James Bond, The Spy Who Loved Me

by Christopher Wood

  Bond looked down at the two untidy heaps of human being and wondered how long it would be before streams of homeless vermin started to leave their bodies. The girl was staring at him as if mesmerized by the events of the last few seconds. Bond fastened his trousers and looked at her just long enough to sec that she was beautiful and not pointing a gun at him

  ‘Thanks for saving my life.’ He smiled grimly, and added as an afterthought, ‘And possibly one or two other people’s.’

  And then he was through the door and down the worn stairs, two at a time. Throwing his weight against a second door and feeling the blessed cool of the night air. He ran hard down an alley and then out into a street where people were walking and he could slow down and walk amongst them, listening to his pumping heart reassuring him that he was still alive.

  Adventures in Clubland

  The Mujaba Club was an incongruous building to find in a bustling tourist metropolis on the eastern bank of the Nile three hundred and seventy-five miles south of Cairo - for that was where Bond eventually found it. On the outskirts of Luxor. It was surrounded by clumps of palm trees, to be sure, but that, apart from its awnings and shutters, was its only obvious concession to the mystic East. In all other respects it was redolent of the era when Britannia ruled the waves aud most of the land that divided them. It looked like a cross between an open prison, a Methodist church hall, a youth hostel and the officers’ mess of an inferior county regiment, and, because it was none of these things, yet clearly built by English hands, it had to be a club.

  Bond was feeling less depressed. He was not a masochist but the pain and relentless action of two nights before had left him with a keen edge of purpose. He had a lead, something to go on, something to get his teeth into. Most important of all, there was a tough, ruthless game being played for enormous stakes and he had been dealt in. No matter the insignificance of his cards. What was vital was that he should have the chance to play them.

  Outside the club was an impressive range of cars. Bond noted the larger Merccdcs and the latest Cadillac which must have been flown over from the States almost before it was available to the American public. There was clearly a lot of money about. Most of it, from the look of the number plates, Arabic. Bond squared his shoulders beneath the sculptured lightness of his black barathea dinner jacket and met the eye of the garishly dressed doorman. The man wore a curved dagger in a scabbard of semi-precious stones tucked into the

  waistband of his embroidered burnous. He had a nose like a falcon and his sharp, dark eyes ran over Bond like the editor of Burke’s Peerage considering an applicant for a vacant baronetcy. Bond passed muster and returned the slight inclination of the head that passed him through to the interior of the club.

  Inside, the atmosphere was considerably more gracious than Bond had anticipated from his first observation of the building. The entrance hall was high and vaulted, with cloakrooms and a telephone-room going off to the right. On the left was a reception desk, now untenanted, a notice-board and another board covered in green baize and criss-crossed with brass- studded pink tape which held letters to members. Bond inspected the notice-board. There were details of camel races and of a book being made on competitors in the club's bridge tournament. Bond quickly scanned the list of names, but there was no sign of a Kalba, Max or otherwise. Better to ask, and best to ask with a drink in one’s hand.

  The bar was another pleasant surprise. Spacious, comfortable and with the minimum concession to Arab kitsch. A long mirror-backed bar ran along one wall and there were groups of tables and low-backed armchairs and cushioned window-seats. Two fans in the ceiling turned slowly and silently. Through a door at the far end could be seen a candle-lit dining-room with waiters in short tunics and deep purple waistcoats. One or two couples were already studying menus. Bond settled himself at the bar and ordered a vodka martini. The dress of the people around him was interesting. Some of the men wore dinner- jackets; others affected traditional costume and their strong aquiline features could barely be seen emerging from their white robes and flowing head-dresses. For the most part, they sipped daintily from tiny cups of coffee and talked eloquently with their hands whilst their womenfolk sat silent and respectful, only their dark, almond eyes taking off to make whirlwind sorties round the room. They were beautiful, these women, thought Bond, perhaps more so than the Europeanized ones with pendant jewellery hanging from their foreheads. So much of their mystery was still hidden and only those darting eyes spoke of immortal longings awaiting satisfaction.

