Fleming, Ian - Bond 11 - (1963) On her Majestys Secret Servi

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For

SABLE BASILISK PURSUIVANT

and HILARY BRAY

who came to the aid of the party

Seascape with Figures

IT WAS one of those Septembers when it seemed that the summer would never end.

The five-mile promenade of Royale-les-Eaux, backed by trim lawns emblazoned at intervals with tricolour beds of salvia,

alyssum and lobelia, was bright with nags and, on the longest beach in the north of France, the gay bathing tents still marched

prettily down to the tide-line in big, money-making battalions. Music, one of those lilting accordion waltzes, blared from the

loudspeakers around the Olympic-size piscine and, from time to time, echoing above the music, a man's voice announced over

the public address system that Philippe Bertrand, aged seven, was looking for his mother, that Yolande Lefevre was waiting for

her friends below the dock at the entrance, or that a Madame Dufours was demanded on the telephone. From the beach,

particularly from the neighbourhood of the three playground enclosures -'Joie de Vivre', 'Helio' and 'Azur' - came a twitter of

children's cries that waxed and waned with the thrill of their games and, farther out, on the firm sand left by the now distant

sea, the shrill whistle of the physical-fitness instructor marshalled his teenagers through the last course of the day.

It was one of those beautiful, naive seaside panoramas for which the Brittany and Picardy beaches have provided the setting

- and inspired their recorders, Boudin, Tissot, Monet - ever since the birth of plages and bains de mer more than a hundred

years ago.

To James Bond, sitting in one of the concrete shelters with his face to the setting sun, there was something poignant,

ephemeral about it all. It reminded him almost too vividly of childhood - of the velvet feel of the hot powder sand, and the

painful grit of wet sand between young toes when the time came for him to put his shoes and socks on, of the precious little

pile of sea-shells and interesting wrack on the sill of his bedroom window ('No, we'll have to leave that behind, darling. It'll

dirty up your trunk!'), of the small crabs scuttling away from the nervous fingers groping beneath the seaweed in the rock-

pools, of the swimming and swimming and swimming through the dancing waves - always in those days, it seemed, lit with

sunshine - and then the infuriating, inevitable 'time to come out'. It was all there, his own childhood, spread out before him to

have another look at. What a long time ago they were, those spade-and-bucket days! How far he had come since the freckles

and the Cadbury milk-chocolate Flakes and the fizzy lemonade! Impatiently Bond lit a cigarette, pulled his shoulders out of

their slouch and slammed the mawkish memories back into their long-closed file. Today he was a grown-up, a man with years

of dirty, dangerous memories - a spy. He was not sitting in this concrete hideout to sentimentalize.about a pack of scrubby,

smelly children on a beach scattered with bottle-tops and lolly-sticks and fringed by a sea thick with sun-oil and putrid with the

main drains of Royale. He was here, he had chosen to be here, to spy. To spy on a woman.

The sun was getting lower. Already one could smell the September chill that all day had lain hidden beneath the heat. The

cohorts of bathers were in quick retreat, striking their little camps and filtering up the steps and across the promenade into the

shelter of the town where the lights were going up in the cafes. The announcer at the swimming-pool harried his customers:

'Allo! Allo! Fermeture en dix minutes! A dix-huit heures, fermeture de la piscine!' Silhouetted in the path of the setting sun, the

two Bombard rescue-boats with flags bearing a blue cross on a yellow background were speeding northwards for their distant

shelter up-river in the Vieux Port. The last of the gay, giraffe-like sand-yachts fled down the distant water-line towards its

corral among the sand dunes, and the three agents cyclistes in charge of the car-parks pedalled away through the melting ranks

of cars towards the police station in the centre of the town. In a matter of minutes the vast expanse of sand - the tide, still

receding, was already a mile out - would be left to the seagulls that would soon be flocking in their hordes to forage for the

scraps of food left by the picnickers. Then the orange ball of the sun would hiss down into the sea and the beach would, for a

while, be entirely deserted, until, under cover of darkness, the prowling lovers would come to writhe briefly, grittily in the dark

corners between the bathing-huts and the sea-wall.

On the beaten stretch of sand below where James Bond was sitting, two golden girls in exciting bikinis packed up the game

of Jokari which they had been so provocatively playing, and raced each other up the steps towards Bond's shelter. They

flaunted their bodies at him, paused and chattered to see if he would respond, and, when he didn't, linked arms and sauntered

on towards the town, leaving Bond .wondering why it was that French girls had more prominent navels than any others. Was it

that French surgeons sought to add, even in this minute respect, to the future sex-appeal of girl babies?

And now, up and down the beach, the lifeguards gave a final blast on their horns to announce that they were going off duty,

the music from the piscine stopped in mid-tune and the great expanse of sand was suddenly deserted.

But not quite! A hundred yards out, lying face downwards on a black and white striped bathing-wrap, on the private patch of

firm sand where she had installed herself an hour before, the girl was still there, motionless, spread-eagled in direct line

between James Bond and the setting sun that was now turning the left-behind pools and shallow rivulets into blood-red,

meandering scrawls across the middle distance. Bond went on watching her - now, in the silence and emptiness, with an ounce

more tension. He was waiting for her to do something - for something, he didn't know what, to happen. It would be more true

to say that he was watching over her. He had an instinct that she was in some sort of danger. Or was it just that there was the

smell of danger in the air? He didn't know. He only knew that he mustn't leave her alone, particularly now that everyone else

had gone.

James Bond was mistaken. Not everyone else had gone. Behind him, at the Cafe de la Plage on the other side of the

promenade, two men in raincoats and dark caps sat at a secluded table bordering the sidewalk. They had half-empty cups of

coffee in front of them and they didn't talk. They sat and watched the blur on the frosted-glass partition of the shelter that was

James Bond's head and shoulders. They also watched, but less intently, the distant white blur on the sand that was the girl.

Their stillness, and their unseasonable clothes, would have made a disquieting impression on anyone who, in his turn, might

have been watching them. But there was no such person, except their waiter who had simply put them in the category of 'bad

news' and hoped they would soon be on their way.

When the lower rim of the orange sun touched the sea, it was almost as if a signal had sounded for the girl. She slowly got to

her feet, ran both hands backwards through her hair and began to walk evenly, purposefully towards the sun and the far-away

froth of the water-line over a mile away. It would be violet dusk by the time she reached the sea and one might have guessed

that this was probably the last day of her holiday, her last bathe.

James Bond thought otherwise. He left his shelter, ran down the steps to the sand and began walking out after her at a fast

pace. Behind him, across the promenade, the two men in raincoats also seemed to think otherwise. One of them briskly threw

down some coins and they both got up and, walking strictly in step, crossed the promenade to the sand and, with a kind of

urgent military precision, marched rapidly side by side in Bond's tracks.

Now the strange pattern of figures on the vast expanse of empty, blood-streaked sand was eerily conspicuous. Yet it was

surely not one to be interfered with! The pattern had a nasty, a secret smell. The white girl, the bare-headed young man, the

two squat, marching pursuers - it had something of a kind of deadly Grandmother's Steps about it. In the cafe, the waiter

collected the coins and looked after the distant figures, still outlined by the last quarter of the orange sun. It smelt like police

business - or the other thing. He would keep it to himself but remember it. He might get his name in the papers.

James Bond was rapidly catching up with the girl. Now he knew that he would get to her just as she reached the water-line.

