probing croco-carnassials.

The fangs were of plastic

and rather eleastic,

courtesy of Q-branch initials.

to meet agent ‘Scirocco’.

‘Scirocco’ was late,

so Bond shagged the maid

and flew from Morocco.

to kill a traitor llama.

The job was weird,

as James Bond feared.

The llama went with drama.

diverted funds,  for no one to see.

T’ settle the matter

Bond resorted to batter

t’ head of the head of WB.

too fond of Jameson’s Selection,

-his hand was not steady,

his Colt hardly ready-

now drinks in bookkeeping-section.

A great read, touching, thoughtful, shocking, heartbreaking even. Not necessarily one you will want to go back to, but surely one you won’t forget. Not easy on the mind and conscience. I’m not sure, how much one should know about it in the beginning, so I’ll go on in spoiler tags. But I really think you should pick up and read this.

SPOILER ALERT!

Never Let Me Go tells the story of Kathy H. and her two friends Ruth and Tommy, growing up at Hailsham, a mixture between children’s home and public school. Kathy H. tells it as a 30-something adult living in 90′s UK in retrospect.

Hailsham at first looks innocuous enough, but there are a number of strange things too. The teachers are ‘guardians’, there is never talk about families, not even second names are mentioned, there is an ‘outside’ that is never explored by the students, there is no tv, but apparently there are videoplayers and tapes, there’s no teenager stuff like gossip about actors, music and so on. There are no weekends or holidays spent at home, no siblings and generally, no other background than Hailsham.

The kids at Hailsham are told that they are ‘special’, that they have a specific purpose, and an enormous effort is made to educate them, spur their creativity in every direction, painting, poetry, needlework, even stage plays are hinted at, giving at first glance the impression of an exclusive boarding school. Yet, there are also a number of curious gaps in that childhood. Keeping healthy and in good overall condition is imperative at Hailsham, and diseases are not an item there. The only connection to ‘outside’ is a lorry full of an obscure assortment of goods the children can buy with Hailsham’s own currency. The students own works of art, paintings and so on encouraged so much, are shown at regular exhibitions and the kids buy each others works, whereas the best examples are going into the ‘gallery’ of Madame, a woman irregularly visiting the premises.

Gradually it is hinted at that the studens, all of them, are to become ‘donors’ in the future, and by then the reader already suspects what this means. But when it’s finally vocalised by one of the guardians that all the kids are just clones, merely bred to become a living resource for vital organs, what’s really shocking is not the monstrosity of this simple truth, but the complete ignorance of the implications and absence of any opposition the students show. What they are disturbed about is not their nature as a different form of kettle, but the fact that ‘they’ (meaning in this context ordinary people, embodied in the character of Madame) seem to be utterly afraid and revolted by them.

The Hailsham students also seem to have gotten little to no education in the field one could in a wider context call ‘religion and moral philosophy’. They are merely taught to accept their fate and even to assist in it, becoming after a certain time ‘carers’, which means driving across the country, visiting ‘donors’, talking to them, encouraging them, help them keep on pushing. Until it’s their own time to become a ‘donor’, a perspective met by most with hardly a blink. Apart from that, there is no real purpose for them in life.

But it’s shown that the students develop their own form of myths, their own search for a sense in life. One of these myths is the rumour that a couple, if they really love each other, can get a deferral, for a time. And Kathy and Tommy set out to find out about this. Unintentionally, they meet by accident their… what? parent? no… God? no… But then again, in a way, they do. And what they learn is even more of a shock than the story up to then.

Never Let Me Go is in many ways a fascinating read, but it also has an awful message, and the moment the story gets even worse is, as far as I remember, the only scene when Ishiguro actually mentions a current brand name. For the simple purpose to prevent readers from dismissing the world of the story as not being ours. It is different, but it’s also much closer to ours than we would like to admit. The theme, therapeutic cloning, is a red-hot one, and while it’s not mentioned as such often, it is exactly the questions this book asks we would have to answer in our present day, if there was to be a major break-through with cloning in the near future.

I fight for control, contain myself. Nora mustn’t realise there is something wrong. Nothing must look out of the ordinary. If she even so much as suspected, what I’m about to do, all my efforts of the last five months would be for nothing. And I certainly won’t let that happen.

With two steps I’m at the bed, looking down on her face. I kneel by her side, my left hand feeling the slight dampness of the sheets, the lingering warmth of our bodies from last night. The noise of my skiing clothes must have woken her, as a faint smile shows on her lips, just visible in the half-light of dawn. I take her right hand lying on the pillow, feeling the pulse of her blood running through her veins. Nora’s smile broadens, her eyes sleepily squinting at me, a soft cosy growl giving away her happiness.

I glance beyond her, across the wide wooden veranda, studying the slopes, the first light of dawn promising a perfect winter day, the air so clear you feel you can reach out and touch the mountains, a chocolate box picture.

‘Aw, come back to bed, please. It’s still so early.’

Her blue eyes look at me from across the valley of content cosiness. The soft shimmer of her peachy skin is alluring, threatening to weaken my resolve. It would be so easy to let myself fall into her comforting arms, enjoying her one last exquisite time. Celebrate our lives, our youth.

It mustn’t be. This is perhaps the worst thing of all, not being able to explain myself. To explain what is necessary, what must be done.

Instead, I smile at her, kiss her soft cheek, taste her on my lips. This will be what I’ll remember of her until my death, a faint intimate taste of vanilla.

While I kiss her I look once more out of the window. Suddenly the mountain view is disturbed by tiny black flecks. The wind must have caught the contents of the ashtray on the table outside, taking the ashes of the three sheets of paper that I’ve burned last evening while Nora was taking a shower. Three sheets of paper that I’ve carried with me for five months; crumpled and with dog ears. I’ve read them so often the folds were already coming apart. But their massage remained, no matter how often I took them from my pocket, read them, refolded them. I’ve taken them everywhere, a reminder of what I had decided to do and why it was necessary.

Yesterday, I’ve burned them.

Today, I won’t need them any longer.

Steeling myself for what I have to do now, I stand up.

‘See you later, sleepyhead.’

Nora blows me a kiss and I turn around, not pausing, endlessly thankful that my voice didn’t betray me as I close the door behind me, going to my last downhill run.

We were walking for about half an hour when I spotted a young woman a bit further down the way. She was strolling along without apparent regard for the miserable way in which the elements treated us that afternoon. When Rover and I passed her I noticed the reflective absentminded  look in her face. She was maybe about mid-twenties, with dark hair and large dark eyes. Eyes that looked somewhere else, as if seeing a completely different landscape, far away. I doubt she noticed us at all.

