Chapter Text
M was looking at him with an expression that rather suggested that she was sucking a lemon. It was the expression that said very clearly that Bond had disappointed her... again. It was hardly his fault that his contact had been so unprofessional as to be dead by the time Bond arrived. Nor was it his fault that the assassin had taken a swan dive off the roof while Bond was chasing him. He hadn't loosened the tile that the man had slipped on, nor had he caused it to rain thus making the roof doubly treacherous. And, frankly, even if he had pushed the man of the roof, which he hadn't, it was no loss to anyone.
"Since you seem to be having trouble on your own," M's tone warned him not to push his luck more than he had, "you'll be working with another agent."
A number of uncomplimentary thoughts presented themselves, none of which would be wise to voice. "Who?" Bond asked tightly.
"I doubt you know him." She pressed the microphone button on her intercom, never taking her eyes off him and he had the unsettled feeling that she knew every one of the names he hadn't called her. "Send Mr Brocklehurst in," she said.
The button clicked off with the finality of a gun being cocked.
The blond man who walked through the door was anybody and everybody, his expression so bland his face could have been painted on his head in magnolia. Bond studied him, aware he was probably being studied in return and not willing to give the bastard anything. Brocklehurst walked with the ease of someone who was comfortable with his own skin. Military certainly, and there was something about the set of his shoulders which made Bond willing to bet army. As a navy man Bond felt a certain amount of inter-service rivalry fanning his resentment. He wasn't a green agent and he didn't need his hand holding by a partner, and especially not some army boy who'd just crawled out of the mud into the big time. Bond wondered what rank he had been carrying before he got plucked out of the morass. An officer certainly, but one who'd worked his way up from the juniors on merit. Not too senior but not inexperienced either. Intelligent, or Six wouldn't have tapped him. Well dressed but not conspicuously so - nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd. None of which endeared him to Bond. He supposed M knew him too well to pair him with one of Six's growing roster of female field agents.
"Bond, James Bond." He didn't bother to smile.
"Brocklehurst... Nicholas"
There was a hint of northern working class under BBC-correct pronunciation - not as cultured, or as educated, as he pretended. He'd learnt his polish along with the spit of military life but had clearly felt no compulsion about ditching his brothers-in-arms when a better offer came along. Pragmatic or something more dangerous? Bond wasn't sure yet.
They shook hands with polite correctness, eyeing each other with curiosity and not a little wariness.
"Gentleman," M demanded their attention, "We have a potential problem. I want you to find out how much of a problem it is and solve it."
"Does this problem have a name?" Bond asked.
M's expression tightened even further. "Sir Anthony Bradley."
The name sounded familiar to Bond but he couldn't place it. A upper-level civil servant most likely, there were more of those cockroaches than any sane person could keep track of. The question was why this particular one required squashing.
"We have reason to believe that he may be associating with some rather unfortunate people," M elaborated. "Since he has high level access to sensitive information this is a situation we cannot allow to continue."
"We're using him as bait?" Brocklehurst joined in the conversation.
"Just until we can find out what information, if any, Sir Anthony has passed on," M nodded approvingly. "Although it may prove to be more profitable to leave him where he is, under our control of course. So do try not to kill him." She looked over to Bond as she spoke.
"Our angle?" Bond said crisply, not at all happy about being singled out.
"Sir Anthony will be attending a private auction this weekend, accompanied by his wife and son, second wife that is, the first died some years ago. You can pick up their dossiers on your way out. Along with your tickets. You've been booked into a suite. And before you go, check with requisitions which pieces at the auction they have their eye on. You will need to bid and if you are going to be spending our money then you might as well have something to show for it. That will be all."
That would most certainly not be all. Bond didn't often question M's orders - he liked his continued health and, as much as M allowed him a certain leeway, Bond was aware that her indulgence had limits. But some things were worth pushing those limits for and having someone you could trust at your back was one of them. At the least, he needed to know what kind of agent his supposed partner was so he could work out how much of a liability he had been saddled with until the collective bureaucracy unknotted its knickers.
M clearly read some of his rebellion in his expression as she turned to the other agent. "Mr Brocklehurst, if you could give us a moment. Mr Bond will be joining you shortly."
Brocklehurst nodded polite acceptance and turned to leave. Bond entertained a number of decidedly uncharitable thoughts about bootlickers. Maybe the next few days would be easier if Nicholas really was as bland as he appeared. He would certainly be easier to work around, but it would be interminably boring.
"He's not a Double-0?" Bond said as the door closed. It was a statement as much as a question.
"No he isn't," M agreed. There was no compromise in her demeanour. "It may interest you to know that there have been three openings for Double-0 agents in the last two years. Brocklehurst turned down two of them."
Bond tried not to let his surprise show. "The third?"
M looked at him pointedly. That at least answered one question. There was only two reasons why someone would turn down a 00 promotion and M wouldn't have made the offer the first time, let alone the second, if Brocklehurst was a coward.
"I don't have time to babysit someone who doesn't want to pull the trigger," Bond objected.
"You assume too much Bond," the words were so crisp they chilled the air. "Brocklehurst might not come up to your level of destructive capabilities, few do, but he does his job well and efficiently. And unlike you he cleans up after himself. The double kill requirement was not at issue."
That was, Bond had to admit, interesting.
***
They hit the bar after the first day of the auction. It had been as good a start to the mission as could be expected. Good enough that Brocklehurst's presence hadn't grated too badly. Between them they had successfully bid on a number of items from the 'desired' list they had been given and unsuccessfully bid on a few that weren't. They'd lost one item they had wanted and won one they hadn't expected to get. Bond knew that their presence had been noted by those who noted such things, that was unavoidable, however he was pleased to note that they did not appear to have roused any particular suspicions that they were interested in anything beyond the auction. That was exactly the way Bond wanted it.
