Solo

Typhoon’s RP-3 rockets and the left-hand wing of the building had been burnt out, the exposed, charred roof timbers still smouldering in the weak sunshine. Bizarrely, there was a dead Shetland pony lying on the oval patch of lawn surrounded by the gravelled sweep of the driveway. There were no vehicles in sight and everything seemed quiet and deserted. The men of BRODFORCE crouched down amongst the trees of the wooded parkland around the chateau waiting while Major Brodie scanned the building with his binoculars. Birds were singing loudly, Bond remembered. The faint breeze blowing was cool and fresh.
    Then Major Brodie suggested that Corporal Dave Tozer and Mr Bond might circle round the back of the chateau and see if there was any sign of activity there. He would give them ten minutes before the rest of the men stormed through the front door, took occupancy and began their search.
    It was the same kind of hazy, weak sunshine, Bond recalled, as he neared the Café Picasso – that was what had started him thinking, again – the same sort of day as that 7 June – soft, lemony, peaceful. He and Dave Tozer had cut through the woodland and darted past an empty stable block before finding themselves in a sizeable orchard, unkempt and brambly, with some sixty or seventy trees – apple, quince and pear in the main but with some cherries here and there, already showing clumps of heavy maroon fruit. ‘Look at this, Mr Bond,’ Tozer had said with a grin. ‘Let’s snaffle this lot before the others come.’ Bond had raised his hand in caution – he had caught a scent of woodsmoke and thought he heard voices coming from the other side of the orchard. But Tozer had already stepped forward to seize the glossy cherries. His left foot sank into a rabbit hole and his ankle snapped with a crisp, distinctly audible sound, like dry kindling caught by a flame.
    Tozer grunted with pain but managed not to cry out. He also heard the voices now. He waved Bond to him and whispered, ‘Take my Sten.’ Bond was armed: he had a Webley .38 revolver in a holster at his waist and he handed it to Tozer, with some reluctance, picking up Tozer’s Sten gun and creeping cautiously forward through the orchard towards the sound of men’s voices . . .
    Bond sat down at a pavement table outside the Café Picasso, his mind active and distracted. He looked at the menu and forced himself to concentrate and ordered a portion of lasagne and a glass of Valpolicella from the waitress. Calm down, he said to himself, this all happened a quarter of a century ago – in another life. But the images he was summoning up were as fresh as if they had taken place last week. The fat glossy cherries, Dave Tozer’s grimacing face, the drifting scent of woodsmoke and the sound of conversing German voices – all coming back to him with the clarity of total recall.
    He forced himself to look around, glad of the diversion afforded by the Café Picasso’s eccentric clientele – the dark-eyed girls in their tiny short dresses; the long-haired young men in their crushed velvet and their shaggy Afghan coats. He ate his impromptu late lunch and kept his gaze on the move, easily distracted by the comings and goings. He ordered another glass of wine and an espresso and admired the small-nippled breasts of the girl on the next table, clearly visible through the transparent gauze of her blouse. There was something to be said for modern fashion after all, Bond considered, cheered by the unselfconscious sexuality of the scene. The girl with the see-through blouse was now kissing her boyfriend with patent enthusiasm, his hand resting easily on her upper thigh.
    Bond lit a cigarette and found his thoughts turning to the woman in the Dorchester – Bryce Fitzjohn – and their series of encounters over the last twelve hours or so. Was there anything to be suspicious about? He played with various explanations and found the improbabilities too compelling. How could she have known he was staying at the Dorchester? How could she have contrived to be in the lift when he decided to go to the dining room for breakfast? Impossible. Well, not impossible but highly unlikely. True, she could have waited in the lobby for him to check out, he supposed . . . But it didn’t add up. He took her card out of his pocket. She lived in Richmond, he saw. A cocktail party at six o’clock with some ‘amusing and interesting’ friends . . .
    Bond stubbed out his cigarette and called for