Chapter Text
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
MI-6 kept track of former agents. It didn’t do to have trained spies and assassins loafing about without at least a general idea of where they had ‘settled down’. Of course, many agents did not make it to retirement, and those that did tended not to handle retirement well. This was especially true of the double-oh program. Only a small percentage of double-oh agents made it to the mandatory retirement age - many losing their sense of self-preservation as the date approached - and most of the remaining ones ate their gun within the first year of civilian life, or were killed by old enemies. The simple fact was that few agents talented enough to earn their license to kill also had the fortitude to lose it. It was perhaps the biggest shock of the decade in the Service that James Bond was one of those few.
Bond had, it seemed, done his damnedest to get himself killed in his last few months of active duty, but his hobby for resurrection (and bloody good luck) continued to serve him well, and when the day came he retired with little fuss. At first, Six had kept closer tabs on him than most. He had travelled quite a lot for six months or so, then bought a house along a sleepy stretch of Central American coast, purchased an old wooden schooner that was in need of some serious restoration, and to all appearances actually settled down .
Five years later, he had done nothing to raise a red flag, and most current employees recalled his name as either a mythical figure or a headache of epic proportions, depending upon said individual’s experiences with the agent. The newest set of hires didn’t even seem to believe that he had actually existed at all, which might have bothered Q if he had had the time to be bothered by petty things. (He most certainly did not have the time).
“003. 003 , I said don’t- The drive is your primary objective!” Q’s voice rose in growing frustration, an exceedingly rare occurrence. Even the double-ohs knew not to push Q to the point of raising his voice. Except the new 003 had gotten it into his head to pursue a mole rather than the drive of highly sensitive data that the mole was trying to sell.
“He’s a bloody traitor,” snapped 003, “I’ll get the drive after I put a bullet in his head.”
Q’s lips thinned dangerously. 003 was far too emotionally invested in this mission, and it was clouding the man’s thinking. He blew out a slow breath through his nose and tried again. “The traitor will save. However if that drive falls into the hands of-”
There was a statickly crunch and the line went dead. On the screen in front of him, footage from hacked security cameras showed 003 stepping on his earpiece before darting off down an alley in the direction of the mole - the opposite direction of the drive he had been sent to retrieve.
“Bloody hell, I’m going to have him demoted to fucking surveillance,” muttered Q in a fit of pique. The techs and handlers within earshot all winced and several subtly edged a few inches further away. Q swearing and promising retribution was worse than Q shouting. But the Quartermaster was a consummate professional, and had not survived this many years in his current job without being able to compartmentalize. So, in spite of his irritation, he remained focused on finding a way to salvage the op without 003. “Where’s backup?” Q asked the room at large. He had called for a team thirty minutes earlier when things had begun to go sidewise (read: when they had discovered that the mole already had a buyer, and that buyer was the head of the biggest drug cartel in Latin America).
“Still three hours out. The nearest we had was in Caracas.”
Q dismissed that out of hand. Too long. “Do we have any other agents in the general vicinity? Anyone? Because if I have to personally go begging to the bloody CIA to get us out of this mess, then so help me God...”
There was a pause as various techs typed frantic search queries into databases, but soon the same techs were shaking their heads. Rural Central America had not been attracting much MI-6 attention until this week. Just as Q was resigning himself to asking the CIA for help - and then listening to the inevitable gloating - one of the Service’s newest hires spoke up. “There appears to be a retired agent just up the coast. Retired field agent, that is.”
Q grasped that bit of information like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. They could not afford to lose that drive, but the very thing that made it valuable also made him wary of calling in outside help, even if the U.S. was technically an ally. Calling an agent out of retirement was not unprecedented, but it was extreme. “Who is it?”
“Umm...” the tech leaned toward his screen slightly and read the narrow line of text, “Bond. James Bond.”
The room went very still, and Q actually turned away from his workstation to stare at the tech. “Excuse me?”
“The...retired agent. Who lives near there. Our files say his name is James Bond.” Clearly unnerved by the awkward silence, the tech added, “Umm...is there a problem, Quartermaster?”
“Well fuck me...” muttered an unidentified voice from the far side of the room. Q silently echoed the sentiment.
“Well, beggars can’t be choosers,” he said magnanimously, “Someone get him on the line.”
As two specialists worked to locate and call Bond’s current cell number, the tech leaned over to her neighbor, a woman who had worked in Q branch for over a decade, and asked in an undertone, “Who the hell is James Bond?”
The response was prompt. “Probably the best double-oh we ever had. No one could believe that he made it to retirement age five years ago - and we were all even more surprised that he has actually survived his retirement thus far. .” She shook her head slowly, “A better agent I’ve never seen, but that particular 007 was also the single most destructive force in Six. This should be...very interesting.”
“Double-oh...” the tech’s eyes widened in recognition, “Wait, that 007? The one everyone tells stories about? I thought he was just...like a myth or something.”
“Oh no, not at all. He really was an agent. And you’re about to get to see him work.
A few paces away, Q was hacking additional cameras to track the drive, which had been handed off to an unidentified individual, and waiting for his minions to connect him to Bond. Of all the places in the world, and all the retired agents, this mission had to go to hell in James bloody Bond’s proverbial backyard. Q was quite sure that this op was either going to become much easier or infinitely worse once Bond was read in - he just wished he could guess which .
“Q, it’s connecting now. Your personal line.”
