Forever and a Day

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘Ferrix Chimiques,’ Bond said. ‘Do you know them?’

  Griffith shook his head. ‘Never heard of them. Chimiques is the French for chemicals and it looks like someone paid quite a lot of cash for whatever it was they bought.’ He pointed to the typewritten figure at the bottom of the page. ‘There are at least five zeroes. That’s 100,000 francs.’

  ‘Presumably they’ll have kept the original. We need to pay them a visit. But let’s go in quietly.’ Bond picked up the invoice and folded it carefully. ‘There must be a reason why this was kept hidden.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll check them out with my people. See what I can find.’

  Finally, Bond took out the postcard. On the front, there was a view of the French coast, possibly Cannes. He turned it over. There was a telephone number on the back and a name: Monique. He showed it to Griffith, who shrugged. ‘Why don’t you give it a try?’ he said.

  Bond went into the bar and called the number. A minute later he came back to the table. ‘No reply.’

  ‘So what are you going to do next?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose, all things considered, it might be time to have a word with Sixtine.’

  Griffith finished his drink and called for the bill. ‘If you like living dangerously, that’s probably a good idea. Cherchez la femme, as the French say.’

  ‘Any idea where I might find her?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. You need to head down to the casino at Monte Carlo. She’s there most nights, usually on her own. She plays a few hands of blackjack. Then she disappears.’

  ‘Monte Carlo?’ Bond couldn’t help smiling. He had been there less than a year ago. But for him, the casino would now be a pile of rubble. ‘I’ll look in tonight.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t join you.’ Griffith touched the side of his neck. ‘I might turn in early. I seem to have a sore throat.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not catching,’ Bond said.

  6

  Madame 16

  Bond had never been particularly comfortable at the casino of Monte Carlo, even if it was one of the most famous in the world. Of course, it had its own song, ‘The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’, which had become an anthem for all gamblers. There had been the legendary run of luck in 1913 when the colour black had come up twenty-six times in a row at the roulette table. Somewhere in the building was a room still known as ‘the morgue’, where the bodies of unlucky gamblers had once been stored after they had gone bust and shot themselves at the table. All of this added to its reputation for romance and excitement.

  The building continued to dazzle visitors with its old-fashioned opulence, but the architecture put Bond more in mind of a large railway station. And where was the romance? It seemed to him that the wealthiest players – the Italians, the Greeks and the South Americans – were absolutely grim-faced as they took their places at the green baize battlefield, setting their sights only on the business of amassing tax-free capital gains. And there was something unashamedly vulgar about the decor that surrounded them … the crimson carpets, the over-theatrical curtains, the inevitable chandeliers. The naiads, painted on the ceiling of the salon vert, were actually smoking cigars. It was a small detail but a telling one. For Bond, the casinos at Beaulieu and Le Touquet were less ostentatious and more welcoming. He was comfortable there. At Monte Carlo, he always felt as if he were auditioning for a part in a play he would never actually want to see.

  But even as he climbed the steps that led to the grand entrance, dressed now in dinner jacket and black tie, he felt the familiar stirrings of warmth and excitement known to every gambler in the world, the sense that this night would be his night and that even if the casino had carefully stacked the odds against them, he – with lady luck at his side – would bulldoze his way through to victory. And then there was that business to remember from a year ago: the Russian captain and the devastation that might well have followed if Bond hadn’t been on the scene. It amused him to reflect that there was still a building for him to walk into.

  He didn’t intend to take part in any serious gaming tonight but it was against his nature to come here only as a spectator. The moment he arrived, he changed the 200,000 francs he had found at the Rue Foncet into plaques of 50,000. He had no qualms about playing with the funds of a dead man. On the contrary, this would be his memorial to an old friend. If he lost, they would have lost together. If he won, he would donate the winnings to one of the service’s favourite charities … the British Red Cross perhaps. As he took his place at the roulette table, he breathed in the soft whispers of the room, the murmurs of the crowd, the flutter of turning cards, the rattle of chips as they were swept off the baize, the muttered commands from the croupiers. ‘Finale quatre par cinq Louis.’ ‘A cheval!’ ‘Carré!’ Bond loved the language of the casino, uttered with all the solemnity and authority of a high priest addressing his congregation, but with more power to change lives.

  He reached out and, knowing what he wanted, the chef de partie handed him the card showing the run of the ball since the last session had started. He knew that it gave no indication at all as to what might happen next. The wheel made up its own mind with every spin. It had no interest in the bets, the players, the deserving and the desperate. But there was a habit that Bond had developed over the years that had served him well: he would look for any pattern, any idiosyncrasies in the numbers that had come up and adjust his own game accordingly. He noticed, for example, that zero had shown its ugly face twice in the last hour. It was inconceivable that a casino with the reputation of Monte Carlo would rig the wheel with magnets or any other devices and Bond took comfort from the calculation that the chances of a third appearance might be considered infinitesimal. Two spins later, the zero came up a third time and Bond was down 40,000 francs. He accepted this slap in the face with good grace and ploughed on anyway. After a dozen more coups, he had exactly doubled his original stake and left the table with a sense of satisfaction and confidence that the rest of the evening would go his way.