  But, enough of speculation. There was work to be done. Bond finished his drink and raised a finger to catch the barman’s eye. And then he saw her. Reflected in the long mirror behind the bar. The girl at the son-et-lumière. The girl whose intervention two days before had saved his life. She was coming into the room like a clipper under full sail and she looked magnificent. Her dress was a long, black, wispy thing that trailed behind her and stopped just below the graceful line of her slim shoulders. Her fine breasts jutted out proudly. Her hair was jet black and lustrous and there was no touch of artifice about the way it hung casually to form a natural, jagged frame to her face. The face was beautiful and Bond looked at it properly for the first time. The eyes were a deep blue, almost violet, and contained beneath dark brows. The slender nose had a suspicion of a tilt and the mouth was both positive and sensual. In fact, the whole face had an air of determination and independence helped by the set of the high cheekbones and the fine line of the jaw. This sense of purpose was carried through to the way she moved. She held herself proudly yet unselfconsciously, and moved across the room as if it was a vassal state to be crossed on the way to defeat an enemy. She held her flat, black evening-bag like a weapon.

  With a pang of sadness, Bond realized that this girl reminded him of someone he had once loved and married. Tracy had been fair and this girl was dark but there was about their faces those same qualities of courage, spirit and resourcefulness that Bond prized above all others in a woman. But a voice of caution shouted in Bond's ear. Careful! This girl is a Russian. She is almost certainly a member of SMERSH and is therefore a deadly enemy. Her presence here is not programmed by Eros but whatever poor, demented god controls the movements of spies and double agents. Beware!

  Taking the advice of his conscience, Bond dismissed the hovering barman and slid from his stool. Three steps and he was by the girl’s side.

  ‘Good evening. What an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Commander Bond.’ She had the grace to smile, and even if it was false the effect was still stunning.

  ‘You have the advantage of me once again. Please allow me to buy you a drink.’

  Anya looked into the handsome, cruel face with a sense of déjà vu. Was it only in the last two days and in the file marked Angliski Spion at the Department of Military Records that she had seen this man before? As she allowed herself to be steered towards the bar she could understand why he was the most respected as well as feared of the British agents. His body seemed to flow rather than move in a series of programmed steps. He was like a panther or some other animal that lived by speed and stealth - and death.

  ‘I think our meeting deserves celebration, don’t you?’ Bond did not wait for a reply but ordered the best champagne. It came in the form of a bottle of Taittinger ’45. Anya felt his cold eyes appraising her body. ‘You look very beautiful,’ he said. ‘Perhaps electrifying would be a better word.’

  Anya stretched out her hand for her glass. ‘I am sorry. That is not the way I would have handled it.’

  Bond permitted himself a dry smile and raised his glass. ‘Za vashe zdarovie.' Behind the badinage his mind was racing. What was the girl doing here? Had he been followed? If they had still wanted him, why hadn't they picked him up in Cairo? It would have been easier. Perhaps there was some strange grain of comfort in her presence. Fekkesh’s diary had been taken from his pocket at the Cheops Pyramid. If the girl was following up the Kalba lead it could mean that there was something in it. It co
uld also mean that Kalba’s life-expectancy was only slightly longer than that of Fekkesh. He had better find the man quickly. And was the girl alone?

  Bond lowered his glass and looked into the dangerously deep blue eyes. ‘You must be lonely without your boyfriends.’ ‘They are easily replaced.’

  Bond tried again. ‘What a coincidence that we should both decide to visit the Mujaba Club tonight.’

  ‘Life is full of coincidences, Commander Bond.*

  Bond shouldered the angels aside. ‘Who are you? How do you know about me?’

  The girl threw back her head and again Bond was captivated, almost against his will, by the fine determined line of her jaw. ‘My name is Major Anya Amasova and I am employed by the Defence Department of the Peoples’ Republic. We have lists of murderers in many countries.’

  ‘Most of them working for you, I would imagine,’ said

  Bond. ‘Please, let’s spare ourselves any more of that kind of facile recrimination. I imagine we’re both in the same line of business and it could become very tedious.’

