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Chapter Text

"Gentlemen, this may only be an exercise so far as the Ministry of Defence is concerned, but for me it is a matter of pride that the 00 section has been chosen for this test,” the ever serious Martin Whitmarsh, more commonly known as ‘M’, informed the three parachute clad men in front of him. The thrum of the engine sounded loudly in the background.

“Your objective is to penetrate the radar installations of Gibraltar,” a member of the Air Force in khakis clipped a cable onto the boss’ harness, “The SAS have been placed on full alert to intercept you, but I know you won’t let me down. Good luck, men.”

The rear of the cargo plane opened slowly, revealing portions of the vast blue sea. The sudden gust of wind started blowing the paper on ‘M’s mahogany desk around. “Oh Blast!” he scurried to secure them before any were lost as his subordinates exited the plane.

The sensation of free falling through the air was quite remarkable; the feeling of resistance and weightlessness... it was like nothing any of them had experienced in any other situation. Each of the three men paid close attention to the land beneath them that was getting closer and closer. One couldn’t engage the parachute too early or too late; to do so could be disastrous. Luckily, it was second nature at this stage.

Parachutes were released and all three were jolted by the resistance of the material as it filled out. I brought them slowly but accurately to their desired location on the colony below. Jenson Button, famed MI6 agent, made contact with the land near enough to the edge of a cliff, not too far away from his colleagues. As per usual, he busied himself immediately with putting the ostentatious military issue parachute back into is bag to minimise his chances of being spotted. It was all very routine, nothing that he hadn’t done before...

Until he heard it; a male voice screaming. Instinct quickly kicked in and the blond ran as fast as he could to the very edge of the cliff, just in time to see agent 004, his ally and friend Paul Di Resta, falling to his death. Jenson felt a twist in his stomach not unlike the feeling of indigestion. This wasn’t meant to happen. He looked up and just caught the figure of a muscular and dark haired man fleeing the scene.

The Englishman quickly pursued the perpetrator, clambering over the uneven rocks as efficiently as he possibly could. It wasn’t fast enough. The unknown man was already gone from view. Jenson spotted the end of a climbing cable lying limp on the ground and picked it up. It didn’t take a genius to realise that it had been cut; the rope around the edges was frayed and the steel centre exposed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the form of a body sprawled out over the rocks. One of the SAS men, if his uniform was anything to go by. The 00 agent made sure that the coast was clear before swiftly making his way over. It might not be too late... He crouched down and gently turned the guy over. As he did, an animal of some sort scurried past, nearly giving him a heart attack (though he’d never admit it). A monkey, Jenson realised and went back to examining the body.

He immediately knew there was no hope for the poor fella; took a bullet straight through the chest, undoubtedly tearing through his right lung and possibly hitting his heart in the process. Another dead on a training exercise. There wasn’t much time to dwell on that as he heard another commotion.

An army supplies van was speeding past on the road just below. Jenson quickly charged after it, knowing that his guy was inevitably the one behind the wheel or riding shotgun. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him (which was admittedly quite fast but nowhere near fast enough in some instances), following the dirt trail before him that soon turned on to a road running parallel to one on which his target was travelling.

Another member of the SAS appeared before him, armed with a rifle. “Halt!” he ordered, pointing the weapon at the sprinting agent. Jenson paid no heed, instead continued on. He needed to catch up with that truck... The officer pulled the trigger, hitting him with a paintball that sprayed pink across his black minimum visibility jump suit. The exercise was already completely forgotten in his mind.

The Blond pushed him out of the way and kept going, forcing himself to go that little bit faster. It paid off as the vehicle in question appeared again. Without hesitation, Jenson jumped from the higher road and landed on its canvas roof. The momentum nearly threw him off the edge but he clung to the material as if his life depended on it (it probably did).

The guy behind the wheel obviously felt the impact as he began weaving the van in an attempt to displace his pursuer. Staying on was proving to be a difficult task as his fingers began to cramp but he just about managed it. The adrenaline coursing through his veins helped with that. There was no rush that could even compare.

Jenson was caught off guard by bullets suddenly piercing holes in the canvas and it was pure luck that he managed to avoid them. The van swerved for a moment before steadying again and continuing downhill at high speed, quickly approaching another checkpoint. Once again a guard ordered the driver to stop but to no avail. He couldn’t move away fast enough and fell victim to the vehicle just before it crashed through the barrier.

A singular soldier exited the cabin at the side of the road and opened fire on the military truck. The British agent, meanwhile, endeavoured to maintain a grip on the canvas. There was a screeching of bullets colliding with metal. One of them must have hit the fuel line as a fire quickly broke out at the rear end. Jenson knew that that would either work strongly to his advantage or disadvantage; he needed the man to stop, but he also needed him alive. Without that there would be no leads.

A pothole in the road caused the van to jolt and the blond to slip backwards, his lower half dangling in the flames. The searing heat was good motivation for him to pull himself back up again. He had to flatten himself as much as physically possible as they flew under a tunnel. An idea suddenly came to him. Jenson tightened his right hand’s grip, reaching down with his left to retrieve his MI6 issue knife from its holster. He quickly stabbed it into the canvas, slicing it open cleanly.

Dagger in hand, the freckled blond lowered his top half into the cab of the van. He made an effort to get a grip of the mysterious man’s arms but he struggled against him, making it extremely difficult. Eventually the perpetrator got a hold of the British agent’s hand and struck it repeatedly against the steering wheel in an effort to dislodge the knife. It worked.

The offender was so caught up with Jenson that his attention was taken completely from the road before them on which a civilian car was coming right at them. The 00 grabbed the wheel and jerked it, narrowly preventing a collision. Instead of making contact with the car, they hit a make-shift gift shop, completely destroying it and sending souvenirs flying in each and every direction. The vehicle was out of their control. It ploughed through a bunch of white plastic chairs and tables and a multitude of parasols.

