Prologue: Tangier.. Heathrow.. Vauxhall

I heard the sea breaking below my window just before dawn and woke. I knew I was to fly back to London that morning. My leave of absence was over and I was to return to work. I lay in bed, feeling the grumble in my belly and rubbing the stubble on my chin from three days' growth.

The heat was rising now, inexorably moving the coolness of the night aside as the blinds rippled in the rising haze.

I raised myself up, wincing from the pain in my side, and drew the blinds and sat, watching the sun rise slowly over the rim of the bay, the smells of the waking souks spiralling up through the stillness of the morning air.

Sweat sprang over my body as the temperature climbed, and I watched a gecko scuttle over the plaster ceiling, little sticky toes, as I lit my last cigarette. I closed my eyes.

Seven hours later, I was stepping onto the tarmac of a rainswept Heathrow apron.

Henderson awaited me.

"Afternoon, Commander," he said, flipping me a sheaf of papers, "and welcome home, sir. How was Tangier? You're fully recovered, I hope, sir."

I grunted a noncommittal reply and took the papers. Just the usual port of entry documents. As a member of His Majesty's Secret Service, it was customary to bypass the usual immigration channels when re-entering Britain. I signed the papers without studying them and handed them back. Henderson led me back to his parked department Focus. I eschewed the front seat and clambered in the back, allowing him to take my bags.

The journey up the M4 was punctuated only by the metronome of the windscreen wipers and the spark of my duty-frees; every time I lit one, apparently oblivious of the sign on his dash that read 'thank you for not smoking', I took pleasure in seeing the back of Henderson's neck stiffen. It was a way of kicking downwards in the pettiest possible way, just as I fully expected would happen to me back at Vauxhall.

At Heston, we pulled in to take on fuel.

The rain was increasing; the sky brightening behind us, to the West, but London to the East was obscured by sheets of darkness.

***

I sat opposite Doctor Amanda Marsden, head of 'M' Branch, watching her read through my report for the third time. She closed the file and paused. At length, she stood and walked over to the large bay window overlooking the Thames, so she stood framed by light, her back to me. She clasped her hands behind her, and finally spoke.

"Thank you for your report, Pierce. Very thorough. Very interesting"

She turned to look at me. I could make out nothing in her expression.

"I had the opportunity to glance over your service record earlier this morning," she continued, walking back to sit and face me, her heels clicking over the oak flooring.

"Lieutenant Commander Anthony Pierce. Age 32. Honours in Artificial Intelligence, Imperial College, London. Top of 1998 graduate pool at the Royal Navy Officer Training College, Dartmouth. Rose to become youngest head of the cryptography division of the RN Communication Corps within two years and subsequently transferred to the 'service' at my predecessor's request."

She opened up her laptop and punched a couple of keys, viewing God knows what about me, or nothing to do with me at all, perhaps.

"Notable successes included the decoding of the Santander armament cartel encryption key algorithms, leading to information which proved crucial in the seizure of 20 kilos of Uranium intended for Russian Mafia use on Merseyside in December 2005. You requested transfer to field ops in 2008 and completed basic in six months. Transferred to 'M' division in November 2010, where you received your license to kill and took over as agent 004 in early 2012."

She looked up.

"You've shown yourself to be dedicated, self- motivated and ruthless in the execution of your license to kill. In short, 004, you were a high- flyer in the Service."

Here it comes...

I listened to Marsden's measured breath as she again consulted her screen. She typed a few words and hit the 'send' button, then raised her eyes.

I met them.

"I'm debriefing you personally, Lieutenant Commander Pierce, because your failure to complete your mission has not only jeopardised our chances of retrieving the goods in question, but your actions have severely compromised the cover of many of our people in the field.

We've been receiving fragments of encrypted material that your home team has been sifting; we believe that they indicate that Lime has been compelled to break cover and make a border run. We also know that Hignett is dead and of Section Chief Grice we have no intelligence."

I endeavoured to maintain eye contact with her, but this information was causing a spiralling sink to drain in the pit of my stomach. Marsden continued.

