Bond

The blonde is proving to be a font of information when it comes to intel, if not of the kind Bond usually goes for. She seems to be aligned with the group belonging to Hawley's would-be partner, and an accountant by choice and conviction; some analyst in MI-6 will have a field day with the information, should Bond ever be in a position to pass it on.

Her enthusiasm is straight out of a recruitment brochure, but then again, this is a meeting of two businesses trying to convince each other that they are a sound investment.

"Quantum is far more than just a company," she insists. "It's a lifestyle choice. You'll soon see that, Mr. …?"

Bond smiles politely at the question, lifts his glass of champagne in a toast and turns away before he can succumb to the temptation to grind his jaw. Must be a reaction to the name - although shouldn't he be immune to those, even here in Venice? – that causes him to collide with the man who had moments ago been standing beside Lady Hawley.

The man's eyes are oddly warm; his accent vaguely central European.

"You are not supposed to be here, Mr. Bond. Did you not get my messages?"

Before Bond can respond, the man raises his wrist and speaks into a mic hidden inside his sleeve.

"He's here. Tell Thompson she's useless now. Pass it on."

Bond instinctively lashes out, but he strikes thin air as the man melts back into the crowd; the space he has vacated is filled with someone large, solid, and armed. Bond immediately places a kick to the hand carrying the gun, taking some small satisfaction when he can feel several metacarpals break under his heel.

Heel. Right. The problem with brandnew toys, they're easy to forget.

There's a sudden commotion around where Barton had been standing, and … Bugger.

They've both been made, it appears. The problem, when you get too good at your job, is that people remember you.

"Don't touch my hearing aid, you fucker," he can hear Barton shouting; seems he hasn't forgotten his new toy, and hopes someone will help him play with it. For a second, Bond wonders whether anyone could be that stupid, that they'd walk into such an obvious and yawning trap. But people are, as demonstrated by far too many election results.

And so, expecting Barton's ploy to work, Bond grabs the nearest thug – there are several converging on him now – twists his neck and puts the still-twitching body between himself and the place where Barton's voice had come from. From Hydra to human shield; there's a certain poetic justice in that, all things considered.

Sure enough, the next thing he hears is Barton's unmistakable raspy tenor, shouting the magic word.

"Boom."

…..

Natasha

"This place gives me the creeps."

The voice echoes in the empty corridor, originating somewhere further up. Almost gratefully, Natasha shakes the cobwebs out of her mind and forces herself back into the here and now.

The voice is followed by a second one, whose owner is trying a little bit too hard to sound nonchalant.

"What. Lack of maid service freakin' you out?"

The first speaker isn't interested in testosterone one-upmanship though. His voice cracks, and he refuses to rise to the bait.

"C'mon, you know bloody well what I mean. What if there really is ghosts here? That howling earlier…"

There's a sound of a creaking floorboard as someone moves around.

"And to top it all off, the cell service 'ere is fucking erratic. Complete fucking crickets, right now."

"Yeah. Who you gonna call?" The other man cackles at his own wit, somewhat defensively. There's a brief pause, after which he makes an admission. "But yeah. This place sucks. Wonder why Number One insisted on stashing that chick here, of all places?"

The opportunity for the development of interesting theories evaporates in the footfall of heavy boots coming up the corridor.

"We may have an intruder," a grating new voice says. It sounds a bit out of breath, as if its owner has been running. Maybe, in the absence of cell service, the gang should invest in drums? "Stay sharp, folks."

"Bond?" the second man asks.

His question is followed by silence, which Natasha interprets as the shaking of a head or a shrug.

"Gino saw a boat," the newcomer says. "Not sure if it landed here; it was a fair ways away. But the wake came from Poveglia."

Well, that answers the question about the tower, then.

"Could be just tourists, sneaking a peek."

"Here? After sunset? Don't be a moron. No one comes here. Not even for selfies. They're afraid of what might show in the photographs."

Ah yes, the ghosts of Poveglia.

Natasha decides to put them out of their (and her) misery; better to take out small numbers at a time, and three is something she can handle easily.

Of course, when she makes her way into the room from which the voices had emanated, there are actually five men – two of whom had obviously chosen not to participate in the conversation.

Rookie mistake, she chides herself mentally, as she unloads two of her stingers on the two men most likely to be reaching for their guns in time. A well-placed kick to the larynx of the one closest to her sends him gurgling to the floor. He hasn't quite hit the ground yet when she turns to take her shoulder to one of his remaining comrades, who'd made the mistake of stepping towards her. Ducking a little, she uses his own momentum to lift him in the air, keeping a hold of his arm in the process. A little twist, a scream, a kick to the back of his head and he won't be a problem for a few minutes – at least not while she disposes of the fifth occupant.

