The Hell Of Osirak: The Nikki Sinclair Spy Thriller Series, #8

By Jaye Rothman

If you enjoy lesbian thrillers, you'll love reading the Cold War spy novels featuring MI6 agent Nikki Sinclair.

 

Nikki is sent undercover to Osirak to discover when Saddam's nuclear reactor goes online. Nikki realises she can trust nobody, not even her own side. Can Nikki prevent Armageddon from destroying the Middle East?

 

Immerse yourself in Nikki's world – buy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaye Rothman
• Release date: Feb 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393954248

Book preview

Prologue

Paris, France

June 1980

7.30 p.m.

Anton tapped on the wheel in front of him, keeping time, as the rain beat a tattoo on the roof of the van. Branches belonging to the sycamores lining one side of the boulevard swayed backwards and forwards. Leaves, which shouldn’t have been falling until autumn, skittered across the road. Taxis sped past, their drivers oblivious to the vehicles’ swishing tyres that sprayed muddy water onto pedestrians’ footwear and legs. The dusty summer smell of the city had disappeared, replaced by the sweet aroma of the bucketing June rain. Surveillance was a lousy brief. Anton pulled his coat a little tighter and wished he was back in Tel Aviv, listening to Miles Davis on his new stereo system.

7.45 p.m.

He peered through the windscreen. Although expansive puddles reflected the hue of the buildings huddled at the side of the road, the yellow metro sign at the end of the boulevard was barely visible. The atrocious weather wasn’t letting up. Anton had raised concerns that, because of the storm, al-Busiri might elect to dine at his hotel.

So far, during the five days the professor had spent in Paris, he hadn’t deviated from his evening routine. Every night he left the hotel and plodded along the Boulevard Gouvion Saint Cyr to patronise Chez Gerard, a small brasserie located a few metres away on the Avenue des Ternes. Then, back at the hotel, al-Busiri made a phone call to La Surprise, an escort service specialising in S and M activities. Fifteen minutes later, he opened his door and ushered a voluptuous blonde named Sophie into his room.

Anton gave a grim smile. This night, however, Sophie wouldn’t be able to accommodate the professor’s needs because she’d contracted a nasty summer cold; that would be the version fed to al-Busiri. Reality, though, had the prostitute wrapped in chains at the bottom of the Seine, and Jacqueline, her replacement, sitting in a Renault 18 waiting for instructions.

8.p.m.

Professor Jafari al-Busiri stood under cover at the entrance to the hotel and opened his large black umbrella. He surveyed the steps littered in wet, slippery, stray leaves. They looked treacherous to the man suffering from basophobia. He took a deep breath and, heart pounding, eyes glued to the ground, he tentatively negotiated his way to the pavement. He knew his condition had worsened since his weight gain, that at more than twenty stone he was at more risk of falling but, nevertheless, his overindulgence in good food was a passion he refused to give up.

By rights, he should have the team of bodyguards surrounding him; over the last six months, five men connected to the Osirak nuclear reactor had lost their lives. Saddam’s security chiefs had recommended this protection measure, but the professor had sidestepped their suggestion. He’d convinced Saddam’s brother, the Minister of Defence, that the French security service, SDECE, would provide more than adequate protection. An insinuation that bringing his own people to do the job might offend his hosts had clinched the matter.

The professor’s actions had been prompted by his predilections for certain types of women; another appetite he was unwilling to relinquish. Discovery of such a vice threatened his reputation as an observant Muslim and family man, a standing that must be preserved at all costs. He shuddered at the thought of what might happen otherwise. Allah had smiled upon his efforts, and his wife had borne him seven children who, prospering under Saddam's patronage, now all held important positions in the country. So, any inkling of a scandal, especially one concerning western women, would jeopardise not only the professor's prestigious position but also the livelihoods of his family members. He couldn't permit that to happen. But neither could he live without the thrill and excitement he derived from his preferred sexual exploits.

8.01 p.m.

The team crowded together in the back of a hired transit van breathed out a collective sigh of relief. Their target was on the move. The professor crossed the road, and Anton instructed Izzy to follow. The young man slipped out the rear door and pulled the collar of his denim jacket up around his neck. An ineffectual action on his part, as the deluge pouring from the sky was unrelenting and drenched him in seconds.

9.p.m.

