ANGELS' BREASTS AND BELLY-BUSTERS

Bond stretched his legs under the table, lit the tenth Morlands of the morning, ordered an espresso from the hovering waiter, and settled in for a long wait. His position at the pavement café afforded him a view opposite the entrance to a dimly lit side street in the heart of the business district. He watched a wiry cat emerge through the café doors and begin to stretch its way through a daily regimen of feline yoga. The cat announced the end of its exertions with a yawn and snuggled up in the shade of the café's gently swelling green and gold awning. Only a cocked ear revealed that it was tracking the movements of the waiter as he jigged and weaved from table to table, threatening at any moment to deliver a few scraps to the pavement. Bond smiled. It was still the Lisbon he remembered. True, there were more cars on the road than before, but trams still toiled up and down the city's seven hills and fountains still burbled happily in the middle of sunny plazas. Only his target had changed. Where once the German embassy had claimed his attention, now an altogether more modest location tied him to a café table. Bond knew that halfway down the quiet street, well away from any passing trade, an inquisitive businessman might find a narrow doorway and a dusty doorbell. Here, Station L whispered its presence to the world via a tiny brass plate bearing the legend Universal Exports (Iberia). No matter how long the businessman or itinerant salesman might press the doorbell button no answer would come, for the electric bell's wire ended abruptly on the other side of the door.

Today was Bond's third day of surveillance, and with each day he had become less and less impressed with the Secret Service's Portuguese HQ. From the personnel file he knew that the station, like all Lisbon, was operating on a skeleton crew because of the time of year, but that did not excuse the lack of spycraft he had seen. The two remaining staff members always kept to the same routes to and from the small office on the first floor. Neither followed each other in order to check for tails. Bond could set his watch by their arrival and departure times. It was not unknown for a sense of ennui to descend upon station staff living in a pleasant part of the world where not much was happening, but this was more serious: Station L was slack.

Bond glanced at his watch. Any second now. And yes, here she was! Punctually at five to nine, the first member of Station L rounded the corner. The rather pretty girl who was always first to arrive and last to leave wore her coal-black hair in a long ponytail bound by a red ribbon. Bond felt a childish urge to tug her ponytail and a rather more adult yearning to run his fingers through her luxurious mane. Elsa Bartoli's figure was slim, athletic, and promised much. Her progress along the pavement was that of a catwalk model, the hips afloat on the swell caused by her habit, gleaned no doubt from the pages of Vogue and Life, of placing one slim foot directly in front of the other. A rather racy red leather handbag swung carelessly from one hand. She looked for all the world as though she might break out into a game of hopscotch at any moment. Bond particularly appreciated the coquettish smile she flashed each morning at the nearby grocer. She was still young, rather naïve and had not yet woken up to the fact that espionage was a dirty, dangerous business at the best of times.

He watched her disappear behind the closing front door, and Bond wondered, not for the first time, how on earth women managed to walk in stilettos – not that he was complaining. He lit another cigarette and reflected that her colleague knew all too well what business he was in. Twenty minutes later, a complaining car horn alerted Bond to Daniel Price's daily game of Grandmother's Footsteps with Lisbon's many taxis. One of these days an irate driver would surely mow down the unsteady figure, but Price didn't seem to care. It seemed to Bond that Price was a man who had stopped caring about anything except the half-bottle of spirits nestled in his jacket pocket. Middle-aged, surely coming to the end of active duty, Bond could see that Price was rotting from the inside out. The broad shoulders and loose gait were a reminder of a formerly powerful and athletic man, but what was once muscle had slowly run to fat, and only a good tailor had managed to keep this a secret to most.

The rest of the morning measured itself in espressos and cigarettes. Bond scanned his newspaper from cover to cover, practising his meagre and very rusty Portuguese. Eventually the traffic thinned, and the city began to slumber in the heat of the midday sun. Bond saw the girl leave for lunch, and in response he stubbed out his cigarette and ambled across the road and up to the shaded doorway. He quickly reached into his trouser pocket, took out a narrow strip of thin cardboard and pin-tacked it over the lock so that about three inches of paper protruded over the edge of the door. Bond took a second to check his handiwork and then retreated to inspect the wares displayed at the greengrocer's stall. Just as the grocer was beginning to show signs of impatience with his customer's apparent indecision, heavy footsteps rang out on the pavement nearby and Bond turned to see Price stepping out for a liquid lunch. The office door swung to with a bang, but this time slightly muffled.

