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M's punishment for his latest international transgression was to force him to sit tight in London, under surveillance, with a mediocre allowance (credit cards and bank cards temporarily frozen, save for the payment of utilities) and absolutely no foreign travel, at least until the furor in the press died down (shooting up an electoral candidate of a democratic country, indeed. The delicacy of the matter had meant that MI6 was unable to reveal the reason, and so someone had to take the fall).
As if with particular malicious intent, she then proceeded to leave for a conference in Paris, taking Villiers with her. So much for his first avenue of entertainment.
James 'enjoyed' his first two days of leave by being heartily bored. Cable television stopped being entertaining after an hour, and he wished he were still able, in London, to trawl a pub and pick up a pretty face to play with until a mission grew so difficult that he would be entrusted with it. Since the last time he had angered (really angered) Villiers, however, James had been a little more cautious about the invisible line between what he could do that was permissible, and what would bring the aide just that one step closer to permanently walking out of his personal life.
In England, Villiers had made it clear (without actually saying so), James was his (and vice versa), or there would be nothing more, between them (and that frightened him, sometimes, the thought, though of course he was too well-trained to show that).
Faced with such opposition, James decided that he might as well find a way to continue working… discreetly.
Besides, he told himself, he had left the job unfinished, in Cairo, and he disliked that (perfectionism, obsession, or sheer bloody-mindedness, he was not quite sure). Therefore, he would need money (and needing money was a fairly novel experience, to James), and the only people he knew offhand who had that much disposable income tended to have code names involving two zeroes in the front.
A judicious perusal of the nearest unattended computer of the records computer, using codes that he was not supposed to have, told him that 006 was still deep undercover in Mexico, 008 was on personal leave in Italy in the middle of the countryside, and all the other double-0s that he was even somewhat on good terms with were busy on a variety of missions scattered around the world. That left 004, who was on leave in London.
Damn.
004 was the only double-0 whom James did not particularly like: for the others, he knew clearly where they stood, in his prejudices (of which he had many). He had thought about this once, when freezing up in surveillance in Chechnya, and had decided that it was likely because 004 was the only double-0 who had no charm. It wasn't that the man didn't have it: he had seen it at work before, when the man was talking to Moneypenny, but on the most part, he didn't bother to use it. And why should he? 004 was the only double-0 who had a normal life, outside the job. James knew that if he checked, 004 probably even had normal friends (not the sort somewhat associated with MI6. After a while, double-0s tended to be a little wary of making close acquaintances with people who didn't know how the basic ways to get out of a pinch).
He didn't bother to deny that this didn't intrigue him. And that rather annoyed him.
Also, 004 had an annoying tendency to enter what Moneypenny had playfully termed 'wise Asian master' mode, where he tended to focus too much on translated proverbs or self-important truisms. It was the egotism inherent in any double-0, James knew (absolute self-confidence was part of a necessary component in a cold killer, which was what they were), only carefully masked.
That thought made him feel only slightly guilty, when creeping outside the man's home and considering exactly how to break in without undue damage or any noise made to disturb 004's family. The kitchen window, perhaps; but that could be dangerous, given how the children might go there for a midnight snack. The living room, then…
The curtained French windows over his head abruptly opened, which made him roll noiselessly to the side and flatten against the wall, then he relaxed, when 004 climbed out, walked over, and folded his arms. "What do you want?"
Being glared at by someone shorter than him and who looked like a small town Chinese grocer, complete with faded shirt and jeans, stocky build and glasses (likely unnecessary in reality) was a little disconcerting.
"How…"
"A man's home is his castle." 004 pointed at the bush. Almost imperceptible, unless you knew what you were looking for, was the faintest outline of a lens.
"I need some help," James said, unashamed of being caught red-handed in the act of attempted burglary.
004 looked at him for a long moment, then up at the second floor, where the darkened lights suggested that his children were sleeping. "All right. Come in. And do use the front door like a normal person."
--
Inside, 004 poured him a decent cognac, from the cabinet, then himself, before pushing a sleepy tabby off an armchair and settling into it. James himself chose the divan (the least cat hair), and sipped the drink. Asking for a martini would likely be pushing it, and he was aware that he was in another double-0's territory, another killer at least as good as he was, and it would not hurt to be polite, especially when asking for favors.
