James Bland looked at his boss, anticipating that he would begin to talk about the first mission he would probably ever really find exciting, or at least give him any visible emotions at all beyond his stilted attitude.

"James," said George Connor to Bland, "We have reason to believe Bond was on to something big. Here, listen to this."

Connor pulled something out of his pocket as a gentle breeze rolled through the open window behind him. It wasn't too big in scale, only about the size of a standard cell phone, but a prominently shown red button revealed that it was really a recorder.

"Bland, this recorder holds a radio transmission from presumably the location where Bond's body was found. This, as far as we know, was his very last transmission."

An interference noise sounded, static accompanying it. A voice, garbled by the poor connection spoke.

"This is James," it said, his voice barely audible through the static.

"All dead, can't see them. They watch me. They hear my every sound, my every breath. If I get out alive... they've spotted me!

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

(At this point a gunshot is heard through the interference)

"No!" (Another gunshot)

"Find, the Madskull..."

(A scream is heard, and the transmission ends).

A pause, lasting for at least twenty seconds took place, giving them time to think over these developments.

This silence then was broken by a sigh from the director.

"Mr. Bland, why do you think that I trust you with this information?"

"Is it because I was his friend?" Bland asked.

"Many people could say the same." Connor said.

"I would have to concur with that statement." James replied, curious about why Connor truly did trust him.

"Never, in your entire career have you given anything, not even something as small as your cell phone number to Specter."

"True." James said.

"You're pretty much the only agent who hasn't slipped up; even Bond gave away a few tidbits, however, your mind is an impenetrable fortress; you've given them nothing, making you the one I can trust the most with sensitive information. In fact most of the things you know, your fellow agents don't know."

James took a moment to register this information in his head, and then remembered something.

"What's Madskull?"

George took out a sheet of lined paper from a desk drawer, and began to write.

Then he held it up, showing what he had written:

Bond was right. Madskull watches. Room is bugged. Meet me in wine cellar, seven hundred hours tonight.

Bland took a quick look before Connor threw the paper in to the built in fireplace in his office.

Bland wrote quickly on his own scrap of paper he kept in his pocket of his coat:

We have a wine cellar?