Bond Movies 06 - The World Is Not Enough (9 page)

Her hand came up to caress his cheek. Bond looked from her hand to her face and saw the hint of promise and passion. He wanted her badly.

‘Please . . .’

Bond slowly removed her hand. ‘I can’t.’

‘I thought it was your job to protect me,’ she said.

‘You’ll be safe here.’

‘I don’t want to be safe!’ she said, fiercely. She moved away from him, stinging from the rejection. Bond could see that

Elektra King was a girl who was quite used to getting what she wanted, and didn't like it if she didn't.

Bond looked at his watch. If he was going to go, he needed to get moving.

‘I'll be back as soon as I can.’ He strode toward the door and opened it.

‘Who’s afraid now, Mister Bond?’ she asked, under her breath but loud enough for him to hear. He stopped.

Was she right? Was he afraid of what he might feel if he gave in to his desire for her?

Without looking back at her, Bond coldly headed out of the door.

The Casino L’Or Noir represented the elegant and mysterious world that Baku had become. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the city had metamorphosed from a simple industrial port to a modern-day equivalent of the long gone international centres of intrigue and exotic ambience, places like Tangier or Casablanca, Macau or Hong Kong. SIS estimated that more than half of Azerbaijan's illegal activities originated in Baku’s nightspots, and the new casino was the most popular and well attended. The city’s shadowy figures gathered there at night, deals were made in back rooms while money was won and lost in public. The wealthy liked to be seen there, as it was the place for the powerful and beautiful in this part of the world.

James Bond wore a sharp Brioni tuxedo and Q’s X-ray sunglasses, with which he could clearly make out every concealed weapon in the room. All sizes of pistols were underneath jackets, even the odd grenade. An added bonus to the glasses’ features was the feet that Bond could see through clothes as well.

He walked around the perimeter of the main room until he found the curtained off alcove he was looking for. Two beautiful women crossed in front of him before he could enter. One turned back to look at him and smile, unaware that she was totally on display. Her friend turned to look at Bond, too. He smiled back, nodding hello. The second woman had a pistol concealed in her bra.

Bond slipped through the curtains and found a small, private bar where a bartender was chopping ice with a pick in the sink under the counter. A large thug in a suit and tie sat on a stool across from him. Through the X-ray glasses, Bond could see that the man was a walking arsenal — guns, knives, and a cudgel were all underneath his jacket. He was Bond’s kind of guy.

He walked up to the man and stood next to the bar. Nonchalantly, he said, ‘I want to see Valentin Zukovsky.’

The thug took a sip from his drink but didn’t look up. Then, turning menacingly to Bond’ he said, ‘This is a private bar. There is no Zukovsky here. So hit the road.’

‘Tell him James Bond is here.’

The thug blinked, leaned forward, started to stand and reach into his jacket for a gun. ‘I said, this is a private bar. Do I have to escort you -’

In one swift move, Bond grabbed the ice pick from the bartender, slammed it into the bar through the dp of the thug’s tie and kicked the stool out from under him. The brute fell and hung from the bar, gasping, strangled by his own tie. Bond reached inside the jacket, took the gun and placed it on the bar.

‘He tied one on,’ Bond said to the bartender.

A hand twice as large as the thug’s appeared and squeezed Bond’s right shoulder. Bond turned and was confronted by a seven-foot-tall, light-skinned muscular man.

‘Mister Zukovsky will be delighted to see you,’ he said. The man’s mouth was full of gold teeth. Bond recognised him immediately. Maurice Womasa, aka The Bull, aka Mister Bullion - hence, the teeth. A killer from Somalia, The Bull was wanted for genocide, among other unsavoury acts.

Bond smiled, removed his passes and motioned to the door. ‘After you . . . ’

‘I insist,’ the big guy said, shaking his head.

‘Of course you do.’ They left together through a door at the side of the bar. The other thug stood up and pulled the ice pick out of the bar, freeing himself. He placed the stool upright and sat down.

‘Tourists. . .’ he grumbled. The bartender refilled his glass and commiserated with him.

Bond hadn’t seen Valentin Zukovsky since the GoldenEye affair a few years ago. An ex-KGB official, Zukovsky had made a name for himself as a ‘freelancer’, mainly in the Russian Mafia, although he refused to call it that. Bond had a run-in with him before the fall of the Soviet Empire, giving the man his now-famous limp. Since then, the two men had reluctantly performed favours for one another, almost as if competing to keep the other indebted.