He began to wonder what he would say to her, how he would put it. He couldn't say, 'I had a hunch you were going to commit

suicide so I came after you to stop you.' 'I was going for a walk on the beach and I thought I recognized you. Will you have a

drink after your swim?' would be childish. He finally decided to say, 'Oh, Tracy!' and then, when she turned round, 'I was

worried about you.' Which would at least be inoffensive and, for the matter of that, true.

The sea was now gunmetal below a primrose horizon. A small, westerly offshore breeze, drawing the hot land-air out to sea,

had risen and was piling up wavelets that scrolled in whitely as far as the eye could see. Flocks of herring gulls lazily rose and

settled again at the girl's approach, and the air was full of their mewing and of the endless lap-lap of the small waves. The soft

indigo dusk added a touch of melancholy to the empty solitude of sand and sea, now so far away from the comforting bright

lights and holiday bustle of 'La Reine de la Côte Opale', as Royale-les-Eaux had splendidly christened herself. Bond looked

forward to getting the girl back to those bright lights. He watched the lithe golden figure in the white one-piece bathing-suit

and wondered how soon she would be able to hear his voice above the noise of the gulls and the sea. Her pace had slowed a

fraction as she approached the water-line and her head, with its bell of heavy fair hair to the shoulders, was slightly bowed, in

thought perhaps, or tiredness.

Bond quickened his step until he was only ten paces behind her. 'Hey! Tracy!'

The girl didn't start or turn quickly round. Her steps faltered and stopped, and then, as a small wave creamed in and died at

her feet, she turned slowly and stood squarely facing him. Her eyes, puffed and wet with tears, looked past him. Then they met

his. She said dully, 'What is it? What do you want?'

'I was worried about you. What are you doing out here? What's the matter?'

The girl looked past him again. Her clenched right hand went up to her mouth. She said something, something Bond couldn't

understand, from behind it. Then a voice from very close behind Bond, said softly, silkily, 'Don't move or you get it back of the

knee.'

Bond swirled round into a crouch, his gun hand inside his coat. The steady silver eyes of the two automatics sneered at him.

Bond slowly straightened himself. He dropped his hand to his side and the held breath came out between his teeth in a quiet

hiss. The two dead-pan, professional faces told him even more than the two silver eyes of the guns. They held no tension, no

excitement. The thin half-smiles were relaxed, contented. The eyes were not even wary. They were almost bored. Bond had

looked into such faces many times before. This was routine. These men were killers - pro-killers.

Bond had no idea who these men were, who they worked for, what this was all about. On the theory that worry is a dividend

paid to disaster before it is due, he consciously relaxed his muscles and emptied his mind of questions. He stood and waited.

'Position your hands behind your neck.' The silky, patient voice was from the south, from the Mediterranean. It fitted with

the men's faces - tough-skinned, widely pored, yellow-brown. Marseillais perhaps, or Italian. The Mafia? The faces belonged

to good secret police or tough crooks. Bond's mind ticked and whirred, selecting cards like an IBM machine. What enemies

had he got in those areas? Might it be Blofeld? Had the hare turned upon the hound?

When the odds are hopeless, when all seems to be lost, then is the time to be calm, to make a show of authority -at least of

indifference. Bond smiled into the eyes of the man who had spoken. 'I don't think your mother would like to know what you

are doing this evening. You are a Catholic? So I will do as you ask.' The man's eyes glittered. Touche! Bond clasped his hands

behind his head.

The man stood aside so as to have a clear field of fire while his Number Two removed Bond's Walther PPK from the soft

leather holster inside his trouser belt and ran expert hands down his sides, down his arms to the wrists and down the inside of

his thighs. Then Number Two stood back, pocketed the Walther and again took out his own gun.

Bond glanced over his shoulder. The girl had said nothing, expressed neither surprise nor alarm. Now she was standing with

her back to the group, looking out to sea, apparently relaxed, unconcerned. What in God's name was it all about? Had she been

used as a bait? But for whom? And now what? Was he to be executed, his body left lying to be rolled back inshore by the tide?

It seemed the only solution. If it was a question of some kind of a deal, the four of them could not just walk back across the

mile of sand to the town and say polite goodbyes on the promenade steps. No. This was the terminal point. Or was it? From the

north, through the deep indigo dusk, came the fast, rattling hum of an outboard and, as Bond watched, the cream of a thick

bow-wave showed and then the blunt outline of one of the Bombard rescue-craft, the flat-bottomed inflatable rubber boats with

a single Johnson engine in the flattened stern. So they had been spotted! By the coastguards perhaps? And here was rescue! By

God, he'd roast these two thugs when they got to the harbour police at the Vieux Port! But what story would he tell about the

girl?

Bond turned back to face the men. At once he knew the worst. They had rolled their trousers up to the knees and were

waiting, composedly, their shoes in one hand and their guns in the other. This was no rescue. It was just part of the ride. Oh

well! Paying no attention to the men, Bond bent down, rolled up his trousers as they had done and, in the process of fumbling

with his socks and shoes, palmed one of his heel knives and, hah0 turning towards the boat that had now grounded in the

shallows, transferred it to his right-hand trouser pocket.

No words were exchanged. The girl climbed aboard first, then Bond, and lastly the two men who helped the engine with a

final shove on the stern. The boatman, who looked like any other French deep-sea fisherman, whirled the blunt nose of the

Bombard round, changed gears to forward, and they were off northwards through the buffeting waves while the golden hair of

the girl streamed back and softly whipped James Bond's cheek.

'Tracy. You're going to catch cold. Here. Take my coat.' Bond slipped his coat off. She held out a hand to help him put it on

her. In the process her hand found his and pressed it. Now what the hell? Bond edged closer to her. He felt her body respond.

Bond glanced at the two men. They sat hunched against the wind, their hands in their pockets, watchful, but somehow

uninterested. Behind them the necklace of lights that was Royale receded swiftly until it was only a golden glow on the

horizon. James Bond's right hand felt for the comforting knife in his pocket and ran his thumb across the razor-sharp blade.

While he wondered how and when he might have a chance to use it, the rest of his mind ran back over the previous twenty-

four hours and panned them for the gold-dust of truth.

Gran Turismo

ALMOST EXACTLY twenty-four hours before, James Bond had been nursing his car, the old Continental Bentley - the 'R'

type chassis with the big 6 engine and a 13:40 back-axle ratio - that he had now been driving for three years, along that fast but

dull stretch of N.1 between Abbeville and Montreuil that takes the English tourist back to his country via Silver City Airways

from Le Touquet or by ferry from Boulogne or Calais. He was hurrying safely, at between eighty and ninety, driving by the

automatic pilot that is built in to all rally-class drivers, and his mind was totally occupied with drafting his letter of resignation

from the Secret Service.

The letter, addressed 'Personal for M', had got to the following stage:

Sir,

I have the honour to request that you will accept my resignation from the Service, effective forthwith.

My reasons for this submission, which I put forward with much regret, are the following:

(1) My duties in the Service, until some twelve months ago, have been connected with the Double-O Section and you, Sir,

have been kind enough, from time to time, to express your satisfaction with my performance of those duties, which I, for my

part, have enjoyed. To my chagrin, [Bond had been pleased with this fine word] however, on the successful completion of

Operation 'Thunderball', I received personal instructions from you to concentrate all my efforts, without a terminal date,

[another felicitous phrase!] on the pursuit of Ernst Stavro Blofeld and on his apprehension, together with any members of

SPECTRE -otherwise 'The Special Executive for Counter-Intelligence, Revenge and Extortion' - if that organization had been

re-created since its destruction at the climax of Operation "Thunderball'.

