Bond reached up and pulled the heavy metal lever. As the door fell open, it was necessary to plunge his head into the cavity to keep it above water. He dragged Anya after him and began to scramble into the narrow, padded spheroid. The water surged about his feet and battered against the tilted door making it impossible to close. Anya joined him and together they leaned down into the raging torrent, fighting to save their lives. The stricken craft twitched into its final descending spiral and, in that instant, the door cleared the water. Bond’s mangled arm drew it closed and Anya threw the locking bolts. The wild flood thumped vengefully against the closure.
Bond gripped the lever and plunged it down. There was a grinding noise, a breakaway, a resentful tug - and then a sudden sense of floating in space. And then, most beautiful of all, a sensation of rising. A movement towards heaven like that of a flower drawn by the sun.
‘James!’
Bond felt Anya’s arms encircle him and then he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Love in the Morning
Breakfast was Bond’s favourite meal of the day. And since he was supposed to be recuperating - hated word! - he determinedly made the most of it. Two large, strong cups of unsweetened black coffee. Half a pint of fresh orange juice - freshly squeezed with a couple of errant pips paying tribute to the immaculacy of the source. Two fried eggs and three thick rashers of Irish bacon. When the rashers were no more than three serpentine rinds he moved on to the toast. Two slices made more delectable by the addition of generous spreadings of Normandy demi-sel butter and Cooper’s Vintage Oxford marmalade decanted into a silver pot that Bond vaguely remembered having been a christening gift.
Bond brushed a crumb from the comer of his mouth and was about to ring for May, his treasured Scottish housekeeper, when she appeared unannounced. ‘Excuse me-s.’ (‘S’ was May’s grudging diminutive for ‘Sir’.) ‘There's a naval gentleman to see you. I think he’s an American.’ The slight note of disapproval in May’s voice did not totally exclude sympathy for the man’s lot.
Bond felt better immediately. ‘Captain Carter?’ he prompted - remembering names was not May’s forte. ‘Ask him to come in straightaway.’
Seconds later Carter strode in behind a strong hand-shake. His face crinkled up in a genuine smile of greeting. ‘Great to see you, James. I’m sorry to appear at this hour but I’m on a tight schedule. I’ve got to call in at the Embassy and then I’m flying back to the States. How are you?’
Bond extended his case to Carter, then slipped a Morlands between his own lips. ‘I'm here purely under false pretences - or perhaps impurely. I was cured days ago. I think my
superiors must be trying to incarcerate me in my own home while they wonder what to do with me.’
Carter’s face became serious. ‘I wanted to express - hell! I mean, I wanted to say how wretched I felt about shoving those torpedoes up your backside. I saw the thing slipping away and —
Bond held up a restraining hand. ‘I’d have done the same in your position - probably earlier. Anyhow, if you hadn’t disobeyed orders and fished us out of the drink, I probably wouldn’t be here now. When I was a child I was brought up to believe that it was the US Cavalry that always arrived in the nick of time. Now I’m transferring my allegiance to the Navy.’
Carter accepted Bond’s outstretched hand and grasped it warmly. ‘Thanks. I hope we work together again sometime. Oh, by the way’ - his eye twinkled - ‘there was some girl hanging around on the front doorstep when I arrived. I think she wants to see you.’
‘Do you think I’d want to see her?’ asked Bond.
Carter pretended to consider the question and then nodded his head. ‘I think you might.’ He raised a hand to his temple and was gone.
Bond stood up, feeling a mounting sense of excitement spread through him. Was he being stupid? Could it be possible? Somebody came into the room behind him and he turned, expecting to see May.
It was Anya. She wore a black woollen coat down to her ankles and carried a large, soft leather grip. Her face was as beautiful as he had dared to remember it. Perhaps more so. The hair casually brushed back from the high cheek-bones, the delicately tilted nose, the wide sweep of the sensual mouth. And, about her deep blue, richly lashed eyes, that wondrous quality of knowing innocence. She put down her bag and faced him squarely. ‘I have come to look after you.’
Bond looked at her lovingly. ‘But I don't need looking after. I’m perfectly fit. Right at this moment I feel better than I have ever done. Anyway, I have a housekeeper to look after me.’
‘The woman with the stern black uniform who was putting on her hat to go shopping when I arrived?’ Bond smiled and
nodded. ‘Does she hold a State Nursing Certificate, first class?'
Bond rested his hands on either side of Anya’s slim shoulders. ‘Now you come to mention it, I rather think she does. Sweet, darling Anya. What are you doing here? What about Russia? What about your job?’
She looked up at him and her lips trembled. ‘Let us say I am on holiday. I will tell you all later - much later.’ She began to unbutton her coat.
‘Right.’ Bond’s nostrils flared. ‘I think you know the kind of treatment I need. I’m going to shave. When I come back I’ll expect to find you in bed.’
He went into the bathroom and managed to shave without cutting himself. When he came back, Anya was in bed with a single sheet pulled up to her waist. Her slim, beautiful breasts curved towards him invitingly. Her long fingers rested on her thighs. She looked into his eyes half apologetically. ‘James, you are not the first man that has made love to me.’
Bond’s hard, naked body moved towards the bed and his fingers closed around the sheet. ‘My darling,’ he said. ‘That remains to be seen.’ He came down on her like a hawk.
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Document ID: 32aa2ed6-5574-4b75-80db-e461e0c0ab0a
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 22.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.10, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Christopher Wood
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The Spy Who Loved Me Page 20