Bond bought a pineapple from the grocer. He walked to the seemingly locked door and in one swift movement pushed it open, ripped off the paper strip and shut the door behind him. This time the lock closed properly and the door's security circuit closed. A thin ringing sound stopped abruptly: the office alarm. Bond grimaced. A fat lot of good that was if there was no one to hear it. What a bloody shambles! Bond gently exhaled and leaned back against the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark staircase in front of him. As soon as he could see clearly, he crept up the stairs, automatically placing his feet on the extreme left and right of the steps. An open door (Price again, thought Bond) led to a large, empty room lined with filing cabinets and some tired-looking desks and chairs. The room was anonymous and, apart from a hat-stand, a water cooler and a broom leaning rather forlornly against one of the desks, held no hint of the occupants' business. Dusty windows gave a dim view of the empty street. Bond left the pineapple on top of a filing cabinet, where it looked the liveliest thing in the room. A quick ransack of the desk drawers and filing cabinets revealed nothing untoward. Bond tried the door to the glass partition at the rear of the room, only to find it was locked. At least they hadn't been so lax as to leave the safe and scrambler in an unlocked room.

Bond dragged a chair to the window and positioned himself so that he had a clear view of the pavement. Time dragged and Bond became increasingly impatient. Too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and too much waiting for something to happen had made him fractious. Nothing pointed to a leak at Station L, but the deserted, dusty office explained why no useful information had come from Lisbon. Well, if he was going to act as a glorified Morale Officer he was damn well going to enjoy it. A few minutes later, he saw Price and Bartoli returning together along the pavement on the other side of the road. He returned the chair to its desk, picked up the pineapple and stood to one side of the door. The whine of the alarm sounded and died. Bond felt the office shake slightly as Price slammed the front door. The stairs creaked to two sets of footsteps.

"You know, Daniel, you really shouldn't leave the office unattended. It's against procedure."

"Not to worry. It's only for a few minutes and I'm sure the desks can look after themselves."

"Even so, I do think we should be more careful."

Bond, flattened against the wall, allowed the couple to wander in. Price ambled across the room with his hands in his pockets, while Elsa tossed her handbag onto the nearest desk. Both still had their backs to him. Bond's explosive cough rang out like a gunshot. Price and Bartoli span round in shock. Bond threw the pineapple to Price, who caught it and stood dumbfounded. Bond raised both his hands and pointed a finger and thumb at them both.

"Bang, bang. You're both dead – from the neck up, anyway." Bond looked contemptuously at Price. "You're lucky that's a real pineapple and not the other sort."

A flash of movement to Bond's left caught his eye. He swivelled to face Bartoli as she hooked up the broom with one foot, caught it in mid-air and advanced on him. He casually waved away the broom handle and was surprised when the stick crashed onto his forearm, numbing his left hand. Bartoli pressed on, jabbing her weapon perilously near his throat. Bond bargained with the pain and whipped out his Walther, levelling it at her head. The girl stood there, panting, her hazelnut eyes wide open in excitement, the snub nose touchingly resolute above the parted red lips. It took some effort to tear his gaze from his lovely assailant and look once more at the third person in the room. Price had not moved, and he still held the pineapple in his outstretched arms, like a shop-worn cousin of the grocer in the street outside. Bond noted the sweat-soaked salt and pepper hair plastered across a broad forehead, and then with dismay catalogued the red eyes, the crumpled suit, and the uneven stubble strewn over the double chin. If ever he got like that Bond hoped M would have the good sense to take him behind the stables and do the decent thing.

"It's alright, it's alright. I'm with the firm." Bond shook his arm in an attempt to restore the circulation to his hand. "Look, I'm sorry to have shocked you like that, but to be honest you bloody well needed it. If London saw the way you run this station they'd have a fit."

The girl gradually lowered the broomstick, colour slowly returning to her cheeks.

"Who did you say you were?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"I didn't. Contact London and say 'Export figures improving.'" The reply will be 'Carry on the good work.'"