(2) I accepted the assignment with, if you will recall, reluctance. It seemed to me, and I so expressed myself at the time, that

this was purely an investigatory matter which could well have been handled, using straightforward police methods, by other

sections of the Service - local Stations, allied foreign secret services and Interpol. My objections were overruled, and for close

on twelve months I have been engaged all over the world in routine detective work which, in the case of every scrap of rumour,

every lead, has proved abortive. I have found no trace of this man nor of a revived SPECTRE, if such exists.

(3) My many appeals to be relieved of this wearisome and fruitless assignment, even when addressed to you personally, Sir,

have been ignored or, on occasion, curtly dismissed, and my frequent animadversions [another good one!] to the effect that

Blofeld is dead have been treated with a courtesy that I can only describe as scant. [Neat, that! Perhaps a bit too neat!]

(4) The above unhappy circumstances have recently achieved their climax in my undercover mission (Ref. Station R'S PX

437/007) to Palermo, in pursuit of a hare of quite outrageous falsity. This animal took the shape of one 'Blauenfelder', a

perfectly respectable German citizen engaged in viniculture - specifically the grafting of Moselle grapes on to the Sicilian

strains to enhance the sugar content of the latter which, for your passing information, [Steady on, old chap! Better redraft all

this!] are inclined to sourness. My investigations into this individual brought me to the attention of the Mafia and my departure

from Sicily was, to say the least, ignominious.

(5) Having regard, Sir, to the above and, specifically, to the continued misuse of the qualities, modest though they may be,

that have previously fitted me for the more arduous, and, to me, more rewarding, duties associated with the work of the

Double-O Section, I beg leave to submit my resignation from the Service.

I am, Sir,

Your Obedient Servant,

007

Of course, reflected Bond, as he nursed the long bonnet of his car through a built-up S-bend, he would have to rewrite a lot

of it. Some of it was a bit pompous and there were one or two cracks that would have to be ironed out or toned down. But that

was the gist of what he would dictate to his secretary when he got back to the office the day after tomorrow. And if she burst

into tears, to hell with her! He meant it. By God he did. He was fed to the teeth with chasing the ghost of Blofeld. And the

same went for SPECTRE. The thing had been smashed. Even a man of Blofeld's genius, in the impossible event that he still

existed, could never get a machine of that calibre running again.

It was then, on a ten-mile straight cut through a forest, that it happened. Triple wind-horns screamed their banshee discord in

his ear, and a low, white two-seater, a Lancia Flaminia Zagato Spyder with its hood down, tore past him, cut in cheekily across

his bonnet and pulled away, the sexy boom of its twin exhausts echoing back from the border of trees. And it was a girl

driving, a girl with a shocking pink scarf tied round her hair, leaving a brief pink tail that the wind blew horizontal behind her.

If there was one thing that set James Bond really moving in life, with the exception of gun-play, it was being passed at speed

by a pretty girl; and it was his experience that girls who drove competitively like that were always pretty - and exciting. The

shock of the wind-horn's scream had automatically cut out 'George', emptied Bond's head of all other thought, and brought his

car back under manual control. Now, with a tight-lipped smile, he stamped his foot into the floorboard, held the wheel firmly at

a quarter to three, and went after her.

100, 110, 115, and he still wasn't gaining. Bond reached forward to the dashboard and flicked up a red switch. The thin high

whine of machinery on the brink of torment tore at his eardrums and the Bentley gave an almost perceptible kick forward. 120,

125. He was definitely gaining. 50 yards, 40, 30! Now he could just see her eyes in her rear mirror. But the good road was

running out. One of those exclamation marks that the French use to denote danger flashed by on his right. And now, over a

rise, there was a church spire, the clustered houses of a small village at the bottom of a steepish hill, the snake sign of another

S-bend. Both cars slowed down - 90,80,70. Bond watched her tail-lights briefly blaze, saw her right hand reach down to the

floor stick, almost simultaneously with his own, and change down. Then they were in the S-bend, on cobbles, and he had to

brake as he enviously watched the way her de Dion axle married her rear wheels to the rough going, while his own live axle

hopped and skittered as he wrenched at the wheel. And then it was the end of the village, and, with a brief wag of her tail as

she came out of the S, she was off like a bat out of hell up the long straight rise and he had lost fifty yards.

And so the race went on, Bond gaining a little on the straights but losing it all to the famous Lancia road-holding through the

villages - and, he had to admit, to her wonderful, nerveless driving. And now a big Michelin sign said 'Mon-treuil 5, Royale-

les-Eaux 10, Le Touquet-Paris-Plage 15', and he wondered about her destination and debated with himself whether he

shouldn't forget about Royale and the night he had promised himself at its famous casino and just follow where she went,

wherever it was, and find out who this devil of a girl was.

The decision was taken out of his hands. Montreuil is a dangerous town with cobbled, twisting streets and much farm traffic.

Bond was fifty yards behind her at the outskirts, but, with his big car, he couldn't follow her fast slalom through the hazards

and, by the time he was out of the town and over the Staples-Paris level-crossing, she had vanished. The left-hand turn for

Royale came up. Was there a little dust hanging in the bend? Bond took the turn, somehow knowing that he was going to see

her again.

He leaned forward and flicked down the red switch. The moan of the blower died away and there was silence in the car as he

motored along, easing his tense muscles. He wondered if the supercharger had damaged the engine. Against the solemn

warnings of Rolls-Royce, he had had fitted, by his pet expert at the Headquarters' motor pool, an Arnott supercharger

controlled by a magnetic clutch. Rolls-Royce had said the crankshaft bearings wouldn't take the extra load and, when he

confessed to them what he had done, they regretfully but firmly withdrew their guarantees and washed their hands of their

bastardized child. This was the first time he had notched 125 and the rev. counter had hovered dangerously over the red area at

4500. But the temperature and oil were OK and there were no expensive noises. And, by God, it had been fun!

James Bond idled through the pretty approaches to Royale, through the young beeches and the heavy-scented pines, looking

forward to the evening and remembering his other annual pilgrimages to this place and, particularly, the great battle across the

baize he had had with Le Chiffre so many years ago. He had come a long way since then, dodged many bullets and much death

and loved many girls, but there had been a drama and a poignancy about that particular adventure that every year drew him

back to Royale and its casino and to the small granite cross in the little churchyard that simply said 'Vesper Lynd. RIP.'

And now what was the place holding for him on this beautiful September evening? A big win? A painful loss? A beautiful

girl - that beautiful girl?

To think first of the game. This was the week-end of the 'clôture annuelle'. Tonight, this very Saturday night, the Casino

Royale was holding its last night of the season. It was always a big event and there would be pilgrims even from Belgium and

Holland, as well as the rich regulars from Paris and Lille. In addition, the ' Syndicat d'lnitiative et des Bains de Mer de Royale'

traditionally threw open its doors to all its local contractors and suppliers, and there was free champagne and a great groaning

buffet to reward the town people for their work during the season. It was a tremendous carouse that rarely finished before

breakfast time. The tables would be packed and there would be a very high game indeed.

