By virtue of his 00 designation, Bond has a license to kill. It is not, however, a license to live.
Oh, no. No way. This will never happen.
The minute Q branch brought out the device for him (were they smiling?), Bond's instinctive rejection was resolute and final. The scuba gear was for deep sea ice water with a special air tank designed for its user to be shot from a cannon with an ersatz umbilical cord deep into the sea where the user would have minutes to spare before death by compression.
"It's fully vetted, sir," claimed the technician, reading Bond's face.
Bond snorted with a wry smile and walked away.
It had always been a fine line he walked between being useful and being used. The difference, of course, being life and death. While Bond would never say he has no appetite for danger - bordering on a need - he kept it in balance with his survival instincts. It's the other fellow's job to die. Thus, when called before M for an explanation, Bond refused.
"So you'll not give me a reason then?" mused the wrinkled face of the ex-admiral.
Bond had never tested the old man like this before. He was about to see a side he'd never seen.
Bond shrugged. In observing the time it took M to form a response, 007 saw the respect the man had for his instincts and the futility of arguing with them.
"You understand this is not my decision. I have to revoke your 00 designation. In consideration of your considerable contribution in the past you may continue your time in the service in an administrative capacity, if that suits you."
The idea of that revolted him as much as the scuba contraption. "No, sir, it does not."
"Then let me leave you with this thought: Once you go out that door, there's no coming back."
M's final card played, Bond laid his gun on the desk and walked out. He, too, had no choice.
The myriad of thoughts racing through Bond's mind while sipping whiskey alone in his flat were beyond his consciousness to record; a near death experience flashing before him.
He remembered The Promise, when he first entered the service, his rationale for taking orders in the first place: "If they ever cross the line, I'm quitting. No ifs, ands, or buts. I'm out, end of story."
As the days passed his peace with leaving had only grown stronger. No, he had not been rash or hasty. He did not overreact. For the first time in his life, time was on his side. It dawned on him that the day the service would cross the line was inevitable. He'd simply been pushing it out of his mind.
For whatever reason, Bond had always been drawn to Battersea Park. He'd sit on a bench overlooking the Thames and dream of 18th century naval ships, when Britain came to rule the seas. But sitting here now he felt something different. He noticed the soft sun, the glistening greenery, the mysticism of the shire.
Good God, how they'd laugh back at the office if they knew the thoughts in my head!
M was right about one thing, though: there's no going back.
Though Bond no longer haunted the "good old boy" bars of his past, preferring rather a local pub that granted him a more lively view of the world, he knew contact was imminent.
The psychology of the man the service picked was obvious: send a younger version of himself. And as he approached Bond in his booth, the man certainly had all the boxes checked - except one. Bond was his own man while his opponent clearly was not.
The sent man was all grins and charm as he put out his hand. "Why, if it isn't 00 coward!"
The comment was loud, intended to be overheard, to rattle Bond.
Bond stood as the man arrived, gripped his outstretched hand and sheepishly replied, "You win! I can never hope to match your repartee."
The man had been prepared for anything but surrender. Truth was, Bond was incensed that such a juvenile comment was meant to fluster him. But it was the fake Bond who was now flustered.
"Sorry about that. Was a stupid thing to say. It's just that's there's a general consensus you skipped out when the going got rough. If there is a bomb embedded in the ocean floor it has got to be defused. I don't have to tell you what's at stake."
"Oh, bloody hell, you're right! Put that damn contraption on me and give me a shot at disarming the blasted thing."
The man squirmed trying read Bond's famous deadpan expression. "Well, uh, there's no coming back, of course."
Bond's eyes were drill bits into the man's mind. "But, of course," agreed Bond, still giving nothing away.
It's impossible to counter-punch a man who won't punch. Bond threw him a lifeline, flashing an ironic smile. "Kind of makes this entire conversation pointless, doesn't it?"
The knockout blow had its effect, the man dropping his facade, in a struggle for his life.
