"We are expecting one more player, Major," the croupier said, his French accent as unflappable as ever.

"Bally well wouldn't stand for tardiness in my regiment," the Major grumbled.

Lady Denning sighed irritably whilst Dexter Sylvester took to rearranging the piles of chips in front of him. Ulysses had strewn his haphazardly on the baize before him, while the banker Armitage took the opportunity to call the barman over and order a Scotch before the game commenced.

There was a movement in the crowd gathered around the table as the tight-packed throng parted, with some annoyance, to let the late arrival through, although one look from his silent, goliath of a batman silenced their complaints in an instant.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me humbly beg of you your forgiveness. I am so sorry I am late. There were matters I had to attend to that could not be avoided."

Ulysses eyed Harry Cheng with suspicion as he took his place.

"Do not worry, Mr Cheng," the croupier replied generously.

"d.a.m.n Orientals," Ulysses - and a number of others gathered nearby - heard Major Horsley mutter none too quietly under his breath. "Thought they were used to running things like d.a.m.ned clockwork."

"Messieurs et mesdames," the croupier said, focusing everyone's attention, "as we are now ready, we shall begin."

"Looks like Lady Luck's in your corner, Ulysses," John Schafer said. Ulysses had joined the young heir where he was sitting between the bar and the gaming table, with his fiancee and her ever-present chaperone. A natural break had been called in the game, allowing the players time to make themselves comfortable and replenish their drinks and, of course, to cash more chips.

"So far," Ulysses agreed, though with a hint of caution in his voice.

"There are some pretty hefty bets being laid out there," Schafer went on.

"I know. My brother Barty would be proud."

"Especially, I note, between you and the Chinaman Cheng."

"Indeed," Ulysses said, taking a sip of his vodka Martini, his expression darkening again as he observed his rival at the other end of the bar.

"I don't like the look of him," Miss Birkin said, eyeing Cheng with an even more threateningly suspicious gaze.

"You don't like the look of anybody, especially anybody foreign, Aunt Whilomena," Constance said with good-humoured reproach.

"Especially me," Schafer said quietly with a wink to Ulysses.

"What was that, young man?" Miss Birkin challenged, immediately onto her niece's put upon beau.

"Another sherry, Auntie?" he said, exaggeratedly raising his voice for her benefit.

"Oh. Yes. Well. Go on then," the spinster aunt conceded. "And it's still Miss Birkin to you, if you don't mind."

"What's his game?" Schafer said, addressing Ulysses again, drink in hand. "Whatever the state of play he seems to keep trying to raise the stakes and outdo you with every hand."

"You noticed?"

Schafer suppressed a laugh. "It would be hard not to. Even Constance commented on it, bless her."

"Yes, thank you, dear. I was merely showing an interest in the game," his fiancee said, turning from the witterings of her aunt, her tone withering as the desert sun; a taste of what was to come once they were married, Ulysses could well imagine.

"But you're coming up trumps so far," Miss Birkin said encouragingly. Her face twitched. Ulysses could almost believe that she had winked at him from behind her thick, horn-rimmed spectacles, that she was flirting with him.

They were all right, of course: so far the cards did appear to be on his side. Barty would have been jealous; his luck seemed to have run out long ago, hence his current self-imposed incarceration in Ulysses' Mayfair home, under the watchful eye of his cook and housekeeper, Mrs Prufrock. Certainly, so far, Cheng and Ulysses between them had seen off two of the other players at the table. A combination of the cards and reckless gambling had resulted in the end of Dexter Sylvester and the banker Armitage.

It was at that moment a small gong sounded.

"Messieurs et mesdames, may we resume?" the croupier announced from his raised seat at the table.

The crowds had increased since the game had started, drawn by the drama of what was, at its most basic level, a very simple game. Ulysses, Major Horsley and Lady Denning rejoined the table, along with the Oriental lady - whom Ulysses now knew was Mrs Han, almost ophidian in the apparently emotionless way with which she played and lost at Blackjack - and Agent Harry Cheng who Ulysses also now knew was going by his own name on the ship's manifest, but masquerading as an antiques dealer from Shanghai. They were down to five, but not for long.

