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“How are you doing with Ms Granger?”—his superior wants to know and James has been prepared for this.
Not knowing what he could possibly have done that would warrant a stern talking to from the likes of M he has very quickly, despite the early hour, deducted that whatever discussion would ensue behind the closed doors to The Office – with the blasted door that would never, not once since he’d set foot into the new location and even not before at Vauxhall, shut silently – would evolve around the topic of his newly acquired ward.
He is uniquely pleased to find that he has been right. It’s a nice feeling after all.
“I’ve had her but for a day,”—he placates carefully, curious and a bit alarmed at the interest in the young recruit, “-it is yet too soon to say how or whether or not I’m dealing with her. She’s proven physically capable yesterday, at the very least.”
“And a dab shot – or so I’ve heard.”
James nods, remembering the laudable draw-speed and accuracy of the young woman. It is close to his time with the difference that he has had nearly a life-time to make the movement a habit and proceeds without conscious thought by now, quick and efficient.
“Do you think mentorship to her will agree with you?”
“No.”
He doesn’t even think about his answer, but sets to explaining, knowing that his superior will not be content with just a one-syllabic answer. “It is not that I do not think we will be unable to work together – on the contrary, I believe that once she is a full-fledged agent she will be a good asset and I might enjoy working with her. Perhaps. I am not certain of how much value I will be to her – or the Service – as a mentor, given my reputation.”
Which he knows he has.
He also knows that saying this he plays into every reservation the man before him could have had about picking him as the mentor to the young woman.
“Well. I fear my point of view is quite fixed in that regard. Maybe the situation will be more to your liking in a few months – maybe you will even start to have a private life again, settle down.”
Mission abort—he thinks only a little humorously, this discussion has veered too much off topic and too far into the realm of ‘don’t touch’ that he cannot help the vague feeling of uneasiness settling in the pit of his stomach. He wants to tell M that this sensation is the only thing settling anywhere currently. Instead he does what he usually does when averting a potentially disastrous finale-
“I don’t think that will be happening any time soon, Sir. I imagine there was a point in calling me here when you can read my stance on my mentorship as well as the newest recruit in a filed, if I may just note that, report.”
-he diverts and serves the dish with a heavy side of sass.
Unfortunately his superior is used to his methods by now and doesn’t even bat an eyelash anymore. Mallory, he finds out every time anew, has not been made M for naught – it is a surprisingly pleasant discovery, each single instance he realizes it again. Without even thinking of giving Bond the pleasure of seeing him quirk his brow, the other man reaches for a folder that has been innocently lying to the side of the heavy mahogany table.
“I have promised you Egypt if you didn’t go easy on her.”—he situates the folder in between them and James can almost taste the air of freedom on his tongue, smell the dust and coffee in the air. “However, since you are in the unique position of being a mentor as well… I would have both of you go.”
Dryness settles in his mouth – as if he’s swallowed a heap of the Egyptian Sand that he thought would be his salvation for at least a little while. His mind is a furiously working machine, hoping to cough up a solution.
A-ha!
“Sir, with all due respect, but my mentee is a Junior Agent and I have not cleared her for field work.”—it’s the best he can come up with, and it’s solid. It’s a regulation; a rule. M likes rules.
“While that might be so: I have cleared her.”
And yes, hierarchy also is a rule. Bond doesn’t like rules.
The Head of the Secret Service pushes the folder at him. “You depart tomorrow 0530 precisely.”
***
She is beyond furious with him when she arrives on the tarmac, just in time to make the plane and occupy her seat next to him. For a second or two she contemplates haranguing him, laying into him like she would have done with any other of her colleagues during the war for not giving her appropriate intel at an adequate time.
Unfortunately he’s not merely one of her peers. He’s her Supervising Officer – and an ornery bastard at that.
Lucky for her, she’s had years of training in dealing with those.
So instead of venting her frustration on him, she promises herself to do better – she promises herself to make him feel guilty about the way he’s been treating her. She surmises rapidly as she sits down, that this is best done by being a Model Junior Agent.
They ride first class and the SIS takes over the bills, which is why Hermione has no qualms, once the plane is in the air, to order a small breakfast – coffee, orange juice and a croissant with butter – and devour it with small sounds of pleasure. She admits to, maybe, being a little more vocal about it than might have been necessary, but her S.O. doesn’t comment on it.
He is actually deathly silent next to her, barely gives her a side-glance and she doesn’t doubt that he’s probably displeased she even is here.