Q hit the speakerphone button, gestured for a tech to take over tracking the drive, and then waited with bated breath.
~~~~
It had taken Bond several months to get the beautiful old schooner seaworthy again. The project had helped keep him occupied while he adjusted to being in one place for an extended period of time, and having a good ship made him feel more secure - he had an escape. . He worked on it most mornings, maintaining, improving, polishing, cleaning. Having free time had been a novelty, but he kept himself busy - worked very hard to keep himself busy, since it was the only way Bond knew to retain what was left of his sanity.
Bond’s typical day on this sleepy little stretch of coastline involved a morning run or bike ride, then an hour or two spent with his boat. In the afternoon he would read (pleasure reading always had been one of his few hobbies), work on the old Triumph motorcycle he had recently rescued from a scrap yard, or go into the nearby village. There was a proper little city further down the coast, but the village was just a mile away. Bond had struck up a very close and rather unlikely friendship with the elderly woman, Josefa, who owned the local bar - and that was before he had put a stop to the thugs who had been harassing her. Most of this area was cartel territory to a greater or lesser extent, but it was becoming common knowledge that this particular village was not worth messing with. It made Bond feel useful, and it had endeared him to Josefa, whom most of the locals simply called abuelita . She stocked good tequila, foisted delicious food on Bond, and played a devastatingly challenging game of chess. If Bond was being honest, she probably deserved at least half the credit for the fact that he was still breathing five years into his retirement.
It was late morning and Bond was in the middle of fixing the outboard motor (and was just considering walking over to Josefa’s for lunch) when his phone rang. Very few people had the number, so he wiped grease off his hands, and picked up the device. Bond scowled a little when the screen read “blocked number”, and didn’t answer - waiting to see if the caller would leave a voicemail or try again. Neither, as it turned out. Instead, a text message appeared:
Answer your bloody phone. -Q
Bond had ten seconds to recover from the shock of seeing that innocent little letter before the phone started ringing again. This time he picked it up, though he said nothing.
A moment later, Q’s precise tones drifted from the speaker, “Hello Bond. I trust you have a moment.”
“For you, Q, always.” The banter came naturally, like holstering his gun. The smile came naturally too.
He thought he might have heard a little huff of amusement, but it also could have been static. Regardless, Q was clearly not in the mood for small talk. “Firstly, this is a secure line. Secondly, I hate to infringe upon your retirement, but we have a bit of a problem and you are quite literally the only person in the area who may be able to salvage the situation, with the exception of a couple of CIA operatives that I am loathe to involve for a variety of reasons.”
“Infringe away. What do you need me to do?”
“Retrieve an external hard drive that contains the identities, locations, and extraction plans of every single Six asset and operative in South America. A mole stole it and is trying to sell it to the largest cartel on the continent. 003 was sent to retrieve it, but has chosen to pursue the mole instead. If I have it my way, that will be his last action as a double-oh, but for the time being that is neither here nor there because some of us have the capacity to stay on-mission.”
“Not Charles?” asked Bond, referring to the man who had been 003 when he was still at Six. It was not idle curiosity; he wanted to know whether or not the rogue MI-6 agent in the area was someone who knew him and his skills.
“No, a new 003. Charles was a good agent. I’ll brief you more fully on your way. The drive is currently in the town immediately south of your current residence. I trust you still have that rather elegant F-type?”
Bond was already halfway up the dock to the house, and he grinned to himself. “Why Q, have you been keeping tabs on me?”
“Not recently, but you know how Six is.”
Bond stepped into the air conditioned coolness of his living room, scooping car keys up off the table and reaching for his wallet. He knew Q could not see him, yet the man said with uncanny timing, “Oh, and Bond? Take your gun.”
“I don’t have a license to kill anymore,” the former agent reminded him, managing to keep most of the bitterness out of his tone as he diverted his steps to his bedroom.
“Yes, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Q simply. When not if . That gave Bond pause, driving home the seriousness of the situation more effectively than anything else the Quartermaster had said thus far.
Bond hurriedly opened the safe in his closet and withdrew a Walther in his old trusty shoulder harness. Then, because Q was taking this deadly seriously and that meant he should too, Bond took from the safe a backpack that he always kept packed with certain essentials. He paused just long enough to remove a Bluetooth headset from the front pocket, then he zipped it up, slung the bag over one shoulder, and made for the garage at a brisk jog. The adrenalin singing in his veins felt like heaven.
~~~~
Q heard the engine of the Jaguar purr to life, and immediately began talking, giving Bond information on where the mole was, where 003 was, and, most importantly, where the drive was. He also shared that a backup team was on the way, and described what little Six knew about the mole’s contact with the cartels, and the courier that his techs were working to identify.
“Doesn’t sound like you have much,” observed Bond in a carefully non-judgemental tone. Q watched as the dot on his screen that was Bond’s phone sped up slightly.
He sighed a little and admitted, “We underestimated the mole. We’re also fairly sure that he doesn’t know what is actually on the drive. We’re fairly sure no one does, except the people read in on this mission. Everyone else should think it’s hiring data. Useful but not overwhelmingly interesting in the grand scheme of espionage. That’s why we only sent 003 - we didn’t want to draw undue attention to what most people should perceive as relatively low-value intel.”
“Ah.” That syllable spoke volumes.
Shortly thereafter, Bond arrived in the outskirts of town, and Q immediately set about finding him on the (admittedly spotty) camera coverage. As he typed, he said, “You need to head for the Iberostar hotel on the waterfront. Take your next left, then find a place to park the car.”
