Chapter 3

Achilles

"James, where are you going ?"

Light, giggling laughter followed him as he rolled over in the bed and sat up. James grabbed his phone from the nightstand at an awkward angle, bumping his watch onto the floor in the process.

"I think...," he said as he scrolled down the screen of his phone and saw the message there, hiding his unmitigated surprise behind a smile, "that we need more champagne."

Rolling back over afforded him another quick, deep kiss from sensual lips and the press of a silk covered body against his bare chest before he got out of the bed altogether. He walked backwards out of the room, watching the blonde on the bed whose name he'd forgotten half an hour ago.

"And you really need to get out of that dress," he said, smiling.

"Oh do I?" she said, biting at her finger and running her hand over her abdomen, "Then perhaps you need to try a little harder Mr. Harper."

"Well, I always do like a challenge."

Out in the main room of the villa James called for room service in order to keep up the ruse, in case the message wasn't what he expected. No need to ruin a good night after all that hard work. A name flittered absently through his mind. Was it Daphne? Or Diana? Something with a D he was sure. She'd played hard to get whoever she was but the wedding ring had come off of her finger by the time he had her through the door to his hotel room. Keeping his first name had just made it easier on him, easier to respond to without having to try. Changing his second name was just elementary.

He tapped at his phone, cycling through the passwords into his fake account, and opened his inbox. His smile was almost involuntary in its suddenness. Well fuck me, he thought, letting a sound of surprise escape as he puffed out a quick breath. A reply. He hadn't actually expected a reply from, as M seemed to like calling the man, 'that slimy bugger'.

[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.]

Standing in his rented villa on the Paradise Island coast, James Bond grinned like a schoolboy. Well this is a turn up for the books, he thought as he sat down. He wasn't quite sure what to do next, hadn't thought that far ahead if he was being honest with himself. It had been a long shot when he'd done it. The reply suggested the man was either reckless, which seemed unlikely from his profile, foolish, which seemed doubly unlikely considering his profession, or desperate, which seemed the most likely choice considering his circumstances.

James had seen the list of Le Chiffre's known associates, dominated by thick red bands and the word 'deceased'. Seems he wasn't the only one who'd picked up on the pattern. He read the message again, biting at the nail on his right thumb. It had surely come from Le Chiffre himself as a man such as him was unlikely to allow others access to his private account and, further than that, only a chess prodigy would think to turn James's own warning into a delicately barbed chess pun. So, he thought as his fingers hovered over the screen, continue dancing around the issue or head straight for the jugular? James would never say he was the most subtle of representatives when it came to MI6's finest, but this situation seemed like a little care would have to be injected were it to come to any sort of fruition. He needed a face to face meet up, as unlikely as that seemed. No other way to catch a man as elusive as to call himself 'the cipher'.

Then draw him in with something he can't resist, James thought, looking to the door as room service knocked. He mused as he let the bellboy in, tipping him handsomely once he had placed the Bollinger in its ice bucket onto the table, and then shutting the door after him. He read the message again. I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage. A challenge, certainly. The man liked games it seemed, and it was probably safe to assume he didn't like to lose. Probably didn't lose at all, James thought, if M's profile on Le Chiffre had been accurate. Maths genius, she had said, liked games of odds and strategy so as to prove his superiority. So challenging him to a game would be a sure route to failure only...

Only Le Chiffre had replied. James smirked. That he had replied at all showed James he was not only desperate but also arrogant, probably from years of remaining neigh untouchable. Then perhaps there was a chance, however slim, that he could take this one. James looked up from typing his own reply on hearing footsteps. The woman he'd left in the bedroom stood in the doorway looking a little put out.

"Do you ever plan on coming back to finish what you started?" she asked, hand on hip and silk dress deliciously rumpled; James momentarily lost his train of thought as he studied the delineated curves of her body through the clinging material.

"Mmm," he said, sending the message before logging out of his account and smiling, "sorry. Something's come up."

"What?" she said, looking taken aback and angry all at once.

"Have to run," he said, buttoning his shirt as he walked to the door, "you'll need to finish yourself off."

He was gone before she could begin shouting at him, the sent message resting in his outbox.

[Oh good, then as white I go first.

P–K4]

He had expected it to take far longer than the hour that it did for the reply to come through. Was it deliberation or work that had kept the man from replying? James wondered. He sat in his rented Ford along the street from Dimitrios' house and read it as he continued in vain to try getting a signal from the bug he'd put on the man's phone.

[P–K4

I assume there is some sort of forfeit?]

