James Bond: The Authorised Biography

by John Pearson

  He was brought back to London with strict instructions to stay incognito. Maddox arranged for him to stay in the now defunct Carlton Hotel on the corner of Haymarket under the pseudonym of Haynes. Maddox was staying in the hotel as well. From time to time he would appear and then haul Bond before a bewildering succession of medical experts, language and firearms experts and men behind large desks in Whitehall. Throughout these encounters Bond always had the uncomfortable feeling that they knew far more about him than they said. Nobody told him anything specific – even Maddox had become curiously reticent – but Bond gathered that he was on probation for the Secret Service. He had been chosen for an unusual assignment. His training would begin within a day or two.

  Maddox explained all this over dinner in the grill room. He also said that he would be saying goodbye to Bond for a month or two. Now that he had started him on his career he must return to Paris where he had work to do. But quite soon now, Bond would be meeting his instructor.

  Bond was becoming slightly bored with the whole air of mystery.

  ‘Why the delay?’ he asked.

  ‘Because it's taking just a little while to get him out of prison,’ Maddox replied.

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘Yes, Wormwood Scrubs. A splendid fellow called Esposito – Steffi Esposito. American, I'm afraid. And, as you'd imagine with a name like that, he's a professional card-sharp. Scotland Yard tell me he's the best in Britain.’

  ‘He must be if he's in Wormwood Scrubs.’

  ‘That's not the point,’ said Maddox. ‘He's going to teach you everything he knows. Work hard. You've a lot to learn.’

  Bond tried to find out more, but Maddox's wrinkled monkey-face was now impassive. All that he would tell Bond was to take his work seriously.

  ‘They're letting this Esposito off a nine-month rap in your honour.’

  *

  James Bond met his teacher three days later in an over-furnished flat off Baker Street. He was expecting someone seedy from the underworld (Bond's experience of criminals was limited). Instead, he found himself greeted by an impeccably dressed, plump, grey-haired man with sad eyes and a pompous manner. Something about him made Bond think immediately of the chaplain at Eton.

  ‘I am informed, sir, that I must teach you all I know.’ Esposito sounded much put out by this. His voice had traces of New York and Budapest. ‘I tried to tell the fools that it would be impossible, and probably not in anybody's interests, but the police have never understood my sort of work. Your Mr Maddox seemed a cut above the rest of them. He and I agreed upon a basic course for you on the manipulation of the pack. May I see your hands?’ He felt Bond's fingers, tested the suppleness of the joints, and sighed impatiently.

  ‘You will have to work. You, my friend, possess the hands of a karate expert. Instead you need the touch of a virtuoso with the violin. Perhaps we should begin with the bread-and-butter business of our art. We call it the Riffle Stack, a straightforward matter of shuffling the cards to produce a desired pattern for the dealer. When – and I use the word ‘when’ advisedly – when we have mastered that we can move on to more artistic things, until we can deal our aces, kings and any card at will. The aim, dear Mr Bond, is to make those fifty-two cards in the pack our devoted servants.’

  Esposito, for all his talk, was an iron teacher; for the next week, ten hours a day, he kept Bond practising the Riffle Stack. Bond used to dream of cards at night, but after ten days of this gruelling work, Esposito let drop his first hint of encouragement.

  ‘You are learning, Mr Bond. Slowly, but you are learning. The fingers are becoming suppler. Within a year or two you might even make a living from the cards.’

  But this was not the purpose of the course, and now that Bond was beginning to achieve the basic skills of the card-sharp, Esposito started to introduce him to the main tricks on the repertoire – how aces could be slightly waxed so that the pack broke at them, how cards could be marked on the back with faint razor cuts, and how the whole pack could be minutely trimmed to leave just the faintest belly on a few key cards.

  Finally Bond graduated to the gadgetry of the profession – ‘Shiners’, small mirrors fixed into rings or jewellery, devices that would feed cards from underneath the sleeve, electric gadgets that could signal an opponent's hand.

  Bond worked for two whole months in that flat off Baker Street. Apart from Esposito he met no one and heard not a word from Maddox. Despite this he had an uncomfortable feeling of being watched; on the third day of each month £100 would be deposited into his bank account. Then at the end of August, Esposito relaxed. He announced that they would soon be leaving London.

