Ode to Long Lost Friends Ch. 01

The woman at the bar giggled, clearly well on her way to drunk, and secretly looked again at the mysterious man in the booth. He was tall, she could tell, even while sitting down, with dark, curly hair and piercing blue eyes. His deep tan interrupted by a white, jagged scar down the left side of his face, starting at the eye and ending mid-cheek. She had noticed him on the second day of her adventure. She had read a book recommended by a friend. Travel, adventure and finding yourself. That's what the book said she needed to do. She made her decision and went promptly to her supervisor and told her that she wanted to cash in her vacation pool, all thirty days of it. Her supervisor had arched an eyebrow but acquiesced after noting that this was the slow time of the season, and her employee was, after 15 years, too entrenched to lose without prior planning.

Now, two weeks into her holiday, here she sat, sitting in a bar in Kuta, Bali, toes in the sand, wondering if she had made a mistake coming here. Or if, in fact, she wanted to make another one with the man in the booth. She was realizing, slowly, that when people say they want adventure, what they really want is safe adventure. Yes, by all means, let's go out in the African wilderness, or the Indian jungle and see all the animals. But let's take Jeeps, with lots of guides with guns, ending at a tent with sterilized, homogenized food labeled as exotic. Booking her vacation package, she had never even considered that most scheduled adventure was, in fact, briefly interrupted boredom. She had no wild stories, no heart-pounding moments. She had pictures of herself with elephants, and in front of famous monuments her friends will have never heard of. She had plane tickets and receipts and memories that would fade into obscurity within a few years.

She took another drink of the "local" variety. Lots of alcohol, oddly shaped glass and yes, there it was, the prerequisite paper umbrella (two of them actually -- it was a delicious drink) and glanced slyly again at the man in the booth. He had a glass of whiskey or something similar sitting in front of him untouched. No ice, she noticed. It must be 102 degrees out and he's drinking warm alcohol. Well, not really drinking. It had been sitting there for 20 or so minutes untouched, since the waiter set it down in front of the man. Suddenly she noticed the man had caught her staring at him. His eyes drilled into hers, unreadable, but oh, so blue, spearing her. She quickly looked away, blushing. It had seemed, for that split second, that his eyes had bored into her soul, seeing her as she really was, quiet, bookish, unassuming. A few girlfriends to have over to the flat for wine now and again, most of them married off, with fading availability for social interaction. Though in her early 30's, she was well on her way to spinsterhood, her mother had warned her, and she better catch herself a man. Did she want to spend her life alone, surrounded by cats, like Aunt Marion?

Her reverie was interrupted when the man appeared next to her and placed his drink on the bar, sitting down in the stool next to her. She blushed again, not sure what she could say or do. Perhaps a humorous quip, like "fancy running into you here" or something like that. Stupid, that is so stupid she thought, and opted instead to take another drink. The stranger smiled and broke the ice for her. It was so easy, suddenly. Words flowed out of her easily, in response to his questions. Yes, she was here on vacation, yes, she was from London. He was too? What a coincidence. His casual demeanor and dry sense of humor relaxed her and within minutes he was her oldest friend in the world. She was sharing her life with him, her life, loves, fears, hopes, and dreams. She was an open book. At one point he put his hand on her shoulder, and slid it down her arm, leaving it to rest in the crook of her elbow, lightly touching her stomach. His hand had been warm, but calloused, leaving a warm, lingering trail down her arm. She felt a stirring that, while nothing new, was somehow deeper, more insistent than ones she had felt in recent memory. It must be the alcohol, she thought, and wondered where this was going, even though part of her already knew. It was, after all, just a question of letting go, putting herself in his hands. There was just something about him that just made it so easy...