Realistically she shouldn’t have made it, but her reality involves magic and that opens an entirely new set of possibilities. Suffice it to say with Q’s bewildered wake-up-call of why she wasn’t on her way to the airport already coming in only at 0500 she would not have managed without a very liberal application of Apparition.
Legally she is very lucky that 0500 saw her ‘on the clock’ already or she would have had to explain away her ‘abuse of supplementary set of capabilities’ which she has consigned to The Crown – and nobody else.
But he doesn’t ask and so she doesn’t tell and a few hours later he even deigns to wake her from where she’d fallen asleep in her seat next to him.
Supposedly because Q hasn’t quite had the means for it she is placed in a different hotel than Bond though she suspects the very same man to have had a hand in this. And despite the fact that he’d, at least, shown her some decency on the plane not ten minutes ago, she is so very grateful for Q’s foresight to, also, have them fetched by different drivers.
The man is grating on her very last nerve.
Once she is securely seated on the leather of the limousine which has come to fetch her, McCaoinnon is in her ear, running her down on her specifics for the mission she hadn’t known she would be going on until this morning and Hermione is attentive.
The purpose is a run-of-the-mill retrieval of a re-appropriated good; a diamond, to be precise. Stolen from some-same locked up, advertised as ‘perfectly safe’ location – until someone realized it existed and needed to have it.
With the difference that this time, the someone didn’t want to have it for themselves rather than the prestige to, a) have stolen it from a never-before-tested location (or paid to have it stolen) and b) sell it for a fetching price on a high-end-black-market.
“It’s a favour.”—McCaoinnon admits. “We’ve run into some complications in the country of origin and they agreed to shut a few eyes if we retrieve the stolen valuables. Normally the agent responsible would sit this one out but… she is unfortunately not waking up at the moment.”
Risks of the business and all that – Hermione is too aware of the dangers which accompany a profession as her current one.
The hotel is a Four Seasons with quite the breath-taking panorama from her Executive Suite, allowing her a view over the Nile and the bustling life on the small island opposite of the river’s arm. She cannot see farther than that, but she isn’t all too bothered.
“The Quartermaster has requested you settle in for now. He will reach out to you in approximately three hours.”
Hermione signs off and unpacks within ten minutes, finding herself with time at her hands within moments. She considers exploring the city, but is relatively certain that she would lose herself in it and not resurface until she has had her fill – three hours would not do.
Instead she makes for the fitness amenities in the hotel.
***
“Congratulations, 007, your Junior is adhering to the same routine as you are and you have not even had her for a week.”—Q sasses into his ear.
“She’s having a Scotch?”—he can’t help but ask.
Not that he himself is having one; not yet. He’s in dire straits most of his time and alcohol can help dull the pain in the regard, no doubt, but he’s feeling at least a little better, not needing to supervise the girl 24/7 with Q and the Branch on his side. They do most of the hacking and surveying either way.
“Not even you are having one, 007, do not presume your Charge is when, clearly, she is in a much better state of mind and physicality than you are.”—the Quartermaster replies almost absentmindedly, but pauses after his phrase as if something had caught his attention.
“That is… unless you are jealous.”
The mere idea is preposterous. Not that he voices it, but he does lift his head to the nearest camera and gives it a very thorough, telling stare.
“Mh. Thought so.”—comes the reply. “She has just entered the training facilities, was what I meant to say before you so artfully steered us off topic.”
That is probably indeed his mentorship kicking in. Agents are quick to form habits like that, especially while in formation, given that it tends to save their posteriors 8 times out of 10. He nods to himself.
“Which means she won’t get into my hair while I grill you on our target objective…”—he remarks instead as he enters his Diplomatic Suite. “I am perfectly content with the accommodations by the way.”
Q emits a displeased sound. “It’s not what I would have gotten you, admittedly, but M was under the impression that, since you were travelling a-two, your protégée should be granted at least some comfort. Such is to say: do not flatter yourself, it wasn’t meant for you.”
Bond has no regrets about letting ‘his’ Junior Agent suffer his cold shoulder. Since M won’t take his feelings on the topic to heart, maybe he will consider replacing him as her mentor if she just opens her mouth to ask for a surrogate. All that Bond has to do is be an asshole; he’s been told he’s quite prolific in that role.
“Tell me about Sasgary.”—he asks instead as he starts to vet the room, installing SIS-issued equipment and removing any other.
It says a lot about their professional relationship, he thinks, that the Quartermaster doesn’t even hesitate before launching into a very detailed description on the target.
