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.
"And mine call me Percy. Persephone Proud's too much of a mouthful." Bond's eyes smiled over the rim of the glass. "Percy Proud,' he said, an eyebrow cocked, "I'll drink to that." Percy was a relaxed young woman, an easy communicator blessed with a sense of humour, and of the ridiculous.
"Okay, James "they were at last seated in her room at the Hotel de Paris, armed with champagne cocktails down to details. How much have you been told?"
"Very little." She Will give you the fine print, M had said.
Play up to her; trust her; let her teach you. She knows more about all this than anyone.
"You've seen this picture?" She extracted a small photograph from her handbag. "I just have to show it to you and then destroy. I don't want to be caught with it on me.
The photograph was a smaller print of the one they had shown Bond in the St. Martin's Lane flat.
"Jay Autem Holy,' Bond said. The man looked very tall, his thinning hair failing to disguise a domed head, and he had a large, beaky nose.
"Doctor Jay Autem Holy,' she corrected.
"Deceased. And you are the widow - though I wouldn't have recognised you after some of the photos I've seen." She gave a quick, infectious giggle. "There have been some changes made."
"I'll say.
The other identity would not have been attractive in black You'd look good in anything."
"Flattery could get you everywhere, James Bond.
But I don't really think Mrs. Jay Autem Holy ever needed widow's weeds.
You see, he never died."
"Tell me." She began with the story already told by M. Over a decade before, while Dr Jay Autem Holy had been working solely for the Pentagon, a U.S. Marine Corps Grumman Mohawk aircraft had crashed into the Grand Canyon. Dr Holy and a General Joseph ("Rolling Joe') Zwingli were the only passengers.
"You already know that Jay Autem was way ahead of ) his time,"' she said. "A computer whizz-kid long before most people had heard of computers. He worked on very advanced programming for the Pentagon.
The airplane went down in a most inaccessible place deep into a gully. No bodies were ever recovered, and Jay Autem had a nice bundle of significant computer tapes with him when he went.
Naturally they were not recovered either. He was working on a portable battle-training program for senior officers, and had almost perfected a computerised system for anticipating enemy movements in the field. His work was literally invaluable."
"And the General?"
"Rolling Joe? A nut. A much-decorated and brave nut. Believed the United States had gone to the dogs - the commie dogs.
Said openly there should be a change in the political system, that the army should take control.
He figured politicians had sold out, morals had gone to pieces, people had to be made to care." Bond nodded. "And I gather Dr Holy had a nickname - like Rolling Joe was Zwingli's nickname." She laughed again. "They called Zwingli "Rolling Joe" because in World War Two he had this habit of airtesting his B 17 Flying Fortress by rolling it at a thousand feet."
"And Dr Holy?" he prompted.
"His colleagues, and some of his friends, called him "The Holy Terror". He could be a tough boss." Percy paused, before adding, "And a tough husband."
"Late husband." Bond gave her a close, unblinking look and watched her drain the last of her champagne cocktail and place the glass carefully on a side table as she slowly shook her head.
"Oh no,' she said softly. "Jay Autem Holy did not die in that airplane wreck. A few people have known that for some years. Now there's proof."
"Proof? Where?" He led her towards the moment for which M had prepared him.
"Right on your own doorstep,James. Deep in the heart of rural England. Oxfordshire. And there's more to it than that. You remember the Kruxator robbery in London? And the œ20 million gold bullion job?" Bond nodded.
"Also the œ2 billion hijack? The British Airways 747 taking foreign currencies from the official printers in England to their respective countries?"
"Of course.
"You remember what those crimes had in common, James?" He waved his gunmetal cigarette case at Percy, who declined with an almost imperceptible gesture of the hand. Bond was surprised to find the case being returned to his pocket unopened. His forehead creased.
"All large sums,' he said. "Well-planned . . . Wait a minute, didn't Scotland Yard say they could almost be computerised crimes?"
"That's it. You have the answer.
"Percy - " there was an edge of puzzlement in Bond's voice - "what are you suggesting?"
"That Dr Jay Autem Holy is alive and well, and living in a small village called Nun's Cross, just north of Banbury in your lovely Oxfordshire. Remember Banbury, James? The place where you can ride a cock-horse to?" Her lips tightened a little. "Well, that's where he is.
Planning criminal operations, and probably terrorist ones as well, by computer simulations."
"Evidence?"
"Well . . . "Again a pause. "To say that no bodies were recovered in the airplane is not quite true.
They got out the pilot's remains. There were no other bodies.
Intelligence, security and police agencies have been searching for Jay Autem Holy ever since.
And suddenly they found him in Oxfordshire?"
"Almost by chance, yes. One of your Special Branch men was in that area on a completely different case. He was on to a pair of well-known London crooks."
"And they led him to. . ?" Percy got up and slowly began to pace the room.
"They led him to a small computer simulations company called Gunfire Simulations, in the village of Nun's Cross, and there he sees a face from the files. So he goes back and checks. The face is Dr Jay Autem Holy's.