AN: There is a conversation between Le Chiffre and another in this chapter that's in Serbian. Only a few lines, but just to let you know the translation is at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 5
Menlaus
Sometimes he looked at it. Found himself sitting idle and his hands would wander to his laptop, keying into his utterly secure, and yet pointlessly so, Cimbanque account, linking him directly to Bekb BCBE in Bern. Most of the time he did not. Staring at the minus sign lying rather innocuously before the rather large set of numbers in his account only served as a reminder.
Or a warning. A minus sign could mean so many things; a lack of, a dearth. Or a subtraction. He would close the laptop with a snap and let it drop onto the couch beside him, ignoring the sway of the cabin. He would pour himself another glass of brandy and he would drink it quickly.
The cabin itself afforded every luxury; recessed queen sized bed, foldaway table for private dining with couch and armchair, en suite, private porter and drinks on tap whenever he asked. His name, it seemed, still sung high praises even if his account merely spat red ink. It had been easy to fudge it in the end. Much less dangerous to fly into Serbia and take the train to Podgorica than to fly straight to the capital. Too many people watching the easy ways in. Taking the sleeper train was the best he could do in a tight spot, only hoping that his enemies wouldn't take it as a first choice.
He'd sent the others with the yacht. The last thing he wanted to do was alert Valenka to the danger. He knew she'd already been suspicious of their separate travel arrangements, even though it was not out of the ordinary. Leo was 'missing', and he had barely spoken to her before flying to Belgrade. He just hoped she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut and stay calm until they met up at the hotel in the capital.
By the time they reached Užice it was dark and he was rather drunk. A small train station, nothing fancy. They did not stop. Just barrelled through past the dim lights, back into the swallowing darkness. He wished he could look out and see the mountains, they would be snow-capped at this time of year, but the night was too complete.
Now he found himself standing before the window, looking out at nothing and trying to think of just as much. Only he could not stare out, for the windows were black with the darkness outside and all that stared back at him was his own reflection. Shirt undone to the collarbone, hair dishevelled, cuffs rolled up, eyes half lidded. Le Chiffre rubbed at his nose with his wrist before taking another sip of brandy, letting the fumes perfume his nostrils.
A mess, he thought derisively, look at you, you're a mess. He felt the absurd need to laugh. Just the drink, he thought, I shouldn't have kept the bottle. The porter hadn't even questioned him when, instead of taking the offered glass, Le Chiffre had simply taken the entire tray from his hands, bottle and all, before tipping the man with a handsome, green one hundred euro note stuffed into his collar.
After the first two glasses he had begun to wonder why he hadn't simply pulled the young man in along with the tray to complete the package; he had been attractive enough, and he had not been blind to the blush or the small smile on his face before the door was shut on it. Would have passed the time a little more inventively than simply getting himself blind drunk. He laughed into his glass, a little half-heartedly, a little giddily.
It was going to work, wasn't it. Wasn't it? He was fed up questioning himself and yet the question continued to roll around. It would work. He'd done it before, well not quite under the same circumstances. Not under threat of certain death if he lost and uncertain but possible death even if he succeeded. Not that he was worried about the game, no. Poker was his specialty and he wouldn't doubt himself on that. He never doubted odds and numbers and ratios because they were reliable and easy to deal with. They did not betray you, they could not be bribed, they did not change their minds or have fits of conscience.
People did. People could almost always be relied upon to be unpredictable and useless. Thorns where there should be silk, acid where there should be champagne, a knife where there should be a gentle hand. He'd done all that before too, he thought vaguely as he contemplated the suddenly empty bottom of his brandy snifter.
People; that was why he hated people. Complicated people. Who needed them. Would be so much fucking easier if he could just...just sit up in a high tower somewhere and look down. Yes, look down on everyone from above while they walked and talked and killed and lusted. Unaware they were even being observed. Yes, something like that would suit him, he thought. He laughed into his glass once more as he leaned his bottom lip against the rim, inhaling the residue. When the cabin swayed again he found himself stumbling slightly to stay upright.
The knock at the door made him freeze before he started for the gun he had stashed in the cabinet by the bed. He paused when the knock came again, accompanied by the porter's voice. He licked his lower lip and let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes. Relax for god's sakes. You'd think this was the first time someone had wanted you dead.
