Brosnan in Skyfall

“Agent Down”

San Francisco, California
Six months ago

James Bond rode the small lift up in silence. Dressed in a grey suit with navy blue tie, Bond looked like any man on his way to a meeting. He adjusted his tie, eyes on the display above the doors that scrolled through the floors. As the numbers began to slow towards thirteen, he reached into the left of his suit and subtly cleared his throat.
Thirteenth floor.
As the doors slid open noisily Bond stepped out PPK cupped in his hands. Cautiously he looked right, then left and threaded his way down towards the far end of the corridor. It was dark, dingy, smelt of sweat and something else. Something Bond knew all too well.
Death.
At the end of the corridor Bond reached a door marked 1309. He hesitated a moment then kicked at it with his right foot. It flew open sluggishly as if reluctant to let him in. He was through before it had chance to stop swinging inward. It was a studio apartment, one room with all the mod cons albeit in budget restricted manners. In an old overstuffed armchair lay a man slumped, head down. Blood matted the left side of his face. Bond quickly went to him, placing the PPK in his left hand, he went about trying to find a pulse. He did, it was faint.
“Brandt,” he whispered, “Brandt. Who did this?”
The head slowly lifted, the mouth opened, then closed. The head dropped and stayed down. Bond straightened, a scowl forming on his face.
“001 is dead.”
He heard M’s voice in his ear. “Regrettable, 007. Any sign of the attacker?”
“None, nor is there any sign of the disc.”
The room had been carefully ransacked. When the SFPD arrived, as surely they would soon, they would reason it had been an opportune burglary gone wrong. In fact he was sure he could hear sirens.
“Clever, very clever,” Bond whispered.
“What was that, 007?”
“I’m on my way out,” Bond headed to the nearest window. Cranking it open he slipped outside onto the fire escape and paused. Dropping his gaze he noticed a man clad in a black polo-neck and slacks across the road on a fire escape similar to the one Bond was on. Bond glanced up, noted the wire that passed between the two buildings –likely a telephone cable or some such. Looking back down, Bond saw that the man had been staring at Bond and now was going down the stairs as if there was an actual fire bearing down on him. Cursing, Bond started running to the nearest set of stairs.
“Hodges, this is Bond! Get here now!”
“On my way, 007.”
Bond reached the ground in a minute. How, he didn’t know. The attacker, for that was whom Bond assumed it to be, was now running up the street away from Bond. Arms pumping Bond went after him, the road was angling upwards. Down the street behind him two black and white squad cars raced to a stop in front of the apartment. Reaching the top of the road, Bond stopped, panting he put his hands on his knees. The attacker was well ahead now. A Porsche 911 raced up beside Bond. In the driver’s seat was a woman with long blonde hair, wearing a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. “Need a lift?”
“Move over,” Bond commanded. There was no time to waste. Once he was in, he floored the accelerator. As well, for down the road, a black motorbike –a Yamaha- tore into the road and went like the blazes.
“Don’t trust women drivers?” Hodges said wryly.
Bond looked briefly at her, she was attractive but she was an agent. Like him. Eyes back on the road he remarked: “I need to get that man. Find out if he has the disc.”
“Especially if he was the one that got 001.”
Bond noisily changed gears grunting. “Couldn’t you get a car that was less obvious?”
“What’s wrong with a 911?”
Bond was about to say something when M’s voice cut in.
“I hate to break up a conversation, but what is your status, 007?”
“Ma’am, I’m after the attacker, I’m sure he’s the one that killed 001. He might well have the disc.”
“Then do what you can. I’m attempting to contact the relevant authorities in San Francisco to let them know you’re about…so to speak.”
“Might be an idea, ma’am,” said Hodges glancing back. “We have company.”
Bond flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror. There was a squad car closing in on the 911. He changed gears. “Two’s company.”
The chase spilled out onto the Embarcadero that ran up most of San Francisco’s eastern shores. The attacker was heading north. Towards Fisherman’s Wharf. “If he gets to the tourist hotspots, we’ll lose him,” Bond said to Hodges. Bond mashed the accelerator as far as it would. Expertly, like a Formula One driver, Bond weaved in and out of traffic, a couple of times the tail of the car threatened to fish-tail. Bond gritted his teeth. He pictured M…
…back at SIS, M was stood facing the large windows overlooking the Thames at Vauxhall. Rain streaked the windows, marring her view of the gardens on the north bank at Pimlico and even that of nearby Battersea Power Station to her west. It had been a matter of days to zero in on the theft of a data disc that contained details of embedded agents across the world. Behind her, next to the speakerphone was Bill Tanner, his expression wry as usual.
“Come on James, get the bastard.”
M did not react, whereas she might have done before today. Times were changing, she realised. Her dislike of modern technology was building. All that reliance on a disc, she thought. How it fell into the wrong hands was befuddling. She had to find out. That’s why she had Bond…
…Bond swung the wheel as they reached Fisherman’s Wharf. The tourist mecca was opening up before them. Straight on were crowds and then the quays. Bond instinctively slowed. The motorbike had also slowed, now it veered into the crowds of tourists scattering some like tenpins as he disappeared from sight. Bond noted that there was a motorbike cop nearby –across the road to the left, he was now walking quickly to his bike whilst lifting a walkie-talkie to his lips.
“Why stop? You’ll lose him!” Hodges snapped, irritable that the chase was ending like this.
