Now it was Sixtine’s turn. Whatever she had, it wasn’t a pair. She took one last peek at her concealed card and threw another 50,000 plaque onto the table, doubling down. This allowed her just one more card. The dealer turned it. The card was a queen of clubs. Bond knew at once that it was bad news. Scowling, Sixtine turned over her hole card. It was the five of hearts. With the queen and her original seven she now had twenty-two. She was bust.
And what of the dealer? He left his seven of spades lying on the table and turned over its ugly sister, the eight of spades. This was just about the worst possible combination for him. He had fifteen and according to the rules he had to draw again. He did so. An ace! It still wasn’t enough. He drew again, an ignominious knave of clubs, which busted him. Bond had four cards making up two indifferent hands but they had still managed to win him 100,000 francs.
The miniature drama was over. The cards lay there, irrelevant after their moment of glory. Then Sixtine twisted in her seat like a cork being drawn out of a wine bottle and walked away without saying a word. Looking at the wreckage of what she had left behind, Bond could see why she was angry. If he hadn’t imposed himself on the game, the distribution of the cards would have been very different. Sixtine would have had the matching pair – the eight of diamonds and the eight of hearts. If she had split, she would have been given the two sevens, giving her a total in each hand of fifteen. Bond had no doubt she would have stood at that point. The dealer would have had the five of hearts as his hole card and the eight of hearts face up. A total of thirteen. He would have been forced to draw and would have received Bond’s nine of clubs, busting him.
The 100,000 francs that Bond had won should have been Sixtine’s. Scooping up his plaques, he nodded his thanks to the dealer, then followed her out of the room.
7
Russian Roulette
She hadn’t ordered yet. Bond found her in the Bar Salle Blanche which, with its palm trees and full-length mirrors, its dazzling turquoise and gold mosaics and chandeliers, took wealth and extravagance to places even they might never have imagined they would go. She was waiting for the barman when Bond walked over.
‘I think I owe you a drink,’ he said.
She turned and her dark eyes settled on him in a way that he found both challenging and seductive. Briefly she examined him as if she had never seen him before. ‘You don’t owe me anything,’ she said.
‘I brought you bad luck.’
‘I don’t believe in luck.’
‘Bad timing, then.’
‘That may be true.’ She considered. ‘I don’t see why I should refuse a share of your winnings. What do you propose?’
‘A glass of champagne, perhaps? I can recommend the Taittinger Blanc de Blancs Brut ’43.’
‘I’m not in the mood for champagne.’
‘A dry martini then.’ She nodded and Bond turned to the barman. ‘I’d like two martinis,’ he said. ‘Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. It needs to be served ice cold with a slice of lemon peel. All right?’
‘Of course, monsieur.’ The barman smiled and nodded.
‘Wait a minute.’ Sixtine had stopped him before he’d turned away. ‘I’d like mine shaken, not stirred,’ she said.
The barman was about to argue but then he fluttered his eyelids. ‘Whatever madame desires.’
As he hurried away, Bond turned to her quizzically. ‘Does it really make a difference?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes.’ She was quite serious. ‘My late husband used to say that if you shake a cocktail, you bruise the alcohol. Also, you melt more of the ice. Stirred not shaken was one of his mantras. He was very specific about things like that.’ She drew out a cigarette and allowed Bond to light it. ‘Ever since he died, I’ve made it a point of principle to do everything the opposite of what he told me.’ She glanced at the cigarette in her hand. ‘He didn’t like me smoking, either.’
‘When did he die?’ Bond asked.
‘Not soon enough.’ She picked up her handbag and went over to a table. Slightly bemused, Bond followed her. Even in this short encounter, he had decided that she was not like any woman he had ever met. For one thing, she was impossible to read. She didn’t seem to care if he stayed or went.
He sat down next to her. ‘Do you often play here?’ he asked.
‘I prefer the casino at Estoril, in Portugal. It’s more majestic. And I play at Crockford’s when I’m in London.’