The last man proves a bit more of an obstacle, as it turns out. Not because he outweighs Natasha by about a hundred pounds (he does), or because he is armed (he is - they all are). No, the problem is that he is sitting down. He is turning, of course, to see what the commotion is all about, but his back is shielded by the chair, a foldable metal number. Natasha does a quick calculation before hurling herself in the air with a half twist, kicking him with both feet – chair and all – into the table where he'd been peeling himself an apple.

She braces herself against the ground with both arms, flips upright again, and strides over to the chair while reaching into her tac suit for a garrote. A quick loop over his neck – he is still trying to extricate his legs from under the cheap Formica table – and he should be ready to talk.

"The girl," she growls. "Where is she?"

Because, frankly, the last thing Natasha wants to do in this place is search it, cavity for bone-filled cavity.

"F-f-fuck you," he grates out, his vocal chords too compressed to give his curse any authority.

"Not a chance," she replies, tightening the wire to show him just how limited his options are. A thin line of blood appears on his neck, and his legs kick out involuntarily as he tries to suck in air that won't come. "You're not my type."

She releases the pressure for a moment. The first rule of getting someone to talk: You actually have to give them a chance to use their vocal chords. And who knew – he takes it.

Definitely not Hydra - none of that two-heads-are-better-than-mine mantra for this minion.

"Tower," he croaks, eager to cooperate.

"Thank you. Smart boy."

She pulls out her Glock and gives him, as well as the man who'd tried to rush her, a quick, well-silenced tap to the back of the head; no point in leaving survivors to raise the alarm, or to get back up and in her way. After Hydra's attempt at world domination, Natasha is fresh out of humanitarian exemptions (for anyone other than civilians).

She takes a quick look around the room. It's larger than some of the others she'd passed getting here; probably a former operating station, judging by its size, the rusted-out gurney whose upholstery has been gnawed apart by nesting rodents, and some loosely strewn cabinets. No one has bothered to sweep the floor of its debris, but the half-dozen or so foldable chairs are clearly new, as are the handful of sleeping pallets on the floor.

Minion Central?

She hesitates for a moment to see whether the commotion has attracted attention. If five of them are in what passes for a common room, it suggests ten more on what passes for duty, at least. A ratio of 2:1 on active watch would be normal for S.H.I.E.L.D., but thugs don't usually operate to labour code so there could conceivably be more.

Especially given they're expecting Bond. Say what you will about the guy's approach to women, he's no slouch in the fighting department, and the people who went to some lengths to try and lure him here are probably aware of that fact.

Nothing is stirring, and Natasha decides to venture back out in the corridor, following a quick glance in either direction.

Nothing.

It's interesting, she reflects, that in the context of criminal enterprises that literally span the globe – not to mention a decades-old conspiracy founded on political subversion, medical experimentation and a penchant for the occult – someone would spend such extensive resources in a mere kidnapping? And not even for ransom.

Distraction, Hawley had called it, and really, it shouldn't compute. Except – of course it does. The more powerful and diversified the criminal mastermind, business tycoon or politician, the pettier their obsessions, Natasha has learned. Once you control much, the need to control everything seems to become second nature, and woe to the minor obstacle, the occasional screw-up, or the dissident voice.

It doesn't matter how much money is involved or how much power; however large the ambition may be - in the end, everything comes down to the personal. In fact, throughout much of Natasha's own professional life, both inside the Red Room and afterwards – before Clint, before S.H.I.E.L.D. – she'd benefitted handsomely from that pathology.

Which of course begs the question to what extent her actions of the last few minutes may fall into a similar category, no matter how rationally she can explain them to herself? Is anyone truly immune against humanity's basest instincts and desires, such as hatred, lust, or vengeance? Certainly not the Black Widow, raised to feed on the darkest shadows of the human psyche.

She shakes off the thought. Now isn't the time for self-analysis. Let others do that, once the great Hydra/S.H.I.E.L.D. data dump has been mined.

The more immediate question is this: Who is it that Bond has pissed off so much that they would jeopardize a perfectly rational merger of criminal empires, with a sideshow of "come out, come out, wherever you are?"

Unless, of course, the two events are unrelated? Maybe the abduction of Eve Moneypenny had been a long-standing plan, and Hawley's new business-oriented track towards world domination simply come up in parallel, precipitated by the misfire in Washington?

