It was seven o’clock on the same evening and James Bond was back in his hotel. He had had a hot bath and a cold shower. He thought that he had at last scoured the zoo smell out of his skin.
He was sitting, n***d except for his shorts, at one of the windows of his room, sipping a vodka and tonic and looking out into the heart of the great tragic sunset over the Golden Horn. But his eyes didn’t see the torn cloth of gold and blood that hung behind the minareted stage beneath which he had caught his first glimpse of Tatiana Romanova.
He was thinking of the tall beautiful girl with the dancer’s long gait who had walked through the drab door with a piece of paper in her hand. She had stood beside her Chief and handed him the paper. All the men had looked up at her. She had blushed and looked
