Author's note: First ever fic of this kind although this is a rewrite – so comments are most welcome, especially those that aim to correct my knowledge of the Bond universe! However so, in this fic, let's all pretend that Bond is just – well, serving on another mission. Also, this takes place after Casino Royale, and it's sort of how I want the next Bond movie to be. Won't draw any parallels with the in-filming one, I PROMISE.

Chapter 1: Bodies in the River

"… local fishermen unearthed three coffins from the river, each of them filled with two bodies, making the victim count a chilling six. The bodies have yet to be identified and authorities are not guaranteeing information access to the public; saying that the details are politically sensitive and…"

A rustle of silk moved in the room as Mikhail Sorescu took another sip of whiskey from the ice-cold glass he held in his hand. He immediately reached for the remote and pressed a random number. Shouts of joy boomed from the TV screen and a man was shown jumping all around the screen with fists punching the air. He looked up at the new presence and smiled at her. "That man just won USD1 million. All from answering a questionnaire. Is that not remarkable?"

The woman sat on the edge of the leather sofa, the edge of the maroon nightgown that she wore rode just a little higher up her smooth thighs. Sorescu stole a hungry look at her – five years of marriage had done nothing, nothing at all to quench his desire.

"Now why would you watch a silly programme where people win less money than you make every day?" she said softly as she gently pried the remote control out of his hands and switched back to the news.

He took her hand in his and kissed her slender, graceful fingers that could tinkle their way effortlessly across the piano and stir exquisite ecstasy with only a brush against bare skin. "There was some horrible, horrible news, that is all, love."

She gazed at him, her grey eyes stormy as the sleet pounding on the window outside. "Oh? And what is it?"

He laughed. "It is nothing that you should know. Nothing important."

Suddenly she grew cold and she retrieved her hand from him. "Very well then, Mikhail. If even after five years of marriage you still doubt my strength and integrity, I should think that I have wasted my time and love on you."

Sorescu's pulse skipped a beat as he watched her ease herself off the sofa and walk away. No, if there was one thing he could not bear to lose, it was her. Her. His Emilia. The love of his life. He could lose his credit cards, his grand mansions, even his hands, but not his Emilia.

He leapt off the sofa and caught her wrist just in time. "Wait! No, don't go!" He instantly wrapped his arms around her waist and dropped loving kisses along her neck and shoulder. "I am sorry," he said humbly. "We should not be fighting over some silly piece of news, should we?" When there was still no response for her, he blurted out the news. "There were people found dead in a river, that is all."

"Six of them?"

His eyebrows rose. "My love, how did you – "

She turned around, and he was glad to see the gentlest of smiles on her face. "Husband, you must be a great oaf to think that I do not know of that aspect of your business. After all, have you not left me with your accounts to manage? Do you think that I do not know what the miscellaneous expenses stand for? But of course," those cunning fingers fingered the lapel of his silk bathrobe, "I understand that those are necessary sacrifices. And I know too that you have left the six under Grigor's charge. I am only curious as to know why they are so special." She tilted her head and pouted. "You only leave the most important and sensitive ones to him."

He sighed in submission. He was only too happy to win back her favour. "They are sensitive, all right: politically sensitive. They are MI6 agents, love. Secret agents from the British government who have been sent to spy on us."

Her eyes widened and her fingers clutched his bathrobe tightly. Sorescu nodded gravely. "Yes, I am afraid they were very close to uncovering it all: our trade, our connections, our plan. But not too worry, my dear, Grigor reckons that he has gotten the most of them. He is not sure still of their real number, but he believes there is at least one or two more. It took him almost three months to track all of them down. Three months! Is that not long, I ask you? But that is because they were scattered all over Romania, and Hungary and all of East Europe. There was one that he found in Poland, which could only mean that they may have found our operations there." He shook his head. "But Grigor also thinks that they may not have relayed their information back to their headquarters. He found them too quickly for – my love, you are pale. Are you all right?"

She jerked to her senses, and realising that she had been literally pulling his bathrobe lapel all the way down to his stomach, she let it go at once. "I am sorry. It is just that – I am shocked that they have managed to dig so deep in."

Sorescu cupped her lovely face in his hands. By God, she was beautiful – if Aphrodite were still alive in this century, his Emilia would be a spitting image of her. He could not imagine a woman better endowed than her. She was perfection itself.

"Love, it will be all right. We will be safe. You'll see. I will do anything to keep us safe. I promise."

Her blue eyes, stormy as the sleet outside, met his and suddenly she leaned forward and gave him a full kiss on his lips. He simply melted in her warmth – as sweet as honey and tempting as chocolate. When the kiss ended, she said to him again, this time her voice husky: "Anything?"

He smiled at her, his most earnest smile. "Anything."

"Six agents, sir; not one, or two, or three, but twice that number: six. Do you know what this means?"