Bartoli looked at Price, who nodded without taking his eyes from Bond. She walked quickly to the glass partition and unlocked the door. Bond holstered his gun and perused the shapely silhouette behind the smoked glass. The pineapple hit Bond squarely in the chest and he turned, jolted, to see that Price had smoothly drawn a gun and was pointing it at his head. The gun was a cut-down Saturday Night Special – old-fashioned but effective.

"A bit late now, don't you think?"

Price did not reply. There was a hint of diamond in his gaze. Bond tried to defuse the situation.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Yes."

Bond looked at the older man with mixed feelings. He was a physical wreck, but there were still the remnants of a tough customer beneath the years of neglect. Unlike most people who held a gun, Price remained calm. Calm gunmen were always the dangerous ones.

Bartoli returned, a glint of respect in her eyes. "London says he's 007, on special assignment. We're to give him every assistance."

Price's eyebrows rose in surprise and he slipped the gun back into his jacket. "Really? I haven't met a Double-O in years." Anger, embarrassment and resentment simmered in the air. "Daniel Price, Station Head." He held out a hand and Bond felt the clammy grip of the dedicated drinker.

"James Bond."

Bond held out a hand towards Bartoli, whose downcast expression told of her shame at the manner of their meeting, and in response felt the brush of cool, delicate fingers.

"And you must be Elsa Bartoli," smiled Bond. She inclined her head in acknowledgement. The room fell silent. Bond decided to ease the tension. He picked up the pineapple lying at his feet and placed it gently on the desk before him.

"It's a hot afternoon. If you have any soda we could stop playing rugby with this and put it to better use."

"We may have some left," replied Elsa, looking at Price. "I'll need to wash some glasses." She retreated behind the glass partition. Price took out a wicked-looking knife and began to cut the pineapple with some force, evidently taking out his embarrassment and anger on the nearest thing to hand.

"How'd you do it?" he murmured, without looking up.

"Strip of card over the lock."

"And when I left for lunch the card stopped the lock from closing." Price wiped his forehead. "Lord, that trick came in with the Ark. Are you going to tell London?" Both men knew that Price had committed a heinous offence in leaving the Station unsupervised. Dereliction of one's post could have severe repercussions. Men had been jailed for less.

"Not if you start doing your job properly and tell me all you know about this Portuguese leak."

"Of course. Don't blame the girl. She's still learning the ropes."

"She should know better. It would help if you could set a professional example." Price nodded in agreement as Elsa returned with a tray of glasses and a soda siphon. Bond was effusive in his thanks and tried to calm her nerves. When the three of them were comfortable, Bond asked Elsa about the British Embassy in Lisbon.

"We know there's a flap on but we can't see anything out of the ordinary," she said, clutching her hands on her lap. "It's been nothing but the usual round of British Council meetings, trade delegations and diplomatic drinks parties."

Price swirled his glass with a practised air. "I've checked out everyone of importance and it all seems above board. I tried to look at the other end of it as well – had a chat with a few contacts here in Lisbon and the Porto Stock Exchange about who might jump the gun on the exchange rates. They all agreed no one would be brave enough to do so under the gentle gaze of Salazar's Estado Novo. There are plenty of generals with time on their hands who would welcome a witch-hunt."

Bond sighed. "Then there's nothing for it but to check every single personnel file again. Perhaps we're missing something." He stared at the row of filing cabinets with loathing. M had wanted him to pay more attention to paperwork and it seemed he was about to get his wish. The rest of the day passed in a welter of passport photos, employment records and confidential evaluation profiles. The office was full of long shadows by the time Bond called a halt to what had been a fruitless search. After arranging with his now-dutiful colleagues the recall of two of the holidaying Station staff, and finalising a surveillance rota for the British embassy, a tired Bond left for his hotel, dispirited with the day's events.

Three days later, he was beginning to think his mission was a waste of time. He had quickly tired of watching various civil servants scurry back and forth from the large building on Rua de Sao Bernardo; that particular corner of a foreign field that was forever England had revealed nothing despite the hours of close surveillance. On the second evening Bond thought he had struck oil when a senior secretary's wife loitered amongst the pine trees in a secluded park, only to be disappointed when he saw her tryst with the embassy's young Entertainments Officer, a man who was obviously devoted to his job. Apart from that one incident everything seemed to be above board. There was no point in contacting London until he had something concrete to report.

