Chapter 2

Odysseus

The heat was oppressive and unappreciated. He was accustomed to air conditioning and chilled, bottled water, not the lame breeze of a rattling fan and lukewarm soda, which he had politely declined. Still, as it had been the first positive thing to happen to him in the last two weeks, he wouldn't complain. Standing in the ramshackle hut in front of an insolently lounging warlord with the annoying pings of a pinball machine ricocheting in the background, Le Chiffre felt the sweat bead between his shoulder blades before sliding uncomfortably down to soak into the waistband of his trousers.

"And I can access it anywhere in the world?" he was asked.

"Of course."

The man smiled unpleasantly, steepling his fingers.

"Do you believe in God, Mister Le Chiffre?"

A terrible quip rose unbidden to his lips, unsaid: please, Mister Le Chiffre is my father. Instead he settled for a less inflammatory remark, yet unable to lose the wry humour.

"No," he said, watching the man's eyes narrow, "I believe in a reasonable rate of return."

The meeting couldn't have been over fast enough as far as he was concerned. Mr. White had stood in the background like a gargoyle the entire time, just over his shoulder, with the edges of his mouth tripping downwards unattractively. It had made him feel watched; an unappreciated feeling considering his heightened state of paranoia.

"Just make sure this goes smoothly," White had said to him as they stood by the mud splattered jeeps.

"Your obvious doubt is noted," Le Chiffre had said, "and ignored."

White's angular frown had worsened. Le Chiffre hadn't bothered to correct it, even though he knew he was playing with fire. One thing he had noted with his paranoia, it made him reckless. He would have to watch that. He most certainly didn't consider White a friend, or even an ally, but he was one of the few contacts he had left who he believed would lose too much by his demise to make him a suspect for the coup.

By the time he had returned to the Bahamas his yacht had already arrived. As had the bad news.

"This is what I get for hiring through substandard agencies," he muttered to himself even as Kratt stood by, waiting patiently for his orders.

Le Chiffre was far angrier than he was letting on, anyone who knew him well could have seen that. Only, not many knew him well enough to know that the angrier he became the more he enjoyed a rather masochistic form of humour.

He closed the two day old news article on the screen, British Government Agent Kills Unarmed Prisoner, and tapped his index finger lightly against the enter key. After a few second's deliberation he thought it prudent to act on his usual style instead of trying to adapt.

"I want to know who he is, who he works for, why he was following our man and, if possible, friends and family," Le Chiffre said curtly, "and bring me Dimitrios."

He knew it wouldn't take long to fetch the man but, in the mean time, he retired to his cabin and, toeing off his shoes just as his parents had always rebuked him for, he lay down on the bed and dozed. He recognised jet lag when it crept up on him, and in the past week alone he had travelled over fourteen thousand miles setting up his latest venture. He could feel the dragging time in his limbs, waiting to catch up to the flagging Bahamas daylight which his mind was sure should be black midnight, or thereabouts.

He reached over with a lazy hand and pressed the control panel beside the bed, the high windows dimming as they polarised. The darkness was welcome and he sighed through his nose, feeling the tightness in his shoulders relax, even if only slightly.

Another setback; the thought was intrusive to his calm but necessary to deliberate. British Government Agent. Then their man had been under suspicion already. No use for him in the first place, he thought, not for someone who would need to infiltrate the sensitive areas of Miami International Airport. Still soaking in his perverse need for inappropriate humour Le Chiffre almost wondered if he should thank this nameless, faceless agent for ridding him of an unknown problem. He did not suppress the smile but restrained the laugh, turning onto his side and slipping his eyes closed.

Next he knew he was blinking awake to a steady knock at the door. He sat up and lifted the polarisation on the windows only to be greeted with a similar darkness, barely tinged with a faint glow of dusk. He rubbed at his right eye with soft fingertips and then at the stiff muscles in his neck. He stood, raising the lights with a word and opening his walk in wardrobe. He changed into a light, white shirt and rolled up the cuffs, discarding the now crumpled one onto a spare hanger.

Kratt stood by the door as Le Chiffre emerged.

"Dimitrios is on the bridge for you," he said, his voice naturally soft.

"Good," Le Chiffre said as he walked along the carpeted hallway, "any news on our agent?"

"His name is James Bond," Kratt said as they entered the business end of the ship, "MI6. As for further information, he's an orphan with no siblings and, as far as we can see, no significant familiarities to speak of," Le Chiffre wouldn't say he hadn't expected as much, "and so it seems our man Mollaka was under surveillance by the British Secret Service."

"And now we're about to find out why," Le Chiffre said more to himself than Kratt as he pushed open the door to the bridge.

Again, just as things began looking up in one area the crushing sense of dread was redoubled in another.

Heni Marville-Beau, found dead in his London penthouse. Le Chiffre had not known him personally but had partaken of his services on several occasions to deal with certain problems. He was...had been an expert marksman and an unsurpassable sniper.

