Chapter Text
Palimpsest
"What's left is palimpsest—one memory bleeding into another, overwriting it." — Natasha Trethewey, Thrall: Poems
Part 1
The Missing Agent
The woman was twenty minutes late. She entered the room with her eyes wide, ogling at her surrounding in what he would assume was wide-eyed innocence. If he did not know any better, he would have bought into the act. But Bond had rightfully earned his OO stripes just the week prior, and he was not getting fooled by an angel face on his very first mission out the door.
No one chose shimmering silver capturing chandelier lights, throwing out the brilliance of rainbows from the surface of her couture, in an event full of diplomat blacks and navies and tans, only to marvel at paintings on the walls. He followed the way she navigated the crowd, threading from one corner, keeping to the walls as if the eye-grabbing material of her gown would not keep an observer captive.
She paused in front of a gigantic Dutch painting, 18th century. The rest of the guests passed it as if it were merely another panel on the wall. She spent an interminable stretch before it, appraising, scrutinizing, as if she could see something underneath the layers of oil paint that no one else could.
The string quartet music shifted. She turned away from the art for a rare moment to seek the musicians across the room. His breath shifted when he caught a good look on her face.
Beautiful, he noted, parking the observation aside. Of course she would be attractive. They almost always were. It was a prerequisite now, really. No one ever wrote it on official documents. These jobs required a certain allure. She ticked the box.
His friend’s voice came through his headpiece, discreet, clear. “I was right. She would pay more attention to the art than the politicians in that room.”
“I did not pay attention to the boring old stodges.”
“I noticed.”
“You have an objection?”
“Just not a choice I would have expected from a budding new OO. Are you all not trained to be hypervigilant?”
“She is the target, is she not?” he replied, cool, collected.
His feet carried him from one side of the embassy to the other, keeping her in the center of his vision. Unlike the lady in silver, he was fully in the standard black suit, a pressed white shirt. Nondescript, almost a uniform in these circles. He would not stand out. That was the mission.
That, and that woman.
Sophie Baek. His mind sped through the thick dossier he received on her. The cryptic amount of information on an art restoration specialist puzzled him. He was used to more preparation for a new target than the amount of time he received would allow. He did not complain. Newly minted OO7 did not raise a ruckus when his status told the institution that he was a cut above the rest.
She turned to a server and took a champagne glass from his tray, then sipped. There was not an effort to inspect the drink, to assess the server. She did not look up to scan for security cameras an escape route. She did not receive proper training, or she was overconfident. He liked neither option.
And then she started. Bond watched as she flagged another server and replaced her half-finished champagne glass on the tray.
There must be a reason for a delay of twenty minutes. Seasoned operatives like him would arrive on time, even earlier to scope the place. She was either green, or so coldly calculated that her lateness meant nothing or everything.
Bond shifted as she turned to the right, out of sight for a minute behind a large pillar. He cursed silently at the loss, and then quickly maneuvered his way across the dance floor to make his way to the other side of the room.
She emerged from the other side of the pillar. He released a breath he did not realize he held. It was nothing but a detour due to the crowd of bodies in the section of the ballroom.
And then he saw it. A small book clutched along with her small silver bag. She was not holding it from the entrance to the wrong side of that pillar. He would know. He was able to glimpse the aged, copper serpent on the clasp of her bag. Now the book hid it well. A lesser observer would not have noticed.
She continued to walk. He held back his stride.
“Do not engage. Do not arrest.”
It was a long game that M had desired, it seemed.
“It is a mission of observation, constant surveillance. Patience that I do hope you have developed in the last weeks of training,” M reminded him during their brief.
He did not know if it was she who stopped by a small group of ambassadors congregated beside the Dutch masterpiece, or if it was the group that stopped her. She did have an attractive laugh, he thought. She spent three minutes in polite conversation, and she laughed openly without care, before moving away before her attention was monopolized.
He stepped forward.
“Shift my device to the bug by that landscape,” he asked Tanner on the earpiece.
“Here we go.”
Bond frowned at the patchy connection. MI6 was capable of better, steadier connection. It meant one thing. She or the venue was equipped with a jammer. He caught fragments of the conversation.