And yet it was almost as bad as the first time, or perhaps worse. This feeling. The first time someone had tried to kill him it was with his own knife, knocked from his own hands. Enver Asllani had never done more than beat him during any chance alone encounter, in the cloak room, the changing rooms for the large, cold gym. Even once or twice out in the forests surrounding the boarding school when they'd been on field trips. Le Chiffre knew he'd only had himself to blame for bringing the knife to school as defence, one which was quickly turned to offence when he found it pushed against his own throat.
Remembered the struggle, the grunting, huffed breaths. The jeers of the other two boys Enver always kept close, quiet and low to avoid attention, but fitful with aggression. Remembered the feeling of rolling in the mud with arms tight around his torso, wheezing like a pathetic pig, gasping for air that his asthmatic lungs could not draw in. Remembered the short, sharp sting across his left eye and the feeling of wet heat against his cheek.
When he answered the door to the porter Le Chiffre was not in a fit state of mind to deal with people. He stared at the young man as if seeing through the blood he was sure was on dripping into his eye, slipping down his face. Should be slipping down his face, dripping from his chin.
Dear fucking god I need a distraction, he thought wearily.
"Cep, Ја сам дошао да наплати боцу," the porter began, his Serbian giving his young voice a unique huskiness, "јеси ли добро..?"
Le Chiffre reached up to run an unsteady hand across the young man's right cheek. The flutter of eyelashes, which preceded the frown on the young man's face, barely registered before Le Chiffre grabbed him by the front of his immaculate uniform and hauled him inside. The door was pulled clumsily shut as he crushed his mouth with sensuous slowness against the younger man's lips, hearing a muffled sound of either surprise or protest as he pushed him against the wall.
Pulling back, Le Chiffre looked into his pale blue eyes, focusing as best he could through the pleasant haze of alcohol and adrenaline. He leaned in on his forearm, placed by the man's head, crowding him against the wall.
"Ho?" he asked, reaching up to unclip the first button on his uniform.
"Ja... не треба," came the only protest he would be given, as Le Chiffre continued to lower his hands and pop buttons.
It was as simple as dropping his hand to the front of the man's trousers and squeezing gently. Closed eyes and a gasp allowed him to lean in and claim soft lips, sliding his tongue gently across another's. Hands hesitated at his elbows before sliding up and around his back.
The bottle sat forgotten on the table.
He would have liked to say it was the early morning sun that woke him, but he knew it wasn't. The fear, mixed with a healthy dose of paranoia, had kept his sleep light. Even after the previous evening's rather interesting diversion, he had not fallen into as deep a sleep as he had hoped. Too many nightmares plaguing him; waking him up sweat soaked and gasping, eyes straining in the pitch before rolling him over and back into fitful sleep.
He had spent the early morning in his cabin sobering his hangover with coffee and salted, boiled eggs which he had ordered from the kitchens specially the night before. They tasted wonderful and helped chase away his headache in conjunction with the paracetamol and the large glass of iced tonic water.
A brief and very odd thought wondered into his head as he stared at the rolling, vineyard dotted hills of Crkvine rushing by: was Bond awake? It had been an arbitrary thought mainly because he wanted it to be. He wasn't thinking it because he wondered if anyone else was as worried about his insane plan as he was. He wasn't thinking that the last time he had spoken to Bond the man had seemed to be contemplating a myriad of different ways to dismember and hide his corpse. He wasn't thinking that the man was practically the only ally he had on this venture who was aware of the details. It was merely arbitrary.
Yes, arbitrary. He drank his black coffee and sat back in the wide armchair by the bed, the small table folded up before him.
Vindictively he hoped Bond had experienced nothing less than a terrible, what would it be? Flight? Cruise? Box car? He smiled grimly and wondered how much the British government was willing to splash out on its operatives. He suspected not very much. Or maybe just wished.
By the time they rolled into Podgorica central station the granite seemed grimy in the late afternoon light, wet with earlier rain and chill with the lasting moisture in the air. Le Chiffre pulled on his thigh length jacket and buttoned it tightly. He was glad there was no need to wait, as the porter took his luggage to the platform where he found his contact, Markus Vint, waiting for him. The last time he'd been to Croatia Vint had managed to secure him safe passage out of the country when things had gone against the plan. He hoped that the man could be relied upon for the same services if the need arose again.
