Chapter 14: AWOL
"I have that tie pin audio recording device for Barton, that is, 005," Q said to Moneypenny at ten past nine, one grey and rainy Monday morning. It seemed likely, to him, that she had gotten as little sleep as he had the previous night; they were both bleary eyed and clutching mugs of black coffee for dear life. "But he still hasn't come in to collect it."
"I wouldn't say he's forgetful, exactly," replied Moneypenny, absently threading a green ribbon through her dark brown curls. "But the way he prioritizes things is distinctly lax."
"I suppose you could say the same about 007," said Q, who found 005 a likeable sort. "Not to mention a few of the other field agents."
"At least, when 007 neglects to pay Mallory a visit, we know it's a matter of choice on his part," Moneypenny retorted, un-threading the ribbon again, and Q gave a reluctant half-grin.
It had been nearly three weeks since 007's departure for America and New York, and what little information they could glean about him trickled in, for the most part, through Bond's rare communications with Q Branch, via his comm link, and his even rarer encoded messages to Moneypenny through his mobile. It seemed he had settled into his duplex flat on Fifth Avenue with no difficulty, and that he was putting in appearances at every lavish social or cultural event the city had to offer.
At these events he had also made himself known—in his false identity, of course—to the few British individuals the CIA suspected of involvement in the matter of the nuclear warhead.
"Risky," Moneypenny said now, as she had said several times before, and Q could only agree. He had, of his own accord and without saying anything to Mallory, made up several additional dinner jackets and one sports jacket, all well-armored beneath their beautiful tailoring, and an elegant, gold-plated cigarette lighter that fired miniscule sleeping darts. These items had been sent off to 007 only a day earlier.
"He did get his photo in the society pages," she added, yawning, and brought the image up on her monitor. The screen went very bright, and they blinked at the glossy picture of Bond and his beautifully dressed "wife" on the outdoor balcony of the Metropolitan Opera. Both were holding glasses of champagne and smiling at the camera.
"She's lovely," said Q noncommittally, thinking of Bond's last visit to him, two days before his flight to New York. They had gone over Bond's itinerary—they weren't certain, yet, when he would be deployed from America to France—and eaten a meal prepared by Q. Both had been tired, but not too tired to retire to the bedroom for what was bound to be their last evening spent together in a long while. Although their dinner conversation consisted of analysis of Bond's game plan, and Q's instructions regarding the pen trackers, Bond's newly revamped Walther, and a new encryption device, Q had found himself unbuttoning his own shirt before they had even finished wiping the last traces of bouef en daube from their plates with pieces of French bread.
"Why the hurry"?" Bond had murmured with his crooked grin as he watched his Quartermaster fling himself into bed.
"Oh do shut up, 007," was Q's terse reply as Bond proceeded to discard his clothing in the middle of the floor.
That night was now one of Q's nicest memories of time spent with Bond because, in spite of his own initial haste, they had taken their time and made everything last. As cliché as it sounded, he had only to close his eyes to remember the way Bond took his face between his hard, calloused hands, the brush of Bond's mouth over his cheekbones and his eyelids, the weight of Bond's body on his, his hot breath against Q's ear, and the way he smiled, eyes closed, when Q reversed their positions and rolled on top. Even the mental image of Bond, rumpled-haired and slightly red-eyed but still impressive in his nakedness, collecting his clothes from the carpet the following morning, was, to use what Q considered an absurdly old fashioned word, somewhat endearing.
There had even been an undeniably comic moment when one of Q's pillows, ruptured by their energetic tussling of the night before, erupted down and feathers all over the bedroom like a miniscule explosive device, causing them both to sneeze continuously for several minutes.
"Mallory does have some questions for you," Moneypenny said, breaking into Q's memory replay in a rather gloomy voice. "Once you've reviewed the budgets. And I daresay he will ask you about those unexplained payments to that tailor in Mayfair."
It would seem that M, sharp-eyed and detail obsessed as he was, had caught up to Q with regards to his surreptitious commissioning of those additional protective garments for 007.
"He'll also want to discuss that injectable 'smart blood' thing you're working on," continued Moneypenny, reaching for her coffee mug. "Once it's confirmed safe, he's thinking of ordering its use for most of the Double Os, 007 in particular."
