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He’d spotted Q a few minutes ago, standing by the bar wearing a passably well-tailored suit but still somehow managing to look like a wide-eyed undergraduate. The unexpected appearance of another asset is rarely a good sign, but the fact that it’s Q rather than one of M’s horde of stolid ex-servicemen is somewhat encouraging. Q would never be allowed out if there was any immediate danger.
Extricating himself from a tediously doublespeak-laden conversation about whisky, Bond makes his way across the room and inserts himself into Q’s personal space.
‘Nice to see you put so much effort into a disguise,’ says Bond, leaning an elbow against the bar. ‘I could recognise those glasses at a thousand paces. If you take them off, do you lose your powers like Samson?’
‘I’d say they’re more comparable to Hagrid’s umbrella,’ says Q cheerfully. Bond gives him a purposefully blank look, and Q rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t try to pretend you haven’t at least wikipedia’d Harry Potter, it only makes you look illiterate.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ says Bond drily. ‘Or did something about my demeanour suggest I have a secret passion for children’s literature?’
‘“Much like life”,’ says Q, imitating M’s clipped, aristocratic tones. ‘“Bond is nasty, brutish, and short.”’’
Bond allows that one a smirk. ‘Actually, I’m five foot nine.’
‘And it’s not the size, it’s what you do with it?’ says Q archly. ‘Next you’ll be asking if that’s a gun in my pocket, or am I just pleased to see you.’
Bond glances around, but no one nearby seems to have overheard. There’s a reason why Q isn’t generally allowed out in the field. ‘Well, which is it?’
‘A handgun, a new phone, and some personal additions from Yours Truly,’ says Q. ‘Shall we?’
Picking his way neatly between tuxedo-clad shoulders, Q heads for the exit, Bond falling into step behind him. ‘Courier duty?’ asks Bond. ‘Isn’t this more Villiers’ area?’
‘Villiers is on paternity leave.’
Bond wonders when the hell M’s aide had found time to impregnate someone. He’d always been under the impression that Villiers was surgically attached to at least one iPad, a briefcase, and M’s desk at all times. ‘Is he gestating it himself?’
‘Ah, insults to the masculinity of a desk agent; how original. I’ll be sure to pass on the sentiment, 007.’
‘I had no idea you and Villiers were so close,’ says Bond as they step out into the gardens. ‘Young Boys’ Network?’
‘I think you know perfectly well that we’re both over thirty.’
‘And it’s not the age, it’s what you do with it?’ says Bond, innocently.
‘Quite.’ Wearing the same doe-eyed choirboy expression that always seems to appear when he’s unveiling a new way for Bond to murder enemies of the Crown, Q unbuttons his jacket and takes a slim, silver case from the inside pocket. ‘And now, Mr Bond, it’s time for you to meet your new best friend.’