Rover, despite being an extremely lazy sort of dog, somehow developed a taste for defying the weather on this day and so it took another twenty minutes before we turned around to make our way home. The constant precipitate and the freezing wind effectively kept most other walkers from the park on this day and so the woman had been the only other human we had seen so far. As we came along the spot where we had first passed her I saw her sitting on a bench, insufficiently protected from the downpour by the naked branches of an overhanging tree. She still had that look of distant meditation on her face, not caring for sleet or wind around her. I remember thinking ‘Has some matter of the heart on her mind. Either a break-up or somebody new in her life. Perhaps both?’. By the time we arrived at home I had forgotten about her.

When Rover was due for his second stint of walkies I once more went to the park with him. The weather hadn’t become any better in the four or five hours since our last visit. So I was somehow surprised to see the woman still sitting on the same bench. It looked as if she hadn’t moved in hours and I’m sure she really hasn’t. The daylight was slowly fading but I could still see the same withdrawn expression in her features.

This time Rover decided to make it a shorter turn and so we passed the bench again after just five minutes. She was gone and I couldn’t see a trace of her on the way. She must have moved on shortly after we’ve passed the bench. I suppose she had made up her mind about whatever was on it finally. Out of curiosity I took a closer look at the bench, looking for a hint about the woman’s secret.

Right beside the bench I noticed some small piece of plastic lying in the dirt. It was one of these do-it-yourself pregnancy tests, like a square ballpen with an LCD display at it’s side. I couldn’t read the display. Someone had smashed the device with the heel of a small shoe into the dirt beside the bench, burying it deep and breaking it in the middle.

The people around me notice nothing. They pursue their ordinary lives, parking their cars or driving off, buying their purchases, preoccupied in their thoughts, their problems. Isolated in the capsule of their own private lives.  They don’t realize what happens with me right here in my car, on this parking area. I see their faces but I don’t have the courage to call them for help. It’s surely just heartburn.

I can’t stand the thought to call for help just because of a little indigestion. They’d lay me on the tarmac, opening my shirt. Then the paramedics would fiddle around with their instruments on my body. And all the people that just a few minutes before didn’t even notice me would stare at my body, at the white flesh of my chest covered with ECG electrodes. Their eyes full of fear and shock. And of relief. Better him than me, their looks would say. Confirming the horror I have yet to deny. That this time it is me.

My surroundings close in on me. There is a plastic smell around me that makes me feel sick. Sounds swell to a piercing crescendo. Colours take up all the space, threaten to jump at my face. My car is a cage, far to small for me and my throbbing heart. I’m covered in cold sweat, my laboured breathing getting weaker. The air feels thick like jelly, refusing to fill my lungs. The pumping of my heartbeat closes my windpipe, a wild animal of white-hot panic going berserk in my chest, clawing at my throat, suffocating me.

Pain reaches out to my left arm, enveloping the whole side of my torso. I’m reduced to the core of my being, the world outside receding, fading. The fear inside me makes me winding down the electric window of my car, gulping down the fresh air from outside, my bulging eyes unseeing.

‘You OK?’

The voice from outside cuts through the blinding fear. My eyes focus on a guy some yards away. He looks at me, white face, grey hair and glasses, a quizzical look on his face.

At first I can only exclaim in an unintelligible grunt. I clear my throat.  I can breath again, can feel the dampness of my sweat-soaked shirt. The pain recedes as quickly as it came, already just the memory of a sting, lingering on the outer fringes of my consciousness.

Had it been real at all?

‘Are you OK?’ the guy beside my car asks again. I can hear the concern in his voice, read it in the lines on his forehead. Concern, not relief. Not yet.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m alright. It was… nothing serious, I’m fine. Thank you.’

There is still doubt in his look, a frown on his face. Slowly giving way to a nod, an uncertain smile, reassuring more than anything else himself.

I start the car and drive off.

Nothing serious. Just a… a heartburn!

Afternoon At The Games

The heat of the afternoon had baked the streets of Karlovy Vary to a dry asphalt desert. The palm trees in their buckets along the promenade left their leaves hanging like discarded rugs on a clothes line, dry rattling whenever a hot breeze chose to find its way into the Tepla Valley. Even the river seemed to have lost most of its life, gurgling and bubbling strangely muffled in this unseasonable warmth at the beginning of May. James Bond was glad to escape the merciless heat and the piercing rays of the sun when he entered the air-conditioned hall of the Casino at the Grand Hotel Pupp.

Inside there was a small crowd consisting for the most part of elderly people not wanting to stay awake until the wee small hours mingled with three or four die-hard gamblers not able to forego the temptation of a game of cards or Roulette. Before five o’clock there usually were only few players and even fewer spectators. Only two card tables and one Roulette were operating, emitting the soft sounds of a quiet afternoon game.

Only the German was disturbing the picture. He was playing his usual reckless game at Poker and giving every sign of the addicted gambler. His hands were constantly in motion, chain smoking cigarettes from a packet of Camel’s at his side or playing with his stack of chips. His thinning hair looked uncombed and sweaty, his suit crumpled. His upper body shifted and bent this way and that, searching for the posture to deal with the built-up pressure that made his nerves longing for release.

Bond felt there was an almost voyeuristic fascination in watching this man fighting in the throes of his addiction, like witnessing a traffic accident or a plane crash. Reluctantly he turned to the Roulette and placed two bets. After losing both he sauntered over to the bar, ordered a Martini and lit a Shepherd’s Hotel.

If Zaitseff didn’t show up this evening  it couldn‘t be helped. Bond had already seen everything he wanted to the past two days. Karlovy Vary was certainly one of the neatest and best organized operations the Russian Mafia had invested in during the last fifteen years. Their money had restored the old yellow Bohemian facades of the spa town, refurbished historic interiors and generally renovated  the ancient morbid charm the town held. And in the process vast amounts of money had been laundered and retreats for ageing mobsters had been built. And one could park ones car at the sidewalk without having to fear so much as a tiny scratch in the varnish or a dent in the bodywork. That was Karlovy Vary with its strings pulled by the Mob.

And Slava Zaitseff was the head of this operation. Was there a Russian mobster this far from Russia that was better protected? Bond doubted it. When he had arrived Monday afternoon at the Hotel Bristol and taken a walk through town he’d immediately noticed the presence of tell-tale bodybuilder figures scattered throughout the streets, quietly observing the passers-by, taking in suspicious behaviour, noting faces, cloths and headings. And Bond was glad that he’d come unarmed for with these people a gun surely wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.

