"Are you suggesting that you're paying me too much, to risk my life?" Bond stared down at the man behind the desk.
"Your salary is considered appropriate remuneration for they type of, er, work you undertake. It's just the additional expenses incurred on your behalf that have flagged-up your file for our attention."
"I see, so I'm no longer worthy of First Class airfares?"
"Airfares?" The man in the suit paused. "We'll look into those. I refer more to the three customized Aston Martins you've destroyed in the past two years." A man to the right of the speaker shuffled some papers across the desk. Looking down at them the speaker continued, "At a cost to her Majesty's government of some nine hundred and thirty eight thousand pounds. Is this correct Mr Bond?"
Bond glanced behind him and raised a questioning eyebrow at "Q". Q anxiously nodded back confirmation.
"Well, with the first one, I", Bond began to reply.
"I hadn't finished Mr. Bond. In fact, I've barely begun. Were you responsible for the destruction of a brand new Sikorsky S-76 helicopter belonging to His Highness, Sheikh Habib Al Mohammed in the Sinai Penninsular in October 2010?
"Yes, I was." Replied Bond with an air of proud confidence.
"The Sheikh's helicopter was replaced by Her Majesty's Government, at a cost of eleven million, three hundred and sixty seven thousand pounds?"
"Really?" Replied Bond, "If you read the file on that case, you'll find that I was…"
"The file is classified, Mr Bond. We are accountants representing Her Majesty's Government, not the heads of secret spy agencies. We are simply interested in the numbers. Which brings us to the annihilation of a Sunseeker Predator 108 yacht in the Mediterranean Sea in March 2011?"
"I was nowhere near the boat when it sank." Replied Bond.
"But you were flying the G550 Gulfstream Jet that hit it, were you not?"
"Not when it hit the yacht, no."
"Mr Bond, the fact that you jumped into the safety of the sea, seconds before you crashed a forty-five million pound plane into a five million pound yacht, does not entirely clear you of responsibility in this matter."
The sardonic tone of the accountant's voice grated on Bond's nerves. He ran his hands down the front of his Brioni jacket, feeling the quality of the smooth Italian fabric soothed his irritation. He wasn't sure which he found more unpleasant; the accountant's high-handed attitude or his cheap High Street suit. Bond decided he'd talk to Moneypenny and get himself on any current mission outside the UK, at least until the departmental budget had been revised. Then, thank god, the men-in-cheap-suits would disappear for another four years.