BOND 37

THE OBJECTIVE

I can hear them, talking about me in whispers. They think I'm a liability. A threat to the integrity of the mission. They think I won't be able to perform. That I appear... distracted?

Truth is I have never been more certain of what I must now do. Never been more clear.

We're on a Class 92 dual-voltage electric locomotive, travelling between France and Great Britain via the Channel Tunnel. Stationed inside a specially kitted out carriage, complete with every bell and whistle a world class spy could imagine and then some, we're making our way to London for one final attempt at stopping The Hand from executing their endgame.

Devon 'The Medic' Woodcomb was since released from his medical duties, having given the all-clear to the rescued party following a thorough, albeit robust, physical and mental health assessment.

Enigmatic wetworks specialist and sniper supreme; Sebastian Tombs, remains his usual coy self. Finding the furthest corner of the carriage to inhabit with no-one but his own shadow for company.

Meanwhile Matt, being the only remaining tech guy in the current line up, subsequently bumping him up to 'numero uno', is all the more eager to share his credentials with any of the party willing to listen. Primarily the French female intelligence agent he's currently chewing the ear off of.

"Wait, do you even know what a 'fire sale' is?" he asks, mid-way through an exhaustive monologue.

"Of course." she replies. "It happens once a year around November 5th, no?"

Meanwhile Sark and Hunt appear tighter than ever, going over the finer details of our final mission's schematics. Hunt's spent the better part of the journey assuring and re-assuring me our attention will turn to locating the whereabouts of the real Q, just as soon as the London assignment is over.

As for our group of eight, It's been only two days since their rescue was successfully executed, and yet already they appear eagerly keen for a little payback.

"Okay everyone, listen up!" shouts Hunt. "Game time's in two and a half hours, and there's a lot of ground to be covered. Remember above all this is a 'surgical operation', meaning precision is of absolutely paramount. Sloppiness will cost lives."

"Yeah, yeah, 'Zero casualties', we get it, already. You said you had some kind of a 'plan'? What is it?"

"Yeah, I've got a family to get back to."

"We all have families to get back to!"

Isn't looking good for Hunt. He needs to wrap up his 'presentation' and quickly.

"There's a summit between key UN members being held today at the Isambard Hotel in London." he explains. "The objective of which is to discuss the proposal of a global surveillance and intelligence co-operation initiative between nine of the world's key goverments."

"Yes, I know. I was scheduled to attend." responds the Director of IA, Richard Harper.

"Out intel informs us representatives of each of your intelligence organisations will be present." explains Hunt. "More importantly, your representations from each of those organisations. This affords us a perfect opportunity to take them down in one single strike."

"Alright, now we're talking!" replies a CIA agent, excitedly. "Payback's a bitch, and she's gonna scream my name!"

"How very 'poetic' of you." comments Sark with a sly eye-roll, as Hunt continues.

"We'll be posing as members of Four Seasons Catering Services, commissioned to provide the event's-"

"Whoa, what is this, MasterChef? Have you tasted my cooking?" jokes another agent.

"The food'll be pre-cooked," responds Sark, wryly, "So no need to worry about having to brush up on your 'culinary' skills."

After a brief giggle among the group, Hunt continues once more.

"This will allow us full access to the venue, pre-event, to set up various station points throughout, for what we're calling; Project: Masked Ball."

"Ah, Mr Hunt? Eva Vittoria, French Intelligence. Sorry to be stating the obvious, but won't we be recognised? It's not like we can waltz into the middle of an international gathering of world intelligence unnoticed?"

"As the project title implies, we will each be issued high-tech polymer masks that will disguise our real identities, allowing us all to move freely throughout the event. Now, I've handpicked a small team of field operatives who'll be stationed within the hotel's kitchen purely as a support measure in case things go south. Which, of course, they shouldn't."

"All good and well, but I'm still not hearing much in way of a plan?" comments Harper.

"Of course. At precisely 19:21, 9 minutes prior to dinner being served, a 60-second power cut will be triggered. During which, each of you, positioned within direct vicinity of your double, will proceed to take them out with one of these."

He holds up a small pen-like object, looking over to tech-man Matt to elaborate.

"I call it; 'The Penaliser'." he says proudly. "A small device, completely undetectable by scanners. It fires a single round carrying a highly evolved toxin derived from Ketamine. The effects aren't permanent but guarantee mass paralysis within the body's muscles within seconds... along with the odd trippy moment or two. Hey, I had to test it out, okay?"

