Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God
Dec. 6th, 2017 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwyllionTitle: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: 00QAD (James Bond/Q/Alex Turner/Danny Holt)
Rating: R
Words: 50K
Warnings: Minor character death
A/N: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God was written for NaNoWriMo 2017. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading.
Danny stared at the cardboard box. He held it cautiously in two outstretched hands as if it were a bomb that would explode any minute from now, leaving the foyer in shambles.
The day had begun like normal—or like what had become the new normal of late. He tossed and turned in the king-sized bed, cursing the luxurious sheets that should have lulled him back to sleep. He woke for the last time at 5:00 AM, unable to shake the memories of Alex that danced through his head. In his dreams, Alex cried out, “His name is Danny…” over and over again, until Danny woke in a pool of sweat.
Danny dressed quickly and descended to the kitchen. He set the kettle to boil and went to the front door to see if the newspaper had arrived yet. Scottie still got the Times delivered daily. Danny didn’t have the heart to cancel the subscription, although Scottie would never see the paper again.
He padded down the carpeted hallway, careful to avoid waking Frances. The woman slept lightly now that she had returned to London to help Danny find out who was behind Alex’s murder in hopes of bringing them to justice. Danny was naturally wary. Despite the security system Danny had installed at Scottie’s, trouble had a way of finding Danny. He couldn’t expect a few electronic alarms to keep the forces of whole governments at bay.
The scent of fresh rain wafted into the entryway of Scottie’s house as a morning storm brewed over Hampstead Heath. At his feet lay the Sunday Times and something peculiar beside it, waiting on the front steps.
A white cardboard box caught Danny’s attention. A mailing label had been affixed to the box, but Danny didn’t recognize the handwriting. The package was addressed to Danny. The address was Scottie’s. Funny, Danny had never come to think of this as his house, no matter that he had moved all of his belongings there. It would never be Danny’s house, although Scottie had willed it to him six months earlier when he took his own life. God, how Danny missed him now. While the rain fell, Danny turned the box upside down and ran his fingers over the circles that had been etched into the cardboard.
Danny clutched the doorframe with one hand when he realized what he held. Taking a deep breath, he closed the door and brought the box into the study.
Frances, he had to wake Frances, but only if he was sure about what he discovered.
Frances always called Scottie’s house Danny’s house, as if property ownership somehow elevated Danny in Frances’ eyes. Scottie’s house paled in comparison to Frances’ posh castle where she spent her exile. She had spent a fortune in remodelling the old place. Danny could care less if he ever travelled back there again. The place was cold and dreary enough before the fire had laid it to ruin. It was a small comfort that Alex’s mother survived the conflagration. She had already been punished so much that death might have been a blessing. She’d never know the loving embrace of her only son, although she would live out the remainder of her days in a cottage that Frances owned.
Danny set the box on his desk. The newspaper articles he had clipped over the past months fluttered in the breeze created when the box fell to the desktop. He grabbed a letter opener and worked at the seam, where tape held the box shut. When, at last he opened the box, it was empty, as he suspected it would be when he felt the weight of it, lights as a feather. Only a few crumbs from toast and a darkened spot where butter had once landed in a glob on the white cardboard remained. But it wasn’t the contents of the box that drew Danny’s attention. The bottom of the box was far more fascinating.
Danny touched the indentations on the box’s bottom. He shook with the emotion of it all, tears welling in his eyes. He ran the back of his hand across his nostrils, stopping the flow of snot.
The six circles, the single line, was it only his imagination?
He traced each circle made by something not quite sharp enough to cut. Perhaps the circles were made by a fingernail, or a plastic knife—the kind that one would use only once before disposing of it. The number wasn’t carved by a pen or pencil that could have clearly written the numeral Danny saw on the box.
0000001
Could Alex be alive?
Danny sunk to the floor and drew his knees up to his chest.
“How is this even possible?” he sobbed.
The rain fell across Hampstead Heath, bringing the promise of renewal with it.
In the days that followed, he relied on Frances and the MI6 connections she purported to have. He hoped she would convince them to help her. He hoped that somehow, through it all, they would find Alex alive.
The mere thought of it made Danny giddy.
The notion of a living Alex kept Danny’s mind racing and prevented him from sleeping. The most pleasant thoughts seeped into his dreams. If Alex were alive, Danny hoped Alex was pining for him, but knowing Alex and his distrust of romance, Danny would settle for just a few moments when he held Alex’s attention. Still, he hoped Alex missed him. He wished that he could be assured that Alex would think of him from time to time. He was his soulmate, after all. Even Alex might believe that now, if they were somehow reunited.
Danny remembered the long walks they would take during their eight-month courtship. Alex was always fond of the beach. Maybe he escaped his captors are really was lounging on a beach somewhere where he couldn’t divulge his whereabouts to Danny. They had to find him. They had to leave now for America.
Frances told Danny that he was being ridiculous. “No one really thinks Alex was whisked off to America. No more than a dying man would think of a lover when his life flashed before his eyes just before the moment of his death,” she assured him.
But Alex may have been taken to America. Danny could feel it. He could believe it as surely as he knew Alex thought of him at the moment of his certain death.
Alex was alive. He had to be.
~
Barbara had listened, as unobtrusively as she could, to the conversation between Eve and her colleagues. The story of Alex’s death was awful. She had stayed close to their table, refilling their water glasses and making sure the drinks flowed. She remembered reading about Alex’s death in the paper months earlier. Like anyone who consumed the steady stream of trashy media, Barbara believed that Alex died is some weird sex game gone wrong. Now, it sounded like poor Alex had been hung out to dry by the very organization that he worked for—MI5.