Al-Busiri left the café humming to himself. He had enjoyed a medium rare steak paired with an excellent half bottle of 1978 Cȏte du Rhȏne. He turned towards the hotel. Heavy droplets thudded against the sturdy umbrella and streamed off the rim in rivulets. Apart from his feet and lower legs, the protective covering kept him mainly dry. He felt cocooned from the surrounding world, and his thoughts turned to contemplating his future.

When the reactors at Osirak became operational, Saddam would no doubt reward him. Iraq would join the league of nations possessing nuclear weapons, and Western powers would see the country in a different light. Also, their new status would strike fear into the Iranians, and those frequent skirmishes at the border that alarmed Sadam would likely cease. Puffed up with his own importance, al-Busiri took no notice of the middle-aged woman holding a white poodle on a leash who strolled ten yards behind him.

9.10 p.m.

He acknowledged the receptionist at the hotel with a jaunty "Bon Soir" and, still humming to himself, waited in the foyer for the lift. A ding heralded its arrival. He stepped inside and was about to press to go up when a wavering voice called, Monsieur, tenez l’ascenseur s’il vous plait, so he moved his finger to the control that held the doors open.

An elderly man crowned with a head of white hair, dressed in a shabby blue suit and leaning heavily on a walking stick shuffled across the lobby and into the lift. Merci. Le septième étage s’il vous plait.

The professor smiled and pressed the button for the seventh floor, one before his stop. The Iraqi government had insisted he book a room on the top floor; the premise being that to kidnap and hustle him down eight flights of stairs would prove a challenge for any potential abductors.

The old man wished him a good evening and trundled out of the lift. Now feeling safe to do so, the professor removed a small blue diary from his jacket’s inside pocket and checked his appointments for the next day. He’d organised a meeting with the managing director of the Société de Faucons in the morning. The company supplied parts for the nuclear reactor, and he needed an up-to-date report on current progress.

9.16 p.m.

The woman opened the passenger door of the van, picked up the poodle and, dog in hand, slid into the seat. A secretary in the Israeli embassy had agreed to lend Fifi to the team for the evening. As women and poodles were a standard sight in Paris, they’d deemed the animal would be a useful prop.

She brushed the rain from her coat. I couldn’t see a sign of any other surveillance, she said, turning to her companion.

Anton kept his eyes fixed on the scene outside. What about Izzy?

No. He gave me the all-clear sign.

Anton looked at the poodle and frowned. It stinks of wet dog in here.

The animal shook itself, and the discarded water released from its thick coat sprayed over the occupants of the van.

9.20 p.m.

The surveillance team lapsed into silence. A few minutes later, a loud buzz startled them from their musings. The listening device they’d planted in the professor’s room had activated. A woman, seated in the rear of the van, clamped the radio’s headset to her ear and said in French, It’s a go. We’re on.

Anton nodded. He picked up car phone’s receiver and dialled a number. It rang twice and then the call was answered. He repeated the woman’s words into the mouthpiece.

Chapter 1

Baruch turned to face her. Are you ready?

Dvora readjusted her blonde wig, ensuring none of her brunette hair had escaped its confines. Satisfied, she gave a nod. Her hand shook as she placed it on the door handle, and she took a steadying breath. Any hint of nerves would betray her.

She opened the door and swung her legs out onto the pavement. Her red leather miniskirt rode up her thighs, affording the doorman a free show. She smoothed it down as she stood up and waited for the car to depart. Then she climbed the flight of steps to the Hotel Meribel.

The doorman opened the door, and his features twisted into a sneer. Dvora clenched her fists. Standing in his uniform of blue and gold outside a third-rate hotel in Paris, and the man had the nerve to look down on her, as if she were the subspecies. He’d be quick to pay if he could afford her services. The hypocrisy of men never ceased to astound.

Dvora lifted her head as she passed the doorman and tapped across the marble tiles of the lobby in her three inch stilettos towards the lifts. She glanced at the clock on the reception desk. Nine forty-eight. The swarthy-looking man in a well-cut suit sitting next to the usual evening receptionist got to his feet and called, "Excusez-moi, madam. May I help you?"

A deviation the team hadn’t anticipated. Perhaps the Iraqis had insisted upon a higher level of security for the professor. Dvora curved her lips into the ghost of a smile and sauntered over to the reception desk. I’m a guest of Professor al-Busiri. He’s expecting me.

