To make the contact easy, Bond went out and stood in the corridor. He ran over the details of the code of the day, the few harmless phrases, changed on the first of each month, that served as a simple recognition signal between English agents.
The train gave a jerk and moved slowly out into the sunshine. At the end of the corridor the communicating door slammed. There was no sound of steps, but suddenly the red and gold face was mirrored in the window.
‘Excuse me. Could I borrow a match?’
‘I use a lighter.’ Bond produced his battered Ronson and handed it over.
‘Better still.’
‘Until they go wrong.’
Bond looked up into the man’s face, expecting a smile at the completion of the childish ‘Who goes there? Pass, Friend’ ritual.
The thick lips writhed briefly. There was no light in the ve