“… early Flemish pigments …”
“How they dissolve the accretion is questionable in that studio.”
“What a remarkable conservation work this was,” he finally heard her say.
Nothing, he thought, of that conversation was remotely suspicious. Everything she said, everything she responded to, all aligned with the job according to the dossier.
Within moments, she was walking away from the group around her.
He followed several steps behind her when Sophie Baek emerged from the ballroom and out into the cold yard. He kept in the shadows. It was one thing should she have spotted him watching her in the ballroom. It was wholly another if she did so in the isolation of the open outdoor, right outside the small chapel attached to the embassy. She settled on the cold stone bench.
She opened the book like she knew where to look.
He squinted his eyes enough so that he could see without coming closer. It looked like a 16th century prayer book, complete with Tudor cursive and drawings. Despite her heavily redacted file he knew she would be able to name the illustrator of the book that she held. In fact, he thought, recalling that the file had references pointing to a collection of information for the past three years, he confirmed this was not someone new.
She lifted a pressed, dried violet up from between the pages.
Sophie Baek struggled to open her small bag and draw out a folded handkerchief. She shook it open. Bond spent a few minutes standing in the cold and dark to watch a woman cry over the flower. There was a ballroom full of European diplomats right behind the thick door. And here he was, OO7, watching a figure clad in silver huddled and weeping.
Gingerly she placed the dried flower between the folds of her handkerchief and slid it safe back inside her clutch.
This was not how an enemy operative acted.
There must be a mistake. M did not make mistakes. She would not waste his precious time on a mistake, when there were far too many threats to overcome.
This was a mistake, or the lady in silver was the best, most deceitful spy he had ever encountered.
A crow dropped on the ground in front of her. She simply looked. And then, as if she could hear the shift, she turned in his direction. He stiffened behind the post. Sufficient time should have passed. He peered and saw the empty bench. The crow had come and gone.
His gave roamed the wide yard. The small ivory prayer book remained on the seat, abandoned. He picked up the prayer book, which easily fell to the page where she had been.
Dark marks of her teardrops littered the page.
Look on this your servant, lying in great
weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life
everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son
“Tanner,” Bond said quietly.
“Go ahead, James.”
“Are you fully confident about M’s intelligence?”
The sigh came through loud and clear through his earpiece. “It is not my place to question the intelligence that comes through.”
“This woman is grieving, Tanner. Either the intelligence is wrong, or we’ve been told half the truth.”
“I’ll get you on M’s calendar tomorrow. I’ll see you
Vauxhall Cross
Early morning rain chased him all the way into the SIS building. Bond shook off the dripping water from his coat, then with a tip of his hat strode through the lobby. The receptionist did not even bother to look up. The security guard nodded when his proximity badge pinged green.
They did not have to tell him to surrender his sidearm. He volunteered it to the guard, and the man acknowledged with a hum. They both knew he had another piece tucked elsewhere. Neither man needed to insult the other by pretending otherwise. They also both knew that there need not be an action to ask for it. Bond would not surrender his final firearm, the guard would not have the capability to wrest it from him, and the people he was visiting on the top floor could well manage themselves.
Instead of heading to the elevators, Bond pushed open the fire exit door and took the stairs. Exercise, he used to claim. Over the years he decided he was not required to explain. Over the years he realized no one really cared. He did not crowd the small lifts. He did not need to feel trapped in a box.
By the fifth floor he slowed, but still he made his way up. Pushing open the entrance door back to the corridor with his shirt stuck to his back from sweating out the early activity, Bond shed his jacket and hung it across his arm. He made his way to the gloomy corridors towards M’s office, when he heard Tanner’s familiar voice flag him.
Briefing room, he mouthed, gesturing to the other wing.
What was several dozen more steps?
When Bond arrived at the venue, he found M standing at the far end of the table. The old woman looked on with the heady mix of expressions that Bond both dreaded and looked forward to. Her hands rested on the back of the chair and she nodded for him to take a seat. The door opened behind him. Tanner, M’s chief of staff and the friend sitting in his ear the entire night, walked in with a stack of folders.
