Bond moved closer to her, and she clutched him tightly.
“Wait,” he whispered. He loosened her grip, then pulled out the bivouac sack with the built-in electric heaters. He unzipped and held it open. She laughed again and slipped her legs inside. He got in with her and zipped it closed.
They held each other for what seemed like an hour as the wind howled outside. Their bodies gradually warmed, and soon their hands were exploring each other. Her face, ashen and dirty, never looked more beautiful. Bond ran his hand through her blond hair and brought her head closer to his. Their mouths met in a passionate kiss, then they broke away, breathless. They read each others thoughts, then kissed again . . . and again. She unzipped his parka and slipped her hands inside so that she could feel his chest through his shirt. He did the same, running his fingers slowly and sensually around her firm breasts. They kissed some more, then he felt her hand exploring between his legs, encouraging his arousal.
They were breathing heavily, fighting for air. Bond managed to say, “We’re going to asphyxiate if we continue this way. Wait, I have another toy. Just a second . . .”
He reached for his bag and removed the dual respirator that Major Boothroyd had given him, then attached it to his oxygen canister.
“Oh, my God,” she said when she figured out what he was doing. He slipped the respirator on her face and attached the other to his own. Then he slipped his hands underneath her sweater and shirt and felt her nipples harden beneath the bra she was wearing. She moaned slightly, then moved in to kiss him, forgetting that they were both wearing respirators. They bumped and she laughed.
He expertly removed her bra and pulled it out from under her clothes. Then he began to work on her trousers, slowly inching them off, while her hands were busy with his clothes. It was awkward and clumsy, but in ten minutes they had undressed each other inside the bivouac sack.
It was a first for Bond . . . sex at 7,900 meters.
They used up the precious air in the canister quite quickly, but it was worth it.
TWENTY-THREE
BLOOD. SWEAT. AND DEATH
CHANDRA DID HIS BEST to follow Roland Marquis across the plateau. The wind was so fierce that it was an effort to place one foot in front of the other. Marquis’s footprints were covered within minutes of his making them, so Chandra had to force himself to keep moving or he would lose the trail. Using an ice ax as a walking stick, Chandra pulled himself forward one step at a time until he came to a rock face. Anchors and a rope had been affixed there, and there was no other possible route. Marquis had gone farther up.
Chandra found climbing the rock face surprisingly easier than walking against the wind. Here, the wind pushed him snugly against the wall. It took him nearly an hour, but he finally made it to the top, where a blast of wet snow and ice hit him in the face. He nearly lost his grip and fell, but he hung on for dear life and willed one leg to swing up and over the lip. Chandra slammed his ice ax into the rock and ice, using it as a lever to pull himself up. He lay there, totally exhausted, dangerously exposed to the vicious elements. He said a silent prayer to Shiva and breathed through his oxygen respirator for Several minutes, trying to regain some strength.
After an eternity, he knew he had to move or he would freeze to death. He rolled over and crawled away from the ledge, searching for some kind of shelter.
Through the blinding snow he saw a tent set up some forty meters away. That was where Marquis had holed up, Chandra thought. He wouldn’t be going anywhere until the storm let up, so the Gurkha figured he must find a bivouac for the night.
There was a Bergschrund to his left. His father had taught him how to enlarge a crack in the ice big enough to crawl into. It was his only hope. Mustering every ounce of strength, Chandra got to his feet and slowly moved forward.
He raised the ice ax and let it fall over and over as chunks of ice flew about him. It was tremendously hard work, and he had to stop every minute or so to take deep breaths of oxygen. His legs were beginning to feel numb, but he kept chopping.
Eventually, it was done. He had made a hole that he could crawl inside and assume the fetal position. He did so, closed his eyes, and was immediately asleep.
He awoke with a start. The storm had stopped, and the light of the new day was beginning to spread over the mountain. Chandra was stiff and cold, but alive.
Then he noticed his left hand. Somehow he had lost his glove during the climb or while he was digging the hole. His hand was completely frostbitten. The fingers were dark blue and the rest of the hand was purple. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were paralyzed. The skin was insensitive to touch.