***
“Granger online.”—she sighs as she sits down on her bed, reaching for the hair-oil in the complimentary welcome-basket. It’s not sleekeazy but it is the muggle variant and probably as close as to the original as it gets, considering her current whereabouts. She decides it’s her best option for now.
Q responds with a small put-on sigh that Hermione does her very best not to be affronted by – it’s harder with the young man, she realizes in an instant, than with Bond The Blonde Bampot. “Your Supervising Officer…”—he starts and only then does she connect the dots, smiles a little, heart lifting. “…has asked me to tell you, as if I am a bloody messenger pigeon that you do the reconnaissance. Usually he would be guiding you through the steps, but since he is not it will be me.” A small pause: “You’re lucky I’ve been to Cairo before. Or… you know…”
Hermione smiles privately to herself, finishing up on her hair. “Please allow for another five minutes before you get me on the big screen, I am yet to be decent.”
The snort in her ear amuses her as she throws on her garments. “Wish those words would come out of more Agents mouths.”—he remarks. “Rest assured whatever situation you will find yourself in at any point during any mission it’s nothing the Q-Branch hasn’t seen yet.”
She exits the changing room, chuckles. “I bet you I can come up with something.”—she barters.
“We’ll cross the bridge if ever we should get there.”—he agrees.
“Would you mind helping me chose my footwear?”—she asks carefully, picking two likely choices and setting them before her.
“I think the sandals would do best if your intention is to be a harmless tourist.”—Q advises her; she slips in. “Best to take a scarf with you as well, sunglasses should be in your purse. I saw you stow them yesterday. Unless you’ve taken them out.”
“Your attentiveness is notable.”—she commends, pulling her purse closer and fishing for the sunglasses. Of course they are where he’s told her.
“You are on the big screen once you leave your hotel, Ms Granger.”
The young woman leaves and steps outside five minutes later; hot air greets her. “Let’s get on with the sightseeing then, shall we.”
“Yes.”—she agrees under her breath. “Let’s.”
***
Three hours and a rather exhausting walk of the perimeters later, she knows that her sunglasses are not hers because somebody has had the foresight of switching them out for a Q-Branch-Model equipped with a remotely accessible camera.
He steers her to a small café not too far from both the Botanical Garden. If she calculates her timing just so, she might even get to do a little extracurricular exploring – she would be content if it were just the Gardens. Not that the rest Cairo is not without its beauties.
The comm clicks in her ear and she barely reacts with a short clenching of her jaw, adjusting to the reinforced hum.
“007.”—Q greets her Superior Officer. “How nice of you to join us.”
She doesn’t imagine the sarcasm in the Quartermaster’s voice, but thinks it will fall on deaf ears.
“Yes, well. I took the time off to sample some of the local delicacies.”
The huffed grunt from the younger man propels her into analysing the deeper meaning of the sentence, before she realizes she hasn’t wanted to know.
“Kalb.”*—she mutters under her breath but she’s not certain either of them hear her over their bickering. They don’t. Hermione sighs, lets the noise wash over her and smiles thankfully at the young Cairene woman when she comes to serve the tea.
Hermione is positive that the tea is something she’ll miss back in the United Kingdom; she savours the first sip, closes her eyes. The Queen might have India’s Tea, but she does not have the methods of preparation that either they or the Arabic prefer – and the young woman finds herself quickly in favour of this preparation technique.
“—do not engage.”
She registers too late that the last part has been directed at her. Quickly she scans her surroundings and finds the reason for the sudden stillness in her ears – the target has arrived. At her coffee-shop.
Hermione leisurely pulls a book from her purse and props it up against her table, leans back and cracks it open where she’s put a marker in. She doesn’t plan on engaging anything or anyone; this is her first mission for the SIS and no matter how much experience she’s had with this kind of thing in the life she’s left behind, the people she now works with are very specific on orders and the chain of command.
Also, Model Junior Agents do as told.
And for the purpose of turning Bond’s game against him, that’s what she is.
“Ahlan wa sahlan.”**—a voice next to her speaks. Hermione looks up, swallows shortly.
“Umm…”— stay in character, she chastises herself- “…ahlan bīk?”**—she returns. Her accent is horribly stilted and she feels the need to ask every major deity for forgiveness ruining the beautiful language.
The man next to her puts a hand to the chair opposite. “Is this free?”
It is obvious she should say no; but both Bond and Q have taken up the squabbling in her ear again and she can tell that she’s alone in this. She motions for the vacant chair. “Please.”
He could be of Egyptian descent what with the colour of his skin, the bronze pigmentation that flows over his arms and his face. His physique is different though from the tall men milling around in the streets. He is stockier, his jaw squared in a way that is unusual for people of African descent, especially this region.
