Solo

hard work – I only put you forward as the right man for the job.’ He allowed himself a half-smile. ‘And it turned out I was correct. I know it hasn’t been an easy time for you but we’ll find a way of recognising that, James, don’t you worry.’
    Bond noticed the deliberate use of his Christian name. The mood was mellowing again, but he wanted to make his point.
    ‘All’s well that ends well,’ Bond said. ‘For both of us.’
    ‘Us?’
    ‘The British and the Americans. We seem to be sitting pretty.’
    ‘And what could be wrong with that?’ M stood up, signalling that the meeting was at an end. Bond rose to his feet also, as M came round from behind his desk. ‘Don’t go there,’ he said, his voice leavened with delicate warning. ‘It’s not our affair. We’re servants of Her Majesty’s Government, whatever its political hue. We are part of the Secret Intelligence Service. Civil servants in the pure sense of the term.’
    ‘Of course,’ Bond said. ‘As you know, sir,
je suis un paysan écossais
– all this multinational, macroeconomic forward-planning is lost on me.’
    ‘He said, disingenuously.’
    They both smiled and moved to the door, where M briefly rested his hand on Bond’s shoulder.
    ‘You did exceptionally well, 007. Did us proud.’
    It was a significant compliment, Bond knew. And suddenly he saw how much had been at stake; how his obscure mission in a small African country had possessed a geopolitical resonance and fallout that he could never have imagined. That he would never have wanted to imagine when he had set out on it, he told himself.
    M patted his shoulder again, avuncularly.
    ‘Come in and see me on Monday morning. I think I might have an interesting little job for you.’
    No rest for the wicked, Bond thought.
    ‘See you Monday morning, sir.’
    ‘Any plans for the weekend?’
    ‘I have to return some lost property.’

·2·
     

OUT OF THE DARK
     
    Bond knocked on Vampiria’s door. He had had his hair cut and a massage and was wearing his dark navy-blue worsted suit, a heavy cream silk shirt and a pale blue knitted silk tie. He sensed he was back to normal – feeling as well as he had in months.
    Bryce Fitzjohn opened the door to her caravan. She was wearing a ginger gaberdine double-breasted trouser suit with a white cashmere polo neck and her hair was pinned up in a loose bun.
    ‘Too early?’ Bond asked.
    ‘No – perfect timing. Vampiria is no more, consumed by hellfire.’ She looked him up and down approvingly. ‘You seem very fit and well, Mr Bond. Step inside. I don’t want to kiss you with half the crew looking on.’
    He went inside and they kissed, gently, passionately. Bond felt a kind of release inside him, a rare surge of well-being. Perhaps he could let everything go for twenty-four hours and be himself with this wonderful woman.
    ‘How was your trip to Americay?’
    ‘It was . . . interesting.’
    ‘No new scars?’
    ‘A scar-free sojourn, I’m glad to report.’ He smiled, reassuring her, but he made the qualification to himself – at least none visible.
    Bond drove her back to Richmond in his Interceptor II.
    ‘Is this a new car?’ Bryce asked.
    ‘On approval. I’m not sure I can afford it.’
    ‘Are you all right, James?’
    ‘I am now,’ he said with real sincerity. ‘I was feeling a bit out of sorts – and then I saw you again.’
    ‘We do our best,’ she said, reaching over to touch his cheek with her knuckles. There was an understanding between them, Bond thought. So much of what they communicated was unspoken. She already knew him, it seemed – his necessary reticences, places he couldn’t go – and he received in return her covert messages of desire and affection, of real warmth. The hidden currents of their conversation were deep and strong.
    Back at her house she told him they were having a repeat meal: champagne, a steak and a tomato salad and a great bottle of red wine. When she went into the kitchen to decant the wine – she’d chosen a Chateau Cantemerle 1955 – Bond slipped into her study and replaced her passport in the top drawer. Dennis Fieldfare had swiftly reconstituted it in its original form – it looked completely identical to the one he’d purloined, though maybe one day Bryce would wonder how she’d acquired those US immigration stamps while she’d been busy filming
Vampiria
in the Thames Valley, but Bond reckoned he’d managed the duplicity without being discovered. She would