  Walking slowly, as if undecided about what to do next, he made his way over to the blackjack tables.

  Blackjack – vingt-et-un in France, pontoon in Australia – is one of the most popular casino games in the world. It is said that no other card game has earned so much money … for the casinos. And that was the problem for Bond. Although there were players who had studied it all their lives, he didn’t have the patience to work out the complicated strategies that would supposedly shift the odds back in his favour.

  He understood the basics: the distribution of two cards, the draw and the settlement, the attempts by up to seven players, one after another, to reach a total as close as possible to twenty-one (without going over), hopefully beating the dealer. He also knew that the casinos deliberately set out to make it as hard as possible to win a great deal of money. The maximum stakes simply weren’t high enough and the only answer was to play for bonuses that came from splitting pairs, doubling down or scoring a blackjack which would pay three to two. He preferred the much simpler drama of the roulette wheel, where the ball tumbling into a single pocket might actually make someone a millionaire.

  He saw Sixtine almost at once.

  She was sitting on the far side of the furthest table with four other players and she had clearly been winning … the plaques were piled up in front of her. No. Sitting wasn’t the right word. She was poised, her long and slender legs tucked demurely beneath her and one elbow resting on the table with her arm and hand shaped like a swan’s neck, as if she were modelling a cigarette advertisement. Her hair was jet black and hung luxuriously, framing a face that was serious and businesslike. She had very straight eyebrows and a mouth so perfectly in proportion with everything else that it might have been the work of a classical artist. Her eyes were dark brown and although they pretended to be relaxed they were in fact focusing intensely on the game to the exclusion of all else. Bond could see that she had a steely determination not to lose and he could imagine her bring
ing exactly the same single-mindedness to her business dealings. She was wearing Christian Dior – a black shantung dress with a tightly fitting bodice and a full skirt. It was classic haute couture which could have been made for her and, Bond reflected, probably had been. A gold and diamond collier cravate with matching earrings completed the picture. She had lipstick but no other make-up. Nor did she need it.

  She was about ten years older than him and, for Bond, that made her at least fifteen years too old to be truly desirable … yet he had to admit that she had been – and still was – a beautiful woman. The first lines were making themselves known at the edges of her eyes and the café au lait skin around her chin and down the sides of her elegant neck was beginning to soften. But if she had lost the perfection of youth, she had gained the carelessness and confidence of later age. She was an independent, a woman who had no interest in what the world thought of her. Here I am, she seemed to be saying. Whether you want me or not makes no difference to me. I am the one who will decide.

  Quickly, Bond examined the other players. They were exactly the sorts of visitor he would have expected in a casino like this, and it struck him how very different they were from Madame 16 and how appalled they would have been had they known the history of the woman they were playing with. Nearest him was a youngish man in his early thirties, perhaps a schoolteacher or an accountant with his neat hair, his thick glasses and his slightly timid manner. For him, playing cards in the south of France would be a huge adventure, although he would be fighting not to go over his personal limit.

  Next came a plump, angry-looking businessman who chewed on his gold signet ring while he played. He was angry because he wasn’t getting good cards and in life he was used to having his own way. His wife, reluctant, a little bored, sat beside him. She was more interested in his cards than her own, although she would later blame him for the amount of money they had both lost. On her right – between her and Madame 16 – sat a man who reeked of inherited wealth. He was unshaven, with curly hair, and wore a white dinner jacket while everyone around him was in black. When he made his bets, he slid the plaques as if he expected to lose and didn’t really care.

  There was one seat free but Bond didn’t take it. He preferred to observe his target from a distance.

  He watched half a dozen hands, noting at once that, in this version of the game, the hole cards were being dealt face up which might be very much to the players’ advantage, giving them a greater knowledge of what remained in the deck. Sixtine was a quiet, confident player who won more often than she lost. She ignored everyone else at the table, her eyes fixed on the cards. Was she playing a system? All the clues were there. She was drinking iced water. Most of the professional card players that Bond knew avoided alcohol. She never spoke, oblivious to everyone around her. When she wanted another card, she tapped a finger impatiently, as if waiting to be proved right. She was playing a game of chance but gave every impression of being in control.

  It was on the seventh hand that he worked out what was going on.

  Sixtine’s hole card was a ten, lying underneath her down card which was carefully hiding its face. She lifted a corner and peeked at it, then immediately turned both cards. They were both tens and she had decided to split them, doubling her bet of 15,000 francs. It was a strange move. Bond knew enough about the rules of vingt-et-un to know that you never split tens. Why risk a high score of twenty with two scores that have every chance of being weaker? On this occasion, she was behaving like an amateur and, sure enough, the cards punished her for it. The dealer dealt her a seven on one of her tens and a five on the other. Seventeen and fifteen: two mediocre hands had replaced one good one. Bond waited for her to lose.

  The dealer was showing a queen. He turned a card. Bond’s eyes narrowed. It was a six. With a score of sixteen, the rules forced him to draw again. The next card was another six. Twenty-two! He was bust!