Bond followed the crisply given instructions, and five minutes later Q found the white Jaguar on an ATM security camera as it slid into a parking spot near a little cafe. A moment later, Bond stepped out, and Q did a double take.
The man moved with the same predatory grace he always had, and if he had aged in the past five years (it was a bit hard to tell from a subpar camera on the other side of the street) then he had aged well . Which was all entirely predictable of course. No, what had thrown Q and everyone else in the ops center who had ever met Bond or read his file was the way that he was dressed - faded blue jeans with holes in the knees, a t-shirt from some unidentifiable but probably local surf shop, and-
“Are you wearing Converse ?” demanded Q before he could think better of it.
Bond’s eyes unerringly found the camera through which Q was watching, and his lips thinned slightly, an expression of vague displeasure. “Well, I don’t generally make a habit of wearing suits to fix my boat, and I doubted you had the patience for me to change.”
Q hummed his agreement. “You make a valid point.” And with no further comment he returned to giving directions in his usual unflappable tone.
Q guided Bond around the block onto a busy waterfront drive lined with restaurants and hotels. This was not a resort town that saw large numbers of international visitors - a little too inaccessible, a little too far off the beaten track - but it was a vacation spot. The Iberostar was two blocks away. “The courier entered via the staff entrance, and we’ve tracked her on interior cameras into an elevator, but then lost her. Techs are monitoring all known entrances and exits so we can catch her if she leaves.”
“She’s probably there to make the handoff,” murmured Bond, adjusting his backpack slightly and setting off toward the hotel without being told, “Ideally, we’ll get to her before the buyer does. Do we know who the buyer is?”
“Only the cartel. We have facial recognition up and running on footage from the area in hopes of identifying persons of interests.”
“Efficient as always, Q,” observed Bond with what might have been a smile.
“Why thank you,” the Quartermaster acknowledged the compliment, somewhat flustered. Bond had always been grateful for his skills, but was rarely so forthright about it. He gave himself a mental shake and asked, “So, how do you want to play this?”
“Does that hotel have a bar in the lobby?”
“No.”
Bond huffed out an annoyed breath, but said simply, “Well in that case, I’m going to hang about on the street and wait for you to either tell me that the courier has left, or that someone of interest is coming in. There are a couple of cafes and shops just here, and as it happens I have a little shopping to do.”
Q almost laughed. Bond really hadn’t changed, and it was lovely. Despite the confused looks from a number of the techs and handlers in the room, Q did not ask what in God’s good name Bond meant by having shopping to do, merely turning his attention to their facial recognition programs, and other intelligence gathering mechanisms on the array of screens before him. In spite of Bond’s notoriously destructive track record, the man had exceptional spycraft, and the ability to be subtle when the situation demanded it. It was, in fact, a joy to witness Bond exercise those skills, employing them with the same deftness and efficiency that he fired a gun.
Q watched with part of his attention as Bond strolled past the hotel (subtly casing the place), then looped around the block to inspect the sidestreet where the staff entrance was (pausing at a cafe to buy an iced coffee), and then made his way back to the front of the hotel. Before it could become obvious that he was lingering, he wandered into a small shop just to the left of the hotel entrance. Q’s eyebrows drew together in curiosity, wondering exactly what Bond was doing - but he stayed silent, trusting the ex-agent’s wealth of experience.
There was a camera in the shop, however, so Q hacked it and shamelessly spied on Bond. Although spying implied Bond not knowing, and the fact that the man looked straight at the camera and smiled made Q think that Bond was perfectly well aware that he was being watched. It didn’t show, however, as he browsed leisurely through the store, which appeared to sell a variety of vacation and sporting goods items. After ten minutes or so, he purchased a second pair of sunglasses (in a different style than the ones he was already wearing), a generic sort of ball cap with a surfing brand logo on the front, and an additional backpack. He paid in cash and spoke easily to the cashier, demonstrating (probably intentionally and for Q’s benefit) a perfect grasp of the local dialect as he described (as far as Q could tell) some hiking plans for his ‘vacation’. The sunglasses and cap went into his existing backpack, but he accepted a store bag for the new backpack.
Next, Bond crossed the street and stood staring out at the picturesque ocean view for a few minutes, finishing his coffee. As he did so, he spoke quietly into the Bluetooth headset. “Anymore information, Q?”
“We have a name on the courier, and half a dozen cartel-affiliated individuals in a three block radius.”
“Oh, the whole area is lousy with them,” Bond informed him blithely, as if he were commenting on the pleasant weather of his chosen retirement location rather than a high density of violent criminals.
“You don’t think that is out of the ordinary, then?” inquired Q, fishing for more information to narrow their search.
“Probably not. Run the same analysis of some other populated area of the city and you’ll probably find the same thing.” Q motioned for one of the techs to do so, while Bond kept talking, “If you have the time and computing power, try narrowing it down by whomever showed up in town within the last day or two.”
“We have the computing power, but probably not the video footage,”Q admitted, adding over his shoulder, “Josh, Carla, see if the city or any of the major institutions stores footage for more than a day.” Two more sets of hands began flying over keyboards.
“Also,” added Bond, as if an afterthought, but with such studied blandness that Q could tell that whatever he was about to say was terribly important, “Can you ID the man in the red t-shirt and black cap sitting at the picnic table near the shaved ice vendor? He’s been watching the hotel entrance with great interest.”