"These events have all been precipitated by your break of cover and subsequent extraction by 'F for Freddie'."

She paused again, looking intently into my eyes.

I finally dropped my gaze for a moment, then met it again with resolution. I took a breath.

"I accept full responsibility, ma'am. I will, of course immediately tender my resignation."

Marsden smiled tartly.

"I'm afraid not, Pierce. That would be contrary to our interests and for you, if I may be permitted a cliché, an easy way out."

She decisively closed her flip terminal and pressed the tips of her fingers together. When she next spoke, I knew I was expected to give my life for my country.

"We're going to reinsert you."

***

As I drove to the 'Q' Branch facility in Oxfordshire, my mind mulled over the contents of the rest of my debrief. 'M' had informed me that I was 'dead' - standard operational procedure for field agents whose cover had been compromised during the course of an uncompleted assignment. I had signed the release papers and was now effectively at the mercy of His Majesty's Government with all its vagaries and whims; to refuse to comply now would be seen as treasonous and punishable in suitable fashion. I was to be allocated a new identity and reinserted into the operation in Japan; the precise details remained opaque.

I was to be briefed by an unidentified superior upon reaching Bicester.

CHAPTER ONE: Bicester, Oxfordshire - 'Q' branch Special research facility

A 'Q' branch man called Dennis met me in the anonymous looking waiting room of the divisional facility. Like all really top secret establishments, it was hidden in plain view, in this case in the cover of a large and rambling country house in four acres of deciduous British woodland. A couple of semi- retired agents ran it as a perfectly normal house and answered the door to me as if I was a long awaited friend.

The pretence was short-lived and they had soon ushered me into the cellar. As the cellar door shut behind me, I saw a man dressed identically to me take his leave, and soon after, the sound of my car being driven away.

At the bottom of the cellar was a two way airlock door hidden behind a false brick party wall.

Penetrating this facade led me to the waiting room and the waiting Mr. Dennis.

Dennis appeared to be the personification of the waiting room, carrying as he did no perceptible hint of personality or character save the faint whiff of detergent and antiseptic, as well as the slightly shabby air of a well thumbed Sunday supplement. He had an irritating and apparently unnecessary habit of pushing his completely immobile black rimmed glasses back onto his face with his middle finger and a definite problem with pronouncing the letter 'r'. He was as anonymous as this facility, with its air of cleanliness and its look, positioned somewhere inbetween lab complex and industrial park unit. A faint but pervasive reek of disinfectant was the only thing that distinguished it from the IT facility at Denham. The staff, from what I could see, were all dressed in laboratory coats, and there seemed to be more than the usual complement of clean areas, in which I glimpsed masked figures in white one-piece overalls.

As we toured the facility, Dennis efficiently pointed out the various amenities at my disposal, including a nautilus room, a swimming pool and a well stocked library cum lounge, before conducting me to my quarters. He left me, informing me that I would be collected for a briefing and medical at 16:00. I glanced at my TAG. It was one thirty in the afternoon.

***

After unpacking and familiarising myself with my drab confines - "Holiday Inn for agoraphobes" - I left my room to wander and gain my bearings. I very soon realised that there was a compelling reason for the efficiency and brevity of Dennis' tour.

There was really very little freedom to be had for 004.

After a few fairly fruitless minutes peering in at various depressingly restricted areas, I sat for a while in the deserted library, eating some fresh fruit from the food dispenser (sadly no junk food in sight), drinking spring water and leafing listlessly through a copy of Vogue that had been left on the table. After contemplating a swim, I decided against and went to the gym to try and loosen up. I returned to my room and changed into sweat gear, and returned to the nautilus room, where I was surprised to find I had a companion, an attractive young woman with a fit air and a cascade of red curls surmounting a pretty freckled face. She completed a set of bench presses as I began to go through some stretches, and then looked up and smiled.

"Commander Pierce, isn't it?"

"That's right," I replied, unsurprised by her perspicacity.