But one could hardly say that Bond was surprised by the heavy presence of Russian mobsters. After all, his briefing last Monday morning had indicated just this very situation in the town.

Unexpected Assignment

Bond had been surprised this last Monday morning as Bill Tanner entered his office. His two other colleagues had both currently been on assignments abroad and Bond had been the only officer in the 00-section remaining at HQ.

‘Hello Bill! What makes you stepping down from the old man’s lair?’ Bond had said before he had noticed the folder under Tanner’s arm.

‘Your leave brings me here. You are on leave for two weeks forthwith. Officially, that is.’

The lines of pressure and stress that had sculpted Tanner’s face had seemed deeper and his solemn voice told Bond that this was a serious matter.

‘And unofficially?’ he’d asked.

‘You are going to kill a Russian mobster’ Tanner had answered and had dropped the file in front of Bond on his desk.

‘Why doesn’t M give me the order himself? Afraid I’d refuse?’ Bond had tried to make light of it, sensing that Tanner didn’t feel comfortable about this assignment. But Bond had been wrong, at least as to why Tanner disliked this mission.

‘No, M’s not afraid you’d refuse. M’s in Washington until next Monday with a delegation from the MoD and the FO. Because your target is also the most valuable CIA asset they have in the Russian Mafia. And we hope the CIA won’t suspecting us of killing off one of their agents while our Head of Secret Service is having dinner with the Washington top brass. And that is why you get your assignment and briefing from me and will report exclusively to me ’ Tanner had said with a set jaw and anger in his voice.

So this had been the score. If this thing failed there was a major disturbance of the Anglo-American relationship at stake. And the ensuing scandal would surely see several people taking their hats. Daring of M to sit at the American’s table while his department was about to cost them an information source.

‘Ok, Bill. I see. Now let me know who is it and why do we have to get him out of the way? It is a ’him’, not a ‘her‘, isn‘t it?

‘It is. His name is Slava Zaitseff. I’ve brought you his file. He’s half Russian, half Serbian and he takes more interest into the Serbian politics than is desirable in the eyes of our Government and other European states.‘

Bond had taken the file and skipped through the first few pages. It had contained several photographs of a remarkably handsome looking man with wavy dark brown hair, long and full dark brows, grey eyes and a smile that seemingly belonged to a tooth-paste advert. Had he inherited his good looks from his mother? According to the file, she was said to be among the most beautiful Serbian actresses of her generation.

Bond had looked up again and asked Tanner

‘If he’s one of the CIA’s  people, why don’t we ask them to keep him in check?’

‘That’s been tried already, to no avail. US foreign politics has more pressing problems than the Balkan. With the Middle East smouldering in every corner, the Iraq and Afghanistan brightly ablaze and their forces strained to the maximum the Americans nowadays won’t give the Balkan a second thought. It’s a European problem from their point of view and they insist that the Europeans solve it. And that’s just what we’re going to do. Or rather you.’ Tanner had added with the ghost of a wry smile.

So Bond had settled down and had read the file on Zaitseff.

Zaitseff was the son of Milla Vukotic, a Serbian actress and Sergej Zaitseff, a Russian diplomat from their embassy at Belgrade. The couple had met in 1945 and married by 1946. After Yugoslavia distanced itself from the Soviets in 1948 the couple went to Moscow where their son was born in 1950. Zaitseff’s mother died of cancer in 1955 and the boy lived with his father from then. During military service the boy was spotted by KGB talent scouts and recruited for the KGB in 1975.

With his looks, his natural flair for languages and his fathers background he was soon making a career in the ranks of the KGB’s satellite departments. He was posted to Bulgaria, Hungary, Rumania, Poland and twice to Yugoslavia. By 1988, after a year in Afghanistan, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel he was dispensed off active duty. Rumours of drug trafficking were spread and quickly shut down. A charge of corruption was considered but also failed to take off. After one year of investigation the file was closed and Zaitseff officially left the KGB. By that time he was already living in a 5-room-suite at the Hotel Mockba and spending approximately 10000 US Dollars a month. On a KGB pension of 270 Roubles.

Zaitseff had lost no time in building up his new enterprise. He was into drug trafficking and arms dealing. He acquired a chain of brothels, at first operating only in Moscow, then expanding nationwide and later to other countries of the former eastern bloc. Profits of his various businesses were frequently reinvested into legal enterprises such as building companies, transport outfits, gold and diamond mines in Siberia. It was suspected (but of course never confirmed by Langley) that he had established a contact to the CIA during those years. By 1991 Zaitseff was amongst the most successful men in the Russian Mafia.

When the fall of the former USSR in turn caused the former Yugoslavia to dissolve, the following war saw Zaitseff suddenly as one of the backers of a Serbian Civil Militia. But Zaitseff didn’t just help with funds and weapons. He recruited over 200 men in Russia and among western mercenaries and fought as their leader. In the years between 91 and 94 he and his private army became notorious and dreaded for their, even in that war, outstanding cruelty. Reports of several acts of bestiality on behalf of and committed by Zaitseff surfaced in those years. And these reports had enough evidence to them to get Zaitseff’s name on a list of war criminals wanted for crimes against humanity by the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia. Although with little chance he‘d ever have to face the tribunal.

When it transpired that the war would come to an end due to the NATO and US intervention, Zaitseff abandoned his Militia and went back to Moscow. Here he worked successfully in the following years to get to the very top of the Russian mob. A feat he achieved by 1999 when he was amongst the top five of Russian mob leaders and one of the most influential men the country has seen in decades. All the while he tipped off the CIA, and in some cases the Russian authorities, to his contenders, saving him the effort to deal with them himself. In the same year he moved with the inner circle of his staff to Karlovy Vary, where via direct and indirect shares he practically controlled most of the city and personal protection for him and his wife (an Austrian he wed in 1999) was much easier achieved than in Moscow. His residence was the Imperial Spa Hotel where the two top floors had been rebuilt to accommodate a swimming pool on the roof, large shields of bullet-proof glass along the terrace and in all windows and a host of other security equipment.

The previous year had given evidence that Zaitseff hadn‘t abandoned all his ties with the country of his mother. In fact, Serbia made efforts to re-establish its former control over Croatia and Slovenia. The recent declaration of Independence by the Kosovo was bound to lead to new tensions. But this time Zaitseff was able to spend hundreds of millions in Dollars, Euros or whatever currency he chose to back Serbia, making him a crucial factor in any upcoming conflict.

After finishing with the file Bond had looked at Tanner again.

