"The meaning of life is that it stops."

Franz Kafka

Chapter 1 – Never look backwards

It had been a good day. A "clean" job had marked the end of his assignment, and those who had to die had now rejoined those who should have lived in the indifference of death. He could now leave Prague and its share of memories behind.

It had been a good day. And still... Seated in a deep leather armchair, in a dark corner of the wood-panelled bar of his Mala Stranà hotel, James Bond was patiently waiting for the sickening feeling to pass. In a professional manner, he forced himself to close his mind to the nagging image of his last target, to the incredulous gaze of the man, and to the silent scream of his dead mouth. He knew the feeling, and he knew he couldn't wash his soul with vodka. But at least, he could anaesthetize his brain. The pool of dim light shed by a billiard lamp, the hammering of the rain on the windows, the deep carpet and wood-panelling of the room, the soft and quiet atmosphere, everything contributed to let him retire in his inner citadel and close the door. Leaning over the table in front of his armchair, he slowly poured himself another drink. The movement made him grin... Instinctively, his hand reached for the large dressing applied to the left of his torso, under his shirt. But he quickly pulled out his hand and put it flat on his knee. It was no time to pay attention to his wounds. He had enough to do with his old scars.

On one of those scars at least, he could put a name: Lenka Čermáková. Looking absent-mindedly through his glass, he remembered her tall figure, her short jet-black hair over a large forehead, and the green vivid eyes.

He remembered the softness of her midriff, the kiss of her mouth, and the grasp of her hands when they made love.

He remembered the drab cemetery in the outskirts of Prague he had visited this afternoon, her name engraved on the tombstone, and the small pebbles he had left on top of it.

They had met three years before, during one of his previous assignments. She was a scientist, and he found her company a breath of fresh air, a liveliness that relieved him of his life of felony, betrayal and death. For two weeks at least. She didn't know exactly what his job was, she only knew he was dangerous, and in pain. But she also knew she had nothing to fear from him, and she knew how to heal.

When he headed back to London, there had been no sadness. They both knew it was how it was supposed to end. But one evening, some months ago, he found her sitting in the stairway of his building. She looked up at him with a hint of despair in her deep eyes.

- "Hello James… I… I think I need some company tonight…"

As he smiled, she stood up, and made a step forward, a few inches from him. After looking silently straight into his eyes for a time, she slowly took his face in her hands, and eagerly kissed him on the lips. He returned the kiss, then gently lifted her in his arms, and walked toward his flat, as she started to laugh softly.

They barely exchanged a word that night. As far as he understood, she was there for a symposium, but she didn't want to tell more, and when he woke up in the morning, she was gone.

After that night, slightly worried, he tried to call her, but he could only leave her voicemail messages. He hadn't really been surprised when M called him, two weeks ago, to announce her death. The only thing that was really new to him was the connections of Lenka with a top-secret European cryptology project code named Mercurius. She had been working on some algorithms during the past year, teaming up with a British scientist, Prof. Michael Hughes, from University College, London. Both Hughes and Lenka were supposed to have committed suicide the same week, and data related to their current work had disappeared. MI6 supposed they had been executed, and wanted to know the truth. M knew Bond had personal links with the late Czech computer scientist. She also knew he was sufficiently emotionally detached to handle this assignment. But now this was all over, Bond himself doubted that.

For a moment, he looked at the transparent liquid in his glass. He reflected how much, at this moment, he longed for the fire of the drink in his throat and his stomach, for the relief of its warmth spilling in his weary body. He knew he was on the verge of needing it more than wanting it, and he hated the fact.

- "Slivovice? There's nothing like our plum brandy to celebrate the end of an assignment!"

Bond raised his eyes to meet those of Stanislav Šlesinger, standing next to his table. This jovial man in his early sixties was his contact in Prague. They shook hands, and both settled in the deep armchairs.

- "Thanks, Stan, but I stick to Vodka for such... celebrations."

- "Force of habit, isn't it, James?"

Bond smirked:

- "I have worse habits."

