Blofeld's Gambit
Aboard the Private Jet
High above the Pacific, the sleek Gulfstream G650 cut through the azure sky with mechanical precision. In its opulent cabin, Maximus—known in certain circles as Ernst Stavro Blofeld—sat in Italian leather upholstery, stroking his white Persian cat with methodical patience. The cabin's appointments were exquisite: a fully stocked bar featuring vintage Dom Pérignon and aged single malts, while Mozart's Requiem played softly through hidden speakers.
He lifted a crystal glass of Château Margaux 1982, raising the edge of his metal mask just enough to expose thin, cruel lips. The scar tissue beneath was a reminder of past encounters with British Intelligence.
"I do so enjoy these flights above the common rabble," he mused, his voice carrying that distinctive cultured menace. "The altitude provides such... perspective. Wouldn't you agree, Number Two?"
Across from him sat his most trusted lieutenant, code-named Red Grant—a muscular man in an impeccably tailored suit, his face bearing the cold expression of a professional killer. He sipped from a martini, extra dry, with a slight grimace.
"The flight's fine, Number One. Though I'd prefer something with more kick than this classical funeral march," Grant replied, his voice carrying a slight Eastern European accent. "Perhaps some jazz? Something with life in it?"
Blofeld's laugh was soft but without warmth. "Culture, my dear Number Two, is what separates us from the animals we hunt." His attention shifted to the mahogany table before him, covered with surveillance photographs. "Now, to business. Our quarry—this masked vigilante calling himself Zero—measures precisely 178 centimeters and weighs approximately 56 kilograms."
Grant picked up one of the photographs, studying it with professional interest before producing a throwing knife and pinning the image to the table with casual precision. "Physical statistics are irrelevant when viewed through crosshairs, Number One."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," Blofeld said, his finger tracing the rim of his wine glass. "To destroy an enemy, one must understand them completely—their weaknesses, their desires, their emotional vulnerabilities." He selected a particular photograph showing Zero's dramatic rescue of Suzaku Kururugi. "Young Kururugi was framed for my dear brother's assassination—a crime Zero publicly confessed to committing. On the surface, it appears to be mere theatricality, a bid for notoriety. But I suspect there are deeper currents at play."
Rising gracefully, Blofeld moved to the aircraft's window, his reflection ghostlike against the endless ocean below. "Grant, the dossier on the Kururugi family—refresh my memory."
Grant opened a leather portfolio with SPECTRE's octopus emblem embossed in gold. "Suzaku Kururugi, born July 10th, 2000. Son of Genbu Kururugi, former Prime Minister of Japan before the Britannian occupation. The official cause of Genbu's death: was suicide by seppuku following military defeat. Suzaku now serves as an Honorary Britannian in their armed forces."
"Genbu Kururugi," Blofeld repeated thoughtfully, his voice carrying decades of experience in reading men's souls. "I had the pleasure of meeting him once, at a diplomatic reception in Geneva. A man of honor, but not one to embrace defeat so readily." He returned to his seat, the cat purring as he resumed his methodical stroking. "Grant, I want a complete intelligence workup on both father and son. Bank records, psychological profiles, known associates—everything. I believe Zero's rescue of young Kururugi was not mere grandstanding, but an act of personal loyalty."
"What makes you so certain, Number One?"
Blofeld's eyes glittered behind his mask. "Elementary psychology, my dear Grant. Zero could have allowed the boy to die and then revealed the truth posthumously—martyrdom is excellent propaganda. Instead, he risked exposure to save him. This suggests an emotional connection, a weakness we can exploit."
"And if our investigation confirms this connection?"
"Then we shall have found the thread that, when pulled, will unravel our mysterious Zero completely." Blofeld raised his glass. "He may even prove useful for Operation Thunderball."
Both men raised their glasses in a toast that had echoed through SPECTRE boardrooms for decades: "Death to spies."
Britannian Capital, Area 11
The SPECTRE transport touched down at Tokyo International with the whisper-quiet precision of advanced technology. As Blofeld descended the aircraft steps, flanked by Grant, a formation of SPECTRE operatives in dark suits snapped to attention—a synchronized display of lethal efficiency.
"Discipline," Blofeld murmured approvingly. "The foundation of any successful organization."
Their reception was interrupted by the hurried approach of a nervous Britannian intelligence officer, his credentials identifying him as Colonel Morrison, Liaison Division.
"Your Excellency, what an honor to—"
"I am addressed as Number One," Blofeld interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man accustomed to absolute obedience. "Precision in all things, Colonel. It prevents... misunderstandings."
The Colonel swallowed hard. "Of course, Number One. I trust your flight was satisfactory?"
