"How did you get that way? I don't know
You're screwed up and brilliant,
Look like a million dollar man"
- Lana del Rey, Million Dollar Man
Encore
It appears the reason Bond was sent to collect him is that M wanted to talk to both of them. There's a folder on his desk when Q walks in, turned towards the two empty chairs. M stands up.
"We've had some new information come through on the arms dealers," he says. "Combined with the information you retrieved for us in Reading, we finally have a lead on who might be at the head of this."
M points at the file, and Bond flips it open to the first page. Q sees the image of a man with a narrow but handsome face and grey hair.
"Meet Monsieur Michel Jeunet," M says.
Q tears the file from Bond's hands.
"Jeunet? Leading a ring of arms dealers?"
Bond looks at him.
"Do you know him?"
"He should," M says before Q gets a chance to reply. "Jeunet is also known as Le Loup-garou. He's one of the most accomplished hackers on the international arena. Something of a genius as far as I gather."
"And he chooses to call himself The Werewolf?" Bond asks.
"He lives up to it," Q says.
"One of your six people?"
"Definitely."
M looks slightly confused for half a second, but doesn't ask. He probably got the gist of the exchange.
"To our knowledge," he says, "the only one who has ever cracked one of Jeunet's own systems was a hacker called K."
"And who is that?" Bond asks, predictably.
"Me."
Bond smiles, in a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
"Of course. Out of curiosity, how many one-letter nicknames do you have?"
"Just the two," Q assures him and looks up from the file to address M. "I assume that's the reason I was called here?"
"Indeed," Mallory says and sits down. They follow suit. "Jeunet is a main speaker at an exclusive conference in Paris three weeks from now. We have intel that suggests a large shipment of illegal weapons will change hands at the same time, from our mark's organisation to a major international crime organisation. We don't know where in Paris, we don't know exactly when, we don't even know if this intel is entirely trustworthy. Our friends in Langley along with several of our colleagues on the continent are interested in stopping this trade from taking place. We want you to confirm the information we have and retrieve as much additional information as you can without leaving any traces. Jeunet is known to be suspicious to the point of paranoia. This deal is the first real chance we've had at getting at the leaders of this organisation. If Jeunet gets nervous and calls it off, God knows when we will get another chance like it.
"You'll be attending the conference as a potential investor and his PA, it will fit the age difference and draw more attention to you, 007, than to the Quartermaster. Your covers are not fully fleshed out yet, but I expect it won't take you long to correct that."
Q is usually anything but slow, so he feels like a complete idiot when he only now realises that M is suggesting that Q shouldn't just stand by a monitor in Vauxhall, but actually get out on the field. Again. Thankfully, Bond looks equally perplexed, or whatever passes for confusion on that granite face.
"Wouldn't it make more sense to send one of the girls from Q-branch? Keep the Quartermaster in this end with all his fancy toys?"
M gives Bond a bit of a glare and says:
"I've already told you Q is uniquely positioned to do this. The 'girls from Q-branch' as you call them are not only far below Q's competence and completely lacking field experience, they would also be counterproductive to your cover. Your primary objective is to retrieve the information without relying on traitors or informants in Jeunet's ranks. Should that prove impossible, the person closest to Jeunet is his PA, Marie Chabrier. But tread carefully," M says, looking at Bond. "In this case, it's not just the woman who is in danger of ending up dead."
Q thinks it is to Bond's credit that he doesn't even flinch at that rather harsh implication.
"Jeunet had one of his own bodyguards hanged from one of the balconies at Hotel Negresco in Nice a year ago because he didn't like the way the man looked at Chabrier. You cementing your ladies-man image by bringing along a pretty young girl as your PA won't help. Better to detract suspicion."
M doesn't develop that further, and he doesn't need to. They are all on the same page. Not for the first time in his life, Q is happy he's not prone to blushing.
00Q00Q00Q00
Still, as they walk out of M's office Q must look a bit paler than usual because Bond puts a hand on his shoulder and says:
"You look like you've bitten into a lemon, Q. You should be excited. You get to come down from your tower and visit the real world again."
Q doesn't think that's something to get excited about, and he is not in the mood for humour.
"Not all little boys dreamt of becoming secret agents, you know," he tells Bond.
"I doubt you dreamt of becoming Quartermaster of MI6 either."
"No," Q concedes. "In fact, I think my plans were more along the lines of hacking every state-owned server and overthrowing the government by pressing a key."
It's just a slight change somewhere around Bond's eyes, but suddenly he knows he has Bond's full attention.
"Sounds like you were an angry young man."
"Maybe."
Q's already regretting letting the conversation turn in this direction.
"So what stopped you? Not any difficulty to pull it off, surely?"
It's hard to tell by his smile if Bond is actually complimenting him while mocking him, or if he's just mocking him outright. It's surprisingly frustrating.
"I'm touched by your faith in my abilities, 007. As a matter of fact, I don't think I could have pulled it off, if for no other reason than that even today the stability of the state does not rely solely on computer systems."
"But you never tried," Bond deduces. "So you changed your mind then."
"I guess so."
"The wisdom of age?"
