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‘So, 007 is dead.’ ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.’
The suit had kept its shape, M reflected. It was the man who was lying there, dripping wet and lifeless, who had lost his.
The Double-O Section had been kept deliberately small. In fact, after this recent loss it was now down to just two men – 008 and 0011. M had always rejected the idea of there being a sequence, 001, 002, 003 and so on. Patterns, in any shape or form, are the enemy of counter-intelligence.
‘If he gets your recommendation, that’s good enough for me, Chief of Staff.’ M frowned. ‘You didn’t tell me his name.’ ‘It’s Bond, sir,’ the chief of staff replied. ‘James Bond.’
Sitting in a corner of Restaurant Cattelin in the medieval district of Stockholm, stabbing at a bad filet mignon accompanied by a worse glass of burgundy, James Bond thought about the man he had come to kill.
Bond had always had a loathing of opera; its absurdly large women, its histrionics, its noise.
M reached for his pipe, although he didn’t light it. ‘There is one more thing. You’re going to need a number. You’ll be working with 008 and 0011. I don’t know why, but 009 sprung to mind. What do you think?’ Bond had been getting to his feet but he sat down again. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like to take over the 007 designation.’
The following day, James Bond 007 left for France.
‘Wait a minute.’ Sixtine had stopped him before he’d turned away. ‘I’d like mine shaken, not stirred,’ she said. The barman was about to argue but then he fluttered his eyelids. ‘Whatever madame desires.’ As he hurried away, Bond turned to her quizzically. ‘Does it really make a difference?’ he asked.
There would have been pain, of course, but not so very much of it because true pain only comes with recovery. You have to live beyond an injury to feel it.
Bond waved a hand and continued forward, a single drop of perspiration drawing a question mark around his ear and then continuing down his neck.
She was no longer next to him. If Bond was going to die, he would die alone.