"Talk," 004 said, and he did, explaining (without the most confidential parts) the last mission in Cairo, what had went wrong, why it was not finished, and the annoying punishment. When he finished 004 settled deeper into the chair, and accepted the cat onto his lap. "So you want me to lend you money."
"I've just told you why."
"Did you tell M?"
"She said I was emotionally involved and to take a break."
004 chuckled. "When was the last time you took leave, 007? Real leave, not enforced leave?"
James shrugged. There was that time, right after the Le Chiffre business… but it hurt still, to think of a cold body drowned in the waters of one of the world's most beautiful and romantic cities. "Will you help me, or not?"
"I actually agree with M. You should take a break."
"She's off to Paris."
"So?"
"She took Villiers with her." James rather wished that didn't sound as petulant as it did.
That made 004 pause. "Oh." Then he added, dryly, "You do realize that the punishment you are currently under would be far worse for me, with my family to support? So why ask me to go against MI6?"
"You can pretend I didn't tell you why," James said, as persuasively as he could. "I'll even come up with a story you can use, if you want. Just lend me the money." His pride didn't particularly allow him to say 'please'.
"David?" A sleepy voice, from the staircase, stopped 004's retort. "You didn't tell me you were receiving guests."
A very pretty, petite Eurasian brunette, with large eyes and a sweet smile, dressed in a flannel robe; she wandered over and leaned against the back of 004's chair. "Hello, Mister…?"
"Maisy, this is James Bond. James, this is my wife, Maisy." There was an almost imperceptible emphasis on 'wife', and a flicker on 004's eyes, which said, very clearly, I know where Villiers lives, and I know many ways of killing him, some of them very painfully, without being traced.
James toned down on the habitual charm, as he stood up to shake hands. "Pleased."
"And you're both drinking," Maisy said, in half-awake disapproval. "One moment. I'll be more human after coffee." She disappeared into the kitchen.
"She's a lawyer," 004 said, as though that explained the caffeine dependence. Indeed, there was a discernible difference, when Maisy returned with a cup, her eyes sharper, with keen intelligence, and James wondered vaguely how 004 managed to keep his life a secret.
That was answered in the next thing Maisy said. "James Bond, 007?"
James blinked, then stared at 004, who shrugged. His wife chuckled. "You do not need to look so startled, 007. I must say, some of your tangles gave MI6's legal department quite a few headaches, in arbitration and settlements. You could say that it was partly because of you that I decided to leave and become a prosecutor instead."
"One of…"
"That and I rather loudly objected to MI6's policy of taking on orphaned children, becoming their sole benefactor, and then using the loyalty a bereaved child has developed towards the kindness to turn them into killers," Maisy said, very mildly, placing a small hand on 004's shoulder as she did so (velvet gloves, and steel). "Named all manner of laws and conventions that were contravened."
"And then you married one," 004 pointed out, with a faint smile.
"What are you here for, though, if I may ask?" Maisy arched an eyebrow, before James could find a way to appropriately respond to that little tidbit. "If it's anything confidential, I'll leave."
"Social visit," James said suavely, just as 004 murmured, "He wants to borrow money."
"Oh, that." Maisy chuckled. "So that explains the…"
"Yes." 004 smirked.
James found himself missing the subtext, which annoyed him (further), and he reminded himself, before he could make a properly vituperate reply, that he needed a (big) favor. He could be suitably sarcastic later, after the little issue of frozen cards was sorted out. His smile, however, was beginning to feel fixed.
"Haven't you given it to him?"
"Personally, I found it better to make him stew for a while. Builds character." 004 reached into the pocket of his slacks. A folded piece of paper was passed to him, which was hard and wrapped around something rectangular and flat. "The owner left this with me before he went on business. Do take care of it."
James opened the paper. There was a short, terse note written on it:
I knew you'd try asking 004. Try not to bankrupt me.
Villier's credit card. James realized he was smiling, rather foolishly, in front of another trained killer and a lawyer (both chuckling at his expression), and in a very uncharacteristic, unprofessional double-0 fashion (but at that moment, he could not quite care).