Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [104]
Bond barely had time to telephone Scarlett’s office, where he left a message – ‘Crillon lobby at six thirty tomorrow’ – before the police were on the scene. He spent most of the afternoon explaining to them what had happened. A suicide, a bizarre accident . . . At five o’clock he persuaded them to call Rene´ Mathis, who was happy to vouch for Bond’s good name in person.
It was six thirty by the time the paperwork was finished and the two men stood on the quai des Orfe`vres.
‘I would love to . . . But I . . .’ said Mathis, looking at his watch.
‘Me too,’ said Bond. ‘Business.’
‘Lunch on Monday,’ said Mathis. ‘ That same place. In the rue du Cherche Midi.’
‘I’ll see you there at one,’ said Bond.
They shook hands and went their different ways. Bond hailed a taxi – a black Citroe¨n DS – which rolled him smoothly through the heavy traffic of the
Champs-E
´ lyse´es and on to the George V. It was five to seven as he crossed the great marble-floored lobby with its ornate tables groaning beneath giant glass vases of lilies.
‘Room five eight six, please,’ he said to the clerk. There was a muted telephone conversation.
‘Yes, Monsieur, you are expected. The elevator is that way and to the left.’
The George V was a witty choice for this meeting, Bond reflected, as he jabbed the number-five button inside the lift – named after the British king who had instigated the Entente Cordiale. How cordial would this meeting be? He knew most of the other double-Os by name or by sight, but contact was kept to a minimum for security reasons.
Ah, well, he thought, as he went down the softly carpeted corridor to room 586. The first few months in the job could be difficult. He would do his best to be polite. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He tried the handle, and the unlocked door opened into a darkened room. Everything was exactly as they had always been taught. What light there was shone into his eyes, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, but as he closed the door behind him Bond knew exactly what he would see. Without turning, he said,
‘Hello, Scarlett.’
‘Hello, James. We seem to have met a day early.’
She stood up from the chair in the darkest corner, where she had been sitting, and turned the lamp away from him. She reached for a switch in the panelling, and the room returned to a normal, muted lighting. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress, black stockings and a modest silver necklace. She had the red lip colour she had worn as Mrs Larissa Rossi when he first set eyes on her in Rome. Her hair was glowing and clean on her bare shoulders.
Yet she looked, for the first time since he had known her, ill at ease. She looked frightened.
‘I’m so sorry, James.’ She took a hesitant step towards him. ‘I didn’t mean to fall in love with you.’
Bond smiled. ‘It’s all right.’
‘When did you know?’ Her voice was tight with anxiety – the dread of one who fears the loss of love. Bond sighed deeply. ‘When I walked into this room. But all along, really.’
‘Which?’
‘Both.’
Bond began to laugh and found it hard to stop. The tension of the preceding days seemed to pour out of him.
Then, with a deep inhalation, he controlled himself. ‘I think the moment when you shot clean
through the electric cable in the hangar at Noshahr
. . . That was when I first suspected.’
Scarlett pouted. ‘It was very close.’
‘Not that close.’
‘Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry. I’d spent the week before firing in two new Walthers on the range. My eye was in. Can you forgive me?’
‘I don’t know yet, Scarlett.’ Bond sat down on the velvet-upholstered sofa and lit a cigarette. He put his feet up on the coffee-table as he exhaled. ‘I’ll have to forgive myself first. You gave me enough clues. The way you left no shadow when you hid outside the building in the boatyard. The way you smelt of fresh lily-of-the-valley when I kissed you in Noshahr