Devil May Care

Herald Tribune, sitting at his window overlooked by Mount Demavend.
    Darius had to go to Farshad’s funeral, which, by Islamic law, had to take place within twenty-four hours. Bond felt uneasy at the thought that his own presence in Tehran had led to the man’s death, which he presumed was a warning from Gorner’s people. But Farshad must have known the risks his job entailed, and doubtless Darius would compensate his family well. ‘Happy’ in his life, but not in its ending, thought Bond, as he headed for the shower.
    He decided to drive to Noshahr to investigate the docks and see if he could find out what Gorner was up to there. He would need an interpreter and thought that whoever he found might as well double as a driver. It was unlikely that Tehran would come up with a car that he would want to drive, and in any case a local man would be more at home with the rules of the road – if there were any – on the hairpin bends of the Elburz mountains.
    First, Bond took one of the orange taxis from the rank outside the hotel and ordered it to the main post office. It was another intensely hot day and, as the cab engaged with the traffic of Pahlavi Avenue, he thought wistfully of the cooler air he might find at the Caspian. The taxi eventually swung on to Sepah Avenue, with ministerial offices on one side, the old Palace of the Kingdom and the Senate on the other.
    They pulled up outside the yellow brick façade of the post office, and Bond told the driver to wait. In his hotel room he had already composed a hundred-group cable addressed to the Chairman, Universal Export, London. He used a simple transposition code based on the fact that it was the third day of the week and that the date was the fourth of the seventh month. He knew little about cryptography and, for security’s sake, in case he was ever captured, had preferred to keep it that way.
    He lit one of his remaining Morland’s cigarettes with the three gold rings and stood beneath the idly turning ceiling fan while he waited for the cable boy to tell him he had transmitted successfully.
    As he did so, he noticed that he was being watched by a thin man with reddish-brown hair and white skin. He was sitting at a table where other Tehranis were filling in forms and stamping letters. He held a paper cup of water to his mouth, but didn’t seem to drink from it. Although his head was steady, his eyes were swivelling constantly round the room, while the unmoving cup seemed only to be a cover for his mouth.
    The cable boy called out the all-clear and Bond collected his papers from the counter.
    As he went down the steps of the post office, he heard a voice behind him.
    ‘Mr Bond?’
    He turned, without speaking.
    It was the man from inside. He held out his hand. ‘My name is Silver. J. D. Silver. I work for General Motors.’
    ‘But of course you do,’ said Bond. The handshake was wet, and Bond discreetly wiped his fingers on the back of his trousers.
    ‘I wondered if I could buy you a cup of tea. Or a soda.’
    Silver had a reedy voice. Up close, his long nose and fair eyelashes gave his face the look, Bond thought, of a watchful fox terrier.
    Bond glanced at his watch. ‘I have a few minutes,’ he said.
    ‘There’s a café on Elizabeth Boulevard,’ said Silver. ‘It’s quiet. This your cab?’
    Bond nodded and Silver gave the driver instructions. Sitting alongside him, Bond had time to note the Brooks Brothers suit, the button-down striped shirt and college tie. The accent was educated East Coast – Boston, perhaps – and his manner was relaxed.
    ‘Where you staying?’
    ‘Uptown,’ said Bond, noncommittally. ‘How’s business? I see a lot of American cars, but not many new ones.’
    ‘We get along,’ said Silver, unembarrrassed. ‘We’ll maybe talk more when we get there.’ He looked meaningfully at the driver.
    Bond was happy to keep silent. The phrase of Darius’s – ‘a citizen of eternity’ – went through his mind.
    ‘Tell you what,’ said Silver, ‘maybe we’ll just stay on the sidewalk. Elizabeth Boulevard. It’s named for your queen of England. It has trees, benches, ice-creams … I like it there.’
    ‘I notice there’s a Roosevelt Avenue, too,’ said Bond. ‘Would that be Franklin D. or Kermit?’
    Silver smiled. ‘Well, I guess it wasn’t Eleanor at any rate,’ he said.
    Bond paid the fare and followed Silver to a bench beneath a tree. Further up the street, he could see the entrance to a park, and on