  ‘Time for a little field-work, my friend.’

  Bond packed his passport, dinner jacket, half a dozen shirts, and the next day he and Esposito caught the morning train to France. Esposito was in his element. ‘I feel that I can breathe at last,’ he said, inhaling the mackerel-scented air of the main quay at Dieppe. He wore co-respondent shoes and a violently checked suit that made Bond think of someone on a racecourse. There was a jauntiness about him now that Bond had never seen before. They had lunch together in the Hotel Windsor. Esposito did the ordering in florid French. For a while he reminisced about his past adventures and about certain ‘colleagues’ he had known – tales of extraordinary coups and instant fortunes gained and then squandered over the green baize of the French casinos.

  ‘If I had kept a tenth of what I've won, I'd be a millionaire. But what is money, my dear friend? Simply a game of chance. It's the game that matters.’

  Esposito looked mournfully across the esplanade. The sea was blue, the beaches thronged with regiments of bourgeois families. Bond thought the time had come to ask him when the field-work began. Esposito revived.

  ‘Tonight, my friend, we make our debut. We shall see how good a teacher Steffi Esposito has been.’

  ‘You mean … ?’ said Bond.

  ‘I mean that we shall try our luck – and also just a little skill. It is your Mr Maddox's idea. He feels that, after your training, you should have a trial run. He wants you to know just what it feels like to manipulate the cards.’

  ‘You mean I have to cheat?’ said Bond.

  ‘Cheat?’ replied Esposito, looking pained. ‘Please do not use that word. I am an artist and I have tried to teach you just a little of my art. Cheating does not come into it.’

  Rather than start an argument, Bond asked him where he planned his trial run.

  ‘Not in Dieppe. I am known here and it could be embarrassing. There is a place along the coast – quite near Le Touquet. A good hotel, a small casino. It will suit us nicely. It is called Royale-les-Eaux.’

  *

  Bond liked the little town immediately. It had a certain style about it, an air of well-fed tolerance. It was not pretentious, but seemed the sort of place where comfortable French families had come for generations for their holidays. There were fat plane trees in the square, an ornate town-hall, several tempting-looking restaurants. There was also a casino, almost a Monte Carlo in miniature. Bond's heart sank when he saw it. Silently he cursed Esposito.

  Esposito was in his element. They booked in at the Splendide. They dined together (although for once Bond wasn't feeling hungry). And then they strolled to the casino. Bond could not help but be impressed now by Esposito. As he followed him into the salle des jeux he was reminded of a great musician walking towards the podium. The room was crowded, and for a while Esposito and Bond surveyed the table. The play was high. Royale-les-Eaux was currently attracting an exclusive clientele and suddenly Bond felt an excitement he had never known before. He had known the thrill of gambling for high stakes with the Brintons. This was different. He was experiencing the forbidden pleasure of the card-sharp ready to pit his skill against the table.

  After that evening Bond could understand the thrill of beating the system. He and Esposito were playing baccarat. The stakes were high – a group of businessmen from Paris were pushing up the odds and for a while Espos
ito played along with them. So did Bond. They played cautiously and unobtrusively. After half an hour Esposito was down and Bond about even.

  Bond kept his eyes upon Esposito. When card-sharps work in pairs, one is invariably the leader; during those weeks in Baker Street, Bond had learned to follow Esposito minutely. There were certain signs by which Esposito could signal advance details of his play. Suddenly the way he held his cards told Bond that he was about to force the pace.

  The bank was held by a balloon-like man with tiny eyes. Bond could detect the avarice with which he fondled the barricade of chips before him. Esposito's signals told Bond that the bank was standing on a five. This was a risky thing to do, but would still leave the odds slightly in the fat man's favour.

  There was a murmur of excitement as Esposito put ten red chips – 100,000 francs – onto the table. It was by far the largest bet of the evening and Bond could appreciate the practised way he did it. There was no hesitation and Esposito's bland face was quite impassive. At the same time he signalled Bond to follow. Bond held a nine and eight of clubs – a reasonable, but by no means a decisive, hand. If Esposito were right about the banker's hand, Bond would unquestionably win. But was he right? How could he possibly be sure?

