M's Office

It would be difficult to say who was more surprised when 007 entered M's office, James Bond, who had been summoned via his pager and had no idea what the meeting would be about, or Tatiana Romanova, sitting demurely in a chair facing M and who had not seen 007 in over a year.

"I believe you two know each other," the Director of MI6 said as he re-lit his ever-present pipe.

"Hello, Tatiana," Bond said, reaching into his jacket for his cigarette case, opening it and offering a smoke to his former lover.

"Hello, James," Tatiana replied, selecting a cigarette and allowing him to light it for her. In those few seconds, and with that simple act, it was as if all the months had faded away and they were still bed partners.

"What do you know about Pierre-Paul Lamarque?" M asked 007.

"I know that is not his real name," Bond answered as he sat down in the other chair next to Tatiana's. "I can't recall what it is, but he was born in Russia, served in the NKVD at the start of the War, and later transferred over to SMERSH. Sometime after Khrushchev came to power, Lamarque showed up in the West, and was eventually recruited by S.P.E.C.T.R.E."

Bond took a drag off his cigarette, his bushy eyebrows knitting, and added, "But I thought he had gone underground after his face was splashed with acid. I can't recall reading or hearing anything about him in two... three years."

M nodded his head. "Yes, we thought Pavel Chadov had retired as well," he used Lamarque's real name. "But then he re-surfaced in southern France about three months ago. With that leather half-face mask he wears to cover his disfigurement, it is kind of hard to miss him."

"When he goes out in public," Tatiana spoke up. "Which is never."

Pointing towards the tall blonde with the stem of his pipe, M explained to Bond, "Miss Romanov has been working under-cover as an exotic dancer at a cabaret near Lamarque's residential compound for the past two months. Trying to make contact."

"An exotic dancer?" Bond grinned at Tatiana with arched eyebrows. She lowered her long eyelashes, and the area of her throat exposed by her open blouse pinkened.

"Do you have a problem with Miss Romanov's assigned duties, Commander Bond?" M asked in what the people at headquarters referred to as his quarter-deck voice. The slightly loud, no-nonsense tone he had used when he commanded a destroyer escorting convoys in the rough, storm-churned waters of the Battle of the Atlantic.

"No, sir, I do not," Bond set up ramrod straight. "I apologize for my frivolousness, Admiral." Turning his face to the former Soviet army cipher clerk, he said, "Please forgive me, Tatiana. I did not mean to disparage either your contributions or your sacrifices and risks. It was very foolish of me."

"Speaking of foolish," M returned to his normal conversational inflection, "Seems that Lamarque may have lost some of his sharpness during his sabbatical. Ten weeks ago the English Electric Company, Limited's research and development labs were burglarized. Nothing was taken, and their security was able to interrupt an intruder taking pictures of their latest rocket fuel. Seems that only half of the formula was photographed."

"And we believe Lamarque was behind it?" Bond asked.

"An intercept from the Russian Embassy in Paris to Moscow mentioned an offer for the formula had been put forth by the Citadel," M replied and paused for several seconds. "'Citadel' was the last known code-name the KGB used for Lamarque."

"Ah," Bond replied, the light bulb coming on.

"Which is where you come in, Edwin Norris," M jabbed the stem of his pipe in the air like a rapier at Bond. Flipping a switch on his desk intercom, he spoke into the speaker, "Miss Moneypenny, is the Armorer here yet?"

As if on cue, the man that Bond knew as 'Q', entered. "Hello, double-oh seven," he said, placing several items down on the corner of M's desk. "Here are your passport, driver's license, credit cards, season pass for the Leicester City Football Club, membership card for the Brooks's gentlemen's club," seemed that the flow of ID documents would never end. "All under the name of Edwin Norris. This is photograph of the second half of the formula," he hand him a glossy eight by ten. "And two thousand pounds in cash."

As Bond stashed the bills into his coat pocket, Q held out a clipboard for him to sign.

"Now here is something you might enjoy," Q held up a square clock, the type one would find on a nightstand. "It is a wind-up, but..." He produced an electric cord, "Plug it into an outlet and press the snooze button on top... And the camera built into it is activated." He tapped the glass covering the face plate. "Behind this center piece for the hands is the lens. On the back is what appears to be a dial for adjusting the speed of the clock. In fact, it sets how often a picture is snapped. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds, two minutes, and four minutes. At the thirty-second setting, there is enough film for one hour. Four minute intervals gives you eight hours. However," he indicated what appeared to be an off-on alarm switch. "In the 'off' position, pictures are taken at the rate you set. But in the 'on' position... The camera is activated by light. Turn a light on in the room, it begins taking timed photos. Turn the lights off, and the camera's timer stops."