Bond downed his vodka martini and ordered another while Brocklehurst sipped on his single malt.
"You're lucky someone else was fooled by those fake Chinese navel codes," he said conversationally.
"I wouldn't call it luck," Brocklehurst smiled easily although it didn't quite reach his eyes, "they were clearly acting under orders. They were always going to bid. It was just a matter of how high they were willing to go."
Bond looked at him sharply. "You knew they were fakes?"
"And very good ones," Brocklehurst agreed amiably.
There was something not quite right in Brocklehurst's tone. Something that caught Bond's interest in a way that was rarely healthy. "Anyone would think you had stock in them."
"Broadly speaking," Nicholas said "I think we might."
Did he mean...? Bond couldn't discount the idea but what Brocklehurst was suggesting seemed a leap. "You think Six was behind the sale?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." Nicholas' tone suggested he knew something he wasn't telling. "But either way the message was sent that we are trying to get our hands on the code. It will be interesting to see what crawls out of the woodwork to make us an offer."
The smile had taken on a slightly more twisted edge that Bond recognised. There was something of the thrill of the hunt in Brocklehurst then, something more than a paper-pusher. And that was something he could relate to.
"I'll give you that one," Bond agreed.
Brocklehurst's eyes glittered over the rim of his cut-crystal tumbler as he drank. They were both primed, Bond realised. The adrenalin rush of gamble and bluff combined with the promise of possible action. He turned his eyes from the other man, scanning the room for trouble. Whether it was trouble looking for them or trouble they could find for themselves didn't really matter. He could practically feel Nicholas' awareness of the room shift as he too studied their environment more closely. Not that there was much to study.
The clientele was the made up of the refined and bland non-entities that Bond expected to patronise establishments such as this. There would be no misunderstandings or spilled drinks leading to overt violence amongst the polite niceties. Brocklehurst fitted in, comfortable in a way that Bond never expected to be in such company. It made him itch.
There were a few women who caught his eye, beautiful and poised. Unfortunately they were invariably accompanied and those that weren't were alone for a reason. His musings on the inadequacies of the evening were interrupted by the arrival of their target.
"Our friends from the auction," Bond murmured sotto voce.
Brocklehurst didn't look around. Bond had to give him credit for that. He was close enough that he could see the other man's eyes focus over his shoulder at the dark glass behind him.
"Son and daughter?" Brocklehurst asked.
"Son and second wife," Bond corrected.
Brocklehurst's eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to get a better look at the distorted reflection. "I wonder how Junior feels about his new mummy being younger than him," he mused quietly.
"Reputation says Frank earned his position through being a ruthless bastard, not through daddy pulling strings." Bond let his gaze drift from the girl to the young man next to her: mid-30s, short brown hair, strong features, not classical but what he supposed some women would call handsome. He wasn't carrying any weapons and he didn't move like a fighter although there was little of compromise in his posture. "I think if he had a problem he would have made it clear." Bond dismissed the suggestion, "We'll have to find another way in."
"The wife," Brocklehurst suggested. "That's not the lady Sir Anthony was paying so much attention to at the auction..?"
It wasn't. And, if Bond was any judge, the young lady in question wasn't happy about something. And not getting any happier that her husband was paying more attention to the doorway than to her. The only way he could have been more obviously waiting for someone was if he had been holding up a sign. Bond might not have been able to put the name on that sign but he could have picked her face out of a line up. And not just her face, a body like that one didn't forget very quickly. The wife was attractive enough - a classic English rose, even if she did lean too far towards York than Lancaster for Bond's tastes - but the competition, she was simply a classic.
"No," Bond drawled, enjoying the memory, "it wasn't. Mistress, do you think?"
"Pretty poor judgement," Bond raised an eyebrow in surprise at the comment. Seeing the gesture Brocklehurst elaborated, "bringing his wife to a rendezvous with his mistress."
"It does lack a certain class." But then if Sir Anthony had class then neither of them would be there. "Still, makes things easier for us..."
Brocklehurst's grin was distinctly wicked and an answer in itself.
They didn't have to wait long for something to happen. As they watched, Sir Anthony pulled out his phone and indicated he wanted to talk more privately. Had Bond tended towards philosophical conjecture he might have wondered if such a small thing as St Anthony excusing himself rather than sending away his pouting wife might have changed the course of events - but, as it was, he just saw an opportunity. Brocklehurst tensed subtly beside him. He could almost feel the brief hover of indecision, quickly covered as Brocklehurst turned and lounged against the bar with a natural insolence that suggested he had every right to be there. Together they watched the scene play out.
The argument, which was clearly occurring between husband and wife, was marked by sharp gestures and stiff body language rather than volume or length. In every way except the most tiresome, it was over from the moment Sir Anthony was forced to hang up and deal with the woman in front of him rather than the one on the other end of the line. Everything after that point was just going through the motions. It ended in the only way it could - with Sir Anthony's wife leaving. From across the room it was difficult to tell if she was leaving of her own volition or acquiescing to both Sir Anthony's earlier demand and the realities of the situation she found herself in. If she had been foolish enough to think she had married for love Bond might have had some sympathy for her.
A quick exchange between father and son and Frank was hurrying after her. A pretty young wife, one who had just met the other woman, in the escort of a grown son was surely asking for trouble. Bond idly wondered how long it would take to hit the divorce courts. He'd be doing them a favour, keeping the scandal down to more acceptable proportions. She turned as Frank drew closer and for a moment looked over towards the bar. Bond deliberately caught her eye, raising his glass lightly in a toast. He was peripherally aware of Brocklehurst making a similar gesture besides him. Well, Brocklehurst was just out of luck - Bond had seniority and he wasn't bowing out so the other man could have a shot. He waited, counting in his head the steps it would take Sir Anthony's wife to leave the room. At seven she turned, throwing a glance over her shoulder. One could argue that she was looking over at her step-son as he dogged her footsteps. That the glance also took in the bar area where Bond was sitting was almost certainly incidental. Almost certainly. Bond had worked with less.
