He looked round the table and up at the spectators. Few were looking at him. They were waiting while the croupier counted the money and piled up the chips in a neat stack in front of the banker, waiting to see if anyone would conceivably challenge this huge bank of thirtytwo million Francs, this wonderful run of banker's luck.
Leiter had vanished, not wishing to look Bond in the eye after the knockout, he supposed. Yet Vesper looked curiously unmoved, she gave him a smile of encouragement. But then, Bond reflected, she knew nothing of the game. Had no notion, probably, of the bitterness of his defeat.
The huissier was coming towards Bond inside the rail. He stopped beside him. Bent over him. Placed a squat envelope beside Bond on the table. It was as thick as a dictionary. Said something about the caisse. Moved away again.
Bond's heart thumped. He took the heavy anonymous envelope below the level of the table and slit it open with his thumbnail, noticing that the gum was still wet on the flap.
Unbelieving and yet knowing it was true, he felt the broad wads of notes. He slipped them into his pockets, retaining the halfsheet of notepaper which was pinned to the topmost of them. He glanced at it in the shadow below the table. There was one line of writing in ink: 'Marshall Aid. Thirtytwo million francs. With the compliments of the USA.'
Bond swallowed. He looked over towards Vesper. Felix Leiter was again standing beside her. He grinned slightly and Bond smiled back and raised his hand from the table in a small gesture of benediction. Then he set his mind to sweeping away all traces of the sense of complete defeat which had swamped him a few minutes before. This was a reprieve, but only a reprieve. There could be no more miracles. This time he had to win — if Le Chiffre had not already made his fifty million — if he was going to go on!
The croupier had completed his task of computing the cagnotte, changing Bond's notes into plaques and making a pile of the giant stake in the middle of the table.
There lay thirtytwo thousand pounds. Perhaps, thought Bond, Le Chiffre needed just one more coup, even a minor one of a few million francs, to achieve his object. Then he would have made his fifty million francs and would leave the table. By tomorrow his deficits would be covered and his position secure.
He showed no signs of moving and Bond guessed with relief that somehow he must have overestimated Le Chiffre's resources.
The then only hope, thought Bond, was to stamp on him now. Not to share the bank with the table, or to take some minor part of it, but to go the whole hog. This would really jolt Le Chiffre. He would hate to see more than ten or fifteen million of the stake covered, and he could not possibly expect anyone to banco the entire thirtytwo millions. He might not know that Bond had been cleaned out, but he must imagine that Bond had by now only small reserves. He could not know of the contents of the envelope if he did, he would probably withdraw the bank and start all over again on the wearisome journey up from the five hundred thousand franc opening bet.
The analysis was right.
Le Chiffre needed another eight million.
At last he nodded.
'Un banco de trentedeux millions.'
The croupier's voice rang out. A silence built itself up round the table.
'Un banco de trentedeux millions.'
In a louder, prouder voice the chef de partie took up the cry, hoping to draw big money away from the neighbouring chemindefer tables. Besides, this was wonderful publicity. The stake had only once been reached in the history of baccarat — at Deauville in 1950. The rival Casino de la Forêt at Le Touquet had never got near it.
It was then that Bond leant slightly forward.
'Suivi,' he said quietly.
There was an excited buzz round the table. The word ran through the Casino. People crowded in. Thirtytwo million! For most of them it was more than they had earned all their lives. It was their savings and the savings of their families. It was, literally, a small fortune.
One of the Casino directors consulted with the chef de partie. The chef de partie turned apologetically to Bond.
'Excusez moi, monsieur. La mise?'
It was an indication that Bond really must show he had the money to cover the bet. They knew, of course, that he was a very wealthy man, but after all, thirtytwo millions! And it sometimes happened that desperate people would bet without a sou in the world and cheerfully go to prison if they lost.
'Mes excuses, Monsieur Bond,' added the chef de partie obsequiously.
It was when Bond shovelled the great wad of notes out on to the table and the croupier busied himself with the task of counting the pinned sheaves of ten thousand franc notes, the largest denomination issued in France, that he caught a swift exchange of glances between Le Chiffre and the gunman standing directly behind Bond.
Immediately he felt something hard press into the base of his spine, right into the cleft between his two buttocks on the padded chair.
At the same time a thick voice speaking southern French said softly, urgently, just behind his right ear:
'This is a gun, monsieur. It is absolutely silent. It can blow the base of your spine off without a sound. You will appear to have fainted. I shall be gone. Withdraw your bet before I count ten. If you call for help I shall fire.'
The voice was confident. Bond believed it. These people had shown they would unhesitatingly go the limit. The thick walkingstick was explained. Bond knew the type of gun. The barrel a series of soft rubber baffles which absorbed the detonation, but allowed the passage of the bullet. They had been invented and used in the war for assassinations Bond had tested them himself.
'Un,' said the voice.
Bond turned his head. There was the man, leaning forward close behind him, smiling broadly under his black moustache as if he was wishing Bond luck, completely secure in the noise and the crowd.
The discoloured teeth came together. 'Deux,' said the grinning mouth.
Bond looked across. Le Chiffre was watching him. His eyes glittered back at Bond. His mouth was open and he was breathing fast. He was waiting, waiting for Bond's hand to gesture to the croupier, or else for Bond suddenly to slump backwards in his chair, his face grimacing with a scream.
'Trois.'
Bond looked over at Vesper and Felix Leiter. They were smiling and talking to each other. The fools. Where was Mathis? Where were those famous men of his?
'Quatre.'
And the other spectators. This crowd of jabbering idiots. Couldn't someone see what was happening? The chef de partie, the croupier, the huissier?
'Cinq.'
The croupier was tidying up the pile of notes. The chef de partie bowed smilingly towards Bond. Directly the stake was in order he would announce: 'Le jeux est fait.' and the gun would fire whether the gunman had reached ten or not.
'Six.'
Bond decided. It was a chance. He carefully moved his hands to the edge of the table, gripped it, edged his buttocks right back, feeling the sharp gunsight grind into his coccyx.