Works/Ernst Eternal

Coming awake his first thought was of clarity. He had been awake before, blurs of green and white moving amorphously around him, but now he had focus. And he didn't hurt. There were a few aches, but he had expected searing agony.

Why had he expected that?

He was on a hospital bed. Surprisingly he was not surprised. He felt for the rail and sat up. A sharp pain then, between two of his left ribs. He probed it with his fingers, then untied the gown at the neck and dropped it to his waist. A small scar, a crater in the skin.

A crater - there had been a volcano, hadn't there? No, that had been earlier.

He'd been shot. It was coming to him now. The bullet had gone through him. Then there had been explosions. Fire close by. He reached over to his right arm and felt the new raw skin along its upper half, tight as it rounded his shoulder.

He stood up, letting the gown fall. The far wall had a mirror.

It wasn't the face he was expecting. Ragged, thin-cheeked, in some ways more handsome. He could see below the alterations that it was still himself, especially in the eyes. And, in working out that he knew himself, he also knew who he knew himself to be.

He smiled, just a little, a twitch around the corners of his mouth.

So be it, then. Unclear why they'd had to change his face - had he been burned there as well? - but it was to his advantage. By the time the world knew that Blofeld was back, it would be far too late.

He turned slowly as a nurse entered the room.

"Do you know where you are?"

"In a hospital," he replied.

"Do you remember how you got here?"

He shook his head. It was not a lie.

"Do you have any idea who you are?"

He considered the matter and made his face a dull, puzzled blank. "No ... No, I don't."

"He's lying," said the man in the black suit with the narrow jaw and eyes, on the far side of the mirror. "You saw his face. He'll be back on again as soon as he can pretend to be recovered enough that we can believably consent to his release."

"Everyone plays in the charade, eh?" said the dyspeptic-looking, overweight man in the tweed. "How many times has this drama been performed?"

"This is the third. Would have been the fourth, but we lost him totally in Japan. Had to start again; took far too long. We prefer to retrieve."

"It must be pleasant," said the portly man, "to be so secure in one's morality."

The other's face stayed placid, but not his voice. "You get the same reports we do. Brezhnev won't live forever and there's no one else in the Communists who can work the trick. The Middle East isn't ready yet. China's too far off. Meanwhile you know damned well how little we can keep the lid on. There has to be a diversion."

"There should be a better alternative."

"You're free to suggest one. At any rate, you're not obliged to like it."

"That's fortunate," said the tweed man, reaching for his coat.

"Remember, not a word of this to MI6," said the man in black.

The Prime Minister shuddered. "Do you take me for a fool?"

They exited the room behind the mirror in silence.

Copyright © August 2010. Do not distribute or reproduce.