Willravel

Ian Fleming was the author who created the character of James Bond, British super agent 007. I've read every Bond novel, and I've always considered what an Ian Fleming book would be like written in 2006. This is 100% original material. I wrote and spell checked every single word.

Now before you read this I should say this: I am a horrible writer. I've been called names by English profs, and that's just for my spelling. I love to create stories, but I often have trouble articulating them on paper, or in this case on TFP. I'd like everyone to be BRUTALLY honest, if you could. Also, you might want to read this in phases, as it's kinda long for a post online.

Here we go:

Chapter 1. No Regrets

Old Glory was waving majestically in the wind as the H.M.S. Norfolk was on a routine deployment monitoring the waters of the Persian Gulf. The ‘Duke’ class frigate was in first rate condition, with an excellent crew guiding her across the dangerous sea. Lt. Commander Ralph Flanders was watching the choppy waters with his eagle eyes from the bridge. His experience gave him the ability to ignore the maddening noises that would bombard anyone in the room with information. This was his moment of peace, as he looked out over protected waters. While the “war on terror” had it’s effect on the general populace, it simply broke on the strong surf of his military expertise and confidence. This is why I joined the royal navy he would sometimes tell himself in a moment of calm he would occasionally allow himself.
The Norfolk had received reports from naval intelligence of weapons transports crossing the Gulf. A prominent terrorist group in Saudi Arabia was opening trade with a relative newcomer to radical groups in Iran. With the Royal Navy being stretched so thin as of late, the Norfolk was the only ship dispatched to try and intercept any caravan. The caravan was said to be carrying small arms, mainly military hand weapons, and should not be heavily protected.
The real mystery was the new group organizing in Iran. With the U.S. starting to put pressure on Iran to stop developing nuclear capabilities, Iran was not by any means a safe place for terrorist groups to organize. The intelligence on the group, calling itself “The Past” in arabic, was supposed to be a collection of many radical Islamic fundamentalists who had a very long and sorted past in dealings with undermining governments and attacks to create fear for specific purposes. The most dangerous aspect of this new group was the lack of specific intelligence was able to collect.
As Flanders was going over the facts in his mind, he spotted a small flash on the horizon. He squinted and looked more closely. The flashing continued at random intervals. He tried to apply the ons and offs of the light to morse code, but came up with nothing but gibberish. What Flanders failed to notice was the sound of the engines change on his boat. The Norfolk slowed in it’s pace, the engines low rumble decreasing. Suddenly a report from radar had 3 inbound missiles. Flanders had to act fast.
“Three inbound missiles, sir!” Flanders watched for a moment and gathered himself for duty.
“Prepare countermeasures, I want those down before they are near my ship,” Flanders ordered, “What was the source of the missiles?”
“Unknown,” a bridge officer replied.
“Sir, countermeasures are not responding!” buttons were flashing and alarms were going off.
“Hard to starboard!!! Brace for impact!!” Flanders dove behind the console just in time to see a raft leaving his ship before a thunderball of fire engulfed the cabin.
The proud ship, and her brave crew sank beneath the waves, as a small frigate picked up the raft.


Bond was late. In the heat of the moment, he had lost track of his mission’s timeline. As he struggled to get back into uniform, his eyes met with beautiful, if sad amber eyes looking back at him.
“You won’t call...”, said the beautiful woman. The sheets strategically covered her, as she laid back in apparent distress. “I know you won’t call, but at least do me the courtesy of telling me the truth.” Her mood of joy had quickly taken a cynical turn.
“You knew what this was. No regrets.” The spy confidently kissed the beautiful woman on the cheek and left her to memory.
As Bond approached his favorite car, the handsome Q branch Aston, he knew his callous exterior was beginning to crack. He felt longing and sorrow over knowing what he had done. After killing her husband for treason....no it was self defense, he had taken in the woman to try and console her. All he could remember were the tears in her eyes and her begged to be healed. I can’t get close he tried to assure himself, unsuccessfully.
He reached down and pulled out his engine starter. He pushed the button as he was turning and noticed that the beautiful woman was watching him intently from the window. Suddenly a deafening roar and hot air knocked Bond from his feet, landing him a good 10 feet back. Where the Aston had once sat was now charred metal and fire. Bond leaped to his feet.
Running up the stairs, back to the apartment which he had just left, he reached quickly under his blazer to retrieve his P99 from it’s hidden resting place. As he turned the corner, he just barely was missed by several bullets. What Bond had failed to notice in the window was a man standing just behind the woman. He was large and heavy, certainly not some henchman. Bond dove across the doorway letting off three shots.
“Ahh!!” the man yelled as his knee was hit by the second shot. He fell to the ground as Bond leaped through the door, firing the final shot. Bang!
Bond saw the woman hit the floor, as he realized that his P99 had jammed for the first time since he had gotten it over 8 years ago. The beautiful woman had tears running down her face, but these were not the same tears she had last night. These were tears of a final loving look before giving in to darkness. Bond caught her as she fell.
“We will always have truth, James.” she lovingly said as Bond kissed her passionately. She went limp.
The heavy man had made his way to the door, as a gun barrel pressed up against the back of his head. He froze.
“Drop the gun and turn around. Slowly, now.” Bond ordered in a calm voice, as his cold nature had returned to him as it was necessary. “Who do you work for?”
The man gave James a kick in the leg, all he could muster, and received a bullet in the foot. His cries subsided quickly as he stared back with an intensity that unnerved James.
“Tell me what you are doing here or you’ll lose the other foot,” Bond was prepared to take this as far as necessary; not for England, but for revenge.
“You’ll find out all you need to know shortly..” just as the words had left his mouth, his face went blank and he dropped to the floor lifeless. James read the pulse; nothing.
James looked up to see a tattoo of a cross with some arabic written under it tattooed on the man’s hand.