Jenson grabbed a hold of the man’s head just as a crate fell out of the back of the van, exploding on impact. The force made the English man fall completely into the cab. The struggle for the upper-hand continued as they grappled in the confined space. Both tried to take any and every inch they could get. Eventually Jenson got himself into a favourable position. He head butted his opponent, causing him to become disorientated. The blond took control of the wheel but it was too late. The van was already flying down the hill and it wasn’t long before it crashed through a low wall, plummeting off the edge of the cliff.

Jenson struggled to free himself from the other man’s steely grip. He needed to do something and fast or they would both die. With one kick of his foot, he broke the passenger side window and pulled the cord of his parachute, removing him from the doomed vehicle. As the agent rose, the car fell and exploded just before it hit the water. The debris shot holes through Jenson’s parachute, causing him to drift and descend. There was nowhere to land but on yacht that was in the area. It would have to do.

He ensured that he fell on the canopy and quickly removed his harness. The blond flipped his body down over the edge and onto the deck where a woman clad in a bathing suit was on the phone.

“-If only I could find a real man!” the pretty brunette’s jaw dropped when she caught sight of the unfamiliar and worse for wear looking man on her cruiser.

“I need to use your phone,” Jenson immediately made his way over to her and removed the object in question from her now-loose grip. He pressed the device to his ear. “She’ll call you back,” he said shortly before dialling a very familiar number and making himself at home on the white leather couch, definitely in need of a rest.

The tanned woman was still in a state of shock, albeit amused. “Who are you?”

The blond glanced up, squinting as a result of the sun being in his eyes. “Button, Jenson Button,” he replied swiftly before his call was answered. “Exercise control, here. I’ll report in an hour.”

The woman brandished a glass of champagne, a wry smile set on her pretty face. “Won’t you join me?”

Jenson watched her for a moment before amending his ETA. “Better make that two.”

Hey driver, where we going? I swear my nerves are showing.

Set your hopes up way too high, the living’s in the way we die.

Comes the morning and the headlights fade in rain,

Hundred thousand people, I’m the one they frame.

I’ve been waiting long for one of us to say,

Save the darkness, let it never fade away...

The Living Daylights.

Chapter Text

Jenson slowly pulled back the red velvet curtain at the entrance to the private viewing balcony. Sure enough, it was the right one. He immediately spotted his man and stepped over the threshold, pulling the curtain once again behind him. The 00 took his seat next to the unfamiliar blond, opening the button of his well fitted and very expensive suit. The man hardly took his eyes away from the scene below him.

“Raikkonen, head of Section V, Vienna. You’re bloody late,” his tone was harsh. The MI6 operative glanced sideways at the famous and infamous Jenson Button. “This is a mission, not a fancy dress ball.”

Jenson ignored his quip. “We have time.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the wall. “Now, where’s our man?”

“In the box; between the KGB minders...” Kimi handed his colleague a pair of binoculars.

The English man took them and followed the other man’s gaze. Sure enough, there was their charge looking rather ill at ease sandwiched between the burly Russian men. Jenson decided to do a sweep of the concert hall, to make sure that there was no suspicious activity. His eyes scanned briefly over the orchestra that was in full swing centre stage before they were drawn back to someone in particular. A man, no older than twenty six, on the cello. His eyes were bright and blue, his hair a sandy blond, and he looked so invigorated by the music. “The cellist is very talented,” he remarked with a wry smile.

Agent Raikkonen rolled his eyes. “Forget the men- and women- for once, Button.” Jenson put down the binoculars just as a middle-aged woman in the next balcony shushed them. “Petrov will leave here at the interval,” the Finnish man stood.

His colleague followed suit. “We’d better go.”

Not a word was exchanged between the two as they excited the building and made their way to their destination across the street. It was an apartment/office that they had been granted use of especially for their mission. A massive iron replica of the Soviet emblem was fixed to the side of the building, obscuring the view of most of the windows.

Raikkonen took the keys from his jacket pocket and opened the door while Jenson kept watch. A bell, similar to those found in shops, chimed as he opened the door. They went inside and Kimi locked the door again, not wanting anyone to walk in. The Englishman waited for him to finish and they both made their way up the spiral staircase and into the bedroom.

The Finn turned on the lights and his British counterpart shot him a reproachful look. “Turn off the lights.” Raikkonen did as he was told. Jenson pulled across the top of his collar and fastened the Velcro so that the white of his shirt wouldn’t give him away before making his way to the balcony door and opening it. The emblem was in perfect position to disguise him. He surveyed his view point for a moment before heading back inside.

Raikkonen pulled back the bed covers to reveal a military issue sniper rifle. “Now, let’s understand one another, Button, General Petrov is a top KGB mastermind. His defection is my baby; he contacted me. I’ve planned this out to the last detail...”

Jenson sat down on the bed and assessed the weapon. It was just as good as any he’d ever used; clean, clinical... He pulled out the cartridge.

“You’ll be wanting the soft-nosed ones, I expect.”

The Brit shook his head. “No, the steel tipped,” he picked up a round and removed two bullets before loading it up, “KGB snipers usually wear body armour. What’s your escape route?”

The head of the Vienna office smirked leaning on the bed, “Sorry, old man. Section 26, paragraph 5; that information is on a need-to-know basis only. I’m sure you understand.” The 00 just pulled on his gloves. “Petrov is under intensive KGB surveillance. A sniper had been assigned to watch him and he expressly asked for you to protect him.”

Jenson paused. “Why me?”

Raikkonen looked equally bewildered. “He’s under the impression that you’re the best.” The sarcasm in his voice was clear as day.

The English man pondered it for a second before picking up the weapon and making his way back to the window once again. “Bring the chair,” he instructed before slipping out onto the balcony.

