Chapter 1

Sinon

He was sure not many people did, but he remembered his fifth birthday with innate clarity. The long table at the cafe had been dingy and scratched, and the smell of coffee almost overwhelming. Faces of friends and family had been keen and expectant when he opened the single gifts from his parents. His father's revealed a large dictionary and thesaurus, his mother's a small but exquisitely crafted chess set. It was then that he'd known what his father, the writer, wanted of him and what his mother, the trapped genius, recognised in his potential. On that day his childish mind had decided who to love and who to resent.

He saw her in himself, not much but enough to remind him of her when he smiled. Same full lips and deep cupids bow, same well formed, high cheekbones, same IQ. Perhaps a shadow of her superior lilt in the way he tipped his head. His mother had been a beautiful, insightful woman right up to the moment she hanged herself, after all.

He could also at least attribute his poker face to her, perhaps, along with the fine education she had insisted upon him having. He hadn't flinched when he gutted his father for his betrayal, for driving his mother to leave them both permanently. Had even taken the forethought to bind him upon a plastic sheet in the lavish garage. No one ever saw him again. As far as Le Chiffre was concerned Jean Duran had died the day his sixteen year old feet ran into the garden to see his mother's pale blue heels sticking out from the heavy foliage of the oak tree behind his bedroom.

These days, looking in the mirror, sometimes he felt that all he could see were his bilious left eye and the milky pallor of his skin, remnants of his father's weak lineage. It made him wish, not for the first time, that he could be rid of it. Of course it was useful for some things, such as disquieting those he wished to disquiet. Not many could stand his stare for long. As he was finding now.

"A name," he said as his gaze alone tagged on, if you make me repeat myself one more time I'll take your eyes first.

"You didn't hire me for a name, just the p-pictures," the man stammered, said eyes flicking up towards the end of the alleyway; Le Chiffre would not deign to remind the man that his pictures had been worthless, nothing within them to tell him what he needed.

"Then perhaps I did not make myself clear," Le Chiffre said, unable to lose the demure patter he kept for guests even as his anger slipped; he had been at a gathering only half an hour ago, champagne and salmon tartar, and couldn't fully shake off the persona, "I am asking you for the name now. Do you think I am stupid enough to ask you for a thing you do not have?"

"No! No," the man panicked, his greasy blonde hair slapping against his forehead distastefully as he juddered his head, "only the name I got wasn't a real name."

"Then give me what you have," Le Chiffre sighed, rubbing at the irritated skin by his left eye.

"Sifar, he called himself Sifar," the man spat out, fumbling with his white cotton shirt and wiping sweat from his brow, "and he spoke with an accent."

He did not ask because he was past asking. He did not want to test himself lest his temper still the man's lips before he had all that he wanted. Instead he continued to stare until it was unmistakable that he expected the man to keep talking.

"H-he sounded German," the man scurried out, "or Scandinavian. Maybe eastern block at a push."

"So you're telling me he could be from anywhere in upper Europe," Le Chiffre said, smiling dryly to try and cover his telling twitch, "or beyond."

"That's as much as I could get," the man, obviously used to dealing information, had obviously picked up on the folly of greedily taking the high pay Le Chiffre had offered for this job, "he met with Ghamlen. There was a suitcase, money I think, it could have been..."

It had been enough to listen to the man's incompetence before, but now hearing him scrabble for anything that might save him was pitiful. Le Chiffre pulled the silenced pistol from the holster under his arm and aimed, realising only too late that the alley was a touch narrower than he had first thought. The man lunged at him with eyes wild and hot breath caught in a keen. Hands grabbed his own, forcing the pistol up and the soft pip of the bullet ricocheting off of brick. Le Chiffre braced himself for the impact of the wall against his back and struggled fitfully, cursing his lack of focus as his heart began hammering in his chest. The tight grip swung his arms to the left, then the right, then left again and down onto a large metal bin.

The impact against his wrist hit the bone, screaming sharp agony, enough to loosen his fingers and let the gun jump down onto the ground with a clatter. He could feel the panic rising in his system; enough to react rashly. His knee jerked up forcefully into the man's groin once, twice, and his contact crumpled to his knees involuntarily, his grip on Le Chiffre's hands loosening enough to break free. Another knee caught him in the face and the man was left supine on the filthy ground while Le Chiffre pulled the concealed switchblade from his waistband and unfolded it with a flick of his wrist.

The adrenaline in his system was making the blood rush in his ears, mixing with the pain and the anger. There was brief struggle as he knelt down, hips astride the reeling man's pelvis, and aimed for his throat. Hands jumped up against his chest and Le Chiffre let out a snarl as he slammed the slim 'hilt' of the blade against the man's vulnerable temple twice in quick succession. Hands were weary now as they continued shaking up to his throat, blearily trying to aim for his eyes. He didn't give the man his chance. The blade slid into the flesh of his neck and pierced the artery pumping there, the force of the man's heart causing the crimson fluid to spurt. He could feel it against his face. It didn't take long for him to die, it was just messier than Le Chiffre had wanted.