Willravel presents

007 in “Crown of Thorns”

HERE LIES LT. COMMANDER RALPH FLANDERS
BORN 1946 DIED 2005
RESPECTED LEADER, BELOVED FATHER

James Bond stood as a shadow watching Ralph’s family and friends depart as he was lowered into his grave. He reflected back to his days in the Royal Navy, when he and Flanders had been the best of rivals. In his mind was a slide show of memories suddenly as real as they once were.

The smell of mud and smoke filled the air. Royal Navy Marines training was some of the most difficult he had ever faced. After a simulated amphibious attack, the training team was to take a base at the top of a snow capped peak. The terrain between the beach and the base of the mountain was freezing cold forest that seemed to never end. He thought back to his secret service days, protecting dignitaries at social functions. His mind wondered to the quails eggs he had at a certain party which he was particularly fond of. He continued on, signaling his team to follow with caution.
Bond knew that his competition was truly worthy. Fellow marine-in-training Ralph Flanders had been at Bond’s heels in training since day one and was ready to make his move for the head of the unit. Bond’s unit proceeded through the forest at an exhausting speed for what seemed like an eternity. As he looked up, Bond froze for a moment. This rock face had to be scaled. Closing his eyes tightly, he ordered the team to ready their climbing gear. The frost on his nose and numb feeling coming from his feet could not distract Bond as he needed full concentration.
James remembered the day his father and mother had left on their climbing trip. His father loved to climb, having learned from his mother years before James was born. He remembered almost too clearly when he had gotten the news about the accident that had taken his parents. He had developed a small fear of climbing that had more to do with his resenting his parents for leaving him with no true personal connections. His goal was clear, he must beat this mountain, if not for his parents, for himself. Bond had never felt so alone as he started his climb.
As he was reaching the top, he noticed that the other team was not far off, only a few hundred feet behind. Bond ordered his team to leave only one SLCD in the rocky face to slow the other teams pace. The SLCD was left and the ropes were retracted. Bond and his team proceeded, as Flanders' team made their way up the cliff.
As Bond was running, he heard a crack. He knew this sound very well from his climbing experience; the SLCD’s axle had snapped. Someone’s life was in danger. Bond ordered his second in command to continue and complete the mission as he turned and ran towards the drop. As he was running, he threw a rope around a tree a few feet from the ledge and tied it quickly. He tied himself well enough to handle the weight of at least 4 people and started his decent. Below, he could see Flanders struggling to help one of his team members who was dangling freely.
“Get to the connection and I’ll try and get his rope!” James shouted, as Flanders look of shock wore off. James shot down the mountain side as Flanders made his way up to the connection. The rock was beginning to give, and James knew he had only one shot to save this man’s life. Just as he heard the *snap* he reached out his hand and let go of the side.
As soon as Bond felt something, he grabbed on with all of his strength. As he looked down, he could see that he had caught the man by his trousers. A look of gratitude combined with a look of extreme discomfort was all James needed to know. Flanders threw down another SLCD for the man and they all made their way to the top.
From that time forwards, the two men were both the best of rivals and the best of friends.

Now as James looked over the grave, he was reminded of how death has a way of catching up with everyone.
“Flanders, I hope you’re in a better place,” James said as he headed back to his “new” car, a 1970 Citroen SM GT from the old retired Q lot. As Bond left the funeral, the speed-dependant steering frustrated him enough to leave his sorrows. He cursed under his breath.