‘Always on your own?’
‘What makes you think I’m on my own?’
Was this a tacit admission of the syndicate that had been playing alongside her? Bond wondered where the three men and the woman had gone. Were they watching her now? And where had she found them in the first place? ‘You knew every card in the deck,’ he said.
‘No. But the more cards that have been discarded, the easier it is to predict the odds. That’s why I enjoy vingt-et-un. I saw you playing roulette earlier. That seems to me to be a complete waste of time. Why should you pursue any activity over which you have no control?’
‘Why gamble at all, then?’ Bond asked.
‘My husband was a gambler. He lost everything. I’ve made it my personal crusade to take a little back.’
The drinks arrived at their table and with them a short, bald man in black tie, bristling with excitement. With a sinking heart, Bond recognised Émile Tournier, the general manager of the casino. The two of them had met before and the smaller man could not contain his delight. ‘Monsieur Bond! What a pleasure to see you again!’ he exclaimed in heavily accented English. ‘You should have informed us that you were coming. You will please accept these drinks on the house. And if you and madame would care to have dinner, the restaurant is open to you and there is no question of a bill.’
‘Thank you.’ Bond gave him a thin smile. In other circumstances, the very mention of his name might have been a death sentence. As it was, the intrusion was annoying enough.
‘It is my pleasure. It is the pleasure of the Casino of Monte Carlo. When I think what might have happened if it had not been for you. Formidable! Please let me know if there is anything that I can do for you and I wish you both a most pleasant evening.’
Bowing, he backed away. Bond and Sixtine were left with the drinks. ‘So now you know my name,’ Bond said.
‘Oh – I knew it already,’ Sixtine replied with a shrug of indifference. ‘You are James Bond of the secret service. You were recently elevated to the Double-O Section, which means you have a licence to kill. It makes me wonder who in this building has made themselves your target. Me, perhaps? I hope not. I enjoy my life and I don’t think I’ve done anything recently that would put me on your assassination list.’
So she had known about him all along. How was that possible? There were only a handful of people who knew about the Double-O Section, let alone his promotion to it. Bond was impressed. Sixtine had to be incredibly well informed. Her connections might stretch as far as the offices in Regent’s Park. He would remember to tell Bill Tanner that their security procedures needed a thorough overhaul once he got back.
‘In that case, you must know why I’m here,’ he said.
‘No. Are you going to tell me?’ She was very direct, looking straight into his eyes as if she could read what lay behind them. Her English was perfect, although Bond had picked up the faintest traces of a French accent, which lent it an added sophistication.
He picked up his glass. The liquid was slightly cloudy, a result of the treatment it had received, but when he sipped it he could discern no difference in the taste. ‘A friend of mine was killed,’ he said. ‘You might have known him as Richard Blakeney.’
‘I didn’t know him at all.’ She sounded bored. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘He was shot three times at close range.’
‘Then he was careless.’
‘You say you didn’t know him but he certainly knew you.’
‘A lot of people claim to know me.’ She searched f
or an ashtray. Bond slid it towards her. ‘I never met Richard Blakeney or anyone else from British intelligence,’ she went on. ‘I assume he was one of yours? How are things in Regent’s Park, by the way? It’s been quite a while since I had any dealings with your people. It’s a shame, really. You’re so much more polite than SMERSH.’
‘I’d be interested to know what you’re doing here in the south of France.’
‘I’m sure you would. But I can’t imagine why you’d think I’d have any interest in telling you.’
Bond smiled. ‘Can I at least ask if it’s business or pleasure?’
‘My business is my pleasure. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t continue.’ Her eyes levelled on his. ‘Do you take pleasure in killing people?’
Bond was completely thrown by the question. He didn’t even know why she had asked it. He ignored her. ‘Why did you meet Jean-Paul Scipio?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not how it works, James. You know who I am. You know how I make my living. Any information that I have is for sale or for exchange. Nothing is free. I’m interested to know what it feels like to be a young man with so much power. Who else can choose between life and death with no fear of retaliation? Only a secret agent or a psychopath.’
