For what seemed like the hundredth time to Bond, he reached for the half-empty bottle of cognac on the table.
He leaned back further in the leather office chair, another relic of the bland, false life that this office had come to mimic. From the business cards reading "James Bond, Overseas Commission, Universal Exports" to the plain, everyday bits of printer paper and post-its, all was a memoir of boring, plain business life.
Fortunately, his presence at HQ this evening was far from business related.
They'd all been summoned to the funeral of Admiral Miles Milton, better known to the senior staff and the OO section as "M", infamous for his roguish taking of chances and his acceptance of the OO numbers' cavalier attitude to the Service.
But that sort of thing wasn't wanted anymore. The Iron Curtain was no more, and what was wanted now was precision, by-the-book-ness, and every semblance of bureaucracy left in the upper floors of Military Intelligence.
And with the loss of a superpower to stare down came a loss of real work for Bond. Thinking hard, he realized that the last official mission he'd carried out was taking out Koskov and Whitaker (not counting the whole Sanchez affair). Since then, it had been uneventful surveillance work and some training exercises. No women, no cars (Q, if anyone, was fed up with the new face of MI6, having no work other than just making better audio bugs; stripped of his armory of bombs, gas dispensers, and flamethrowers, the old Major was like an old sea captain robbed of a ship) and no casinos, even. It had been too long since the shoe had drummed out its two or three cards to the spatula to await Bond's eager hand.
In all fairness, it was very fortunate that Bond had a job at all. 003 had been "retired", following an episode involving a revenge killing not too dissimilar with Bond's affairs in Mexico. Bond shuddered at the thought of the tales Felix had told him of the kind of "by the book" that was going on in the CIA. But M had always managed to stave off disaster for the cowboys of the OO section.
Of course, he could do that no longer.
And so, the evening after the funeral, Bond found himself sitting in his office with his tie loosened and his jacket askew, drinking cognac and smoking a cigar with Chief of Staff Bill Tanner, who was, if anything, more hostile to the whole mess.
"So who do you think it'll be now?" said the short, flippant Bill.
"Got me," said Bond. "Only thing I can guess is it's one more bean counter."
"You think?"
"In any case," stated Bond matter-of-factly, "I'm probably out the door."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, once he gets the personal files, it's all over."
"Probably," said Tanner. "However, it would still have to pass through me."
"The Good Old Boys still have their roots," Bond grinned.
The silvery intercom on Bond's desk buzzed, and the crisp, playful voice of Moneypenny came on the line. "James?"
He leaned over and pressed the button. "Here."
"Would you report to the office? The new head's here, wants to discuss the operations for March and April."
Bond gave a coy smile as he pressed again. "Ah, spring, that magical time of year when a young man's fancy turns to –"
"Oh, just come on," replied the tired, overworked, heard-it-all secretary. "Tell Bill it's for him, too."
And so they found themselves outside the office they had known so well, and were about to un-know. Moneypenny opened the door, and they were in.
A tall, handsome black man stood before them in a simple blue suit. The dress, the manner, and the fact that he was obviously wearing a gun brought one thing to Bond's mind. This was a man after his own heart.
Flanking him was an elderly, tight-lipped woman, obviously this fellow's secretary. Bond could see that this was a woman wed to her business alone. Alright, so far, so good.
Bill extended his hand to the new chap reclining on the desk. "Ah, sir, you must be the new head of D. I'm Bill Tanner, Chief of Staff, this is Commander James Bond, 00 Section."
The man smiled, and shook Bill's hand somewhat confusedly. Bond's hand was about to shake his as well when the secretary spoke up.
"Actually," came the icy voice, "I am the new Head of the Division."
Bond felt his heart plummet into his stomach at the realization of what he and Tanner had done. Bill looked similarly crestfallen. Bond took the opportunity to size her up more fully.
From the short hair to the plain, businesslike suit, one thing was clear. The number crunchers had invaded MI6, and this was their governess speaking.
"This is, in fact, Lieutenant Charles Robinson, Royal Marines. Mr. Robinson will be your new Chief of Operations, gentlemen."
Bond's heart raced. It was bad to get off on the wrong foot with a new boss, but to do that with a boss who probably hated you based on your dossier was worse.
"Now," came the metallic voice as the emotionless eyes turned on Bond, "You must be 007."
"Speaking," said Bond flatly.
"I read your report on your activities within the Sanchez cartel. Interesting. Your methods, especially." She turned from him.
"Now, gentlemen, we've got a small matter in our Swiss frontier. Station H, Zurich, reported that the banking sector has had a huge rise in its offshore fluctuating markets, meaning that a private industrial group is probably…"
Bond zoned out, only keeping half an ear open to see where the bean counting involved him. As it turned out, almost nowhere. Back to surveillance.
She finished. "If that's all, gentlemen, I'd like you to show Mr. Robinson his new office."
They left. Bond exited with a formal, "Nice to have met you, Ms…"
"M," came the flat reply.
All three were walking along the marble halls of the corridor when Robinson spoke. "Pretty cold, isn't she?"
"Like a nudist on an iceberg," replied Bond. They all grinned.
"Score one for the Evil Queen of Numbers," said Tanner with a perfectly straight face.
So powerful was the mental image that all three burst out into uncontrollable hysterics. When it was all over, Bond simply said:
"You're going to fit right in here."