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'The Sleeping Agent' a short story in the style of Ian Fleming
OnlyManWhoCan
Greater London
A while ago I was reading the Fleming Bond novels and wanted to try my hand at mimicking the style with my own short story. Little did I know that Sebastian Faulks would try the same thing with Devil May Care for Fleming's centenary! Here's my story. I hope you enjoy it!
THE SLEEPING AGENT
James Bond slept with the curtains open. Like much in the life of a secret agent it served a dual purpose. The soft moonlight cast down onto the sleeping agent, his cruel face turned to the large French windows that looked down onto the streets of Florence. When Bond had first entered his hotel room, he was satisfied to discover that the size of the windows were (as usual) directly related to the price of accommodation. Bond could usually guess how much a night’s stay would cost by looking at the hotel from across the street.
It had been late afternoon when he arrived, so after washing (one hot shower, one cold) and a shave he had called for room service. By the time he had finished a platter of decent beluga caviar with toast and sour cream the sun had sunk behind the buildings, and Bond had sat a while in the wicker chair by the windows and looked out across the terracotta rooftops, listening to the city heave as workers returning to their homes pushed past friends and lovers arriving for the parties and restaurants of the centre’s night-life. Bond had never been to Florence, and was keen to explore the hidden corners of this famously beautiful city, but duty called. He had an early start in the morning.
So, Bond had nonchalantly flipped through the pages of a travel guide that he had brought as part of his cover while smoking the last of his Morlands from England (he was not looking forward to tracking down a decent Italian brand in the morning). After sufficiently boring himself he undressed and got into bed.
Sleep came. Bond did not require an alarm clock. He had long ago learned to leave the curtains open so that he would be stirred by the morning light and wake as the world did. If he had to wake before sunrise he would trust to his internal clock. He was not disturbed by dreams.
By four o’clock the last of the partygoers had retired and the streets were deathly quiet. The silence of a foreign city sounds different to that of one’s home, and even as Bond slept he was subconsciously aware that he was not in London, he was not in his flat off King’s Road, this was not his bed.
As soft as the sound of Bond’s sleeping was, softer still was the sound of the door being unlocked from the outside. With a final, almost inaudible click the task was done, and gently, gently the door handle began to turn. The door crept open to reveal almost nothing at all, for the lights of the corridor had been extinguished. However, just visible in the darkness was a man, stood sideways in the door frame to reduce his profile. To see him in daylight would be to see the textbook definition of a ‘hood.’ He wore black trousers, with a black roll-neck sweater and a black beanie cap atop his head. But at night, in the shadows, all one could see was his countenance of horrors. The face was hideously scarred, from fights, from war and from all the worst of humanity in between. His eyes had the dry, dulled quality if a man who never blinked, which was no doubt because they appeared to be lidless; it was impossible to say if this was from an explosion or act of vengeance.
Ghostlike, the face floated in and soundlessly closed the door. The terrible eyes then turned to the room again. The soft, plush carpet was the deepest red, and allowed him to walk noiselessly towards the king-sized bed upon which his target rested. In these luxurious surroundings, still so apparent in the dark, he looked like a nightmare in a fairy tale, come to kidnap a sleeping prince.
Bond slept, his face still turned towards the window. His breathing was regular, his position comfortable. The light from outside was not disturbing him. The nightmare stood at the foot of the bed, a needle-like stiletto dagger in his gloved hand. He was not here to make Bond’s death look natural, he was here to send a message, and subtly was not his modus operandi.
The horror gently moved to the side of the bed. He looked down at the sleeping agent before him; Bond’s face was turned to the window that was now blocked by his assassin, his neck, with all it’s precious veins and arteries, exposed.
James Bond slept with the curtains open. Like much in the life of a secret agent it served a dual purpose. For as he lay there, the moonlight no longer casting down onto his face, his sleeping eyes reacted to their sudden plunge into darkness. In a split-second Bond’s mind snapped into consciousness, and in one rehearsed motion he sat bolt upright, bringing with him the Walther from underneath his pillow. His cold, grey-blue eyes opened and stared up into the dark, startled face of the devil before him, who now had a gun barrel pressed directly into his stomach.