First things first: Extraction. Then analysis - if there's time.

Natasha has reached the end of the corridor, finding herself looking at a wooden door that is not only half off its hinges, but also missing a couple of boards. Not much by way of cover, but she steps out behind it regardless, using one of the gaps to survey the outside while she is at least partially hidden from view.

There is a small, cobble-stoned plaza between the building she is in and the famous (or infamous) clock tower, the distinctive look of which tells passing ships that yes, this is indeed the Island of The Dead. The moon is up, and in its light she can see that vegetation is growing out between the stones; in a couple of spots they have cracked completely, allowing small shrubs and even trees to spring up.

The entrance to the tower is open; remnants of the brickwork that may once have rendered it inaccessible lie scattered amidst the ivy. Natasha looks up, to the top of the tower.

Sure enough, there is movement in the top window, and a glint – first of metal, then glass, in the light of the gibbous moon.

Time to let the dead of Poveglia have their say.

…..

Barton

The blast from Clint's multi-purpose hearing aid seems to have knocked Bond off his feet; didn't the guy understand the warning? Bond is on his back for a moment, but then recovers his wits and pushes what looks like a very useful corpse off his chest. The other thugs surrounding him were taken by complete surprise and form something like a human wall around him, felled where they'd stood.

Clint looks at the bodies in his vicinity, to see if there's any twitching. One of them is wearing an odd signet ring, carved with a strange symbol, a bit like the Hydra octopus but not quite. One of the others has it too.

Business logo? Class ring for the Fortune 500?

But before he can take a closer look a bullet nearly grazes his cheek; not everyone is down, and curiosity will have to wait, especially if you can't hear fuck all.

Clint rolls and dives behind a fallen cocktail table to try and figure out the source of the shot. The room looks like the landscape around Mount St. Helens after the eruption – people flattened in every direction, outward, from a clear epicenter.

Straight EMP blast, no fragment dispersal. Cute, Q. Bond's dinner jacket seems to be pretty pristine and white, still – a design feature?

Clint's, of course, is a complete disaster, having flung himself to the ground to cover his ears. He's got more to lose than anyone here, especially with one of his hearing aids now shredded into atoms, and machismo is for morons. He fires a round in the direction where the earlier shot had come from. Not worth bothering to look whether it hit.

On the dais, Lady Hawley is a crumpled heap of Chanel, mic still clutched in her hand, like a talisman. The man who'd been listening to her speechifying is nowhere in sight.

Clint points his gun at the last of his erstwhile political masters. A couple of them were decent people, Tasha had said. Both dead now.

Hawley's hands are scrabbling through pieces of a chandelier. The shards of glass running through her fingers glint in the remaining light like diamonds.

Money.

All this, for the money.

Sell this, buy that, hire folks for a penny, throw them away and don't pay your bills. Get politicians on your payroll so the law can't touch you, and gloat as you let them play a global game of Risk.

Party with those who start wars, sell guns to all sides to make sure they last, and when it's over, sell bricks and glass to the people whose lives you destroyed. And they'll be grateful for it, too, what with the gracious fundraisers and sorrowful speeches that pave the way for the next round of fun.

Good thing Stark had gotten out of that business when he had. There but for the Grace of God …

Hawley looks up, and straight into Clint's eyes. Her mouth forms a perfect, surprised little "O", as round as the barrel of his gun.

"Officially, you're already dead," he says. "I'm just setting the record straight. Hydra believes in order, I'm told."

The single shot coincides with the one Bond fires at another guest, who'd apparently been making a stupid move.

"Time to leave!" he hollers at Clint. It's more of a command than a question, and a lucky thing too, because Clint's hearing is down to fifty percent and polite requests would be a non-starter. (A minor conceptual flaw in Q's gadget, that.) Bond makes the universal 'vamos' gesture with his thumb; obviously, he's figured this out for himself.

Of course, there are numerous obstacles between them and the exit; guards not exposed to the effects of the blast are starting to pour into the room. Time for Bond to up Clint's party trick with a bit of Q-magic of his own.

"Cover, Toto," he snarls. He waits for a split second to make sure Clint heard him, pivots to reduce the likelihood of friendly fire, and clicks his heels.

The effect is a bit like when Stark had pulled the plug on the Chitauri. There are gasps and people frantically grabbing at the spots where those tiny arrows made contact, but their fingers curl and stiffen almost immediately. A dozen or so men fall at the same time, in a grotesquely choreographed danse macabre.