The man had ordered the drink for appearances only. He was not interested in drinking, merely in being left alone. He considered the drink as rent of this booth and was rewarded with relative solitude. The occasional waiter would come by, but he would merely look them in the eye and lightly shake his head. They would go away. He had noticed the woman when she had arrived, two weeks ago, giggling, and full of wonder at the new experience. Obviously not familiar with travel beyond her local haunts. For the first few days she had seemed wide-eyed, drinking in the atmosphere and the sites. Now, she just looked bored. Clearly, she had not found what she had come here looking for. Something was missing, something she couldn't identify, a hole in her life that she was trying to fill with first this trip, then finally alcohol. He had caught her staring at him and wondered for the briefest minute how she must see him? Roguish? Dangerous? Pathetic? The last one had just slipped in on its own accord. He pushed it away in his mind. There was no room for that kind of thinking. Well, he decided, might as well say hello, and got up, taking his drink with him.

It was so familiar. Like putting on a suit. The words came back so easily, breaking through her alcohol-weakened defenses with charm, wit, and an easy smile. Asking her questions to which he already knew the answers, leaning into her personal space, casually touching her face, brushing away an imaginary hair on her cheek. She was pretty. Not ravishing, but pretty in a bookish kind of way that he knew most men would overlook. He used that to flatter her -- not too difficult given her choice of drinks, although if she had many more, he would have to let her go. He had never taken advantage of anyone, intoxicated or otherwise, and wasn't planning on starting now. Well, he corrected himself, not while "off duty" anyway. He ordered her another drink, non-alcoholic, but she didn't know that, and sipped his drink. He briefly wondered whether he should do this. Was it even right? There was no hunt here, no thrill of the chase, just a sweet person who, he could guarantee, had never in her life met someone quite like him. It had been a year since he had put on his professional persona, since he had needed to use his particular skill set, and even longer since he had needed to seduce someone. He looked into her eyes again, and this time she returned his gaze for longer than before. He saw longing in those eyes, fear, and hope. What would her life be like when she went home, he wondered? Would she bury herself in her work, living life alone? Would she meet a nice man who treated her well? Would there be children? Domestic bliss? Would she give up her dreams of exploration? A life happy or unfulfilled? Would she live her life wondering, secretly, what would have happened if...... Or would she forget him entirely, returning to her world unaffected by him or her search for adventure? He made his decision and smiled at her, letting his eyes reflect his choice.

Hours later, the room dark, he lay there next to her, cooling sweat drying on his back. She had fallen asleep a short while ago and he was left looking at her face. She had been surprised by his exuberance in bed as had he, to tell the truth. She had surprised him further by matching, even exceeding his energy. Perhaps he had tapped into a well of passion that ran much deeper than he had imagined. At one point, with her on top, she had laughed with abandon. "Oh, my friends have got to meet you", she had whispered huskily as she leaned in to kiss him again.

Now, in the dark, he ran his hand over the stubble on his chin, inadvertently brushing his fingers over his scar. Suddenly, he is back on the road in Germany, in a shattered car in the ditch. The cooling sweat has become snow, lightly falling on his back. He looks to the left and there she is. Tracy, his love, sits next to him. Her beautiful face, what's left of it anyway, is buried in the steering wheel, cooling blood pooling in her lap. He puts his hand on her head and whispers into her ear. "Don't worry, my darling. We have time. All the time in the world...".

The memory made him wince. He tried to stop the flood of memories that he knew would be pounding at the door of his mind. He tried to focus, but there was nothing really to focus on and he returned to the car in Germany.

He crawls out of the car and staggers onto the road, hoping to flag down a car. Pain flares in his ankle and blood runs down his face thanks to a shard of the windscreen. Even in his weakened state, he feels the car coming back before seeing it. It's one of Blofelds henchmen, returning to the bullet riddled car to make sure they are dead. He pulls out his Berretta, aims and begins to fire at the driver. He must hit something important because the oncoming car swerves, initially away and then towards him. He leaps out of the way of the car now headed straight for the wreck of his own. The crash is tremendous, sending him flying backward into the snow-dusted road. Fire lights the night.

