I was just indulging in a little probing of the delectable Russian agent sent to kill me when the call came through. That it came through the Pondphone (which glows bright green and emits a sound when ringing not unlike a swan farting) somewhat ruined the mood of the proceedings and Anoushka - after cursing me for a "feelthy Britisher scum!" - promptly got dressed and departed my flat.


Dejected, I answered the Pondphone.

The call, unsurprisingly, was from P.

"Report to the office at once, Pond," he ordered, his fleshy jowls bouncing around his face like he had a couple of alsatians vying for dominance in there. "I have a little... job for you."

Knowing there was no point in arguing - P pays my wages after all and would send his rottweilers after me if I didn't do what he said - I dressed and was at the office three hours later, pausing only once on the way to drive my car through a market stall on screeching wheels (pays to keep my hand in).

P's office is the sort of large, hideously extravagant thing that I've always felt should be shot, strangled and buried at the bottom of the sea in a steel coffin with extra bolts driven into the lid for good measure. That my bedroom was partially modeled on it is just pure coincidence.

P was awaiting me behind his desk. To this day I have never seen him leave that desk or even stand. I suspect he might well have been born growing out of the desk and that, were I to suddenly push the desk to one side, P would be thrown aside as well. It's certainly something to bear in mind.

"I got here as fast as I could, P," I said. "What's the problem?"

"The problem, Pond," said P, "is that our best agent has been killed and we're in a bit of a crisis."

"I thought I was your best agent," I said a little tetchily.

P shrugged. "Whatever. The point is, 00000000001 has been killed and we need to find out why. He was investigating a ruthless gang of bank robbers who we believe have ties to the terrorist organisation known as F.A.R.T."

I gasped. "The Federation of American Redneck Terrorists!"

P nodded. "None other. What we don't know is what 00000000001 had discovered before he was found face down in the local sewer with a bazooka hole in his head and 132 bullet holes in his back. So I propose sending you in to infiltrate the bank robbers and see what you can find."

I frowned. "But won't the robbers be suspicious of another new member infiltrating the group right after they murdered poor 00000000001?"

"Perhaps. But it's a risk we're prepared to take."

"Hang on!" I protested. "It's not a risk I'm prepared-"

"Meeting ended, 00000000365."

Before I could do anything, P pressed a button on his desk and a hole in the floor opened beneath me, plunging me down what seemed like half a mile to the underground parking lot of the spy organisation.