"Don't wait up," he told Brocklehurst with a smirk and followed her out.
***
The hotel suite felt empty when Bond returned. It reflected his mood but not his expectations. His evening had been successful as far as it went - although his success with Sir Anthony's wife probably owed more to the attention that Sir Anthony had been paying to his mistress than to any overture Bond had made. Still, whatever worked. But while she might have found revenge in his arms he had come away empty handed. She knew nothing and cared even less about her dear husband's concerns. Bond didn't like wasting his time.
And he didn't like his partner vanishing on him.
A quick check confirmed his initial instinct - he was alone. He checked his phone but no messages awaited him and Brocklehurst's number went straight to voicemail. He left a short, succinct message and hung up. There was nothing he could do; no sign of a struggle, no clue where Brocklehurst could have gone. He pulled up a chair, cradling his gun across his lap he settled down to wait.
It was the best part of an hour later when Bond's vigil was interrupted by the sound of a card in the reader and the door handle turning.
Brocklehurst cocked his head at the gun levelled at him. "Expecting someone?"
"Expecting you to be here." He didn't put the safety back on. Not yet. "Door."
Brocklehurst knocked the door shut with his heel, keeping his hands clearly visible although he showed no other signs of discomfort. Bond could respect that.
"Sorry." Brocklehurst didn't mean it for a moment. "I got delayed."
"Going 6 floors?"
Their eyes met and Brocklehurst held his without flinching. "You know how it is - sometimes these things take time."
"Lying bastard." Slowly Bond engaged the safety and dropped his aim. "What did you get?"
A slow smile spread over Brocklehurst's face. "Everything."
Everything, when Brocklehurst took it from his pocket, proved to be a data drive. He tossed it to Bond with a neat throw and sauntered more fully into the room, ditching his jacket over the back of a chair as he walked.
"Where did you get this?" Bond didn't doubt what Brocklehurst said was on it.
"Frankie-boy. I cloned his PDA."
If that was true then Brocklehurst had just broken the case. "Have you checked what's on here?"
"Not yet. Just got the data and got out."
"So it could be nothing," Bond warned.
"It could be, but it isn't. I caught part of a conversation between father and son. I don't think Frank is part of whatever is going down, although his hands aren't clean, but he knows enough to know where the proverbial bodies are buried... and the access codes to get to them. And those access codes..."
"Are on his PDA." Bond finished for him. Maybe Brocklehurst wasn't as useless as he'd first appeared. "I'll call in and get the tech boys on it."
"It'll take them a while to break the encryption and I need a shower." Brocklehurst raised his arms above his head, stretching his back as he walked towards his room. Dropping them to his sides he looked back over his shoulder at Bond. "You were right though. Ruthless."
The door closed behind him and after a moment Bond heard the water come on. Dismissing everything but the drive in his hand he dialled London. With luck they would be packing up in the morning.
***
"Well?" M demanded irritably. Bond had become used to meeting with her over corpses. It was, however, something of a novelty that, on this occasion, he wasn't the reason they had been peremptory summoned. The office was nice enough as offices went, the type of thing that any successful executive would run their empire from. Most such offices didn't come with a dead body, but then most businessmen weren't so dirty either. It wouldn't have been hard to assume the two were connected - if it hadn't been for their investigation.
Bond held back while Brocklehurst walked closer to the body to get a better look. There really wasn't anything to see that forensics wouldn't have already covered but if the other man wanted to make a show of obeisance then Bond would let him.
Brocklehurst stared at the dead man for a long time. Reaching out he brushed the hair back from the cold forehead. "It's him," he confirmed as he straightened.
The clearly wasn't the response M wanted.
"We know it's him. The question is why?"
Brocklehurst shrugged. "The leak couldn't have been traced to him. Coincidence?"
Bond wasn't sure if he should give Brocklehurst credit for sheer balls or smack him for sheer stupidity. Except he knew Brocklehurst wasn't stupid. And M knew that as well. Taking the opportunity of M's ire being directed elsewhere he waited, curious to see how Brocklehurst would handle himself.
M's eyes narrowed in clear warning. "I don't like coincidences," she snapped. "Especially not when they involve my agents. Could you have been compromised"
"I wasn't." The words were clipped.
"There was no indication we were made," Bond agreed, some obscure feeling of loyalty amongst the ranks making him back Brocklehurst up despite his intention to observe. "If they were willing to take out Frank then they wouldn't have just let us just walk away. Have they targeted anyone else?"
M transferred her glare to him but did soften it slightly. "If you were compromised we can expect them to go after the wife as well. As of now she is still breathing. We're monitoring her, just in case anyone tries to change that."
"And Sir Anthony?" Bond pushed.
"Thanks to Mr Brocklehurst," the concession was grudging, "we've got enough to pick him up. Maybe the death of his son will be enough to persuade him to see things our way." M looked from one agent to the other. "However, I take it as something of a black mark when one of our suspects dies suspiciously before we have had a chance to talk to them. I also deplore time being wasted - is there anything you want to tell me before I hear it from the coroner?" It wasn't a question.
Bond shrugged. He had no interest in saving the coroner time but, having nothing to add anyway, he held his peace.
The other agent looked up at M, centring her attention on him with the subtle movement. "Ligature marks on the wrists a few days old, maybe a little bruising on the throat and..." Brocklehurst's lips quirked slightly into what might have been smile but it was gone too fast for Bond on be sure. Whatever he had been about to say he met M's eyes easily and with no amount of guilt that Bond could see. "Things might have got a little rough... but I can't account for anything else."
