Came to me reading Forever and a Day but just a short story.
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London, the 1950s
Sometimes a man could grow bored of the routine he had. Especially if he was fed up of the routine generally. Even a secret agent could become weary of things. No less true of the man stood across the road from Waterloo Station, half-hidden in the shadows of the rail bridge before the station. He wore a plain white mackintosh, tied tightly at the waist, the open collar showed a black tie and a white shirtfront. The broad hat he wore, cast a slight shadow over his handsome face, enough to prevent any water dripping off the bridge from spilling onto him. He resembled an actor, perhaps Trevor Howard, perhaps Richard Todd.
He was known as 0011 in the Secret Intelligence Service. He had a real name that was insignificant in his job. There were so many aliases that it seemed pointless to keep up the illusion of a real-life man. Even at his club, that he sometimes frequented, he felt he had to be someone else. 0011 was one of three current agents in the Double-Oh section and not as well-known as 007. Bond was a source of frequent irritation. Already in a few years there had been the Le Chiffre business, nonsense in Harlem and the Caribbean, Fort Knox…0011 was vexed. He had busted a gut to earn his status and Bond swanned from mission to mission, M’s flavour of the month. Alright, one didn’t do this for the plaudits but 0011 had done much…
Well…the war was a long time ago. Initially at Dunkirk, then ended up as a SOE agent. Some of the sights he had seen as a twentysomething would stay with him for life.
Across from him, he saw a figure pause under the ornate clock in Waterloo’s great archway. 0011 straightened, his right hand briefly touched the butt of his Beretta in its holster under his coat. Described as a woman’s gun, 0011 was quite fond of his Beretta. Though if he had his way, not that M would allow it, he would like to have used his wartime Webley Mark IV. Trusty, reliable and a damn good stopper.
Yes, his war had been a good war. Even if some things were not. Gripping the sand of the Dunkirk beaches convulsively as Stukas bombed the evacuation points.
Restless, 0011 set off across the neighbouring road to the station. The war had heavily changed the area, going was the remains of the bombed out factories, warehouses and the like. Waterloo Station reigned supreme all the same as it had since 1848. 0011’s pace quickened as he saw the figure under the clock disappear inside the great archway. When 0011 reached it himself moments later, he ducked his head as he passed the slabs memorialising the railway workers that perished in both wars. Death was everywhere in London. Once in the station he was surrounded by hundreds of people. Waterloo got people out into the suburbs –such as Wimbledon, or the coast such as Portsmouth (a reminder of his wartime past, being home of the Royal Navy) or into the Underground.
0011’s quarry was heading down into the heart of the concourse beneath a small if beautiful clock where even now lovers were meeting. His quarry brushed past a couple holding hands, the man was wearing an army uniform and the woman a pretty green dress with black spots. They had eyes only for each other. 0011 walked quickly, zigging around people all over the place. Suddenly, he saw the man ahead of him turn right –heading in a straight line for the Underground entrance. If he went in there, 0011 stood a chance of losing him. There was the Bakerloo Line, the Northern Line –both were ‘deep-level’ lines and there was the former Waterloo & City Railway which was now part of British Rail. 0011 almost broke into a run, instead he went faster, willing his legs to behave.
M’s orders had been explicit: Do whatever was necessary to stop this man. In fact the words were “EXPEDITE IMMEDIATE”.
The man ahead, now plunging down the stairs into the Tube was short –no more than five foot, his craggy face reminded 0011 of Goebells and he wore black from head to toe. He was also an agent of the USSR, hereto acting as a businessman in the City and behind the death of a junior minister who had been looking to betray his country and defect to the USSR. A deal gone bad by the looks of it. Whatever the minister’s loyalty, the word had come from somewhere that this agent had overstepped his welcome.
The licence to kill was not just exclusive to 007.
M however had also said that it must be done somewhere where witnesses would not report on it. 0011 was already overegging his hand. He jogged down the stairs, across the concourse and through the barriers which snapped shut behind him. The man in black was already down the wooden escalators into the Bakerloo.
B_____ H____ raged 0011 mentally. Now he broke into a run, he reached the escalators a few seconds after and began his descent…
…in time to see the man in black look up at him. The agent had stopped on the escalators, looking upward at 0011 and there was a smile on that man’s face. 0011 stopped suddenly a few steps up, so awkwardly he swayed on the step like a drunken man. Eyes wide, 0011 stared back at the enemy agent. The very personification of the new face of evil –the Communist, the Bolshevik, the d___ red and all the rest. Nazis, Soviets…all the same purpose. 0011 watched as the man in black turned round and went back down. 0011 froze in place –the utter cheek!
