Ian Fleming's James Bond

"So, they were able to escape from Vietnam in 1997", Bond said, while continuing to read from the file. "It says here that Nikki stayed on that island for a year, during which time, her father died of cancer." He closed his eyes. Poor girl, he thought. She must have been very close to her father, having been raised by only him for over a dozen years. To lose him when they had finally escaped from their communist country and were just about to start a new and better life must have been devastating to her.

He resumed reading, and his eyes widened in surprise. The file, which had been very detailed, contained only a couple of sentences covering the next three years of Nikki's life. It stated that she was taken off the island in the middle of 1998 by a famous psychiatrist named Mikael Geffen, who acted as her sponsor and brought her to Stuttgart, Germany. After that, there was nothing, until the next entry dated April 2001, which said that Nikki entered the highly regarded Chopin International Piano Competition and won it, an accomplishment that was described as "one of the biggest surprises in the history of the Competition", since almost nobody in the classical music world had heard of her before then. The win catapulted her into international stardom almost overnight, bringing with it recording contracts, and offers to play with some of the most well-known orchestras around the world.

"What happened to her between 1998 and 2001? It seemed like she just vanished off the face of the earth after getting to Germany." Bond questioned Heather, who shrugged her shoulders and replied: "Sorry, James. I did as much digging as I could, but came up with nothing for those three years. She virtually went underground and stayed there. Geffen probably had her holed up somewhere, practicing day and night for the Competition in 2001."

Bond didn't quite accept that explanation, but there was nothing he could do at the moment. He read on, and something immediately struck him as odd. The file said that during the next two years, besides achieving more and more success with her concerts around the world, and her recordings, she was also seen dating several high-profile men, including a record producer, and a handsome, young opera singer. Somehow, the conservative, introverted young woman that left Vietnam had been transformed into a jet-setting celebrity who didn't shy away from highly scrutinized and publicized love affairs.

"Something did happen to her during that time," Bond thought out loud. "Something with a profound impact that radically changed her personality. A wallflower suddenly turned into a party animal."

"Look, James, are you over-analyzing the facts just a little bit? Maybe the new freedom that Nikki had gained by escaping to Germany allowed her to let her true nature, which she had to keep repressing while in Vietnam, come out."

"I did consider that, and while it may partly explain some of the changes in her behavior, the overall transformation is just too drastic, and I believe there were some other, less benign, factors at work in creating the new diva persona."

"OK, James, you're the expert." Heather threw up her hands in mock surrender. "However, we are not here to psychoanalyze Ms Le. In fact, what we have to do is much less subtle than that. She killed Eric Houghton, and consequently, your job is to eliminate her, and my job is to help you. Therefore, I have arranged for you to meet her tomorrow night, after her concert at the Center of Performance Arts."

"I'm impressed, Heather." Bond paid her a sincere compliment. "You are efficiency personified. What will be my cover?"

"You will be John Keys, a journalist working for the Modern Classics, a very well-known English magazine covering classical music. Your assignment is to try to obtain an exclusive interview with Ms. Le on behalf of the magazine. This interview will give you the chance to have some one-on-one time with her, during which you can carry out the hit. Is there any question?"

Bond shook his head. He said nothing, but deep inside, he detested what he would soon have to do in the service of his Country. This kind of work was what he hated the most in his role as a Double-O, but it came with the territory of being "Her Majesty's loyal terrier".

"Oh, one more thing, James. I will have to place this device here (Heather showed him a small, flat metal disk with a suction cup) on your chest. It will allow me to hear what's going on. Also, I will give you an earpiece, which will fit very nicely inside your ear, and will be totally undetectable. That way, I can communicate with you at all times. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like I will be on an electronic leash," Bond replied, without humor.

             *****************************************************

The corridor outside Nikki Le's dressing room was already filled with reporters from the local TV stations, newspapers, as well as writers from international entertainment and classical music magazines. Bond made his way up to the front of the pack, and positioned himself so that he would be among the first people Nikki would see when she emerged from the room. He glanced around at the expectant, excited faces of the members of the media, and realized that the cognoscenti of classical music, though admittedly much smaller in number than rock music fans, were just as passionate worshipers of their kind of music and its performers. Among these people, Nikki Le was as big a celebrity as the biggest pop and rock divas were to their fans. Nikki's talents as a pianist certainly played a major part in making her a superstar in her world, but frankly, her beauty, joie de vivre, and her romantic dalliances also contributed greatly to her celebrity status.
 