Bond had one million francs of private capital - Old Francs, of course - about seven hundred pounds' worth. He always

reckoned his private funds in Old Francs. It made him feel so rich. On the other hand, he made out his official expenses in New

Francs because that made them look smaller - but probably not to the Chief Accountant at Headquarters! One million francs!

For that evening he was a millionaire! Alight he so remain by tomorrow morning!

And now he was coming into the Promenade des Anglais and there was the bastard Empire frontage of the Hotel Splendide.

And there, by God, on the gravel sweep alongside its steps, stood the little white Lancia and, at this moment a bagagiste, in a

striped waistcoat and green apron, was carrying two Vuitton suitcases up the steps to the entrance!

So!

James Bond slid his car into the million-pound line of cars in the car park, told the same bagagiste, who was now taking rich,

small stuff out of the Lancia, to bring up his bags, and went in to the reception-desk. The manager impressively took over from

the clerk and greeted Bond with golden-toothed effusion, while making a mental note to earn a good mark with the Chef de

Police by reporting Bond's arrival, so that the Chef could, in his turn, make a good mark with the Deuxieme and the SDT by

putting the news on the teleprinter to Paris.

Bond said, 'By the way, Monsieur Maurice. Who is the lady who has just driven up in the white Lancia? She is staying here?'

'Yes, indeed, Mon Commandant.' Bond received an extra two teeth in the enthusiastic smile.' The lady is a good friend of the

house. The father is a very big industrial from the South. She is La Comtesse Teresa di Vicenzo. Monsieur must surely have

read of her in the papers. Madame la Comtesse is a lady - how shall I put it?' - the smile became secret, between men - 'a lady,

shall we say, who lives life to the full.'

'Ah, yes. Thank you. And how has the season been?'

The small talk continued as the manager personally took Bond up in the lift and showed him into one of the handsome grey

and white Directoire rooms with the deep rose coverlet on the bed that Bond remembered so well. Then, with a final exchange

of courtesies, James Bond was alone.

Bond was faintly disappointed. She sounded a bit grand for him, and he didn't happen to like girls, film stars for instance,

who were in any way public property. He liked private girls, girls he could discover himself and make his own. Perhaps, he

admitted, there was inverted snobbery in this. Perhaps, even less worthily, it was that the famous ones were less easy to get.

His two battered suitcases came and he unpacked leisurely and then ordered from Room Service a bottle of the Taittin-ger

Blanc de Blancs that he had made his traditional drink at Royale. When the bottle, in its frosted silver bucket, came, he drank a

quarter of it rather fast and then went into the bathroom and had an ice-cold shower and washed his hair with Pinaud Elixir,

that prince among shampoos, to get the dust of the roads out of it. Then he slipped on his dark-blue tropical worsted trousers,

white sea-island cotton shirt, socks and black casual shoes (he abhorred shoe-laces), and went and sat by the window and

looked out across the promenade to the sea and wondered where he would have dinner and what he would choose to eat.

James Bond was not a gourmet. In England he lived on grilled soles, oeufs cocotte and cold roast beef with potato salad. But

when travelling abroad, generally by himself, meals were a welcome break in the day, something to look forward to, something

to break the tension of fast driving, with its risks taken or avoided, the narrow squeaks, the permanent background of concern

for the fitness of his machine. In fact, at this moment, after covering the long stretch from the Italian frontier at Ventimiglia in

a comfortable three days (God knew there was no reason to hurry back to Head quartets!), he was fed to the teeth with the

sucker-traps for gourmandizing tourists. The 'Hostelleries', the 'Vieilles Auberges', the 'Relais Fleuris' - he had had the lot. He

had had their 'Bonnes Tables', and their 'Fines Bouteilles'. He had had their 'Spécialites du Chef - generally a rich sauce of

cream and wine and a few button mushrooms concealing poor quality meat or fish. He had had the whole lip-smacking ritual

of winemanship and foodmanship and, incidentally, he had had quite enough of the Bisodol that went with it!

The French belly-religion had delivered its final kick at him the night before. Wishing to avoid Orleans, he had stopped

south of this uninspiring city and had chosen a mock-Breton Auberge on the south bank of the Loire, despite its profusion of

window-boxes and sham beams, ignoring the china cat pursuing the china bird across its gabled roof, because it was right on

the edge of the Loire - perhaps Bond's favourite river in the world. He had stoically accepted the hammered copper wanning

pans, brass cooking utensils and other antique bogosities that cluttered the walls of the entrance hall, had left his bag in his

room and had gone for an agreeable walk along the softly running, swallow-skimmed river. The dining-room, in which he was

one of a small handful of tourists, had sounded the alarm. Above a fireplace of electric logs and over-polished fire-irons there

had hung a coloured plaster escutcheon bearing the dread device: ICY DOULCE FRANCE. All the plates, of some hideous

local ware, bore the jingle, irritatingly inscrutable, 'Jamais en Vain, Toujours en Via', and the surly waiter, stale with 'fin de

saison', had served him with the fly-walk of the Pate Maison (sent back for a new slice) and a Poularde & la creme that was the

only genuine antique in the place. Bond had moodily washed down this sleazy provender with a bottle of instant Pouilly-Fuisse

and was finally insulted the next morning by a bill for the meal in excess of five pounds.

It was to efface all these dyspeptic memories that Bond now sat at his window, sipped his Taittinger and weighed up the pros

and cons of the local eating places and wondered what dishes it would be best to gamble on. He finally chose one of his

favourite restaurants in France, a modest establishment, unpromisingly placed exactly opposite the railway station of Staples,

rang up his old friend Monsieur Becaud for a table and, two hours later, was motoring back to the Casino with Turbot poche,

sauce mousseline, and half the best roast partridge he had eaten in his life, under his belt.

Greatly encouraged, and further stimulated by half a bottle of Mouton Rothschild '53 and a glass of ten-year-old Calvados

with his three cups of coifee, he went cheerfully up the thronged steps of the Casino with the absolute certitude that this was

going to be a night to remember.

The Gambit of Shame

(THE BOMBARD had now beaten round the dolefully clanging bell-buoy and was hammering slowly up the River Royale

against the current. The gay lights of the little marina, haven of cross-channel yachtsmen showed way up on the right bank, and

it crossed Bond's mind to wait until they were slightly above it and then plunge his knife into the side and bottom of the rubber

Bombard and swim for it. But he already heard in his mind the boom of the guns and heard the zwip and splash of the bullets

round his head until, probably, there came the bright burst of light and the final flash of knowledge that he had at last had it.

And anyway, how well could the girl swim, and in this current? Bond was now very cold. He leant closer against her and went

back to remembering the night before and combing his memories for clues.)

After the long walk across the Salle d'Entree, past the vitrines of Van Cleef, Lanvin, Hermes and the rest, there came the

brief pause for identification at the long desk backed by the tiers of filing cabinets, the payment for the Carte d'Entree pour les

Salles de Jeux, the quick, comptometer survey of the physiognomiste at the entrance, the bow and flourish of the garishly

uniformed huissier at the door, and James Bond was inside the belly of the handsome, scented machine.