Mirth glints in his eyes. “You are not shy.”—he comments.
Hermione decides to play; she arches an eyebrow. “Should I be? Is it so bold to wonder why a foreign man would sit at my table when there are plenty left in the Café?”
As she speaks she motions into the room next to her which is almost completely empty safe for a few old Cairenes playing at Tavla. The man dodges his head in an artfully charming way – it is a calculated movement that she detects immediately when he gives her dogged look, looking up at her.
“You have caught me out indeed.”—he agrees, sits straighter again. “It is unusual for beautiful women to sit alone like you do.”
Laying it on thick and quick, she analyses. He is rather certain of his allure and she can see where he would come from. Objectively speaking he is not ugly, and the clothes he wears are designer – not a shred of doubt that he is as wealthy as he seems. However it is, also, not the way of Egyptian men to be this forward, not when she is decently clothed, obviously not Muslim, a tourist and very likely to see every kind ‘hello’ as an attack to her very person.
“Yes, I imagine it is indeed rare in your home-country.”
A sharp smile. “You do not think me from here?”
It is a trap and one that Hermione intends to walk right into. Her Quartermaster and Supervising Officer are still locking horns, leaving her to navigate the situation as she sees fit. If she lets the target believe that she is clever he might run – an intelligent woman can be frightening after all.
“While your tan might suggest it, neither your attitude towards lonely women nor your bone-structure substantiate that claim.”—she lets him know.
His eyebrows wander up. “My bone-structure?”—he exclaims. “This is a new one, I have to hear it. Please, elaborate.”
Her hand describes an arch to gesture into the direction of the players at the far end of the Café. “See the old gentlemen? They are a prime example of Egyptian, see North-African physique.”—she starts. “Originally the folk in these regions have been Nomads and their bodies adjusted to the hostile environment. Little food, only a select few precious nutrients means typical deficiencies in the body that were handed down generation for generation. Such is to say these people have a tendency of being tall, but lithe, quick to run over treacherous sand and not be a burden to their mounts. Naturally with the uptake of globalisation, the medicalisation and the new alimentation that comes with it many of them have traded lithe for well-fed, but the inherent bone and body structure remains.”
She motions to him. “You on the other hand are neither fine-boned nor lithe. Your bones speak of a stocky built, broad and enduring, your body stores reserves differently. It is likely that, in your family, runs a tendency to survive in climatic regions that this Continent cannot provide.”
The men in her ear have shut up and she relishes in being able to hear herself finally over all the testosterone around her. “I would judge you to be of Slavic descent.”—she finishes and the eyes of the man in front of her shine.
“Marvellous.”—he admires. “That is truly… it is extraordinary.” He reaches for her hand, squeezes it as if rewarding her with the gesture. It is reminiscent of patting a dog on the head for a stunt well executed. His hand remains with hers as he continues to talk – sly trick. “You must tell me how you did that.”—he exclaims.
As if suddenly caught by modesty she shrugs her shoulders, retreats her hand. “I study Medicine.”—she lies. “The morphology of the human body has been of interest to me ever since I first stepped foot into the lecture.”
The man smiles, nods and then, finally, reaches his hand forward eager to re-establish physical contact. “Melkior Sasgary. It is a true pleasure to meet such an intelligent young woman.”
She allows him to squeeze her hand again, puts it down a little more to the centre of the table instead of ‘in her half’ – it is an invitation that he doesn’t let pass. He puts his hand close to hers.
“Jean Granger.”—she presents herself, resorting to the name in her passport. “I admit I am curious now. What are you doing in Cairo, Mr Sasgary?”
Sasgary shrugs smoothly, leans backwards in his chair to motion the waitress, before he turns towards Hermione again – gifting her with his attention. He plays his ruse wisely, makes her work for his attention. Average women might be eating out of his hands by now if they didn’t stop to think – very few tended to while on vacation.
“Please, call me Melkior.”—he offers with a smile that shows off his pearly-whites. “I have recently come into the possession of a valuable object and mean to sell it.”
Hermione hums, leans forward onto a delicate hand as she positions her elbow on the table-top in a way that lets her body broadcast her interest in lieu of verbally announcing it. Sasgary seems pleased with this.
“I am showcasing it tonight at the Embassy. The Auction House was wary of dealing with such a valuable.”
She smiles a little insipidly; impressed. “No.”—Bond snarls from her ear. “Divert and abort.”—he orders.
