The Blink Of An Eye

by chrisno1

The Blink Of An Eye - Story Five

THE BLINK OF AN EYE

The deep orange of dawn stretched across the horizon melding seamlessly into the last vestiges of the night sky. The pin points of stars still glinted high above the flaming strip of morning and the occasional flock of waking white storks took off towards them. The buzz of insects mixed hypnotically with the gentle lap of water against the river bank. Slowly, inexorably the rising quarter moon of yellow became a half circle. The hot bright rays of sun turned the darkness of the terrain into rifts of golden dunes flanked by dense green foliage. The once black water became an expanse of bright blue and shimmering silver. Traditional feluccas, their white canvases aloft, made the gentle journey across the river, the bargemen and fishermen starting early before the heat made hard work impossible. The tranquil scene was one that had been replayed over the River Nile for centuries.

The girl breathed in the sight that morning. She stood on the secluded balcony, one hand resting on the top rail, the other shielding her eyes from the brilliant beaming morning. Her long ash blonde hair blew gently about her head, occasionally falling across her face, at which point she brushed it back behind her ears. She let out a contented sigh. The sun was warm to her body and she felt it on every pore, which was quite possible as the girl was completely naked.

She stroked her painted nails across herself, tickling her skin into tiny goose bumps; first over her neck and shoulders, then her arms and thighs, across her breasts and nipples, down to her belly, her buttocks and finally her moist intimate places. She was happy and satisfied. They had made love twice last night. She had abandoned herself to the same wild and beautiful passion that she gave to all her lovers. Her desires had been wondrously reciprocated. It made her excited that he enjoyed her; she hoped her licentiousness had pleased him also. They had slept with each other every night since meeting, but this was to be the last morning they would awake together.

The girl ran her tongue across her parted, kiss bitten lips. She hadn't slept long, but she couldn't sleep much when her body was so alive. Every inch and ounce of her felt sensitive to a breath of breeze. Her heart beat loudly, murmuring whispers of lust. She sighed again, in resignation this time. Nudity was illegal in Egypt; it wouldn't do to be caught. She had already spent over half an hour watching the sun rise and it was now almost fully light. The girl retreated into the cool confines of the first class cabin, opening and closing the door noiselessly, so as not to wake him.

He lay on his chest, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other occupying the space where she had lain. He was asleep, his breathing controlled and shallow. She looked again at the sinewy back and neck, the muscles that had tensed as he took her. She admired the strong hands, the fingers that had explored her. She ran a delicate hand along the taut legs and buttocks, the body she had bound to her. This tough, weathered man showed the scars of battle. There was a new, temporary mark, on his shoulder, where she had bitten him in a moment of ecstasy. Once again she licked her lips. She wanted to wake him, to start their love making again and to have his hard torso fill her with joy. But he looked peaceful, even slightly dopey in his slumber, so she controlled her own desire and let him sleep.

The girl took a long shower under luke-warm water. She cleaned every inch of herself with herbal soaps and oils, cleansing and revitalising her skin. Her hair was washed in tea-tree oil. She shaved her legs with a razor and her more personal areas with a tiny beautician's shaver. She plucked her brows, her ears and her nostrils. She puffed and pampered. She filed the nails on her hands and her feet. She applied the tiniest amount of make up to her cheeks and eyes. It was only morning after all. Lastly, indulgently, she stood back facing the smoked glass shower screen and admired her refection.

She knew she was beautiful, because she had been told it since she was a little girl. But she had only understood her beauty as a teenager when adolescent boys said it. Now many men and boys had told her and she knew it to be true. She was above average height. Her blonde hair fell thick about her shoulders and she had it parted simply in the middle. Her high forehead and cheeks gave her face an oval look, which complimented her wide mauve eyes. If her nose was a little too large, she always thought herself lucky to have a wide mouth with full lips, which attracted more attention. Her smile also was big and broad and she smiled now as she ran her hands through her hair, down her neck and onto her generous breasts making the large pink nipples harden again. She traced her curves, where the twin tattoos of snakes slithered their way up both her sides from her pubis. She tweaked the sapphire encrusted, three hooped belly ring and giggled at the memory of his tongue as he played with it. Her belly and waist were so slim the bones of her rib cage still showed through when she stretched. But this slenderness only allowed the shape of her hips to stand out. She turned to admire her backside, which men claimed to adore, and studied the tightness of her toned long legs. She stood on tip toe, to see how her bottom looked when she wore heels. The smoked glass didn't show it, but she had a natural even tan.

The girl shook herself gaily. It was time to wake him for breakfast. Perhaps, she hoped, if she woke him gently, sensually, he might want her now, fast and cruel. She trembled with the delicious thought. The girl opened the bathroom door and took one step into the bedroom before stopping motionless where she stood. She didn't scream. She didn't cover herself. She didn't panic.

One man, a stranger, sat in the arm chair, a large, silenced revolver in his hand, pointing directly at her beautiful belly button. The other interloper in the room, an older man, was more familiar. She recognised his deep set eyes and thick moustache from the casino. He was filling a hypodermic needle from a small phial of liquid. She didn't need to ask what it was. The two men must have entered the room while she had been washing. They must have been extremely quiet as she couldn't recall hearing any noises. The bed clothes were rumpled, showing signs of some resistance, but her lover was knocked unconscious, even though he lay in almost the exact same position. His gun was lying on the floor where he had dropped it.

"Good morning, Karlyn," said the second man, in a soft fatherly voice, that by its very normality was frightening, "Someone wants to play with you."

*************************

Muhammad Abdul Razzaq stared at the tiny tongue of blue and white. In a matter of moments the croupier's fingers would spit the card towards him, adding it to the four already lying face down on the green baize. It had been a difficult night's play. Razzaq wasn't used to having to work so hard for his money. The wealthy patrons of the casino, small as it was, had offered easy pickings for him and it had been a relatively simple week's play. He was never going to make a fortune here, not like the winnings he posted on the Riviera. Yet the small matter of over fifty thousands dollars worth of blue, red and black chips sat before him and he wasn't about to lose it.

There was an equally impressive pile of chips across the table in front of his opponent. This man wasn't your usual gambler, the sort who came in, played a few hands, thought he was on a streak and lost everything on the turn of a card. This man, like Razzaq himself, studied the play. He knew when to raise, when to call and when to fold and surrender the pot. He wasn't afraid to lose if it meant retaining a stake on the table. His expression rarely changed; he was a mask of assiduous concentration, occasionally brightened by a sip of his drink, a pull on his cigarette or a stolen glance at his wife. He didn't smile much, unless he made a particularly good coup or his wife kissed him au revoir.

It had been his wife that had first brought the man to Razzaq's attention. Blonde, slim, tanned and very beautiful, she had a figure and demeanour that immediately caught his eye. She carried herself like a goddess, straight backed, confident and commanding. Yet there was something primitive about her; the impertinence in her smile, the ease of her manner, the way she flirted, how she dressed. She was a contradiction, both untouchable and available. Indeed, on the occasion he had bluntly propositioned her, she had remained taciturn to his insulting offer, while her body language appeared remarkably receptive to the indecent suggestions.

Razzaq had sighed. His position with the government allowed him too many freedoms and he enjoyed those freedoms, abused them sometimes, to drench his animal desires. The women came to him nervous and afraid, but they left happy and a little richer, a small reward for their husbands, brothers or fathers. Sometimes they did not leave so happy, but he still paid them. Other times there were the women who he didn't pay, the prisoners, the whores, the traffickers, the thieves, the young interns looking for promotion. With them he made it painful and obscene. The white women he met at the big casinos, the hotel bars and the nightclubs, often saw him as exotic and not unattractive; he generally found his money wasn't necessary on those occasions. It did come in useful when paying off indignant husbands. And if money didn't work, the sight of a gun or the inside of a prison cell was equally successful. Razzaq had lost count of the number of his conquests.

Equally, he had lost count of the number of death warrants he had signed and the number of times he had participated in torture and murder. The lust for love and death almost went hand in hand. A forceful sexual encounter often followed a day's interrogation. The day to day of his government role disinterested him. He had a team of advisors and administrators to deal with that. It was all he could do to attend cabinet meetings and sign the documents he needed to. He was well aware he wasn't in the cabinet for his abilities as a politician. They wanted subterfuge, coercion, blackmail, entrapment, assassination, wire tapping, bugging, embezzlement, bribery, corruption, murder, torture and theft – without any retribution. And he was happy to provide it and be involved in it.

The card flicked out across the table. Razzaq turned one corner of the card, just enough to see the emblem of the king of diamonds. He remained impassive, but inside his heart started to sing. He'd discarded a three of spades, leaving him with two pairs, kings and queens. Now this new card gave him a full house. He knew almost all the aces had gone through the pack in the last few hands, he'd won handsomely already with a pair, and this surely was his unbeatable hand. He sat back, shuffling his five cards together. Then, dramatically he pushed twenty thousand of his chips towards the centre of the table, making the bid.

The German count's mouth twitched. On the next round, he folded instantly, the pot was already too hot for him and he paid his way out, taking a massive hit on his winnings. He took a suck on his Havana cigar, a big disgusting barrel of tobacco. "Je suis fini. La table est la votre," he said in his faltered French.

The other man smiled for once and looked directly at Razzaq, who felt his gaze, fought off his inquisitiveness. The man inclined his head towards his wife, who was dutifully watching the play, a little to one side, the crowd of curious late night observers surrounding her. She looked nervous, thought Razzaq, uncertain. Of course, there was a lot of money at stake here; perhaps her husband did not have the funds to cover his losses.

The man tapped the top of the pile of chips before him. Then, slowly, without a trace of anxiety, he said: "Je vous eleverai a quarante mille dollars."

It was a bluff. It had to be a bluff. Razzaq knew it. So did everyone else around the table. They had seen the cards dealt. The shoe doesn't lie. Earlier in the evening the cards had not fallen for him, the faces around the table had been determined and alive and he'd had to fight to make a raise count. But about an hour ago the other faces had grown tired and the hands started to fall in his favour. Only this man had stayed close to him. And now he too was about to fall. The cards were not in the stack to provide two winning combinations. The man had rejected two of his cards, the sign of a poor hand and a desperate gamble. He couldn't have the beating of a full house. Razzaq was certain this was his night. He'd gambled for many years along the Egyptian Riviera and in the high class clubs of Paris and Madrid and he had an instinct. Nothing tangible. Nothing he could explain. Some people called it a sixth sense. He called it "his eye."