He paused for a moment by the caisse, his nostrils flaring at the smell of the crowded, electric, elegant scene, then he walked

slowly across to the top chemin de fer table beside the entrance to the luxuriously appointed bar, and caught the eye of

Monsieur Pol, the Chef de Jeu of the high game. Monsieur Pol spoke to a huissier and Bond was shown to Number Seven,

reserved by a counter from the huissier's pocket. The huissier gave a quick brush to the baize inside the line - that famous line

that had been the bone of contention in the Tranby Croft case involving King Edward VII -polished an ash-tray and pulled

out the chair for Bond. Bond sat down. The shoe was at the other end of the table, at Number Three. Cheerful and relaxed,

Bond examined the faces of the other players while the Changeur changed his notes for a hundred thousand into ten blood-red

counters of ten thousand each. Bond stacked them in a neat pile in front of him and watched the play which, he saw from the

notice hanging between the green-shaded lights over the table, was for a minimum of one hundred New Francs, or ten

thousand of the old. But he noted that the game was being opened by each banker for up to five hundred New Francs - serious

money - say forty pounds as a starter.

The players were the usual international mixture - three Lille textile tycoons in over-padded dinner-jackets, a couple of

heavy women in diamonds who might be Belgian, a rather Agatha Christie-style little Englishwoman who played quietly and

successfully and might be a villa owner, two middle-aged Americans in dark suits who appeared cheerful and slightly drunk,

probably down from Paris, and Bond. Watchers and casual punters were two-deep round the table. No girl!

The game was cold. The shoe went slowly round the table, each banker in turn going down on that dread third coup which,

for some reason, is the sound barrier at chemin de fer which must be broken if you are to have a run. Each time, when it came

to Bond's turn, he debated whether to bow to the pattern and pass his bank after, the second coup. Each time, for nearly an hour

of play, he obstinately told himself that the pattern would break, and why not with him? That the cards have no memory and

that it was time for them to run. And each time, as did the other players, he went down on the third coup. The shoe came to an

end. Bond left his money on the table and wandered off among the other tables, visiting the roulette, the trente et quarante and

the baccarat table, to see if he could find the girl. When she had passed him that evening in the Lancia, he had only caught a

glimpse of fair hair and of a pure, rather authoritative profile. But he knew that he would recognize her at once, if only by the

cord of animal magnetism that had bound them together during the race. But there was no sign of her.

Bond went back to the table. The croupier was marshalling the six packs into the oblong block that would soon be slipped

into the waiting shoe. Since Bond was beside him, the croupier offered him the neutral, plain red card to cut the pack with.

Bond rubbed the card between his fingers and, with amused deliberation, slipped it as nearly half-way down the block of cards

as he could estimate. The croupier smiled at him and at his deliberation, went through the legerdemain that would in due

course bring the red stop card into the tongue of the shoe and stop the game just seven cards before the end of the shoe, packed

the long block of cards into the shoe, slid in the metal tongue that held them prisoner and announced, loud and clear:

'Messieurs [the 'mesdames' are traditionally not mentioned; since Victorian days it has been assumed that ladies do not

gamble], les jeux sont fails. Numero six a la main.' The Chef de Jeu, on his throne behind the croupier, took up the cry, the

huissiers shepherded distant stragglers back to their places, and the game began again.

James Bond confidently bancoed the Lille tycoon on his left, won, made up the cagnotte with a few small counters, and

doubled the stake to two thousand New Francs - two hundred thousand of the old.

He won that, and the next. Now for the hurdle of the third coup and he was off to the races! He won it with a natural nine!

Eight hundred thousand in the bank (as Bond reckoned it)! Again he won, with difficulty this time - his six against a five. Then

he decided to play it safe and pile up some capital. Of the one million six, he asked for the six hundred to be put 'en garage',

removed from the stake, leaving a bank of one million. Again he won. Now he put a million 'en garage'. Once more a bank of a

million, and now he would have a fat cushion of one million six coming to him anyway! But it was getting difficult to make up

his stake. The table was becoming wary of this dark Englishman who played so quietly, wary of the half-smile of certitude on

his rather cruel mouth. Who was he? Where did he come from? What did he do? There was a murmur of excited speculation

round the table. So far a run of six. Would the Englishman pocket his small fortune and pass the bank? Or would he continue

to run it? Surely the cards must change! But James Bond's mind was made up. The cards have no memory in defeat. They also

have no memory in victory. He ran the bank three more times, adding each time a million to his 'garage', and then the little old

English lady, who had so far left the running to the others, stepped in and bancoed him at the tenth turn, and Bond smiled

across at her, knowing that she was going to win. And she did, ignominiously, with a one against Bond's 'buche' - three kings,

making zero.

There was a sigh of relief round the table. The spell had been broken! And a whisper of envy as the heavy, mother-of-pearl

plaques piled nearly a foot high, four million, six hundred thousand francs' worth, well over three thousand pounds, were

shunted across to Bond with the flat of the croupier's spatula. Bond tossed a plaque for a hundred New Francs to the croupier,

received the traditional 'Merci, monsieur! Pour le personnel!' and the game went on.

James Bond lit a cigarette and paid little attention as the shoe went shunting round the table away from him. He had made a

packet, dammit! A bloody packet! Now he must be careful. Sit on it. But not too careful, not sit on all of it! This was a glorious

evening. It was barely past midnight. He didn't want to go home yet. So be it! He would run his bank when it came to him, but

do no bancoing of the others -absolutely none. The cards had got hot. His run had shown that. There would be other runs now,

and he could easily burn his fingers chasing them.

Bond was right. When the shoe got to Number Five, to one of the Lille tycoons two places to the left of Bond, an ill-

mannered, loud-mouthed player who smoked a cigar out of an amber-and-gold holder and who tore at the cards with heavily

manicured, sparulate fingers and slapped them down like a German tarot player, he quickly got through the third coup and was

off. Bond, in accordance with his plan, left him severely alone and now, at the sixth coup, the bank stood at twenty thousand

New Francs - twenty million of the old, and the table had got wary again. Everyone was sitting on his money.

The croupier and the Chef de Jeu made their loud calls, 'Un banco de vingt mille! Faites vos jeux, messieurs. II reste a

completed Un banco de vingt mille!'

And then there she was! She had come from nowhere and was standing beside the croupier, and Bond had no time to take in

more than golden arms, a beautiful golden face with brilliant blue eyes and shocking pink lips, some kind of a plain white

dress, a bell of golden hair down to her shoulders, and then it came. 'Banco!'

Everyone looked at her and there was a moment's silence. And then 'Le banco est fait' from the croupier, and the monster

from Lille (as Bond now saw him) was tearing the cards out of the shoe, and hers were on their way over to her on the

croupier's spatula.

She bent down and there was a moment of discreet cleavage in the white V of her neckline.

'Une carte.'

Bond's heart sank. She certainly hadn't anything better than a five. The monster turned his up. Seven. And now he scrabbled

out a card for her and flicked it contemptuously across. A simpering queen!

The croupier delicately faced her other two cards with the tip of his spatula. A four! She had lost!

Bond groaned inwardly and looked across to see how she had taken it.

What he saw was not reassuring. The girl was whispering urgently to the Chef de Jeu. He was shaking his head, sweat was

beading on his cheeks. In the silence that had fallen round the table, the silence that licks its lips at the strong smell of scandal,

which was now electric in the air, Bond heard the Chef de Jeu say firmly, 'Mais c'est impossible. Je regrette, madame. II faut

vous arranger a la caisse.'

And now that most awful of all whispers in a casino was running among the watchers and the players like a slithering reptile:

'Le coup du deshonneur! C'est le coup du dfehon-neur! Quelle honte! Quelle honte!'

Oh, my God! thought Bond. She's done it! She hasn't got the money! And for some reason she can't get any credit at the

caisse!