The Scandinavian placed it down just behind a limb of the emblem. Jenson sat and began adjusting the rifle while his colleague pulled on a pair of night-vision goggles and began fidgeting with them. The former reached up and flicked a button that put them on the right mode. “It’ll take them about ten seconds to reach us.”

“Plenty of time for a sniper to make strawberry jam of him.” The Briton watched the building .

007

The orchestra finished playing and Vitaly Petrov was immediately escorted from the box. He told his ‘protectors’ that he had to use the bathroom and they let him go, waiting outside. Petrov swiftly made his way into one of the stalls and locked the door. He waited a moment, heart beating at an alarming rate, before flushing the toilet. Using the noise as a cover, he climbed up on the windowsill and tugged the window open before slipping outside. There seemed to be no-one around. Now was his chance.

007

Button and Raikkonen immediately saw their charge. “There’s Petrov now,” the former announced as they watched him jump down off the window ledge.

The Finn frowned. “What’s he waiting for?”

007 quickly scanned the surroundings. It didn’t take long for him to realise what was going on. He quickly adjusted his weapon. “Sniper, two floors up, centre window.”

The other man’s jaw dropped. “That’s the boy with the cello!”

The musician looked perturbed and held the gun awkwardly. When he saw Petrov running towards the car, he got ready to take the shot.

“Fire, Button, fire!” Jenson pressed the red button and a target appeared on the man’s head but he hesitated. “Shoot him! What are you waiting for?”

The Englishman took the shot, but instead of hitting the man, he shot the gun out of his hands making the cellist recoil and let out a shout. He ran immediately.

Raikkonen looked at him in disbelief. “You missed deliberately!” he shot disapprovingly before rushing downstairs again to leave a banging Petrov in.

Jenson watched the musician leave. His jacket was draped over his left arm. For a moment he felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. That was interrupted, however, by the sound of sirens announcing the arrival of the police. He picked up the gun and hastily made his way to the car parked out back. Raikkonen was standing beside it. “Where is he?”

“In the boot.”

The 00 agent made his way to the rear of the car. “First place they’d look.” He handed over the gun and opened up the boot. Petrov immediately got out and hugged his saviour.

“Jenson! Jenson Button!”

“Later, General! Get in the front,” he ordered his charge and made his way to the driver’s side. Jenson quickly got in and turned on the engine. “Lose them. I’ll pick you up at the border. 21:00 hours. Be there.”

The Vienna Office head frowned. “How will you get him out?”

Jenson smirked. “Sorry old man. Section 26, paragraph 5. Need-to-know. I’m sure you understand,” was all he said before rolling up the window and driving away leaving Raikkonen in his rear-view mirror, gun still in hand. He continued on down the street but took a detour onto a back road when a police car came in their direction.

“The sniper was in the Orchestra,” Petrov pointed out, still looking like a man who nearly lost his life.

The British agent kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I noticed.”

His charged paused for a moment. “Did you...?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Petrov quickly nodded. “No, of course not.” He caught sight of another police car. “They are looking for me! If they close the border, how will I get out?”

The corners of Jenson’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “Don’t worry about that, Vitaly. We have a pipeline to the West.”

007

007 parked the car outside the gates of the Trans-Siberian Pipeline operational headquarters. He and his charge got out of the car and quickly made their way over to where a man had opened the gate for them. He was well built and dark, definitely not Russian. “Sergio Perez,” the brunette shook Petrov’s hand. He turned to Jenson. “Good to work with you again, Mr. Button. Come,” Sergio gestured for them to step inside and he locked the gate behind them. “Keep quiet.”

The three quickly made their way past a series of pipes that were towering above them. The Hispanic man gestured for them to keep low as they approached the office windows. Inside, workers were going about their everyday business. Eventually they made their way through a glass door and into a vast room with lots of electrical equipment. Sergio led the two men up some metal steps to a platform that seemed to be the start of the whole pipeline.

“We must hurry. Get him in the pig,” he busied himself with preparing the steel vessel.

Petrov suddenly looked very concerned. He turned to his protector. “Pig? What is pig?”

Jenson started ushering him in the direction of the capsule. “Scouring plug to clean out the pipeline. This one’s been designed to carry a man.” He pushed the South American man inside and began adjusting his position.

“Pipeline? You mean our pipeline?” Petrov was more than a little bit dubious.

The MI6 agent nodded. “Great Soviet achievement; piping natural gas into the West," he offered with a wry smile.

“But not me!”

He knew that the KGB officer would be more than a little bit apprehensive about being sent to another country in a pipe used to carry gas. “Don’t worry, Vitaly. It’s a piece of cake,” Jenson assured him.

Sergio scoffed. “Never mind cake! If you open valve before this,” he gestured to a gage, “reaches two hundred, he will be borsch!”

“Pigs? Borsch? Cake?” Petrov made to get out of his capsule again. “There must be another way!”

Jenson and Sergio immediately stopped him and he reluctantly returned to his position. “Get in, put on the mask and breathe normally,” the 00 secured the respitory aid over his charge’s mouth and nose.

“Enough talk!” the pipeline worker made to close the hatch.

“Relax Vitaly, our people have spent months on this,” Jenson assured him.

The defector took off his mask once again. “How many people have done this?”

“You’re the first,” the agent replied just as Sergio sealed the capsule. They moved it forward slightly.

“Remember, when this,” the dark haired man pulled one lever and gestured once again to the all important gage, “says 200, turn this,” he pointed another red lever, “Not before.” Sergio made his way down the steps again.

The blond frowned. “Where are you going?”

“To take care of supervisor. When pig goes, his control panel will light up like Christmas tree,” he informed him before leaving.

Jenson watched the gage carefully as the needle began to move. He couldn’t mess this one up. It climbed slowly before finally reaching 200 hundred. He immediately pulled the lever and watched as the capsule carrying his charge shot off through the pipe. The 00 knew that he couldn’t wait around. He hastily made his way back down the steps and out the door he came in. Jenson kept low once again while passing the offices but afforded a look up only to see Sergio in a compromising position with the supervisor. He gave him a thumbs up. Jenson got back to his car as quick as possible.

