Apologies, apologies, a thousand apologies! Very slow update, I know, in fact this was only written last night! I have no time to myself, working two jobs at the moment, but at least I haven't hurt myself recently!

Chapter 11 is being worked on as we speak, I'm finding it difficult trying to bring all the threads together without revealing too much, hence lots of unnamed characters – they will be revealed and soon, just not yet. Don't want to spoil any surprises!

Onto Chapter 10


Since his return to England, Bond had been feeling ever more impotent. There was a sense that his increasing work load was linked to M's desire to keep him busy and well and truly out of trouble. There were rumours that Bond was lined up for a recon mission to Columbia. Perhaps M was hoping that the trigger happy drug barons and notorious bandits would keep him occupied enough to prevent him from chasing after his goddaughter and her errant husband.

He sighed to himself. He didn't exactly know why he had let himself be drawn into this, and he was beginning to consider that M was right, that perhaps they would be better washing their hands of the Trevelyans altogether. Let them find their own daughter, let them find each other, and if they wanted to kill each other in the process, let them. Ashleigh had always been far too stubborn for her own good, and the world had proved itself to be a far simpler place without Alec's presence in it.

Yet Bond knew M had learnt her lesson the hard way. Elektra King's kidnapping had led to a chain of events that had ended in blood and violence, and very nearly all their deaths. M had been shaken by the incident, she had come closer to the front line than she had thought possible, for once not protected by hundreds of heavily armed guards, but having to rely on her own courage to see her through her days of captivity. Elektra had had her own defence.

Stockholm Syndrome.

The psychological phenomena that led to captives sympathising, empathising, even to the prisoner falling in love with those that had taken their freedom. Elektra King had been an impressionable young woman, frightened, but intrigued by the power her captors had, particularly the cruel Reynard. Her love for him, and her belief that her father had abandoned her had led to her desire to change the world, starting with her father's assassination.

Bond had come close to falling in love with her, his desire for the slim, dark eyed, exotic woman combined with the desperate urge to protect her from all that she feared. By the time he had realised the truth, it had been almost too late.

Elektra King was dead now. Dead for more years than Bond wished to remember. Bond forced the thought of her away, and tried not to think of how so small a child as Natasha Trevelyan was coping with such a trauma.

He knew why he couldn't walk away from the situation. He knew he should, should refuse to let himself be played for a fool, but he couldn't.

The graveyard was in a quiet part of London, tucked near the borough of Islington. While the rest of London sweltered in the summer temperatures, the cool shade of the leafy trees brought sweet relief to Bond as he meandered along the narrow gravelled paths, heading for the far eastern corner. The pale green oak leaves left a dappled effect over the twin headstones, the once white stone now grey with age, and streaked with green mould.

The lettering was still clear though, and as he stared at the dates, Bond wondered how two decades had managed to pass since he had first stood in this spot to pay his final respects to Emma Kain. Five years later he had returned, that time to grieve for David.

'Emma has cancer.'

He could still remember the words spilling from his friend's mouth, and the absolute silence that had followed afterwards. He had struggled to fill that emptiness, trying to find words that would comfort, words that would draw the shocked look from David's face, but none had come, and to his shame, he had merely nodded. There had been no escape from the difficult conversation, as they had been locked up in a small dank cell somewhere in Russia. A week later they would be free after a daring overpowering of several guards, but until then they were stuck there, and Bond had no choice but to listen.

David, the words finally said, had been unable to stop them from flowing.

'They're not sure if they've caught it early enough or not. If they have there may be a chance… but if not…'

David's voice had caught, and to Bond's immense alarm, he had seen tears swim in those brown eyes. Ineffectually he had attempted to provide comfort by patting David on the shoulder, but he didn't think it had made any difference.

Emma had died six months later. The cancer had ravaged her petite body, her small frame eaten away by the disease until her bone structure had been painfully clear beneath paper thin skin. Quietly, with little fuss, she had slipped away in the early hours of a winter morning. The frost had been thick under the mourners' feet when they had buried her days later. The trees that on this day provided welcome shade, had on the day of her funeral shed faded leaves like rusty tears. David had stumbled through the service, his mouth forming words automatically, and without thinking, politely thanking the congregation for their attendance, his eyes dry, and hollowed out by grief. His hand had gripped his daughter's in an almost painful clasp, as if he thought that if he let her go, he would lose her too.

Only as the small white coffin, so small it didn't seem possible that it could hold the body of the vibrant woman he had married, had been lowered had his composure had slipped, his despair had overcome him, his entire body had slumped, his six foot bulk threatening to crash to the ground. James had stepped forward, catching him, and holding him upright as the final words had been spoken over the grave.

Ashleigh had been eight years old, wrapped against the cold in a thick, heavy navy wool coat. At some point that morning a well meaning relative had wrapped a bright red scarf around her neck, as if the vivid cheery colour could somehow keep her tears at bay. Everyone noticed how the red of the scarf matched the colour of her eyes, she had exhausted herself crying since her mother's death, but at the funeral, not one tear fell.

