14 January 2013
'Send him in.' The words that filtered through to the small office were cold, not helped by the dated intercom system which conveyed them. Cold and bland and as flat as the files he could see on the desk he was perched upon. The sudden need for a cigarette stung him, and he briefly considered ignoring the message and rushing outside for the nicotine that most likely had put him in his current situation. Damned 'no smoking' laws, he mused. 'You heard him. In you go.' James Bond looked resignedly first at Miss Moneypenny and then toward the door beyond which was his fate. He could picture the scene, the old man stood behind his desk, leaning forward on it with both fists clenched on its surface, a file marked 'Eyes Only' laying open in front of him. Seated at the other side would be the doctor, smug with the knowledge that he'd been right, and that the operative was no longer fit for field duty. He exhaled loudly, and getting up from the loyal secretary's desk, crossed the room and stood in front of the green leather padded door which led to M's office. He'd already seen the light above it change from red to green, so he pushed against it and walked in, letting it close softly behind him. Half an hour later Bond was sitting quietly across the desk from M, tapping his fingers on his crossed leg. M put his pipe down and said, 'Oh for heaven's sake have one will you?' Bond gratefully accepted the offer and duly lit his fortieth cigarette of the day. 'Well what do you make of that then?' M was referring to the doctor's report laying open and glaring at them both. As Bond exhaled a thin stream of smoke, he was about to speak when M interjected. 'Damn it all 007 you had your warning the last time. Look at this will you? Tongue furred, possible liver damage, scars not healing and so on, the list is endless! The only thing he didn't mention are the broken hearts of girls and tailors as part of the mess you leave behind you.' You enjoyed that one, didn't you? thought Bond, extinguishing his cigarette. M carried on. 'The last report detailed an extensive programme for you, James, which you've not cared for I assume.' Bond knew he was headed for trouble. He'd used his first name, and rare as it was, it only meant bad news. 'Regular exercise, less smoking, less drinking and just taking better care of yourself. All of which you've obviously ignored. Well there's only one course of action I can take, 007. ' Here it came. Bond steeled himself. 'I'm taking you off active duty. No more field work. At least until you can prove yourself fit again. It'll pretty much mean you'll be office bound-' 'I'd sooner resign, Sir.' The speed at which M stood, dropping his pipe and slamming his hand down on the file took Bond by complete surprise. M was raging, and Bond realised he might have gone too far. 'This isn't one of your gentlemen's clubs 007! Or the Mayfair! You can't just throw in your hand!' He sat back down, realising he'd probably gone a little red. He sat heavily back down, and filled his pipe anew. Bond knew better than to say anything more. M looked at him with heavy grey eyes and said, 'I've no real choice. Take two weeks. No, make it a month. Sort yourself out. No matter what you think, 007, you are actually dispensable, but that's not what I want. I want you back in this office in a month's time, ready for the field. And fit. Hand in your weapon to the armourer. And take the file.' M threw the file at Bond. He caught it, bar a couple of sheets which were fluttering to the carpet. He picked them up, and sat back up on the chair. He looked over at M, but he was already signing various other papers in green ink. He didn't say a word more. The conversation was over.
Bond had ignored everybody on his way to his desk, apart from muttering 'month' to Moneypenny on the way through. He was angry, but not really at M, more at himself. He and the doctor were right, of course, and as he fell messily into his chair, he realised that sitting here pushing papers around really wasn't for him. James Bond? Civil Servant? I don't think so. But then again, without his '00' status, that was exactly what he was. He wasn't getting any younger, he knew that, but he had some years of field work left in him, so he vowed to actually get back to operative fitness and quit the bad things. Well, a little, anyway. He felt his face. The last time out hadn't gone too well, disastrously in fact. His target had left him with a scar that required a little reconstructive surgery, which was healing nicely. But the man had died noisily and messily, for Bond had been quite drunk. The job was done, but it was probably the straw which had broken the camels back. He had to admit, he'd gotten sloppy, and it had created tensions between the services. But M hadn't fired him, and that very fact renewed his vigour. He would get back to fitness again, he knew he would. And he'd enjoy it, too. He had a month, and that was plenty of time. Although the doctor would say otherwise, he knew he was in pretty good shape, and a month's detox and exercise would do him the world of good. With a small spring in his step, he picked up his briefcase and said several goodbyes and au revoirs to the few people he actually knew. He was surprised to find it was far fewer than he thought. He shrugged it off and made his way to the armourer, where he checked in his Walther. That done, he made for the car pool, took the keys for a Ford Focus (whatever happened to the grand marques, he thought) and drove the short drive to his Soho apartment. London's roads were fairly quiet, and the drive didn't take long. There were spaces directly outside his apartment, which was rare, so he sped into one with quite some glee. He felt pretty good now, having realised that all he had to do was get match fit, so to speak, and he knew that was well within his grasp. And a month to do it in! I'll start tomorrow, he thought, after the casino tonight. One last bow. He smiled, and opened the door and got out of the car. As he was about to close the door and lock it, he realised he'd left his briefcase on the passenger seat. He bent back in the car to retrieve it, and it was a good job he did because at that very moment the entire frontage of his flat came flying at him. The explosion had been massive, and had taken out the windows of all the apartments to the left and right of his own. His front door landed in three pieces on the green across the street, and as he gingerly lifted his head he could see all the way through the hallway to his kitchen. The devastation was total. Bond was sure that this wasn't a gas main, and equally sure there wouldn't be another blast, this one was so large. He walked around to the other side of the car, ears ringing, and could see that mercifully any exploding bricks or masonry had hit the back and front of the car. Miraculously the passenger door was largely untouched, which was lucky because not thirty seconds earlier that was where his head had been. Bond had no questions running through his brain. Just complete disbelief. And that disbelief got even stronger, not when he saw the hundreds of pieces of A4 paper fluttering to the ground around him, but when he saw what was printed on them. It was his picture, taken god knows when and where, in profile, and with a large scribbled black 'X' across the head, drawn by hand. And as he picked one up, he could see the single word 'ENDGAME' scrawled in red. On every single one. Someone had obviously telephoned the emergency services, as he could hear sirens wailing their way toward him. An ambulance would come, and he'd let them check him out. In the meantime, he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled a number. Without waiting for Miss Moneypenny to say James this is the private line, he said, 'It's me. By the time I get there he'll have heard of this, I'm sure. Just tell him I'm coming in. ' 'But James -' Bond snapped the phone shut and sat on the bonnet of the car. He folded up one of the A4 sheets and put it in his back pocket. Endgame? Pretty damned appropriate, he thought, as he sprung to his feet. Subconsciously, he decided to ignore the emergency services and started walking back to where his bad day had started.
Endgame • Opuss № I