Devil May Care

the price. Try it.’
    Bond raised the glass circumspectly to his lips. The aroma was rich, though hard to define.
    ‘Lead pencils?’ said Mathis. ‘Tobacco? Blackberry? A hint of roast beef?’
    Holding up a warning finger, Bond let the wine trickle back over his tongue. ‘Not bad,’ he said.
    ‘Not bad! Batailley is a miracle. One of the great secrets of Bordeaux.’
    By the time the waiter had cleared the plates with what remained of the lapin à l’ancienne and replaced them with a cheeseboard, they were into the second bottle, and Bond was inclined to agree.
    ‘Have you heard of a woman called Scarlett Papava?’ Bond said.
    ‘God, she sounds like a Russian,’ said Mathis.
    ‘I think her father is, or was,’ said Bond. ‘Would you do me a favour? See if any of your colleagues have her marked down as SIS? Or worse?’
    ‘SMERSH? KGB?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ said Bond, ‘but with the Russian connection you have to be doubly careful.’
    ‘Is this urgent?’
    ‘I need to know by five thirty.’ Bond passed Scarlett’s card across the table. He’d memorized the phone numbers. ‘Take this.’
    ‘God, you never change, James. I’ll see what I can do. Call my secretary. I’ll leave a message. A simple code. Green, orange or red. Now what about some more wine?’
    After lunch, Bond bought some tennis clothes and a Dunlop Maxply racquet, loosely strung in gut, from a sports shop on the boulevard St-Germain, then took a cab back to his hotel. He entered his room more cautiously this time, with his gun drawn, though concealed in his coat pocket. He checked the powder and the single hair which he had replaced after the maid had cleaned the room. They were still in place. Then he read a Newsweek article on drug trafficking that Loelia Ponsonby had included in his secret briefing papers. At five thirty he went down into the street and found a telephone in the rue Daunou. He disturbed Loelia over a cup of tea in the office and told her to get the garage people out to the airport to replace his car windows.
    ‘Not dangerous driving again, James, I hope?’
    ‘Never you mind. Enjoy your tea, Lil.’
    ‘I’ve told you before not to call me that, it’s –’
    But it was too late. Bond was already dialling the Deuxième.
    ‘ Le bureau de Monsieur Mathis, s’il vous plâit?
    ‘ Un moment, Monsieur. ’
    There was a series of hisses and clanks on the line, then the same abrupt female voice as the day before.
    ‘ Oui. ’
    What a sour old biddy, thought Bond. What she needed was a good –
    ‘ Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? ’ she snapped.
    ‘ Il y a un message pour Monsieur Bond? James Bond. ’
    ‘ Attendez. Oui. Qu’un mot.’
    ‘ Et? ’
    ‘ Comment, Monsieur?’
    ‘ Le mot. C’est quoi?’
    ‘ C’est “vert”.’
    ‘ Merci, Madame, ’ said Bond. ‘And give my commiserations to your poor bloody husband,’ he added, as he replaced the receiver.
    Something about the name of the street he was in seemed familiar. Rue Daunou. Yes, he had it. Harry’s Bar. ‘Ask for Sank Roo Doe-Noo,’ as the Herald Tribune advertisement told its readers. Bond glanced at his watch. He had time for a bourbon and Vittel in the soft clubman’s atmosphere of Harry’s before telephoning Scarlett. As he sat in the leather armchair, smoking the last of the day’s second packet of cigarettes, Bond had to admit he was starting to enjoy himself. The mission, the girl, the wine with Mathis and now the all-clear …
    He threw a note on to the preposterous bill and went back to the call box. He was connected to Scarlett’s office without demur.
    ‘Scarlett? It’s James Bond. Are you on for tomorrow?’
    ‘Yes. Are you?’
    ‘What time should we arrive?’
    ‘About ten. Shall I pick you up from your hotel at nine? Then you’ll have time to warm up for a few minutes.’
    ‘All right.’ He hesitated.
    She was quick to notice. ‘Was there something else?’
    He had been on the point of asking her to dinner. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing else. Just remember. You’re on probation.’
    ‘I understand. À demain.’
    The line went dead.
    Bond slept like a child in the quiet cocoon of his hotel room. A dinner of scrambled eggs from room service, three large bourbons and a hot bath made the barbiturate unnecessary.
    In the morning, he exercised strenuously, pushing himself through sixty sit-ups and a variety of stretching exercises for the legs and back that Wayland had shown him in Barbados. The maid brought him