Molly Carpenter scratched at the bridge of her nose with sharp, blood-red nails. Her evening shift had just begun, and already she could not wait for it to end. At least they tipped well, especially the louder men. Maybe she could go back to college next year, if her parents agreed to let her come home.
Not much chance of that, though. Besides, they were bastards. She was better off by herself, spending time with friends and flirting with customers. They never hit her or called her bad names. All things considered, she figured she could do a lot worse.
She steadied her hand as she poured black coffee from the carafe into the beige mug. Better not to rush, she learned rather quickly. It was no fun getting burnt from coffee. Her father accidentally spilled some on her when she was twelve. It had been the most intense physical pain she had ever experienced, and she tended to shy away from hot beverages ever since then. Oh well.
Her friends recommended some guy to help her with the "phobia", they called it. She didn't need help, though. She was doing great, and besides, she couldn't afford to pay some guy a hundred bucks an hour just to sit and listen while she ran her mouth. She could do that here, in Angelo's, for as long as she wanted. And they even paid her for it.
Life was good.
"Welcome to Angelo's, I'll be right with you".
The words sprang from Molly's mouth instantly, before she even looked the pair of customers in the eye. She'd been working here for nearly a year, and some things just came instinctively. When she passed the menus to them, she caught a glimpse of the man's arm.
An expensive suit.
She was taken aback when she saw the rest of him. This was, by far, the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on. Feeling strangely winded, she averted her gaze and retreated from the table to retrieve a pair of waters.
With ice. Water in ice, and ice in water. Maybe both?
Whoa. Slow down.
Molly focused her attention on the pair of waters. One in each hand, she suddenly felt like a juggler. Her father never made good on his promise to take her to the circus when she was little, but she still knew about jugglers from watching them on TV. This must be what they felt like sometimes.
She leveled them both on the table, still slightly damp from her cleaning rag. She suddenly felt ashamed. Whoever this guy was, Molly figured he wasn't used to eating in places like this. He seemed like the sort that would expect wine with every meal, and Angelo's only carried a few domestic beers. Oh well. It was the sort of lifestyle she could never hope to know. She suspected people with lots of money were not as happy as the TV commercials made them out to be.
There was a strange, concentrated look to him. Powerful, maybe. He studied the menu intently, and Molly could guess that he wasn't a regular. Maybe even from out of town. The woman sitting across from him seemed more comfortable, relaxed. Looked old enough to be the guy's mother. Her eyes shifted a lot. Probably been to Angelo's before, already knows what she likes to order.
"Lasagne. You should try it, Mr. Bond. It's the best, isn't it?"
It took Molly a moment to realize that the woman had been talking to her.
"Oh. Yes, yes it is. It's very good lasagne. Very good. I like it".
Stupid. She was stumbling over her words like a little girl. The man probably noticed. She didn't care, and figured he was way out of her league anyway. Brazen men sometimes wrote their phone numbers on the receipt, even adding a large tip as if that would encourage her to call them. She never called, of course, but that didn't stop them from trying to wow her with some bizarre display or boastful tale.
"I think I'll have the lasagne. Since it's so highly recommended".
The man smiled warmly and passed the menu to Molly. These were two behaviors that most customers did not perform, and never at the same time. She snatched the menu from his hand, trying not to make it look as though she'd been caught off guard by some weird playboy charm or whatever he was doing right now. And who the hell did he think he was fooling with that fake British accent? Pathetic.
His eyes were blue.
"Straws. Would you like a straw?" she spoke in a lilting tone.
Molly extracted a pair of straws encased in white paper, offering them to the playboy and hoping that her hand wasn't trembling. She set them down on the table when she realized that she was holding them like chopsticks, as if preparing to extract his blue eyes like slimy sushi from his sockets. She had never eaten sushi before.
"Thank you".
Molly left, and moved on to the next table without saying another word. She had to jot the "2 Lasagne" down on her pad while taking the order of the next customer. She'd forgotten to ask them about drinks. Stupid. She would have to do that later.
Oh well.
"Do you find the work rewarding?"