Clint had no idea Q's imagination could be this … dark. Wouldn't poisoned arrows be covered by the laws against chemical weapons? Truth is, though, right now he doesn't really care.

And neither does Bond, apparently. He tells Clint to step back and clicks his heels again, this time aiming the volley up the marble staircase. The grand marble steps are littered with bodies by the time Clint gets to collect his bow and quiver from the surprisingly intact statute.

He can't help but gloat a little.

"Told you no one would notice. Plain sight is a wonderful thing."

He lets fly a couple of well-placed arrows into the stairs leading up to the roof; the effect rivals that of Q's hearing aid, and with better targeting. Squinting at the plaster dust, Bond pulls a slumped body aside and heads out to the roof.

"You got something in that quiver of yours that will pull the plug on the place and let it drown?" he asks.

It's a decent enough palazzo, probably been standing here for five hundred years or so, but Clint isn't feeling the need to preserve history right now. Plus, who knows what logistical infrastructure is hidden inside – maybe they can burn a couple of purchase orders for North Korean nukes along with the house.

"You mean, give new meaning to Hawley's idea of a 'housing boom'? I like the way you think, Bond."

Clint waits until they're a couple of buildings over - no point going down with the ship. With a gracefully arcing arrow, he sinks a shot into the roof top opening they'd used to enter and exit Hawley's lair.

"Ever watch those really old Star Wars movies?" he asks Bond, as a dull thud echoes through the narrow calles of the Dorsoduro. "Hawley and that Count of hers really shouldn't have left that hatch open. You never know what'll fly in."

A sudden fireball whooshes over the ancient roofs. Bits of building shoot into the sky like fireflies, only to be swallowed by the waters with a hissing sound. The bigger ones continue to glow for a moment as they go down.

There's a grim look on Bond's face as he watches the fire taking hold in the ancient timber frame, and the flames licking into in the dark waters with a hissing sound. But there's no time to be wasted.

"This isn't a movie, James. Let's get to that death island of Natasha's before your Moneypenny joins the ghosts."

"She's not my Moneypenny," Bond says automatically, convincing no one.

But before they turn away, Clint notices the dark outline of a small boat, leaving the back landing and heading into the Grand Canal. The ripples of its wake make the water look like dancing flames.

…..

Moneypenny

The drugs have worn off, their stupefying effect replaced by a throbbing headache.

No point in letting her captors know that, of course. Eve hasn't been a field agent for some time now, but she remembers the rules, and Rule One (after 'Don't Panic') is 'Never act without first collecting some basic information'.

Eve keeps her head hanging down, even though her neck muscles are starting to complain, and scans the room from under hooded lids.

She can see four pairs of legs without turning her head. Given the dimensions of the two walls that are visible from where she is sitting, propped in a corner, this is a small room. So, four people is likely it.

James Bond might like those odds; Eve does not.

She has no idea how long she's been awake. The lengthening of the shadows caused by the cracks in the door suggests maybe two hours? Three? It's dark now.

Heavy boots come trampling down nearby stairs. A lot of stairs, with tight turns. Maybe this is some kind of tower? He shouts something about a possible intruder, alerting the others, and keeps going, leaving the door open.

Someone is coming. Who?

Bond?

Too much to hope for. Besides - how would he even know where she is? Or be allowed to care? Of all the fish MI-6 has to fry right now, Eve Moneypenny is surely the one most like a minnow, and surely M won't dispatch her top asset to retrieve a glorified secretary? Moving on.

Intruder. The voice had said 'intruder'. Intrude into what?Where is this place?

The breeze coming in now - the first fresh air Eve remembers smelling in what seems like ages - carries the salt of the sea. It's also warmer than she remembers, by several degrees. She softly, quietly deepens her breath, trying to drive out the residual narcotic with this gift of oxygen.

"You'd think they'd pick an island with fucking cell service," one of the men in the room grouses. The telltale click-clack of someone checking a magazine and clicking it back into place reverberates in the small room. "Boss tried to call a few minutes ago, I think. All I got is fucking static."

Heavily armed. Goody. Also: Island. The information is just flooding in…

"The dead don't need no cell tower, Thompson," one of the other men cackles, although there's an odd nervousness to his laughter.

For a moment, Eve's pulse quickens. The dead? Are they talking about her? But then, why use the singular? She forces herself to breathe evenly. Don't panic.

If they wanted to kill her, they'd have done so already. Everyone knows the British Government doesn't pay ransom. Too many beheaded hostages prove that point; that market has dried up. That leaves …

Bait. She's being used as bait. But for what?