‘How am I supposed to get at him? Judging by the file he seems pretty good protected in this ‚Carlsbad‘ of his.‘

‘That‘s exactly why the decision has been made to act now. We have somebody in Zaitseff‘s organisation informing us on his background. In his ‘Imperial Spa‘ he‘s next to invincible. Bullet-proof glass, armoured doors and car. No chance to get at him without hurting innocent bystanders. And getting away with it is even less likely. No, Karlovy Vary is simply too good guarded. Even if you meet him on one of his afternoon trips to the Casino, you‘d be dead the moment you draw your gun. He seldom leaves his rooms on the top floor of his hotel at all, and when he does four bodyguards are constantly shielding him. No, there is no chance of success in that town.‘ Tanner was slowly shaking his head when giving this less than optimistic perspective.

‘But our source has shown us another possibility. As it happens, Zaitseff is frequently meeting with a couple of Serbian contacts, mostly from the army and from their nationalistic party. The meetings take place at a small isolated cottage of his in the north of Serbia near Misicevo. The cottage is an ordinary building not equipped with security installations.‘

While lecturing Tanner had unfolded a map of the region where Zaitseff’s house was situated some twelve miles from the town of Misicevo. Tanner pointed to the site and to two photographs of the house.

‘The next meeting is scheduled for Thursday evening. No attendant at this meeting will be considered an innocent bystander. They all are your targets. In fact, the chance to act against a possible Serbian escalation in the region on a larger scale is recognized. This enables you to use one of the small Russian anti-tank weapons. The Russian mob has on several occasions used an AT-7 ‘Saxhorn‘. We‘ve acquired one with two warheads that have been modified. With a single shot you‘ll be able now to destroy the whole building.‘

After this Tanner had gone into lengthy detail about the operation, briefing Bond as to where and when he was to pick up the weapon, how to approach Zaitseff’s house in the hills, from which point to fire the weapon, on what route to leave the region and so on. Bond had felt a little bit put off. There had seemed to be little more for him to do than to pull the trigger on the launcher.

‘I’d like to take a look at this Zaitseff’s backyard. Just to get a feeling what that man is like.’

Tanner almost immediately had shaken his head.

‘Not a good idea, James. Not a good idea at all. M will call it an unnecessary risk. And frankly, that’s just what I think it is. Better not.’

‘I just want to take a look. No risks, just a quick glance. Come on, Bill. Let me see for myself. I don’t want to spoil your operation, only get an idea about the men’s outfit. Maybe I can even learn some detail or other that comes in handy when I’m blowing this meeting in Serbia.’

And so Bill Tanner had reluctantly given his ok for Bond’s trip to Karlovy Vary.

Scent Of White Pepper

Bond had come in a hurry to Karlovy Vary last Monday. He’d taken an afternoon flight to Prague, had picked up a Volvo S 60 at Hertz and had turned west towards Karlovy Vary where he had arrived at a few minutes to five.

His secret hope had been to catch a glance at Zaitseff when he visited the Pupp Casino. So Bond had headed right to the town centre. But when he entered the Casino for the first time, there had been a chance to admire the Service’ detailed information on Zaitseff and his surroundings. The German had just left the Casino in a hurry, almost running to a grey Porsche and had sped towards the road to the German border.

Bond had known from the Zaitseff-file about this man: a German dentist from the town of Bamberg. He was a gambling addict for the past five years, in which time he’d lost close to half a million Euros. His addiction had resulted in the near break-up of his marriage. Forced by his wife to start a treatment he’d agreed the Christmas before last to let his name put on the black list, effectively banning him from all casinos in western Europe. But not from Karlovy Vary where he came to three times a week for the last four months. While his unsuspecting wife believed he’d overcome his addiction, he’d lost almost 200.000 Euros since discovering the Czech Republic as a place to gamble last February. The Porsche was leased and the house the couple was living in would soon belong to the bank again. All this information had been contained in the background section of Zaitseff’s file, making Bond suspect that the Service’ local source would be somebody connected to Zaitseff’s own security team.

But the past two days had revealed nothing else that was of any interest to him. Zaitseff didn’t show up in the Pupp Casino or one of the towns top restaurants. Bond was starting to lose his faith that he’d see him before tomorrow evening.

He just considered ordering a second Martini when one of the most erotic women he’d ever encountered passed him at the bar, ordering a champagne-cocktail with a husky voice. She was about 40 with dark brown hair cut to shoulders length, wearing a simple black dress that displayed her shoulders and cleavage most flatteringly. Her skin had a soft olive sheen to it that Bond couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to pass her through his fingertips. There was a seductive swelling to her breasts, her hips and her beautifully shaped behind that made Bond feel an almost painful sting of longing for this woman, something that rarely happened with this intensity to Bond. Every pore of her skin, every fold and valley on this beautiful body seemed to emit an air of raw erotic attraction together with the faintest idea of the scent of white pepper.

Bond had to make a conscious effort to pull himself away from this view. He stubbed out his cigarette and headed for the tables. If Zaitseff’s wife was here now, the man himself would not be far away.

Walking out of the bar he made a mental note to inform Tanner that the file on Zaitseff didn’t do justice to Zaitseff’s wife. Not at all.

A Loser’s Win

Bond immediately could see Zaitseff when he entered the main room of the Pupp Casino again. He was sitting towards the left at the Poker table the German was sitting at. Bond made for the Roulette table, choosing his seat so that he’d be able to see their table across his own. He placed a small stack of plaques in front of his place and started betting on even chances on every third ball, sitting out the rest of the time. This gave him opportunity to observe the events at the Poker table.

Zaitseff wore a cream coloured shirt without a tie under a dark grey suit, the whole ensemble from the immaculate fit obviously tailored to bespoke measure. His wavy hair seemed longer and sprinkled with the first strands of grey at the temples. The overall effect of his appearance was still well-kept and groomed. There was no trace of obscenely and tastelessly displayed wealth that is so often an indulgence with rich Russians nowadays. He seemed quiet and from time to time smiled rather amiably when the German addressed him.

And judging by the stack of chips in front of them, it seemed that the German had finally succeeded in changing his luck. Bond could not observe the details of the hands the men played, but from his point of view it seemed that the German was winning, and winning heavily. This made the German prattle and boast with his luck, making him even more confident and winning again and again, which in turn only spurred his stupid prattling. Yet Zaitseff seemed to take all this in generally good humour, a friendly smile on his Hollywood-like features.

All this went on for the best part of an hour and Bond was about to go when he heard a remark of the German aimed at Zaitseff after a considerably profitable hand about ‘such a lousy Poker player.’ as the German put it.