It was her use of his first name that struck him. She was speaking to him as if, in some way, she already owned him.
‘I certainly don’t feel like a psychopath,’ he said. ‘And I have less power than you think. I merely do what I’m told. As to the rest of your question, I don’t need to answer it. We’ve both been through a war. There are heroes and there are villains. You just have to decide which side you’re on and you go where that takes you.’
It was enough – for the moment. ‘I have no interest at all in Jean-Paul Scipio,’ she said. ‘He’s a drug dealer. His business and mine have nothing in common.’ She shrugged. ‘Why would I want to meet him?’
‘That’s what I’m asking.’ Bond took one of the photographs out of his pocket and laid it on the table. The dark eyes glanced down briefly then flickered away. ‘This was taken at La Caravelle bar in Marseilles,’ he said. ‘Why do we have to play games with each other? You might find it easier to tell me the truth.’
‘I didn’t say I hadn’t met him. I said I wouldn’t want to – and that’s absolutely true. For a start, he’s repulsively fat. He has no manners.’
‘When was this taken?’
‘How many people have you killed?’
Bond hesitated. ‘Two.’
‘In France?’
‘One in New York. One in Sweden.’
‘I was at La Caravelle just over a week ago. It was a Tuesday, I think. Scipio invited me and it seemed sensible to accept.’
‘What did he want?’
‘My turn, James. How did you know I would be here this evening?’
‘I didn’t know. But I heard you came here sometimes and I hoped to meet you.’
She looked at him coldly. ‘You could have waited until I’d finished the game and introduced yourself then.’
‘On the contrary, I enjoyed playing cards with you. In fact, watching you was an experience in itself. I imagine it must help a great deal if you surround yourself with friends.’
She didn’t deny the accusation. ‘What did that man mean just now? The little man with the moustache? What was it that would have happened if it wasn’t for you?’
Bond made a gesture with one hand. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ Now it was her turn to smile. ‘It seems to me that we may have common interests. You’re in the south of France because you want to know what Scipio is doing. And what Scipio is doing might just possibly make a difference to the reason I’m here too. Right now I could stand up and walk out of here and you might never see me again. Or we could keep talking and see where that takes us. Of course, if you find my company boring …’
She was sitting, more relaxed, her elbow resting on the back of the banquette. Bond liked the way she looked – her bare arms, the curve of her neck and the glittering gold choker with its single diamond nestling in the cavern of her throat. The black silk seemed to flow around her hips and breasts. She was wearing classic stilettos, black satin decorated with rhinestones. He felt disconcerted. Somehow, from the moment they’d started speaking, she’d had the upper hand. He decided to tell her what she wanted to know. Why not? She already knew who he was. There was no way she could use the information. And it might be worth winning her trust.
‘I don’t find you at all boring,’ Bond said. ‘On the contrary, I was simply thinking that the story wouldn’t be of any interest to you. But if you want to hear it, let me order a couple more cocktails … shaken, not stirred. It may take a while.’
He signalled to the waiter, then began.
‘It happened last year and concerns a ship, a Soviet cruiser called the Aleksandr Kolchak, making a propaganda trip, showing the flag around the Mediterranean. Its first port of call was here in Monte Carlo and I was sent down to take a closer look.’
‘A look? Is that all?’
Bond lit a cigarette for himself. ‘Well, actually we’d been trying to intercept the signals it was sending back to Kronstadt, but we hadn’t been successful because we didn’t know what wave bands it was using and we didn’t have the schedules. So far we’d been unable to pick up any transmissions and I was here to see if there was any way round that.