Eve tentatively tests her restraints, concentrating on minimizing her movement. Zip ties, the cheapskate approach to bondage the world over. Surprisingly effective though, impossible to rip, and won't biodegrade for at least 600 years.

Bugger.

"Any word?"

Another one of the goons sounds a little nervous. What are they all so afraid of?

"Did you hear someone come in and report? Or a phone ringing? No? Then the answer is no, Einstein. We wait. Be ready. And I don't mean for ghosts."

The man who just spoke spits on the ground, presumably to editorialize on the other's intelligence, gets up and heads for the direction of the stairs. Eve is beginning to appreciate the blindfold exercises MI-6 puts its field agents through; it's been a few years, but those listening skills sure come in handy.

Ghosts?

"You see anything?" the man hollers up the stairs.

"Negative," comes the muffled answer. "Place could use some fucking streetlights."

There's silence for a while, and Eve focuses on her body. Nothing appears to be broken, but her wrists are chafed from the ties and her shoulders ache from having been forced to stay in the same position for Lord knows how long. Her stomach is empty, and her mouth dry; obviously feeding and watering their hostage is not a huge priority.

Maybe. Time to test things out, and talk.

"Water?" she croaks, her voice sounding worse that she'd thought. "Please?"

"Lookie here who's up."

One of the men moves in her direction.

"What's orders, boss?" he asks. "Do I give 'er some?"

There must be a shrug, because there's a short pause before "Boss" (Thompson?) responds.

"Can't hurt," he says. "Maybe it'll even pay to be nice, place like this."

You don't say. Placate those 'ghosts', maybe? What the hell is this 'place'?

Eve can feel the body heat of the man as he gets close to her. She lifts up her head and opens her lips as a bottle is pressed against them. She drinks eagerly, not caring that some of the water runs down her chin; hope is based on moments like this.

Even better, the sudden movement of her head dislodges the blindfold a little – it must have been in the same place for a long time while she was out - and she can see a ghostly green light flickering the darkness, just outside the open door.

Light. Intruder. Extraction?

"The fuck?" one of her captors growls, echoed by shots from somewhere up high (the top of the tower?) There's a small hiss, followed by a scream, and silence. Eve hopes that means what she thinks it means. The men in the room with her reach for their weapons.

The guy who had given her the water straightens, turns a little too fast, and loses his balance. Eve rolls her legs a little and moves them over against his feet as he tries to keep himself from falling, then pushes – not so much that he'd notice, just helping gravity along, really. Oops. He goes down heavily, even as his buddies head for the door.

Eve turns her head to the wall she's been leaning up against, and, with nobody's eyes on her, rubs the blindfold against it. May as well see what's coming, and be as helpful as possible while hogtied and sitting on the floor. Sloppy workmanship has its benefits; she manages to get one eye free.

What she sees through the piece of open door that is in her field of vision reminds her of a horror movie - a row of human skulls, with a green glow emanating from their hollow eyes.

A very old, very bad horror movie.

Her captors don't seem to care, though. The three closest to the door open fire with an eagerness that to Eve seems close to desperation (or a release of pent-up emotions?). They barely even bother to take cover behind the frame, heedless of the target they present to whatever is out there in the night.

Bones are splintering in every direction as one of them manages to hit the target; the green light stays on.

"Fuck, guys, it's fake! Gotta be that Bond guy!"

Bond? The sudden burst of adrenaline that surges through Eve's body drives out all the residual fatigue and drug-induced cobwebs, and the scene in the room resolves into one of crystalline clarity, in which everything happens in small motion.

The shooter's epiphany is short-lived. He flies backwards, his own skull cracked open by a distinctly non-ghostly bullet. More gunfire, and the other two are down; they never even had the chance to dive for cover behind the wall.

Water bottle man is back on his feet, reaching for his gun just as a shadow darkens the door. Even with only one eye open, Eve realizes that the shadow doesn't look anything like Bond, but she makes a quick decision: The enemy of my enemies … Lifting her legs high and using the back of the wall to push against, she launches herself forward as best she can and plants both of her zip-tied feet into the back of his knees.

He screams a curse and stumbles forward, but his movement is interrupted by a well-placed heel that connects with his chin. He flies backward in an arc that would be almost balletic, had it not ended with his skull cracking against the wall; he slides down, limply, on top of the water bottle he had held to Eve's lips just a few moments ago. The whole sequence makes him look like a puppet, being jerked around by unseen strings. For a moment, she feels a spot of pity.

But only for a moment.