Bond found Zukovsky sitting with two gorgeous women on his lap. He was spoon-feeding them caviar. He was as elephantine as ever, and his moon face was red from alcohol and the attention he was getting from the girls.

‘BondJamesBond!’ he said, heartily. ‘Do come in! Meet Nina and Verushka.’

‘Lose the girls, Valentin,’ Bond said. He knew that he had to play it tough with Zukovsky, or else he’d never get anything out of him. He gestured toward The Bull. ‘And the toy bodyguard, too. We need to talk.’

The big man grunted.

‘Why am I suddenly worried I’m not carrying enough insurance?’ Zukovsky asked. ‘Chill out. Try your luck in my new casino.’

‘Only if you’re willing to place a bet on your knee — the one I didn’t shoot out.’

Zukovsky addressed the girls on his lap. ‘Do you see what I have to put up with? I'm out of the KGB ten years and —’

But a cold, no-nonsense look from Bond stopped him. Bond drew his gun and aimed for Zukovsky’s leg. ‘How is your knee. The good one, that is . . .’

The Bull drew his gun and aimed it at Bond’s head. Bond held his ground.

Finally, the Russian sighed loudly. ‘Okay, ladies. Scram. Beat it. I have business. It’s all right, Maurice.’

‘But Valentin,’ one of the girls whined. ‘You promised we could play!'

Zukovsky gestured to the big man. ‘Bull, give them an inch.’

The bodyguard peeled off a wad of cash and held it high. The two girls leaped off Zukovsky’s lap and jumped for the money like trained seals. They snatched it, squealed and ran out of the room.

‘And make sure they lose it in this casino!’ Zukovsky said to The Bull, who moved toward the door to keep watch on the girls. He turned back, smiling broadly to reveal the sparkling gold teeth. ‘I will see you later, Mister Bond.’

‘I can see you put your money where your mouth is,’ Bond said. The Bull flexed, ready to fight again, but Zukovsky waved him off.

‘Mister Bullion doesn’t trust banks,’ he said. ‘It’s all right, Maurice.’ The Bull made a face and left them alone. Bond holstered his gun.

‘You’ll have to excuse The Bull. He’s my chauffeur and —’ Zukovsky said, shrugging his stocky shoulders.

‘Yes. I know all about Maurice Womasa. Crushes men with his bare arms and gives them a bright smile at the same time. Not to be confused with the other wild beasts and upstanding citizens floating through your casino - the Russian Mafia, Chinese gangsters, Turkish war lords —’

‘And diplomats, bankers, oil executives, and anyone else who wants to do business in Baku.’ Zukovsky turned to the table and spooned some caviar onto a small plate. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Double-0 Seven, but I’m a legitimate businessman now. Care for some caviar? My own brand. Zukovsky’s finest.’

‘I want some information. About Renard.’

Zukovsky frowned. ‘Renard? Renard the Fox?’

‘How does a terrorist like Renard get his hands on the latest Russian military equipment? State-of-thc-art Parahawks?’ Zukovsky shook his head. ‘That is not possible.’

Bond produced the shred of parachute and showed it to him. ‘I think you know the characters. It's the Russian special services division of the atomic weapons branch.’

‘The Russian Atomic Energy Department. Where did you get this?’ Zukovsky asked genuinely curious about the fabric.

‘Off a Parahawk that was trying to kill Elektra King this afternoon. I want to know if Renard has an insider . . . who sold the weapons ... or if the Russian government itself wants her pipeline stopped. And I want to find Renard before he gets another chance to kill her.’

Zukovsky glanced over Bond's shoulder and started to chuckle.

‘What’s so funny?’ Bond asked.

‘Nothing . . . Except it would appear Miss King does not share your concern.’

Bond turned around to see a video monitor that was focused on the front doors of the casino. Elektra King had just entered.

She looked more vibrant and glamorous than Bond had ever seen her. She wore a sparkling dress that fitted like a second skin, her hair was full and tumbling and her eyes were fiery and wild.

The two men agreed to continue their conversation later. Bond left the alcove and returned to the main gambling hall. When she saw him approach, Elektra turned away defiantly, making her way to the blackjack tables. Bond followed her, and she moved away from him, cat-like, through the neon jungle. The energy and noise of the place accentuated her own intensity as she passed the Minimum $100 table, then $500, then $1000 . . . She finally stopped at the No Limit table, which was crowded with the nastiest and richest of the high rollers: Armenians, Turks, South Americans, Chinese, an American computer nerd and a Russian industrialist’s wife, heavy with jewellry and drink.