As Bond entered M’s office, he passed 2 Admirals. After the customary salute, he gave Moneypenny a confused look.
“Are they here about the Norfolk?” James asked, sliding onto Moneypenny’s desk.
“Now why would I know anything about that, James?”, she paused for a response, but heard nothing, “He’s waiting for you.” She signaled to the door leading to M’s office proper. James knew this was no time for the usual back and fourth and went in, dropping a single fresh daisy on Moneypenny’s desk before she could say anything.
MI6 had been a mess of confusion since the attack, as it was seen as one of the most serious attacks on England in decades. The intelligence community simply had no explanation for what had happened. The official story had been a simple ‘mishap’ coverup that everyone had become almost familiar with.
M looked up at James from her desk. She knew that James was an old friend of the XO of the Norfolk, but she also knew that he was not type who would appreciate sympathy in the matter, so she decided to keep her cool face on as well.
“Good afternoon, James. I trust you’re up to date on the situation in the Gulf. What do you know about the terrorist group “The Past”?”
“Not much really is known for certain. They are considered new, though they consist of many players who have been in ‘terrorism’ for years. Their goal is destabilization in the Middle East and control and eventual destruction of all Middle Eastern Oil. They have been linked to a dozen terrorist attacks in the last 7 months, including the attacks on Americans in Iraq and Israel. They are considered to be radical Islamic, though there is no hard evidence of religious ties beyond the typical American assumptions. Were they connected to the attack on the Norfolk?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out, “ M calmly replied as she handed agent 007 the dossier for his new mission, “Your mission is to gain access to vital information about the organization, members, and plans of ‘The Past’. We have several agents in Iran who will be able to set a meeting up with a sort of ‘recruiter’ with their group. Your recruiter will be terrorist Cyrus Khan, linked to over 20 separate terrorist groups since 1982. You will be posing as a radical anti-governmental terrorist named Dave Worrall. We claimed him as responsible for several cases of minor terrorism recently to set up the persona for you. Remember, James, these people will never trust you because of your skin color. Practice the utmost caution.”
“I’m sure I’ll be able to get a fix on this without incident.”
“Good luck, James.”

As James flipped his hat from the rack he gave Moneypenny a look and a smile. As she watched him leave, she slowly smelled the daisy. Bonds departure was always bittersweet.

Chapter 2. Dave Worrall

Bond was not fond of second class. After a few hours of trying to get some sleep, Bond had decided to try and get some reading done. As he read he considered what he would be doing in the coming days. Making contact and earning any amount of trust would be more than difficult, as America had flooded the Middle East with would-be spies since the 2001 terrorist attacks. This move was a clear overcompensation with no real value. Bond had become increasingly frustrated with the American intelligence community as of late, as well as British intelligence for following along like a sidekick. Between this and the ‘war on terror’, all groups had gone into a depth of hiding unseen before in radical fundamentalist organizations. Gone were the days of satellite pictures of training camps scattered across Afghanistan.

As Bonds plane landed, he had been considering what possible meaning there may be behind “the Past”. They had access to serious land-to-air missiles, not the normal kind that Russia and the US bribed rebels with. And why the Norfolk? Was it meant to allow a caravan by? Was it simply a strike against the West? It was rare for MI6 to have so little intel on a group, especially one he was about to infiltrate.
The airport was crowded and uncomfortable. The stale, dry air always managed to find it’s way inside of the buildings in Egypt, despite the air conditioning. Bond quickly gathered his luggage and made his way to a taxi. From this point on, he would be Dave Worrall. The driver turned around and Bond felt a sharp pain in his arm. He looked down and was conscious just long enough to see a small dart just above his wrist. “Shit...” he managed to say as his body went limp and he passed out.

“Dave Worrall? I say we kill him.” Cyrus Kahn was walking back and fourth slowly in a great dark room.
“He may prove to be useful in the next phase. I want you to exercise some restraint when meeting with him. Remember that you are not a full member of the brotherhood yet. Only kill him if you must”, said the man behind the glass. His soft voice still managed to communicate his frightening presence. “Number 18, I need an update within the week on project Majesty. It is crucial that you are completed before we strike.”
An old man in a leather chair sat forward. “We have already made contact with the prince and we are currently having him work with our agent. I still must say that this is substantially more risky than anything we have done in years. We are risking exposure, and that is something that we have already seen will tear SPECTRE apart. Last time we lost half our agents, including numbers one through five. It took us years to rebuild what could have easily been avoided by some simple restraint. I...”
“You are here to do what is asked of you. If you cannot, you will be....terminated. I can give you assurances that we have calculated all of our risks and there is little chance of this failing. Once the assassin returns from England, our victory will be assured.” The man behind the glass turned to his monitor. “He should be returning in the next 24 hours. For now we will wait for phase two.”
The man behind the glass rose, towering at over 7 foot tall, and made his way onto the helicopter pad.

Number 18 quickly made his way over to Kahn. “We have to talk.”
“About what?”
“About number one...”