He hadn't put the bullet in junior's head, Bond translated. He'd wondered and it seemed unlikely he was the only suspicious bugger in the room. The litany of damage was more concerning. He had no objection to resorting to such means when the need arose but it was hardly inconspicuous. If that had been how Brocklehurst got the information then he'd better have covered his tracks well. Bond might try M's patience but he knew better than the lie and he couldn't see how Brocklehurst could be so sure he hadn't been compromised. And worse, he had made Bond lie for him. They would have to discuss that. Rigourously.
He expected M to call Brocklehurst on his earlier claims but she nodded as if she had expected as much. Instead she just said "DNA?"
Brocklehurst's eyes flickered. "We played rough not stupid." There was a hint of insulted reproach in the clipped answer, not enough to invite censure but treading a fine line with M in the mood she was in.
The implications of Brocklehurst's response did not immediately turn Bond's mind from the mayhem he had been envisioning. It wasn't the words but the look, swift as it was, that had proceeded them which aroused his suspicion that the conversation he was hearing was not the one that was being had. It was second nature to him to look for the second and third meanings in any conversation - he'd just been looking in the wrong direction. Ligature marks and bruising - not violence but more pleasurable tortures. Or what he must assume were so to those involved. To Frank? To Brocklehurst? The events of the last few days played themselves back in his mind, this new information integrating itself into the whole, filling in the gaps as smoothly as malt sliding over ice.
"Good. I want a full report in the morning." Her eyes turned sharply to Bond and he realised he, as well as Brocklehurst, had given himself away somehow. "From both of you."
He nodded along with Brocklehurst - two marionettes bobbing on their strings. M's eyes lingered on him for a moment but he refused to acknowledge her suspicions.
"Sir Anthony is at his London address," she informed them. "Go and tell him we would like a word." They turned to go. Before they had gone more then a few paces M's voice stopped them "And, gentlemen, don't go any harder than you have to. We need him in a good enough condition to identify his son's body."
Bond caught Brocklehurst's eye and got a subtle dip of his head and a quick flash of a smile in return. They were on the same page, when it came to the job at least. Politics might make for strange bedfellows but in the spy game it wasn't who you went to bed with but who got up earlier. If they were lucky Sir Anthony would put up a fight - but that type never did.
They walked in silence to the lift and the peace held until the sliding door of the elevator car closed behind them. As alone as one got, Brocklehurst turned to him with a look that was clearly asking for a response from him. For a moment Bond wondered what he was supposed to be giving his opinion on: Sir Anthony? How rough they'd been given permission to get?... But that wasn't what Brocklehurst was asking and Bond wasn't sure what he was supposed to say? He'd gone after the son while Bond himself had gone after the wife. This time around he'd got the payoff, another time it might go the other way. Was he waiting for congratulations? Acknowledgement? A pat on the back? He hadn't seemed that type.
But then Brocklehurst didn't seem like the type for a number of things. His ex-comrades-in-arms might have had a number of things to say about types. And about how he had chosen to get the information. Realistically, Bond admitted he might have felt the same at the beginning of his career when the Navy had been his life and jokes about 'rum, sodomy and the lash' got old very quickly, especially for a public school boy who had heard them all before. He was older and wiser these days; what mattered was that the information had been gathered and was reliable, now how it had been obtained. There were far worse methods, ones that gave you far less reliable results. And results were what mattered.
"One of the advantage of being a double-O," Bond said as they exited the lift unto the empty garage, "they stop asking such bloody stupid questions."
He knew Brocklehurst was trying to read his expression as well as his words. It was easy enough to let him because what he was looking for wasn't there.
"They just assume the bullet is yours and cover it up," Brocklehurst said with a sneer that was debate rather than malice.
Bond shrugged, conceding the smaller point for the greater one. "It saves time."
"It's sloppy," Brocklehurst argued.
They shared a look - they were good. Bond's car was not the most comfy for transporting prisoners but they took it anyway. Comfort was not their primary concern and it kept up the illusion that they were just after a nice chat. Maybe Brocklehurst not arguing over who drove should have been his first clue.
A weak sun welcomed them from the depths and into the hell that was inner London traffic. They drove for a few minutes in comfy silence.
"Why is it that as soon as you turn up the bad guys have suddenly become equal opportunities employers?" Bond asked carelessly.
"Maybe you just didn't notice before?"
Bond grunted. He'd meant it as a joke but it was possible. M had noted his ability to get women to do what he wanted. He had never questioned that attraction. He liked women, they liked him. If that helped him get ahead then that was how the game was played. He hadn't really considered that there might be another game board waiting for him to ante up. He would have to think about that. Right after they brought Sir Anthony in.
***
"Do you believe him?" Brocklehurst asked as the walked away from the interrogation room where Sir Anthony was spilling his immaculately tailored guts. "That the woman we saw was a plant?"
"And that she has the disc?" Bond shrugged. Sir Anthony had seemed distressed enough that it might have been true. Whether it was the treason, the fate of his son or the possible fate of his mistress which distressed Sir Anthony more Bond would not like to have said.
"If it is," said Nicholas slowly, "then the real girl, the one they replaced..."
"Will be dead as soon as they realise we've brought him in." Bond finished.
Nicholas frowned. "Maybe not. They might keep her alive as incentive for him not to talk. If he's still in contact with them."
Bond looked back towards the cell with a raised eyebrow. They, whoever they were, would soon know that their insurance policy hadn't worked and then any leads they had died with the girl.
"Time to check out Sir Anthony's holdings," Brocklehurst said, watching him suspiciously. "We should be able to get authorisation for a raid."
"Yes," Bond agreed.
They should, but it would be too slow. Brocklehurst must know that as well, which meant he would be too slow. The girl and the information were together which meant that was were Bond needed to be, just as soon as he ditched Brocklehurst. Bond smiled.
