Devil May Care

more warningly to his lips, he ran back to the car and called to Scarlett to get in.
    As she closed her door, Bond engaged the clutch and drove off, leaving the old man holding his still-dripping pump in amazement.
    Bond drove fast for two more hours, till it was starting to grow dark.
    ‘Look!’ said Scarlett. ‘There’s a telephone box. Let’s try it.’
    Bond watched from the car while she wrestled with the primitive Soviet system. After ten minutes, she returned, downcast and frustrated.
    ‘I managed to speak to an operator, but the idea of making an international call was completely out of the question. She didn’t even seem to understand the idea of it.’
    ‘You’ll have to go the embassy in Moscow after all. It’s the only way. I’ll get us there as fast as I can. We won’t be able to find petrol at night, so we’ll have to stop somewhere and start again in the morning. But we’ll try to find some food once we’re past Kazan.’
    Scarlett nodded unhappily, and snuggled down against Bond on the bench seat. He had to wake her for help with the Cyrillic signposts at Kazan, but once they were on the western outskirts they saw a truck-drivers’ restaurant set back from the road.
    They sat alone beneath a strip-light, while a large woman brought them soup and black bread with tea. There was some stew afterwards, though neither of them could manage much of it.
    ‘I can see why there are no other patrons,’ said Bond.
    ‘It’s not quite what you fantasized about, is it?’ said Scarlett.
    ‘Not quite.’
    ‘Will you come and see me in Paris, James? I’ll cook you that dinner you described.’
    ‘I thought it was meant to be in a hotel.’
    ‘All right. Do you know what day of the week it is?’
    ‘No. Why?’
    ‘Let’s make a date for the first Saturday we’re free. You call my office on the Friday and tell me which hotel.’
    ‘It’s a deal. Look. There are two lorries stopping outside. Time to go.’ Bond threw some notes on the table as they left.
    When it was night, and they were deep in the Russiancountryside, miles from any town, Bond turned off the main road on to a minor one for a mile or so, then on to a cart track. He pulled over and turned off the engine.
    He took Scarlett by the hand and opened the boot of the car. Inside was a small suitcase which contained a clean shirt and men’s underwear. There was also a razor and a spongebag with a toothbrush and paste.
    ‘I don’t want to risk a farm building,’ said Bond. ‘It’ll just mean dogs. We’ll try to sleep in the field over there. It’s not too bad. Put on that nice cardigan if you’re cold. If you get really freezing, you can get back into the car and try out the famous double bed.’
    It was a beautiful summer night, and the sky above them was dense with stars. Bond made himself as comfortable as he could on the grass, folding up the suit jacket for a pillow.
    He stroked Scarlett’s hair as she rested her head on his shoulder. He bent down to kiss her, but she was already asleep.
    How strange, thought Bond, to find himself at last in the country against which he had spent the greater part of his adult life conspiring and fighting. Now that he had finally set foot there, it seemed – with its European faces, straggling roads and poor farms – less alien and somehow more normal than he had pictured it. Then, deep in the heart of the Soviet Union, James Bond fell into a light but restful sleep.
    As they neared Moscow towards noon the next day, Bond noticed a burning smell coming from beneath the Volga’s bonnet. He had driven it hard for several hours, and it seemed to be resenting it. A dim memory of a London Motor Show came back to him at which the men on the Volga stand had extolled its high ground clearance, cigarettelighter, integral radio and … Yes, that was it: its pedal-operated lubrication. In the footwell, Bond saw an auxiliary pedal and pumped it hard, oiling not only the big end but large parts of the main road to Moscow.
    ‘Once we get to Moscow,’ he said, ‘we’ll go by train. Do we have enough money for tickets to Leningrad? Then we’ll get a boat to Helsinki.’
    Scarlett counted the roubles from Bond’s pocket. ‘We may have to do another Bonnie and Clyde at a petrol station,’ she said.
    ‘Another good reason to dump the car in Moscow. The police will probably have its number by now.’
    ‘Good,’ said Scarlett. ‘We’ll take a tram into the middle of town. I need some clothes.