Devil May Care

head that counted.
    That was what M had told him. ‘You’ve been through a lot, James. Much more than any human being should. If you were a normal man – even if you were another double-O – I’d just move you on. Put you on a desk job. But because it’s you, James, I’m going to let that decision come from you. Take three months’ sabbatical, full pay, then come and tell me what you’ve decided.’
    Bond put on clean underwear, dress shirt and white dinner jacket with a black cummerbund. At least everything fitted. For all Charity’s home cooking and the occasional delights of the restaurants along the Riviera, he hadn’t run to fat. Tennis and not drinking alcohol must have helped. But his mind … Had his mind run to fat?
    ∗
    Tired of the South of France, wishing the days would pass more quickly, Bond had come to Rome and searched out a hotel on the via Veneto of which Felix Leiter, his old friend in the CIA, had spoken warmly when he called him from Pinkerton’s, where he now worked. Felix was a good man, and he’d picked the best. Bond was able to sit on his balcony with a cigarette and a glass of fresh blood-orange juice while he watched the film stars – the real and would-be – parade up and down between the cafés in their evening passeggiata. ‘It’s a bit close to the US embassy for my taste,’ Leiter had warned him. ‘All those Yalies with their button-down shirts and cocktail parties. But I’m sure it’d be fine for a stuck-up Limey like you, James.’
    On the Sunday evening after he’d been in St Peter’s Square, Bond, in a simple woollen jacket, charcoal trousers and black loafers, decided to walk down to a traditional Roman restaurant in the via Carrozze near the Spanish Steps. As he crossed the lobby, a young woman wearing an expensive Dior suit brushed past him. Her evening bag fell noisily to the floor and Bond bent to pick it up, noticing the slim ankles, sheer nylons and elegant court shoes as he did so.
    ‘How clumsy of me,’ she said.
    ‘It was my fault,’ said Bond.
    ‘No, no, I wasn’t looking where –’
    ‘All right,’ said Bond, ‘I shall let you take the blame, but only if you allow me to buy you a drink.’
    The woman glanced at her watch. She had black hair, cut short, and wide-set brown eyes. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Just one. My name is Larissa Rossi.’
    ‘Bond. James Bond.’ He held out his hand and she took it gently. ‘I knew another Larissa once.’
    ‘Did you?’ Her tone was noncommittal.
    They were crossing the marble-floored lobby. ‘Yes,’ said Bond. ‘But she was a blonde. A Russian blonde.’
    Larissa smiled as they entered the bar. ‘And I suppose she was a business connection. A translator, perhaps?’
    ‘No. She was a professional seductress.’
    ‘Goodness.’ Larissa laughed, but she seemed amused more than shocked, Bond thought. Good.
    ‘It’s not a story I’ve ever told,’ he said. ‘Now, what can I get you?’
    ‘A dry martini, please. They do a very good one here. You should try it.’
    Bond smiled grimly and ordered tomato juice for himself. The trouble with not drinking alcohol was that all soft drinks were more or less repellent.
    They took their glasses to a table in the corner, away from the piano. Bond watched enviously as Larissa stirred the viscous fluid with the olive on its cocktail stick. She lit a Chesterfield and held out the packet to him. He shook his head and took out one of his own. He had long ago finished his supply from Morland’s, but had managed to find an enterprising tobacconist at the foot of the via Condotti who had made him up five hundred Turkish of passable quality.
    ‘What are you doing in Rome, Larissa?’
    ‘I’m with my husband. He’s a director of one of those large insurance companies whose offices you see on via Veneto.’ Her voice was interesting: low-pitched, educated English with a hint of something more cosmopolitan.
    ‘And has your husband abandoned you for the evening?’
    ‘I … Perhaps. And what are you doing here, Mr Bond?’
    ‘James, please. I’m on holiday. I’m in the export business.’
    ‘On holiday alone?’
    ‘Yes, I prefer it that way. I find one gets to see more sights.’
    Larissa raised an eyebrow and crossed her legs. It was a way of bringing them to his attention, Bond knew, and he couldn’t blame her. They were long, with a supple shapeliness and elegance: not the result of exercise or dieting, Bond thought, but of breeding, youth and