In Q branch, one of the techs immediately said, “On it!”
Bond pulled out his phone and took a picture of the beach in front of him, then turned slightly and took another, which just so happened to include the vendor. He then spent a few long moments tapping away at his phone.
“Texting someone, Bond?” enquired Q, intensely curious despite himself.
“Just sent you the pictures like you asked. It’s perfect here.” The ex-agent’s voice was suddenly different, American accented and falsey light, putting on an act for the man in the black cap - and anyone else who was watching him. Bond chatted idly at Q as he made his way back across the street, talking as if to a wife or friend back home about the weather and the food and “how nice it is to come spend winters down here - you really should try it. Best part of being retired is escaping those shit winters back home.”
Once out of earshot and with his back to the watcher, Bond dropped the act, lowered his voice, and said, “Tell me what you know of the courier, and let me know when you ID the man. Also, I want regular updates on 003’s location and status. I’d rather not run into him if I can help it.”
Q relayed what they knew - the courier was a French citizen who worked for a Swiss bank; the watcher had already been identified as a member of the cartel and they were doing more digging; and 003 was seven blocks away searching the hotel room that the mole had stayed in - and watched as Bond entered a second shop, this one selling slightly higher end clothing. Here he purchased a plain white v-neck t-shirt, a pair of khaki pants, a pale blue dress shirt, and a light jacket in a style that could be worn either with what he already had on, or with the new outfit. Q’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out if Bond was buying specific things with a plan in mind, or just making random purchases so as to appear a tourist.
His attention was pulled away, however, by an excited shout from one of the techs. “Found the courier! Mostly, at least. Once we got a name we tracked her phone. Northwest corner of the building. Security cameras in the stairwells indicate that she’s on the fourth floor.”
Q relayed the information to Bond, who was just exiting the shop, adding that having ID’d the watcher and applied his affiliation as a filter, they had located one other man staking out the hotel, and two more in a car three blocks over. “We’re doing some digging to ascertain why they are in that location,” Q informed him, “And 003 is still at the mole’s hotel, now interrogating the bartender. We’ve also sent a photo of the courier to your phone.” The ex-agent’s only outward indication that he had heard was to once again adopt the false American accent and say, “Yeah, yeah I’m going back to the hotel now... Nope, no more plans for the day, just room service and maybe a baseball game if I can find one on TV.”
The accent and American slang grated a bit on Q’s ears, especially since it was so out of step with Bond’s usual cultured tones. But it would (hopefully) do the trick of throwing off anyone watching the front of the hotel.
Bond pulled out his phone and examined the photo of the courier as he proceeded through the doors into the lobby and to the elevators. No one questioned his right to be there, and he was soon on his way up to the fourth floor.
~~~~
Bond hoped that his purchases at the two shops were unnecessary, but if over two decades as a spy had taught him anything, it was the value of being over-prepared. He had brought with him a variety of essentials (including an extra gun, passports of several of his various identities, and a fair amount of cash in several currencies). He had nearly left the backpack in the car, but had no way to secretly carry a gun without it. Bond had then bought enough clothing to change twice (two simple disguises, in essence, or fresh clothes if his current ones got bloody), and a larger backpack to carry everything in if necessary. The jacket would also allow him to hide his gun if he needed to leave the backpack somewhere.
Bond was already planning several steps ahead, seeing the mission unfolding like a chessboard in front of him. The trouble was that, just like in chess, there were many moves that the opponent could make, and without being able to narrow down what would happen next, Bond was forced to resort to a defensive strategy of preparing for as many possibilities as he could. He did not enjoy the feeling of being in the dark, but he wasn’t going to rag on Q about it - the man was doing his best.
The elevator dinged and Bond stepped out. Seeing that the corridor was empty, he felt comfortable pausing for a moment to ask, “Are there cameras in the halls?”
“No,” replied Q, clearly miffed. “And we can’t tell precisely what room she is in, though likely one of the first three on the right side of the corridor. That’s the outside of the building, and her phone appears to be very much in the corner of the building so...” Bond could perfectly picture the apologetic shrug that Q tended to give when he could not offer as many specifics as he would like. Without having to worry about security cameras, Bond removed his Walther from his backpack and stuck it in the back of his jeans, pulling his t-shirt over it. It would be obvious if someone was behind him and knew what they were looking for, but otherwise was fairly innocuous for the moment. That done, he set aside his backpack and shopping bag, and knocked on the first door. It was a crude method of ascertaining who was inside, but he didn’t have a better option, and he could sense the clock ticking on this operation. Cartel enforcers could arrive any minute, and Bond did not have the firepower with him to go up against that.
The first door was opened by a man in his twenties. Bond flashed a charming and vaguely awkward grin, and asked in his American accent, “Hi, I’m here for Michelle?”
Genuine confusion crossed the man’s face. “Sorry man, think you’ve got the wrong room.”
“Oh! Sorry about that. Must’ve gotten the number wrong!”
On the other end of the line, Q snickered.
Bond and the man shared an awkward shrug, the door closed, and Bond moved on to the next room and knocked again. Here his luck was better. The courier herself opened the door. Bond resisted the urge to roll his eyes at such an amature mistake, and quickly put out a hand to prevent her from shutting it again in his face. “You must be Michelle,” he said unnecessarily.