All the talk of international government organizations made Barbara’s head spin. Whatever happened to the quest for world peace?
Barbara thought she would make a good negotiator, if the opportunity ever came about. She felt akin to Frances in that way. Her mind worked differently than most girls who only cared about the latest Wonder Woman film or who Harry Styles was dating. She analysed things through a different lens.
Eve conveyed that Frances hoped that the MI6 team could find out what the investigators had done with Alex. Was he really dead? Frances thought he was, but what if instead, he was being held against his will? What if he was being tortured for information? Frances knew more about the intricacies of torture and the methods the government used to control the sharing of information than most people. So if Frances though Alex was dead, Barbara was inclined to believe her.
Torture fascinated Barbara. In light of the discussion that took place in Le Papillon today, she wished she knew more about it. Perhaps she could investigate it more in her free time. As it was, she usually stayed up until midnight, reading books in her tiny flat. She had no friends who would call her to go out for a night of socializing. No man or woman served as her sounding board to discuss any of the bits of gossip she learned while waiting on tables. Barbara liked it that way. She was a far better companion to herself than and Sixth Form friend or chatty co-worker.
She sympathized with Danny, who had lost his true love. The way Frances described his anguish touched Barbara’s heart.
Apparently, Danny wanted to believe that Alex was lounging on a beach somewhere on the south coast of Florida—and that this cardboard box with the food stains was something that a take-away place would use to deliver a meal.
Barbara shuddered at the thought of a box. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be stuffed into a box and left for dead. The Daily Mail said that a heat lamp was turned on beside the wooden trunk in which Turner was discovered. Maybe Turner liked the heat? A beach would be the perfect place to get away from it all, despite what Frances had told the ladies from MI6. Maybe Alex arranged his own escape to trick Frances. Maybe Alex was sick of being stuck in a relationship with Danny, who was a bit of an oaf, despite his extraordinary level of perception and intuition.
According to Danny, the box smelled faintly of the ocean, but what did Danny know about the smell of the ocean and the kind of food someone would order on the shore of an American beach? Anything from fried clams to a hot buttered lobster roll could have left those stains on the white cardboard. The crumbs could have been left by anything from a piece of toast to a baked stuffed shrimp that lost a dollop of its stuffing.
Perhaps Danny was right. Perhaps Alex lounged on a New England beach. It made sense to Barbara that Alex could have left old England for New England. The only issue was that of the beach, where water temperatures averaged only slightly above freezing in the cold months that would soon be upon them.
Barbara shivered and refilled her pitcher with more ice.
~
Predictably, the MI6 crowd sometimes came into Le Papillon when it wasn’t very busy, like on a Wednesday night after they got out of work. The four them would hog a table until Ingmar’s manager wanted to close down for the night. Barbara would never get home in time to read her beloved books, or to write to her pen pal who she met through a “write to a prisoner” scheme, or scroll through the pictures of men on OK Cupid. Not that she held onto any hope that she would someday find a spouse, but she hated the customers who made her work late while they occupied a table that could have turned over three times, if not for their banter.
Tonight, Eve showed up first to request a table.
“Three,” Eve said. “No, make that four. Definitely, four.”
“Sounds like a definite maybe,” Maxine, the hostess said as she led Eve to a table in Barbara’s section. “A table for four.”
“Can I get you a drink to start?” Barbara asked.
“I have more people coming,” Eve said. “I should wait for them.”
“Very well,” Barbara said.
“On second thought,” Eve held her hand out to Barbara. “I’ll have a whisky sour.”
Barbara went to the bar and put in Eve’s drink order. Only three of the Le Papillon tables were filled with diners when Eve arrived. The low hum of conversation wafted across linen tablecloths. The clink of cutlery and ice against glassware tinkled softly. By the time Barbara brought the drink back to Eve, a trio of men had arrived at her table. Barbara recognized each of them. One thing about being so close to Vauxhall Cross was that an endless stream of diners from the Secret Intelligence Service seemed to find their way into Le Papillon. The diners provided a good income for Barbara, who otherwise would have to move back with the Bradfords. It served her well to eschew complaining about the MI6 table occupants too much.
“What can I get for you gentlemen?” Barbara asked, setting the whiskey sour glass in front of Eve.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” the handsome blond said.
Barbara had seen the well-dressed man in the restaurant many times before. Bond, James Bond. He did some sort of undercover work for MI6. Impeccable tailoring, freshly polished shoes. His pocket square always matched his tie. His face looked worn, like he had spent too many days in the sun. Sometimes, there was a scratch across his jaw, sometimes a bruise or a black eye. Sometimes his skin bore a railroad track of tiny stitches, but his blue eyes were so pleasant to look upon, she forgot about the trauma that had hit his face.
“Shaken, not stirred,” he added after Barbara had turned her attention to the balding man.
Bill Tanner popped into Le Papillon at least once per week. He didn’t visit for lunch, instead he arrived right before the dinner rush. His wife had her hands full with the twins at home, so the least Tanner could do was spare her the task of cooking a meal one night per week. He always got a double order of pasta with whatever he ordered. Coq au vin with a double order of risotto. Sea scallops and prawns with a double order of linguini. Chicken cordon bleu with a double order of pilaf. And after much false deliberation, he always ordered a chocolatey dessert. It was a wonder he and his wife weren’t diabetic.