Great minds thought alike, James thought amusedly, even from opposite sides of the track it seemed. He wasn't getting anywhere here anyway, Dimitiros must have had a jammer set up in his house. It had been worth a try but he hadn't expected it to be that easy. James started the engine and pulled out into the road, heading back to the Ocean Club.

[What makes you think I want anything but the game?

N–KB3]

Mere minutes this time before the chime sounded. James felt a flush of victory. The fish was hooked.

[Quid pro quo. Everyone wants something.

N–QB3]

Smart man, James thought, if somewhat paranoid. I suppose I would be too in his position if that many people wanted me dead. He decided to let Le Chiffre sweat a while and postponed his reply. Let it prey on the man's mind. James wondered what the man's involvement with Ellipsis was. Surely something incredibly illegal, as well as nice and separate from the proceedings. Le Chiffre didn't seem the sort to get his hands dirty. Still, it was nice to have at least a little power over someone who thought they could get away with murder; probably literally too. For a moment James imagined M's face when he had to tell her how he'd drawn Le Chiffre in. Just what shade of purple would it go? He wondered.

After a nice, chill vodka and orange on the promenade James thought his next move through. The only way to play a bigger fish, he thought as he typed, was with a good lure. He just hoped that Le Chiffre would be too distracted to notice his ploy.

[B–QB4

A meeting. Your terms?]

He could almost feel the hesitation in his opponent as the minutes ticked by. James moved into the restaurant and ordered himself clam chowder with a side of fresh bread. He ignored the dirty looks he received when his phone went off in the middle of the luncheon service.

[Very tenacious. Or perhaps simply idiotic.

N–KB3

As for terms I already have your location. Your name would be only polite.]

Then he suspected? No, James was sure that if he knew who he was engaged in a battle of wits with then Le Chiffre would never have replied in the first place. Perhaps he was simply too conceited to believe someone outwith his circle of associates could track down his personal contact details. James took a mouthful of his dinner and patted himself on the back.

[Excellent, if you know where I am then you'll know where to come once we're done.

P–Q4]

It had worked. It had bloody well worked. As James read his opponent's next move, B–QB5, he knew it was all over. Either he was a damned poor chess prodigy or James had been right and the man had been thrown off his game by distraction and paranoia. Once he sent his counterattack, R–K1, James was awarded with no forthcoming reply. For a full twenty minutes, a long time respective to the mere minute's delay between previous replies, there was silence. James watched the water sparkle in the lengthening sunlight and gave it another five minutes just to be sure. He checked his phone. Nothing. He smiled as he typed.

[I'll be in the Courtyard Terrace at seven.]

James decided to take a swim as the water was still warm. He gave broad, powerful strokes to take him forty feet from the shore, the water cooling the further out he swam. It lapped pleasantly around his shoulders as he treaded water, looking back at the shore and pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

Would he come? He thought. Admittedly this small dalliance into the more difficult route, as James liked to call anything that didn't involve simply putting a bullet between someone's eyes, could just be ignored by his opponent. Le Chiffre had no bargain to honour and, as a 'slimy bugger', James was sure that Le Chiffre only honoured bargains when it was of some advantage for him to do so. Of course the offer he'd given in his first message, the lure, the hook, Perhaps you should think about getting some new ones, was hopefully enough. Considering how few 'friends' Le Chiffre had left, all of which he probably suspected of betraying him, James liked his odds.

"Table for one, sir?" the immaculately dressed maître d' asked.

"For two," James corrected him, "I'm expecting someone."

"Of course, sir," the man smiled decorously, picking up two menus and leading the way through the fairly busy terrace restaurant.

The air was sweetly warm, perfumed by planters filled with exotic flowers and natural sea salt spray from the ocean. The palm trees shivered as a soft breeze filtered in. He was seated at a table next to the low, inlaid cerulean pool at the centre of the restaurant, beneath the white canopies stained gold by the discreet lighting. The small fountain rustled pleasantly behind him.

He would have suggested the Martinique, more formal, more suited he was sure to his guest's tastes, only this suited him better. Nice view, nice and open while also being enclosed; make it difficult for the snipers he thought, even though he was sure there would be none. If he did show then Le Chiffre would be arriving alone, he would bet on it. No one in his position would allow himself to be observed as beaten by their cronies.

"Thank you," he said as he took the menu, opening it and relaxing down into the chair.

Nice, he thought, very nice indeed. It wasn't often he could count himself as almost on holiday. This was perhaps the closest he'd come in about, say four years. And that had been in the middle of a crisis, to put it mildly. Five days pretending to be dead wasn't what most people would consider a holiday but James would take what he could get.

A casually raised hand called a waiter to him.

"The Domaine Leflaive," he said, handing over the wine menu; the waiter nodded and left without a word.