“007.”—Q warns. “This could be an opportunity. She fits well into the spectrum of women Sasgary usually likes to consort with: exotic for the region’s standards, intelligent and physically appealing.”
“Q, I swear to-“—they start arguing again and Hermione, in hopes of buying them time until they come to a reasonable course of action for her to follow, stalls.
“And what if I had plans for tonight?”—she returns. “A friend of mine has been working on the Pyramids for quite some time now and I’ve been promised a night-time-tour.”
It’s not exactly a lie. Bill has been working on the Pyramids for near to five years before the war had taken over his home-country and he’d returned. He had also promised her that he would show her – them – the sights if ever they had the possibility. Not that he could now but…
Sasgary’s makes a contemplative mine. “Well, I suppose I cannot exactly compete with a private, night-time-tour of the Pyramids when, obviously, it is not a spectacle that a regular visitor is likely to be part of.”—he looks up at her and there is a spark of superiority in his eyes again; he counts on winning. “But then, neither is this opportunity. I assume you are not merely here for pleasure…”
Hermione surmises that, her med-student persona probably wouldn’t be – she shakes her head. “I counted on completing at least a year of my studies in Cairo and meant to scout out Ain Shams.”
The man’s smile turns a little feral now. “See, it just so happens that one of my guests is the brother of Dr Essa and I am on very good footing with him…”
Bargaining her company for relations; he is good. Her current companionship, unfortunately, isn’t and both Q and Bond are still disputing over her course of action. But Sasgary wants an answer – now – and with nobody to direct her, Hermione has to take the reins into her own hand, she counts seven breaths.
“I would be very fortunate indeed to make such an acquaintance.”—she responds almost dreamy, hums as she turns the thought around in her head. Her support still hasn’t come to a decision. She turns determined eyes on the man opposite of her. “You are a very acute reader of character, Melkior.”
The man smiles like the cat that ate the canary, he knows he has her. “It comes with the profession.”—he deflects. “Does that mean I am allowed to call in and announce you as my Plus One?”
Still no answer from the British Front.
“It would be my utmost pleasure.”—Hermione contends.
Sasgary reaches for her hand, presses his lips to the back of it. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”
***
“This was not your call to make.”—Bond snarls into the comm and Q feels sympathy for the young woman who will likely return with a report to show for every single one of her misdeeds. Disobeying orders is not a good reference.
“I am aware.”—Ms Granger replies as she plucks a long, grey skirt from her wardrobe and lays it out on the bed behind her. “But neither you, sir, nor the Quartermaster could give me a valid course of action within an appropriate time window; would I have waited any longer on either of you it would have resulted in suspicious behaviour. Which we cannot allow for if my understanding is correct.”
007 turns silent.
Q flinches.
Silent Agents are the deadliest.
“It is unfortunate, 007, but your Junior Agent does have a point. And as it stands we might yet be able to turn this into an advantage.”—he surveys both of their rooms, their getting-ready.
The Senior Agent goes for his suit, Ms Granger dithers. “The white blouse, Ms.”—he helps her out and sees her nod as she reaches for it, completes her outfit and turns to her wardrobe again, plucking equipment from her purse that he knows he hasn’t put there.
He gives McCaoinnon a glance and the young woman presses her lips together guiltily, trying to look elsewhere. ‘We’re talking about this’—he mouths to her and the brunette nods, caught out, but returns her attention to the display in front of her where she is hacking the surveillance feed of Cairo.
It’s a pre-made code that he wrote and can be inserted into nearly every operating system around the world – all she needs to do is find her way to the right location and insert it. Voilà Instant Hack.
Q turns back to the Big Screen – 007 is still not answering and Ms Granger has vanished behind a Paravent to change. He nods his approval when she steps out again, casting a hasty look to the camera she has installed in the room. Taking his lack of commentary as acquiescence, she bends to pluck her vanity bag from a table and disappears into the bathroom.
“Alright.”—007 finally says and it’s a short, cutting voice snipping through the comms. It’s his mission-effective-now tone and usually accompanied by the sound of bodies dropping around him. Q fears for Ms Granger and the poor sods crossing James Bond tonight.
“Here’s how this will go. Granger enters with Sasgary, Q stages a break-in, create a diversion and the ball should roll itself.”
Q wants to ask him to clarify because this plan is barely the skeleton of one, but when Ms Granger is about to speak up, walking out of the bathroom, the comm goes silent. She shuts her mouth, draws her eyebrows together, before she comes to a conclusion and she arches one of them instead.
“On the risk of sounding like an affronted teenager now but: Did he just hang up on us?”—she asks.
