James Bond was a secret agent. He was sitting at a table
playing cards with a pale faced, clean shaven asthmatic man with red-brown hair,
brown eyes, false teeth, a woman’s mouth, and very small ears.
This man was Le Chiffre; he was paymaster for SMERSH, a group of generally nasty people whose money
Le Chiffre had been gambling with. Bond had been
sent to Casino Royal in northern France by M, the head if the secret service,
to play a high stakes poker game in order to leave Le Chiffre penniless, and in the bad book with SMERSH who would very likely send him to the
naughty step to think about what he had done. On the other hand, if Bond were
to lose, the government would have funded an international terrorist organization.
Bond was an “00”
agent, who at any time was expected to kill in cold blood. There were only
three with that rank in the secret survive, but instead of sending Bond to kill
Le Chiffre, they decided it best to send him on a mission to play cards because
they were both good at that too.
Bond was feeling
tired now, he had been playing all day. He decided he’d call it a night so went
about leaving the casino. He had assessed how easy it would have been to rob
the place in the past days he had been there, and also the playing habits of Le
Chiffre. He had come to the conclusion that Le Chiffre wouldn’t try robbing the
casino. With his asthma he’d probably run out of breath on his getaway.
Once in his room
Bond started checking all his little makeshift security systems. The single
strand of hair on the draw of the desk lay undisturbed. The talcum powder on
the cloths cupboard door, immaculate. Inside the toilet system he had scratched
a mark on the copper ball-cock, just to check the water was the same level. You
would think this all to be all rather odd behavior, especially that last one.
But this was the usual thing to do if you were a spy. See, not so glamorous now
is it? Spies are a little OCD, and very paranoid characters. They think
everyone is out to kill them. But in all fairness, there probably are a number
of people out to kill them.
Satisfied that no
persons of an uncouth nature had had the nerve to relive their selves in
Mr. Bond water closet, he sat looking out his window for a while, then stuffed
a wad of banknotes under his pillow, as that is a very secure place, and went
to bed. His last act before drifting off to sleep was to slip his hand under
his pillow, and rest it on the butt of his gun.
The plan to take
down Le Chiffre had been handed to M by the head of S, who concerned themselves
with the Soviet Union.
“Now look here
Bill,” he had said to Ms chief of staff, “I want to sell something to Chief.”
“What do you
think Penny?” Bill had asked Ms Secretary Miss Moneypenny, a well loved
character who did not appear in the 2006 film adaptation.
“Should be
alright.” she had said. The head of S handed Bill an envelop with a red star on
it, indicating that it was top secret. Bill pressed a switch on his desk and
spoke into an intercom.
“Yes,” came the
voice of M.
“Head of S has an
urgent document for you.”
“Bring it in.”
Bill crossed the room and walked through the door leading to the big mans
office. A moment later he came out and a little blue light over the entrance
came on as a warning that M was not to be disturbed.
Later, the head
of S said to his number two man in a triumphant sort of way:
“He said that
last picture was supervision and blackmail, it nearly got us cooked. He
approves, though he thinks it’s a crazy idea.”
“Well I am
incline to agree.” Said his number two man.
“How so you
mean?”
“Well we know Le
Chiffre is paymaster to SMERSH don’t we?”
“Yes.”
“We also know he’s
a formidable and dangerous agent of the U.S.S.R.”
“Yes.”
“He carries
razorblades in his hatband, and has no first name, a clear indication that he’s
an agnostic to us.”
“Yes, so what is
your point?”
“Well, can’t we
just go and arrest him now? Wouldn’t that make more sense than to gamble with
the possibility of lining his pockets with the taxpayer’s money so that he
doesn’t get in trouble with his bosses? Or just kill him ourselves. I mean we
are sending in a “00”, they are trained to just kill in cold blood.”
“No,
assassination is pointless. Leningrad would just quickly cover up his
defalcations and make him a martyr.”
“So? I still
don’t see…”
“We’re just doing
it this way alright? It’s more interesting and fun. I'm the boss here, and I
want to do it this way.”
“Ok then sir, I
suppose it’s your train set.”
This had happened
two weeks ago now, and James Bond was now two days into his stay at Hotel
Splendide reminiscing about the history of the case thus far.
He had spent most
of his stay in the casino with the cover of a Jamaican plantocrat, and had made
three million francs.
This morning
after breakfast he recived a phone call telling him that the Director of Radio
Stentor was here with the wireless set he had ordered from Paris.
“Of course,” Bond
had said, “send him up.”
Soon Bond was
joint by Mathis, the liaison man for the Deuxierne Borcan. Director of Radio
Stentor was the cover he had been given.
“Here is the set
you asked to have on approval – five valves,” he said to Bond.
“Sounds alright.”
Mathis turned on
the set to full volume and pointed to the ceiling.
“My dear friend,
you are blown. Up there either Monsieur Munztz or his wife are listening to
you. Hopefully right now defended by the set.”
Bond made a face,
they carried on play acting for a bit before they got down to busyness.
“Your number two
will be here soon, she is very beautiful.”
“Why do you want
to send me a bloody woman for?” bond frowned, “you think this is a picnic?”
“Calm yourself my
dear James, she is as serious as you are, and as cold as an icicle. She speaks
French like a… well Frenchman and knows her job backwards. I have arranged for
a meet. It’s only natural that a man with a cover like yours should pick up a
pretty girl.”
“Any other surprises?”
“Nothing much,
just come to the Hermitage before lunch for the meet. Then onto the Casino in
the evening, with her. I’ll be in the background keeping an eye on you, and
there’s an American the CIA sent over by the name of Leiter, London told me to
tell you. He might come in handy.”
Mathis then
turned off the set. He and Bond exchanged pleasantries about the tone of it and
how Bond may want to purchase one. Then Mathis left Bond alone to think.
Nothing that had been said to him had sounded good. His cover had been blown
the moment he had arrived two days previously, and at this moment people were
listening to him. Then there was this pest of a girl who had been sent over. A
woman there would only complicate things with their feelings and emotions.
”Bitch,” Bond
said out loud, then “bitch,” again.
Upstairs, Madam
Munztz was listening in on Bond and wondering what the Director of Radio
Stentor could have possibly done to warrant Bond calling him bitch after he had
gone.