"Oh yeah, definitely", replied Dr. Wiseman. In her monochrome sweatshirt, Bond thought she looked more like a trainer for a senior exercise program than a devoted scientific researcher. The change of face was refreshing, though. She'd been much more open with him ever since sitting down at the table. Friendlier, if a bit distracted. Bond attributed any aloof qualities to the anticipation of her daughter's arrival. He guessed they had not seen each other in some time, because she kept glancing at the entrance.
Normally, Bond liked to keep a clear line of sight with regard to a room's point of entry. However, he felt relatively safe in Angelo's little restaurant. Anyone who knew his true purpose was not likely to try anything overt. No one would try to kill him in view of the public unless there were extenuating circumstances.
Lasagne had been a fortuitous choice for an entrée. It was very difficult to disrupt and repair the layers of lasagne while concealing it from a sharp-eyed diner. And Bond was nothing if not sharp-eyed. Any danger presented by the heavily salted block of greasy pasta would be fairly apparent to Bond. Even so, he was no stranger to poison and could react very quickly and efficiently in the event of accidental ingestion of nefarious toxin. His chances of surviving a fatal dose of something or other were probably greater than that of most world leaders, since he knew specific countermeasures for such situations. His training helped, but it was only a small fraction of the abilities that made Bond one of the most valuable agents within the entire European continent.
Still, he didn't think the chances of an Emerald Hawk employee slipping an extract of digitalis into his lasagna were very high. Not just yet, at least. Bond expected it to be nothing more than a harmless block of cheese and jarred marinara sauce.
"So how about you, James? You don't mind if I call you James, right? Bet you've had all kinds of interesting jobs. I can sense those kinds of things, you know. Am I right?"
Bond glanced at the foggy rim of his water glass. The corporate logo of a major soft drink company adorned its face. The lasagne would probably be very salty, but perhaps he would avoid the water tonight, just to be on the safe side.
"You most certainly are. And, if I may say so, you have quite a remarkable sense of intuition. Especially for a scientist".
"Oh, it's not all machines and numbers, you know. Science is an art, too. Most people just don't appreciate that". Dr. Wiseman toyed with her glass of water, pale digits grasping its slippery exterior from both sides. It reminded Bond of a carnivorous plant.
"Appreciation is hard to find sometimes", Bond offered another generic phrase. It didn't take much to get the woman talking. In fact, Bond found it almost disappointingly easy. Pretty soon, he would have access to the information he needed, and so far, he hadn't been required to reveal anything substantial about himself. All too easy.
"Exactly, you know what I'm talking about. People hop in their cars, get their immunizations, eat their food, whatever. They never give a second thought to what science has done to enrich their lives, not once. They're more concerned with making a quick buck and gettin' home for a quick fuck, if you'll pardon my French".
Wiseman stifled a laugh by keeping her thin lips pursed. Bond found her sudden amiability rather unusual. He still didn't have any significant trust in her. Agents in his field quickly learned not to trust anyone. The agents that survived their first few assignments, at least.
Bond was always learning, but he was not a rookie.
"I always pardon the French. Getting a pardon from them is another matter, though".
The good doctor chucked openly now.
"Don't tell me you've been to France? Was it a long time ago?"
"Not too long ago. Have you ever been?"
"Oh, me? No. I only went to Europe once, but it was to see relatives in Italy. I can remember it pretty well, but-"
Bond studied the doctor's wrinkled face when she paused in mid-sentence, as if expecting her to collapse suddenly with an exotic projectile protruding from her neck. No such luck.
"Would you excuse me for a moment? I gotta use the girls' room. It's no fun getting old, lemme tell ya. Be right back, keep an eye out for my daughter, alright?"
"Will do".
She shuffled off towards the restrooms, and Bond used the opportunity to carefully survey his surroundings. This was a small, dirty restaurant, with low enough prices to keep a substantial group of regular customers. Bond surmised that Dr. Wiseman was one such faithful customer, and her preference for Italian-American food was probably not a coincidence, given her Italian features and vaunted vacationing in the country of Italy.
Bond liked Italy. He often left the country with new sores and scars, but he always liked the country. The food was beyond compare, and most Americans growing up on restaurants such as this would never know the elegant simplicity of true Italian cuisine. Even highly skilled Italian immigrants could not, in Bond's opinion, reproduce the smell of an Italian kitchen in their homeland. Not while living in New York, at least. Although in some areas of this city, they came rather close.