007

Vitaly was certain that being in that capsule inside a pipeline was the most terrifying experience ever. He was propelled through the iron shell at a ridiculous speed, having to endure many sharp turns that certainly didn’t do anything to ease his anxiety. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and prayed that it would be over soon.

After an unspecified time had elapsed (it might as well have been weeks), the capsule finally slowed before coming to a complete halt. The hatch opened once again, revealing a tall and lean dark haired man and some workers. The former smiled. Q was what Raikkonen had called him. He was branded such as he was head of the Q Branch of MI6; apparently his real name was Mark Webber. “Welcome to Austria, General,” he helped a disorientated Petrov up. “Come on, up you go.”

From there they made their way up some stairs. Vitaly was understandably quite slow after his ordeal. “Come on, hurry up!” Q urged him. The KGB officer quickened his pace and they soon were on the flight deck off the building where he was swiftly put in a plane. Great this just got better and better...

007

After leaving the pipeline, Jenson immediately went to meet with his ally, picking the Finn up at the border as planned. The car was searched (thankfully Raikkonen had gotten rid of the gun) and their passports checked before they were cleared to go. They quickly got back into the car again, but not before seeing Petrov’s plane fly off.

The Head of the Vienna office seemed to still be resentful of his English counterpart. Jenson smiled wryly. “Cheer up, Raikkonen; the operation is a success. And officially still yours,” he felt the need to add.

The other man still didn’t look impressed. “I don’t intend to leave it at that. I’m telling M that you deliberately missed. Your orders were to kill that sniper!”

“Stuff my orders,” all amusement and lightness was gone from his voice, “I only kill professionals. That boy didn’t know one end of a rifle from another. Go ahead,” Jenson briefly glanced sideways at his colleague, “Tell M what you want. If he fires me, I’ll thank him for it," he replied darkly before a small smirk appeared on his face. “Whoever he was, I must have scared the living daylights out of him.”

Chapter Text

“Ula Yarkhov. Confirmed kills: three. Probable kills: two.” Q sat behind his desk going through their database on the KGB on the computer while Jenson sat on its edge watching pictures of various Russian agents appear on the big screen. “Assassination methods: strangulation with hands or thighs.”

A very amused Nico Rosberg walked in. “Jenson! He’s just your type!” he joked.

Jenson smiled in amusement. “Wrong again, Rosberg. You are.”

The blond secretary scoffed. “I’ll file that with the other secret information.”

Q continued on with his search. Another picture appeared on the screen, this time of a seemingly young boy clutching a stuffed animal. “Specialty: child impersonations. Assassination method: explosive teddy bears...” 007 and Rosberg exchanged bemused glances. “Those are all the KGB assassins that could be related to the incident in Bratislava.”

No luck. None of them even remotely looked like that boy on the cello. Jenson had not been surprised that there search had come up empty. The musician definitely wasn’t a trained assassin. “You know, we could try free-lancers stationed outside the Soviet bloc?”

“It will have to wait,” Rosberg informed them. He turned to Jenson. “M wants you out at the Blayden safe house.”

The MI6 agent stood. “Alright; looks like it’s a dead end here anyway.” All three men made their way through the automatic doors of the small office and into the general testing area for all types of gadgets.

One in particular had Q’s attention. “Ah! Good!” he pointed out one of the workers with a large stereo on his shoulder. “Something we’re working on for the Americans. It’s called a Ghetto Blaster.” As if to demonstrate his point, the tester pressed a button on the device that shot a rocket into a dummy and blew it up. The Quartermaster went to inspect the damage leaving the two men alone.

“You’d better hurry. M wants you to stop at Harrods and pick up a parcel,” the most powerful secretary in all of MI6 informed his long term colleague.

Jenson nodded. “Rosberg, ask Records to monitor Czech publication and news services for any mention of a  cellist at the conservatoire in Bratislava,” he asked lowly, not wanting to make his request public knowledge.

Rosberg smirked. “I didn’t know you were such a music lover, Jenson,” he removed his glasses, “Any time you want to drop by and listen to my Barry Manilow collection...”

The secret against cast him an amused smile and replaced the secretary’s glasses, leaving them askew, before he walked away.

007

The milkman was by the side of his van, replacing empty bottles with new fresh ones when a man jogging and using a walkman bumped into him. “Sorry sir, excuse me,” the well built brunette quickly apologised in a strong American accent before jogging on.

“Bloody yanks,” the milkman muttered to himself. He made his way up to the porch of the house and collected the empty bottles, putting full ones in their place. He returned to his van and began preparing the milk for the next set of houses. He heard music but didn’t think anything of it. Until a cord was swiftly wrapped around his neck, cutting off the air supply. His hands quickly went to his neck in an attempt to removing the offending cable but it was no use. He soon lost conscious.

The dark haired “American” pulled the body over the wall when he was satisfied that the milkman was dead.

007

The iron gates of the manor opened automatically as Jenson approached them. The guards were obviously told to expect him. “Good morning, sir,” the officer manning the entrance greeted him with a smile. The 00 acknowledged him with a very brief incline of his head before continuing up the long driveway.

He parked his car a few metres away from the door and took out the hamper, spotting a man with a shovel doing yard work. There was a rake standing upright that beeped and moved when Jenson approached the door. The MI6 was definitely amused by how innovative and inconspicuous it was.

“Sorry, Mr. Button. You’ll have to leave the metal...” As he was low on hands, the blond just opened his jacket and the officer moonlighting as a gardener remove his weapon. “Thank you, sir.”

Jenson continued up the steps to the large wooden door where he was met by the butler. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?” the elderly man gestured towards the large hamper in his arms.

“No thanks.”