“I’ll have an Amaretto on the rocks,” Tanner said.
“And for you?” Barbara asked the sylph-like creature who didn’t take his eye off the laptop screen.
“A pot of Earl Grey,” Q replied.
He was apparently the only member of the MI6 crowd who didn’t worry about caffeine keeping him up at night. This kid looked no older than Barbara. Nerdy glasses, cardigan jumpers, his nose always in his laptop. Today, he wore a bright neon green cast on his left wrist. Funny, this fellow never seemed to have any sort of injury before, unless a papercut warranted medical attention. He looked as if he subsisted entirely on tea. It was true, Barbara had never seen him in Le Papillon for a meal. He carried his stainless steel thermos with him wherever he went, often re-filling it at the restaurant before he headed back to his work. His thick gorgeous hair was his best feature. Barbara often imagined what it would feel like to run her hands through it. Although she had no man of her own, sometimes she became distracted by the diners at Le Papillon. With clientele like Q, who could blame her?
Barbara left to get the drink orders.
“What gives, Moneypenny?” Tanner asked. “Why have you called us here? And on a weekday?”
“And dragged us away from our work?” Q asked, although he hadn’t been dragged away, exactly. There were apparently no hot missions that needed comm coverage tonight.
“It would make sense if it were on the weekend,” Bond said, straightening the cuff of his shirt. “Drinking with the work mates is a Friday evening tradition.”
“Drinking on any day is traditional for you, I thought,” Q said. “Too bad it’s only Wednesday for the rest of us.”
Eve was just about to speak when Barbara arrived. She set Q’s teapot in front of him. With impatient hands, Tanner reached for his Amaretto before Barbara could put down a cocktail napkin. She gave Bond’s martini one extra shake before pouring it into the martini glass.
“And will you be ordering dinner tonight?” Barbara asked.
“I’m fine,” Q said, taking his mobile from his pocket. “I’m heading back to the office afterwards.”
“Nothing right now,” Eve said.
“I might order something before I leave,” Tanner said. “Trixie loves the whipped potatoes from here.”
“I’d like an order of escargot with the garlic sauce,” Bond said. He shrugged when all eyes turned to him.
Q wrinkled his nose.
“Very good, sir,” Barbara said. “I will put your order in immediately.”
Le Papillon was quiet for a Wednesday evening. Although the weeknights sometimes brought people who were on holiday and looking for a dining establishment that was off the beaten path. Barbara tried to tamp down the feelings of annoyance that the MI6 crew were likely to take up the table for the next few hours, despite their not ordering dinner. She knew from past experience that Bond was a good tipper, at least, so she did her best to accommodate them.
“So, why are we here?” Q asked, folding his hands in front of him, as best he could with the cumbersome cast.
“I called you here tonight because at lunch today, I learned some information that you might find intriguing,” Eve said.
“Intriguing in a good way or a bad way?” Tanner asked. He looked around the room as if he wanted to flag Barbara down to request a side order of crisps.
“Intriguing in an intriguing way,” Eve said.
“Darling, get on with it,” Bond said.
“At lunch today, we were approached by—”
“We?” Q chirped in, looking up from his mobile.
“R and me,” Eve said.
“Remind me to dock R’s pay,” Q said.
“I’ll do no such thing. Oh, and we were joined by your ex,” Eve added, thumping Bond on the arm.
“Fantastic,” Bond said, rolling his eyes.
“I thought she moved to Paris,” Tanner said.
“She leaves next Sunday,” Bond said.
Q looked at Bond, annoyed.
“And when we were here, learning all about Bond and Madeleine’s breakup,” Eve continued, “we were joined by one Frances Turner.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Bond said.
“I don’t know any Frances Turner,” Tanner said. “Should I?”
“What about Alex Turner?” Eve asked.
“He’s the bloke whose remains were found locked in a trunk in an attic,” Q said knowingly.
Eve marvelled at how similar R and Q were. Q was just like R, without the need for a tablet and a wifi connection.
“Was there some reason you remembered that, Q?” Eve asked.
Q looked at his mobile again. He seemed to take an unnecessary amount of time to think about his words.
“He was gay,” Q said. “His partner gave an interview to a tell-all rag after Alex’s death.”
“The death was under mysterious circumstances,” Tanner said.
“If you call a sex dungeon mysterious,” Bond said with a smirk.
“Your escargot, sir,” Barbara said, setting the plate in front of Bond.
“Thank you,” Bond said, taking his fork in hand. “Now what’s all this with Frances Turner?”
“It turns out, Alex Turner may be alive,” Eve said. “At least his partner thinks so.”
Q had started to pick up his mobile again, but this got his attention.
“How so?” Q asked.
“Wasn’t there a medical examiner’s report?” Tanner asked.
“There was,” Eve said.
“Those can be faked easily,” Bond said between nibbles of escargot.
“And a body?” Tanner reminded them.
“A technicality,” said Eve.
“But why does his partner think he’s alive?” Q asked.
“Danny Holt received a package from the United States,” Eve said.
“And what did this package contain, Miss Moneypenny?” Bond asked.
“Inside the package was nothing,” Eve said.
“Nothing?” Tanner asked.
“Nothing,” Eve said.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Bond said.
“Except,” Eve continued, “on the outside of the package, the number 0000001 was scratched into the cardboard.”
“What on earth does that mean?” Tanner asked.
