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could tolerate that no longer, stepped out and dried himself. He examined his wounds from last night: two large, aubergine-colored bruises on his leg, some scrapes and the slice on his shoulder from the grenade shrapnel. Nothing serious.
    He shaved with a heavy, double-bladed safety razor, its handle of light buffalo horn. He used this fine accessory not because it was greener to the environment than the plastic disposables that most men employed but simply because it gave a better shave—and required some skill to wield; James Bond found comfort even in small challenges.
    By seven fifteen he was dressed: a navy-blue Canali suit, a white sea island shirt and a burgundy grenadine tie, the latter items from Turnbull & Asser. He donned black shoes, slip-ons; he never wore laces, except for combat footwear or when tradecraft required him to send silent messages to a fellow agent via prearranged loopings.
    Onto his wrist he slipped his steel Rolex Oyster Perpetual, the 34-mm model, date window its only complication; Bond did not need to know the phases of the moon or the exact moment of high tide at Southampton. And he suspected very few people did.
    Most days he had breakfast—his favorite meal of the day—at a small hotel nearby in Pont Street. Occasionally he cooked for himself one of the few things he was capable of whipping up in the kitchen: three eggs softly scrambled with Irish butter. The steaming curds were accompanied by bacon and crisp wholemeal toast, with more Irish butter and marmalade.
    Today, though, the urgency of Incident 20 was in full bloom so there was no time for food. Instead he brewed a cup of fiercely strong Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee, which he drank from a china mug as he listened to Radio 4 to learn whether or not the train incident and subsequent deaths had made the international news. They had not.
    His wallet and cash were in his pocket, his car key, too. He grabbed the plastic carrier bag of the items he had collected in Serbia and the locked steel box that contained his weapon and ammunition, which he could not carry legally within the UK.
    He hurried down the stairs of his flat—formerly two spacious stables. He unlocked the door and stepped into the garage. The cramped space was large enough, just, for the two cars that were inside, plus a few extra tires and tools. He climbed into the newer of the vehicles, the latest-model Bentley Continental GT, its exterior the company’s distinctive granite gray, with supple black hide inside.
    The turbo W12 engine murmured to life. Tapping the downshift paddle into first gear, he eased into the road, leaving behind his other vehicle, less powerful and more temperamental but just as elegant: a 1960s E-type Jaguar, which had been his father’s.
    Driving north, Bond maneuvered through the traffic, with tens of thousands of others who were similarly making their way to offices throughout London at the start of yet another week—although, of course, in Bond’s case this mundane image belied the truth.
    Exactly the same could be said for his employer itself.
    Three years ago, James Bond had been sitting at a gray desk in the monolithic gray Ministry of Defense building in Whitehall, the sky outside not gray at all but the blue of a Highland loch on a bright summer’s day. After leaving the Royal Naval Reserve, he had had no desire for a job managing accounts at Saatchi & Saatchi or reviewing balance sheets for NatWest and had telephoned a former Fettes fencing teammate, who had suggested he try Defense Intelligence.
    After a stint at DI, writing analyses that were described as both blunt and valuable, he had wondered to his supervisor if there might be a chance to see a little more action.
    Not long after that conversation, he had received a mysterious missive, handwritten, not an e-mail, requesting his presence for lunch in Pall Mall, at the Travellers Club.
    On the day in question, Bond had been led into the dining room and seated in a corner opposite