Five years later the same pride had been in evidence as she had watched as her father's coffin had been lowered into the plot beside her mother's. She was older then, thirteen, and beginning to leave her childish looks behind. Her thick dark hair had been scraped back into a tight French plait, and Bond had thought at the time how unbecoming it was on her, forcing a sense of adulthood upon her that she wasn't yet ready for. It had been only later that he had realised that that was exactly the effect she had been aiming for, as if realising she had to grow up now that she was alone in the world. Katherine Montrose had stood stiffly beside her granddaughter, now officially in her care, one hand reassuringly upon her shoulder, holding back her own grief for her son in law, reflecting bitterly on the fates that had decreed that such a happy couple should be taken from the world so soon. M had stood the other side of Ashleigh, a shadowy figure in the young girl's life, known only as a close family friend. Bond had caught M's steely blue gaze and flushed, knowing the woman could sense the relief emanating from Bond that he would not be solely responsible for this girl's upbringing.

It had been a difficult time for Bond, he had lost two friends in short succession, and MI6 had lost two of their best agents. 006 and 009 had died, and 007 had been left behind, bewildered and more aware of his own mortality than ever.

The same awareness crept over him as he stood quietly in the graveyard, feeling the burning sun beating down up him. He had stripped off his suit jacket, and folded it carelessly over his arm in a manner that would no doubt pain his Jermyn Street tailor, and now he could feel the first prickles of sweat beginning to catch at the thin, yet expensive cotton of his shirt.

Still he stood there, lost in thoughts of the past. He had sworn at Ashleigh's christening to protect David and Emma's daughter, and he was wondering when he had failed in that duty.

He supposed the moment he had let Alec Trevelyan touch her.

If he had been sensible, he should have put a bullet in Janus's head as soon as he had heard that the man was alive again.

What if Ashleigh had never met Alec? What if she had never been chosen to accompany him on that particular mission? What if she had never joined MI6? What if Alec had never defected? What if David had never died?

There were too many 'what ifs?'. Yet somehow Bond felt that it all came back to David. David could have persuaded Alec not to defect. David should never have had a family, not in the line of work he pursued, and then Ashleigh would never have wanted to follow in his footsteps and she would never have had a child with Alec Trevelyan, and that child would never have been kidnapped, and Bond wouldn't be booked in on the next flight to Colombia.

His fists clenched at his sides as he felt the helplessness swamp over him once more. There were no pithy comebacks for this situation, no arrogant smirks, and none of the gadgets that Q provided could ever bring about a resolution.

There was no point in blaming the dead, he realised with a heavy sigh. The dead were cold empty shells, brought only to life by the memories of those left behind. There had been too much time spent on reflecting if David's life could ever have been saved, or if he could have prevented Alec's defection if he had known about it.

The footfall was so faint that for a brief moment, he wasn't even sure he heard it, but his body reacted quicker than his tired, grief stricken mind. His backhand would have disarmed any weapon carried by his attacker, a second later, he twisted hard, dragging the person towards him, next moment they were off balance, and Bond threw them to the ground, Walther PPK in hand.

'Peace!' A low accented voice begged frantically, 'Please, peace…'

Bond had had many beautiful women at his feet before, but the woman who lay sprawled in the grass was exceptional enough to make even Bond take a second look.

'Peace,' she murmured again, raising her hands in mock surrender. A smile began to curl around her full pink lips, revealing a dimple in her cheek, her dark curls fell tousled over her face, half shielding the bright hazel eyes that glinted mischievously up at him now she realised he meant her no harm.

Bond, although distracted by her startling good looks did not immediately sheathe his weapon. He kept it loosely in one hand, forming his own handsome features into the dark glare that had both intimidated and thrilled countless other women. 'Do you often lurk in graveyards, Agent Van Dien?' The name came to his lips instantly, the soft honeyed voice had haunted his thoughts since their last conversation, a conversation he could remember every last syllable of.

'Only when tracking down strange men, 007,' the lips curled further into a broad, warm smile.

Finally Bond tucked the weapon away, and offered her his hand in an almost gentlemanly gesture. 'Wouldn't it have been easier to find me through official channels?'

Her pretty features darkened. 'Perhaps, 007, but if what I needed to talk to you about wasn't strictly official, then perhaps I had to find alternative means.'

'So how did you find me?'

She smirked, a gesture that he usually found irritating, but on her, it showed staggering confidence. 'A good agent never reveals her sources, Bond.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Not 007?'

'Jasmin Van Dien,' she said, throwing her glossy curls back over her silk covered shoulder, and extending her hand. 'Codenames are so damned impersonal, and I have a feeling we're going to be spending far too much time together to remain impersonal.'

White teeth flashed in the sunlight, and Bond felt a dangerous flicker of attraction for this confident woman. 'Are we indeed?' he said, taking her hand.

'I can help you,' she said softly, 'I want to help you.'

And I want to let you, Bond thought suddenly, his gaze lingering on the subtle line of her curves under her suit. 'What do you know?' he growled.

'Enough,' she said, and he knew she was serious.

True to her word, Jasmin did know enough. The list of KGB agents that he had requested of her had proved disturbingly dead ended, not one name had rung a bell, except perhaps as the elusive men that had gotten away from Bond's grasp during the Cold War.