“Frances is convinced that it’s a message from Alex,” Eve said. She looked from Tanner’s face to Q’s, to Bond’s, hoping that they would have some understanding. It suddenly occurred to her that she needed to give them more key information. When it came to gatherings, Eve was the life of the party, but when it came to telling a joke, she had the horrible habit of forgetting the punch line. This was a case where similarly, she had left out vital information.
“Oh! Oh! That was their code word,” Eve said.
“That’s a number,” Q said. “Not a word.”
“A number that was important to them. Danny was Alex’s number one,” Eve said. “It was like a cute little thing between them.”
“Charming,” Bond said.
“I think it’s romantic,” Eve said.
“Was there a return address on the package?” Q asked.
“I wouldn’t be asking for your help if there was,” Eve said, slumping back in her seat.
“This package… what of it?” Tanner asked. “It doesn’t prove anything. And besides, even if Turner were alive, who could possibly know where to begin to look for him if there was no return address?”
“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Eve said. “Frances Turner thinks that agents from MI5 took Turner and relocated him in the U.S.”
Q’s eyes flew open wide. Bond took note, but didn’t mention it. Instead, he questioned Eve further. “Why would she suspect that?”
“Apparently, according to R, she used to work for SIS, back in the 1970s. The woman seems to know what she’s talking about,” Eve said.
“And what do you expect us to do with this information?” Bond asked.
“I haven’t met him, but it seems that his partner, this Danny Holt, thinks that Alex is being held against his will and forced to work for his captors,” Eve said.
“In the U.S.?” Tanner asked. “What country are his captors working for?”
“That’s for you to find out,” Eve said. “That is, if you’re interested.”
“I just love ad hoc missions,” Bond said with a disinterested sigh.
“I’d be willing to investigate it, in light of what happened to me last week,” Q said, waving his cast in the air.
The table at Le Papillion went quiet. It was unlike Q to volunteer his services without Bond intervening and giving him the sad puppy-dog-eyes treatment. Although Q was a cat person at heart, Bond’s pleading had long since proven to be the one force Q could not overcome.
“If Turner is as intelligent as you have been led to believe, the information he has could be at risk of falling into the wrong hands,” Q said.
“We wouldn’t want anyone to get an upper hand on tech developments that might be a risk to Queen and Country,” Bond said.
“So, you’ll help Frances?” Eve asked, enthusiastically.
“I’ll keep M off your backs, if that’s why I was called to this meeting,” Tanner said, still looking longingly at the platters of food that Barbara carried to other tables.
“It’s a deal, then,” Eve said, raising her whisky glass.
“Cheers,” Q said, lifting his teacup to touch it.
Tanner followed with his glass.
Bond ate the last escargot off his fork and downed his martini.
“Spoilsport,” Eve said wistfully.
“I’ve got to get going,” Tanner said, draining his glass. “Oh, miss.”
“Her name is Barbara,” Eve said, rolling her eyes.
“What can I get for you, sir?” Barbara asked.
“Can I get an order of your Chicken Marsala for takeaway?”
“Of course, sir,” Barbara said.
“And go heavy on the penne…. And I’ll take a side order of the German Chocolate cake,” Tanner added.
“I’ll put your order right in,” Barbara said.
“I need to be going too,” Eve said. “Thanks for listening to me. I knew I could count on my friends.”
Ten minutes later, the group had finished their conversations and Eve bid them goodnight. Tanner left with his food order.
Q had put his mobile away, but Bond had asked Barbara to see the menu again.
“I think I’d like to order a dessert,” Bond said.
“As you like,” Barbara said.
“What do you recommend?” Bond asked, turning on the charm as if it were connected to the twinkle in his eyes, glittering under the lights of Le Papillon.
“The apricot cake is wonderful,” Barbara said.
“The apricot cake it is, then,” Bond said.
Barbara collected the menu from him.
“And bring two forks, if you would,” Bond said.
Barbara smiled at Q and said,” Of course.”
Q scowled, undoubtedly uncomfortable with Bond’s dessert antics.
“Really Bond,” Q said, “If you’re trying to get into my trousers, you’ll have to do better than that.”
“Not at all, darling,” Bond said. “I have other ways of tempting you if I wanted to get into your trousers.”
Q picked up his mobile again, ignoring Bond.
“So, tell me, Quartermaster,” Bond said, “what are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Q said.
“Liar,” Bond said.
Q tugged at his dark hair, which stayed where he left it, making it stand out from his head like a new age sculpture.
“I noticed you got interested when Eve mentioned Alex Turner’s research,” Bond said. “Those wheels in your head were turning so quickly, you lost your ability to speak.”
“I can’t fool you,” Q said in a sing-song voice.
“Spy,” Bond said, pointing to his chest. “The powers of observation come with the profession.”
“So what?” Q said.
“You tell me,” Bond said.
Barbara took this moment to bring Bond his dessert. “I hope you both enjoy it,” she said, setting it in front of Bond and placing the two forks beside it.
“It looks delicious,” Bond said. “I’m sure we will.”
“Let me know if I can get either of you anything else,” Barbara said.
“Oh, we will,” Bond said with a wink.
“We’re not going there, Bond.” Q said, although he looked conflicted.
Barbara smiled and turned away. These two made an amusing couple, she thought. Half the time, she couldn’t tell if they were lovers or if they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. She busied herself with diners at another table while she anticipated what would happen next between Bond and Q. But when Barbara next walked by their table, the men were gone.
At least they left Barbara a handful of fifty-pound notes for her trouble.
