Pond, James Pond

James Pond walked into the Ritz Hotel’s lobby with barely a glance at the Prussian spy sitting to the left of the entrance, supposedly engrossed within the American newspaper that he was holding.

Pond approached the desk and smoothly claimed the electronic key to his penthouse suite, and a small envelope which contained a coded missive from ‘N’.

Pond took the lift to floor 14, exited, and ascended three flights of stairs in the silent running manner that he had employed to his advantage upon so many occasions.

Checking the micro-filament that he had placed across the door frame was still intact, Pond inserted his card and entered – his concentration heightened even more so – it pays to turn up the surveillance when there is nothing to see.

Keeping clear of the full-wall window (even though it was bullet-proof, a missile would make a severe dent in Pond’s aquiline features) Pond observed the small red light blinking on the answer-phone machine (such a relic in this day and age) and the absence of any signs of his apartment having been searched – they were, indeed, very professional.

However, the safeguards that ‘R’ had installed showed air-flow and heat variations in the area – things that were nigh on impossible to avoid – the security cameras had been frozen and showed nothing at all – and definitely didn’t show the deliberately unsynchronised clock that hung on the opposite wall – set to flick back and forth every forty-second second.

Pond relaxed. He saw all the signs and realised that he was not today’s target – they were seeking a lead to his current assignment – they may have found the red herrings, they may ignore them; but, sowing the seeds of doubt and subtly indoctrinating their minds with double-bluffs was all a part of the game.

Pond popped the kettle on.

Coffee, not shaken, stirred, after adding one Sucralose sweetener – actually an anti-poison capsule, and, even if the coffee beans had been contaminated with a powerfully lethal drug, Pond’s immune system would flush any chemicals harmlessly away.

Two Garibaldi biscuits to accompany the coffee, and Pond then dropped smoothly into his comfy recliner in order to read the missive from ‘N’.

TBC