‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’ Her wide mouth tilted in a warm smile. ‘I’m so glad. I didn’t get a chance to thank you properly yesterday.’ She bobbed a mock curtsey. ‘Mr Bond, I might even owe you my life. Thank you very much. I mean very much.’
He moved to one side of the reception desk so that he could watch her and at the same time keep an eye on the main doors. Instinctively, he felt danger close at hand. Danger by being close to Sukie Tempesta, perhaps.
Outside the commotion was still going on. There were police among the crowd and the sound of sirens floated down from the main street and the church above. Bond knew he needed his back against a wall all the time now. She asked him what was going on, and when he told her she shrugged.
‘It’s commonplace where I spend most of my time. In Rome, murder is a fact of life nowadays, but somehow you don’t expect it here in Switzerland.’
‘It’s commonplace anywhere.’ Bond tried his most charming smile. ‘But what are you doing here, Miss Tempesta – or is it Mrs, or even Signora?’
She wrinkled her nose prettily and raised her eyebrows. ‘Principessa, actually – if we have to be formal.’
Bond lifted an eyebrow. ‘Principessa Tempesta.’ He dropped his head in a formal bow.
‘Sukie,’ she said with a wide smile, the large eyes innocent, yet with a tiny tinge of mockery. ‘You must call me Sukie, Mr Bond. Please.’
‘James.’
‘James.’ And at that moment the padrone came bustling up to complete her booking. As soon as he saw the title on the registration form everything changed to a hand-wringing, bowing comedy, causing Bond to smile wryly.
‘You haven’t yet told me what you’re doing here,’ he continued, over the hotel keeper’s effusions.
‘Could I do that over dinner? At least I owe you that.’
Her hand touched his forearm and he felt the natural exchange of static. Warning bells rang in his head. No chances, he thought, don’t take chances with anybody, particularly anyone you find attractive.
‘Dinner would be very pleasant,’ he replied before once more asking what she was doing here on Lake Maggiore.
‘My little motor car has broken down. There’s something very wrong, according to the garage here – which probably means all they’ll do is change the plugs. But they say it’s going to take days.’
‘And you’re heading for?’
‘Rome, naturally.’ She blew at her hair again.
‘What a happy coincidence.’ Bond gave another bow. ‘If I can be of service . . .’
She hesitated briefly. ‘Oh, I’m sure you can. Shall we meet for dinner down here in half an hour?’
‘I’ll be waiting, Principessa.’
He thought he saw her nose wrinkle and her tongue poke out like a naughty schoolgirl as she turned to follow the padrone to her room.
In the privacy of his own room, Bond telephoned London again, to tell them about Cordova. He had the scrambler on, and as an afterthought asked them to run a check on both the Interpol computer and their own, on the Principessa Sukie Tempesta. He also asked the Duty Officer if they had any information about the BMW’s owner, Herr Tempel of Freiburg. Nothing yet, he was told, but some material had been sent to M that afternoon.
‘You’ll hear soon enough if it’s important. Have a nice holiday.’
Very droll, thought Bond as he packed away the scrambler, a CC500 which can be used on any telephone in the world and allows only the legitimate receiving party to hear the caller en clair. Each CC500 has to be individually programmed so that eavesdroppers can hear only indecipherable sounds, even if they tap in with a compatible system. It was now standard Service practice for all officers out of the country, on duty or leave, to carry a CC500, and the access codes were altered daily.
There were ten minutes to spare before he was due to meet Sukie, though Bond doubted she would be on time. He washed quickly, rubbing cologne hard into face and hair, and then put on a blue cotton jacket over his shirt. He went quickly downstairs and out to the car. There was still a great deal of police activity in the churchyard, and he could see that a crime team had set up lights where Cordova’s body had been discovered.
Inside the car he waited for the courtesy lights to go out before he pressed the switch on the main panel, revealing the hidden compartment below. He checked the 9mm ASP and buckled its compact holster in place underneath his jacket, then secured the baton holster to his belt. Whatever was going on around him was dangerous. At least two lives had already been lost – probably more – and he did not intend to end up as the next cadaver.
To his surprise, Sukie was already at the bar when he got back into the hotel.
‘Like a dutiful woman, I didn’t order anything while I waited.’
‘I prefer dutiful women.’
Bond slid on to the bar stool next to her, turning it slightly so that he had a clear view of anyone coming through the big glass doors at the front. ‘What will you drink?’
‘Oh no, tonight’s on me. In honour of your saving my honour, James.’
Again her hand lightly brushed his arm, and he felt the same electricity. Bond capitulated.
‘I know we’re in Ticino, where they think grappa is good liquor. Still, I’ll stick to the comic drinks. A Campari soda, if I may.’
She ordered the same, then the padrone bustled over with the menu. It was very alla famiglia, very semplice, he explained. It would make a change, Bond said, and Sukie asked him to order for them both. He said he would be difficult and change the menu around a little, starting with the Melone con kirsch, though he asked them to serve his without the kirsch. Bond disliked any food soused in alcohol.
‘For the entree there’s really only one dish, pasta excepted, in these parts, you’ll agree?’
‘The coscia di agnello?’
She smiled as he nodded. In the north these spiced chops were known as ‘lamm-Gigot’. Here, among the Ticinese, they were less delicate in taste, but made delicious by the use of much garlic. Like Bond, Sukie refused any vegetables, but accepted the plain green salad which he also ordered, together with a bottle of Frecciarossa Bianco, the best white wine they appeared to supply. Bond had taken one look at the champagnes and pronounced them undrinkable, but ‘probably reasonable for making a dressing’, at which Sukie laughed. Her laugh was, Bond thought, the least attractive thing about her, a little harsh, maybe not entirely genuine.
When they were seated Bond wasted no time in offering to help her on her journey.
‘I’m leaving for Rome in the morning. I’d be very pleased to give you a lift. That is, if the Principe won’t be offended at a commoner bringing you home.’
She gave a little pout. ‘He’s in no position to be offended. Principe Pasquale Tempesta died last year.’
‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
She gave a dismissive wave of the right hand. ‘Oh, don’t be sorry. He was eighty-three. We were married for two years. It was convenient, that’s all.’ She did not smile, or try to make light of it.
‘A marriage of convenience?’
‘No, it was just convenient. I like good things. He had money; he was old; he needed someone to keep him warm at night. In the Bible, didn’t King David take a young girl – Abishag – to keep him warm?’
‘I believe so. My upbringing was rather Calvinistic, but I do seem to recall the Lower Fourth sniggering over that story.’
‘Well, that’s what I was, Pasquale Tempesta’s Abishag, and he enjoyed it. Now I enjoy what he left me.’