The butler nodded briefly and led the way into the foyer of the vast manor. It was quite the spectacle with its high ceiling, wooden panelling and fresh flowers dotted around the place. Lots of men and women went about their work. “They’re in the drawing room,” he closed the door after the secret agent entered and then made his way to another door a few feet away. The butler knocked briefly before opening it and gesturing for Jenson to enter.

Inside five men, including M, Petrov and the Minister for Defence, Niki Lauda, sat around a large mahogany table. Petrov immediately stood when he saw that his saviour had arrived. He opened his arms in a big gesture. “Jenson!” the KGB defector grabbed the blond agent’s face and kissed him twice, once on each cheek. Jenson just stood there feeling bemused. “Jenson, I will never forget what you did for me! Thank you so...” he spotted the hamper, “what’s this?”

With a hand still on the agent’s shoulder, Petrov inspected the gift. “From Harrods! A godsend!” he briefly looked around, “The food here is horrible!”

“The foie gras is excellent,” Jenson argued making his way to the top of the table where his boss resided. He handed the receipt to M and stood with his hands behind his back.

“Da, da. As Russians say: hearts and stomachs good comrades make. What’s this? Caviar. Well, that’s peasant food for us but with Champagne it’s okay.” Vitaly concluded as M opened up the piece of paper. “Bollinger RD! The best!”

The look on the boss’ face when he saw the total amused Jenson to no end. He looked at his subordinate expectantly. “The brand on the list was questionable, sir, so I chose something else,” the blond explained and M placed the docket in his jacket pocket.

Petrov returned to his seat, spoils in hand. “Superb, Mr. Button!”

“May I suggest that we resumed the debriefing?” Minister Lauda asked in a less than amused tone.

Jenson began pouring a cup of tea for himself. “Absolutely. Go ahead; I’m all yours.”

007

Sutil drove the milkvan through the gates of the address he had been given. A guard manning the entrance gestured for him to stop. “Where’s the usual milkman?”

The German removed his headphones. “What d’you say?”

“Where’s the usual man?” he asked again. It was his job to be inquisitive.

“Flu,” Sutil replied with a friendly smile.

The guard wasn’t completely satisfied. He gestured for the unfamiliar man to get out of the van. The ‘milkman’ did as he was told. The government employee immediately turned him around and started patting him down.

“Hey, mate; watch it!”

“Kitchen entrance, round the back,” he instructed, tapping him on the back when he was sure that the new milkman wasn’t concealing any weapons.

Sutil nodded and got back into the van.

007

“General Nicolas Hulkenberg is why I defect,” Petrov announced as he paced the drawing room.

Jenson and M exchanged glances. “What? Your KGB supervisor?” Lauda wondered, astonished by the man’s admission.

“Bergers’s replacement when he joined their foreign service,” the head of MI6 explained.

Petrov nodded. “Once we were like brothers, but now he is a different man,” he walked behind M’s chair at the top of the table.

“Power has gone to his head,” the defector pointed to his temple, “He’s sick, like Stalin! He hates our new policy of détente.” He smirked and removed his shoe, taking a piece of paper out of it. The minister looked very bemused.

“I have here a secret directive from Hulkenberg. ‘Smiert Spionam’. ‘Death to spies,” Petrov outstretched his arm for M to take the piece of paper and when he made to, the former KGB head retracted it again, eventually tossing it down on the table in front of him.

He walked around to the other side and rested his hands on the minister’s chair. “An assassination programme with list of targets- British and American agents. When this starts, you will retaliate. Soviet and Western Intelligence could destroy each other.”

M read the document in earnest, not liking at all what he was seeing. He exchanged a worried glance with his number one agent before folding it and putting it in his jacket pocket alongside the receipt from Harrods. It was quite remarkable how two things of vastly different importance could go side by side.

“This might lead to nuclear war!” Minister Lauda pointed out.

Petrov nodded. “Unless Hulkenberg can be... how do you say...? Put away,” he finished in a near whisper.

“Where is Hulkenberg now? In Moscow?”

The defector sat back down and put on his shoe. “Yes, but in three days he will leave for Tangier. Cover? North African trade convention. Real Reason...? New Directive.”

M leaned forward in his seat. “Minister, in view of the importance of what Mr. Petrov had just told us, I believe we should consult with higher authority.”

Lauda nodded. ”By all means,” he stood, “Good day, Mr. Petrov.”

“Good day, sir.”

007

The chef was carving a large ham when Sutil entered with their milk order for the day. “Good morning.”

The kitchen worker looked up briefly. “Morning. Put it down there, would you?” he asked, gesturing to the floor next to one of the fridges.

Sutil gave him a nod and set the bottles down before turning to walk away. The chef got back to work on that day’s dinner, completely unaware of the walkman cord that snaked its way around his neck until it tightened. He dropped what was in his hands and fought against it.

Sutil laughed and pulled it tighter, completely constricting him. The man eventually became limp and the German managed to drag him to a nearby freezer. He opened the lid and lifted the dead body inside. The sound of metal crashing made him suddenly turn around.

“Green four to base!” the waiter hissed quickly into his radio before taking out a gun. Sutil made an attempt to wrestle the weapon off him and succeeded, knocking it to the floor. This worker, however, was more of a fighter. It seemed he wasn’t going to give up that easily. They struggled for some time, tearing the kitchen apart in the process.

Sutil grabbed a pot of boiling water that was sitting on the stove and made an attempt to hit his opponent with it. The other man ducked just in time and scalding water drenched the walls. The assassin was actually quite impressed by his skill but knew he would be no match. He managed to grap a hold of him and pushed him into a set of shelves which in turn collapsed, rendering him unconscious.

The brunette crouched down next to his victim and grabbed his radio. “Green four to base. We have a gas leak in the main building. Some personnel overcome. Evacuate. Send for emergency services,” he spoke in a false English accent.

