Simulacrum
1
Commander James Bond of Her Majesty's Secret Service, reclined uncomfortably into the back of his armchair. Slouched as he was, his blue eyes peered over the crests of his knees, and focused upon the porcelain figurine sitting on the coffee table. The smashed face of the English Bulldog, draped in the folds of the Union Jack, met his gaze without emotion. In the relative quiet of his flat, the figurine spoke not at all to Bond. It's inky, infinite eyes conveyed no message, and offered no insight.
Sighing through his nose, Bond scowled, and sat himself up higher into his seat. The damned figurine remained just as ugly as it had been on her desk corner, and even the newly-bestowed gift of sentiment could not sway Bond's opinion on the matter. Yet, in spite of its aesthetics, Bond knew that it would stay with him until the end of his days. She deserved at least that small measure of remembrance.
With only a scant fortnight having passed since the title of 'M' had been bestowed to Gareth Mallory, Bond had found himself feeling equal parts detached and resentful. In quiet moments such as the one in which he occupied now, the latter, however, won the day. He did not miss her per se, but there was a palpable vacuum that had formed in her wake that Mallory had not yet filled. The blame for that void could hardly be placed on Mallory, and Bond knew this. Yet all the same, vengeance and justice still called to Bond for their due, and Raoul Silva's death had not been enough to fill the vacuum either.
Bond sat up fully, and leaned forward to rest his elbows upon knees. His gaze fell away from the figurine, and came to rest naturally upon the face of his Omega Mark II wristwatch. It was 8 PM on a Saturday. Outside the windows of his flat, London was alive with the vigor borne of late spring, complimented by an unseasonably warm and clear evening. It was the kind of night that was too fresh and inviting to remain indoors, no matter the roil of one's personal demons. Bond had already planned to venture forth, and had dressed accordingly. It had been the act of sitting to lace his shoes that had afforded the eyes of the figurine a moment to catch him, and subsequently send him off on another mental crusade.
Freed of his tiny captor, Bond left his flat down the stairs of his building, and exited into the humid, welcoming night air. He wore a short-sleeved knit shirt, and a pair of comfortable slacks that were light enough to call for a walk in lieu of a taxi ride. Though Bond had intentioned to venture out, he had not yet decided where to wile his time. Even with his wish to walk to his destination, Bond had no intention of making that walk a prolonged affair. With that in mind, Bond's decision came quite naturally, and his feet began leading the way south towards St. James Street, and ultimately Dukes Bar.
With its proximity to his home, and the affectation of being a classic, almost speakeasy-like cocktail bar, Bond was as close to being a regular at Dukes Bar as any man with his travel demands could expect to be. It was a quiet place, with skilled bartenders, and an air of quality and finery that remained unpretentious. The other fare Dukes had to offer, that which stood upon towering heels and marked with predatory rouge, was not to be besmirched either.
Bond made his way down the sidewalk, and forced his mind onto only that which was before him. He desired to have his senses take in what the world had to offer, and immediately discard it before a story could be attached to any one thing. The people he passed, the building facades, the cars upon the streets—all these met his eyes, and were immediately cast-off, becoming supplanted by the next spectacle of civilization. It was an exercise that required effort, much like any form of meditation, but it was one that Bond found refreshing. It was a means of personal detachment that was a worthy replacement until chilled vermouth or vodka could tag in to take its place.
Two blocks were about to turn into three, with Dukes Bar just beyond the next intersection, when Bond's attention was forced to that of a black Jaguar sedan pulling beside him at the curb. Looking sidelong to the car, Bond watched as the passenger window rolled down, revealing the driver. At the sight of her, Bond came to a stop, and lifted an eyebrow without an accompanying word.
Dark eyes surrounded by shapely chocolate features, and a handsome mess of ebony curls, met Bond's gaze.
"Enjoying your evening, James?"
Bond let the corner of his mouth rise in a smile. "Only just, Moneypenny."
"Well," Eve Moneypenny replied with a smirk, "it'll be getting more exciting for you in short order. Get in."
"Moneypenny, desperate, demanding overtures don't suit you."
"Who said it was me who wanted to fetch you in the first place, James? My overtures come from above, so get in the bloody car."
Bond merely smiled, chuckled lightly, and settled into the passenger seat.
The drive to Vauxhall took almost as long as it did during the morning rush, such was the traffic. Once inside the car, Moneypenny had explained that M had called and requested for her to pick Bond up, citing that she was nearby, and that the both of them needed to get to MI6. Bond didn't need to ask how M had known where either he or Moneypenny had been in relation to one another—the answer was currently inside his pocket, set to vibrate.
Bond also didn't need to ask what was important enough for M to be calling them in on a Saturday night. Moneypenny was a professional, and she had already given him all the information that she had, which amounted to nothing at all beyond the fact that they had been summoned to MI6 headquarters on M's behest.
As Moneypenny turned onto Millbank, Bond looked across the Thames to the skyline beyond. The silhouette of the Secret Intelligence Service building stood in dark contrast against its warmly lit neighbors. Without its distinct floodlights on to illuminate its exterior, the once handsome center of British Intelligence sat like a wounded veteran amidst a crowd of happy faces. Bond's jaw tightened for the thousandth time at the sight. Silva's act of terror had scarred the building, and reconstruction had only just begun. It would take months to repair the damage the crazed ex-SIS agent had inflicted.
