness that take Bond completely by surprise, because he has never thought this monster capable of having these emotions.
Archangel: Ashlyn, you really want to do this? Go up against me, and risk it all for HIM?
Even though she is the one who has the gun pointed at Archangel’s head, Bond can detect fear in Ashlyn’s voice as she answers:
Y..Yes, I do!
Archangel looks away, as if afraid that his face will betray his emotions. Finally, he says :”All right!”, and bends down to place his H&K on the ground. But just as the gun touches the concrete, a slim knife slips out of a sheath concealed in Archangel’s sleeve, and falls noiselessly into his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he flings the knife at Ashlyn with such force that it goes into her all the way to the hilt, just above her left breast. With a cry of surprise and pain, Ashlyn falls backward, clutching at her chest.
Bond takes advantage of Archangel’s divided attention to launch himself at his legs, making a hard tackle that knocks the tall man backward, and sends his gun flying. Then, Bond rolls toward the H&K, scoops up the gun, and comes up on his knees, pointing the gun toward the spot where Archangel fell. But the big man is fast: he has already run all the way back to the elevator. Bond’s first shot strikes the elevator’s door just inches away from Archangel’s head, and before he can take another shot, Archangel has gotten inside the elevator, and the door has closed behind him.
Bond turns toward Ashlyn. She is lying on her back, looking up at the moon, and breathing in hard, labored gasps. Bond runs toward her, kneels down, lifts her head up, and places it gently across his leg. She doesn’t have much longer to live: her leather jacket is soaked with blood, and the shadow of death is already creeping across her eyes.
Desperately, Bond whispers to her:
Ashlyn, don’t die on me! Please! Just hold on!
Ashlyn looks at him, and motions him to move his head closer to her lips. She whispers, her voice broken by her final gasps:
I’m sorry … for helping … Archangel … catch you.
Bond: It’s all right, Ashlyn. Please, don’t try to talk! Save your strength!
Ashlyn (gazing into Bond’s eyes): I wish … we…had met… years ago.
Then, her head rolls back. Her eyes stare upward sightlessly. Bond bends down, hugging her head fiercely to his chest, and slowly rocking back and forth as, unexpectedly, uncontrollable teardrops run down his face. He has always thought that he would never shed a tear again, and now, the memory of when that last happened, a lifetime ago, comes flooding back into his head: he was also cradling the body of a woman then, the body of Teresa de Vincenzo, his bride of less than an hour. So there Bond remains, on top of the Eiffel Tower, his body whipped by the wind, and frozen by the memory of a past loss, and the pain of the current one.
3. Archangel: Act IV, Scene 3
The police have come, and taken away Ashlyn’s body. Now, Bond sits in the back of a cab, heading toward the Charles de Gaulle Airport, to take the next flight to London. The world around Bond moves by him in a blur, as he still thinks back to what Ashlyn has said with her last breath. If he had been the one to rescue her from the savage streets of San Francisco instead of Archangel, everything would have been different, and she would have been still alive. He knows he shouldn’t, but he blames himself, especially since she has died trying to save him, and the guilt is almost more than he can bear.
Now another thought creeps into his mind: he could not save Ashlyn, but he can still save Irina. He has come into Irina’s life at a point when he can still make a difference, when he can still help her turn her life around, away from the filth of the world, like Archangel. He will not let this second chance slip away. He cannot let another woman throw her life away, while he stands by and watches. With this newfound resolution, Bond boards the plane to Heathrow.
———————————————————————
Bond rings Irina’s doorbell. She opens the door, and is shocked by his appearance: he seems to have aged years since they last met. A look of deep concern comes over Irina’s face.
Irina: My God, Mr. Bond, are you all right?
Bond: Call me James, please. And yes, I’m fine, thank you. May I come in?
Irina: Oh yes, of course.
Bond walks into the living room, and sits wearily in an ivory-colored leather armchair. Irina pours him a bourbon, which he drinks gratefully.
Bond: Irina, you can’t go on living your life like this. I’ve come to help you find a way out.
Irina: A way out? Out of what? I like my life, James, and I don’t need you or anybody else telling me how to live it.
Bond (patiently, since he already expected this reaction from her): I know you are not a common hooker. You are a cultured woman, beautiful and smart, and your clientele is rich and sophisticated. Still, the bottom line is: you are still selling your body, your youth and beauty, to men who can afford it, to fulfill their fantasies. But what about your needs, your fantasies?
Irina: (giving a sarcastic laugh) My fantasies? What do you know about my fantasies?
Bond: I know that you wanted to become a ballerina, that an accident destroyed your hope of fulfilling that dream. But there are other, legitimate professions that a woman of your beauty and grace can excel in, while gaining the admiration and adoration of others.
For the first time, Irina doesn’t come back with a quick, defensive reply. Bond can see that she is intrigued by what he is saying, so he presses on:
I have a friend in the modeling business, who can help you get a foot in the door, so to speak. I would like you to meet her. It’s just one meeting. If you feel like the whole thing is not for you, we’ll just walk away, and I won’t trouble you again. What do you say?
Irina considers this for a minute. Then she replies, with a shrug:
OK, I’m in. I have the whole day off, anyway. What’s there to lose?
Bond: That’s great. She said she can meet with us at 11. If we leave soon, we’ll just make it to her office.
Irina: Just give me 10 minutes to fix myself up.
She disappears into the master bedroom.