At that moment, the door to the dressing room opened, and Nikki stepped out. She had changed out of her concert clothes and into a sexy black dress that displayed her slim, well-proportioned body to its best advantage. The dress came down to only mid-thigh level, showing Nikki's shapely legs, and on top, it left her delicate shoulders and slender, graceful neck bare. Nikki smiled, and patiently posed for the photographers, who yelled: "Nikki, over here!", and "Give us a smile!", as they furiously clicked away with their cameras.

Then, the questions started coming. A young man, wearing thick, gold-rimmed glasses and a frumpy grey suit, shouted out: "Nikki, there is a rumor going around that you are having a romantic liaison with the younger brother of the Sultan of Brunei. Is this true?"

Nikki laughed, "Absolutely not. Where on earth did you get that story from?"

Another reporter asked: "So who are you dating right now?"

Nikki frowned at him: "It's none of your business."

Several questions arose, some of them of a highly personal nature, and none about Nikki's concert performance. She answered brusquely, growing more and more frustrated with each question. Then, Bond raised his hand.

"Ms. Le, for the last twelve bars of the Third Movement of the Concerto, you decided to play the left-hand part in a staccato style rather than legato. Why?"

Nikki turned to look at Bond, first with surprise, and then interest, showing in her green eyes. She smiled at him.

"Now, that's the best question I've heard in quite a while. I see that you don't have a name tag, Mr. ...?"

"Keys, John Keys. I'm with the Modern Classics magazine."

"A writer for a music magazine with the last name Keys. How apropos. Well, to answer your question, I know that most pianists play that section legato, but I've always felt that playing it staccato gives it some extra punch and an element of surprise. This also allows me to bring some individuality into my interpretation, while not contradicting the composer's intentions, since the score never specifies that those bars can't be played staccato. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes. I have another question, if you don't mind?"

"Oh?", Nikki raised her eyebrows. "What is it?"

"Would you give Modern Classics an exclusive interview?"

"Well, that's a rather big request, Mr. Keys. Normally, you would have to go through my agent first. However, ..."

Her voice trailed off, as Nikki turned her face back toward the swarm of reporters, eager to fire their next salvo of questions about her private life at her. Suddenly, she felt that she must get away from these people and their inane, intrusive questions. Her agent was supposed to pick her up after the concert, but he was nowhere to be found at the moment.

"All right, Mr. Keys. I will give you that interview, on one condition: you must take me out of here. Do we have a deal?"

"Of course. My car is parked right outside. I will give you a ride to wherever you need to go. Shall we?"

He offered Nikki his arm, and she took it. As he led her through the throng of reporters and cameramen, he could feel their envious stares on him, the lucky devil who had not only obtained an exclusive interview with a star who was not in the habit of giving such things, but also was walking off with her as if on a date.

"Nicely done. You are a real smooth operator, James. Tell me, how many gorgeous classical pianists have you picked up before?" Heather's voice, tinged with mock admiration, filled Bond's ear.

As they settled into the Saab 9-3 convertible, Bond glanced at his companion and felt strangely perplexed. Nikki Le simply didn't look and act like a woman who could deliberately trick a lover into inhaling cyanide gas, then coldly stand by to watch him die. She looked like what she was supposed to be, a young, attractive, successful star who had the world at her feet and clearly enjoyed it. There was no malice, no ruthlessness, no telltale sign of underlying cruelty that he could detect in those emerald eyes. If there was a fault that he could find with her, it was simply a tendency to be somewhat egotistical, but given her age and the position that she had attained in life, it would be naive of him to expect Nikki to be a model of humility.

Nikki flashed him one of her warm smiles and said: "Thank you very much, Mr. Keys, for rescuing me from the clutches of those nosy reporters. Sometimes, I wonder if they even care that I am a classical pianist, or if they are only interested in the details of my love life."

