Chapter Text
Rome, Italy
There was something so achingly familiar about Italy, with its warmth despite the winter.
Retrieval of rogue MI6 employees wasn’t James’ favourite type of mission. Especially following the seemingly endless betrayals he had courted over the past few years. There was something about hunting down a once trusted ally that he could never get used to. Though this time, he was certain he’d never even met the man in question, but he had still heaved a sigh when he received the mission outline. Maybe it was because it never was just one bad egg. One mole usually resulted in the discovery of many. Or perhaps the fact that they were both on the same payroll, could have passed him by in the corridors at work, and that hit too close to home. MI6 had never been completely stable at any point during his career, but recently, it had begun to show some serious cracks. The Silva incident had been the worst in recent years, showing how unprepared they were for their enemies turning up at their doorstep. Since then, Six had heightened its security from external forces but all the bureaucratic nonsense Six was beholden to had allowed Nine Eyes to slip through. And now this. Who knew how many people his mark had been working with?
So James never liked those missions, preferring global escapades to take down horrific evils he would never walk past in a corridor in MI6, or overhear about the family of. It was less personal that way.
He was currently dressed in garishly blue scrubs, his face covered by a medical mask, pushing a metal cart down the main drag of the Fatebenefratelli hospital where Miles Henderson had been brought 2 days ago. Brutally beaten, intel had said, unconscious. A mugging. James knew not to blindly trust coincidences and wondered if he had crossed the wrong Italian during his frantic fleeing attempt from Six.
Unfortunately for Miles- who hadn’t been able to refuse his admittance on the account that he was face down on the pavement at the time- he had been filed under his real name, found from the ID card he had been foolishly carrying. He had flagged MI6’s system within minutes, located for the first time since he left nearly a month ago, just as investigations into him began. He had been in the wind ever since. James was surprised they hadn’t found him sooner, truthfully. With the heightened technological presence the Quartermaster had brought, finding their missing man should have been easy considering how sloppy Henderson’s escape had been.
Fleeing had spoken volumes, and with evidence piling up in his absence, there was really no doubt on the man’s guilt. James was under strict instructions to apprehend him and bring him back to home soil for questioning. Apparently, MI6 had no idea who he was selling to, if he was part of a wider group and up until recently, where he even was. And from what Mallory had alluded to, Miles wasn’t MI6’s only rat. It sounded like James should have stayed in France for longer, extending his retirement indefinitely. What drove him back to MI6 after Madeleine left?
How very masochistic of him.
MI6 had jumped at the chance to make this James’ first mission back, expedited so he didn’t even need to return to England. He had contacted Eve, off the record, to say he was returning alone, and to see if his flat was still unsold. Eve had blabbed to M, sensing an opportunity to use his proximity to the Italian hospital like the good opportunistic secretary she was. They had gotten lucky, really. For the first time in a long time the stars had aligned for Six; a returning agent in the South of France, a wanted criminal appearing in Italy, said wanted criminal laid up in hospital. James himself didn’t feel particularly lucky, per se, but he welcomed the distraction. A chance to focus his attention on something else. The alternative was the colder winter of Britain and the empty flat that waited for him.
He was stalking down the bustling hospital corridor; a grand, colourful walkway filled with staff and patients alike. Cool winter sun streamed through the skylights and lit everything in a warm orange hue. He winked coyly at a group of two nurses and a doctor who had been staring at him a little too long, intrigued about the newcomer. They withdrew into themselves, giggling. One held a folder in front of her face, rolling her eyes at the other two’s antics. His eyes hardened as he walked beyond them.
Having passed the women, he made a sharp right, leading into an emptier corridor. A few patients were sitting on the seats lining the walls and two nurses stood talking over a computer in fast Italian. He weaved past them, the cart rattle more noticeable in the quieter section. He approached the lifts at the end of the hallway, slowing the cart and pressing the up button firmly. He waited a moment, eyes checking his surroundings. The lift arrived, empty. He pushed the cart inside, pressing the button for the 4th floor as the doors shut. Blessedly, he was alone. He adjusted his mask slightly, shifting where it sat on his nose, and into his earpiece he said, “I’m heading to the 4th floor.”