"Top of the tower," she says, and her voice sounds better than it did before. "Not sure how many are left. One came down a while ago, to warn others. Of you, I assume."

She recognizes the voice that answers her almost immediately. Romanoff.

"I think we're good. I make ten in total. Unless you noticed any more?"

Ten. She says it as if it's a statistic, the end of a working day - not nine lives, gone.

Eve briefly searches her conscience for regrets, or even just a qualm, but finds only a disquieting sense of satisfaction. Is that what Bond feels, when he comes out of an op? And the other field agents? People like Barton? Is that what makes M who she is?

Whatever it is, looking at the four corpses in the small room, Eve wants none of it. At least not from this close up, thank you very much, and if that makes her a hypocrite, given who she works for, then that's perfectly fine.

What was it that M had told the Committee on Security and Intelligence:

Though We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are.

And Eve Moneypenny, former field agent, will be perfectly happy to return to her desk and lead others to people the world could do better without, and leave the killing to them. After a long, hot shower that is, a couple of drinks and a decent night's sleep.

But for now, there are courtesies to be followed.

"Thanks," she says, and means it, as Romanoff slices through those bloody zip ties with a knife made for purposes Eve can only imagine (and would rather not). And, just because, she asks, "Where's James?"

Romanoff gives a little smile, and flicks the knife back into a place in her skin-tight outfit that doesn't look like it should be able to conceal a weapon.

"Bond?" She looks at Eve's face as if she were reading a book, and there's a little gleam in her eye when she says, "Wreaking havoc in Venice with Clint, I suspect. He really wanted to be here, but I talked him out of it. With any luck, your friends here left us a boat so we can meet them at the airport."

Well, then.

Eve flexes her fingers and wriggles her shoulders in an attempt to restore circulation; the tingling as soon as she'd been freed had come as an unwelcome surprise. She follows the other woman out of the tower, both of them carefully stepping around the dead bodies of her captors.

And suddenly, the astonishing impact of those green skulls makes a lot more sense, and Eve develops a whole new appreciation for her rescuer.

The place they emerge into is a nightmare of fallen bricks, crumbled stone and grasping vegetation – decay personified, whose ambience of dread is only increased by the light of the moon. And the skulls? Are real.

"Spook central," Romanoff confirms, although her voice isn't as firm as maybe it could be. "This place is basically a mortuary. The Plague Island, the locals call it."

No wonder the thugs who'd held her had been acting as if they were suffering from terminally frayed nerves. There's an un-definable, heavy atmosphere here that seems to suck the energy out of life. Eve looks up at the tower, where a limp body is hanging halfway out of the single window, high up, and at the dilapidated buildings on the far side.

"What about you," she asks. "You came here out of your own free will. Aren't you afraid of ghosts?"

There's a brief silence before Natasha answers.

"Only my own."

…..

M

There is really no other way to put it: The latest joint operation between MI-6 and S.H.I.E.L.D. appears to have been an unqualified success. It is unfortunate, of course, that it took the dismantling of the latter to finally achieve this remarkable feat.

The debrief had gone about as well as any one of these things ever do.

Moneypenny had been very clear, as usual, but possessed of very little substantive knowledge of the actual operation, given she had spent most of it unconscious. Inconvenient, to say the least, but Moneypenny's lack of knowledge had allowed her to go for the required medical check-up early.

Bond had reported and answered any question in monosyllables, but at least his references to Venice had been free of the self-loathing he had affected since the death of Vesper Lynd. Perhaps rescuing Moneypenny and blowing up a building linked to the Quantum operation has reconciled him to the continued existence of La Serenissima? Still, he had seemed pre-occupied, constantly looking over at Moneypenny, and his report had been somewhat less than fulfilling.

Barton, as usual, had said nothing at all, just looked at his fingernails as if he were contemplating a manicure, when not staring at his partner.

That now leaves Natasha Romanoff to do the talking, and M to suppress her distaste for the former assassin. Romanoff, to her credit, is relatively forthcoming and delivers a clipped, factual summary of the high (and low) points of their joint investigation, assessment, and follow-up actions.

M finds herself obliged to harrumph a bit during the part involving the Houses of Parliament, lest she allow herself an inappropriate laugh. For someone whose very job is the defense of democracy, she does not, truth be told, have much use for its elected representatives. The complaints she had received from both Houses over the nighttime intrusion had been irksome, to say the least. It had given her no little pleasure to note that parliamentary security was the bailiwick of the aptly named Parliamentary Security Department, in conjunction with the Metropolitan Police, not that of MI-6.