A smirk appeared on the man’s narrow face. Unlike the receptionist, he wore no name badge. If he worked for the Iraqi Intelligence Service, the Mukhabarat, that was a complication she didn't need. He leered at her, displaying yellowing wolfish teeth. You'll know his room number, then?

She widened her smile and replied, "Bien sûr Monsieur. Room 829 on the eighth floor."

The man nodded. His eyes bored into her back as she continued the long walk across the lobby and pressed the button to summon the lift. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She didn’t usually feel this unsettled, but her nerve during these sorts of operations had deserted her.

The botched killing of that odious Rashid Omar in Geneva had undermined her confidence. She had requested they stand her down from this operation, but Anton had scuppered that plan. He’d insisted her high success rate made Dvora perfect for the part.

Dvora stepped into the lift. A glance towards the desk told her the man was still staring at her. The doors slid shut, and she exhaled a long breath as she stabbed at the button.

Before she stepped out at the eighth floor, Dvora scanned the vicinity. A long hallway of evenly spaced doors stretched in front of her. She walked down the blue carpeted corridor. Only the muted sounds from televisions, seeping through the walls and disturbing the quiet, indicated the presence of others nearby. She stopped outside Room 829, took a deep breath and tapped gently on the door.

Thirty seconds later, the door was partially opened to reveal al-Busiri in a too small white bathrobe. Thick, black hair reminiscent of that on a gorilla covered his chest, and an enormous protruding stomach didn’t quite conceal the exposed penis dangling between his legs.

Where’s Sophie? His thin and reedy voice belied his vast bulk. He clutched at the robe and pulled the edges together across his chest but made no attempt to cover his lower body. His hands resembled the large paws of an animal, and black tufts of hair grew out of his knuckles.

Dvora shuddered. He’d be touching her with those. She swallowed, the sound loud to her ears. The agency sent me as a replacement. Sophie was taken ill suddenly. My name’s Jacqueline.

They should have informed me.

I’m sorry, that’s not my area. They thought I could provide what you need.

Al-Burisi scowled. I’m not sure. Sophie provided special services, for which I paid her well.

Why don’t we talk inside? She glanced up and down the corridor. I’m sure you don’t want our business discussed out here.

He nodded and opened the door. Dvora stepped into the room. She tensed at the click of the door locking behind her. Her chest tightened, and her throat closed up.

Lift your blouse, al-Busiri said, so I can see you're not wearing a wire. I'm an important man in my country, and I don't want any threats of blackmail from your employers.

Dvora fumbled at the buttons, and she opened her shirt. The professor’s eyes focused on her black lace bra, but he didn't attempt to touch her. Then, seemingly satisfied, he said, Do it back up.

Al-Busiri pointed to an envelope stuffed with bank notes sitting on the bedside cabinet. Ten thousand francs. It’s all there.

Dvora raised her brows. That was a colossal amount for an hour’s work.

The man’s tongue darted out of his mouth and moistened his thick lips. Tonight, I want you to be frightened and fight a little, but not too much. Then I’ll rape you.

Dvora’s heart thundered in her ears. Rape me? She couldn’t control the waver in her voice. 

Yes, that’s why I pay this exorbitant amount of money. He loomed closer to her, filling her vision.

Dvora fought the desire to run for the door. Instead, she frowned. I'm not sure. A moment’s pause, and then she said, It’s not something I usually allow. She had to play for time.

What do you mean? I’m paying you.

It’s not part of my repertoire.

The Iraqi glared at her. The room became smaller. Claustrophobic. She scanned for information. The double bed positioned in the middle of the room gave her little space to manoeuvre.  A yellow-flowered curtain covered a window opposite the door. A narrow strip no more than two feet wide led to the ensuite.

You’ll do as I tell you, otherwise I’ll report you to your boss. He stared at her. And you won’t work again. That, I can guarantee.

Dvora shrugged. How much had al-Bursiri paid the agency so he could act out his sick fantasy?

Stand by the bed with your back to me. He barked out the words.

She swivelled, turning her back to him as ordered. Her bag was still in her hand. She thrust trembling fingers into the silk-lined insides and wrapped them around the handle of the secreted stiletto.

A massive arm clamped around Dvora’s throat and pulled her back against a rotund body. I'm paying to rape you, al-Busiri murmured close to her ear.

