The plane landed as the sun was setting over the sea. Bond glanced out of the window of the small passenger jet and saw an island of contrasts below him. Immediately identifiable as they flew over it was the large cone of Mount Etna, the tempestuous volcano of the island, its lower banks mottled with houses all too aware of how vulnerable they were.
The whole island seemed to shimmer with heat, despite the late hour. Lush rolling green hills covered in vines crept into the centre, while the vivid blue Mediterranean battered the outer edges of the land. It was beautiful, Bond concurred, a private haven away from everything, a place of escapism.
Yet as they prepared for landing, he was struck by doubts about the assignment. M's secrecy had amused him at first, but now it was irritating him. M had barely spoken since they had boarded the plane, instead burying herself into files that Bond was not allowed to access to. Any opportunity to steal a peak at the dark print on the white pages had been met by a reshuffling of pages and an angry glare from his superior.
There was something going on. It made him prickle with frustration, and the intense heat that surrounded them as they landed and made their way to the car just added to his discomfort. The only logical conclusion he could come to was that the child's parents were so 'sensitive' that M was praying that this wouldn't come out. Perhaps a high ranking government figure, or a Member of Parliament, someone who wouldn't want the news that their child had been kidnapped splashed all over the world's media and had called in MI6 to retrieve them with the minimal of fuss.
Whoever it was, they made M nervous.
Sitting on the sticky, overly hot leather rear seat of the official car he grew more and more uncomfortable as M's anxiety grew. Every so often he would feel those icy blue eyes travel over his face, and he would resist the urge to flinch beneath them. It was a ridiculous feeling to have, but he couldn't help it.
James Bond was the best. 007 had always been the best. Whether it was retrieving decoding machines, travelling into space, or preventing yet another megalomaniac from taking over the world with his diabolical plan, Bond could be relied on to do it, with style, panache and usually with a beautiful woman on his arm. He was aware that he was dangerously close to becoming a cliché, but a stint as a prisoner of war had somewhat tamed him. He was getting old, he knew, and he was getting more and more suspicious with each assignment. The horrifying thought was creeping over him that he might have to consider retirement at some point in the future. He was fit, healthy, and still had all his facilities intact, but the truth was he was no longer the young man that had fought so hard during the Cold War, or had the same idealistic views.
As for regrets, yes, he had a few, as the song went. Too many times he had found himself facing the barrel of a gun, or a death in some particularly horrific manner, and wondering just what he had to show for his life. There were too many 'what ifs' and too many possibilities to face. Who would show up at his memorial service? Who would truly mourn James Bond, and not James Bond, 007.
So he ignored them, and worked on the next mission, and bedded the next attractive woman (sometimes painfully aware of the age differences between them) and basked in the glory that was being 007.
They had left the more inhabited parts of the island now, and was travelling higher into the mountains. Bond caught a brief glimpse of a small, traditional looking town before they had passed through in the blink of an eye. A church, a village square, several cafes, restaurants, boutiques and shops, market stalls, all crammed into a valley at the bottom of the hills.
He risked a glance at his travelling companion. M's jaw was set, her chin set stubbornly upright, and her hands firmly clenched together. She caught him looking, and made a determined effort to relax under his security.
And then M did something Bond could hardly believe. Slowly she reached out, and placed her slim, elegant hand over his.
'Just keep calm,' she murmured, backing up her words with a gentle touch of pressure. 'Whatever happens, I order you to keep calm.'
Bond was too surprised to speak. He merely nodded, and glanced outside once more. M's hand left his, but he barely noticed it. Instead he stared at a narrow steep driveway, which ended in a set of metal gates. Armed agents patrolled them; already they had spotted the car and were now muttering instructions into thin black radios.
'Security is high here,' he remarked.
'It should be,' M replied archly, 'I ordered it to be so.'
'What security measures did the family employ before the kidnapping?' Bond asked, ignoring the rebuke.
'Electric gates, panic buttons, both parents are trained in self defence,' the last part was an understatement, but M felt it would do for now. 'As part of their contract with MI6 they were required to check in with an agent of a regular basis, this happened as normal three days before the kidnapping. The family were notoriously private; in fact most of the locals around here were unaware of them.'
Security checks were taking place as they drew up to the gates, but finally, the car came to a stop, and Bond stepped out of the car.