***
"What are you doing here?" Bond demanded when Brocklehurst pulled up next to him. He had been observing the estate for some time, determining the best way in, and his frustration added to the shortness of the question. If Brocklehurst thought he could stop him then things were about to get very ugly.
"Following you." Brocklehurst was irritatingly unrepentant. "I thought you might try and do something stupid."
Bond could take offence at that but there wasn't time. If Brocklehurst was here then it only followed that a tactical teams was on their way as well.
"And you think you can stop me?" He challenged. Brocklehurst was too far away for him to take the other man down quickly and quietly. Without shooting him anyway, and M would have his balls if he killed the bastard by accident. He just had to let this play out a little more, talk Brocklehurst closer... then he could take his chance.
But Brocklehurst was watching him with an expression that said he knew exactly what Bond was planning. "No," he said, "join you."
They looked at each other, wary, taking in the evidence of matching ensembles and matching stubbornness.
"We do this together," Brocklehurst insisted.
Sometimes you just had to weigh up the evidence and take the chance.
"You armed?"
Brocklehurst smirked. "You got a plan?"
"We get in, get the disc and the girl and take out anyone how tries to stop us."
Brocklehurst nodded. They had their target, they had their objectives and they had their window of opportunity. That was all they needed.
"So how do we get in?" Brocklehurst asked, checking his gun briskly and efficiently.
"How about through the front door?"
Brocklehurst raised an eyebrow but gestured to Bond to lead the way. They drove their respective cars down the long driveway, parking in front of the ornate portico. Bond rang the bell and they waited patiently to be attended. They didn't have to wait long.
"Mr Jameson and Mr Nicholes to see Sir Anthony," Bond introduced blithely to the uniformed doorman.
He, in turn, eyed them with polite mistrust, as if they might start trying to sell him religion or double-glazing at any moment. Brocklehurst proffered a card, pushing forward half a step. Bond narrowed his eyes at the back of the blond head now in front of him but the sweet-talking Brocklehurst was engaging in seemed to be working.
He actually believed the regret in the doorman's voice when he told 'Mr Nicholes' "I'm afraid Sir Anthony is out at present. Was he expecting you?"
Brocklehurst leaned forwards, inviting the doorman's confidence. As the doorman leant forward in response, his focus totally on the man in front of him, Bond slipped to the side and cold-cocked him. The doorman went down silently, Brocklehurst catching him as his knees buckled and dragging him inside. Bond followed and kicked the door shut behind him. They secured cuffs around the limp wrists and confiscated the gun concealed at his waist before stuffing the man back into his cubby. Without needing to exchange a word they peeled off their suit jackets and dumped them on the unconscious body. It felt good to pull off the clip-on tie and flip across the triangle of material that masqueraded as a shirt front.
Bond checked his watch. "How long have we got before M realises what we're doing and either sends in the re-enforcements or cuts us loose?"
"By my estimate, about fifteen minutes," Brocklehurst answered immediately.
Not long but long enough.
"Then let's go."
Brocklehurst nodded. Pulling his mask and gloves out of his pocket he slipped them on. The blue eyes were bright against the black, the only points of colour left.
The entrance hall was an embodiment of elegance taken too far. The white marble of the floor was echoed in the marble casing of the balconies that circled over their heads and the steps and banisters of the grand staircase that split into two before it even made it to the first floor. Four stories above them, a vast chandelier cried crystal tears over the immaculate perfection it surveyed. The white on white of the colour scheme gave Bond a headache. It had been designed to be imposing and Bond had to give the designer some credit for a job well done. They kept to the edges, their dark disguises too conspicuous against the bright cleanliness of the decor.
Bond pointed to himself and then towards the right-hand door and Brocklehurst nodded, pointing to himself and then to the left. They separated silently, each focusing on their own task. It felt good to be working solo again. He disregarded the crunch of a guard's nose against his palm as he disabled the sentry who had been lying in wait for him behind the door. Working with Brocklehurst had proved to be less irritating than he'd expected. He wasn't sure at what point he had decided that Brocklehurst was a good man to have at his back, although he had, but he did his best work when he was on his own and didn't have someone watching over his shoulder. The guard collapsed, wheezing damply, as Bond punched him once more, catching him with a solid right to the jaw. If he was lucky he wouldn't suffocate on his own blood. If he wasn't, then someone would clean up the body. He heard gunfire from the other side of the building and let it wash over him, Nicholas would deal with that.
The room had two exits besides the one he came in. Somewhere in the building was a disc with information which could be their break into Quantum, a girl to rescue and any number of people standing between him and his objectives. This was his world. Inside, Bond smiled.
Their fifteen minutes of grace came and went in a flurry of destruction. He had seen Brocklehurst a few times, their paths crossing as they made their separate ways through the house. One time they had paused long enough for Brocklehurst to throw him a spare AK that he had clearly liberated from its previous wielder. There was a smudge of blood on the stock but that just made it fire sweeter.
Another time they exchanged terse notes on what they had found. The girl had been held in the basement. Bond had broken open the locks only to find she had been killed long before they got there. From the clues they had found she had been dead for months, her remains kept in cold storage only to provide the DNA that her double could not. Of the woman they had thought was Sir Anthony's mistress there was no sign. He left the other prisoners in their cells. Six would want to talk to them anyway and rescuing them would give them something to do when they arrived. Bond didn't intend to leave them much else by way of mopping up. More positively, Brocklehurst had found an office full of files. Although it had not contained the information they were looking for, it had contained a detailed set of plans for the house including a second, concealed, office on the first floor. Before they could decide on their next move they were interrupted and forced to separated again. Bond yelled he was going for the office but didn't know if Brocklehurst heard over the reverberating chatter of automatic weapon fire.
