After a few minutes, he rolled off the sofa and slowly got to his feet.
Bond phoned Bertrand Collette when he got to Monte Carlo midafternoon.
“I need you in Nice by tomorrow morning,” Bond told him. “And bring Ariel with you.” He was referring to something that Q Branch had shipped to several foreign stations a few months ago for testing purposes.
“Ariel?” Collette asked. “What for?”
“Essinger’s film is shooting on water. She might come in handy.”
“That won’t be easy. I have to find a … what do you call it in English? A proper … hitch.”
“Do your best, Bertrand,” Bond said. “Just be at the harbor in the morning.”
After checking in with Nigel in London, Bond spent the rest of the day keeping an eye on the casino and doing his best to avoid Tylyn’s press reception, which was at the Hotel de Paris, next door. He thought it best not to appear too eager.
Later he ate dinner alone, put on an Armani dinner jacket, and stood outside the casino to smoke a cigarette and contemplate what might happen that evening. Was he really about to meet Le Gérant in person? Mathis had done so and had discovered something significant. Apparently whatever he had found was important enough to effect his disappearance.
The Monte Carlo casino was one of Bond’s favorites. He knew the general manager and several staff members personally. He had both won and lost great sums of money at the casino over the years. Forget what anyone says, Bond thought. Gambling was not fun and games—it was serious business. Lady Luck could be a cruel mistress.
As he walked inside the elegant casino, Bond reminded himself that although he would be using the company’s money, a limit on the amount available had been imposed this time and he couldn’t afford to lose more than three hundred thousand francs. A tidy sum, but nowhere near the maximums in the privé rooms. He hoped that his prey would not be playing for the kind of extremely high stakes that could result in his being wiped out in one hand.
After his passport was checked and he had made the transaction for chips, Bond went into the main room. For a Thursday night, the casino was crowded early. There must have been a ship of tourists in town. From the look of them, Bond guessed that they were Americans.
He took a moment to admire the elaborate paintings on the ceiling that represented the four seasons, then went into the Salon Privé. A crowd had gathered at one of the chemin de fer tables, so Bond stepped over to see if this was where the action was tonight. Sitting at one end was a man wearing dark glasses.
So … was this Le Gérant? At last?
Bond scanned the rest of the faces. There were two bodyguards behind the blind man. A smallish bookkeeper type sat next to him and acted as his eyes. There were three other players sitting at the table—an Arab in a turban, an elderly German man and a fat, ugly American with a smelly cigar. The American, in particular, was in a foul mood. The blind man had taken him to the cleaners.
A group of at least ten other men, representing several nationalities, were standing around the table and observing.
As for the man who might be Le Gérant, he was broad-shouldered, muscular and tanned. His dark hair was slicked back, a little too oily. The man looked to be physically fit and Bond guessed that they were around the same age.
The croupier announced that the bank stood at 100,000 francs.
“Banco,” Bond said.
They all turned to look at the newcomer.
Le Gérant said, “Ah, new blood. Welcome, monsieur. Please sit down.” Without moving his head, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. One of the casino employees stepped up with a leathercovered chair and placed it at the other end of the table for Bond.
Bond sat down and placed his chips in front of him. Immediately he felt the indescribable rush that went with high stakes gambling. How many times had he been in this position, facing a ruthless opponent over cards? This was life or death played out on a green felt-covered table. Would tonight lead to death for one of them?
As the croupier counted the chips, Bond stared at the blind man. He never shifted his position; he kept his head straight, as if he was staring through solids into the next room. A slight smile was beginning to form on the man’s face.
The cards were dealt. Bond received a three and a four. Seven—not bad.
The bookkeeper whispered in Le Gérant’s ear after looking at his two cards.
Bond waved to signal that he didn’t want another card. The hand was played out. Bond revealed his seven.
Le Gérant turned over a two and a six.
“Bad luck,” the elder gentleman said to Bond.
“Yeah, join the club,” the American said.
The bank stood at 200,000 francs. It was all that Bond had left. Was this the moment of truth? Would it be all over in two hands?
The croupier announced the bank’s amount, challenging anyone present if they wanted to wager. If they had chosen to do so, several players could have combined forces to bet against respective parts of the bank. But no one desired to risk even a small part of his funds against a man who seemed unbeatable.
“Banco” Bond said, which meant that he was betting against the entire bank alone.
Le Gérant smiled. “I think this game is about to get interesting, eh, Julien?”
The bookkeeper whispered, “Oui, Monsieur Rodiac.”
Le Gérant slipped the cards out of the shoe. Bond had a two and a queen, which was not encouraging. He watched the blind man as Julien peeked at their cards. He whispered to Le Gérant, who registered no reaction whatsoever.
Bond asked for a third card, the one that would decide the fate of the game. The croupier handed it to him on the paddle and flipped it over.
A seven. Bond had a total of nine. He was careful not to show any emotion, but inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief.
Le Gérant remained stone-faced, but the shock on Julien’s face was evident. He had to draw a card. He did so, Julien whispered in his ear, and after a second or two, he turned over the hand.
A total of eight.
The crowd gasped. The blind man’s luck had suddenly turned!