“Sit down,” M instructed.
“I’m good to stand.”
Tanner placed a single folder in front of the chair before him. Black cover with no label on the front. The side tab lay empty. A red stamp shone dully, inconspicuous against the black. TOP SECRET.
“Sit down, OO7.” At the curt statement, Bond pulled out the chair and settled in. M remained standing on the other end of the table. “Open it.” He flipped the cover open. On the very first page, another red stamp, clearer now against the white. TOP SECRET. And then, right below that, an even bigger mark. He had heard of these files, but given his tenure and rank had never seen one. COMPARTMENTALIZED. “What you have in your hands is a file that is beyond classification,” M intoned. “You just came out of training. I know you remember what that is.”
He nodded. “I do. It means that even at the top clearance level, one cannot view these files unless there is explicit, verified authorization to access the compartment or the program to which the file belongs. It’s need-to-know.”
“Well, OO7, welcome to the compartment.”
His eyes narrowed. He picked up the folder. “You know you can trust me, M. I’ve proven myself all these years. And I will continue to put the agency first.” He turned the page, found himself looking at a lone photograph. “Male,” he said, the obvious characteristics always the first in an investigative assessment. “Late thirties. Dark hair. Green or blue eyes—I can’t tell.”
It was also the first such close up he had seen where one could tell the subject was more keenly interested in the photographer than the camera. Piercing, undefined eyes. Quite arresting. There was not even the hint of a smile. Quite miserly, like a smile would give away more than he was willing to give.
He turned the page, and found every single line redacted. Bond’s gaze flew up to M again, who merely looked back at him, expressionless. He set the photograph down on the table. He then looked back down at the file and turned the page. Redacted. Another page. Redacted. The next page. Nothing.
He arched his brows and looked back up at his director. “Was someone too embarrassed to redact the page numbers as well?” He flipped through the pages quickly and found the pages useless. He tossed it back on the table. “So I have a face. Nothing more. Was the printer working?”
“The file is complete.”
“I’ve picked up brochures at the train station with more useful information than your COMPARTMENTALIZED file.”
Finally, the director softened her stance, then took her own seat. “Everything you need, you have.”
Bond looked down at the useless redactions and then picked up the single sheet that actually gave him something. The photograph was clear, fairly recent and not some sepia or black and white ancient shot that would no longer look the same as the contemporary version of the man.
“You’ve told me the obvious markers. Now tell me what you can conclude with the rest,” she said, shifting to a mentoring mode.
Bond flickered over the face, the stance, the clothes. He looked at the backdrop, the time of day. “No scars, relaxed stance.” He shook his head. “He’s not military,” he said. “If anything, this man works behind a desk—an architect, maybe, or a university lecturer. He looks genial enough that you’d ask him for directors if you’re lost.”
M turned proud eyes towards Tanner. “Do you see?”
“Which begs the question,” Bond continued. “Why would a man like that have a file at that level of classification?” He picked up the photograph and stared down the eyes looking straight back at him. “Who is he?”
“Benedict Bridgerton.”
Like the name meant something.
A distant memory from training, he realized. There was not much. The name meant next to nothing. Once, twice, accidentally mentioned. And then pages from printed out readings were asked to be taken out of their file folders, collected by administrative assistants that stood and walked too properly to be who they claimed to be. Every seat was required to surrender the pages, and the moment they received them they were shredded before they even left the room.
Operations that went by only their code names. Missions spoken about in awe, and then hushed. Agent call sign B, not part of the double OO program. Section of something different, something rare.
“B. That’s Benedict Bridgerton?” he asked.
If there was a flicker in her eyes—of regret, of sadness, of disgust—it was gone before Bond could name it. “The only one,” she answered.
“The myth.”
Even in MI6, most especially in MI6, rumors circulated and silence was the oxygen that fanned them like wildfire.
Captured by the enemy. Broke. Talked. Dead.
“He was a man,” M added. “And he’s been missing for three years. We want you to recover him.”
His gaze sharpened on the photograph. Approachable, unassuming Benedict Bridgerton, in his comfortable, relaxed sweater and a face open enough to be approached by a stranger. Safe, mythical, and now—missing.