“Green four, I read and understand you.”

“Control to all stations,” immediately came over the intercom, “initiate emergency drill. Evacuate the main building. Emergency, emergency.”

Sutil smirked and picked up the crate carrying his milk bottles armed with explosives. Now it was time to retrieve Petrov. He escape was on the way...

007

“Two dead, two in hospital, and Petrov probably back in Moscow if not dead!”M informed 007 from behind his desk back at MI6 Headquarters.

“We’re the laughing stock of the Intelligence community!”

Minister Lauda added indignantly. “Our first major coup in years, snatched from right under our noses by the KGB only hours after he defected!”

Jenson couldn’t believe that had happened. It wasn’t good for anyone and it certainly didn’t do anything to improve their reputation- his reputation. “No trace of him?”

M shook his head and sighed. “Nothing. Then there’s this Hulkenberg matter...”

The minister nodded and stood. “well, I must be off. Meeting with the Prime Minister this afternoon,” he quickly addressed both men before leaving the office.

Jenson moved from his stationary position, undoing the button of his suit jacket, “We have to nip “Smiert Spionam” in the bud,” his superior informed him as he stood and made his way to the front of his desk where the blond agent stood. “Hulkenberg should be in Tangier in two days’ time. A termination warrant has been issued for him,” M gravely informed him, extending a sealed file.

007 observed it warily, not moving from his position. “This plot to kill agents sounds rather far-fetched, sir. I know General Hulkenberg-“

The head of MI6 thrust the file towards him. “Do you think I don’t? I’ve dealt with him on several occasions!”

Jenson reluctantly took the document. “Our paths have crossed over the years. He’s tough and resourceful but... I can’t believe he’s a psychotic.”

M sat behind his desk again. “Neither did I until today,” removing an item from his drawer, he tossed it across the table. “This arrived from Gibraltar. It was found near 004’s body.” His best agent picked up the item in question and saw that it was a tag that read ‘Smiert Spionam’. “Your name was on Hulkenberg’s list, too, 007.”

He observed the tad for a moment before sighing and putting it back down on the desk. “There are a few things I’d like to check out first, sir. That sniper, for instance.”

“Yes, I’ve read Raikkonen’s report. You jeopardised the entire mission to avoid shooting a pretty face.”

“Not exactly, sir. I had to make a split-second decision,” he paused, “It was instinct.”

M barely let him finish. “I’ll recall 008 from Hong Kong; he can do it. He doesn’t know Hulkenberg. He follows orders, not instincts. You can take a fortnight’s leave.”

To anyone else that would seem like a perfect opportunity for a lovely holiday; not him. “No; sir. If it has to be done, I’d rather do it.” Jenson opened the seal of the file and was confronted by the face of General Nicolas Hulkenberg.

007

After his meeting with the boss, Jenson made his way down to the Q branch, where his Quartermaster was working on a new car. Several men were putting the roof on. “Right, bring it down slowly... gently now...” the Australian instructed while attending to the radio.

The blond agent smirked and leaned on the opposite open window. “Morning, Q.” A startled Q immediately stood, banging his head off the roof in the process. “Mind your head.”

The tall Australia rubbed his head with a grimace. “I’ve got something for you. We’re just winterising this,” he explained, making his way around the front of the car and over to a cluttered desk. He picked up a small device and handed it to the blond agent. “Now, pay attention, 007.”

Jenson smirked and examined the gadget. “A key ring finder.” He whistled to illustrate his conclusion and the device briefly beeped before he handed it back to his Quartermaster. “Surprise me,” he challenged.

“Now you arm it by pressing that button there,” he demonstrated by clicking the little red button that the top of the inverted triangle, “Like that, see?” Q swiftly made his way over to a table in the middle of the room that had a scorch mark of considerable size on it and put down the key ring. “Right, now wear that,” he tossed him a gas mask that Jenson quickly put on. “Right now whistle the first bars of “Rule Brittania”, the Australian ordered before fixing his own mask.

Jenson shot him a dry look. How the hell was he meant to whistle with that contraption on his face? It was pointless even putting it on in the first place. He removed it again and began whistling once more. Within two seconds, a puff of cloudy gas was released from the gadget.

Q picked it up again. “Stun gas. Effective range? Oh, about five feet,” he informed the agent, voice muffled as a result of the gas mask which he removed as soon as the gas had cleared. Evidently, he didn’t care if Jenson got stunned. “Disorientates any normal person for about, oh, thirty seconds.”

Jenson smiled wryly. “You don’t find too many normal people in this business, Q. What do I do to blow up the room? Whistle “God Save The Queen”?” he jested.

The dark haired man gave him a half-grimace. “Well, it just so happens, 007, that we’ve packed the finder with concentrated explosive. Sufficient to remove the door of any safe. It’s magnetic,” Jenson fixed the device to Q’s gas mask that was dangling below his chin, “The actuating signal is personalised.”

“What’s my code?” the blond asked curiously, taking a step back.

“Oh, most appropriate; a wolf whistle!”

The 00 couldn’t help but smile. Yes, some would say that that suited him rather well. He would never belief such a thing, however! “You mean-“ he prepared to whistle again but was cut off by both Q quickly shouting “Stop!” and a knock on the window. Both men looked up to see Rosberg gesturing for Jenson to come up to the office.

Q decided to finish up quickly. “You may find the keys useful,” he flicked them up and handed the key ring to his colleague, “they open 90% of the world’s locks.”

Jenson gave a brief incline of his head before making for the office. He was halfway up the steps when another pet project of his Quartermaster’s caught his attention.

Two men in lab coats were uncovering what appeared to be a couch. “All right, sit down and make yourself comfortable,” Q instructed. His employee followed the orders and sat, quickly disappearing as the cushions rotated and swallowed him up.