  Anya’s lips set in a tight line that almost robbed them of their sensual bulge. Her eyes blazed. ‘You will not talk to me like that!’

  Bond glanced quickly at his watch. It was ten past seven. ‘Not this evening, I won’t.’ He stood up and slid some money across the bar. ‘You must excuse me, I have work to do. It made a delightful change to meet you informally.’

  ‘The pleasure was entirely yours.’ Anya did not return the curt nod but expelled the pent-up breath of anger as Bond moved away from her. What a brute of a man. Overweaning, sardonic, facetious. And yet... ? She asked herself if she was not perhaps over-reacting. Was there not some small, despised part of her that found him attractive for all that? Was there not about him that same, unfathomed, dangerous quality that had so immediately drawn her to Sergei? She blushed at her perfidy to state and lover. She must pull herself together. The mission had so far been considerably less than a success and if the Praesidium knew of the full extent of her incompetence they would not hesitate to deal with her severely. The killing of Boris and Ivanov was going to be difficult enough to explain without her failure to close negotiations for the microfilm. Tonight might be her last chance.

  Bond entered the dining-room trying to clear his mind and think coolly and logically. Damn the woman! Why did she have to be so consummately beautiful? Where did the Russians find such creatures? Did they have some secret factory in the Urals where they manufactured them? And her English was so good. Hardly a trace of accent. And that dress. That didn’t come from one of the ‘closed shops’ specially reserved for key state personnel.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ The maître d’hôtel was standing at his side.

  ‘I don’t want a table. I'm trying to find one of your members. A Mr Max Kalba.’

  The man’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Mr Kalba is the owner of the Mujaba (Hub, sir. I think you’ll find him in the private gaming room.’

  Bond felt the adrenalin pump. Now, perhaps, he was getting somewhere. He left the dining-room by a side entrance, following the directions given him by the maitre d'hotel and walked along a deep-carpeted corridor. The building must be built in the shape of an L. On the right, through an open door,, he could see die familiar shape of a roulette wheel, but there was no light in the room. Presumably, nobody played before dinner. From a room on the left came the chink of billiard balls. Bond looked round and found himself alone in the corridor. He knocked discreetly on the door and turned the handle.

  A man with his back to Bond was lining up a shot. Three Egyptian girls of exceptional but rather flashy loveliness were lounging round the room in long evening dresses. They looked like bored fashion models waiting for the photographer to finish loading his Pentax. With Bond’s appearance they became sufficiently animated to sniff the air for the scent of money, but when they found there was none they went back to looking bored. One of the girls was holding a cigar, the second the cue chalk and the third had nothing to keep herself amused. The air was heavy with cigar smoke and Guerlain’s Ode. Bond waited for the man to play his shot and then cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr Kalba?’

  The man did not look directly at Bond but walked round the table and took the chalk from one of the girls. He was wearing an over-padded dinner-jacket that looked like armour- plating and his short, fat fingers glittered with diamonds. They were not, thought Bond, hands that deserved any ornament, let alone anything so vulgarly meretricious. The face with its narrow, wary eyes and Mr Punch nose was cruel and swarthy and the flesh scuffed and pock-marked like the outside of a much-played golf ball. Despite its limitation as a work of art the face commanded respect. It was arrogant, perhaps too arrogant for its own good, and ruthless in a way that suggested it had found being ruthless pays.

  ‘Who wants him?’

  The man did not wait for an answer to his question but handed back the chalk and leaned over the table. The cue came back swiftly and decisively and then shot forward. It was a difficult shot. The cue ball played flat and hard without spin to kiss the red and then come back with sufficient momentum off the end cushion to touch the side of the table and then drift back endlessly towards the lonely white ball six inches from the near cushion. Kalba took his eye off the cue ball when it was half way down the table on its return journey and reached for his cigar. He did not need to look. He knew the ball was going to find its target.

  ‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’

  ‘What of it?’ The reply was contemptuous and Kalba prepared to play another shot. The expression on the girls’ faces was now one of disapproval.