When his mouth moistened, Bond decided to banish the sensuous memories of freshly baked ciabatta and San Marzano tomatoes from his mind. He would have plenty of time for nostalgia once the good doctor returned.
"Mr. Bond?"
A voice called his name through the jovial chatter of hungry customers, and Bond turned. A woman in a navy blue business suit extended her hand to him.
Bond immediately rose and shook hands, even though he knew the courtesy might betray his British origins to perceptive onlookers.
"You must be Miss Wiseman. Your mother speaks very highly of you".
"I'll bet she does. Would it be alright if I sat beside you? My mother prefers to sit across from me. She's on a restroom break right now, I take it?"
"Yes. And if she's anything like my own mother, I think that will give us at least an hour to get better acquainted".
The woman laughed. Bond found Dr. Wiseman's description of her daughter to be strikingly accurate. Her hair was dark and neatly trimmed, her stance was assertive, yet diplomatic. She had a tiny scar on her chin, which Bond barely noticed. She had all the trappings of an American businesswoman with none of the supercilious pretension.
The doctor's urbanized slang did not do her daughter's beauty any real justice, however. It was the first pleasant surprise Bond had experienced in many months.
"Are you close with your mother?", she asked, sliding herself into the booth beside him.
"No. She passed away when I was a child".
"Oh, I'm so sorry. That's awful".
"Actually, I got along alright. As I said, I wasn't close to her".
Bond was glad he was able to answer these questions truthfully. He wasn't sure why, but something about the woman demanded unbridled honesty. She must have held a very high rank within her organization.
"I get the feeling you're very close with your mother, though", Bond offered, hoping to slide things into a lighter note.
"Hm. You're right about that. Ever since I moved to California, she's been calling me and e-mailing me. She's relentless. I've tried to tell her how hectic things are for me, but sometimes its hard to say 'no' to a person."
Bond watched her lips move as she spoke. They did not appear to be artificially colored, yet there was something alluring about their shape and size. He was certain it was only a matter of time before he'd get the chance to study her mouth in greater detail.
"So why bother?"
"Sorry?"
"There's no point in saying 'no' to something if you don't really want to refuse it".
Her eyes narrowed for a moment, searching for a hidden meaning to his words.
"Guess you might have a point there", she said, smirking.
"If you want to keep close with your mother, do it. Unless you have some other reason for refusing to speak with her, of course".
She seemed to study his face more carefully this time, as if watching an increasingly complicated plot unfolding before her very eyes.
"No. You're right, actually. But I think it'll be easier now. I should be in New York for quite some time".
She smirked again before letting her eyes drop to the menu recently placed before her by a passing waitress. Bond was grateful for her reciprocation. This diplomatic woman in a suit knew how to play games. She was sharp and adaptive. Such women knew how to drive men wild, but were not above tossing them away like yesterday's bread. They were dangerous, and Bond was always at home among dangerous people.
Bond felt a vibrating sensation against his rib. Damn phone.
"Would you excuse me a moment, Miss Wiseman?"
"Oh, call me Lynn", she waved a hand dismissively as she cleared out of the booth.
"Thank you, Lynn. You can call me James. Promise you won't go anywhere?"
"I don't make promises".
"What a clever girl you are", Bond quipped. He quickly exited the diner and pressed his thumb against his cellular phone. It was cold and dark outside the diner, but this made it easier to read the text message occupying the upper half of the phone's display screen.
"Outside in 30 sec", the text commanded him with its tiny black letters on white nothingness. Bond was already outside, so he guessed this wouldn't be too urgent. There were very few people at MI6 capable of contacting Bond's phone directly, so he felt secure in the knowledge that a text message from a crafty villain was totally out of the question.
He pretended not to notice the clicking of boots as someone approached him from the left. There was no sudden sound of noisy restaurant crowds to suggest a door being opened, so whoever was standing beside him now had paused with special intent.
When Bond finally allowed himself to steal a glance at the newcomer on his left, he nearly gasped aloud.