Chapter 5
A Chance Meeting

Adam Chance, clad in an expensive, freshly-pressed white dinner suit, passed through the door to Sanford Steele's office casually. In his mind, this was simply another job, another high-flyer trying to eradicate their competition without dirtying their own soft hands. These lucrative deals were, in his view, far too few, as the financial benefit was often more than enough to warrant his personal attention. The lack of floor space took him by surprise - these people normally liked to feed their egos with golf course-like offices. The athlete in the burgundy leather armchair fit the description he had been given, so he spoke.

Good evening, Mr Steele. Adam Chance. You called for me.

Adam Chance? asked Steele, showing his surprise with a raised brow. The man himself. I thought you'd be sending one of your lackeys.

Well, I try to deal with the more important cases personally, replied Chance with his ever-present smirk. Mind if I take a seat?

Steele motioned toward one of the smaller, wooden-framed chairs and Chance sat. The hired killer was not at all what Steele had expected. These men were typically thugs, ogres, but Chance lacked this demeanour, instead appearing poised, almost delicate. He had short blond hair, stood about six feet tall, and was quite slender for a professional hit man. At just twenty-one years of age, this fair, hazel-eyed assassin had many corpses in his shadowy past. Born to an English father and French mother, he spent his early childhood with the circus. His father was a great magician, delighting children across Europe for decades with everything from grand illusion to card tricks. His mother, also in the circus, was a beautiful acrobat, a trapeze specialist who gave birth to her only child at the beginning of her career.

They were both killed, in an unfortunate automobile accident during his late childhood, or so he was told. Young Adam had been committed to various institutions, learning, as the residents tend to do, to look after himself. However, Chance had something which set him apart from the average institutionalised miscreant, his talents gained from life in the circus and intellectual gifts made him an ideal assassin. By the time he was eighteen, he owned a contract-killing enterprise, under the cover of a real estate agency based in Barcelona.

So who's the target? asked Chance in his smooth baritone voice.

At the moment, me, replied Steele gravely. MI-6 is on to me. They've sent one of their operatives, licensed to kill, after me, and all of my attempts to stop him have so far failed.

So who's the target? repeated Chance, his tone slightly more urgent.

No specific target. I need a bodyguard, and you're the best in th....

I'm not a babysitter, interrupted Chance. Either give me a target or stop wasting my time.

Stick with me until this is over, and you'll receive twenty million US dollars.

Chance's demeanour changed from outright hostility to complete openness. I'll take it. I have dossiers on all MI-6 agents and Rome police. Pretty sure I'll be able to recognise any of them. It'll be a pleasure doing business with you.

They shook hands.

* * *

James Bond looked around the Corona Casino's main gaming room intently, attempting to catch sight of his allies. The incredibly broad room, the size of a football field, was almost filled to capacity, and the constant hum the crowd produced made concentration difficult. The ornate room was probably far cheaper to construct than it seemed at first glance, with its intricate marble statues lining the southern entrance wall, and the various prints hung on the spotless white walls. A marble centrepiece, an indoor fountain spraying water fifteen feet into the air seemed to act as a meeting place, as groups of three of four conducted conversations in their native language. Above it hung a golden chandelier, certainly fake but nonetheless impressive, with dozens of candles arranged in four tiers. Three elevators on the northern wall and an ornate staircase in the north-eastern corner connected this room with the other floors of the casino. The police were by no means challenging to spot among the throng, two overweight men and a rather homely female at their designated poker machines in the eastern third of the room, where rows and rows of the one-armed bandits were lined up like a robotic army. His enemies were quite another matter. Laforge was nowhere in site, possibly monitoring him on the security system. Still, he aimed to appear relaxed for a short while at the gaming tables while he waited for the appropriate time to make his move.

Dodging the plebs in the central area of the room, crammed with commoners playing low-stake blackjack using no strategy at all, he found one of his operatives sitting by the indoor fountain. At least, she was wearing emerald green shoes, but he had no recollection of her.

He addressed her casually, as though they were old friends. he exclaimed with a grin.

Who are you? responded the woman sharply. She wore a low-cut evening gown, openly displaying her perfect hourglass figure. The green garment highlighted her eyes, a particularly unusual shade of green, and her long blonde hair fell across her shoulders in a slightly unkempt fashion. Her features were delicate, like a china doll, with soft, red lips that stuck in his mind. At another moment, she might have ravishing, but at present, she seemed fierce.

Have you seen Steele? muttered Bond, breaking eye contact to scan the room again.

You mean my husband? the woman snapped. Yes. What does he want with you?

Bond was startled. He cursed HQ for failing to provide him with photographs of the agents, not mention one of Steele's wife Cynthia. Surely the ridiculous green shoe scheme was outdated, but it now placed him in a major predicament.

I have an appointment. I'm scheduled for a few hands of baccarat.

Her icy attitude remained unchanged. Meet him on the fourteenth floor, in the high-rollers room.

It's been a pleasure, said Bond and turned away, kicking himself for his lack of preparation. Glancing over at the poker machines, he spotted a young blond man in a white dinner suit talking firmly with one of the undercover police. Willingly, the policeman rose from his seat and was led toward the stairwell by the blond man. Rather than follow, Bond strode to a low-stake roulette table to try his luck.

Eight or nine poorly dressed, working class men and women were randomly throwing bets around the table, simply hoping that their luck was in. 007, having already purchased his chips, decided to win himself a few pounds while killing the remaining forty-seven minutes to nine o'clock, the end of the guards' shift. Using the martingale system, he managed to turn his forty thousand liras into seventy thousand before a male hand was placed over his shoulder.

Bond turned and looked into the fierce hazel eyes of the young man who had ushered the undercover cop away from his position.

Phone call, for you, sir, said the young man with emphasis, so as to speak over the disruptive background murmurs.

Bond glanced casually over at the seats of his three uncover allies, and found all three empty. He found himself dealing with what was, quite possibly, the oldest trick in the book.

Of course, replied 007 with an amiable smile. Who did they ask for?

I suggest you take the call. The smooth, soft voice, a conglomeration of several European accents, was more insistent this time.

murmured the British agent. He sized up the slender man, and figured he had roughly twenty pounds on him, but Bond was not planning on underestimating this unknown quantity. As these thoughts were coursing through his mind, he felt a hard, round object pushed into the base of his spine, and recognised it instantly. At gunpoint, Bond was led to the grand staircase in the northeast without resisting.

On arrival, they found the stairwell empty, save two large casino security guards.

Take this one to Mr Steele, said the blond man, and the guards nodded in obedience. He reentered the gaming room as Bond was led, once again at gunpoint, up the staircase.

Bond afforded himself the luxury of a brief smile.