The Spy Who Loved Me

by Christopher Wood

  Bond moved swiftly down the stone corridor following a wavy line down the wall that looked as if it had been made by a child walking along with a pencil. He passed the door with fourteen on it and continued to the end of the corridor, where there was a door which looked as if it was not used very often. As he had surmised, this led out on to a fire-escape. Worth remembering in case there was any unpleasantness. He retraced his footsteps down the corridor and stopped outside the door with fourteen on it. No sound. He knocked and waited. There was a spyhole in the middle of the door and as the seconds ticked by he wondered whose eye would be glued to the other side. He was about to knock again when the door opened eight inches to release a whiff of unfamiliar scent.

  ‘Bond,’ he said. ‘James Bond. You don’t answer the door any faster than you do the telephone.’

  The girl opened the door wide and looked past him down the corridor to right and left. At a guess she was Egyptian mixed with something else, French probably. She was beautiful but not in a way that had ever appealed to Bond. Everything about her was slightly too big. Her mouth, her breasts, her behind - even her eyes. She reminded Bond of an overripe tropical fruit. The eyes, admittedly a devastating feature, wore too much mascara, and the bruised plum lipstick overspilled its territory by a profligate couple of millimetres. Bond looked with disapproval at the too-large gypsy earrings and the rather ridiculous sheath dress, plucked in at the waist and spreading out with false lapels to accentuate the already overlarge breasts. She looked what she probably was - a high- class whore.

  ‘I came alone,’ said Bond.

  The girl withdrew and beckoned him into the flat. ‘One must be careful.’ She pressed the door shut behind him and tugged it to make sure that it was locked.

  Bond looked round the fiat and decided immediately that it probably did not belong to the girl. It had an almost donnish feel with two walls covered in books and a graceful Egyptian statuette. Bond admired the tall slim naked body, with the small, firm belly swelling upwards like a horseshoe round the umbilicus; the wide sweep of the eyebrows across the haughty brow, the cowl, like a judge’s wig, covering the shoulders and dropping to fall just short of the erect nipples jutting out from the arrogant little breasts. This, he decided, was much more his type of woman. ‘I expected to be dealing with a man,’ he said.

  ‘You will be.’ The girl turned away from the door and gestured towards another door which opened out on to a balcony. ‘Mr Fekkesh is detained at the moment. He asked me to look after you.*

  ‘Very kind of him,’ said Bond drily. He did not immediately move towards the balcony but picked up a framed photograph from one of the book shelves. It showed a swarthly middle- aged man with his arms round two children who, from their appearance, must clearly be his. It was a doleful, academic face trying bravely to smile but looking overwhelmingly self- conscious. ‘Is this Mr Fekkesh?’ The girl nodded. ‘You have very attractive children.’

  The girl turned her head away. ‘We are not married.1 She felt it necessary to qualify the statement. ‘Those are not my children.*

  Bond tried to appear embarrassed, and fumbled the photograph back on to the shelf. ‘I’m sorry - er, when are you expecting him back?’

  ‘Soon. I do not know exactly. He works at the Cairo Museum. He is often late. Can I offer you a drink?’

  Bond knew that she was lying and followed her out on to the balcony. Night had dropped swiftly and imperceptibly but it was still warm. Bond breathed the spicy air into his lungs and stepped to the edge of the wrought-iron balustrade. Somewhere, someone was playing a piano. How incongruous it sounded in this Arab night. He looked down and saw light gleaming from a conservatory that jutted out from one of the ground-floor flats. There, unmistakably, was the silhouette of a grand piano. A figure swayed towards it.

  ‘Noilly Prat and tonic,’ he said, hoping that the French influence would prevail sufficiently to make this delicious long drink available. ‘With a squeeze of lime if you have it.’ The girl disappeared and he made up a story about her and Fekkesh. It was something on the lines of The Blue Angel and it explained why he had left his wife and two children to live with an overlush trollop. What it did not explain was how he could have anything to do with the mythical tracking system. Bond watched the million twinkling lights and the domes of the illuminated mosques and felt the acid juice of worry eating into his stomach. Out there in the big, dark, greedy city, things were happening. People were laughing, crying, making love, making deals. He, James Bond of the British Secret Service, was doing nothing. Standing on a balcony waiting to be brought a drink by someone who might have no more importance in the total scheme of things than one of those damn lights. Bond hated to feel powerless, and at the moment he was playing in a game he did not understand against people he could not see. The situation made him angry and he vowed that when the girl returned he would get some hard facts out of her. By force if necessary.

