Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [35]
Bond found himself in a large underground room lit by candles held in iron sconces. They were shown to a table on which were already set out bowls of pistachios, mulberries and walnuts, a bottle of Chivas Regal and two jugs of iced water. There were no menus. A group of four musicians was quietly playing stringed instruments on a low, carpeted platform and the other dozen or so tables were all occupied. Darius let out a sigh of contentment as he poured the whisky. A waitress arrived with a tray full of small dishes that included various flatbreads, yoghurts, salads and fresh herbs. Next, a steaming tureen was placed between Bond and Darius.
‘Lamb’s head and feet soup.’ Darius translated the words spoken by the waitress as she ladled some into Bond’s bowl.
It had a surprisingly clean and delicate flavour.
‘James, you must put in some torshi,’ said Darius, handing him a small bowl of pickles. ‘ That’s right. Good, isn’t it?’
‘Extremely,’ said Bond, trying not to sound surprised.
‘And the waitress. Isn’t she lovely?’
‘She’s ravishing,’ said Bond, appreciatively. It was no exaggeration.
‘Some visitors still expect Persian women to be veiled from head to foot. Thank God Reza Shah put an end to all that. He wanted a modern country run on Western lines, and you couldn’t have half the population creeping around like nuns in mourning. You’d be amazed, but some of the women in the most traditional families were reluctant to give up the symbol of their slavery. Policemen were told to rip the veils off them in the street. It was a farce. Of course, the chador was only ever a city phenomenon. Country women had their own clothes and didn’t cover their faces anyway. Persian women today are very . . . What’s the word I read in all the London papers nowadays? ‘‘Liberated’’! After dinner, I’ll show you what I mean. Your good health.’
Darius raised his glass and Bond lifted his in return. He thought back to his lengthy sabbatical and the
doubts about his future that had troubled him in Rome. It seemed a long time ago. Darius Alizadeh’s company was enough to extinguish any sense of uncertainty. Merely sitting next to him was like being plugged into a high-voltage power source. Darius would be paid modestly by the Service for his work in Tehran, Bond thought – though his house suggested family wealth, or at least happy dealings on the stock exchange, which had perhaps made the salary unimportant. In any case, Bond saw in Darius a kindred spirit, someone who was prepared to risk his life not for money but for the thrill of the game.
Thinking of Rome brought to mind Mrs Larissa Rossi, as he had first known her. Bond never allowed personal sentiment to influence his work, but it would be foolish to deny that the urgency of his mission for M, and for his country, was made more intense by his recollection of the tears he had seen Scarlett shed when she spoke of Gorner’s treatment of her sister. The black-haired waitress bent over the table once more. This time she put down an iron pan still spitting from the flame, containing saute´ed shrimps with herbs and tamarind. Then came a flat earthenware dish piled up with concentric layers – orange, green, white and scarlet – like a multicoloured volcano on the point of erupting. It seemed amazing that something
so exotic and bright could have been conjured from the darkness at the back of this subterranean room.
‘ Javaher polow,’ said Darius. ‘Jewelled rice. The layers are orange peel, saffron, barberries and – I forget what else. Anyway, it tastes almost as good as it looks. Nush-e Jan! ’
‘Same to you,’ said Bond. ‘Now, Darius, is there anything more I need to know about Gorner? For instance, where to find him.’
Darius looked serious for a moment. ‘You won’t need to look, James. He’ll find you. He has more spies out there than Savak. It wouldn’t surprise me if the car on our tail was one of his. He has an office in Tehran, which is connected with his pharmaceutical business. It’s near Ferdowsi Square. I’m pretty certain he’s got something going on in the