Marcus L. Rowland (ffutures) wrote,
Marcus L. Rowland

Fanfic: BtVS / James Bond - Retribution

Well, I was writing some more of The Right Technology but a thought crossed my mind, and I ended up writing this instead. It's a short BtVS / James Bond crossover, answering my own "Father, Real Father" challenge at Twisting the Hellmouth.

The challenge calls for Bond to be the father of one of the Buffyverse characters, but not a good parent. I think this more or less qualifies; the relationship was suggested by an incident in From Russia With Love.


By Marcus L. Rowland

Mustapha Bey stared at his visitor, looked out of his office window across the Bosphorus, and said "Are you sure that he was the father?"

"There is no doubt. She was a virgin before they met."

"And now the child is dead?"


"The mother?"

"Died five years ago. Cancer."

"But after so many years," protested Bey.

"She was his daughter. There must be blood vengeance."

"Does he even know he was her father?"


Bey looked out of the window again. With a sigh he came to a decision, and said "Very well. I will notify London."

"And that will be enough?"

"You met him once. What do you think?"

"It was a long time ago," said the visitor.

"He understands vengeance," said Bey. "He will know what to do."

When his visitor was gone he slipped a piece of paper into an old-fashioned typewriter and began to work on a signal.

To Managing Director, Universal Exports, London
From Regional Director, Universal Exports, Istanbul...

* * * * *

"Moneypenny," said M. "I'd like you to check on Commander Bond's whereabouts." She sat back in her chair and leafed through the files a courier had delivered an hour earlier, and the encrypted message that had been sent by the British Consulate-General in Los Angeles the previous evening. After a few minutes the intercom beeped.

"Commander Bond is believed to be in Britain, probably staying in his London flat," said Moneypenny. "Last contact was at Blade's Club three nights ago, he had a drink with 009 and the new 006."

"Nothing since?"

"He isn't on our routine watch list any more, not for the last five years. Would you like me to locate him?"

"Yes please. Ask him to come in, I need to discuss something with him."

"An assignment?" asked Moneypenny.

"I'm afraid not," said M. "Don't tell him, but there's some bad news, and I need to inform him in person."

* * * * *

"How long has it been?" asked M.

"Four or five years since I was last here," said James Bond. "Just after you took over. Fifteen since I retired. Not many familiar faces here these days."

"Regretting that you've left?"

"Hardly. I was slowing down, and I couldn't see going over to a desk job." Bond noticed sourly that M wasn't arguing. He'd outlived most of his colleagues and nearly all of his enemies. While he was still extremely fit for his age, most people seeing him would think of him as an old man; a spry old man, perhaps, but old.

"How's the new book coming along?"

"Fairly well," said Bond. "It ought to be with your censors in a few weeks."

"I wonder what your readers would say if they knew the truth about your novels," mused M. "They must think you have a very vivid imagination."

"Every now and again someone asks me to demonstrate how my hero got a license to kill. Sometimes I'm very tempted to oblige, especially when it's one of the more obnoxious critics... Is there a problem with the books?"

"Not at all," said M. "You change the names and enough details to keep everyone happy. I must say I liked your version of the Goldfinger case. Very creative."

"Let's see then," said Bond. "I'm not in trouble, the books aren't a problem, and you obviously aren't intending to offer me a job. What does that leave? Hmm.... A problem with one of my old assignments?"

"In a manner of speaking. Can I get you a drink?"

"Will I need one?"

"Probably," said M, opening a cabinet to reveal a small bar.

"Well then," said Bond, "Jack Daniels on the rocks."

"Not a vodka Martini?"

"Never liked the stuff, and the printers got the recipe wrong when I wrote the first book; it's stirred, not shaken, otherwise you get a horribly weak drink. What's this about?"

M handed him his drink, then sat behind her desk and said "Your first mission to Istanbul."

"The decoder machine?"

"That's the one."

"I didn't think there were any loose ends," said Bond, sipping his whisky.

"There weren't," said M. "Not in the mission. But some of your other activities seem to have had unfortunate results."

"My other activities?" asked Bond, raising an eyebrow.

"Read this first," said M, handing him the message from Istanbul.

Bond raised his eyebrows as he read the heading. "Kerim Bey's son?"


"I suppose it has been that long..." His voice was abstracted, most of his attention on the page. When he finished reading he looked up, his eyes cold. "Is this true?"

"You ought to know."

"I remember the gypsy girl. They fed me a line about wanting more sons to make the tribe stronger. I never thought that anything came of it."

"Well, they didn't get a son," said M, "but there was a child. Your child. Janna Kalderash, alias Jenny Calendar."

"'Was' being the operative word," Bond said angrily.

"Here are the reports from California," said M. "There isn't much, we don't have any contacts in the Sunnydale police department."

Bond leafed through the pages, noting names, times, and locations, and eventually said "This man Giles knows more than he's saying."

"Apparently he isn't a suspect. My guess would be that he can identify the killer, but for some reason has chosen not to do so. Perhaps he has his own plans for revenge."

Bond looked at her, and said "You know something about him?"

"No... but you have to wonder why a former curator of the British Museum is working as a high school librarian in California."

"He needed a change of climate? Or did things get too hot for him here?"

"You'll have to ask him."

Bond looked at her sharply. "I thought that the service frowned on this sort of thing."

"You're retired," said M, "and should the worst come to the worst, we've never heard of you. You were a naval officer then a minor cog in the Ministry of Defence procurements department until you retired, then invented a fantasy life as a secret agent and started to write about it. It's simple, and reasonably hard to disprove."

"The Americans know otherwise."

"The Americans know better than to say so. But it would be better if they weren't given the opportunity. Don't get caught."

"If I need any help..?"

"Then I'm afraid you're on your own. But you might find this file interesting." She passed him another folder. "I can't let it leave the building, of course."

"'Contraband Weapons Sources in the United States: Los Angeles Area.' Would there be any objection to taking a few notes?"

"Of course not."

"I think I'd better call my travel agent," said Bond.

"You did," said M. "Three hours ago. The tickets should arrive by courier soon after you get home."

"You must have been sure I'd want to handle this myself," said Bond. M nodded. There was an awkward silence, then Bond said "I'd better be on my way."

M saw him out, then went back to her desk, made sure that the intercom was switched off, touched the gem she wore at her throat, and said "In the matter of Angelus, and the dying request of Jenny Calender..."

"Yes?" said a rasping voice.

For a second her face was covered in red veins. "Wish granted."


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