Although the woman technically qualified for a bus pass, she still looked elegant, refined and perfectly sophisticated. Dressed in a very pale grey suit with a black lace camisole underneath, pearls in her ears and at her throat, M threw her head back as she mounted the steps to the podium and knew that she simply oozed control. She glanced down at the delegates and felt a small flicker of satisfaction at the way they stared at her obediently, like a bunch of schoolboys awaiting their morning lesson.
'Good morning,' she greeted them coolly, sneakily sliding a stack of small note cards beneath the ledge of the podium. 'I'd like to start by thanking you all for travelling here on such short notice.'
This was a lie, but it was good to flatter them, to make them think that they were doing her a favour rather than the other way round. The male ego was so easy to control. She glanced around the delegates and noted only one other woman - a hard faced, sullen woman in her early forties who bore the look of disappointment worn by a woman who hadn't succeeded as well as she had liked. M frowned, knowing how difficult it was to survive in such a male dominated world, and wanted to offer some words of support. M had got where she was today by fighting tooth and nail, and sometimes, outside of the pages of the rule book. Now she was at the top of her game, and she was damned if she was going to let anyone oust her from it prematurely.
Even the threat of death wouldn't stop her.
She knew that they called her the Ice Queen. And she knew that the building where she stood acted as the perfect foil to that nickname. The United Nations had built this oversized ice cube high in the Alps as a meeting place, a private conference room where the Heads of Security could meet in peace and quiet, beyond the eyes of the world's paparazzi. M didn't trust the media. Especially not after all that business with Elliot Carver. She stole a glance at the pompous Head of the Royal Navy. She rather suspected he didn't either, not with all the bad press they had received. It was a shame. She was rather fond of the old goat. He called a spade a spade and then smacked one round the head with it. And he had finally managed to laugh with regards to her comments about not having to think with one's testicles. It had taken six months of sweet talking and a vast amount of a very fine cognac, but it had finally worked and M knew she had an ally for life. Geoffrey saw her looking and raised a thick, shaggy eyebrow at her, forcing her to suppress a small smile.
She looked away, glancing upwards at the high dome roof. The building reminded her of the Eden Project in Cornwall, a vast glass igloo, each individual hexagonal pane of glass rising into the cold blue sky, supported by steel struts. It made the air around them feel chilled, despite M knowing a sophisticated heating system kept the atmosphere temperate.
'On September 11th 2001, the world stood united in disbelief as terrorists attacked New York and Washington. Thousands of innocent people lost their lives. Since that date, further attacks have occurred. Madrid,' she nodded towards the thin, bearded Spanish representative, a gesture of conciliation before continuing. 'and London both suffered terrible attacks. The so called War on Terror has been a world wide focus for several years. Valuable resources have been pooled into this 'war' and many lives have been lost. Civilian, military and covert lives. My agency has lost several high ranking agents in the opium fields of Afghanistan and in Iraq.'
M glanced around at the disinterested faces. It was clear that this was a speech they had heard one time too many and if she was honest, she had given it one time too many as well. She sighed inwardly, and knew that she had to carry on. Her eyes flickered left and right, looking for any unusual movements, any signal that she should get the hell out of there. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and despite her coolness and calm under fire, she felt very exposed and vulnerable. It was a sensation that rankled M, and it stirred a rebellious streak in her that made her throw her head back defiantly and continue.
'In this time of strife and antagonism, we, the agents of the underworld, must join together. Sharing information is of the utmost importance. Intelligence is the key to the success against this poison that is sweeping the world. Even those of us who were once on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain must now cooperate to ensure stability and progress.'
Out of the corner of her eye, M saw movement. Stealthily, in the higher echelons of the room, shadowy figures were moving. Perversely, M felt reassured and anxious all at the same time. Silently she sent up a prayer to whatever higher being might be listening and wondered why on earth she was trusting her life into James Bond's hands.
She hoped that it wasn't the last thing she did.
Her hands gripped the edge of the podium lightly. She spoke, but she could not recall the words she spoke. They seemed to make sense for in the audience she could see the gathered congregation nodded knowingly and in agreement.
The shot, when it came, was terribly loud.
The pain in her side was immense as M felt a solid body crash into her. The floor was hard, and she lay huddled against the thick, new smelling carpet, almost crushed by the man protecting her, the assigned guard who had been anticipating the shot. M had heard gunfire before, had been fired at on more than one occasion, but it was the first time she had ever willingly offered herself up as the ultimate sacrifice, and as bait, and knowing how close she was gambling with Death, knowing that she was putting herself in his hands, and waiting to see if her gamble paid off and she lived.
Or if she died.