Razzaq watched the man's expression. It hadn't changed. It was still that stoic, slightly affable facade. His cigarette had burnt to the filter and, Razzaq noticed, for the first time he didn't strike a new one. Confidence or fear?

Razzaq paused. He looked around the faces, searching for Salim, his right hand man, who had brought him the information this afternoon. What had he said? The man was not to be trusted. He wasn't a journalist. He wasn't particularly rich. He wasn't even married to the woman he called his wife. He was an agent, a spy, a likely decoy: "Muhammad," he had said, "Be careful; they are setting you up."

Yet as he remembered the warning, Razzaq felt his adrenalin rise. Even if it was a set up, he could still come out of the affair with tens of thousands of dollars. He fumbled in his dinner jacket pocket, pulling out his reserve, two chips amounting to an extra twenty thousand dollars. He added them to his stake and pushed the pile forwards. The markers collapsed in a wave, scattering across the table.

"Je suis tous dans. Quatre-vingts mille dollars."

An audible gasp rippled around the tiny arena. The man at last looked nervous. When he spoke, he used English, not French, the customary language of the casino, "I can't match that, Mr Razzaq. I don't have that sort of money."

"I understand, Mr Stock. You have gambled well tonight," Razzaq's tone was even, measured, exactly how he spoke when seducing the pretty interns or the daughter's of army officers. "I have enjoyed the contest. I am sure you would not want either of us to be deprived of the satisfaction of winning. May I suggest a wager?"

"What kind of wager?"

"If you win, you get to keep all the money."

"And if I lose?"

"If you lose, Mr Stock, I get to sleep with your beautiful wife."

*************************

Karlyn Foucart's first encounter with her lover happened four years earlier. She had told him after one of their bouts of love making, but he didn't remember the occasion. Karlyn did because she had a gift for names and faces, one of the principle talents that had led her to work for the overseas division of MI6. She had been working at the Air France flight desk at Heathrow's Terminal 2, the oldest and least customer friendly of the airport's hubs, and he was checking onto a flight to Tel Aviv. He had given her a warm smile and they joked about the merits of window seats. He was a charming man. Karlyn didn't expect to ever see him again, but she remembered his face, with its steel blue eyes, the fading scar on his right cheek and the comma of dark hair that flopped over his brow. A handsome man, she had thought.

Karlyn had applied to work for the Translation Department of the Security Service a year earlier, but the aptitude tests, the psychometric assessments, the physicals and the security checks took a long time to complete. Her lack of experience in the civil service or the military didn't seem to hinder the application. Indeed they were particularly excited by her photographic recall, her arithmetical attention to detail and her language skills, of which she spoke four, excluding English, a benefit of a naturalised French-Canadian father and half-Swiss mother. She found herself recruited as a cipher clerk and she received an intensive six months of training at a school located just outside Gloucester. During this time Karlyn engaged in several love affairs, some of them running concurrently and gained something of a reputation for her sexual prowess. Subsequently she endured a further series of tests after which she was asked some embarrassing questions about her sexual habits, a story she looked back on with some amusement for the poor analyst was clearly more embarrassed than she. Her initial posting was in the translators department at GCHQ, which, being close to the training college allowed her to continue living with her best friends, Sally and Eleanor, in a little rented bungalow. It wasn't long however before Robinson, the Human Resources Officer for MI6, summoned her to Millennium House and offered her an overseas role in Paris with Station F. Her French language skills would be put to good use. Tournier needed a good administrator and a decoder to help him with the traffic he picked up from Africa and Europe. She was excited by the opportunity and accepted immediately. She was twenty four years old when she left for Paris three summers ago.

The second time she met James Bond, she was reading France Marie Clair in the first class lounge at Charles De Gaulle Airport. When he was mentioned at the briefing, she remembered instantly his name and his fine, slightly cruel face. She began to get excited just thinking about meeting him. He did not disappoint and had not even appeared to age over the past four years. He gave her that wonderful, indifferent smile and held out his hand.

"Bonjour, Mme Stock, je m'appelle James Bond."

She giggled at the little joke, accepting his hand, which was firm and strong. "Coucou, M. Stock, je m'appelle Karlyn Foucart. Comment allez-tu?"

Bond had smiled again. "That's a little forward isn't it? We've only just met."

She reached past his arm and touched the hem of his jacket, patting his thigh. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were my husband," she teased, giving him her best, most innocent look, "What a great pity."

He laughed and she liked it when he laughed. They had been briefed separately, Bond in London, she in Paris, but, as he was the senior, and a double "O" at that, his briefing was the more substantial. They discussed the operation on the flight to Luxor. They took to filling in their background story; how the journalist Mr James Stock had met in his wife in Paris while covering the G20 Summit for the Financial Times, how they had embarked on a whirl wind romance and married in the fall. They had honeymooned in Normandy, a region they both knew well, and now lived in a comfortable apartment in Chelsea. Despite herself, Karlyn couldn't help flirting with him, touching his hand with her fingers, allowing her eyes to linger on his face just that moment too long, winking when he made a cute remark and even slapping her hand lightly onto his knee when he made a joke. But she was careful to remain sitting with her knees together. She didn't want to appear too available.

When they landed at Luxor, Bond had taken control and they whisked through the diplomatic gate. He got them a taxi, thankfully clean and air conditioned. They made a slow journey into the city centre, eventually stopping outside the old market place, where Bond asked the driver to wait for half an hour. Karlyn noticed he kept hold of his attaché case, even as he led her through the main avenues of the ancient souk. He walked purposefully and fast. Karlyn was a little disappointed because she wanted to admire the gorgeously decorated silk scarves and the precious stones and gold jewellery. The atmosphere was a heady, bustling hive, noisy and teeming with life. The heavy aroma of sweet perfume mingled with the smell of a hundred spices. Souvenir sellers cackled at them as they strode past, tempting her with knick-knacks, leather goods, fake papyrus and vivid geometric-patterned carpets. Bond stopped at a small, insignificant stall, where the gapped toothed proprietor was selling tea leaves and coffee beans.

"Lau samahat, ana abas ahn Ali Abbas," said Bond and the coffee seller soundlessly ushered them into the back of the stall.

Inside they found a small, beady looking man, dressed in a hot looking suit. He was trying to cool himself with a battery operated miniature fan. Despite his relaxed air, his face was as alert as a hawk. Ali Abbas, head of the Cairo Station, stood up and greeted them both with a warm smile. He spoke quickly to Bond, handing over a booklet stamped Royal Egypt Travel Enterprises, a new set of passports for them both and a small silk purse, that jangled with the sound of coins.

"I'll be following the boat on the Corniche Road; a bit dusty, but I won't be any more than a mile or so away. We'll have you under twenty four hour watch." Abbas recited his mobile number. Karlyn automatically committed it to memory and she assumed Bond had done the same as he made no note of it.

"Good," replied Bond, "Keep yourselves hidden, Ali, we want to avoid any suspicion if we can."

Abbas nodded in agreement. They all shook hands and Bond led the girl back through the bazaar to the taxi. As they sat in the cool interior, Bond opened the silk purse and ten different sized wedding rings dropped into his palm. He held out his hand and said with mock seriousness: "Darling, will you marry me?"

Karlyn fished through the collection of bands until she found a perfect fit. "What took you so long to ask?" she said, coquettishly.

They reached the harbour a little before sunset. The S. S. Osiris was an imposing cruise ship, made to look like a Victorian paddle steamer, the kind that the consuls, sultans and viceroys used to travel in. It wasn't powered by steam or paddle, but a modern oil fired boiler and propellers. It was just shy of a hundred metres in length, four storeys high with the addition of a sun deck above the top storey. The ship had forty-eight cabins for a maximum capacity of ninety-six passengers. She was, along with her sister ship the Isis, the pride of Royal Egypt Travel, a deluxe luxury liner for the wealthy or those who aspired to wealth.

Karlyn and Bond offered their tickets and passports at the reception office on the quayside. They were welcomed as if they were old friends returning after a long absence, despite the fact they'd never set foot on the ship. While stewards took their baggage on board, Karlyn, Bond and several other passengers sat through a safety video and were given a full run down of the four day cruise including the excursions available. They opted to book any trips on a day-to-day basis, in case it was too hot, they said. They were given a small pile of brochures.

Their personal steward was called Ram and he met them in the beautiful wood panelled atrium on the second floor. There was a central elevator shaft surrounded by a spiral staircase. The floor was polished and rang with foot falls. The same wood floor ran through all the outside decks and the inside passages. Huge vases full of sunflowers, red poppies and the golden orange tongues called Bird of Paradise decorated each of the floors; Karlyn noted later they were fresh each day. The interior of the ship was delightfully cool. Their cabin was on same floor, one of sixteen Edwardian style suites. It was painted an off white which contrasted sharply with the dark wood skirting and cornices. The furnishings were all of teak. The chaise-long and two big arm chairs were upholstered in pale cream, the cushions in magenta. There was a huge bed, bigger than any bed Karlyn had seen, invitingly turned down, the linen also cream and red. The three lightly smoked glass doors led onto a private balcony. The spacious bathroom was all white marble with gold accessories.

While Bond dealt with the steward, Karlyn ran around the suite, opening doors and letting out oohs and aahs, thrilled at the opulence. Bond was much more methodical and set about checking the light bulbs, the mirrors, the ornaments and the phones for listening devices. Karlyn realised she was forgetting herself. She wasn't here to luxuriate; they had important work to do. She unpacked her things carefully and then watched as Bond did the same. She noticed his case remained half packed. He also opened the attaché case she had seen him keep close at hand. An automatic pistol rested inside the case and he carefully checked it over while she made coffee. Guns didn't interest her; she'd never been trained to use one and her role at Station F didn't require it. Later, she noticed he slipped the weapon under the pillow before he slept.