The monster from Lille was making the most of the situation. He knew that the casino would pay in the case of a default. He

sat back with lowered eyes, puffing at his cigar, the injured party.

But Bond knew of the stigma the girl would carry for the rest of her life. The Casinos of France are a strong trade union.

They have to be. Tomorrow the telegrams would go out: 'Madame la Contesse Teresa di Vicenzo, passport number X, is to be

put on the black list.' That would be the end of her casino life in France, in Italy, probably also in Germany, Egypt and, today,

England. It was like being declared a bad risk at Lloyd's or with the City security firm of Dun and Bradstreet. In American

gambling circles, she might even have been liquidated. In Europe, for her, the fate would be almost as severe. In the circles in

which, presumably, she moved, she would be bad news, unclean. The 'coup du ddshonneur' simply wasn't done. It was social

ostracism.

Not caring about the social ostracism, thinking only about the wonderful girl who had outdriven him, shown him her tail,

between Abbeville and Montreuil, James Bond leant slightly forward. He tossed two of the precious pearly plaques into the

centre of the table. He said, with a slightly bored, slightly puzzled intonation, 'Forgive me. Madame has forgotten that we

agreed to play in partnership this evening.' And, not looking at the girl, but speaking with authority to the Chef de Jeu,' I beg

your pardon. My mind was elsewhere. Let the game continue.'

The tension round the table relaxed. Or rather it changed to another target, away from the girl. Was it true what this

Englishman had said? But it must be! One does not pay twenty million francs for a girl. But previously there had been no

relationship between them - so far as one could see. They had been at opposite sides of the table. No signs of complicity had

been exchanged. And the girl? She had shown no emotion. She had looked at the man, once, with directness. Then she had

quietly moved away from the table, towards the bar. There was certainly something odd here - something one did not

understand. But the game was proceeding. The Chef de Jeu had surreptitiously wiped a handkerchief across his face. The

croupier had raised his head, which, previously, had seemed to be bowed under some kind of emotional guillotine. And now

the old pattern had re-established itself. 'La partie continue. Un banco de quarante mule!'

James Bond glanced down at the still formidable pile of counters between his curved, relaxed arms. It would be nice to get

that twenty million francs back. It might be hours before a banco of equal size offered the chance. After all, he was playing

with the casino's money! His profits represented 'found' money and, if he lost, he could still go away with a small profit -

enough and to spare to pay for his night at Royale. And he had taken a dislike to the monster from Lille. It would be amusing

to reverse the old fable - first to rescue the girl, then to slay the monster. And it was time for the man's run of luck to end. After

all, the cards have no memory!

James Bond had not enough funds to take the whole banco, only half of it, what is known as 'avec la table', meaning that the

other players could make up the remaining half if they wanted to. Bond, forgetting the conservative strategy he had sworn

himself to only half an hour before, leant slightly forward and said, 'Avec la table,' and pushed twenty thousand New Francs

over the line.

Money followed his on to the table. Was this not the Englishman with the green fingers? And Bond was pleased to note that

the little old Agatha Christie Englishwoman supported him with ten thousand. That was a good omen! He looked at the banker,

the man from Lille. His cigar had gone out in its holder and his lips, where they gripped the holder, were white. He was

sweating profusely. He was debating whether to pass the hand and take his fat profits or have one more go. The sharp, pig-like

eyes darted round the table, estimating if his four million was covered.

The croupier wanted to hurry the play. He said firmly, 'C'est plus que fait, monsieur.'

The man from Lille made up his mind. He gave the shoe a fat slap, wiped his hand on the baize and forced out a card. Then

one for himself, another for Bond, the fourth for him, Bond did not reach across Number Six for the cards. He waited for them

to be nudged towards him by the croupier. He raised them just off the table, slid them far enough apart between his hands to

see the count, edged them together again and laid them softly face down again on the table. He had a five! That dubious jade

on which one can either draw or not! The chances of improving your hand towards or away from a nine are equal. He said

'Non,' quietly, and looked across at the two anonymous pink backs of the cards in front of the banker. The man tore them up,

disgustedly tossed them out on to the table. Two knaves. A 'buche'! Zero!

Now there were only four cards that could beat Bond and only one, the five, that could equal him. Bond's heart thumped.

The man scrabbled at the shoe, snatched out the card, faced it. A nine, the nine of diamonds! The curse of Scotland! The best!

It was a mere formality to turn over and reveal Bond's miserable five. But there was a groan round the table.'ll fallait tirer,'

said someone. But if he had, Bond would have drawn the nine and disimproved down to a four. It all depended on what the

next card, its pink tongue now hiding its secret in the mouth of the shoe, might have been. Bond didn't wait to see. He smiled a

thin, rueful smile round the table to apologize to his fellow losers, shovelled the rest of his chips into his coat pocket, tipped

the huissier who had been so busy emptying his ash-tray over the hours of play, and slipped away from the table towards the

bar, while the croupier triumphantly announced, 'Un banco de quatre-vingt mille francs! Faites vos jeux, messieurs! Un banco

de quatre-vingt mille Nouveaux Francs.' To hell with it! thought Bond. Half an hour before he had had a small fortune in his

pocket. Now, through a mixture of romantic quixotry and sheer folly he had lost it all. Well, he shrugged, he had asked for a

night to remember. That was the first half of it. What would be the second?

The girl was sitting by herself, with half a bottle of Bol-linger in front of her, staring moodily at nothing. She barely looked

up when Bond slipped into the chair next to hers and said, 'Well, I'm afraid our syndicate lost again. I tried to get it back. I

went "avec". I should have left that brute alone. I stood on a five and he had a "buche" and then drew a nine.'

She said dully, 'You should have drawn on the five. I always do.' She reflected. 'But then you would have had a four. What

was the next card?'

'I didn't wait to see. I came to look for you.'

She gave him a sideways, appraising glance. 'Why did you rescue me when I made the "coup du deshonneur"?'

Bond shrugged. 'Beautiful girl in distress. Besides, we made friends between Abbeville and Montreuil this evening. You

drive like an angel.' He smiled. 'But I don't think you'd have passed me if I'd been paying attention. I was doing about ninety

and not bothering to keep an eye on the mirror. And I was thinking of other things.'

The gambit succeeded. Vivacity came into her face and voice. 'Oh, yes. I'd have beaten you anyway. I'd have passed you in

the villages. Besides' - there was an edge of bitterness in her voice - 'I would always be able to beat you. You want to stay

alive.'

Oh, lord! thought Bond. One of those! A girl with a wing, perhaps two wings, down. He chose to let the remark lie. The half-

bottle of Krug he had ordered came. After the huissier had half filled the glass, Bond topped it to the brim. He held it towards

her without exaggeration. 'My name is Bond, James Bond. Please stay alive, at any rate for tonight.' He drank the glass down at

one long gulp and filled it again.

She looked at him gravely, considering him. Then she also drank. She said, 'My name is Tracy. That is short for all the

names you were told at the reception in the hotel. Teresa was a saint. I am not a saint. The manager is perhaps a romantic. He

told me of your inquiries. So shall we go now? I am not interested in conversation. And you have earned your reward.'

She rose abruptly. So did Bond, confused. 'No. I will go alone. You can come later. The number is 45. There, if you wish,

you can make the most expensive piece of love of your life. It will have cost you forty million francs. I hope it will be worth it.'