  Bond is essentially a cautious gambler and normally would not have dreamt of taking such a risk. And yet Esposito was quite emphatic. Bond hesitated. Everyone was watching him, and at that moment his nerve failed. 100,000 francs was over £800 – all that he possessed. Warily he placed five white chips – 5,000 francs – down on the table.

  All eyes were on the fat man then as he turned his cards. A nine of clubs, a six of hearts. In baccarat it is the last figure of the count that signifies. It was a five, exactly as Esposito had said.

  There was that faint murmur from the players – part envy, part excitement – as the croupier pushed Esposito's ten red plaques across the table. Bond felt a twinge of regret as his white ones followed. The play continued, but his opportunity was over. Esposito made no more signals, nor did he gamble heavily again. Half an hour later he rose, tipped the croupier, nodded towards the banker, and departed. Five minutes later James Bond followed him. Bond found him in the bar. Esposito was laughing.

  ‘Well, my friend, and how does it feel to win illicitly?’

  Bond replied sharply that he disapproved of it. Esposito still laughed.

  ‘Quite, quite, your attitude does you great credit. It was most necessary though. Your Mr Maddox was insistent. What was it he said – something about needing to have poached to be a game-keeper? I don't understand these English phrases.’

  Early next morning, Bond and Esposito left for Paris. Here they made contact with Maddox. That same evening, Maddox and James Bond dined together at the Brasserie Lipp. Maddox was looking tired. The hollows of the eyes were darker, the thin hair slightly greyer than when Bond saw him last. But he seemed in the best of spirits. He ordered steins of Pilsener and, whilst they drank, he outlined Bond's assignment. The Roumanians had just arrived in Monte Carlo with the beginning of the new season, and already they were winning. Maddox had seen de Lesseps, the casino manager. The poor man was desperate. He had appealed for help to their old friends and rivals, the French Deuxième Bureau. One of their smartest operators, a young man called Mathis, was already working in the casino, so far without success. The Roumanians appeared more confident than ever. The casino was fighting for its life.

  Bond was to catch the Blue Train to the Côte d'Azur. An apartment was reserved for him in the Hôtel de Paris. He could draw on virtually unlimited funds. But he was on his own. There must be no scandal and no violence – nor must the management of the casino become implicated in anything he did. For cover he would play the part of the spoiled son of a South African millionaire. His pseudonym was Pieter Zwart. After his training with Esposito he was to challenge the Roumanians. He must either beat them or discover the secret of their operation.

  ‘But if there is no secret?’ Bond asked anxiously.

  ‘Then you must make up one. I want those four Roumanians back in Bucharest within a fortnight.’

  *

  At Monte Carlo, Bond was in his element. The character of the wild young Pieter Zwart appealed to him. He hired himself a car – an electric-blue Bugatti. He had silk shirts and pink champagne sent up to his room. Above all, he was thrilled to be back in France and in such circumstances. He never gave the memory of Marthe de Brandt more than a passing thought.

  His first evening he dressed carefully, dined well, then strolled for a while along the Grande Corniche. The evening was beautiful. Down in the harbour there were moored the yachts of the very rich. The lights of Cap Ferrat winked from the headland. Back in the rococo palace of the casino, the chandeliers were lit, the halls were filling, and the early gamblers placing their first bets. It was all totally unreal, but something about its unreality appealed to Bond. He was developing a marked distaste for the realities of life. He was nearly seventeen, but looked a handsome twenty-five. Behind the cold mask of his face, he felt even older. When Marthe de Brandt died, something had died in him. All that he wanted now was action and the sort of life that Maddox offered.

  He was glad too that he was on his own. Already this was how he liked to work and he was grateful to Maddox for understanding this. Esposito had stayed behind in Paris, but it was understood that if Bond needed him he would come at once.

