On a chilly Monday morning in September, James Bond approached the SIS building in Albert’s Embankment. He’d been coming to this bland grey cube for 30 years and he still missed the gothic stone tower of Century House. Which far better reflected the second oldest profession for servants of Her — His — Majesty’s Secret Service.
“No wonder our conference meetings resemble a Sojo bar happy hour.”
Bond swallowed as he often did when mentally revising the famous term for his employer. For most of his career, the late Queen had been a glorious symbol of the Crown, bearing it with grace, dignity, and Christian strength. The image of her while in the farthest, tightest spots around the world always gave Bond a lift — and the impetus to carry out some rather sordid assignments.
The current monarch was a twit and an empty royal suit, Bond thought, more concerned with climate change and cultural diversity than defending the Faith or the country. The Islamic call to prayer held recently at Windsor Castle still vexed Bond. He got on splendidly with many Muslims — like his ill-fated Turkish Intelligence friend Ali Kerim Bey — but he deplored seeing them take over the royal seat of kings even for an hour. He knew too many who had a more permanent stay in mind, along with a fanatical hatred for British and Western values.
Entering M’s outer office, Bond’s former cheer at the sight of Miss Moneypenny took the now customary blow. The fetching, frisky, and feminine secretary wore an indistinct grey pants suit with a white blouse and little makeup, making their once enjoyable flirtation more of a conscious effort. Bond accepted the challenge for all mankind and forayed once more unto the breach.
“Good morning, Moneypenny. Are you going undercover too?”
“Undercover, James?” Miss Moneypenny asked with a smile that belied her outfit.
“As a cold misandrist rather than the volcanic siren I admire.”
Miss Moneypenny smiled again. “Service policy,” she said. “To discourage sexist straight white male agents like you. Fortunately, you’re the last one in the Double-0s.”
“The last sexist?”
“And straight white male.”
“No wonder our conference meetings resemble a Sojo bar happy hour.”
“How would you know about that?”
“Professional secret, Moneypenny,” said Bond. “Strictly need to know.”
Miss Moneypenny laughed. The red light over M’s office door turned green. Bond went through it.
The real M made Judi Dench seem like a Bond Girl, Bond thought. This prompted his reflection on the films based on the books that fictionalized his exploits. Before the Hollywood Left corrupted them. While the early movies exaggerated his physical prowess, the original actor was far closer to him than the asexual mope who last portrayed him. He hadn’t agonized over Vesper Lynd for 20 hours, let alone 20 years.
His recollection of Vesper’s beauty vanished in the presence of M’s frizzy hair, aggressive glasses, and dour expression.
“Delicate mission for you, Double-O-Seven,” M said. “Requiring your license to kill.”
“Blofeld, I hope.”
“Far more powerful, and dangerous to the nation.”
“That’s a high bar, ma’am,” said Bond. “Target?”
“Elon Musk.”
It took all of Bond’s discipline to project calmness.
“There must be some mistake,” he said.
“The order comes from high above my level.”
“Musk’s a hero. He saved free speech in America, thus America itself. Without him, the previous administration and its lapdog media would have quashed all exposure of its plots and the President’s mental infirmity. Donald Trump would never have been elec — ”
M’s worried expression inspired Bond.
“But of course,” he said. “Musk has turned his full attention to our side of the Pond. Downing Street is doing what the Biden Democrats dreamed of — arresting people for social media posts critical of its policies. Such as burying the rape of 70,000 girls last year by Muslim immigrants in England and Wales. The Metropolitan Police are conducting raids reminiscent of the Stasi. And Musk is rallying the opposition — the British people — with a little help from the White House.”
“I read a recent post by him on X,” continued Bond. “Went something like, ‘The sniveling cowards who allowed the mass rape of little girls in Britain are still in power … for now.’ Clearly, he intends to change that. No wonder your masters want to stop him.”
“You have your orders, Double-O-Seven.”
“And I disrespectfully resign,” said Bond, adding, “Ma’am.”
Walking on the Thames Path ten minutes later, Bond felt much as he had in East Berlin. His mobile rang. He noted the ID and took the call.
“Hello, Felix,” he said. “This may be our last chat. But there’s something you should know.”
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