"Tolerable." Blofeld began walking toward the waiting limousines, his pace unhurried but purposeful. "I find myself curious about my sister's current activities. Princess Euphemia, I'm told, is otherwise engaged?"
"Princess Euphemia is attending a cultural exchange ceremony, and Vice-Queen Cornelia is conducting counter-insurgency operations in the Saitama district."
Blofeld stopped walking. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout. "Did you say counter-insurgency operations?"
The Colonel realized, with growing horror, that he had just delivered very bad news to a very dangerous man.
Saitama District
The night air was thick with smoke and cordite as the Britannian mechanized division pressed its assault through the narrow streets. What had begun as a precision operation to eliminate terrorist cells had devolved into a massacre, with civilians caught in the crossfire.
In a bombed-out apartment building, a squad of Britannian soldiers had cornered a group of Japanese families, including several children. Their lieutenant, drunk on power and adrenaline, raised his sidearm with a theatrical flourish.
"Orders are orders," he declared. "No witnesses."
The mother clutched her young son, whispering prayers in Japanese as she closed their eyes against the inevitable.
"On my mark—"
The order was cut short by the whisper of suppressed weapons fire. The Britannian soldiers crumpled silently, their expressions frozen in surprise. From the shadows emerged a team of SPECTRE operatives—men and women moving with the fluid precision of professional killers.
The team leader, a striking blonde woman with ice-blue eyes, approached the cowering family. Her movements were cat-like, graceful yet predatory. She extended a gloved hand to help the mother to her feet.
"Madame," she said in perfect Japanese, her voice cultured and strangely comforting, "you and your family are under SPECTRE protection now."
"Who... who are you?" the mother stammered.
The woman smiled—an expression that was somehow both reassuring and terrifying. "We are the future."
Across the district, Britannian Knightmare Frames found themselves under assault by unknown forces. The attackers' technology was superior—sleek, unmarked mechs that moved like hunting cats and struck with surgical precision. Britannian pilots barely had time to register the threat before explosive rounds punched through their cockpits.
"Command, this is Lancer Seven!" crackled a desperate transmission. "We're under attack by unknown hostiles! They're not Japanese resistance—repeat, these are not insurgents! They're—"
Static. Another Knightmare Frame fell silent forever.
Cornelia's Command Center
Vice-Queen Cornelia li Britannia had begun the evening with supreme confidence, watching her tactical displays with the satisfaction of a chess master moving toward checkmate. That confidence evaporated as casualty reports flooded in.
"Madam Vice-Queen," her aide reported, his voice tight with barely controlled panic, "we've lost contact with Delta Company. Estimated casualties are approaching sixty percent."
"Sixty percent?" Cornelia's voice cracked like a whip. "Against a handful of terrorists?"
"Ma'am, intelligence suggests these aren't ordinary insurgents. Equipment analysis indicates military-grade hardware, possibly corporate or state-sponsored."
Before Cornelia could respond, the main communications array crackled to life with an incoming transmission. The voice that emerged was cultured, precise, and absolutely without mercy:
"Attention, Britannian forces. You will cease all operations and withdraw immediately. This is not a request. You have precisely ten minutes to comply. Failure to do so will result in the complete annihilation of your remaining forces. This message comes to you courtesy of SPECTRE."
The blood drained from Cornelia's face as she heard that name—a name whispered in intelligence briefings, associated with international incidents that officially never happened.
"All units," she commanded, her voice steady despite her racing heart, "begin immediate tactical withdrawal. Code Yellow protocols are now in effect."
The Confrontation
Outside the mobile command center, Cornelia waited with her most trusted advisors: Sir Gilbert Guilford, her knight and devoted protector, and General Andreas Darlton, a career military man with an impeccable service record. The approaching vehicle was unlike anything in the Britannian arsenal—a sleek, armored limousine that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
When the vehicle stopped, silence stretched for nearly a minute before the rear door opened with mechanical precision. Ernst Stavro Blofeld emerged like a figure from a nightmare-made flesh, his imposing frame draped in a charcoal overcoat that probably cost more than most people's annual salary. Red Grant flanked him, his hand resting casually near his shoulder holster.
Cornelia's composure finally cracked. "What in God's name do you think you're doing? We're conducting legitimate counter-terrorism operations, and you've turned this into a bloodbath! Our forces—"
The slap came so quickly that even trained soldiers barely registered the movement. Cornelia staggered, her hand flying to her cheek as she stared at her brother in shock. Guilford and Darlton bristled with fury, their hands moving toward their weapons.
"Sister dear," Blofeld said, his voice carrying the cultured menace of an Oxford don discussing philosophy, "your theatrical outrage is quite unnecessary. I specifically informed you that the Zero matter fell under SPECTRE jurisdiction."
