Bond was driving himself to the airport. Although he always enjoyed the rush of charging into battle in a sporty little number (much the same way he preferred his women) he had a deep and almost satisfying loathing for Sunday drives and grid locked traffic.
As he eased onto the main motorway he ruminated about the wisdom which saw him booked on a flight from London to Istanbul at 11am. A commercial flight to add insult to his increasingly injured ego.
He was used to private jets and chauffeurs. Champagne and strawberries on a midnight flight, called from the first class lounge at the last minute, waving good bye to the pretty young hostesses as he casually strolled to the gate. Yet here he was, driving himself through early morning traffic in a beat up old Punto.
He played out the next few hours in his head. Assuming he actually made it through the hellish nightmare that was London traffic, he would then spend the rest of the morning standing in a queue with sweaty holiday makers and potential terrorists.
M had briefed him quickly, and Bond had listened with as much enthusiasm as he could muster at 6am, knowimg he had left behind a shapely redhead to slept the morning away between Pima sheets imported from Jamaica. He hadn't even had time for breakfast.
The basic point of all this mundane and pedestrian travel was the infiltration of a known money counterfeiting and laundering scheme that ran from Istanbul up through Bulgaria, Romania and on towards central Europe and the UK.
M had given Bond the basis of the plan, the general out line of the task ahead of him and some specifics based on the time frame required to complete the mission, all of which had leaked out of Bonds head as soon as he put the early morning breakfast radio on and was almost bored to death by the constant and yet contrastic drone of a presenter who managed to seem both chirpy and suicidal at the same time.
Switching the radio off Bond looked out his window at the other drivers stuck next to him in this symphony of finger drumming. With the rattling of a step 5 level alcoholic, he reached for his Brioni jacket in the back seat, lamenting the improbability of his clothing being worth more than the car, and fished out the cigarette case. Which was gold plated and embossed with his initials. And probably also worth more than the car.
After 20 minutes and three cigarettes, Bond was about 200 yards further down the pot holed tarmac and had used the time to spy on the other drivers. He was situated in the middle lane in his blue and rust Punto, with a white Ford to his left and a red Audi to his right.
His brain had threatened to go rogue as the futile and tedious traffic had ground his thought process to a halt, so he played guess the occupation with the other drivers.
He was convinced the lady driving the white Ford was a secretary of some sort, applying make up in the rear view mirror as she waited, and almost unbelievably producing a pair of hair straightening tongs from some Narnia under her seat. The casual mess of her car and the obvious fact she had ran late gave him the impression of a disorganised London flat left behind with half drank cups of tea and cat who would have to wait for his dinner scattering the disposable furniture like a land locked Mary Celeste.
Another 10 minutes and 100 yards later Bond changed lanes, snuggly fitting in behind the Audi and in front of a commerical truck. The Audi was driven by a man with immaculate hair, a beard trimmed far beyond the realm of naturality and a smug posture that suggested he swaggered when he walked. Banker.
It took another hour to reach the airport, by which time Bond had 15 minutes to check in, so he abandoned the Punto in a no parking zone, hoping it would be towed and crushed by the time he was settling down to after dinner drinks in the Ciragan Palace.
After checking in, and finally getting something he was unsure was coffee, he settled down to wait for the boarding call, deciding very forcefully in his head that this would be the last time M would send him out in the only car available, on a short notice commercial flight and without p[roper notification so he could at least squeeze in some shower time with the redhead. Or blonde, or brunette, or whoever was keeping the empty side warm at night.
With the boarding finally called he put down the newspaper he was reading, stood up and walked briskly to the gate, at least satisfied in the knowledge that he was the only passenger on the plane with a license to kill, and they would be serving martinis on the flight.