The crook of his elbow constricted her airway. Dvora took breaths in short, sharp pants. If he continued to squeeze, she’d pass out. She fought her rising panic and the urge to fight. Calming her mind, she willed herself to relax.

The pressure on her throat lessened. Play your part. Cry. Beg me to stop.

She tried to wriggle free, but her knees banged the edge of the bed. Get off me, you bastard!

His left paw yanked her leather skirt upwards. The seam ripped. He probed between her legs, tearing the fabric of her underwear. Then he jammed his fingers inside her. Pain exploded in her lower abdomen, and Dvora cried out, Please don’t. Let me go.

No chance.

She began to sob. His excitement grew. Grunting like an animal, he positioned her against him. If he threw her face downwards onto the bed, she’d have no chance. Dvora grasped the handle of the stiletto. Surrendering to al-Busiri was not an option. Not after Greece. She’d go down fighting rather than submit to another rape. Please, don’t hurt me! Her mind raced, looking for an opportunity.

He ignored her plea. His left paw holding her hip, he removed his right arm from her throat and grabbed her other thigh.  Pressed hard against the bed, she was helpless. He forced a leg between hers and parted her thighs. The heat coming from him seared her skin. Now, she had to move now.

She twisted a little, lifted her right leg and stamped her heel down on his bare foot. He screamed. She stomped again, crushing his toes. Then, wheeling around, she thrust the knife in the direction of his ribs. For a man mountain, he moved quickly, pivoting to the side. The blade penetrated his flesh, but she lost her grip on the knife. He looked down at the stiletto jutting from his skin and, in one swift motion, pulled the blade out and threw it to the floor. A thin stream of blood spurted from the wound, ran down his side and formed a pool on the carpet.

Dvora launched her attack. Using her elbows, she sent two powerful blows towards his neck. Al-Busiri’s height was to his advantage, and his vast stomach cushioned the impact. So, although he staggered, he didn't go down. She grabbed both sides of his bathrobe and brought her knee up. Too late. The Iraqi’s huge fist smashed against her forehead. Dvora staggered. Flashes of light blinded her, and she fell to one knee.

You fucking bitch, he snarled. After I’ve finished with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born.

She shook her head, clearing her vision. The stiletto lay close to al-Busiri. His eyes narrowed and, stretching out his arms, he lunged at her. But she was already diving across the dingy yellow carpet towards him, arm flung wide, fingers searching for the knife. His stale sweat filled her nostrils and his shout of surprise filled her ears. She scrabbled her hand across the floor covering and seized the handle of the stiletto. Holding the weapon in both hands, she drove her arms upwards with all her strength. The tip of the knife hit flesh. She twisted the blade. A shriek resonated around the room. She pulled down and the stiletto slid out. Al-Busiri stumbled, but maintained his footing. He swiped a fist at her head. She jerked backwards, just out of reach.

Cursing in Arabic, he reached down and patted the area between his legs. He stared at the blood on his fingers and grunted. I’m three times your size. Give up, and I might permit you to live.

Dvora’s vision blurred. She swayed and fell forwards, landing on all fours. Al-Busiri leant over her. If she didn’t take her chance now, she wouldn’t survive. She reared up, knocking the man backwards. He lost his balance and crashed onto the floor. His head bounced on the carpet. Dvora grabbed the knife with two hands and thrust the blade into his groin. Flesh gave way beneath her onslaught. A bright red spray of arterial blood hit her in the face. She threw herself onto her side. Al-Busiri’s blood flowed from his body, decorating the bed and carpet.

She lay on the floor between al-Busiri’s tree-trunk legs gasping for breath. Against all odds, she had survived.

Chapter 2

Tel Aviv

June 1980

You made such a mess of that hotel room! Anton said, his voice bordering on a snarl. You were in there over twenty minutes.

Dvora scowled at him. Over the last six months, she had come to loathe the tall and angular man. A shaved head and unforgiving brown eyes, which he usually concealed behind sunglasses, highlighted his lack of warmth. The Prince of Darkness: so called by his team because he hated the sun and rarely ventured out during daylight hours.

If you had briefed me that al-Burisi had trained in self-defence, the outcome might have been better. Dvora stared at him, daring him to confront her again. I nearly died in that room.