Only two hundred and twenty dollars a bottle, he thought with a smile. Might as well splash out, considering it wasn't his tab to pick up. He continued flicking through the menu while his mind was elsewhere. He wasn't really hungry, the heat tended to drastically lower his appetite, but he would find something for the sake of pretence. When he heard footsteps approach he assumed it was the waiter returning with his wine. Instead he looked up to find someone sitting down in the chair opposite him dressed rather overdramatically he thought, considering the pastel and bright colours of the other diners, in an expensive suit cut in different shades of black and dark grey.

"I wouldn't recommend the lobster," James said facetiously, placing his open menu down on the table and unashamedly staring at the man across from him whose eyes were now trained on his own menu as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Oh?" the man said, not looking up.

"Mmm," James continued, "saw them on the way in, looked quite worried, like they didn't know which one was next for the pot. I've heard it makes the taste rather bitter."

Finally mismatched eyes deigned to look up from the menu and regard him. The look he was given could have cut glass. James kept his slight smile and his partly casual slouch into his chair in place. Le Chiffre looked far different out of the green and white photograph in the MI6 computerised dossiers and into the real world. The pallor of his skin seemed less pronounced, even if still highlighted quite heavily by his choice of wardrobe. Everything appeared immaculate, from hair to clothes to well manicured fingernails. Even his damaged, milky left eye, with an only barely discernible pupil and iris, still seemed to stare into him.

The waiter arrived with the wine, about to pour into James's glass before Le Chiffre put his own forwards without a word, still studying his menu. The waiter hesitated before pouring a swill into the offered glass. It was picked up with an elegant hand and tasted. James didn't miss the blackening bruise barely hidden beneath Le Chiffre's shirt cuff as he sipped the deep yellow wine, or the unimpressed twist to his lips as he swallowed.

"No," he said definitively to the waiter, "Is this the Leflaive?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring a bottle of the Jacques Prieur," he said without hesitation, "and take this away."

The bottle and the used wine glass were removed post haste. James wondered if the man was trying to impose his own dominance on a situation he had no real control over, or if it was just natural for him to begin changing everything to the way he liked it as soon as he had the chance. James chose both.

"Well, I do hope you're footing the bill," James said, closing his menu after randomly choosing something that sounded half way decent, "I think that eight hundred dollars for wine might be a little outwith my price bracket."

"Then MI6 pays as well as I thought," Le Chiffre said, making James's casual pose waver, "or are you simply frugal Mr Bond?"

He must have let his surprise slip into more than just his pose as Le Chiffre's, now that he looked at them, rather attractively full lips slid into an irritating subtle smile. He did not ask but his 'opponent' obviously decided to tell him anyway. James got the feeling that Le Chiffre was the sort of man who revelled in telling people his workings.

"Actually, out of all my options, it was an educated guess," Le Chiffre said, "besides your pronounced Cambridge accent, the callus at your knuckle of your middle finger and your patented government superciliousness, this is an absurdly British time to suggest for dinner."

Against his better judgement, James laughed. It was short and fast but seemed to, at the very least, wipe the smile from Le Chiffre's face. He was glad for that. The man's smugness had been starting to wear on him. James guessed that Le Chiffre was used to intimidating nearly everyone that he met and was obviously not used to what James thought he would probably regard as insolence, or some such other thing.

"Well, I can't feel the laser sights on the back of my neck just yet, so I'm guessing you're here for something other than just dinner. Or assassination."

"Call it curiosity."

Le Chiffre fell silent as the waiter returned. He tasted and approved the wine before they both placed their orders. James thought his lamb and berlotti bean cannelloni sounded rather sparse written next to Le Chiffre's grilled sea bass with salsa verde and summer vegetables en papillote. Still, he tried to amuse himself, at least this puts a positive spin on things. He was desperate enough to turn up even knowing who might be sitting at the dinner table.

"I'd rather call it something else," James said as they were once more alone.

"Dare I ask?"

A hint of a slight rasp on the man's sibilants; Swedish perhaps, maybe Danish. M had said Albanian but James was beginning to wonder if that was true, or if perhaps the man had been raised elsewhere. It was arbitrary now, he thought as he planned his next move.

"Anxiety," he suggested.

"I do believe you are treading a very fine line, Mr Bond," Le Chiffre said with a slight tightness to his tone.

"I try my best," James said, "especially when there's so much on said line."

"Such as?" Le Chiffre feigned boredom.

"Ellipsis."

An instantaneous reaction. Le Chiffre was seemingly unable to stop the twitch at his left eye; two fingers were automatically placed against the traitorous skin, rubbing lightly.

