Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [42]
In 1991 the KGB, the infamous Soviet security and spy apparatus, was redesigned as Russia’s FSB, with domestic jurisdiction, and the SVR, with foreign. The consensus among those following the espionage world was that the change was cosmetic only.
Bond considered this. ‘Targeted killing.’
‘That’s right. And one of our clandestine operators – an agent with Six – was in some way involved but I don’t know who or how yet. Maybe our man was tracking the Russian assassin. Maybe he wanted to turn him and run him as a double. Or our agent might even have been the target himself. I’m getting more soon – I’ve opened channels.’
He noticed that he was staring at the tablecloth, brow furrowed. He gave her a fast smile. ‘Brilliant, Philly. Thanks.’
On his mobile, Bond typed a synopsis of what Philly had told him about Hydt, Incident Twenty and Green Way International, omitting the information on Operation Steel Cartridge. He sent the message to M and Bill Tanner. Then he said, ‘Right. Now it’s time for sustenance, after all our hard work. First, wine. Red or white?’
‘I’m a girl who doesn’t play by the rules.’ Philly let that linger – teasingly, it seemed to Bond. Then she explained: ‘I’ll do a big red – a Margaux or St Julien – with a mild-mannered fish like sole. And I’ll have a Pinot Gris or Albariño with a nice juicy steak.’ She relented. ‘I’m saying whatever you’re in the mood for, James, is fine with me.’ She buttered a piece of her roll and ate it, with obvious pleasure, then snatched up the menu and examined the sheet like a little girl trying to decide which Christmas present to open first. Bond was charmed.
A moment later Aaron, the waiter, was beside them. Philly said to Bond, ‘You first. I need seven seconds more.’
‘I’ll start with the pâté. Then I’ll have the grilled turbot.’
Philly ordered a rocket and Parmesan salad with pear and, to follow, the poached lobster, with haricots verts and new potatoes.
Bond picked a bottle of an unoaked Chardonnay from Napa, California.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘The Americans have the best chardonnay grapes outside Burgundy but they really must have the courage to throw out some of their damned oak casks.’
Bond’s opinion exactly.
The wine arrived and then the food, which proved excellent. He complimented her on her choice of restaurant.
Casual conversation ensued. She asked about his life in London, recent travels, where he’d grown up. Instinctively, he gave her only the broad brush of information that was already in the public domain – his parents’ death, his childhood with his aunt Charmian in idyllic Pett Bottom, Kent, his brief tenure at Eton and subsequent attendance at his father’s old school in Edinburgh, Fettes.
‘Yes, I heard that at Eton you got into a spot of bother – something about a maid?’ She let those words linger a bit too. Then smiled. ‘I heard the official story – a touch scandalous. But there were other rumours too. That you’d been defending the girl’s honour.’
‘I think my lips must remain sealed on that.’ He offered a smile. ‘I’ll plead the Official Secrets Act. Un-officially.’
‘Well, if it’s true, you were quite young to play knight errant.’
‘I think I’d just read Tolkien’s Sir Gawain,’ Bond told her. And he couldn’t help but note that she’d certainly done her research on him.
He asked about her childhood. Philly told him about growing up in Devon, boarding school in Cambridgeshire – where, as a teenager, she’d distinguished herself as a volunteer for human rights organisations – then reading law at the LSE. She loved to travel and talked at length about holidays. She was at her most animated when it came to her BSA motorcycle and her other passion, skiing.
Interesting, Bond thought. Something else in common.
Their eyes met and held for an easy five seconds.
Bond felt the electric sensation with which he was so familiar. His knee brushed against hers, partly by accident, partly not. She ran a hand through her loose red hair.
Philly rubbed her closed eyes with her fingertips. Looking back to Bond, she said, her voice low,