Yet it was not the loss of the man that made Le Chiffre narrow his eyes and rub at the stinging in his left temple. Most telling of all, as far as he was concerned, had been Heni's connection to Quantum. As so many others who'd gone dark since the beginning of all this mess had been.

Now he was left, sitting staring at the screen, wondering if looking to his friends for suspects and not his employers had been a large oversight on his part. If he was correct, and at the moment it was just a hunch, then he considered himself, in a spark of startling clarity, entirely beyond help. If Quantum wanted him dead then he was dead, end of story. Le Chiffre swallowed and dismissed the thought, filing it away in case it ever became useful again. He hoped it wouldn't.

If there was one thing Le Chiffre refused to believe it was that he had been beaten. Not like this, not with now way out. There was always a way out.

A familiar nightmare, but still no less disturbing for its familiarity. The light wavered and his ears boomed with the familiar, internal thump of his own heart echoing. The water pressed in around his face as the hand at the back of his neck tightened. Desperate lips straining to stay closed. A shake, a warble of breath fluttering out in a stream of bubbles. He felt his eyes sting as he tried to look at the darkness below him, unable to see the bottom.

He tried to scream even though he knew it was sheer madness to do so. The sudden remembrance of chill water sucking down his throat and into his lungs brought him into choking consciousness. He awoke gasping for breath, clutching at his chest, face soaked with sweat. The bedcovers were in disarray, half flopped onto the floor. He kicked away the remains still tangled around his feet and legs before stumbling for the bathroom. Too close to the dream to dare a shower, he instead mopped himself down with a cold cloth and listened as the soft patter of rain spattered against the window.

Stress, he said to himself. It always came with stress, not that he knew why. The psychology of it wasn't something he wished to dwell upon. Instead he dried and dressed himself, despite it being five thirty two in the morning, and visited his private study in order to continue working without any disturbances. He spent the next four hours checking the state of his stocks, double checking transfers with accounts, making sure his middleman had purchased all of the necessary subsidiaries he required and, when he became bored and frustrated, beaten six high ranking, insomniac chess players in an average of under three minutes each.

It was at eight forty nine in the morning that an email came through to his private account labelled: from a friend. He had stared at it sleepily for a few seconds before realising how incongruous it was, then how entirely unknown it was, then how completely frightening that was. He felt suddenly awake as he sat up in his chair, watching the screen and blinking as if that would wipe the anomaly from his eyes. It was still there, however, staring at him. Unknown Sender. Le Chiffre felt his eye twitch and rubbed at the skin softly as he ran the email through every scanner he had. Once he was sure it was clean he stared at it for a while longer until he began to feel as if he were going mad and, eventually, opened it.

[Seems you're losing friends at a rate of knots. Perhaps you should think about getting some new ones.

Also, White isn't your colour. You should watch out for that.]

When he realised he was half way out of his chair and his mouth had fallen open, ready to call Kratt or anyone, someone, to come and trace this message...he stopped. His mind was rushing but only in the usual, logical manner it did when he calculated odds. He sat back down, swallowing away the needless and irrational prickle of eyes upon his person, and looked at the email properly.

No sender, no name, no details, yet it was someone close or perhaps just someone looking too closely at him. Neither were enviable isn't your colour. Literally or figuratively? He chose figuratively because of the previous metaphor used and because his paranoia appreciated it. Then could this be a colleague, warning him that his fears were potentially correct? Had someone else picked up on the growing pattern in their associates' dropping numbers? It must be a colleague. Who else knew of White's identity? The man was even more of a spectre than he was.

After half an hour of following the trail alone he finally realised that he'd been sent around the world chasing the sender only to come straight back to the beginning again: Paradise Island. From here, the email had been sent from here. His muscles tensed. Then it could be a colleague, or someone in his employ. Ha, he thought dismissively, chance would be a fine thing. And he knew chance, all too well. For all the luck he was having lately he wouldn't be surprised if MI6 had tracked him down. The thought, even as a joke, made him feel slightly ill; as if the wolves were closing in from all sides.

He wanted it gone, disposed of, but also felt that may be an imprudent move. There's always a way out. No sense in burning bridges before checking if the moat was dry. Still, Le Chiffre felt shaken. He would have to keep this breach to himself, follow it with his own eyes. Revealing this to anyone he wasn't one hundred percent certain was loyal to him and he was risking a swift assassination. If there was one thing Quantum demanded then it was loyalty. Unfortunately, it appeared that its employees could not expect the same courtesy in return.

The day fell into a malaise of irritating reports and bright sunshine. Le Chiffre decided to stay aboard while Valenka went ashore, saying she wanted a swim and a martini. When he informed her she could have both where she already was she became sullen and seemed to revel in showing off the bruises at her throat with the dress she chose to wear that day. Le Chiffre became quickly tired of her antics and asked Leo to take her wherever she wanted to go. That had rid him of a nuisance he did not need, at least, although he did feel somewhat aimless as he sat in the living room, the windows dimmed, and read while he waited for things to fall into place elsewhere.