"Please call me John. And may I call you Nikki? Well, Nikki, those poor reporters mean you no harm. They are just trying to get the scoop on what they believe their readers or viewers want to know. Sometimes we just have to cut the media some slack. They are just a reflection of the tastes of their audience, the general public."

Nikki glanced mischievously at Bond: "You are quick to rise to the media's defense. But that is quite understandable, considering that you are a member of that community."

"You are right. I am a part of the media. However, I promise not to ask you any question about your diet and exercise secrets, which lucky bachelor you are dating, or your sexual habits. How does that sound?"

Nikki laughed, and her laughter had a genuine, pleasant sound to it that Bond quite liked.

"That sounds just fine, John. I think I will enjoy being interviewed by you."

She leaned back against the soft leather chair, and closed her eyes.

"I will enjoy being interviewed by you," Heather did a derisive imitation of Nikki's voice. "I bet there's something else that she would like you to do to her."

"You haven't told me where to take you", Bond reminded Nikki.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Let's see ... I'm still a bit wired from the performance, and I need to burn off this excess adrenaline, or I won't be able to sleep a wink tonight. Have you ever been to The Oasis?"

"No, I can't say I'm familiar with the place. What is it?"

"It's a very famous nightclub near downtown. It's one of my favorite places in the world. I always go there when I'm in Bangkok. However, since this is a spur-of-the-moment thing, I'm afraid it's too late for me to find a date. Will you be my date for the evening, John?"

Bond looked into her exquisite green eyes, which somehow contrasted quite beautifully with her long, raven hair, and felt that there were definitely much worse things to do than to be a date for the exotic and alluring Nikki Le.

"OK, I'm yours, Nikki. Lead on."

"A nightclub?", Heather was incredulous. "Are you crazy, James? You are on a sanction mission, for God's sake. Or have you forgotten?"

No, I have not forgotten, Bond thought angrily. He was angry at Heather for pestering him, at himself for being uncharacteristically indecisive, and at Nikki for being so beautiful and innocent-looking that she made his job all the more difficult. Why can't the world be a black-and-white place, where all the good guys look righteous, and all the bad guys look guilty and despicable? Of course, Bond had lived too long and experienced too much to seriously think that the question he had just asked himself was anything but a rhetorical one. However, sometimes he wished that the world of shadows that he lived in didn't have so many shades of gray.

"This is your window of opportunity, James. You are alone with her in a car, traveling on a relatively deserted road. She doesn't suspect you of being anything but a smitten journalist. You should complete your mission and take her out. Now!" Heather's voice had turned harsh. She had sensed Bond's uncertainty, and for the first time, realized that he might not go through with the sanction.

Bond's eyes strayed toward Nikki again. She was leaning back against the seat, her head slightly tilted upward to press against the headrest. In that position, her delicate neck was completely exposed. He could take her life now with just one blow, crushing her windpipe with a knife-hand strike to the throat. The job would be done, Eric Houghton's death would be avenged, and he could return home. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to do it, because deep down, he still didn't believe that Nikki was the assassin.

"Ah, so the famous 007 turned out to have an Achilles heel, a soft spot for pretty damsels," Heather taunted him in his ear. "M's made a mistake, sending you on this mission. Is that what you want me to report to her?"

Do whatever you want, Bond thought, while gritting his teeth. I'm going to take my time to make sure that I hit the right mark. Bond had no illusion about his role. He was an executioner, but that didn't mean that he would have to be a blind one.
 
            ******************************************************

Club Oasis was where the beautiful and famous people of Bangkok came to party. The building had been a three-story warehouse in its former life, until 1994, when a young and rich entrepreneur, realizing that there was no nightclub in Bangkok that could rival the best European clubs in terms of ambience and image, had purchased the building, and completely renovated and transformed it into the undeniably hip and glamorous place that it was now.