Abi Rosen swivelled her chair to face the man. Anton?

He glared at each of them in turn and shrugged. I didn’t know.

That’s a crucial piece of intel to have missed. Abi let the sentence hang. 

Hands shoved in trouser pockets, Anton walked towards the French doors and, leaning on the door frame, gazed out at the Mediterranean Sea.

Abi Rosen, the head of operations for Mossad, had chosen a villa located outside Haifa to conduct her debrief. As always, she was immaculate. Dressed in a blue and white summer dress, she wore her extensively highlighted blonde hair loose, brushing over her shoulders. Her age was a closely guarded secret, but Dvora estimated the woman must be approaching her fiftieth birthday.

She sat behind a Scandinavian-style desk that jarred with the rest of the furniture; old-fashioned pieces which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a European hotel. A small pile of tidily arranged newspapers lay in front of her, next to three glasses and a pitcher of water.

Abi picked up Le Figaro. The paper was three days old.

"Professor Jafari al-Busiri, aged fifty-five, was found murdered in his hotel room by a chambermaid. At a press conference, Inspector Jacques Paquet described the scene as a 'blood bath'. Police want to locate the woman with long blonde hair who visited the Professor’s room in the late evening. A source at the hotel has disclosed the professor’s fondness for women of a particular reputation. The Iraqi Embassy in Paris, however, strongly disputes this allegation. Le Figaro understands the professor frequently made trips to Paris to conduct business on behalf of the Iraqi Government." She’d translated the front page into Hebrew even though all three of them were fluent French speakers. Dvora guessed she’d wanted to make a point.

Abi tapped her manicured fingernails on two other French newspapers. The French media has high-level access to government departments and ministers. It's a miracle that fingers haven't been pointed in our direction, especially after the death of Saddam’s nephew in Paris. She shot a look at Dvora, who ignored the innuendo. And the woman who usually serviced al-Busiri? she asked.

She’s been dealt with. Anton clenched his jaw. I can guarantee she won’t talk.

Abi nodded.

Dvora shook her head. Yes, Sophie might have made bad choices, but she didn't deserve to die. Not like that.

Abi took a sip of water and, eyes on Anton, said,  I received your report. I understand you’re requesting I stand Dvora down for ... Abi looked down at the desk. For a psychological review. Is that correct?

Anton strolled across the room and took the chair next to Dvora’s. He didn't look in her direction. Yes, Dvora lost her nerve. She panicked and stabbed al-Busiri’s femoral artery.

I would suggest Dvora was fighting for her life, and she used any means at her disposal to survive his attack.

Baruch, at considerable risk to himself and the team, had to enter the hotel room and make it look like an encounter gone bad. He sprinkled whisky over the bed and the professor. Then he had to remove Dvora from the scene. Anton’s lip curled. She'd gone to pieces. Standing there sobbing, covered in blood.

Abi looked at Dvora. Have you any comment to make?

Dvora shook her head. Her chin wobbled as she fought back the tears. She bit the inside of her lip. Damn it, she wouldn’t break down in front of that man. Any weakness would reinforce his belief she could no longer function in the field. 

Abi leant back in her chair. Dvora, you've been through a terrible, traumatic ordeal. I want you to see Dr Elaine Silver. She's recently arrived from the UK and a specialist in these kinds of events. I’m also ordering you to take three weeks leave, starting immediately.

Dvora opened her mouth to protest, but Abi shook her head. It’s not negotiable. In three weeks, we'll meet again and see where we go from there.

A smug smile appeared on Anton's face. He’d achieved his objective. She was out of his team.

Abi’s voice cut through her misery. I'm going to say this in front of Dvora because I believe in transparency. Anton’s smile vanished. I'm not impressed with how you behave towards the female members of your unit. You seem to have scant regard for what they're required to do, and little understanding that it might be against their natural inclinations.

Anton opened his mouth. Abi stopped any words with a shake of her head. I know you had Leah Davidsen lined up to replace Dvora, but that, Anton, isn’t going to happen. I’ll not allow any women to join your unit until you can prove to me you’ve changed your attitude.

Anton leapt up from his chair. Abi, you can’t do that. You’re hamstringing me. I can’t operate a team without a female member.

Abi closed the file. I can, and I have. I don't have to justify my decision to you, Anton. Her eyes flashed.

No, no, of course not. Anton sat back down.

