believe it had happened. He seldom remembered dreams, so was surprised at the clarity of these images.
He heard the voices, urgent, shouting, over the noise of rolling breakers which came ever closer. He had felt himself being lifted up as though floating on an agitated sea. There was no fear of drowning, even when his body was picked up and slammed down again in the boiling ocean. This had gone on in his dream for some time, then suddenly the bumping stopped and quiet came. After that there were moments of erotic awareness, as though his body were wrapped around that of a woman he could neither see nor hear. He had dreamed of the sexual act, knowing that he was performing it with someone for whom he felt great warmth and affection.
The ceiling above him was made of wood, untreated, not finished or varnished, simply plain pine worked into smooth planks which waited to be sealed and painted. Distantly he was aware that the scent emanated from the ceiling and, probably, from other parts of this unfinished room.
Automatically he tried to sit up, and this was the moment when Bond realised all his faculties had not been released from whatever they had inserted into his body. His brain and vision had been returned to him, but his limbs remained captive. It was a strange, not unpleasant, feeling, one which he accepted without really questioning the final outcome.
There was no sense of time passing, so he could not tell how quickly the memories of his dreams altered and became more substantial, but it seemed as though, quite suddenly, he knew some of the memory was not a dream.
The coloured swirling mist had been snow, with blue, green and red lights refracted through the whirl of flakes. He had not levitated. Strong arms had lifted him. The increasing sound of the sea was the steady engine noise of a large helicopter, and the voices were those of the crew, and others, who were strapping him down inside the body of the craft. The roller-coaster ride on the sea was the helicopter flight. Into his mind now came clear pictures, flashes of Pete Natkowitz and Nina Bibikova within the metal hull of a large Medevac chopper.
Lastly, he realised the erotic dream had been no dream. There had, indeed, been drug-induced sex, though he had no clear picture of his partner.
It was as he was pondering this last truth that Bond felt the chemical begin to leave his body, slipping from muscles and flesh, moving downwards. He thought this must be like death in reverse. Does death sometimes take you slowly, so that you feel each part of your physical make-up sliding away until the final enemy, the brain death, overcomes everything, plunging you into the seamless darkness? The unknowing?
He moved a hand, then started to reflex, lifting his head, and finally sitting up, propping himself on one elbow.
The room was large, high with a single, wide, arched window reaching up and almost covering one entire wall. Everything was in the same smooth, unfinished pine, even the long dressing table with mirrors set deeply into the wall behind it. There was a circular table and chairs, two stand chairs at the table and three cushioned chairs with long curving backs. The design of the room and everything in it, from the chairs to the bed on which he was now lying, was modern, functional and very Scandinavian. Not that this meant anything. The Russians had used the Scandinavian countries to supply furniture and design for many of their new hotels.
He took in the size of the room, the doors – one leading to a bathroom – and the big window, before his mind began to monitor the bed itself, a great king-sized creation, a boxed framework holding a firm comfortable mattress. It somehow did not come as a shock to realise that someone else lay next to him on the bed, or that they were both naked.
Nina Bibikova was stretched out beside him, her large dark eyes dancing with pleasure and her mouth trembling as it puckered into a smile. Neither of them felt embarrassment, and he saw that she lowered her eyes to search his own body just as he also raked her nakedness. She was on her back, the long legs slightly apart, one bent at the knee as though by way of invitation. For a second he took in the dark pelt at the apex of her thighs, then the smooth curve of her belly, with a neat, almost finicky dimple of a navel, and then to her breasts which thrust upwards to the deep dark aureoles and erect pink nipples like wild raspberries. They did not flatten and spread as the breasts of many women do when they lie flat on their backs. Nina’s were firm, poised and hardly moved as she shifted her position.
It was Nina to whom he had made love at some point before his body – could it have been both their bodies – became trapped into immobility?
‘Good morning, darling.’ She spoke in the same, almost upper-crust, English she had used at the dacha. ‘Sleep well?’ As she said it, Nina turned on her side, still holding him with her eyes, one hand close to her face, a finger raised, making an almost imperceptible circle, the warning they all used to signify
‘Like a log. We’ll have to sweep the bark out of the bed.’ He was immediately aware that he was supposed to be Guy, the cameraman, and she was Helen. He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Where are we?’
The Russian girl devoured him with her eyes. ‘No idea, Guy. But wherever it is, we’re very comfortable. They said there would be a job to do, so I reckon this is where we do it.’ Her hand went to his loins, practised, her fingers knowing and experienced.
At the rap on the door, they flung themselves apart as if they were guilty lovers. Bond called out as the double rap was repeated, then lunged from the bed, looking around for something to cover his body. Their backpacks were placed side by side against one of the more comfortable chairs. They were still fastened as though nobody had touched them or examined the contents. Then he spotted two towelling robes laid out on a long stool at the foot of the bed.
‘Just a moment,’ he called out, as he threw one to cover Nina’s nakedness and wrapped his body in the other, pausing again by the door to ask, ‘Who is it?’
‘Breakfast.’ A male voice, accented, though he could have been from anywhere – Spain, Italy, France.
Bond wondered which one of them had slipped the safety chain in place the previous night. The wood on the door was as smooth as Nina’s skin. He felt it with his palms and then the back of his hand as he took off the chain and opened the door.
The man could have stepped straight from any major European hotel – black pants and a white jacket, swarthy, tanned, smiling and pushing a large room-service trolley.
‘ ’Ope you sleep well, sir, madam. Where you wan’ the breakfast? Over by the win’ow?’
‘That’ll be fine. Thank you.’ Bond expected him to produce a chit to be signed, but the waiter simply opened up the trolley, corrected the place settings on it, and then removed covered dishes from hot boxes stored under one end before reciting the menu. ‘You have bacon, eggs, hash-browns, tomatoes, juice, rolls, toast, confiture, coffee. This okay for you?’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘On the house. Is all on the house.’
Bond blanched slightly. Breakfast was the best meal of the day, though he normally did not eat eggs and bacon. ‘Fine,’ he lied. ‘Splendid. Where are we?’
‘Ah,’ the waiter gave him a bland smile, ‘you are in the complex we call the Hotel de la Justice, sir. I am to tell you it will be explained.’ He paused to look at his watch. ‘You have plenty time. Is only eight thirty. Your guide will come for you at ten thirty. Is enough time, yes?’
‘Ample, yes. Thank you.’ What else could he say? Intuition told him to behave normally, as though this were an everyday occurrence. As the waiter was bowing himself out, Bond asked, ‘The building? It’s not quite finished?’
The waiter smiled and shook his head. ‘Not quite, sir. No. Soon it will be completed. It was built well, but in a short time. Eventually, they tell me, it will be splendid.’
‘Hotel de la Splendide Justice,’ Bond muttered, half under his breath, as he looked under one of the plate covers at the pile of beautifully arranged food. ‘Come on, love.’ He grinned at Nina. In the far corner of his head, he realised that he was automatically slipping into the role of Guy, the cameraman. He even thought of the girl as Helen, his London lover, and wondered if, during the strange night journey, they had meddled with his mind.
As he began to tackle the food, he did some mental stocktaking, questioning himself at each turn. He knew exactly who he was, what his orders had been; there was total awareness of Stepakov’s plan and the swap that had been made for the three Londoners.
‘You’re very quiet, Guy?’ She was looking at him in the same disarming manner across the table.
Bond shook his head, as though to rid himself of daydreams. ‘It’s been a remarkable couple of days, Helen. Or are you used to being put under and carted to Lord knows where?’
‘Living with you, darling, has prepared me for anything. I mean messages like “Get your knickers on, we’re off to Saudi in an hour . . .” ’