The outside of the building was modest enough, resembling a typical mid-century brownstone, with a discreet neon sign proclaiming "The Oasis" in a flowing script set above the only modern-looking feature of the facade, a pair of eight-foot, gleaming, titanium-finished doors with some Art Deco ornamentations sculpted on them. There was a burly bouncer standing next to the doors, who apparently was quite familiar with Nikki, because he smiled at her and opened the doors for her and Bond without any question. However, as they entered the dimly lit anteroom beyond, whose walls were covered with pomegranate-colored silk, a pair of bouncers stepped out of the shadows, and carefully scanned them with metal detectors. Only when they had been thoroughly checked out were Bond and Nikki allowed to proceed down a corridor whose walls were covered with photographs of various famous rock and pop stars, toward another set of metal double doors.

As Bond pushed the heavy doors open, he was greeted with some loud reggae music, and the spectacle of a huge, industrial-looking space, with exposed metal ventilation ducts snaking densely overhead, and abstract, decorative patterns made of neon lights hanging on all four walls. The room was about three-quarter full of young, attractive people, seemingly in their twenties and thirties, mostly Asian, but also including quite a few Caucasians.

Nikki yelled in order to be heard over the music: "Follow me!". She pushed her way through the crowd, heading toward the right corner of the room and a door marked "Elevator". As they stood waiting outside the elevator doors, Nikki told Bond: "There are three dance floors in this place. The top one plays the kind of music that I like to dance to. That's where we are going."

The top floor of the building consisted of a similar, cavernous room decorated in the industrial chic mode as the one on the ground floor. However, on the three sides that did not face the street, the top half of the walls had been torn out, and replaced with thick, double-pane glass, giving the room's occupants a panoramic view of the skyline of Bangkok.

As Bond and Nikki entered the room, the huge speakers had just finished pumping out the last beats of a dynamic remix of the Sarah McLachlan hit "Possession". The DJ immediately launched into yet another McLachlan remix, this one being Hybrid's work on the song "Fear". As the piece began, there was little percussive accompaniment going on, just the famous, ethereal McLachlan voice soaring over some synthesizer riffs. Still tired from the frenetic dancing they had done to the previous song, the young dancers stood with their arms raised, swaying to the beautiful vocals. Nikki took the opportunity to lead Bond by the hand to a raised platform at the far end of the room, just in front of a massive display screen formed by sixteen 42-inch plasma monitors. A phantasmagorical lightshow, synchronized to the music, was being shown on the huge screen. As the music intensified, and the layers of synthesizer voices and percussive underpinnings began to pile up on top of each other, the  screen showed a spinning vortex, framed by tongues of blue, emerald, and golden flame.

The dancers started to gyrate as their bodies were electrified by the driving beats. Standing right in front of Bond, Nikki also started to move with total abandon. Bond had never found the kind of dancing being practiced in modern nightclubs particularly sexy. There was obviously sensuality, especially in the way that some of the female dancers moved. However, each person was in the end dancing alone, and where was the fun in that? To him, the sexiest dance ever created was still the tango, especially when it was performed by two skilled dancers who enjoyed dancing together, who were comfortable with each other, each dancer completely in tune with what the other was thinking or feeling at any given moment. When two such dancers got together in a fiery tango, the electricity in the air would be palpable, and the dance would become a metaphor of the sexual act itself. However, given the limitations of the music and the free-form individualism of "techno" dancing, Bond thought  that Nikki, with her elegant and yet highly desirable body, succeeded, without any conscious effort, in injecting as much sexiness into her dancing as humanly possible.
   
Although captivated by the vision in front of him, Bond was suddenly aware of some malevolent attention being directed toward himself and Nikki. Careful not to be too obvious in what he was doing, Bond slowly moved his head so that he could scan the entire room. Then, he spotted the watcher standing in front of the bar shaped like a glowing, bluish block of ice. The man was just a black silhouette against the blue and white background, so Bond could not see his facial features. All he could tell was that the watcher was a tall, thin man, dressed in a severe, black Mao suit, and that he wore black sunglasses, whose surfaces reflected the rays from the strobe lights on the ceiling. The man was standing completely still, with his arms behind his back, and his eyes were fixed on Bond and his companion. Suddenly, an uncomfortable thought crept into Bond's mind: he and Nikki would make perfect targets, standing on a raised platform, backlit by the giant wall of monitors behind them . He turned toward Nikki, grabbed her arm and shouted: "Do you mind if we stop for a while?"

