Bond's hotel room was a typical Moneypenny booking: Right Bank, discreet and slightly unimaginative. Bond swept quickly through the bedroom, bathroom and small sitting room, looking for bugs. The Service changed its hotels so often that it was unlikely anyone could have known he was coming, but the motorbikes showed someone at least was on his tail. Personally, he was inclined to put the BMWs down to unfinished business from a previous operation. This Julius Gorner might be dangerous, but he couldn't, surely, be psychic. And, God knows, there were enough people who'd wanted him dead for years. Even the most successfully concluded operations left many with a grudge against him.
So far as he could tell, the room was clean. He closed the shutters, pulled a hair from his head and stuck it across the crack between the bathroom door and jamb. Then he opened the concealed compartment in the bottom of his case, took out some ammunition, refilled the Walther and replaced it in his shoulder holster, making sure no bulge showed beneath the coat of his suit. He shut the case and sprinkled a fine grey talcum over the combination lock. Then he left the hotel and went out on to the rue St Roch to do battle with the French telephone system.
It occurred to him as he rotated the bevelled edge of the coin against his fingertip that he hadn't eaten since breakfast in Rome. But the one-hour time change had gone against him, so in Paris it was nearly nine and Mathis, it transpired, was not available. Out at dinner with his wretched mistress, thought Bond, as he was forced to leave a message with a surly telephonist at the Deuxième.
Bond had done enough eating out alone in the last few months and it was beginning to rain. He decided to return to his room, order an omelette from room service, then get an early night.
The porter handed over his key on its heavy brass weight with a scarlet tassel. Bond strode across the marble lobby, pressed the lift-call button, changed his mind and ran up three flights of stairs. Deep in thought, he let himself into the soft Right Bank gloom of number 325, flicked up the light switch and tossed the weighty key on to the bed, where it bounced once, playfully. He crossed to the bedside table, took the phone off the hook and dialled zero. As he did so, he turned back to face into the room and saw the most remarkable sight.
Sitting in the uncomfortable gilded armchair beneath the imitation Louis XV looking-glass, her long legs demurely crossed and her empty hands folded in front of her breasts, was one of the most self-possessed young women he had ever seen. She had long dark hair, held back by a scarlet ribbon in a half-ponytail, then falling over the shoulders of her suit. Beneath it, she wore a white blouse and black stockings with low-heeled black shoes. Her lips were painted red and were parted in an apologetic smile.
“I'm so sorry to startle you, Mr Bond,” she said. “I had to make sure of seeing you. I didn't want to give you the chance of turning me down again.” She leaned forward into the light.
“Larissa,” said Bond. His gun was in his hand.
“I really can't apologise enough. This is not how I normally behave, but I was desperate to see you.”
“Your hair. It's longer.”
“Yes. I was wearing a hairpiece in Rome. This is me as I really am.”
“And your husband...”
“I'm not married, Mr Bond. And if I were ever to take that step I doubt it would be with a man who works in insurance. Now I have to tell you something else rather shameful. My name is not really Larissa.”
“How disappointing. I had plans for Larissa.”
“Perhaps this time you'll stay around long enough for me to give you my business card.”
Bond nodded, watching the girl carefully as she stood up. He checked that there was no one behind the curtains. He took the proffered card, then pushed open the bathroom door with his foot, pointed the gun inside and made sure that, too, was clear.
The girl said nothing, merely watching as though this was no more than her bad behaviour had deserved.
Only then did Bond look down at the card. “Miss Scarlett Papava. Investment Manager. Diamond and Standard Bank. 14 bis rue du Faubourg St Honoré”.
“Perhaps I can explain.”
“I think you'd better.” Now that he'd recovered his composure, Bond felt an overpowering curiosity, tinged with admiration. This girl had nerves of iron. “Before you do,” he said, “I'm going to order a drink from room service. What would you like?”
“Nothing, thank you. Unless...A glass of water, perhaps.”
Bond ordered two large bourbons and a bottle of Vittel. If she didn't change her mind, he'd drink the second himself.
“All right,” he said, replacing the receiver. “You have three minutes.”
Miss Scarlett Papava, formerly Mrs Larissa Rossi, sighed heavily and lit a Chesterfield as she sat down again in the hard armchair. At least her choice of cigarette had been genuine, thought Bond.
“I've been aware of who you are for a short time,” said Scarlett.
“How long have you been a financier?” said Bond.
“Six years. You can have me checked with the bank. The headquarters are in Cheapside.”
Bond nodded. Instinctively, he felt that most of the story “Larissa” had told him about her Russian father and her education had been true. But the way she'd deceived him about her husband was galling, and he felt the slight unease he had when he suspected he was in the company of a fellow agent.
“You look sceptical,” said Scarlett. “Run whatever checks you like.”
“So what were you doing in Rome?”
“Please, Mr Bond. You're eating into my three minutes with your questions.”
“Go on.”
“I was in Rome to find you. I need your help. To rescue my sister. She's working against her will for a very unpleasant man. He effectively has her captive.”
“I'm not a private investigator,' said Bond sharply. “I don't rescue distressed damsels. I suggest you get in touch with Pinkerton's or their French equivalent. ‘Cherchez La Femme' it'll probably be called.”
Scarlett smiled demurely. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I did.”
There was a knock at the door. It was the bellboy with the bourbon. He poured two measures and retreated.
“Leave the bottle,” said Bond, placing a folded note on the tray.
“Merci, Monsieur.”
“Did what?” said Bond, when the waiter had gone.
“Call Pinkerton's,” said Scarlett. “Eventually, I found myself talking to a man called Felix Leiter.”
Bond nodded wearily. He might have guessed.
