She looked up at him through half closed eyelashes. You are five minutes early and I told you to knock.”
Bond sat down close to her in the shade of the big umbrella. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “You happen to own the only palm tree in the whole of this desert. I had to get underneath it as soon as I could. This is the hell of a place for a rendezvous.”
She laughed. “I am like Greta Garbo. I like to be alone.”
“Are we alone?”
She opened her eyes wide. “Why not? You think I have brought a chaperone?”
“Since you think all men are pigs . . .”
“Ah, but you are a gentleman pig,” she giggled. “A milord pig. And anyway, it is too hot for that kind of thing. And there is too much sand. And besides this is a business meeting, no? I tell you stories about drugs and you give me a diamond clip. From Van Cleef. Or have you changed your mind?”
“No. That’s how it is. Where shall we begin?”
“You ask the questions. What is it you want to know?” She sat up and pulled her knees to her between her arms. Flirtation had gone out of her eyes and they had become attentive, and perhaps a little careful.
Bond noticed the change. He said casually, watching her: “They say your friend Colombo is a big man in the game. Tell me about him. He would make a good character for my book – disguised, of course. But it’s the detail I need. How does he operate, and so on? That’s not the sort of thing a writer can invent.”
She veiled her eyes. She said: “Enrico would be very angry if he knew that I had told any of his secrets. I don’t know what he would do to me.”
“He will never know.”
She looked at him seriously. “Lieber Mr Bond, there is very little that he does not know. And he is also quite capable of acting on a guess. I would not be surprised” – Bond caught her quick glance at his watch – “if it had crossed his mind to have me followed here. He is a very suspicious man.” She put her hand out and touched his sleeve. Now she looked nervous. She said urgently: “I think you had better go now. This has been a great mistake.”
Bond openly looked at his watch. It was three-thirty. He moved his head so that he could look behind the umbrella and back down the beach. Far down by the bathing huts, their outlines dancing slightly in the heat haze, were three men in dark clothes. They were walking purposefully up the beach, their feet keeping step as if they were a squad.
Bond got to his feet. He looked down at the bent head. He said drily: “I see what you mean. Just tell Colombo that from now on I’m writing his life-story. And I’m a very persistent writer. So long.” Bond started running up the sand towards the tip of the peninsula. From there he could double back down the other shore to the village and the safety of people.
Down the beach the three men broke into a fast jogtrot, elbows and legs pounding in time with each other as if they were long-distance runners out for a training spin. As they jogged past the girl, one of the men raised a hand. She raised hers in answer and then lay down on the sand and turned over – perhaps so that her back could now get its toasting, or perhaps because she did not want to watch the man-hunt.
Bond took off his tie as he ran and put it in his pocket. It was very hot and he was already sweating profusely. But so would the three men be. It was a question who was in better training. At the tip of the peninsula, Bond clambered up on to the seawall and looked back. The men had hardly gained, but now two of them were fanning out to cut round the edge of the golf course boundary. They did not seem to mind the danger notices with the skull and crossbones. Bond, running fast down the wide seawall, measured angles and distances. The two men were cutting across the base of the triangle. It was going to be a close call.