Author's note: Thank you VERY much for the reviews for the last chapter! Keep the reviews coming in… I have a feeling they're related to the high levels in my writing enthusiasm.  If you have any opinions of this story don't just 'favourite' it: turn it into a review! It will make me VERY happy! Thank you and on with the story!

Chapter 2: Breaking and Entering

There was a sort of homeliness to small, country libraries that Bond had always liked. And he'd always thought that the hasty addition of at least five computers with monitors the size of televisions from the 90's at the back, charming. It was almost six o'clock and he was the only one in the library, apart from the portly librarian, who sat at her desk wishing desperately that he would vacate his spot from the computer and allow her to return home for dinner.

The library door creaked open. Despite his discretion, he turned to see who it was. He looked at his wristwatch as Joel Woodwick approached him. "Oh dear, is it six already?"

Woodwick took the empty spot next to him. "Never knew you were one for old-fashioned computers. Given your nature of work right now, one would expect you to own a laptop at least."

Bond smiled. "Left it in the office." Joel Woodwick was one of the few people he kept from his childhood days. They'd graduated together from Eton and the Naval Academy together. Their paths split after a short stint in military service; Woodwick left and opened a cigar business while Bond tried his luck with the MI6 (of which he felt that Woodwick did not need to know). Despite their irregular and impossible schedules, they still managed to keep in touch and in true British schoolboy spirit, holidayed together whenever possible.

Woodwick peered at the monitor. "And I certainly never expected you to be interested in celebrities."

Bond arched an eyebrow. "Why would you call Mikhail Sorescu a celebrity? He doesn't act or sing."

"My dear James," said Woodwick with a laugh, "with the kind of money that he has, he's entitled to be one. It's his wife though that's more interesting, I think. Famous just for marrying him. That should make for a riveting case study. Speaking of which," he looked at Bond, "why the sudden call to London?"

Bond cleared his throat. "Work."

"A call from your boss and suddenly you're looking up Mikhail Sorescu? Trust me, Bond, in all my dealings in the twisted world of business I've yet to meet an odder oddball than you. Are you sure you're working for a pharmaceutical company?"

Bond attempted a smile. "Why would I lie to you, Woodwick?" After a short laugh shared by both men, an idea occurred to him. "Say, Woodwick, have you ever dealt with this Sorescu fellow? I mean, your name hardly goes unnoticed when it comes to British cigars."

Woodwick grinned widely, seeming to Bond to assume the arrogant businessman that he was most of the time. "Of course I have. Without me, his fine and dandy VIPs won't get the complete treatment they deserve. The Goldman range, that's what I call them: made of the most refined tobacco you'll ever find, and they even come with a classy gold band at the end of each – but no, I shan't bore you with all these details, I know that you hate listening to product specifications."

"How important are you to Sorescu?" It was a risky question that might give away his motives, or maybe risk instigating a quarrel, but Bond had to try it, with hopes that Woodwick's self-satisfaction would take it up.

"That's the thing, James – I never like him very well; we businessmen never do genuinely like each other, even when we're not competing, but we're very courteous people. And I never knew one more courteous than Mikhail Sorescu. He's got this big celebration coming up. It's the tenth anniversary of his swankiest hotel in East Europe: the Napoleon. And he's got every intention of making it the biggest and grandest anniversary ever celebrated. He's planned a month's worth of special events in the hotel, and he's invited all his business partners to stay in the exclusive suites and 'join him in celebrating a remarkable achievement in the hotel and real estate business'. How about that, eh?"

"Well he certainly knows how to make and keep people happy," commented Bond wryly. "Anyone can, for that matter, what with the amount of money he makes every week. Are you going for that celebration of his?"

"Of course I will!" exclaimed Woodwick. "Free accommodation, champagne and caviar, the number of single female socialites that will attend the balls and galas in store for me: you bet your knickers I'll be going. It's the party of the year and I've been invited. I'll be an idiot to refuse."

Bond shook his head with regret. "It's a real shame then, that I'll be missing out on all that. All my holidays have been confined to Brighton and the Isle of Wight. I should really like to be travelling to a foreign country for a real holiday soon."

"Is that so? Well then, why didn't you say so earlier?" Woodwick's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "I can easily get you to come along with me to Bucharest."

Bond cast a doubtful eye on him, but in his mind there was no doubt at all. The bait now lay dangling in front of Woodwick the fish. "Are you sure about that? I'll probably be getting in your way, you know, I don't share your enthusiasm for partying and socialising."

"James, did you know that you did a serious mistake for turning to accountancy as a career option? I remember you standing up for yourself in front of the bullies and running for Head Boy back in Eton. Look what your job reduced you to: a social shellfish. That won't do at all. You're coming with me to Romania for a little fun and games and when you return to London you'll be a proper social butterfly. Do you hear that, James?"

