M laid down his pipe and stared at it tetchily. 'We have no choice. We're just going to bring forward this other chap you've been preparing. But you didn't tell me his name.' 'It's Bond, sir,' the Chief of Staff replied. 'James Bond.' One body. Three bullets. 007 floats in the waters of Marseille, killed by an unknown hand. It's time for a new agent to step up. Time for a new weapon in the war against organised crime. It's time for James Bond to earn his licence to kill.

It was a strong face, certainly - the eyes pale grey and very cold, the mouth was hard, the dark hair - greystreaked now - still fell in the authentic comma over the forehead. 'This is how John Pearson reacted to his first encounter with the real James Bond, an encounter probably unique in the annals of thriller writing.

File Note Strictly Confidential - Authorised Personnel Only. Subject: James Bond. Age: 13. Description: dark hair that falls in a comma above his brow, despite efforts to control it; blue eyes; tall for age; surprisingly strong; fluent French, good German. Essential components: a ruthless villain who will stop at nothing; a girl - blond, green-eyed, named Wilder Lawless; a fast car.

It is November 1890 and London is gripped by a merciless winter. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are enjoying tea by the fire when an agitated gentleman arrives unannounced at 221b Baker Street. He begs Holmes for help, telling the unnerving story of a scar-faced man with piercing eyes who has stalked him in recent weeks.

Shortly after the outbreak of the Second World War, a country house called The Firs in Buckinghamshire was requisitioned by the War Office. Sentries were posted at the entrance gates, and barbed wire was strung around the perimeter fence. To local villagers it looked like a prison camp. But the truth was far more sinister. This rambling Edwardian mansion had become home to an eccentric band of scientists, inventors and bluestockings. Their task was to build devastating new weaponry that could be used against the Nazis.