‘It soon became clear that there wasn’t very much I could do. The Aleksandr Kolchak was moored about half a mile out. It was a Chapayev-class cruiser, a 600-footer with double shaft-geared steam turbines and the usual range of guns. It was sitting there decked out with flags and it had aroused quite a bit of interest and favourable comments in the town. It looked gay enough. The Soviet sailors had also made a good impression … they were all excellently behaved.
‘The trouble was, of course, that no visitors were allowed anywhere near and even using scuba in the middle of the night seemed like a waste of time. I nosed around a bit without much success and tried to speak to some of the crew, but they’d been warned off talking to anyone. I was beginning to think I was in trouble but then I had a stroke of luck. One evening I happened to see a fifty-year-old man, grey-haired, obviously Russian, coming into the casino quite reluctantly with a rather attractive French tart. It was clear straight away that she was having to cajole him to go with her. And the thing is, I knew at once who he was – none other than Captain Nikolai Stolypin, the man in charge of the Kolchak.
‘I followed them in. Of course, the captain was completely bowled over by the casino. I’m sure he’d never seen anything like it in Moscow or Odessa or wherever he came from. He’d soon cracked open his first bottle of champagne and after a couple of glasses, when he was feeling more relaxed, the girl led him over to the roulette table and showed him how it worked. He took to it like a duck to water, playing red or black at first but soon trying out more interesting combinations. Russians are all gamblers at heart and it wasn’t long before Stolypin was placing bets with the best of them. He was winning, too … getting more and more excited, ordering more champagne, having a wonderful time. In fact everything went terrifically until, inevitably, it didn’t. Quite suddenly he began to lose. He’d managed to stack up a good pile of plaques but over the next few hours I saw them dwindle and finally disappear. He was bust. There was no doubt of it. At the same time, I knew it wouldn’t stop him coming back.’
‘You’re right about the Russians. They’re like children, really. They have no self-control. It comes from always being told what to do.’
‘You’ve had many dealings with them?’
‘Don’t change the subject. I want to hear more.’ Sixtine was clearly absorbed by the story. She could see it all: the foreigner, out of his depth, drawn into a world he could never completely understand, the heat of the moment, the flowing champagne.
The second drinks arrived. Bond stayed silent until the waiter had gone.
; ‘Stolypin came back the next night,’ he continued. ‘And the night after that. I made sure I was there for the whole of it. The Kolchak was due to leave in a week and he seemed determined to make the most of his time. Somehow it didn’t surprise me that he continued to lose. That’s often the way it goes with roulette. It’s almost as if the wheel can scent weakness and actually takes pleasure in spinning against you. Anyway, every night he’d play until his pockets were empty, but the following evening he’d still come in for more. I didn’t see the girl again. He no longer had any interest in her. By the end of the week he was obviously a desperate man, his eyes fixed on the wheel, gambling fiercely and even insanely. The other players were watching him with bated breath. I’d say they were rather frightened of him.
‘The last time, he played until five o’clock in the morning. I noticed that he’d been looking at his watch from time to time and exactly on the hour he hurled his chair back and got up. I knew this was the critical moment. All his money was gone. He called for the manager – that was the man you saw just now – and the two of them went into his office with an anxious group of casino officials. As it happened, I’d already met Monsieur Tournier, and he had an idea that I was a policeman of some sort. He let me tag along, which was how I became a witness of what happened next.
‘The Russian made an impassioned speech in pretty execrable French. He was sweating profusely and there was no doubt he was in a bad way. He said that he had lost all his own money. Worse than that, he’d raided the cabin of the ship’s paymaster and stolen more cash from the safe. The bottom line was that he was down 1 million francs. And then he announced his masterstroke. He was ruined, he said, but in revenge he was going to destroy the casino.
‘Stolypin pointed out of the window. It was all very theatrical. “I gave orders that if I was not back on board at a quarter past five, my cruiser’s main armament was to be trained on this casino,” he exclaimed. “I have ordered my gun crews to fire at six o’clock whether you return the money to me or not. I shall die but I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that this monstrous, capitalist enterprise will have been razed to the earth!”
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