He couldn't resist a smile. He remembered when Woodwick was a little twit and kept getting pummelled for keeping his pennies to himself. "But will Sorescu mind? I am of no profit to him, I afraid."

"Bullshit, James. He's invited Paris Hilton as well, for God's sakes. He wouldn't mind an extra addition to the grand birthday bash he's throwing for his hotel. I'll call him first thing tomorrow morning."

"All right, but can you do me a favour?" Bond paused for a moment. "Can you tell him that my name is David Sandborn and not James Bond?"

Woodwick frowned. "Why?"

"Just for the heck of it."

"Oh, all right. If I hadn't spent all those months manning the battle stations with you I wouldn't consider doing it at all."

"Yes, yes, of course. I am sure that I will be pleased to meet your friend. He sounds like a good, amiable person," said Mikhail Sorescu into the receiver, wearing a patient smile on his face. He nodded to himself as he wrote the name of that person down. "D-A-V-I-D S-A-N-D-B-O-R-N, is it? And he is with J. Parkerson Pharmaceuticals? Well I'll note that down. No, no, it is no trouble at all. It is just that I am afraid – oh, if that is the case – well okay, see you next week." The smile remained fixed on his face until the receiver was replaced, then he groaned loudly.

"What is the matter?" asked his wife from her very own desk, just a little way off from his. They were in his private study, which also served as his office, all located conveniently in their penthouse suite in the Napoleon, which also conveniently belonged to him.

"The fifteenth person to ask for an extra room for his 'friend'," spat Sorescu out as he got up to stretch his legs. "Another person taking advantage of my kindness. At this rate I will not be surprised if everyone catches wind of this and start adding distant cousins and ex-classmates to their tag-along lists."

"Who is it this time?"

"Joel Woodwick from Redshield Cigars. The person who supplies us with those nice, quality British cigars. Do you remember him? No, of course you don't. That arrogant man, all hot air and helium. Just like almost everyone we know. He is bringing a friend, an accountant with a J. Parkerson Pharmaceuticals named David Sandborn." He gestured at his wife's laptop. "Run a search on him will you?"

"Of course," she replied meekly. She resisted an impatient huff. By undertaking the duties of his personal auditor, she had also become his private digital investigator, and the extra workload didn't please her. It meant less opportunities to go shopping with her friends, and she wasn't paid for it either.

What the hell are you thinking of, Evelyn? she scolded herself. Remind yourself for the millionth time: you are an M16 agent, and you've got no business thinking like a real socialite. Really. When did you become so vain?

"Found him," she announced. She had hacked into the J. Parkerson Pharmaceuticals database and looked him up. The face on his employee profile was a strong one, with well-defined planes and an intense look about him. Her husband took a look at the picture and nodded thoughtfully. "He is a man who means business," he said to himself, and not a second later he turned away.

But she couldn't, not just yet. There was something resolutely amiss about David Sandborn. There were no gaping holes in his profile, but there was one small anomaly. Sorescu was usually a careful man, but he gave no regard to David Sandborn's details, and thus missed this error.

David Sandborn became a Senior Accountant with the company in 2006. However, despite the position, there was no ACCA certification in his educational background, which would mean that he was not a chartered accountant.

And how on earth did an unchartered accountant get himself hired at all?

"Bond, are you absolutely sure about this?"

He ran a hand through his hair as he sighed. Heavily, so that M would get his point. He sauntered over to the hotel balcony and looked out at the wide expanse of English sea spread out before him, the waters as restless as his heart. "Yes. He's just confirmed that I'm welcome at the gala-festival-whatever as a guest."

"And you trust this man, Joel Woodwick?" came her edgy, crisp voice over the phone.

"I do," he replied, after a moments' pause.

"Well I can't do anything more, I suppose, than to wish you luck. And to remind you of what happened the last time you trusted someone."

The muscles around his jaw tightened. "I don't need to be reminded of Vesper Lynd. She's dead. Out of sight, out of mind."

"But is she out of your heart?" she replied tartly. "Bond, I think I know you quite well. You use your brains when you need to get something to function but when you make decisions you go by your guts. And heart. Those are the worst attributes a double-O agent can have. When something gets on your nerves, they stay there. You don't let go easily, and that is, quite frankly, dangerous."

Bond smiled. "But that was what made me stand out, wasn't it? I'm not some killing machine for the government, but a living, breathing human who can kill and think – and have feelings."

"For goodness's sake Bond, I didn't hire you for your flaws." She cleared her throat. "But this isn't about you. May I remind you again that you're supposed to communicate with Foster, find out what she knows, and bring the information back here to us. You are under no orders to interfere with any other operation, regardless on which side of the law it is, do you understand me? I don't want to come to work only to be regaled about how a stupid, reckless MI6 agent blew up the most luxurious hotel in East Europe. I'm telling you I won't tolerate that sort of bloody nonsense. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Bond. He allowed himself a scoff as he hung up. Follow orders given by M iota by iota?

Yeah, right.