When Romanoff is done, it is clearer than ever to M that there is much left to be considered - but not in the presence of field agents, or even that of her assistant. She surreptitiously checks the blinking light on her phone.

Perhaps it is gratitude for finally getting a briefing that does not amount to pulling wisdom teeth by hand; perhaps it's the fact that Romanoff had saved her from having to look for a new assistant; or perhaps she is just getting soft in her advancing age. No matter; M comes to a conclusion that, only a couple of years before, she might not have reached.

Maybe, sometimes sharing information without expecting something in return is not such a bad idea. She reaches for the file folder on her desk.

Covered in Cyrillic script and worn with age, it had come that morning by courier, from the MI-6 Station Chief in Kyiv. Not exactly what they had asked for, but certainly on topic with regard to recent events in Washington.

"Miss Romanoff," she says, "I assume you and Mr. Barton will be returning to the United States?"

Romanoff and Barton exchange a quick glance, and nod in unison.

"In that case, you may wish to take this with you. Your Captain Rogers will find the contents of particular interest, if somewhat disturbing."

Romanoff takes the folder, opens it, and flips through it. Her mouth opens slightly and her forehead furrows as she reads. Barton watches her like the proverbial … well.

"We've got to get this to Steve," she says, her voice husky.

Barton shrugs.

"'Kay. Time to go home anyway. I could really use a heart-to-heart with Stark about some of the company he used to keep. And then we need to find ourselves a new job."

"Maybe you could combine those things," Bond injects helpfully. "Stark's rolodex should make for months of entertainment. Good luck."

The conversation is drifting away from the necessary. M rises from behind her desk. Time to be gracious, and be done.

"I suppose I should thank you for saving Miss Moneypenny's life, in addition to ridding the United Kingdom from an unsightly spot of corruption. Is there anything else I can do for you, agents?"

The question is the sort a grocery clerk asks of an annoying customer hoping the answer will be 'no'. Barton, unfortunately, is not the subtle kind.

"Coffee would be nice?" he says, his voice almost pleading. "Haven't had one in days."

"There's a café next door," M replies resolutely, heading towards the door to show them out and hoping that Barton, too, will get the hint. "Café 89. I hear they make a fine espresso. Enjoy."

Bond gives her a knowing look as he follows the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents out.

"Whatever you're up to next, M," he says, "I want a nap first."

"Get out, James," she says. "And do take Eve out for dinner tonight. I believe she could use a drink."

She closes the door on his gratifyingly flustered face, walks back to her desk, and turns to her telephone. The speaker icon is still flashing; she switches the device to video and Nick Fury's face materializes on her monitor.

"Director Fury," she says. "I trust you heard everything?"

"I did."

Good. That means she won't have to repeat anything, and they can move on. She asks the obvious question.

"What are you planning to do about S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

He shakes his head, slowly.

"We're down," he says, obviously reluctant to make the admission, "but not out. But there's a whole lot of work to be done that I'll have to figure out how to do. Without the Government noticing."

Now that is an understatement.

"At least our agents appear to have taken out what remains of Hydra."

Fury's reaction is not what she expected: He barks a contemptuous laugh.

"I wish. Hawley's operation was just a single head. It'll grow back in a few weeks. Knocking off Hydra's offshoots is like a game of whack-a-mole, Director."

He makes a small pause, takes in a laboured breath; clearly, he is not fully recovered from his injuries.

"Plus, Hawley may have liked to think she was running Hydra after Pearce's death, but she would be wrong. Hers was no more a fund-raising branch that Pearce and Zola used to finance their plans. One of dozens, I suspect. These guys know how to tap into people who are willing to make a buck off anything."

Of course he is right. A long life in intelligence has taught M one thing above all: Criminal organizations are like a tick embedded in the skin of humanity: You can never be sure you have pulled out the entire thing. And what remains causes disease to take hold and fester.

"You are saying that we have not eliminated the real threat."

Fury glares at her balefully through the video screen.

"The real Hydra is a different animal, Director. They're not interested in money; money is for the unimaginative. The minions and the middlemen. Don't forget what I told you about Hydra's founder, the Red Skull. And when Pearce took down S.H.I.E.L.D., his people managed to grab a whole number of things that have no business being out there in the world. Things that will make those weapons of Malekith's look like water pistols."

M finds herself almost longing for the days when the most MI-6 had to worry about were terrorist organizations looking to get their hands on weapons of mass destruction. Not things from outer space, let alone mythology.

She braces herself.

"Such as?"