Bright lights suddenly woke Bond from his slumber. His ears rang as music blared over speakers right next to his chair. He recognized the music from Gilbert and Sullivan immediately. First it was H.M.S. Pinafore, then The Pirates of Penzance. Bond shook his head trying to clear the fog that comes over you after being knocked out. These repeated for what must have been 18 hours straight. The music finally stopped, as Bond passed out. A man walked into the small, gray room and stood over the exhausted agent.
“I though it might be funny if you were to be subject to the techniques of your government. My number one suggested Gilbert and Sullivan because it is so very British. Tell me, how do you like Gilbert and Sullivan?”
Bond sat up slowly. “I’d say you are the very model of a modern Arab terrorist, but you surely know that already,” Bond wryly responded. He read the mans face, which simply showed a small smirk.
“Typical British shrewdness. I wonder how your wit will survive three weeks more of this. Or...” he thought for a moment, “perhaps we can explore more of what your corrupt empire inflicts on the innocent people of my country.” His voice communicated an excitement in torture. He was joined by several men who clearly didn’t have the mastery of the English language the first man had. The following three hours were a blur of demands and orders shouted in a dozen languages, only a few of which Bond truly understood. It was clearly meant to frustrate Bond more than to gather information. The man returned to the room again.
“Tell me, have you ever been to the prison at Guantanamo Bay? I watch the BBC who call the torture there “controversial”. My brother was killed in a similar prison. Do you see controversy in this? Or do you see controversy in your treatment here?” He gave Bond a quick kick to the jaw. Bond was growing a bit tired of all of this.
“If you’re the recruiter, it’s a wonder how your organization has more than one member.” With that, Bond pulled his hands from behind his back and met with the necks of the two henchmen and slammed them into the wall, each making a cracking sound. The spy spun around with one of the guns he had snatched from the men in the confusion and placed it squarely on the interrogators genitals. Bond lightly sang “His energetic fists should be ready to resist a dictatorial...”
A deep laugh came over the loudspeakers. “Well done! You may proceed from the room now”, the door opened, “oh, and if you wish to pull the trigger you may.”
Bond considered blowing the man’s genitals off for the trouble he had caused for the last few days, but decided against it in order to keep his cover. Dave Worrall wouldn’t kill a fellow freedom fighter, after all. Bond walked from the room into a hallway. The long hallway was that of ancient catacombs, with small glyphs all along the wall showing many hundreds of years of wear. Clearly they had set up shop in some ancient Egyptian tomb. Back in school, they had taught only the most basic information about location and design of such a place, leaving Bond at a serious disadvantage.
A door opened revealing a large Middle-Eastern man with dark, penetrating eyes. Bond took a seat at the desk opposite the large man. He leaned forward in his chair, towering over Bond.
“I expected you to simply break after a few hours. Do you have a military background of some kind?” The man didn’t break eye contact.
Bond suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “I...um...I know it’ll take everything I have to join you. I had to endure in order to serve the greater good.” Dave Worrall was supposed to be a rather timid man, and Bond had to put on a very different face than his own to be convincing in the part. “I’m willing to do what is necessary to bring true freedom to the world. So, will you have me?”
“Your impatience is off-putting. I and I alone will tell you when we will ‘have you’. Go with the guard back to your room.”

