Bond Movies 06 - The World Is Not Enough (17 page)

‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What’s your business with Elektra King?’

‘I thought you were the one giving her the business,’ he replied. He looked over at Christmas and smiled. She was a bit taken aback.

Bond continued. ‘She dropped a million dollars in your casino - and you didn’t even blink. What was she paying you off for?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, BondjamesBond.’

‘The million dollar chit which you so easily won with a rigged card deck. It was a payoff for services rendered. What were they?’

Zukovsky glanced at Christmas again and said, ‘If I were you ... a relationship with this guy? Don’t bet on it.’

With his free arm, Bond slammed Zukovsky against a vat of caviar. Wood split and roe spilled all over the floor.

Zukovsky was appalled. ‘That is five thousand dollars of Beluga! Ruined!’

‘Nothing compared to what a twenty megaton nuclear bomb would do.’

‘What are you talking about?’

The sound of an approaching helicopter outside didn’t deter Bond from pressing the gun against Zukovsky’s temple.

‘I work for the IDA,’ Christmas said. ‘We had a nuclear bomb stolen . . .’

Bond cut her off. ‘Renard and Elektra are working together.’

Zukovsky looked genuinely surprised and somewhat shocked. ‘I didn’t know!’ he pleaded.

‘What do you know?’

Zukovsky was about to answer when there was a loud crash. Wood splintered everywhere as the wall and roof tore open behind them. Zukovsky’s jaw dropped as they saw a Eurocopter Squirrel armed with giant, vertically-suspended circular saws rip through his shop.

Bond pushed Christmas and the Russian to safety, the spinning teeth barely missing them. The blades churned through the roof, spraying caviar everywhere.

Bond burst out of the building, pushing Zukovsky and Christmas ahead of him. Zukovsky’s guards were already firing at the helicopter. Zukovksy produced a TEC DC-9 semiautomatic handgun from inside his jacket and sprayed bullets into the air. Unfortunately, the helicopter kept coming, its deadly saws ripping everything in sight and making a deafening noise.

The Bull was there with his AK-47. He made a show of firing at the helicopter but deliberately missed.

‘Get back inside!’ Bond yelled to Christmas and Zukovsky. They were no better off out there As they ran back into the demolished factory, Bond made for the BMW, running down a flight of steps onto a lower walkway. Before he could make it to the landing, a grenade was thrown from a second Squirrel that appeared above him. It, too, was armed with the bizarre circular saws that hung below the aircraft. The grenade blew out the section of the walkway in front of Bond, knocking him back.

The fire and smoke trapped him. The only way out was along the pipelines. He ran beside a narrow section of pipe, then jumped down to another walkway. The pipes were now above him, but the second chopper’s relentless saws cut through them, releasing gas. Bond hurled himself up a stairway to get out of the way.

Inside the factory Zukovsky and Christmas watched in horror as the first helicopter continued to slice away more of the roof above them. As they ran for cover, Zukovsky yelled to her, ‘I told you he was a bad bet!’

Bond found himself on a ramp leading to the platform where the BMW was parked. He removed the remote control device from his pocket and pressed buttons. The BMW roared into life, pulled out from behind the billboard, and drove toward him, driverless. He rushed to meet it as the second chopper followed, slicing up the walkway behind him. He jumped into the passenger’s seat just as the helicopter veered away.

Now feeling that he had something of a chance, Bond activated the missiles as he watched the helicopter pass behind the factory. Then there was a horrible screeching sound as the car lurched. The first helicopter’s blades ripped through the roof of the BMW, cutting it in half lengthwise.

‘You’ll answer to Q for that,’ he muttered, then pressed the button to fire a missile. A grille on the side of the car flipped open and a foot-long heat-seeking missile slid out on a track. The missile’s fins unfolded and the weapon shot off toward the target.

It was a direct hit. The first helicopter exploded and pieces of it fell onto the walkway. Due to the broken gas pipes, the entire area was set ablaze.

Zukovsky and Christmas went out from back of the factory, only to see the second chopper drop four armed men onto a nearby walkway. They began to fire at Zukovsky’s guards as they ran toward the factory. Zukovsky sheltered Christmas and returned fire.

‘Tell me what you know!’ Christmas yelled.

‘Later, woman!’ he shouted back. ‘I’m fighting for capitalism!’