She stood and extended a hand, which I shook, before climbing onto a treadmill. She continued in a voice which carried a pleasant hint of Irish.

"I'm Doctor Dwyer - Mary Dwyer". I nodded assent as she continued, "I'm afraid we're going to be seeing rather a lot of each other. I'm on the away team working on your reinsertion project."

At this, I looked up at her more closely, and smiled. "In which case, I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances."

She moved onto a set of standing weights and started a rather radical set as I went on, "I presume that there's to be some sort of plastic surgery involved?"

"Yes..." She paused, finishing her set again before proceeding.

"There will be a fair amount of reconstructive work..." She paused again and I was aware that she was looking over thoughtfully at me now, examining where she had previously been conversing. Then she put down the weights and stepped away from them, continuing in a more formal fashion.

"You'll receive a full specification at your briefing this afternoon.

Speaking of which -" She glanced at the clock above the door "- I'd better get going so I can go over the major points with the team before Commander Bond briefs you."

I was surprised. "Bond's in charge here?"

She laughed. "No, no. But I understand that 'Mandy' Marsden's assigned him to supervise your reinsertion project". She lowered her voice, her eyes twinkling. "- which I gather he's none too pleased about. I don't think Commander Bond's at all fond of 'Q' Branch."

With that, she turned and left. I watched her recede down the corridor for a while, then turned back to the machines.

***

Commander Sir James Bond, VC, MBE, KCMG, perhaps the most celebrated, certainly the most flamboyant of all the Cold War MI6 operatives, had aged exceedingly well. The musculature was still evident under the classic lines of the charcoal grey bespoke Hardy Amies suit; the silk Old Etonian tie; the Alfred Dunhill cufflinks; the shock of silver hair surmounting the deeply-lined but still strikingly handsome face with those infamous steel grey eyes that had reputedly turned many a beautiful spy's allegiance, not to mention her heart. A mythological collage, or some sort of antediluvian PR spin? Perhaps. I had thought so, but now, in his presence for the first time, I could see that his equal reputations for charisma and cruelty were indeed founded in reality.

Bond's evident displeasure at his current assignment didn't make the briefing any more pleasant for me. He was flanked to his left by the primly white- coated Dr. Dwyer and a middle aged Q Branch operative called Easton, who did not utter a word during the whole two hour meeting, but was constantly looking at me and tapping away at her flip terminal. To his right was a young and dazzlingly beautiful brunette called Miss Loth, who was clearly everything but, judging from the obvious enthusiasm with which she took notes of the Commander's utterances and leaned over to pass him various papers.

Bond wrapped up the formal introductions and stubbed out his third Cartier of the session, smoked in flagrant disregard of the overzealously deployed signage, and turned to face me.

"Well, Commander Pierce, I suppose you're wondering exactly how we're intending to reinsert you into the situation in Fukui."

Bond proceeded at great length to brief the room on the strategic and technological significance of the situation that had arisen in Japan, which was an effective and calculated slap in the face for myself, being the operative closest to the principals in the operation.

It had begun when we received a triple blind 128-bit encrypted message via an anonymous server in New Zealand.

It arrived in a top secret ministerial eyes-only mailbox marked urgent, which is why myself and my hastily hand picked away team had been assigned to decrypt it. This happened in due course and the contents and the implications had proven to be the proverbial dynamite.

The message was part of a string of secret correspondences between a research Physicist at the MRC in Cambridge and a Japanese terrorist organisation called the Red Fist of Justice, whose objective was to bring about the total collapse of the Capitalist powers by a shady process they called attrition deconstruction, whereby they would systematically degrade and destroy European, Asian and American civilisations through the continued supply of drugs, prostitution, gambling and armaments and the active encouragement of military and civil insurrection in sensitive areas.

Once the ordained collapse had been engineered, Red Fist argued, then they would mobilise a global return to permanent Revolution, and the second international Supreme Soviet would reign for eternity. The Red Fist had storefronts everywhere, and links with the major crime lords throughout the globe and, more dangerously still, was actively bankrolling the expanding sphere of armed unrest in the former Soviet bloc states. Being a diffuse and amorphous organisation made them difficult to pin down, let alone prosecute, so any possible lead was welcome.