  He saw Sixtine smile as if what he had just seen had been nothing more than she had expected. She had known what was going to happen. There had been no doubt of it. But how? Had she somehow managed to smuggle marked cards into the casino? No. That was as impossible as a rigged roulette wheel. Was she in cahoots with the dealer? Again that was unlikely and it would hardly be worth the risk. But she had split the tens quite deliberately, knowing that the dealer would go bust. There had to be another answer and, with a prickle of excitement, Bond realised what it was.

  Vingt-et-un is the exact opposite of roulette in that it is the one casino activity where each game does directly inform the next. The roulette ball has no memory but the cards do.

  The deck isn’t shuffled until all the cards have been used and it is possible for a player to make assumptions based on what has already happened. So, at its simplest, if all four aces have already appeared, there will be no more ‘soft’ hands – with the aces counting one or eleven – and no blackjacks. Bond had also noticed that the dealer was using a single deck of cards, which would give the more skilful players a slight edge. More and more casinos – particularly in America – were using two or even three decks to swing the odds back in their favour, which was perhaps why Sixtine had chosen to play here.

  But it also means that a player with extraordinary powers of concentration might be able to memorise the whole deck. That same player might also be able to calculate exactly how many cards remain simply by scrutinising the thickness of the deck, the number of cards in the dealer’s hands. Bond had attempted this trick himself but he had never quite succeeded, always managing to be at least two or three cards out.

  Sixtine had perfected this technique. He was quite sure of it. At the same moment, it struck him that she had also chosen her position at the edge of the table quite deliberately. She was the last to receive her hand, allowing her to use all the cards that had so far been dealt to the other players in her own calculations.

  When she had split the tens, she had known almost certainly what cards were remaining in the deck. At the same time, she had worked out – instantly – the odds of the dealer busting himself. She had decided to take the gamble and she had won, in the process making herself 30,000 francs. Even so, Bond wondered, what was the point? This was a woman who made a fortune stealing and selling secrets. Compared to the amounts she was earning, the money she was picking up here would be little more than small change.

  The dealer came to the end of the deck, shuffled thoroughly and began again. With a certain fascination, Bond watched the next few hands, standing a little to one side of Sixtine and well out of her line of vision. Never once did she speak. Nor did she lift her head. She won a couple of hands. She lost a couple. And all the time, her gaze remained fixed on the deck of cards, remembering everything that was dealt, measuring how many cards remained, always turning over the odds and waiting for the moment to strike.

  Bond saw when that moment arrived. The dealer had reached the last ten or eleven cards. Suddenly, there was a flicker of excitement in Sixtine’s eyes and before the dealer had time to collect all the cards and raise the deck for the next hand, she nodded slightly. It was a tiny move, almost imperceptible … indeed, Bond wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t been so still and silent up until then.

  At once, the other players left the table. None of them had been looking at her. They didn’t seem to know her and now all of them acted differently as they retired. The schoolteacher swept his plaques off the table, as if announcing that he was quitting while he was ahead. The plump businessman’s wife muttered something to him and with a little sigh and a shrug of his shoulders he slid off his chair and walked away with her. The curly-haired man also decided, quite suddenly, that he needed a drink and, with a slight yawn, sauntered over to the bar.

  What was going on? The dealer was as surprised as Bond but since there was now only one player remaining, he had more than enough cards to go ahead. He glanced questioningly at the lady in front of him. She smiled. She was ready for the next hand.

  The five players were a syndicate! Bo
nd was sure of it. The dealer might not have noticed but the entire group was working in concert and their departure from the table had been carefully rehearsed. The idea was to leave Sixtine on her own at a specific moment. There could only be one reason why. She knew the values of the remaining cards in the deck and had worked out exactly when it would work to her advantage to go head to head with the dealer. Right now, the odds must be stacked in her favour and she was preparing to make one last maximum bet.

  The dealer leaned forward but before he could begin the next deal, Bond had taken three quick steps and placed himself on the empty seat at the far end of the table, opposite Sixtine. He knew that his being there would change all the odds and nullify everything she had calculated and he was amused to see a slight narrowing of her eyes and a darkening of her cheeks as she acknowledged his presence. Bond took out a plaque for 50,000 francs, the maximum bid, and laid it on the green baize. Sixtine glanced at him for a moment with just the hint of a frown. Then she did the same.

  The cards were dealt. Bond had the eight of hearts. Sixtine had the seven of clubs. The dealer also had a seven – in spades. Bond’s hole card was yet another eight, this one in diamonds. Sweet sixteen! It seemed appropriate. He wasn’t at all surprised by so many identical values. Sixtine must have known that there were sevens and eights clustered together at the bottom of the deck and worked out her strategy accordingly. So what would she do in his position? Bond displayed both his cards, splitting them and placing another 50,000 francs on the table. The dealer dealt him two more cards. They weren’t good: a nine of clubs and a five. Bond now had seventeen in one hand and thirteen in the other. Should he stand – or try to improve the lesser of the two hands? He glanced at Sixtine. She had deliberately engineered this situation. She knew the values of all the remaining cards. She had worked things out so that she would win. Yes, of course. Bond waved a hand. He was going to stand.