Bond glanced over. Zaitseff’s face remained its almost larger-than-life amiable smile but in his eyes Bond suddenly detected a tiny red spark. It looked as if the dentist had finally hit a nerve here.

Bond took a look at his watch. He decided that he had seen enough. There was nothing left to be learned for him by lingering in Zaitseff’s vicinity any longer. He had seen the man, felt the vibrations of his surroundings. Prolonging his stay any further would only serve to increase an already unnecessary risk.

Lazily he sauntered over to the huge double doors and left the casino. On his way up to the Bristol Bond briefly wondered if that German dentist had the good sense to realize what he himself had seen in Zaitseff’s look. Death had entered the Pupp Casino and its gaze had settled on the German.

Bond awoke at four in the morning. After a cold shower he dressed, packed his suitcase, checked out and was on the road to Prague by half past four. In the hills that surrounded the Tepla valley he came to the site of an accident. A car had crashed the railings and dropped about twenty metres into the ravine. A Police car was guarding the site, a fire engine pulled the car from the ravine. It was the German’s Porsche, burned out, an unrecognizable heap of burned and charred charcoal at the wheel.

At The House

James Bond sat in a small grass covered hollow about 350 feet from Zaitseff’s cottage-like house and observed the field. The house was built into the side of a small hill some ten meters above the driveway that lead to the house from the main road and that widened to a clearing at the foot of the steps leading to the doorway. The low white-washed building had a porch at the front that to the left side became a balcony, building a carport with a minor recess into the hillside.

The drive to Subotica had taken Bond almost ten hours. He had passed west of Prague, Brno and Budapest and had made for the border at Szeged. During the drive he’d stopped twice for a breakfast and fuel. At a deserted roadside parking space near Subotica he’d pulled in. There had been standing an old grey Suzuki SJ 410 with the ignition key lying in its exhaust. Bond had opened the car and had found a backpack. From it he had extracted a pair of dark brown trousers, a dark blue long sleeved shirt and an old pair of dark blue Lowa hiking boots. Bond had discarded his clothes, had put on the gear he’d found in the Suzuki and had packed his belongings into the Volvo. He had locked the Volvo and had placed the keys in its exhaust the same way he’d found the Suzuki’s. Then he’d driven on. Within twenty minutes the Volvo would have disappeared from the parking space.

Half an hour later he’d found the place in the woods he was supposed to leave the Suzuki at. He had shouldered the backpack, had locked the car and this time had pocketed the key in his trousers. The backpack hadn’t been very heavy and after ten minutes hiking through the afternoon sun he’d reached the small valley where Zaitseff’s retreat was located. His briefing in London had pointed him to the hollow he now sat in, the AT-7 on its small tripod beside him under a length of camouflage net, observing the surroundings through a compact monocular.

He was in place for the better part of two hours when a BMW came along the driveway. Alarmed by the noise of the engine the door of the house opened and a small fat man with long greasy hair appeared at the top of the stairs. This had to be the caretaker that was living on the premises.

The fat man was walking down the steps, broadly smiling and greeting the two men that had just arrived. Bond could hear their laughter in his hiding place. The newcomers seemed to be gunmen from Zaitseff’s organization, tough looking muscular men in jeans and t-shirts wearing their guns openly.

After some laughter and chatting the two opened the boot of the BMW and retrieved a girl, her arms and legs bound, her mouth gagged with some kind of broad tape. She was wildly struggling and the two thugs had to fight hard to keep her in check. The fat man was laughing out loudly and started to feel the girl up with his hands only to be stopped by one of the heavies. Bond thought he heard Zaitseff’s name, but he couldn’t be sure at this distance. At any rate all three fell into another fit of barking laughter, then they ascended the stairs to the house, the girl dragged between her two captors and the caretaker bringing up the rear, and disappeared inside.

Now, what the hell does that mean? Bond asked himself. The girl clearly wasn’t part of any kind of executive meeting that was scheduled for this evening. Was this some kind of private entertainment for the staff? Bond took a swig from a bottle of water. This damned heat. Well, there was not much he could do now, anyway. Maybe he’d find out later. If only the evening would bring a little relief from this heat!

Bond sat there for another two hours before the dusk was setting in. While it was getting slowly darker he observed another two cars arriving at the site. It were another BMW and a Mercedes G 4-WD. The BMW was driven by another pair of bodyguards while from the Mercedes there got out Zaitseff and his lieutenant, a German/Swede named Castorf that was his right hand since the days of the war in Bosnia.

All four men climbed the stairs and disappeared inside the house.

There was something wrong here, entirely wrong. By Bond’s watch the Serbian contacts should have arrived here almost an hour ago. But as far as he’d seen there were only Zaitseff and his men in the house. And the girl of course, something that hadn’t been mentioned in the briefing. And Zaitseff’s guards, while seemingly capable and alert, didn’t give the impression that a meeting of high ranking officials was about to take place here tonight. To the contrary they all seemed far too relaxed.
No, the intelligence on this evening’s occasion was wrong. The question was, deliberately or accidentally?

While Bond pondered this question, the lights in the house had come up and now the front door opened and the caretaker came down the steps together with two of the bodyguards. On the clearing below the house the two guards split up, one lazily going down the path that led to the road, the other sauntering to the left side of the house, lighting a cigarette and going on up the hills in the west. The little fat man stayed in front of the house, looking into the darkness but not giving the impression of a terribly alert man guarding something . Instead he seemed to be attracted by the one lighted basement window to the right of the house. He looked around, didn’t notice anything disturbing and slowly went closer to the light shining through the drawn blinds.

That was when the screams started.

It was the girl screaming. And the screams were horrible. Mingled into them were pleading appeals for mercy and heart rendering sobbing. Until a new round of screaming and squealing started.

Bond made up his mind. To hell with Tanner, M and the assignment. He’d surely not stay here and listen to this woman screaming herself to death. Whatever they did to her, whoever she was, she certainly wasn’t meant to be one of his targets tonight.

He opened his backpack and extracted a Makarov. With Tanner he had decided that for the sake of cover it would be better to use a Russian gun in case of emergency. He now cycled the slide as quietly as possible and put the gun into his waistband behind his right hip. If only he’d opted for the silenced PB version. But Bond didn’t trust the silencer and it was much bulkier than the regular version. So he’d have to make do with the only other weapon he’d brought with him, a tactical penknife of Chinese origin, obtainable at every market from Vladiwostock to Ostende and razor-sharp. He opened it and began his way towards the house.