Zukovsky appeared and pulled out the centre scat for her. ‘Miss King. So nice to see you. We’ve kept your father’s chair free.’

‘And his account?’ she asked.

‘A million, US dollars. As always,’

A pit boss materialised with a chit. She signed it with a flourish as a waitress took her order.

‘Vodka martini.’ she said.

She was surprised to hear Bond’s voice beside her. ‘Two. Shaken, not stirred.’

As twenty $50,000 plaques were placed in front of her, Bond leaned in, smiling.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

She smiled right back at him. ‘If someone wants to kill me, I’d rather die looking them straight in the eye. Whoever was responsible for the attack on that mountain is surely watching. I want to show them that I’m not afraid. What’s your excuse? Wasn’t I enough of a challenge?’

‘If this little show is for my benefit, I'll take you home right now.’

‘You had your chance, James. But you played it safe,’ She turned to the dealer. ‘I’m ready. Deal.’ And, back to Bond, ‘You passed up a sure thing.’

She tossed two $50,000 plaques onto the felt; the whole table reacted. Energised gamblers placed bets and the dealer dealt the cards.

Fine, Bond thought. We’ll play it her way. She was terribly wound up and needed a release of some kind. Perhaps a public catharsis at the gambling table would do her good.

‘Personally, I like to get a feel for the game — what the other players are holding - before I commit anything,’ Bond said, lightening up. He had to admit that the scent and smoke and sweat that were a part of all casinos everywhere excited him. He was curious to see how she would handle winning and losing.

‘Then maybe I should let you play the first hand this time,’ she said, smiling now. ‘I don’t know how to play anyway. Perhaps you’d be more daring holding my fate in your hands. Come on, Mister Bond, show me how it’s done.’

She looked him straight in the eye and licked the edges of her front teeth.

‘All right,’ he said, giving in to her beauty and audacity.

Elektra had a black king showing and a four underneath. The dealer had a king showing.

‘Do we stand? Or do we play?’ she asked him.

‘Card,’ Bond said to the dealer.

The dealer dealt them a seven.

‘Twenty-one,’ the dealer announced. Bond and Elektra looked at each other triumphantly as the two other players passed. The dealer turned over his second card - an eight.

‘Eighteen,’ the dealer said. ‘Miss King wins.’

‘Shall we raise the stakes?’ she asked. -

‘It’s your game,’ Bond said. She was positively luminous.

‘Again,’ she said to the dealer. She pushed more plaques onto the table.

They called it the Field of Fire.

Some ten miles outside Baku, in the middle of a petroleum field, a Land Rover bearing the Russian Atomic Energy logo pulled to a stop at the top of a hill overlooking the eerie, hellish landscape. Natural gas seeped from holes in the baked earth, creating a gigantic, perpetual inferno. Against the night sky, the sight was like looking into a gas furnace that covered an area of half a square mile.

‘We’re here, Arkov.’

Sasha Davidov got out of the Land Rover with another man in his sixties. Arkov wore the Russian emblem on a photo ID attached to his overalls.

‘I’m telling you I have reservations now,’ Arkov said in a thick Russian accent. ‘I wouldn’t be doing this if my pension was halfway decent. You’re lucky you found someone in our organisation that was willing to help. But how I will explain about the Parahawks, I don’t know. This is crazy.’

‘Shut up,’ Davidov said, looking about. ‘Where the hell is he?’

The men stepped onto the hill and gazed at the held of flame, unsettled by the sound of hissing gas. They felt entirely alone and helpless, until . . .

‘Welcome to The Devil’s Breath, gentlemen,’ came the familiar voice behind them. Davidov turned to see Renard and an armed bodyguard step into the light. The flickering from the flames cast bizarre patterns on Renard’s bald head. The comer of his mouth on the bad side of his face turned down in an unintentional sneer. While his left eye blinked, the other one stayed open, frozen and eerie. Looking at Renard always gave Davidov the creeps.

‘For thousands of years, Hindu pilgrims have journeyed to this holy place,’ Renard said, his voice full of awe and respect. ‘To witness the miracle of the natural flames that have never been extinguished . . . And to test their devotion to God by holding the scalding rocks in their hands, as they said their daily prayers.’

Renard squatted and picked up one of the rocks from the fire. It sizzled in his hand. The flesh began to smoke, but Renard showed no emotion. He tossed it up and down, like a baseball, then moved to Davidov.