The platform echoed with the sounds of departures and arrivals. People swarmed around them as they left the train, chatting and hugging. The young porter tried to catch his eye but Le Chiffre merely looked straight through him.
"The car is out front," Vint said stoically, his bony face and bald head making him seem like a misshapen die.
"Good," was all Le Chiffre could think to say; he took his bags and swerved the porter as he left, ignoring his downcast eyes.
The modern wonder of Podgorica city centre, with its gothic tower blocks, ornate office buildings and stylish, sail-like suspension bridge, gave way to the more rustic but pleasantly aristocratic countryside. Vint drove the car, a silver Bentley, through the orchards and vinyards and past the distant mansions until they began to climb uphill. Soon he found himself in a small cafe district. After a small personal errand to a patisserie he spotted on the way, they eventually arrived at the hotel he had booked for the week before the tournament; the very picture of the Montenegrin countryside estate. Wide palisades, castellated walls, dull grey paths of winding stone to reach a high, portcullis through which warm light and soft music spilled.
Vint threw the keys to the valet who rushed out to greet them, before accompanying Le Chiffre inside while the porters took his luggage.
"Valenka and Kratt have arrived?" he asked quietly as he pulled off his gloves.
"They got here about two hours ago. Kratt said to tell you he's gone into town to sort..." Vint quietened as the porters passed them by on the way to reception, only speaking again once they were out of earshot, "...to sort some business. Financial. Herr Mendel is just looking for some collateral, apparently."
"I thought he might," Le Chiffre said tightly, stuffing his gloves into his pocket, "I am sure Kratt will think of something. The yacht most likely."
He checked in, quickly and efficiently thanks to Mr. Borgjevič the concierge, and then declined Vint's offer to go to the bar and find a bottle of something hard with which to toast lady luck. The Serb had shrugged off his refusal with almost comical confusion before heading to the bar. Le Chiffre headed to the lifts, glad that it was a smooth ride despite the old architecture. When he arrived at his room his luggage was already placed neatly by the bed.
Or it would have been if Valenka hadn't been in the middle of tearing it open and tossing its contents across the room with a guttural scream. Le Chiffre took a moment to stand in the doorway and observe the chaos of pristine white shirts and black velvet dinner jackets flying through the air, before he calmly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He removed his jacket and coat, carefully hanging them up in the small cupboard by the door.
"Sookin syn!" she screamed at him, hear face tear stained, her short, blue summer dress hanging from one shoulder.
"I would appreciate it if you would at least insult me in English," he said bluntly as he loosened his tie, "I like to know just what kind of fucker I'm being called."
"I called you a son of a bitch!" she growled, grabbing his spare inhaler from the messy suitcase on the bed before launching it at his head.
He dodged easily but watched her coldly regardless. She didn't waver, instead falling back from blazing anger to choking tears as her voice came in sobs.
"You're nothing but a filthy, fucking murderer. That's all you are!"
"You've heard about Leo."
"He was my friend!"
"He was your casual fuck when you couldn't find anything else," Le Chiffre countered snidely.
"It doesn't surprise me you'd say that, you heartless shit! You wouldn't know-know..." she took a moment to draw in a pained breath, clamping her hand to her mouth, eyes tight shut, "...you wouldn't know what it was to be loved if it stabbed you in the fucking heart!"
"And here I thought you just said I had no heart," he said, cocking his head.
She lunged for him, hands blearily aiming for his throat. She was weak willed in his hands but she twisted like a cat, all wiry strength and anger fuelled determination. When he let her go she caught him across the neck, leaving behind a searing agony which made him hiss. She stared at him for a few seconds in a shocked sort of triumph, before she seemed to come to her senses and storm from the room.
He wanted to go after her. Go after her and slam her up against the nearest wall and explain to her just what sort of traitor her precious lover had been. He'd known for months that Leo and Valenka had been having an affair. It had been obvious to see in the way Leo had always volunteered to take her ashore when she wanted it, or complemented her choice of dress just to see her smile. He hadn't done anything about it because he simply did not care. If she was happy then it was nothing to him. It had been nothing to him...until Leo had happily sold both him and Valenka and his crew into the hands of Quantum as sacrifices on a silver platter.