As he raced for the safe that logic and experience said had to be there Bond glanced out of a window. Shadows flickered from bush to bush in the carefully landscaped garden. Backup was on its way and they had nothing. He took out the next guard with a particularly vicious twist, feeling some of his tension release with the snap of bone. He scooped up the fallen man's gun without breaking stride, exchanging fire with a hostile across the chasm of the entrance hall to the balcony a floor above. Bullets chipped stonework of the balustrade near him but luck and skill were on his side. His opponent pitched over the rail, landing two stories below with a dull thump. With no time to change his aim he used the butt to knock out a guard to was unfortunate enough to run out of the door to support his colleague without checking who might be in the hallway first. He caught the door as the man slumped against it, kicking him out of the way so he could get past. Once inside he thumped likely spots of architecture and scrabbled viciously amongst the furnishings around the place where the schematic had indicated the hidden entrance should be. He found it by luck; a pillar and vase that were functional as well as decorative.
The office was all he had expected. The rigged explosives with five minutes left on the clock he hadn't, but it didn't surprise him. The woman - whatever her real name was - had played them all and she didn't want to leave any evidence behind. She couldn't carry everything but she could consign it to the flames. But scheming bitch she might have been, bomb expert she wasn't. The strained seconds seemed to gain tempo as Bond traced the wires. Satisfied, he took a steadying breath and yanked two wires free. Time elongated as nothing happened and nothing continued to happen for far longer than it should have taken the countdown to change. Bond threw the wires away. The lab boys were going to have a field day taking apart the computers and other equipment in the room but he was only interested in one thing and he just hoped that in her rush the disc was one of the things that she had left without it.
The safe had been rifled, the door left open and what remained of the contents strewn haphazardly about. Bond ignored it, if the disc had been in the safe it was gone. He was hoping it hadn't been. The computer booted up easily; the waxing moon of silver when he ejected the disc drive, a beautiful sight. He paused long enough to check the label before rummaging through the detritus on the desk for an empty case. He left as swiftly as he had arrived, pulling the secret door closed behind him. It would be safer like that until they had everything else locked up tight.
Returning to the walkway he looked down and saw Brocklehurst below him in the main atrium of the entrance hall checking the body of the man who fell. At the movement above him Brocklehurst looked up and Bond raised his hand, the disc held in it, for him to see.
"Bond!" Brocklehurst yelled, warning sharpening his voice and gun coming up.
Bond spun around. He was quick, but not quick enough to stop what was happening. The guy he'd clubbed earlier had been down but not as out as he had thought. No one had time to do anything but react - suddenly presented with a second target, one who was pointing a gun at him, the man made the mistake of changing his aim from Bond's back to Brocklehurst's head. Brocklehurst got off the first shot but not quickly enough to stop the gunman pulling his own trigger as he went down. Then it was over, his would-be killer a crumpled heap on the ground. Bond was tempted to add the double tap to the head, just to be sure, but the fixed expression and blankly staring eyes told him it really wasn't necessary. He did it anyway, then turned back to call his thanks to the agent below. That was when he realised the bastard's last act might have been to take a good man with him.
Brocklehurst was still lying where he fell when Bond got down to him. Bond pulled the glove off his right hand with his teeth. Crouching down he rolled the body over and felt for a pulse. He found it easily enough, but in doing so he felt the obscene dampness of the blood soaking the shirtfront, invisible on the dark material but clear against his fingers. His knees gave and he knelt. Damn! He didn't know where the other man had been hit but wherever he touched was moist under his fingers and that much blood could only mean one thing. He drew the other man close, cradling his body and offering what comfort his presence could in the time that remained.
Eyelashes flickered for a second and then the blue eyes opened, tight with pain and a little blown from shock but otherwise clear. Brocklehurst groaned, the sound clearly escaping from between clenched teeth.
"It's okay," Bond murmured quietly, "It's okay."
Why was it that the women in his life died untouchable and alone while his comrades died in his arms? It was getting to the point that he wasn't sure which was worse. He drew his strength around him, his anger a chill thing that numbed even as it consumed him. He hoped that someone would be foolish enough to attack them but no one did.
Carefully he pulled off Brocklehurst's mask, trying not to jostle him but wanting to give him a chance to breath without the restricting cloth. It didn't really matter any longer so he dragged his own off as well. It wasn't much, but he wanted to make sure Brocklehurst knew he was with a friend. That was really all any of them could hope for. Brocklehurst had been a good agent and, despite himself, Bond had come to like him. He pressed his lips to the pale forehead knowing no other way to say good bye.
Brocklehurst shifted against him weakly in response, and he pulled back far enough to meet the dying agent's eyes one last time. Brocklehurst was looking at him, a small frown of confusion drew harsh lines across the bridge of the nose until whatever could be read in Bond's closed expression had been and, that done, understanding smoothed the grooves away. Brocklehurst started to speak, tongue moistening dry lips, but then stopped, clearly thinking better of wasting what breath remained. Instead he raised a heavy hand, fingers brushing the dry skin of Bond's cheek gently before curving round to rest against the nape of his neck. The slightest pressure urged Bond down and he allowed it.
It was not so different from kissing a woman. Brocklehurst was clean shaven, more rigourously so than Bond himself, so there was no rasp of stubble to remind him of what he was doing. Instinct and habit overrode thought as the lips under his parted and the kiss deepened. The hand at his neck gripped more firmly, fingers tangling in his hair as it urged him on. The compassion of good bye had become something more vicious, a denial of death that drove him against Brocklehurst's mouth in a blazing fury which was met with an equal strength. It was that which kept him from pulling away, instead raging with silent voice against the welcoming lips and tongue while they could still rage with him. It would be no gentle farewell but none was wanted.
