Devil May Care

hand and nodding in agreement. The sleeves of an ill-fitting suit rose up to reveal grimy shirt cuffs.
    Into his hand were pressed five US twenty-dollar bills, and the eyes widened with uncontrollable greed above the raw, red cheeks.
    His interlocutor spoke bad English, as did he, but it was easy enough to understand what was meant. There were two photographs: one of a man with hard eyes and an unruly lock of black hair above his right eye, and one of a smart young woman, Russian perhaps, but more glamorous than any female he had ever seen in Moscow.
    As for the man with the money, who could tell where he came from? He had the eyes of a Tatar or Mongol, but his skin was yellow, and the odd little hat he was wearing looked Spanish or French.
    Two things were clear. One was a telephone number, underlined on a piece of paper pressed into his hand, and the other was that more money awaited a successful call.

19. A Point of Shame
    Scarlett returned to the park shortly before eight o’clock. She told Bond the embassy had been suspicious at first, but in the end a first secretary had taken pity on her and, having verified her bona fides by making a series of calls to Paris, had allowed her to use the telephone. She had then told her boss in Paris everything that might be helpful and he had promised to pass it on to the authorities. Bond smiled. He had no doubt that Scarlett had used all her feminine charm to persuade the hapless first secretary into permitting this irregular use of his telephone. The important thing was that she had got back safely.
    At ten o’clock they left for the station. As they boarded the train, Bond, exhausted as he was, felt the excitement of the overnight journey and the never-failing romance of the busy concourse with its hopeful arrivals and tearful farewells.
    ‘How did you manage to get us in here?’ he said, looking at the wooden bunks of the private sleeping compartment, normally reserved for senior Party members.
    ‘I gave the guard about three months’ wages,’ said Scarlett, ‘out of the money you took from the garage. You saw his face, didn’t you?’
    ‘I did,’ said Bond. ‘It was unforgettable.’
    ‘He says if any Party bigwigs get on board, he’ll have to move us – but I don’t think that’s likely to happen now. If they were going to get on, it would be in Moscow, not Klinor Bologoye. When we’ve been going for a bit, he’ll bring vodka. Stolichnaya. And I asked for food. He said he’d see what he could find. Otherwise, there’s just the remains of the cheese.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Bond. He felt a great weariness come over him as the Red Arrow pulled out of the station. Scarlett leaned her head against his shoulder as they watched the grey suburbs of northern Moscow eventually give way to the open fields. Surely nothing could go wrong now, Bond thought, as they hurtled through the summer darkness towards the old capital, home of the Romanovs and their great palaces.
    An hour later, the guard knocked at the door and they sat up guiltily, as though they had been doing something wrong. With no expression of pleasure or concern, the man opened a copy of Pravda and spread it on the lower bunk next to them. Then, from inside a brown-paper parcel, he took half a loaf of black bread, a bottle of Stolichnaya, a bag of plums and two fillets of smoked fish.
    Bond watched Scarlett as she smiled and proffered more money. She was an extraordinary woman, he thought, chatting away with this man who – clearly charmed by her – declined the extra cash.
    When he had gone, Scarlett said, ‘I told him you were from the Ukraine, darling.’ Her eyes were alight with innocent mischief. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
    Bond smiled as he drank deeply from the Stolichnaya bottle and offered it to Scarlett, who shook her head. The meal was quickly done, and they each lit one of the cheap Russian cigarettes she had bought at the station. They were now sitting opposite one another, so Bond could watch her as she stared through the window.
    He remembered returning to his hotel room in Paris to see her there, sitting in the gilded armchair beneath the looking-glass, her long legs demurely crossed and her empty hands folded in front of her breasts … ‘I’m so sorry to startle you, Mr Bond … I didn’t want to give you the chance of turning me down again.’
    Now, against the flashing Russian landscape, she looked tired, but no less beautiful. Her large brown eyes