It was a frustrated Bond who took the air in an early evening stroll through Lapa, the diplomatic quarter of Lisbon, where sedate mansions lined the broad avenues. Waves of starlings rippled across the purple sashes of sky visible between the stuccoed buildings. Almost unconsciously, he had drifted to where the Russian Embassy sat sentinel at one corner of a busy crossroads. In front of a lush open lawn (a very practical killing field, reflected Bond) stood a double row of railings that, topped with revolving spikes, presented a needlessly aggressive face to the outside world. The rush hour crowd had thinned out, allowing Bond to hear the rattle and clatter of a tram before it appeared from behind the embassy. The tram's wheels squealed in protest as it approached a tight corner. The pantograph powering the tram skipped off the overhead wires with a bang. A high-pitched whine died and the yolk-and-egg-white liveried tram stopped abruptly. The driver wearily climbed down from his cabin and retrieved a long pole clamped to the tram's side. Some boys gathered at the street corner with Bond and began to laugh and whistle at the driver. The driver smiled and playfully waved the pole in the boys' direction. Evidently this was not unusual. Bond watched fascinated as the driver hooked the fallen pantograph and carefully placed it back on the live wire. A few seconds later the tram's bell rang out joyfully and the tram sped on its way under the web of wires.

The crowd of boys and onlookers broke up, leaving Bond staring upwards at the latticework of wires, behind which he could see the black tips of powerful antennae poking just above the ornate cornice of the embassy. Tucked under the edge of the roof was a small square of light. The dirty window of frosted glass seemed out of character with the rest of the neo-classical building. He looked up at the surrounding buildings and noticed a flaking billboard near the top of a dowdy office building. Escritório para a venda.

Bond found a telephone kiosk nearby and quickly dialled the number on the advertisement. His luck was in. One phone call later a cheerful and probably relieved letting agent showed Bond into the fourth floor office. Senhor Penso said it was lucky that Bond had called just then, for the office was in demand. Bond sniffed the stale air and noted the thick dust on the solitary desk and chair. The sash window had evidently not been opened in a long time. He wrenched open the window, the distant sound of the traffic below floating in with the warm evening air. He looked out at the embassy across the street. The building was a crisp eight-iron away. Yes, it could work.

"I'll take it."

"Ah, very good, Senhor Chivers! I think you have done well to secure this office before any other interested parties."

"Indeed. I'll send my assistant tomorrow to sort out the terms and make arrangements."

They shook hands on the pavement outside and Bond watched the secretly cock-a-hoop letting agent scuttle away. Price could deal with him tomorrow morning. It would keep him sober and out of the way for the moment. Bond was frustrated and wanted results. There were times when one had to make things happen, instead of kicking one's heels and hoping for the best. He walked back to the Halcyon, his shadow hanging behind him as though reluctant to approach the blood-red sunset.

One of Bond's personal rules was never to trust a thin chef, a policy that had stood him in good stead on many a solitary evening in a strange town. He had chosen to lunch at the Pastelaria Suiça the next day because it had lean waiters, a sleek maitre d', and a plump chef. All promised swift, unobtrusive service, and Bond was especially pleased when a waiter slipping through the kitchen's swing doors afforded him a glimpse of a corpulent, solemn chef bent in concentration over his work. He ordered Sopa Fria de Melão, followed by Polvo stewed in red wine. He sat back, enjoying the little tableau of pavement diners happily ensconced under a flapping green valance on the corner of the mosaic-laden Rossio. Now a vibrant meeting place, the former Roman Hippodrome was busy with criss-crossing workers on their way to lunch. Bond recalled Pujol had once regaled him with stories of how the square had once accommodated two of the more bloodthirsty Iberian traditions: bullfighting and the torching of heretics.

His ears pricked at a now familiar tapping sound clearly audible over the toot and growl of passing traffic. Elsa arrived, skipping between the searingly white tablecloths with an aplomb that drew admiring glances from customers and waiters alike. She was dressed head to toe in white, from her headscarf to white dress to her white shoes, the whole ensemble bisected by a wide black belt. Bond thought she looked adorable. His cold melon soup arrived, and Bond asked her what she wanted to eat. She refused his offer of lunch, confessing that she was on a diet.

Bond chuckled. "I'll do the decent thing and say that you don't need to lose weight."