  ‘Your drink.’

  Was it his imagination or did that scent hang a little heavier

  in the air? Was the décolleté a trifle more obvious?

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My name is Felicca.’ The voice was calmer now and Bond noticed that the glass in her hand was half empty. ‘I believe you said that yours was James?’

  ‘I did. Twice. Once on the telephone and again at your front door.’ Bond’s voice had a hard, cutting edge to it. ‘Look, Felicca. I hope you won't think me rude but I’ve come a long way and I’d be very angry if I found I was on a wild-goose chase. What do you know about the tracking system?’

  At the words ‘tracking system’, the girl reacted as if touched on a nerve. Her lips parted momentarily to show the white of her teeth. ‘I know nothing. You must talk to Aziz - to Fekkesh. Drink your drink, make yourself comfortable.’ The fear was back in her voice again. ‘I am expecting him to ring soon.’ ‘From the Cairo Museum?’

  The girl hesitated. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There are too many maybes.’ There was a soft pressure on his arm. The girl was holding the sleeve of his jacket between finger and thumb. Her thigh moved forward purposefully and caressed the inside of his leg.

  ‘I was asked to entertain you and I would like to do it.’ Her lips brushed against his cheek. ‘I am very good.’

  Yes, thought Bond. I bet you are. Good as gold. Enough gold to buy a tracking system capable of hunting down nuclear submarines. How much would that be worth? One million pounds? A hundred million?

  A penumbra of light appeared around the balcony above and there was a sudden explosion of Arabic. Felicca took Bond by the hand and drew him after her through a curtain of hanging wooden beads. They were in a bedroom, although the low dais surmounted by a thin mattress and innumerable cushions owed little to Western conceptions of a bed. If the room was connected to the electric-light supply, the girl made no attempt to prove it. Her arms slid round Bond’s neck like serpents and her mouth trembled like that of a volcano about to erupt. If a kiss is pressure applied by one volatile surface upon another then Bond was kissed everywhere and with everything. The hot, soft lips circulated, the breasts rotated and the belly churned. Felicca was right - she was good at it

  Bond drank of the nectar and then dashed the vessel from his lips. With a quick jerk of his arms he broke her grip and threw her down on the cushions. Felicca stared up at him, her right hand slowly moving to her bruised left shoulder. Her eyes asked the question shortly before her mouth did. ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t come here to make love to you. Stop beating about the bush and tell me where Fekkesh is.’ Felicca’s skirt had risen to the level of her thighs and Bond could see why Fekkesh decided that life had more to offer than the four thousand years of history encompassed by the Cairo Museum. He yanked her roughly to her feet and shook her until her dress dropped off her shoulders. ‘Don’t think 1 wouldn’t hurt you, don’t - ! ’

  In retrospect it had seemed strange. Bond could remember looking at the gun for seconds. He had seen the slight movement
of the wooden blocks as it was thrust between them. Heard the death rattle of their clicking. Established the make of the gun - a Japanese M14. Seen the finger tightening round the trigger and the whole hand contracting to ensure that the shot was not jerked away at the last instant.

  In reality the whole image could only have been before his eyes for a fraction of a second. Then the girl was propelled into his arms as if by the point of a javelin. The hideous thump that ran through his own body as if his arms were shock- absorbers. Then the dead-weight collapse. The rattle at the back of the throat. The warm blood pumping through his fingers. Bond threw himself sideways, still using the girl as an unintended shield. Two more shots thudded into the wall beside his head and he rolled over twice and tore out the Walther. Thank God it was dark in the room. He fired blind on to the terrace and a string of beads whipped away like a serpent. Silence, save for the chinking of the wooden blocks. Was the gunman waiting for him on the terrace? Bond edged his way round the wall and waited with his back beside the opening. The light had gone out on the balcony above. He could imagine the neighbours wondering what had happened, debating whether to call the police. Deciding to do nothing. Far below there was still the tinkle of that damn piano. What tune was it playing? The notes rose up like soap-bubbles. ‘Moonlight Becomes You.’ Bond permitted himself a grim smile. No point in staying here. The gunman had probably escaped immediately after the shooting. Let himself out of the flat by the front door. Bond judged the distance and his line of departure and then threw himself through the bead curtain. Three strides and he was in the first room he had entered. Nobody. The outer door shut Was there any point in going down the fire-escape or should he go back to the girl? Better the girl. If she died and Fekkesh did not turn up then he was finished. And he did not want to get involved with the Egyptian police. There would be a lot of questions and he would be asking none of them.

