IAN FLEMING'S 007 IN CIPHER PROTOCOL

CHAPTER 1 : The Fog Never Lifts

London. 10:42 a.m.

The city had not so much awakened as it had stirred in its sleep.
London did not rise in haste—it muttered, shifted, yawned through steel teeth. The traffic came in waves, not unlike a tide pulling against its own weight—double-deckers and black cabs grunting forward, cyclists darting between the ribs of vans and lorries like blood through arteries.

The rain had stopped, but the damp hadn't left. It clung to the brickwork and window sills, lay heavy in the folds of coats, and collected like nervous sweat on the chrome rails of Southbank escalators. Newspapers, half-soaked and crumpled, told lies no one believed, but everyone read. The smell was a cocktail of scorched coffee grounds, engine heat, and the city's eternal perfume: wet concrete and overstayed ambition.

Across the river, the SIS Building stood against the Thames like a clenched fist. Pale and angular. An architectural threat. It didn't invite. It warned. The glass panels, softened by the fog, reflected only outlines—of people, cars, Parliament, weather. Nothing solid. Nothing vulnerable.

Inside, the polished sterility of the halls betrayed no life. There were no portraits here. No memories. Only silence and clearance levels. But beyond the fourth layer of security—iris, badge, thumbprint, breath—was M's office, a room both warm and surgical.

It smelled of bergamot and state secrets. M sat behind a thick desk of English walnut, one hand resting beside a cooling cup of tea. Her other hand gripped the edge of a dossier. James Bond. Lieutenant Commander. Royal Marines. Discharged with honors. Across from her stood Gareth Mallory, composed in a dark navy suit, his jaw carved in disappointment.

"This is the candidate?"

"It is."

"The orphan from Glencoe."

"Yes."

"And we're considering giving him the number?" Mallory's brow furrowed like paper folding under pressure. "He's not a scalpel, Olivia. He's a hammer with a vendetta." M's eyes didn't lift from the page. "He's a weapon. One we didn't design, but one we may need."

"You want to give him a license to kill."

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation wrapped in disbelief.

She closed the folder gently. Not to end the conversation, but to mark a turning. "He's the only one who's already done it and still comes in to shave the next morning." Mallory exhaled hard through his nose, pacing near the office's tall windows. The Thames glistened beyond, indifferent.

"You've read the Kosovo file. The Balkan job. Montenegro. What he did to those men—"

"What he had to do," M snapped. "And he didn't hesitate. You don't get hesitation at this level, Gareth. You get people who don't sleep and learn to smile through a trigger pull."

Mallory stopped pacing. "He was nearly court-martialed."

"He was nearly killed. And still completed the mission."

She leaned back in her chair, hands steepled, tone softer now. "And when he walked out of that compound in Drenica, bleeding from the ribs, he carried out the body of the man who was supposed to be our inside asset. Wrapped in his own jacket. A child soldier found him a mile outside and said, 'the English ghost doesn't blink."

Mallory said nothing. M stood, walked to the liquor cabinet she hadn't touched in days, and poured two fingers of Scotch. Not for herself. For punctuation. "You're afraid of what he might become."

"I'm afraid of what he already is."

She turned to him. "So am I," she said. A moment passed like a held breath. Then she spoke again—colder this time. "But if we wait for someone who passes every psychological exam and still has the stomach to do what needs doing, we'll be waiting until someone plants a bomb under Parliament." She slid the folder across the desk. It made a sound like a blade unsheathed.