Christopher Wood - The Spy Who Loved Me

‘Mr Kalba?’

The man did not look directly at Bond but walked round the table and took the chalk from one of the girls. He was wearing an over-padded dinner-jacket that looked like armour- plating and his short, fat fingers glittered with diamonds. They were not, thought Bond, hands that deserved any ornament, let alone anything so vulgarly meretricious. The face with its narrow, wary eyes and Mr Punch nose was cruel and swarthy and the flesh scuffed and pock-marked like the outside of a much-played golf ball. Despite its limitation as a work of art the face commanded respect. It was arrogant, perhaps too arrogant for its own good, and ruthless in a way that suggested it had found being ruthless pays.

‘Who wants him?’

The man did not wait for an answer to his question but handed back the chalk and leaned over the table. The cue came back swiftly and decisively and then shot forward. It was a difficult shot. The cue ball played flat and hard without spin to kiss the red and then come back with sufficient momentum off the end cushion to touch the side of the table and then drift back endlessly towards the lonely white ball six inches from the near cushion. Kalba took his eye off the cue ball when it was half way down the table on its return journey and reached for his cigar. He did not need to look. He knew the ball was going to find its target.

‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’

‘What of it?’ The reply was contemptuous and Kalba prepared to play another shot. The expression on the girls’ faces was now one of disapproval.

‘You had an appointment with Mr Fekkesh.’

The silence in the room had the sharp edge of tension. Kalba stopped in his preparation and straightened up. He faced Bond and for the first time looked directly into his eyes. Bond felt as if the man was prising away flesh and bone to get inside his brain. ‘Well?’ The word was a pistol shot.

‘You won't be seeing him for some time.'

‘What do you mean?5 Kalba’s hand tightened round the cue. ‘He’s dead.*

Kalba turned to the girls and jerked his head towards the door. Without demur they started to file out, leaving behind the chalk and the cigar. ‘Why do you bring me this news?’ ‘Because I believe you have something to sell, and I’m interested in buying.’

‘And so am I.’

Bond spun round to find Anya standing behind him. His heart sank. Blast the woman! He didn’t seem to be able to make a move without her dogging his footsteps. Was she alone or were there two more goons waiting outside the door?

Kalba looked from one face to the other. ‘Well, well. How interesting. It is obvious that you two are not colleagues. I suppose some kind of auction would be the most sensible way in which to proceed.’ The old arrogance had returned. In another moment he would start playing billiards again. ‘I wonder if you will be able to match this lady’s figure, Mr Bond.’

Kalba was enjoying his joke when the door opened. Bond tensed for action but it was one of the club servants. He looked at Bond and Anya suspiciously before turning to Kalba. ‘Sir, you are required urgently on the telephone.’

Kalba’s face showed irritation. ‘Have it transferred here, you fool! ’

‘Sir, that is impossible. The call has come through on the outside line in the telephone room.’

Kalba sucked in his breath and turned to Bond and Anya. ‘Perhaps a welcome respite. It will give you time to discuss your opening bids.’

Kalba smiled. ‘Oh yes. There’s something to bid for all right/ His mole hand burrowed into an inside pocket and emerged with a small metal canister. ‘I keep it here. Close to my heart.’ Kalba opened his jacket to reveal the Browning strapped beneath his left armpit. He showed his teeth once more and dropped the canister back into his pocket. Bond debated whether to make a lightning attack and decidcd against it. With Kalba by himself he would have stood a chance but the henchman was watching him like a hawk and had a menacing bulge beneath his armpit which was probably not caused by weight-training. He stood to one side deferentially and Kalba left the room. The door closed. Bond turned and looked purposefully into Anya’s challenging blue eyes. ‘Now tell me. Just what is happening?’

Max Kalba did not rub his hands together as he walked briskly towards the telephone-room but anyone watching his progress would have been able to tell that he was pleased. And why not? Two rich customers had arrived in person to do business and their rivalry could only force up the price of the merchandise. Whichever of them had put paid to Fekkesh had only saved him the trouble of performing an act which would have to have been done sooner or later. It was not just a question of the money. There was going to be more than enough even for him. It was making sure that Stromberg never caught up with him. When he changed his face and went to live in South America he did not want to leave anyone who would be in a position to betray him. Even the source of all the wealth to come, Stromberg’s beautiful but treacherous assistant, was going to get a nasty surprise when the time came for her suddenly to leave her employer and fly to join him. Kalba smiled grimly and pushed open the door of the telephone-room.

A repairman in a khaki overall was squatting with his back to the door; Kalba glimpsed an open tin box containing tools. He moved towards the booth in which the receiver was dangling. It was only as he was passing the man that he suddenly felt the room growing cold. It was as if he had stepped into a refrigerator. But the cold was not in the air. It was in his instinctive presentiment of danger. He started to turn but his hand never got further than the inside of the jacket. Huge fingers closed about the base of his neck and propelled him forward into the box until his face slammed with sickening force against the far wall. He felt his nose break with the impact and his mouth filled with blood. Still the hand did not release its grip but turned his head with a wrench that nearly tore it from its socket. The enormous lumpish face was an inch away. Greaseballs of sweat glistened from the honeycomb of open pores. The tiny pig eyes glinted evilly. Kalba tried to scream but no sound came.

Jaws thrust him back into the corner and bared his teeth.

A Clash of Personalities

Bond looked down into the beautiful blue eyes staring up at him brazenly. Could she be telling the truth? The Russians did not own the tracking system. They had responded to the same invitation to do business as the British. That would explain why they had thought he killed Fekkesh. And if the defector was not Russian he must have been working for someone else. Someone else who had developed the tracking system. Someone else who was now working with ruthless determination to recover his property. And the big animal with the teeth. He must be working for them. He had eliminated Fekkesh, and now who was next in line? Bond immediately felt uneasy. Kalba’s telephone call was taking a long time. He nodded to Anya. ‘You will have to excuse me for a few moments. Don’t start negotiations without me.’

He left the room under her scornful gaze and strode towards the telephone with a sense of impending disaster. Dark almond eyes in the bar darted towards him longingly but he was unaware of their attention. He crossed the entrance-hall and threw open the door of the telephone-room. A window was open and a curtain stirring in the breeze. One booth was open and empty. One shut with an ‘Out of order’ notice on it. With a terrible foreboding, Bond opened the door and a bloodstained heap of still-warm flesh crumpled at his feet. He looked down at the gaping neck and again fought a desire to be sick. He was no stranger to death, but this was an obscenity. Conquering his loathing he dropped to his knees and turned the body over. A quick search revealed that the microfilm and the Browning had gone.