A Letter To James Bond

Dear Mr James Bond,

First of all my apologies for leaving during the main course on Wednesday. It was a matter of some urgency, of national importance. I'm sure you understand.

To the matter in hand. I'm writing to you because our working relationship has become increasingly difficult. In many ways you have been of great service to MI6 and your country. But not in the way I'd hoped.

You have brought MI6 great fame, which is not what we wanted. Your primary role is that of secret agent. You are, quite possibly, the most conspicuous 'secret' agent since the whirling, twirling, limelight hogging dancer, Mata Hari; who, I should remind you, finished her career slumped in front of a firing squad.

In the days when you looked like Sean Connery, I thought there was hope for you. You had an aura of intent. There were quips and a slightly upturned corner of the mouth, but rarely anything that could be described as a smile. But then you turned into some Roger Moore type character. You became a showman, a music hall song and dance man, a nod-and-a-wink merchant. I'll admit that you're not bad at disguise as you now look like Daniel Craig. But you still seem too eager to bed a contact instead of arranging a dead drop; too content to be drawn into a car chase when ordering a drone to follow would be less likely to cause an international incident.

Let me draw your attention to the work of some of your colleagues: namely, George Smiley, Percy Alleline and Ricki Tarr. I admit that I wouldn't be inclined to invite any of these men to one of my dinner parties. And none of my lady friends would look at them with a view to any kind of romantic involvement. But isn't that the point? They're spies, James, spies. They're racked by self-doubts, paranoia and often mis-placed loyalty. They're so worn out by their unstinting examination of every coded communication that they barely have the energy to raise a gun. And if they do, it's one shot to the back of the head, not a bloody great explosion that can be picked up by a satellite orbiting Mars.

I know I've suggested this before but have you considered returning to the Navy? Or maybe you should transfer to the army. The paras would be an ideal regiment for your style of combat. Spying isn't your forte. Move on.

So, unfortunately, it is with no regret that I terminate your employment with SIS.

Yours sincerely,

CONTROL

Mark Capell is the author of the thriller, 'Run, Run, Run'. For more information, video trailers and extracts, visit www.run-novel.com