Bond suggested they wash and change for dinner. He allowed Karlyn to use the bathroom first. She went through her cleansing routine, flustered that she might be taking too long. He made no comment when she appeared, over forty minutes later, wrapped in a big Egyptian cotton bathrobe that fell to her ankles, and said she would use the dresser to do her make up. Karlyn methodically applied mascara and eye shadow, colour and gloss lipstick and a little rouge. She repainted her finger and toe nails. Bond re-appeared looking fresh and shining. He was already wearing his suit trousers and dress shirt. She helped him with his cufflinks and cummerbund, and then picked out a discreet black bow tie.

Karlyn went back into the bathroom to put on her dress, not because she was shy, but she felt it more respectful. Tournier had allowed her the use of the Universal Export credit card to purchase some clothes from the Paris fashion houses and she had spent a fabulous afternoon trying on gowns by Lacroix, Christophe Josse and Chanel. She was expected to look stunning at every moment. Tonight's dress was from Emilo Pucci; a deep olive green, long and split to the thigh, shoulder less and virtually backless, but full at the front and held up by a choker at her throat. It was at once both provocative and decent. It showed off the best aspects of her figure, her legs and breasts and behind. She wore her hair down.

When Karlyn re-appeared, Bond was opening a bottle of Bollinger. He popped the cork and she accepted the glass, although she only took a few tiny sips. Karlyn wasn't a big drinker. They sat in silence on the balcony and watched the sun sink beneath the horizon. Eventually Bond broke the hush.

"Are you nervous, Karlyn?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"A little."

She thought he said that for her benefit. Bond stood up and looked out across the Nile. A few hundred yards along the shore they could see the temple complex of Karnak. The imposing ruins were illuminated in a dusky orange, giving them an unworldly quality, as if they were part of the staging for an epic film. He turned around and stared straight at her.

"Don't worry, Karlyn, everything's going to be all right and you'll be fine. You're doing wonderfully well already," Bond's reassurance was accompanied by a warming smile. He carried on: "You can always pretend it's a great adventure. Like being in a movie or something. I know that sounds lame, but you're not trained like me and it won't be easy for you to maintain your concentration. With respect, you're my window dressing. You don't have to say much, just look fantastic. And make sure you stick to the back story we've created."

Bond paused and chinked his glass to hers. "Cheers," he said, "And, by the way, you do look fantastic."

They lazily took the elevator one floor up. The aft area of the third floor was completely given over to the restaurant and its kitchens. Bond had organised with the steward a particular table, one towards the back of the room. Bond sat facing her and the entrance. Karlyn looked over the whole room and out of the big bay windows that offered a sweeping view back down the river. Bond asked her if she liked it. In truth, Karlyn thought the dining room over fussy. The starched cloths, low lighting, dark woods and heavy curtains gave it a dungeony feel. The heavily upholstered chairs were almost too comfortable, like sitting on velvet. Confronting her was an array of glasses and cutlery surrounding a folded napkin stitched with the ship's moniker. She preferred the little, busy and bright bistros of back street Paris, where you could be secretively indiscreet. This was much too formal.

Bond asked her to describe some of their fellow diners. Karlyn reeled off a few brief portraits. Bond nodded several times, sometimes asking her for extra details, his eyes always focussed on the mirror behind her. He was checking her observations.

"The minister is here," she said, "And I guess that's his wife sitting with him. She doesn't look very happy," Karlyn paused while Bond emitted a low snort, as if this not a surprise to him, "And I can see his counterpart, Mr Farouk. He's dining with five other men. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves."

"I can't see them," said Bond, "Where are they?"

"To the right hand side, at the back. The biggest table."

Bond nodded, but didn't turn around to check. "The other men are probably his advisors and his security. Can you see our target?"

"Yes. The table in front of Farouk's. He's the one with that scarring down his face. Hard to miss him."

"I think he found it hard to miss you."

Bond said this without any particular sentiment, his attention taken by the reflection in the mirror. Karlyn was looking straight at the target. The man gazed long and hard back at her, even when she turned away and continued to talk to Bond. It wasn't a timid look. This man was used to getting what he wanted.

They ate classic French cuisine, salade de pigeon chaude followed by a delicious steak au poivre. For desert he ate cheese, while she chose the croix de glaces. Bond had ordered a bottle of Croze-Hermitage and once again Karlyn delicately sipped at her glass.

After dinner they went to the lounge, where a pianist was tinkling a selection of standards on a grand piano. There was a big open air deck and they sat on one of the comfortable divans that lined the rails, Karlyn finally crossing her legs and allowing the split in her skirt to expose as much skin as was decently acceptable. She felt the eyes of hot blooded males swivel in her direction. Bond ordered a vodka martini for himself. Karlyn asked for a long fruit cocktail. The company was good, if a little old. There was a group of Americans, spending their life savings on an around the world trip; Miss Hartlett and Miss Beresford, two spinsters from Wales; Harry Dawson, an industrialist from Texas, on honeymoon with his exceedingly young wife, his fifth attempt at marriage; the Derbyshires; the Tennants; there was a Count; a Baron; a relation to the Greek royal family; some Russians and, of course, the politicians. Not everyone was in the lounge, but it was a pleasant gathering, and Karlyn hoped she might make a friend or two here. Bond was attentive for an hour or so and then excused himself, as he wanted to visit the casino. When his lips nuzzled her neck and cheek in a kiss, she felt the hairs on her skin stand on end, as if Bond had set off an electric current. She smelt him up close, the wine and cigarettes and that slightly earthy, manly scent. She exhaled long and deep with the thrill of it.

She chatted a little more, finding the company of Shay Dawson the most feminine, while the enchanting tales of a travel writer held her and the extended party to attention. At almost eleven o'clock, she joined Bond. This was less of a casino than a smoky gambling emporium. There were two roulette wheels and a half dozen semi circles of green baize. Only three of the tables were occupied. Bond was seated at one of these, a drink and an ash tray full of stubbed filters at his side. He was playing baccarat and didn't appear to be winning. Two Russians shared his table and they looked eagerly up at her as she approached.

"Darling, you made it," cooed Bond. He introduced her to his playing partners.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't up to any mischief," Karlyn replied and then addressing the Russians, "I hope he isn't losing all our money."

There was a flutter of laughter. Karlyn stayed for a few hands. Then, as they had discussed earlier, she moved from table to table, pausing behind one player, then another, passing onto another table. Karlyn knew he'd noticed her as soon as she walked in and the target scrutinised her from behind his cards and the wafts of tobacco smoke. When she approached his table, she was careful to cut him just one glance, a quick flash of her eyes but no smile, before moving on. His was one of the seats she did not stand behind. She walked through onto the rear deck, leaning on the rail. She liked the warmth out here. The cool interiors made her feel chilly.

When Karlyn turned around, he was already standing at the door, an austere smile on his lips. The smile did not transmit to his countenance. He wasn't an unattractive man, tall, muscular and good looking in a swarthy, mysterious way. The scarring down the left side of his face and neck, an unsightly blemish from horrific childhood burns, added an air of raffish diabolique. He looked younger than she expected and he dressed well. When he introduced himself and they shook hands, she noticed his nails were manicured.

"Good evening, I am Muhammad Abdul Razzaq, welcome to Egypt."

"Karlyn Stock. Thank you, it is very beautiful."

"If I may say, the most beautiful thing in Egypt stands before me now."

Despite herself, Karlyn blushed. She recovered herself quickly. "I'm not sure my husband would appreciate you making that comment."

"Forgive me. I was impertinent. Perhaps I can offer you some refreshment?"

"Yes. Some coffee."

"Certainly." He ordered it "qahwa saada," hot and extra sweet, and it arrived in double quick time, with a little fold out table to place their cups on. The stewards recognised the man's importance, treating him with a cloying deference that he ignored.

They talked for a while, about nothing in particular. Karlyn said she was interested in visiting Edfu, but she was really hoping to top up her tan and relax. Razzaq was diffident, both with his words and with his manner, but Karlyn knew he was searching her replies for opportunities to broach a different subject entirely and his eyes periodically, blatantly, explored her. Karlyn found his attentions not entirely unappealing; he was a mixture of boyish charm and latent menace. Curiously she found the fear of the latter did not distract her from the charm of the former. His manner, she realised, was deceptive, so assured as to be almost mesmeric. After coffee, he said he wanted to return to his game and they shook hands again. Karlyn felt he held her hand a little longer than necessary.

Bond was still at the baccarat table and she draped an arm around him, her breasts rubbing against his shoulder as she bent to whisper in his ear.

"I'm going to bed now, darling, don't be late."

*************************

James Bond was very impressed with Karlyn Foucart. Robinson had said she was the best looking girl in the service and, at least for now, Bond had to agree with him. She was reading a fashion magazine when he first met her and her long blonde hair was covering half of her beautiful face. She was wearing an uncreased muslin coloured skirt and matching jacket with a rose-pink coloured blouse. When Bond introduced himself, he was struck mostly by the colour of her eyes, an almost lurid shade of mauve, like lavender petals. He'd noticed it in the photographs, but hadn't expected her look to be quite so startling. Her big, wide, smile instantly distracted him and after a time he rarely gave her eyes a second thought. She sat straight and proud, not unashamed of her excellent figure and starry looks. She reminded Bond of Christina Lindberg, a notorious Swedish actress of his youth, whose naked poster had hung on the wall's of the sailor's mess.

Karlyn was frivolous and fun. Bond didn't restrain her, tolerating her girlish flights of fantasy as they created the back story for Mr and Mrs James Stock. He noticed she drunk very little alcohol and smoked rarely. There was something else that made her alive. She seemed to wriggle in her clothes, as if they were an encumbrance. She tossed her hair a lot. She touched his arm and hand. She frequently dipped her head close to his to talk. Her voice was a low sexy whisper, with a trace of a Parisian accent, picked up over the three years at Station F. Equally Bond appreciated her businesslike, efficient manner when discussing the operation. Karlyn was calm, unshakable and certainly not naive. Bond thought she would do well, he was certain of that. Although he preferred to work alone, if he had to have a companion, he couldn't think of a better one to have that Karlyn Foucart.

Bond noted she tensed up considerably as they dressed for dinner. Perhaps the knowledge that she was at last entering the field, that it wasn't all just a lovely holiday, was finally sinking in. Bond tried to relax her and it seemed to have something of the desired effect. She was certainly very attentive over dinner. He hoped she would be equally as proficient later in the evening.