"What?", she shouted back.

"I'm feeling a bit tired," Bond yelled. "Do you want to go to the bar and get something to drink?"

Without waiting for Nikki's answer, he grabbed her arm again and pulled her down from the platform. Then, as he turned back to look at the bar, the watcher was gone.

"You must be out of shape, John," Nikki laughed, as Bond guided her toward the bar. "We have just started, and you are already asking for a break?"

"Sorry Nikki, but being a journalist, the only things that I get to exercise on a regular basis are my fingers, while I'm typing. Besides, I'm not much of a dancer anyway."

Bond ordered his usual vodka martini, then looked at Nikki inquiringly. She told him that she didn't drink any alcoholic beverages, then ordered a diet Coke. As they waited for the drinks, Bond excused himself and went to the restroom. After checking to make sure that he was the only occupant, he locked the door. Then, Bond spoke to the listening device on his chest: "All right, Heather. I have enjoyed your very constructive inputs all night, but I think it's time that we say good-bye to each other. But don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow morning, and I'll fill you in on everything, I promise."

Heather's protest came through the earpiece, loud enough to make Bond wince: "Now James, don't you dare disconnect me! There are rules and regulations for this sort of operation, and no agent, not even you, is allowed to break them."

Bond smiled, and said: "Good night, Heather."

He ripped the disk off his chest, and as he was removing the earpiece, he could hear Heather yelling at him: "Don't do it, James! I'm going to tell M. She's going to come down on you so hard that you'll wish ..."

Bond never did get the rest of the sentence, as he tossed both pieces of equipment into the toilet and flushed it. Then, feeling like a prisoner who had just finished serving his term of house arrest, he walked out of the restroom and rejoined Nikki at the bar.

After taking a sip of his drink, Bond asked her: "So, where are you staying in Bangkok?"

"The Mandarin. How about you?"

"I'm staying at the Hilton. I have the penthouse suite." As Bond said this, he looked at Nikki closely, watching out for any possible reaction in her eyes, face, or body language. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"My, your magazine must be doing very well, to be able to afford such deluxe accommodations for its journalists."

"We are surviving. So, Nikki, you have never been to the penthouse? The view of the city is incredible from there."

"I bet it is. Say, aren't you moving a little too fast there, John?", she asked him teasingly.

"I don't know what you mean. My intentions are completely pure." Bond smiled at her innocently, while thinking that either she had never been to the top of the Hilton, or she was the coolest assassin and liar he had ever come across.

"Sure, if you say so. Well, John, if we are not dancing any more, perhaps you should take me back to my hotel. My next concert isn't until the day after tomorrow, so we can do that interview tomorrow afternoon if you'd like."

As they got up to leave, Nikki's cell phone started to ring. She pulled it out of her tiny black Louis Vuitton purse and answered: "Hello? Oh Mikael, I'm glad you called ... Yes, it went very well... What? (She put one hand over the other ear to block out the loud music). I'm at The Oasis, with a friend... (A brief pause). Are you sure, Mikael? All right, we'll see you in a little while."

She turned toward Bond and said: "That was my mentor. His name is Mikael, and he is a very interesting man. Anyway, I told him that I went out dancing with you, and he said that he wanted to meet you. He has invited both of us to his house to celebrate my successful concert."

"He sounds more like a protective father than a mentor."

"In a way, he is like a father to me. You see, my real father died more than five years ago. Mikael took me in, and has pretty much taken care of me ever since. I owe him everything."

"Sounds like a wonderful man. I would be happy to meet him." In fact, Bond was more than eager to meet the mysterious Mikael Geffen, since he believed that this man held the key to the mystery surrounding Eric Houghton's murder and Nikki Le's surprising transformation.

            ***************************************************

"Take the next right turn," Nikki told Bond. They had been traveling along the main freeway leading out of Bangkok, heading south. The traffic had gradually thinned out as they got further and further away from the capital. The scenery had also changed dramatically too. Modern skyscrapers and flashy neon lights had given way to smaller, more modest houses as they drove out of the city and into the suburbs, and now, even those suburban tract houses were gone, replaced by dense vegetation on both sides of the freeway. It seemed as if they were driving on a road that cut through the heart of a tropical rain forest.