No one said missing in MI6. An intelligence agent was active, compromised, defected, dead or burned.
Missing was an unusual choice of words.
This very conversation just raised the possibility that the man and myth could be alive.
“If he’s been missing for three years, why now?”
M’s lips curved. “Aside from the fact that you were a junior agent that had no business playing on the top floor, there was nothing to discuss before now.”
A cream-colored file folder slide across the table. Bond flipped it open and was satisfied at least to see a page without a redaction. He looked through pages of shipping manifests, crate invoices, acquisition records, insurance valuations and conservation reports. He scrutinized each one, turned the pages, peered to see if there was a code, a series of numbers to hint at a bank account and money laundering.
“There is nothing here,” he concluded. “Just art receipts. This—this does not require MI6, director. Maybe you need to contact someone in port authority. And then let’s assess whether we need to put Bridgerton’s face on a milk carton.” M’s eyebrow shot up. “Forgive me. This just seems like a waste of intelligence resources. And you’re not telling me everything I need to know.”
M pushed back her chair, then walked to the window. He walked over to her and looked out at the Thames.
“Have you ever heard of Britain losing a war because of a painting?”
“Never.”
“That is Bridgerton’s compartment doing its job well. Effective, efficient, silent. It’s called Project Palimpsest, and it’s the Secret Service’s highest priority operation. It concerns the movement of cultural assets across Europe.”
Bond nodded slowly. The higher his security clearance became, the more he realized that the less he knew. “Palimpsest,” he said, “is a surface reused, written or painted over. Painted palimpsests allow ghost images of earlier layers to peek through, revealing the history of the artwork. We’re protecting art then?”
“No.” M’s lips pursed. “We are protecting what the art conceals. Not every ghost is beauty. Sometimes, there is evil under all the magnificent brush strokes, behind all the poetry.”
Of course. Troy was brought down by murderers inside a wooden horse. How easy it would be to conceal under layers of art. He placed a hand on M’s shoulder. “I understand. Tell me what you need.”
There was a knock on the door. Tanner rose from his seat. Bond strode back to his seat and slid back Benedict Bridgerton’s photograph in the black file folder. He stacked both the black and cream files. He nodded at Tanner, who opened the door. An assistant stepped in and had Tanner signed off on the receiving tracker and received a sealed envelope.
He closed the door behind him. Then, he opened the envelope and took out a sealed bag.
“Our surveillance agents were dispatched to Miss Baek’s flat this morning and retrieved it.”
Bond looked at the dried violet inside the evidence bag. “What are we looking at?”
M said, “The first mistake we have seen in three years.”
“A flower?”
M shook her head. She looked at the flower that Sophie Baek held so gingerly the night before. “No. Hope.”
MI6 did not do hope. M, of all people, was not a woman who held on to a concept as fleeting. Yet here she was, looking at him as if he could be like that dried flower and give her hope.
“Alright,” he agreed. “I will find him and retrieve him.” The hope. The connection. It pointed to an art conservator with a silver dress. “Any operative, friendly or otherwise, that gets in the way of the retrieval—”
“You are licensed to kill now, Bond,” M reminded her.
“And civilians—Sophie Baek—I don’t foresee her being much of an obstacle,” he said, remembering the observations from the night before. “But if she becomes an obstacle—"
“The license is applicable to anyone. Whether she’s a civilian, or the operative we suspect she is, she’ll be collateral damage. For the Crown. Your primary objective is Palimpsest. And Palimpsest is Agent B. We need him back, Bond. And we needed him back now.”
Conservation Studio
The odor of solvent was simply unpleasant. In fact, it was worse than the metallic scent of blood. He would not say it aloud. He had commented once that dried blood was easier olfactorily than the odor forced into gas and his companions and found it an odd observation.
James Bond did not enjoy having to explain it.
The less said, the better.
He was here for a job, and every second when he could expedite the retrieval of Palimpset’s architect, the safer Britain was. Minor inconveniences such as the foul stench of solvent were ones he could live with for the glory of the Crown.
That he would save a man in the process was a bonus.
