James Bond: The Authorised Biography (9 page)

Naturally there had been endless speculation over the systems they were using, but as the four Roumanians lived in seclusion in a walled villa down the road at Juan les Pins, they kept their secrets to themselves. The casino had automatically investigated them – supervised their play, checked their credentials, attempted every known test against cheating – without result. The Roumanians, whatever else they were, were clean. And night after night, like dark automata, they had continued their inexorable game. Against all known odds they had continued steadily to win. Nobody seemed to know how much, but, according to Maddox's informant inside the casino, they had milked the tables of something over £12 million during the last season.

For the casino all this was far more serious than most outsiders realized. In the first place, most of this money ultimately came from the bank – the casino paid. And in the second, these invulnerable Roumanians had begun to scare off the big-time gamblers. The entry every night of this inscrutable quartet into the grande salle, had a depressing influence on play.

For the management it was an anxious situation and Maddox had decided to make the most of it. This golden corner of the South of France had long been a centre of intrigue. Like most of his profession, Maddox was often there; as something of a gambler himself he knew how the casino always attracted that ‘floating world’ of spies and diplomats and women of the world who were his clientele. Anything that he could do to help the management would inevitably pay off – Maddox knew how useful it could be to have the powerful Société des Bains de Mer who ran the casino in his debt. And it would do no harm if word got round that the casino had been saved by the British Secret Service.

During those weeks when Maddox had been visiting James Bond in the nursing home at Fontainebleau, they had often played bridge together in the evening. For Bond it passed the time; for Maddox it gave just the chance he wanted to assess Bond's character and capabilities. For as a one-time international bridge player – he had represented Britain in the Biarritz Tournament of 1929 – Maddox believed the card-table was the perfect place to reveal an opponent's strength and weakness. In Bond he recognized something quite unusual. Despite his youth, Bond was that rarity – a natural player whose instinct was to win. Even Maddox often had his work cut out to beat him; more to the point, he could recognize in James Bond's play that combination of daring and stamina, memory and rigid self-control that makes great gamblers and secret agents.

All this made Bond the natural choice for the assignment taking shape in Maddox's extraordinary imagination. It also meant that James Bond's basic secret-service training was, to say the least, unorthodox.

He was brought back to London with strict instructions to stay incognito. Maddox arranged for him to stay in the now defunct Carlton Hotel on the corner of Haymarket under the pseudonym of Haynes. Maddox was staying in the hotel as well. From time to time he would appear and then haul Bond before a bewildering succession of medical experts, language and firearms experts and men behind large desks in Whitehall. Throughout these encounters Bond always had the uncomfortable feeling that they knew far more about him than they said. Nobody told him anything specific – even Maddox had become curiously reticent – but Bond gathered that he was on probation for the Secret Service. He had been chosen for an unusual assignment. His training would begin within a day or two.

Maddox explained all this over dinner in the grill room. He also said that he would be saying goodbye to Bond for a month or two. Now that he had started him on his career he must return to Paris where he had work to do. But quite soon now, Bond would be meeting his instructor.

Bond was becoming slightly bored with the whole air of mystery.

‘Why the delay?’ he asked.

‘Because it's taking just a little while to get him out of prison,’ Maddox replied.

‘Prison?’

‘Yes, Wormwood Scrubs. A splendid fellow called Esposito – Steffi Esposito. American, I'm afraid. And, as you'd imagine with a name like that, he's a professional card-sharp. Scotland Yard tell me he's the best in Britain.’

‘He must be if he's in Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘That's not the point,’ said Maddox. ‘He's going to teach you everything he knows. Work hard. You've a lot to learn.’

Bond tried to find out more, but Maddox's wrinkled monkey-face was now impassive. All that he would tell Bond was to take his work seriously.

‘They're letting this Esposito off a nine-month rap in your honour.’

*

James Bond met his teacher three days later in an over-furnished flat off Baker Street. He was expecting someone seedy from the underworld (Bond's experience of criminals was limited). Instead, he found himself greeted by an impeccably dressed, plump, grey-haired man with sad eyes and a pompous manner. Something about him made Bond think immediately of the chaplain at Eton.