Bond needn't have worried. Karlyn was demure enough to deflect the attention she gained, so that despite her beauty, people found her modest and unassuming. She could not deflect the powerful fixed perceptions of Muhammad Abdul Razzaq. Bond saw that quite clearly as he chased after her with almost indecent haste once she visited the casino. Bond had surreptitiously observed their conversation. She was very good. At once casually sensual and enticing, while staying tantalizingly circumspect.

When she returned to him and kissed his cheek, he caught the aroma of Ghost, the fragrance he'd spied on the bathroom shelf. It reminded him of apple blossom and roses, the unspoilt countryside and days lost to love. He didn't wait long, finishing a few hands and depositing his modest winnings into the bank.

She was waiting for him. She offered him her big smile and, while he took off his jacket and tie, she poured him a glass of the long forgotten Bollinger. The balcony doors were open and Bond felt a warm breeze. The suite was bathed with a moon lit glow.

"We haven't discussed sleeping arrangements," she said, matter-of-factly.

"There's no need. I'll be perfectly comf ~"

She put a finger to his lips and sshhed him to silence. The girl stretched up on her toes and gave him a kiss, a short teasing one, but a kiss whose touch lingered on Bond's lips.

"Don't be silly, James. Get undressed. We're supposed to be married."

Karlyn retreated from him, turning her back and walking towards the bed. She released the choker around her neck and the evening gown fell to the floor. Her skin shone in the blue hue of the night and her silhouette gave form to the delights only hinted at when she was clothed. Bond swallowed the champagne in one, his mouth suddenly dry from the drink and tobacco. He slipped quickly out of his clothes and approached the bed, on which she now lay, admiring him, propped up on one elbow.

He touched her, lightly, uncertain. She belied his worries by reaching for him and offering her mouth again. He ruthlessly took it, searching her with his tongue, licking and biting. He felt the hardness of her nipples and the plumpness of her breasts. He caressed her shoulders and spine, down to her buttocks, and slipped a hand inside her lacy, pointlessly small knickers. Karlyn broke away, making him watch as she toyed with the gusset of her panties, removing them inch by inch. He seemed to like that and she sneered at his salacious behaviour.

Bond kissed her hard again on the mouth, pushing her onto the soft down of the pillows, and then, starting at her chin, he began to stitch a succession of kisses down her body and across her breasts, weaving ever lower in his explorations. He saw she was fashionably hairless and the twin tails of tattooed serpents pointed invitingly down to her most intimate delights. Bond found their mute presence acutely arousing. The snakes seemed to charge him with a series of preying sexual urges which made the girl sigh and moan and cry, until, relieved, she lay glistening with the heat and the pleasure of those blissful moments.

They made love again a little later, the girl taking charge this time. After she was satisfied, Karlyn told Bond she had wanted him since they shook hands at the airport, that he could have her when ever he wanted, how ever he wanted. They only had, she said, four days and nights to provide a lifetime of memories.

*************************

"It's an odd little number, 007," said M, "Not our sort of thing at all. But the request has come from the F.O. themselves. They certainly don't want this informal conference to be disrupted."

Bond put the dossier back on M's desk, having read the summary of the operation. The Egyptian government were coming under increasing pressure to prevent the spread of Muslim Fundamentalism. Although there hadn't been any recent incidents on the scale of the atrocities that targeted foreigners, those in Alexandria and Dahab, there was a general international acceptance that Egypt could do more. Its trade links with the West were especially good and, because it's ruling government was essentially a military secularised one, many E.U. countries saw Egypt as a stepping stone to developing a safer Arab world. Madu Farouk, the Foreign Minister, and a known Western sympathiser, had invited Sir Iain Phillips, the European Foreign Development Minister, to share a four day cruise on the River Nile. Officially it was a holiday; unofficially the approach had been made because Sir Iain, in his ministerial capacity, could help organise a financial package in return for security assurances. Both parties were playing a close game, afraid of any potential leaks which could scupper their negotiations.

The British had become alarmed when the name of Muhammad Abdul Razzaq, head of the S.I.R.D., had appeared on the passenger list. The Surveillance, Investigation and Retribution Department is the most secret arm of Egypt's General Intelligence Service. Officially, they didn't exist, but most foreign secret services were aware that Egypt's appalling human rights record was mainly due to this disparate unilateral office of torturers and assassins. The department's motto is "Ihna Barra Qanoon", literally "We Outside The Law" and many Egyptians, even those in government, would refer to Razzaq and his enforcers as The Outsiders. They were notorious for keeping their own brand of justice. The man himself was a hardliner, publicly styled as a pious fundamentalist whose views were anti-West, anti-Zion, anti-woman, anti-liberty, pretty much anti-anything. However the private man, the one the media never had access too or never dared, was a womanizer, gambler, drinker and murderer. He carried the scarring from a fire, the result of Israeli bombings in Sinai, and it seemed to have scarred his mind as well. The reports Bond read suggested the man was psychotic.

"And Razzaq is just the man to do it," commented Bond. "Do we know if Farouk actually wants him to be there?"

"It's unlikely. Of course Farouk isn't the most popular man in the government. He's too interested in peace and reconciliation, always a dubious cachet in the Middle East."

"Can't we just call the whole thing off?"

"That's been considered, 007," explained M, choosing her words carefully, "But Sir Iain knows Farouk. Polo or eventing or something equally obscure. He's keen to show a degree of faith. Hopefully it'll be reciprocated. What I want you to do is distract Razzaq. Throw him off the scent a bit; give him something else to think about, something more to his personal tastes. I know you're good at cards, Bond. I think you'd enjoy the challenge."

"And this girl?" he queried, "You really want to set up a honey trap?"

"God, no," replied M firmly, "I don't want her put to any danger. But Robinson tells me she's the best we've got. In terms of looks and..." M flinched a little, "...other things. She'll be the perfect second foil. If you two can keep Razzaq occupied, hopefully the politicians can get down to some deal making."

*************************

Karlyn shuddered when she heard the words. She felt as if the whole room was staring at her, not only the people in it, but the very room itself, the walls and doors and ceilings. She had to stop herself from screaming. The words rang around her head again and again. She heard them even above the disapproving whispers that ran around the crowd of onlookers.

"I get to sleep with your beautiful wife."

God, had it come to this? She didn't want to do that. Teasing and flirting was one thing. But not this. Not now. Not when things were complicated by a man called James Bond. Why had he never said anything? Did he know this might happen? Surely, he must have seen the likelihood? Why hadn't he told her, really told her, instead of dressing it up like some grand adventure? God, what had she been thinking to believe it? She must have been so blind, so stupid. Was she so wrapped up in her own exquisite affair, she'd failed to recognise what was happening around her? All those moments when Bond had left her alone: every evening in the lounge, the trip to Edfu, that afternoon on the sun deck, one lonely breakfast. He'd been setting her up, manoeuvring her into situations where the man couldn't fail to see her or talk to her. And Razzaq's appetites were clearly similar, if not more, debauched than Bond's.

Yes, she could see it now. She had not been here solely to play at husbands and wives, to add some glamour to the dull journalist Mr Stock. It had been a ruse all along. And she had unwittingly played her part to perfection, possibly a little too perfect.

She remembered now how Razzaq had escorted her gently around the temple of Horus at Edfu, the best preserved of all the temples in Egypt. They had walked through the massive temple pylon, with its faded hieroglyphs, and into the great halls, guarded by magnificent hawk statues. He'd shown her the reliefs where the stories of the ancients had been drawn. His touch had been light, almost non-existent, and his words were filled with poetry and a wistfulness she found beguiling.

He'd recited the tale of Osiris and Isis, brother and sister gods who had married during the time of sweetness and harmony. Their brother Seth, consumed with jealousy, for he also loved the beautiful Isis, murdered Osiris and cut him into fourteen pieces, tossing them into the River Nile. Isis found thirteen of the pieces and bandaged them together as the first mummy. But Isis was missing his penis, so she constructed a clay phallus, which she inserted through the bandages, reviving him for long enough to conceive a son, the sun god Horus, the god of the golden disc, the god with the all-seeing eye. Horus avenged his father's murder by killing Seth at Edfu.

The narration had been so tender; Karlyn thought he'd sighed with pity when describing Isis binding her lover together. He'd shown her a carving of the story. Isis, disguised as a kite, the throne of kingship over her head, fluttered above Osiris' body, reciting the incantations that would allow him to impregnate her. Looking at the beautiful stonework, Karlyn had felt a strange providence. Perhaps it was the effect of the heat or the telling of the tale, but she thought Isis looked lonely and desperate, as if time was running away from her.

Razzaq went on to describe how Horus found true happiness with the goddess of love, Hathor, and directed her to other chambers, where the reliefs showed dancing and merriment and fornication. Karlyn could not help but touch the cold stone, imagining the sensations of a thousand years of ritual, as he continued to whisper his hypnotic erotic stories. Desperately she fought it, but she could not help becoming aroused, and eventually she had forced herself away from the man, rejoining the main group to find solace with the older women. None-the-less, she looked back, and he seemed cold and menacing again.

He had apologised for his behaviour. But it hadn't stopped him propositioning her on the cruise to Aswan. Bond had left her alone on the sun deck. They had already made love that afternoon and Karlyn was still in the throes of the sensation. She could not stop her pulse racing and her head was filled with the memory of their urgent sex.

She was still reminiscing when Razzaq appeared for his daily swim. She'd noted he always swam at that time of day. Now, looking back, she knew Bond had noted it also. After a few lengths, he pulled himself out of the pool and, drenched, stood before her blocking out the sun. He was muscular, defined, toned with hardly an ounce of fat on him. Even the scarred tissue did not detract from his fine physique. The sun danced over his shoulder and onto her face and she shielded her eyes to see him.

His expression was unlike any she had seen before; he looked at her with anger and disgust, yet he was clearly also aroused. Karlyn suddenly felt very exposed in her tiny tiger print bikini. He just told her, quickly and with all the worst expletives, what he wanted to do to her, all the while holding himself for her to see. Her breathing became short and her muscles tightened, but she did not look away.

"I'm sorry, I can't," was all she could say and it came out like a squawk, "I'm a married lady."

"Married, perhaps."

Razzaq gave a contemptuous tut and rearranged himself, before storming away, a towel concealing his immodesty.