However, out of the ashes of that explosion, a purpose and resolve had been forged. A resolve that had been keenly and skillfully focused by M into an almost living phenomenon that could be felt throughout the entire cadre of MI6. While Bond hardly considered the newfound purpose a fair trade for all those that had lost their lives in Silva's campaign of vengeance, he took solace in knowing that the SIS had come out on the other side stronger than it ever had before during his long tenure. The time was ripe for MI6 to assert its strength—a target was all that was required.
Following a thorough inspection by the security personnel, Moneypenny pulled through the gates, and into the secured parking garage beneath MI6 headquarters. After parking the Jaguar, Bond fell into step beside his companion as they entered one of the many secured elevators leading inside. Leaning against the rear wall of the elevator car, Bond found himself silently and discreetly appraising the woman who had almost killed him months before.
She was tall, lithe, and athletic, dressed in a pair of dark skinny jeans, red pumps, and a simple black sleeveless top. From his vantage slightly behind her, Bond could see her physique had not softened since her time in the field. He repressed a mischievous smile at the memory of Moneypenny kneeling before him, dragging the straight razor across his jaw to shave him, her lips mere inches from his own. Macau had been a memorable adventure to say the least, and the one that had first truly shown Bond the more amorous side to the Miss Eve Moneypenny. Nothing more intimate than overt flirting and innuendo had occurred that night, but nevertheless, Bond had a distinct feeling that such would be their habit for the entire duration of their acquaintance. Thus far, Moneypenny had done little to disprove his theory.
As if reading the course of his thoughts, Moneypenny glanced back over her shoulder, and seemed to give Bond a knowing smile. Bond said nothing as the doors of the elevator opened, and the pair entered the hallway that led to M's office. MI6 was still alive, even at this hour, and though the corridors were not as crowded, many offices still held sounds of technicians and agents working away at their computers. The war to be on the upper hand of knowledge knew no respite.
Moneypenny made her way ahead of Bond, and keyed in the secure code to the office anteroom before swiping her keycard. The heavy, yet handsome looking door, opened with a metallic click of maglocks. Following her inside, Moneypenny took her seat behind her desk, and activated the intercom.
"I have Mr. Bond here for you, sir."
"Send him in," came the immediate reply.
Moneypenny smiled up at Bond. "Good luck, James."
Bond grinned on his way to the leather-clad gateway to M's sanctum. "I don't need luck, Moneypenny. That's what you're for."
As he turned away from a smiling Moneypenny, and through the threshold into M's office, Bond was met with low lights, and the glow of the large HD screen that hung beside M's desk. The screen itself depicted only the lion and unicorn crest of the Secret Intelligence Service, but Bond knew it would not remain there for long.
"Good evening, 007. Took you long enough," said M from behind steepled fingertips.
"Traffic, sir. My apologies."
M let out a quiet "harrumph" of understanding before taking a small remote control from his desktop. Clicking it, the screen beside him transitioned smoothly to a large headshot image of a middle-aged white man looking out to Bond from behind calculating green eyes. Recognition bubbled within Bond's mind as he took a seat before M's desk, but a name failed to appear along with it.
"You remember Guy Haines, of course?" M said. "Your friend from the clandestine meeting of Quantum executives in Bregenz almost two years ago?"
"Ah yes, the former special adviser to the PM," Bond said, crossing a leg across his knee. "Special Branch lost him following the slight misunderstanding that occurred at the opera."
Bond looked to M as he spoke, searching at the stern man's features for any hint at his thoughts. When Bond had found himself at the opera house in Bergenz trying to flush out the plot of the terrorist organization known as Quantum, Guy Haines was identified as being a traitor. Following Haines' true affiliation being revealed, Bond ended up chasing Haines' bodyguard, a man that Bond assumed was a Quantum operative. Ultimately Bond caught the man, and subsequently threw him from the roof of the opera house. What Bond didn't know was that the bodyguard was actually an agent from Special Branch assigned to protect Haines. In the immediate aftermath of the misunderstanding, Bond was classified as a rogue, and had to fight his way back into the good graces of MI6's leadership.
If M possessed any lingering opinion on the matter, he gave no sign. "Indeed, that's your man. Haines has been at large since that night, and some in the community even speculated that he had been killed by Quantum as a security measure."
M clicked the remote once more, and the headshot of Haines was replaced with a lower quality photo of a man in a woven grass fedora, and garbed in tropical attire. Even with sunglasses over his eyes, and the lack of sharpness from the telephoto lens, Bond recognized Haines without difficulty.
"This was taken twelve hours ago in Guadalupe," M continued. "One of our operatives that had been waiting to monitor an exchange of Quantum-connected French arms smugglers happened to identify Haines at the meeting, and passed the intel up the chain."
Bond looked to the picture upon the screen, and took in M's words. Haines had survived his unmasking as a traitor within the British government, and at first blush appeared to still be working for Quantum. M beat Bond to his next question.
"We don't yet know at what level Haines is still involved with Quantum, but the man was an executive within the organization, and a class-A infiltrator to boot. Even if he's nothing more than a bag-man now, the past intelligence he still possesses would be invaluable to unearthing the rest of Quantum. Our asset in Guadalupe has kept tabs on Haines' whereabouts, and thus far he shows no sign of departing the island."
Bond nodded and stood. "When do I leave, sir?"
M looked up to Bond, the barest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Two hours. And 007, I suggest you keep Mr. Haines well clear of any rooftops. Another misunderstanding would not do."