Bond reduced the vehicle's speed, and watched out for the turn that Nikki had mentioned. He was glad to have slowed down, since the exit that he must take was marked by only a small sign partially covered by leafy trees, and veered off quite sharply from the main road. About three hundred yards further on, the exit ended in a three-way intersection. The left branch wound its way along the flatland, while the right led up the side of a knoll covered with trees. Once again, Nikki told Bond to turn right, and the Saab began a gentle ascent, heading toward the top of the knoll.

A couple of minutes later, they reached the apex, and the road now bent to the left, curving around to the back side of the knoll. It was then that Bond first saw the house, a stately Mediterranean-style mansion in white stucco with a red tiled roof. Mikael Geffen's residence was set about one hundred yards below the knoll's peak, and was completely hidden from the main road on the other side. The Saab began its descent, finally coming to a stop in front of an imposing pair of black metal gates. A camera mounted on the concrete wall next to the gates swiveled until its lens focused on Bond's car. Nikki stood up and waved at it. A few seconds later, the gates slowly opened by swinging inward, revealing a paved driveway. Bond followed the path to a turning circle in front of the house. As he brought the car to a stop directly in front of the wide marble steps that led up to the main entrance, one side of the mahogany double doors opened, and a man walked out. He was only about  5'10'', but was powerfully built, and had dark skin and a shaved head. From a distance, he looked like the famous Brazilian soccer star Ronaldo.

"That's Maldinho, Mikael's butler," Nikki said. Then she yelled out: "How ya doin', Mal?"

"I'm doing just fine, Miss Le. It's nice to see you again." Maldinho opened the car's door and helped Nikki get out. Then, he walked around the car to shake Bond's hand. His grip was quite strong.

"I'm Mr. Geffen's butler. My name is Maldinho, but people usually call me Mal."

"Yes, Nikki told me. I've been called many things, but John would do just fine for now."

The Brazilian laughed, then beckoned Bond and Nikki to follow him as he walked up the steps. He held the door open for them as they stepped into a large, airy foyer. The floor was covered with gleaming marble, and a huge, arched window above the double doors let sunlight come streaming in.

Following Maldinho, Bond and Nikki walked down a short hallway and into the living room, a cathedral-like space with a twenty-foot high, coffered ceiling, and large windows that looked out at a beautiful swimming pool situated at the back of the house. There, Bond had his first look at Mikael Geffen, Nikki's mysterious mentor.

Bond must admit that Mikael Geffen looked nothing like what he had expected. 007 had imagined that Geffen the psychiatrist would be a small, bespectacled man, with a charming smile to put his patients at ease. In real life, Nikki's mentor was an imposing man, in his early fifties, over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and a craggy, worldly face that resembled that of Lee Marvin, the macho movie star. The smile was there, but on this face, it was far from charming. In fact, Geffen's smiling face brought to Bond's mind the look of a cat that had a mouse cornered, and was about to enjoy the reward of the chase.

The psychiatrist shook Bond's hand vigorously, then gave Nikki a bear hug that seemed capable of crushing every bone in her body.

"Nikki, my dear, you look exquisite tonight. It is simply not fair that someone so talented can also be so beautiful," Geffen roared.

"Oh stop it, Mikael, or my head will grow so big that it will explode!", Nikki protested, but she was clearly pleased.

Geffen then turned toward Bond: "So, this is the mystery man who kidnapped you from the concert hall tonight. Be careful, Nikki. This one looks a bit too dangerous." He winked at Bond to make it clear that he was just joking.

"I think I'm about to disappoint you, but I must introduce myself. My name is John Keys, and I'm a journalist working for Modern Classics, a classical music magazine," Bond said.

"A journalist! No, Mr. Keys, I'm not disappointed at all. A journalist is also a writer, and I admire writers. I have tried my hand at writing, not very successfully I'm afraid, so I realize how difficult it is."