Šlesinger gave him a quick, embarrassed look. Since their first meeting about two weeks ago, he had never been at ease with this dark young man. Maybe it had something to do with his face, his cold grey-blue eyes and the scar down his right cheek that gave him a ruthless look. Maybe it had something to do with the feelings he could perceive in him… After more than twenty years as a sleeper agent for MI6 in central Europe, he had seen many ruthless young men. But this one was more than ruthless. He was on the edge.

- "James, are you all right?" Šlesinger leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You should be in a hospital... The back seat of my car is still covered with your blood!"

Bond waved off the subject.

- "I'm all right, Stan. Don't worry about me." He took a deep breath, seeming to shake himself off his thoughts, and reached for a gunmetal cigarette case. "Mind if I smoke?"

Šlesinger smirked:

- "Well, as you pointed out, I'm not your doctor... Do what you want with your lungs!"

Bond gave him one of his thin, rather cruel smiles, and lit his cigarette.

- "Anyway, if your health is beyond my concern, I think you'll appreciate I've taken care of your flight. You are booked on the first plane to Budapest tomorrow morning. Here are your travel documents. I'll come to pick you up at 07:00."

- "Thanks. It's perfect."

- "My friend, Sára Kiss, will send a car for you at the airport, as soon as you land in Budapest."

Bond raised one eyebrow and gave him a quizzical look. Šlesinger smirked again.

- "Yes. I know. But "Kiss" simply means "Small" in Hungarian. It's a difficult language, I suppose you won't have enough time to learn it..."

- "Well, I'd be very glad to get familiar with some Hungarian tongue twisters, anyway..."

Šlesinger gave him a reproachful look.

- "She's a brilliant mathematician, James... I don't think she'll be interested in teaching you... such things! You have an appointment with her at the Central European University (you'll find the details on the travel documents). She's involved in Mercurius, so I'm sure she'll help you understand the meaning of those files Dr. Čermáková left you."

- "Thank you, Stan" he said earnestly.

The elder man leaned back in his armchair, and observed Bond carefully with squinted eyes.

- "James... May I tell you something quite... personal?"

Bond looked at him through a twirl of smoke and nodded silently.

- "Well… You're a professional, James. And a good one at that, as far as I know from your record and our recent acquaintance. I know what it takes in our particular line of business. And I've been told of your… time in North Korea. So I won't ask you what you believe in. But do you know who believes in you? I mean, apart from M, apart from your fellow agents… Do you know who would mourn you if you were to die?"

- "Well, I'm sure my garage man would mourn me… I can't see how he could finish to pay his cottage without my car!"

Šlesinger ignored the quip.

- "I'm an old man, James. Pardon me if I sound patronizing. But let me tell you something. No doubt you're a loner. You wouldn't be alive if you were not. But to know what to die for is not enough, you must know what to live for. I observed you during this assignment, and if there's one thing you don't seem to value much, it's your life. I mean, you take risks, it's part of your business. But please be careful. You won't stay alive long, if you don't feel alive."

He noticed the fierce glare in Bond's eyes at this point and, hesitating, paused for some seconds. Had he made a point? He was now fiddling about with his glass. He finally made a wave of the hand.

- "Sorry about that. You must think I'm an old bore. But please think about it. Vodka isn't your only friend… Find people you can care about, and help them care about you." He stood up briskly. "Anyway, have a good night, James, you deserved it. I'll see you tomorrow".

Bond stood up too, and shook his hand as he took his leave. He looked at the chubby, balding man as he was leaving the hotel bar, and sat down slowly once the doors shut. He poured himself a last drink, emptying the bottle. Turning slowly the glass in his hands, he thought about this unforeseen talk. Šlesinger had certainly a point. Bond knew that, since North Korea, he wasn't the same. But could he help it? Was he getting too emotionally detached? He had always considered that this was the only way for him to stay alive… But to "feel alive" was another matter. This phrase brought sweet and sour memories to his mind. He took a long sip at his drink. "Find people you can care about"… Hell! So many people he had cared about had died…

Bond shrugged. He put some money on the table for the drinks and a large tip, and headed to his room. Never look backwards!