“Okay, good. You want to turn left, then the second right. Through the door, he’s in Ward C, it’s at the end.” R replied, his handler for today.
“Are all hospitals built like a maze?” he griped, “I thought they would be encouraging people to leave, not trap them here forever.”
“Be grateful you’re not there for an appointment,” R replied, uninterested in humouring him. She truly was a woman of business.
He fell silent, waiting a moment before asking, casually, “Q busy today?”
“Something like that,” R wearily replied, unamused. “You’re not the only agent he has to deal with.”
“Shame, I was hoping to apologise about the car.”
“Well, you can do it in person, when you come back. For now, you are stuck with me.” That was fine. At least she was competent. Nothing on the Quartermaster, but a decent enough second, though she didn’t seem to aspire any higher. Q had told him that she preferred managing her team, not dealing with ‘petulant children running around blowing shit up’, which worked for James, because out of the two, Q was his preference.
Once arrived at the 4th floor, he exited the lift and followed her instructions to the ward unit. At the secured door, he scanned the ID he had pocketed from a careless Doctor earlier, the green light flashing as it unlocked. He continued through with the cart. Several more patients were milling about in the hallway, all long stay. Some had visitors, some were alone. He passed a man in a wheelchair with both his legs in casts as he desperately wheeled the way James had come, claiming in loud Italian that he ‘was going to smoke and no one could stop him’. A nurse followed after him, reprimanding his habits. From the other few Nurses flitting between the rooms, they seemed spread thin over the many patients they had, which was fortunate for James, and only James.
Content that his immediate surroundings posed no threat, he quietly said to R, “Give me an update on Henderson.”
“He should be still laid up. There will be five civilians in the room with him, so you will need to separate him.” R said. She was a stickler for damage limitation, specifically the civilian kind. Often, she was slightly wet around the ears when it came to the lengths the double ohs had to go to for a successful mission.
“Noted,” James replied, passing Ward A, then Ward B, before coming to a stop before the door to Ward C. There was a whiteboard next to the door, faint names scrawled over the diagram of the room. He found ‘Miles Henderson’ written over the far left bed. He nodded to the nurse on duty, who had briefly flicked his eyes up at the afternoon visitor, but found James unassuming with the scrubs and the tray he pushed.
He adjusted his silenced pistol under his waistband, passing the motion off as him neatening his scrubs. Shouldering through the door, he took note of the occupied beds of the other patients. Fortunately, the two nurses in the room were helping an older man into a wheelchair several beds away. Unnoticed, he stalked up to the bed, his target either asleep or pretending to be.
Henderson was laid on his side facing the wall, body hunched over, wearing a ratty cardigan over his hospital scrubs. His left arm was in a sling and there was a wrap on one of his ankles. Beat up, indeed. He was a fit man for an office worker, younger than him, but taller and wider. A rugby player, according to intel. James would still have a strong advantage if it came to a scuffle, but he hoped Henderson would be coward enough to come willingly.
“Hello Miles,” he cooed and Miles’ eyes flew open. Pretending then.
The slimy little bastard had the gall to look shocked. He shuffled backwards frantically, eyes wide. James recognised him from the pictures, somewhat handsome beneath the black eye, split lip, and various cuts on his face. He’d probably crossed paths with the man at MI6. He could imagine him in a suit, typical aspirational pencil pusher type, sitting at a desk with a cushy MI6 job up until the day he decided to leak MI6’s financial information to the highest bidder. James despised the man. He wondered if Miles recognised him.
Lowering his voice, he said, “I think you’d better come with me, if you aren’t too busy” then louder, “You’re due for a walk, Mr Henderson, let’s get you up, hmm?”
Miles had his mouth open like a dead fish.
James used a forceful hand to get Miles out of the bed, who stood shakily, wild eyes desperately looking for an out. James checked the pockets of his cardigan and scrubs, finding nothing, then encouraged him into his slippers. He placed a hand on Miles’ lower back, and the other under his arm in a mock show of support and escorted him towards the ward entrance. Miles staggered a few steps and started limping. In the corridor, he fell behind Miles’ shoulder, withdrawing his Walther and settling the muzzle on his back. Into his ear, he whispered, “You run, I will give you another reason to be here.”