All Cats are Grey

SHE WAS waiting in the big double bed, a single sheet pulled up to her chin. The fair hair was spread out like golden wings

under the single reading light that was the only light in the room, and the blue eyes blazed with a fervour that, in other girls, in

other beds, James Bond would have interpreted. But this one was in the grip of stresses he could not even guess at. He locked

the door behind him and came over and sat on the edge of her bed and put one hand firmly on the little hill that was her left

breast. 'Now listen, Tracy,' he began, meaning to ask at least one or two questions, find out something about this wonderful girl

who did hysterical things like gambling without the money to meet her debts, driving like a potential suicide, hinting that she

had had enough of life.

But the girl reached up a swift hand that smelt of Guerlain's 'Ode' and put it across his lips. 'I said "no conversation". Take

off those clothes. Make love to me. You are handsome and strong. I want to remember what it can be like. Do anything you

like. And tell me what you like and what you would like from me. Be rough with me. Treat me like the lowest whore in

creation. Forget everything else. No questions. Take me."

An hour later, James Bond slipped out of bed without waking her, dressed by the light of the promenade lights filtering

between the curtains, and went back to his room.

He showered and got in between the cool, rough French sheets of his own bed and switched off his thinking about her. All

he remembered, before sleep took him, was that she had said when it was all over, 'That was heaven, James. Will you please

come back when you wake up. I must have it once more.' Then she had turned over on her side away from him and, without

answering his last endearments, had gone to sleep - but not before he had heard that she was crying.

What the hell? All cats are grey in the dark.

True or false?

Bond slept.

At eight o'clock he woke her and it was the same glorious thing again. But this time he thought that she held him to her more

tenderly, kissed him not only with passion but with affection. But, after, when they should have been making plans about the

day, about where to have lunch, when to bathe, she was at first evasive and then, when he pressed her, childishly abusive.

'Get to hell away from me! Do you hear? You've had what you wanted. Now get out!'

'Wasn't it what you wanted too?'

'No. You're a lousy goddam lover. Get out!'

Bond recognized the edge of hysteria, at least of desperation. He dressed slowly, waiting for the tears to come, for the sheet

that now covered her totally to shake with sobs. But the tears didn't come. That was bad! In some way this girl had come to the

end of her tether, of too many tethers. Bond felt a wave of affection for her, a sweeping urge to protect her, to solve her

problems, make her happy. With his hand on the door-knob he said softly, 'Tracy. Let me help you. You've got some troubles.

That's not the end of the world. So have I. So has everyone else.'

The dull cliches fell into the silent, sun-barred room, like clinker in a grate.

'Go to hell!'

In the instant of opening and closing the door, Bond debated whether to bang it shut, to shake her out of her mood, or to

close it softly. He closed it softly. Harshness would do no good with this girl. She had had it, somehow, somewhere - too much

of it. He went off down the corridor, feeling, for the first time in his life, totally inadequate.

* * *

(The Bombard thrashed on up river. It had passed the marina and, with the narrowing banks, the current was stronger. The

two thugs in the stern still kept their quiet eyes on Bond. In the bows, the girl still held her proud profile into the wind like the

figure-head on a sailing ship. In Bond, the only warmth was in his contact with her back and his hand on the haft of his knife.

Yet, in a curious way, he felt closer to her, far closer, than in the transports of the night before. Somehow he felt she was as

much a prisoner as he was. How? Why? Way ahead the lights of the Vieux Port, once close to the sea, but now left behind by

some quirk of the Channel currents that had built up the approaches to the river, shone sparsely. Before many years they would

go out and a new harbour, nearer the mouth of the river, would be built for the deep-sea trawlers that served Royale with their

soles and lobsters and crabs and prawns. On this side of the lights were occasional gaunt jetties built out into the river by

private yacht-owners. Behind them were villas that would have names like 'Rosalie', 'Toi et Moi', 'Nid Azur' and 'Nouvelle

Vague'. James Bond nursed the knife and smelt the 'Ode' that came to him above the stink of mud and seaweed from the river

banks. His teeth had never chattered before. Now they chattered. He stopped them and went back to his memories.)

Normally, breakfast was an important part of Bond's day, but today he had barely noticed what he was eating, hurried

through the meal and sat gazing out of his window and across the promenade, chain-smoking and wondering about the girl. He

knew nothing positive about her, not even her nationality. The Mediterranean was in her name, yet she was surely neither

Italian nor Spanish. Her English was faultless and her clothes and the way she wore them were the products of expensive

surroundings - perhaps a Swiss finishing school'. She didn't smoke, seemed to drink only sparingly, and there was no sign of

drugtaking. There had not even been sleeping pills beside the bed or in her bathroom. She could only be about twenty-five, yet

she made love with the fervour and expertness of a girl who, in the American phrase, had 'gone the route'. She hadn't laughed

once, had hardly smiled. She seemed in the grip of some deep melancholy, some form of spiritual accidie that made life, on her

own admission, no longer worth living. And yet there were none of those signs that one associates with the hysteria of female

neurotics - the unkempt hair and sloppy make-up, the atmosphere of disarray and chaos they create around them. On the

contrary, she seemed to possess an ice-cold will, authority over herself and an exact idea of what she wanted and where she

was going. And where was that? In Bond's book she had desperate intentions, most likely suicide, and last night had been the

last fling.

He looked down at the little white car that was now not far from his in the parking lot. Somehow he must stick close to her,

watch over her, at least until he was satisfied that his deadly conclusions were wrong. As a first step, he rang down to the

concierge and ordered a drive-yourself Simca Aronde. Yes, it should be delivered at once and left in the parking lot. He would

bring his international driving licence and green insurance card down to the concierge who would kindly complete the

formalities.

Bond shaved and dressed and took the papers down and returned to his room. He stayed there, watching the entrance and the

little white car until 4.30 in the afternoon. Then, at last, she appeared, in the black and white striped bathing-wrap, and Bond

ran down the corridor to the lift. It was not difficult to follow her as she drove along the promenade and left her car in one of

the parking lots, and it was also no problem for the little anonymous 2CV Citroen that followed Bond.

And then had been set up the train of the watchers and the watched which was now drawing to its mysterious climax as the

little Bombard thrashed its way up the River Royale under the stars.

What to make of it all? Had she been a witting or unwitting bait? Was this a kidnapping? If so, of one or of both? Was it

blackmail? The revenge of a husband or another lover? Or was it to be murder?

Bond was still raking his mind for clues when the helmsman turned the Bombard in a wide curve across the current towards

a battered, skeletal jetty that projected from the muddy bank into the stream. He pulled up under its lee, a powerful flashlight

shone down on them out of the darkness, a rope clattered down and the boat was hauled to the foot of muddy wooden steps.

One of the thugs climbed out first, followed by the girl, the white bottom of her bathing dress lascivious below Bond's coat,

then Bond, then the second thug. Then the Bombard backed quickly away and continued up river, presumably, thought Bond,

to its legitimate mooring in the Vieux Port.

There were two more men, of much the same build as the others, on the jetty. No words were spoken as, surrounded, the girl

and Bond were escorted up the small dust road that led away from the jetty through the sand dunes. A hundred yards from the

river, tucked away in a gully between tall dunes, there was a glimmer of light. When Bond got nearer he saw that it came from

one of those giant corrugated aluminium transport-trucks that, behind an articulated driver's cabin, roar down the arterial routes

of France belching diesel smoke and hissing angrily with their hydraulic brakes as they snake through the towns and villages.

