Devil May Care

These shoes … We’ll go to GUM, the state department store.’
    ‘Isn’t that right next to the Kremlin?’ said Bond.
    ‘Yes, but I’m not sure where else to go. I think most of the other clothes shops just have empty shelves. You don’t have to come in, James. I know what men are like about shopping.’
    ‘It’s not the tedium, it’s the –’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Get me a clean shirt and underwear while you’re there. And food. We don’t want to risk a restaurant.’
    They left the car near a tram terminus on the east side of the city and travelled into the centre. Bond carried the small suitcase from the boot of the Volga and hoped he looked like a middle-ranking Party functionary. Scarlett wore the BOAC hostess skirt and blouse with the garage woman’s cardigan and shoes. Most of the others on the tram were dressed in a similarly improvised way and no one seemed to give them a second look.
    While Scarlett disappeared into the labyrinth of GUM – a green-roofed, turreted monster almost as big as the Louvre – Bond walked round outside, not wanting to stop in case anyone came to speak to him. He made several long circuits before he eventually saw Scarlett emerge with two full bags.
    ‘That was the longest half-hour of my life,’ he said.
    ‘You wait till you see what I’ve got. A little straw hat to make you look like a maths teacher on his summer holiday. Short-sleeved shirt. You like those, don’t you? Socks that Ivan would be proud of on his collective farm.’
    ‘And for yourself?’ said Bond, hustling her away from the shadow of the Kremlin towards the tram stop.
    ‘Two pairs of babushka knickers and a reinforced bra that could support the onion domes of St Basil’s. A clean blouse. And some bread and cheese.’
    ‘Good girl. Now let’s go.’
    They took a tram to Three Stations Square in the northeast section of the city and went up the steps of Leningrad station. Bond felt safer in the purposeful comings and goings of the concourse than he had while killing time outside GUM.
    Scarlett bought two tickets for the Krasnaya Strela, the Red Arrow overnight train to Leningrad, leaving at eleven fifty-five. Then they walked to a small park and changed into their new clothes in the public conveniences.
    ‘And now,’ said Scarlett, ‘I’m going to the embassy.’
    ‘Do you know where it is?’ said Bond. ‘A grand building near the river – on Sofievskaya Quay, I think.’
    ‘I’ll manage. The taxi driver will know. Will you stay here, in the park?’
    ‘Yes, this is as discreet as I can be. I wish I could come with you, but I wouldn’t be welcome. Who will you ring?’
    ‘My office in Paris to begin with. I’ll speak to the head of my department. He’ll know what to do.’
    ‘All right. Before you go, Scarlett, remember one thing. Gorner has connections with SMERSH and the KGB. We’ve left a trail of havoc across the Soviet Union. A crashed airliner, armed robberies, a hijacked car. Soviet communications may be bad, but we’re still almost certainly being watched. Watching’s one thing they’re good at. Remember, too, that if Darius has somehow managed to get details of the location of Gorner’s factory back to London, a rescue operation will be under way already.’
    He took her hands between his own and looked deep into her eyes. ‘I want you to ask yourself one thing, Scarlett. Is a single telephone call from you going to make any difference? Is it really worth the risk?’
    Scarlett returned his gaze without blinking. ‘James, she’s my sister.’
    Bond released his grip. ‘For God’s sake, make sure you’re back here by nine at the latest.’ He watched the slim figure walk off in the new blouse at a determined pace towards the main road.
    He spent the afternoon and evening in the park, where he tried to sleep. He ate some bread and cheese and drank water from a fountain.
    When darkness fell, he was able to breathe more easily. In the morning they would be in Leningrad, only a short boat ride from freedom. His body ached for the West: for iced cocktails, hot showers, clean sheets, good tobacco …
    His head grew heavy as he rested it against the rough bark of the plane tree behind the park bench.
    ∗
    Meanwhile, between two of the yellow and white columns that held up the great portico of Leningrad station, an urgent transaction was taking place.
    A thickset Soviet man, whose fleshy face bore the marks of a razorblade long past its best, was holding out his