In 1944, a young Ian Fleming remarked: “I am going to write the spy story to end all spy stories.”
He probably didn’t say anything about parliamentary sketches.
So.
* * *
Ed Mili-Bond came through the padded door and shut it behind him. He walked over to the chair across the desk from M and sat down.
“Morning, 007.”
“Good morning, sir.”
There was silence in the room apart from the far-off din of undergraduates getting trampled in a cavalry charge. Smoke rose in slow spirals from a freshly extinguished cigarette. Mili-Bond had not been in M’s office since his promotion to double-o status. He had been forced to disappear for several agonizing months after his disastrous last mission.
The Service had been thrown into turmoil after agent Brown failed to recruit the highly valuable asset known as agent Yellow, an Oxford man with a talent for languages and a flair for deception. Mili-Bond had conceived an instant dislike for him, and his suspicions were confirmed when agent Yellow, along with his entire spy ring, defected to the enemy. Rumours later abounded that Yellow’s organization had long been infiltrated by the soviets, including a pair of agents calling themselves the “Cheeky Girls.” This defection was a catastrophe for the Service, and caused agent Brown to take his own life. “The pathetic coward,” thought Mili-Bond, slowly extracting a cigarette ringed with three gold bands from its silver case.
Mili-Bond sat back and let the smoke from his own personal blend of tobacco fill his lungs. He looked into M’s cold, battleship grey eyes.
“Why I am I here?”
“You’re here because you’re a double-o. I can count on your willingness to take on any mission, no matter how dangerous.”
Mili-Bond paused. “Double-o”. He was still getting used to the new designation. He had earned it on his most recent assignment: a simple assassination, but one which had gone horribly wrong. Mili-Bond had been instructed to kill agent 006, a leading officer in the Service whose closeness to ex-agent Tony had come to be seen as a liability. M had suspected that it was only a matter of time before the enemy would be able to turn 006, if they hadn’t already.
Mili-Bond and 006 had shared very similar upbringings: both had experienced the loss of a parent, both had been bullied at school. Throughout their years in the Service they had been like brothers. Mili-Bond had found the job easy, though, and relished the first use of his silenced PPK, putting two holes cleanly through his companion’s forehead. He remembered it now, and felt nothing. “Double-o”.
“Now listen, 007. This mission is suicide. We expect your chances of survival to be minimal, at best.”
It’s good to be back, thought Mili-Bond.
“We need you to take out agent Yellow’s men, who have somehow managed to infiltrate government, and dispatch any enemy agents you come across. Reliable sources have informed me that we are also dealing with a highly dangerous organization calling itself “the Bullingdon Club”. A lot of good men died to get this information, Mili-Bond. See that you get our agents back into Westminster.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mili-Bond stood up and turned to the door. He took his hat from the stand, and reached for the handle.
“Oh, and Mili-Bond –”
“Yes, sir?”
“It was nice knowing you. Give your regards to Miss Moneypenny on the way out.”
* * *
Q’s workshop was deep in the bowels of MI6. Mili-Bond entered and walked to the far wall, where a man in a lab-coat stood hunched over a microscope. The room was empty, save for a few cardboard boxes. There was a stale smell, like a damp garage.
“What have you got for me this time, Q?”
“I beg your pardon?” said the major, irritated.
“Gadgets? Cars? You know.”
Q murmured something and reached under a table. He pulled out a rather old looking briefcase and brushed the dust off it.
“Here.”
Mili-Bond tried to hide his disappointment. There was an Aston Martin waiting for him last time. Oh well, he thought: a new gadget is still a new gadget.
“So what would happen if I press these like this…”
Mili-Bond put his thumbs up against the clasp of the briefcase, as though to open it. He looked up at Q for a reaction. Q looked back.
“It’s a briefcase, 007.”
“It doesn’t explode?”
“No.”
“So it’s stuffed with gold sovereigns? A hidden flamethrower, maybe?”
“It’s empty.”
Mili-Bond looked confused.
“What does it do?”
“‘Do’, Mr. Mili-Bond? This department has had an 80 percent budget cut. You are to take that empty briefcase and fill it with ideas. The Service needs you.”
* * *
Mili-Bond walked to the phone box across the square and picked up the receiver. His recently-fired pistol felt warm against his chest. He dialled the number for M’s office and calmly told Moneypenny to put him through.
“The job is done. The bitch is dead.”
“Ah, excellent work 007. I shall start the preparations for Baroness Thatcher’s state funeral immediately.”