"I understand how you feel. I read your file. I was recruited like you were. I had my doubts when these pompous buggers made their pitch but I couldn't get their words out of my head."
Bond sipped his martini, recalling that same moment for him - the moment he made The Promise. At least he was being treated with more respect. He leaned back to let the man continue.
"So I think I know how you feel, this sense of betrayal. I've struggled with it myself." In this the man is being genuine, thought Bond. "But I've learned there's two types of evil in the world: both good and bad. We use the good evil to protect us from the bad, so to speak. It's how we ensure the future. And as ridiculous as this sounds, that's a pragmatism I've had to face."
Bond's sense of self-preservation went on red alert. He had no doubt of the struggle possessing the man's soul, of trying to live beyond the crossed line, crying out for both help and murder with the same voice.
"Sounds like a conversation for your pastor," Bond blithely responded, buying time has he calculated the situation.
The man's presence left the moment. "You could say I've already had it."
The 'pastor' in this case would be an overlord in the secret service sanctioning the job - as if one man can sanction another man's murder in the eyes of God.
Could Bond defeat this man? Yes. Could he defeat every man sent to kill him? No. Bond had come too far to look over his shoulder the rest of his life.
Sliding out from the booth, standing as an easy target mere feet away, Bond looked at the man as one who'd faced death before. Everyone must pay for one's sins. Time to pay for mine.
"Then do what you musn't," he offered, his gaze never leaving the man's now anguished face.
Like all assassins, the man had been programmed, cajoled, bribed, and punctured into making the hit. Bond was simply giving him a sense of his immortal soul.
Then something unexpected happened: the man retched, turning his head, coughing and puking on the bench. He felt used, a sucker on a fool's errand, placing blood on his hands like a Roman crucifier, wrecking his own future. No "good" evil, after all.
Bond left the man to himself, slipped out the back door, and checked into an anonymous hotel.
CODA: In ancient Japan, the country was divided between East and West. Ishida of the West took over Osaka castle, an impregnable fortress. His plan was to take hostages from the families of the clans there to force them to his side. First on his list to kidnap was Gracia Hosokawa, the beloved and admired wife of a powerful general. Literate and multi-lingual, she changing her name with her conversion to Catholicism.
Only his plans went awry as Gracia let herself be killed before she'd let herself be taken hostage. The fury and outrage over this bungled attempt forced Ishida to abandon his plans for hostages. In this way, also, the plan to eliminate Bond was discarded.
*****
The minute Q branch brought out the device for him (were they smiling?), Bond's instinctive rejection was resolute and final. The scuba gear was for deep sea ice water with a special air tank designed for its user to be shot from a cannon with an ersatz umbilical cord deep into the sea where the user would have minutes to spare before death by compression.
"It's fully vetted, sir," claimed the technician, reading Bond's face.
Bond snorted with a wry smile and walked away.
It had always been a fine line he walked between being useful and being used. The difference, of course, being life and death. While Bond would never say he has no appetite for danger - bordering on a need - he kept it in balance with his survival instincts. It's the other fellow's job to die. Thus, when called before M for an explanation, Bond refused.
"So you'll not give me a reason then?" mused the wrinkled face of the ex-admiral.
Bond had never tested the old man like this before. He was about to see a side he'd never seen.
Bond shrugged. In observing the time it took M to form a response, 007 saw the respect the man had for his instincts and the futility of arguing with them.
"You understand this is not my decision. I have to revoke your 00 designation. In consideration of your considerable contribution in the past you may continue your time in the service in an administrative capacity, if that suits you."
The idea of that revolted him as much as the scuba contraption. "No, sir, it does not."
"Then let me leave you with this thought: Once you go out that door, there's no coming back."
M's final card played, Bond laid his gun on the desk and walked out. He, too, had no choice.
*****
He remembered The Promise, when he first entered the service, his rationale for taking orders in the first place: "If they ever cross the line, I'm quitting. No ifs, ands, or buts. I'm out, end of story."