"Why am I not surprised?" murmured Q, raising his eyebrows.
"I did receive a message from Bond yesterday," Moneypenny went on, looking faintly puzzled. "Said he's sending an encrypted report today, and that his cover continues to be solid. Also mentioned,"—and she gave Q a puzzled look—"that I should tell the Quartermaster the pen trackers work well, but that he should kindly get rid of the feathers. What do you suppose he means?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, Eve," Q replied briskly, struggling to keep a straight face. "No doubt it's his idea of a joke."
"Well, he can hardly accuse you of being featherbrained, of all people."
"I quite agree," Q said serenely. "You can tell him I find his sense of humor highly mystifying."
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"Next month Bond should be off to France," Tanner commented a day later as he and Q went over the final specs for 009's new car, a Jaguar Coupe. The arsenal of defensive weaponry was every bit as impressive as the one Q's technicians had put together for 007's Aston.
"Paris," Q replied levelly, looking up from the blueprints on his tablet. "For a few days, according to his latest communication with Q Branch. To await his contact. Someone's going to tell him where to go to examine the warhead. What little information we've been able to collect tells us it's concealed somewhere in northern France."
"Tricky assignment, this," Tanner said darkly, and looking at him, Q could tell that he was worried. Which made sense; Tanner and Bond had known each other since Bond's early days in the service, and they had a respectful but definitely friendly rapport. "I can't argue that Bond isn't perfect for the job, but I'm surprised M didn't give the mission to 003, after all."
003 was highly thought of by everybody at MI6, and five years younger than Bond, into the bargain.
"Rumor has it 003's got a fiancé," Q said. "You've always told me the most hazardous assignments are commonly parceled out to agents with no dependents."
"If he marries, it's quite possible he'll be moved out of the Double O section," Tanner added glumly. "We'll be short-staffed. Have you heard Mallory's thinking of getting 007 to train likely field agents for Double O status?"
"The last thing in the world he'd want to do," Q said with a hint of a smile. "I don't know that he'd have the patience, for one."
Tanner grinned and then broke into one of his rare laughs. "Can you see Bond standing in front of a classroom full of young recruits?" He coughed and reorganized his features into something resembling gravity. "Or putting them through their paces on the training field?"
"No I can't," replied Q with a polite attempt to imitate Tanner's amusement. "Still, I suppose it's better than being put out to pasture…not that M has any notion of retiring him in the near future."
"God, no," Tanner said flatly, and they both fell silent. It was plain to Q that Tanner was thinking along the same lines as himself: nobody could imagine Bond in retirement, or as an instructor of junior agents. Nearly everybody at MI6 was of the opinion that 007 would meet his end in the line of duty and never be faced with the ignominy of desk-bound old age, or having to watch as young operatives surpassed him in the field. He might drink too much, philander too much—at least, he had in the past—take too many risks, go off-script at will, and pay little, if any, attention to the reprimands of his superiors, but he was still unmatched in the field in the eyes of everybody in upper management who mattered. M had once voiced the opinion that 007 was determined to go out in a blaze of glory before he reached old age, and this statement had been repeated to Tanner and Q by a disapproving Moneypenny.
"I really hate it when people say things like that," she had said, twisting her fingers together with annoyance. "I think James enjoys life far too much to give it up so easily."
Tanner's eyebrows came together at this indignant pronouncement. "Yes, perhaps, some aspects of life anyway. But when he's not on assignment, I think he gets terribly bored." Then he caught Q's eye and said, hastily, "At least, that used to be the case."
Q had turned to inspect the fog gathering outside the window to hide the color he felt must be staining his cheekbones. He was fairly certain that Tanner knew, or at least guessed, about himself and Bond—in spite of the care they had taken to hide their extracurricular activities. "Oh, 007's an inveterate adrenaline junkie; everybody knows it, and I don't suppose that will ever change."
That three-way conversation had been only a few days earlier, and although nothing more had been said, Q felt that both Moneypenny and Tanner were inclined to take umbrage with M's pronouncement. No matter how the higher-ups might view Bond's reckless tendencies, Q couldn't imagine having to think of Bond in the past tense, and he was certain his two colleagues felt the same way, although for different reasons.