Her eyes widened slightly, but Bond was inside and had his hand over her mouth so she could not scream. He kicked the door shut, saying as he did, “You and I need to have a little chat. I’m going to let you talk, but if you try to draw attention, I’ll shoot you and get the information I need some other way. Clear?” He had let his accent return to normal, and something in his arctic blue eyes must have convinced her that he was not a man to be messed with, because she went pale, but nodded her agreement without any indication of falsehood. “Good.” So saying, he freed her and drew his gun all in one motion. Gesturing with his free hand to the couch a few steps away, he said icily, “Sit down. And tell me where the drive is.”
“I don’t know what you’re-”
“Don’t lie. Earlier today a British man gave you an external hard drive. Where is it.”
“I...I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came here to retrieve a package for my employer. I work for a bank and am often sent to retrieve valuable items from customers who don’t have time to travel to Switzerland and place them in safe-deposit boxes personally. And ,” here she bristled a little, “Before you make a snide remark or ask whether or not they really trust someone like me with that, let me assure you that I am perfectly adequately trained in defending myself. Besides, the best defense is that no one knows my business, or suspects me.”
Bond inclined his head in assent. “I won’t question your skills, merely the honesty of either your employer or the man you retrieved a package from today. I’ll need to see that package, by the way.”
“Why?”
Bond was silent for a moment, considering. When Q helpfully informed him that she appeared to be telling the truth about her job, the ex-agent made a decision to be (somewhat) honest with her.
“The British government has reason to believe it is being used to smuggle intelligence. I’m sure that’s a scandal that your employer would rather not be caught up in. And I’d hate to arrest you for espionage.” Not that he had the authority, but she didn’t need to know that. “Just let me see if it is in the package, and if so then I’ll be on my way and you can go yours and no one on your end the wiser. Deal?”
Michelle eyed the gun for a moment, then her mouth quirked sideways in an unhappy half-frown, and she said, “Fine. Locked briefcase under the bed. Get it out and I’ll give you the combination.”
Bond retreated with careful steps and knelt down beside the bed, still keeping his gun and gaze trained on the woman. He didn’t trust her, even if she had been honest up to this point. Then again, he didn’t tend to trust anyone. Except Q. If Q told him to jump off a building he would do it unthinkingly, because he would simply take it on faith that Q had a plan to catch him.
Bond mentally shook himself, pushing that un-asked-for thought firmly away, and reached under the bed for the briefcase. Just as his fingers touched the handle, a shot rang out and glass shattered seemingly simultaneously. The courier slumped over, a bullet hole above her left ear. Bond ducked down and rolled partly under the bed, putting himself out of the line of sight of the window through which a sniper had just shot. In his ear, Q was frantically asking what that sound had been.
“Courier’s dead,” Bond reported succinctly, “Sniper.”
He heard Q suck in an annoyed breath and immediately begin giving orders to find that bloody sniper . Bond, meanwhile, had rolled over and pulled the briefcase close enough to reach the clasps. “Q,” said Bond, “I have a combination lock, three numbers, and the courier was shot before she could give me the combination. What do you suppose the odds are that she made it something obvious?”
Q didn’t need to be told what Bond was angling for. He immediately pulled up all the information they had gathered on the woman, and began making suggestions of possible numbers. Variations of her birthday didn’t work. Nor did her parents’ birthdays or her sister’s. Q suggested part of a phone number, and they went through several iterations with that theory, but they also all proved incorrect. Then Bond said, “She’s French right? What’s her national ID card number?”
Q read it off, then stayed quiet as Bond input the numbers three at a time. After several long moments, there was a satisfying click and the case unlocked. “What finally worked?” enquired Q with purely professional interest.
“The last four digits, dropping the final one.”
“Clever,” mused the Quartermaster.
Bond was fairly sure that comment was in reference to the courier not him, but he enjoyed bantering with Q and trying to rile him up so he said anyway, “Why thank, Q, so nice to know you appreciate my intellect.”
It was meant as a flippant remark, but Q replied quite seriously, “I never doubted your intellect, Bond. Frequently your sanity, but never your intellect.”
That gave Bond pause for a moment. He had missed Q these last five years. In fact, Q was perhaps the only living person that Bond truly missed. Moneypenny was good company, and he respected M, but he had made one or two other friendships during his retirement that had filled the gaps left by those two. No one, however, could replace Q. It was probably fortunate for Bond’s sanity that he did not have the time to pursue that line of thought - and as a double-oh agent he had an almost inhuman ability to compartmentalize.
“Why thank you, Q. Don’t suppose you have any thoughts on the likelihood that this case is booby-trapped - because my intellect is telling me that it is a distinct possibility, and it’s a bit hard to work at this angle.”
“Well, the good news is that we now - briefly - have satellite coverage, and there do not appear to be any snipers remaining on surrounding rooftops. I wish we could say with certainty where the shot came from, but that will have to wait until more urgent matters have been attended to.”
Relieved that, at least in theory, he was no longer in immediate danger of being shot, Bond re-latched the case, shimmied out from behind the bed, and darted into the bathroom. When no shot rang out, he braved the entryway long enough to retrieve his backpack and shopping bag from the corridor.
“I presume that the local authorities are on their way? A window shattering would be somewhat noticeable I think.”
“Nothing yet,” replied Q, “But we’re monitoring closely. Are you going to try to open that briefcase?”
“Not here. It’s not safe. I’m going to change and leave, and take the case with me.”