~
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: 00QAD (James Bond/Q/Alex Turner/Danny Holt)
Rating: R
Words: 50K
Warnings: Minor character death
A/N: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God was written for NaNoWriMo 2017. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading.
Danny stared at the cardboard box. He held it cautiously in two outstretched hands as if it were a bomb that would explode any minute from now, leaving the foyer in shambles.
The day had begun like normal—or like what had become the new normal of late. He tossed and turned in the king-sized bed, cursing the luxurious sheets that should have lulled him back to sleep. He woke for the last time at 5:00 AM, unable to shake the memories of Alex that danced through his head. In his dreams, Alex cried out, “His name is Danny…” over and over again, until Danny woke in a pool of sweat.
Danny dressed quickly and descended to the kitchen. He set the kettle to boil and went to the front door to see if the newspaper had arrived yet. Scottie still got the Times delivered daily. Danny didn’t have the heart to cancel the subscription, although Scottie would never see the paper again.
He padded down the carpeted hallway, careful to avoid waking Frances. The woman slept lightly now that she had returned to London to help Danny find out who was behind Alex’s murder in hopes of bringing them to justice. Danny was naturally wary. Despite the security system Danny had installed at Scottie’s, trouble had a way of finding Danny. He couldn’t expect a few electronic alarms to keep the forces of whole governments at bay.
The scent of fresh rain wafted into the entryway of Scottie’s house as a morning storm brewed over Hampstead Heath. At his feet lay the Sunday Times and something peculiar beside it, waiting on the front steps.
A white cardboard box caught Danny’s attention. A mailing label had been affixed to the box, but Danny didn’t recognize the handwriting. The package was addressed to Danny. The address was Scottie’s. Funny, Danny had never come to think of this as his house, no matter that he had moved all of his belongings there. It would never be Danny’s house, although Scottie had willed it to him six months earlier when he took his own life. God, how Danny missed him now. While the rain fell, Danny turned the box upside down and ran his fingers over the circles that had been etched into the cardboard.
Danny clutched the doorframe with one hand when he realized what he held. Taking a deep breath, he closed the door and brought the box into the study.
Frances, he had to wake Frances, but only if he was sure about what he discovered.
Frances always called Scottie’s house Danny’s house, as if property ownership somehow elevated Danny in Frances’ eyes. Scottie’s house paled in comparison to Frances’ posh castle where she spent her exile. She had spent a fortune in remodelling the old place. Danny could care less if he ever travelled back there again. The place was cold and dreary enough before the fire had laid it to ruin. It was a small comfort that Alex’s mother survived the conflagration. She had already been punished so much that death might have been a blessing. She’d never know the loving embrace of her only son, although she would live out the remainder of her days in a cottage that Frances owned.
Danny set the box on his desk. The newspaper articles he had clipped over the past months fluttered in the breeze created when the box fell to the desktop. He grabbed a letter opener and worked at the seam, where tape held the box shut. When, at last he opened the box, it was empty, as he suspected it would be when he felt the weight of it, lights as a feather. Only a few crumbs from toast and a darkened spot where butter had once landed in a glob on the white cardboard remained. But it wasn’t the contents of the box that drew Danny’s attention. The bottom of the box was far more fascinating.
Danny touched the indentations on the box’s bottom. He shook with the emotion of it all, tears welling in his eyes. He ran the back of his hand across his nostrils, stopping the flow of snot.
The six circles, the single line, was it only his imagination?
He traced each circle made by something not quite sharp enough to cut. Perhaps the circles were made by a fingernail, or a plastic knife—the kind that one would use only once before disposing of it. The number wasn’t carved by a pen or pencil that could have clearly written the numeral Danny saw on the box.
0000001
Could Alex be alive?
Danny sunk to the floor and drew his knees up to his chest.
“How is this even possible?” he sobbed.
The rain fell across Hampstead Heath, bringing the promise of renewal with it.
In the days that followed, he relied on Frances and the MI6 connections she purported to have. He hoped she would convince them to help her. He hoped that somehow, through it all, they would find Alex alive.
The mere thought of it made Danny giddy.
The notion of a living Alex kept Danny’s mind racing and prevented him from sleeping. The most pleasant thoughts seeped into his dreams. If Alex were alive, Danny hoped Alex was pining for him, but knowing Alex and his distrust of romance, Danny would settle for just a few moments when he held Alex’s attention. Still, he hoped Alex missed him. He wished that he could be assured that Alex would think of him from time to time. He was his soulmate, after all. Even Alex might believe that now, if they were somehow reunited.
Danny remembered the long walks they would take during their eight-month courtship. Alex was always fond of the beach. Maybe he escaped his captors are really was lounging on a beach somewhere where he couldn’t divulge his whereabouts to Danny. They had to find him. They had to leave now for America.
Frances told Danny that he was being ridiculous. “No one really thinks Alex was whisked off to America. No more than a dying man would think of a lover when his life flashed before his eyes just before the moment of his death,” she assured him.
But Alex may have been taken to America. Danny could feel it. He could believe it as surely as he knew Alex thought of him at the moment of his certain death.
Alex was alive. He had to be.
~
Barbara had listened, as unobtrusively as she could, to the conversation between Eve and her colleagues. The story of Alex’s death was awful. She had stayed close to their table, refilling their water glasses and making sure the drinks flowed. She remembered reading about Alex’s death in the paper months earlier. Like anyone who consumed the steady stream of trashy media, Barbara believed that Alex died is some weird sex game gone wrong. Now, it sounded like poor Alex had been hung out to dry by the very organization that he worked for—MI5.