"One can never be too thin," said Elsa, though Bond could see she was pleased with his compliment. Over the last few days she had started to relax in his company.

"I'm busy with this rather good soup, so you'll have to do all the talking. How did you get into this game?"

"My parents suffered during Salazar's rise to power – my father was a journalist who thought it best to retire to the family home in Porto. An elderly aunt in England took me in and sent me to Cheltenham Ladies' College. I was studying Modern Languages at Newnham when a don asked me if I'd like to repay my debt to society." They both smiled at the habitual euphemism of the recruiting officer. "I came home in the hope that I might in a small way help to unseat Salazar. It's nothing personal, though I have no love for him. I hate all dictators as a matter of principle." She looked distracted. "If Daniel is going to be late I might as well have some coffee and a slice of cake."

"I thought you were on a diet?"

"I have a sweet tooth."

"You won't have any teeth if you eat rubbish and drink coffee all day. You'll end up as a wrinkled old hag hawking lavender on street corners."

Elsa laughed. "I'll have you know that Lisbon's pastries are full of vitamins. They form an essential part of a balanced diet." She caught the attention of a nearby waiter and ordered a coffee, hesitating over what else to order.

"I can never choose which cake to have," she said, her eyes narrowed. "They are all too delicious."

"I recommend an angel's breast. They melt on the tongue."

Elsa's eyes widened and Bond saw a faint stirring in her cheek. "You beast, you've been to Lisbon before! Well, just for that, I'm going to have a nun's belly – and don't you dare try to make a joke of it."

"Pax." Bond held up his hands as a peace gesture. At the same time the strum of a guitar brought their attention to a young couple, dressed in black, who had arrived unannounced on one side of the pavement terrace. With an enthusiastic shout from the guitarist, the couple began to whirl sticks in front of them, each parrying and thrusting to the guitarist's enthusiastic accompaniment. Their movement was balletic, dazzling to the eye. Bond watched, enthralled by the display.

"That was some pretty nifty work with the broomstick," he whispered. "My first thought was that you must be a witch." Elsa laughed. "Then I realised you knew what you were doing."

"But a stick isn't much use against a bullet." Elsa pursed her lips at the whirling couple, who were now drawing impromptu applause from onlookers. "My father came from the north, the homeland of Jogo do pau. Here it is no longer a fight but a dance. Papa said the only dancing he would ever do was with Mama."

Bond was relieved to find that the chef had used a decent red wine to stew his octopus. He listened with interest as Elsa explained the dancers' sinuous movements, and gave a large tip to the sweating guitarist who toured the tables after the dancers had left to a large round of applause. To finish, he ordered vanilla ice cream and a glass of El Candalo's PX Cream Sherry. Elsa watched with amusement as he drizzled half the glass's contents over the ice cream. Bond noticed her interest.

"I recommend it - vanilla sets off Almacenista single soleras perfectly." He held out a spoonful and looked her in the eye. She smiled and, to his disappointment, took the spoon from him before swallowing the ice-cream. Bond pinched a spoon from a nearby table and they shared the dessert, Elsa laughing when he deliberately scooped the last mouthful.

The waiter had cleared their table and Bond was about to call for the bill when he saw Price emerge from under the horseshoe arches of Rossio station. There was a sour tang of alcohol from Price's crumpled clothes. After ascertaining that Bond and Elsa required nothing he ordered a gin and tonic, his enunciation overly precise. Bond knew the pattern. In the short time he had spent in Price's company, Bond had never seen him drink anything but vodka, gin or sparkling water. Nothing too heavy, nothing to bring a bloom to the cheeks or nose. He suspected Price's wine of choice would be a white Rioja, perhaps a Muscadet or, further north, a Gewurztraminer.

"Sorry I'm late," smiled Price after his first sip. "I had to haggle over the rent, otherwise it would look as though we'd pay any amount for the rooms. And, this being Lisbon, after negotiating a fair price I had to grease a few palms to hurry through the paperwork. Good people, though."

Bond wondered how many drinks it had taken to seal the transaction. "What equipment do you have?" he muttered.

Price blew out his cheeks. "The standard Station kit, perhaps a few spares left over from the war. Might have to blow the dust off it."

"Belly-buster?"

"Should still have one. Mind letting me know why you want it?"

