She got up briskly. ‘I suppose I’ve got to get used to doing what you say. I’ll drive to Munich. To the Vier Jahreszeiten. It’s my favourite hotel in the world. I’ll wait for you there. They know me. They’ll take me in without any luggage. Everything’s at Samaden. I’ll just have to send out for a tooth-brush and stay in bed for two days until I can go out and get some things. You’ll telephone me? Talk to me? When can we get married? I must tell Papa. He’ll be terribly excited.’
‘Let’s get married in Munich. At the Consulate. I’ve got a kind of diplomatic immunity. I can get the papers through quickly. Then we can be married again in an English church, or Scottish rather. That’s where I come from. I’ll call you up tonight and tomorrow. I’ll get to you just as soon as I can. I’ve got to finish this business first.’
‘You promise you won’t get hurt?’
Bond smiled. ‘I wouldn’t think of it. For once I’ll run away if someone starts any shooting.’
‘All right then.’ She looked at him carefully again. ‘It’s time you took off that red handkerchief. I suppose you realize it’s bitten to ribbons. Give it to me. I’ll mend it.’
Bond undid the red bandanna from round his neck. It was a dark, sweat-soaked rag. And she was right. Two corners of it were in shreds. He must have got them between his teeth and chewed on them when the going was bad down the mountain. He couldn’t remember having done so. He gave it to her.
She took it and, without looking back, walked straight out of the restaurant and down the stairs towards the exit.
Bond sat down. His breakfast came and he began eating mechanically. What had he done? What in hell had he done? But the only answer was a feeling of tremendous warmth and relief and excitement. James and Tracy Bond! Commander and Mrs Bond! How utterly, utterly extraordinary!
The voice of the Tannoy said, ‘Attention, please. Passengers on Swissair Flight Number 110 for London, please assemble at gate Number 2. Swissair Flight Number 110 for London. Passengers to gate Number 2, please.’
Bond stubbed out his cigarette, gave a quick glance round their trysting-place to fix its banality in his mind, and walked to the door, leaving the fragments of his old life torn up amidst the debris of an airport breakfast.
20 | M. EN PANTOUFLES
Bond slept in the plane and was visited by a terrible nightmare. It was the hallway of a very grand town-house, an embassy perhaps, and a wide staircase led up under a spangled chandelier to where the butler was standing at the door of the drawing-room, from which came the murmur of a large crowd of guests. Tracy, in oyster satin, was on his arm. She was loaded with jewels and her golden hair had been piled up grandly into one of those fancy arrangements you see in smart hairdressers’ advertisements. On top of the pile was a diamond tiara that glittered gorgeously. Bond was dressed in tails (where in hell had he got those from?), and the wing collar stuck into his neck below the chin. He was wearing his medals, and his order as C.M.G, on its blue and scarlet ribbon, hung below his white tie. Tracy was chattering, gaily, excitedly, looking forward to the grand evening. Bond was cursing the prospect before him and wishing he was playing a tough game of bridge for high stakes at Blades. They got to the top of the stairs and Bond gave his name.
‘Commander and Mrs James Bond!’ It was the stentorian bellow of a toast-master. Bond got the impression that a sudden hush fell over the elegant crowd in the gilt and white drawing-room.
He followed Tracy through the double doors. There was a gush of French from Tracy as she exchanged those empty ‘Mayfair’ kisses, that end up wide of the kissers’ ears, with her hostess. Tracy drew Bond forward. ‘And this is James. Doesn’t he look sweet with that beautiful medal round his neck? Just like the old De Reszke cigarette advertisements!’
‘Fasten your seat belts, please, and extinguish your cigarettes.’
Bond awoke, sweating. God Almighty! What had he done? But no! It wouldn’t be like that! Definitely not. He would still have his tough, exciting life, but now there would be Tracy to come home to. Would there be room in his flat in Chelsea? Perhaps he could rent the floor above. And what about May, his Scottish treasure? That would be tricky. He must somehow persuade her to stay.
The Caravelle hit the runway and there came the roar of jet deflection, and then they were trundling over the tarmac in a light drizzle. Bond suddenly realized that he had no luggage, that he could go straight to Passport Control and then out and back to his flat to change out of these ridiculous skiing clothes that stank of sweat. Would there be a car from the pool for him? There was, with Miss Mary Goodnight sitting beside the driver.
‘My God, Mary, this is a hell of a way to spend your Christmas! This is far beyond the line of duty. Anyway, get in the back and tell me why you’re not stirring the plum pudding or going to church or something.’
She climbed in to the back seat and he followed. She said, ‘You don’t seem to know much about Christmas. You make plum puddings at least two months before and let them sort of settle and mature. And church isn’t till eleven.’ She glanced at him. ‘Actually I came to see how you were. I gather you’ve been in trouble again. You certainly look pretty ghastly. Don’t you own a comb? And you haven’t shaved. You look like a pirate. And’ – she wrinkled her nose – ‘when did you last have a bath? I wonder they let you out of the airport. You ought to be in quarantine.’
Bond laughed. ‘Winter sports are very strenuous – all that snowballing and tobogganing. Matter of fact, I was at a Christmas Eve fancy-dress party last night. Kept me up till all hours.’
‘In those great clod-hopping boots? I don’t believe you.’
‘Well, sucks to you! It was on a skating-rink. But seriously, Mary, tell me the score. Why this V.I.P. treatment?’
‘M. You’re to check with H.Q. first and then go down to lunch with him at Quarterdeck. Then, after lunch, he’s having these men you wanted brought down for a conference. Everything top priority. So I thought I’d better stand by too. As you’re wrecking so many other people’s Christmases, I thought I might as well throw mine on the slag-heap with the others. Actually, if you want to know, I was only having lunch with an aunt. And I loathe turkey and plum pudding. Anyway, I just didn’t want to miss the fun and when the duty officer got on to me about an hour ago and told me there was a major flap, I asked him to tell the car to pick me up on the way to the airport.’
Bond said seriously, ‘Well, you’re a damned good girl. As a matter of fact it’s going to be the hell of a rush getting down the bare bones of a report. And I’ve got something for the lab to do. Will there be someone there?’
‘Of course there will. You know M. insists on a skeleton staff in every Section, Christmas Day or not. But seriously, James. Have you been in trouble? You really do look awful.’
‘Oh, somewhat. You’ll get the photo as I dictate.’ The car drew up outside Bond’s flat. ‘Now be an angel and stir up May while I clean myself up and get out of these bloody clothes. Get her to brew me plenty of black coffee and to pour two jiggers of our best brandy into the pot. You ask May for what you like. She might even have some plum pudding. Now then, it’s nine-thirty. Be a good girl and call the Duty Officer and say O.K. to M.’s orders and that we’ll be along by ten-thirty. And get him to ask the lab to stand by in half an hour.’ Bond took his passport out of his hip-pocket. ‘Then give this to the driver and ask him to get the hell over and give it to the Duty Officer personally. Tell the D.O.’ – Bond turned down the corner of a page – ‘to tell the lab that the ink used is – er – home-made. All it needs is exposure to heat. They’ll understand. Got that? Good girl. Now come on and we’ll get May going.’ Bond went up the steps and rang two shorts and a long on the bell.