*
…Bond blacked out.
“Thank you,
sir. Your enthusiasm is infectious.”
M smiled
wryly. “Hit the nail on the head, Bond, as per usual.” He sat down opposite
Bond and removed his glasses before sliding over the document to Bond’s side of
the desk. It was the image of a man, perhaps early thirties, Bond guessed,
wearing an overcoat in what looked like glaring heat. Bond looked up at M,
questionably. “No I haven’t seen him before.” He sat back into the chair,
smugly, awaiting M’s reply.
“Well, no I
don’t suppose you have,” he said, countering Bond’s wit. “He’s a slippery
little bugger at the best of times, and that’s only half the problem.” He got
up out of his chair and pondered at the painting Bond had been earlier
disparaging. He thought about M’s remark at him ‘hitting the nail on the head’
but it seemed his thoughts penetrated M’s as he suddenly turned round, “I said
you hit the nail on the head, that was in reference to your apt use of the word
‘infectious’.” He bit the last word
with acidity but despite the sharp twist on the phrase, a shadow fell across
his face and the situation suddenly became more serious. He resumed his seat
with grave intensity. Bond remained still for a few moments, holding his gaze
before picking up the photograph and flicking through the file it came with. As
he did so, M provided a commentary.
“His name
is Afanasiy Medicos and despite his name he’s a cold bastard. Colder than you,
007.”
Bond looked
at the name quizzically. “What is that – Russian? Italian?’
“Both although
the man himself is British – his alias is another one of his pathetic attempts to fool us.
Loosely speaking it means the ‘immortal doctor’ although we’re more than a
little concerned about the sort of drugs he’s been prescribing his patients.”
Bond had
dealt with illegal drug traffickers in the past and had seldom enjoyed the
encounters. These people dealt only for money and cared little about the
effects the produce had on its subjects or indeed the inevitable consequences
that came after addiction had oppressed their minds and driven them to madness.
By the time any finite links could be made to any source, those responsible had
already assumed new aliases and transferred to a district with more desperate
victims looking for a material salvation. Bond experienced a bitter taste in
his mouth. M continued –
“But these
drugs don’t lead to your everyday desperado junkies, Bond. What he’s cooked up
in his cauldron is something new and far more dangerous, especially if it goes
viral.”
“What
exactly are we talking about here?” Bond leant forward, concern clouding his
ability to articulate an appropriate guess to the issue. M mirrored his move so
that the two of them were but a foot away from each other’s faces. Bond felt
M’s cigar scented breath on his cheek. The door behind him creaked slowly open…
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