To see what he had been reduced to; his mother would be disgusted. Meeting underlings in back alleys for information. His heart slowed from its racing pace as he stood but Le Chiffre still crammed his hand into his pocket for his Salbutamol inhaler, taking a swift shot from the device to calm his contracting lungs. It was distasteful to do so but he leaned back against the grimy wall, running his hand up through his dishevelled hair, slicking it back into place. He wiped the spattered blood from his face onto a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

The man at his feet seemed all the more worse for wear as the pool of arterial blood began to build around his cheaply dressed, crumpled form. Le Chiffre had never fooled himself into thinking he was built to be a fighter, he knew where his strengths lay, but when backed into a corner he tended to revert to an instinctual viciousness. He was glad for that tonight and decided that these chances were perhaps not as lucrative as he had hoped for.

He grimaced as he looked down at his ruined trousers and dinner jacket. The sweat on his brow had mixed with the blood, creating a pink sheen on the white material of his handkerchief as it was wiped away. He rubbed at his right wrist, wincing at the pain and the already discolouring flesh. Another drawback of his constitution, he thought, being how easily he bruised.

He cleaned his blade on the dead man's shirt before recovering his lost pistol and re-holstering it. Now that the adrenaline was gone the anger was seeping back, now belied by a rising sense of panic that he did not enjoy in the slightest. Sifar, what a pitifully overdramatic name he sneered, walking back towards his car in the warm, dark Paris night. Zero, it meant, nil, nothing. He felt it was an absurd play upon his own moniker and did not appreciate the further intrusion on his business.

He entered the Bentley with little care and used a secure phone for a clean-up. The body should be gone before anyone found it.

It had been a month and a half since Le Chiffre had become aware of a plot against his untouchable empire. At the beginning it had been somewhat amusing; the very idea that someone would deign to outwit him. As days had marched on the small seed of doubt which had been sown within him had grown larger and larger still. Opportunities missed, work taking priority, background chatter, the growing sense of unease that made him realise that the betrayal was surely coming from within. Friends going dark, refusing him help, and even friends dying off in numbers too big to ignore. When potential clients had begun refusing his services Le Chiffre had been forced to realise the potentially fatal situation he had found himself in.

The yacht was quiet on his return; the way he liked it. Kratt met him at the entrance to his living quarters and did not mention or react to his dishevelled state. Le Chiffre entered his large bedroom and removed his clothes, putting on his dressing gown. He placed his ruined dinner suit by the door to be disposed of before stepping into the spray of the glass encased shower. He took his time smothering himself in strong smelling liquid soap, watching as the dirt and blood washed down the plughole. His wrist twinged as he scrubbed his hair. The water was warm but he reached out to turn it higher, then a little more. It burned against his skin but that didn't matter. He stared at the fogged glass and felt the roiling swirl of dread build in his gut until he found himself standing, clean of soap and shampoo, under the spray of the shower with his hands against the wet tile.

It did not leave him as he dried himself and dressed in a thin, black cashmere jumper and pale brown trousers. Where did the sense of safekeeping slip to, he wondered with wry humour as he checked the laptop by his bed for communications on his latest venture. Nothing new. The sight burned more than the scalding water of the shower had. A tongue darted out to wet his lips and he resisted the sudden flare of temper that was eliciting him to break something in the close vicinity. He could feel the distortion of his lips as he swallowed the feeling down into his gut to sit with his unease, panic, fear and sheer fury.

Without thinking too much about what he was doing he pressed the intercom for Kratt's earpiece.

"Where is Valenka?"

"She is still attending the midnight ball," Kratt replied, "shall I fetch her for you?"

"No," he said after a moment's hesitation, "no, find me a distraction."

"Right away."

He was somewhat glad that Valenka was off ship. Not that he cared what she thought of him. As far as he was concerned she was a glorified trophy which he had won fair and square. Only a trophy was not to be desired or used beyond the winning. He was sure she was under no delusion that he loved her but he knew she was a jealous type regardless. She liked things to be hers just as much as he liked things to be his. Perhaps a foolish choice in partner but then her father hadn't seemed to mind sacrificing his only daughter to his whims. That, in itself, had been pleasing. If there was one thing Valenka owed him it was his 'rescuing' her from her pig of a father. True her life was probably just as restricted now as it had been then, but at least he did not demand sex of her as her father had. She did seem to appreciate that even if she disliked his preferred tastes.

The young man was already there when he stepped out into the living room area. Red wine and two glasses had been placed on the glass table and the lighting set to an ambient level, making the white leather chairs gleam in the reflection of the dark windows. He was early twenties, Le Chiffre would have guessed, brown hair with a hint of russet, pretty face but with a long nose that could have done with shortening, and rather stunning blue eyes. Le Chiffre was just glad that Kratt appeared to know his tastes well enough now to find him something he would appreciate. He took his time appraising the man until he was sure the other felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"May I pour you a drink?" the man asked in English but swamped by a heavy French accent.

