Trust Tommy

Still working to a schedule! :)

Bond remembered his last encounter with Mr. White. He’d been standing over him with a machine gun in his hand, nothing should have gone wrong. But something had. Mr. White had pressed a button and a bomb had exploded sending Bond flying blackwards into the wall, knocking the breath out of him. He’d lain there, his ears ringing and his vision blurred. Having just regained his balance, he saw Mr. White had struggled into the boat by the jetty and was escaping. Bond had tried to fire the machine gun, but it just made a guttural, choking noise and refused to fire. He’d turned it over and seen a huge crack along the barrel of the gun. He’d cursed, a single four letter word made of pure hate. He’d ran back to his car and found, to his utter disbelief, that it refused to start.

Bond cursed himself for going into a daydream. He had a job to do. He didn’t have the right tools to put a trace on White’s car, but his own Jaguar had. he just worried that Mr. White would be gone by the time that he’d brought the car over here.

==back at the Gold member’s lounge==

“…and you’ll find a satellite navigation machine in the mercedes. It has directions to your target at Lyon. The car has a full tank of fuel in it so you should get about halfway before having to stop…” Mr. White paused a minute to sip some amber colored liquid. “…to refuel.”
“Once I plant the C4, where do I go?” asked the man in the hawaiian shirt. Juan Carlos was Portuguese, he was 34, and he’d been born with a medical condition which made the hair follicles go hay-wire. By age three he had a mullet of which the Beatles would have been proud of, and by 20 it was down to his waist. No matter how much he cut it the hair continued to grow. At the age of 25 he’d gone for surgery to remove the hair follicles, leaving only a few wisps of dead grey hair left.
“You’re in Lyon, take in the sights, eat the food, go to the beaches. What am I? A travel consultant?” Mr. White replied, losing patience.
Carlos went red. “Right boss”
Mr. White was gruff now. “Get going!”
Carlos stood up and left the lounge

==The Car Park==

Bond had circled the car a few times and had come up with a few interesting things. The licence plate was fake, the chassis belonged to a BMW and the engine was that of a Toyota. Most intriguing of all was a small box on the passenger seat marked with the “GARMAN” seal. He guessed what it was from its size.
He ducked down below the Merc as a lift door hissed open and the man he’d seen with Mr. White walked into the car park. Bond twisted and rolled under the Renault that was parked next door to the mercedes. He crouched down behind the bonnet and watched the man’s progress across the tarmac until he reached the car. He took a key out of his pocket and slotted it into the door. He turned it and was rewarded with a plip! plip! sound that all car manufacturers insist on putting on their cars, no matter how many letters they get telling them how annoying they are. He opened the door and Bond saw him sit in and insert the key into the ignition. He was running out of time! He realised how stupid he’d been to waste so much time. He’d have to make a decision, and quick. The man was gunning the engine! Bond suddenly saw a broken bottle underneath the Renault he’d taken refuge under. He ducked down and grabbed it, then threw it just in front of the back wheel. A second later the wheel began moving forward. It met the bottle and there was an almighty “BANG! as the tyre burst. The door flew open and the man jumped out, cursing at the top of his voice. He went around and saw the bottle. Grimly, Bond smiled to himself. As Carlos bent down. Bond ducked down by the boot of the Renault and began calculating distances. Carlos then disappeared into a Hertz office to try and get someone to help change the tyre. Bond saw his chance. He ran behind the Mercedes and slipped the boot open. It wasn’t ideal, and if he opened it he’d be rumbled, but at short notice it was all he could do. He clambered in and shut the door behind him. He had a sudden idea and pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and pressed the “ON” switch. It flickered into life and he began keying in a number. +442078784257801*. It rang twice before being answered. 801 meant the first office on the 8th floor in Universal Exports, A.K.A Military Intelligence 6, or MI6, and the office in question belonged to M’s secretary, Moneypenny, and it was she who answered.

“Hello?” her voice was kind, and had a motherly quality. Bond had been away for six weeks. He’d forgot how beautiful it sounded.
“Moneypenny, be a dear…”

* NOT a real number. Not only is it not Mi6′s number, it’s not a proper UK one either!