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German bike slid away from under his body, showering sparks along the pavement.
    The original motorcyclist was now alongside him on the off side, and Bond could see that they were nearing the end of the street, where it came to a right-angled junction. He estimated they were travelling at about fifty, and he needed to slow down if he was to complete the manoeuvre he had in mind. He saw the rider lift his left hand to fire, making himself vulnerable for a moment with only one hand on the handlebars and no control of the clutch.
    Bond smacked the footbrake, dropped the wheel to his right, then hauled up the handbrake. This was not the standard handle below the dash, but a fly-off model fitted to his specification behind the gear lever. With a tortured squeal of tyres and a smell of burning, the big car juddered, then whipped its great tail round, straight into the front wheel of the BMW. Bond felt the impact of the bike’s momentum as it hit, then crumpled, sending its rider head over heels up into the junction ahead. As he landed on his back, the man’s gun went off once, impotently.
    Bond checked his watch to see that he’d still be on time for his flight, put the car into first gear again and headed north, sedately, through the streets of Kew, where the commuters were returning home from work. Back on the Great West Road, he found that a favourite phrase of René Mathis had come into his head. Ça recommence, he thought.

4. ‘Shall We Play?’
    Bond’s hotel room was a typical Moneypenny booking: Right Bank, discreet and slightly unimaginative. Bond swept quickly through the bedroom, bathroom and small sitting room, looking for bugs. The Service changed its hotels so often that it was unlikely anyone could have known he was coming, but the motorbikes showed someone at least was on his tail. Personally, he was inclined to put the BMWs down to unfinished business from a previous operation. This Julius Gorner might be dangerous, but he couldn’t, surely, be psychic. And, God knows, there were enough people who’d wanted him dead for years. Even the most successfully concluded operations left many with a grudge against him.
    So far as he could tell, the room was clean. He closed the shutters, pulled a hair from his head and stuck it across the crack between the bathroom door and jamb. Then he opened the concealed compartment in the bottom of his case, took out some ammunition, refilled the Walther and replaced it in his shoulder holster, making sure no bulge showed beneath the coat of his suit. He shut the case and sprinkled a fine grey talcum over the combination lock. Then he left the hotel and went out on to the rue St Roch to do battle with the French telephone system.
    It occurred to him as he rotated the bevelled edge of the coin against his fingertip that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast in Rome. But the one-hour time change had gone againsthim, so in Paris it was nearly nine and Mathis, it transpired, was not available. Out at dinner with his wretched mistress, thought Bond, as he was forced to leave a message with a surly telephonist at the Deuxième.
    Bond had done enough eating out alone in the last few months and it was beginning to rain. He decided to return to his room, order an omelette from room service, then get an early night.
    The porter handed over his key on its heavy brass weight with a scarlet tassel. Bond strode across the marble lobby, pressed the lift-call button, changed his mind and ran up three flights of stairs. Deep in thought, he let himself into the soft Right Bank gloom of number 325, flicked up the light switch and tossed the weighty key on to the bed, where it bounced once, playfully. He crossed to the bedside table, took the phone off the hook and dialled zero. As he did so, he turned back to face into the room and saw the most remarkable sight.
    Sitting in the uncomfortable gilded armchair beneath the imitation Louis XV looking-glass, her long legs demurely crossed and her empty