Bond jumped out of the disabled vehicle and ran back toward the factory. He could see that the others were under attack. The second helicopter was hot on his tail, though, and the men inside opened fire. Bond zigzagged along the walkway, intent on depriving them of an easy target. He managed to outrun the gunfire but a grenade exploded ahead of him, destroying the walkway and hurling him into the water.

The armed men successfully took out Zukovsky’s guards and moved even closer to the couple.

‘Back! Now! Move!’ Zukovsky shouted, pushing Christmas back into the factory.

Two of the assailants followed them. The Bull was inside, blasting away with his own gun. The bullets cut the air over Zukovsky’s head as he held Christmas down behind a table. In the heat of the battle, neither of them noticed that none of the gunfire was being directed at The Bull.

Suddenly, Bond burst through a trap door in the floor between them and the gunmen. Before the two men realised what had happened, Bond shot them.

The place was on fire now. ‘Get out of here!’ he shouted to his friends. He saw a third gunman lurking in the basement below and shot him as Zukovsky pulled Christmas off the floor and ran outside.

The pair made it to the Rolls and jumped in. Zukovksy rammed the car into reverse, just as the helicopter sliced the boardwalk to smithereens behind him. Christmas screamed. Zukovsky was unable to stop. The car flew backwards into the water.

Inside the burning factory, Bond had engaged the remaining gunmen in a furious gunfight. He had to stop once to replace his magazine, and this pause in the action must have given the assailants a false sense of victory. One of them rose from his cover to see if Bond was dead. Bond shot him between the eyes. A barrage of bullets came from the last man, but Bond rolled over a burning ember and got the man in his sight. Two bullets knocked him into oblivion. Before leaving the disaster area, Bond noticed a flare gun mounted on the wall. He grabbed it, then ran outside.

He looked around feverishly for Christmas and Zukovsky and finally heard them splashing in the water. They were swimming to safety, but the helicopter was still hovering above them and shooting. Bond jumped down to a boardwalk at water level and cranked open a gas jet. He stood on the platform and waved at the pilot, daring the helicopter to come at him. He waited for the chopper to line up over the gas jet, then he fired the flare gun. The gas ignited and shot up to engulf the helicopter in an immense fireball. Debris from the aircraft flew everywhere.

Zukovsky pulled himself back onto a walkway and headed for the factory, but two free-flying saw blades from the chopper were sailing right at him. He dived to the side, directly into a caviar pit. The saws stuck into the cabin behind him.

The caviar pit was like quicksand. Zukovsky slowly started to sink, trying to cling to a crate blown in there by the explosion.

Bond and Christmas appeared, soaking wet. ‘Now . . . where were we?’ Bond asked.

Zukovsky was at the point of being swallowed by the caviar, clawing at the crate. ‘A rope! Please!’

‘No. The truth,’ Bond said, coldly. ‘Those blades were meant for you, Valentin. What do you know that she wants you dead for?’

‘I’m drowning! Please!’

Bond turned to Christmas. ‘What’s the atomic weight of caviar?’

‘Probably close to cesium ... He seems to have negative buoyancy,’ she replied.

‘So he will drown.’

‘Sooner, rather than later.’

‘Stop it!’ Zukovsky cried. ‘Get me out of here!’

‘Too bad we don’t have any champagne,’ Bond said.

‘Or sour cream,’ she said, stifling a giggle.

‘All right! All right!’ the Russian yelled. ‘Sometimes I buy machinery for her. Russian stuff.’

‘And the payoff on the tables?’

‘A special job. My nephew’s in the Navy. He’s smuggling some equipment for her.’

‘Where?’

‘No! Get me out!’

‘Not yet. What’s the destination?’

‘This is a family matter!’ Zukovsky pleaded. ‘If Nikolai is in danger, we do it my way, or nothing! ’

Bond didn’t move. The Russian sank further.

‘Okay!’ he yelled. ‘Istanbul! Now get me out!’

Bond pondered this for a moment; then he grabbed Zukovsky’s cane and slammed one end down in the caviar for him to grab. Some of the stuff splattered on his jacket. He wiped it off with his index finger, then tasted it.

‘Excellent quality, Valentin,’ he said. ‘My compliments.’ The Bull burst into the room, ready to fire his gun. When he saw that it was only the three of them, he relaxed, then helped Bond get Zukovsky out of the pit. Zukovsky plopped down onto the floor, gasping.