If Bond’s perceptions were correct, then Le Gérant had known that he was going to lose. Bond had seen it in his demeanor. The man had realized it before he had drawn the third card. What was his secret?
There was a moment’s pause as the bank and shoe were turned over to Bond. He was now a hundred thousand francs wealthier than when he had started.
Le Gérant said, “I hope you will allow me a chance to win my money back, Monsieur Bond.”
The man knew who he was! But how?
“Of course,” Bond said, doing his best to retain his cool. “I wouldn’t just win and run.”
Was he completely blown?
“Banco,” Le Gérant said.
The bank was worth 400,000 francs.
The identification had rattled Bond a bit, but he summoned his concentration and managed to deal the cards from the shoe with panache. It was important to appear confident and relaxed. Julien glanced at the cards and whispered in his employer’s ear. Bond looked at his hand. He had a king and a five, which put him on shaky ground. A total of five could go either way.
Le Gérant sat a moment, pondering his hand. Should he draw? Finally, he nodded. Bond slapped a new card onto the table and the paddle carried it over to the blind man. Julien looked at it and whispered, then turned it over. An ace.
Damn! Bond was not allowed to draw. The rules stated that the dealer had to stand on a five if he dealt an ace as a third card to his opponent.
Le Gérant flipped over his cards, revealing a five, a ten, and an ace. Six.
He had won back the entire bank.
Bond turned over his cards. The crowd murmured enthusiastically, some shaking their heads in sympathy for Bond.
He shrugged it off and smiled to the crowd. “Easy come, easy go,” he said.
But he was completely broke, so he set down a couple of chips h
e had held in reserve for a tip, stood, and said, “Merci, monsieur. I hope we will meet again soon.” He passed the shoe back to the other end of the table.
Le Gérant smiled and said, “I’m sure we will, Monsieur Bond. It was a pleasure.”
Bond walked away and went to the bar. He ordered a martini and nursed it while he reflected on what had just happened.
Le Gérant had swatted him away like a fly. Bond had never been bested so quickly. The man had been dealt a five and a ten, which gave him a total of five (since tens were worthless). However, he was entitled to draw on a five, or not. He had chosen to do so. Had he not done so, there would have been a tie.
Was it luck? A good guess on Le Gérant’s part?
Bond could see where the legends about the man having a sixth sense might have come from. He certainly had a sense of power about him. He was confident, good-humored and obviously wealthy. This could really be the man who controlled the largest and most notorious criminal organisation on the planet.
Bond walked out of the casino toward the Hotel de Paris. It would be a while before Le Gérant finished for the night. He might as well look into other matters that were weighing heavily on his mind.
As he entered the grandiose lobby with its marble floors, high domed ceiling, stained-glass windows and a bust of Louis XIV, Bond felt a touch of apprehension. What was preoccupying his thoughts now was seeing Tylyn again. She was in the hotel somewhere. Should he phone up to her room? Was pursuing this girl really wise?
“James?”
His heart skipped a beat when he heard the voice. Bond turned, and there she was, an angel in a low-cut red dress, one that he had seen in the fashion show. She looked her best, which was saying a lot.
“It is you!” She beamed happily, embracing him.
“Hello, Tylyn,” he said, kissing her cheeks. “Last night was lovely, do you know that?”
She nodded. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m so glad you’re here! Oh, but James, I’m leaving for Nice very soon. In an hour, I think. A car is picking me up. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, of course.”
“Well, I wish you had come sooner! I was so bored at dinner this evening. I had to eat with the other actors, the director, and … well, Léon, too. I could have done without that.”
“How was the press conference?”
“Nothing new there. A lot of patting each other on the back. More like a pep talk than a press conference. ‘Aren’t we great? Look at us, we’re about to make a cool movie!’ ”
“Would you like to have a drink?” Bond asked.
“Let’s go for a walk instead, what do you say?” she suggested.
“That sounds wonderful.”
They walked behind the casino on Avenue de Monte Carlo, past the Bar Américain, and down broad stone steps to the gardens and terraces of the Casino. This was an ideal lovers’ walk, as the gardens overlooked Monte Carlo’s harbor and were stocked with all kinds of exotic flowers. It was a beautiful night, the sky was clear and the stars were out in force. The Mediterranean lay flattened out before them in the darkness and reflecting the moon on its surface. There were several other couples strolling through, as well as groups of tourists. All were exquisitely dressed, ready to partake of an evening’s gambling at the casino.
The harbor down below was well lit and busy. One of the yachts there belonged to Le Gérant. Which one was it? As they walked, Bond noted that there was easy access to the marina from the gardens by means of a lift.
Tylyn spoke of her day and how she had missed Bond’s presence. “I don’t normally do that, you know,” she said. “I realize that we, well, we jumped into bed on the first date and all, and I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me.”
“I don’t believe it’s possible to have wrong ideas about you.”
“You’re sweet.” She leaned up to kiss him, but she didn’t have to go far. She was nearly as tall as he was. “I wish I knew more about you.”
“Tylyn …” he said.
She put her hand to his mouth. “No, don’t. Not now. I know we’re probably rushing things. Let’s not. I’m not ready for a serious relationship, you should know that. Let’s just take things day by day, all right? I’ll learn about you in due time.”
