Devil May Care

Hamid kept his foot in the sameposition on the accelerator, whatever the terrain. He steered with his left hand only, leaving the right free to gesticulate. ‘The Valley of Fate,’ he said. ‘Hill of the Virgins … Lions’ Den … Crossing of Great Peril.’
    Sometimes in the gullies and ravines below them Bond could see the rusting wrecks of upturned cars and coaches. When Hamid approached a particularly fierce hairpin, he cried out piously, ‘ Allahu Akbar, ’ preferring to trust in the greatness of God than in any change of speed he might have achieved by raising his right foot.
    Slowly, the air began to clear. After two hours, Hamid pulled in at a hillside tea-room and gestured to Bond to follow him. They sat on a veranda and drank sweetened black tea, looking back towards the great southward sprawl of Tehran, barely visible in the haze of heat and fumes, a gigantic symbol of human endeavour in the surrounding desert.
    Hamid retired inside to do some business with the tearoom owner, who appeared to be a relation, then summoned Bond back to the car. After another hour or so, they crossed the high point of the mountains, and from the moment they began to descend towards the Caspian plain, there was moisture and a blessed coolness to the air. On the horizon, shimmering like a mirage, lay the turquoise waters of the world’s largest inland sea.
    Far beneath them, Bond could see the valley road, snaking through the lush vegetation, and could make out donkeys and camels on its dusty surface as well as coaches bound for the coast, their roofs piled high with luggage. The animals moved slowly among numerous Volkswagens, both camper vans and the distinctive Beetle saloons, as well as boxy rectangular cars of, he guessed, local manufacture.
    Bond breathed in deeply as they went through the orange groves – partly for the citrus scent in the tropical air and partly to gather himself for what lay ahead. Something told him that his holiday was over. After barely thirty-six hours in which to acclimatize himself, he was now approaching what Felix Leiter would have called the ‘sharp end’ of his trip.
    It was siesta time when they arrived in Noshahr, and Bond told Hamid to drive him round for a while so he could get a feeling of the place. The best houses, including the Shah’s summer residence, were some way back from the sea, in palm-lined streets, but there were also good hotels along the front, including Jalal’s Five Star, the one Poppy had recommended, and it was here that they stopped to eat.
    ‘Hamid,’ said Bond, as the driver tucked into a pile of lamb kebab and rice in the empty dining room, ‘we need to have a system. Do you understand? You drive me to the place I’m going in the dock area, then you leave me. If I’m not back right here in this hotel by eight o’clock this evening, you telephone Mr Darius Alizadeh. This is his number. He’ll know what to do.’
    Bond handed the driver some rials. ‘This should cover anything,’ he said. ‘You all right?’
    ‘Allah will provide,’ said Hamid, without much conviction. ‘I can pass any message you like, Mr James. I understand dead-letterbox.’
    Bond laughed. ‘You what?’
    ‘I drive once for American man. Mr Silver. He need translating too. One thing, Mr James. I like to eat caviar. Here is very good.’
    ‘Well, I suppose it would be. Right from the sea. You know why caviar’s so rare?’
    Hamid nodded. ‘Is sturgeon egg. But not fertilized by man sturgeon.’
    ‘That’s right. “And the virgin sturgeon needs no urgin’./ That’s why …” Never mind, Hamid. Not really a Persian poem, I suppose.’ Bond put his hand into his back pocket. ‘Take this. That should cover it. In return, you be on your toes.’
    ‘On my toes,’ said Hamid, pocketing the extra notes and walking heavily towards the door of the hotel dining room.
    ‘Give me one moment to change,’ said Bond, heading for the cloakroom.
    A minute later, they got back into the car and drove slowly into the main dock area with Bond navigating from Poppy’s map and Hamid barking out the names of the streets. There were two or three large merchantmen at anchor, as well as fleets of commercial fishing-boats. The size of the docks was impressive, Bond thought. Though it was only a short distance from the beaches where the tourists bathed, they could have berthed a couple of destroyers in this forlorn area with its endless walkways, warehouses and construction