Disclaimer: The characters Peter Wisdom and Culley are property of
Marvel Characters, Inc., while the characters Admiral Sir Miles
Messervy (M.), Major Geoffrey Boothroyd (Q), Penelope Smallbone, Miss
Moneypenny, Bill Tanner, and Rene Mathis are creations of Ian Fleming,
owned by EON Productions.  All other characters are mine, and I'm very
possessive about them.

Desperate Measures
by Craig Lovelace

Chapter One:  It is Better to Travel Hopefully, Than to Arrive . . .

Peter Wisdom decided the worst thing about Paris was the lack of
decent cigarettes.  Anywhere you went in England you could find a pack
of Dunn Hills, if not some of his preferred Morland Specials with the
three gold rings.  He made do with the half-empty pack of Caporals.
He didn't like them very much, but it was far better than nothing at
all.  He looked up from the bench at the corner of the square at the
base of the Eiffel Tower.  This corner of the square was directly
opposite the touristy area, probably because when the massive eyesore
fell, it would nail this corner first.  As such, it was a great
meeting house for members of the various intelligence services that
frequented Paris.  The City of Lights had long been as popular a
region for agents of both sides as Vienna, but whereas Vienna was
along the border with the Czechs, Paris was the hub of continental
activity.

Wisdom looked around at his compatriots.  Zev Ben David was a top
operative from the Israeli Mossad; his contact was a bit late, so he
kept hands close to the Walther P5 under his left arm, pretending to
play with a pen in his breast pocket.  Allan Wallace, from the Central
Intelligence Agency in Washington, sat on the other side of the bench,
sipping bourbon from a flask in his lap.  Gunter Dorsch, from the
German GSG-9 Counterterrorist Division, was conversing animatedly with
Francois, the agent from La Surete Nationale who ensured that each
agent arrived and was protected until their contacts arrived.
Francois' cover was as a mineral water vendor, but a close look would
reveal the bulge in his striped blazer that telegraphed the existence
of the P225 SigSauer 9mm under his arm.

M. had assigned a "special agent" to rendezvous with him, and he was
waiting for the man in the assigned place.  As he waited, he
readjusted the 9mm pistol at the small of his back, and took the
Walther PPK from his shoulder holster.  He rapidly fieldstripped the
weapon, cleaning the tightly fitted action thoroughly, and reassembled
it after applying a bit of oil to the blue steel finish.  There was
little danger in being spotted this far away from the public areas, so
he removed the magazine, racked the slide to eject the round in the
chamber, and began taking a bead on the various targets along the wall
behind them: cracks in the brick, graffiti, that necking couple
... okay, he was taking a holiday after this job.  He had to have been
working too hard to have seen that.  He blinked, and the offending
image was gone.  As he practised the draw, he notised that each aim
was a few degrees high.  He replaced the mag and chamber round,
keeping his index outside the trigger guard.  This seemed to correct
the matter, so he replaced the Walther and lit one of the horrible
Caporals.

As the cigarette burned down to his fingers (damn that was painful!),
a silver Aston Martin DB5 rounded the corner for the third time,
pulling up to the curb, instead of racing by as it had done in the
past hour.  It came to a stop, the front end dipping almost to the
curb with the sudden inertial change.  The door opened, and a tall man
with dark hair stepped out in a relaxed fashion.  He looked about like
a young Sean Connery - after a few hours on the rack.  He opened a
silver and gold cigarette case, pulling out a John Player Special, and
lit it with an ebony Dunhill lighter.  His long mac waved in the
slight breeze, revealing a white jacket and slacks, with a black shirt
and a metallic red tie.  Only his black Chuck Taylors did not lend an
air of sophistication to him.  He slowly walked up to the collection,
examining them visually through the black Gargoyles he wore.  He
pointed to each of them in turn, Zev, Allan, Gunter, and Francois,
identifying each one's service in turn.  As he reached Wisdom, the
secret agent beat him to the punch.

"Peter Wisdom, Transworld Consortium."

The man smiled.  "So that's what they're calling MI5 these days.  I
always thought that Universal Export was a ridiculous excuse for a
cover, and Her Majesty's Secret Service is a bit obvious."  Wisdom
couldn't suppress a shudder as the man removed the sunglasses,
revealing a pair of ice-blue eyes that were as cold as steel, and he
took in every detail of Wisdom with a single glance.

The other agents were quite perturbed at the newcomer's breach of
service tradition, and immediately drew their hardware.  Before any of
them had completed the motion, the newcomer had produced a compact
Glock 19.  The 9mm pistol had a one-inch device that looked
suspiciously like a silencer (absurd, thought Wisdom; nothing that
short could be effective).  Allan's Smith and Wesson 5903 hit the
ground at the same time as Gunter's P7.  Zev and Francois both had
their weapons cocked before they realised the fellow with the Glock
had the drop on them.  Wisdom amended his original opinion of the
silencer, not having heard a peep during the fight.  After a momentary
standoff, the outmatched pair decocked their weapons, and placed them
back in their holsters.  The fellow took out his cigarette case, and
passed it around.  Wisdom noted the royal crest on the case, inlaid in
gold foil.  He was about to tell the stranger that he could keep those
God-awful Caporals to himself.  When he notised the JPS logo on the
side, he accepted the smoke, and observed a bit of gold trim on the
side of the fellow's lighter.