His first thought is of Tracy. But no, she was already dead. He picks himself up and limps to the wreck of Blofelds car. One look tells him that the henchman is dead and Blofeld and that witch Irma Blunt have escaped. Again. Without thinking, he pulls what is left of the henchman out of the car and throws the body into the growing flames. The fire greedily starts to eat at the corpses' clothing, and he can smell the flesh starting to burn. Cold comfort. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet. Taking the cash, he throws the wallet on the fire with the corpse. With one last look at Tracy, he begins to limp down the road. Maybe he'll get a week, he thinks. They will know that the corpse isn't him. M will track him down. Two weeks at the outside. What will happen then? Well, he will have to deal with that later.

That had been a year ago.

Now he lay in the bed of a tourist in Bali. Her breathing was quiet and regular as he lay there, his mind drifting. He sees Vesper, lying in a bed like this one, arm akimbo, not breathing. A note lies on the nightstand. "I knew it would be the end of our love if I told you", the note says. "There it is my darling love. You can't stop me calling you that or saying that I love you. I am taking that with me and the memories of you". It is burned in his memory.

He remembers Felix Leiter, his friend in the CIA. "He disagreed with something that ate him", pinned to his chest on a bloody note. Nowadays Felix, missing an arm and most of a leg, lives in Florida. No. That isn't true. Felix is dead -- self-inflicted gunshot wound. He remembers them all by name. Marc-Ange Draco, Bill Tanner, Quarrel, Tatiana Romanova, Strangways, Tiger Tanaka, Kissy Suzuki, dozens more. Now all dead, retired or moving on with their lives.

He sighed deeply and disentangling himself from the woman, got out of bed. She mumbled something he didn't catch, rolled over and was again silent.

He padded through the darkness to the living room to get a cigarette, noting the deeper patch of grey in the chair as he passed. He reached for the lighter. He shook one free, turned to the chair and closed his eyes. The flare of the lighter was bright, lighting up the room. He heard a gasp as he lit his cigarette and then cut off the flame. A gun appeared in his hand.

"No need for that Commander", the figure said.

The voice was instantly recognizable. He reached over and flipped on a table lamp, all the while keeping the gun leveled at the chair.

"How did you find me?" He asked.

"Don't be silly Commander. We've always known where you are."

The figure leaned forward into the light. Her short, grey hair was tousled. Her sharp features now worn with time and weariness. Her eyes though, belied her age. They were clear and bright with intelligence. And dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

He put the gun down on the table, sat down heavily and leveled his gaze at her.

M. The head of MI6, Her Majesties Secret Service.

A smile crept into his eyes then. He was one of the few, one of the few left now, he corrected himself, who knew what the initial stood for. In truth, it was not a title, but a name. She was but the third incarnation of a Vice Admiral of the British Navy under whom he had served as a Commander. The Vice Admiral's first and surname both started with the initial, so he began signing his correspondence with the letter M. Indeed, when the first M had passed, his replacement kept the initial to avoid confusion within the troops. Now there was her. Cold, calculating, and ruthless. And those who wanted to continue breathing simply assumed M stood for Minister and moved on. But he knew her name. And had made sure she knew he did.

"You're needed", she said simply.

"I'm dead", he responded, inhaling deeply from the cigarette.

"Commander, I don't need to tell you I wouldn't be here if the situation weren't dire."

"And that situation being..." He left the sentence hanging.

"Not here, and certainly not in front of her", she said tilting her head to the bedroom.

"Look," she said, "if you want long speeches about duty, God Save the Queen, and all that, forget it. The fact is you are a weapon, and we need you again. There is a plane waiting."

He inhaled one more time then stubbed out his cigarette. You always did have a silver tongue, he said, looking once more directly into her eyes. She didn't flinch. Not even a little.

He stood up and went to the bedroom. As he got dressed, he gathered up his friends and his loves. One by one, he put them back in the box in his mind. Last to go was Tracy. Dear, sweet Tracy. Then he closed the box, locked it tight and put it away. On came his suit, his armor.

Like tying a tie. Easy.

James Bond walked into the night to the waiting car. It was time to go to work.