The blond chuckled and made his way through the automatic doors and into the Q’s office once again. He immediately spotted a picture of the cellist/sniper playing on the big screen and felt a tinge of some sort. “Well done, Rosberg, that’s him.” Though the picture was in black and white, Jenson could clearly see the sparkle in the man’s eyes and the expression of triumph on his face. His hair was a delicate mixture of dark and light and there was quite a bit of stubble on his chin; quite unusual for a member of the orchestra.

“Records sent over this translation,” the assistant focused in on the computer screen in front of him and Jenson sat on the edge of the desk to get a better view. “’Sebastian Vettel, talented scholarship cellist, whose arm was injured during an intermission last week, will be at the academy on Thursday, playing Borodin’s ‘String Quartet No. 2 in D’.”

“That’s tomorrow,” the 00 commented, trying to figure out what to do with the information. His orders told him to find Pushkin but his instinct told him to find that man; that it could be key to figuring the whole thing out. “Rosberg, I’ll need travel documents for Tangiers... via Bratislava,” Jenson stood and headed for the door once more. He paused briefly. “And keep this between ourselves...”

Rosberg shot him a knowing smile. “That boy must be very talented.”

Jenson smirked. “Believe me, my interest in him in purely professional,” he assured his colleague. Q entered the office just as he was leaving. “Just taking the Aston Martin out for a spin, Q.”

“Be careful!” the Australian called after him, “It’s just had a new coat of paint!”

Chapter Text

Jenson sat once again in the concert hall from the night of Petrov’s defection. This time, however, it was nearly empty and daytime. Bratislava was incredibly beautiful in the light of day, even with the Soviet emblems all over the place. He watched the cellist, Sebastian, intently. It was quite remarkable, the way in which he interacted with his instrument. The passion was evident in his countenance any bright blue eyes. Every stroke of the bow was made with such reverence and adoration. Jenson’s eyes wandered to the other members. They were all engrossed in their music but none were on the same level as the blond cellist. His playing was astounding, breathtaking.

When the performance ended, Jenson applauded along with the other spectators before leaving the hall. The MI6 agent waited patiently outside for the cellist to leave and after some time, Sebastian obliviously walked past him, large cello case in hand. Jenson waited a split second before following the musician as he made for the tram that was just arriving. Sebastian and his cello got on at the back while the secret agent decided it would be best for him to get on at the middle to keep a safe distance. He steadied himself as the tram departed again by grasping the red handle just above his head, all the while facing in his unofficial charge’s direction.

A young boy edged past him and he moved slightly to the side, taking that as initiative to get closer. There was no denying Sebastian looked like a man with something to hide. His big blue eyes shifted nervously as if he was afraid to look at anyone for too long. Eventually he crossed sides and began looking out the window. The tram slowed before coming to a halt.

The cellist must have seen something because his shoulders straightened immediately. Panic immediately set on his face. That put Jenson on high alert. Something was about to happen. He prepared himself to move at a second’s notice. The blond agent continued to watch Sebastian until something at the front of the tram made all the colour drain from his face.

Jenson followed his gaze and saw that two men dressed in police uniform had gotten on and were talking with the driver. One made his way through the people, causing the musician to retreat to a corner and face the opposite direction. He was merely going through the motions. If he was who they were looking for, there wasn’t a hope in hell that he wouldn’t be seen. The blond agent watched the police officer carefully, memorising his features for future reference. His appearance wasn’t distinctive. He looked, well, like a policeman. An everyday police officer.

The man made his way closer to the cellist before grabbing him by the arm and turning him around. He presented a badge. Jenson immediately straightened though he tried to keep his expression guarded. Sebastian gave minimum resistance as he was led off the tram while the other passengers looked on with curiosity. The cello was left where it was.

007 watched through a window as they made their way down the street, the police officer tugging Sebastian’s sleeve harshly every now and then. They seemed to be heading for a car parked in front of an apartment building. The doors of the tram closed once more and it began moving once again, thankfully in the direction of the car. Jenson had to admit that he was shocked when he saw who had just gotten out;

General Nicolas Hulkenberg.

The police man unhanded Sebastian and gestured for him to get into the car. The cellist barely looked at the head of the KGB as he shuffled in. Hulkenberg looked around once before following suit. The car swiftly drove away.

So Hulkenberg was in league with the amateur sniper? Had M been right? On all accounts, it definitely seemed like he had been. The question was: what now?

Jenson stayed on the tram until it reached the station. He waited for the majority of the passengers to dismount before making his way to the rear. No-one had paid attention to the cello that was left standing in the corner. The blond agent picked it up. He immediately noticed that while it was large and quite awkward, it was by no means as heavy as it should have been. Something wasn’t right.

He spotted bathrooms beside the station entrance and quickly made for them, cello case (and whatever was inside) in hand. The men’s was quite empty, save a man mopping the floor who stopped to gape at Jenson and the cello case. He walked right past the Slovakian man without casting him a glance, locking himself inside one of the wooden stalls.

Sitting on the toilet, he instantly began opening the clasps of the case to ascertain what was really inside. It swung open, proudly displaying a gun. Not just any gun, the rifle that the sniper/cellist had used to try to assassinate Petrov on the night of his defection. It really shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did.

Stupid boy, Jenson immediately thought and pulled the weapon out of the case. He examined it carefully, noting its make and more importantly, its origin. It was an American rifle which seemed extremely odd to him. Just when he thought the situation couldn’t get any more complicated. The 007 opened the cartridge and wasn’t at all surprised to find that there were still two rounds left in the chamber. An amateur like Vettel wouldn’t have even thought to remove them.

Jenson removed the bullets and rolled them in his palm. This couldn’t be right. Why...? He thrust the gun back into the case, pocketing the bullets. An address card behind a small plastic sheet on the velour lining caught his eye. He removed the card, examining it carefully. ‘Sebastian Vettel’ was scrawled across it in delicate script with an address in Slovakian beneath it. Jenson needed answers; and he knew where to find them...

