Fellas, Don't be jealous.

It was a bleak evening. 014 was in room 365, Alson resort, under a Serbian alias, Marko Yvonevic. He didn't know why, his controllers never told him the political motivation behind his assassinations.

Dressed in a loose pair of jeans and a white turtleneck that barely hid his paunch, he bore no resemblance to his fictional counterpart. 'Bond, James Bond . . . What an amateur', he chuckled to himself as he thought about Agent 007. His job was to be inconspicuous, and the muscular frame that belonged to Sean Connery would be least helpful towards that end.

In spite of that, he had always envied 007. His was the perfect life, what with the cars, gadgets and girls. 014? He drove a beat-up Chevy, had only a 0.9mm Magnum, and as far as girls went, his wife had been informed that he died in a plane crash the day he was recruited. His was a thankless job. He knew that his seniors would have no qualms about putting him down if his position was ever compromised.

The despondent train of thought was broken when he heard a knock on the door, followed by 'Room service', in a high pitched Serbian accent. Dinner, he smiled to himself, as he walked up to the closet and marked an 'X' on the table next to it. It was the only spot in the room that was not under the surveillance of the CCTV cameras. 'Come in' he said aloud, even as he heard a trolley roll in. The waiter, walked in smartly, surveyed the room, laid out the dinner table, turned to walk out, and 'accidentally' left a brown parcel behind, on the X. 014 was impressed. the young man had distinguished himself well, by following protocol perfectly. He then ate his dinner, a simple British fare, before reluctantly unwrapping the parcel.

In it he knew, lay concealed the identity of his next victim and details of the plan of action for him to follow. The name of the next victim, was . . . well, unimportant. The plan was simple enough. 014 had to draw him out of the way in a long game of golf, when a brief distraction would be created to take the bodyguard out of the equation. 014 would then have to smother the man with a chloroform laced handkerchief, and leave the body in the woods nearby, for it to be discarded. Lastly, obviously he had to make himself scarce.

'What did this poor soul do?' wondered the man, rumoured to be a heartless assassin amongst his colleagues, staring at the target's photograph. In spite of having killed 13 men in the past in such stealth missions, having to kill one more random person tore him apart. He would invariably spend most of his time before the kill thinking about the victim, the pleasures and pressures of his/her life, and whether or not it was right for him to take away the gift of life. That he would always reason with himself that this kill would save many other innocents, and that he would execute it perfectly anyway was another matter. 'There are no such things as battle hardened men' he argued with his prefrontal cortex, as he crawled into bed. 'Some of us unfortunate bastards just survive too long for our own good'.

The sound of a phone ringing woke him up in the morning. 'хвала' he answered, thanking the receptionist for the wakeup call in fluent yet groggy Serbian and went about his morning chores.

Six hours later, he was at the last hole of the course. The plan was going perfectly, and the distraction was due in a minute. 014 lined up for a putt, as his new friend watched on. It would have been a birdie, given his expertise. It had been a tricky hole. With woods on both sides, it took a classy drive to find the clearing in the middle. At that moment precisely, they heard a mini explosion to his right. The bodyguard scampered off to secure the perimeter, glad to have a few minutes' respite from watching two grown man knock little white balls around a large meadow. The target turned back from the distraction, his smug face indicating the confidence he has in his bodyguard, surprised to notice that his friend had dropped his club and was holding a wet kerchief instead. A couple of seconds later, 014 dragged the lifeless body to the woods on his left.

The job complete, 014 slithered away, feeling his way through the woods on all fours. His spotter must have completed the communication by then. 014 had never been spotter in all his life, and only knew what he read about them in his textbooks when he was being trained. 'The spotter is the backup agent on any job. His/her main objective is to ensure that the mission is carried out successfully, and to provide the controllers with regular inputs. If the main agent on a mission double crosses the team, it is the spotter's duty to eliminate him/her, and complete said mission' he recalled, as he crawled. A few moments later, he heard a twig break. The implication was obvious. His spotter was in his midst! Technically, the spotter was the only barrier between John Dawes and his freedom. If killed, he could escape, or as he thought of it, retire, without his controllers knowing. He lay still for a minute, listening for sounds that would give away the position of the man. There were plenty. Clearly an amateur, the spotter had completely betrayed his position to Dawes. Dawes realised that the man was a few metres ahead of him with his back to John. Dawes crept up with the silence characteristic of a Rolls Royce drive., and prepared to smother the agent, who crouched behind a tree, extremely proud of the professionalism with which he had completed his first mission. Dawes looked at the boy, and realised that it was the waiter from the previous night. The familiar heartache that always struck him before he made his kill, paralyzed him for a whole second. Dawes then bent over, tapped the boy's shoulder and whispered, 'Don't give away your position so easily boy, you're better than that', before hurrying away. The boy turned to see his hero crawl away and turned red with a combination of awe and embarrassment.

A few hours later, a nondescript Chevy was seen driving past the national border. Its driver was no longer a human. He was just a number, again. 014.

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If you're still reading this, thanks. Its my first attempt at writing a story, so let me know what you think of it. The title is from the song 'Man for all seasons - Robbie Williams' (Opening credits of Johnny English)