The Quartermaster sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “He has indeed.”—he affirms. Damn you, 007. “Is there anything I could maybe help you with?”
Just about to put in a pair of bangles, she stares directly into the camera. “What if complications arise?”
He wants to say that she’s in safe hands. That Bond will give his best to avoid such situations. And while the agent, indeed, does, misfortunes do come up with a regular basis on 007’s missions. And this agent in particular is rather fond of embracing them and literally rolling with the punches.
“007 tends to improvise on those occasions.”—he retorts drily.
Hermione nods once. “Happens often then.”
“More often than I can care for.”—he admits.
A snort tears him out of his concentration and he turns his head to find Eve standing in the door a humours smile and a quirked eyebrow on her face. He shrugs, turns back to the Big Screen.
“Ready for take-off.”—he announces, slips into another mode. Ms Granger takes a deep breath at the other side of the comm, grabs a matching clutch and exits her room. “Bit-tawfī' in ša' allāh.”***—he bids her and sees her surprised look when she steps into the elevator.
“I knew one of you heard me.”—she snorts in response and he allows for the levity that her amusement brings with it; she will need the relaxation for what is about to come. “In ša' allāh.”****—she agrees.
***
She does, he admits as he watches her enter on the arm of Sasgary, clean up rather nice. Bond takes a sip of his beverage – the ice-cubes melt too fast and water it down rather unfavourably, but he does not acknowledge this. His eyes are on the Junior Agent.
It is the simplicity of her garments that make her stand out first. A dark-grey skirt that slides against her lean legs, an elegant slit flashing bits of skin encased in high, black stilettos, now and then; accompanied by a white, soft blouse hinting at under-things, secured with an equally bright, slender belt.
Ms Granger looks unassuming, young. She looks, he reckons, her age.
“Target objective is in visual range.”—he supplies to Q, sipping on his watery drink again. All he has to do now is wait for the diamond to make an appearance and hope that Granger is a suitable distraction.
“As is Ms Granger, I presume.”—the Quartermaster sighs. “Ah yes, I have eyes on them. My, he is rather stocky…”—the man comments.
Bond supposes one could call it that. ‘Smaller than her’ – would also be an apt description, although that could be the stilettos. The Junior Agent makes a gesture towards the bar, turns to Sasgary – he gives her a pleased smile, and sends her off with a drink-order and a parting stroke down her flank.
He notes that she does not once pull a face and rather turns to give the man another insipid smile.
As she steers towards the bar, Bond watches Sasgary give her retreating form an overly appreciative stare and being complimented on his Companion for the evening by the surrounding men.
The Girl arrives at his side and gives the bartender a gentle smile.
“One Sazerac, please, and could you tell me what kind of Whiskeys you have?”
She plays the innocuous student perfectly well – a little overwhelmed by the location she finds herself in, a little too polite. On the other hand, however, Sasgary is not paying her enough attention for his plan to work, so, as she orders a Lagavulin, Bond sidles up to her.
“First time in the Embassy?”—he asks idly and the Junior Agent fakes a startled look, musters him from head to toe before she blushes and looks away.
“That obvious?”—she whispers.
Bond smiles indulgently. “Only to the trained eye of which… unfortunately there are many here.”—he lets her know, making a sweep over the room. He does have Sasgary’s attention though. “What brings a young Dame like you to this Assembly of boring old farts?”—he chances as she thanks the bartender for the drinks.
She goes for the Single Malt instead of the garish concoction that is the Sazerac – Bond contends that it is a ‘Gentleman’s Drink’, though not to his tastes.
“I was invited.”—she answers insipidly. “And while I had other plans… it was just too good an opportunity to pass by.”
“Jean.”
She turns and gives Sasgary a simpering smile as well as his drink. “Melkior.”—she salutes him with her glass, sips daintily from it. Bond doesn’t move from her side; not even when Melkior steps closer and into her intimate space.
“And you are?”
Bond grins a shark-like smile as he offers his hand. “Bond.”—he presents himself. “James Bond. I was just expressing to this lovely young lady my wonderment at her having deigned this Auction with her radiant beauty when the sheer boredom is detectable from miles away.”
Granger has the decency to blush again and hides her warming cheeks in a depreciative smile and a look at Sasgary. The man pulls his mouth together, displeased about somebody else realizing the beauty apparent that is his companion and having the gall to chat her up.
“Well, I imagine it must be the company she’s come in.”—Sasgary tries, puts his arm around Granger’s midsection. She cosies up without hesitation and smiles a little wider. He wonders when her cheeks will start to hurt.
