‘Yes, exceptionally droll. Hilarious.’
He still had no way of knowing whether to believe her or not. In the circumstances there was only one course he could take. He must stick with her but keep her in the dark as much as possible, arousing no suspicion in her.
They arrived at his safe apartment, Bond having telephoned ahead from a service area on the A11 Autoroute. There was food in the large refrigerator, two bottles of a good vintage Krug and clean linen on the double bed; no notes or messages. That was always the way. A quick telephone call giving his arrival time and probable duration of stay and his friends would be gone by the time Bond arrived. He did not ask where they went, neither did they question him. The husband was an old Service hand but the trade had never been mentioned by either side. In eight years the routine rarely changed. Everything was invariably ready and this occasion, in spite of the very short notice, was no exception.
‘James, what a beautiful little apartment!’ Ebbie appeared genuinely enthusiastic. ‘Is this all yours?’
‘It is when I’m in Paris and when my friend is away.’ He went to the desk in the main room, opened the top drawer and removed the false interior. Underneath he always kept a float of around a thousand francs.
‘Look, there is steak.’ Ebbie was exploring the kitchen. ‘Shall I cook us a meal?’
‘Later.’ Bond looked at the stainless steel Rolex. It would take him the best part of half an hour, given a favourable wind, to get to the rendezvous arranged with Ann Reilly. ‘Thank heaven there are shops that stay open late in Paris. Ebbie, I want you to make a list of the essential clothing you need and give me your sizes.’
‘We are going shopping?’ She gave a little jump, like a small child looking forward to a sudden treat.
‘I am going shopping,’ he said with great firmness.
‘Oh. But, James, there are some things you cannot get. Personal items . . .’
‘Just make the list, Ebbie. A lady will get the personal things.’
‘What lady?’ She bridled. Ebbie Heritage was either one hell of a good actress or a really jealous woman. Bond would have sworn the latter, for her cheeks had gone scarlet and her eyes were brimming.
With a small stamp of her foot she said, ‘You are seeing another woman?’
‘We haven’t known one another for long, Ebbie.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it. You have been with me. We are lovers. Yet as soon as we come to France . . .’
‘Hold on. Yes, I am going to see another lady. But I’m seeing her strictly for business reasons.’
‘Ja – Yes, I know. The funny business reasons.’
‘Nothing like that. Now, calm down, Ebbie. I want you to listen to me.’ He realised he was talking to her as he would speak to a child. ‘This is very important. I must go out. I shall take your list with me. You must on no account answer the door or the telephone. Keep the door locked until I return. I shall give a special knock, like so.’ He demonstrated: three quick raps, pause, another three, pause, then two harder raps. ‘Got it?’
‘Yes.’ She was almost sullen.
‘Then show me.’
She gave a small shrug and repeated the pattern of knocks.
‘Right. Now the telephone. Do not touch it unless it rings three times, goes silent and then starts ringing again.’
The codes were as simple as lovers’ signals, but they were equally easy to remember. Bond went through it again, then sat her down at the table with pen and paper while he went round the apartment closing shutters and drawing curtains. By the time he had finished, she held up the completed list.
‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked in a very small voice.
‘With luck, about two hours. Not much longer.’
She pulled herself up very straight. ‘Two hours, and I shall smell this other woman’s scent on you if you are making love with her. You be on time, James. Dinner will be here, on this table, in two hours exactly. You understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said with a winning smile, ‘and don’t forget what I told you about the door and the telephone. You understand?’
She lifted her face, hands behind her back, raising herself on tiptoe, and turning her cheek towards him.
‘Don’t I rate a proper kiss?’
‘When you come back in time for dinner we’ll see.’
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 fine and crossed to Q’ute’s table. It did not look as though they were being watched, but he spoke low.
‘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.’