Then, he turned toward Nikki once more, and exclaimed: "Oh Nikki, I almost forgot! I got you a present, which I had asked Mal to wrap up. If you don't mind following him, he'll show it to you."

"A present? What is it?", asked an excited Nikki.

"It's a surprise. And I promise, you will be surprised. Please, just follow Mal."

"Oh, all right! I'll play along. Show it to me, Mal," Nikki declared in a playfully solemn voice.

"This way, Miss Le." Maldinho led Nikki out of the living room, via a door opposite the one that they had come through earlier.

Now left alone with Geffen, Bond looked closely at the other man. He was not fooled one bit by the genial facade that Geffen wore like a mask. There was something in the graceful, almost feline way that Geffen moved despite being a rather large man, and the way that his eyes quickly but thoroughly sized Bond up as he entered the room, that told Bond that underneath it all, the other man was a predator.

"May I interest you in one of Maldinho's specialties, the caipirinha? It's a traditional Brazilian drink that I vastly preferred over the more well-known mojito. Recently, however, it has become somewhat of a connoisseur's drink of choice all around the world. I have tried it in famous bars and restaurants from New York to Tokyo, and I must say that Maldinho's version rivals the best of them. I will try to do it justice." As he spoke, Geffen moved toward a bar in a corner of the room, put two glasses on the granite counter, and started to prepare the drinks.

"Sounds great. How does one make a caipirinha?", Bond asked his host, while watching his movements carefully.

"Well, what you do is cut a lime into pieces and place them in the glass. Sprinkle in some sugar, then crush the lime pieces with a wooden pestle. Add some cachaca, a Brazilian liquor made from sugar cane juice, stir to mix, and voila, you have one heck of a potent cocktail!"

Geffen handed a freshly made drink to Bond, who took a sip and decided that it was one of the most delicious cocktails he had ever tried.   

"I would like to show you something, Mr. Keys," Geffen said, walking toward the door that Nikki had just gone through. Bond followed him, and as he was leaving the room, he noticed a costume draped over the back of an accent chair near the door. The costume consisted of a snub-nosed, black leather mask designed to cover half of the face, and a black leather cape. When he noticed Bond's gaze, Geffen explained: "That's my costume for tonight's ball. It will be held at the residence of the mayor, who fancies himself to be a big patron of the arts. He is organizing this costume ball to raise money for Bangkok's fledgling ballet company. Guests are coming dressed as characters from Commedia Dell'Arte, the Italian theatrical form dating from the 16th century. I will be appearing as Il Dottore, the bumbling doctor. You will find this hard to believe, but I have gone to several similar balls dressed as The Doctor, and the ladies always found me quite charming. So, I will press  my luck once again tonight." He winked at Bond conspiratorially.

Bond glanced at the costume again. He didn't find it in the least charming or comical. In fact, the old-fashioned, hand-made leather mask looked rather sinister, and the cape just heightened the effect. He imagined that Mikael Geffen would cut quite an intimidating figure in this costume.

He turned his attention back to his host, and was led down another marble hallway toward the left wing of the house. They walked to the end of the hallway, and entered a circular room whose walls were covered with framed photos. In the middle of the room sat a black, Steinway grand piano.

"This is my music room. Nikki always played for me at this piano, whenever she visited me."

Bond walked toward the wall, and looked at the photos. They all were autographed pictures of famous classical musicians. Bond recognized some of them, including Mstislav Rostropovich, Anne Sofie von Otter, Emanuel Ax, and a few others.

"I have always had a love for classical music, Mr. Keys. You might say that it is in my genes. You see, my father was a violinist in the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, and my mother was a piano teacher. So, I was surrounded by classical music as I grew up. However, I lacked the God-given talents to be a performer, and the patience to compensate for that deficiency through endless practicing. Therefore, I could always appreciate classical music, but I could never perform it, not well enough to bother, anyway."

"Why are you telling me all this, Mr. Geffen?", Bond asked.