Except one.

'Pierre Merkalov?' Jasmin's thick, neatly groomed brows had knitted together in confusion.

'You've heard of him?' Bond has asked.

'Not much,' she had shrugged, 'He fell off the radar sometime ago, it was never proved that he had ever committed any crime, or had done anything that had warranted our interest in him.'

'Except being a high ranking member of the KGB.'

'There was that,' Jasmin had forced a smile.

'Pierre Merkalov,' Bond began, 'Ex military, ex KGB. Mother was French, father Russian, raised in Moscow and Toulouse. Joined the Russian army at an early age, promoted rapidly through the ranks. At some point, he was recruited into the KGB. He obtained a nickname, relating to his ruthlessness mainly, Le Loup.'

'The Wolf,' Jasmin had translated. 'But there has never been any proof of his actions.'

'Perhaps not, but it wasn't through a lack of trying on our behalf.'

'So why was he called Le Loup?'

Bond had frowned. 'He was the leader of a small, highly trained group of men, a pack so to speak, with Merkalov as the alpha male.'

'But surely the KGB wouldn't have tolerated such a group?'

'They didn't. Merkalov 'disappeared' underground, the KGB were very keen to find him, and dispose of him permanently. As I remember, so were we.'

'So he's dangerous?'

'Extremely. If he is involved, then this situation is far worse than we first thought.'

That conversation had taken place a mere twenty four hours ago, and Bond marvelled at how time truly did fly when you were having fun. To his surprise he had found himself inviting Jasmin back to his flat, the only place he could think of where they could have some privacy. The situation was delicate enough without having several MI6 agents trying desperately to overhear what Bond was saying to the 'latest bit of fluff' on his arm.

They had talked long into the night, trying desperately to find a solution to the problem, and all the while Bond had found himself fighting an increasing attraction to the young woman he was working with.

He had discovered she was thirty-two years old, and South African. She had moved to London as a teenager, and had found herself at MI6 in a lowly administrative position, but had proved to be a valuable asset to the organisation, working her way through the ranks until she came to where she was now, working directly for a senior high ranking figure. Her time in the field had been limited, but a useful experience, and she had thought that perhaps she might take the plunge soon, and make the move to field agent permanently.

Bond had found himself listening to these details with an interest he didn't usually have in other people's backgrounds. Her South African heritage explained the accent to her voice, and her olive skin, and made her strangely exotic amongst the pale, fair women that graced the offices of MI6.

As the night had crept on, Bond had realised he was watching the shapes her lips formed more than he was listening to the words she said, and admiring the way her lustrous curls fell to her shoulders in a manner that seemed at once dishevelled, and yet groomed. He wanted to take a lock between his fingers and see if it was as soft as it seemed.

And she knew it.


He couldn't remember who had kissed whom first, but as he lay in the cool cotton sheets of his bed, and admired the contrast between her tanned skin, and the pale sheet, one hand running down the curve of her him, he was bloody glad it had happened.

There was only one thing that could spoil this moment, and that was the phone ringing shrilly on the bedside table.

'Yes?' he snapped viciously into the cordless receiver.

'Napping on the job, 007?' a smooth, deep male voice asked.

Hardly, Bond thought, glancing at the naked form of the sleeping woman next to him. He decided to ignore the comment. 'A personal call, I am privileged.'

'Yes, you damned are well,' the voice snarled. 'I thought you should know, she's taunting you.'

Jasmin? Bond thought, with a confused glance over his shoulder, the sleeping woman had barely moved even when the phone had rang. 'What?' he asked, rubbing one hand over his tired eyes.

'Your goddaughter,' the man on the other end of the phone line said with exaggerated patience. 'She flew into Paris yesterday afternoon.'

'How do you know this?' Bond sat up hurriedly in bed.

'I checked the passenger lists.'

'So did we,' Bond snarled scornfully. 'She hasn't used any of her known aliases, its quite simple she doesn't want to be found.'

'If she doesn't want to be found, then why did she leave such a huge clue for us?'

'What clue?' Bond demanded.

'James?' Jasmin stirred, and then turned over.

'Who's that?' the man snapped.

'Does it matter?'

'Not at all. Your goddaughter is missing, and you're evidently enjoying yourself. I just thought you should know that a Cecile Montrose flew into Charles De Gaulle airport yesterday afternoon.'

Bond remained silent.

'It's up to you what you do next, but I know what I'm going to do.'

'And what exactly is that?'

But the caller had already hung up and Bond found himself faced with the humiliating continuous beep of a dial tone. He threw the phone down.

'Who was that?'

Someone who usually wasn't so bloody hostile, Bond thought, someone who he usually considered a friend. 'A friend. I think.'

'You think?'

Bond shook his head. 'She used Montrose as an alias. Montrose.'

Jasmin merely nodded. Bond may not have been making sense at that moment in time, but she wasn't about to argue.

'Tell me,' he murmured, his mood changing in a blink of an eye. His firm hand traced the curve of her shoulder, stroking, teasing. 'Have you ever been to Paris?'