"Well, that does sound important," Le Chiffre looked murderous but, beneath that, James was glad to see a spike of well hidden fear, "I do hope you are not expecting me to recognise it."

"Oh, too late for that," James said with a cheerful smile, hoping his bluff worked, "and I do hope that you're not underestimating me now. Or have you already forgotten our little game?"

A sour twist to Le Chiffre's lips, followed by a swallow as if he had just eaten something bitter and wanted rid of the taste. James hoped that the sting of defeat mixed with the man's obvious fear and egotism would keep the conversation away from the fact that James had absolutely no idea what Ellipsis meant at all. As he watched a tongue darted out to wet dry lips. James allowed his smile to stay put.

"If there is a proposal you wish to give to me, Mr Bond, I would rather you spat it out and not dance around the issue," Le Chiffre said curtly.

"We can offer you protection," James said casually, knowing when it was time to play his cards, "in exchange for information."

"No," Le Chiffre said with the same infuriating superiority with which he had dismissed the wine.

"Oh," James said, shrugging, "well, I guess I'll just leave you for the dogs then. You can show yourself out."

A con was always difficult to pull off when dealing with someone who was just as manipulative as you were, if not more so, and highly intelligent to boot. Thankfully, James knew from the chess game they had played and Le Chiffre's growing unease, as well as the host of other tells he'd given away, that the man was hanging on by a thread. James thanked his lucky stars that he'd judged the situation correctly or he'd be risking a knife in his back any minute. Le Chiffre brought his fingers to his eye once more, smoothing away the twitch while his thumb traced his lips. Something was muttered, barely caught, perhaps 'bir kurve', before the hand was returned to the table.

"I do not think that you can offer me the sort of protection that I need," Le Chiffre said with a surprising honesty; James was almost taken aback by the momentary look of dread in the other man's eyes. Then it was gone, disappearing once more behind perfect shutters.

"I do believe you're underestimating me again," James said.

"I think it prudent to base my wellbeing on facts rather than supposition."

"You want proof?"

"You catch on quick," Le Chiffre said, stare locked with James's own.

What was it he had said? Quid pro quo. It seemed the phrase stuck like horse glue and stank just as much. He had hoped to get this in the bag before reporting in. M would be so much more agreeable to the plan if he already had something, or someone, to show for it. Le Chiffre preferably, and his wealth of information on terrorist and criminal networks, and dominion over their funds. Still, he had chosen the difficult route after all. He was starting to wonder if a bullet between those smug eyes, even clouded in fear, would be a better option. No, he thought with a smile, M would definitely kill him for that one.

"Alright," he nodded as their dinner arrived, "what do you need?"

"I have a problem," Le Chiffre said as he shook out his napkin and placed it in his lap.

"Oh?" James said, finding that he was hungry now that he could smell food.

"Someone in my close personal circle has been hired to kill me," he said candidly once the waiter had gone, "I want him found and delivered to me, with proof."

"Sounds like a bit of a tall order," James said, unimpressed.

"So does your offer, Mr Bond," Le Chiffre pointed out.

"Touché."

"Find them and I will concede to your boss's offer," Le Chiffre said as if he were having to force the words from his mouth.

"Why do you think it was my boss that offered?" James asked.

"I always assume that the blunt instruments do not make their own decisions," Le Chiffre said, "and also the fact that you have not yet killed me even though you appear to want to, quite badly, suggests you were ordered to take me alive. I hope this will not sour our relationship."

"Heaven forbid," James said acidly; he disliked being read like an open book, especially when he was trying his very best to keep his poker face up like a shield. He would have to watch himself. Le Chiffre was obviously far more observant than was healthy.

"Good," Le Chiffre said, taking a forkful of fish and vegetables and chewing with a satisfied look on his face, "then you have three days, after which I believe I will be of no use to you."

"And why is that?" James asked, starting on his own food.

"Because I will be dead," Le Chiffre said matter-of-factly.

They ate in silence, James wondering how he had managed to pull this off as he surreptitiously watched one of the most dangerous men in the world eat fish across the table from him. Some days, he thought, things just went right for him. He hoped it would stay that way until the end of the week at least.

AN: The game that James and Le Chiffre are playing is a famous set known as 'The Skewer Lure', Andrews vs Jassens in 1864. It really is a beautiful little game and, if you like chess, you should look it up and watch the whole thing recreated. The move Bond plays to win the game, a queen bait (with two more moves which I omitted to force a checkmate), is just wonderful.

Also 'bir kurve' is Albanian for 'Son of a bitch'. I just enjoy the idea of Le Chiffre swearing. The man has too much composure for my liking.