Chapter Text
The year was 1994. The Bridges of Madison County was still topping the New York Times bestseller list. Maria Carey and Celine Dion were heard all over the world. In June, Diana donned what would come to be known as the “Revenge Dress” the same day Charles made his little confession on the telly; and there was the Wimbledon. Late July, a car bomb went off in front of the Israeli Embassy building in London, wounding twenty two; the explosion was heard over a mile away. In November, the Eurostar was launched, carrying passengers through the newly completed Channel Tunnel, reaching a hitherto unheard-of top speed of 186 MPH.
It was neither the best nor the worst of times, merely another year of what mankind does best—destruction and innovation.
It was the year when James met Tiago for the first time.
Across the polished and well-worn wooden tabletop in The Three Stags on Kennington, the senior agent informed the newbie, “Espionage is dull and tedious. All those dead drops, passcodes, steganography, to say nothing of the waiting—” a dramatic roll of eyes and raise of shoulders—“So if you want things to be fun, you must make it so yourself.”
He flicked off a wink, tapping an index finger twice on his head.
“You are going to be a double-oh? You can begin with acting like one. Personally, I think,” he glanced at his wristwatch, “alcohol consumption at three in the afternoon is an excellent start.” He lifted his glass, downed the content, and then put it down with a grin.
James had heard plenty of tales about agent Tiago Rodriguez (not even the venerable SIS with its stringent security measures was wholly impervious to gossip and rumor). It was generally acknowledged that he was competent and resourceful, with a penchant for budding technologies. Equally as known to all was his capricious temperament and possession of the sort of unsettling charm that got people shot, or fired.
None of which posed a cause for concern to James. Freshly recruited out of the Royal Navy, his mind was on one thing and one thing only—to become an SIS field agent and, eventually, a double-oh. Besides, he doubted that the agency would keep in its employ for too long someone who made it a habit to hit on fellow agents.
It came as a surprise, therefore, when he received a veiled caveat from M as she sent him off to work with Rodriguez.
“He is—as efficient as he is brilliant, unpredictable as he is talented. His record of producing results is unparalleled. I have no doubt that for your aim you could do no better than working alongside him. However, Tiago, agent Rodriguez, isn’t without shortcomings.”
She fixed him with those pale feline eyes, assessing. Always assessing.
“My advice is to learn from his operational experience and calculations, but steer away from his...passion. It would be best for both of you.”
They were in Lambeth, Central London. Come next April, the MI6 headquarters would move to its most iconic location—Babylon on Thames—in Vauxhall.
“James. James Bond,” Rodriguez had toyed with the name on the tip of his tongue after their introduction, coloring the syllables with his accent. “Is it your real name?”
In the strong, cold winter afternoon light, his hair was a rich, dark chestnut brown, his eyes two pools of warm black coffee, and his face an earnest mask of innocent curiosity.
He continued, not waiting for an answer. “Do you know what Tiago means?” He asked, his eyes practically twinkling. “It’s the Portuguese’s version of ‘James’.”
A happy grin broke out on his face; his gaze traveled from James’ short blonde tufts to his Aegean blue eyes. “We are doppelgangers! How about that, hm?”
James smiled back politely and just a bit uneasily. He had a well-honed intuition and it was whispering to him that there was something off about the man in front of him. Something fundamental, subcutaneous and pure trouble.
On the streets outside, it was sunny and wet. A cheerful busker was playing the accordion with abandon.
It was just before Christmas.
+
First stop was a library.
“Knowledge could save your life. Always remember that, James. It’s saved mine many times over.” Rodriguez lectured, lifting a World Atlas map of Asia off a shelf with both hands. “No matter how detailed the mission briefing is, do yourself a big favor and read up as much as you can on anything related; the place, the people, the fucking weather.
“Believe me,” he replaced the map and looked back at James, “you’ll thank me later.”
The next place was the firing range.
James was something of a crack shot, so upon learning their destination he had been, despite himself, itching to finally show off some of his competency to the senior agent.
Weapon in hand, however, it wasn’t the paper targets that awaited him.
Rodriguez stood in front of him, tall and solid, and said to him, “Shoot me.”
James searched his face for any hints of facetiousness and didn't find one. He decided to say, “I beg your pardon?”
In place of an answer, Rodriguez lifted a steady right hand and pointed the muzzle of his own weapon at the center of James’ forehead. James' hand reflexively shot up, and they were in a Mexican standoff.
Six in the morning, the large space was cold and cavernous, like the inside of a blue whale.
A spark flashed across Rodriguez’s eyes and he pulled the trigger. Click. A moment passed before he lowered his arm, a hint of a crooked smile on his face.
James followed suit, feeling a flare of irritation. “I do hope there was a point to that.”
“Of course,” Rodriguez drawled. “Out there on the field, there is no truth, only objectives; no trust, only projectiles. The completion of the mission is paramount. If anybody gets in your way—if I’m in your way, shoot first, ask no questions later. Your country will thank you as long as you get the job done.”
James was silent for a few beats, then he asked, “Is that your personal philosophy?”
“Oh, that is the philosophy, my dear fellow.” Rodriguez placed the weapon back into the locker, then sauntered towards the double door, and out of it, leaving James behind in the belly of the blue whale.