‘I am informed, sir, that I must teach you all I know.’ Esposito sounded much put out by this. His voice had traces of New York and Budapest. ‘I tried to tell the fools that it would be impossible, and probably not in anybody's interests, but the police have never understood my sort of work. Your Mr Maddox seemed a cut above the rest of them. He and I agreed upon a basic course for you on the manipulation of the pack. May I see your hands?’ He felt Bond's fingers, tested the suppleness of the joints, and sighed impatiently.

‘You will have to work. You, my friend, possess the hands of a karate expert. Instead you need the touch of a virtuoso with the violin. Perhaps we should begin with the bread-and-butter business of our art. We call it the Riffle Stack, a straightforward matter of shuffling the cards to produce a desired pattern for the dealer. When – and I use the word ‘when’ advisedly – when we have mastered that we can move on to more artistic things, until we can deal our aces, kings and any card at will. The aim, dear Mr Bond, is to make those fifty-two cards in the pack our devoted servants.’

Esposito, for all his talk, was an iron teacher; for the next week, ten hours a day, he kept Bond practising the Riffle Stack. Bond used to dream of cards at night, but after ten days of this gruelling work, Esposito let drop his first hint of encouragement.

‘You are learning, Mr Bond. Slowly, but you are learning. The fingers are becoming suppler. Within a year or two you might even make a living from the cards.’

But this was not the purpose of the course, and now that Bond was beginning to achieve the basic skills of the card-sharp, Esposito started to introduce him to the main tricks on the repertoire – how aces could be slightly waxed so that the pack broke at them, how cards could be marked on the back with faint razor cuts, and how the whole pack could be minutely trimmed to leave just the faintest belly on a few key cards.

Finally Bond graduated to the gadgetry of the profession – ‘Shiners’, small mirrors fixed into rings or jewellery, devices that would feed cards from underneath the sleeve, electric gadgets that could signal an opponent's hand.

Bond worked for two whole months in that flat off Baker Street. Apart from Esposito he met no one and heard not a word from Maddox. Despite this he had an uncomfortable feeling of being watched; on the third day of each month £100 would be deposited into his bank account. Then at the end of August, Esposito relaxed. He announced that they would soon be leaving London.

‘Time for a little field-work, my friend.’

Bond packed his passport, dinner jacket, half a dozen shirts, and the next day he and Esposito caught the morning train to France. Esposito was in his element. ‘I feel that I can
breathe
at last,’ he said, inhaling the mackerel-scented air of the main quay at Dieppe. He wore co-respondent shoes and a violently checked suit that made Bond think of someone on a racecourse. There was a jauntiness about him now that Bond had never seen before. They had lunch together in the Hotel Windsor. Esposito did the ordering in florid French. For a while he reminisced about his past adventures and about certain ‘colleagues’ he had known – tales of extraordinary coups and instant fortunes gained and then squandered over the green baize of the French casinos.

‘If I had kept a tenth of what I've won, I'd be a millionaire. But what is money, my dear friend? Simply a game of chance. It's the game that matters.’

Esposito looked mournfully across the esplanade. The sea was blue, the beaches thronged with regiments of bourgeois families. Bond thought the time had come to ask him when the field-work began. Esposito revived.

‘Tonight, my friend, we make our debut. We shall see how good a teacher Steffi Esposito has been.’

‘You mean … ?’ said Bond.

‘I mean that we shall try our luck – and also just a little skill. It is your Mr Maddox's idea. He feels that, after your training, you should have a trial run. He wants you to know just what it feels like to manipulate the cards.’

‘You mean I have to cheat?’ said Bond.

‘Cheat?’ replied Esposito, looking pained. ‘Please do not use that word. I am an artist and I have tried to teach you just a little of my art. Cheating does not come into it.’

Rather than start an argument, Bond asked him where he planned his trial run.

‘Not in Dieppe. I am known here and it could be embarrassing. There is a place along the coast – quite near Le Touquet. A good hotel, a small casino. It will suit us nicely. It is called Royale-les-Eaux.’

