Bond Movies 06 - The World Is Not Enough (16 page)

In two days, he would be dead, but Renard took comfort in the knowledge that his love would live on through the woman he was doing all this for. Some might say that it was hatred that was responsible for the destruction and loss of life that would result from his coming actions.

To hell with what they thought.

This was about love.

Bond and Christmas sat in the dirt, catching their breath. The sun beat down on them. The ruptured, smoldering break in the pipeline was not far away.

‘Do you want to explain why you did that?’ she asked. ‘I could’ve stopped that bomb. You almost killed us.’

‘I did kill us,’ Bond said. ‘She thinks were dead. And she thinks she got away with it.’

‘Do you want to put that in English? For those of us who don’t speak “spy”? Who is “she”?’

‘Elektra King.’

‘Elektra King? This is her pipeline! Why would she want to blow it up?’

‘Makes her look even more innocent,’ Bond shrugged. He knew he was right, but he didn’t know the whole story yet. He began to think aloud. ‘It’s part of some plan. They steal a bomb. Put it in the pipeline . .

‘But why leave half the plutonium?’ she asked, holding up the bag containing the half-grapefruit of material.

Bond’s mind clicked. ‘So there’d be just enough spread around in the blast to cover up for the half they took.’

‘But what are they going to do with it?’

‘You’re the nuclear scientist. You tell me.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, thinking. ‘It’s not enough to make a bomb. But . . . Whatever we do, we have to get that plutonium back. I’m responsible for that testing centre in Kazakhstan. Somebody’s going to have my ass for this.’

‘First things first.’ Bond flicked on the radio. ‘Bond to Robinson. Do you read?’

The radio’s response was nothing but static.

Christmas took the opportunity to ask, ‘By the way . . . Were you and Elektra . . . like . . .?’

Bond gave her a disapproving look, but she continued, I mean, before we go any further, I just want to know. What’s the story with you two?’

Bond wasn’t about to answer. ‘Bond to Robinson. Come in!’ Then, to turn the tables on Christmas, he asked, ‘What’s yours? What were you doing in Kazakhstan?’

She nailed him with her answer. ‘Avoiding those kinds of questions. Just like you.’

Bond was about to say, ‘Touche,’ when the radio crackled. ‘I read you, Double-0 Seven,’ Robinson said. ‘Red alert. M is missing. Her bodyguard is dead. The pipeline control centre has been evacuated. The King Industries helicopter is missing, and Elektra King is nowhere in sight. We don’t know where they are. Awaiting instructions. Out.’

Bond closed his eyes. A bad situation had just become worse. Christmas was horrified. Bond’s face grew grim as he masked his feelings and looked away at the pipeline. She knew enough not to probe.

‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

A thought struck Bond. ‘There’s one critical element here I may have overlooked. We have to track it down.’

‘What? More plutonium?’

‘No,’ Bond said. ‘Beluga. Caviar.’

The Bosphorus, the twenty-mile-long strait that connects the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara, is the source of many tales. Jason of Greek myth sailed the ship Argo from the Aegean Sea, through the Bosphorus, and into the Black Sea in his search for the Golden Fleece. As it is the only outlet for the Black Sea, the waterways have, from the beginnings of recorded history, served as migration or invasion routes for the peoples of Europe and Asia. It has always been a strategic focal point in the magnificent city of Istanbul, the link between the two continents. The western shore is in Europe, while the eastern one is in Asia. The hilly shores on both sides are scattered with castles and extravagant villas — vestiges of its vivid past — as well as the more modem beach resorts that cater to leisure-seeking citizens of Istanbul.

The Kiz Kulesi, or Maiden’s Tower, is one such ancient monument, located on a tiny islet near the Asian shore. Also known as Leander’s Tower, the names were derived from legends. A Turkish princess was once confined to the islet by her father, who had learned from a prophecy that his beloved child would die of snakebite. Nevertheless, the princess met her fate on the islet, for a snake that had been smuggled in from the mainland eventually bit her. The English name Leander came from the mistaken belief that Leander drowned there when he tried to swim the strait to meet his lover. 

In actuality, a Byzantine emperor had the tower built in the twelfth century. With a chain strung just below the waterline from the tower to Sarayburnu, or Seraglio Point, the emperor could close the Bosphorus.