All the talk of international government organizations made Barbara’s head spin. Whatever happened to the quest for world peace?
Barbara thought she would make a good negotiator, if the opportunity ever came about. She felt akin to Frances in that way. Her mind worked differently than most girls who only cared about the latest Wonder Woman film or who Harry Styles was dating. She analysed things through a different lens.
Eve conveyed that Frances hoped that the MI6 team could find out what the investigators had done with Alex. Was he really dead? Frances thought he was, but what if instead, he was being held against his will? What if he was being tortured for information? Frances knew more about the intricacies of torture and the methods the government used to control the sharing of information than most people. So if Frances though Alex was dead, Barbara was inclined to believe her.
Torture fascinated Barbara. In light of the discussion that took place in Le Papillon today, she wished she knew more about it. Perhaps she could investigate it more in her free time. As it was, she usually stayed up until midnight, reading books in her tiny flat. She had no friends who would call her to go out for a night of socializing. No man or woman served as her sounding board to discuss any of the bits of gossip she learned while waiting on tables. Barbara liked it that way. She was a far better companion to herself than and Sixth Form friend or chatty co-worker.
She sympathized with Danny, who had lost his true love. The way Frances described his anguish touched Barbara’s heart.
Apparently, Danny wanted to believe that Alex was lounging on a beach somewhere on the south coast of Florida—and that this cardboard box with the food stains was something that a take-away place would use to deliver a meal.
Barbara shuddered at the thought of a box. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be stuffed into a box and left for dead. The Daily Mail said that a heat lamp was turned on beside the wooden trunk in which Turner was discovered. Maybe Turner liked the heat? A beach would be the perfect place to get away from it all, despite what Frances had told the ladies from MI6. Maybe Alex arranged his own escape to trick Frances. Maybe Alex was sick of being stuck in a relationship with Danny, who was a bit of an oaf, despite his extraordinary level of perception and intuition.
According to Danny, the box smelled faintly of the ocean, but what did Danny know about the smell of the ocean and the kind of food someone would order on the shore of an American beach? Anything from fried clams to a hot buttered lobster roll could have left those stains on the white cardboard. The crumbs could have been left by anything from a piece of toast to a baked stuffed shrimp that lost a dollop of its stuffing.
Perhaps Danny was right. Perhaps Alex lounged on a New England beach. It made sense to Barbara that Alex could have left old England for New England. The only issue was that of the beach, where water temperatures averaged only slightly above freezing in the cold months that would soon be upon them.
Barbara shivered and refilled her pitcher with more ice.
~
Predictably, the MI6 crowd sometimes came into Le Papillon when it wasn’t very busy, like on a Wednesday night after they got out of work. The four them would hog a table until Ingmar’s manager wanted to close down for the night. Barbara would never get home in time to read her beloved books, or to write to her pen pal who she met through a “write to a prisoner” scheme, or scroll through the pictures of men on OK Cupid. Not that she held onto any hope that she would someday find a spouse, but she hated the customers who made her work late while they occupied a table that could have turned over three times, if not for their banter.
Tonight, Eve showed up first to request a table.
“Three,” Eve said. “No, make that four. Definitely, four.”
“Sounds like a definite maybe,” Maxine, the hostess said as she led Eve to a table in Barbara’s section. “A table for four.”
“Can I get you a drink to start?” Barbara asked.
“I have more people coming,” Eve said. “I should wait for them.”
“Very well,” Barbara said.
“On second thought,” Eve held her hand out to Barbara. “I’ll have a whisky sour.”
Barbara went to the bar and put in Eve’s drink order. Only three of the Le Papillon tables were filled with diners when Eve arrived. The low hum of conversation wafted across linen tablecloths. The clink of cutlery and ice against glassware tinkled softly. By the time Barbara brought the drink back to Eve, a trio of men had arrived at her table. Barbara recognized each of them. One thing about being so close to Vauxhall Cross was that an endless stream of diners from the Secret Intelligence Service seemed to find their way into Le Papillon. The diners provided a good income for Barbara, who otherwise would have to move back with the Bradfords. It served her well to eschew complaining about the MI6 table occupants too much.
“What can I get for you gentlemen?” Barbara asked, setting the whiskey sour glass in front of Eve.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” the handsome blond said.
Barbara had seen the well-dressed man in the restaurant many times before. Bond, James Bond. He did some sort of undercover work for MI6. Impeccable tailoring, freshly polished shoes. His pocket square always matched his tie. His face looked worn, like he had spent too many days in the sun. Sometimes, there was a scratch across his jaw, sometimes a bruise or a black eye. Sometimes his skin bore a railroad track of tiny stitches, but his blue eyes were so pleasant to look upon, she forgot about the trauma that had hit his face.
“Shaken, not stirred,” he added after Barbara had turned her attention to the balding man.
Bill Tanner popped into Le Papillon at least once per week. He didn’t visit for lunch, instead he arrived right before the dinner rush. His wife had her hands full with the twins at home, so the least Tanner could do was spare her the task of cooking a meal one night per week. He always got a double order of pasta with whatever he ordered. Coq au vin with a double order of risotto. Sea scallops and prawns with a double order of linguini. Chicken cordon bleu with a double order of pilaf. And after much false deliberation, he always ordered a chocolatey dessert. It was a wonder he and his wife weren’t diabetic.