Chapter 3. Princeps de England

London was a cold city, but this night was particularly freezing. Most had gone inside to warm by their central heating systems by 11 o’clock. The shoes hitting the cobblestones echoed into the night as a group of young men made their way down the normally busy streets. These particular young men were not headed home, however. The sounds of their laughter rang into the night, easily overcoming the normal sounds of streetcars on the streets and the boats on the Themes. Their course twisted and turned knowingly along the streets and alleys. As they came to a door, the mood changed to a silent anticipation. The tallest boy gave a quick knock at the door; a series of 2 knocks, 3 knocks, then 1. The door opened and they entered. The humble exterior to the building was able to conceal well the loud music and shouts of young people. The young men split up immediately to try their optimistic, if desperate, attempts on the young women of the underground club. The tallest boy, however made his way to the only quiet area at the bar and sat. He ordered a single malt scotch on the rocks and took his hat off. The bartender froze for a moment.
“My God! This kid looks just like Prince Thomas!” he started to raise his voice, but the boy gave him a look.
“I don’t need any attention, then. Just the drink.” The boy was young, not even 21 yet, but he easily commanded respect with his presence. The bartender squinted for a moment and grinned.
“Nah, Prince Thomas is much taller!” he gave the prince an obvious wink and his scotch whiskey. He stuck around for a moment, but was chased away by another look from the young man.
The Prince clearly had other things on his mind. He drank his drink slowly, but he still seemed tense, almost anxious. He would occasionally turn to look at the entrance. One of his friends came up from behind him and gave him a start.
“This is Jenny! Doesn’t she look like....what’s her name? Oh, Dame Edna!?” to which the girl shoved him and walked off furiously. “Comon, Tommy, have some fun!! You’ve been nothing but boorish for weeks.” Thomas didn’t even look up. “All the more for the rest of us then,” he shouted back as he went to the crowded dance floor.
Thomas sat for what seemed like hours waiting. He considered leaving more than a few times. His stares of anticipation gave way to stares of annoyance. He was just about to order his third scotch when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around expecting one of his mates with another girl. He expected wrong. He turned to see the smiling face of a Middle Eastern man. His eyes conveyed real sincerity and comfort, softening the overall menacing look his massive build conveyed. Thomas grinned and walked with him to a flight of stairs. As they walked up, they said nothing. The large man opened the door at the top of the stairs revealing a church parish. The old redwood pews stretched their way towards the alter. Thomas didn’t realize that the club was in the basement of an old church.
“It’s good to see you brother Thomas. I hope you’re in good health”, the large man said almost chuckling.
“Likewise Brother Cyrus. How was your visit to the holy land?” The young man was clearly intimidated, but felt comfortable enough not to show it.
“I was able to meet with several sympathetic organizations. I believe that God will help us”, he paused for a moment, “Do you mind if I ask who knows you’re here?”
“Just a few mates, and no one else. And the heavy set bartender. Otherwise I don’t think anyone recognized me.” They slowly made their way up the center isle towards the alter. The large crucifix was placed over what might have been a beautiful stained glass window many years ago. It was now partially boarded over just covering broken areas. The crucifix itself was clearly covered in thick dust and grime that only builds after years of neglect.
“I thought this church was an apt meeting place, Thomas. It is a wonderful representation of the church as a whole. It was once a church of beauty and purity, once a place of honor and respect. I remember this church being overflowing not 30 years ago with people who were excited about Christ and His sacrifice. Now it is all but abandoned. The governing church body is letting a few trendy clothing stores bid on it’s prime location. Soon this room will be filled with pop music, teenagers, and jeans. I suppose some of your friends will probably be shopping here soon.”
Thomas let out a sigh. “They’re just some guys I hang out with from time to time. I have to make it look like the royal family isn’t full of agoraphobic freaks. I’ve got to keep the bloody tabloids at bay.” He paused, digressing, “Can anything be done for this church?”
“Not really. We could purchase it, but that hardly would do any good. The reason it is in this condition is due to parishioners leaving the church and even the faith altogether. Even if the doors reopened, we’d still be facing the same problem. Do you remember when we met? Even your own church is declining in worshipers. Your little sister sleeps in on Sundays. Your mother reads the paper and drinks her tea. It’s this same innocent face of apathy that is seeping it’s way into every facet of society. Because of it’s slow infection, most don’t even see it. Do you know how many people watch the telly instead of church? Television is simply scanning lines fired at a screen, but it controls people using information. It steals one’s sense of reality. It’s as if television itself has become a religion. Television has created a people who are easily misinformed and thus easily controlled by those who weave the fantasy. Speaking of which, weren’t you invited to be on a reality show last month?”
The sudden change of pace caught Thomas off guard. He chuckled a bit, “Actually yes. Some producers approached my sister and I about having some of our lives taped and played back on the BBC for a few months. I thought they were daft, but my mother almost said yes! Can you imagine my family being even more under the microscope?!”
“And I’m sure you know what would have happened if they were allowed to proceed with their plans.”
“Sure. They’d edit the crap out of it and sensationalize our mundane lives, just making it all the more difficult to live. I’d have gone mad inside a month.” They sat on the front pew.
Cyrus bowed his head in prayer, and the prince followed in suit. “Dear Lord, forgive the sinners for they know not what they do. Give the believers the strength to spread your blessed Word. Help us to bring back your lost sheep.”
They both silently said “Amen.”
As they walked back towards the stairs, Cyrus stopped for a moment. “Your faith is of a very rare and pure kind. I would like it very much if you’d join me in Israel next week to meet with the elders.”
Thomas was stunned. “It would be a great honor! Thank you.”
They shook hands and parted ways.
As Thomas made his way down the stairs again he said to himself, “I’m finally going to join ‘the Past’!”

Chapter 4 Conversations with the Devil

Cyrus took his seat just as the meeting began. Number One had already started talking about an extortion of a major relief fund in South Africa with Number Six. Cyrus pulled his papers from his case. He looked them over briefly.
“...7.8 million by the end of the month.” Number Six said with certainty. “However,” he added, “had it not been for number 8 we could have made double.”
Number Eight rose to his feet protesting, “How dare you suggest I would do anything against the brotherhood! Everyone knows you are too soft!”
“Take your seat immediately, Number Eight,” said Number One. “I have satisfied myself that one of you is guilty of undermining the operation. Number Six, I’d like you to meet Dr. Kin,” with that an asian man entered wearing a Chinese military uniform of decent rank, “or as you call him, Sergeant Li.” Number Six went white as a ghost. “I was concerned with your loyalties, so I arranged a test. You failed.” With that Dr. Kin pulled out a handgun and shot Number Six right between the eyes. He slumped to the ground instantly dead.
“Number Three, I hope you have better news.”
Cyrus rose to his feet. “I do, indeed.” Even in being polite, Cyrus conveyed a silent rage and danger. “The Prince is for all intents and purposes under my control. We should have no more problems with this phase, assuming this Dave guy can pull through. My only concern is the gross incompetence of the assassin we sent to England. Whoever the agent he was sent after was, he easily bested your killer. I ask that you let one of my personal guard be allowed to complete the task immediately.” He gave a long, intense stare through the glass at Number One.
“That would be most satisfactory. See to it that the agent, a double-0, is taken care of within the next 48 hours.”

After finally being released from his shackles, Bond was welcomed as a brother. The various henchmen and lackeys were very kind and almost pleasant. Bond didn’t really care, all he could think about were Cyrus and a decent meal. He was told to meet Cyrus at a small cafe outside of Cairo for a meal and instructions.