“I should’ve left you at the house,” muttered Bond. He in turn was irritable with himself for letting the chase get away from him. Not that he had had a clue that the man who had likely killed 001 was still in the area when he had reached the apartment.
“I’m FBI, we couldn’t just let you Brits operate on our soil without our presence,” Hodges said hotly.
In the meantime the SFPD cop had motored towards Fisherman’s Wharf. Something Bond hesitate, there was a feeling in the air. He nosed the 911 ahead, cautiously, feeling his way. Then out of the blue, 001’s killer came flying out of the tourist hotspot ahead, right at the 911. Bond reached over Hodges, grabbing her door’s handle he shoved it open right into the path of the bike. There was a sickening crunch of metal as the biker rammed into the door and went flying. Bond quickly leapt out of the Porsche and was running around the front of it when the biker bounded to his feet and somehow managed to get on the bike and off in double quick time.
“Spinach for breakfast,” said Bond turning to run over to the cop bike. None too politely he pushed the cop away and jumpstarted the bike. Within seconds he was off after the killer of 001. Hodges watched all of this eyes widening, her gaze followed Bond away and then she looked at the cop who was sprawled on the floor.
“Shit!” she shouted and climbed into the Porsche. “Er, M, this is Hodges. 007 are in pursuit of the attacker.”
“Very well, find a way of helping him out. What is your location now?”
Hodges was spinning the 911 around in a sharp ninety degree turn. “I’m about to head south on Embarcadero.”
There was a pause, then: “We think that the attacker will be heading for the Bay Bridge. Is there a way you can find a vantage point?”
“Tricky, ma’am, maybe from the shoreline once they get onto the bridge.”
“Miss Hodges, do what you can. The fate of our deep cover agents lies in the balance.”
“Understood,” Hodges floored the accelerator.
Bond had not ridden a motorcycle since the business in Vietnam with Wai Lin. Back then he at least had to counter the ride with her straddling him and perched on the bike behind him at various times. A police bike was bulkier, not as manoeuvrable as the BMW he had ridden then. He flicked at a switch on the handlebar and grinned when the sirens began to whoop and wail. He zipped along noting that the grey colossus of the Bay Bridge was emerging ahead of him. It spanned across to Oakland on the other side of the Bay, with only a pause at Yerba Buena Island in-between the two main spans to break it up. A year older than the Golden Gate Bridge, the grey bridge was often overlooked in favour of its more colourful younger upstart.
The two motorbikes followed the Embarcadero round, onto the approach road to the Bay Bridge. The traffic was thick on the approach but gradually thinned out as they raced towards the first span of the bridge. Bond had no idea just where the other was going. The airport was well to the south, the ferry terminals were away from them now and the bridge let into Oakland which in itself was not the quickest getaway.
In the meantime, Hodges had reached the old Ferry Terminal Building. It was close enough to the bridge to be ideal, at least she hoped so. Quickly, she made her way into the building, bluffing her way through security she got onto the roof in a couple of minutes. The building was just over a century old, its prized feature was the 245 foot high tower with four clock-faces each 22 feet in diameter. The buildings importance had decreased since the 1950s with the advent of the Embarcadero Freeway and increased use of the bridges. For Hodges, of the FBI, it was ideal though. She made it all the way up the tower, two levels above the clockfaces. Completely unaware where Bond was, Hodges produced from the folds of her blouse random bits that in a few seconds formed a snipers rifle. To be fair it derived from the Q Branch version that James Bond had used during his rogue period in Isthmus City and had been perfected upon since. In the only piece of good business the British had done with the Americans, it had proved quite versatile for the Americans.
She fought to control her breathing; her hand shook just a little as the left hand adjusted the scope. Hodges could make out the lanes of traffic on the San Francisco side of the bridge perfectly. She still thought she was at the extreme of her range though. Hodges dragged the rifle’s sight to the right; across the three lanes of Oakland bound traffic she sighted Bond and the attacker. Bond was closing in on the other man, shoulders hunched and arms bunched close to the handlebar. They were close together, forgotten by the hundreds of cars out on the Bay Bridge.
“M, this is Hodges, I have a line of sight on the attacker and 007.”
There was a pause in which she heard M sigh.
“Very well, Hodges. Do you think you can take out the attacker?”
No hesitation. “Yes, M.”
As she waited, Hodges saw that Bond and the attacker had drawn level. Far behind Bond now lay three squad cars of the SFPD. Hodges found she was holding her breath.
“Take the bloody shot.”
“Ma’am?” Hodges’ hands tightened and slackened instinctively.
“Take the bloody shot!” M’s voice snapped.
Hodges squeezed the trigger. There was a short sharp crack. Time seemed to stretch infinitely until, after an age, she saw Bond’s bike pitch left, across two lanes of traffic and then…
…he was cartwheeling off the bridge and swiftly vanished into the waters below.
By nature, Hodges trailed the attacker with the scope and saw the look of smug relief before he vanished into the Yerba Buena tunnel. One of the squad cars skidded to a halt where traffic was already piling up, close to where Bond had disappeared over the side. Not a ripple marked Bond’s disappearance.
Hodges lowered the rifle, her heart pounded loudly against her ribs.
“Well?” M’s voice barked.
Tanner had a sinking feeling in his stomach. The pencil he had clasped in his hands snapped. No one else in the office as so much as twitched.
“Agent down, ma’am. Agent down.”
M pressed a hand against the window, her head bowed and hearing nothing but the sound of rainfall.

