James Bond Anthology (21 page)

26 |
‘
SLEEP WELL, MY DARLING
’

The next two days were much the same.

On the fourth day of their stay Vesper went off early to Royale. A taxi came and fetched her and brought her back. She said she needed some medicine.

That night she made a special effort to be gay. She drank a lot and when they went upstairs, she led him into her bedroom and made passionate love to him. Bond’s body responded, but afterwards she cried bitterly into her pillow and Bond went to his room in grim despair.

He could hardly sleep and in the early hours he heard her door open softly. Some small sounds came from downstairs. He was sure she was in the telephone booth. Very soon he heard her door softly close and he guessed that again there had been no reply from Paris.

This was Saturday.

On Sunday the man with the black patch was back again. Bond knew it directly he looked up from his lunch and saw her face. He had told her all that the patron had told him, withholding only the man’s statement that he might be back. He had thought it would worry her.

He had also telephoned Mathis in Paris and checked on the Peugeot. It had been hired from a respectable firm two weeks before. The customer had had a Swiss triptique. His name was Adolph Gettler. He had given a bank in Zurich as his address.

Mathis had got on to the Swiss police. Yes, the bank had an account in this name. It was little used. Herr Gettler was understood to be connected with the watch industry. Inquiries could be pursued if there was a charge against him.

Vesper had shrugged her shoulders at the information.

This time when the man appeared she left her lunch in the middle and went straight up to her room.

Bond made up his mind. When he had finished, he followed her. Both her doors were locked and when he made her let him in, he saw that she had been sitting in the shadows by the window, watching, he presumed.

Her face was of cold stone. He led her to the bed and drew her down beside him. They sat stiffly, like people in a railway carriage.

‘Vesper,’ he said, holding her cold hands in his, ‘we can’t go on like this. We must finish with it. We are torturing each other and there is only one way of stopping it. Either you must tell me what all this is about or we must leave. At once.’

She said nothing and her hands were lifeless in his.

‘My darling,’ he said. ‘Won’t you tell me? Do you know, that first morning I was coming back to ask you to marry me. Can’t we go back to the beginning again? What is this dreadful nightmare that is killing us?’

At first she said nothing, then a tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

‘You mean you would have married me?’

Bond nodded.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘My God.’ She turned and clutched him, pressing her face against his chest.

He held her closely to him. ‘Tell me, my love,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s hurting you.’

Her sobs became quieter.

‘Leave me for a little,’ she said and a new note had come into her voice. A note of resignation. ‘Let me think for a little.’ She kissed his face and held it between her hands. She looked at him with yearning. ‘Darling, I’m trying to do what’s best for us. Please believe me. But it’s terrible. I’m in a frightful …’ She wept again, clutching him like a child with nightmares.

He soothed her, stroking the long black hair and kissing her softly.

‘Go away now,’ she said. ‘I must have time to think. We’ve got to do something.’

She took his handkerchief and dried her eyes.

She led him to the door and there they held tightly to each other. Then he kissed her again and she shut the door behind him.

That evening most of the gayness and intimacy of their first night came back. She was excited and some of her laughter sounded brittle, but Bond was determined to fall in with her new mood and it was only at the end of dinner that he made a passing remark which made her pause.

She put her hand over his.

‘Don’t talk about it now,’ she said. ‘Forget it now. It’s all past. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’

She looked at him and suddenly her eyes were full of tears. She found a handkerchief in her bag and dabbed at them.

‘Give me some more champagne,’ she said. She gave a queer little laugh. ‘I want a lot more. You drink much more than me. It’s not fair.’

They sat and drank together until the bottle was finished. Then she got to her feet. She knocked against her chair and giggled.

‘I do believe I’m tight,’ she said, ‘how disgraceful. Please, James, don’t be ashamed of me. I did so want to be gay. And I am gay.’

She stood behind him and ran her fingers through his black hair.

‘Come up quickly,’ she said. ‘I want you badly tonight.’

She blew a kiss at him and was gone.

For two hours they made slow, sweet love in a mood of happy passion which the day before Bond would never have thought they could regain. The barriers of self-consciousness and mistrust seemed to have vanished and the words they spoke to each other were innocent and true again and there was no shadow between them.

‘You must go now,’ said Vesper when Bond had slept for a while in her arms.

As if to take back her words she held him more closely to her, murmuring endearments and pressing her body down the whole length of his.

When he finally rose and bent to smooth back her hair and finally kiss her eyes and her mouth good night, she reached out and turned on the light.

‘Look at me,’ she said, ‘and let me look at you.’

He knelt beside her.

She examined every line on his face as if she was seeing him for the first time. Then she reached up and put an arm round his neck. Her deep blue eyes were swimming with tears as she drew his head slowly towards her and kissed him gently on the lips. Then she let him go and turned off the light.

‘Good night, my dearest love,’ she said.

Bond bent and kissed her. He tasted the tears on her cheek.

He went to the door and looked back.

‘Sleep well, my darling,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, everything’s all right now.’

He closed the door softly and walked to his room with a full heart.

27 | THE BLEEDING HEART

The patron brought him the letter in the morning.

He burst into Bond’s room holding the envelope in front of him as if it was on fire.

‘There has been a terrible accident. Madame …’

Bond hurled himself out of bed and through the bathroom, but the communicating door was locked. He dashed back and through his room and down the corridor past a shrinking, terrified maid.