“I’ll have an Amaretto on the rocks,” Tanner said.
“And for you?” Barbara asked the sylph-like creature who didn’t take his eye off the laptop screen.
“A pot of Earl Grey,” Q replied.
He was apparently the only member of the MI6 crowd who didn’t worry about caffeine keeping him up at night. This kid looked no older than Barbara. Nerdy glasses, cardigan jumpers, his nose always in his laptop. Today, he wore a bright neon green cast on his left wrist. Funny, this fellow never seemed to have any sort of injury before, unless a papercut warranted medical attention. He looked as if he subsisted entirely on tea. It was true, Barbara had never seen him in Le Papillon for a meal. He carried his stainless steel thermos with him wherever he went, often re-filling it at the restaurant before he headed back to his work. His thick gorgeous hair was his best feature. Barbara often imagined what it would feel like to run her hands through it. Although she had no man of her own, sometimes she became distracted by the diners at Le Papillon. With clientele like Q, who could blame her?
Barbara left to get the drink orders.
“What gives, Moneypenny?” Tanner asked. “Why have you called us here? And on a weekday?”
“And dragged us away from our work?” Q asked, although he hadn’t been dragged away, exactly. There were apparently no hot missions that needed comm coverage tonight.
“It would make sense if it were on the weekend,” Bond said, straightening the cuff of his shirt. “Drinking with the work mates is a Friday evening tradition.”
“Drinking on any day is traditional for you, I thought,” Q said. “Too bad it’s only Wednesday for the rest of us.”
Eve was just about to speak when Barbara arrived. She set Q’s teapot in front of him. With impatient hands, Tanner reached for his Amaretto before Barbara could put down a cocktail napkin. She gave Bond’s martini one extra shake before pouring it into the martini glass.
“And will you be ordering dinner tonight?” Barbara asked.
“I’m fine,” Q said, taking his mobile from his pocket. “I’m heading back to the office afterwards.”
“Nothing right now,” Eve said.
“I might order something before I leave,” Tanner said. “Trixie loves the whipped potatoes from here.”
“I’d like an order of escargot with the garlic sauce,” Bond said. He shrugged when all eyes turned to him.
Q wrinkled his nose.
“Very good, sir,” Barbara said. “I will put your order in immediately.”
Le Papillon was quiet for a Wednesday evening. Although the weeknights sometimes brought people who were on holiday and looking for a dining establishment that was off the beaten path. Barbara tried to tamp down the feelings of annoyance that the MI6 crew were likely to take up the table for the next few hours, despite their not ordering dinner. She knew from past experience that Bond was a good tipper, at least, so she did her best to accommodate them.
“So, why are we here?” Q asked, folding his hands in front of him, as best he could with the cumbersome cast.
“I called you here tonight because at lunch today, I learned some information that you might find intriguing,” Eve said.
“Intriguing in a good way or a bad way?” Tanner asked. He looked around the room as if he wanted to flag Barbara down to request a side order of crisps.
“Intriguing in an intriguing way,” Eve said.
“Darling, get on with it,” Bond said.
“At lunch today, we were approached by—”
“We?” Q chirped in, looking up from his mobile.
“R and me,” Eve said.
“Remind me to dock R’s pay,” Q said.
“I’ll do no such thing. Oh, and we were joined by your ex,” Eve added, thumping Bond on the arm.
“Fantastic,” Bond said, rolling his eyes.
“I thought she moved to Paris,” Tanner said.
“She leaves next Sunday,” Bond said.
Q looked at Bond, annoyed.
“And when we were here, learning all about Bond and Madeleine’s breakup,” Eve continued, “we were joined by one Frances Turner.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Bond said.
“I don’t know any Frances Turner,” Tanner said. “Should I?”
“What about Alex Turner?” Eve asked.
“He’s the bloke whose remains were found locked in a trunk in an attic,” Q said knowingly.
Eve marvelled at how similar R and Q were. Q was just like R, without the need for a tablet and a wifi connection.
“Was there some reason you remembered that, Q?” Eve asked.
Q looked at his mobile again. He seemed to take an unnecessary amount of time to think about his words.
“He was gay,” Q said. “His partner gave an interview to a tell-all rag after Alex’s death.”
“The death was under mysterious circumstances,” Tanner said.
“If you call a sex dungeon mysterious,” Bond said with a smirk.
“Your escargot, sir,” Barbara said, setting the plate in front of Bond.
“Thank you,” Bond said, taking his fork in hand. “Now what’s all this with Frances Turner?”
“It turns out, Alex Turner may be alive,” Eve said. “At least his partner thinks so.”
Q had started to pick up his mobile again, but this got his attention.
“How so?” Q asked.
“Wasn’t there a medical examiner’s report?” Tanner asked.
“There was,” Eve said.
“Those can be faked easily,” Bond said between nibbles of escargot.
“And a body?” Tanner reminded them.
“A technicality,” said Eve.
“But why does his partner think he’s alive?” Q asked.
“Danny Holt received a package from the United States,” Eve said.
“And what did this package contain, Miss Moneypenny?” Bond asked.
“Inside the package was nothing,” Eve said.
“Nothing?” Tanner asked.
“Nothing,” Eve said.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Bond said.
“Except,” Eve continued, “on the outside of the package, the number 0000001 was scratched into the cardboard.”
“What on earth does that mean?” Tanner asked.