Zdenko Marinkovic felt he led a happy life. Ever since Zaitseff had hired him to care for this little bungalow he’d been nothing but lucky. Zaitseff paid handsomely and his work was neither very much nor particularly difficult. For the most part his duties included keeping the house reasonably clean and in order, purchasing a few goods at the market in Misicevo and making sure the water supply and the power line to the house worked.

His boss usually showed up only once a month for one of his ‘special nights’ that normally made an extensive cleaning of the basement room necessary when Zaitseff and his entourage had departed again. But Zdenko didn’t mind cleaning up, to the contrary. And, best of all in this job, from time to time Zaitseff would reward him for his services by letting him take part in his pleasures at the basement. And, while that usually was at a stage that came with a considerable mess, Zdenko didn’t mind that either.

He surely hoped he’d be allowed to join in this evening. When they’d brought the bird this afternoon she had instantly attracted him. He felt this would surely be a night to remember. She was a real wildcat that one and it would be a lot of fun to see Zaitseff break her. The first screams then had confirmed what Zdenko had already suspected. Even listening in on the fun would be a treat. But silently he prayed to be able to do more than just listen tonight.

The mere thought made Zdenko’s excitement grow. Silently he inched his way to the right of the house where he hoped to catch a glimpse through the shutters into the brightly lit basement room. The screams had dropped in volume to an unintelligible blabber and sobbing but Zdenko knew this was only one of the early stages. His boss liked his fun to take its time.

Zdenko bent forward and peeked through the blinds when a hand locked around his jaw, the fingers digging deeply and painfully into his face, pulling his head back as much as the neck allowed. He couldn’t scream. His eyes looked at the stars, bulging. Then he felt the blow to his left kidney, a searing pain. Now he wanted to sob but couldn’t either. Something warm was dripping down his trousers. Another pain at his throat, more wetness. Then the stars faded into darkness.

Bond had been able to smell the fat man from almost ten meters, a sour intimidating mixture of old, greasy sweat , unwashed fat flesh dressed in the cheapest synthetic fibres for days, old garlic and Slivovic and the remains of a series of not very hygienic visits to the toilet. He’d felt the beard stubbles on the greasy skin of the fat chin when his hand had drawn the head back against his chest. The man had heaved backwards when his knife pierced his kidney, almost breaking Bond’s balance. The cut through the throat had stopped the heaving and now the body lay still at Bond’s feet. He hoped that the screaming from the basement had covered the little noise that had been unavoidable. He listened into the darkness but couldn’t make out any other sounds than the screaming hell that came from the window in front of him.

Killing the little fat man had not only decimated his potential opposition by one but also supplied him with a Heckler & Koch MP 5. Although not silenced it surely increased his chances of surviving this night . If he could use it to his advantage, meaning that he’d have to kill as many of his adversaries as possible with his first burst of fire, making the most of the element of surprise.

In the house there were four men left: Zaitseff, Castorf and two bodyguards. Outside there were two around. It probably all depended upon how the men in the house were distributed.

Bond was just about to peek into one of the lit windows when the blow hit him across his right temple and the lights went out.

In The Kitchen

Sounds. Darkness. More sounds. Voices. Can’t understand. Sickness. Have to throw up. Something across his face. Pain. In his head. In his limbs. Pain everywhere. Throw up again. Acid and sickening smell. Another pain. Please back to the darkness. Not the pain again. Not vomit again. Consciousness gradually coming back. Something is drawn from his head than the lights are there again. Blinding lights. Where was he?

He was sitting in a kitchen, strapped with clothes tape to a white plastic garden chair (the one that had been standing on the balcony?). His head and his left side hurt, but otherwise he seemed to be relatively unharmed. In front of him was a wooden table, behind that a gas hearth and a sink. On the table were lying the Makarov, the Suzuki keys and his knife.

Then it dawned on Bond. He was done for, they’d captured him. One of the t-shirt/jeans/MP5-bodyguards was there, this other man, German? Swede? Castorf was the name. And Zaitseff. Looking intently at him with this piercing grey eyes. This was absolutely the worst case.

The bodyguard and Castorf were already asking him in several languages, Russian, Serbo-Kroatian, German and some others Bond didn’t recognize, who he was and if he was alone. To help him understand and soften him up a little bit the guard was slapping his face. It hurt, but way inside his tolerance of pain and anyway Bond knew this was just the preliminaries to the real questioning.

Bond fought back the anger at himself, the regrets and the panic. Whatever happened now, he’d just have to take it. There was no other way. He briefly considered making up a story for Zaitseff but he sensed that this would make absolutely no difference. There was no chance that Zaitseff would end his questioning with anything less but Bond’s bleeding and broken carcass at his feet.

Behind Bond and to his left there opened a door and another guard entered the kitchen. He was carrying Bond’s backpack and the AT-7 launcher. So they had found his base now. From Castorf’s and Zaitseff’s reaction Bond could see that both recognized the Russian model. Castorf ordered the weapon to be brought to the car. Then he and Zaitseff exchanged a few sentences and Bond was sure they went through a list of potential mobsters that they suspected could be behind this operation. A small solace to Bond if he could manage to keep them on this false track.

Castorf’s face now had a concerned look to it. From what little Bond could understand of their conversation he tried in vain to talk Zaitseff into leaving the house and the region immediately. But Zaitseff was not so easily scared. With a confident smile he turned to Bond and for the first time addressed him. Had he recognized him from the Casino? But Bond didn’t detect any sign that Zaitseff had seen his face only 24 hours ago.

Zaitseff spoke to Bond in Russian. Quietly, softly, amiably. When Bond didn’t react, he tried German:

‘Wer immer du auch bist, sei versichert, du wirst reden. Nein, du wirst nicht nur reden, du wirst quieken!’

‘Whoever you are, be assured that you will talk. No, you will not only talk, you’ll squeal!’ in the same quiet, amiable and friendly tone.

When Bond gave no sign that he had understood this threat, Zaitseff ordered his left hand to be freed from the tape that bound his arms and legs to the chair. The guard took a steak knife from a board at the wall and cut the tape, then put down the knife and stretched out Bond’s left arm until it lay across the wooden table.

Bond tried to steel himself for what was to come. The fear was there again, making his heart beating like mad, the blood in his temples rushing , sweat breaking out all over his body and drenching his clothes. But Bond fought back the raising panic, his breath panting and his mind curled up into a tiny little point. He looked right into Zaitseff’s eyes.

