The rain over Venice had not stopped for seventy-two hours. It fell in sheets, washing the centuries of grime from the marble and depositing it into the swollen canals. For most, it was a nuisance. For M, it was a funeral shroud.
She looked at the phone. Bond had just thrown his away.
“007,” she said. Not a question.
She stood beneath the arched colonnade of the San Giorgio Maggiore, her trench coat collar turned against the damp. In her gloved hand, she held a single file, stamped in crimson: .
“Ma’am,” he said, handing her a burner phone. “He made contact.” PC - 007- Quantum of Solace
She dropped the burner into the canal. It sank without a ripple. Somewhere in the Caribbean, a man with a scar on his cheek was loading a Walther PPK, his heart as cold as the deep water below.
She took the phone. The line was already open. The rain over Venice had not stopped for seventy-two hours
The third: Mr. White. A ghost in a tailored suit. The organization behind the ghost: Quantum.
Static. Then his voice. Flat. Devoid of the old charm. “I found him.” For M, it was a funeral shroud
“God help him,” she whispered. “Because he’s stopped helping himself.”