*

Bond liked the little town immediately. It had a certain style about it, an air of well-fed tolerance. It was not pretentious, but seemed the sort of place where comfortable French families had come for generations for their holidays. There were fat plane trees in the square, an ornate town-hall, several tempting-looking restaurants. There was also a casino, almost a Monte Carlo in miniature. Bond's heart sank when he saw it. Silently he cursed Esposito.

Esposito was in his element. They booked in at the Splendide. They dined together (although for once Bond wasn't feeling hungry). And then they strolled to the casino. Bond could not help but be impressed now by Esposito. As he followed him into the
salle des jeux
he was reminded of a great musician walking towards the podium. The room was crowded, and for a while Esposito and Bond surveyed the table. The play was high. Royale-les-Eaux was currently attracting an exclusive clientele and suddenly Bond felt an excitement he had never known before. He had known the thrill of gambling for high stakes with the Brintons. This was different. He was experiencing the forbidden pleasure of the card-sharp ready to pit his skill against the table.

After that evening Bond could understand the thrill of beating the system. He and Esposito were playing baccarat. The stakes were high – a group of businessmen from Paris were pushing up the odds and for a while Esposito played along with them. So did Bond. They played cautiously and unobtrusively. After half an hour Esposito was down and Bond about even.

Bond kept his eyes upon Esposito. When card-sharps work in pairs, one is invariably the leader; during those weeks in Baker Street, Bond had learned to follow Esposito minutely. There were certain signs by which Esposito could signal advance details of his play. Suddenly the way he held his cards told Bond that he was about to force the pace.

The bank was held by a balloon-like man with tiny eyes. Bond could detect the avarice with which he fondled the barricade of chips before him. Esposito's signals told Bond that the bank was standing on a five. This was a risky thing to do, but would still leave the odds slightly in the fat man's favour.

There was a murmur of excitement as Esposito put ten red chips – 100,000 francs – onto the table. It was by far the largest bet of the evening and Bond could appreciate the practised way he did it. There was no hesitation and Esposito's bland face was quite impassive. At the same time he signalled Bond to follow. Bond held a nine and eight of clubs – a reasonable, but by no means a decisive, hand. If Esposito were right about the banker's hand, Bond would unquestionably win. But was he right? How could he possibly be sure?

Bond is essentially a cautious gambler and normally would not have dreamt of taking such a risk. And yet Esposito was quite emphatic. Bond hesitated. Everyone was watching him, and at that moment his nerve failed. 100,000 francs was over £800 – all that he possessed. Warily he placed five white chips – 5,000 francs – down on the table.

All eyes were on the fat man then as he turned his cards. A nine of clubs, a six of hearts. In baccarat it is the last figure of the count that signifies. It was a five, exactly as Esposito had said.

There was that faint murmur from the players – part envy, part excitement – as the croupier pushed Esposito's ten red plaques across the table. Bond felt a twinge of regret as his white ones followed. The play continued, but his opportunity was over. Esposito made no more signals, nor did he gamble heavily again. Half an hour later he rose, tipped the croupier, nodded towards the banker, and departed. Five minutes later James Bond followed him. Bond found him in the bar. Esposito was laughing.

‘Well, my friend, and how does it feel to win illicitly?’

Bond replied sharply that he disapproved of it. Esposito still laughed.

‘Quite, quite, your attitude does you great credit. It was most necessary though. Your Mr Maddox was insistent. What was it he said – something about needing to have poached to be a game-keeper? I don't understand these English phrases.’

Early next morning, Bond and Esposito left for Paris. Here they made contact with Maddox. That same evening, Maddox and James Bond dined together at the Brasserie Lipp. Maddox was looking tired. The hollows of the eyes were darker, the thin hair slightly greyer than when Bond saw him last. But he seemed in the best of spirits. He ordered steins of Pilsener and, whilst they drank, he outlined Bond's assignment. The Roumanians had just arrived in Monte Carlo with the beginning of the new season, and already they were winning. Maddox had seen de Lesseps, the casino manager. The poor man was desperate. He had appealed for help to their old friends and rivals, the French Deuxième Bureau. One of their smartest operators, a young man called Mathis, was already working in the casino, so far without success. The Roumanians appeared more confident than ever. The casino was fighting for its life.