"According to our American friends," Tanner was saying now, "a ransom message has finally been delivered, electronically, to the government Chiefs of Staff. Six hundred million American dollars worth of gold and silver. Easy to melt down and transport, almost impossible to trace. There's a two-month deadline for turning it over. But no clues, as yet, to the identity of the extortionists."
"I'm surprised they didn't ask for more," was all Q could manage in reply. "That is, they auction off paintings at Christie's and Sotheby's for more than one hundred million. Are the CIA people really sure British citizens are involved?"
"Apparently," replied Tanner, glowering at the Jaguar specs as if they were to blame.
"Gentlemen," said Moneypenny, entering the room with the unmistakable sharp tapping of her stylish heels. "M's convening a meeting of the four of us, plus your young Mr Michaels, Q, in the small conference room fifteen minutes from now. It seems he wants to discuss 007's progress in New York."
"Why?" Q hissed under his breath as Tanner straightened the lapels of his jacket and then searched the folder-covered surface of Moneypenny's desk for his own tablet. "What does he know that we don't?"
"I haven't any idea," Tanner muttered in response. "Perhaps he's had word from the Americans. Whatever the case, we'd better get a move on, sharpish. Could you summon Michaels, please? You know what M's like if anybody's late."
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As it happened, Mallory had received word from the Americans—from the handler of Bond's American "wife", to be precise. Bond—who was using the alias "John Corbin"—had made contact with two individuals, both of British origin but with lengthy careers in Silicon Valley. They appeared to be working for whatever criminal organization had the nuclear warhead in its possession, and were interested in using "Mr Corbin" as a go-between with interested buyers. Corbin, it seemed, had been spreading the word that his underworld contacts, and friendly relations with various military dictators, were reliable, not to mention his own remarkable success with money laundering.
His claims, not surprisingly, had been met with a degree of cautious disbelief, and in order to allay these doubts, the CIA was asking M's office to concoct a tape of "Corbin" meeting with an assortment of unsavory criminal characters. This, Mallory said, looking pointedly in Q's direction, would require some very careful, undetectable editing of surveillance footage, with Bond's figure somehow inserted therein.
"We can do it, sir," Q responded with cool confidence, and watched as the creases in Mallory's brow smoothed out a little. "It may take a few days, but it's doable. And the editing and additions won't be detectable. I'd like to have Michaels' help on this, if I may. He's been heading up Q Branch's surveillance team, but we can move staff round a bit."
M inclined his head and glanced at his notes, but Q could see that he was relieved. "I can trust you to come up with something satisfactory, Quartermaster," he said at the conclusion of the meeting, and Q sighed inwardly at the prospect of overtime. "I know your division is a bit overworked these days, but if you name Mr Michaels your second in command, we'll issue him a higher clearance level. Miss Moneypenny, get back to the Americans and tell them we'll have something by the end of the week."
"I'm pulling you off programming and surveillance, and putting you in charge of overseeing this project," Q said quietly to Michaels, who was beaming at him. It was Michaels' first time in M's office, the first time he had been included in such a high level meeting with the head of MI6. Q remembered his own beginnings in the field of espionage and was touched. "You can turn what you've been working on over to Vargas; she's more than capable."
"She'll be thrilled, sir," Michaels replied under his breath as they all rose to their feet in response to M's nod of dismissal.
"Back to the salt mines," Q murmured to Moneypenny as he left the quiet ambiance of M's anteroom for the keyboard clatter and bright lights of his realm in The Bunker, a palpably ecstatic Michaels in tow.
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Ever since Bond had taken up residence in New York, Q's subordinates had been closely following the activities of two moderately shady individuals—both expat Brits in the aeronautics industry—to whom Bond eventually presented those handsome silver-gilt pens with their carefully inlaid trackers, making Q Branch's job much easier.
"Nothing definite yet, on the part of our suspects," Q said when Tanner asked for a report. "It could be either of them…or somebody completely different."
"Where are they now?"
