John Gardner - Seafire

Whenever he arrived at Ben Gurion International, Bond felt the same paradoxical sensation. Around him couples greeted each other with kisses, hugs, and even tears. These were people returning to the homeland, and they emanated a huge sense of joy. Yet mixed with the joy there was always a feeling of danger. Every time he flew into this part of the world he felt it like a dark cloud around him, and saw it in the faces of the soldiers and police on duty at the airport. It epitomized the way this tiny country had clung like a lion to the small strip of land it called its own, the homeland, the hope, Israel.

"James." The familiar figure of Pete Natkowitz – that most un-Israeli-looking of men – came striding from the crowd waiting for passengers on the El Al flight from London's Heathrow. "James, it's good to see you." He embraced Bond like a long-lost brother, then turned to Flicka.

"And you must be the famous 'Fearless Flicka.'" Natkowitz gave her a beaming, all-embracing, and infectious grin.

"Who in heaven calls me 'Fearless Flicka'?" She looked genuinely baffled.

"James's old boss. Called you that over the telephone to me. Mind you, it was a secure line."

He led them outside where a car waited to take them into Jerusalem.

"I hope the King David's okay for you, James." Natkowitz had an unfortunate habit of driving as though the traffic would take care of itself, for he constantly took his eyes off the road, even turned right around in his seat while traveling at speed.

"Still as noisy as ever, I presume?"

"Terrible, but if you build a hotel in the middle of Jerusalem, what can you expect? You've stayed at the King David, Flicka?"

"I haven't had that pleasure."

"Oh, then you're in for a treat. It's faded Victorian England at its best. Well, perhaps not at its best, because it's a sort of mixture – Victorian elegance with a blend of the Orient. The pool and Oriental gardens make me forget I'm in the middle of a city as old as Jerusalem. Nothing fazes them, either. I sometimes think the staff all imagine they're still living under the British Mandate." He launched into the old story, perfectly true, that while the war of independence was at its height a telephoned bomb threat to the King David was taken with typical British sangfroid – with disastrous results. They simply did not see it fitting to warn guests or take any precautions, but simply waited for the blast, which, when it came, did a great deal of damage and killed dozens of people.

Pete waited in the lobby as they were taken up to their room. Together they went into the famous Regency Grill, where they could have been eating in the heart of London – the menu was more British than most of the hotel restaurants in the capital of the U.K., but by the same token it also included the best of Jewish food.

They talked like any old friends meeting for the first time in a couple of years, and Pete Natkowitz made certain that Flicka was not left out. It was not until they were about to leave that Pete said quietly, "She's in suite 510. I can provide any help you might need, if she wants to go back to London with you. A very beautiful lady, and her companions are equally exciting."

"Companions?" Bond queried.

"Couple of girls she's traveling with. They seem to be very close, but they're a pair of stunners."

Natkowitz gave Flicka his charming smile, and a promise to call them in the morning.

"I think we should try her straightaway." Bond explained that, with the limited time they had available, it might be best to see what Lady Tarn could add to the information they already had in their possession. "If she feels under any threat from Max, she might like to know that she has our support."

Flicka simply grunted as they got into the lift, and Bond stood back to let two young women – a blonde and a brunette – into the cage. As the doors closed, he took a quick look in the direction of the two girls; there was something inexplicably familiar about them. They were dressed in a similar manner in stylishly designed pant suits, one in gray, the other scarlet, and both with white silk shirts. It was only when they all walked out of the lift on the fifth floor that he saw the bandaged hand on the blonde.

At the same moment, the brunette spoke in a low, husky voice. "How nice to see you, Mr. Bond. We thought we'd never meet again."

"But we have," the blonde added. "And with the lovely Flicka as well."

Flicka's mouth dropped open as the truth hit her.

"It's really us," said Cuthbert.

"In the flesh and in our true personas. You didn't even guess that we were girls, did you? I'm Anna – my proper name as well – and this is Cathy. We presume you've come to visit our boss, Trish Nuzzi. Well, just step this way. She's going to be so excited."

"Almost as excited as us," chimed Cathy. "We've all been absolutely dying to see you again, haven't we, Anna?"

"Going out of our minds." Anna gave a tinkling little giggle.

"Just wait while I open the door." Cathy, in her new role, slid the oblong plastic security key into its slot, waited until the light changed from red to green, then opened the door to 510, walked in, and called,

"Trish, we're back, and we've brought some nice old playmates to see you."

Anna came in behind them, closing the door, calling, "Trish, where are you? We've got a lovely surprise."

She came out of the bathroom, and even the usually sanguine Flicka gave an audible gasp. They had both seen many photographs of Trish Nuzzi's dazzling face and figure – indeed, who had not? – from the days when she was a top model before her marriage to Sir Max Tarn. To see this gorgeous creature in the flesh was a different matter altogether, as both Bond and Flicka could affirm from Cambridge.

She wore a silver evening minidress with a diamond choker, but at first sight all they took in were the famous legs, long and incredible, reaching up forever and a day, for she was around six feet tall, Though enviously slim, she was beautifully proportioned, with a nut-brown tan, and that other great attribute, the thick long black hair that had been a trademark in the old days.

Then they saw her face.

What had once been called both elfin and gamine by a hundred fashion journalists must still have been there under the livid bruises, and the obviously broken nose, for it was as though someone had used her features as a punching bag. When she spoke, there were traces of nasality, and a slight tremor.

"So?" She glanced from Anna to Cathy and back again, not even trying to meet Bond's or Flicka's eyes.

"This is the Mr. Bond, and Fredericka von Grüsse. We told you about them. They're friends. In fact, I think Mr. Bond's probably a knight in shining armor."

Trish gave a kind of lopsided smile. "Mr. Bond I have already met and talked with. Fräulein von Grüsse I've only seen from a distance. It's nice to see you again, Mr. Bond, and good to meet you…" She nodded in Flicka's direction. "Forgive my state of physical dishabille, and please call me Trish."

"You've talked to…?" Anna began, then lapsed into silence.

"Just a minute." Bond had stepped over to Anna, his hand taking her undamaged wrist, gripping like a steel trap. "The last time I saw you – dressed as a very unpleasant thug – you were arguing with this lady's husband outside Hall's Manor. You wanted to come up to the room in which you'd left Fräulein von Grüsse and myself. You were very clear about your intentions. You wanted to come up to finish us off. You made bizarre men, the pair of you, and I do prefer you as women – if that's what you are?"

"Of course we're women," Cathy almost spat at him. "We did the other thing for Trish here."

"Including trying to kill us?"