She said, ‘Now, for my other assignment, Steel Cartridge.’

Relax, Bond told himself. He raised an eyebrow nonchalantly.

Philly said, ‘I couldn’t see any connection between the Gehenna plan and Steel Cartridge.’

‘No, I understand that. I don’t think they’re related. This is something else – from before I joined the ODG.’

The hazel eyes scanned his face, pausing momentarily on the scar. ‘You were Defence Intelligence, weren’t you? And before that you were in Afghanistan with the Naval Reserve.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Afghanistan… The Russians were there, of course, before we and the Americans decided to pop in for tea. Does it have to do with your assignments there?’

‘Could very well. I don’t know.’

Philly realised she was asking questions he might not want to answer. ‘I got the original Russian data file that our Station R hacked and I went through the metadata. It sent me to other sources and I found out that Steel Cartridge was a targeted killing operation, sanctioned at a high level. That’s what the phrase “some deaths” referred to. I can’t find out whether it was KGB or SVR, so we don’t know the date yet.’

In 1991 the KGB, the infamous Soviet security and spy apparatus, was redesigned as Russia’s FSB, with domestic jurisdiction, and the SVR , with foreign. The consensus among those following the espionage world was that the change was cosmetic only.

Bond considered this. ‘Targeted killing.’

‘That’s right. And one of our clandestine operators – an agent with Six – was in some way involved but I don’t know who or how yet. Maybe our man was tracking the Russian assassin. Maybe he wanted to turn him and run him as a double. Or our agent might even have been the target himself. I’m getting more soon – I’ve opened channels.’

He noticed that he was staring at the tablecloth, brow furrowed. He gave her a fast smile. ‘Brilliant, Philly. Thanks.’

On his mobile, Bond typed a synopsis of what Philly had told him about Hydt, Incident Twenty and Green Way International, omitting the information on Operation Steel Cartridge. He sent the message to M and Bill Tanner. Then he said, ‘Right. Now it’s time for sustenance, after all our hard work. First, wine. Red or white?’

‘I’m a girl who doesn’t play by the rules.’ Philly let that linger – teasingly, it seemed to Bond. Then she explained: ‘I’ll do a big red – a Margaux or St Julien – with a mild-mannered fish like sole. And I’ll have a Pinot Gris or Albarino with a nice juicy steak.’ She relented. ‘I’m saying whatever you’re in the mood for, James, is fine with me.’ She buttered a piece of her roll and ate it, with obvious pleasure, then snatched up the menu and examined the sheet like a little girl trying to decide which Christmas present to open first. Bond was charmed.

A moment later Aaron, the waiter, was beside them. Philly said to Bond, ‘You first. I need seven seconds more.’

‘I’ll start with the pate. Then I’ll have the grilled turbot.’

Philly ordered a rocket and Parmesan salad with pear and, to follow, the poached lobster, with haricots verts and new potatoes.

Bond picked a bottle of an unoaked Chardonnay from Napa, California.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘The Americans have the best chardonnay grapes outside Burgundy but they really must have the courage to throw out some of their damned oak casks.’

Bond’s opinion exactly.

The wine arrived and then the food, which proved excellent. He complimented her on her choice of restaurant.

Casual conversation ensued. She asked about his life in London, recent travels, where he’d grown up. Instinctively, he gave her only the broad brush of information that was already in the public domain – his parents’ death, his childhood with his aunt Charmian in idyllic Pett Bottom, Kent, his brief tenure at Eton and subsequent attendance at his father’s old school in Edinburgh, Fettes.

‘Yes, I heard that at Eton you got into a spot of bother – something about a maid?’ She let those words linger a bit too. Then smiled. ‘I heard the official story – a touch scandalous. But there were other rumours too. That you’d been defending the girl’s honour.’

‘I think my lips must remain sealed on that.’ He offered a smile. ‘I’ll plead the Official Secrets Act. Un-officially.’

‘Well, if it’s true, you were quite young to play knight errant.’

‘I think I’d just read Tolkien’s Sir Gawain,’ Bond told her. And he couldn’t help but note that she’d certainly done her research on him.

He asked about her childhood. Philly told him about growing up in Devon, boarding school in Cambridgeshire – where, as a teenager, she’d distinguished herself as a volunteer for human rights organisations – then reading law at the LSE. She loved to travel and talked at length about holidays. She was at her most animated when it came to her BSA motorcycle and her other passion, skiing.

Interesting, Bond thought. Something else in common.

Their eyes met and held for an easy five seconds.

Bond felt the electric sensation with which he was so familiar. His knee brushed against hers, partly by accident, partly not. She ran a hand through her loose red hair.

Philly rubbed her closed eyes with her fingertips. Looking back to Bond, she said, her voice low, ‘I must say, this was a brilliant idea. Dinner, I mean. I definitely needed to…’ She trailed off, her eyes crinkling with amusement as she couldn’t, or didn’t want to, explain further. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for the night to be over. Look, it’s only half past ten.’

Bond leant forward. Their forearms touched – and this time there was no regrouping.

Philly said, ‘I’d like an after-dinner drink. But I don’t know exactly what they have here.’ Those were her words but what she was actually telling him was that she was had some port or brandy in her flat just over the road, a sofa and music too.

And very likely something more awaited.

Codes…

His next line was to have been: ‘I could use one too. Though maybe not here.’

But then Bond happened to notice something, very small, very subtle.

The index finger and the thumb of her right hand were gently rubbing the ring finger of her left. He noted a faint pallor where the tan from a recent holiday was missing; it had been cloaked from the sun by Tim’s crimson engagement ring, now absent.

Her radiant golden-green eyes were still fixed on Bond’s, her smile intact. He knew that, yes, they could settle the bill and leave and she would take his arm as they walked to her flat. He knew the humorous repartee would continue. He knew the love-making would be consuming – he could tell that from the way her eyes and voice sparkled, from how she’d dived into her food, from the clothes she wore and how she wore them. From her laugh.

And yet he knew, too, that it wasn’t right. Not now. When she’d slipped the ring off and handed it back, she’d also returned a piece of her heart. He didn’t doubt she was well on the way to recovery – a woman who fishtailed a BSA motorcycle at speed along Peak District byways wouldn’t be down for long.

But, he decided, it was better to wait.

If Ophelia Maidenstone was a woman he might let into his life, she would continue to be so in a month or two.

He said, ‘I believe I saw an Armagnac on the after-dinner list that intrigued me. I’d like to sample some.’

And Bond knew he’d done the right thing when her face softened, relief and gratitude

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