"You want us to attack them with that thing? in the dark?" asks another.

"Graphene Contact Lenses!" replies Matt, now holding up what I'm guessing is an example. "Specially designed to register the entire infrared spectrum as well as visible and ultraviolet light. Err... that's... "Let's you see in the dark', in layman terms."

"Seconds prior to our attack, a detailed dossier will be sent to every electronic device of every real agent on location, notifying them of the truth and exposing The Hand's true agenda." adds Sark, visably restless.

"Well, pardon my French, but it's a bat-shit crazy plan!" comments Harper. "There's so many opportunities for error, y'all should be issuing life insurance policies!"

"Well, it's my plan!" replies Hunt, sternly. "So unless you can come up with one better within the next... say... 9 or so hours? I suggest we stick to it!"

"Right, 'Go bold, or go home'!" comments Matt. "Or... something... like that."

"Now Harper, sir," continues Hunt. "being the most 'senior' member present amongst us, you'll be stationed along with Matt in a mobile tech-unit offsite, offering vital all-eyes support. At which point you will both-"

"The heck I will, Hunt!" screams Harper in response. "What, because I'm old? I am the director of International Affairs and have served as ambassador for public relations between more senior members of Intelligence than you've had hot or cold dinners!"

"I'm aware of your... impressive list of credentials, sir. I only-"

"Good! Cause you should also be aware that I was out serving our great nation on the very frontline of war, long before you were even a stain on your daddy's mattress! 'Benching' me is not only a ridiculous notion, son, but an insult to every drop of blood, sweat and tears I have ever shed along with those whom I have had the honour of serving alongside of!"

"I... meant you no disrespect, Director. I was merely-."

"I... know, son. And I'm sorry I got so... rilled up. The idea of another man in my house?With my wife and-?"

"That man is dead." confirms Sark. "As far as reports go your double was assassinated somewhere in Moscow before he could ever be activated. Which was probably around the time you were kidnapped. Which means, as far as the world is concerned you're... also dead. Sorry. Your wife Included."

"Ah, when he says 'your wife', he was referring to her thinking your dead... not... her herself being assassinated... out in... Moscow... I'll shut up now." mumbles Matt.

The news hits Harper hard, leaving him visibly struggling to come to terms with which is worse; hearing his wife of some twenty-odd years had to endure such an ordeal as attending her husband's funeral? Or that he wasn't there to offer her comfort when she did.

"Okay, I... look, I just... I need to make a phone call, let her know I'm okay. I know a couple a guys in the CIA, they're trustworthy. They could get a message to-"

"That's a negative, sir." responds Hunt. "Look, our initial intel on the identity of the targeted agents came from what we thought was an airtight source; an encrypted document referred only as The Bucket List. Having personally come into contact with that file and decoded it's contents myself, it transpires that not all the names of those agents may have been listed."

He glances over towards me. He's talking about Q.

"Perhaps it was an early version?" he continues. "Or maybe The Hand were since forced to improvise for fear of having their masterplan exposed? The simple fact is, there's no way of telling how many more of our agents have been compromised."

"Alright Hunt, you made your point!" responds Harper, begrudgingly. "Still doesn't detract from the fact that this whole entire situation stinks like a skunk's fart!"

"We share your frustration, Director. Which is why we all need to stick together." adds Eva. "The only people we can trust are those who are on this carriage."

The French Intelligence lady makes her point, leaving the others to ponder it's merits. Seems to be a lot of fear and distrust going around these days. Typical of The Hand's MO.

"Bond!"

Huh? Did Hunt just call out my name?

"Fairly quite over there. What do you think?"

Silence governs the carriage for the first time since we all boarded, as all eyes fixate on me. But Hunt's question to me wasn't really a question at all. It was a request for my affirmation. 'Emotional adhesive' with which to hopefully prevent this entire operation from falling apart so close to the end.

I give him what he wants.

"What do I think? I think its safe to assume, due to there being no recent reports of incidences involving any of the doubles in either of the agencies involved over the last couple of days, that The Hand are still as yet unaware that their operation has been compromised.

Now, I get that we all have places we'd much rather be... and things we'd... much rather be doing... but this is a rare window of opportunity. We miss this, who knows if and when the next one will come?"

To be continued...