IAN FLEMING'S 007 IN CIPHER PROTOCOL

Chapter 2: Urban Drift Protocol

He didn't follow her. He read her.

That was the difference between tracking and tailing, between some wet-behind-the-ears SIS desk jockey and someone who had seen men disappear in jungles, alleys, and the corners of their own skin. Eve Moneypenny wasn't walking with haste. She wasn't walking to escape. She was walking to be found—but only by someone who understood the rhythm of a hunt.

Bond did.

He moved a beat behind, not on her heels, not on her breath, but close enough to feel the eddy her presence made in the current of the crowd. Through Seven Dials, down through Shaftesbury, where the city always seemed to hold its breath between secondhand bookstores and the echo of underground trains. The morning was a chorus of wet tyres, muffled conversation, and city birds picking at cold pavement.

His boots didn't make a sound. They never made a sound. The rain misted along his shoulders. His sweater was drying from the inside out, warmed by the low churn of his pulse. He kept his hands in his pockets—not out of nonchalance, but out of design. He could feel the weight of the SIG Sauer P226 pressed against the curve of his ribs, just beneath the cashmere. It wasn't regulation issue anymore. Nothing about him was.

Moneypenny didn't look back once.

Clever girl.

She knew the rules of the game and respected the silence between them. That was the first real test. How much space would she give him? How much rope before he made himself known? She crossed into Covent Garden. The market was alive now—bodies packed under glass and iron. Tourists snapping photos. Children with ice cream. Office workers on break pretending to need pastries they wouldn't finish. She stopped at a café window. Tilted her head. Checked her reflection—not the street.

Bond clocked it. A polished move. Meant for him. He slid left, dipped into the shadow of a scaffolding wrap. Stayed in the pocket between noise and light. She moved again. Diagonal cross through the square. A slower pace now.

This was the signal.

She was done running. So he cut across the open. The moment he stepped out of the cover, he knew she felt it. Her body didn't react, but her breath shifted. Her stride shortened by a fraction.

She veered down a narrow passage. It was ancient London here—cobbles underfoot, the buildings bowing in close like old men whispering at pub corners. She slipped into a small doorway. No name. No signage. Bond waited ten seconds. Then followed.

The inside smelled of old wood and bergamot. Tea and stone. She was already seated in the corner, coat off, blouse fitted like it was poured on. "You're late," she said without looking up. He didn't answer. Just pulled out the chair opposite, slid into it like a card across felt. "I never agreed to the meeting."

"You followed me."

"You made sure I could."

Her eyes flicked up. The color of dusk over a calm channel. Unreadable. "You're not easy to find, Commander Bond." "That's the point." He didn't ask how they'd found him. Of course they had. The Royal Marines taught him to disappear. MI6 taught him that no one ever really does. She placed a small envelope on the table. Black wax seal. No markings. "From M."

"I don't like summons."- "It's not a summons." He raised an eyebrow. "It's an invitation." The envelope sat there like it weighed half the city.