Bond returned the Beretta to his pocket nearest the window and wondered what words were appropriate at such moments of deliverance. Anya had stopped biting her lips but there was still the same expression of grim determination. ‘Thanks for leaving me alone with Prince Charming,’ he said.
Anya shrugged. ‘Every man and woman for himself. Remember?’
‘Still, I suppose you did intervene at a propitious moment earlier on.1
Anya wrinkled her delicious nose. 'We all make mistakes.’
Bond smiled and watched the track stretching away before them. With any luck he could be back in Cairo by the evening. And then? Probably best to get round to the fall-back address he had been given and hand over the merchandise. Not a good idea to keep it in a hotel room. He glanced towards Anya. The lady could make her own arrangements.
Bond slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the canister. He expected a reaction from Anya but there was none. She continued to look steadfastly ahead, both hands on the wheel in the ten-to-three position approved by the British School of Motoring. Bond unscrewed the canister and tapped out the thin spool of film. A couple of inches of celluloid that could change the history of the world. How unreal it all seemed. He raised the film to the light and studied it. Anya changed gear and did not return her hand to the driving wheel. From the corner of his eye, Bond noticed it missing and glanced down. The slim hand nestled in a position of intimacy against his thigh. Bond looked towards Anya and she turned her face to his. The chin tilted and the beautiful eyes were full of bland innocence. Bland innocence laced with triumph.
Bond’s hand dived towards his thigh, but it was too late. A wasp had stung him. He could feel his neck stiffening, his fingers locking. The film dropped to the floor. Against his leg, the needle still glinted evilly from the centre of the ring. How stupid of him. How typical of SMERSH. Have you so short a memory, James Bond? Do you not remember Rosa Klebb? Now he could feel nothing and the puppet strings that pulled his mind were being snipped one by one. There was only the soft female voice whispering to him like a chiding lover,
‘Remember, dear James Bond. Every woman for herself.'
A Marriage of Convenience
James Bond walked through the teeming Khalili Bazaar and felt a weariness near to death. Whatever poison the Russian bitch had pumped into him - and Bond favoured a relation of curare with its hatchet effect on the central nervous system - was still creeping through him like an anaesthetist in carpet slippers and there was no part of his bruised, tortured body that did not ache. But the ache that really counted was deep inside. Beyond reach of the most powerful electric current.
It was the ache of failure.
Bond was not used to crawling back with his tail between his legs and he did not relish the prospect of arriving at Station Y with nothing to show for his efforts but multiple contusions and a hideous, nagging fear that he might now be impotent.
‘This way, sah! This way! You want beautiful gold thing for your lady? We have it. I give you special price.1
‘Look, look! I showr you. Come, come. This real silver. Very old. I show you mark.’
‘You Engleesh? I like Engleesh! Engleesh very good friend of mine. I fight for Engleesh army. Because you Engleesh I show you leather work I never sell. It come down from my father. He also like Engleesh very much
Bond felt like a man swimming against the tide. If anyone tried to sell him dirty postcards he might go under. And then he saw what he was looking for. ‘Khan Carpets. Tapis Khan*. A tall Arab caught his eye and swept towards him.
‘Good day, sir! We have the finest selection of carpets in Cairo.1
‘I am only interested in Persian carpets.1
‘Then we will be able to give you satisfaction, sir. If you come inside ..
Bond listened to the exchange of recognition signals and felt that it sounded like a music-hall act. Perhaps it was because he was bruised in mind and body and not looking forward to his next appointment. ‘007’s on the slide, you know. Made a pig's ear of some caper in Egypt. Little Russky filly took him to the cleaners. Lucky to get away without a Court of Inquiry. I think they’re going to find him a staff job.’ He could hear the tittle- tattle reverberating around International Export. Oh well, what the hell. He’d had a good innings. But if he ever caught up with Major Anya Amasova again she’d have a darn sight more than a tanned bottom to remember him by!
The dark, cool interior of the shop was like a labyrinth, with passages leading off in all directions. It was also open to another narrow, bustling street at the back. Very useful for comings and goings if one was being followed. The guide stopped in a small room that could be entered by either of two doors. The walls were hung with carpets. Bond noticed the Arab’s eyes darting around suspiciously before he spoke. ‘I think you will find that this is what you are looking for, sir.’
He swiftly pulled aside a carpet and ushered Bond through the opening that was revealed. Bond nodded and passed into a narrow corridor. A second after the carpet had fallen behind him a light came on. The smell was like that of a house that has been closed for the winter: people pickled in cold and damp. Bond followed the corridor and came to a flight of stone steps. As he started to descend he heard a familiar sound - the tip-tapping of a typewriter.
What he saw as he came into the low-vaulted room was less familiar. Sitting behind a desk was the secretary he had last seen in M’s outer office. She had a cardigan pulled round her shoulders and was leaning across the typewriter with a correcting rubber between her teeth. She finished adjusting the machine and made a shivering gesture. ‘Chilly, isn’t it?’ Bond nodded. ‘I think it’ll be all right if you go in.' She turned her head towards the door behind her and set to work briskly with the rubber. Bond took a grip of himself and stepped forward. What the devil was going on?
He opened the door and found himself in a long whitewashed room, mercifully warmer than its antechamber - secretaries always had to suffer; that was one of the rules of the Civil Service. At the end of the room was a wide, polished wood desk with four wire baskets on it and behind the desk - a woman in the uniform of a Russian Army Major training a Walther PPK on him. Anya! Her eyes narrowed as he came in and her elbow advanced across the desk. The barrel was pointing at his heart. Was he going mad?
While Bond blinked and stared and wondered if he was going to be shot dead or come to his senses, another actor entered the drama. He was dressed in the uniform of a Colonel General in the Russian Army and he had three rows of ribbons on his chest. Bond recognized him from his photographs. Colonel General Nikitin, head of SMERSH. He looked at Bond and then back through the door by which he had entered the room.
The next entrant made Bond certain that soon men in white tunics would be leading him away to what was discreetly known as the service’s Rest and Recuperation Centre at Virginia Water. M, sucking on his pipe and sporting one of his infernally cheerful bow ties. He jabbed the stem of his pipe at Bond in greeting and moved behind the desk as Anya stood up.
‘Ah, 007. You’re here.’
Anya turned the Walther round so that she was holding it by the barrel and advanced to Bond. Her smile was charming. 4I seem to have managed to lay hands on your gun - as well as other things.’ Bond took the proffered weapon and resisted the temptation to test-fire it immediately. He turned to M. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.’
M waved everybody to seats. ‘There’s been a change of plan, 007. General Nikitin and his ADC, Major Amasova, are officially here as part of the delegation discussing defence matters with President Sadat. That doesn’t concern us - well, it does, but it doesn’t, if you know what I mean.’ Bond nodded briskly. He was not in the mood for M being light-hearted. ‘Their real business is rather more serious and immediate. You may not be aware of it but the Russians have also lost a nuclear submarine.’
Bond’s pulse quickened. He did not know. He looked towards Anya, who gazed at him without expression. Only a slight widening of her eyes seemed to say, ‘Could you be so naive as to expect me to tell you all my secrets?’
‘To cut a long story short, our governments have decided, at the highest level, that our mutual interests would be best served if we worked together on this assignment. We have no knowledge as to who is responsible for the disappearance of our submarines and exhaustive inquiries amongst allies have revealed nothing. We are up against a completely unknown entity'
