He nodded, kissed her cheek and let himself out, walking down the four flights of stone stairs to street level. He always avoided elevators in Paris. Nine times out of ten in these old apartment blocks the lifts were out of order.
He took a taxi to Les Invalides, then walked back to the Quai D’Orsay, across the Seine and in the direction of the Tuileries gardens. Only when he was certain he had not picked up a tail did Bond flag down another cab, which he ordered back to the Boulevard Saint Michel.
Ann Reilly was sitting in the corner of the small crowded cafe he had named, only ten minutes’ walk from the apartment where Ebbie was cooking dinner. Bond went straight to the bar, ordered a
‘Okay?’
‘Everything you ordered. In the briefcase. It’s just by your right foot and it’s safe. Nothing will show on the x- ray machines but I’d unpack and put the whole lot in your suitcase.’
Bond nodded. ‘How are things back at the building?’
‘Hectic. There’s some kind of flap on. M’s been closeted in his office for three days now. He’s like a general under siege. The grapevine says he’s sleeping there and they’re taking crates full of microfilm to him. The main computer’s been barred to everyone else and the Chief-of-Staff’s been with him all the time. Moneypenny hasn’t been out either. I think she’s lying across his door with a shotgun.’
‘That figures,’ he muttered. ‘Look, love, I’ve a favour to ask.’ He passed over Ebbie’s list. ‘There’s a supermarket one block down on the corner. Just do your best, eh?’
‘I use my own money?’
‘Put it on expenses. When I get back I’ll square it.’
Q’ute looked at the list and smiled. ‘What’s her taste in . . .’ she began.
‘Sophisticated,’ Bond cut in quickly.
‘I’ll do my best, being a plain and simple girl myself.’
‘That’ll be the day. I’ll set up a drink for you. Oh, and get a cheap case, will you?’
‘Sophisticated and cheap?’
Ann Reilly left the cafe, her hips swaying almost suggestively. Bond made a mental note to buy her dinner once this was over and he was back in London. In just under half an hour she returned with a flurry.
‘I’ve got a cab waiting outside. I can catch the last Air France flight back to Heathrow if I get a shift on. The case is in the cab. Can I give you a lift?’
Bond was on his feet, following her to the door. He told her to drop him off a couple of blocks away. She kissed him full on the mouth, whispering ‘Good luck’ as he left with the suitcase and briefcase.
He spent forty minutes back doubling, riding the Metro, walking and using another cab, before he returned to the apartment, within ten minutes of Ebbie’s deadline. Ebbie sniffed him suspiciously, but could smell only the brandy and so softened slightly – particularly when he gave her the suitcase and told her to open it. Once more there were gasps of delight as she examined Q’ute’s purchases. Bond meanwhile was able to check his own clothes, which were always kept for him in one part of the bedroom wardrobe. There was also a spare case in the flat, so he could pack his clothes and the items from the briefcase later, at leisure.
‘The dinner will be ready in five minutes,’ Ebbie sang from the kitchen.
‘I have to make one telephone call and I’ll be with you.’
He used the extension in the bedroom to dial the Cathay Pacific desk at Orly. Yes, they had two first-class seats on their flight to Hong Kong tomorrow. Certainly they would reserve them in the name of Boldman. He quoted his Amex number.
‘Thank you, Mr Boldman, that’ll be fine. Just pick the tickets up at the desk by ten-fifteen. Have a nice flight.’
He looked inside the briefcase to check that Q’ute had not forgotten the small rubber stamp for doctoring their passports. A sudden horror struck him.
‘Ebbie!’ he called. ‘Ebbie, you have got a passport with you, haven’t you?’
‘Of course. I never travel without it.’
He went into the living room. The table was set elegantly for a dinner for two.
‘You have been a busy girl, Ebbie.’
‘Yes. Are we going somewhere?’
‘Not until the morning. Tonight it’s a romantic dinner in Paris.’
‘Good, but in the morning where are we going?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said quietly, ‘we’re off to the mystic East.’
15
THE MYSTIC EAST
The Cathay Pacific 747 Flight CX 290 from Paris made its descent over Lantau Island towards the mainland of the New Territories. There the great jet began its almost one-hundred-degree turn to the final approach, right across Kowloon and down on to Kai Tak, Hong Kong’s international airport with its runway thrusting like a finger into the sea.
As the engines whined, giving the machine the last ounce of extra thrust to carry it over the rooftops, James Bond peered out of the window, craning to see the island of Hong Kong below, with the Peak shrouded in cloud.
They would be low over Kowloon Tong now and he thought of its translation, Pool of Nine Dragons, and the story that the late Bruce Lee had consulted a fortune teller before buying an apartment in this exclusive district. The young Kung Fu film star had been told that, should he buy the flat, he would have only bad joss because his name could be translated as little dragon, and nothing good could come of a little dragon going to live in a pool with nine dragons. Nevertheless, Bruce Lee bought the apartment, and within the year he was dead. Bad joss.
The Boeing touched down with the huge roar of the reverse thrust, its flaps fully extended as the speed bled off. It rolled slowly to a halt at the far end of the runway, where the buildings towered to their left. The boat-littered Fragrant Harbour stretched out to the right between the mainland and Hong Kong Island.
Within twenty minutes of landing, Bond was standing with Ebbie clutching his hand in the garage-like surroundings of Passport Control. Scrupulous, unsmiling Chinese officials scrutinised their documents. From the moment they had left the aircraft,he had done his best to spot likely watchers in the airport buildings; but in the sea of European, Chinese and Eurasian faces, everybody seemed to be a potential look-out.
A large Chinese in slacks and white shirt held a board on which was written MR BOLDMAN. Bond steered Ebbie forward.
‘I’m Mr Boldman.’
‘Ah, good. I take you Mandarin Hotel.’ The Chinese grinned widely, showing what appeared to be several sets of independently working teeth, most of them filled with gold. ‘Car here. Inside please, never mind.’ The driver ushered them towards a limousine, opening the door. ‘My name is David,’ he said.
‘Thank you, David,’ said Ebbie prettily, and they climbed in.
Bond glanced out of the rear window as they moved away to see if he could spot any car positioning itself behind them. The search was fruitless, for cars left the arrivals rank all the time, and most seemed to have just picked up passengers. What he was looking for was some nondescript vehicle with two people up front. He caught himself in time – that was what he would have looked for in Europe. In Asia things were different. He recalled an old China hand once saying, ‘As for watchers, they’ll be the people you least expect. East of Suez they watch in plain sight, and they’re a bugger to spot.’
There were no positive signs as they entered the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, which they moved through in a slow but orderly procession of cars, lorries, both ancient and modern, and those fifteen-hundredweight trucks beloved of the Hong Kongese, some with tattered awnings flapping and displaying Chinese characters.
Nowadays you have only to return to Hong Kong after an absence of a few weeks to notice changes. It was a couple of years since Bond had been in the Territory and he saw huge differences as they reached Connaught Road.
