Silhouettes: A James Bond Story

Silhouettes Part 14

Erawan Hotel

Ratchaprasong District

2117 hrs.

"Behave yourself," Indira Manyam said quietly as they walked past the unconcerned-looking security staff minding the entrance to the ballroom.

"Me?" Bond asked with mock-innocence. "I'm always on my best behavior."

Indira gave him a sly sideways look. "After what you did two hours ago, I very much doubt that. Just try not to get distracted by the tall Dutch women and the tiny Thai women. I still need your help with this."

"Then I'll keep my attention fixed on the properly-sized Indian woman."

"You'd better."

"It's not difficult, really." And it wasn't with Indira's evening gown a purple sheath accentuating the curves of her body and plunging deeply between her breasts, where she'd positioned a string of garnets. Any heterosexual man who wasn't stricken temporarily dumb by the sight of her must be dead, Bond considered.

The ballroom was laid out in a tulip-themed hedge maze, guiding the guests past various stations that were such stereotypes of Dutch culture they bordered on parody. They entered through the sails of a paper-mache windmill, then proceeded to a station boasting Dutch beers and chocolate-covered waffles served by enthusiastic Thai women dressed in dirndls, which someone at the Dutch embassy presumably decided were close enough to traditional Dutch dress to suffice for this occasion.

"Very swank," Bond commented dryly.

Indira clicked her tongue. "Empires shift at functions such as this. Fortunes are decided. Alliances made and enemies plotted against."

"All that intrigue," Bond said, "amid the chocolate waffles and dark beer."

Bond took a flute of champagne from a freshly-materialized waiter. Indira spotted someone she knew and detached herself from Bond's arm. He watched her cross the room, enjoying the sight of her hips and buttocks moving beneath her dress. If the fate of empires were indeed being decided at this affair, then Indira Manyam was certainly capable of sinking a few of them.

He sipped at his champagne and moved to a small cul-de-sac featuring blown-up photo prints of an art exhibit featuring sculptures of cows. Indira was working a smallish crowd of three or four women-embassy wives, Bond guessed from the vague air of diffidence and resentment they carried. In another corner the Dutch Ambassador was holding court with a variety of men in suits too expensive and well tailored to have been American diplomats.

He spotted Taylor Breckinridge on his second sweep of the room. The man had shed his carefully-cultivated dressed-down fashion for a sleek blazer over a powder-blue cotton T-shirt. Bond had to give the man credit: he managed to look like he belonged at the party without looking like a government worker. The various Russian and Chinese surveillance operatives who worked this and ever other embassy event would presume he was a businessman or some other wealthy scion that governments were forced to cater to on a depressingly regular basis. He was having a rather animated conversation with a cluster of Royal Thai Military officers, whose gold buttons and decorations glinted in the subdued light every time they laughed or waied.

Bond bit back the flash of adrenaline pushing him to action, and cast a glance Indira's way. She caught and Bond gave a quick nod in Breckinridge's direction. Then he watched as she politely excused herself-the body-language was unmistakable even across the room-and drifted over to him.

"So, our man has poked his head above ground," Indira said behind the mask of a polite greeting.

"He's entertaining some highly-decorated Thai military types. At least I assume they're decorated. They're awfully shiny, in any case."