"Gentleman, is this really the time?" M's crisp tones had Bond tensing before he had even processed what she had said. It made him feel slightly better that the man in his arms had also twitched reflexively at the sound, although he regretted the quickly smothered grunt of pain that the action caused. Not willing to let M see she had startled him, Bond dropped one last, deliberate kiss on Brocklehurst's lips. He looked up at M as his lips pressed firmly against Brocklehurst's, curious to see how she would react to his provocation.
She regarded at them both, mouth pursed in something that wasn't quite disapproval but definitely suggested that they are pushing her forbearance it its limits. It was an expression he knew well. She wasn't ready to shoot him yet, through, and for Brocklehurst, whose lips had gone unresponsive under his own, the time for that concern was passed.
M rolled her eyes slightly, clearly giving up any expectations of rationality from him. Her gaze focused on the man in his arms instead. "Brocklehurst, kindly stop fooling around!"
To Bond's surprise, Brocklehurst pushed away from him. He was as pale as the marble beneath him but he sat up slowly and carefully disentangling himself from Bond's arms. He favoured his left leg as he drew himself up, breath hissing unhappily between his teeth when he tried to put weight on it. He looked at Bond with a clear challenge alongside the pain in his eyes. Bond opened the hand he had subconsciously clenched, blood from Brocklehurst's shirt covered the palm and fingers, dark against his skin.
Brocklehurst smiled with black humour. "Not mine, Sweetheart."
He should have been angry but all he felt was relief. He could have done without M's knowing eyes watching him as he stood up. He did his best to project complete unconcern, not willing to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he had been anything less than in total control of events.
"I don't know why I expected you two to play nice," M grumbled as she looked between them, guilty schoolboys before the headmistress.
"I thought we were," Brocklehurst offered blandly.
The look she shot him was distinctly unamused but Bond thought the corners of her mouth had twitched for a second. She looked at his leg pointedly. "How bad is it?"
Brocklehurst's dismissive "I'll live" might have been overly optimistic given M's expression.
"Not with that attitude," M assured him. "I want you checked by a doctor immediately."
Any argument Brocklehurst might have had was lost as his leg gave way and he collapsed at M's feet. M looked down with no noticeable evidence of sympathy. "Immediately," was all she said before she turned away, indicating that Bond should accompany her. Whether the order was to Brocklehurst or the waiting medics Bond was not sure. It didn't seem to matter, people were swarming forwards before they had gone two paces from the scene. M left the room without a backwards glance, and Bond followed in her wake wondering if being shot wasn't a better fate than what he had in store for him at her hands.
***
The debrief had been as bad as Bond had expected. Only the qualified success of the mission had tempered M's annoyance. He'd been stood down for a week while Six worked through the information that they'd recovered and tried to pretend they didn't need him. They would call him back. They always did. In the meantime he relaxed, enjoying the chance to savour a quiet drink and soft concerto. And if one drink became two or four then what did it matter? He dealt himself hands of cards, playing against a house that could never lose. Dealing from the top or the bottom of the deck as the mood took him.
It was evening on the third day of his 'leave'. The lights of London glittered from his window like so many invitations. He was considering taking the city up on her offer, drinking alone got boring and offered much less interesting ends to the evening's entertainment. The knock on his door was unexpected. Gun in his hand, he opened it.
"They let me out," Brocklehurst offered by way of explanation. "I thought I'd let you take a punch, if you wanted to."
Bond thumbed the safety back on and slid the pistol back into its holster. There was no point demanding how Brocklehurst had got his address.
"Before the painkillers wear off?" He asked instead.
Brocklehurst's shrug was unrepentant. "Of course."
Bond felt himself smile and stepped back to allow the other agent in. "Drink?"
***
They lounged in Bond's easy chairs, drinking scotch and and lightly arguing policy and current affairs. The pretty promises of the lights outside had lost their siren call and now were mere spectators to the more rarer pleasures on offer. When M had foisted a partner on him he hadn't expected to meet someone he could not only work with but those company he could enjoy.
Maybe enjoy too much.
Brocklehurst was pouring another round for both of them when Bond causally said "did you come here to seduce me?"
No protestations of innocence or provocative denials, just a simple, "no," and Brocklehurst resumed his seat before he said "did you want me to?" in a tone that held amused curiosity rather than invitation.
"I'm thinking about it," Bond admitted carelessly. Brocklehurst's sexuality wasn't something he had given any particular consideration to until their kiss had made him aware of it in ways he hadn't expected. Was Brocklehurst attracted to him? Maybe, maybe not. If not for the kiss it wasn't a question he would have asked. But, in their line of work, even friendship could be a negotiated quality and anything more was downright dangerous.
"Well," Brocklehurst smiled slowly, his eyes taking Bond in in a way that was distinctly complimentary, "if you decide you do, let me know."
Bond raised an eyebrow at the languid challenge in his tone. "I thought you didn't come here to seduce me."
"I didn't," Brocklehurst agreed. He met Bond's gaze, inviting him to share the joke, "but that doesn't mean I'd turn down a sure thing."
Bond laughed. That was true enough. He'd fucked enough women that he had no interest in, for the job, for oblivion, for cover or just because life was short and he could. They'd used him as much as he'd used them, but some days you were just a bonus cheque away from being her Majesty's whore. After selling your soul what did your body matter? Attraction, desire and sex were very separate things. And that knowledge was something else that he and Brocklehurst shared. Would it be that different with a man?
"Have you ever been with a woman?" he said.
Brocklehurst showed no surprise at the question and Bond wondered if he had been expecting it. "Yes."
"And?" Bond prompted.
"Definitely prefer men." Brocklehurst was teasing him but with good humour, not letting the conversation get too serious. It wasn't quite flirting. Quite.
"But if it got the job done..?" And he wasn't quite flirting back although he could sense the awareness of that nearly, the atmosphere waiting on a knife edge.