Karlyn watched him go. Her pulse was running even faster now and she panted with the tension and the thrill and the danger. She lay back, gasping, passing a hand across her breasts. She was shocked to feel her nipples so erect and hard. Instinctively she touched herself. Karlyn started to panic, her mind a muddle of delirious excitement and painful hate and indecent lust.

She was saved by the appearance of one of the little old spinsters, Miss Hartlett. Karlyn had not even realised the old woman had been on the sun deck.

"What a disgusting man!" the spinster exclaimed, "I really should report him to the Captain. I've never seen such behaviour!"

"No, you don't need to get involved. He was very drunk."

"That's as maybe. It's still a disgrace," Miss Hartlett suddenly seemed to remember that there was another victim on the sun deck, "Oh, my dear! I'm quite forgetting! It must be an awful shock. Here, let me get you some mint tea."

Thank goodness Miss Hartlett wasn't in the casino now, thought Karlyn, she would probably have fainted.

The casino was silent, bar the distant sound of the pianist playing the piano two flights above them. Karlyn took a shallow breath, waiting for Bond's reply.

"All right," he said.

*************************

Saad Kabul yawned and unscrewed the top on his coffee flask. The night had been, as usual, an uneventful one. The lights had gradually gone out across the boat. The lounge and casino stayed open much later than normal, but eventually they too dimmed and a few cabin lights switched on and off as the final retirees took to their beds.

Saad sat on a camp chair, a blanket wrapped around him. He was on the flat roof of a traditional mud brick crofter's house. The co-operative old couple inside had been tending their family plot for sixty years, but times were not what they were and they would be the last generation to traditionally till the land. Less than two miles away from the farm the Western Desert took hold and the imposing sand dunes and rocky outcrops began to break the plateau.

Saad had a pair of powerful night finder binoculars next to him, the lens caps off, ready for him to use in an instant. He'd not used them for some time, not since about two a.m. when he'd sat up, surprised, to see a dusty black BMW X5, its windows tinted, arrive at the quayside. A small motor launch containing two men had made its way to the S.S. Osiris. The men climbed aboard the steamer and their place was taken by Muhammad Abdul Razzaq. The launch returned to the shore and Razzaq was driven away towards Aswan. Saad took down the registration number of the car and noted the time.

As an after thought, he contacted Ali Abbas, who was a little disgruntled to be woken. Abbas made some non-committal noises. He thought Razzaq was probably less of a nuisance off the boat than on it. He told Saad not to worry.

Saad had shrugged indifferently at the response. He didn't understand the point of keeping the ship under constant observation if the only thing of note that happened was deemed to be unimportant. Never mind. He consoled himself with the hot coffee.

The sun had risen and the heat of the day was starting to take effect. Two hours more and Abbas would relieve him. He could get some sleep before the full day's journey back down the river to Luxor and home.

Saad squinted. There was movement on the lower deck. Two men were manhandling a wheeled laundry basket along the deck to the rear of the steamer. Saad raised the binoculars to his eyes. The men were not stewards, but he didn't recognise them. Then Saad recalled one of the men he'd seen earlier had a curious gait, as if he was club footed. The second of the two men had a similar limp. Saad made some notes. As he did so he heard the mellow chug of the motor launch making its way across the harbour. Another quick glance at the quay revealed the BMW had returned. Damn! How had he not heard that?

Saad turned back to the boat. The two men were loading the laundry basket into the motor launch. As Saad watched a third man appeared. He recognised him straight away as Khalfani Ben Salim, the nominal second in command to Razzaq. All three men stepped into the launch. Quickly Saad looked about the steamer. There didn't appear to be any stewards in evidence and the bridge was conspicuously empty. This was unusual; there had always been some movement this early in the morning, usually the decks were being swabbed and the engineers were doing their routine checks. It was as if they had all been told to be scarce.

The motor launch made its way back to the quay and the two men struggled to off load the laundry basket. They wheeled it up to the BMW. Salim already had the boot open. Saad moved his angle of view, trying to see what was in the trolley, but the open boot completely hid the activity there, which was swift and silent. There was some arrogant gesticulating with the man in the motor launch, before he reluctantly took the laundry basket back to the ship. Meanwhile the three men got into the car. Saad followed its rear lights as far as he could. It was definitely on the same road that Razzaq had taken earlier.

Saad considered whether to wake Ali Abbas again. The events he witnessed were certainly peculiar. The laundry basket had seemed very heavy. Perhaps Razzaq had ordered the ship's safe to be opened and he'd stolen the passenger's valuables or the takings at the casino. Knowing Razzaq he probably had a few bottles of Smirnoff added to the loot for good measure. Yes; that would be it. He'd probably received a fake cable or a call ensuring he wasn't on the ship at the time of the theft. It was just the sort of thing he'd got used to hearing about the Outsiders since he started work for the Cairo Station.

He decided not to telephone his superior. He'd be here at seven anyway. Saad made some detailed notes and then sat back in the chair. He struck a cigarette, confident he'd made the best decision.

*************************

Bond thought the girl was acting differently, something he detected in her manner and her physicality, a neediness that hadn't been there before. Bond didn't let it concern him. Perhaps she was getting too attached to him. That'd be no bad thing, he thought, as he washed the sweat of the day from his body.

They dressed for dinner and she kissed him on the mouth, but gently so as not to spoil her make up. They ate a traditional cheese and tomato salad, that Karlyn thought a little spicy, and two beautifully grilled fillets of bream. Bond chose a light Margaux, the Pavillon Blanc '99, and he noticed she drank a little more than usual. She didn't look across to where Razzaq was sitting. In the mirror, Bond could see the man's eyes boring across the table, like a bird of prey, homing in on a kill. This was no longer the charming, if forward, suitor.

It worried Bond a little. So far Karlyn had done a wonderful job, proving a more than ample distraction. Indeed, Razzaq had hardly spoken to Farouk or Sir Iain, at least not in public, and Bond had observed the two ministers sharing more than one drink in the lounge. When most of the passengers had taken the five hour trip to Edfu, Bond had ensured they were relatively undisturbed in Farouk's Panorama Suite, one of the executive cabins at the front of the steamer. Whatever had occurred to upset Razzaq, Bond knew he had to be fully alert. Razzaq's reputation suggested he wouldn't accept an assumed slight with any grace.

Razzaq went straight to the casino. Bond and Karlyn, as usual, went to the lounge for after dinner drinks. Bond stayed for an hour before heading downstairs. As he reached the floor below, a figure stepped across the landing, blocking his path. Bond recognised Khalfani Ben Salim and hoped he didn't look surprised. He tensed, his eyes swivelling left and right over the man's shoulders, waiting for any accomplices.

"Don't worry, Mr Bond, I am alone."

Bond. He'd called him Bond. That was bad news. At least one other person knew he wasn't James Stock. And how many more knew it too? Bond nodded his understanding. "What do you want, Salim?"

Salim ushered him into the elevator and they descended to the lower level. Salim walked outside, along the promenade deck. Bond followed, offering him a cigarette, but Salim declined and he smoked alone.

"I found out who you are, Bond," explained Salim, "It took me a while. Your service is very thorough. There really is a James Stock listed at the Financial Times. But he has not posted a single report in sixteen years on the foreign news desk."

Bond smiled. Worth taking that bit of information back to M, he thought. "So what happens now, Salim?"

"I want to warn you. Don't antagonise Razzaq tonight. Everything is going against him. We've had surveillance teams listening to Farouk's conversations," Salim saw Bond register surprise and allowed himself a little smile, "We used amplified micro-bugs. In the fresh flowers. Those poppies are everywhere. That's why we're talking outside."

"And what have you found out?"

"Farouk's done the deal. It's good politics. Razzaq isn't happy."

"I can well believe it."

"He doesn't like rejection. And when I told him about you and your "wife" – well, he went out of control. I can't promise to stop him tonight."

Bond looked at Salim, with his tired expression and drooping moustache. He looked more like an overworked accountant than a seasoned killer. For whatever reason, he didn't see Bond as his enemy and he had just provided the link to both Razzaq's and Karlyn's strange behaviour. Bond tossed his cigarette away. "Razzaq knows who I am?"

"Yes," Salim said, grasping Bond's arm in gentle restraint, "Stay away from his table tonight, Bond. Tomorrow he's going to his lodge on Lake Nasser. He'll get drunk and forget this stupid charade."

"Thank you, Salim," replied Bond, "But I have a role to play too. And while your paymaster is on this boat, I'm going to keep playing it."

Bond could feel his heart beating a little faster. So, Razzaq was rattled. Well, thought Bond, perhaps it was time to shake his tree a little more, teach the arrogant son of a bitch a lesson. Involuntarily, Bond stood taller, primed for conflict over the tables. His expression took on a sturdy, unflinching facade. He loved the electric atmosphere of a casino. He loved the thrill of winning on the turn of a card and equally the despair of a big loss. He loved the challenge of beating the house at dice and roulette. He loved pitting his wits across the baize at an anonymous opponent. He especially loved the old big establishments in France and Italy where the rooms were fit for kings and real royalty sat at your table, sharing in the highs and lows of the night.

The casino here was more of a gentleman's club, with each passenger given an honorary membership. There wasn't an awful lot of gambling, some came just to use the bar and play a few hands of whist. Bond had observed a long winded game of bezique and a few turns of the roulette wheel, but most of money was at the two baccarat tableaus and at the poker table.

As it was essentially a private establishment, members could play their own game. Bond had observed Razzaq preferred an old fashioned version of draw poker, but with deuces or aces wild. He went straight to Razzaq's table, taking a seat opposite him at the semi circle of green cloth. Immediately Bond felt those angry eyes measuring him. He requested his winnings from the bank, which he'd held over each night, an ash try and a vodka martini.

Bond hadn't spent much time at Razzaq's table, usually approaching when the table was tired, deliberately extending the Egyptian's night by playing several nonchalant hands. His immediate approach was unusual and Razzaq noticed it. He sat back, taking a long swig at his drink. "I have been watching you, Mr Stock. You are a clever gambler. But you avoid my table. Why do you want to play with me now?"

"Let's just say, I have a feeling things are not going your way today."

