smiled. “It seems that we share the same passions. Well, three of them anyway — -” shaking his head to refuse a third card.
Her voice was soft with a slight accent which made him frown as he tried to place it.
“I count two passions only. Motoring and baccarat.” He gestured, showing no surprise as she turned over her cards - an ace and a seven.
A natural eight.
“Huite a Ia banque,’ intoned the croupier, and Bond felt the tension in the cluster of people who watched the game.
Baccarat, he thought, was about the only card game where no skill was needed, and fortunes were won or lost on the turn of a card.
Bond tossed his cards onto the table and watched as the croupier scooped up his bet.
“I hope your third is where your real talent lies.” Her voice mocked him.
“Oh, I hope I can rise to any challenge.” His smile had turned cynical and the croupier started to push his plaques and chips towards the young woman.
She shook her head. “Double.”
“Suivi.” Bond redoubled the enormous bet and the croupier looked towards the head croupier sitting on the high chair behind him. Even he glanced towards the duty manager who gave a scarcely perceptible nod to indicate that his credit was good.
The woman’s smile turned to one of interest He could see the thought deep in her black eyes - is this man for real or is he just a fool? She nodded and dealt the cards.
Glancing at his cards, Bond asked for a third card.
She looked at him for a long moment, trying to make a decision.
Then she turned over her cards. A five and a queen, as she dealt Bond a face up six.
“Cinq,’ the croupier snapped, and Bond turned up two pictures: a king and a jack.
“Six.” The croupier switched to English -“The bank loses,’ as he gathered up the pile of markers and slid them towards Bond.
The woman gave a small shrug, as though losing was an occupational hazard. She rose to leave the table, once more nodding towards Bond.
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“It’s the way to live life. Enjoy everything.” This time his meaning was quite plain. Why not enjoy some of it with me? She did not look back as she walked away.
Her stride reminded him of a cat - a soft and purposeful unhurried tread.
Bond took two of the larger plaques, denoting high figures in French francs, and tossed them to the croupier, as is the custom. He also indicated that he wanted the head croupier to see to his winnings, then he sauntered out into that area of the casino which used to be called the Kitchen - because the games were strictly downmarket money and is now a pleasant bar area.
He caught up with the woman as she headed towards an empty table.
“And is that the way you live life? Enjoying every moment?” he asked.
She turned to see who had spoken, and there was the hint of a frown on her face. “Ah, yes. But I usually manage to leave while I’m ahead.’ “So do I, but I’ve never completely mastered the trick.
He signalled to a passing waiter. “A vodka martini for me.
Shaken not stirred, and for you?”
“Oh, the same. I prefer the vodka, though the experts say this is not correct.
“Experts are not always correct.
The waiter acknowledged the order, asking her~how she would like her martini.
“Straight up, with a twist Then, as the waiter moved away.
“Thank you, Mr.?”
“The name’s Bond. James Bond.” She reached across the table and shook his hand. “Xenia Onatopp.”
“Onatopp?”
“Onatopp.’ She nodded.
“And the accent. Do I detect Georgian’?”
“Very good, Mr. Bond.
You’re a veritable Professor Higgins.” In the back of his mind an alarm went off, for the accent was pure Muscovite. She had learned her English in Moscow where she had been born and bred. Learned it at school or, more likely, from the old KGB.
She was silent until the waiter served their drinks. Then, “You have been to Russia, Mr. Bond?”
“Not for a while. But I used to visit.
Usually flying visits.
“It’s a very different country now. Truly a land of opportunity.”
“Yes, I’d heard. With a new Ferrari in every garage.
She gave a little laugh. It was meant to be bell-like, but the bell was cracked. “The Ferrari. That belongs to a friend.”
“Then let me give your friend a tip. The French registration plates for this year’s model start with the letter L.
Even the counterfeit ones.” Deep within her black eyes, he thought that he detected a flinch, but she recovered quickly. “And what rank do you hold with the motor vehicles department, Mr. Bond?”
“Commander.”
“Ah.’ She was looking at a point just over his left shoulder. Smiling at someone. He turned his head and saw a tall, distinguished-looking man approaching them. He wore the dress uniform of an admiral of the United States’ Navy, and had the leathery, tanned and windblown face which women find attractive. While he carried himself in that instantly recognisable style of a man more used to pacing the bridge of a ship, there was also something rakish about him. Perhaps it was the flecks of grey at his temples, or possibly the well-trimmed beard. It was certainly not a sense of humour, for his eyes had that smoky dead look that comes from spending a great deal of time staring towards a far horizon.
“You ready, Xenia?” He completely ignored Bond.
Xenia smiled sweetly. “This one’s an admiral. Admiral Farrel, Commander Bond.” He had a firm handshake, but did not quite look Bond in the eye. “Chuck Farrel, US Navy.
“James Bond, Royal Navy.” Xenia rose and linked her arm through the admiral’s.
“I respect a woman who can pull rank on me.” Bond did not smile.
“It’s been nice meeting you, Commander Bond.
“My pleasure.
As they headed towards the exit, so the duty manager came over with a cashier’s cheque for Bond’s winnings.
“You were lucky tonight, Mr. Bond. Pity about the lady.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” His mind was not really on the reply for he was waiting just long enough to let Xenia and her pet admiral get clear. There was definitely something wrong about the woman. It was time, he considered, for him to get in touch with London. In fact it was essential, urgent, for he had a nasty feeling that lives could be at stake.
The Spider and the Admiral A small square stands directly in front of the Renaissance royal palace, high on the rock above Monaco. The cathedral is only a few yards away, and alleyways lead off the square.
Some of the unsung but excellent eating places in the principality can be found in these small streets, while the square itself is a popular haunt of tourists.
Usually the instamatic, Doctor Scholl-sandled tourists gather in the square to watch the changing of the guard which has a light operetta, toy soldierish air to it.
The sentry boxes are painted in white and red, and the guards themselves could have stepped straight from the pages of some Ruritanian novel. Most visitors think it charming. Older residents regard the tourists as vulgar folk who have come from another planet.
On the Mediterranean side of the square, old and defunct cannon point helplessly out to sea. On the opposite side there is a clear view of the harbour and yacht basin of Monte Carlo.