As the croupier broke open a new deck, shuffled the cards and cut them, ready to deal the first hand, another player joined the group.

a.s.sisted by his personal secretary Miss Celeste, Jonah Carcharodon took his place at the table, his wheelchair replacing Dexter Sylvester's recently vacated seat. His arrival was met with stony silence.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked uncomfortably.

No one said anything other than the croupier who welcomed his employer to the game. No one was going to deny him a place at the Blackjack table and yet neither did any of those already present welcome his involvement in the game.

As Carcharodon waited for his chips and his cards, Miss Celeste crouched low beside him and whispered something in her employer's ear. Ulysses' gaze lingered once again on the young woman's cheetah-lithe lines, the curve of her hips, the indenture at the small of her back, the subtle swell of her bosom, all maintained with sculptural perfection within a cla.s.sic figure-hugging black dress that put to shame the outfits of every other woman in the room. Her hair was up in a tight bun, drawing it away from the sculptural lines of her face, accentuating the contours of her porcelain features - the high cheek bones, the delicately moulded jaw and chin, her swan-like neck. But such beauty was apparently lost on her irritable employer.

Ulysses thought he heard her say, in that quiet way of hers: "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Of course I know what I'm doing," Carcharodon snapped, any pretence he might have managed only moments before towards good humour gone in that split second. Brushing his a.s.sistant aside with a dismissive wave of the hand, he shot the croupier an angry look. "Are we going to just sit here for the rest of the night or are we going to play? Deal the cards!"

The tension in the Casino Royale was palpable. There could not have been anyone left in the place not watching the outcome of the contest now.

Only three remained, the croupier, playing for the house, one of them. Major Horsley was gone, having seen his chips run through his fingers like sand. Lady Denning had left also, stepping down when what had been a pleasant distraction for an hour or two became a vicious contest between rival alpha males. Mrs Han had departed the Casino silently, unemotional about the state of play right to the end. And Cheng had bought it during the last hand, going bust with his final card, making his most humble excuses and leaving the casino altogether as Ulysses beat the bank once again.

So, now, only the dandy and the shipping magnate remained.

"Surely even you can't maintain a run of luck this good, this long," Carcharodon snarled. The wheelchair-bound old man looked ill. His pallor was waxy and grey, sweat beading on his furrowed brow.

By comparison, Ulysses looked remarkably calm and relaxed. Smug, even.

Carcharodon cast him a withering look. In response, Ulysses raised his gla.s.s, as if toasting his rival. "To Lady Luck," he said and emptied its contents.

"If you're quite finished gloating, why don't we play cards?"

Six cards were dealt; two to Carcharodon, two to Ulysses and two were kept by the dealer. The croupier dealt his second card face-up, as he had done in every other round of the game. It was the Seven of Hearts.

Carcharodon glanced anxiously at his hand straight away. Ulysses took his time, in the end his languid approach making him appear entirely casual about the amount of money potentially dependent on the result of this hand.

A muscular tic tugged at Carcharodon's left cheek and a nervous, almost manic, smile played across his tightly drawn lips. Ulysses had never noticed such a physical abnormality before. Carcharodon must have something good. His suppositions were merely heightened when the magnate placed all of his remaining chips on the outcome of the cards.

The crowd gasped. There were phenomenal amounts of money riding on this last hand. Miss Celeste looked like she was about to intervene but then obviously thought better of it.

"What the h.e.l.l," Ulysses said, really doing no more than verbalising his thoughts. "I'm up on what I started with so I can afford to take a risk, just for fun." And he matched Carcharodon's bet.

The crowd gasped again.

"Monsieur Carcharodon?" the croupier said, prompting the magnate to reveal his cards.