  ‘You had an appointment with Mr Fekkesh.’

  The silence in the room had the sharp edge of tension. Kalba stopped in his preparation and straightened up. He faced Bond and for the first time looked directly into his eyes. Bond felt as if the man was prising away flesh and bone to get inside his brain. ‘Well?’ The word was a pistol shot.

  ‘You won't be seeing him for some time.'

  ‘What do you mean?5 Kalba’s hand tightened round the cue. ‘He’s dead.*

  Kalba turned to the girls and jerked his head towards the door. Without demur they started to file out, leaving behind the chalk and the cigar. ‘Why do you bring me this news?’ ‘Because I believe you have something to sell, and I’m interested in buying.’

  ‘And so am I.’

  Bond spun round to find Anya standing behind him. His heart sank. Blast the woman! He didn’t seem to be able to make a move without her dogging his footsteps. Was she alone or were there two more goons waiting outside the door?

  Kalba looked from one face to the other. ‘Well, well. How interesting. It is obvious that you two are not colleagues. I suppose some kind of auction would be the most sensible way in which to proceed.’ The old arrogance had returned. In another moment he would start playing billiards again. ‘I wonder if you will be able to match this lady’s figure, Mr Bond.’

  Kalba was enjoying his joke when the door opened. Bond tensed for action but it was one of the club servants. He looked at Bond and Anya suspiciously before turning to Kalba. ‘Sir, you are required urgently on the telephone.’

  Kalba’s face showed irritation. ‘Have it transferred here, you fool! ’

  ‘Sir, that is impossible. The call has come through on the outside line in the telephone room.’

  Kalba sucked in his breath and turned to Bond and Anya. ‘Perhaps a welcome respite. It will give you time to discuss your opening bids.’

  Kalba smiled. ‘Oh yes. There’s something to bid for all right/ His mole hand burrowed into an inside pocket and emerged with a small metal canister. ‘I keep it here. Close to my heart.’ Kalba opened his jacket to reveal the Browning strapped beneath his left armpit. He showed his teeth once more and dropped the canister back into his pocket. Bond debated whether to make a lightning attack and decidcd against it. With Kalba by himself he would have stood a chance but the henchman was watching him like a hawk and had a menacing bulge b
eneath his armpit which was probably not caused by weight-training. He stood to one side deferentially and Kalba left the room. The door closed. Bond turned and looked purposefully into Anya’s challenging blue eyes. ‘Now tell me. Just what is happening?’

  Max Kalba did not rub his hands together as he walked briskly towards the telephone-room but anyone watching his progress would have been able to tell that he was pleased. And why not? Two rich customers had arrived in person to do business and their rivalry could only force up the price of the merchandise. Whichever of them had put paid to Fekkesh had only saved him the trouble of performing an act which would have to have been done sooner or later. It was not just a question of the money. There was going to be more than enough even for him. It was making sure that Stromberg never caught up with him. When he changed his face and went to live in South America he did not want to leave anyone who would be in a position to betray him. Even the source of all the wealth to come, Stromberg’s beautiful but treacherous assistant, was going to get a nasty surprise when the time came for her suddenly to leave her employer and fly to join him. Kalba smiled grimly and pushed open the door of the telephone-room.

  A repairman in a khaki overall was squatting with his back to the door; Kalba glimpsed an open tin box containing tools. He moved towards the booth in which the receiver was dangling. It was only as he was passing the man that he suddenly felt the room growing cold. It was as if he had stepped into a refrigerator. But the cold was not in the air. It was in his instinctive presentiment of danger. He started to turn but his hand never got further than the inside of the jacket. Huge fingers closed about the base of his neck and propelled him forward into the box until his face slammed with sickening force against the far wall. He felt his nose break with the impact and his mouth filled with blood. Still the hand did not release its grip but turned his head with a wrench that nearly tore it from its socket. The enormous lumpish face was an inch away. Greaseballs of sweat glistened from the honeycomb of open pores. The tiny pig eyes glinted evilly. Kalba tried to scream but no sound came.