Pierce Brosnan as Ian Fleming’s Agent James Bond 007 in

“SKYFALL”

ALSO STARRING
Michael Kitchen –Tanner, Michael Palin-Q, Audrey Fleurot- Severine

FEATURING
Heather Graham as Hodges

Judi Dench as “M”

CHAPTER ONE
“Bone Shaker”

NOW

“The BBC can confirm that, now, a man killed on Iranian state television was a deep-cover MI6 agent. His name was listed as Dan Evans…”
Tanner muted the TV that sat on the wall behind M’s desk. Just at that point the BBC showed the moment the Revolutionary Guard shot Dan Evans in the head and froze the image accordingly.
M had not been watching it, her back was to the screen and she had her hands wrapped around a glass of whisky.
“That’s now four deep cover agents murdered in the past six months, Chief of Staff.”
Tanner said nothing. He had compiled the reports on the loss of the previous three agents. It was SIS’ worst run of form since the height of the Cold War. His mood was as bleak as it had ever been. Perhaps he had not been helped by visiting the part of the first basement level dedicated to the fallen agents of SIS, dating back to the postwar period.
“Bond, James (007) KIA 2006”.
He refused to believe Bond was actually dead. If a man could paraglide down an ice floe, he could survive falling off a bridge in San Francisco. Yet, SIS’ hierarchy had insisted that Bond join 001 on the list six months ago. They had swiftly exhausted the usual checks on making sure an agent, once listed as missing, was actually dead.
“I have been summoned to a closed session of a Parliamentary Select Committee, chaired by that harridan of a woman that is our current Home Secretary.”
Tanner’s lips flickered into a brief smile. It was rare for M to display such scathing emotion and when she did, it was a rapier wit. He quite agreed about the Home Secretary. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, ma’am.”
“Whether I’m fine is beside the point,” M turned to face Tanner for the first time. She still held the whisky, it was untouched. “This section has been under increasing pressure from the government for months. The deep-cover leak has become the icebreaker for the PM. I’m told he wants to disband the Double-O section before long.”
Tanner blinked. “He can’t do that. We need the section to…”
“I’m told he can do it. It would save the government millions or some rot,” M now sipped at her drink. She slammed the glass down on her desk, hard enough to make her laptop monitor wobble like a fish in a storm. “Of all the damn nerve! After all we’ve done for this country!”
Tanner glanced to the TV monitor, still showing Evans’ last moment on Earth. “M, we have to confront the fact our agents are being…eliminated at a rate of knots…”
“I know, I know,” M said quietly as she sat down. “Who do we have spare?”
“004 is almost recovered from his injuries.”
“He’s the best we have now?”
“Now.”
M shook her head. “Prepare 004 for assignment.”
Tanner nodded, he collected his papers from her desk and turned off the TV. That was good as a dismissal for the Chief of Staff and so he left the office. Moneypenny was typing at a rate of knots when she saw him appear. “Is it that bad?”
“I wasn’t aware I said anything.”
“Your face says enough.”
“I was born with it,” he tried to joke yet his expression did not shift. “Anything?”
“Just a repeat of the last message, ‘no sign of 007 in known areas’. Sorry Bill.”
Tanner started for the office door, he hesitated. “Do you think he’s dead?”
“I guess he is.”
Tanner opened the door. “Let 004 know he’s needed. Shake him out of whatever club he’s crawled into and get him ready. We need to find out who has the data and we need to know now.”
“Yes, Chief of Staff,” Moneypenny said simply.
“And let Q Branch know we need them as well. I want 004 fully equipped.”
Just as he was about to step through the door, the floor shifted accompanied by a massive explosion that knocked both of them to the floor and rendered everything black.
Then dead silence.