  Bond took his place in the grande salle early, anxious to secure a good seat and to have a chance of seeing who was there. The great room was crowded and Bond played the usual game of trying to pick the genuinely wealthy from the would-be rich. Esposito had told him there was something in the eyes. Bond believed him, but was still not certain what it was. He wondered what his own eyes gave away.

  He did his best to play the part of the extravagant young gambler, buying some half million francs worth of chips from the caisse and wagering them wildly. He was successful here. By midnight, when the Roumanians were expected, he had already squandered over £500 at baccarat, and was beginning to attract attention. This was what he wanted.

  Almost on the stroke of midnight the Roumanians appeared. Bond watched them carefully. All were short, swarthy men wearing tight-fitting dark suits like uniforms. They were unsmiling and formidable, entering the room like a troupe of well-trained acrobats. They stood out from the other players by the certainty and calm which made them curiously forbidding. Now that he had seen them, Bond could understand the anxieties of the casino. These men would take a lot of stopping.

  Bond looked across at Vlacek. The only way that one could pick him out was by his enormous head. It was completely bald and tanned the colour of brown paper. His features were inscrutable for, like his three colleagues, he wore large dark glasses.

  As soon as he appeared, a place was cleared for him as if for royalty. He was exactly opposite James Bond. Although it was impossible to penetrate the dark pools of the lenses, Bond felt his eyes on him. It was an uncomfortable sensation and he recalled Esposito's advice, ‘Always watch their eyes and always smile.’ Bond smiled. Several shoes were played. Vlacek was a computer in a dinner jacket. The huge naked head showed no expression, and with each hand unerringly he won. Vlacek was a machine for winning.

  Finally Bond challenged him, and as he did he watched for any of the countless give-aways Esposito had taught him to observe. There were none. The stubby fingers with their backing of obscene black hair handled the cards mechanically. There was no sign of pleasure as he gathered in his winnings from James Bond. By 2.30 it was over. The 500,000 francs had crossed the green baize of the table. Bond was cleaned out.

  Bond did his best to bear his losses as he imagined any well brought-up millionaire’s son would. He shrugged, grinned, tipped the croupier and nodded towards Vlacek, who made no sign of having noticed him. But as he got up from the table a girl brushed his arm. She was tall, beautiful and very blonde. Bond apologized to her. She smiled; he noticed she was very young.

  ‘Sorry yo
u had such bad luck tonight,’ she said.

  Bond thanked her.

  ‘You'll have to try again tomorrow. Your luck is bound to turn.’

  ‘Do you guarantee it?’ said Bond.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, and smiled again, a very special smile which Bond remembered.

  ‘Will you be here?’ he asked.

  ‘I'm always here,’ she said.

  Bond would have offered her a drink for she appealed to him. He had not had a woman now since Marthe de Brandt. Until tonight the idea would have shocked him but in his present mood it seemed permissible. He was not James Bond now – he was Pieter Zwart, a rich South African, and he had just lost 500,000 francs. Something told him it would not be difficult to get the girl to bed.

  But Bond had other things to do. De Lesseps, the casino manager had asked to see him, and there was much to be discussed. De Lesseps had his office on the second floor. Bond took no chances. He left the casino, waited half an hour, then doubled back and used the side staircase.

  De Lesseps was a bird-like man who seemed to flutter as he talked. He was profoundly pessimistic. He explained to Bond that he had hoped that the Roumanians had won enough the previous season to be satisfied. Instead, now they were back and were winning more than ever. The casino had tried everything. There seemed no hope, no hope at all.

  Bond asked whether they had checked the croupiers.

  ‘We have even checked the lavatory attendants. I hardly trust myself. I have my own security men on every table, and yet still they win.’

  He sat down weakly behind the largest buhl desk Bond had ever seen, and, for a moment, seemed on the point of tears. Bond felt embarrassed and a little helpless. Neither were emotions he enjoyed. He was relieved when someone knocked at the door.

  Bond recognized the broad-shouldered man who entered as one of the uniformed attendants from the grande salle. He looked intelligent, with a lively Gallic face. De Lesseps introduced him as Mathis from the official French Deuxime Bureau. Ever since Maddox had mentioned that their French opposite number was working on the case, he had been looking out for him.