It seemed perhaps she had won, but she wasn't prepared to check just yet. Apart from the suffocating sensation of a man much taller than her half crouched, half lying on her, she could feel no pain, and assessing herself from head to toe, she seemed to be mostly in one piece. Hope surged through her, however she still had no intention of lifting her head above the parapet just yet.
She was optimistic.
Not stupid.
For a moment, part of her wonders if today's actions are actually stupidity? To risk her own life, and the life of so many of her counterparts for the sake of baiting the man named Le Loup? Had she finally fallen victim to the same curse that had driven both James and Alec for so long? The need for revenge, the need to see her enemies brought before her, shackled and bound?
For too long M has pursued the man named Le Loup. She knew that he was responsible for the deaths of too many of her agents. She knows that he is responsible for deaths of agents before her time in command. Not least David Kain. The list was long and distinguished, and M wanted him brought down. Dead or alive.
She heard the panicked shouts of the civilised men in suits who head similar organisations to her own as they cower away from the gunfight. The rattle of machine gun fire is harsh in the cold echoes. From somewhere far away there is the sound of glass disintegrating into a thousand pieces.
Struggling to breathe, M managed to wriggle free a little from the protective hunk of human flesh. She rolled onto her back, gasping for air, and gasped again, this time as the sky above her seemed to be filled with falling bodies.
She had planned this very moment, but as it unfolded around her, she could only stare in awe and hope that it was enough to draw out the one man she desperately wanted to bring down. She knew there other, more personal vendettas at stake here as well, and knew that this day would end in bloodshed.
For some reason, the thought thrilled her. The Ice Queen was melting as fire and a thirst for vengeance raged in her own, unspilled blood.
*
James Bond huddled against the protective barrier of a balcony somewhere high in the auditorium. He fingered the safety catch on his precious Walther PPK, his weapon of choice for as long as he could remember. He knew that it distinguished him, and singled him out from the others, but still he could not bear to part with the gun, no matter how many times it had nearly been his downfall.
Dressed in a heavy black fur lined parka, over ski trousers, he felt hot and flustered and deliberately set about slowing his breathing in an attempt to calm himself down. Once again he found himself cursing M's decision to place herself directly in the line of fire. How the hell could he be expected to protect her, and other important figure heads, against Le Loup's men? The pack would tear through the building singling out the weakest and killing indiscriminately. With luck, collateral damage would be minimal, but he wouldn't bet against several high ranking obituaries being published in the international press within the next forty eight hours.
Sheer stupidity, he called it, or bravery perhaps, it didn't matter they both usually boiled down to the same thing.
And allowing Ashleigh to participate? Was the woman mad? Ashleigh should have had been sent straight back to Sicily with an armed guard watching her every movement. She was getting far too cocksure, and far too dangerous. She had smelt blood, and James knew now that this search for her daughter would end with blood being spilt.
He just hoped to God and to the Devil and whoever else might be listening that it wasn't his.
Charles Robinson was of a similar mindset, and James knew that the man's knee wasn't the only thing that was hurting right now. Charles's pride could become a major problem in this situation. He knew that the Chief of Staff was based only metres away, acting primarily as a communications source. James had no idea how many agents were actually in the building, but right now he was of the opinion that however many could never be too many.
He swore under his breath, and as if in response to his muttered curse, a shot rang out.
Instantly he was on his feet, covering the room, searching all the while for the direction the shot had come from.
Men in uniform seemed to crawl from every crack in the wall, seemed to pour through every door. Dressed in a motley collection of military insignia, Le Loup's men invaded, and all hell broke loose.
Glancing around, James was gratified to see his boss being rugby tackled by a heavy the size of a small car. The petite grey haired woman was shoved down behind the podium in a particularly undignified manner, and lay sprawled on the floor with the bodyguard pinning her down. It didn't matter that he was firing shots in the general direction that the bullet had come from, James couldn't help but let a wry grin spread across his face at the sight. It was certainly one to remember.
A bullet whipped past his face, inches away and a damned sight too close for comfort. James glanced briefly at the newly appeared hole in the wall to the left of him and turning, he fired coldly at his assailant. The man fell, his body ricocheting over the edge of the balcony, before falling with a wet thud to the floor metres below.
And then suddenly, there was peace. A stunned ceasefire.
From high above there was the sound of cables being extended.
An aerial attack was launched.
From where they had hidden on the metal girders high above in the glass structure, the back up arrived. Attached to ropes and extending cables, they simply leapt into the air, freefalling until the tenshioners they used halted them just above the floor. A simple click was all that was needed to release them from their harnesses, and suddenly, Le Loup's men were fiercely outnumbered.
The gun fire increased rapidly, and somewhere in the background, James heard the retreat sound. As he turned towards the sound of the voice, he caught sight of hazel eyes, and wavy chestnut hair.
She was staring at him in horror from nearby.
She ran.
He followed. For now.
