"I have some personal business to attend to, Q, in the aftermath of Skyfall. Personal effects to pick up from the family solicitor. I'll be gone a few days."
"Oh? And do I get to know the location of this rendezvous with your solicitor?" Q enquired casually down his mobile line, strolling towards his office.
"Cayman Islands." Utter bollocks, was Q's single thought about that though he didn't give voice to that sentiment.
"Ah. The lair of thieves, liars and vagabonds. Maybe a legal entity closer to home would be more convenient? Or is he in hiding for some reason?"
"She. And no. It's just where she happens to be at the moment and one of the many locations my parents used as safe places."
Q's ears perked up at the familial reference. It was the first time Bond had ever mentioned them. Of course, he could just as easily have been trying to throw Q off the scent with regards to his designs on Marco Sciarra. Nice try, James.
"Well you are on mandatory leave so you can do as you please."
"I plan to," came the taut reply.
Q hung up the call. And if you think for one second you can pull the wool over my glasses, Commander Bond, think again.
Where 007 was concerned, most situations could be summed up very neatly in one sentence:
Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
Well, thought Q to himself, If I do get caught, at least I'll have company on the cross I'm about to nail myself to.
Before he became Quartermaster, it was a little known fact only a chosen few were privy to that Arthur Clifton was a brilliant hacker who skirted the fine line of the law. Until he stepped over that line. Intelligence services home and abroad had been looking for him for several years, but he remained very much a ghost in the machine. It was only when he gave himself up in person to their former M on the understanding that his record be expunged that he became part of the solution instead of the problem. For which M had been very grateful. He'd always been very grateful in return, for her professionalism, her grace and her unique style of command, particularly where the command of James Bond was concerned. Now that she was gone, and in the transition to Gareth Mallory and the security services merger, responsibility for keeping the reckless bastard out of trouble fell to him.
The lockup where Q kept his "other" equipment wasn't on any books, any records, anywhere. Well, he wouldn't be a very good hacker if that were the case, would he? He entered under cover of dark in a little frequented part of London, his own personal mission front and foremost in his mind.
He booted up the computer to bring the satellite online, a satellite belonging to his former employer which he had conveniently "crashed" in the middle of a desert during a sandstorm. A few deft moves with practised fingers and the satellite's signal appeared. Q waited and watched. Patience was another quality he possessed in spades, at least where his job was concerned. He made himself some tea in the interim while the satellite scanned the planet below, searching for its target.
Not in the Caymans then. What a surprise.
It was a few minutes later when the blip (literally and figuratively to give him his credit) that was James Bond popped up on the screen.
Q smiled to himself while sipping his cooling mug of Earl Grey. Well hello, 007. Fancy seeing you here…
"Where are you going?"
James paused at the window to throw a reassuring smile back towards his long-legged, brunette companion. "I won't be long," he replied, shirking off his outer suit. He stepped out onto the ledge of the hotel rooftop just as he felt his phone vibrate. In the zone and not welcoming the distraction, he didn't pause his movements as he pulled it out to switch the bloody thing off. But not before he saw the message.
Hello 007.
James rolled his eyes before quickly typing a response.
Not now Q.
He switched it off and pocketed it, turning his attention to prepping his weapon while closing in on Sciarra's location. As he crouched and listened, it was obvious why M had wanted the man dead thus foiling the terrorist designs he evidently had on killing thousands of innocents. Bond took aim and managed to kill his three companions and plant a wounding shot to Sciarra's shoulder.
The subsequent explosion and the collapse of the building on top of him was unexpected.
He landed on a sofa.
A bloody sofa. His phone vibrated. Remote access. Irritating little git. Bond answered.
"Enjoying Mexico, 007? I hear the tequila is particularly fine where you are."
Bond frowned. "How—?"
"I wouldn't be a very good Quartermaster now if I didn't know where MI6's agents were at all times? Especially when those times involve you running roughshod over another country. With unauthorised use of my equipment I might add…"
Bond was pushing through the festival crowd, frantically scanning for signs of Sciarra. "Q. I really do not have time for this. I've lost—"
Q interrupted. "No. You haven't. I'm tracking him now."
Bond was about to ask but thought better of it. I'm going to spank that smartarse when I get back. "Where?"
"Fifty yards ahead of you. Heading for the town square."
Bond heard before he saw the helicopter and knew what he had to do. He wasn't a religious man by any stretch but on this Day of the Dead, he offered up a prayer to the dear departed anyway.
"No need to thank me, 007. See you back in London." Bond couldn't resist a frustrated growl as the line went dead.
Yes you will, Quartermaster, he thought, launching himself bodily into the back seat of the helicopter. I'll deal with you later, you insufferable little busybody.