He crawled out of the hole and stood. The rest of him appeared to be in one piece. With his good hand he slowly ripped off his backpack, opened it, and dug around for anything he could wrap around his hand. There was a prayer scarf that his father had given him when he was a boy, so he used that. It didn’t help much. He knew it was entirely possible he would lose the hand when they got back to civilization.
Never mind! he told himself. Get on with the job! He repeated the Gurkhali motto to himself, over and over: It is better to die than be a coward . . . it is better to die than be a coward. It served as a mantra of sorts. He found a bar of chocolate in his pack and ate it for energy, then put the pack on again and tromped forward toward Marquis’s tent.
Chandra flattened himself on the snow when he got around the glacier. Roland Marquis and Carl Glass were together, packing the tent. He decided to stay back and see where they went rather than confront them.
Soon they were off, moving toward the north ridge of the great mountain. What were they going to do? Summit? Were they mad?
Chandra followed them over the ridge, which was one route to the summit taken by many explorers over the years. But Marquis and Glass didn’t continue the ascent. They went over and down to a level plane, where four tents had been set up.
The Russians.
Chandra held back, got out his CWS and peered through it, watching Marquis’s every move.
Roland Marquis and Carl Glass had spent a rough night in the single tent. Marquis was anxious about the coming negotiations with the Russians, not sure if he wanted to go through with the deal he had arranged. In the early hours of the morning he had decided what he was going to do and made a plan with Glass.
They trekked to the Russian encampment, where they were greeted by two men with AK-47s. The sentries ushered them into a tent, where the leader, a man named Igor Mislov, was waiting.
He looked a lot like Joseph Stalin, with a thick black mustache and bushy eyebrows.
“Mr. Marquis!” he hailed in English. “Have some hot tea?”
“Thank you, Igor,” Marquis said. “It’s nice to meet face-to-face after all this time, eh?”
“Indeed, indeed.” Mislov looked curiously at Glass.
“Oh, this is my associate, Carl Glass,” Marquis said. “Igor Mislov.”
The men shook hands and sat down.
One of the guards served the tea, and it warmed Marquis considerably. Finally, he said, “Right, I have the specification for Skin 17. It’s worth . . . billions.”
Well, let’s see it!” the Russian said.
“It’s in the form of a microdot. The goddamned Union have been trying to get their hands on it, and they almost did. I got it first, and I even kept it from the Double-O agent who was on our team!”
“Ha!” Mislov roared. “Double-O agent? I didn’t know they still existed! When the KGB disbanded, I thought there was no more use for those guys.”
“One would think so,” Marquis agreed, humoring the man. “But I’m afraid SIS keeps them around to keep tabs on the Russian Mafia, too.”
Mislov dismissed the label with a wave of his hand. “Don’t call us that, it’s an idiotic name. We’re businessmen, that’s all. Russian Mafia—phooey! The Mafia lives in Sicily. We live in Moscow. That’s a long way from Sicily!” He laughed boisterously.
“Whatever you say, Igor,” Ma
rquis said. “Now let’s talk business. I’ve come a long fucking way to get here. You picked one hell of a rendezvous spot.”
Mislov shrugged. “I know how valuable Skin 17 is. I knew the Union were after it, too. We found out one of our team was working for them. He . . . uhm, met with an unfortunate accident. They are everywhere these days, those goddamned Union. I’ve done business with them, but they have no loyalty to customers. Hey, I saved you the trouble of having to carry Skin 17 all the way down the mountain. Who knows what might have happened to you? This is a dangerous place. That was some storm last night, huh?”
“There’s another one in about eight hours,” Marquis said. “We’d like to get going before it hits. Now—we had agreed upon a starting price of one billion dollars. We both know it’s worth more than that. What are you prepared to offer now?”
“Two billion American dollars. We can pay you fifty thousand dollars in uncut diamonds right now. The rest you’ll get in Kathmandu after we get out of here.”
“Are you mad?” Marquis asked. He had been afraid of this.
“Am I mad? What do you mean?”
“You think I’d let this go for only fifty thousand in diamonds?”
