Bond drew away from the challenging lapis lazuli of Anya’s eyes. ‘In what capacity, sir?’
M tapped his pipe like an auctioneer bringing down his gavel for the final time. ‘Well, all things considered, there seems to be only one capacity - that of man and wife.’
The Drowned Volcano
Anya’s blind fingers traced a path across the rough, hot stone and closed about the supple plastic. Its tapered haft settled into the palm of the hand and her thumb and first finger tightened against the minuscule serrations on the cap. An anti-clockwise twist and the thumb flicked languidly until the cap dropped to the stone with a sound that wobbled into silence. With eyes still closed, she slid her left hand forward and pressed the nose of the Piz-bruin against its palm. Pressure from three fingers and the tube gave a small, sibilant hiss and relinquished a teaspoonful of warm, liquid cream. Anya replaced the tube beside the cap and pressed her hands together. She felt the cream escape between her fingers and began to rotate her hands, spreading the sun tan lotion evenly. Then she drew herself up on the mattress and began to massage the cream into her naked breasts and shoulders. They were good breasts, there was no escaping the fact. They were firm and ripe, and they stood rather than hung. The aureoles of the nipples were a rich, chocolate brown and the nipples themselves jutted out expectantly like plump, juicy antennae.
Anya saw the line where Black Sea honey gave way to Mediterranean bronze and laid a fresh knout of guilt across her back. Was it so little time ago that she had laid under another sun and thought about another man? She looked down at the soft, glistening flesh undulating beneath her fingers and withdrew her hand abruptly. Her behaviour was not kulturny. She was not conducting herself like a responsible Soviet citizen with a senior position in one of the most important government departments. But what in her life before the Crimean experience had prepared her for the sybaritic indulgences that the West lavished upon its favoured bourgeoisie? Not her one- room flat on the sixth floor of the Sadovaya-Chemogriazskay Ulitz, the women’s barracks of the State Security Departments, or her monthly salary of two thousand roubles. Nor serving with the rank of Major in the dreaded K.G.B. It must be this sudden role-reversal that had unbalanced her. She must take a grip on herself. Instead of baking her self- indulgent body an unnecessary brown she should be reading an improving work. Something by Engels, for instance. She was shamelessly ill-versed in his writings. Angrily, she pulled her severe one-piece bathing costume over her breasts and slipped the straps across her slim shoulders. She was not to know, that by its very simplicity - and because it was slightly too small for her - the costume made her body seem almost more erotic than it was when naked.
Anya rose to her feet, screwed the top firmly back on the tube of Piz-bruin and folded up the sun mattress. She left the balcony and entered the large cool bedroom, closing the sliding glass door behind her to maintain the air conditioning at its current temperature. Air conditioning! No wonder this suite cost each day nearly as much as her monthly salary. It was shameful. She blushed. Shameful, too, the way she had so easily succumbed to its pleasures. Taking off her costume, she enjoyed the sensation of the cool air against her body and stood on tiptoe to place the sun mattress on top of one of the white louvred cupboards. She would not be using it again. The mirror threw back her reflection and she felt ashamed of her nakedness, as if she was exposing it to someone else rather than herself. She must have a shower and put on some clothes. Bond would be back soon and she did not want the embarrassment of him finding her undressed. She picked her costume from the double bed and walked towards the bathroom, passing the small bed in which Bond slept. She wondered if he had noticed that every morning she made the bed before any of the maids came in. She had to admit that it was pride that made her do it. She did not want anyone to think that her husband found her sufficiently unattractive to be dismissed from his bed. Not of course that she would ever sleep with Bond in a thousand years. Their presence together was for the convenience of the State. He was handsome, yes. Very handsome. One need not be afraid of admitting it. But he was an
Engliski Spion who killed swiftly and, apparently, without feeling. Such a man could never touch her - could he? Anya felt a sudden pang of fear.
Mr and Mrs Robert Sterling, bearing a striking resemblance to Bond and Anya, had island-hopped from the port of Santa Teresa di Gallura on the north-east coast of Sardinia and were now installed upon the Isla Caprera, one of the scattering of small islands on the fringe of the Bocce di Bonifacio - or, if one was a Corsican looking across the channel that separated Corsica from Sardinia, the Bouches de Bonifacio. Stromberg’s Marine Research Laboratory was apparently somewhere on the dark, rocky Corsican coast that rose abruptly from the sea a few miles away. Stromberg owned a large stretch of coastline and it was reported by the local people that visitors were not welcome. He seldom appeared in public and was taken to and from his domain by helicopter.
Anya left the shower and put on a loose-fitting cotton shift that descended to the middle of her well-shaped thighs. To her, the hotel with its crust of tiles, baked white walls and dark vaulted doors and windows looked like a loaf of bread attacked by mice. There was a private beach with a thatched bar surrounded by straw mushrooms - more mice sheltering underneath? - terraces, shady colonnades, gardens of Bougainvillaea and broom sloping down to the tightly-packed shrubs that fringed the sand, and a stone jetty with a small lighthouse at the end of it. And all about, the many-blucd sea, changing its colour as it nosed over white sand or nuzzled yellow rocks, worn smooth as much-fingered gold.
A sharp toot, toot, on the horn of a motor-car drew Anya to the balcony and she looked down to see Bond standing beside a small, bright red, dart-shaped saloon. Her lip began to curl. The car looked brand new and very expensive.
‘I’ve managed to find us some transport,’ said Bond cheerfully. ‘Lotus Esprit - with modifications. Can I interest you in a trial drive, Madam? Excellent specifications; five-speed manual gearbox, eight-and-a-half-inch diaphragm-sprung hydraulically operated clutch
‘I will come down,’ said Anya, firmly. She arrived within seconds, conscious that the car was already beginning to attract admiring attention from guests and hotel staff. ‘We do
not need such a car. Where does it come from?*
‘It’s what you might call a company car,’ said Bond. ‘It comes with the job.’
‘Ridiculous!' Anya noticed people turning their heads and lowered her voice. ‘This car is too -’ she sought the right word ‘-too important. We could have rented an ordinary car.’
Bond looked chastened. ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, darling.’ He smiled engagingly at an old lady straining to catch word of what she imagined to be the honeymoon couple’s first tiff, and took Anya's arm. ‘Let me try and give you some better news. Stromberg has extended an invitation to his establishment. That letter from the President of the Royal Society must have done the trick. I found a note in reception. They’re sending a craft to pick us up.’
‘What did this President say?' asked Anya.
‘That I’m a distinguished marine biologist on holiday in the area and would be delighted to pay my respects.'
Anya’s beautiful eyes widened. ‘But what do you know of marine biology?’
Bond produced his gunmetal case and took out a cigarette. ‘Very little. I’m hoping that any discussion will revolve about general topics. Specialists very seldom descend to specifics.' He smiled drily and glanced at his watch. ‘You’d better change into something more protective. It could be a little blustery out there.’