007

Sebastian swiftly made his way up the stairs of his apartment building to his floor. The blond came to a wary and shocked halt when he saw that the door was ajar. He definitely hadn’t left that open; in fact, he had made damn sure it was locked before leaving for the concert hall. The cellist advanced slowly and on guard, gently pushing the door open further. He was shocked to find that the place was completely ransacked. Pictures hung askew on the walls, sheets of paper littered the floor, cushions were discarded everywhere... It looked like a bomb had gone off. More importantly, it looked like someone had been searching for something...

Jenson stepped inside the door, cello case in hand. Hearing footsteps, Sebastian immediately turned around. He was shocked to see a man standing there with his case, or rather what was inside it. His stomach twisted as the unfamiliar stood the case on the floor. His expression gave away nothing.

“I dropped the gun in the river,” the 00 informed him plainly, looking around at the dishevelled state of the apartment. “The KGB made quite a mess.” Jenson walked past the smaller man.

Sebastian’s eyes widened. “You’re English... Who are you?”

The MI6 agent glanced back at the other man before crouching down in front of the window. He was surprised to find that the cellist was not Russian, or even Slovakian, but German. “I heard you play at the conservatoire yesterday...” Jenson informed him as he gathered scattered pieces of paper and a silver photo frame. He stood and place the sheet music on the its stand before looking back at the young blond once again, who was watching him with both intrigue and wariness. “It was exquisite.”

Jenson placed the framed photo back on the windowsill. “I saw what happened on the tram. Where did they take you?” he asked as he discreetly pulled back the net curtain, just far enough to see that there was a car outside watching the building. The English agent turned back to face the other man. “KGB headquarters?” he assumed.

There was an expression of both surprise and shame on Sebastian’s face. The latter did not suit him at all. “They released me this morning...”

“Take a look across the street.” The German brushed past him and peered out the window. He immediately saw it, the car. “They let you go so they could follow you.” Jenson sat down on a wooden chair to the left of the window.

Sebastian remained in front of him, hands resting on the back of another. He looked like he was struggling to figure something out. “I don’t understand. Why are you trying to help me?”

“What did Hulkenberg want? Did he ask you about Vitaly Petrov?” the blond agent wondered, placing a shattered photo frame containing a picture of the KGB defector down on the table. They must have been lovers. It was only then that Jenson figured it out. It should have been obvious...

“He wanted to know where he was.”

“Did you tell him?” 007 arched an eyebrow.

“No.”

Jenson fished one of the bullets out of his pocket and casually held it up between his fingers. “That was clever of Vitaly, using blanks. Made the British believe that his defection was real.

Sebastian took a step closer. “How do you know that?” there was more than a hint of optimism in his voice. His eyes glimmered.

He decided to chance his luck. The boy didn’t seem to be all that well clued in. He was just a boy caught up in his lover’s business. “He told me.”

A smile took over the German’s face. “You saw him?”

“Two days ago. He’s safe and sound.”

“You’re a friend of his?” Sebastian’s smile grew even more.

It made Jenson feel slightly sad. The guy had absolutely no idea. He smiled coyly. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

The cellist immediately sat down. The love for his boyfriend was set deep in his face. It was as if suddenly everything was okay; it was all coming together. “He kept his promise to send for me. Where are we going? To London?”

“No, not yet. The British think he’ll be safer if he keeps moving around. We might catch up with him in Vienna-“

“Vienna?” the excitement was evident in Sebastian’s voice as he stood once more.

Jenson followed suit. “We must leave immediately, before they pick you up again.”

“But how?”

“We’ll manage. Get packed. Bring some warm clothes.”

007

Jenson left the apartment building first with Sebastian’s leather overnight bag in his hand. He strategically parked the Aston Martin down the street in the opposite direction of the stake-out car, just a few metres past a telephone box. He unlocked the vehicle and got in, out of the corner of his eye catching a glimpse of Sebastian leaving the building.

He made for the telephone box, cello case in hand, wearing a grey coat and a red beanie. The German opened the door and went in, biding his time carefully. He picked up the phone and waited until he heard a tram approaching. Then it was time to act.

As it began to drive past, Sebastian shed the coat and the hat and carefully placed them over the cello case. As soon as that was done, he darted for the Aston Martin down the street, running as fast as he possibly could. He got in and closed the door behind him, getting low so that he wouldn’t be seen. As soon as the musician was in position, Jenson drove away, right past the surveillance car.

“Looks like we got away with it.”

Sebastian sat upright once again. A look of horror suddenly crossed his face. “My cello! It’s at the conservatoire!”

This really wasn’t the time. “Don’t worry; I’ll get you another in Vienna.”

“No, we must go back for it!”

Jenson looked at the younger man in disbelief. “We have minutes before they discover what’s happened.” It wasn’t worth the risk. They could both be in a lot of trouble.

Sebastian, however, was quite adamant (some would call it stubborn). He turned to face the Englishman. “I must get my cello!”

Jenson turned to face him. “No way!”

007

There were times when Jenson seriously wondered about some of the decisions he had made...

This would be one of those times.

He sat in the car outside the conservatoire looking over his should every two and a half seconds, expecting an army of KGB agents to show up looking for them any minute. The freckly blond tapped the steering wheel impatiently. Why on earth had he even agreed to this? It was completely reckless. If only M could see him...

Eventually, Sebastian returned with the real cello in its case. Jenson leaned over and quickly pushed the passenger door open. He pulled the seat forward and both men endeavoured to push the unreasonably large instrument into the back seat. It finally went in and Jenson pushed the seat back into its proper position. “Come on, get in!” he ordered, slightly irate. The cellist did as he was told. The 00 agent cast his charge a disapproving look. “Why didn’t you learn the violin?” he asked before starting the car and doing a swift u-turn. He really hoped it wasn’t too late.