Devil May Care

de Rivoli, he bought a lightweight grey suit, a black knitted tie, three shirts, cotton underwear, some charcoal grey woollen socks and a pair of black loafers. He asked the shopkeeper to get rid of the Volga driver’s clothes and Ken Mitchell’s shoes.
    It was time to make his call to M. He reversed the charges from a coin-operated box in the rue de l’Arbre Sec, then waited when he heard the switchboard in Regent’s Park, the laborious clanking and the long silence that the inexperienced took for a lost connection before the strange hollow sound of the secure line.
    ‘Bond? Where the devil are you?’
    ‘Paris, sir. I told Moneypenny yesterday.’
    ‘Yes, but why?’
    ‘I was escorting a young lady home, sir.’
    ‘Never mind that. I’ve had the PM on the line.’
    ‘How was he?’
    ‘Well … He was extremely pleased as a matter of fact.’
    ‘Unusual,’ said Bond.
    ‘Damn near unprecedented. The RAF took out that Ekranoplan. Somehow the VC-10 also came down off-target.’
    ‘Yes, sir, I –’
    ‘You can tell me all about it back in London. Give yourself a few days in Paris, if you like. While you’re there, I’d like you to meet the new 004.’
    ‘What?’ Bond’s voice went cold.
    ‘Don’t be a damned fool, Bond. I told you when you were in London that the last man died in East Germany.’
    ‘Where do I meet him?’
    ‘Go to the George V at seven tonight. Ask for room five eight six. They’ll be expecting you. It’s just a formality. Press the flesh, say hello. And, Bond?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Did you know Felix Leiter had been in on Pistachio?’
    ‘Felix? No. What happened?’
    ‘Bit of a crash dive. There was a problem with a man called Silver.’
    ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
    ‘He tried to stop Leiter making contact. He turned out to be some kind of double. And, Bond, I’m afraid Pistachio himself …’
    Bond heard the emptiness of the line. It meant only one thing. He swore violently.
    ‘Take some time in Paris,’ said M. ‘Leiter’s passing through on Monday on his way back to Washington. I think he’d like to see you.’
    ‘I’ll tell Moneypenny where to find me.’
    ‘That’s all for the moment.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    He replaced the receiver and walked down to the river. Darius had been a good man, but, like Darko Kerim in Istanbul and others before, he had always known the risks involved.
    Bond tried to put the thought of him from his mind. His pockets were still full of new francs as he strolled along the quai, stopping occasionally to look at the cheap paintings, souvenirs and second-hand books that the stall-holders were displaying beside the river. It always surprised him that the padlocked green wooden stalls could contain so much when they were opened out. He picked up a miniature Eiffel Tower and turned it over in his fingers. Should he buy Scarlett a present? he wondered. Time enough to do that before tomorrow evening.
    He contented himself with buying a suitably risqué postcard for Moneypenny and went to a small pavement café on rue des Bourdonnais to write it. He ordered an Americano – Campari, Cinzano, lemon peel and Perrier – not because he particularly liked it, but because a French café was not a place in his view for a serious drink.
    It was surprisingly good, the zest of the lemon cutting through the sweetness of the vermouth, and Bond felt almost fully restored as he left some coins on the zinc-topped table and stood up. He would double back, cross the river at the Pont Neuf and walk slowly towards the Dôme. He had time to kill.
    When he was half-way across the bridge, he noticed, about a hundred yards upriver, the Mississippi paddle steamer, the Huckleberry Finn, ‘on loan to the City of Paris for one month only’ – the same vessel he had seen after his first lunch with Scarlett on the Île St Louis. Cheerful tourists thronged her decks, and a minstrel band in striped blazers and whitetrousers played noisily in the bow. Bond glanced at his watch. He had nothing else to do.
    He saw the boat moor at a stop on the Left Bank and went down the steps to the river. He bought a ticket and went up the gangplank.
    There were empty seats towards the bow, and Bond settled down alone on a bench. It was a warm summer’s day and Paris was en fête. He sat back as luxuriously as the wooden seat allowed, closed his eyes and let his mind picture what the evening ahead might have in store. The boat proceeded slowly down the river.
    Bond’s