Nash looked up. Bond was standing leaning against the door and wondering how to help this clumsy, embarrassed man. Nash held out the cigarettes and the lighter as if he was offering glass beads to a native chief. `What about you, old man?’
`Thanks,’ said Bond. He hated Virginia tobacco, but he was prepared to do anything to help put the man at ease. He took a cigarette and lit it. They certainly had to make do with some queer fish in the Service nowadays. How the devil did this man manage to get along in the semi-diplomatic society he would have to frequent in Trieste?
Bond said lamely. `You look very fit, Nash. Tennis?’
`Swimming.’
`Been long in Trieste?’
There came a brief red glare. `About three years.’
`Interesting work?’
`Sometimes. You know how it is, old man.’
Bond wondered how he could stop Nash calling him `old man’. He couldn’t think of a way. Silence fell.
Nash obviously felt it was his turn again. He fished in his pocket and produced a newspaper cutting. It was the front page of the Corrière della Sera. He handed it to Bond. `Seen this, old man?’ The eyes blazed and died.
It was the front page lead. The thick black lettering on the cheap newsprint was still wet. The headlines said:
TERRIBLE ESPLOSIONE IN ISTANBUL
UFFICIO SOVIETICO DISTRUTTO
TUTTI I PRESENTI UCCISI
Bond couldn’t understand the rest. He folded the cutting and handed it back. How much did this man know? Better treat him as a strong-man arm and nothing else. `Bad show,’ he said. `Gas main I suppose.’ Bond saw again the obscene belly of the bomb hanging down from the roof of the alcove in the tunnel, the wires that started off down the damp wall on their way back to the plunger in the drawer of Kerim’s desk. Who had pressed the plunger yesterday afternoon when Tempo had got through? The `Head Clerk’? Or had they drawn lots and then stood round and watched as the hand went down and the deep roar had gone up in the Street of Books on the hill above. They would all have been there, in the cool room. With eyes that glittered with hate. The tears would be reserved for the night. Revenge would have come first. And the rats? How many thousand had been blasted down the tunnel? What time would it have been? About four o’clock. Had the daily meeting been on? Three dead in the room. How many more in the rest of the building? Friends of Tatiana, perhaps. He would have to keep the story from her. Had Darko been watching? From a window in Valhalla? Bond could hear the great laugh of triumph echoing round its walls. At any rate Kerim had taken plenty with him.
Nash was looking at him. `Yes, I daresay it was a gas main,’ he said without interest.
A hand-bell tinkled down the corridor coming nearer. `Deuxième Service. Deuxième Service. Prenez vos places, s’il vous plait.’
Bond looked across at Tatiana. Her face was pale. In her eyes there was an appeal to be saved from any more of this clumsy, non-kulturny man. Bond said, `What about lunch?’ She got up at once. `What about you, Nash?’
Captain Nash was already on his feet. `Had it, thanks old man. And I’d like to have a look up and down the train. Is the conductor–you know . . .?’ he made a gesture of fingering money.
`Oh yes, he’ll co-operate all right,’ said Bond. He reached up and pulled down the heavy little bag. He opened the door for Nash. `See you later.’
Captain Nash stepped into the corridor. He said, `Yes I expect so, old man.’ He turned left and strode off down the corridor, moving easily with the swaying of the train, his hands in his trouser pockets and the light blazing on the tight golden curls at the back of his head.
Bond followed Tatiana up the train. The carriages were crowded with holiday-makers going home. In the third-class corridors people sat on their bags chattering and munching at oranges and at hard-looking rolls with bits of Salami sticking out of them. The men carefully examined Tatiana as she squeezed by. The women looked appraisingly at Bond, wondering whether he made love to her well.