"Yes," he said, trying to keep his voice free of the trembling that was wracking his insides; he walked out into the room, down the two steps into the sunken area and then let out a sound of frustration. The young man looked up in surprise, his hand reaching out for the bottle, "actually no, don't bother."

The young man didn't resist as he was taken by arm and neck and kissed forcefully. Le Chiffre guessed he was used to it. He wished to take it long and slow, as he usually would, but the want for a distraction was more urgent than he had realised. He hurried past foreplay, pulling the young man by the hand into his bedroom and throwing the door shut, locked. After a brief rummage for a condom and a quick undressing he had him on all fours on the bed, thrusting eagerly into the tight heat of the young man's body.

It was rougher than he'd usually be, he knew from the muttered French cusses escaping the young man's lips and the occasional whimper, but at that moment he didn't care. The building orgasm in his gut seemed to be having the reverse effect of what he had hoped for. With every wanton shove of his hips the panic merely mixed with the ecstasy, creating a crescendo of fear and bliss in his system that was difficult to bear. He grabbed the young man's shoulders and hauled him upright, forcing a cry from him. Le Chiffre growled at the change, the tightness gripping him, tearing at him, and forced the young man's head around to claim his mouth awkwardly.

He was vaguely aware of voices beyond the doorway, the handle on the door turning but stopping as the young man beneath him was unable to contain his release, yelling. He continued regardless of the interruption, going until he thought the feeling might overwhelm him. Shaking hands gripped his hips as the young man came too quickly. Le Chiffre dropped him as he slumped forwards, continuing his punishing rhythm until he too found the release he had been seeking.

Only it didn't do what it was supposed to. It was supposed to keep the fear from trembling inside of him, was supposed to replace that with warm heat and the sheer boneless relaxation that came with the post coital haze. Instead, as he pulled off the soiled condom and disposed of it, his legs somewhat weak, the feeling appeared to be amplified through his tingling, sensitive nerves. Who, who, who, he couldn't help but think over and over again, and how?

The buzz in his mind, still rushing with endorphins, allowed for starkness he didn't think he would have allowed of his own thoughts otherwise. I'm dead if this isn't stopped. Why play at seizing the throne? It's what I would do. They'll kill me and no one will be left to stop them. The thought sent a cold stream of reality coursing down his spine.

"Get out," Le Chiffre said to the young man still laying on the bed, blinking his eyes slowly, as he dressed himself once more.

"But I..." he started, sitting up with a wince.

"Do not make me repeat myself."

It was somewhat mollifying to know he could still terrify with six words alone. The young man was dressed and out the door within three minutes. Kratt would take care of it, he always did.

Le Chiffre licked at his lips and let out a distasteful sound as he realised he would need another shower. Later, he thought shakily, instead deciding a glass of wine would perhaps dull the nerves he'd been seeking to confuse with pleasure.

He found Valenka standing by the window, arms crossed tightly, staring out into the dark bay. He poured himself a large glass of wine and took a mouthful before putting it back down, walking up to join her. He was not surprised by her shrugging his hand from her shoulder, but the slap was rather unexpected. So much so that he blinked in shock for a few startled seconds before his hand was round her throat and he had her up against the glass.

"You smell of cheap cologne," he hissed as her eyes widened with fear at the crushing fingers against her windpipe, "but you don't see me indulging in petty jealousy."

"At least I don't let you catch me fucking other people," she choked out.

"I don't have to justify myself to you," he said tightly, feeling a familiar warm wetness running across his left cheek and down into the dip of his nostril, "considering I don't wish to fuck you at all."

"Idi na xuy husesos," she growled before spitting in his face.

He jerked her aside at the motion, closing his eyes against the indecorous gesture. She was stumbling up as he blinked open his eyes, storming towards the deck. He didn't follow. Violence wouldn't help, just as the pleasure had failed him. He stood for a few minutes, alone, and breathed steadily through his nose, eyes closed. Eventually he walked to the bathroom and washed his face, dabbing at the blood dripping from his eye until it stopped.

A sound from across the room got his attention. Le Chiffre walked to his laptop while patting his face dry with a soft towel. A message sat in his inbox, seemingly unassuming, with only one word encased inside.

Ellipsis.

It should have brought a smile to his lips but unfortunately it merely compounded his ire. Money wasn't his problem right now. Information was. It seemed that, right now, all the money in the world wouldn't stop the knife sliding into his back when he dropped his guard at just the wrong moment.

"Leo," he said into the intercom, "inform the captain that I want him in the Bahamas in two weeks, Nassau harbour. And I want the jet prepped and ready in an hour."

"Where for, sir?" Leo always insisted on the title, no matter that Le Chiffre had tried to train the habit out of him.

"Lynden Pindling International," he said, "and book me the usual."

"Of course, sir."

The least he could do was go ahead with his current plans. Even though money wasn't his direct concern, it wouldn't do him any harm to have more of it to play with.

AN: "Idi na xuy husesos" means 'Fuck off, cocksucker' in Russian