"Loki's scepter, for one. Equal to the tesseract in power, I suspect, if we knew what to do with it. It's the thing that turned Barton into a robot, as well as that Swedish scientist who helped Thor and Jane Foster save Greenwich. Plus, we have no idea where the liquid crystal that powered Malekith ended up. Infinity stones, these things are called. Any one of them could end civilization as we know it."

"So could a badly-placed political leader."

M cannot resist. Infinity stones. Ridiculous. Fury does have a tendency towards the dramatic. That said, recent history has shown threat levels to have been grossly under-estimated, including by her own organization. She injects her voice with an appropriately acidic touch.

"I suppose you will want MI-6 to pursue this, given that S.H.I.E.L.D. is hardly in a position to do so anymore? Since Congress has classified you as a terrorist organization, I doubt that you are at the top of their funding priorities."

Fury mutters something that sounds like a 'not really', but rather more elaborate and profane. He rallies quickly, though.

"Nah, we got that one, Director. Captain America has a personal axe to grind with Hydra, and he and the rest of the Avengers have the muscle to take out their remaining bases. It's about time these guys become a more permanent team, and Barton and Romanoff are expected to join them when they're done with you. I sent Hill in to coordinate from inside Stark Industries; Stark is willing to bankroll the team. So that's all set."

M, who has always been keenly interested in protecting her mandate – turf, if you wish – finds herself disproportionately relieved. While she should perhaps, resent to have MI-6's capacities essentially dismissed, branching out into the cosmic and the occult might be a hard sell to the Committee on Security and Intelligence.

Still. Who is Fury to relegate her organization to the mundane?

"I suppose you would prefer for us to play that game of 'whack-a-mole', as you put it, with all those multinationals that are crossing the line into organized crime or subversion?"

Fury shrugs.

"Isn't that what you do now? Happy to give you some leads. As your Mr. Bond says, Stark's rolodex would be a good place to start."

M snorts. He's not wrong, of course, but there is no chance she would admit that. And she will not take crumbs.

"I believe we shall focus for now on the group Hawley was trying to merge with. It strikes me that anyone setting up shop on a haunted island is not solely interested in business. Spectre, they call themselves, I am told. A most peculiar group."

She waits for him to say something, but he doesn't. It occurs to her that maybe Nicholas Fury has run finally – if likely temporarily – run out of things to say, or do.

And so, on the spur of the moment, she makes him an offer MI-6 will almost certainly come to regret.

"I understand that you yourself may need to lie low for a while, Director Fury. Why not come to Europe? I can neither confirm nor deny this, of course, but we may have secured your old helicarrier. Purely for study purposes, you understand. You could conceivably help us fix it up."

centerimg src=" . /inkvoices/14204348/239885/239885_ " /center

…..

Moneypenny

Eve rubs the ligature marks on her wrists, and lets her eyes wander to the window. Outside, a number of crows are headed across the Thames, black wings cutting through the leaden sky. What do they call a grouping of crows again? A murder?

Out of habit, she counts: One, two, three, four … five. No, six. Five for silver, six for gold...

Not inappropriate to recent events – and maybe a sign of hope? It would, of course, be insufferably naïve to believe that by exposing a handful of politicians and blowing up a gathering in Venice, Bond and Barton had done more than momentarily divert that toxic, illegal undertow in the world's economy.

But what about her own abduction? Surely that had nothing to do with Hydra, or Quantum, or any of the other organizations engaged in drawing profits from the world's catastrophes. Why jeopardize a major operation just to bait – and presumably sideline - a single agent?

Of course, Agent Barton's experience in Kaliningrad is an example of precisely that. If you're important enough … But Barton is an Avenger. What is Bond to Spectre?

Does not compute, her mind repeats, as if on a loop.

But perhaps, if all politics are local, maybe all crime is, in the end, personal. The destruction of New York and Greenwich boiled down to a family squabble, and vengeance for perceived personal slights. Captain America's near-downfall in Washington was brought about by his closest friend - the harder to make him feel the fall.

The fact is, someone tried to use her to lure 007 into … not exactly a trap, but a situation in which he'd be compromised. As compromised as he had been with Vesper, and ever since. It was only thanks to Natasha Romanoff that they'd never gotten that chance.

Maybe if Bond had come to Poveglia, as that mysterious group had intended, they'd both be dead now? Best not to think about that; some things are better not examined under the cold light of day.

As she watches, a seventh bird joins the others, flapping lazily across the grey waters.

Seven for a secret, never to be told.

Eve shivers a little.