“Mr Leiter said he couldn't do it himself - he only leaves America in exceptional circumstances - but he knew someone who might. He mentioned your name. He said you were in semi-retirement, on a lengthy paid sabbatical or some such thing. He said that, knowing you, you'd be itching for some action. He said, ‘This is right up James's alley. Mention the broad and the 'coon'll be treed.'” Scarlett shrugged. “Whatever that means. Anyway, then he said he didn't know for sure where you were, but the last time he'd heard, you were on your way to Rome. He gave me the name of a hotel he'd recommended. I made some calls.”
“How resourceful of you.”
“Thank you. You took your time getting there, I must say. I spent a fortune ringing the hotel every day.”
“Not from work, I hope.”
“Certainly not. From my apartment in the rue des Saints Pères. I must stress, Mr Bond, that this problem is nothing whatever to do with my work. It's entirely private.”
“But of course,” said Bond.
SIS usually placed its agents on the staff of the embassy under the guise of a chargé d'affaires or visa officer or some such thing. Bond disliked diplomats - men with soft hands sent abroad to lie to foreign governments - and he disliked the agents on their staff even more. Few of them would have lasted thirty seconds in a fight. But it wasn't just the embassy that could be used as a front for these people. They used other jobs as well, and finance, with its requirements for up-to-the-minute information and international travel, was as good as any. Bond had never encountered a British female agent before, but it was just like SIS to think they must “move with the times”.
“I know you must distrust me,” said Scarlett. “You're quite right to, I suppose. But I'll gain your trust. I'll prove myself, I promise you.”
Bond said nothing. He drained his bourbon and poured another glass.
“The thing is,” said Scarlett hesitantly, “that I think I can help you find Julius Gorner. I can tell you where he'll be on Saturday morning. At the Club Sporting de Tennis in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“I think you've had your three minutes,” said Bond.
Scarlett crossed her legs in the way Bond had noticed in the bar in Rome. The girl's presence troubled him in more ways than one. She seemed to have shed some years. He would have put Larissa Rossi down as thirty-two, but Scarlett Papava looked more like twenty-eight.
She watched him closely, as though calculating her next move. “All right,” she said. “I won't pretend. I know you've come to investigate Gorner.”
“How?”
“My sister told me. She telephoned. She wanted me to warn you to keep away from him.”
Bond lit a cigarette. “And your sister can only have heard it...”
Scarlett nodded. “From the horse's mouth.”
Bond inhaled deeply. That explained the motorbikes. The fact that Gorner knew there was someone taking an interest in him was not that surprising - not if he operated on the scale M had suggested. Such people relied on good intelligence. It was irritating, but it wasn't fatal to his undertaking.
“And your sister knew I was coming to Paris?”
“Yes. She rang this morning.”
“And she knew which hotel?”
“No. I waited at the airport, then followed you in a taxi. I'm sorry. As for getting into the room...Hotel staff in Paris are used to unescorted women going up in the lift. Provided you look smart. I asked for your room number, then I gave a room-service boy in the corridor some money to open the door. I said I'd lost my key. It was all ridiculously easy.”
“So Moneypenny booked me into an hôtel de passe. I must have a word.”
Scarlett flushed. “I'm sorry this has all been so underhand. But I had to see you again and I couldn't take the chance you'd freeze me out. I knew if I just telephoned that you'd refuse to see me. Of course, what I meant to do was grab you in the morning in Rome and make a clean breast of it. But I was a bit put out by your...coldness. Then the desk told me you'd left at the crack of dawn.”
“And now you have a second chance. I'm officially engaged to follow a man you wanted me to meet for your own private ends.”
Scarlett smiled. “Do you believe in destiny?'
Bond said nothing. He kicked off his black loafers and propped himself up on the bed. He put his gun down beside the telephone and thought for a long time. He was amused. Lonely housewife, busy banker, lady of the night...Scarlett was undeniably intriguing. Her composure, as she sat there, her red lips half-parted in a self-deprecating smile, was remarkable. And the husband, Mr Rossi, in insurance...What an improbable figure he now seemed. But he had to hand it to her, she'd managed it brilliantly in Rome, that air of frustrated-housewife boredom. Presumably she'd thought it unsafe to talk about her sister in the restaurant and was waiting till she got him up to her room. Or had she had another, more personal, motive?
It didn't matter. At such moments he relied on instinct and experience. Whatever the complications of her story, the signals that the girl gave off were good. Dangerous, perhaps, but interesting.
“All right, Scarlett,” he said, “this is what we'll do. Today is Thursday. Tomorrow I shall meet up with an old friend. Just the two of us, in case you were thinking of dropping in. Depending on what he says, I will then go with you to the tennis club on Saturday morning. I'll call you on this number at six o'clock tomorrow.” He held up her card. “Then you can make the introductions and -”
“No, I can't make the introductions. Gorner mustn't see me. It would put Poppy in danger. I'll point him out to you.”
“All right. But you must stay at the club. I want you there. Until the moment I leave.”
“As your security?”
“Securities are what you deal in, aren't they?” Bond eyed her sardonically. “Is it a deal?”
“Yes. It's a deal.” Scarlett held out her hand.
Bond took it. “Larissa kissed me on the cheek,” he said.
“Autres temps,” said Scarlett, with a low laugh, “autres moeurs.”
He watched her walk down the corridor to the lift, the skirt holding its elegant line along the length of her thighs.
This time there was no wave from the lift, but as the doors were closing, she called out, “How's your tennis? I hope it's good!”
Extracted from Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming published by Penguin 007 on May 28 at £18.99
©Ian Fleming Publications Ltd 2008
