had, in fact, taken a cat nap lasting for less than an hour. Over the years he had learned the art of sleeping, even on his feet, for an accurate amount of time: drawing from this a new energy as though he had taken a full eight hours of refreshment.
He shaved and dressed - slacks, a white sea island cotton shirt, soft espadrilles and blazer - in his usual time, then went through the small living room into the tiny kitchen where he carefully cooked his normal breakfast, or near enough his normal breakfast - the best meal of the day, and the most important he always considered.
the coffee was not his much beloved De Bry brewed in an American Chemex, but it was near enough and brewed in an earthenware jug. He had managed to lay his hands on Cooper’s Vintage Marmalade, wholewheat bread for his toast and eggs very similar to the ones from French Marans hens. Unhappily there was none of the deep yellow Jersey butter, but he found the local variety very much to his taste.
He took his time over the two cups of coffee, the egg boiled for exactly three and one third minutes and his slices of toast
He sat for a full hour after eating. It was now almost four o’clock in the morning and the day ahead promised some action, though that niggling little worry remained hidden at the back of his head. He had returned to it time and again during the night, but it remained as elusive as a four-leafed clover.
Before leaving the villa he packed and readied himself for a fast getaway, for he was reasonably certain that, whatever lay in store for him today, M was likely to summon him back to London before long.
Eventually he went down to the short wooden jetty and made ready to cast off. He wanted his timing to be as accurate as possible for he planned to hide in plain sight among the other yachts and small craft which usually dotted the waters around Monte Carlo from first light.
Joining the pleasure seekers and lotus eaters of the area, he would simply be one small craft among many.
It was after five in the morning when he finally cast off and set a course out to sea, for he wanted to sail in a wide circle, coming inshore only at the last moment.
The trip was uneventful, and, as expected, he found himself in the company of yachts, sail boats and motor launches by around nine-thirty.
Manticore rode at anchor in the same position as she had done during the previous evening so he circled the long sleek seagoing yacht at a distance, his eyes raking the ship for signs of life. By nine forty-five he saw the tender being readied on the starboard side - the side nearest the harbour exit to the sea. He also noted that Manticore had a second small motorboat, in the water, riding off the stern.
Gently he manoeuvred his craft around to the port side, bringing her close in to the yacht which had a line draped over the side amidships, presumably to be ready should the tender or motorboat decide to come inboard on the port side.
He grabbed at the line and took the strain. It was firmly secured on the deck and strong enough for him to climb with no difficulty, so he tied up his own little sailboat and heaved himself up the curving flank of Manticore, nimbly vaulting over the rail, stopping still and silent the moment his feet touched the deck.
He could hear the sounds of orders being issued, and the grumble of the tender’s engines from the starboard side. Whoever crewed the vessel was well occupied over there so he slipped forward, heading towards the main saloon.
Inside, the saloon was decorated with style and its fittings and furniture were there for comfort - a long bar taking up the length of one side, deep leather armchairs scattered around the entire room which stretched the width of the ship. Paintings of obvious value were set under lights on the walls, and there was a wide passageway running from the saloon forward on the port side.
Silently, Bond moved along the passage until he came to an ornate sliding carved wooden door. Gently he tried the handle. The door swung open, and he slipped inside, closing it behind him. He was in a bedroom given over to sensuality: a mirrored ceiling, erotica on the walls and the scent of death reaching his nostrils before he saw the shattered body on the bed.
The ports were open, but the incoming breeze did nothing to disperse the odour he had smelled too many times in his life, and there, sprawled hideously on the bed, was the naked and broken body of Rear Admiral Chuck Farrel. In death his face was not in repose. The eyes were fixed on his reflection in the mirror above the bed, his mouth contorted in a wide open grimace as though he had died in some kind of revolting ecstasy.
There seemed to be music drifting into this bizarre scene, and it took a moment for Bond to realise that it was floating in from the French warship he had noted both last night and on his way into the harbour that morning.
He could see the ship dressed overall through one of the ports.
He could also see Manticore’s tender rapidly crossing the stretch of sea towards the French ship, and in the tender were two people: Xenia Onatopp and the admiral who lay dead in front of his eyes.
The band on the French naval vessel was playing a selection of sea shanties and, as he peered out, he saw the outline of the helicopter.
In that moment, the fact for which his mind had been searching since the previous night came into focus. He felt the blood drain from his face and his lips automatically formed one word - Tigre!”
“Of course,’ he whispered to himself as all the pieces slotted into place. “Of course, Tigre!” He did not even hear the door open behind him as his brain made several lightning calculations.
The Tigre’s A Wonderful Thing There were two of them, dressed like deck hands in striped T-shirts with Manticore across the front, black bellbottomed slacks and soft shoes. As Bond turned, he did not see them as deck hands. He recognised the type.
Hoodlums. Trained hoodlums, the kind the bad old KGB used way back then, in their Boyevaya Gruppa - their “combat gangs’ that dispensed broken legs and bullets through the backs of heads. One stood three steps inside the stateroom, the other took one pace inside, moving behind, and to his coMr.ade’s left.
In the back of his mind Bond baptised them. Tub o’ Lard was three steps in, while Big Muscle was behind.
“Come for the body, have you?” As he spoke, Bond feinted to the right, trying to bring Big Muscle forward.
It had the desired effect and he came fast as Bond jumped to his left, sticking out his right leg, catching the oncoming man’s ankle.
Momentum carried Big Muscle forward so that he landed, at speed, head first against the foot of the bed.
By this time, Bond had grappled with Tub o’ Lard, a head shorter, heavier, fatter version of the same species as Big Muscle, going close in and grasping with both hands at the man’s left wrist, bringing his left knee up hard into the groin so that the thug gave a gurgle of pain and doubled over.
“Makes your eyes water, doesn’t it?” He jerked with all his strength on Tub o’ Lard’s left arm, heard the bone crack out of joint in the shoulder, ducked under the now useless limb, bringing it up to the middle of the man’s back, bending him even further forward and hoping to blazes that there were not any more like him within earshot because Tub o’ Lard was now screaming with agony, great schoolboy bellows of pain interspersed with Russian oaths.
Bond positioned the man so that his head pointed directly at his partner who had managed to get to his feet, dazed a little, but turning in on Bond as he grappled with the screaming, doubled up, incapacitated assailant. He let go of the wrist, stepped back and brought the hard leading edge of his right hand down in a heavy chop to the back of Tub o’ Lard’s neck. There was a whoof of pain which seemed to come from deep within his victim who crumpled up and would have collapsed onto the stateroom floor if Bond had not caught him by his belt and the neck of his T- shirt, using him as a battering ram, hurling the body head first directly at Big Muscle’s face.
The bullet head caught Big Muscle, covering a large amount of territory. The various crunches came, Bond thought, from nose, right cheek-bone and mouth. There was quite a lot of blood. There was also loss of consciousness for both of them.
“You should really try to stay ahead of the game, he muttered, turning and leaving the stateroom at speed. If this did concern the Tigre helicopter sitting on the pad which was the stern of the French vessel, he would have little time to spare.
Manticore was obviously operating with a skeleton crew or some of her crew must be ashore, for there was nobody else on deck. Bond raced to the stern and pulled at the line which reached out to the motorboat he had