"Time's getting on, and we've got nowhere. We don't know where the leak came from – it could be anyone on the embassy staff, it could be someone else entirely – but it's a good bet it went via the Russian Embassy. Whether there's a contact on the Russian staff or whether the building was used to relay a message securely doesn't matter. The answer lies there."

Price shook his head. "You're grasping at straws. There's no way you can be certain it's the Russians."

"Who else, then?"

"The Chinese, the Arabs, Mossad – even ex-Nazis holed out in South America. Could be any number of countries that hold a grudge. That's the thing about ruling an empire – you're never short of enemies."

"The Chinese are more concerned with Japan and Indo-China, our Gestapo friends don't have the wherewithal, the Arabs are too busy carving up the Middle East and Mossad wants to keep in America's good books. As far as I can see Russia is the only country that has the clout and the motive for disrupting Britain's finances."

Price gave Bond a sour look. "Have it your way. Alright then, what's the plan?"

"There's a small window right at the top of the building. The glass is frosted and there's usually a light on late at night."

"Communications?"

"That's what I thought. The light means the room is continually manned. It's near the rooftop aerials in case they have a technical problem."

Price rolled his eyes. "Ah, so that's your game," he said into his raised glass. He upended his drink, the ice mounting against his lips. "I've seen the view from the office. Getting across won't be easy."

"There's no other way. A directional microphone could work but there's no way of training it upon the window from a close distance."

"Where do I come into all this?" asked Elsa, impatiently.

"There's a phone box on the corner of the square," replied Bond. "I need you as a spotter from the other side of the building in case a goon shows up. Remember to unscrew the light bulb."

Elsa nodded. Bond was glad that she accepted orders unquestioningly. Away from Price's corrosive influence she had the makings of a good operative.

Price ordered another drink and seemed to cheer up. "Well, I still think it's a damn fool scheme. But it should be fun. I haven't stretched my legs for a while."

Bond frowned. "Elsa, would you be a dear and see if we've had any recent signals from London?"

"But I checked them an hour ago. The next signal isn't due until 1700."

"Nevertheless." Bond's manner brooked no disagreement. Elsa took the hint. She got up and smiled nervously.

"I'll expect you at the office later?"

Bond nodded, his attention already elsewhere. Price waved an airy goodbye. The two men unconsciously entered the silent fraternity that signs up every male who watches a pretty girl walk away. A waiter's arrival with Price's drink broke the spell. Bond waited until he had drained half his glass. They both knew something was up. Price had the nervous habit of running a finger along a shallow scar that had carved a route across his right eyebrow, and now his hand started to saw back and forth. Bond opened his mouth to speak but was surprised to hear Price interrupting him.

"You're not about to propose marriage. Get on with it."

"All right then. You're riding pillion tonight. You'll help with the preparation but you're not coming with me."

"Now look, I'm not taking a back-seat role for anyone. And as Station Head I have the authority."

"Not in a field operation you don't. Take it up with London if you're not happy – but you'll get the same answer."

Price leaned forward, his voice low. "Listen, Bond, I was running agents out of Moscow when Uncle Joe was still happily slaughtering his way to the Kremlin. Just because I'm out of practise doesn't mean I can't handle the rough stuff. And while I'm at it, your prefix number doesn't make you infallible. This rooftop stunt is based on supposition, a rough guess at best. Perhaps I'm not as fit as I used to be, but I've given a lot to the Service in my time. Listen to an old soldier - tell M that you don't have anything to go on and call it off."

"I have nothing to go on because you've crawled inside a bottle and refused to come out."

Price's face reddened, accentuating the white glow of the notch in his eyebrow. "There are other types of addiction, Bond. Never forget that you're just one man with a gun. You're not a miracle worker."

"Thanks for the sermon. You're a liability, Price. I'm not risking my neck with an old soak. Go home, sleep it off and be at the office at eight tonight. If you turn up drunk I'll personally see to it that your pension is revoked."

Price finished his drink and placed the glass on the table with a drunkard's exaggerated care. He leaned forward with a resigned smile and murmured, "You know, once upon a time I would have had your guts for garters for a remark like that."

"Spare me the fairy stories. Just be there and be sober." Bond couldn't shake the memory of Price holding the pineapple. There was no place for drunken tremors on a night operation.