‘Now,’ Bond said. ‘Let’s go and find your nephew.’ 

It was just after midnight.

Renard stood on a balcony in the Maiden’s Tower, looking out over the Bosphorus with binoculars. Beyond the iron balustrades was one of the most fabulous views in the world. On one side were the still waters of the Golden Horn, and on the other were the dancing waves of the unsheltered Bosphorus. In between were the tumbling roofs, soaring minarets and crouching mosques of the Pera district.

A supertanker had just entered the strait and was chugging along toward a port somewhere on the European side. Beneath its belly, however, hugging the tanker’s shadow, was another vessel that had sneaked into the Bosphorus undetected.

It was a Russian Charlie II class nuclear submarine. Officially designated as an SSGN, a nuclear-guided cruise missile submarine, this class of boat was possibly the oldest of its type still retained by Russia. Compared to newer submarines, it was relatively noisy, but it was known to pack a powerful punch with a battery of eight SS-N-9 Siren antiship missiles and six 533mm torpedo tubes with twelve weapons. Submerged, it could travel at twenty-four knots, powered by a Pressurised Water Reactor, with steam turbines driving one five-bladed screw and 15,000 shaft horsepower.

It was just what Renard was waiting for. 

He flipped on the walkie-talkie. When she answered, he said, ‘It’s here.’

‘Right on schedule,’ Elektra answered.

Til make the necessary arrangements with the crew.’

‘It’s in your hands, my dear.’

He turned off the radio and peered through the binoculars once again. Then Renard felt something inside the wound on his temple. The bullet was moving again. There was no pain, just an uncomfortable sensation of pressure. The damned thing was alive! he thought wryly.

The doctor had warned him that should he begin to feel more movement in the area, it might mean that his time was nearly up. Renard knew he should seek medical help immediately, but the mission was too important. He had resigned himself to his fate.

He just hoped that time wouldn’t run out before he completed his plan.

Deep within the tower, M paced her cell. According to the alarm clock outside her prison, she had twelve hours left. She was determined not to cooperate with her captors in any way, and she convinced herself that SIS would find her. If only she could think of a way to help Tanner and Robinson . . .

The stone dungeon had become chilly. She had worked up a sweat from pacing, no doubt losing some calories in the process, and now she was cold. She put on her jacket, which had been left draped around the only modem, wooden chair in the room. Other than that, she was left with a stone cot, a tin basin and water pitcher, a towel, a bucket, and dozens of useless antiques. They had allowed her to keep her handbag after going through it. Anything that could possibly be used as a weapon was taken, and she was left with a set of keys, tissues, lipstick and her passport. She had thought long and hard how she might make use of any one or more of these items. The pottery or a small statuette might work to smash over someone’s head . . . the basin and jug were too light to be effective weapons ... a towel could be used for strangling . . . She certainly wasn’t afraid of fighting for her life if it came to that . . .

She buried her hands in her pockets and felt something odd in the right one. It was flat and rectangular, like a credit card. What was this?

M pulled it out and remembered. It was the locator card that Bond had given her. She was surprised that Elektra’s men didn’t find it, but she hadn’t been wearing the jacket when they frisked her. They hadn’t bothered to look!

She looked closely at the locator card. It was a plain, smooth and silver plate, with two copper terminals at one end. She thought about this and what it might mean. Basically it was a homing device . . . with positive and negative terminals . . .

M looked at the clock.

12:14 a.m.

She removed one of her high-heeled shoes and got down on the floor. She stuck the shoe out through the bars, extending her arm through them as far as it would go, and attempted to hook the stool’s closest leg with the high heel. It was a strain; all she could do was tap the leg with the tip of the heel.

Right, she thought Let’s lose a pound for another half inch . . .

M squeezed her shoulder against the bars as hard as she could. It was painful, but she was able to get a better angle on the stool leg. She tapped it, this time dragging the stool slightly closer to her. Tap ... tap ... a little harder. . . That’s it, she willed the stool ... tap ... tap .. .

Finally, she was able to hook the heel completely around the leg. She dragged the stool toward her, but the rickety thing hit a bump on the stone floor and spilled over. The clock hit the ground and skidded toward her, creating an awful noise that echoed in the stone chamber.