"Number one hasn't left New York. Number two went to Paris, from there west to the coast, and is now returning to New York."
"So there is something to the French connection." Tanner accepted the thumb drive Q handed to him and plugged it into his tablet. "If, in fact, number two is the guilty party."
"If," said Q, rubbing at his eyes, which were reddened from hours of staring at his tracker monitor.
"Is that the faked video, for Bond?" Tanner had turned to inspect another of Q's monitors, on which preliminary editing of the falsified Bond footage could be seen. "Well. That seems to be coming along nicely. It isn't as though we don't have enough images of 007. The place seems strange without him, doesn't it? At least, that's what Eve said this morning. That she misses him, as do nearly all the ladies at HQ."
Q gave a casual shrug of his thin shoulders, but pretended not to notice the keen look Tanner sent in his direction.
"Before we know it he'll be back, more smug than ever and eager to plague my staff and yours," he said, shrugging again, and then changing the subject back to the contents of the faked film footage. He and Michaels had put in a lot of work, and to anybody outside of Q Branch who happened to look at it, it would appear that Bond—that is, Corbin—had participated in meetings with a high-ranking North Korean general, members of both ISIL and the Taliban, and an extremist who had come up through the ranks of the former KGB, now an influential figure among certain fringe groups in Eastern Europe. Tanner watched the entire thing with an approving eye, and, to Q's relief, did not resume his monologue on how much nearly all the female, and no doubt some of the male staff of MI6 were looking forward to the reappearance of their legendary field agent.
And just how much was he himself missing Bond? Q had heard from him perhaps twice weekly via the comm link, each time very briefly. There were no conversations to speak of, simply abrupt and clinical deliveries of information from 007, and Q's equally crisp and professional replies. It was Friday nights that were beginning to be difficult—at least Q, who had never much minded his general solitude in the past, now found himself feeling at loose ends and emotionally sensitized. Yes, he supposed, he did miss Bond, his companionship even more, perhaps, than the sex. It had taken his absence to hammer home how much Q enjoyed their caustic banter, their sarcastic, backhanded compliments, the way Bond rolled his eyes over their age difference, their congenial silences. These days, when he let himself into his flat on Friday evenings, he had the comfort of his well-organized and visually soothing living space, various projects to keep him occupied, his music, and his cats for company, but three weeks and five days after Bond's move to New York he had found himself sitting at his dining room table, trying to draw a pencil sketch of Bond's face from memory as the cats sat pointedly in front of their not-yet-replenished food dishes, eyeing him with an indignation that finally gave way to loud feline verbalization. Later, having tended to the cats and tried, in vain, to read the latest article on advances in artificial intelligence, he had flopped onto the piano bench and attempted to relieve his sense of frustration by pounding out a brief, stormy piece that seemed to echo his restless state of mind: Chopin's Revolutionary Etude.
Bond would probably laugh if he could have seen him.
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Two days later, Q and Michaels reviewed the completed visuals they had compiled and then stored to a memory stick, with a single copy to be kept in Q Branch as backup.
"See to it that Bond has it by the weekend," M had said abruptly during their most recent meeting. In other words, somebody from Q Branch, as likely as not, would have to courier it to New York. Nobody, from M on down, was willing to entrust such a thing to an express mail or freight service.
"Vargas can fly over, first thing tomorrow," he told Michaels. "I spoke to her, and she's perfectly willing."
Michaels cleared his throat diffidently. "Are you certain you wouldn't rather go, sir?"
"Good lord," Q said, frowning. "As if I could take the time to skip off to the States. Just look at our work schedule. In any event, you know I hate to fly."
"Of course, sir," Michaels murmured apologetically. "I simply thought…well, a weekend in New York might make for a nice holiday…you know, a break from all of this." He gestured vaguely at the computer lab and his colleagues, all of whom were clattering away on their keyboards.
"Thanks for the thought," Q replied, rolling his eyes. "But I think not," and Michaels retreated to his own monitor, looking relieved. Q remembering that the last time he had been forced to used air travel had been for his meeting with Bond at the British Embassy in Paris, made an effort to forget how uncomfortable that very brief flight had been, with the added nuisance of those ridiculous black velvet garments. Well, Vargas would enjoy a visit to New York. Once her mission had been accomplished, he would allow her a day in which to enjoy the sights and play tourist.
