Bond came-to on the banks of the river, every bone and muscle aching from the gun shot, the fall and the assault of the churning river. Vaguely remembering the sequence of events that had brought him to this spot, he reached for his chest and found his wound gaping but the blood flow largely stopped likely due to the coldness of the water. He had no idea where he was or how long he'd been there, but dragging himself to his feet he headed for a dirt track that wound its way up the steep hills that lined the valley. His left wrist was sore and stiff likely from the fall so he bound it with his necktie as he walked.
The distant hum of a vehicle caused Bond to head into the bushes that lined the track. He watched the battered truck approach and, once satisfied that its driver was alone and not a threat, flagged him down. The man spoke no English, Bond no Turkish, but he smiled and gestured for Bond to climb inside. At the nearest town Bond got out and handed the driver his cuff links by way of payment, the farmer smiled to reveal a gold tooth and raised the cufflinks towards his mouth and an opening between teeth.
In the town's café, Bond mimed using the phone. He dialled an Antalya name that he had memorised along with dozens of other numbers throughout the world. An English voice answered. It was Barkhorn, formerly 004, now retired after a bitter falling-out with M and living the Mediterranean life with his third wife, a nubile young Indian. The conversation was brief but Barkhorn immediately wired money to the town and said he'd have someone collect him the following day.
In Antalya, Barkhorn used his local blackmarket contacts to organise new papers to replace those Bond had lost in the river. He also set him up with a local doctor who was more than happy to do anything under the table...for enough cash. He patched up Bond, no questions asked and folded the money into his pocket. The former agent told Bond that his neighbour had a rustic beach house an hour away that he used when he wanted to get away from the world. The neighbour was in Australia visiting his son for 6 months, but Barkhorn had the key and gave it to Bond, asking him to post it back to him before he left and asking that he leave the shack as he'd found it.
The town was small. The tiny fishing industry that had been its backbone had all but disappeared and been replaced by a few holiday homes and a beach-front bar frequented by the odd backpacker who had drifted well off the beaten path, drug smugglers keeping their heads down before moving on to Germany and others of various nationalities who have simply dropped off the map. Nobody asked questions: they just drank hard, played hard and were rarely seen during daylight hours. Bond fit in perfectly.