Bond accepted the camera and turned it over in his hands, seemingly genuinely intrigued by it. When Q held out the clipboard for a signature once more, Bond signed while muttering, "Always the red-tape."

"That is the prototype," Q replied. "Knowing you, I will never see it again so I need a record."

Turning to M, Q asked, "Will that be all, sir."

"Yes, thank you, Armorer," M nodded, dismissing the department head. When the three were alone once more, M leaned forward on his forearms. "There's one more fly in the ointment. Which is why I summoned Miss Romanov for a face-to-face report. That formula was developed by the English Electric Company, Limited. Sometime during the middle of next week, an announcement will be made that a different formula developed by A.V.Roe and Company will be given the contract for actually manufacturing a new rocket fuel. The formula, or half a formula, that Lamarque possesses will be worthless to the Russians. So you have, seven, maybe eight days to trap Lamarque. If he agrees to purchase the second half of the formula, that will be enough evidence to arrest him and finally bring him to trial."

Turning to Tatiana, the Director of MI6 said, "I am afraid that I am going to have to ask you to return to your undercover job at the cabaret. If 007 has any questions about the locale, people, geography, he can contact you there."

"And listen you two," M smiled one of his rare smiles, "Only make contact when absolutely necessary. Her Majesty is not paying for a romantic holiday. It is only happenstance that I'm even assigning the job to you, 007, considering the history between you two. But with 008 in the Caribbean and 0011 in Japan..."

He arose, signaling the meeting was over, and shook hands, wishing them luck. On their way through the outer office, Miss Moneypenny handed airline tickets to Bond. His flight was at eight that evening.

Out on the street, Bond looked at his watch and told Tatiana, "I have enough time to take you to lunch and still get home to pack."

Linking her arm through his, she responded with, "Lead on, James. I am taking the boat-train back tomorrow night. Don't want to return too soon; it might look suspicious to my boss."

Over lunch at the Mirabelle restaurant in Mayfair, they chatted like old friends do, catching up on what they had been up to. Bond was honestly surprised that Tatiana did not have a steady man in her life, although he was happy to learned that the job the Government had found for her working for a Professor of Russian History at Oxford was going well... When she was not busy being a Secret Agent.

After lingering over coffee, Bond sighed with regret and announced. "I guess I can't put it off any longer. Time to pack and then once more into the breech." He waved for his bill. "Unless," he tilted his head in the manner Tatiana had often seen in their past, "You care to tag along and help?"

Her gaze lowered for just a moment before she looked up at him with her blue eyes sparkling. Again she slipped her arm around his, "Lead on, James."

***** ***** *****

Two hours later and the sheets of his king-sized bed were crumpled and damp with sweat. Clothing was strewn between the bedroom and the living room. The large silver cock-tail shaker was empty. The two lay propped up on fluffy pillows, smoking cigarettes, Tatiana nestled against Bond's bare side, his arm protectively around her shoulders, her long, lithe naked body on display. "We've got to get together when this is all over," he said emphatically. "And this time I am not going to let you slip through my fingers."

He turned onto to his side, facing her, and took her chin into his hand. The kiss was deep, prolonged, demanding, as if they had not made love twice already. Correction. The second time they had made love; the first time was sheer, unadulterated animal lust.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she welcomed him back to her body, spreading her legs and arching her back. "You'll miss your plane, James," she cautioned as he began to finger her. She really did not need any 'prepping'. Her vagina was awash with her juices and Bond's spent sperm from their other two bouts.

Rolling flat on her back, she received him with a sigh of contentment and completeness. Their well-toned bodies blending into one. Her long legs wrapped around his waist, imprisoning him within her. Hovering over her on his elbows, he stroked the sides of her face as he kissed her cheeks and eyelids. With a slow, corkscrewing motion of his hips, he moved back and forth within her. Feeling the clutching tightness of her vagina, Bond once again understood why the Czars always seemed to have a ballerina stashed away somewhere.

Suddenly, he chuckled and Tatiana looked up at him in puzzlement. He explained, "I should have set up Q's camera clock."

"Oh, no you don't," she slapped his shoulder. "You and I have had quite enough pictures taken of us in bed!"