He grasped her chin with deceptive gentleness, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Your ham-fisted military approach has now compromised months of careful intelligence work. I had operatives positioned to infiltrate the resistance movement—psychological profiles being developed, human assets being cultivated. Thanks to tonight's butchery, every Japanese citizen will view us as nothing more than jackbooted thugs."
Releasing her, he stepped back and adjusted his cufflinks with meticulous care. "You possess certain tactical gifts, Cornelia, but subtlety has never been among them."
"How dare you assault Her Majesty!" Guilford snarled, his hand now openly on his sidearm.
Grant's response was conversational, almost friendly: "Careful, Sir Gilbert. That's a lovely uniform. Shame to get blood on it."
"If you're threatening the Vice-Queen, we have a serious problem," General Darlton declared, his military bearing radiating controlled aggression.
"General," Blofeld replied with the patience of a man explaining basic arithmetic to a child, "I am not threatening anyone. I am educating my sister." He glanced at Grant. "Number Two, if the General speaks again, kill him."
The casual delivery of this death sentence made even veteran soldiers reconsider their positions.
Blofeld turned back to Cornelia, his hands clasped behind his back in a pose reminiscent of a headmaster addressing a disappointing student. "You approach this conflict as though superior firepower alone can achieve victory. But this enemy requires finesse—psychological warfare, intelligence operations, the subtle application of pressure at precisely the right points." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And do dispose of that ridiculous 'Goddess of Victory' sobriquet. It makes you sound like a character from A Penny Dreadful."
Later That Evening
Aboard his mobile command center, Blofeld sat in his private study, surrounded by the trappings of civilized menace: first-edition books, priceless art, and communication equipment that could coordinate operations across the globe. His Persian cat purred contentedly in his lap as he reviewed intelligence reports.
"You were particularly harsh tonight," came a voice from the shadows. "Are you certain Cornelia won't attempt retaliation?"
Blofeld smiled without looking up from his reading. "My dear Rosa, show yourself. Your camouflage technology is impressive, but I can always detect the scent of your perfume—Chanel No. 5, if I'm not mistaken."
A figure materialized from apparently empty air—a stunningly beautiful woman with raven-black hair and eyes like emeralds. Rosa Klebb, SPECTRE's chief assassin and master of disguise, moved with the fluid grace of a trained killer.
"You know," she said, producing a stiletto and examining its razor edge, "I could arrange for dear sister to suffer an unfortunate accident. A gas leak, perhaps, or a tragic Knightmare Frame malfunction."
Blofeld raised a hand. "Tempting, but premature. Cornelia still has her uses—she's an effective blunt instrument when properly directed." He rose from his chair, the cat leaping gracefully to the floor. "Is our asset prepared?"
"Both of them are ready, Number One."
Mountain Stronghold
High in the Japanese Alps, in a facility that existed on no official maps, two figures engaged in what appeared to be a dance of death. Their movements were fluid, precise, and deadly—the product of years of training in arts that most people believed existed only in legend.
The first figure, clad in white, moved in smoke-given form. His opponent, dressed in charcoal gray, fought with the controlled fury of a gathering storm. Their weapons—traditional katana—sang through the air in arcs of lethal beauty.
After several minutes of combat that would have left ordinary men dead, both warriors stepped back simultaneously and bowed with mutual respect.
"Your technique improves," observed the figure in white, his voice carrying a slight Japanese accent. "But you still favor your left side when executing the Dragon's Tail maneuver."
His opponent lowered his hood, revealing Asian features marked by years of discipline and training. "And you still telegraph your intentions with your eyes, brother. In actual combat, such tells would prove fatal."
Both men moved to an equipment locker and began donning specialized gear—body armor that seemed to absorb light, communication devices no larger than rice grains, and weapons that represented the cutting edge of covert technology.
"The target profile has been uploaded to your systems," the first man said, securing his mask. "James Bond, Agent 007 of British Intelligence. Age 35, approximately 183 centimeters, athletic build. Licensed to kill, and with a reputation for surviving impossible odds."
"And his current mission?" asked his partner.
"To investigate SPECTRE's activities in the Pacific Rim. Our orders are simple: eliminate Agent 007 before he can interfere with Operation Thunderball."
Both men checked their weapons one final time before moving toward the exit. They were brothers not by blood but by choice, trained from childhood in the ancient arts of ninjutsu and modern techniques of assassination.
Tonight, the legendary Agent 007 would face opponents unlike any he had encountered before. Tonight, James Bond would meet his match in the form of SPECTRE's most deadly operatives.
The mission was clear: From Asia with Love would be Bond's final case.