Muttering quietly to himself Zaitseff picked up the knife his guard had used, weighting it, smiling. And suddenly the expression in Zaitseffs face changed and with a look of pure and unadulterated feral glee he raised the knife high above his head and in one swift hammer-blow nailed Bond’s left hand to the kitchen table.

Bond’s scream made the glass in the windows clatter.

Still In The Kitchen

Sven Castorf was one of Zaitseff’s closest confidents since the days they had been together in Bosnia and he saw himself as something of a friend to Zaitseff. But whenever he saw the look in Zaitseff’s face he had just witnessed now, he got a feeling of extreme embarrassment, an almost obscene intimacy, as if he’d watched his employer having sex (which he had on several occasions), and in these rare moments he wondered if it was even possible for a human to be the friend of this phenomenon that called itself Zaitseff.

After the scream the man had passed out, his upper body halfway across the table, his left hand firmly nailed with the knife to the tabletop. Castorf was extremely concerned that the scream had alarmed possible accomplices of this man.

‘Slava, let’s get out of here right now. If there are others somewhere out there they surely have heard him scream. They may try to free him now.’

But Castorf could already see that his employer didn’t want to renounce his fun.

‘Sven, if there really are others, which I doubt, they will either show up soon or do the sensible thing and flee as long as they still have the chance to. Don’t be afraid, this man is alone or we wouldn’t have found the launcher. Take the others and search the surroundings if you feel better about it. Just leave me Dusan here.’

He turned to the man at the stove and ordered him
‘Dusan, put on a pot of oil and let it simmer. I feel I may need it for my guest in the basement. And for this pig here.’

And with a last look at Bond and his bleeding hand on the table he turned around and headed for the basement room.

Castorf had no other option than to do as he’d been ordered and left the house.

When Bond came to again with a groan, he felt a strong urge to vomit. Only the fact that his stomach contained nothing more than a few drops of bile prevented him from throwing up. His entire left side seemed to be on fire, an almost unbearable pain tearing through his arm, shoulder and chest right to his heart. It was excruciating, nothing less.

Bond felt that his strength was leaving him quickly with every drop of blood that seeped from his abused hand. If he didn’t find a way out of this terrible mess within the next few minutes he’d not have anything left to face Zaitseff again. And if he had to die, at least he wanted to die on his own terms, not as a broken and torn piece of mindless flesh that this sadistic bastard could toy with till he’d satisfied his perverse hunger for inflicting pain.

His nailed hand was already swelling up, the pain increasing with every beat of his heart. But as Bond looked closer he saw that the knife had stabbed the back of his hand between the third and fourth finger quite close to the base of the fingers. Was it possible for him to pull his hand from the knife? The blade’s sharp edge was towards his fingertips. If he could bring himself to pull his hand straight away from the table, maybe he could get enough momentum for the blade to cut the skin and free his hand? It would surely hurt like hell but maybe, just maybe he could do it. Oh damn, just let him muster enough strength once more.

Bond looked across the table where Dusan was preparing a pot with oil. The man sensed his glance and
chuckled happily. He made cutting motions with his right hand, pantomiming a knife cutting Bond’s fingers. Them he made as if feeding Bond the cut pieces and smacked his lips to his pantomime, enjoying Bond‘s repelled look. Then he concentrated again on his task.

The pot was only halfway filled with oil and Dusan knew that his chief would most likely call for more. So Dusan made for the pantry to fetch some more oil.
Bond sensed this was his only chance . His body cramped together, expecting the pain and trying to cope with it as best as possible. Then Bond slowly pulled backwards away from the cutting edge of the steak knife, his hand and arm on fire, feeling the strain tearing in his chest.

The pain was terrible, but his hand moved hardly a millimetre. He’d have to push harder!

Bond clenched his teeth together, closed his eyes and prepared himself for what was to come. With a lurch backwards he pulled with all the force he could muster at his nailed hand. His skin made a horrible noise when his hand suddenly came free of the knife. Panting with clenched teeth, his head shaking, sweat burning in his eyes he held his hand against his chest and hoped to regain at least a little bit of his strength. He could hear the guard rummaging somewhere in the back of the house.

What now? He had a free hand that was so swollen and bleeding and had left so little feeling in its fingers that it wasn’t much use to him. But Bond could see that the steak knife was sticking in the wood only with its very tip, probably just a few millimetres. He stretched his arm and pushed with the inside of his forearm. And really, it came free, landing on his forearm. Bond pulled it to his chest and managed to grip it clumsily with his injured left hand.

Quietly hissing with pain, he sawed at the tape holding his right hand. Twice the knife’s handle, slippery with Bond’s blood, fell from the weak grip of his cramped fingers, but Bond managed to pick it up again. When he finally had freed his right arm he was drenched in sweat, blood all over his arms and shirt, but he could take the knife with his right hand.

And suddenly the guard was there again.

The man held some bottles (oil?) close to his chest and went to the hearth. There was already a strong smell of burned oil in the air and the pot in which it was simmering was heavily smoking. He put down the bottles next to the stove and made for opening the first one when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned around to the man on the chair, bending over the table. And with a shock realized the man was no longer nailed to the table. His eyes searched for the knife when Bond lurched forward and shoved the blade into the guards face with all his remaining strength.

The ensuing scream was no less horrible than Bond’s had been. Dusan was clutching at the knife that pierced his left cheek, upper jaw and left eyeball. He frantically danced around the kitchen like a dervish, toppling over kitchen furniture and bouncing from wall to wall, blind with pain and rage.

Bond had not been ready for a fight when the guard had reappeared (Christ, would he ever again be ready?). His legs were both still bound with tape to the chair and now he had to tear at this tape with his bare fingers. At any moment Zaitseff or his men could be back and give him the rest.

Finally Bond succeeded and his legs were both free from the chair. He stood up and grabbed the Suzuki keys from the table, put them in his pocket and snatched the Makarov. At this moment Dusan tumbled against Bond’s left arm and a thunderstorm of pain exploded in his side, sending Bond falling across the room and landing right by the hearth, the smoking pot of oil perilously balancing on the stove’s edge from the impact, sending droplets of steaming oil to the floor.

Bond’s right foot kicked out in reflex, sending the pot flying across the room, spilling most of its contents into the face of the madly screaming and growling guard. Dusan was already crazy with pain. When the oil hit his face and he inhaled some of it, the shock nearly killed him. The blistering tissue of his wind pipe choked his howling to a muffled gurgle. His feet slipped on the puddles of oil and blood that covered the floor, sending him face first to the ground, pushing the knife in his face through the left eyeball and into his brain, ending his pain and misery with a blaze of light behind his eyelids .