He walked into the workroom without his jacket. The place seemed to call for a more casual and approachable demeanor. Benedict Bridgerton’s photograph was of him in a knit jumper, so upon taking up a parking space Bond removed his jacket and tossed it into the passenger seat. Then, he loosened and pulled off his tie. He unbuttoned the top two on his shirt.
One needed to know how to adjust to all environments in his job.
He stood just inside the doorway and scanned the work area, but did not find the particularly attractive form of Sophie Baek that he had followed all of last night with his gaze. He did find a young man hunched over a microscope, peering through the lens at a specimen slide. Bond cleared his throat.
The young man’s head shot up. “Hello,” he said.
Approachable and casual, he reminded himself. This was how Benedict Bridgerton approached these circles and it served him well in his fifteen year career in MI6. Bond gestured to the microscope. “I did not think there would be live specimens in this type of work.”
The young man stammered, “It’s fabric. From a tapestry from the Middle Ages. We are—we are authenticating, matching which region the spun thread is from.”
“May I?” he offered. At the textile technician’s nod, Bond approached and peered into the lens instead. “Fascinating,” he said.
“Indeed, sir. It is—it is the oldest specimen I have dated, and it is an honor to hold—”
Britain was under siege, or would soon be. He and Bridgerton may find themselves in vastly different places in the organization, because already this was interminable. He needed to practice, when the threat was lower. After all, there were several double Os and only one of Agent B.
“I am here to see Miss Baek.”
“Of course,” the technician said. He walked towards the far end of the studio and waved at him to follow. Even if it simplified his own search, Bond was concerned about how lax the security measures were around the place. Bridgerton was missing, possible dead or dying. And here he was, with his license to kill, striding in without even flashing an ID and being led straight to the target. “She’s here with the panel.”
At the end of the hall, the technician pointed Bond to the last door. As instructed, he continued on his way to find a find a room that appeared overly lit, almost too bright with natural light flooding in from the ceiling to floor glass windows and several artificial lights. The entire wide space had countless easels set up with canvases and worktables with pottery and sculpture.
There she was in the center of the room. In her lab coat and what appeared to be a mid calf shift dress and white sneakers, she looked so different from the silver clad ingenue from the night before. Her hair was tied in a tight ponytail, keeping it away from her face and thus avoiding the distraction of hair blowing over her eyes while she worked.
Sitting on an easel and taking all her attention was a medieval painting, an altar piece if he was not mistaken. She had placed tiny square of tracing paper over the painted surface.
She had not even noticed him there.
Sophie held a cotton swab in one hard. Strapped to her head was a magnifying visor. Around her head was a torch light. She moved and touched the cotton swab to the paint, and she rotated her hand, then lifted. She shone the light on the little square piece of the painting to examine it. And then she examined it.
She bit her bottom lip. Bond rested his hip against the doorframe. She was concentrated on that tiny segment of the painting the way bomb technicians focused on colored wires.
He cleared his throat. No response.
“Miss Baek,” he said quietly. He would give her another minute.
Sophie then murmured, removed her visor, and then scribbled notes in her notebook. Satisfied, she then turned to the doorway. A quick flash of recognition lit her eyes.
“You’re from the embassy,” she concluded.
For some odd, useless reason, that made him smile. “I did not even realize you saw me. I am not from the embassy,” he corrected. “But yes, you would have seen me there last night.”
“We didn’t talk,” she said. “There were so many people. I am surprised you’d even remember me.”
“You stood near the Dutch landscape,” he added. Remember her face? He remembered where she stood, what she did, the minutes she spent speaking to each group that encountered her. It might impress her. Or it might terrify her. He hoped for the former. She smiled politely, like it was rote and unsurprising. “And you inspected the restoration more than you ever did the paintings.”
She crossed the room, removing a pair of nitrile gloves as she walked.
“I didn’t think you even saw me,” he said.
“No?” she said softly.
“You were so preoccupied with everything else to even notice me.”
Bond smiled despite himself.
“Bond. James Bond,” he introduced himself.
“Mr Bond,” she said, extending her hand. “Sophie Baek.”
