Devil May Care

wretched mistress, thought Bond, as he was forced to leave a message with a surly telephonist at the Deuxième.
    Bond had done enough eating out alone in the last few months and it was beginning to rain. He decided to return to his room, order an omelette from room service, then get an early night.
    The porter handed over his key on its heavy brass weight with a scarlet tassel. Bond strode across the marble lobby, pressed the lift-call button, changed his mind and ran up three flights of stairs. Deep in thought, he let himself into the soft Right Bank gloom of number 325, flicked up the light switch and tossed the weighty key on to the bed, where it bounced once, playfully. He crossed to the bedside table, took the phone off the hook and dialled zero. As he did so, he turned back to face into the room and saw the most remarkable sight.
    Sitting in the uncomfortable gilded armchair beneath the imitation Louis XV looking-glass, her long legs demurely crossed and her empty hands folded in front of her breasts, was one of the most self-possessed young women he had ever seen. She had long dark hair, held back by a scarlet ribbon in a half-ponytail, then falling over the shoulders of her suit. Beneath it, she wore a white blouse and black stockings with low-heeled black shoes. Her lips were painted red and were parted in an apologetic smile.
    ‘I’m so sorry to startle you, Mr Bond,’ she said. ‘I had to make sure of seeing you. I didn’t want to give you the chance of turning me down again.’ She leaned forward into the light.
    ‘Larissa,’ said Bond. His gun was in his hand.
    ‘I really can’t apologize enough. This is not how I normally behave, but I was desperate to see you.’
    ‘Your hair. It’s longer.’
    ‘Yes. I was wearing a hairpiece in Rome. This is me as I really am.’
    ‘And your husband …’
    ‘I’m not married, Mr Bond. And if I were ever to take that step I doubt it would be with a man who works in insurance. Now I have to tell you something else rather shameful. My name is not really Larissa.’
    ‘How disappointing. I had plans for Larissa.’
    ‘Perhaps this time you’ll stay around long enough for me to give you my business card.’
    Bond nodded, watching the girl carefully as she stood up. He checked that there was no one behind the curtains. He took the proffered card, then pushed open the bathroom door with his foot, pointed the gun inside and made sure that, too, was clear.
    The girl said nothing, merely watching as though this was no more than her bad behaviour had deserved.
    Only then did Bond look down at the card. ‘Miss Scarlett Papava. Investment Manager. Diamond and Standard Bank. 14 bis rue du Faubourg St Honoré’.
    ‘Perhaps I can explain.’
    ‘I think you’d better.’ Now that he’d recovered his composure, Bond felt an overpowering curiosity, tinged with admiration. This girl had nerves of iron. ‘Before you do,’ he said, ‘I’m going to order a drink from room service. What would you like?’
    ‘Nothing, thank you. Unless … A glass of water, perhaps.’
    Bond ordered two large bourbons and a bottle of Vittel. If she didn’t change her mind, he’d drink the second himself.
    ‘All right,’ he said, replacing the receiver. ‘You have three minutes.’
    Miss Scarlett Papava, formerly Mrs Larissa Rossi, sighed heavily and lit a Chesterfield as she sat down again in the hard armchair. At least her choice of cigarette had been genuine, thought Bond.
    ‘I’ve been aware of who you are for a short time,’ said Scarlett.
    ‘How long have you been a financier?’ said Bond.
    ‘Six years. You can have me checked with the bank. The headquarters are in Cheapside.’
    Bond nodded. Instinctively, he felt that most of the story ‘Larissa’ had told him about her Russian father and her education had been true. But the way she’d deceived him about her husband was galling, and he felt the slight unease he had when he suspected he was in the company of a fellow agent.
    ‘You look sceptical,’ said Scarlett. ‘Run whatever checks you like.’
    ‘So what were you doing in Rome?’
    ‘Please, Mr Bond. You’re eating into my three minutes with your questions.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘I was in Rome to find you. I need your help. To rescue my sister. She’s working against her will for a very unpleasant man. He effectively has her captive.’
    ‘I’m not a private investigator,’ said Bond sharply. ‘I don’t rescue distressed damsels. I suggest you