With only three men left at his disposal, Castorf knew he wouldn’t be able to properly search the surroundings and he didn‘t like that. But he was also inclined to believe what Zaitseff had said. Chances were the guy was alone or his men wouldn‘t have found his belongings.

Still, Castorf wasn’t a stupid man and he intended to guard the houses surroundings as best as possible under the circumstances. He was just about to divide his men when the screaming from the house resumed. A man’s screaming.

And then it dawned on him that this man was Dusan!

His men had recognized the voice in the same instant and were about to storm to the stairs with their MP’s ready.

‘Stay here you fools. Behind the car! Right now!’

‘But…’

‘Take cover here! We don’t know what the situation is up there. Nobody shoots till we get a clear target. If one of you hit’s the boss I’ll have his balls.’ And in an afterthought ‘One of you get that launcher ready.’

Castorf could see what looked like shadows fighting behind the lit kitchen window. Dusan’s shrill screaming became a gargle, then seemed to stop. There had to be another attacker. A single man, bound to a chair and pinned with a knife could never put up such a fight. What the hell was happening in there? Now the light in the kitchen went out. He had to get Zaitseff out of this trap right now.

‘Slava! Slava, do you hear me? Get out there! Use the window, quick!’ Castorf called out.

Relieved he saw that Zaitseff pulled back the blinds from the basement window and opened it. He climbed from the window and crouched at the right wall. Then he ducked low and ran to their cover.

Bond heard voices from outside. His right hand aimed the Makarov at the door while he tried to locate the light switch. He found it at the back of the kitchen and switched off the light. One of the voices outside seemed to belong to Castorf, now urgently calling out Zaitseff‘s name. He obviously didn’t dare to enter the house. And didn’t dare to shoot into the house for fear that he’d hit his boss. Bond made for the windows, glancing sideways at the clearing in front of the house.

Sure enough, faintly illuminated by the light from the basement, there were Castorf and his three remaining thugs. They crouched behind one of the BMW’s. And Bond could see the AT-7 standing atop the boot, trained at the house.

Castorf was motioning at somebody to the left and a little below Bond’s field of vision. Did they intend a raid? No, there was Zaitseff, running to his men. Must have left through the basement window. Now the Russian was also crouching behind the BMW, urgently gesticulating. He bellowed something to Castorf. who looked through the launchers sights and made for the fire button. Bond turned around and dived below the table.

The next moment a ball of fire swallowed the car, the men and everything within a radius of fifteen meters, tearing, burning and destroying every living thing.

After the blast of the explosion there was silence. Only gradually the crackling of the fire outside filled the void. Bond climbed from under the table. All the windows had been shattered, the door blown from its hinges, showers of broken glass and smouldering debris covering the kitchen floor. Bond held the key of his Suzuki in his hand, containing the little remote detonator for the launcher‘s warheads. The original plan had been that Bond destroyed his launcher with the second warhead after he had succeeded blowing up the building. It had just saved his life in time now.

Bond picked up the role of tape from the floor and started patching up his left hand. When he was satisfied with the result he drew the Makarov again and headed for the basement.

What he saw there was indescribable.

And he came too late.

Then he left the house and looked for some kind of transport. The one BMW was a charred wreck. But the second and the Mercedes seemed to be ok. Only he couldn’t find keys. He decided that the most likely place for the keys would be the pockets of Zaitseff’s lieutenant. So he walked over and began his search. The stench was overwhelming. Burned pork, chemical toilet and hot metal. Finally he found some keys, their plastic handle melted away by the heat of the explosion. By trial and error he established it was the key to the Mercedes.

Then he left the site.

At The Imperial Spa

After sending his massage to Zaitseff’s widow Bond ordered a Martini at the bar and lit a Sheperd’s Hotel. His left hand was still itching under the dressing, but would be operational again in a few weeks. The doctor had said no severe harm had been done.

Five minutes later Bond received a massage from the main desk, informing him that Mrs Zaitseff would be delighted to invite him to her rooms at the top floor. A private lift brought him to her floor, a discreet bodyguard searched him with a metal detector and then he was face to face with the woman whose face and body had been part of his dreams for the past week. And now that he was so close to her he felt that her attraction hadn’t diminished since he had first seen her a week ago.

‘Why did you contact me? Where is my usual contact?’

Concern was in her voice. Concern and fear.

‘Don’t be afraid Mrs Zaitseff. I just wanted to express my condolences to your recent loss. I was very close to your husband. At least at the moment he died.’

There was grief in her face. Real grief, as far as Bond could judge. For herself? She looked down and pain showed in her features.

‘I just want you to understand that I have seen what your husband was able to do. And that I understand why you had to find a way to free yourself. Even if it meant to feed us with false information.’

Suddenly she looked up, a different expression in her eyes.

‘You understand? You understand what? What is it that you understand? Do you know what it was like for me to know that my husband betrayed me every month with his whores from one of his brothels? Can you imagine how I have felt while he enjoyed himself with these cheap prostitutes? Can you understand that? And afterwards show me his adventures here, in our very home. While I would have gladly given him everything he ever needed?’

There was an edge in her voice now, growing anger in her features.

Christ, did she mean this? He had seen a video camera in that basement. Had Zaitseff shown his wife what he had done to the women in that room?

‘Mrs Zaitseff, from what I’ve seen I doubt that you would have liked to be in the place of these women.’ Bond said noncommittally.

‘You doubt. So I’ll have to show you.’

And with that she undid the buttons of her white blouse. Underneath she wore a white brassiere. Bond immediately felt the desire for this woman’s body again. Her skin was a temptation, her faint smell of white pepper an erotic assault. Then she undid the brassiere.

Her left nipple was gone. Across both breasts there were the thin white scars of the knife Zaitseff had marked her with.

‘I’d have gladly gone all the way for my husband. But he didn’t want me to. Instead he preferred those bitches he cut with his instruments behind my back. I had to do something about it. And now you understand.’

While she was talking she had undone her skirt, letting it fall around her ankles. Underneath she wore white silk panties. Through the flimsy lingerie shone the suggestion of engorged flesh. Across her peachy tummy there ran razor-thin white scars, all heading towards a point in her crotch, covered by her slip.

‘Do you want to see more? See, how far I’ve gone already for my husband? With my husband?’

Suddenly the stench of the little house was back again. Blood, burned flesh. And those other smells.

‘No, thank you Mrs Zaitseff. I don’t want to see any more. Just see to it that you never again use the Secret Service for a divorce.’

When Bond left Karlovy Vary the first rumble of an approaching thunderstorm could be heard.