It was nearly a quarter of five, and Q had just finished mediating a dispute of sorts between Vargas and Arbogast over a code-breaking program that had gone awry, when an encrypted message, in the code assigned to Bond, appeared on his mobile phone. Moments later, he was staring at the single sentence in blank astonishment.
"Meet me at seven tomorrow at the Savoy."
"At the….?" Q muttered to himself in abject astonishment, before texting back, "WHERE?"
"I'm going AWOL for thirty-six hours. Don't tell anyone."
Q hesitated for a moment before texting back. "Don't tell anyone? How can I be certain you are who you say you are?"
"How are Mrs Meadowlark and the cats?"
Q's lips twitched before he tapped out, "You're coming here on the sly and you want to meet in the Savoy?"
"?"
"You must be mad," Q tapped on his keyboard screen. "You sneak away and hide out in one of the most expensive, well-known hotels in London?"
"Nobody will know. But if they were looking for me, they wouldn't expect me to hide in plain sight."
Well, that sounded like Bond.
"I'll meet you in the lobby then."
"No, I'll be in the bar."
That made sense. Less public, less brightly-lit.
"Which one?" Q texted, gritting his teeth and almost wishing that he could add emojis for exasperation.
"The darkest," was the reply, before the screen went blank.
"Is something wrong, sir?" Vargas asked, and Q raised his head to find her standing by his work station with—as usual—his steaming Scrabble mug. It was then that he realized he had been scowling mightily at his mobile.
"No there isn't, thank you, Miss Vargas," he replied, reaching for the mug. "A touch of cramp, maybe?" He rotated his shoulders experimentally; and really, he was feeling uncomfortable from having been hunched over his computer terminal for the past three hours. Moneypenny, had she been there, would probably have told him, in one of her intermittent attempts at motherliness, to stop slouching and sit up straight. "Incidentally, you needn't worry about flying to New York tomorrow. Something else has come up and the assignment will be dealt with, without us having to bother with it."
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Having made his way through a still bustling Covent Garden district, Q entered the Savoy as unobtrusively as he was able, in the train of a large family of tourists. After wandering from eating place to eating place—he was not particularly familiar with the hotel's interior; it was hardly the sort of place he chose to frequent—he eventually located what seemed to be the darkest of the Savoy's bars, the Beaufort, and made his way into the art deco-esque space. Surveying the room without being too obvious about it, he finally spotted Bond, drink in hand, seated at one of the circular, black-topped tables. Q lowered his eyes and adopted an impersonal social smile, but he had noticed that Bond looked relaxed and remarkably well; his hair was somewhat longer, though impeccably cut, and his undoubtedly expensive shirt, open at the neck, was the same cool, Mediterranean blue as his eyes.
"Mr Corbin, I presume," Q said cordially, taking the seat opposite.
Bond looked him straight in the eye and smiled.
"You presume correctly," he replied in a similarly cordial tone. "I believe you have something for me. Care for a drink?"
"I do indeed," Q responded, taking a deep breath, annoyed that the sight of 007 had caused his stomach to turn somersaults and his pulse to quicken. "As for the drink, thank you, but I think I'll wait until after our business has been concluded."
"Very well," Bond said amiably, placing his now empty glass on the table. "I'm flying back to New York tomorrow, but I've taken a room for the night. Perhaps you'd be so kind, if you've brought your laptop, to show me the contents of your present in private."
"Certainly," Q replied a little stiffly, and stood up. If he was reading Bond's expression correctly, the insufferable bastard was taking certain things for granted. As usual.
"I believe I have an hour to spare," he said clearly, with a deliberate glance at his watch. "I've another appointment at nine."
Which was a lie, but he was damned if he was going to let 007 think that the Quartermaster of MI6 was at his total beck and call.
Bond smiled again as he rose to his feet and gave him a look of genial disbelief.
"Cancel it, then," he said calmly, and led the way out of the bar in the direction of the bank of lifts, with the Quartermaster of MI6 trailing, rather tight lipped, behind him.