door and stepped into the garage. The cramped space was large enough, just, for the two cars that were inside, plus a few extra tyres and tools. He climbed into the newer of the vehicles, the latest model Bentley Continental GT, its exterior the company’s distinctive granite grey, with supple black hide inside.
The turbo W12 engine murmured to life. Tapping the downshift paddle into first gear, he eased into the road, leaving behind his other vehicle, less powerful and more temperamental but just as elegant: a 1960s E-type Jaguar, which had been his father’s.
Driving north, Bond manoeuvred through the traffic, with tens of thousands of others who were similarly making their way to offices throughout London at the start of yet another week – although, of course, in Bond’s case this mundane image belied the truth.
Exactly the same could be said for his employer itself.
Three years ago, James Bond had been sitting at a grey desk in the monolithic grey Ministry of Defence building in Whitehall, the sky outside not grey at all but the blue of a Highland loch on a bright summer’s day. After leaving the Royal Naval Reserve, he had had no desire for a job managing accounts at Saatchi & Saatchi or reviewing balance sheets for NatWest and had telephoned a former Fettes fencing teammate, who had suggested he try Defence Intelligence.
After a stint at DI, writing analyses that were described as both blunt and valuable, he had wondered to his supervisor if there might be a chance to see a little more action.
Not long after that conversation, he had received a mysterious missive, handwritten, not an email, requesting his presence for lunch in Pall Mall, at the Travellers Club.
On the day in question, Bond had been led into the dining room and seated in a corner opposite a solid man in his mid-sixties, identified only as the ‘Admiral’. He wore a grey suit that perfectly matched his eyes. His face was jowled and his head crowned with a sparse constellation of birthmarks, evident through the thinning, swept-back brown and grey hair. The Admiral had looked steadily at Bond without challenge or disdain or excessive analysis. Bond had no trouble in returning the gaze – a man who has killed in battle and nearly died himself is not cowed by anyone’s stare. He realised, however, that he had absolutely no idea what was going on in the man’s mind.
They did not shake hands.
Menus descended. Bond ordered halibut on the bone, steamed, with Hollandaise, boiled potatoes and grilled asparagus. The Admiral selected the grilled kidney and bacon, then asked Bond, ‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘You choose.’
‘Burgundy, I should think,’ Bond said. ‘Cote de Beaune? Or a Chablis?’
‘The Alex Gambal Puligny, perhaps?’ the waiter suggested.
‘Perfect.’
The bottle arrived a moment later. The waiter smoothly displayed the label and poured a little into Bond’s glass. The wine was the colour of pale butter, earthy and excellent, and exactly the right temperature, not too chilled. Bond sipped, nodded his approval and the glasses were half filled.
When the waiter had departed, the older man said gruffly, ‘You’re a veteran and so am I. Neither of us has any interest in small-talk. I’ve asked you here to discuss a career opportunity.’
‘I thought as much, sir.’ Bond hadn’t intended to add the final word, but it had been impossible not to do so.
‘You may be familiar with the rule at the Travellers about not exposing business documents. Afraid we’ll have to break it.’ The older man withdrew from his breast pocket an envelope. He handed it over. ‘This is similar to the Official Secrets Act declaration.’
‘I’ve signed one-’
‘Of course you have – for Defence Intelligence,’ the man said briskly, revealing his impatience at stating the obvious. ‘This has a few more teeth. Read it.’
Bond did so. More teeth indeed, to put it mildly.
The Admiral said, ‘If you’re not interested in signing we’ll finish our lunch and discuss the recent election or trout fishing in the north or how those damn Kiwis beat us again last week and get back to our offices.’ He lifted a bushy eyebrow.
Bond hesitated only a moment, then scrawled his name across the line and handed it back. The document vanished.
A sip of wine. The Admiral asked, ‘Have you heard of the Special Operations Executive?’
‘I have, yes.’ Bond had few idols, but high on the list was Winston Churchill. In his young days as a reporter and soldier in Cuba and Sudan Churchill had formed a great respect for guerrilla operations and later, after the outbreak of the Second World War, he and the minister for economic warfare, Hugh Dalton, had created the SOE to arm partisans behind German lines and to parachute in British spies and saboteurs. Also called Churchill’s Secret Army, it had caused immeasurable harm to the Nazis.
‘Good outfit,’ the Admiral said, then grumbled, ‘They closed it down after the war. Inter- agency nonsense, organisational difficulties, in-fighting at MI6 and Whitehall.’ He took a sip of the fragrant wine and conversation slowed while they ate. The meal was superb. Bond said so. The Admiral rasped, ‘Chef knows what he’s about. No aspirations to cook his way on to American television. Are you familiar with how Five and Six got going?’
‘Yes, sir – I’ve read quite a lot about it.’
In 1909, in response to concerns about a German invasion and spies within England (concerns that had been prompted, curiously, by popular thriller novels), the Admiralty and the War Office had formed the Secret Service Bureau. Not long after that, the SSB split into the Directorate of Military Intelligence Section 5, or MI5, to handle domestic security, and Section 6, or MI6, to handle foreign espionage. Six was the oldest continuously operating spy organisation in the world, despite China’s claim to the contrary.
The Admiral said, ‘What’s the one element that stands out about them both?’
Bond couldn’t begin to guess.
‘Plausible deniability,’ the older man muttered. ‘Both Five and Six were created as cut- outs so that the Crown, the prime minister, the Cabinet and the War Office didn’t have to get their hands dirty with that nasty business of spying. Just as bad now. Lot of scrutiny of what Five and Six do. Sexed-up dossiers, invasion of privacy, political snooping, rumours of illegal targeted killings… Everybody’s clamouring for
Bond said, ‘So, if I understand correctly, you’re talking about starting a new version of the SOE, but one that isn’t technically part of Six, Five or the MoD.’
The Admiral held Bond’s eye. ‘I read those reports of your performance in Afghanistan – Royal Naval Reserve, yet still you managed to get yourself attached to forward combat units on the ground. Took some doing.’ The cool eyes regarded him closely. ‘I understand you also managed some missions behind the lines that weren’t quite so official. Thanks to you, some fellows who could have caused quite a lot of mischief never got the chance.’
Bond was about to sip from his glass of Puligny-Montrachet, the highest incarnation of the chardonnay grape. He set the glass down without doing so. How the devil had the old man learnt about
In a low, even voice the man said, ‘There’s no shortage of Special Air or Boat Service chaps about who know their way around a knife and sniper rifle. But they don’t necessarily fit into other, shall we say
The Admiral put down his knife and fork on the bone china. ‘Your question.’
‘My…?’
