The Beaufort Clinic had an excellent reputation. Established in the early 1990's and patronised initially by musicians and film stars, its high success rate and guaranteed privacy had soon begun to attract a wider clientele. Politicians, public servants, industrialists, and even the occasional minor royalty, all took advantage of its individual accommodation and treatment programs.

It wasn't until about twelve months ago that rumours began to circulate about strange experiments conducted in the Research section. Then a couple of film stars committed suicide, after being discharged and apparently successfully completing the program. Two others were committed to mental institutions. Hardly worthy of attention in themselves, the accumulation of events and rumours had rung alarm bells in Whitehall. Especially when the wife of a junior minister was discharged, apparently cured of her drug induced paranoia, only to stab her husband to death a month later.

"Bond, we want a man on the inside," M told her most successful agent. "We need to discover if the clinic is a cover for something else, something dangerous. And you're the man to do it."

Bond raised a suave eyebrow but said nothing.

M continued. "We've arranged to have you admitted to Beaufort under an alias. As Jonah Banks, an aide to the Foreign Secretary, you've been under a lot of stress. As a result, you're suffering from depression, which you have been self medicating with alcohol." She allowed herself a small smile. "I'm sorry but you'll have to forgo the champagne and Martinis for this one." She didn't sound at all sorry.

"You're booked in for three weeks. That's the standard program period and it should allow you enough time to investigate discreetly. The place is quite isolated, all traffic comes and goes by air, and there is no phone or wifi reception. There won't be any way for you to contact us if anything goes wrong. Do make sure you don't get caught, won't you?"

The following week, Jonah Banks arrived in Arviat and was flown to Beaufort by the clinic helicopter. It was snowing lightly when he landed and he could see little apart from a double-doored turret to his right. A man in uniform ducked out on to the roof to escort him into the elevator, and in less than a quarter of an hour he was checked in for his rehabilitation program by a smiling receptionist, and shown to his private rooms.

For the first twenty-four hours, everything went according to plan. He spent the day completely in character as a new patient. As Jonah Banks, he had a lengthy interview with the program co-ordinator in the morning, and in the afternoon, was guided around the few public rooms available to patients. He made sure to display the appropriate amount of curiosity about the numerous restricted areas.

"So what's in those other rooms, then?"

"Some of our clients require complete privacy," explained his guide, smoothly. "I'm sure you understand."

"Ah. Of course."

Bond waited until the early hours of the second night before making his initial scout of the building's interior. He had been unsurprised to discover that everyone, at least all the patients, were electronically locked in their rooms each night at ten o'clock. The doors remained locked until six am when they were unlocked for those patients deemed stable enough to come and go as they pleased. He noticed more than a few doors appeared to be locked all the time.

"It's for your own safety," said his guide. "As you can imagine, some of our clients have challenging behaviours. We've found it to be in everyone's best interests if each client is safely in their own room during the night. Don't worry, if there is an emergency someone will come and rescue you." The guide had smiled reassuringly at this point.

It took Bond about ten minutes to unlock the door without triggering an alarm. He spent the first thirty minutes checking the first two floors for security arrangements (none, apart from bolts and locks on the windows) before heading up the stairs to the top floor.

He came out of the staircase into a wide hallway. To his right was the Research laboratory, locked as he had expected, and to the left a series of labelled store rooms, also locked.

Bond drew out his specialised toolkit, containing an electronic decoder as well as the more prosaic lock-picks, and got to work on opening the door to the Research Laboratory. The storerooms could wait for another time.

A few minutes later, he entered the Laboratory. There was a small alcove on his left which contained a blank screen and a desk. In front of him, a row of stainless steel tables met his gaze, each with numerous tubes, glass cylinders, and monitors at the head. Benches and equipment-filled shelves lined the opposite wall.

Further down, he could see what appeared to be a series of cubicles. When he got nearer, he saw that there were six tiny rooms, each with a locked door. A waist high pedestal beside each door bore a small screen on the top, tilted at 45 degrees. The obvious inference was that each screen showed what was inside the room. What was in there? Experiments? Patients?

Unable to resist, Bond stopped to look at the first one. The screen was blank but when he touched the surface with a fingertip, it sprang to life. He was looking at a glass capsule, like something from a sci-fi movie, and inside was a naked man with his eyes shut. There was no way of telling from here whether he was dead or alive.

What the hell had he walked into?

He stared at the face. Worryingly, the longer he looked, the more familiar it seemed. Short white hair, high brows, long nose, deep lines framing thin lips. He searched his memory. George Essex. One of the senior British aides to the Home Secretary. There was definitely a strong resemblance. Was it possible?

Surely if such a key figure was booked into the Clinic, he would have been briefed?

Not for the first time, he wished he had contact with the outside world. He really needed more information.

He frowned, but there wasn't any more he could do tonight. He checked the time. He'd been gone over an hour! Time to get back to his room, he still had to relock the door to the Laboratory on his way out. He was just straightening up after resealing the door when he felt a sharp pain in the neck, and everything went black.

~~~

He woke up, face down on a steel table, having the tracking device cut out of his shoulder.

"Just hold still a minute longer, Mr Bond," said a voice in soothing tones. "The shot you've been given paralyses the muscles but doesn't reduce the pain, unfortunately. Haha."

Ignoring the instruction, Bond bunched his muscles and tried to roll off the table, but the voice had been right. He couldn't achieve more than a slight twitch. He had no choice but to grit his teeth as the tracking device was removed.

"I do hope you are being careful. This jacket cost me nearly six hundred pounds. You wouldn't want to be responsible for replacing it."

"Whistling in the dark, Mr Bond. Whistling in the dark." There was a short silence.

"There! That's got it," announced the voice in satisfied tones. "Pop that in the safe will you, Jenkins? If everything works out, we might need it again. Now, Mr Bond, I wish I could tell you that this wasn't going to hurt, but I'd be lying! Haha."

When Bond regained consciousness, he was hanging from the ceiling in pitch darkness.