“I have been promised good company.”—she agrees and the man at her side literally beams. Bond tilts his head and smiles a little amusedly before he salutes Sasgary.
“Hear hear.”—he contends and the two men take a drink before the Dealer whisks the Junior Agent away. Granger leaves with a last, almost lingering, look.
“Well played.”—Q lauds and Bond fights to not roll his eyes as he continues to watch Granger leave at the side of Sasgary.
“It is my profession, Q.”—he answers instead.
***
The Blackout comes at the perfect time.
Ms Granger is schmoozing up to Sasgary with great efficiency, liberally employing NLP techniques left and right, rewarding him for adequate behaviour with lingering touches and it is almost a joy to watch her play him so very thoroughly.
His Martini is just water by now but he keeps up the pretence of sipping at it, walking around the room occasionally to look at the exhibited oeuvres d’art but it takes the ‘man of the hour’ some time until he comes forth with the diamond.
When he finally does Q doesn’t waste a single second.
“Good to go.”—he signals; Bond nods and the lights go out.
***
Hermione curses as she ducks close to Sasgary in an attempt to appear both spooked and mousy but remain as close to the original diamond as possible. A shadow moves over the blank marble, shatters a vitrine – the alarm sets loose.
If it weren’t so effective she would frown at the crudeness of the staged ‘break-in’.
“Come along.”—Sasgary whispers in her ear and pulls her none too gently around a corner. She stumbles over the edge of a carpet and allows herself to be dragged along for the ride.
“I thought something like this would happen.”—the man explains himself under his breath as he guides her through the Embassy, away from the shrieking alarms. “So I took precautions. Unlike most of the idiots in there.”
He pulls up before a non-descript door and Hermione hopes that Q is somehow able to make her out in the darkness. “I have you.”—as if he’s read her thoughts the young Quartermaster soothes her.
She swallows. “You mean the diamond out there…?”
Sasgary turns, gives her a rakish grin. “Not the real deal.”
The door in front of them opens to reveal a supply room and the tanned man pulls them both in, closes the door behind them. Hermione can’t help but think that, in a real life scenario they would be sitting ducks. But behind them Bond is already bull-dozer-ing his way through the securities and towards them.
Her heart, beating doubly as fast ever since the running got her adrenaline up, slows at the implications. Because even if things went tits-up and even if Bond didn’t like her, she knows she could trust his competency as an Agent. He would not idly allow for her to become cannon-fodder, not as long as he could prevent it.
“Heh.”—Sasgary shows off the diamond, the facets glinting even in the dim, green lighting that the Emergency Lamps emit. For a moment she thinks about taking it from him, turning the tables, but then a shadow falls over them and she ducks out of reflex.
In the next moment the door splinters from its hinges, suffering the vicious kick that Bond delivers to it – Sasgary, shocked, raises his hands to shield his face, the diamond showing off and Hermione takes her chance.
Accio
Geminio
Bond has already started to engage and Hermione, shrieking, takes her chance, running off.
***
“I need her file.”
“Good evening to you too, 007.”
Bond enters the room, the door falling closed behind him with an audible bump – never silenced. He looks immaculate for just having returned from a rather successful mission; there are barely scratches on his face and the eye that should, on all accounts, be swollen is just barely blue.
His agent doesn’t even look chastised as he continues.
“I would ask for the prerogatives of a Supervising Officer in regards to Ms Hermione Granger, but I doubt they are going to be granted. Which is why I will not ask.”—there is at least his ability to draw the right conclusions quickly. “But if I am to train her properly I will need all the information I can get. Therefore I am asking for her file.”
Mallory doesn’t even hesitate.
***
She wakes up as alone as she has dropped into her bed; temporary protection charms set in place with a few negligent waves of her hand easily disguised even when constantly observed via hidden camera.
Something has woken her, though she cannot put her finger on the exact reason for her abrupt transfer into the land of the waking – but then, there it is again, the tingling of her magic around the tip of her right ring finger.
Hermione wiggles it, as if to dispel the sensation, before she swivels on her mattress, turning to dangle her feet from the bed and sink her toes into the fuzzy carpet next to it – her hand goes up, tangling into her mane and pushing it out of her vision before making to rub at her eyes, feeling the remnants of the make-up from last night.
She looks at her ring finger; finds it usually empty and takes another moment before she remembers why she had charmed her ring-finger to tingle. Given the fact that The Blonde Bampot had admitted her but half an hour back when they’d taken off, she has considered the possibility that he would go and try a similar thing once more and in true Hermione-fashion she’d decided to be one step ahead of him.