He would have watched you die for a measly couple of million, he wanted to shout in her face; but he did not. Could not. He didn't want to create more of a scene than she already had, and probably would some more when she made her way to the bar red eyed and barefoot. He hoped Vint would take care of her. Stupid fool that he thought her sometimes, he was surprised by how much he didn't want to see her hurt.
"Yes, room service please," he said after dialling reception; he waited to be put through, "I have some clothes I would like laundered and ready for Tuesday. Yes. Room...twenty three. What? No, no. Tell Mr. Borgjevič I already have plans for dinner but it was kind of him to ask the kitchens to keep something aside. Yes. Thank you."
He piled the clothes in a semi-neat heap on the hope chest at the bottom of the bed, retrieved his inhaler from under the chest of drawers and tried to make himself seem as presentable as possible. When he looked in the mirror it appeared to be a vain endeavour. The dark smudges beneath his eyes seemed worse due to the pallor of his skin, the terse line of his thinly held lips showcasing his stress, the livid read scratch at his throat. He combed his hair and took a deep breath.
It's all going to work out, somehow. All of it. He opened them and stared at himself, still the same slightly ill looking, scared, tired individual he'd been moments before. He leaned forwards and placed his forehead on the glass before fishing in his pocket for his secure phone. When it rang in his hand he jumped, letting out a swift curse.
"Yes?" he bit out, knowing who it would be.
"You're bloody late," Bond said tightly.
"I am well aware. Did you call me just to inform me of the obvious?"
"I called to remind you that this isn't a normal day at the office and I'm not one of your lackeys. I don't have to hang around waiting for you to decide you might want to drop by."
"In fact I think you might be," Le Chiffre said slowly as he wrote a quick note on the pad of paper by the ornate cream and white landline phone, "a shame that you're having trouble adjusting. I'm sure it'll come sooner or later."
"Fifteen minutes and I'm gone."
"I'll be twenty."
He hung up before another abrasive syllable could be spouted at him. It was both an irritant and a joy speaking to agent Bond, he found. A lesson in acerbic dialogue as well as a dance of one dry sense of humour against another. He hoped the man didn't lose his patience and knife him in the back. It would be so tiresome. He ripped the note from the pad of paper and left it on the nightstand.
Gone for a drive. Don't call me.
J.
He'd never told Valenka his real name. Had never told it to any of his associates, in fact. There was something he always found thrilling in signing his notes with a slanted 'J'. Perhaps young Jean liked the idea, somewhere in his youthful memory. Le Chiffre shook his head and left quietly, pulling the door to and locking it behind him. He took the Bentley and drove out into the fading evening light, putting his foot down as he revved over the waves in the road, making his stomach jump.
It was with a justified and yet juvenile pleasure that he found Bond's hotel to be far less luxurious than his own. Still passable, somewhat, but there were far too many normal people filtering in and out of the main entrance. Upper-middle class tourists. Not his favourite type of person. Know-it-all attitudes and nouveau riche arrogance. Enough to make his skin crawl. He sat for a further five minutes before he became too impatient to wait any longer.
Exhausted, fractious and fed up, Le Chiffre broke the silent accord of being as discreet as possible and marched into the hotel. Despite believing himself to look truly awful, he still found he garnered quite a few envious glances as he walked to the reception desk in his dark grey and black Armani suit and matching bespoke Givenchy shoes. He allowed himself to be momentarily thankful that Bond had chosen somewhere downmarket to hide himself. He needed the ego boost.
"I am looking for Mr. Beech," he said to the young, red haired receptionist, "I believe he checked in today. He's expecting me."
"Oh, yes sir," she said in a heavy accent, quick to comply, "just a moment please. Ah, yes. Mr Beech and his fiancé are in rooms one five nine and one sixty. Would you like me to call?"
"Not necessary," he said, giving her a charming smile.