Carcharodon calmly turned over his pair. The Jack of Diamonds with the Nine of Spades. A total face value of nineteen. Carcharodon swept his open hand back and forth over his cards. "Stand," he said.

"Nice," Ulysses commented, raising an eyebrow. "Now I rather think it's my turn."

Ulysses turned over his two cards. The Ace of Diamonds and the Three of Clubs.

"Hmm. Fourteen," he mused. He glanced up at the croupier. "Hit me," he said, as he brushed the baize with his fingertips.

The croupier whipped out another card from the dealing shoe. The Eight of Spades.

"Ahh." An eight should have bust his hand, but the Ace made it a soft hand and so now the running total face value of his cards was twelve. "Hit me again."

Another card, the Three of Diamonds, making his score fifteen. He just needed one more card, one more card that could bust him or potentially see him beat the dealer and his rival in one go.

"And again."

Everything rode on this draw. The crowd collectively held their breath. Could Ulysses Quicksilver really pull it off? With so much drama and tension riding on the outcome of this one draw, there was no way that the dandy rogue wasn't going to have gone for broke this time. The croupier turned over the card.

The Six of Hearts.

Gasps of delight and small cheers rippled around the room with a smattering of applause.

"I think you'll find that's Blackjack," he said with a wink towards the downcast Carcharodon.

There was now merely the formality of the dealer playing out his hand. The Nine of Diamonds came first, followed by the Four of Clubs, giving him a very respectable hand of twenty, not enough to beat Ulysses' twenty-one of course but enough to wipe out Carcharodon's fortunes at the casino that night.

Ulysses rose from the table, gathering together his winnings and tossing the croupier a chip, receiving numerous handshakes and pats on the back accompanied by declarations of praise and congratulations from his fellow pa.s.sengers. He barely noticed Carcharodon wheeling himself away from the table, not allowing his a.s.sistant to help him, with her trotting meekly after him, although he did hear the cantankerous old man's final words on the matter: "Get away from me, woman! d.a.m.n it! That was my last throw of the dice."

Ignoring the pitiful whinging of a sore loser - a man reputedly worth more than several of the smaller European countries, and so who could afford to lose a little at the casino - Ulysses eased his way between the tight-pressed well-wishers back towards the bar.

Before he even got there Glenda was hanging from his arm again. "Congratulations! What a game!" she shrieked in tipsy delight, giving him a clumsy peck on the cheek. "Come on, John and Constance want to toast your success. John's bought a bottle of Bollinger to help us celebrate."

"With an offer like that," Ulysses said with a self-satisfied smile, "how could I possibly refuse?"

Glenda lay awake in the near darkness of the cabin, staring at the ceiling above her and feeling the gentle rocking motion of the Neptune continuing on its way across the sea. Turning her head she gazed at the sleeping man next to her, his naked body draped with the bed sheet. His breathing was slow and deep. His arm felt warm draped across her bare belly.

Her nipples became erect in the breeze of air conditioning as the sweat on her body evaporated, her cooling skin p.r.i.c.kling with gooseflesh. Their lovemaking had been pa.s.sionate and urgent, fuelled by a heady c.o.c.ktail of champagne, cognac and Ulysses' success at the Blackjack table.

The journalist in her had harboured the notion that, should she manage to seduce him, he might have let some juicy piece of gossip slip or that she would have been able to wheedle a scandalous t.i.tbit from him as they made pillow talk after the act, savouring the moment of total post-coital relaxation - even if it was just another perspective on the debacle surrounding the Queen's jubilee.

But after enjoying a bottle or two of champagne whilst still in the casino, and once the party had broken up as Miss Birkin ushered her charge away, so causing Schafer to retire too, Glenda and Ulysses had stumbled back to his suite. They were barely through the door before they were ripping each other's clothes off and falling into bed together, their ardour fuelled by the alcohol they had consumed along with a desperate need on the part of both of them. There was no aphrodisiac quite like a big win.

She turned away to read the luminous display of the clock sitting on the small bedside table. Two thirty-four. A good two hours since they had left the Casino Royale. Carefully, she lifted Ulysses' arm from her and moved it aside, quietly sitting up and swinging her long legs out from beneath the sheet.

She found her dress where it had fallen as Ulysses had pulled it from her and pulled it on again. She retrieved her purse and, picking up her shoes, tiptoed to the door. Slowly she turned the handle and the lock clicked as the door opened. There was a snort from the bed and Glenda froze for a moment, her hand still on the door handle, knuckles whitening as she tensed. She didn't turn round but heard the scratching of sheets as Ulysses repositioned himself, unconsciously, under them. Then her sleeping lover was still once more and she left, closing the door carefully behind her.

For a moment she looked up and down the corridor in the dim glow of the lamps. Then, turning away from the direction of her own cabin, she ran lightly - shoes in hand, her footfalls almost soundless on the carpeted floor - deeper into the ship.

Back, beyond the door to Ulysses' cabin, someone waited, holding their breath. Concealed by the shadowy alcove of another doorway they moved for the first time since Glenda Finch had emerged unexpectedly from the cabin, causing them to hide as quickly and as best they could in the first place. But, once she was out of sight again, the watcher cautiously emerged into the gloomy corridor. Letting out a long-held breath the watcher set off after Glenda Finch.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Artificial Intelligence The interlocked vessels spun and yawed wildly through a maelstrom of snow and ice. The Mamba's gondola was now locked with the basket of Ulysses' balloon in a fatal embrace as the two craft plummeted inexorably towards the jagged ice-toothed peaks of the Himalayas.

Their blades locked; Ulysses' sword-cane rapier and the Mamba's scimitar. His arch-nemesis' face was mere inches from his own now. With his yellow skin, narrowed eyes and wide mouth, the Mamba looked even more like a snake than ever before, the only incongruity being the long moustache whipped around by the howling blizzard. His lips parted and his tongue darted out between teeth sharpened to points, in a contemptuous hiss.

As Ulysses struggled with his nemesis, their craft plunging towards their mutual destruction, he could feel his heart pounding within his chest, as adrenalin flooded his system, could hear it knocking against his ribs, throbbing almost painfully.

And then the villain's face was disappearing into the darkness and the whirling snow and the banging was becoming louder, like a fist beating at a door.

And now Ulysses was blinking himself awake, trying to remember where he was, only dimly conscious of the fact that a man's voice was calling him.

"Mr Quicksilver! Sir! Please open the door. Mr Quicksilver! The captain urgently requires your a.s.sistance!"

After the banging at his door and the urgent voice outside it, the next thing Ulysses was aware of was that he was alone; Glenda's place in the bed beside him had been vacated. A totally unexpected knot of cold shock gripped his stomach, as if he cared more about her than he had realised.

Pushing himself up from the mattress, trying to clear his head, forcing sleep from him enough so that he could string a coherent sentence together, he managed a "What is it?" without his voice sounding too sleep-slurred.

"Captain McCormack has asked for you, sir," the voice from the other side of the door said.

Pushing his fringe out of his eyes, Ulysses focused blearily on the luminous clock face on the opposite side of the double bed. It wasn't long after six.

"What are you bothering me for at this time? Breakfast isn't until nine, isn't it?"

"It's a very urgent matter, sir. The captain wouldn't bother you if it wasn't an emergency."

At that moment there was a discreet tap at the adjoining door between Ulysses' cabin and the communal room of the suite.

"Come in, Nimrod," Ulysses said.

The door opened and Ulysses' manservant's aquiline profile appeared around the edge.

"I just wanted to check you were awake, sir," he said. "It sounds like something that won't wait."

"I know," Ulysses muttered, "regrettably."

He clambered out of bed, walked to the door naked and pulled on the dressing gown hung there. He opened the door, even as he was still covering himself with the robe.

Standing in the corridor outside was the Neptune's anxious-looking purser. He was running his peaked cap through his hands and looked decidedly unwell.