The Russian girl devoured him with her eyes. ‘No idea, Guy. But wherever it is, we’re very comfortable. They said there would be a job to do, so I reckon this is where we do it.’ Her hand went to his loins, practised, her fingers knowing and experienced.
At the rap on the door, they flung themselves apart as if they were guilty lovers. Bond called out as the double rap was repeated, then lunged from the bed, looking around for something to cover his body. Their backpacks were placed side by side against one of the more comfortable chairs. They were still fastened as though nobody had touched them or examined the contents. Then he spotted two towelling robes laid out on a long stool at the foot of the bed.
‘Just a moment,’ he called out, as he threw one to cover Nina’s nakedness and wrapped his body in the other, pausing again by the door to ask, ‘Who is it?’
‘Breakfast.’ A male voice, accented, though he could have been from anywhere – Spain, Italy, France.
Bond wondered which one of them had slipped the safety chain in place the previous night. The wood on the door was as smooth as Nina’s skin. He felt it with his palms and then the back of his hand as he took off the chain and opened the door.
The man could have stepped straight from any major European hotel – black pants and a white jacket, swarthy, tanned, smiling and pushing a large room-service trolley.
‘ ’Ope you sleep well, sir, madam. Where you wan’ the breakfast? Over by the win’ow?’
‘That’ll be fine. Thank you.’ Bond expected him to produce a chit to be signed, but the waiter simply opened up the trolley, corrected the place settings on it, and then removed covered dishes from hot boxes stored under one end before reciting the menu. ‘You have bacon, eggs, hash-browns, tomatoes, juice, rolls, toast, confiture, coffee. This okay for you?’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘On the house. Is all on the house.’
Bond blanched slightly. Breakfast was the best meal of the day, though he normally did not eat eggs and bacon. ‘Fine,’ he lied. ‘Splendid. Where are we?’
‘Ah,’ the waiter gave him a bland smile, ‘you are in the complex we call the Hôtel de la Justice, sir. I am to tell you it will be explained.’ He paused to look at his watch. ‘You have plenty time. Is only eight thirty. Your guide will come for you at ten thirty. Is enough time, yes?’
‘Ample, yes. Thank you.’ What else could he say? Intuition told him to behave normally, as though this were an everyday occurrence. As the waiter was bowing himself out, Bond asked, ‘The building? It’s not quite finished?’
The waiter smiled and shook his head. ‘Not quite, sir. No. Soon it will be completed. It was built well, but in a short time. Eventually, they tell me, it will be splendid.’
‘Hôtel de la Splendide Justice,’ Bond muttered, half under his breath, as he looked under one of the plate covers at the pile of beautifully arranged food. ‘Come on, love.’ He grinned at Nina. In the far corner of his head, he realised that he was automatically slipping into the role of Guy, the cameraman. He even thought of the girl as Helen, his London lover, and wondered if, during the strange night journey, they had meddled with his mind.
As he began to tackle the food, he did some mental stocktaking, questioning himself at each turn. He knew exactly who he was, what his orders had been; there was total awareness of Stepakov’s plan and the swap that had been made for the three Londoners.
‘You’re very quiet, Guy?’ She was looking at him in the same disarming manner across the table.
Bond shook his head, as though to rid himself of daydreams. ‘It’s been a remarkable couple of days, Helen. Or are you used to being put under and carted to Lord knows where?’
‘Living with you, darling, has prepared me for anything. I mean messages like “Get your knickers on, we’re off to Saudi in an hour . . .” ’
‘Only once. Only once did we do a trip like that.’
‘Okay.’ She sipped coffee, then took a mouthful of bacon and eggs, a little yolk escaping from her lower lip, running down her chin so that she had to mop it off quickly with the crisp, starched white napkin. ‘Okay, so only once to Saudi . . .’ another mouthful swallowed. ‘But you’ve dashed all over the country at the drop of some producer’s whim. That’s why I was such a bitch about this trip.’ She tossed out the last sentence lightly as though laughing at herself.
Bond shrugged. He was taking his cues directly from her. It was quite possible that she had watched the tapes of the real Guy and Helen, locked away in the other dacha they heard so much about.
‘Remember when you forgot to tell me you’d left for the Hebrides?’
‘It was the Isle of Skye as I recall.’
‘Hebrides, you dolt. “Back in the morning, love,” and I’m sitting there like a lemon for three days.’
‘You knew what the job was like before you moved in. Love me, love my job. Never held out on you. Couldn’t afford to pass up work. Still can’t.’
They kept up a pretence of bickering while demolishing the bacon and eggs; then through the toast and coffee, Nina leading him like a dance partner, making sharp comments about their supposed London lifestyle, even accusing him of being in league with George, the sound tech.
‘I know George was covering for you when you were tripping the light fantastic with that dusky bit in Liverpool. George lied his head off for you. Lied to me – “He’s still working, setting up shots for the morning. Out with the director, Helen.” I know, Guy . . .’
‘There was no dusky maiden in Liverpool.’
‘No? Right. She was no maiden, Guy. But I forgave you, so you’re bloody lucky.’
Finally, she rose, leaned over and ruffled his hair, saying she was going to take a shower.
‘Well clean out your ears. That might help you to hear the truth for a change,’ Bond called out, and a few minutes later she shouted from the bathroom, asking if he’d like to scrub her back.
Naked, in the shower, they soaped each other’s bodies, standing very close. This was, possibly, the only place they could have some clandestine conversation as long as they both kept their heads turned towards the steaming tiles so that watchers could not lip read. Certainly sophisticated equipment could filter out running water which, in the old days, was a perfect foil for audio bugs, but if they whispered, there was a good chance that tiny amounts of information could be passed between them.
‘Any ideas?’ His lips brushed her ear and she shook her head, camouflaging the action as she washed away soap.
‘I don’t know where we are, but it can’t be good. The whole thing stinks.’ She had her chin resting on his shoulder, standing on tiptoe to accomplish it.
‘Really stinks?’
‘The entire operation. Bory never levelled with you. He certainly didn’t tell me everything, and my intuition says we’ve been measured for our coffins. I thought that from the moment they brought you in.’
They were able to talk like this by shielding their mouths, moving themselves so that it simply looked like lovers sharing a shower, allowing lips and ears to connect, then shift away. A couple of sentences and they would change position, soaping, turning their bodies to get the spray of the shower on one part or another. It was like a carefully choreographed, complex and strange surreal ballet.
‘You ever sit in on the interrogations?’ he asked.
‘Which ones?’
‘The real Guy and Helen – George.’
‘I didn’t even see them.’
‘Then we don’t know if they exist.’
‘I only know some of the things Lyko and Bory told me. I’ve been trying to feed you some of the audio. They let me listen to one tape.’
‘Like going to Saudi at a moment’s notice?’
‘That was on it. Bory said they argued about his work all the time. She was almost hysterically jealous. Didn’t trust him out of her sight. With good reason probably. That’s why she insisted on coming on this trip. That’s what he said. What Bory said.’