Dvora choked back a laugh. She loved that Abi could wield power over men.

I'm giving you a month, Anton, and I want to see a significant improvement. Abi stared at him for a long moment. If I don’t see any change, I’m disbanding your unit.

Chapter 3

London

June 1980

The previous night’s cigarette smoke still hung in the air. Nikki Sinclair threw open the French doors to rid her London apartment of the tainted stuffiness.  The tube journey home had taken forever. A train had broken down at Caledonian Road and its passengers had been ordered off. They’d been standing shoulder to shoulder on the platform waiting for another train to arrive when Nikki arrived at the station. Then they’d packed the first three trains, so Nikki had waited for the fourth before boarding one.

She turned on the television to catch up with the day’s news. When BBC announcer, Jan Leeming, announced the death of an Iraqi professor, she increased the volume. Professor Jafari al-Busiri, a well-respected academic, was found dead in his hotel room in Paris. The French police are treating his death as suspicious.

Academic! Nikki laughed out loud. Mossad's fingerprints were all over this one. Saddam’s nephew, who had some connection to Osirak, had suffered a mysterious death a few months ago and now al-Busiri. The man ran the Iraqi nuclear programme for President Saddam Hussein, so he would have ranked highly on Mossad’s wanted list. Especially as word had reached MI6 that the Iraqis would have their nuclear programme up and running in the next nine months. The Israelis, it seemed, had upped the game while the French were still playing catch-up.

Nikki strolled over to the sideboard, poured a large Johnnie Walker into a tumbler and downed half of it in one swallow. Dvora Bar Zahavi. A smile curved her lips, and she shivered.

The physical and emotional connection they’d shared still had that power.

A knock at her door pulled Nikki back to the present. She’d have been better getting ready instead of reminiscing about old girlfriends.

Two months ago, her section chief Jack Butler had persuaded Nikki to let the next-floor apartment she owned to Luc Mertens; he worked as an agent with the SDECE, the French security service, and he’d spent the last three months seconded to MI6. Butler had made the deal too tempting. When she’d protested, he’d promised to pay double the usual rent. To Nikki's relief, his secondment was almost up, and the man would depart for Paris at the beginning of July.

Nikki swore under her breath. She didn’t want to go to dinner with Luc. Since his arrival in the department, the man had ruined her life. Last Sunday evening, in a pub next to Hampstead Heath, Luc had steered the conversation towards Nikki’s single status, but she had quickly managed to shut the chit chat down. Others might see them as an attractive couple. But, for Nikki, the idea was laughable. 

Lily, her long-time colleague, had expressed surprise she would contemplate renting the apartment to the blue eyed, blonde, debonair Luc. When Nikki insisted she had no romantic feelings for the man, Lily’s response had been that she didn’t think Nikki had.

Several of her peers and superiors might suspect where her sexual preferences lay, but Nikki guarded her personal life with prudence and secrecy. HM’s security services did not countenance homosexuality within their corridors. If discovered and exposed, the officer would face an enquiry, which generally resulted in the termination of that person’s career.

Nikki pulled open the door with a sinking heart. Luc!

He thrust a large bouquet of beautifully wrapped, pink long-stemmed roses into her hands. Chérie, I wanted to mark our anniversary with an unforgettable evening.

Anniversary? What are you talking about? Her tone was sharper than she’d expected.

It’s been exactly two months since I moved in with you.

He pushed past her into the apartment, and she reeled to one side. The scent of his cologne almost made her gag. On Sunday, she’d commented on the fragrance, and Luc’s response had implied he wore Givenchy because that was her preferred perfume. He’d bought a bottle of Givenchy Gentlemen.  Instead of tackling her growing unease at his behaviour, however, she had only nodded.

You haven't moved in with me. You're renting the apartment above mine.

His smile widened. I’ve booked a table at your favourite restaurant.

Nikki huffed. She had to address this now, before things became too awkward. But she’d need a little diplomacy. On Sunday evening, when she pulled back from his embrace, his face had hardened.

Luc, we're not in a relationship. We're... She scrambled for a word. ...friends. That would have to suffice. Lonnie Marks, who she'd partnered for years before he became Deputy Director of MI6, was a friend; her only male friend.

As usual, the man ignored her protest and moved uncomfortably close. She backed into the lounge.

"Nikki, last