HIS MAJESTY'S SECRET DISSIDENT (PART 2)

M always deployed a moment of contrived awkward silence before speaking to Bond in his office, as if he still naively believed the old MI6 interrogation methods he’d learned as a field agent would even remotely work on his most seasoned operative. Bond enjoyed meeting M's fixed stare with his own and would wait patiently to see his boss finally falter by blinking first.

Only then would M get down to the business at hand.

"We're worried about you, Bond. The Russians have revealed that they intercepted communications from several disposable phones they believe one of our agents—i.e., you—has used over the past year."

"Fake news, M. They're bluffing. More likely, it’s some AI bot that thinks it's a British secret agent."

"Well, real or fake, the transcripts have been leaked to the press, and they're going to cause an almighty stir domestically. Questions about our agents' allegiance to King and Country have been raised, and frankly, these are concerns I've held myself for quite some time. The new PM has already encouraged greater internal surveillance of our operatives, and I'm afraid these leaks have done nothing to quell suspicions."

Bond covered a yawn with his hand, which immediately offended M, who banged his fist on the dark mahogany table.

"Damn it, Bond. Stop being so laissez-faire. I could just as easily interpret that yawn as a confession."

"It's your office, M. It’s stuffy and airless, and you should know by now I generally prefer being outdoors and far, far away from this type of building. That’s why, outside of you calling me in, I never venture here on my own. I personally don’t know how you do it all day, every day."

M stood up from his chair, feeling self-conscious that Bond was judging him for being an office man, and looked out the window at the slowly waking city below.

"It’s called duty, if you must know. We can’t all be digital nomads like you."

"Digital?" Bond raised an eyebrow, suspecting M was trying to catch him out but refusing to take the bait.

"Well, you may as well take a look and see if any of it rings any bells. Alarm bells."

Bond winced at M’s attempt at humor and slid the printed pages toward him. As he shuffled through each page, M listened intently for any audible sign of Bond's discomfort but found none, only a dry and clipped laugh, as if someone had told him a bad joke at a dinner party and he’d pretended to find it amusing.

"Laughing at your own jokes, Bond?"

"Laughing at whoever wrote this. This reads more like a bad spy novel."

M turned away from the window.

"Well, some might say the same of you—especially if you're leaving such obvious footprints for our enemies to find."

Bond had already read enough to look at M directly, his expression free of guilt, as he stood up from his chair.

"Don’t waste my time, please, M. I'm getting older, and falling for cheap hoaxes is beneath you. You shouldn’t be wasting printer ink so freely."

There was something about Bond's smirk that finally tipped M over the edge, and he raised his voice in a way he hadn't in years—not since their last big blowout over a failed mission in North Africa.

"You think this is so funny, don’t you? Well, how funny do you find the idea of me suspending you with prejudice?"

"It wouldn’t be the first time."

"However, it may just be the last time. And don’t think we won’t be watching you, Bond. We have a new generation coming through that can tell me how many martinis you've had since January and how many times you've blacked out—which you’ll no doubt tell me was due to your end-of-mission release from last year’s escapade in Caracas. But loose lips don’t just sink ships, Bond—they can sink intelligence agencies as well. I want you to forget about work until we’ve gotten to the bottom of these communications and determined whether or not you’re the author of them."

Strangely, Bond quite liked the idea of having more time off, so he felt no different than if M had ordered him to take a holiday.

"Well, I'm sure you'll let me know what my future holds once you've determined the truth about those leaks. In the meantime, I'll find something to do with my spare time."

M attempted to match Bond's steely stare but failed once again.

Bond left his office with the same awkward silence M had greeted him with.

Outside MI6, Bond decided to walk along the South Bank in search of coffee and breakfast, and to finally get around to booking his flight to Italy. He was pleased with his poker-faced performance with M in the office but knew, deep down, he’d messed up. He would need to consider the repercussions of the agency's findings if they concluded he was, in fact, the author of those comments. His complacency with drinking had led to these stupid mistakes, and he would need to properly sober up if he was to avoid any further, similar missteps.

Standing on Waterloo Bridge and gazing across the Thames, Bond reached into his jacket pocket for his hip flask and took one final swig before tossing it into the muddy water below. Then, watching the darkening November skies gather over the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, he couldn't help feeling a sense of foreboding for both himself and the country’s future. Although he always reserved a measure of stiff-upper-lip pragmatism to avoid falling prey to complete nihilism, he was reaching the dregs of his supply.

Bond needed to repair himself, and only a break from the country he served would offer the necessary recuperation of mind, body, and morale.

As he heard the tolling bells of St. Paul’s nearby, Bond felt a sudden reminder of what he had risked his life for all these decades. It was an ancient call that he imagined had rung through his many incarnations as a defender of the realm.

And in that moment, he wished he hadn’t tossed his hip flask—his sudden flight of grandiosity seemed to need a toast. He could already feel his mouth going dry, and it would only get drier soon. He would need to find something else to keep him occupied, for fear of making any more mistakes.

Chiara.