As the days passed his peace with leaving had only grown stronger. No, he had not been rash or hasty. He did not overreact. For the first time in his life, time was on his side. It dawned on him that the day the service would cross the line was inevitable. He'd simply been pushing it out of his mind.
For whatever reason, Bond had always been drawn to Battersea Park. He'd sit on a bench overlooking the Thames and dream of 18th century naval ships, when Britain came to rule the seas. But sitting here now he felt something different. He noticed the soft sun, the glistening greenery, the mysticism of the shire.
Good God, how they'd laugh back at the office if they knew the thoughts in my head!
M was right about one thing, though: there's no going back.
*****
The psychology of the man the service picked was obvious: send a younger version of himself. And as he approached Bond in his booth, the man certainly had all the boxes checked - except one. Bond was his own man while his opponent clearly was not.
The sent man was all grins and charm as he put out his hand. "Why, if it isn't 00 coward!"
The comment was loud, intended to be overheard, to rattle Bond.
Bond stood as the man arrived, gripped his outstretched hand and sheepishly replied, "You win! I can never hope to match your repartee."
The man had been prepared for anything but surrender. Truth was, Bond was incensed that such a juvenile comment was meant to fluster him. But it was the fake Bond who was now flustered.
"Sorry about that. Was a stupid thing to say. It's just that's there's a general consensus you skipped out when the going got rough. If there is a bomb embedded in the ocean floor it has got to be defused. I don't have to tell you what's at stake."
"Oh, bloody hell, you're right! Put that damn contraption on me and give me a shot at disarming the blasted thing."
The man squirmed trying read Bond's famous deadpan expression. "Well, uh, there's no coming back, of course."
Bond's eyes were drill bits into the man's mind. "But, of course," agreed Bond, still giving nothing away.
The knockout blow had its effect, the man dropping his facade, in a struggle for his life.
"I understand how you feel. I read your file. I was recruited like you were. I had my doubts when these pompous buggers made their pitch but I couldn't get their words out of my head."
Bond sipped his martini, recalling that same moment for him - the moment he made The Promise. At least he was being treated with more respect. He leaned back to let the man continue.
"So I think I know how you feel, this sense of betrayal. I've struggled with it myself." In this the man is being genuine, thought Bond. "But I've learned there's two types of evil in the world: both good and bad. We use the good evil to protect us from the bad, so to speak. It's how we ensure the future. And as ridiculous as this sounds, that's a pragmatism I've had to face."
Bond's sense of self-preservation went on red alert. He had no doubt of the struggle possessing the man's soul, of trying to live beyond the crossed line, crying out for both help and murder with the same voice.
"Sounds like a conversation for your pastor," Bond blithely responded, buying time has he calculated the situation.
The man's presence left the moment. "You could say I've already had it."
Could Bond defeat this man? Yes. Could he defeat every man sent to kill him? No. Bond had come too far to look over his shoulder the rest of his life.
Sliding out from the booth, standing as an easy target mere feet away, Bond looked at the man as one who'd faced death before. Everyone must pay for one's sins. Time to pay for mine.
"Then do what you musn't," he offered, his gaze never leaving the man's now anguished face.
Like all assassins, the man had been programmed, cajoled, bribed, and punctured into making the hit. Bond was simply giving him a sense of his immortal soul.
Then something unexpected happened: the man retched, turning his head, coughing and puking on the bench. He felt used, a sucker on a fool's errand, placing blood on his hands like a Roman crucifier, wrecking his own future. No "good" evil, after all.
Bond left the man to himself, slipped out the back door, and checked into an anonymous hotel.
*****
Only his plans went awry as Gracia let herself be killed before she'd let herself be taken hostage. The fury and outrage over this bungled attempt forced Ishida to abandon his plans for hostages. In this way, also, the plan to eliminate Bond was discarded.
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