The last light of the day had gone. Below the indigo sky the flare paths twinkled green and yellow and threw tiny reflections off the oily skin of the tarmac. With a shattering roar a DC 7 hurtled down the main green lane. The windows in the transit lounge rattled softly. People got up to watch. Bond tried to read their expressions. Did they hope the plane would crash – give them something to watch, something to talk about, something to fill their empty lives? Or did they wish it well? Which way were they willing the sixty passengers? To live or to die?
Bond’s lips turned down. Cut it out. Stop being so damned morbid. All this is just reaction from a dirty assignment. You’re stale, tired of having to be tough. You want a change. You’ve seen too much death. You want a slice of life – easy, soft, high.
Bond was conscious of steps approaching. They stopped at his side. Bond looked up. It was a clean, rich-looking, middle-aged man. His expression was embarrassed, deprecating.
‘Pardon me, but surely it’s Mr Bond ... Mr – er – James Bond?’
2 | LIVING IT UP
Bond liked anonymity. His ‘Yes, it is’ was discouraging.
‘Well, that’s a mighty rare coincidence.’ The man held out his hand. Bond rose slowly, took the hand and released it. The hand was pulpy and unarticulated – like a hand-shaped mud pack, or an inflated rubber glove. ‘My name is Du Pont. Junius Du Pont. I guess you won’t remember me, but we’ve met before. Mind if I sit down?’
The face, the name? Yes, there
Mr Du Pont sat down opposite Bond and produced cigarettes and a plain gold Zippo lighter. Bond noticed that he was sweating slightly. He decided that Mr Du Pont was what he appeared to be, a very rich American, mildly embarrassed. He knew he had seen him before, but he had no idea where or when.
‘Smoke?’
‘Thank you.’ It was a Parliament. Bond affected not to notice the offered lighter. He disliked held-out lighters. He picked up his own and lit the cigarette.
‘France, ’51, Royale les Eaux.’ Mr Du Pont looked eagerly at Bond. ‘That Casino. Ethel, that’s Mrs Du Pont, and me were next to you at the table the night you had the big game with the Frenchman.’
Bond’s memory raced back. Yes, of course. The Du Ponts had been Nos. 4 and 5 at the baccarat table. Bond had been 6. They had seemed harmless people. He had been glad to have such a solid bulwark on his left on that fantastic night when he had broken Le Chiffre. Now Bond saw it all again – the bright pool of light on the green baize, the pink crab hands across the table scuttling out for the cards. He smelled the smoke and the harsh tang of his own sweat. That had been a night! Bond looked across at Mr Du Pont and smiled at the memory. ‘Yes, of course I remember. Sorry I was slow. But that was quite a night. I wasn’t thinking of much except my cards.’
Mr Du Pont grinned back, happy and relieved. ‘Why, gosh, Mr Bond. Of course I understand. And I do hope you’ll pardon me for butting in. You see ...’ He snapped his fingers for a waitress. ‘But we must have a drink to celebrate. What’ll you have?’
‘Thanks. Bourbon on the rocks.’
‘And dimple Haig and water.’ The waitress went away.
Mr Du Pont leant forward, beaming. A whiff of soap or after-shave lotion came across the table. Lentheric? ‘I knew it was you. As soon as I saw you sitting there. But I thought to myself, Junius, you don’t often make an error over a face, but let’s just go make sure. Well, I was flying Transamerican tonight and, when they announced the delay, I watched your expression and, if you’ll pardon me, Mr Bond, it was pretty clear from the look on your face that you had been flying Transamerican too.’ He waited for Bond to nod. He hurried on. ‘So I ran down to the ticket counter and had me a look at the passenger list. Sure enough, there it was, “J. Bond”.’
Mr Du Pont sat back, pleased with his cleverness. The drinks came. He raised his glass. ‘Your very good health, sir. This sure is my lucky day.’
Bond smiled non-committally and drank.