Bond fired.
The sound and flame of the gun’s discharge was absorbed by the recipient’s body. Q branch had provided the ammunition for this weapon, and the bullets were specially designed to disintegrate upon impact; for while the dripping wound of the assailant was small, the organs behind it were near-liquidated. The man staggered back, so Bond jumped out of bed and caught him before he could crash through the windows. His head rolled back and the demon-face looked upwards into Heaven, then Hell claimed him.
Bond held him upright, the lifeblood of the dead man trickling down his leg. He looked down into the street below. It was peaceful, empty. No one was to know of the sudden violence in this most elegant of surrounds. He gently lowered the man onto his back and pulled him around the bed, across the room and into the en-suite bathroom. He hauled the corpse up and over into the bath where it could bleed without causing a mess and then filled the sink with hot water so that Bond could wash the cooling blood off his own naked body.
When he was as clean as possible (although Bond would not be satisfied until he’d had a proper shower) he returned to the bedroom, closing the bathroom door as he left. He sat on the bed, picked up the receiver of the telephone beside it and waited for the night staff to answer.
“Reception.” Bond gave him the number of Station I, the Secret Service’s contact in Italy. “Si, signore.” After the connection was made the phone rang twice before a woman’s voice answered. She had a British accent, though slightly coloured by its long-term exposure to the local dialect.
“Universal Export.”
“James Bond here. I’ve had a visitor tonight and I was wondering if you could be a dear and arrange a taxi for him.”
“Certainly. I can have one at your address in an hour.”
“Thank you. He’s quite tired, actually. He’ll probably be asleep by the time it arrives.”
“I’ll let the driver know. Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight.”
Bond returned the receiver to its cradle and looked through the window once more, out onto the streets that he may never get to explore. So, he thought, they know I’m coming. The tentacles of this organisation were far-reaching indeed. However, they would not make their next move until the man he had killed failed to report. Bond knew that it was only during moments like this that could he rest without the threat of never waking.
He got up and closed the curtains before feeling his way back into bed. His open eyes stared into nothingness. Minutes later, he was asleep.
THE SLEEPING AGENT
James Bond slept with the curtains open. Like much in the life of a secret agent it served a dual purpose. The soft moonlight cast down onto the sleeping agent, his cruel face turned to the large French windows that looked down onto the streets of Florence. When Bond had first entered his hotel room, he was satisfied to discover that the size of the windows were (as usual) directly related to the price of accommodation. Bond could usually guess how much a night’s stay would cost by looking at the hotel from across the street.
It had been late afternoon when he arrived, so after washing (one hot shower, one cold) and a shave he had called for room service. By the time he had finished a platter of decent beluga caviar with toast and sour cream the sun had sunk behind the buildings, and Bond had sat a while in the wicker chair by the windows and looked out across the terracotta rooftops, listening to the city heave as workers returning to their homes pushed past friends and lovers arriving for the parties and restaurants of the centre’s night-life. Bond had never been to Florence, and was keen to explore the hidden corners of this famously beautiful city, but duty called. He had an early start in the morning.
So, Bond had nonchalantly flipped through the pages of a travel guide that he had brought as part of his cover while smoking the last of his Morlands from England (he was not looking forward to tracking down a decent Italian brand in the morning). After sufficiently boring himself he undressed and got into bed.
Sleep came. Bond did not require an alarm clock. He had long ago learned to leave the curtains open so that he would be stirred by the morning light and wake as the world did. If he had to wake before sunrise he would trust to his internal clock. He was not disturbed by dreams.
By four o’clock the last of the partygoers had retired and the streets were deathly quiet. The silence of a foreign city sounds different to that of one’s home, and even as Bond slept he was subconsciously aware that he was not in London, he was not in his flat off King’s Road, this was not his bed.