He stopped, and looked around, taking in as many details as he could. The house was actually a villa, built early in the century, with the slightly thrown together look that so many of the buildings constructed at that time had. Set on the edge of the island, the sea spreading out as far as the eye could see, the villa was built in a beautiful location. White washed walls met a brilliant terracotta tiled roof that in some places flattened out into a flat low roof. The windows were shuttered and a heavy wooden traditional front door stood imposingly at the front of the house. To the left lay the sea, to the right there was a garden filled with lush green plants and shady trees. Everything was coated with a fine pink dust that immediately smothered Bond's shoes. He frowned down at them in some annoyance.
M contented herself with a brief analytical glance around before strolling confidently up to the front door and stepping inside.
Bond followed. Inside, it was cool and airy, and Bond was relieved to get out of the heat. Everything was tasteful, and elegant, uncluttered and light. Even though agents swarmed all over the house taking samples, searching for evidence, it didn't hide the cosiness of the house. Peering through a doorway Bond found a living room filled with chocolate brown leather sofas, and thick cream rugs on warm floorboards. His eye was drawn to the most vivid splash of colour in the room, a dark red stain spread out on one of the rugs.
Blood.
The mother had been attacked, this must have been where. The almost crescent shaped stain suggested she had lain there for some time before either coming around or being found.
He paused. There was something about the home that was bothering him. He took a deep breath and nearly choked as a familiar scent hit him. It was faint, but it was there, cool and fresh, and he suddenly could smell only that.
He couldn't place it though. It was something he hadn't smelt for years, and he frowned, trying to figure out why it had made him react so violently.
'Through here,' M caught his attention, dragging him away from his mystery scent. She was standing at the end of a narrow arched corridor, holding a glass door open.
He stepped out onto a terrace, a softly lit, romantic terrace, covered with tiles, and potted plants. It was cooling down, as the sun sank lower into the sky and that sky was streaked with purple clouds.
Bond saw none of this.
He was staring at the woman sitting at the table.
Her head was in her hands, her dark hair caught between her fingers as she struggled to hold back the sobs that threatened to break free at any moment. For a terrible moment he knew her, but didn't recognise her, thinking perhaps it was an ex lover, but then he truly saw her.
He froze.
The hair was different, slightly longer, and lighter than he remembered it, bleached by the sun to a warm brown, her skin was tanned, but apart from that she hadn't changed in the six years since he had saw her.
The blood rushed to his head, he couldn't think, he felt numb. He merely watched as she sat, dressed in jeans and a sleeveless t shirt, her bare feet swinging beneath the table. He tried to call to her, but it was too late.
M had pushed forward, and now held out her arms to the young woman.
'Ashleigh.'
Ashleigh stumbled to her feet, and into the waiting embrace, clinging onto M desperately. 'They took her,' she moaned, 'They took my little girl.'
'I know they did, child,' M stroked the dark hair in a maternal gesture that seemed entirely right. 'I know they did, but we'll find her, we'll get her back for you.'
He could see the top of Ashleigh's head nodding as she buried her face in M's shoulder, holding onto the words for the scant comfort they provided. Blinking, she raised her head and then she saw James.
It had indeed been six years since Bond had last seen his goddaughter. The Ashleigh Kain he had known then had been fighting her way through the ranks at MI6, stubborn and idealistic. She had been heading for the top if only she had been able to curb her independent nature, the one mission they had shared had been not exactly a disaster, but had come close to creating an undeniable break in the relationship they had shared. He had thought that if she had seriously tried she might have one day held 00 status.
And then suddenly she had gone.
Vanished.
Working abroad, M had told him, a long term undercover assignment. M had refused to meet his eyes as she had told him, focusing instead on the file in front of her, her favourite way of breaking eye contact.
But Ashleigh hadn't completely vanished. He'd received letters, emails, always from different addresses, always brief and vague about what exactly she had been doing. He hadn't expected more, and in time, she had simply been a memory while he got on with his job.
He would never have stood in the way of her career. Even if a grudging part of him had missed her.
Now she stood before him, and somehow, she looked younger than he had ever seen her. Dark shadows were smudged under eyes, eyes that were filled with tears just waiting to be shed. She was pale, and her skin blotchy, obviously she had spent time crying recently.
Her temple and forehead was a riot of bruising, in the centre of the purples there was a deep gash held together by stitches. Whoever had hit her had hit her hard, and she winced as he saw it as if just his scrutiny hurt her. On her bare arms were bruises where the door had hit her. Her red rimmed eyes followed his gaze, and she shrugged to dismiss them. They weren't important she seemed to say.
'James?' she whispered, disbelievingly.
He didn't have to say anything. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could ever say would make her feel better right now and any words of sympathy he might try would merely fall flat. He simply held out his arms to her, as he would have when she was a child.
The tears began to fall from her eyes as she threw herself into his embrace.
