Name: Le Chiffre.
Aliases: Variations on the words ‘cypher’ or ‘number’
in different languages; eg ‘Herr Ziffer’.
Live and Let Die
‘Mr Big,’ said M, weighing his words, ‘is probably the most powerful negro criminal in the world. He is,’ and he enumerated carefully, ‘the head of the Black Widow Voodoo cult and believed by that cult to be the Baron Samedi himself. (You’ll find all about that here,’ he tapped the folder, ‘and it’ll frighten the daylights out of you.) He is also a Soviet agent. And finally he is, and this will particularly interest you, Bond, a known member of SMERSH.’
‘Yes,’ said Bond slowly, ‘I see now.’
Sir Hugo Drax
‘Well now, you’ve heard of this man Sir Hugo Drax?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Bond, surprised at the name. ‘You can’t open a paper without reading something about him. Sunday Express is running his life. Extraordinary story.’
Diamonds Are Forever
The Spang Brothers
Leiter sighed. He sipped his Martini reflectively. ‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘You’re a damn fool to be operating alone if it’s anything to do with the Spangled boys. In fact, you’re such a bad risk I’m crazy even to be having lunch with you…’
From Russia, With Love
Rosa Klebb would be in her late forties, he assumed, placing her by the date of the Spanish War. She was short, about five foot four, and squat, and her dumpy arms and short neck, and the calves of the thick legs in the drab khaki stockings, were very strong for a woman. The devil knows, thought Kronsteen, what her breasts were like, but the bulge of uniform that rested on the table-top looked like a badly packed sandbag, and in general her figure, with its big pear-shaped hips, could only be likened to a ‘cello.
The intruder examined the girl’s face for several minutes. One of his hands came up and took the sheet at her chin and softly drew the sheet down to the end of the bed. The hand that drew down the sheet was not a hand. It was a pair of articulated steel pincers at the end of a metal stalk that disappeared into a black silk sleeve. It was a mechanical hand.
‘Mr Bond, all my life I have been in love. I have been in love with gold. I love its colour, its brilliance, its divine heaviness. I love the texture of gold, that soft sliminess that I have learnt to gauge so accurately by touch that I can estimate the fineness of a bar to within one carat. And I love the warm tang it exudes when I melt it down into a true golden syrup. But, above all, Mr Bond, I love the power that gold alone gives to its owner – the magic of controlling energy, exacting labour, fulfilling one’s every wish and whim and, when need be, purchasing bodies, minds, even souls.
Only the mouth, under a heavy, squat nose, marred what might have been the face of a philosopher or a scientist. Proud and thin, like a badly healed wound, the compressed, dark lips, capable only of false, ugly smiles, suggested contempt, tyranny, and cruelty. But to an almost Shakespearian degree, nothing about Blofeld was small.
The Man With the Golden Gun
‘Freelance assassin mainly under KGB control through DSS, Havana, Cuba, but often as an independent operator for other organizations, in the Caribbean and Central American states. Has caused wide¬spread damage, particularly to the SS, but also to CIA and other friendly services, by murder and scientific maiming, since 1959, the year when Castro came to power and which seems also to have been the trigger for Scaramanga’s operations. Is widely feared and admired in said territory through¬out which he appears, despite police precautions, to have complete freedom of access. Has thus become something of a local myth and is known in his “territory” as “The Man with the Golden Gun”