“There really is no good food here anymore,” Cyrus said dryly as he took a sip of gin. The cafe was small and quiet, considering the normal traffic in and around Cairo. “I have a very simple assignment for you. This will be a test of loyalty, ability, and motivation. If you pass this test, then, and only then, will you be allowed to join the Past.” Cyrus spoke perfect english, noted Bond. He clearly had an excellent education in linguistics at the very least. He wore a simple light tan suit with a striped gray shirt unbuttoned. His thick, black hair was slicked back, but barely tamed. Bond was reminded for a moment of what Felix had done to his hair those years ago back in Harlem. “Now you will tell me about yourself. I need to know what of your record is credited appropriately, and what you have done that you have not been linked with.”
Bond sat back in his chair. The thin covering over the outside cafe did a poor job of keeping the heat and light of the sun at bay. Bond took the napkin and wiped his face slowly. “I’m sure you know of both military bombings. I was in command of both of those operations, and not one of my people was caught. I started back at home in Ireland. I was fortunate to be raised to understand the true nature of empires and the even more terrible things they can do without fear of retribution. I took it upon myself to shake their firm grip a bit looser. My hope is that others like myself can come loose in the shaking and join the struggle for freedom.”
“So you’re an anarchist?” Cyrus asked.
“Not exactly. I do want to see power decentralize a bit, as concentrations of power are more likely to corrupt, but there needs to be some form of basic social structure to prevent chaos. My goal is never chaos. My goal is freedom. There’s a difference.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. Go on.”
“Well,” Bond continued, “I was responsible for the assassination of several officials linked to fear mongering and lying to the public. I have started several riots in New York and Washington D.C., but that’s as far as I’ve gone in the US so far. I have a few plans in the works for the American Empire. They are, after all, the bastard father of the war on terror and the war for media control. I sincerely hope that what I’ve been hearing about the Past is true. It’s difficult to tell fact from speculation, though. I look forward to passing your test.” Bond squirmed a bit. Had that last statement been too forward? He calmly watched for a response.
“When and if you pass the test, our current operations will be made available to you. Until then, you are on a strictly need-to-know basis.” He finished his drink and started to walk away.
“And what should I do for now?” Bond called after Cyrus.
“We will contact you no later than tonight. Be prepared for anything.”

Bonds London flat had gone undisturbed for over two weeks. There were a few dishes in the sink and the bedroom doors had not been closed. Streetlight leaked in through the front windows and through the balcony. The dark circles on the backspalashes of the kitchen tile sat calmly like river stones.
The light from the balcony was abruptly interrupted. A figure quickly made his way to the back door and picked it quickly. The door opened and closed without even the slightest noise. He made his way to the control panel of the security system and he removed the cover. He pulled from his side a large knife and proceeded to pull and rescrew a few wires with uncanny precision. The alarm turned off. He returned his knife to his side holster and started his search.
He ran through the book cases, checking each book. He tore apart each of Bonds sitting chairs and destroyed his closet. He pulled up every tile and every drawer in the kitchen and destroyed the bedroom. Nothing. He checked the room for evidence and left as silently as he came.
He pulled his mobile from a pocket and hit send. “He hasn't been here for roughly two weeks, and there is no evidence of where he is now. I’ll search his office tomorrow.” He waited for an affirmative and hung up.

MI6 was among the most busy places on the planet. Since the attack on the Norfolk, the British government had been under tremendous pressure from the population to find answers and bring those responsible to justice. The name of ‘the Past’ had been leaked, but the media knew even less than the Secret Service about the organization, so they automatically tried to link it to the al-Qaeda and Osama Bin Laden. The job of the entire branch was to find information on the Past and get it out to 007.
M had just pulled up in her car when she noticed someone unfamiliar swiping his card to get out of the MI6 garage. He was tall, of Asian decent, probably China, and clearly in excellent shape. M prided herself on her remarkable ability to remember and organize information. She knew every single person who worked at the entire branch, and made it a point to use names in conversation to let everyone know she knew them. This man did not work at MI6. She hurried through the checkpoint and into the elevator with the man and another agent coming in. In her purse were a 9 mm pistol, mase, and a fountain pen containing a mild sedative from Q branch. She took out the pen and put it in the front right pocket of her jacket.
“What floor, ma’am?” asked the ambiguous man.
“Top floor, thank you.” She paused to observe his body language. He was abnormally tall for a person of Asian decent, standing at least 6’1”. He was lean, with the build one might see in a swimmer or sprinter, having broad shoulders and a narrow midsection. He took a step back from the button console and let his hands meet behind his back. Could he be retrieving a weapon?! she wondered. He settled to his place and simply watched the numbers rise. Perhaps she was just being silly? Maybe this was one of the many agents from another branch working with a department at MI6 on the Norfolk incident. She slid the pen out of her pocket into the palm of her hand, concealing it with her sleeve. She made eye contact with him and gave him a simple, controlled smile. “I’m M.” She extended her hand and he extended his. For a split second, she saw a hint of a tattoo on his inner wrist. With that she took her other hand and jammed the pen into his mouth, pressing the lever releasing the sleeping gas. He jerked back violently, grabbing for a weapon on his left forearm. The other agent on the elevator lunged onto him to grab the weapon, a small handgun.
A single shot fired and the elevator went silent.

