Devil May Care

by Sebastian Faulks

  Scarlett stood in the road, and the car slowed down. A single man was at the wheel, and leaned across to open the door. He was in his fifties, grey-haired, plump and wearing a suit without a tie. Not KGB, Bond thought, but probably an illegal dealer of some kind. Either that, or a favoured Party functionary.

  As Scarlett got into the front, Bond climbed into the back. Scarlett explained to the disgruntled driver that he was her brother and that he was soft in the head, which was why he never spoke.

  They drove west towards Kazan for an hour, and when they had reached a desolate stretch of road, far from any habitation, Bond pulled the Luger from his waistband and put it to the driver’s ear.

  ‘Tell him to slow down and stop.’

  All three climbed out of the car and walked to a clump of trees so they would be out of sight.

  ‘Tell him to strip to his underclothes.’

  Scarlett looked away while Bond stripped naked and put on the man’s suit. There was a wallet in the inside pocket, from which he extracted the cash.

  ‘How much is this?’

  Scarlett counted it. ‘Enough for food and drink.’

  ‘Petrol?’

  ‘Yes. But not clothes.’

  ‘Tell him to wait here for ten minutes before he moves. Tell him we’ll leave his car in Moscow. And say I’m sorry.’

  Bond and Scarlett ran back to the Volga and took off with a screech.

  ‘When we get to Moscow,’ said Scarlett, ‘will we go to the British embassy?’

  ‘No,’ said Bond. ‘As far as the embassy’s concerned, the Service doesn’t exist. Especially in Moscow. I can’t use their protection. You can, though.’

  ‘But without my Russian, you won’t make it.’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you, James. Not now.’

  ‘All right, but if so you’d better get some sleep. This bench seat can turn into a double bed. The Russians are very proud of it. They’ve shown it often at the London Motor Show.’

  An hour later, Bond woke her. They were at a petrol station, where an old man came out to work the pump.

  Inside the car, Bond said, ‘Get out to stretch your legs and tell him I’m going inside his hut to pay.’

  The man nodded as Scarlett spoke to him, and Bond walked inside the building. A woman in a headscarf sat behind a counter.

  Bond took the Luger and pointed it at the cash drawer, at the same time raising a finger to his lips. The terrified woman pulled open the drawer and Bond filled his pockets with the notes inside as well as some loose change for the telephone. He motioned to the cashier to take off her headscarf, cardigan and shoes and to hand them over.

  Then, raising his finger once more warningly to his lips, he ran back to the car and called to Scarlett to get in.

  As she closed her door, Bond engaged the clutch and drove off, leaving the old man holding his still-dripping pump in amazement.

  Bond drove fast for two more hours, till it was starting to grow dark.

  ‘Look!’ said Scarlett. ‘There’s a telephone box. Let’s try it.’

  Bond watched from the car while she wrestled with the primitive Soviet system. After ten minutes, she returned, downcast and frustrated.

  ‘I managed to speak to an operator, but the idea of making an international call was completely out of the question. She didn’t even seem to understand the idea of it.’

  ‘You’ll have to go the embassy in Moscow after all. It’s the only way. I’ll get us there as fast as I can. We won’t be able to find petrol at night, so we’ll have to stop somewhere and start again in the morning. But we’ll try to find some food once we’re past Kazan.’

  Scarlett nodded unhappily, and snuggled down against Bond on the bench seat. He had to wake her for help with the Cyrillic signposts at Kazan, but once they were on the western outskirts they saw a truck-drivers’ restaurant set back from the road.

  They sat alone beneath a strip-light, while a large woman brought them soup and black bread with tea. There was some stew afterwards, though neither of them could manage much of it.

  ‘I can see why there are no other patrons,’ said Bond.

  ‘It’s not quite what you fantasized about, is it?’ said Scarlett.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Will you come and see me in Paris, James? I’ll cook you that dinner you described.’

  ‘I thought it was meant to be in a hotel.’

  ‘All right. Do you know what day of the week it is?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Let’s make a date for the first Saturday we’re free. You call my office on the Friday and tell me which hotel.’

