James Bond walked into the gently rocking dinning car with his shoulders back and his eyes fixed on the barman. Only the observant would have noticed the red swelling below his left eye and the missing cuff link below his dinner jacket sleeve. Half a mile behind him, in a shallow wadi by the side of the tracks, lay the lifeless body of his would-be assassin.

“Good evening, Mr Bond,” welcomed the barman.

“Good evening, Harry,” said Bond. “This heat has me rather parched and I am in need of something simultaneously lively and serene.”

“Celebrating something, Mr Bond?” enquired Harry, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Not particularly, Harry,” Bond said as he scanned the occupants of the dining car in the bar’s mirror.

“I think I have just the thing, Mr Bond,” said Harry as he produced a bottle of The Drift Estate Rosé from the refrigerator below the bar.

“Splendid, Harry,” said Bond, his eyes engaged by the colour of the wine. “What a nice change from those insipid, watery wines.”

“Indeed, Mr Bond,” said Harry, as he poured a glass. “The lady dining in booth number 3 has ordered a glass herself. Apparently she’s a wine expert.”

“How informative, Harry,” said Bond smiling as he turned around. “And what a stroke of luck.”