Then the little swine ran off the bottom of the escalators towards the northbound platforms. 0011 all but leapt off the last few steps and went after him. The Beretta tapped against his chest as he ran. Fuelled by an anger that had seen him through difficult missions in the war, 0011 went like the blazes. He flashed past the board that displayed the stations on either the northbound or southbound parts of the Bakerloo. Instinct told him to head north –the swine would have the options of busier stations like Piccadilly Circus or Oxford Circus, places that realistically he could be lost forever in (more so when one considered that either station had other lines running through them).
He leapt onto the first train as the doors closed. Panting, he wiped his brow, taking his hat off a moment to do so and then adjusted it back upon his head. For a moment he allowed his eyes to roam over the adverts by the ceiling of the car- Bovril, Guinness…then he saw the agent at the other end of the car. Sat to the left of him were two men in naval uniforms, their flat caps on their laps –HMS something or other, which 0011 could not quite make out. He pressed back upon the door as the train swayed from side to side. The enemy could not see him that was for certain. 0011’s mind began to slow down, to analyse and figure out what to do next. To kill the man here now was dangerous in the extreme. Licence to kill or not, doing so on the Bakerloo line would be folly.
Or…
0011 watched as the two sailors stood, they shuffled past the enemy agent who also stood and followed the lead of the young men towards the slim door at that end of the car. The train lurched forward, tugged back and came to a shuddering stop at Charing Cross. The doors slammed open letting off passengers and picking them up. 0011 felt an inclination to stay rooted to the spot. As well, for the enemy agent stepped off the train and then quickly back on –this time sitting next to a blonde wearing a grey raincoat. 0011 rubbed at his forehead, sweat dribbled down his brow. A poor attempt by his prey to throw the tail. For all the man’s apparent smugness, he clearly was not the best the Soviets had. Or maybe he thought 0011 had been further down the train than in actuality. 0011 was quite lucky that the man was not looking his way, for some of the passengers blocking his line of sight had departed at Charing Cross. The train rolled on through Trafalgar Square and eventually reached Piccadilly Circus. The platforms were busy, people cramming them, sweat on all their faces from the heat that always built up down here. 0011 saw the Soviet edge towards the door, so the British agent did the same. He squeezed off, pushed past people who were keener getting on the train than he was in getting off and saw the Soviet to his right. The man seemed to be in his own world, grinning laconically and pausing by the platform edge. 0011 moved towards him, head down a fraction, once again touching the butt of his Beretta. The train moved off, clanking and banging as it went. There was still a crowd on the platform –enough to mask 0011’s final approach. From behind the agent –now facing to the departing train- 0011 snuck his left arm under the Soviet’s and reached across to grab the right arm –with his right hand he pressed against the Soviet’s back. The Russian stiffened in shock.
“Hello, friend,” whispered 0011 savagely behind the man’s ear. The crowd around them was thinning out, no one paying attention to the two men close together. If anyone did notice they did not risk a look, it was the not their place to question two men pressed together. Even if it was in the damn open. “I think you’ve overstayed your welcome in dear old London.”
The Russian (or maybe he was Polish…who knew? The Soviet web was broad of course) gasped something incomprehensible. 0011 tightened his grip, it was uncomfortable but it was necessary.
“Sorry, can’t understand you,” 0011 almost grinned. As he spoke another Tube train sounded down the tunnel away to his left. Air pushed into them, buffeting both men like a coming hurricane, their hair was tugged by the current. “From London! With Love!”
Just as the train rocketed onto the platform, 0011 whipped back his left arm and pushed with the right hand. Soundlessly the Russian vanished under the wheels, sucked between the train and platform like meat down a blender. As he did, 0011 turned and walked briskly out of the platform. In the days before CCTV there was little chance of his being identified, all the same he left as quickly as he could go. It took a few minutes to reach the surface, to breach into the crisp air in the shadow of the illuminated signs that made Piccadilly Circus famous. Against the glare, 0011 started walking up Regent Street on his eventual way to Regent’s Park.
The job was done. It was not pretty; it had not ended with a beautiful woman but would end at some point tonight with a stiff drink. It would end with his own secretary listening to his weary voice describe what had happened. However, before seeing Ms Ravisham he would have seen M with perhaps Chief of Staff Tanner in attendance.
Then it would be time, he thought, to leave the service. Leave the Double-O section to men who could stomach the grind.
0011 boarded a bus on the bend of Regent Street and disappeared from the West End as quickly as he had come.
Home 
Events 
WIN! 