  ‘It’s a deal. Look. There are two lorries stopping outside. Time to go.’ Bond threw some notes on the table as they left.

  When it was night, and they were deep in the Russian countryside, miles from any town, Bond turned off the main road on to a minor one for a mile or so, then on to a cart track. He pulled over and turned off the engine.

  He took Scarlett by the hand and opened the boot of the car. Inside was a small suitcase which contained a clean shirt and men’s underwear. There was also a razor and a spongebag with a toothbrush and paste.

  ‘I don’t want to risk a farm building,’ said Bond. ‘It’ll just mean dogs. We’ll try to sleep in the field over there. It’s not too bad. Put on that nice cardigan if you’re cold. If you get really freezing, you can get back into the car and try out the famous double bed.’

  It was a beautiful summer night, and the sky above them was dense with stars. Bond made himself as comfortable as he could on the grass, folding up the suit jacket for a pillow.

  He stroked Scarlett’s hair as she rested her head on his shoulder. He bent down to kiss her, but she was already asleep.

  How strange, thought Bond, to find himself at last in the country against which he had spent the greater part of his adult life conspiring and fighting. Now that he had finally set foot there, it seemed – with its European faces, straggling roads and poor farms – less alien and somehow more normal than he had pictured it. Then, deep in the heart of the Soviet Union, James Bond fell into a light but restful sleep.

  As they neared Moscow towards noon the next day, Bond noticed a burning smell coming from beneath the Volga’s bonnet. He had driven it hard for several hours, and it seemed to be resenting it. A dim memory of a London Motor Show came back to him at which the men on the Volga stand had extolled its high ground clearance, cigarette lighter, integral radio and … Yes, that was it: its pedal-operated lubrication. In the footwell, Bond saw an auxiliary pedal and pumped it hard, oiling not only the big end but large parts of the main road to Moscow.

  ‘Once we get to Moscow,’ he said, ‘we’ll go by train. Do we have enough money for tickets to Leningrad? Then we’ll get a boat to Helsinki.’

  Scarlett counted the roubles from Bond’s pocket. ‘We may have to do another Bonnie and Clyde at a petrol station,’ she said.

  ‘Another good reason to dump the car in Moscow. The police will probably have its number by now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Scarlett. ‘We’ll take a tram into the middle of town. I need some clothes. These shoes … We’ll go to GUM, the state department store.’

  ‘Isn’t that right next to the Kremlin?’ said Bond.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure where else to go. I think most of the other clothes shops just have empty shelves. You don’t have to come in, James. I know what men are like about shopping.’

  ‘It’s not the tedium, it’s the –’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Get me a clean shirt and underwear while you’re there. And food. We don’t want to risk a restaurant.’

  They left the car near a tram terminus on the east side of the city and travelled into the centre. Bond carried the small suitcase from the boot of the Volga and hoped he looked like a middle-ranking Party functionary. Scarlett wore the BOAC hostess skirt and blouse with the garage woman’s cardigan and shoes. Most of the others on the tram
were dressed in a similarly improvised way and no one seemed to give them a second look.

  While Scarlett disappeared into the labyrinth of GUM – a green-roofed, turreted monster almost as big as the Louvre – Bond walked round outside, not wanting to stop in case anyone came to speak to him. He made several long circuits before he eventually saw Scarlett emerge with two full bags.

  ‘That was the longest half-hour of my life,’ he said.

  ‘You wait till you see what I’ve got. A little straw hat to make you look like a maths teacher on his summer holiday. Short-sleeved shirt. You like those, don’t you? Socks that Ivan would be proud of on his collective farm.’

  ‘And for yourself?’ said Bond, hustling her away from the shadow of the Kremlin towards the tram stop.

  ‘Two pairs of babushka knickers and a reinforced bra that could support the onion domes of St Basil’s. A clean blouse. And some bread and cheese.’

  ‘Good girl. Now let’s go.’

  They took a tram to Three Stations Square in the northeast section of the city and went up the steps of Leningrad station. Bond felt safer in the purposeful comings and goings of the concourse than he had while killing time outside GUM.

