Authors: Goldeneye
She had just won, for he heard the croupier call out “Sept a’ Ia banque.” He slid a very large number of plaques and chips across to the woman who indicated that she wanted them added to her considerable pile already on the table.
The little Japanese man sitting next to her shook his head and in good, very audible, English said that this was too rich for him. The croupier swept around the players to find someone to bet against her.
Four men and one other woman who had obviously been playing, refused which was not surprising as there must have been well over 100,000 on the table.
At the last moment Bond softly said, “Banco. Coming out from behind the crowd, he took an empty chair facing her and matched the large bet.
The girl acknowledged his nod and slipped two cards from the sabot - as the croupiers thought of what mere mortals always called the shoe - dealing them towards him.
He picked them up and glanced at them. Not brilliant: a red two and a black five. Looking across at her he 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.
On this warm velvet night, a tourist group watched a mime performing in the square, while others gazed out at the twinkling, floodlit harbour. James Bond did more than gaze. He stood looking down on the harbour, feet planted apart as though he stood on the bridge of a warship, a large pair of night glasses glued to his eyes.
These were far from ordinary night glasses, but another product of Q Branch’s fertile imagination. Not only was the image quality enhanced to a point where, at this moment, he could have been standing next to the couple in his sights, but also the binoculars contained the ability to photograph the exact scene onto which he was zeroed - the resulting pictures stored immediately on a small computer disk within the centre section of the glasses.
Down among the berthed yachts, he had two people in close up. The slim and dark Xenia Onatopp and her admiral who, to Bond, looked incredibly like the long ago murdered Czar Nicholas.
Admiral Farrel was handing the delicious and mysterious Xenia into a motor launch. Bond pressed the camera button twice - once for the admiral and once, full face, for Onatopp~ then a third time for the insurance. He moved slightly to focus in on the stern of the launch, magnifying the name Manticore.
The launch, leaving a white trail of foam behind it, sped from the jetty, heading out towards a sleek and very expensive yacht at anchor in the harbour.
Bond waited a few minutes, examining the other ships visible inshore and in the harbour. Among them he noticed the lines of a French warship. This last had a long stern which was almost completely taken up by a large helicopter. 1n silhouette the machine looked dark and full of menace.
Something in the back of Bond’s mind stirred, half surfaced then again retreated from his memory. He pushed it away. If you cannot recall something immediately, it probably is not worth remembering anyway. Meanwhile he had things to do.
The walk down from the rock took him some ten minutes, so within a quarter of an hour he was behind the wheel of the DB5, growling out of Monaco again and heading high up into the foothills. Eventually he parked just below the ancient village of La Turbie, with its Roman ruins and monument. It was the place, they had told him, where he would get the best possible reception.
Turning on the radio, he quickly unloaded the little computer disk from the binoculars, slid it into a slit to the right of the CD player and pressed one of the preset radio buttons. There was an almost imperceptible whine as the data was read from the disk and carried to London via satellite.
It took ten minutes, almost to the second. The radio crackled and he heard the voice of Moneypenny who, in spite of her long association with the old M, had agreed to see the recently appointed Chief through the first difficult months in charge.
“Transmission begins.” Bond smiled as her slightly breathy voice came clearly into the car through its eight speakers, and at the same moment a fax began to emerge in full colour from the CD slot.
The first photograph was of Xenia. Moneypenny kept up her running commentary. “ID confirmed. Onatopp, Xenia. Former Soviet fighter pilot. Worked for a year, just before the “91 coup, as a general pilot for KGB. Current suspected link with the St. Petersburg Janus Crime syndicate.” Next came his shot of Chuck Farrel. “ID confirmed.
Rear Admiral Charles (Chuck) Farrel, US Navy. Distinguished career as an expert in the use of naval helicopters.
Career marred only by rumours of constant womanising.
Was cleared of several charges during the now infamous Tailhook scandal in 1993. Is in Monaco with a number of US Navy personnel gathering for a top secret demonstration.
Last came the name Manticore on the rear of the motor launch.
“Yacht, Manticore, is on lease to a known Janus corporation front.
M authorises you to observe subject Onatopp, but not - repeat not - to make contact without M’s personal authority. End transmission.” She had stressed the word “contact’ as though it were a code word for something more interesting. The Janus Crime syndicate was, he knew, the most ruthless of the organised Russian mafia families that had become more deadly than anything conceived during the last days of the Soviet Union. Janus was the scourge of the new Russia and one of the reasons why Bond held to the theory that, eventually, it would be business as usual within the shrinking borders of the once evil empire.
it was time, he thought, to pay a visit to this yacht, Manticore, something that was easier said than done.
The main stateroom of Manticore was overtly designed for physical pleasure. It was a relatively larger cabin with an en suite bathroom big enough to sport a Jacuzzi and wall fittings that contained colourful bottles full of brand name oils and unguents, including those sensual edible oils sold as sexual aids - the ones that come in various flavours which enable partners to lick them from each other’s bodies.
The walls were decorated with erotic paintings and drawings, ulminatin~ with a huge oil directly over the bed depicting in all its detail a modern view of a Roman orgy. The lights were dimmed and there was a scent of musk in the air, while from some hidden source came a soft lush melody played on what sounded like a thousand strings.
On the bed itself, late on this warm and luxurious evening, Xenia Onatopp coupled with Admiral Chuck Farrel who was slowly understanding that he had never had it so good. She had taken control almost before locking the door to the stateroom and telling him that nobody would disturb them.
She had stripped him, pushed him back onto the great bed and said -“For this one night, Chuck, I want you to enjoy me fully. Think of me as the ultimate pinnacle of your sexual dreams.” She had slowly undressed for him, gently revealing her body, not in the vulgar grind of a striptease artist, but with the flair and professionalism of a ballerina. Each movement seemed to have been choreographed just for him, and at last when she was totally naked she came to him, whispering in his ear, rousing him almost to a frenzy, helping him, instructing him as a perfect body slave until he became pliable, and left with a sense that he owed her a great sexual experience.