A delightful distraction came in the form of a request later that evening from a known associate, Madame Wu, who had a 'friend' she wished to introduce to his poker table. He had taken the opportunity even though he was not truthfully in a state to play host. He allowed himself the diversion because he did not wish to allow his perfect shell to crack and let others see the nervousness inside. So he enjoyed cleaning 'the general' out. Valenka had even deigned to return, obviously having refused to use the gangway and swum back to the boat as she walked through the room in her blue bathing suit, towel around her neck to hide the mistreatment there. Le Chiffre appreciated the gesture, no matter how small. He knew he had a reputation as a sadistic bastard but he'd prefer to keep that for his enemies alone.

"I understand there have been some complications," White's voice was unmistakably superior, stretching out his vowels just a mote too long.

"Nothing that hasn't been rectified," Le Chiffre replied, looking down at the man's face on the screen, regarding him dispassionately.

"Good to hear," White said, looking not a jot as pleased as he apparently was, "then we await your confirmation of funds transferred."

"At the usual time," Le Chiffre nodded, hearing Valenka walk behind him; he reached forwards to end the call but was stalled by White's addendum.

"I see your beau is still with us," White said, a slight smile to the ends of his lips.

"I...yes," he cursed himself for his hesitation.

"Apparently she made quite a devastating impression on the General," White said, "I do hope you can perhaps have the same impression on Skyfleet."

The transmission went dead without his permission. He stared, hand shaking slightly as it hovered over the keyboard.

"I'm going out onto the deck, would you like to come?" he heard Valenka ask; the next thing he knew there was a soft touch on his shoulder and he snapped his head up to look at her, "...is everything alright?"

"Yes," he lied, "everything is fine. I'm busy right now, I'll join you later."

Instead he waited for her to leave before sitting down heavily in his chair and trying to run through contingency plans in his head. Beau. White could have picked from any number of words, lover, beauty, woman, girlfriend; instead he chose beau. The use of the single incongruous term turned the rest of the man's words from polite and humourless encouragement into a thinly veiled threat. At first he tried to convince himself that it was purely a coincidence but failed miserably. Le Chiffre did not believe in coincidences. The odds were too high.

Heni Marville-Beau had been no accident; and now, by extension, he could assume the others over the past few months hadn't been either. Had White wanted him to know that or had he simply enjoyed making the pun? Surely not. White was a business man and, as far as Le Chiffre had noticed, had no sense of humour whatsoever. It was what made him so incredibly dull.

He felt his fingers cramp into fists, trying to contain his shaking, angry worry. He pressed his right fist to his mouth and swallowed. If he was correct in his workings, and Le Chiffre always prided himself in his workings, then the threat was that he would be disposed of if he failed, that much was clear. Had the others outlived their usefulness? Was that what they thought of him? He was no longer useful now that he had competition? That all he was worth now was a bullet between the eyes from a high calibre rifle?

Then this will not fail, he thought desperately of the Skyfleet prototype. There's no way it can fail. Or perhaps there are thousands of ways it can fail, and you know every last one of them. In truth, he was beginning to wonder if White and Quantum were willing to sabotage his plan purposefully so as to have a legitimate reason for killing and replacing him. No, he thought, too much money at stake, too much for them to lose. They wouldn't need the impetus anyway. If they wanted him gone then no one would ever find the body.

His fists uncurled as he sat, thinking things through; the first sign that he was being half way rational about a situation that had forced him into irrationality. At this point, so close to the expiration of Ellipsis, he had very little room to manoeuvre. He pushed his fingertips softly over the plush leather arms of the chair, leaning his head back and loosening out his neck. He recognised the ingrained relaxation that came with feeling distinctly trapped, hating it for what it was.

The email had come from Paradise Island but had been bounced through several servers and IP addresses in order to disorientate. Only if the person had known who they were contacting they must have had a certain idea of his capabilities, and that he was able to trace almost anything.

The email was beginning to look less like a warning, nothing like a threat and more like, dare he even think it, an invitation. How obtuse a method for something so dangerous, he thought with distaste even as he found himself somewhat intrigued. The fear of death lingering over his shoulder was also a suitable motivation.

With his rationality screaming at him that this was a very bad idea and that being rash certainly wasn't his forte, but with his intuition desperately trying to steer him from harm, Le Chiffre typed a reply.

[I do not think that 'friends' is an apt term for my line of work. Perhaps you should bear that in mind.

Truthfully I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage.]

After he had sent it the pulling weight of his decision seemed to cling to his shoulders. He sat, staring out of the window at the bobbing, shimmering ocean. If this goes wrong, I'm dead. If Miami goes wrong, I'm dead. And perhaps even if Miami goes right. He closed his eyes and tried to have faith in his judgment, hating that he was forced to rely on such a sketchy and amorphous philosophy such as hope.