"My name is Alec Trevelyan. I am an operative with MI6. I inherited the codename from the previous agent, and now I am 006."
"November 9, 2001. The witch is actually a decent person—she pulled me out of that coffin. Thank God. I'm alive."
"November 10, 2001. Wade Wilson is absolutely insufferable. I want to kill him. Or have him kill me."
"November 25, 2001. I heard that that witch... actually, 'witch' isn't quite respectful enough. Bella is a decent person; I shouldn't call her that anymore. I'll go with 'that woman.' That woman apparently found some ancient Christian ruin. She really can't sit still for five minutes."
"The entire Middle East is spiraling into chaos again. Intelligence agencies from every nation, historians, archaeologists from across the world—they're all flooding into Israel. And the extremist groups are stirring. It's a powder keg. I need to get out."
"November 26, 2001. What exactly does Wade Wilson do for a living? How does one man make so many enemies? Three separate groups showed up in a single day trying to kill him."
"November 27, 2001. I've been shot again. Once in the calf, once in the stomach. Wade Wilson's enemies kick the door in and open fire, and I'm the one who gets hit—even though he barely knows me. He's the one who walked up to my bed uninvited and insisted on chatting. Why am I getting shot for your problems?"
"December 11, 2001. Finally discharged from Haifa Hospital. What a disaster that place was. Is Ben Gates taking me for a fool? Every call—money, money, money. I've paid out over twenty million dollars funding his search for the Charlotte wreck. I even sold my watch to raise funds."
"December 20, 2001. To bankroll Ben Gates, this old, injury-riddled agent has been forced to go find actual work. Wade Wilson and I picked up a celebrity protection job—two hundred thousand dollars. Not bad pay, but it's still a drop in the bucket compared to what that man keeps demanding."
"I am broke." — These words were pressed deep into the page, the letters heavy enough to leave indentations. It was clear that financing polar research and archaeology out of his own pocket had taken a genuine toll on 006.
"January 5, 2002. That woman wants me to go into business with her—cloned organs. High technology like that is beyond this old man, and I know exactly what she's planning. She wants me as her shield. But the truth is, I need Weyland's revenue to plug the bottomless hole that is Ben Gates."
"April 1, 2002. Clone Island—Weyland's key operational facility—officially opened today. If you can call it that. Ninety-nine percent of the whole thing is fake. Set dressing. That woman brought in some fellow named Quinton Beck, and he built the entire 'facility' with movie-grade special effects."
"Isn't that just fooling people? That woman said it's fine. Fine. I laughed in her face. Of course it's fine—for her. If it ever falls apart, I'm the one taking the hits. Of course she thinks it's fine."
"I spent an entire day leading clients on a tour of Clone Island. A full day of smoke and mirrors. God help me. It wasn't physically exhausting—it was nerve-wracking. I am an honest man. This kind of deception is not something I am built for."
"April 8, 2002. Finally, some good news! That woman says she's going to Japan as an exchange student. My gut tells me that as long as she's off American soil, things will be significantly safer on my end. No evidence for that. Pure instinct."
"Whenever that woman is in the Americas, my luck turns bad. Half the decisions I make feel like I've lost my mind entirely. Let her go, and fast."
"April 29, 2002. A Japanese client named Yashida Ichiro arrived at Clone Island seeking our help. Several of Weyland's doctors examined him and concluded that his bloodstream contains a lethal toxin—not the kind of condition that a simple organ clone could fix. Despite the extraordinary sum the old man offered, I turned him down."
"Yashida Ichiro took it gracefully. Before he left, he handed over a videotape, saying it documented his illness over the years and asking us to analyze it in hopes of finding a treatment."
"Weyland's doctors were polite to his face and couldn't care less the moment he walked out the door. Just some Japanese man—who cares whether he lives or dies? The tape can wait."
"April 30, 2002. First thing in the morning, Yashida Ichiro's son—Yashida Shingen—showed up at Clone Island wanting to know what his father left behind. The look on his face said everything: he was basically asking whether the old man had left a will here."
"I hadn't even watched the tape—my stomach's been a mess the past few days, thanks to a thoroughly unsanitary Mexican pastry. I handed the tape to Yashida Shingen, sent him on his way, and washed my hands of the whole family feud."
"July 3, 2002. That woman has been out of the country for three months now. I hear her stepmother is pregnant, and she's flying back to accompany her stepmother to a checkup. I think... I'll step out for a few days."
"July 4, 2002. That woman is back in America. In that case—I'm going to Japan. In Japan, I was introduced to a new recruit of hers: an Eastern monk by the name of Daoshun."
"I asked him about Eastern spiritual practices. What I never anticipated was that this kind-faced monk would attack me. He had a forearm-thick iron rod hidden up his sleeve and wanted to give me some kind of 'enlightening strike.' My enlightenment was to knock him to the ground. Some fights aren't worth having. I walked away."
"October 12, 2002. That woman is finishing her exchange program and coming back to America. I need to get back to Weyland and comb through the accounts one more time. For the sake of our long-term working relationship, I haven't taken a single cent I wasn't owed."
"October 12, 2002—afternoon. Just got off the phone with that woman. I was sitting on my yacht, getting ready to head out to sea, when a nuclear bomb dropped on my head."
"Who survives a point-blank nuclear strike? I'd like to meet them."
"The detonator was disarmed, but something that size still capsized my vessel on impact. I fractured my arm when the ship's wheel hit it as I went into the water. The San Francisco rescue team pulled me out." — The handwriting in this section was a chaotic scrawl, slanted and uneven. He had clearly written it left-handed.
"October 15, 2002. My arm is still useless. I can't drive. While I was passing along Mulholland Drive, a woman hurled a VHS tape at me. If it weren't for my arm, she'd have had something coming to her."
"October 15, 2002—evening. Something is very wrong. I can't quite say what—only that my head is spinning violently. Poisoned? I'm dialing her number. I hope it's not too late..."