As he walked the long, carpeted hallways, footfalls turning to dull thuds, he smiled at the word fiancé. So, Bond had a minder, did he? Somehow he was sure that being given a partner, by the Government which obviously did not trust him to do this alone, was probably something found even more irritating than having to work with Le Chiffre himself. He laughed softly to himself. His evening was looking up considerably.
When he knocked on the door to one five nine, picking it arbitrarily from the two he'd been given, it was answered a few moments later by a slim, dark haired woman with a pile of dark hair loosely but artistically pinned at crown of her head. She eyed him narrowly before turning back into the room, which appeared to be a twin with an adjoining door sitting open, and spoke slowly but precisely with an unidentifiably tinged British accent.
"Is this some sort of joke?"
"And why the hell would I be joking about..." came a voice from the next room, nearing and nearing until Bond, fiddling with his top shirt button, walked through the door and stared blankly at him with crisp blue eyes, "fucking Christ, get him in here!"
"I'll take that as an invitation," Le Chiffre said, smiling as he stepped into the room and heard the door shut behind him with a snap.
"Did you tell him to come here?" the woman asked with a calm anger that Le Chiffre couldn't help but admire.
"Of course I bloody didn't," Bond bit out, "you were supposed to meet me..."
"I am well aware of where we were supposed to meet, and when, do not lecture me Mr. Bond," Le Chiffre said uninterestedly as he ran his eyes over the room, taking in half hung up clothes, an open laptop that was disappointingly on a screensaver and an open make up set on the vanity counter, "and I must advise that you will have to learn to be flexible if you wish to survive this venture. Plans change."
"So I've learned since we so unfortunately met," Bond said, "I'm beginning to wonder if you ever had a plan or if this is all just a big, expensive set up. Or maybe you're just a moron, could be either really."
"How crass," Le Chiffre said, unable to stop his eyes from narrowing, "and here I'd thought you were brought up with manners. You haven't even introduced me to your lovely fiancé."
"Vesper Lynd," the woman said articulately before another word could be uttered by either of them, "not that I'm sure it's necessary as you probably know more than just my name. However, now that I have your attention may I be so bold as to inform you both how utterly and completely this entire operation hinges upon a lack of testosterone fuelled, boys club nonsense to have any chance at all of succeeding?"
A short silence. Bond's lips were a tight line and Le Chiffre couldn't wipe the smile from his face.
"I had certainly been informed of your name, Ms. Lynd, but my informants neglected to notify me of your unique charm," he said, "utterly spectacular."
"Excuse me if I am not flattered, Mr. Le Chiffre. James if you could perhaps take a minute to consider what we were talking about before we were so rudely interrupted, then I would appreciate it. Good evening gentlemen."
She gave him a wide smile that could have soured milk before leaving.
"And here I thought you might have had an unpleasant journey due to the transport," Le Chiffre said, smile still in place.
"Just shut your mouth," Bond said, "we're leaving before you fuck this up anymore than it already is."
They left through the kitchens and out the back door into a small alley, where a sleek, grey Aston Martin sat in the shadows of an ancient archway. Le Chiffre felt flippantly at ease. Must be the mountain air, he thought as Bond put his foot down and, he was sure, purposefully drove them out into the now pitch blackness of the countryside with ferocious speed. By the time they stopped in a small lay-by on the road which overlooked the city, he had to admit he was feeling slightly nauseous.
"At least now I am no longer hungry," Le Chiffre muttered to himself, "any particular reason we are sitting in the middle of nowhere?"
"It's almost as if," Bond began with an incredulous puff of breath, completely ignoring him, "you forgot I'm not here for your benefit. I'm here to do my job."
"To kill my co-workers and entrap my employers, I am well aware," Le Chiffre said, "and of course let's not forget myself into the bargain."
"Yes, let's not forget the important details after all. You pull another stunt like that and I'll gladly put the bullet in you myself."
"Would it be worth your career?" Le Chiffre couldn't stop the sneer in his voice; the sickness in his stomach had severely dampened the lightheaded gaiety he'd been floating through earlier, no matter how hysteria induced it had all been.
"Almost," Bond said convincingly.
"Do you want the information or don't you?"
"I want you to stop jeopardising me and my mission, just so you can get some infantile kick out of these power plays."
"...Alright," Le Chiffre ground out, taking a deep breath, "if you force me to be civil."