Chapter 5: Into the Past

Bond checked himself into a reasonable hotel and immediately ordered room service. “2 bottles sparkling soda, 1 bottle 100% grape juice. 1 orange,” Dave Worall was a vegetarian, “followed by an organic salad of spinach, onions, raisins and dates.” He took a long, cold shower and shaved. “God only knows what you’ll be doing tonight,” he said to himself in the mirror. He ordered down to the room service once more, needing to relax a bit. “A dry martini. Three measures Gordons, one of Grey Goose vodka, half a measure Kina Lillet. Shaken well, not stirred, until it’s ice cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel.” Bond had not ordered this drink for many years. This drink had a history to it. He kept himself from thinking back. SMERSH had been dealt with, and also SPECTER long ago. It was nothing but a distant memory. He was in the mood for something that he once truly enjoyed, without the baggage. But, as soon as the drink hit his lips, it was sour. He set it down and took a deep breath. The lemon peel sat gently in the drink like a leaf trying not to be swallowed up by a river. A phone ring startled Bond from his thoughts. His whits came back to him immediately. “Hello?”
“You are to take the last train out of Cairo. Wait until you’re 100 miles out of the city and exit the train. No one must see you leave. Once off the train, you will be 20 miles southwest of an encampment. You are to infiltrate the encampment and blend in completely. Once there you are required to organize an insurrection among those at the encampment and usurp the power from those in charge. By morning, you must be in charge of the encampment. If you are in charge, you will be a member of the Past.” The phone clicked. A moment passed and dial tone.
“I suppose this will be an eventful evening after all”, Bond said to himself.

The train station was all but deserted. He ordered his ticket and boarded the train. 100 miles out, he slipped off the train, rolling for a bit. The 20 miles went on like an eternity. He had prepared by bringing water and a cloth to cover his head with, but the desert was still very dangerous at night. Several times he thought he was being followed by an animal or animals, only to turn and see nothing. After several hours of jogging, he saw a dim light coming from behind a dune. The encampment consisted of a dozen tents and a poorly constructed hall. Bond dropped down silently to the base of the dune, noting that the perimeter was guarded by three patrols of five men every 20 minutes. The men were clearly of Middle-Eastern decent. It would not be easy for an Englishman to fit right in.
Bond slipped amongst the tents making his way towards the main hall. This would be the location of any meeting that would take place, and would probably have the best information for Bond to use. He came to an open window and waited silently. At first it was just a dozen or so voices having conversations about nothing in particular, but then a louder voice quieted the room.
In Arabic, “Competition from the East is complicating shipments and communications. An attack on the center here,” he pointed to a map on the wall, “would be most devastating to them. We will attack on horseback at dawn with the shipment of weaponry coming in tomorrow.” Bond listened carefully to the various points of the plan, noting carefully the responses from the various members of the meeting. The hierarchy started with the leader of the meeting, then falling to 4 captains, and they each had 3 commanders. The third captain was voicing much concern about the safety of the plan, as well as the safety of the entire organization after the attack, even if they succeeded. Several commanders agreed. The meeting ended, and the men returned to their various tents to sleep.
Bond thought for a moment. He made his way to the entrance of one of the tents. He pulled out a knife and cut his arm and above his right eye, so that they bled. He fell into the tent, as if terribly wounded. The men drew their weapons immediately. Bond pretended to pass out. They picked him up and prepared to take him to the hall when Bond came to.
“Please, listen,” Bond said in poor Arabic, “the Past knows of your attack. There is a spy here. I escaped from one of their prison. They’ll be attacking you tomorrow at dawn.”
“Bullshit”, one of them said coldly. “Prove it.”
Bond showed them the injuries he received in the room at the Past, and explained to them specifically what happened and who was there. Apparently Bond’s gamble paid off. Other members of this organization had been captured by the Past and corroborated his story. It wasn’t long before they were ready to follow Bond in mutiny against the ‘admiral’.
As the sun rose, Bond was leading a group of 50 towards the hall. They easily surprised and overtook the 4 guards protecting the admirals quarters. Cyrus’ helicopter landed to find Bond leading a meeting of attack.
Bond explained to his supporters how Cyrus was a fellow agent who would be very thankful for their helping his private corporation.
Cyrus was finally impressed. “You’ve done much better than I thought. Welcome to the Past.”

M opened her eyes to see what looked like a broom. Immediately she felt a greater confusion than she’d ever experienced. She then remembered the man and the elevator. She looked to her left and saw the other MI6 agent from the elevator nursing a bleeding arm. Damn, she thought to herself. She tried to move but found she was bound. Thankfully, M was a well trained field agent before she became head of station. She quickly undid her binds and helped the agent up. The moment she got out of the closet she hit the intercom on the wall.
“This is M, we have an intruder. Approximately 6’1”, Asian, lean build, short black hair, dark suit. Send reinforcements. He’ll be groggy still from a dose of gas, but he seems to be quite able. Oh, and try to take him alive.” She made her way to 008’s office and grabbed his P99 and an extra clip. She looked at her watch. “Damn it, now I’m late!”