If Bond expected a reaction, it wasn't the one he got. Razzaq smiled. It was a twisted, ugly grin, but it held a fascinated bent of pleasure, as if someone worthy was finally crossing swords with him. He almost laughed when he replied.

"We will see. I have more than a feeling, Mr Stock. I have an eye for these things. An instinct."

"Even an eye blinks, Mr Razzaq."

Bond didn't consider poker to be the most refined of card games. Like its childish cousin, blackjack or twenty-one, he found it too easy to build a lead. He appreciated you could lose as easily, but the odds were lower. The sheer, cruel fortune of the baccarat table was still his preferred game of choice. He hoped this evening would be as enthralling as the summers he spent in the gambling cathedrals of France.

The game started slowly. There were only four players, including the Count, but gradually this increased to seven. Bond built his winning cautiously; he bet low and safe unless he was assured of victory. Once or twice he lost a sizeable sum, but gradually, inevitably, his pile of chips began to increase in size, matching the stake Razzaq was acquiring.

Bond lost a cool $10000 when he folded, uncertain that his pair of aces was a winning hand. Angry, he excused himself. He washed his face in the toilets. His eyes looked tired. It was one a.m. and he'd been playing for almost three hours. He'd noticed the game had taken on another dimension. Interested observers, hearing the ante had increased to five thousand were craning their necks around the table. There was the occasional clap or hum of approval after a coup came off and the sighs of sympathy when a good hand was lost. Razzaq didn't work to a system and played with an abandon that suggested sooner or later he had to lose. Incongruously, his winnings kept piling up. He was disguising an astute gambling brain behind bold, flamboyant actions and bids.

When Bond returned to the table, he saw Karlyn waiting for him. She touched his shoulder and said she would be retiring. It had been a long day. Her last words were said with a curt glance towards Razzaq.

"Stay a little, darling," suggested Bond, "I won't be long. I'd like to have you with me when I win."

Razzaq's expression didn't change, but his eyes shifted from Bond to the girl and back again. His fingers reached out and curled around the edges of his cards. He started with a minimal bid, drew two cards, another raise and then won the hand with a $20000 coup with three of a kind. One of the Russians quit the table at this point. He probably didn't miss the money, but the losing was upsetting him.

Bond won two hands, the first with a pair of threes and some optimistic bluffing, the second with knaves and nines. The latter forced out an American, who'd come in late and lost heavily. Bond's pot stood at some forty thousand. The chips made impressive stacks. Despite the ten to twenty thousand bets that were suddenly riding on every hand Bond didn't feel any pressure. He was relaxed, in his element. He rarely considered his opponent; he continued to play his game, matching his bets against the cards he held. When they were good, he came in heavy; when they were mediocre, he was cautious, bluffing; when dealt a poor hand he surrendered it quickly for the smallest loss.

Razzaq won a hand, taking the Count for another ten grand loss. He was loose, the alcohol taking its effect. He rarely spoke during the game, only to acknowledge a particularly fine win. Yet Bond felt his presence hovering over the table, the piercing stare designed to frighten the mortal gambler. He seemed to take particular relish in acquiring Bond's money.

The dealer slipped the cards across the table and Bond took the quickest of glances and then, without viewing, he reshuffled the five cards into order. It was an appalling hand. There was nothing in it. The knave of diamonds was his highest card. Otherwise he had a rum deal, the four, five and six of clubs and a nine of hearts.

When the first interval of betting started, Bond had to hide his surprise at how quickly it escalated. Almost without a second thought he ventured ten thousand. Razzaq matched it and raised him. Both Bond and the Count shared an unspoken word and checked. The pot sat at sixty thousand.

The Count drew one card, but the edges of his mouth twitched, a sign he hadn't improved his hand. Bond had got used to seeing it. He considered his own move. The knave meant nothing; one to get rid. He'd recently won with nines and suspected the shoe may be running dry of them. His best chance looked like a low flush in clubs, so he discarded the high nine as well. Razzaq confidently switched only one card.

Bond took a quick disinterested glance at his replacement cards. When the second betting interval started the Count folded, despite his three tens. Whatever cards Razzaq held they had to be high and mighty. But Bond was confident too. There was something brazen in Razzaq's manner, particularly over this hand. The way he had failed to tickle the corner of his mouth, failed to swill the ice in his drink and failed to scratch the scars surrounding his ear. His natural pensive habits were not in evidence. Bond had seen this reaction earlier in the evening. And that time Razzaq had won with a full house. The secret was out.

Bond, against even his own better judgement, put his whole stake on the line. Razzaq wasn't bluffing, but he couldn't see Bond's hand. And then Razzaq made that astonishing offer which sent a ripple of amazement around the casino.

"If I win, I get to sleep with your beautiful wife."

Bond looked at Karlyn. If she could have run away she would have. Bond recognised the signs of fear in her face. He had to make the decision fast. The gauntlet was thrown down and instinct told him to accept the challenge. But could he live with a mistake of this magnitude? Would the girl forgive him if he lost? Was his intuition, honed on those lonely nights watching faces and hands of high rollers, enough to risk the girl's virtue?

"All right," he said.

Karlyn watched Razzaq's fingers turn over his cards and separate them individually on the table. His expression didn't alter, but his hawk eyes switched to see the reaction on her face as he revealed his kings and queens. She almost gasped. A winning hand. Oh, god, no! She felt physically sick. What had Bond done? There were groans and murmurings around the table. What hand did the Englishman have? Could he have the beating of that full house? And what of the woman? The whispers sounded deafening to Karlyn's ears.

Then there was silence as Bond flipped over his own hand, revealing those glorious five cards. A straight flush. Another impossible winning hand. What must the odds have been? A thousand? A million? Two such wonderful combinations in the same run of the shoe. It was a miracle. She exhaled long and hard. The breath must have tickled Bond's neck, because he looked at her and smiled. A smile that said everything was always going to be all right.

When the two new cards had first flashed across the baize, Bond had delicately bent the corners. He hid his amazement by taking a long pull on his cigarette. It was the luckiest of lucky combinations: a two and an eight of clubs. The deuce was a wild card, allowing Bond to hold it as a seven. He now had a straight flush, a low run for sure, but a winner all the same. Bond knew it and knew the shoe had turned against the man opposite, the torturer and murderer, the psychopathic, licentious, lunatic head of the Outsiders.

Bond said nothing in victory. He made a point of completely ignoring Razzaq, who made no movement, accept a vindictive curl of the lip. Bond stood up from the table and asked the floor manager to remove his winnings, leaving a thousand for the dealer. Then he turned, took Karlyn by the hand and escorted her out of the smoky adult playground. He could hear the sounds of excitement receding as they walked up the passageway to their cabin.

Muhammad Abdul Razzaq finally blinked. Astounded, he cast his eyes back down at the cards he had been certain would guarantee him a victory. The man Bond and the woman Karlyn had already disappeared, but he would not forget. This was not about money. This was about reputation. Not only had these two agents from England disturbed his plans for Farouk, they had made him look a fool. Vengeance had to be swift and already he had a plan of retribution. Eagerly he searched the room for Salim. It was time for action at last.

*************************

The heat of the day was only sated by a mild breeze. It breathed its gentle path across Lake Nasser, tickling the skin of the torpid body that lay stretched out on the lawn. The man was safe from the sun underneath the giant awning, but he could not escape the heat. The swimming pool provided some short term relief, but Khalfani Ben Salim wasn't much of a swimmer. Equally he didn't want to retreat into the air conditioned chill of the villa because that would bring him too close to the sordid affairs of his superior.

Salim didn't drink or smoke. It was unknown whether he had ever had a woman or, possibly even, a man. He was almost sixty years old and, while not particularly devout, he attended the mosque every Friday and on Holy Days. He had made pilgrimages on foot to Mecca and Medina. He had trained as a doctor, but never used the title and no longer printed his qualifications. He was not a doctor now; not officially. Salim's role was quite simply Deputy Chief of the S.I.R.D. He hadn't meant to become involved in the security services, the career had rather fallen into his lap.

He had been born and raised in Al-Arish, a town on the North coast of the Sinai Peninsula, and his wealthy family's house sat on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. In 1967, during what became known as the Six Day War, the Israelis launched a lightning invasion of the area. Salim's political education began at this point and, while he made hard steady progress as a medical student, he began to develop a deep sense of the injustices in and around the Arab world. When Egypt recaptured some of Sinai in 1973 Salim was serving as a medical officer in the army. He was commended for his bravery during a missile attack on a village, when he saved the lives of seven children trapped in a collapsing hospital. Quite by accident he became something of a father figure to one of those children, an orphan boy who suffered terrible burns. The boy was bright and intelligent, but had suffered an appalling childhood, beaten by his uncles and abandoned during the war. The boy's name was Muhammad Abdul Razzaq.

Salim sponsored Razzaq through his education. The boy was headstrong, often devious, with a streak of nastiness, but he none the less excelled at school and joined the army. Salim meanwhile became involved in politics and joined the National Democratic Party, first at a local level and then later sitting on the Shura Council, where his war hero status made him popular. Razzaq however, came under the influence of the Islamic Brotherhood, a fundamentalist action group, and, having completed his officer training, his promising career in the military came under scrutiny. Again it was Salim who helped him, arranging, on his personal guarantee, a transfer for him to the G.I.S. Here Razzaq's intellect was prized and his indifference and cruelty became feared. Razzaq's progress was swift, but Salim's career stalled. The orphan did not forget his only true pater. When Razzaq was offered the post of Chief Surveillance Officer, he offered Salim a position as his aide. Salim initially refused, but Razzaq blinded him with riches and comfort, and for once Salim let his principles be drowned.

Salim found he was required at interrogations and executions, essentially as a doctor. Often his sole purpose was to keep a prisoner alive and prolong the torture. Salim began to realise that there was a monster within the orphan boy, a devil in disguise. His lusts were as prevalent as Salim's were repressed. But he needed sound counsel and as Razzaq ascended to the top of his career ladder, even entering the cabinet, Salim was there with advice and guidance, exactly as he had been in the orphan's youth. Salim didn't like the methods or notoriety of the S.I.R.D., but he understood its intentions. The governments of the West may complain about human rights violations, but they did not know how close to the brink of civil unrest Egypt had been in the last decade. Despite their reputation, the Outsiders had actually maintained many freedoms in the country, ensuring stability where they might have been chaos. Salim was both proud and ashamed of his work with them, but often he wished he had stayed a doctor in Al-Arish.