“You’re going to kill me?” Miles asked, accent posh, so typical of his department’s workers. Ideally, James wouldn’t need to kill him, but he wasn’t going to tell him that. MI6 had some questions for him first, before they locked him in a dark room forever.
“Cooperate, and I’ll consider my options,” he instead said.
Miles fell silent. He hobbled along, his shaky hand using the handrail along the wall for support. At a painfully slow pace, they walked in step through the hospital, leaving the ward behind. They turned into a busier corridor, staff milling about and moving patients. James withdrew his gun into his slacks again, replacing it with an arm at Miles’ elbow.
He was contemplating zip-tying him to a wheelchair to speed this along when Miles tripped violently into a nurse pushing a bed, pushing her off course. The bed, which housed a child, pushed into the wall, startling the young boy and causing him to scream out. A flurry of staff who noticed the commotion gathered around to soothe the child and check on the nurse. Miles fell to the floor. Another nurse moved to help him, placing himself between James and his mark.
Miles noticed the second that James did.
Without a second thought, Miles jumped up and pushed the nurse off him. He turned away from James and volleyed the hospital bed with ease. He hit the ground and started running at the pace of a man without a leg injury. Gone was the hobbling gait, the shaky steps, the pitiful performance.
“Shit,” James hissed, manoeuvring past the bed and setting off into a sprint too, “He was faking.”
“Stay close, we’ve got eyes on him,” R replied, suddenly alert.
“Trying,” James responded, honing his attention to the man a few paces in front of him.
Miles had managed to catch James off guard; he had underestimated him and trusted the bandage on his leg. Miles was pushing through the crowd of patients and staff alike, throwing equipment and chairs with one hand into James’ way. The last try of a desperate man.
Miles slammed into the end of the corridor, using his good arm to break his momentum and change direction, running left. His bandaged arm was kept steady. James followed him closely behind, veering left too. Both men ran through the brightly coloured corridor, catching the attention of the hospital staff and patients alike. The other man ran into an elevator, squeezing through the shutting doors and surprising the people inside. A few precious seconds behind him, James missed it, the doors shutting in his face. He repeatedly pressed the call button in frustration. The lift was heading down. Without much pause, James ran the short distance to the stairway entrance. Barging through the door he started vaulting down the stairs, as fast as he dared. He was pushing and pushing, thankful that he had kept himself physically fit since Oberhauser, unable to break the habit or let his guard down.
“He’s off on the 1st floor,” R said. Miles was trying to outwit them.
James jumped the last few steps and ripped open the door to the first floor.
Running in the direction of the lifts, he caught sight of Miles further ahead of him now, disappearing down a corridor and disrupting the patients milling about. Bond followed him, turning right when R told him to. He was gaining on Miles, who, while not as injured as he had let on, had still been mugged a couple of days ago and was running out of steam. Ahead, Miles darted into a room, throwing a cart full of medical equipment to the ground.
“He’s out the window!” R exclaimed panic seeping into her voice. Wonderful.
Jumping over the fallen equipment, he shouldered a doctor, who was bending down to pick up the cart, and entered the room. He spotted the open window and looked at the drop below. He paused momentarily to estimate the landing, backed up then jumped out of it, landing in a roll on the grass below. Miles was dodging between parked cars now, slowed slightly at his bad landing. They pressed on, both men reaching the bridge towards the mainland, running full speed along the pavement.
James caught up to Miles after the other man stumbled slightly, slippers making for a bad running shoe. Finally within arm's reach, James grabbed a handful of his cardigan, pulling him to a stop and slamming him into a wall.
“Get off me,” Miles spat between gasping lungs of air. He struggled, pushing back and turning around, jostling James. “Please,” he despaired.
James adjusted his grip, holding him firmly against the wall, and earning a yelp when he pulled Miles’ bandaged arm behind his back. Not faking that one, then.
“Got him,” he said into his earpiece, breathing heavily, but not uncontrolled like his target was. Miles fearfully turned his head, reminded of MI6’s presence. “Last chance,” Bond said to the squirming man.
Miles buckled back, big enough in stature that he shifted the both of them. Attempting to turn around, Miles twisted in the cardigan, getting one arm free when James lost his hold on it. In response, James pushed him into the stone railing. Miles gripped onto the collar of James’ scrubs, eyes locking for a brief second.
