Bond asked at the Fairview’s reception where the best steak restaurant in Washington was to be found and was told that the Grill on H Street was the place to go. So Bond took a taxi there and asked for a table for one. He knew exactly what he wanted and, while his vodka martini was being mixed at the bar, he consulted the maître d’ – slipping him the obligatory $20 – telling him the white lie that it was his birthday, and that he was a fussy eater – all to make sure things were arranged precisely as he desired them.
Ten minutes later Bond was led into the dining room to his corner table. The napery was thick white linen, the silverware heavy and traditional and the glasses gleamed, speck-free. The Grill on H Street replicated the clubby values of a Victorian steakhouse reimagined for America, a hundred years on: dark panelled walls, low-wattage sconces, gilt-framed oil paintings of sporting scenes and frontier battles, the odd stuffed animal trophy on the wall, a chequerboard marble floor and venerable, grey-haired men in long white aprons serving at table.
Bond’s preordered bottle of Chateau Lynch-Bages 1953 had already been decanted and, as he sat down, a small lacquered tray was brought to his table that contained all the ingredients necessary to make a vinaigrette to his own secret formula: a little carafe of olive oil and one of red-wine vinegar, a jar of Dijon mustard, a halved clove of garlic, a black-pepper grinder, a ramekin of granulated sugar, a bowl, a teaspoon and a small balloon whisk to mix the ingredients together.*
Bond swiftly made his dressing then his filet mignon – à point – arrived with a bowl of salad. He had ordered filet mignon because he didn’t want a steak that overlapped his plate. It was nicely chargrilled on the outside, pink but not blue on the inside. Bond dressed the salad, seasoned his steak and took his first mouthful of claret. As he ate and drank he allowed himself to enjoy the fantasy that life was good and the world was on its proper course – this being the purpose of eating and drinking well, surely? He ended his meal with half of an avocado into which he poured what remained of his dressing. He drank a calvados, smoked a cigarette and called for the check. His culinary hunger assuaged, a new one replaced it. He was hungry for Blessing, for her slim active body. Hungry for her to give him more precise instructions about what she wanted him to do to her.
Bond sauntered into the lobby of the Blackstone Park, said hello to Delmont, who was working that night, and went up to his room. He waited until ten o’clock and strolled back down to the lobby, exiting through the rear doors into the parking lot. The lights in Blessing’s suite were on. He felt a hot pulse of anticipation at seeing her.
He knocked on her door. There was no answer. He knocked again and said ‘Blessing – it’s James.’ Still no answer. He repeated himself more loudly. Nothing. He went back to the night porter at the rear entrance and called her room. The telephone rang and rang – no reply. Odd. The night porter had just come on duty and couldn’t enlighten him. Maybe Blessing had come in and had to leave in a hurry, forgetting to switch the lights out . . .
Bond went through to the main lobby and sought out Delmont.
‘Hey, Mr Fitzjohn, what can I do for you?’
Bond drew him discreetly aside and lowered his voice.
‘Delmont, would you do me a favour? Has my wife come back? You know – the lady in suite 5K in the annexe . . .’
‘Give me two seconds.’
Delmont scurried off to reception and swiftly returned.
‘She’s in her room, Mr F,’ he said. ‘Arrived about an hour and a half ago. She hasn’t left or her key would be there.’
‘Of course – thanks, Delmont.’ Bond smiled reassuringly but he was worried. He walked casually back to the rear entrance and up the stairs to the second-floor suites. He glanced around but the corridor was empty. He unscrewed the heel from his loafer and worked the blade in between the lock and the door frame. He lunged at it with his shoulder and it gave. Bond pushed the door open.
The lights were on. Blessing’s handbag was tossed on the sofa. Thus far, so unremarkable. Had she taken a sleeping pill and was fast asleep in her bedroom?
‘Blessing? It’s me . . .’ Bond said, then repeated himself, louder.
Silence.
Maybe his initial assumption was right – she’d rushed out, called away, urgently. But why leave her handbag . . . ?
Bond felt a premonitory nausea – something was making him reluctant to go into the bedroom. He took a few steps then halted.
A thin dark sticky crescent of blood had seeped under the door to the bedroom.
Bond reached for the handle, turned it and tried to push the door open. It was unusually heavy. Bond gave an unconscious, spontaneous moan because he knew what had happened to Blessing and he knew who had done it.
He stood there in an awful balance of inertia, unable to decide whether to turn away and leave or to confront his darkest suspicions. He felt sick at heart – he knew what he had to do.
He leaned his weight against the door and shoved and pushed it open.
One glance was enough. Blessing was dead – naked, hanging by her jawbone from the hook on the back of the door, blood still dripping from her opened throat.
Bond heaved the door to and sank to his knees.
Kobus Breed.
Bond felt the tears smart in his eyes as he hung his head and thought desperately about Blessing and what she must have endured, a conflagration of outrage making him tremble, igniting his seething anger. Then he stood up, his head clearing. He inhaled deeply – the shock was draining from him to be replaced by a new granite-hard resolve. There was nothing so invigorating as clear and absolute purpose. There was only one objective now. James Bond would kill Kobus Breed.