Solo

as a pet.’
    ‘I know it’s a gecko,’ she said. ‘But it’s also a lizard and I have a bit of a phobia about lizards, I’m afraid.’
    Bond took a wooden coat-hanger out of the cupboard and a towel that was hanging from a hook by her jug and ewer stand. With the end of the hanger he flipped the gecko off the wall, catching it in the towel and balling the material gently around it. He stepped out on to the balcony and let the gecko scuttle off into the night.
    ‘A lizard-free zone,’ Bond said, closing the balcony doors behind him. Blessing stood by her bed, the angle of the bedside light and the shadows it cast revealing the shape of her small uptilted breasts under her T-shirt. Bond knew what was going to happen next and everything about Blessing’s expression confirmed that she did, also.
    He crossed the room to her.
    ‘Thank you, James Bond,’ she said. ‘Licensed to catch lizards.’
    Bond took her in his arms and kissed her gently, feeling her tongue flicker into his mouth.
    ‘As station head in Zanzarim it’s important I get to know visiting agents,’ she said and slipped her T-shirt off. She let Bond take in her nakedness for an instant and then lifted the mosquito net and slid into bed. Bond shucked off his shirt and trousers and climbed in beside her. He pulled her body against his and kissed her neck and breasts. She was tiny and lithe in his arms, her dark nipples perfectly round, like coins.
    He looked into her eyes.
    ‘Ah, the old lizard trick,’ he said.
    ‘A girl can only work with the materials at hand.’
    ‘I’m going to miss you in Dahum, Blessing Ogilvy-Grant,’ he said, as he rolled on top of her and felt her knees part and lift to accommodate him. ‘Expect to see me back in Sinsikrou before you know it.’
    ‘I can’t wait.’
     
    After they had made love – with an urgency and physicality that surprised them both – Bond fetched his bottle of whisky from his room. They lay naked on the top of the bed, drinking and smoking, talking softly and reaching out to touch each other until they arrived at a new pitch of arousal and they made love again, this time more deliberately and knowingly, prolonging their climaxes with all the expertise of familiar lovers. Afterwards, Bond lay still while Blessing fell asleep, curled at his side, his arm round her narrow shoulders, her arm thrown across his chest. The regular whirr of the ceiling fan blanked out all other noises and, for a moment, before sleep overtook him, Bond allowed himself to float on a sea of simple sensuality, spent and happy, the warmth of a beautiful young woman beside him, giving no thought at all about what might await him tomorrow.

·8·
     

THE MAN WITH TWO FACES
     
    Bond flinched and woke, thinking Blessing’s elbow had moved and was digging into his throat. But whatever was causing the pressure was cold and hard. Bond gagged reflexively and opened his eyes. The man’s face that loomed above him in the darkness was zigzagged with olive-green camouflage paint. The gun pressing hard into Bond’s windpipe made it impossible to speak.
    ‘Don’t try to say anything, big boy.’
    Bond sensed other hands reach in beneath the mosquito net and grab Blessing. She managed a half-cry before she was stifled and dragged out of bed. The light went on.
    ‘Get up.’ The mosquito net was flipped aside.
    Bond sat up slowly, rubbing his throat.
    Blessing stood in shock, head bowed, shivering, arm across her breasts, a hand covering her groin. Six soldiers in camouflage uniform in mottled greens and greys and brown stood in the room – they looked like giants facing her, bulked out with their packs and ammunition. Five of them were black. The man with the automatic pistol – a big Colt 1911, Bond noticed – was white.
    ‘Move, sonny,’ the white man said. The accent wasn’t precisely English – more like East African or South African, Bond thought. Bond stood up and went to Blessing, putting his arm around her and making no attempt to conceal his nakedness.
    ‘Aw, Adam and Eve,’ the white man said.
    The other soldiers chuckled, enjoying the show, covering Bond with their Kalashnikovs. Bond noticed that sewn on their shoulders were small flags – a rectangle halved horizontally, black and white, and in the upper white band was a red disc. The flag of the Democratic Republic of Dahum.
    ‘Look, I’m a British journalist,’ Bond said. ‘She’s my translator.’
    ‘British special forces, more like,’