The peace of morning was interrupted by the villa doors sliding open and a tall, naked man appeared. He carried a bottle of a spirits in one hand and an empty glass in another. He staggered towards Salim and planted his backside down on a sun lounger.

"You not taking a turn, Ali?" he said gruffly

"No. How is she?"

The man let out a lecherous chuckle. "She's fine. A real hot bitch that one. Where did you find her?"

Salim looked at the ogreous face. It hurt him to be surrounded by such ignorance. They may be loyal, but that was no substitute for a little enlightenment. He had to get away from this appalling creature. Salim raised himself off the lawn and walked back inside the villa, crossing the big comfortable lounge with its sunken seated area.

The villa was shaped like a "T" and while the ground floor was occupied by a lounge and dining room at the tail end, the top of the building shared garages, a gym, a reception room and the security office. Salim headed for the latter. Only one of the three guards was on duty, the others were indulging themselves with the woman. The man turned around, expectantly, but his face fell when he saw it was only Salim.

"Send one of them to relieve me, Ali. I'm getting bored. I want to join the fun."

Salim could see the fun he talked about on one of the monitors. He sniffed unappreciatively. "Anything unusual happening?"

"No, it's all quiet. Some idiots were messing about in a boat by the woods, but I sent Nen to sort them out." The guard almost laughed, "He wasn't very happy about it."

"When was that? Have they gone?"

"I don't know. Let's see."

Suddenly Salim was alert and a little angry. This fool had spent so long watching the proceedings upstairs, he'd forsaken his job. The guard enlarged one of sixty four images from the duty monitor. The image was of a small sailing craft, turned on its side on the shore line. The guard nervously clicked onto the neighbouring cameras. The third camera revealed the prone bare legs of a man, twisted at an awkward angle, sticking out of the bushes and trees that bordered the villa to the East.

"You idiot," said Salim, with no sympathy. He leant forward and clicked through the cameras, methodically checking the likely path any intruders would have taken. His brow creased in annoyance. He ignored the bleating of the man next to him. He found them in a few seconds, a group of four men, skirting the woods that approached the lawns and the swimming pool. They were dressed in light coloured slacks and shirts with no attempt at disguise or camouflage. They were armed with revolvers, which looked like Russian makes, possibly APSes. One of the men was white. Salim zoomed in on the little group, which was splitting in two.

The guard looked at Salim. "Isn't that ~"

"Yes," Salim said thoughtfully.

"What are we going to do? We must tell Razzaq."

Salim stared at the monitor for what seemed an age while the guard shifted uneasily in his seat. "Do you want to tell him?" asked Salim sternly.

"No, I thought, perhaps....."

"Of course you did. It's all right. I'll tell him," Salim was thoughtful; his calm untroubled voice reassured the worried man. Salim turned to the corner of the room where the guard's Kiparis sub-machine gun was propped in the corner. He reached for it and spun it in his hands. "You had better take this."

The guard automatically stretched out his hands before he realised Salim was pointing the weapon directly at his chest, the nozzle no more than a few inches away. Confusion gave way to shock as he checked the expression on Salim's face. For once, the doctor's features were hard and cold. He'd heard Salim had killed before, but he never believed it possible. Until now. Powerfully, Salim grabbed the man's shoulder and thrust the machine gun forward onto his breast bone, his finger squeezing once on the trigger.

*************************

When Ali Abbas finally woke James Bond, almost three hours had elapsed since Saad had observed the curious goings-on at the quayside. He'd relieved his young assistant promptly at seven o'clock and asked for the night's details. He read the notes quickly, his expression becoming more worried by the second.

"What was in the bag?" he asked abruptly.

"I couldn't see."

"And you didn't think this was worth telling me about?"

Realising he may have made a mistake, Saad said nothing. Abbas stabbed at the digits on his mobile phone. There was no reply. He set off for the S. immediately.

They found Bond alone in his suite, his gun on the floor. He wasn't conscious, but his eyes were wide open. He'd been drugged with some sort of ketamine, not much of a dose, but enough to put him to sleep for a few hours. Abbas revived him under a cold shower and got him to consume copious cups of sweet coffee until he was sick. Saad and Abbas walked him around the suite until Bond's muscles became fully active. His mind buzzed with peculiar dreamlike memories. There were leering men playing games of poker; champagne and love; a hot trip through the desert; soldiers were in his bedroom; there was a girl. It was her face that finally brought Bond back to reality.

"Where's the girl?" he snapped.

"She's not here, James. We think Razzaq has her."

"Jesus Christ, Ali, how the hell did that happen?" Bond was angry, but part of his ire was directed at his own negligence. Khalfani Ben Salim had warned him, but he'd ignored the warning and worse, when the poker game was over, he had assumed the game really was finished. Bond wasn't one to dwell on the past. It was a done now. He didn't listen to the muttered explanations until Saad mentioned the car had taken the road to Lake Nasser.

"Of course. The lodge," Bond said, "Salim told me there's a house on Lake Nasser."

Abbas nodded. "I know it. A big modern affair about thirty miles up the shoreline. You want to see it? Do you have an internet connection?"

While Saad continued to walk Bond around the room, Abbas switched on the suite's home P.C. system and logged into Google Earth, zooming as close as he could onto the secluded property. Bond viewed the site without optimism. The villa was set on an open stretch of headland, surrounded on both sides by palms and thick bushy undergrowth, hiding, according to Abbas, a six foot high wall. The ends of these walls materialised out of the woods and ran to the shore. The house itself was "T" shaped with the tail pointing towards a private beach on the lake. The front entrance was gated and guarded.

"How many men do you think he has there?"

Abbas shrugged. "I cannot say. He has six guards. They run the shifts at the gate and in the security room. Maybe there are more today."

"Count on it. How many are we?"

Abbas' face broke into a wicked smile. He was part Bedouin and that side of him occasionally came to the forefront. If there was fight to be had, it would be a most welcome distraction. He was very particular to always recruit pure or part Bedouin to the Cairo Station, chiefly because they didn't really like the Arabs, but also because, from an early age, their father's taught them to fight. "Four. But they won't expect any kind of assault. Not during the day. We could storm the gate. I am sure we can find a truck."

"No," replied Bond, "The drive is too long and wide, there's no where to hide. We need to get close." He stretched out a finger, indicating the woods. "There's a lot of cover here. And there would be easy access into the villa through the patio."

Abbas nodded. "We could approach from the lake. A short walk perhaps."

"Or a boat."

It wasn't much of a plan and Bond knew it. But he owed it to Karlyn. Whatever those bastards were doing to her, he had to stop it. For a moment he wondered if he ought to inform M. He decided any suggestion of attacking the home of the Head of the S.I.R.D. would be rejected. He had to do this independently.

They took Abbas' uncomfortable battered Ford Galaxy. The men were all armed and Bond found some grim amusement in the knowledge they equipped themselves with Russian guns. The drive took a little under an hour, but Bond knew from Saad's reports it was almost five hours since Karlyn's abduction. Bond silently prayed she'd been dosed up like him. Perhaps she hadn't woken yet.

The driver, Hamad, slowed as they passed the frontage of the villa, protected by the high wall. Bond could see a guard standing by an old fashioned sentry box a few feet inside the yard. Hamad drove on into the next village where he stopped the car by the shore. Some local fishermen were tending their nets and Abbas negotiated a deal with one of them to use a spare boat. It had a small outboard motor. The four of them settled into the boat, Abbas at the tiller, and chugged the six or so miles up the shore.

As they drew closer Bond could see CCTV cameras pointing out towards the lake in four directions, covering all angles of approach. He told Abbas to head towards the shore. He didn't want to be spotted yet.

They beached the little craft and pulled it as far into the trees as they could, trying to hide it in the sweet papyrus. Bond took the lead through the shelter of tall palms and wide sycamores. They did not speak and their silence allowed them to hear the approaching footfalls of the guard. Bond motioned for the men to crouch. The cameras must have observed them on the lake. That meant trouble.

The guard had walked down the length of the wall, on the inside of the property, and then rounded it, taking the beach front route to the abandoned boat. He was dressed in only a pair of shorts. Even his feet were bare. He carried his Kiparis loosely by side. The sun made him dry and he struggled to think clearly through a haze of vodka. This was inconvenient. He had hoped for another turn with the girl. There wasn't any sign of the four men, but there were some untidily covered foot prints leading into the woods and towards the villa. Curious, he thought, why would they be doing that? Everyone knew this was the house of Muhammad Razzaq. He skirted the woods, expecting to catch the men when they appeared at the other end of the bushes. It was quiet, only the crickets seemed to be making a noise.

Bond saw him through the palms and the tall papyrus grass. He was too far away. Bond stayed still, silent. This was the waiting game. Either the guard would lose interest or he would venture in this direction. Bond had to wait a good minute as the guard swept the area along by the wall, shaking his head. Then he turned his back and Bond struck. The guard was probably no more than five feet away, but Bond didn't have a clean run at him, and he leapt through an assortment of flora, making what he thought was an almighty noise. The guard had only half turned when Bond's knee smashed into the small of his back. His right hand went for the machine gun knocking it out of the guard's grasp, while the left grappled at his throat and neck, taking a firm hold and cutting off the man's vocal chords. Bond brought his other hand to bear, clasping his head in a deadly lock. There was a noiseless few seconds of struggle before Bond twisted firmly, expertly. There was a crack of snapping vertebrae and the guard slumped into Bond's arms.

Bond lay the lifeless body down. He ordered Hamad to tidy the mess. Together Bond and Abbas mounted the wall and slid down the other side. They reconnoitred as close to the villa and the gardens as they dared. They saw one man sunning himself on a reclined chair, apparently drunk. As they watched, Razzaq appeared on the patio. He wore a short cotton bathrobe and shorts and carried a tumbler half full of drink. He took a long swig at it and started a conversation with another man, who appeared a few seconds later. This one walked with a limp. The two men sat under the awning sharing some obscene jokes. Bond and Abbas slunk back into the undergrowth to talk to Saad and Hamad, who had by now scaled the wall. Despite knowing where four of the men were, the odds were still not great. Bond told Saad and Hamad to hold their position, covering the rear of the house. Slowly he and Abbas crept further along the wall, keeping deep in the undergrowth, until they could see the guard post at the front of the property.