~~~~
Q was watching the hotel security cameras when Bond reappeared, leaving through a side entrance. Q would not have noticed him if Bond had not made the comment about changing, for he looked quite thoroughly different. The ex-agent had replaced surf shop t-shirt and aviator sunglasses with the plain white v-neck and sporty sunglasses he had purchased a short time before. He had also put on the lightweight jacket and the baseball cap. Q assumed that Bond’s walther was now holstered beneath the concealing jacket. He was also carrying a different backpack, and there was no shopping bag in sight. In short, to the inexperienced or causal observer, he looked like a completely different person.
Unfortunately, that was either insufficient to throw of the cartel’s watchers, or the briefcase gave Bond away. No sooner had he exited the hotel and turned left (away from his car, but who was Q to judge?) than two men began to follow him.
“Bond, you appear to have acquired a pair of tails.”
“Damn briefcase,” grumbled Bond before immediately diverting into an alleyway. The two thugs, thinking this a stroke of good luck, hurriedly followed. Q had only a bit of grainy footage with which to watch the ensuing fight - if fifteen seconds in which Bond laid them both out and only suffered a single hit to his ribs could really be counted as a fight.
“I’ll see to it that they are taken care of,” Q assured his agent, messaging one of the techs in the room to drop an anonymous tip to the local police.
Bond took a circuitous route back to his car, clearly trying to shake any potential additional tails. Once there, he tossed the backpack in the passenger seat, started up the engine, and pulled quickly out into traffic. Q let him be for several long minutes, merely watching as the ex-agent made a few maneuvers to ensure he wasn't followed, then the Quartermaster said, "I presume you have a place in mind?"
"Yes," replied Bond simply, then, "Update on 003 and your research on the cartel?"
"003 is currently breaking things in the mole's hotel room. Being noisy enough that the manager just called the police. What do you say - should I warn him, or let him pay for his mistakes?" enquired Q absently.
“Why Q, of course you should warn him," teased Bond.
" Oh ?" enquired Q with a pointed, raised eyebrow even though Bond couldn't see it. The quartermaster's curiosity was half due to the substance of Bond's response and partly because the former 007 was not exactly known for having a sense of humor. This was...a nice change.
“If he's arrested here then you won't have a chance to personally castrate him for this debacle - or whatever more inventive punishment you had in mind." Bond said this as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
That startled a laugh out of Q. "You make a valid point there, Bond. Give me a moment, then I’m all yours again."
“Well that does sound promising..." replied Bond, ever the inveterate flirt.
"Hush, you," scolded Q absently, already calling 003's phone. The quartermaster didn't give 003 a chance to speak when the man answered. "Police are three minutes out from your location so I suggest you move your ass." Then, with no further comment Q hung up and returned his attention to Bond, who was chuckling.
Before Q could get defensive, however, Bond said with a smile in his voice, "I always did appreciate your directness, Quartermaster."
“Well at least someone does," Q muttered, thinking bitterly of a few contentious meetings which had occurred recently, and certain bureaucrats who certainly did not appreciate being told that they were being obtuse. He expected Bond to push and needle to discover what had led Q to make such a comment - agents were trained to pry at weaknesses, and Bond in particular had always excelled at that. But on this occasion he remained silent. Perhaps, mused Q, Bond was just more focussed on the task at hand - or he no longer cared about office politics since he no longer had any stake in said office. That thought was melancholy, and Q resolutely turned his attention to the rest of Bond’s request. “I’m afraid we haven’t made much progress on the cartel. They’re into the usual drug trafficking and weapons trafficking, with a side of human trafficking and funding terrorism in this case. We have plenty on various incidents they have been involved in, but the trouble is that for all the volume of info, most of it does not align with the current mission. They’ve threatened and bribed government officials as necessary, but never engaged further that we are aware. This seems a bit..out of the ordinary for them. So either they’re branching out, or something else is going on here.”
“Lovely,” said Bond, dry as one of the martinis he was famous for enjoying.
“Indeed,” agreed Q in the same tone, then went on to share what few details they had, finishing with, “I’ve sent you photos of key known associates, and I have facial rec up and running for any video feeds I manage to find in your area so I can alert you to the presence of cartel members.”
“Thank you, Q.”
Unused to such naked gratitude from a man like Bond, Q brushed it aside by saying, “Well, it’s going to be awkward enough to explain to M that I had to pull you out of retirement without adding any major injuries - or worse.” Bond merely laughed.
Shortly thereafter he pulled into a small motel just outside of town, walked in, and asked for a room. Q watched on the lobby camera as Bond paid in cash, but lost him again when he entered a room. Then his heart sank further when Bond said, “My headset is dying, Q.”
“Do you-”
“I have headphones. I’ll put them on while I charge it. I also have an iPad if you would like a video feed.”
“Oh thank God,” sighed Q before he could help himself.
Bond chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Within five minutes, an iPad was set up with a secure video call to Q-branch (Q himself made sure it was secure) and situated so that Q could see the surface of the bed, and most of the room. During the same period of time Q assured himself and Bond that the room was free of unexpected electronic devices like cameras. With that accomplished, Q watched curiously as Bond set the briefcase near the foot of the bed, then propped his backpack up against the edge of the bed and unzipped it. The ex-agent then proceeded to begin removing supplies from the backpack and setting them out in neat rows on top of the duvet. Nearly everything was neatly sealed into Ziploc bags, as if Bond expected the entire backpack to be submerged in water at any moment.