At twilight a boat put in at the Kiz Kulesi. King Industries had leased the monument as an Istanbul office and very few people knew that the old place was occupied. Plans had been underway to open it up to tourists, but for the moment, the Maiden’s Tower appeared to be a neglected, derelict building.

Renard the Fox disembarked from the boat followed by several of his retinue, heavily laden with bags and cases. They entered the tower, an extraordinary space with stained-glass windows that cast myriad patterns over elaborate tile and marble surfaces. Pillars, iron lattice, velvet drapes and flowers covered the huge room. It was like entering a museum.

‘At last!’ Elektra King swooped across the floor into Renard’s arms. He embraced her passionately.

‘Uhhnn,’ she said as he squeezed her tightly. Then, she pushed him away. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said. ‘You don’t know your own strength’

Renard hadn’t expected the cold shoulder. He let her go as he studied her face, sensing something was now different between them. She attempted to hide it by flirting. ‘Brought me something?’

He smiled, grabbed a case off one of his men and opened it. ‘The power to reshape the world,’ he said.

He pulled out a sphere of cobalt blue metal. She gazed at it with a wary fascination.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It's safe. Touch your destiny.’

She traced a finger along the metal.

‘Warm,’ she observed with a flicker of wonder.

‘Is it?’ A dark cloud passed over his face. The half-smile vanished. After an awkward moment, he said, ‘I have to get it to the boys. They’re going to reshape it into a rod.’

‘I’ve brought something for you as well,’ Elektra said, trying to be sensitive to his buried frustration. ‘Remember I said I had a surprise for you?’

She opened a heavy door and led Renard through a passageway and into a small room. An area filled with antique pottery, statues and other old works of art was set apart from the rest of the room by a wall of bars, creating a cell that also contained the defiant M.

‘Your present,’ she said. ‘Courtesy of the late Mister Bond.'

Renard stepped forward and peered through the bars at the woman who appeared tired, but was otherwise in good shape.

‘Well, well. My executioner,’ he said.

‘Over-praise, I’m afraid,’ M said. ‘But my people will finish the job.’

‘Your people?’ Elektra asked. ‘Your people will leave you here to rot — just like you left me. You and my father . . . Who didn’t think my life was worth the money he threw away on a bad night in the casino.’

‘Your father wasn't —'

‘My father was nothing!’ Elektra proclaimed with an uncommon shrill note in her voice. M could see that Elektra had obviously turned a comer. Now that the masquerade was over, the poor girl had lost all touch with reality.

‘My father’s kingdom he stole from my mother!’ she said. ‘The kingdom that I will rightly take back.’ With that, she turned on her heels and left the room. Renard was left alone with M.

‘I hope you’re proud of what you did to her,' she said.

Tm afraid you’re the one who deserves credit.' He tried to smile again, the gruesome half-face a commedia dell' arte mask in the dim light of the cell. ‘When I took her she was . . . promise itself. And you left her at the mercy of a man like me. Three weeks is a long time. Her father could have paid the ransom and she would never have been . . . corrupted. You ruined her. For what? To get to me? She’s worth fifty of me.’

‘For once, I agree with you,’ M said, her eyes as cold as steel. He shook his head, amused by her pluck. ‘Yes. And now we also share a common fate.’

He took a small travel clock out of his pocket, checked the time on his wristwatch, and set the clock

‘Since you sent your man to murder me, I’ve been watching time tick slowly away, marching toward my own death. And now, you’ll have the same pleasure. Watch these hands, M. At noon tomorrow, your time is up. And I guarantee you: I will not miss. You will die. Along with everyone in this city and the bright, starry, oil-driven future of the West.’

He placed the clock on a tall stool just out of reach through the bars. He then, looked M up and down and left the room. M stared in horror at the clock, which said 0800 p.m.

An hour later Renard and Elektra were in her bedroom in the tower. She was naked, lying face down, as he stroked her slowly, worshipping her skin. The tension he had sensed earlier was still present. She had hardly said a word to him. ‘So beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘So smooth, so warm.’

‘How would you know?’ she said, cruelly. It stung him. He pulled back.

‘Why are you like this?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t lie to me. It’s Bond, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Is it because Bond is dead?’

She set her jaw and was silent.