  It was then that he heard the sigh. At first he thought it was the girl, but unless she had crawled out on to the balcony it was too close. Bond switched off the light and moved along the wall to the balcony. Still in shadow, he peered out. At first there seemed to be nothing - and then, a hand. Knuckles straining white as they clung desperately to the bottom of one of the railings of the balustrade. Another bloodstained hand dragged itself like a half-crushed spider towards the M14, lying like a tempting prize beneath the guard rail. Bond’s blind shot must have wounded the man. He had tried to scramble back along the balconies to the corner of the building and slipped. Now, like a good professional, he was trying to save his life and take Bond’s. An elbow found a precarious perch on the parapet and the hand clawed forward towards the butt of the gun. Bond could see the clenched teeth, the intense ruckling of the brow. There was a smell of cordite and sweat in the air - the sweat that a man gives off when he is close to death. The man’s fingers brushed against the gun and then, in a desperate flurry of movement, sought to scratch it backwards to where it could be seized. As a background to the spectacle the distant pianist offered up a medley of Rodgers and Hart numbers.

  Bond could not help feeling admiration for the single- minded purpose of the man who had been sent to kill. He was trying to do his job. Bond stepped out on the balcony as the man’s hand finally closed about the gun. Their eyes met for the fraction of a second that can be an infinity and Bond fired mice. The man disappeared as if tugged from below. There was a pause and then the sound of shattering glass and a reverberating thump extending into a long, jangling discord. Then a woman screaming. Bond went to the parapet and looked down. There was an untidy hole in the conservatory roof and the body of the assassin could be seen spread-eagled across the grand piano. The screams increased in intensity and lights began to go on. Inspired by the arrival of her unexpected accompanist the woman was having hysterics.

  Bond ducked back into the bedroom and switched on the light. This time, the police would be called. He had to move fast. Felicca was lying with her face in a pillow and for a moment he thought that she was dead. Her face was grey and her whole body seemed to have shrunk. It was as if the bullet had punctured her spectacular buoyancy. Now she looked like another person. Vulnerable, defeated.

  Maybe I was wrong about you, thought Bond. Maybe you do love Fekkesh. Maybe that is why you got involved, and found yourself getting out of your depth. One thing is for certain: the water is closing over your head.

  Bond held the girl’s' shoulder and pressed his mouth to her ear. His voice was low and urgent. ‘Felicca. Where is Fekkesh?’ No answer, but the mouth trembled. ‘I may be able to help him to stay alive. That man won’t be alone. There’ll be others. They’re probably after him now.’

  A tear formed in the girl’s eye and rolled slowly down her check. Who was she crying for? Herself? Fekkcsh? The world of greed and hatred, and people like James Bond? Bond squeezed her shoulder and despised himself. The girl was dying, dammit! He should be ringing for a doctor, not prising her secrets out of her.

  ‘Tell me. I can save him.’

  The girl’s mouth opened and closed like that of a dying fish. ‘He is meeting someone. At the pyramids. Son-et -'

  Her head fell sideways and Bond felt the life rush from the body. He laid her back against the cushions and rose swiftly to wash the blood from his hands.

  Death of a Salesman

  ‘You have come tonight to the most fabulous and celebrated place in the world ..

  The male voice was cold and almost condescending. With the assistance of fourteen loudspeakers it began to swell dramatically. ‘Here, on the plateau of Gizeh, stands for ever the mightiest of human achievements. No traveller - emperor, merchant or poet - has trodden on these sands and not gasped in awe.’

  Like a gas-jet being turned up, light slowly flooded the eastern face of the Pyramid of Cheops. There was an obedient and reverential murmur from the serried rows of tourists as their heads tilted back and their eyes rose four hundred and fifty-five feet into the night sky.