"Well, the point I'm trying to get at, Mr. Keys, is that classical music is not my profession, but it is my passion, or at least one of them. I travel around the world to attend concerts by musicians whom I admire. I have come to know quite a few famous musicians, as you can see from my collection of autographs here, and some have become very close friends of mine. Furthermore, I have contacts in many respected orchestras, as well as classical music publications worldwide. It just so happens that one of my long-time friends works as an editor for Modern Classics, Mr. Keys, and," Geffen paused for a moment to stare directly into Bond's eyes, "he told me that his magazine never sent any journalist to Thailand to cover Nikki's concert."

Bond started to reply, but Geffen stopped him with a gesture of his hand.

"You may wonder how did I get this information so fast. Well, I didn't have to wait for you to tell me who you are and what you are supposed to be doing here. You see, I have someone keeping an eye on Nikki for me, and earlier this evening, he was at the press meeting at the concert hall. He saw you pretending to be a journalist working for Modern Classics and picking up Nikki. As soon as he conveyed this to me, I made a phone call to my friend in London, and found out that your identity was a fake, a cover."

"The watcher," Bond said, "the one who was spying on us at the club. He works for you."

"Ah, so you did notice him. I would expect no less from a professional spy and assassin, working on behalf of Her Majesty's Secret Service. Yes, I do know who you really are, Commander Bond, James Bond. Allow me to welcome you to Bangkok."

As if on cue, the door opened, and a familiar figure appeared. Bond was not surprised to see the thin man from Club Oasis, still dressed in the old-fashioned, all-black Mao suit, walk into the room. He still wore his sunglasses so Bond couldn't see his eyes, but it was clear what he thought of 007 as he flashed a sneering smile. In his right hand, he held a big Glock in a relaxed but ready manner at waist level, with the semi-automatic pistol's muzzle pointed straight at Bond's stomach. With his left hand, he made a gesture indicating that Bond should raise his arms up. Then, he walked up to 007, and quickly but professionally frisked him for any weapon. When satisfied that there was none (Bond had left his P99 in the Saab's glove compartment), he stepped back and stood leaning against the wall, but still keeping the Glock aimed at Bond.

"This is the man in charge of my security, Mr. Bond. I call him Priest, since he would not wear anything but that ugly black suit! Also, in the ten years that I have known him, I have never seen him smoke, drink, or gamble. He might qualify for real priesthood, if not for his penchant for sex with prostitutes. Oh, and he also doesn't believe in "Thou shalt not kill" either. Isn't that right, Priest?"

The man didn't speak, but simply flashed one of his patented sneering smiles again as an affirmative response.

"How did you find out my name?", Bond asked.

"Priest took a picture of you at the Center of Performance Arts. I simply ran it through my personal databases, and out came your true identity. If you are wondering why a psychiatrist would maintain a database that includes the names of British spies with a license to kill, you'll soon find out, once I tell you about another passion of mine."

"Aren't you a bit over-protective, making your guard dog follow your protegee around like that?", Bond posed the question casually. He saw, with great satisfaction, the sneer disappear from Priest's face as, stung by the insult, the thug started to move forward threateningly toward him. However, Geffen held up one hand, and Priest grudgingly returned to his spot next to the wall.

"If I were you, Mr. Bond, I wouldn't get Priest all riled up like that. He has quite a nasty temper, and is very sadistic. Now, when he gets angry, he can be both sadistic and, how shall I put it, creative. I once saw him torture someone for twenty hours straight, bringing him to the brink of death, then reviving him, and repeating the whole cycle over and over. It was not a pretty sight."

"Am I supposed to be quaking with fear right about now, Mr. Geffen?", Bond replied.

"Oh, I know you don't get rattled very easily, Mr. Bond. But no matter. Before this night is over, you will know what real fear is. Now, you said that Nikki is my protegee. She is actually more than that to me. She is a very valuable investment, a priceless instrument that I intend to enjoy for a very long time, so I don't mind having my Head of Security tail her wherever she goes, to keep her from falling into the hands of people like you."

"An instrument? What are you talking about, Geffen?"

Geffen looked at his wristwatch.

"It's only 9 o'clock. The ball is not in full swing yet. I would say I still have about half an hour before I have to go to the mayor's little shindig, at which time I will leave you in the tender loving care of Priest here. So, I guess I have enough time to tell you a little bedtime story..."

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