"Come on."  ordered the stranger.  "We've got a lot to do."

In the car, Wisdom noted the numerous switches and screens that were
definitely not standard equipment.  "Did Q get a hold of this car?"
he asked.

The stranger turned.  "No, I do my own modifications.  Geoffrey
Boothroyd had better keep away from any of my stuff.  Besides, I'm
better than he is."

"That's quite a bold statement.  Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Jack Wagner.  But you may know me better by another name.  Oh, this
is for you."  He lifted a large duffel bag from the floorboard.
Wisdom took it, and opened the zippered main pouch.  He reached into
the bag, and retrieved a carton filled with Morland Specials, straight
from Grosvenor Street.  Directly underneath it was a bottle of
Wisdom's favourite scotch, and as he rummaged through the bottom of
the bag, he discovered an Ingram MAC-10 submachinegun, complete with
SIONICS noise and flash suppressor, and two spare magazines.

The car pulled into an alley, and came to a stop.  Wagner pulled open
a panel under the dash, retracting a bottle of Cognac and two glasses.
Wisdom took notise of the Smith & Wesson .38 snub revolver in the same
compartment.  He took the glass Wagner offered, and observed as the
special agent racked the slide on a brushed-steel Browning Hi-Power.
The pistol sported the same variety of silencer as the Glock, and
Wisdom supposed that the porting on top was a sort of recoil
compensator.  Wagner jammed the pistol into a Berns-Martin Triple Draw
Spring-loaded holster, and checked the cylinder on a 5-inch Smith and
Wesson Model 629 .44 Magnum.  He placed the big revolver on his right
hip, then cocked a silenced Mini-Uzi, which he slung under his jacket.
Jack took a glass of the brandy for himself, and took out a
cigarette. "Now, Wisdom, I need to hear your dossier information, just
to double-check it."

Wisdom shrugged.  "All right, Peter Wisdom, special agent section,
MI5, licenced for Section F: France and Central Europe, Section G:
Eastern Europe and Germany, and Section N: North America.  Operative
with experience in Investigation/Infiltration, Confiscation, and
Assassination Bureaus."

Wagner smiled a bit.  "Magician, Hunter and Saboteur all in one, eh?
Good.  And your ID?"

"Number B002."

"Licence to kill.  I'd be impressed if I hadn't already seen it all.
What the hell does the B stand for?"

"Black Air.  We were part of an independent group investigating the
unexplainable.  Sort of like WHO or Bureau X under the FBI.  We
specialise in incidents involving mutants."

"Like yourself?"

Wisdom gaped, open-mouthed at him.  How did he know?  "Er - yes.
Anyway, the government wasn't amused by our competition with WHO, so
they made us part of MI5.  Now, it's your turn.  What do I need to
know about you?  Section 500 operatives never know who they're working
for."

"Except when they're former high-level operatives.  Particularly
former double-oh operatives."  Wagner brought up his lighter, and
Wisdom could now clearly see the Scottish Claymore emblazoned on the
side.  That explained everything.

"I don't believe it.  _You're_ Fire Stryke?"

"How nice of you to notise, Wisdom.  Just remember that you're not
here to be impressed."

"But . . . I thought you were with the Special Air Service."

"I was at one point.  But I was with MI5 first.  Back before Admiral
Sir Miles Messervy took over the M. position."

Wisdom did some fast mental calculations.  "That was in '53, so
. . . you have to be at least _sixty_!"

"And?"  Wagner took a drag.  He let Wisdom stare uncomfortably for a
moment.  "Anyway, three rules.  One, don't get killed.  Two, stay out
of my way, or violate rule number one.  Three, obey all rules.  Got
it?"  Wisdom made a grunt of assent as he cocked the Ingram.  "What
else are you packing?  That damn VP-70?"

Wisdom lit one of the Morlands.  "No.  I used to carry it, but it
jammed up on a past job, and I spent a month in the hospital.  Since
I'm a double-oh, I get some leverage in selection."  He pulled out the
Walther.  "Walther PPK.  Seven point six-five millimetre, Glaser
loads.  For backup, I use a Heckler and Koch P9S with Nyclad
hollowpoints."  He replaced the Walther and indicated the P9S at the
small of his back.

"Good choices.  Now let's get going.  We've got a lot to take care
of."

They exited the car, and walked to the entrance of a dingy office
building outside the alley they had parked in.  Jack stood in front of
the door, and gave Wisdom a sideways glance.  "Set that wristcomm to
781, would you?"  Wisdom reached down, turning the exterior of his
brass cufflinks until the frequency was set.  By pressing down on the
surface of Q's wonderful creation, Wisdom could keep in touch with
Jack through a similar device on the French cuffs of Jack's shirt.

Jack allowed Wisdom a moment to collect himself, then leaped into the
air, tearing the door off its hinges with a powerful side-thrust kick.
He landed across the threshold, firing into the low light, with Wisdom
slipping through the doorway behind him.