LONDON – ONE WEEK EARLIER

A single click of the mouse, and the computer screen filled with the familiar face of Bill Tanner, Chief of Staff.

"This is the weekly briefing on Operation Jack Frost," Tanner began.

Bond leaned back deeply in his desk chair and groaned. Operation Jack Frost, the effort to clean up the remnants of the international narcoterrorists known as Octagon (or to "put it on ice", as M had drily explained how the operation was so named) was now over two years old. In fact, Bond had been promoted to OO-status early in the operation, eliminating two Octagon operatives in Stockholm to earn his license to kill. Most of the real work was done at this point. Many of the major figures had been captured, killed, or driven far underground. The organization's tentacles into government and commerce had been severed forever.

Tanner's face disappeared from the screen, replaced by photographs of recent SIS activities against Octagon associates. Bond let his mind wander, looking across his office and out the window. Would there be time to get in a quick nine holes at Stoke Park this evening, he wondered for a moment before deciding yes there certainly would be.

But he quickly snapped to attention as his phone rang. The digital display on the phone base indicated it was Moneypenny. Did the phone ring more urgently when she was the caller? It seemed that way.

"He wants you," was all she said, hanging up before Bond could get any sort of word in edgewise.

Bond stepped off the lift, and Moneypenny's urgent tilt of her head toward M's office preempted the usual banter. The light above the door flashed green, and Bond turned the lever to enter, the light switching back to red as he closed the door behind him.

M lifted his head from a stack of documents as Bond moved towards his desk.

"Right, glad you're here, OO7," M said with just a bit more curmudgeonly tone than normal. "I'm pulling you from Jack Frost."

"Sir?" Bond inquired quizzically, as he settled in the leather armchair across the desk. "There's still a bit of mop-up left there."

"Most of the main threads have been pulled. I've got something else that might suit your skills. How much do you know about diamonds?"

"Not much, I suppose. Hardest substance on earth and the like."

"Right," M grumbled. "Well, I'm about to give you the crash course then."

M launched into the history of the diamond trade, and then slid a folder across the desk to Bond.

Bond broke the "For Your Eyes Only" seal and opened it up to find a full-page map of the country of Zanzarim and a trove of papers behind it.

"Zanzarim," M harrumphed. "Hope you know a bit more about this place than you did diamonds."

Bond took a deep breath. "I've kept up on all the briefings, sir. There's a civil war there. Refugees and mass famine resulting from it. They say thousands are dying every day."

"Indeed," M replied. "Used to be one of our colonies, until they voted in the 1950s to become independent. Was one of those places we could easily forget about until about 20 years ago."

"What happened then?"

"Diamonds," M paused. "I suppose you might have figured that. A large deposit found in the southern part of the country, near the border with Democratic Republic of the Congo. Problem was – or is, to be exact – that Zanzarim is one of those relics of colonial times where we drew lines on a map that had little to do with the conditions on the ground. The northern part of the country is populated by the Lowele tribe, while the southern part is populated by the Fakassa tribe."

"And the Fakassa don't want to share the country's newfound diamond wealth."

"Exactly. A Fakassa general broke away from the Zanzarim military a couple of years ago and declared independence. They call it Dahum. It's been chaos and civil war ever since."

"But the Zanazarim government and Lowele have more resources than Dahum and the Fakassa, right?"

"Indeed. But the tactical brilliance of the general – he calls himself 'the Brigadier' Solomon Adeka – has been able to hold the Zanzari troops at bay. We thought the war would be over within weeks, but after two years, the conflict is at a near stalemate with the two sides seemingly exchanging small pieces of land."

"We're backing the Zanzarim government."

"Yes, it's in our interests. Just money and some light weaponry. It should have been enough. The government has contracted with British companies to excavate the diamond fields. Let's just also say that the Brigadier's friendships with Cuban and Chinese officials give us pause as well."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"I want you to get into Dahum and stop the war."

"Stop the war? I'm not a diplomat."

"It's not a diplomatic solution we have in mind. We want you to make the Brigadier – um, shall we say, less brilliant?"

"I see."

"This is where my long discussion of the diamond trade earlier becomes relevant," M continued. "We know that what resources Dahum has is coming through the sale of its diamonds. Even though Dahumian diamonds are meant to be treated as "conflict diamonds" and not traded internationally."

"Diamond smugglers must be making a killing on that," Bond mused.

"Yes, and we've got a chance for you to infiltrate the pipeline."

"How so?"

"We've been keeping our eyes on the situation for a while now, trying to track the flow of diamonds. And we found a small-time smuggler from right here in London who seems to have ties to Dahumian diamonds. Chap by the name of Peter Franks. You've got a picture of him in the dossier."

Bond rustled though the pages in the folder, pulling out the picture of Franks. He quickly noticed that there was somewhat of a resemblance between himself and Franks. Similar height, build, and age, even some similarities in face and eye shape.

"You can see why we've picked you for this mission," M said. "We've been watching Franks for over a year now – he smuggles small quantities of Dahumian diamonds to the U.K. from various places. But he's being given an opportunity to handle larger loads – directly from Dahum. We took the opportunity to bring him in and insert you in his place."

"We look somewhat alike, of course, but don't they know who Franks is? Won't they immediately be aware that I'm not him."

"It's a risk, but best as we can tell – and based on what he's told us in interrogation – he's never met anyone in person. It's all done over the phone – he gets burner cell phones sent to him, the only person he speaks to is what he described as a disembodied voice known only as 'ABC'. And Q Branch has been subtly replacing images of Franks online with images of you. Ought to be enough to give you some room to operate."

"What about our voices, then?"

"Q Branch has whipped up something nifty for that problem. Stop down and see the quartermaster. Tanner will fill you in on the rest. Good luck, OO7."