The bar was another pleasant surprise. Spacious, comfortable and with the minimum concession to Arab kitsch. A long mirror-backed bar ran along one wall and there were groups of tables and low-backed armchairs and cushioned window-seats. Two fans in the ceiling turned slowly and silently. Through a door at the far end could be seen a candle-lit dining-room with waiters in short tunics and deep purple waistcoats. One or two couples were already studying menus. Bond settled himself at the bar and ordered a vodka martini. The dress of the people around him was interesting. Some of the men wore dinner- jackets; others affected traditional costume and their strong aquiline features could barely be seen emerging from their white robes and flowing head-dresses. For the most part, they sipped daintily from tiny cups of coffee and talked eloquently with their hands whilst their womenfolk sat silent and respectful, only their dark, almond eyes taking off to make whirlwind sorties round the room. They were beautiful, these women, thought Bond, perhaps more so than the Europeanized ones with pendant jewellery hanging from their foreheads. So much of their mystery was still hidden and only those darting eyes spoke of immortal longings awaiting satisfaction.
But, enough of speculation. There was work to be done. Bond finished his drink and raised a finger to catch the barman’s eye. And then he saw her. Reflected in the long mirror behind the bar. The girl at the son-et-lumière. The girl whose intervention two days before had saved his life. She was coming into the room like a clipper under full sail and she looked magnificent. Her dress was a long, black, wispy thing that trailed behind her and stopped just below the graceful line of her slim shoulders. Her fine breasts jutted out proudly. Her hair was jet black and lustrous and there was no touch of artifice about the way it hung casually to form a natural, jagged frame to her face. The face was beautiful and Bond looked at it properly for the first time. The eyes were a deep blue, almost violet, and contained beneath dark brows. The slender nose had a suspicion of a tilt and the mouth was both positive and sensual. In fact, the whole face had an air of determination and independence helped by the set of the high cheekbones and the fine line of the jaw. This sense of purpose was carried through to the way she moved. She held herself proudly yet unselfconsciously, and moved across the room as if it was a vassal state to be crossed on the way to defeat an enemy. She held her flat, black evening-bag like a weapon.
With a pang of sadness, Bond realized that this girl reminded him of someone he had once loved and married. Tracy had been fair and this girl was dark but there was about their faces those same qualities of courage, spirit and resourcefulness that Bond prized above all others in a woman. But a voice of caution shouted in Bond's ear. Careful! This girl is a Russian. She is almost certainly a member of SMERSH and is therefore a deadly enemy. Her presence here is not programmed by Eros but whatever poor, demented god controls the movements of spies and double agents. Beware!
Taking the advice of his conscience, Bond dismissed the hovering barman and slid from his stool. Three steps and he was by the girl’s side.
‘Good evening. What an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Commander Bond.’ She had the grace to smile, and even if it was false the effect was still stunning.
‘You have the advantage of me once again. Please allow me to buy you a drink.’
Anya looked into the handsome, cruel face with a sense of déjà vu. Was it only in the last two days and in the file marked Angliski Spion at the Department of Military Records that she had seen this man before? As she allowed herself to be steered towards the bar she could understand why he was the most respected as well as feared of the British agents. His body seemed to flow rather than move in a series of programmed steps. He was like a panther or some other animal that lived by speed and stealth - and death.
‘I think our meeting deserves celebration, don’t you?’ Bond did not wait for a reply but ordered the best champagne. It came in the form of a bottle of Taittinger ’45. Anya felt his cold eyes appraising her body. ‘You look very beautiful,’ he said. ‘Perhaps electrifying would be a better word.’
Anya stretched out her hand for her glass. ‘I am sorry. That is not the way I would have handled it.’
Bond permitted himself a dry smile and raised his glass. ‘Za vashe zdarovie.' Behind the badinage his mind was racing. What was the girl doing here? Had he been followed? If they had still wanted him, why hadn't they picked him up in Cairo? It would have been easier. Perhaps there was some strange grain of comfort in her presence. Fekkesh’s diary had been taken from his pocket at the Cheops Pyramid. If the girl was following up the Kalba lead it could mean that there was something in it. It could also mean that Kalba’s life-expectancy was only slightly longer than that of Fekkesh. He had better find the man quickly. And was the girl alone?
Bond lowered his glass and looked into the dangerously deep blue eyes. ‘You must be lonely without your boyfriends.’ ‘They are easily replaced.’
Bond tried again. ‘What a coincidence that we should both decide to visit the Mujaba Club tonight.’
‘Life is full of coincidences, Commander Bond.*
Bond shouldered the angels aside. ‘Who are you? How do you know about me?’
The girl threw back her head and again Bond was captivated, almost against his will, by the fine determined line of her jaw. ‘My name is Major Anya Amasova and I am employed by the Defence Department of the Peoples’ Republic. We have lists of murderers in many countries.’
‘Most of them working for you, I would imagine,’ said
Bond. ‘Please, let’s spare ourselves any more of that kind of facile recrimination. I imagine we’re both in the same line of business and it could become very tedious.’
Anya’s lips set in a tight line that almost robbed them of their sensual bulge. Her eyes blazed. ‘You will not talk to me like that!’
Bond glanced quickly at his watch. It was ten past seven. ‘Not this evening, I won’t.’ He stood up and slid some money across the bar. ‘You must excuse me, I have work to do. It made a delightful change to meet you informally.’
‘The pleasure was entirely yours.’ Anya did not return the curt nod but expelled the pent-up breath of anger as Bond moved away from her. What a brute of a man. Overweaning, sardonic, facetious. And yet... ? She asked herself if she was not perhaps over-reacting. Was there not some small, despised part of her that found him attractive for all that? Was there not about him that same, unfathomed, dangerous quality that had so immediately drawn her to Sergei? She blushed at her perfidy to state and lover. She must pull herself together. The mission had so far been considerably less than a success and if the Praesidium knew of the full extent of her incompetence they would not hesitate to deal with her severely. The killing of Boris and Ivanov was going to be difficult enough to explain without her failure to close negotiations for the microfilm. Tonight might be her last chance.
Bond entered the dining-room trying to clear his mind and think coolly and logically. Damn the woman! Why did she have to be so consummately beautiful? Where did the Russians find such creatures? Did they have some secret factory in the Urals where they manufactured them? And her English was so good. Hardly a trace of accent. And that dress. That didn’t come from one of the ‘closed shops’ specially reserved for key state personnel.