SFSD-X

Dead Man's Party

They sat together outside a quiet cafe in one of the smaller streets close to the centre of Milan. A waiter brought out a marocchino for each of them, and left a menu, since it was almost noon. They chatted good naturedly in the shade of the canopy; old friends, or perhaps something more? She wore a large straw hat, elegant but functional for the time of day, and a modest floral dress. He sat comfortably in pale chinos and a cotton short-sleeved shirt. An unremarkable couple that were instantly forgotten once out of sight.

He reached into a battered satchel and removed a paperback novel and a spiral-bound notebook. He placed the novel next to his now empty cup, and passed the notebook to his companion. She opened it at the centre, then flicked back until she reached pages of hand-written notes and drawings. After studying them for a while, she closed the book and handed it back, waiting for him to speak.

"Those are rough estimates, of course, but even conservatively we can expect a yield of fifty deaths in the City Centre. The financial cost will be enormous, but I'm afraid there's no way of avoiding that with explosive devices."

She drained her cup thoughtfully, and as she placed it on the table, she leaned forward and clasped her hands together; a gesture indicating she had reached a decision.

"I agree that an explosion of this size will generate a good deal of panic and associated media coverage. And I agree that it is relatively straightforward to arrange and to manage subsequent events. The problem, Charles, is that it is just so passé! The Twin Towers are a tough act to follow! And in any case, haven't we been here before? Through the 1970s and 1980s? I know it was a generation ago now, but still, the IRA had it down to a fine art, didn't they? Remember when they blew up those horses? Genius!"

Charles looked at her with a mixture of admiration and resignation.

"You're right, of course. My dear Patricia, you see things so clearly. You always have!"

Patricia looked down, feigning modesty.

"It's settled then Charles. We will go for our finale! It will leave infrastructure undamaged and the City will be back to normal within days. In fact the London Stock Exchange may not even cease trading. If your plan works then there will be many casualties. And it will be far less messy; the press never show the splatter and body parts anyway, so why bother? It will be far quicker to hose the streets clean than it would to clear rubble and gather lumps of flesh and bone."

She picked up the menu.

"What are you having in your panino, Charles?"

- - - -

Commander Bond ambled wearily to the bar and asked for another single malt. He topped it up with branch water from a small jug placed there for the purpose and stared out of the window. The midday sun was bleaching the dusty street, which was deserted but for a row of electric scooters lined up by the pavement. He had come to this part of town in search of a scarf, or something similar, as a holiday gift for his housekeeper.

Unfortunately he had lost track of time and arrived as the boutiques had closed for the afternoon. Passing the time in the nearest bar had seemed a good idea, but after finishing his sixth drink in under an hour he decided to wander along the street and find somewhere to eat instead.

The truth was he'd had enough of 'R&R'. It was MI6 policy now that everyone had to take their allotted twenty five days a year, whether they wanted to or not. It was all down to a recent 'Well-being Review', which had concluded that agents were significantly at risk of psychological issues if they did not take sufficient time off.