Q was unsurprised by the appearance of a second Walther, additional ammunition, a combat knife, switchblade, and various extra passports and cash in at least five currencies at Q could identify at a glance. This was also quite predictable, assuming that this was a bag which Bond kept perpetually packed in case he needed to make a quick escape. In a similar vein, the next items set on the bed were two bottles of water, a couple protein bars, and a battered paperback copy of The Guns of August. (Bit morbid, don’t you think, Bond? thought Q, but kept it to himself), and a substantial medical kit that Q was quite certain had been stolen from MI-6. Then there was two spare shirts, a plastic rain poncho and-
“Socks, really Bond?” inquired Q.
“Once you’ve had to hike 20 miles with wet socks you learn the value of carrying spares,” replied Bond mildly defensively.
Q shook his head silently but agreed and watched in fascination as Bond continued to unpack useful odds and ends, including a watch that Q recognized as being one of the many expensive prototypes that Bond had supposedly dropped in the Pacific during a mission. “I see where all your ‘missing’ equipment has gone over the years. Pity you never kept an earpiece.”
“Are you accusing me of theft, Quartermaster? I’m offended,” Bond said, sounding not offended at all. In fact, there was a great deal of warmth in his voice, as if Q had just complimented him.
The Quartermaster chuckled a little despite himself. Christ, Bond really hadn’t changed, except for apparently having re-discovered a slightly better sense of humor. Q liked it.
Bond took his time checking over the contents of the backpack, then carefully re-packed most of it before picking up the toolkit and lockpicks, and pulling the briefcase closer so he could work on it and Q could see it clearly on the video feed.
~~~~
Bond and Q spent long minutes discussing the possible types of boobytraps that could be worked into the plain metal briefcase and the best methods for safely checking and disarming them. Then Bond paused and considered. “I’m sure there is a failsafe of some kind, but it probably is worth bearing in mind that in theory this belonged to a fairly simple bank courier, not...the kind of people we’re used to dealing with. I doubt there’s anything too excessive in here.”
“Better safe than sorry,” retorted Q primly, but his lack of further comment made Bond think that his compatriot actually agreed.
“Right then, let’s see...” so saying, Bond input the combination that he and Q had cracked earlier - smiling a little to himself because it was so nice to work with someone as smart as Q - and carefully depressed the buttons until the top unlatched, popping open a few millimeters. But he didn’t lift the lid. Instead, Bond took a flashlight from the toolkit and peered into the small space between the top and bottom of the case, looking for any indication that there was a tripwire, extra latch, or similar mechanism. Q, to his credit, kept quiet and waited patiently (though Bond was sure that back in London, the Quartermaster was fidgeting and rueing the lack of high-tech sensors to do this job). “I don’t see anything,” said Bond after long moments spent on the careful examination.
“This seems too easy...”
Bond agreed, lifting the lid a few more millimeters and propped it open with the tiny bar of hand soap from the bathroom. Then he checked again for additional mechanisms. “Still nothing.”
Finally, Bond opened the lid all the way, letting out a quiet huff of relief when nothing exploded. On the video chat, Q said simply, “Well then,” but Bond thought he could hear relief in the posh voice as well. Neither of them would ever admit to it, of course, because it would mean admitting to less than full confidence in their own abilities.
Looking at the interior of the briefcase, Bond suddenly understood why the main unlocking mechanism had not been boobytrapped. He picked up the iPad and gave Q a good look at the perfectly smooth cover over the interior, preventing access to the contents of the bottom of the case. The top had a similar protective cover in place. Both had a pair of locks in opposite corners.
“Joy,” muttered Q, “Let’s hope your lockpicking skills aren’t rusty.”
“I should have searched the courier for keys,” grumbled Bond, even though he knew that he had had perfectly good reasons not to do so.
Nonetheless, Q helpfully pointed it out as well. “It might have taken an hour to thoroughly search all her possessions; authorities were bound to arrive, and there was an assassin in the area, not to mention the cartel. If you don’t want to tackle this right now, that’s fine. We’ll arrange for the case to be sent back here.”
“You can confirm that the drive is indeed inside?”
“Well after what happened...before Skyfall, it is now standard to put trackers in all sensitive backups of this nature. Here, I’ll just...” there was the sound of typing, then a pause, then some of the most inventive swearing Bond had ever heard, which was saying something.
After about 60 seconds of solid cursing and profanity, Q turned to face the room at large, rather than the camera on his monitor, and demanded icily, “Who was tasked with tracking the drive?” Bond couldn’t hear or see the response from Q’s minions, but the Quartermaster’s response was clear enough: “Then why the fuck does the program show the drive on the other side of the fucking city, rather than in the briefcase that we thought it was in?” Pause. “Oh, you were tracking the courier were you? And it never occured to you that- You know what, never mind. Pack your things and get out. Yes I’m serious. You’re not fired but you will not be working ops for the foreseeable future.” With another growled fucking hell , Q turned back to the camera.
Bond had rarely seen the Quartermaster lose his composure to such a degree, and never as abruptly, and the ex-agent cast about for a way to smooth ruffled feathers. Q had seemed to enjoy his attempts at humor earlier, so he drawled blandly, “And here I was so hoping to show off my lockpicking skills.”
“No time for that, I’m afraid,” said Q, almost sounding genuinely sorry, “Get in the car, I’ll give you directions to the drive. It’s on the move.” Then, to the techs in the op-center, “Now, no more slip-ups. I want two people tracking the drive, someone on 003, and at least three people monitoring cartel activity in the area. Clear?” There were murmurs of ascent.
