different frequency. I'm afraid we've kept you in the dark, but it was necessary - that is, until we had established to the various intelligence communities that you were persona non grata as far as we're concerned. Forget what we told you during our last meeting. Now we have the real target. Look at this picture - and at this, and this.' Like an experienced poker player, M laid out three photographs, of one man and two women.
'The man,' he said at last, 'is presumed dead. His name was Dr Jay Autem Holy.' M's finger touched one photograph, then moved on to the next. 'This lady is his widow, and this' - the finger prodded towards the third photograph - 'this is the same lady. Looks so different that should her husband come back from the dead, which is on the cards, he would never recognise her.' M picked up the final photograph. 'She will give you the details. In fact, she'll give you a little training as well.
She answers to the name of Proud. Persephone Proud.
His.' Proud was plump, with mousy brown hair, thick lensed spectacles, thin lips and a sharp nose too big for her rather chubby face. At least that was how she looked in the photograph taken some years ago when she was married to Jay Autem Holy. M maintained that Bond would not recognise her now either. That did not surprise him when he studied the third photograph.
You're sending me on another course?' Bond mused rather absently without looking up.
'Something like that. She's waiting for you now.
'Yes?'
'In Monaco. Monte Carlo. Hotel de Paris. Now listen carefully, 007. There's a good deal for you to absorb, and I want you on the road early next week. You must, naturally, still consider yourself as one cast into outer darkness. But this is what we, together with our American cousins, planned from the start.
M talked earnestly for about fifteen minutes, allowing no interruptions, before Bond was escorted through another elaborate security routine to get him safely clear of the building and on his way home in a taxi without being followed. Not for the first time, Bond had been given another life, a double identity. But of the many dubious parts he had played for his country, this was to appear more than any as a role of dishonour.
PROUD PERCY
BOND PARTICULARLY enjoyed the drive through France, down to the South, for it was the first time he had been able to let the huge Mulsanne Turbo off the leash. The car seemed to revel in the business of doing its job with perfection. Bentley had certainly produced another true thoroughbred from their stable. The Mulsanne pushed its long, elegant snout forward, and then, like some runner in peak condition, gathered itself together, effortlessly reaching well in excess of the 100 miles per hour mark and eating up road without fuss or noise, as if it were floating over the tarmac on a silent cushion of air.
Bond had left London early on the Monday morning, and he had been told His Proud would be in the Casino each evening, from the Tuesday, between ten and eleven.
At a little after six on Tuesday the Mulsanne slid into Monaco's Place Casino, and up to the entrance of the Hotel de Paris. It was a splendid, clear spring evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the palm trees in the gardens which front the Grand Casino. As he switched off the ignition, Bond checked that the small hidden weapon compartment below the polished wooden dashboard to the right of the wheel, was locked and that the safety key was turned on the powerful Super 1000 telephone housed between the front seats. Stepping out, he glanced around the Place, nostrils filling with a mixture of mimosa, heavy French tobacco and the soft sea air.
Monte Carlo, like the neighbouring cities and towns along the Cote d'Azur, had a smell that was all its own.
Bond reckoned a fortune could be made if someone could only bottle it, to provide nostalgic memories for those who had known the principality in its heyday. For the one-time gambling legend of Europe was no longer the great romantic fairytale place remembered by those who had won, and lost, fortunes and hearts there. The package holiday, the weekend break and the charter flight had put an end to that.
Monaco managed to keep up its veneer of sophistication only through the presence of its royal family and the high prices speculators, hoteliers, restaurateurs and shopkeepers charged. Even those had not created a safe buffer against some of the more garish encroachments of the 1980s. On his last visit, Bond had been horrified to find one-armed bandits installed in the exclusive Salles Pnve'es of the Casino.
Now he would not be surprised if there were space invader games there as well.
His room faced the sea and, before taking a shower and preparing for the evening, he stood on the balcony, looking out at the twinkling lights and sipping a martini.
For a moment he wondered if it were possible to recapture the sounds and laughter of former, brighter days.
After a modest dinner - chilled consomme', grilled sole, and a mousse all chocolate - he went down to check the car, then walked over to the Casino, paid the entrance fee to admit him to the fabled Salles Privees and bought 50,000 francs' worth of chips - around ?4,000 sterling.
There was play at only one of the tables. As Bond crossed the floor, he saw Persephone Proud for the first time. M had understated the case when he said even her husband would not recognise her. Bond, who had hardly credited the 'after' photograph, as M had called it, found it difficult to believe that this woman, undeniably the one from that photograph, could ever have been either plump or mousy.
She stood, bare-shouldered, her back against the bar, a tall, almost willowy figure, head tilted, small breasts thrusting into relief against the flimsy material of her blue dress. Long ash-blonde hair just touched the tanned skin at the nape of her neck, and her light blue-grey eyes, twinkling with amusement, were intent on the play at the table. A half-smile hovered around her mouth, full lips having replaced the original, while the angular nose was now almost a snub.
Fascinating, Bond thought. Fascinating to see what strict diet, a nose job, contact lenses and a dedicated course of beauty treatment could accomplish.
He did not pause on his way to the table, where he took a seat, acknowledging the croupier, and studying the game for three turns before dropping 25,000 francs on Impair.
The croupier called an almost ritual 'Faites vosjeux'. All eyes watched, as the little ball bounced into the spinning wheel.
'Rien the va plus.' Bond glanced at the three other players - a smooth, American-looking man, late forties, blue-jowled and with the steely look of a professional gambler; a woman in her early seventies, he judged, dressed in last season's fashions; and a heavy-set Chinese whose face would never give away his age. Everyone followed the wheel now as the ball bounced twice and settled into a slot. 'Dix-sept, rouge, impair et manque,' the croupier intoned in that particular plainchant of the tables. Seventeen, red, odd and low.
The rake swung efficiently over the green baize, taking in the house winnings, and pushing out plaques to the winners, including Bond, whose Impair bet had netted him even money. At the call, he again placed 25,000 on Impair. Once more he won, eleven coming up. Impair or a third time, and the ball rolled into fifteen. In three turns of the wheel, Bond had made 75,000 francs. He was playing the easy way, high stakes for even returns.
The other players were betting complex patterns - A Cheval, Carr6, and Colonne - which made for higher odds. Bond pushed the whole of his 75,000 francs on to Pair and fourteen - red came up. Stake plus 75,000 francs. Time to call it a night. He flipped a 5,000 franc chip across the table, muttering 'Pour les empThy6s,' and pushed back the chair.
There was a little squeal as it touched the girl's legs, and Bond felt liquid run down his left cheek where her drink spilled. It was a natural enough incident, for the Englishman had not sensed her standing behind him.
The move had been carefully prearranged far away in London, in the safe flat near St. Martin's Lane.
'I'm terribly sorry . . . Pardon, madame, je 'It's okay, I speak English.' The voice was pitched low, the accent clear and without nasality. 'It was my fault, I shouldn't have been standing so close.
The game was very.
'Well, at least let me get you a fresh drink.
Bond finished drying his face and took her elbow, steering her towards the small bar. One of the dinnerjacketed' security men smiled as he watched them go.
Hadn't he seen women pick up men like this many times?
No harm in it, as long as the women were straight, and this one was an American visitor. Silently he wished them luck.
'Mr.?' . . ?' She raised her champagne cocktail to his.
'James Bond. My friends call me James.
