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Mallory can never be entirely certain where it came from.
He has his suspicions of course, and quite strong ones at that. That entirely is merely a formality, a placeholder, a withholding of final judgment, because somehow, inexplicably, all the security cameras happened to be down for some sort of upgrade during the five minutes it took for that thing to appear on his desk.
It’s hideous, Bond is right on that point, and yet at the same time there’s something just a trifle nostalgic about it. M, the other M (and, he sometimes thinks but never, never says aloud, the real M), had apparently affectionately referred to it as ‘Winston’, at least if the confidences of Tanner, her former Chief of Staff, were to be believed. Mallory isn’t convinced that the name is complimentary for either party, though he does admittedly note a few possible, undeniable similarities.
And so, despite his better judgment (and slightly offended decorating sensibilities), he leaves it sitting on his desk. At least for now, for the benefit of his next appointment.
“Good God,” are the first words out of Bond’s mouth when he steps into Mallory’s office. “Thought I’d never have to look at that horrid thing again. But there it is, that same bloody statue. Or do they just hand those things out to anyone who manages to become head of MI6?”
Bond has an exceptional poker face, of course, but a politician--a soldier--as experienced as Mallory notices even the smallest shifts in expression. Or perhaps Bond simply lets him see the half-a-heartbeat-quick flicker of amusement in his eyes, followed by an equally quick flash of softness at the memory of Mallory’s predecessor, both of which are instantly and easily overshadowed by a slightly less thinly veiled contempt that both men know is merely for show.
“Why bother trying to teach an old dog new tricks when his old tricks are still effective?” Mallory reaches out, smirking faintly as he turns the ugly little dog-statue towards Bond, leaving himself looking at the rather poorly painted Union Jack on its back. “And being able to survive anything is one hell of a trick, wouldn’t you say?”
Those glacially steady ice-blue eyes flick up from the statue, catching and holding Mallory’s for one second, two.
“Do you have a job for me or not?” is all he says in the end, and Mallory passes the file across his desk without commenting on his abruptness.
“See Q, he’ll have everything you need for this one,” he says, but Bond is already up, across the room, nearly out the door. “And Bond.”
Agent 007 pauses in the doorway, though there’s something grudging in that single-motion halt-and-half-turn.
“In the future, any more gifts you might have for me can be delivered in person. And do share that information with our friend Q as well, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He doesn’t expect Bond to own up to it, and his expectations are fulfilled when Bond just quirks an eyebrow and heads out the door, a half-mocking and utterly unruffled, “You might regret that request someday, but whatever you say,” called back over his shoulder his only response.
No, Mallory thinks, he can’t ever be entirely certain that Bond placed the dog there, but the weight of evidence is certainly damning. And yet, England’s top spy taking the time and effort to do something as ridiculous as this, something that basically equates to a practical joke? How unlikely.
Leaning back in his chair and staring at the dog, M allows the ghost of a smile to cross his face.
Perhaps it was true that you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks; and yet, sometimes, somehow, they seemed to learn them all on their own.