“Frances is convinced that it’s a message from Alex,” Eve said. She looked from Tanner’s face to Q’s, to Bond’s, hoping that they would have some understanding. It suddenly occurred to her that she needed to give them more key information. When it came to gatherings, Eve was the life of the party, but when it came to telling a joke, she had the horrible habit of forgetting the punch line. This was a case where similarly, she had left out vital information.
“Oh! Oh! That was their code word,” Eve said.
“That’s a number,” Q said. “Not a word.”
“A number that was important to them. Danny was Alex’s number one,” Eve said. “It was like a cute little thing between them.”
“Charming,” Bond said.
“I think it’s romantic,” Eve said.
“Was there a return address on the package?” Q asked.
“I wouldn’t be asking for your help if there was,” Eve said, slumping back in her seat.
“This package… what of it?” Tanner asked. “It doesn’t prove anything. And besides, even if Turner were alive, who could possibly know where to begin to look for him if there was no return address?”
“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Eve said. “Frances Turner thinks that agents from MI5 took Turner and relocated him in the U.S.”
Q’s eyes flew open wide. Bond took note, but didn’t mention it. Instead, he questioned Eve further. “Why would she suspect that?”
“Apparently, according to R, she used to work for SIS, back in the 1970s. The woman seems to know what she’s talking about,” Eve said.
“And what do you expect us to do with this information?” Bond asked.
“I haven’t met him, but it seems that his partner, this Danny Holt, thinks that Alex is being held against his will and forced to work for his captors,” Eve said.
“In the U.S.?” Tanner asked. “What country are his captors working for?”
“That’s for you to find out,” Eve said. “That is, if you’re interested.”
“I just love ad hoc missions,” Bond said with a disinterested sigh.
“I’d be willing to investigate it, in light of what happened to me last week,” Q said, waving his cast in the air.
The table at Le Papillion went quiet. It was unlike Q to volunteer his services without Bond intervening and giving him the sad puppy-dog-eyes treatment. Although Q was a cat person at heart, Bond’s pleading had long since proven to be the one force Q could not overcome.
“If Turner is as intelligent as you have been led to believe, the information he has could be at risk of falling into the wrong hands,” Q said.
“We wouldn’t want anyone to get an upper hand on tech developments that might be a risk to Queen and Country,” Bond said.
“So, you’ll help Frances?” Eve asked, enthusiastically.
“I’ll keep M off your backs, if that’s why I was called to this meeting,” Tanner said, still looking longingly at the platters of food that Barbara carried to other tables.
“It’s a deal, then,” Eve said, raising her whisky glass.
“Cheers,” Q said, lifting his teacup to touch it.
Tanner followed with his glass.
Bond ate the last escargot off his fork and downed his martini.
“Spoilsport,” Eve said wistfully.
“I’ve got to get going,” Tanner said, draining his glass. “Oh, miss.”
“Her name is Barbara,” Eve said, rolling her eyes.
“What can I get for you, sir?” Barbara asked.
“Can I get an order of your Chicken Marsala for takeaway?”
“Of course, sir,” Barbara said.
“And go heavy on the penne…. And I’ll take a side order of the German Chocolate cake,” Tanner added.
“I’ll put your order right in,” Barbara said.
“I need to be going too,” Eve said. “Thanks for listening to me. I knew I could count on my friends.”
Ten minutes later, the group had finished their conversations and Eve bid them goodnight. Tanner left with his food order.
Q had put his mobile away, but Bond had asked Barbara to see the menu again.
“I think I’d like to order a dessert,” Bond said.
“As you like,” Barbara said.
“What do you recommend?” Bond asked, turning on the charm as if it were connected to the twinkle in his eyes, glittering under the lights of Le Papillon.
“The apricot cake is wonderful,” Barbara said.
“The apricot cake it is, then,” Bond said.
Barbara collected the menu from him.
“And bring two forks, if you would,” Bond said.
Barbara smiled at Q and said,” Of course.”
Q scowled, undoubtedly uncomfortable with Bond’s dessert antics.
“Really Bond,” Q said, “If you’re trying to get into my trousers, you’ll have to do better than that.”
“Not at all, darling,” Bond said. “I have other ways of tempting you if I wanted to get into your trousers.”
Q picked up his mobile again, ignoring Bond.
“So, tell me, Quartermaster,” Bond said, “what are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Q said.
“Liar,” Bond said.
Q tugged at his dark hair, which stayed where he left it, making it stand out from his head like a new age sculpture.
“I noticed you got interested when Eve mentioned Alex Turner’s research,” Bond said. “Those wheels in your head were turning so quickly, you lost your ability to speak.”
“I can’t fool you,” Q said in a sing-song voice.
“Spy,” Bond said, pointing to his chest. “The powers of observation come with the profession.”
“So what?” Q said.
“You tell me,” Bond said.
Barbara took this moment to bring Bond his dessert. “I hope you both enjoy it,” she said, setting it in front of Bond and placing the two forks beside it.
“It looks delicious,” Bond said. “I’m sure we will.”
“Let me know if I can get either of you anything else,” Barbara said.
“Oh, we will,” Bond said with a wink.
“We’re not going there, Bond.” Q said, although he looked conflicted.
Barbara smiled and turned away. These two made an amusing couple, she thought. Half the time, she couldn’t tell if they were lovers or if they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. She busied herself with diners at another table while she anticipated what would happen next between Bond and Q. But when Barbara next walked by their table, the men were gone.
At least they left Barbara a handful of fifty-pound notes for her trouble.
~