This one was a glinting, polished affair. It looked new, but might just be well cared for. As they approached, the man with the

flashlight gave some signal, and an oblong of yellow light promptly blazed as the caravan-like door in the rear was thrown

open. Bond fingered his knife. Were the odds in any way within reason? They were not. Before he climbed up the steps into

the interior, he glanced down at the numberplate. The commercial licence said, 'Marseille-Rhone. M. Draco. Appareils

fiectriques. 397694.' So! One more riddle!

Inside it was, thank God, warm. A passage-way led between stacked rows of cartons marked with the famous names of

television manufacturers. Dummies? There were also folded chairs and the signs of a disturbed game of cards. This was

presumably used as the guard-room. Then, on both sides, the doors of cabins. Tracy was waiting at one of the doors. She held

out his coat to him, said an expressionless 'Thank you' and closed the door after Bond had caught a brief glimpse of a luxurious

interior. Bond took his time putting on his coat. The single man with the gun who was following him said impatiently, 'Allez!'

Bond wondered whether to jump him. But, behind, the other three men stood watching. Bond contented himself with a mild'

Merde a vous!' and went ahead to the aluminium door that presumably sealed off the third and forward compartment in this

strange vehicle. Behind this door lay the answer. It was probably one man - the leader. This might be the only chance.

Bond's right hand was already grasping the hilt of his knife in his trouser pocket. Now he put out his left hand and, in one swirl

of motion, leaped through, kicked the door shut behind him and crouched, the knife held for throwing.

Behind him he felt the guard throw himself at the door, but Bond had his back to it and it held. The man, ten feet away

behind the desk, within easy range for the knife, called out something, an order, a cheerful, gay order in some language Bond

had never heard. The pressure on the door ceased. The man smiled a wide, a charming smile that cracked his creased walnut of

a face in two. He got to his feet and slowly raised his hands. 'I surrender. And I am now a much bigger target. But do not kill

me, I beg of you. At least not until we have had a stiff whisky and soda and a talk. Then I will give you the choice again. OK?'

Bond rose to his full height. He smiled back. He couldn't help it. The man had such a delightful face, so lit with humour and

mischief and magnetism that, at least in the man's present role, Bond could no more have killed him than he could have killed,

well, Tracy.

There was a calendar hanging on the wall beside the man. Bond wanted to let off steam against something, anything. He

said,' September the sixteenth,' and jerked his right hand forward hi the underhand throw. The knife flashed across the room,

missed the man by about a yard, and stuck, quivering, half-way down the page of the calendar.

The man turned and looked inquisitively at the calendar. He laughed out loud. 'Actually the fifteenth. But quite respectable. I

must set you against my men one of these days. And I might even bet on you. It would teach them a lesson.'

He came out from behind his desk, a smallish, middle-aged man with a brown, crinkled face. He was dressed in the sort of

comfortable dark blue suit Bond himself wore. The chest and the arms bulged with muscle. Bond noticed the fullness of the cut

of the coat under the arm-pits. Built for guns? The man held out a hand. It was warm and firm and dry. 'Marc-Ange Draco is

my name. You have heard of it?'

'No.'

'Aha! But I have heard of yours. It is Commander James Bond. You have a decoration called the CMG. You are a member,

an important member, of Her Majesty's Secret Service. You have been taken off your usual duties and you are on temporary

assignment abroad.' The impish face creased with delight.'Yes?'

James Bond, to cover his confusion, walked across to the calendar, verified that he had in fact pierced the fifteenth, pulled

out the knife and slipped it back in his trouser pocket. He turned and said, 'What makes you think so?'

The man didn't answer. He said, 'Come. Come and sit down. I have much to talk to you about. But first the whisky and soda.

Yes?' He indicated a comfortable armchair across the desk from his own, put in front of it a large silver box containing various

kinds of cigarettes, and went to a metal filing cabinet against the wall and opened it. It contained no files. It was a complete

and compact bar. With efficient, housekeeperly movements he took out a bottle of Pinchbottle Haig, another of I. W. Harper's

Bourbon, two pint glasses that looked like Waterford, a bucket of ice cubes, a siphon of soda and a flagon of iced water. One

by one he placed these on the desk between his chair and Bond's. Then, while Bond poured himself a stiff Bourbon and water

with plenty of ice, he went and sat down across the desk from Bond, reached for the Haig and said, looking Bond very directly

in the eye, 'I learned who you are from a good friend in the Deuxieme in Paris. He is paid to give me such information when I

want it. I learned it very early this morning. I am in the opposite camp to yourself - not directly opposite. Let us say at a

tangent on the field.' He paused. He lifted his glass. He said with much seriousness, 'I am now going to establish confidence

with you. By the only means. I am going once again to place my life in your hands.'

He drank. So did Bond. In the filing cabinet, in its icebox, the hum of the generator broke in on what Bond suddenly knew

was going to be an important moment of truth. He didn't know what the truth was going to be. He didn't think it was going to

be bad. But he had an instinct that, somehow, perhaps because he had conceived respect and affection for this man, it was

going to mean deep involvement for himself.

The generator stopped.

The eyes in the walnut face held his.

'I am the head of the Union Corse.'

The Capu

THE UNION CORSE! Now at least some of the mystery was explained. Bond looked across the desk into the brown eyes

that were now shrewdly watching his reactions while his mind flicked through the file that bore the innocent title, "The Union

Corse', more deadly and perhaps even older than the Unione Siciliano, the Mafia. He knew that it controlled most organized

crime throughout metropolitan France and her colonies - protection rackets, smuggling, prostitution and the suppression of

rival gangs. Only a few months ago a certain Rossi had been shot dead in a bar in Nice. A year before that, a Jean Giudicelli

had been liquidated after several previous attempts had failed. Both these men had been known pretenders to the throne of

Capu - the ebullient, cheerful man who now sat so peacefully across the table from Bond. Then there was this mysterious

business of Rommel's treasure, supposed to be hidden beneath the sea somewhere off Bastia. In 1948 a Czech diver called

Fleigh, who had been in the Abwehr, and had got on the track of it, was warned off by the Union and then vanished off the face

of the earth. Quite recently the body of a young French diver, Andre Mattei, was found riddled with bullets by the roadside

near Bastia. He had foolishly boasted in the local bars that he knew the whereabouts of the treasure and had come to dive for it.

Did Marc-Ange know the secret of this treasure? Had he been responsible for the killing of these two divers? The little village

of Calenzana in the Balagne boasted of having produced more gangsters than any other village in Corsica and of being in

consequence one of the most prosperous. The local mayor had held office for fifty-six years - the longest reigning mayor in

France. Marc-Ange would surely be a son of that little community, know the secrets of that famous mayor, know, for instance,

of that big American gangster who had just returned to discreet retirement in the village after a highly profitable career in the

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1ForSABLEBASILISKPURSUIVANTandHILARYBRAYwhocametotheaidoftheparty1SeascapewithFiguresITWASoneofthoseSeptemberswhenitseemedthatthesummerwouldneverend.Thefive-milepromenadeofRoyale-les-Eaux,backedbytrimlawnsemblazonedatintervalswithtricolourbedsofsalvia,alyssumandlobelia,wasbrightwithnagsand,onthelong...

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Fleming, Ian - Bond 11 - (1963) On her Majestys Secret Servi

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