  All the tourists except one.

  Major Anya Amasova, sitting at the end of the fifth row with an empty seat beside her, took advantage of the sudden burst of light to check that the two men assigned to her by General Nikitin were in position. They were. Standing, it seemed to her, self-consciously, at either diagonal of the audience. They were both looking up at the enormous, overpowering structure, taking advantage of the unexpected history lesson. Instantly, they were snatched from view as the lighting changed, throwing the pyramid into silhouette.

  ‘The curtain of night is about to rise and disclose the stage on which the drama of a civilization took place ..

  Anya looked at her watch. Fekkesh was late.

  To the left, the Sphinx slowly appeared as if illuminated by the first rays of dawn. There was an admiring gasp from the audience in which Anya found herself joining. It was impossible not to be moved in these surroundings. Disconcertingly so. She should not have agreed to this meeting place.

  ‘With each new dawn I see the Sun-god rise on the banks of the Nile. His first ray is for my face, which is turned towards him.'

  Bond stood in the shadows, listening to the neutered voice of the Sphinx and wondering if the Pharaoh Chephren had really talked like that. Still, the sculptors and the metteurs en scéne of the son-et-lumiére must know best. There was certainly something sexually ambiguous about the Sphinx.

  When light permitted, Bond sorted through the rows of tourists looking for Fekkesh. Only the beautiful, erect girl in the fifth row did not seem to belong to a tour party. Poor devils, he thought, Cairo, Giza, Memphis, El Amarna, Abydos, Luxor, Kamak, Assuan. Five thousand years of history in three weeks, two donkey rides and a bout of gastro-enteritis.

  ‘... and for five thousand years I have seen all the suns men can remember come up into the sky ..The girl in the fifth row was worth concentrating on. It was impossible to see her clearly but there was a quality of luminosity about her that drew her forward from the lumpy women with clumsy cardigans draped round their sunburnt shoulders.
But maybe this was not the best time to be a girl watcher. Similarly placed to himself were two men wearing lightweight suits that looked as if they had been made out of cardboard boxes. They appeared uncomfortably out of place - like Toby Mugs amongst Dresden Shepherdesses. They looked like the kind of failed Bulgarian weightlifters that Redland recruited to eliminate • enemies of the State. Maybe they were friends of the man on the concert grand who would never find anyone to play a duet with him.

  Bond was concentrating on the two men when he saw something that made him draw back into the shadows. As a patch of light hit the Pyramid of Chephren, a small man with hunched shoulders appeared on the other side of the audience from Bond. His head started nodding as he counted the rows of seats. Bond could not be certain but he thought he recognized the face he had seen in the photograph at the flat.

  Then the lights went out.

  Anya recognized Fekkesh immediately and breathed a sigh of relief. He was standing within ten feet of her, looking

  nervous and insecure as he always did. She wondered if he remembered where she had said she would be. Yes. His eyes were travelling to the right-hand corner of the audience and methodically counting back. One, two, three, four, five. His smile was more one of relief than welcome. He stepped forward and she moved her knees to let him pass. Then he stopped. His face registered transparent fear as if he had suddenly seen a ghost and he turned on his heel. Anya half rose to her feet as he hurried away into the shadows.

  Then the lights went out.

  Bond cursed and started to run towards the back of the audience. In the darkness, his feet caught against a cable and he tripped and nearly fell. He cursed again and there was an impatient ‘Ssh!!’ from the hypnotized onlookers. Why the hell had Fekkesh taken off like that? Who had he seen? Could he have recognized Bond? Hardly likely. One of the heavies? Possibly. Bond abandoned speculation and concentrated on running as fast as he dared. A sudden blaze of an illumination on the pyramid of Mycerinus showed him a figure and its grotesquely larger shadow running down the north side of Cheops. By some strange, optical illusion, the shadow seemed to be moving out of time with its owner, almost as if giving chase to iL Bond pulled out his Walther and sprinted, the distorted voices from the amplifiers bombarding his ears as he ran past Now it was dark again. God ! This was like the night barrage before the battle of El Alamein. The blinding flashes of the twenty-five pounders throwing into relief the advancing infantry.