Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [51]
‘You think right, my friend.’
Back at the hotel, Bond explained that he wanted the best room they had. The desk clerk handed him a key, looking up and down suspiciously at Bond’s semi-naked, bleeding figure.
‘My luggage is on its way,’ Bond explained. ‘ Tell the man – Hamid – which number I’m in.’
The room was on the second floor and had a
balcony with a good view over a tropical garden to the sea. It was a simple arrangement with no radio, fridge or other frills, but a large, clean bathroom. Bond didn’t bother with any security checks. No one could have got in before him, since he himself had only just decided to take a room. He went to the shower and for once turned it only to half-power as he stood with his back beneath the water and winced.
As he dried himself, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to see the desk clerk, holding a small silver tray.
‘Lady send up this card,’ said the man. ‘She like to see you. She wait down there.’
‘ Thank you.’
Bond took the business card and flipped it over.
‘Miss Scarlett Papava. Investment Manager. Diamond and Standard Bank. 14 bis rue du Faubourg St Honore´’.
He swore once, coarsely, but more in disbelief than anger.
‘What I say to lady?’
Bond smiled. ‘You say to lady, Mr Bond can’t come downstairs because he has no trousers. But if she would like to come up here and bring a bottle of
cold champagne and two glasses with her, I would be pleased to entertain her.’
As the puzzled clerk disappeared, Bond let out a low, incredulous laugh. It was one thing for Scarlett to have found him and attempted to commission him in Rome and Paris, but to turn up when he was in the thick of things . . . It was almost as though she had no trust in his abilities. Presumably she had been contacted by Poppy on the telephone from Tehran, and Poppy had given her the name of Jalal’s Five Star. But even so . . .
There was a knock at the door. Bond checked himself in the bathroom mirror. The comma of black hair, dampened by the shower, hung over his forehead. The scar on his cheek was less distinct than usual, thanks to the tanning effect of the Persian sun. His eyes were bloodshot from the salt water but retained, despite the spidery red traces, their cold, slightly cruel, sense of purpose.
Bond shrugged. There was nothing he could do to make himself more presentable for Miss Scarlett Papava, so he went to open the door.
‘James! My God, are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Scarlett. Bloodied but unbowed. And extremely surprised to see you.’
‘Surprised,’ said Scarlett, entering the room with a
tray on which stood a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘I can understand that. But not pleased as well? Not even just the smallest bit pleased?’
‘A scintilla,’ Bond conceded.
‘I’ve come almost direct from Paris.’
‘So I see,’ said Bond.
Scarlett wore a charcoal-grey business suit and a white blouse.
She followed Bond’s amused gaze. ‘Yes. I . . . I haven’t had time to buy proper clothes yet. Thank heavens it’s a bit cooler here than it is in Tehran. I shall have to go shopping tomorrow.’
‘Wait and see what Hamid brings me first. You might not like the local fashion.’
‘Hamid?’
‘Yes. My driver. And now my tailor. Champagne?’
‘ Thank you. What a heavenly view.’
Bond turned towards the window to open the champagne.
‘Oh, my goodness, your back!’ said Scarlett. ‘It’s terrible. We must get some iodine. How did you do that?’
‘I have a lot to tell you,’ said Bond. ‘For one thing, I’ve met your sister.’
‘Really? Where?’ Scarlett’s expression, which had been both playful and embarrassed, suddenly became serious.
‘In Tehran. She called at my hotel. I must say I’ve never met anyone quite like you Papava girls for just materializing out of thin air. I’m beginning to think that when I get home to my flat in Chelsea there’ll be a message waiting for me from a third sister.’
Scarlett looked down, a little shamefaced again. ‘So you know she’s my twin.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry, James. Perhaps I should have told you before. It doesn’t really make a difference, does it?