Bond looked at the front of the villa. It was a concrete building, squat and ugly, with the first floor extending out from the main frame, creating a pillared portico across the front. Bond couldn't see any sign of an entry system or a doorbell. He didn't have the time for lock breaking. If the door wasn't open he'd have to shoot the lock out. That would make a lot of noise. Bond waited an agonising few minutes until the sentry was preoccupied with lighting his cigarette. Instantly Bond ran across the open space to the porch, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the sentry. His hand reached for the door handle. Before he touched it, and to his astonishment, the door swung open.

Khalfani Ben Salim beckoned him inside. Bond hesitated, uncertain. He raised his Walther to the firing position, but Salim didn't react. Bond ventured into the lobby. He had one minute before Abbas opened fire.

"Where is she?" he hissed urgently.

Salim inclined his head to the stairs. "The third room on the right."

"Where are the others?"

"They're in the lounge."

"Have we been spotted?"

Salim shook his head. Bond nodded. Quite why Salim wanted to help him, he didn't know. At the moment he didn't care. Bond crossed the lobby and ascended the stairs, his revolver at the ready, listening for movements, grateful for a deep thick carpet to muffle his footfalls. Vaguely he saw Salim retreat into a room at the front of the house. Bond could hear a toilet flushing and then, just as he reached the landing, a door to his left opened.

A large pot-bellied man, unshaven and slightly sweaty, emerged from the bathroom. He held a towel over his front and was grinning, calling out something in Arabic that Bond interpreted as being a lewd comment. When he saw Bond he stopped still, initial recognition blending with fear as the reality of his situation dawned. Bond's finger jerked on the trigger and the crash of the salvo of shots sounded loud in his ears. The thump as they sank into the man's fat fleshy chest and belly was buried under the sudden explosion of sound that shook the building as his three cohorts opened fire outside. The fat man collapsed, screaming, but not yet dead. Bond silenced him with a bullet to the head.

Below him Bond heard the crash of the front door being kicked open. He saw Ali Abbas entering the villa, gun in hand. He gave Bond a nod, indicating he had dealt with the sentry outside. Abbas headed towards the living room, his back against the protecting wall on the left.

Bond walked purposefully along the landing. The gun shots echoed up to him from all around the house. He concentrated hard, trying to separate the sounds, listening for any noises upstairs. He checked each of the first two rooms. They were both unoccupied. Bond moved slowly to the third door. It was already ajar and he pushed it with the tip of his toe. The door swung inwards. Bond heard the chunky clang of an empty cartridge being disposed of. It was immediately followed by the snappy click as a new one slammed into the breach of a gun.

Bond cautiously peered into the room. The sunlight made him wince, shining straight through the open terrace doors, the net curtains blowing in the breeze. The sound of gunfire was louder here. There was a figure crouched in the far doorway, his back to Bond, his gun arm resting limply by this side. He was dressed in a white singlet and shorts, which were now splattered with red. He breathed hard and fresh blood soaked his shooting arm, dripping onto the floor.

Bond edged forward, taking careful aim. The man at last realised he was not alone. His head swivelled and he suddenly spun on his heels, raising the gun towards Bond. He was a bearded man and flecks of blood and spittle nestled in his moustache. Bond smiled grimly as he squeezed the trigger. The figure jerked backwards through the doorway, new wounds exploding on his chest and face. His gun didn't even fire.

The girl was prostrate on the bed. She was nude, her legs splayed. The sheets were stained and dirty and there was more mess on her skin. As Bond drew closer he caught the stale stench of sweat and semen. All her orifices had been assaulted and there were welts and bruises across her back, buttocks and arms. Her face was relatively unspoilt, but a black eye was starting to form and her cheeks were both red. Her mouth was bleeding from cut lips. The vivid red marks on her wrists, ankles and face suggested she had been bound and gagged. Bond could see bloodied skin congealed under her nails. She must have fought like an alley cat, desperately, hopelessly, but eventually the fight must have evaporated out of her.

As he knelt beside her, his feet brushed two hoops of jewellery. There were blotches of blood on the sheets, from a wound where the rings had been torn from her belly. The twin tattoos no longer excited him, seeming to snake away from the filth.

The girl groaned, moving her head a little. She didn't seem to recognise Bond, only that someone else was in the room. He bent down close to her and whispered in her ear. "Karlyn, darling, it's me. It's James."

Her bloodshot eyes seemed to focus on his face and then they closed. She could only just say the word. "No..."

The gunfire had died down from outside. Bond hoped to God his team had won the day. Bond went to the terrace, crouching and inching his way on hands and knees past the dead man and up to the fringe of the balcony, where he peeped over the parapet. He saw a scene of carnage. The guards had been caught in a three way crossfire; Abbas and his men had made an exceptionally thorough job of it. The sleeping man hadn't even made it off the chair, his back now featuring a gaping black hole. There were four more dead bodies strewn across the lawn and the patio while the man with the limp was floating in the swimming pool, blood spreading like an oil slick around his body. Abbas and Saad appeared below him, both splattered with blood, but otherwise unharmed. Bond stood up and the three men exchanged waves.

"We need a car. Quick!" called Bond. He went back inside and tore one of the net curtains down. He folded it and then gently he wrapped the girl's unresisting body inside the netting. He slipped his Walther into his waistband and then lifted the girl into his arms. He carried her down the stairs, her head lolling against his shoulder. Saad was already holding the front door and Bond carried Karlyn out to the same BMW X5 that had carried her to this dreaded house.

Bond returned to the villa, where Abbas met him in the lounge. Hamad was sitting on a chair, his gun and gaze focussed on the living area where two more guards sat, unhurt but shaken. Hamad was wounded in the arm, but he didn't seem to be complaining. There were two more bodies sprawled at his feet. One was dead, the other was barely alive: Muhammad Abdul Razzaq lay squirming and coughing blood.

Bond descended the few steps down into the seated area. He stood over the dying man, whose face and chest was a mass of blood. The once arrogant body looked helplessly pitiful.

"You bastard, Razzaq. Death's too good for you."

"And what have you achieved, Bond?" Razzaq's voice was a strangled croak, "Revenge? I don't think so. It wasn't that hard for her," He spat out some fresh blood, breathing hard from his damaged lungs, "The bitch even enjoyed the rough stuff."

Bond didn't hesitate. He pulled out the Walther and took aim at the grinning demented mouth, firing just once. It was over in a second.

There was a long silence, during which Khalfani Ben Salim entered the room, gingerly treading through the broken glass and debris on the floor. He carried the Kiparis sub-machine gun in his hands and momentarily everyone in the room froze, while he took in the scene in one sweeping movement of his eyes.

When he spoke he addressed Hamad. "You, tie those men, I'll deal with them later. I can't have any witnesses."

Hamad did as he was told and the guard's expressions registered joy, then panic and fear, as they realised Salim was not a saviour and their execution was to come the same way they had killed so many – a bullet in the back of the head.

"What's this all about, Salim?" asked Bond, "Why are you helping us?"

"I'm not helping you, Bond. I'm helping myself. And Farouk. Perhaps even Egypt, I don't know," Salim said the words carefully, as if he had only just thought of a good enough reason, "Muhammad's methods, his ideals also, are too old fashioned. We have to move on from fear."

Bond didn't know if the death of one lunatic would solve all the problems in Egypt's administration, but maybe it was a start that someone as respectable and respected as Salim was beginning to do something about it. Bond extended his hand to the new Head of the Outsiders and thanked him. Salim's handshake wasn't warm. His deep, hooded eyes, peered at Bond, but seemed to bypass him completely. The last thing on Salim's mind was anyone's gratitude.

*************************

It came out in the papers as a sort of internal coup, although there was no suggestion that the security services had wiped out their own enforcer, or that Bond and Abbas had been involved. Khalfani Ben Salim did get appointed the next Head of the S.I.R.D. and took his place in the cabinet. He resolved to follow a code of practice unheard of in the Egyptian military and it made him unpopular. It was only a few months later that he too was usurped and assassinated.

Bond read about that incident in the dispatches one morning. He felt a curious sense of loss. He probably owed Salim his life. The girl certainly did. The doctors in Aswan had been shocked by her condition. They passed less comment about the blood on the men's clothes and the wound to Hamad's arm. While the hospital staff could treat her wounds, Bond didn't want them or the police starting any investigation, so he got one of the diplomats down from Cairo, who took control of the situation. Before nightfall, Karlyn, with a British nurse escorting her, was airlifted to Cyprus.

Bond had reported back to M as soon as he could, but she was already aware of Razzaq's death; the wires were hot with conspiracy theories. When the girl was safely out of the country, Bond verbally went through the whole story, exactly as it happened, from start to finish. M was satisfied; but rebuked him for the recklessness of his gambling, which was a fait acompli she considered dangerous and clumsy, however it had turned out. She did ask about the money and Bond, who had hoped that detail might be overlooked, sheepishly offered to donate the winnings to the Service Benevolent Fund. Bond wrote his reports well into the night and fell asleep as the dawn rose. He had hoped to follow the girl to Cyprus, but M wanted him back in London for a full and frank debriefing.

Bond never saw Karlyn Foucart after that day. They hardly had any contact while she was in the hospital. When she left for the helicopter, Bond squeezed her hand and smiled. He said simply: "It's going to be all right, Karlyn, you'll be fine."

He wanted to say "just think of it like an episode from a movie" but the words seemed hollow and trite. The girl would recover from the physical wounds easily enough. But there would be months of tests for diseases and years of counselling. Her service career was finished. Her young capacious life had been shattered in one morning by an act of appalling violence.

Bond had nothing else to say. He hadn't protected her when she needed him, for that he would always remain sorry. He didn't want to think of the beaten, stained, lifeless bundle of flesh and bone. He wanted to remember the excited, flirtatious and beautiful woman, whose eyes twinkled and whose body smelt of roses and who made love with a wild passion that brought tears to her lavender eyes. Bond knew he was to blame and even the best of memories didn't erase the fact. He'd gambled her on the turn of the cards and in the blink of an eye, her world had changed forever.