Carte Blanche

bring a bottle of one of those Bordeaux you were talking about. A week on Saturday, how’s that?”
    She paused, consulting her calendar, Bond guessed. “Yes, James, that’ll be great.”
    He imagined her again: the abundant red hair, the sparkling golden-green eyes, the rustling as she crossed her legs.
    Then she added, “And you’ll have to bring a date.”
    The whiskey stopped halfway to his lips. “Of course,” Bond said automatically.
    “You and yours, Tim and me. It’ll be such great fun.”
    “Tim. Your fiancé.”
    “You might’ve heard—we went through a bad patch. But he turned down a chance of a big job overseas to stay in London.”
    “Good man. Came to his senses.”
    “It’s hardly his fault for considering it. I’m not easy to live with. But we decided to see if we could make it work. We have history together. Oh, do let’s try for Saturday. You and Tim can talk cars and motorbikes. He knows quite a lot about them. More than I do, even.”
    She was talking quickly—too quickly. Ophelia Maidenstone was savvy, in addition to being clever, of course, and she was fully aware of what had happened between them at the restaurant last Monday. She’d sensed the very real connection they’d had and would be thinking even now that something might have developed . . . had the past not intruded.
    The past, Bond reflected wryly: Severan Hydt’s passion.
    And his nemesis.
    He said sincerely, “I’m very glad for you, Philly.”
    “Thank you, James,” she said, a dash of emotion in her voice.
    “But listen, I won’t have you spending your life wheeling babies around Clapham in a pram. You’re the best liaison officer we’ve ever had and I’m insisting on using you on every assignment I possibly can.”
    “I’ll be there for you, James. Whenever and wherever you want me.”
    Under the circumstances, probably not the best choice of words, he reflected, smiling to himself. “I have to go, Philly. I’ll ring you next week for the postmortem on Incident Twenty.”
    They disconnected.
    Bond ordered another drink. When it arrived, he drank half as he looked out over the harbor, though he was not seeing much of its spectacular beauty. And his distraction had nothing—well, little—to do with Ophelia Maidenstone’s repaired engagement.
    No, his thoughts dealt with a more primal theme.
    His mother, a spy . . .
    Suddenly a voice intruded on his turbulent musings. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”
    James Bond turned to Bheka Jordaan, sitting down across from him. “She’s well, Ugogo?”
    “Oh, yes, but at my sister’s she made us all watch a ’Sgudi ’Snaysi rerun.”
    Bond lifted an eyebrow.
    “A Zulu-language sitcom from some years ago.”
    It was warm under the terrace’s heater and Jordaan slipped off her navy blue jacket. Her red shirt had short sleeves and he could see that she had not used makeup on her arm. The scar inflicted by her former coworkers was quite prominent. He wondered why she was not concealing it tonight.
    Jordaan regarded him carefully. “I was surprised you accepted my invitation to dinner. I am paying, by the way.”
    “That’s not necessary.”
    Frowning, she said briskly, “I didn’t assume it was.”
    Bond said, “Thank you, then.”
    “I wasn’t sure I’d ask you. I actually debated for some time. I’m not a person who debates much. I usually decide rather quickly, as I think I’ve told you.” She paused and looked away. “I’m sorry your date in the wine country didn’t work out.”
    “Well, all things considered, I’d rather be here with you than in Franschhoek.”
    “I should think so. I’m a difficult woman but not a mass murderer.” She added ominously, “But you should not flirt with me . . . Ah, don’t deny it! I remember very well your look in the airport the day you arrived.”
    “I flirt a lot less than you think I do. Psychologists have a term for that. It’s called projecting. You project your feelings on to me.”
    “That remark in itself is flirtatious!”
    Bond laughed and gestured the sommelier forward. He displayed the bottle of the South African sparkling wine Bond had ordered to be brought when his companion arrived. The man opened it.
    Bond tasted it and nodded approval. Then he said to Jordaan, “You’ll like this. A Graham Beck Cuvée Clive. Chardonnay and pinot noir. The 2003 vintage. It’s from Robertson, the Western Cape.”
    Jordaan gave one of her rare laughs. “Here I’ve been lecturing you