The very last thing that James Bond had expected was to tolerate another tempestuous morning in M's office was to answer for a mistake, a slip-up, that was not associated to him at all. Did the woman expect him to know everything? He shook his head regretfully. And just as he was having a rather pleasant holiday in Brighton, too.

Unfortunately, M caught that shaking of head and not only misunderstood it, but in fact, manipulated it to kill what good mood that he had left. "Well sir, if you don't know then I shall tell you – the worst; I repeat; the worst ever massacre of MI6 agents that has ever happened when the office is in my charge! Worst, I tell you – the most gruesome!"

"It could have gotten worse," he offered lamely.

"Well I don't see how," she shot back, her beady black eyes glinting with malice.

"So where do I come in?" he asked, in order to cut a long story short. He had never seen M so appalled and outraged before; and while it was sort of a treat to see her so different from her usual, cold self; but he had sense enough to know that once a woman is frustrated and starts ranting, she must be stopped at once or he will never hear the end of it.

M drew a deep breath and strode back to her desk, which, for once, was in a wonderful disarray, and picked up a green folder so tacky of colour that he couldn't believe that it was there. But reality was reality and he accepted the file from her without so much as a harrumph.

"The Drakepoint Operation," began M as he had scanned the folder for about 10 seconds, "now in its seven year in motion, is an operation aimed to ensure that the government's interests in the East European countries are protected. To this objective, 7 MI6 agents, some of the most trained and skilled we have ever recruited, have been assigned to the Operation and stationed in various posts throughout the region. Skip to the pages of the agents' details."

Bond did as told, and read quickly through the profiles of the Drakepoint agents. They were, indeed as M said, illustrious agents – ex-members of this and that, with affiliations to put himself to shame, but out of these sterling seven, six had been killed. Which ones, he wondered, and how could they have been murdered so? They are MI6 agents, for God's sake.

"The only surviving agent of the Operation is Evelyn Foster, go to page 15. She is stationed in Bucharest, Romania and the last official contact we have had with her was 5 years ago. So even if she has any valuable information at all, we wouldn't know, but one would have to be an utter mule to not uncover anything in a position like hers."

Bond hardly listened to all the jazz that M was trumpeting about her. The photo of the woman on the paper before him was casting a sure and effective spell at him. He could look at this picture for hours upon hours and not get tired of it – he never thought that he could find a beautiful woman that was, well, beautiful, for he had had his share of gorgeous women. This Foster woman was different. She was striking, alluring, and captivating, even on paper and unsmiling. High cheekbones; full, luscious lips; smooth, pale skin – everything spelt pretty much normal, but they were all arranged in a way that they stood out. He wondered how she would look like face to face – would her beauty overwhelm even him?

No, he thought as he gritted his teeth, never again after her. He had resolved not to fall for another woman after the bloody mess that was Vesper Lynd. And he was determined to keep that resolve for the sake of his sanity.

"Bond? Did you bloody listen to what I have said to you?"

He gave a little start and cleared his throat. "Yes?"

M clicked her tongue in impatience. "I want you to travel to Bucharest to meet her. Though we haven't heard from her in almost half a decade, unfortunately she is considered a leading fashion icon, drawing comparison to Mrs. Beckham and even the current Mrs. Sarkozy herself. And if that is not enough publicity, she has recently become the patron of a Romanian charity organisation called Homes for Everyone that aims to provide shelters and permanent, low-cost houses to the homeless people of Romania, but I suspect that will be growing soon to include the whole of East Europe."

He frowned. "Not what I'd call the most effective undercover strategy. And how do you know all that?"

M's delicate eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "My dear Bond, if you'd ever bothered to read the tabloids once in a while, you'd be surprised at how much information you get from all that hot air. Sometimes, Bond, people are blind to the things in front of them. I believe she has gotten the best possible cover for herself. Under the scrutiny of the press, she is the last person to be suspected as an MI6 agent."

Bond let out a snort. "And I believe she is married to someone of some importance to deserve that much of coverage and gossip?"

M turned slightly pink. "Really, Bond! I do not gossip, least of all with Moneypenny."

He merely smiled. Mysteriously.

With a huff, she returned to the matter at hand. "She's masquerading as Emiliana Sorescu, wife of hotel and real estate tycoon Mikhail Sorescu."

"And who the hell is that?"

"That, Bond, is exactly what you need to find out, apart from the fact that Sorescu is a filthy wealthy man with five large estates, fifteen hotel chains all over Europe with three in the United States, twenty gourmet restaurant outlets, just about every single tenement there is in Bucharest and beyond, and powerful chums all over East Europe, including people in embassies and governments. Also, I want you to get in touch with Foster and her operation. Should she be in any danger whatsoever, get her out and back here, to London. It will be a most delicate extraction. I trust that you know what to do. If needed, you are, of course, authorised to take the necessary action."

The last sentence sent an ominous chill down Bond's spine, and it was helped somewhat by M's cold and mirthless glare. He looked again at Foster's face, wondering what the hell was in store for him in Romania.