Vesper’s door was open. The sunlight through the shutters lit up the room. Only her black hair showed above the sheet and her body under the bedclothes was straight and moulded like a stone effigy on a tomb.

Bond fell on his knees beside her and drew back the sheet.

She was asleep. She must be. Her eyes were closed. There was no change in the dear face. She was just as she would look and yet, and yet she was so still, no movement, no pulse, no breath. That was it. There was no breath.

Later the patron came and touched him on the shoulder. He pointed at the empty glass on the table beside her. There were white dregs in the bottom of it. It stood beside her book and her cigarettes and matches and the small pathetic litter of her mirror and lipstick and handkerchief. And on the floor the empty bottle of sleeping pills, the pills Bond had seen in the bathroom that first evening.

Bond rose to his feet and shook himself. The patron was holding out the letter towards him. He took it.

‘Please notify the Commissaire,’ said Bond. ‘I will be in my room when he wants me.’

He walked blindly away without a backward glance.

He sat on the edge of his bed and gazed out of the window at the peaceful sea. Then he stared dully at the envelope. It was addressed simply in a large round hand ‘Pour Lui’.

The thought passed through Bond’s mind that she must have left orders to be called early, so that it would not be he who found her.

He turned the envelope over. Not long ago it was her warm tongue which had sealed the flap.

He gave a sudden shrug and opened it.

It was not long. After the first few words he read it quickly, the breath coming harshly through his nostrils.

Then he threw it down on the bed as if it had been a scorpion.

My darling James [the letter opened],

I love you with all my heart and while you read these words I hope you still love me because, now, with these words, this is the last moment that your love will last. So good-bye, my sweet love, while we still love each other. Good-bye, my darling.

I am an agent of the M.W.D. Yes, I am a double agent for the Russians. I was taken on a year after the war and I have worked for them ever since. I was in love with a Pole in the R.A.F. Until you, I still was. You can find out who he was. He had two D.S.O.s and after the war he was trained by M. and dropped back into Poland. They caught him and by torturing him they found out a lot and also about me. They came after me and told me he could live if I would work for them. He knew nothing of this, but he was allowed to write to me. The letter arrived on the fifteenth of each month. I found I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t bear the idea of a fifteenth coming round without his letter. It would mean that I had killed him. I tried to give them as little as possible. You must believe me about this. Then it came to you. I told them you had been given this job at Royale, what your cover was and so on. That was why they knew about you before you arrived and why they had time to put the microphones in. They suspected Le Chiffre, but they didn’t know what your assignment was except that it was something to do with him. That was all I told them.

Then I was told not to stand behind you in the Casino and to see that neither Mathis nor Leiter did. That was why the gunman was nearly able to shoot you. Then I had to stage that kidnapping. You may have wondered why I was so quiet in the night club. They didn’t hurt me because I was working for M.W.D.

But when I found out what had been done to you, even though it was Le Chiffre who did it and he turned out to be a traitor, I decided I couldn’t go on. By that time I had begun to fall in love with you. They wanted me to find out things from you while you were recovering, but I refused. I was controlled from Paris. I had to ring up an Invalides number twice a day. They threatened me, and finally they withdrew my control and I knew my lover in Poland would have to die. But they were afraid I would talk, I suppose, and I got a final warning that SMERSH would come for me if I didn’t obey them. I took no notice. I was in love with you. Then I saw the man with the black patch in the Splendide and I found he had been making inquiries about my movements. This was the day before we came down here. I hoped I could shake him off. I decided that we would have an affair and I would escape to South America from Le Havre. I hoped I would have a baby of yours and be able to start again somewhere. But they followed us. You can’t get away from them.

I knew it would be the end of our love if I told you. I realized that I could either wait to be killed by SMERSH, and perhaps get you killed too, or I could kill myself.

There it is, my darling love. You can’t stop me calling you that or saying that I love you. I am taking that with me and the memories of you.

I can’t tell you much to help you. The Paris number was Invalides 55200. I never met any of them in London. Everything was done through an accommodation address, a newsagents at 450 Charing Cross Place.

At our first dinner together you talked about that man in Yugoslavia who was found guilty of treason. He said: ‘I was carried away by the gale of the world.’ That’s my only excuse. That, and for love of the man whose life I tried to save.

It’s late now and I’m tired, and you’re just through two doors. But I’ve got to be brave. You might save my life, but I couldn’t bear the look in your dear eyes.

My love, my love.

Bond threw the letter down. Mechanically he brushed his fingers together. Suddenly he banged his temples with his fists and stood up. For a moment he looked out towards the quiet sea, then he cursed aloud, one harsh obscenity.

His eyes were wet and he dried them.

He pulled on a shirt and trousers and with a set cold face he walked down and shut himself in the telephone booth.

While he was getting through to London, he calmly reviewed the facts of Vesper’s letter. They all fitted. The little shadows and question marks of the past four weeks, which his instinct had noted but his mind rejected, all stood out now like signposts.

He saw her now only as a spy. Their love and his grief were relegated to the boxroom of his mind. Later, perhaps they would be dragged out, dispassionately examined, and then bitterly thrust back with other sentimental baggage he would rather forget. Now he could only think of her treachery to the Service and to her country and of the damage it had done. His professional mind was completely absorbed with the consequences – the covers which must have been blown over the years, the codes which the enemy must have broken, the secrets which must have leaked from the centre of the very section devoted to penetrating the Soviet Union.