As soft as the sound of Bond’s sleeping was, softer still was the sound of the door being unlocked from the outside. With a final, almost inaudible click the task was done, and gently, gently the door handle began to turn. The door crept open to reveal almost nothing at all, for the lights of the corridor had been extinguished. However, just visible in the darkness was a man, stood sideways in the door frame to reduce his profile. To see him in daylight would be to see the textbook definition of a ‘hood.’ He wore black trousers, with a black roll-neck sweater and a black beanie cap atop his head. But at night, in the shadows, all one could see was his countenance of horrors. The face was hideously scarred, from fights, from war and from all the worst of humanity in between. His eyes had the dry, dulled quality if a man who never blinked, which was no doubt because they appeared to be lidless; it was impossible to say if this was from an explosion or act of vengeance.
Ghostlike, the face floated in and soundlessly closed the door. The terrible eyes then turned to the room again. The soft, plush carpet was the deepest red, and allowed him to walk noiselessly towards the king-sized bed upon which his target rested. In these luxurious surroundings, still so apparent in the dark, he looked like a nightmare in a fairy tale, come to kidnap a sleeping prince.
Bond slept, his face still turned towards the window. His breathing was regular, his position comfortable. The light from outside was not disturbing him. The nightmare stood at the foot of the bed, a needle-like stiletto dagger in his gloved hand. He was not here to make Bond’s death look natural, he was here to send a message, and subtly was not his modus operandi.
The horror gently moved to the side of the bed. He looked down at the sleeping agent before him; Bond’s face was turned to the window that was now blocked by his assassin, his neck, with all it’s precious veins and arteries, exposed.
James Bond slept with the curtains open. Like much in the life of a secret agent it served a dual purpose. For as he lay there, the moonlight no longer casting down onto his face, his sleeping eyes reacted to their sudden plunge into darkness. In a split-second Bond’s mind snapped into consciousness, and in one rehearsed motion he sat bolt upright, bringing with him the Walther from underneath his pillow. His cold, grey-blue eyes opened and stared up into the dark, startled face of the devil before him, who now had a gun barrel pressed directly into his stomach.
Bond fired.
The sound and flame of the gun’s discharge was absorbed by the recipient’s body. Q branch had provided the ammunition for this weapon, and the bullets were specially designed to disintegrate upon impact; for while the dripping wound of the assailant was small, the organs behind it were near-liquidated. The man staggered back, so Bond jumped out of bed and caught him before he could crash through the windows. His head rolled back and the demon-face looked upwards into Heaven, then Hell claimed him.
Bond held him upright, the lifeblood of the dead man trickling down his leg. He looked down into the street below. It was peaceful, empty. No one was to know of the sudden violence in this most elegant of surrounds. He gently lowered the man onto his back and pulled him around the bed, across the room and into the en-suite bathroom. He hauled the corpse up and over into the bath where it could bleed without causing a mess and then filled the sink with hot water so that Bond could wash the cooling blood off his own naked body.
When he was as clean as possible (although Bond would not be satisfied until he’d had a proper shower) he returned to the bedroom, closing the bathroom door as he left. He sat on the bed, picked up the receiver of the telephone beside it and waited for the night staff to answer.
“Reception.” Bond gave him the number of Station I, the Secret Service’s contact in Italy. “Si, signore.” After the connection was made the phone rang twice before a woman’s voice answered. She had a British accent, though slightly coloured by its long-term exposure to the local dialect.
“Universal Export.”
“James Bond here. I’ve had a visitor tonight and I was wondering if you could be a dear and arrange a taxi for him.”
“Certainly. I can have one at your address in an hour.”
“Thank you. He’s quite tired, actually. He’ll probably be asleep by the time it arrives.”
“I’ll let the driver know. Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight.”
Bond returned the receiver to its cradle and looked through the window once more, out onto the streets that he may never get to explore. So, he thought, they know I’m coming. The tentacles of this organisation were far-reaching indeed. However, they would not make their next move until the man he had killed failed to report. Bond knew that it was only during moments like this that could he rest without the threat of never waking.
He got up and closed the curtains before feeling his way back into bed. His open eyes stared into nothingness. Minutes later, he was asleep.
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