The girl withdrew and beckoned him into the flat. ‘One must be careful.’ She pressed the door shut behind him and tugged it to make sure that it was locked.
Bond looked round the fiat and decided immediately that it probably did not belong to the girl. It had an almost donnish feel with two walls covered in books and a graceful Egyptian statuette. Bond admired the tall slim naked body, with the small, firm belly swelling upwards like a horseshoe round the umbilicus; the wide sweep of the eyebrows across the haughty brow, the cowl, like a judge’s wig, covering the shoulders and dropping to fall just short of the erect nipples jutting out from the arrogant little breasts. This, he decided, was much more his type of woman. ‘I expected to be dealing with a man,’ he said.
‘You will be.’ The girl turned away from the door and gestured towards another door which opened out on to a balcony. ‘Mr Fekkesh is detained at the moment. He asked me to look after you.*
‘Very kind of him,’ said Bond drily. He did not immediately move towards the balcony but picked up a framed photograph from one of the book shelves. It showed a swarthly middle- aged man with his arms round two children who, from their appearance, must clearly be his. It was a doleful, academic face trying bravely to smile but looking overwhelmingly self- conscious. ‘Is this Mr Fekkesh?’ The girl nodded. ‘You have very attractive children.’
The girl turned her head away. ‘We are not married.1 She felt it necessary to qualify the statement. ‘Those are not my children.*
Bond tried to appear embarrassed, and fumbled the photograph back on to the shelf. ‘I’m sorry - er, when are you expecting him back?’
‘Soon. I do not know exactly. He works at the Cairo Museum. He is often late. Can I offer you a drink?’
Bond knew that she was lying and followed her out on to the balcony. Night had dropped swiftly and imperceptibly but it was still warm. Bond breathed the spicy air into his lungs and stepped to the edge of the wrought-iron balustrade. Somewhere, someone was playing a piano. How incongruous it sounded in this Arab night. He looked down and saw light gleaming from a conservatory that jutted out from one of the ground-floor flats. There, unmistakably, was the silhouette of a grand piano. A figure swayed towards it.
‘Noilly Prat and tonic,’ he said, hoping that the French influence would prevail sufficiently to make this delicious long drink available. ‘With a squeeze of lime if you have it.’ The girl disappeared and he made up a story about her and Fekkesh. It was something on the lines of The Blue Angel and it explained why he had left his wife and two children to live with an overlush trollop. What it did not explain was how he could have anything to do with the mythical tracking system. Bond watched the million twinkling lights and the domes of the illuminated mosques and felt the acid juice of worry eating into his stomach. Out there in the big, dark, greedy city, things were happening. People were laughing, crying, making love, making deals. He, James Bond of the British Secret Service, was doing nothing. Standing on a balcony waiting to be brought a drink by someone who might have no more importance in the total scheme of things than one of those damn lights. Bond hated to feel powerless, and at the moment he was playing in a game he did not understand against people he could not see. The situation made him angry and he vowed that when the girl returned he would get some hard facts out of her. By force if necessary.
‘Your drink.’
Was it his imagination or did that scent hang a little heavier
in the air? Was the décolleté a trifle more obvious?
‘Thank you.’
‘My name is Felicca.’ The voice was calmer now and Bond noticed that the glass in her hand was half empty. ‘I believe you said that yours was James?’
‘I did. Twice. Once on the telephone and again at your front door.’ Bond’s voice had a hard, cutting edge to it. ‘Look, Felicca. I hope you won't think me rude but I’ve come a long way and I’d be very angry if I found I was on a wild-goose chase. What do you know about the tracking system?’
At the words ‘tracking system’, the girl reacted as if touched on a nerve. Her lips parted momentarily to show the white of her teeth. ‘I know nothing. You must talk to Aziz - to Fekkesh. Drink your drink, make yourself comfortable.’ The fear was back in her voice again. ‘I am expecting him to ring soon.’ ‘From the Cairo Museum?’
The girl hesitated. ‘Maybe.’
‘There are too many maybes.’ There was a soft pressure on his arm. The girl was holding the sleeve of his jacket between finger and thumb. Her thigh moved forward purposefully and caressed the inside of his leg.
‘I was asked to entertain you and I would like to do it.’ Her lips brushed against his cheek. ‘I am very good.’
Yes, thought Bond. I bet you are. Good as gold. Enough gold to buy a tracking system capable of hunting down nuclear submarines. How much would that be worth? One million pounds? A hundred million?
A penumbra of light appeared around the balcony above and there was a sudden explosion of Arabic. Felicca took Bond by the hand and drew him after her through a curtain of hanging wooden beads. They were in a bedroom, although the low dais surmounted by a thin mattress and innumerable cushions owed little to Western conceptions of a bed. If the room was connected to the electric-light supply, the girl made no attempt to prove it. Her arms slid round Bond’s neck like serpents and her mouth trembled like that of a volcano about to erupt. If a kiss is pressure applied by one volatile surface upon another then Bond was kissed everywhere and with everything. The hot, soft lips circulated, the breasts rotated and the belly churned. Felicca was right - she was good at it
Bond drank of the nectar and then dashed the vessel from his lips. With a quick jerk of his arms he broke her grip and threw her down on the cushions. Felicca stared up at him, her right hand slowly moving to her bruised left shoulder. Her eyes asked the question shortly before her mouth did. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t come here to make love to you. Stop beating about the bush and tell me where Fekkesh is.’ Felicca’s skirt had risen to the level of her thighs and Bond could see why Fekkesh decided that life had more to offer than the four thousand years of history encompassed by the Cairo Museum. He yanked her roughly to her feet and shook her until her dress dropped off her shoulders. ‘Don’t think 1 wouldn’t hurt you, don’t - ! ’
In retrospect it had seemed strange. Bond could remember looking at the gun for seconds. He had seen the slight movement of the wooden blocks as it was thrust between them. Heard the death rattle of their clicking. Established the make of the gun - a Japanese M14. Seen the finger tightening round the trigger and the whole hand contracting to ensure that the shot was not jerked away at the last instant.
In reality the whole image could only have been before his eyes for a fraction of a second. Then the girl was propelled into his arms as if by the point of a javelin. The hideous thump that ran through his own body as if his arms were shock- absorbers. Then the dead-weight collapse. The rattle at the back of the throat. The warm blood pumping through his fingers. Bond threw himself sideways, still using the girl as an unintended shield. Two more shots thudded into the wall beside his head and he rolled over twice and tore out the Walther. Thank God it was dark in the room. He fired blind on to the terrace and a string of beads whipped away like a serpent. Silence, save for the chinking of the wooden blocks. Was the gunman waiting for him on the terrace? Bond edged his way round the wall and waited with his back beside the opening. The light had gone out on the balcony above. He could imagine the neighbours wondering what had happened, debating whether to call the police. Deciding to do nothing. Far below there was still the tinkle of that damn piano. What tune was it playing? The notes rose up like soap-bubbles. ‘Moonlight Becomes You.’ Bond permitted himself a grim smile. No point in staying here. The gunman had probably escaped immediately after the shooting. Let himself out of the flat by the front door. Bond judged the distance and his line of departure and then threw himself through the bead curtain. Three strides and he was in the first room he had entered. Nobody. The outer door shut Was there any point in going down the fire-escape or should he go back to the girl? Better the girl. If she died and Fekkesh did not turn up then he was finished. And he did not want to get involved with the Egyptian police. There would be a lot of questions and he would be asking none of them.