"I'm amazed it's possible."
"Everything is in order," Le Chiffre forced himself to carry on and not be pulled in by the insult, "the tournament will begin on Wednesday without delay. Herr Mendel of the Swiss bank is handling the finances."
"We can trust him?"
"He's an old colleague."
"Then you can trust him. Can I?"
"He's a Swiss banker."
"Fair point."
"Each space has been filled, the money deposited. And the sharks have begun their circling early. Of those who have bought in there is one I know for certain will be a...problem, shall we say."
"Problem? I'm not fond of the word."
"Helena Jesper," Le Chiffre said, "the only woman at the table. When I did a background check hers was suspiciously clean and tidy shall we say."
"You think she's a plant? From whom?"
"I'm not sure yet. I have my people working on it but I can't delay and, if she turns out to be a bigger problem than I was expecting, I don't have the time or the resources just now to find a new player. If this rouse is to work we need to keep up the facade that I need the money."
"You do need the money," Bond said with a soft, unpleasant laugh, "that's the funny part."
"Hilarious."
"Oh, sorry. I left my tact in my other jacket."
"I knew this would be obnoxious," Le Chiffre said, leaning his head back against the cushioned head rest and closing his eyes, "but one is never aware just how much something will hurt until it is truly happening to them."
"Never truer words have ever been spoken," Bond agreed grimly.
The darkness was momentarily lifted and the silence broken as a car rounded the corner and drove past them in a rush of air and motor fumes. Le Chiffre bit at the inside of his lip and wondered how he had managed to fall this low. It was something of a wake-up call, being trapped in a confined space with someone who appeared to loathe him in return with equal measure and not simply be able to have them removed from his presence. Or dropped overboard.
"If you would be so kind," he said neutrally, "as to drive me back to my car."
"If you can recommend me a restraint that's open and doesn't sell the usual tourist crap, perhaps I can."
"The Catovica Mlini," he said without hesitation; suddenly his hunger returned on speaking the name, now the nausea had receded. The last time he had been, it was four year ago? Maybe five. He could still remember the taste of fresh prawns and homemade hollandaise, lobster bisque with scallops and port. He felt the wicked recklessness stealing over him once more and couldn't find the wherewithal, tired and starving as he was, to resist it, "not that you could afford it," he heard Bond inhale sharply and smiled in the dark, "no, in fact forget the fucking car. Just take me there. Drop me off. Do whatever the hell you want."
"This is ridiculous," Bond muttered.
Le Chiffre was sure it wasn't directed at him. Then the light came on, blinding him. He blinked and squinted in the glare before looking at Bond, staring at the slightly fogged glass of the windscreen. He reached out and turned the car on with a rumbling purr, pressing another button which caused the fog to diminish, Le Chiffre guessed a windshield warmer.
"Are you going to drive or am I going to have to flag down a passing car?"
"I'd pay good money to see that."
"Would you pay good money to have your kneecaps surgically realigned?"
"I don't buy your threats, you need me."
"You don't need your knees to play poker," Le Chiffre smiled, shark-like, "now if you would hurry. I'd rather get there while the more desirable menu items are still available."
When nothing happened Le Chiffre looked to his left and found Bond shaking his head, that derisive smirk plastered on his face. He felt the need to smack the man's head into the steering wheel. Seeing blood would have solved a lot of anger issues he was having. Instead he decided confusing the infuriating man beside him was a far easier and less messy mode of revenge.
"I'll even treat you. It seems to be a growing trend that we have at least one passive-aggressive dinner together that I pay for."
For a moment Bond looked as if he would say something. Something insulting and inflammatory no doubt. Le Chiffre silenced him by reaching up to flick off the in-car light and reattached his seat belt, running his thumb under the soft material. Bond let out a terse snort of air and reached for the gearbox, jamming it into gear and tearing out onto the road.
End notes - Serbian translated:
First of all the Porter says - "Sir, I came for the bottle,"..."are you alright..?"
Then after the kiss Le Chiffre asks him, "Ho?", which means "No?"
to which he replies "I...should not."
Also just to say thanks to the Reviewing Master for the lovely review indeed. I'm glad someone other than me is enjoying this story!