  Scarlett bought two tickets for the Krasnaya Strela, the Red Arrow overnight train to Leningrad, leaving at eleven fifty-five. Then they walked to a small park and changed into their new clothes in the public conveniences.

  ‘And now,’ said Scarlett, ‘I’m going to the embassy.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’ said Bond. ‘A grand building near the river – on Sofievskaya Quay, I think.’

  ‘I’ll manage. The taxi driver will know. Will you stay here, in the park?’

  ‘Yes, this is as discreet as I can be. I wish I could come with you, but I wouldn’t be welcome. Who will you ring?’

  ‘My office in Paris to begin with. I’ll speak to the head of my department. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘All right. Before you go, Scarlett, remember one thing. Gorner has connections with SMERSH and the KGB. We’ve left a trail of havoc across the Soviet Union. A crashed airliner, armed robberies, a hijacked car. Soviet communications may be bad, but we’re still almost certainly being watched. Watching’s one thing they’re good at. Remember, too, that if Darius has somehow managed to get details of the location of Gorner’s factory back to London, a rescue operation will be under way already.’

  He took her hands between his own and looked deep into her eyes. ‘I want you to ask yourself one thing, Scarlett. Is a single telephone call from you going to make any difference? Is it really worth the risk?’

  Scarlett returned his gaze without blinking. ‘James, she’s my sister.’

  Bond released his grip. ‘For God’s sake, make sure you’re back here by nine at the latest.’ He watched the slim figure walk off in the new blouse at a determined pace towards the main road.

  He spent the afternoon and evening in the park, where he tried to sleep. He ate some bread and cheese and drank water from a fountain.

  When darkness fell, he was able to breathe more easily. In the morning they would be in Leningrad, only a short boat ride from freedom. His body ached for the West: for iced cocktails, hot showers, clean sheets, good tobacco …

  His head grew heavy as he rested it against the rough bark of the plane tree behind the park bench.

  ∗

  Meanwhile, between two of the yellow and white columns that held up the great portico of Leningrad station, an urgent transaction was taking place.

  A thickset Soviet man, whose fleshy face bore the marks of a razorblade long past its best, was holding out his 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 Klin or 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 flickered and refocused as the fields went by. Her mouth was slightly parted, and he remembered
that stiffening of the upper lip when she was aroused. She pushed a strand of black hair behind her ear. Did she know that he was watching? Why else reveal the perfect pink shape of her ear, so delicate and exactly formed that it was all he could do not to lean across and kiss it?

  The rattle of the wheels on the tracks as the engine picked up speed, the gentle swaying of the carriage and the creak of the woodwork in the warm compartment all seemed to form an irresistible lullaby. Bond had not drunk alcohol for days, and the vodka had gone to his head. He remembered other journeys – the Orient Express with Tanya … Soon, he thought, he should prepare himself for sleep and climb on to the bunk, but for the moment …

  Drowsily, he remembered the room at Jamal’s Five Star and the abandon with which Scarlett had kissed him, the light movement with which she’d stepped out of her skirt and sat on the end of his bed …

  They were deep, deep in the darkness of the Soviet night, and the images became disjointed in his mind as the rattle of the wheels on the iron track brought back memories of childhood, a train in the Highlands, his mother’s voice – then the glass walkway at Gorner’s factory, the huge steel vats of somniferous poppy juice, drugging, drowsing … Someone he loved calling his name … Then, then …

  He was staring into a face of half-dead flesh beneath a Foreign Legion kepi and Scarlett was screaming: ‘James, James, James!’

  The fat hands of Chagrin were on his throat and Bond was fighting for his life. His deepest reflexes got his fingers jabbing into Chagrin’s eyes, but he merely rolled his big head away. Bond lashed up with his leg and felt his shin drive into Chagrin’s groin, but the jungle veteran didn’t loosen his grip. Presumably he had brought no gun, thought Bond, because he wanted to do his work in silence.

  Bond could find no reserves of strength. This was one struggle too many for a body that had been starved, beaten and tortured. In the heel of his own shoes was a blade he might have used to help himself, but he was wearing the useless slip-ons of a dead airline pilot. The air was draining from his lungs.