There's that joking tone again.
"More like the choice between a lifetime in prison with a snooker table and some DVD-boxes or a lifetime in a London flat with monthly payments and a job where I get to play with all the toys I'd ever wished for."
Q hopes Bond will grab the chance to call Q a child and thereby change the subject, but Bond disappoints him.
"Why were you being sent to prison?" he asks.
"I'm sure you've heard the rumours, 007. I hacked into MI5's so called secure systems."
Bond studies him for a moment.
"And?"
"And what? They were pretty pissed. They wanted to lock me away to rot. But apparently MI6 found the whole thing rather more amusing than they did, and M called me in for a talk and made me the offer I couldn't refuse."
M.
Q half-expects 007 to walk away at the mention of that woman, but he just keeps studying Q.
"You're not lying," he says.
Q scoffs.
"Thank you. No, I'm not."
"But you're hiding something," Bond continues.
"Oh? And what would that be?"
Bond looks at him in silence again.
Finally, he says: "I'm not sure yet."
"Well, tell me when you've figured it out," Q says, relieved to end the discussion but also a little bit amused, and begins to walk away.
"Q?" Bond calls after him, and Q turns around. "Why 'K'?"
Bond looks smug. So he thinks he's on to Q's name, does he? Q has to smile.
"Too much Kafka."
Q might be imagining it, but he thinks Bond's disappointment is actually visible.
00Q00Q00Q00
In his head, Q goes through the different preparations to be made before a field operation. It is something he has done many times, but now he puts himself in the role of field agent and that makes the old familiar train of thought feel new and awkward.
He has to create a character for himself. Nothing elaborate, not an entire novel; all he needs is a few memorised sentences of back-story, a convincing digital record in case Jeunet decides to look them up, and mannerisms that are close enough to his own that he won't have to act much but that fit the professional persona he's aiming for. Speaking of appearing professional – he looks at himself in the glass doors and sees the unruly hair, the cardigan and the hipster glasses – he might be a department head, but this is MI6, not the business world. No high-class businessman who dresses the way Bond does would employ a PA that dresses like Q. He needs new clothes.
There is a tailor on Savile Row that caters almost exclusively to MI6. The arrangement is expensive, and perhaps questionable from a security point of view, but useful enough to warrant it. The man who runs the shop, a Mr Trace, blithely accepts and keeps quiet about all their special demands – everything from including hidden pockets to replacing the bullet-hole riddled sleeve of an expensive suit that's only been worn once. Q has never been there but he knows where it is, and makes sure he gets an appointment.
00Q00Q00Q00
He hasn't been measured for clothes since he graduated from Cambridge, and he found it an awkward experience then too. He turns and moves on the tailor's command, stretching out his arms and legs when asked, while the white-haired Mr Trace circles around him with a measuring tape and a small notebook and hums repeatedly.
"Yes, yes. I think we can do something quite nice. It's nice to get to work on a different silhouette. They're usually so much bulkier than you, your colleagues."
"I have more of a desk job, normally," Q says. He doesn't think it's giving away too much information – after all, it's probably obvious.
"So that's why I haven't seen you before," Mr Trace says with a smile that makes his face crinkle up like crêpe paper. "Good, that's good."
The old man starts rolling up the measuring tape. He must detect some confusion in Q's face, because he clarifies: "Usually when your company sends me new customers it means one of the old ones ... won't be coming back."
The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes this time. It's obvious to Q that Trace has a pretty good idea of what happens to those customers.
"Do you recognise all your customers?" Q asks when Mr Trace gestures for him to step down from the little podium.
"Oh, yes, of course! If I don't remember the face, I recognise the posture, the gait, the proportions – I would know one of my customers anywhere."
Q considers the security risk. He doubts Trace is the type to turn into a traitor – after all, he's had a few decades to do so, including the height of the cold war – but if someone found out that he works for them, extracted him and tortured him for information...
"You live above the shop, don't you? Would it be alright with you if I sent some people here to set up some extra security systems? For your safety."
The tailor smiles.
"Ah, of course, of course. But I will not take it off the price of your suits."
"Of course not," Q hurries to say, and feels as if he was just very rude and doesn't know quite how to apologise.
"They've been here before, you know, your people. Years ago. But I suppose it is all ... what do they call it, 'smart' technology now, eh? I suppose that's your desk job?"
Q is torn between the urge to be polite to this nice, harmless man by answering his question and the ingrained reflex to never divulge anything about his work. The tailor catches his hesitance.
"Ah, but we stray too far from the matter at hand. Let us look at some fabrics. What will you need for your trip?"
Q explains that he will need to look like he's not extremely wealthy himself, but the employee of someone who is, and does an estimate of what he will need (two suits and a tuxedo).
"You'll be travelling with Mr Bond, then," Mr Trace says. This time he doesn't put it as a question, and Q is grateful because he doesn't want to answer.
"I only assume because he is the only one of you who has been in here recently," Trace explains. "He already has several of my creations of course, so he only ordered one. We picked out this." Trace gestures at a light grey fabric, and then takes a couple of steps and picks out a darker shade of the same colour. "How about this?"