The tingle in her finger lets her know that he is farther than five kilometres from her. In a town like Cairo this should not be necessary during a routine meal run – which means Mr Bond has other plans entirely.
That is quite alright with her.
Because never let it be said that Hermione Granger lets herself be fooled twice – she, too, has plans.
But the moment she reaches for the comm provided by McCaoinnon it is already blinking in urgency and as she puts it in, she is putting up her hair at the same time and as she puts it in, Q is already greeting her with familiar tone.
“-inconsolable, Ms.”—he apologises and Hermione can think of at least ten things, of the top of her mind, that Bond might have done. She is certain she is prepared for the worst of it.
“Has he flown out of the country without me then?”—she calmly asks the young Quartermaster; it’s her leading theory and she’s quite certain that there could, relatively speaking, not be anything worse he could be doing to a run-of-the-mill Junior Agent.
“Well… uhhh… yes.”—Q sounds very apologetic indeed, immediately ventures to make certain that she knows he’ll do everything in his power to bring her back the quickest way possible.
She shrugs on her robe as she shakes her head. “Would you mind asking M if I were permitted to engage Protocol Sprenger Institoris, if you would please?”
“Um…“—Q does not sound very convinced about it, mostly because if M has kept his word then the younger man has not had a single report about it in his databases or on his desk. “He is currently in a meeting.”
“A quick text should suffice, Yes or No is all that is needed.”
It is the rules of conduct that in case of ignorance, be it of design or accident, the next superior is to be contacted for guidelines and it takes Q only a moment to recognize that this is such a moment for him; even though she is somewhat certain that he has not yet encountered such a situation.
It crosses her mind shortly that this might make him uncomfortable.
“It is sent off; estimate time ‘til response, five min-“
She cannot hear it, but it sounds like his prediction has been trumped by the quick fingers of one Gareth Mallory. Hopefully this will work out the way she has planned for it to.
“Permission granted.”
She has her bag in her hand within the next moment. “I promised you’d see something you hadn’t before.”—she smiles softly as she steps back into the main-room, into the view of the camera. “Let’s see if I can prove you wrong…”
Destination, she thinks, conjuring an image of Vauxhall – it’s close enough to the new quarters for her to find her way in good time; Determination, then, and damn it is she dead set on getting there – show up that idiot if she has the possibility; Deliberation, then, because putting too much emotion into it all can get her to splinch – so she reigns in the first beginnings of vengeful contempt bubbling up in her and clears her mind with a few breaths.
A turn on her heel and the next thing she consciously knows is opening her eyes to find herself in the remnants of Vauxhall. The comm in her ear is fried, but being prepared for similar instances gives her and advantage, and so she reaches for a hidden backpack in a corner, fishing for her cell-phone.
Vauxhall—is all she types in a text to a number that she should not have and ere she has found the next corner, Tanner comes around in a town-car.
“Ma’am.”—he greets her as he opens the door.
“Ms.”—she corrects him a little jauntily with slightly narrowed eyes – she is in grand favour of the clichéd politeness of her countrymen but even then it needs proper appliance. “And thank you.”
Judged by the surprised smile on his face, Bill Tanner does not hear these words often enough.
Q hands her a generous sum when she returns, it’s in a jar and Hermione has the perfect idea on how to use it.
***
James has the Lady on the hook. It is her second drink and she is enjoying herself if the unguarded language of her body says anything – and given the fact that she is a civilian with very little coaching in manipulating her gestures he’d say the likelihood of his going home with her this evening are rather high.
He turns for only a second and, because he focusses on the barkeep, misses the way that his neighbour’s eyes almost pop out of his skull just when a waft of chilled air announces a new arrival at the hole in the wall – what does not pass his notice is the way that the eyes of the man in front of him widen almost unperceptively.
When he follows his line of vision all he can see are the backs of two lovely women, one of them curiously familiar to him though it’s only when Ms Granger turns at the exit to give him one last glance that he realizes he has been played.
And judged by the Queen of Hearts she must have slipped under his glass when he had not been looking, he has been played well.
*kalb (arab.) – dog
http://arabic.desert-sky.net/animals.html
**Ahlan wa sahlan (arab.) – Hello, Welcome
ahlan bīk (arab.) – [The Response]
***Bit-tawfī' in ša' allāh (arab.) – lit. May God make you succeed.
****In ša' allāh (arab.) – If God wills.
http://arabic.desert-sky.net/greetings.html