Bond, meanwhile, was closing and relatching the case, and repacking the backpack. “I’m turning off the iPad, Q. My headset has been charging so I’ll use that again.” Bond paused to strap the ankle-holster to his right leg, and the combat knife to his left. The small butterfly knife went into the front pocket of his jeans, while he zipped his phone and two clips of bullets into his jacket pockets. Feeling better now that he was carrying weapons in addition to the Walter in his shoulder holster, Bond picked up backpack and briefcase and hurried out the door. He headed for a side door out of the motel, more out of habit than any suspicion that the lobby was unsafe.
When he was four steps from the door Q informed him calmly that, “I have no cameras on that side of the building, Bond.” He didn’t demand that Bond choose a different exit, or even suggest something else; merely gave Bond the information with which to make his own decision. Bond chose to keep walking.
When he was half a step through the door, Bond knew he’d made a bad decision. The two men waiting outside were startled by his sudden appearance - enough so that only one had time to draw a gun - but they recovered with a rapidity that suggested extensive training. Bond swung the metal briefcase at the head of the nearest one almost before his brain had fully processed what was going on, then he dropped both briefcase and backpack and threw himself at the second man, knocking the gun away. What followed was a brutal fight, neither as short nor as efficient as knocking out the two men in the alleyway. Bond kicked and threw an elbow, downing the second man. He spun back to face the first in time to see the man shake off the initial impact from the briefcase and reach for a gun. Bond’s own Walther made its way into his hand seemingly of its own accord. He fired once, a bullet through the head of the first man, before hands grabbed him from behind and hurled him forcibly into the wall of the building. Bond narrowly prevented his head from striking the concrete, but lost his grip on his gun. He ducked and turned, lashing out at his opponent and catching the man on the knee. The joint made a sickening crack and bent the wrong direction, giving Bond just enough time to stoop, recover his gun, and fire another killshot.
Bond stood still for a few precious moments after that, breathing heavily and carefully cataloguing the new aches in his body, then noticed the silence in his ear. Not the silence of Q being quiet, but the emptiness of him not being there at all. Bond’s hand went to his left ear, where the bluetooth headset at been, and found the device gone. He turned, gaze casting about frantically on the ground, and spotted the thing lying in the dirt at base of the wall. Bond rescued it quickly, turning it about in his fingers to check for damage before putting it back in his ear and asking tentatively, “Q?”
“Bond. I take it there was an issue?”
At the sound of Q’s posh, perfectly calm voice, Bond’s breath huffed out a relieved sigh. And because he had stopped lying to himself a long time ago he made a mental note of how unmoored he had felt without that connection to his Quartermaster. Former Quartermaster. Bond knew he’d been quiet for a beat too long, though, and grasped for something to say that wouldn’t give away his relief (he had stopped lying to himself, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop lying to everyone else).
“So, Q, that conversation we were having about bridges...”
He let it trail off intentionally, and smiled when Q caught on after only a breath: “I thought I heard gunshots. Good to know you weren’t on the receiving end. Yes, I’ll see that it’s taken care off. Did you use your Walther?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Take the casings with you if you can.”
Bond stooped and pocketed the two brass casings. “Done.”
“And take pictures of the bodies. I want to run facial rec.”
The ex-agent obediently used his phone to snap pictures, but before he could ask what number to send them to, Q said simply, “Ah, thank you. There they are.” Bond raised one eyebrow at the empty parking lot, trying to decide if he minded the realization that Q had apparently hacked his phone. The point became inconsequential a moment later, however, when the sound of sirens reached his ears.
“You’d best-”
“Already leaving,” replied Bond, peering around the building before darting back to his F-type and throwing himself into it. The briefcase fit neatly behind the seat, the backpack went in the passenger footwell, and Bond peeled out of the parking lot without pausing to put his seatbelt on.
Q gave him directions to the road that would take him to the other side of the city where the drive apparently was at the moment, in between telling his assistants to hack the local police database, cable the closest station chief, and half a dozen other things that may or may not have had to do with keeping Bond from being tried for murder. Bond only listened with half an ear, trusting Q implicitly in this, focussing more on watching in his rearview mirror very carefully for any tails.
When Q paused in his speech, Bond stepped in with a request, voice gone ice cold, “When you find out who those two were, I need to know. Because they were professionals on a level that the others thus far haven’t been.”
“They didn’t seem to give you too much trouble from the sound of it,” observed Q.
“They were able to track me to the motel, and they recognized me as enough of a professional to predict that I wouldn’t leave the same way I entered. We might have a bigger player than a cartel - or the cartel is hiring ex-operatives. And regardless, I need to know if this place is going to be safe for me after all this is over.”
Q was silent for a moment, then offered simply, “Sorry to have dragged you into this, James.”
Bond swallowed hard; Q rarely called him by his first name. He liked it. “Nah, I needed some excitement in my life again.”
In the background Bond heard a computer ding, and Q made a little noise of satisfaction. “Facial rec on the two from the motel. One is former Bulgarian SIA, the other is ex-Colombian special forces - trained by the Americans, naturally.”
“Naturally,” agreed Bond, gritting his teeth in annoyance.
“And now I am very glad that I didn’t ask the CIA to un-fuck this mess for us.”
Bond let out a bark of laughter at that, perhaps less dark and more warmly amused than it should have been. “Me too, Q. Me too.”