CHAPTER TWO

“Beaches in Mind”

The bartender at the Hawaiian themed restaurant and bar, down in Half Moon Bay, lost count how many times the Englishman came here. How many times he stayed at the end of the bar, drinking liquor and watching the TV from time to time. How long had it been now? About six months, the bartender reasoned. He would not say the Englishman was a drunk. He drank in moderation it seemed. He treated the staff with respect, he seemed to have a way with the ladies and yet…and yet there was something there that the bartender could not fathom.
“Entertaining the troops again tonight, sir?” the bartender asked with a smile as he settled the Jim Bean before the man.
“Maybe. They seem to like my Russian Roulette act.”
“Yeah,” the bartender wiped the counter before the man and laid the towel over his shoulder. He was a thin man, prematurely greying and paying his way through college bit by bit. “Makes me jump everytime.”
“You need some fibre,” the man joked. The TV was on, tuned into CNN.
As the bartender wandered away, James Bond mused on what his life had descended into. Every day he relived the moment he slammed into the San Francisco Bay. The coldness of the water, the darkness of it and the sheer feeling that he had finally reached the end of his life. Of course Bond had had that feeling before. Goldfinger’s laser gradually inching towards his crotch, the Swiss mountain bearing down on him, Drax’s space-base tearing itself apart around him, dragged behind Kristatos’ yacht, hanging over the precipice as Sanchez then Dario laid into him, tied to Elektra’s torture device and then clinging for dear life on a shifting ice floe.
Bond broke one of the salient rules of being an agent though. He had set up shop not far from his ‘last day’ and yet, it had worked. Six months ago it had all began and still, he was here, forgotten and alone in a world that had left him behind. He had acquired a little paunch in his chest, he was drinking hard and he was living, well, sort of hard. No one from SIS had turned up, no one had come this way from the ‘other side’ and no one cared. James Bond was alive but 007 were dead. At least this 007 was dead. Perhaps someone else was 007 now.
Bond swivelled on his stool, the TV was still showing CNN and he sipped his brandy slowly. Make the damn thing last so that he could see out the evening. Maybe tonight he would walk the beach and see if he could forget everything-
-the TV was showing SIS headquarters. The faux-Egyptian style was smouldering.
Bond blinked, like a shipwrecked survivor on a deserted beach realising rescue might be at hand. The camera zoomed in on SIS then panned out –clearly from the Pimlico shore.
“Nick, turn the volume up, please.”
Bond had not raised his voice, yet there was something in the inflection that made the bartender turn the volume up as quickly as he could.
“…reports are still unconfirmed by the main story again. MI6 headquarters in London was the subject of a believed terrorist attack at 10am British Time, about 5am Eastern. Reports via Reuters suggest that as many as twelve are believed to have been killed. We are as yet awaiting a statement from the British government…”
Bond took in the rest, his eyes absorbing the damage done to the building. Much of the top floor had been taken out meaning that M could be amongst the dead. Maybe Tanner, maybe Moneypenny, maybe…
When Nick turned around behind the bar, James was gone. He took the half finished brandy and put it to one side believing that the man would return.

**

United’s check in desk was quiet for the time of day. The remainder of the airlines at San Francisco International (SFO) were incredibly rammed. The young lady on the desk at UAL was idly tapping at her computer. Behind her were two TV monitors –one showed CNN and the other showed latest departures. A shadow fell across her. When she looked up, she felt her cheeks warm a little.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like a single ticket to London, please.”
He looked weathered, to her mind; there were lines at his eyes and grey flecked at his temple. He was incredibly handsome though.
“C-certainly, sir. Just the one way?”
“Yes,” the man’s eyes settled on the screen behind her. “I have unfinished business.”
“May I take a name, sir?”
He hesitated. Then a slight smile crept upon his pale lips. “Bond, James Bond.”
“Well, Mr Bond…,” she told him the price and he handed over a card. He melted away into the crowd prompting a silent sigh of pleasure from the check-in girl.
It was a Boeing 747 that was to take Bond home giving him a sense of déjà vu from the Cuba business a few years ago. He took a seat within business, hidden towards the back, vaguely anonymous in his cheap suit. There was to be no fresh appearance on his flight home. James Bond was returning from the cold and so it had to be kept as such.
As the 747 headed east, Bond read more about the MI6 explosion but it was admittedly sketchy. If he knew the old guard, there would not be any specific details released even if the entire world now knew that MI6 had been hit. SIS would have decamped to a temporary location by now, so he would have to figure that out when he arrived in London.
Bond glanced out of the cabin window at the expanse of the American Midwest and saw nothing but the burning remains of MI6 in London.

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