Bond nodded and kissed her again. She looked past Bond and frowned.
“Damn,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s Gérard, one of my husband’s flunkies.”
Bond casually looked behind him. A large man in a suit was some ten yards away, talking into a mobile.
“Your husband has you followed?” Bond asked.
“It doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Look, I hope you’re not going to disappear. Léon already suspects that I’m seeing you. I think a little jealousy is good for him. Will you come to the set to visit me?”
“You’re just using me,” Bond said, teasing her.
“No I’m not!” she laughed and pushed him. “Well, okay, maybe I am, a little. But I like you, too, James. I really do. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, Tylyn, and I like you, too. Let’s give Gérard something to report to his boss.”
With that, he kissed her passionately, holding on to her as if she were the last woman on earth. Tylyn lifted one leg behind her, bent at the knee. They stayed locked in the embrace for well over a minute. When they looked up, Gérard was talking animatedly into the phone.
“I must go now,” she said. “I’ll be at the harbor in Nice tomorrow at 10:30 for another press function. Then we set sail. Léon has chartered a cruise ship to carry the cast and crew out to sea. You’re welcome to join me.”
“I, uhm, have to work sometime, Tylyn,” Bond said. “But I’ll see what I can do. Besides, I’mnot sure that I can stay away from you now.”
She kissed him again, said goodbye, and ran toward the stairs. She turned, waved to him, then went up to the hotel.
Bond began to stroll back toward the casino when he heard a man’s voice.
“Hey.”
Bond turned to see Gérard standing with his hands on his hips.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Bond said, and attempted to move on. Gérard reached out to grab Bond’s arm.
Bond reacted quickly by snatching Gérard’s wrist, twisting the man’s arm under and around to his back, and applying sufficient pressure to induce a good deal of pain.
“Why don’t you mind your own business, my friend?” Bond whispered, then shoved the man to the ground. He then straightened his bow tie, brushed off his jacket, and continued to walk up the stairs to the Place du Casino.
Bond waited at the bar until Le Gérant was ready to leave. He and his entourage cashed in the blind man’s impressive pile of chips, placed the cash inside a silver metal briefcase, and left the building. Bond followed them at a safe distance as they walked through the gardens to the lift. He noted that Julien would take Le Gérant’s arm to guide him only occasionally. Most of the time Le Gérant was able to navigate the gardens without help and with no walking cane.
The party took the lift down to the harbor level, where they boarded a luxurious Princess yacht. Bond took a seat at the marina bar and ordered another martini. He watched the yacht’s crew come and go, loading various bags from a van that was parked by the dock. After twenty minutes had passed, Bond saw two men appear on deck and walk across the bridge to the dock. One of them was Léon Essinger, and he was carrying the silver metal briefcase. Was it still full of money?
Bond recognized the other man, too, as someone very high up in the Union’s bureaucracy. What was his name?
Of course—he was Julius Wilcox. The ugly one. The commandant with the reputation for being the cruellest man in the world.
Bond removed his camera from his jacket pocket and snapped a photo of the two men with the Princess in the background. Along with the retinal tattoo, this was further proof that Essinger was in bed with the Union.
He watched as the two men went up the sta
irs toward the casino, presumably to their car.
Now what? Bond asked himself as he lit a cigarette and stared at the dark sea. There were two courses of action open before him. One was to pursue Le Gérant, find out where he went, and ultimately discover where the Union’s stronghold was located. The other was to stay close to Essinger and determine what the Union was up to. The latter was easily the more attractive, simply because of Tylyn’s presence. Would both paths ultimately converge into one? Did it really matter which way he went?
While anyone else might have flipped a coin to help him decide what to do, Bond merely blew smoke rings in the air and chose to go with his gut.
SIXTEEN
THE MOVIE
NICE WAS ONE OF BOND’S FAVORITE PLACES IN FRANCE. CONSIDERED THE capital of the Riviera, it was a fashionable but relaxed city. Standing at the edge of the port, Bond could see one of these relics of this earlier era, the Château d’Anglais, a pink tiered building at the top of Mont Boron. Nice has one of the prettiest harbors in France, mostly because it is clean and surrounded by the hills and brown and yellow apartment houses, the spectacular veterans’ monument cut into the cliff facing the water and the lovely expanse of Mediterranean.
The harbor was busy on this bright and sunny day. Camera crews were set up in front of a dock where the Starfish, a large luxury cruise ship, had put into port. A banner with the words Pirate Island had been hung over the side of the ship, announcing to the world that this was Hollywood come to the Mediterranean.
A long table covered by a white cloth had been set up on the boardwalk near the ship’s dock. There were microphones on top of the table, awaiting the film’s stars and major players. A crowd had already gathered and was becoming impatient.
Bond lit a cigarette and stood apart from the group, keeping his eye peeled for anything unusual. Right on time, a familiar face appeared in front of him.
“I just want you to know, Mister Bond, that I had hell getting here with your ridiculous contraption,” Bertrand Collette said. Once again, the French agent had nicked himself shaving and his face was decorated with two small pieces of tissue.
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