"I manage to rise to the occasion," Brocklehurst said dryly.
It was hard not to look at him, hard not to contemplate the implications of those few words, so Bond didn't bother trying. Bullet-wound not withstanding, Brocklehurst was fit enough. He could understand how women, or he supposed men, could find him attractive.
He smiled. "Just think of England?"
"Not my type," Brocklehurst drawled, and Bond felt the flutter of flirtation passing him by, "but something like that."
It was a game. It was always a game. The question was how high Bond was willing to raise the stakes and whether Brocklehurst would call his bluff. If it was a bluff. He was a gambler, but he didn't like not being sure. Especially not of himself.
"So what's your type?" You played the man and not the hand but to do that you had to know the man and Bond didn't. Not yet. And he needed to know what cards Brocklehurst was playing.
"Willing... male... beyond that..." Nicholas shrugged. "I suppose I've always been partial to dark hair and blue eyes. Fit."
Was it a fold or second, more complex, bluff? Bond realised he could name any number of women who fitted that description but when it came to men he was drawing a blank on who might. "The Sean Connery type?" he tried.
The idea didn't raise any attraction in him, but there was no repugnance either. A blank slate. Was that how Brocklehurst felt about women? Or was his 'preference' not an absolute.
"When he was younger," Brocklehurst conceded. "You?"
"Blonde, golden blonde. Grey eyes." Bond smiled remembering a woman he had met once who had fulfilled all of those criteria. It was better than remembering another women who had fulfilled none but had been so much more. Who, for a short while, had seemed to offer him a different life. Much better not to think about her. "Preferably double-jointed and a good cook as well but I'd swap that for a sinful mouth and a great figure."
"If I didn't know better I'd think that was a line," the mischief was back in Brocklehurst's face, "although my eyes are blue so you loose points there."
He had spoken easily, thoughtlessly, lulled by the easiness of the conversation. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again. "I didn't say female."
"You didn't," Brocklehurst agreed.
"And you think that means something?"
"I very much doubt it," Brocklehurst's lips pursed slightly in thought, "other than that the alternative never occured to you," then curved into a friendly neutrality. He was slouched in his seat, the image of nonchalant innocence. Bond envied him that ability - he could blend if he needed to but no one would ever mistake him for harmless. Brocklehurst could smile and persuade you to look the other way even when you knew he had a knife in his hand. But was it that smile or the genuine article that he turned on Bond as he said, "to return your question, have you ever been with another man?"
It was a natural enough question given the conversation, one that had been pressing on Bond's mind with increasing insistence, but was it as innocent as it seemed? Everyone had a tell, but Bond wasn't sure it wasn't his own reactions that he was seeing reflected in the other man rather than a true reading.
"Never." Bond admitted. Neither need nor inclination had ever presented occasion for such action, but now he couldn't help wondering whether the opportunities had been there but he had missed them. He looked for women, knew how to read their interest in him, how to use it. It was automatic and had served him well. But men... "Does it change you?"
Would it make him better at his job?
"What?" Brocklehurst finished his scotch and placed the decanter on the table near him. Too casual. Too studied. They were both too aware of each other. It was an odd sensation, one that Bond associated more with imminent threat and violence. Maybe it was not so far from the heavy tension of want and wanted that prickled at his flesh during the sexual chase, often so much more exhilarating than the denouement.
"Having sex with another man." Was that the threat or the aim?
"Doing anything for the first time can change you," Brocklehurst's not-answer was unreasonably reasonable. "It depends on the person."
"Can you whistle?" It sounded stupid now Bond thought about it, something he had heard at school and never questioned. Aloud it sounded like a euphemism.
"Yes, I can whistle." There was a rich undertone to the conformation. A flicker of something that was more curiosity than arousal piqued his interest.
"Just purse your lips and blow," Bond joked.
Brocklehurst's smile shaded towards wicked. "I can do that too."
Pretence was no longer possible - the only question was fold or call. "Would you?"
"Depends on what I get in return." Too clever to trust serendipity or any mythical sense of fairness. Too experienced to rush in. Bond could respect that.
"My undying gratitude..?" They had both known where the conversation was leading, it was just a matter of negotiating the terms of payment now the game was over.
"I can think of things I'd rather have." Brocklehurst's soft statement left those things to Bond's fertile imagination. He might have overlooked their direct application to him, but that didn't mean he was ignorant of their existence.
"Me." By the time you were committed it was too late to second-guess yourself.
There was surprise in Brocklehurst's tone but Bond doubted it was honest. "I didn't think you were on offer."
Bond remembered the long fingers tangled in his hair and the encouraging rather than demanding pressure as they pulled him down into a kiss. 'Liar' he thought.
"Like you said... if it gets the job done." He was giving Brocklehurst a chance. They both knew he was too well trained not to take it. "But we don't put people in the field until we have at least shown them how to fire their gun on the range."
"And you want me to take you through the basics?" The definite thread of humour in Brocklehurst's voice was still there, provocative in its scepticism.
"I was hoping we could skip straight to the advanced course." Because he needed to know he could do whatever it took. Needed to know here and now that he was a good at his job as he thought he was. If you didn't know your limitations then you couldn't factor them in to your plans and that was dangerous - that got you killed.
"Why?" The laughter was gone and he had Brocklehurst's full attention. "You're not interested in men."
"I'm interested in anything that's effective." He'd done worse. They'd both done worse. But theory and practice were very different beasts. "And you showed me it could be effective."
"Why me?" Brocklehurst said bluntly, dropping all pretence.
That was the question. But if he was going to do this then who else could he ask?
"Because I trust you at my back," he offered. It was as close to truth as either of them would expect to get.
Brocklehurst's eyes gleamed in the lamplight. "Okay," he said.
Bond led him into the bedroom.