Two bullets gone. Only six left. Bond edged closer to the fight.
A knife hissed past his head and clanged on to the dance floor.
It had been aimed at Kerim, who came running out of the shadows with two men on his heels. The second man stopped and raised his knife to throw and Bond shot from the hip, blindly, and saw him fall. The other man turned and fled among the trees and Kerim dropped to one knee beside Bond, wrestling with his gun.
‘Cover me,’ he shouted. ‘Jammed on the first shot. It’s those bloody Bulgars. God knows what they think they’re doing.’
A hand caught Bond round the mouth and yanked him backwards. On his way to the ground he smelled carbolic soap and nicotine. He felt a boot thud into the back of his neck. As he whirled over sideways in the grass he expected to feel the searing flame of a knife. But the men, and there were three of them, were after Kerim, and as Bond scrambled to one knee he saw the squat black figures pile down on the crouching man, who gave one lash upwards with his useless gun and then went down under them.
At the same moment as Bond leaped forward and brought his gun butt down on a round shaven head, something flashed past his eyes and the curved dagger of the head gipsy was growing out of a heaving back. Then Kerim was on his feet and the third man was running and a man was standing in the breach in the wall shouting one word, again and again, and one by one the attackers broke off their fights and doubled over to the man and past him and out on to the road.
‘Shoot, James, shoot!’ roared Kerim. ‘That’s Krilencu.’ He started to run forward. Bond’s gun spat once. But the man had dodged round the wall, and thirty yards is too far for night shooting with an automatic. As Bond lowered his hot gun, there came the staccato firing of a squadron of Lambrettas, and Bond stood and listened to the swarm of wasps flying down the hill.
There was silence except for the groans of the wounded. Bond listlessly watched Kerim and Vavra come back through the breach in the wall and walk among the bodies, occasionally turning one over with a foot. The other gipsies seeped back from the road and the older women came hurrying out of the shadows to tend their men.
Bond shook himself. What the hell had it all been about? Ten or a dozen men had been killed. What for? Whom had they been trying to get? Not him, Bond. When he was down and ready for the killing they had passed him by and made for Kerim. This was the second attempt on Kerim’s life. Was it anything to do with the Romanova business? How could it possibly tie in?
Bond tensed. His gun spoke twice from the hip. The knife clattered harmlessly off Kerim’s back. The figure that had risen from the dead twirled slowly round like a ballet dancer and toppled forward on his face. Bond ran forward. He had been just in time. The moon had caught the blade and he had had a clear field of fire. Kerim looked down at the twitching body. He turned to meet Bond.
Bond stopped in his tracks. ‘You bloody fool,’ he said angrily. ‘Why the hell can’t you take more care! You ought to have a nurse.’ Most of Bond’s anger came from knowing that it was he who had brought a cloud of death around Kerim.
Darko Kerim grinned shamefacedly. ‘Now it is not good, James. You have saved my life too often. We might have been friends. Now the distance between us is too great. Forgive me, for I can never pay you back.’ He held out his hand.
Bond brushed it aside. ‘Don’t be a damn fool, Darko,’ he said roughly. ‘My gun worked, that’s all. Yours didn’t. You’d better get one that does. For Christ’s sake tell me what the hell this is all about. There’s been too much blood splashing about tonight. I’m sick of it. I want a drink. Come and finish that raki.’ He took the big man’s arm.
As they reached the table, littered with the remains of the supper, a piercing, terrible scream came out of the depths of the orchard. Bond put his hand on his gun. Kerim shook his head. ‘We shall soon know what the Faceless Ones were after,’ he said gloomily. ‘My friends are finding out. I can guess what they will discover. I think they will never forgive me for having been here tonight. Five of their men are dead.’
‘There might have been a dead woman too,’ said Bond unsympathetically. ‘At least you’ve saved her life. Don’t be stupid, Darko. These gipsies knew the risks when they started spying for you against the Bulgars. It was gang warfare.’ He added a dash of water to two tumblers of raki.
They both emptied the glasses at one swallow. The head gipsy came up, wiping the tip of his curved dagger on a handful of grass. He sat down and accepted a glass of raki from Bond. He seemed quite cheerful. Bond had the impression that the fight had been too short for him. The gipsy said something, slyly.
Kerim chuckled. ‘He said that his judgment was right. You killed well. Now he wants you to take on those two women.’