“I know.”
She tilted her head.
“Then you’ve already got the advantage.”
He cleared his throat. “I can assume you this is no game or competition.” The best approach was complete honesty in this case. He refused to believe she had caused any harm to his colleague. Her entire life was devoted to bringing beauty back to life, to stripping away impurities so the original would come to light.
“Then tell me how can I help you, Mr Bond.”
No flirtation, no innuendo, and yet he was flummoxed. All he wanted—
He was beginning to understand why M was so interested in her. If Bridgerton encountered her during Palimpsest, if he so much as passed by this studio and met this one art restorer, the mission could so easily fall by the wayside. And he was, first and foremost, tasked to retrieve Bridgerton.
“Show me what you’re doing here.”
She cocked her head to the side, puzzled by the detour. She did, however, nod. Sophie gestured toward the painting and explained. “I am restoring this medieval altarpiece from way before the Catholic churches were sieged and burned during the reformation. Needless to say, the piece is invaluable, so I am going to do everything I can to revive it.”
Bridgerton was irreplaceable, he was told. Rare. Came by once a generation. He supposed he would have to give his all in this operation as she was doing with the altarpiece.
“Why don’t you just determine what color it should be and paint over it?”
She nodded. “I understand why you would think that. Early restorers used to do that. But to truly restore a piece, you don’t pain over damage. You get in there, and you reveal what survived.”
“That is beautiful,” he said. “You are one of those people whose jobs truly match their soul.”
“You have not seen my soul, Mr Bond. At least I hope not.” She picked up an eye loupe from the table. “I finished cleaning one section of it, and I can already see the difference. Would you like to?” Before he could answer, she thrust the inspection eye loupe towards him. “Most people pretend they can see what I’m talking about,” she teased. “I swear you don’t need to. I won’t be offended.”
He awkwardly accepted the loupe and peered at the section she pointed to. “And can they see it?”
“No,” she laughed. “Look here.” She leaned forward and pointed until his eye rested on that section, then changed the focus to the next square. “All these years, only one person ever saw the same thing I did,” she said softly.
She was so close to him that he smelled the faint scent of her lavender soap despite the smell of varnish.
“Do you see the cracks?”
He only saw the cracks. They spread across the surface like a web, or like branches of a bald tree.
“Do you see the colors? On one side, see the glow of the rich colors—deep blues, vermillion, warm gold.” Her voice was nearly deep, rich like the tones she spoke about. “And see the other square. Notice the dullness beneath the varnish.”
He lowered the eye loupe then turned his head. She was close, so close. “Same paint.”
She nodded. “Same brushstrokes.”
“What changed then?”
“Time,” she answered. “Same vibrant hues, same technique. But one faded and yellowed with age.” She stepped aside and looked back at the painting with triumph. “Varnish protects the painting, but it also obscures it. Then you display the painting the way you should, in museums, in churches, in grand exhibitions. No one really realizes we’re admiring colors that were not meant to be seen.”
“And that’s why your job is to strip away the varnish.”
She shook her head. “You make me sound like I throw solvent across an offensive wall. My job, if I do it well,” she said carefully, “is to decide whether the varnish deserves to be removed.”
“And what if it’s safer to keep the varnish?” he challenged.
“Safer isn’t always the answer.”
Silence stretched between them. She was the first to break the stillness. Sophie began to set aside her tools and instruments.
“Mr Bond, care to tell me what brings you to our humble studio? We should be packing up soon.”
Outside, a soft patter caught his attention. The morning rain had let up on his way here. Now the shower was back, just in time for his drive back. And he did not have a coat.
And do he asked the question that brought him to her doorstep. He trained enough to know that he could not do this while she was facing away. “Miss Baek,” he started, walking over to stand at the side of the table so that he could look straight into her eyes, “have you ever heard of Project Palimpsest?”
Her breathing did not shift. Her posture remained the same. Her eyes—for one nearly imperceptible split of a second—was immeasurably sad.
“No,” she answered. “I have not.” Flawless. Her voice did not waver for a moment.
He held her gaze. She held his.
There was no iota of guilt.
All he could hear was grief.
tbc