Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [8]
For a moment, Bond was tempted to confide in this animated and beautiful girl – to tell her about his wife of a few brief hours, Tracy di Vicenzo, and how Blofeld’s men had killed her, how he himself had fallen into their clutches, the whole Japanese nightmare and his part-redemption in Jamaica. But confidences were unprofessional. He had already allowed his strange, distracted mood to let him say more than he should.
‘Another time,’ he said. ‘When we know each other a little better.’
He steered the conversation back to Larissa, noticing as he did that his evasiveness had made him more interesting to her. Reluctantly at first, but then with increasing self-absorption, Larissa took up the narrative of her life.
When they arrived back at the hotel, she stopped outside the front door and placed her hand on Bond’s forearm.
‘My husband has had to go to Naples for the night,’ she said, looking down at her feet and licking her lips a little nervously as she spoke. ‘He told me when I called him earlier. You could come up to our suite for a drink if you like.’
Bond looked down into the large brown eyes as the full lips parted in an expression of modest excite
ment. Then he heard himself utter three words that in all his adult life had never, in such a situation, left his mouth before. ‘No, thank you.’
‘What?’ It seemed as though she truly hadn’t heard.
‘No, thanks, Larissa,’ said Bond. ‘It’s better this way. I – ’
‘No explanations,’ she said. She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘ Thank you for a lovely evening.’
He watched her as she walked over to the desk, collected her key and made for the lift. As she stepped in, she hesitated, turned and waved.
What a girl, thought Bond. He lit a cigarette and went outside to smoke it.
Perhaps this was the sign he’d been waiting for. A couple of years ago he wouldn’t even have waited for coffee at the restaurant before getting her back to his room at the hotel. Although there had been times when he’d tired of the game, even been repelled by it, he’d been sure it would be a lifelong compulsion. Yet tonight . . . Now he knew for sure that an epoch had ended and he knew what he would have to tell M when he returned to London. It was over. He was resigned to a life of interdepartmental meetings and examining cables at his desk, with only his shared secretary Loelia Ponsonby – now mercifully
back at her post after giving birth to two healthy boys
– to distract his eye occasionally from the paperwork. After the business with Scaramanga in Jamaica, Bond had spent eighteen months – it seemed longer
– pushing paper round his desk before M despatched him on his ‘make-or-break’ sabbatical, after which he alone was to decide whether Bond would ever return to active duty. Without Loelia, office life had been drab indeed: a succession of mousy matrons had occupied the desk, relieved only for a couple of months by a delectable and super-efficient blonde called Holly Campbell, who had been swiftly promoted by M. Bond chucked the end of his cigarette moodily into the street and went back into the hotel. As he collected his key, the clerk gave him a message. It read simply: ‘Call Universal. Urgent.’
He went out again and walked down to a telephone box. Universal . . . He was secretly pleased that after various experiments the Service had reverted to its old cover name. No other word had such curious power over him. There was a heavy echo and delay on the telephone line, then a long low hum – a sign that he was being diverted.
At last, he heard the voice – distorted, distant but unmistakable – of the man he most respected in the world.
‘Bond?’
‘Sir?’
‘ The party’s over.’
‘What?’
‘We need you back. Take the first flight tomorrow.’
‘Sir, I thought – ’
‘One of our sales force is reporting exceptional activity.’
‘Where?’
‘ The Paris branch. Though imports from the Middle East are looking up as well.’
‘What about my sabbatical? It doesn’t end till – ’
‘ To hell with your sabbatical. We can talk about that in the office. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll