Devil May Care
turned and fired once, then ran down the steps and along the platform towards the door. He heard shots ring out and the whine of a bullet as it passed through the wooden wall above his head. He ran a zigzag pattern to the door, side-stepping three low shots that ricocheted off the platform.
In front of him, in the doorway, was a second guard with his feet spread, preparing to shoot. Bond emptied two shots from the first guard’s gun into the man’s midriff and jumped over the slumped body to emerge into the evening sunlight.
There was a time in life to go forward – to attack – but there was also a time, in Bond’s opinion, to get the hell out. Survival lay in knowing which was which. Even the Prophet’s famous journey, his hejira to the Holy City, Darius had told him, had been in truth a tactical withdrawal. So it was the Arabic word that Bond muttered to himself – ‘ Hejira ’– as, without looking back, he ran as fast as he could towards the road. He had gone only a hundred yards towards the town when he heard a clangorous hooting from a side-street.
It was coming from a grey Cadillac, through whose driver’s window Bond could make out only an outsize moustache.
‘Get in, Mr James. You don’t go nowhere in your bathing trousers.’ Hamid flipped open the back door and Bond dived across the seat.
‘Go, Hamid! Go!’ he shouted.
Hamid needed no encouragement, as he left black streaks of rubber down the dockside road, screeched back beside the neat little bazaar off Azadi Square, then whisked the car away up into the palm-lined millionaires’ rows behind the town.
When he was sure they were not being followed, Bond said, ‘All right. Slow down.’
Hamid looked disappointed, but did as he was told. Then he turned round, and his moustache twitched in amusement. ‘What you have?’ he said, pointing to the package.
‘I don’t know,’ said Bond. ‘I’m going to find out back in the hotel. You drop me off, then you’re going to buy me some new trousers and a shirt.’
‘You like American clothes?’
‘Yes,’ said Bond, cautiously. ‘Something plain, no checks or stripes. And tell me, Hamid, why were you waiting?’
Hamid shrugged. ‘I nothing else to do. I pull in, have a look round. It looks … not so good. I have bad feeling. I think you need Hamid.’
‘You think right, my friend.’
Back at the hotel, Bond explained that he wanted the best room they had. The desk clerk handed him a key, lookingup and down suspiciously at Bond’s semi-naked, bleeding figure.
‘My luggage is on its way,’ Bond explained. ‘Tell the man – Hamid – which number I’m in.’
The room was on the second floor and had a balcony with a good view over a tropical garden to the sea. It was a simple arrangement with no radio, fridge or other frills, but a large, clean bathroom. Bond didn’t bother with any security checks. No one could have got in before him, since he himself had only just decided to take a room. He went to the shower and for once turned it only to half-power as he stood with his back beneath the water and winced.
As he dried himself, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to see the desk clerk, holding a small silver tray.
‘Lady send up this card,’ said the man. ‘She like to see you. She wait down there.’
‘Thank you.’
Bond took the business card and flipped it over. ‘Miss Scarlett Papava. Investment Manager. Diamond and Standard Bank. 14 bis rue du Faubourg St Honoré’.
He swore once, coarsely, but more in disbelief than anger.
‘What I say to lady?’
Bond smiled. ‘You say to lady, Mr Bond can’t come downstairs because he has no trousers. But if she would like to come up here and bring a bottle of cold champagne and two glasses with her, I would be pleased to entertain her.’
As the puzzled clerk disappeared, Bond let out a low, incredulous laugh. It was one thing for Scarlett to have found him and attempted to commission him in Rome and Paris, but to turn up when he was in the thick of things … It was almost as though she had no trust in his abilities. Presumably she had been contacted by Poppy on thetelephone from Tehran, and Poppy had given her the name of Jalal’s Five Star. But even so …
There was a knock at the door. Bond checked himself in the bathroom mirror. The comma of black hair, dampened by the shower, hung over his forehead. The scar on his cheek was less distinct than usual, thanks to the tanning effect of the Persian
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