Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [95]
‘And now,’ said Scarlett, ‘I’m going to the embassy.’
‘Do you know where it is?’ said Bond. ‘A grand building near the river – on Sofievskaya Quay, I think.’
‘I’ll manage. The taxi driver will know. Will you stay here, in the park?’
‘Yes, this is as discreet as I can be. I wish I could come with you, but I wouldn’t be welcome. Who will you ring?’
‘My office in Paris to begin with. I’ll speak to the head of my department. He’ll know what to do.’
‘All right. Before you go, Scarlett, remember one thing. Gorner has connections with SMERSH and the KGB. We’ve left a trail of havoc across the Soviet Union. A crashed airliner, armed robberies, a hijacked car. Soviet communications may be bad, but we’re still almost certainly being watched. Watching’s one thing they’re good at. Remember, too, that if Darius has somehow managed to get details of the location of Gorner’s factory back to London, a rescue operation will be under way already.’
He took her hands between his own and looked deep into her eyes. ‘I want you to ask yourself one thing, Scarlett. Is a single telephone call from you going to make any difference? Is it really worth the risk?’
Scarlett returned his gaze without blinking. ‘James, she’s my sister.’
Bond released his grip. ‘For God’s sake, make sure you’re back here by nine at the latest.’ He watched
the slim figure in the new blouse walk off at a determined pace towards the main road. He spent the afternoon and evening in the park, where he tried to sleep. He ate some bread and cheese and drank water from a fountain.
When darkness fell, he was able to breathe more easily. In the morning they would be in Leningrad, only a short boat ride from freedom. His body ached for the West: for iced cocktails, hot showers, clean sheets, good tobacco . . .
His head grew heavy as he rested it against the rough bark of the plane tree behind the park bench. Meanwhile, between two of the yellow and white columns that held up the great portico of Leningrad station, an urgent transaction was taking place. A thickset Soviet man, whose fleshy face bore the marks of a razorblade long past its best, was holding out his hand and nodding in agreement. The sleeves of an ill-fitting suit rose up to reveal grimy shirt cuffs. Into his hand were pressed five US twenty-dollar bills, and the eyes widened with uncontrollable greed above the raw, red cheeks.
His interlocutor spoke bad English, as did he, but it was easy enough to understand what was meant. There were two photographs: one of a man with hard
eyes and an unruly lock of black hair above his right eye, and one of a smart young woman, Russian perhaps, but more glamorous than any female he had ever seen in Moscow.
As for the man with the money, who could tell where he came from? He had the eyes of a Tatar or Mongol, but his skin was yellow, and the odd little hat he was wearing looked Spanish or French. Two things were clear. One was a telephone number, underlined on a piece of paper pressed into his hand, and the other was that more money awaited a successful call.
19. A Point of Shame
Scarlett returned to the park shortly before eight o’clock. She told Bond the embassy had been suspicious at first, but in the end a first secretary had taken pity on her and, having verified her bona fides by making a series of calls to Paris, had allowed her to use the telephone. She had then told her boss in Paris everything that might be helpful and he had promised to pass it on to the authorities. Bond smiled. He had no doubt that Scarlett had used all her feminine charm to persuade the hapless first secretary into permitting this irregular use of his telephone. The important thing was that she had got back safely.
At ten o’clock they left for the station. As they boarded the train, Bond, exhausted as he was, felt the excitement of the overnight journey and the
never-failing romance of the busy