Bond is back. With a vengeance.

‘There’s something I need your help with. The details are a little hazy at the moment, but I sense that it’s going to be something big. Very big indeed. Have you heard of Dr Julius Gorner?’

It’s a name that will become seared into James Bond’s consciousness. The name of a man who knows no master but his own power-crazed ego, whose wealth is exceeded only by his greed and who will stop at nothing until he has destroyed the very heart of Great Britain.

A savage execution in the desolate outskirts of Paris sets in motion a chain of events designed to lead only to global catastrophe, as a tide of lethal narcotics threatens to engulf Sixties Britain, a British airliner goes missing over Iraq and the thunder of coming war echoes round the Middle East...

Bond finds a willing accomplice in the shape of a glamorous Parisian called Scarlett Papava. He will need all her help in a life-and-death struggle with his most dangerous adversary yet – a man who would dance with the Devil himself.

1. The Watcher Watched

It was a wet evening in Paris. On the slate roofs of the big boulevards and on the small mansards of the Latin quarter, the rain kept up a ceaseless patter. Outside the Crillon and the George V, the doormen were whistling taxis out of the darkness, then running with umbrellas to hold over the fur-clad guests as they climbed in. The huge open space of the place de la Concorde was glimmering black and silver in the downpour.

In Sarcelles, on the far northern outskirts of the city, Yusuf Hashim was sheltered by the walkway above him. This was not the gracious arch of the Pont Neuf where lovers huddled to keep dry, but a long, cantilevered piece of concrete from which cheap doors with many bolts opened into grimy three-room appartements. It overlooked a busy section of the noisy N1 and was attached to an eighteenstorey tower block. Christened L¡¦Arc en Ciel, the Rainbow, by its architect, the block was viewed, even in this infamous district, with apprehension.

After six years of fighting the French in Algeria, Yusuf Hashim had finally cut and run. He had fled to Paris and found a place in the Arc en Ciel, where he was joined in due course by his three brothers. People said that only those born in the forbidding tower could walk its airborne streets without glancing round, but Hashim feared nobody. He had been fifteen years old when, working for the Algerian nationalist movement, the FLN, he took his first life in a Çc fire-bomb attack on a post office. No one he had ever met, in North Africa or in Paris, placed much value on a single life. The race was to the strong, and time had proved Hashim as strong as any.

He stepped out into the rain, looking rapidly back and forth beneath the sodium light. His face was a greyish brown, pocked and wary, with a large, curved nose jutting out between black brows. He tapped the back pocket of his blue ouvrier¡¦s trousers, where, wrapped in a polythene bag, he carried twenty-five thousand new francs. It was the largest amount he had ever had to deal with, and even a man of his experience was right to be apprehensive.

Ducking into the shadows, he glanced down for the fifth or sixth time at his watch. He never knew who he was looking out for because it was never the same man twice. That was part of the excellence of the scheme: the cut-out at each end, the endless supply of new runners. Hashim tried to keep it equally secure when he shipped the goods on. He insisted on different locations and asked for fresh contacts, but it wasn¡¦t always possible. Precautions cost money, and although Hashim¡¦s buyers were desperate, they knew the street value of what they dealt in. No one in the chain made enough money to be able to act in absolute safety: no one, that is, except some ultimate, all-powerful controller thousands of miles away from the stench of the stairwell where Hashim was now standing.

Sticking a soft blue pack of Gauloises to his mouth, he wrapped his lips round a single cigarette and drew it out. As he fired his cheap disposable lighter, a voice spoke in the darkness. Hashim leaped back into the shadow, angry with himself that he¡¦d allowed someone to observe him. His hand went to the side pocket of his trousers, where it felt the Çd outline of the knife that had been his constant companion since his childhood in the slums of Algiers.

A short figure in an army greatcoat came into the sodium light. The hat he wore looked like an old kepi of the Foreign Legion, and water ran from its peak. Hashim couldn¡¦t see the face. The man spoke in English, softly, in a rasping voice. ¡¥In Flanders fields,¡¦ he said, ¡¥ the poppies blow.¡¦ Hashim repeated the syllables he had learned by sound alone, with no idea of what they meant: ¡¥Betveen de crosses, row on row.¡¦

¡¥Combien?¡¦ Even that one word showed that the dealer was not French.

¡¥Vingt-cinq mille.¡¦

The runner laid down a brown canvas bag on the bottom step of the stairs and stood back. He had both hands in the pockets of his coat, and Hashim had no doubt that one would be clasping a gun. From the back pocket of his blue trousers, Hashim took out the polythene-wrapped money, then stepped back. This was how it was always done: no touching, and a safe distance maintained. The man bent down and took the money. He didn¡¦t pause to count it, merely inclined his head as he stowed the package inside his coat. Then he in turn stood back and waited for Hashim to move. Hashim bent down to the step and lifted the bag. The weight felt good, heavier than he had known before, but not so heavy as to make him suspect it was bulked out with sand. He shook it up and down once and felt the contents move soundlessly, with the satisfying heft of packed dry powder. The business was concluded, and he waited for the other man to move off. That was the routine: it was safer if the supplier didn¡¦t see which way the receiver even started his onward journey, because in ignorance was security. Reluctant to move first, Hashim faced the other man. He suddenly became aware of the noise around them ¡V the roar of the traffic, the sound of rain dripping from the walkway on to the ground.

Something wasn¡¦t right. Hashim began to move along the wall, furtive, like a lizard, edging towards the freedom of the night. In two strides the man was on him, his arm across Hashim¡¦s throat. Then the unpainted wall smashed into his face, flattening the curved nose into a formless pulp. Hashim felt himself thrown face down on the concrete floor, and heard the click of a safety catch being released as a gun barrel pressed behind his ear. With his free hand, and with practised dexterity, the man pulled Hashim¡¦s arms behind his back and handcuffed them together. Police, thought Hashim. But how could they . . .

Next, he was on his back, and the man dragged him to the foot of the stairwell, where he propped him up. From his coat pocket, he drew out a wooden wedge, about four inches at its deepest. He smacked it into Hashim¡¦s mouth with the heel of his hand, then hammered it home with the stock of his gun, to the sound of breaking teeth. From his coat pocket, he took out a large pair of pliers.

He leaned over Hashim, and his yellowish face became momentarily visible. ¡¥ This,¡¦ he said, in his bad French, ¡¥is what we do to people who talk.¡¦

He thrust the pliers into Hashim¡¦s mouth, and clamped them on his tongue.