well-organised as a bodyguard. How long have you worked for La Signora?”
She gave an amused little sniff “Forty-eight hours. The Chief has some big pull with her. She’s a pretty well-connected lady, but she moved out for Christmas as a favour to M. She also moved her staff out.
The couple of guys I mentioned - Franco and Umberto - are extra heavy help. They were around when we had that little brush with the BAST team, but they’re only for support if things get really tricky.”
Franco and Umberto were at the main villa, she said. “That’s why you can rest easy.
I’ll alert them now. They can watch until we’re ready to go shopping.”
She rose, in a series of very attractive moves, and walked slowly to the telephone. Her conversation was short, to the point and in Italian. The two men should take over the watch and the dogs should only be fed the minimum this morning. They would be let out tonight.
In the mmeantime, would Franco go down and secure the main gates.
New lock and, yes, “put a screamer on it.
She left the telephone and paused behind Bond’s chair. “See, I am efficient.”
“Didn’t doubt it for a minute.”
She slid forward and sat on the arm of the chair. Once again Bond smelled that mixture of dry summer and the scent he could not identify.
“I still think you don’t like having a woman in charge.”
“What’s your real name?” He disregarded her observation.
“Like I told you. Beatrice,” she pronounced it the Italian way.
“I believe you, but what else? I mean you’re not Dante’s angel, Beatrice. You have other names?”
She giggled. “They told me you were just a blunt, well-trained instrument. A hunk. Now you’re talking literature and poetry.
Full name, Beatrice Maria da Ricci. Italian father, English mother. Educated Benenden and Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford.
Father in Italian Foreign Service. When their marriage broke up, I was handed over to Mama, who was a lush.”
“You’re pretty luscious yourself.”
“That’s not funny,” she bridled. “Have you ever had to live with a lush? It just isn’t amusing.”
“I apologise His da Ricci.” There was no side-stepping her anger.
“Okay, I’m touchy about it. I read modern languages, and took the Foreign Office examination . . “And failed.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me: a man comes around and says that perhaps they can offer you a job within the Foreign Office, and before you know it, you’re mixed up with all the paraphernalia of espionage.” She nodded, “More or less, but they wanted me for languages.
I took another degree in computer sciences and found myself in Santa’s Grotto.”
Bond nodded. In the basement, below the underground parking at that building overlooking Regent’s Park, there was a great sterile computer room they all called Santa’s Grotto. With the advent of the microchip the old Registry had been relegated to a smaller area and people were constantly transferring the paperwork onto a series of giant databases. Rumour had it that all the work would not be completed from past files until the year 2009, or thereabouts, as the crow flies. “Then they remembered you had languages,” he filled in.
“Partly. I got sinus trouble from the air-conditioning.”
“Better than a touch of Legionnaires’ Disease.”
“I asked for a transfer to the real world.”
“No such thing in our business. We’re T S Eliot’s “Hollow Men’; we are also rust-stained dinosaurs. Our day has come, and gone. I give us a decade more. After that, well we could be sitting in front of computer terminals all day and most of the night. It’s known as the invasion of the killer tomatoes syndrome.”
She nodded gravely. “Yes, the days of the Great Game are numbered.”
“The years are numbered. We’re not down to days yet. But, Beatrice Maria da Ricci, which is a classy sort of name anyway, how did a nice girl like you end up in a sordid bullet-catcher’s job like this?”
She
She gave an amused little sniff “Forty-eight hours. The Chief has some big pull with her. She’s a pretty well-connected lady, but she moved out for Christmas as a favour to M. She also moved her staff out.
The couple of guys I mentioned - Franco and Umberto - are extra heavy help. They were around when we had that little brush with the BAST team, but they’re only for support if things get really tricky.”
Franco and Umberto were at the main villa, she said. “That’s why you can rest easy.
I’ll alert them now. They can watch until we’re ready to go shopping.”
She rose, in a series of very attractive moves, and walked slowly to the telephone. Her conversation was short, to the point and in Italian. The two men should take over the watch and the dogs should only be fed the minimum this morning. They would be let out tonight.
In the mmeantime, would Franco go down and secure the main gates.
New lock and, yes, “put a screamer on it.
She left the telephone and paused behind Bond’s chair. “See, I am efficient.”
“Didn’t doubt it for a minute.”
She slid forward and sat on the arm of the chair. Once again Bond smelled that mixture of dry summer and the scent he could not identify.
“I still think you don’t like having a woman in charge.”
“What’s your real name?” He disregarded her observation.
“Like I told you. Beatrice,” she pronounced it the Italian way.
“I believe you, but what else? I mean you’re not Dante’s angel, Beatrice. You have other names?”
She giggled. “They told me you were just a blunt, well-trained instrument. A hunk. Now you’re talking literature and poetry.
Full name, Beatrice Maria da Ricci. Italian father, English mother. Educated Benenden and Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford.
Father in Italian Foreign Service. When their marriage broke up, I was handed over to Mama, who was a lush.”
“You’re pretty luscious yourself.”
“That’s not funny,” she bridled. “Have you ever had to live with a lush? It just isn’t amusing.”
“I apologise His da Ricci.” There was no side-stepping her anger.
“Okay, I’m touchy about it. I read modern languages, and took the Foreign Office examination . . “And failed.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me: a man comes around and says that perhaps they can offer you a job within the Foreign Office, and before you know it, you’re mixed up with all the paraphernalia of espionage.” She nodded, “More or less, but they wanted me for languages.
I took another degree in computer sciences and found myself in Santa’s Grotto.”
Bond nodded. In the basement, below the underground parking at that building overlooking Regent’s Park, there was a great sterile computer room they all called Santa’s Grotto. With the advent of the microchip the old Registry had been relegated to a smaller area and people were constantly transferring the paperwork onto a series of giant databases. Rumour had it that all the work would not be completed from past files until the year 2009, or thereabouts, as the crow flies. “Then they remembered you had languages,” he filled in.
“Partly. I got sinus trouble from the air-conditioning.”
“Better than a touch of Legionnaires’ Disease.”
“I asked for a transfer to the real world.”
“No such thing in our business. We’re T S Eliot’s “Hollow Men’; we are also rust-stained dinosaurs. Our day has come, and gone. I give us a decade more. After that, well we could be sitting in front of computer terminals all day and most of the night. It’s known as the invasion of the killer tomatoes syndrome.”
She nodded gravely. “Yes, the days of the Great Game are numbered.”
“The years are numbered. We’re not down to days yet. But, Beatrice Maria da Ricci, which is a classy sort of name anyway, how did a nice girl like you end up in a sordid bullet-catcher’s job like this?”
She
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