The correspondence told how the MRC scientist, Professor Adrian Lime, currently seen as the world's foremost authority in the burgeoning field of molecular engineering, popularly referred to as nanotechnology, and being a good Marxist with little regard for the late capitalist landscape of Europe, was on the verge of agreeing to sell his research on the applications of nanotech and brain chemistry to the Red Fist.

Naturally, we stepped in and naturally, during the course of protracted 'negotiations', Lime conceptually re-defected, pledging undying allegiance to the King and mammon. Having been "induced" to realise the error of his ways, it was now put to him that he would be serving his country best if he proceeded with the sale and, better still for the technocracy of the Red Fist, agreed to a physical defection. It would then be a matter of simplicity for Lime to insist on bringing his brilliant young assistant (yours truly) with him on his journey.

The bait proved irresistible and soon Lime and I found ourselves in the back of a Red Fist Mercedes on the way to our new accommodation on the outskirts of Fukui, a bleak post-industrial coastal city pockmarked by pollution and waste, where a Red Fist research complex had been set up.

I was detailed to break the ice surrounding Red Fist's mainframe and squirt the data on their global whereabouts and operations back to London, while Lime made suitably distracting foreground noises.

In any event, it all started promisingly, with Lime wowing the local Red Fist commissars with some spectacular results using nanotech smart drugs on several "volunteers".

This induced the Red Fist to work their hardest to procure many more loyal 'volunteers' from the local community of petty criminals, failed Red Fist-niks and the down and outs, and Lime kept them amused while I made steady progress on the network security surrounding the Red Fist central core. Two and a half months passed in this happy state.

Then the unhappy event happened.

I was close to securing the desired information when I saw the local cell leader, a frighteningly efficient sadist called Sato, shepherding the latest batch of volunteers into the complex. I was shocked to see that among their number were Grice and Hignett, two agents with whom I was familiar from the Osaka field office. My mistake was clear. I reacted visibly, and Sato noticed.

I then made one of the most cowardly decisions in the history of espionage. I collected all the data I had amassed, left the compound directly after lunch, and requested extraction. Bond went to great lengths to explain exactly what this action implied to the continuing good health of Lime, Grice and Hignett. He was very emphatic on the fact that I should not have left, but stayed and worked it out. But I had seen one thing that he hadn't.

I had seen what Lime's smart drugs had done to the 'volunteers'. Now they were going to send me back.

***

Having completed the ritual humiliation, Bond lit another Cartier and prepared to continue. Dr. Dwyer looked a little bored and Miss Loth was making coffee. Easton was still tapping into her terminal.

"As you'll no doubt have gathered, Pierce, an opportunity has emerged which will allow for your reinsertion. You know the Fist systems better than anyone else, which is why it has to be you." Bond smiled, showing immaculate white teeth. "As you know, the Red Fist central committee chairman has a private residence in the mountains down the China Sea coast, which he visits at least once a month. He also entertains there and his two children are there most of the time. The staff is all female." He walked over to stand by Dr Dwyer. "Now, part of the cachet with this place is that a lot of the staff are Western women. You can probably understand why this is a big thing with the Fist, Pierce?"

I nodded.

"Now, obviously there is an extensive vetting process that goes on to ensure that the girls he hires are clean. This is," he smiled again, "where you come in. We've managed to place operatives in his screening organisation here in London".

So that was it.

I was going to be helping insert a female agent into the Red Fist dacha to spring a honey trap. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Just sit in an enemy office in London and ensure that one of our agents was on the next plane East. I stayed quiet and listened.

Bond lit another cigarette and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

Dwyer and Easton looked on expectantly.

When Bond next spoke, it was to utter the most surprising ten words I'd ever heard in my entire life.

"You are going to become one of those girls, Pierce."

To be continued...