Renard was flustered. ‘It’s what you wanted!’

Elektra hesitated again. Angry now, Renard leapt up and paced the floor. She sat up and pulled a silk robe around her.

‘Of course it’s what I wanted,’ she said, trying to salve his feelings.

He turned to confront her. ‘He was a . . . good lover?’

‘What do you think? That I wouldn’t feel anything?’

Renard leaned against her desk and closed his eyes, attempting to squeeze out the images. After a moment, he smashed his fist through the hand-painted wood. At the sound of her gasp, he looked at his hand. A huge splinter of wood was stuck in it He looked at it inquisitively.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel a damned thing.’ It was almost a whimper.

Elektra moved to him, took him by the arm and led him back to the bed. She gently pulled out the splinter, then reached into the ice bucket on the floor. She ran a piece of ice along the wound.

‘What about this?’ she asked.

She moved the ice on his cheek. He shook his head, tormented.

‘Nothing.’

Then, she rubbed the ice down her own neck. Water dribbled down between her breasts. ‘But surely . . .?’

Her fingers were wet now, and she touched and aroused herself with the ice-cold liquid. ‘. . .You can feel this?’

She moved the ice lower. Her lips opened as she clearly enjoyed the sensation. The half-smile on Renard’s face grew as she did something else.

‘Remember . . . pleasure?’ she asked, sensually.

They made love, if that’s what one could call it. Renard found his pleasure, to be sure, although it wasn’t by any traditional means. For her part, Elektra submitted to her desire for the man who was once her tormentor. She was a prisoner of her past, but for once, she was the one in control.

It was still later, as they lay naked together in each other’s arms, when the phone rang. She stirred from the post-sex malaise and answered it.

‘Yes?’ She listened as Renard’s one closed eye flicked open. ‘I see. Thank you.’ She hung up and said, ‘Bond is alive. He’s in Baku.’

* * *

Baku’s City of Walkways, a network of raised boardwalks and platforms constructed over the water near the shoreline, is a curious structure that provides docking areas for boats, as well as storage facilities, shops, bars and brothels for the seamen, fishermen and petroleum workers. It is square-shaped but spiral, like a multi-storey car park, with the lower levels connecting to the upper ones by means of slanted bridges. At first glance, the place resembles an M.C. Escher drawing, with walkways and bridges connecting here and there with no apparent rhyme or reason. In fact, it was practically and ingeniously designed long ago by using the boardwalks for support as well as walkways. These were now littered with petrol cans, crates of fresh fish, forgotten pieces of machinery, and other odorous items, but the strongest smell in the air was that of petroleum.

Valentin Zukovsky’s Rolls-Royce pulled up to the peculiar port, where his caviar factory sat on the top level. Guards piled out of the back and opened the door for him. Zukovsky, wearing a tuxedo, got out and scanned the horizon.

‘Wait here,’ he said to the men.

He limped toward the structure of walkways to his fishery, using a silver cane. Why did Dmitri, the foreman, insist that he come down to the factory immediately? What was the big crisis? ‘It’s always something,’ he mumbled to himself ‘First it’s the casino. Then it’s the factory. I’m a slave to the free market economy . .

Zukovsky’s chauffeur, The Bull, sat in the Rolls and watched his boss enter the building. His sharp eyes continued to survey the surroundings, looking for anything unusual. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the BMW Z8 parked behind a billboard in an obvious attempt to hide it from sight.

The Bull punched some numbers on his cell phone and made the call to Elektra King in Istanbul. After the exchange, he looked at his watch. It was time. He pulled the AK-47 from beneath the seat, held it under his jacket, and got out of the car.

Zukovsky paused at the door of his factory to admire — and straighten — a sign bearing his likeness - ‘ZUKOVSKY’S FINEST - WORLD WIDE HEADQUARTERS’. He opened the door, stepped inside and found himself staring down the barrel of a Walthcr PPK.

James Bond was holding Dmitri, a short man dressed in a caviar factory smock, by the collar. The man looked helpless and apologetic. Christmas Jones stood by, watching with interest.

Zukovsky sighed. ‘Couldn’t you just say “hello”?’

Bond released the foreman and said, ‘Beat it. Out the back.’ Dmitri scampered off, leaving Bond with his gun aimed at Zukovsky’s rather bulbous nose.