Suddenly, the strain against his arms disappeared, and his body was tugged forward minutely as Miles let himself fall backwards and over the railing of the bridge. At the sick thud of a body hitting the ground, James knew he had missed the water. At that height, he didn’t need to check if he was alive.
“Damnit,” he said.
They had gathered quite the crowd. Somebody started screaming nearby.
R spoke tentatively, “Is he-” and trailed off. He won't be, but James looked over anyway. Face down, limbs splayed awkwardly, Miles Henderson had blood leaking from his caved-in head, dead.
“He’s gone.” He affirmed. Quieter, he said, “Fuck.” In his ear, he heard the faint sounds of R scrambling to update the rest of the branch. “He didn’t seem like the type of man to have a death wish.”
The traitor was dead. Along with him, the identity of his buyer.
James turned back to the hospital, merging into the crowd. He walked past two medical staff running towards the bridge. They ignored him. R would make sure that any footage was deleted. More dishevelled, he stalked through the hospital using the less-used corridors. There was little care inside the hospital for the man dead under the bridge; business continued as usual.
He re-entered the ward, approaching Miles’ bed. He started rummaging through the drawers next to the bed but found them empty aside from a spare robe, hospital-provided toiletries and a bible. He moved his attention elsewhere, finding a jacket stuffed under the bed. One of the pockets held a couple of crumpled euros and the ID that had flagged him up. Frustrated, James searched around the bed, untangling the covers and pillow. Pushing the mattress up, he found an old phone tucked firmly between the mattress and the frame. He switched it on. It was locked, with a plain lock screen. A burner. There was a text message from an unsaved number, but it was hidden.
“I’ve got his phone,” he said.
“Copy,” R said, James heard the relief in her voice, “Bring it back, hopefully we can find something from it.”
He continued rummaging, finding a key card for the hotel wedged in a slit in the mattress. “And his lodgings,” Bond said. It wasn’t the same as the man himself, alive and in custody, but it was a lead.
*
After a quick stop at his hotel to change out of the hospital garb, James pulled up to the rundown hotel Miles had been staying at. Unassuming, and in a quiet part of the city. Only half the lights were working, several windows were broken and bordered up. Graffiti littered the nearby walls. Not a favourite of tourists, clearly. James parked his car out the front, locking it and checking with a pull to the door. He entered, finding the front desk empty and walked up the stairs. He arrived at the door to room 307, swiping the ratty keycard several times before he was allowed to enter.
The room was a state. Gaudy curtains drawn, the room was dark and stale. James turned the light on. The overhead bulb came on, flickering and buzzing as it warmed up. It was a small hotel room, with a bed little bigger than a single, crumpled sheet strewn haphazardly. There was a well-worn chair and table in the corner, squeezed uncomfortably between the bed and the wall. Old food containers piled up in the bin, overflowing onto the door. He must have been here a while.
James scoured the room. There was a small backpack of clothes that he spotted in the empty wardrobe, one of the doors missing. James dumped its contents onto the bed and rummaged through each item. At the bottom of the bag, he found Miles’ passport and, inside the pocket of one of the trousers, a wallet with some more cash and a few bank cards. There was a small, ratty picture of a young woman and two children; the family he had left behind to betray Queen and country. A sentimentalist, then. James would have felt bad if the circumstances were any different.
Instead, he pocketed both items, then bent to look under the bed. It was there that he found a half-charged laptop, locked, and a notebook. Leaving the laptop for now, he opened the notebook, finding scribbles, times, dates, numbers. But nothing he could piece together alone.
Finally, the room suitably clear, he drew back up. “I’ve got his laptop,” he told R.
“Well, all is not lost,” R said, wistfully. They both hoped that it was enough to go on. Mallory wasn’t going to be pleased, regardless.
He left the room, carrying all of Miles Henderson’s worldly possessions in his backpack. MI6 would deal with the fallout, encouraging the police to overlook the man’s death, which would be ruled a suicide. Which for once, was technically correct.
A mission completed, then. And, if the laptop presented a lead, then a mission completed successfully. If not, James might have to persuade M more enthusiastically to give him his job back. He left the hotel building and unlocked the car, peeling away slowly from the hotel.
Back to England, then.
*