Chapter 6:

Number One took a seat at his desk an hour before the meeting. A great part of his power came from the fact that only a handful of people at SPECTER knew his face, as it was not uncommon for there to be a power struggle in such a powerful consortium. On the table before him were details on over 15 different operations being carried out across the globe. Each had an objective, such as gathering wealth or influence, and statistics on success, failure, and possible problems. The Tokyo operation dealt with smuggling military chips inside of PSP gaming consoles. Number One made his way through, with anticipation, to the last mission to go over. The London operation. He turned the cover page.
Current state of the London operation:
Prince contacted, and controlled. Meeting to invite Prince into ‘the Past’ set. Number 3 successfully made contact with, tested, and invited Dave Worrall into ‘the Past’. Worrall received a 100/100 score. Control of the Prince over the next ten years has 85% probability based on Number 3’s history of coercion.
“Never could I have imagined the leader of the British royal family sitting at the table of SPECTER,” he said out loud to himself. Truly it was a bold and dangerous plan, but the reward was incalculable. Number one reached at the bottle at the end of the table. It was a bottle of well aged Zinfandel. He put the cap in his mouth and his terrifying metal teeth easily gripped the cap. With a twist and a pull the cap was off. As he retrieved the cork from his teeth, he cut his finger. “Damn it,” he said under his breath. While he had learned to live with the terrible deformity one of his previous employers had installed in him, he still occasionally would cut himself. He thought back for a moment to when the very SPECTER he now controlled once used him as a simple tool, disregarding his objections. The surgery had been utter torture, as the pain lasted for months as he learned to use the monstrous jaws that could cut through 2 inches of steel if necessary.

The meeting started in usual fashion. The various members showed up around 15 minutes before the meeting, so as to review any information that may be necessary. Number 2 passed around the PSP containing the chip. Not one member could locate the chip inside. It ended up being hidden inside of the magnet of the speaker.
Cyrus reported on Dave Worrall’s success. He commented that despite the invitation to join the Past, Worrall should only be given partial access to information and personnel, since he clearly had the ability to persuade people.
“Please note his fluency in several dialects of Arabic. It’s possible that after his work in the U.K. he can be used in our detention centers to spy on those we captured. I doubt most would suspect a white brit for one of our spies. In the meantime, his role will be vital in our London operation. We will be in the air in 4 hours.” He paused for a moment. “I lost contact with my agent this morning after he reported finding nothing at the spy’s flat. He mailed some personal information that should be here momentarily. He last reported that he would try to infiltrate MI6.”
Number One sat forward in his chair. “You have stepped outside of your bounds, Number 3. I sincerely hope that your agent does not give in to interrogation, for if he does you and he will be excommunicated from this organization and your life. I hope I make myself clear.”
Cyrus fought a violent impulse. “You are clear, but my agent will not be captured alive. Your threats are...unnecessary. Perhaps we can concentrate on the London operation...”
“Take your seat,” Number One interrupted. Despite his clear frustration with Number 3, he remained completely calm. “Number 18 will accompany you to ensure your success.”

Bond was extremely relieved to be on a plane back to London. Bond had learned to love the freezing cold and gray skies that most grew depressed over. The cold wind on his face as he left the airport was brilliant. His mission was simple: to accompany Cyrus to pick up an important person and proceed to edify the Past, Cyrus, and the propaganda to this person.
They made their way through the streets of downtown London to an old church. The large doors slowly opened to reveal abandon and disrepair. Then Cyrus did something that completely threw Bond off. He walked up to the alter, got on his knees, and started to pray. He went on praying for almost 20 minutes. Bond took the opportunity to forward the location on a small PDA to MI6 so as to call for surveillance. He received no answer. He looked up to see Cyrus on a mobile phone.
“Yes, you can accompany us home. Get your information, get out, clean up, and meet us at gate 12. The three of us will be waiting.” Talking on the other end. “Myself, Thomas, and the new guy. Alright.” He turned to Bond. “We’ll have another passenger.”


Part two will come in 3-4 months. I also posted this on the www.jamesbondandbeyond.com forum, just so everyone knows.

rofgilead

Holy shit that is great!

(I just read Casino Royale ----> which I thought kinda sucked - this way beats that book!)

: )

Willravel

Really? Thanks very much! Any things you'd fix?

I loved Casino Royale, but I cringed towards the end (torture scene).

rofgilead

WilRavel - my problem with Casino Royale is that the characters are so flat and 2 dimensional. I also did not like the torture scene - nor the ending of the book. I also found it to be somewhat disturbing that the woman felt she owed Bond sex.

I like your writing - it is fun, and the character is more reminisent of the movie Bond, which is a more fun character! I only read the first chapter, I'll read the rest and get back to you.

Willravel

*bump*
I've just posted this on another forum and no one has replied either. Maybe it's too long?