“Are you mad?” the Russian asked. Suddenly there was a heavy tension in the air. “You don’t think we would carry two billion dollars in cash up Kangchenjunga, do you? It was difficult enough carrying these goddamned diamonds.”
“Where are they?”
Mislov nodded at one of the two guards, who produced an ordinary water thermos. He unscrewed it and showed the contents to Marquis. It was full of off-color stones. Marquis recognized them as uncut diamonds. He nodded, and the guard replaced the lid.
“I’m afraid it won’t be enough,” Marquis said carefully. “Perhaps the Union will pay more.”
“Mr. Marquis, we, too, came a long way for this. You will sell us the specification, or things will get unpleasant.”
Marquis turned to Glass and gave him a well-rehearsed signal. “I don’t know, Igor, but it seems that since we last talked, the demand for Skin 17 has skyrocketed. The Union want it, my country wants it back, the Chinese want it . . . I understand there’s a few Belgians that want it. . .”
Glass heard the code word “Belgians,” pulled a Glock out of his pocket with lightning speed, and shot the two guards neatly and efficiently. Marquis drew his own Browning and held it to Mislov’s head. Glass picked up one of the AK-47s and aimed it at the tent flap. Two more men rushed in but saw that their leader was in danger.
“Tell them to drop their guns,” Marquis said. Mislov spoke to them in Russian, and they did as they were told. Marquis then nodded to Glass, who calmly blasted them with the automatic weapon.
“Now, Igor,” Marquis said. “You’re all alone. How much is the Russian Mafia willing to pay me now?”
Mislov swallowed hard, then stammered, “Two . . . two billion now, and two more when we reach Kathmandu.”
“You have it?”
“In diamonds, yes.”
“Where?”
Mislov gestured to a bag. Glass looked inside and found several ore water thermoses. They were each filled with uncut stones.
“Why the hell didn’t you offer us these diamonds before?”
Mislov shrugged and laughed nervously. “I’m a businessman. I was going to tell my superiors that we paid you the diamonds, but, of course, I would have kept the rest.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Igor. I accept your offer,” Marquis said, then pulled the trigger. The side of the Russians head exploded as the bullet slammed through it.
They were alone in the camp now. After a moment of silence Glass said, “Christ, Roland, we’re rich.” He began to stuff half of the thermoses into his pack. Marquis took the remainder and put them in his own.
“Come on, let’s go.”
They left the tent and started to move up the slope toward the north ridge. As they passed an icewall, Chandra Gurung jumped from a perch and tackled Carl Glass. Glass dropped the AK-47, and it slid on the ice toward the edge of a cliff and into space.
Both men got to their feet. Chandra slugged Glass hard in the face with his good fist, knocking him into Marquis, who was in the process of drawing the Browning. He, too, lost his grip on the gun, and it sailed into the air and lodged in a snowdrift behind Chandra. The Gurkha backed off and stood between the two men and the drift.
They were dangerously close to the precipice.
“You are both under arrest,” Chandra said. “You must accompany me back to Camp Five.”
Marquis laughed. Glass, not sure how to react, laughed with him.
“Oh, really!” Marquis said. “You are going to arrest us! I tell you what. How about we pay you twenty rupees to porter our bags for us?”
“Give me the pacemaker,” Chandra said. “And I will let you both live.”
“Carl, throw this stinking Gurung off the mountain.”
Glass, a sizable and very strong man, rushed Chandra. The Gurkha, however, was far better trained and much faster.
“Ayo Gurkhali!” Chandra shouted as he drew the khukri from the sheath at his side.
With one swift movement Chandra swung the khukri evenly and neatly. All it took was one stroke. Carl Glass’s head separated from his shoulders, spun around in the air, and sailed off the edge of the cliff-
The body stood there a moment, trembling, blood gushing from the gruesome wound at the top.
This so unnerved Marquis that he turned to flee. Chandra knocked Glass’s body over the cliff and ran in pursuit.
A slick rock face stood in Marquis’s path, but that didn’t stop him. Using an ice ax in one hand, he began to ascend, finding footholds and handholds where he could. There was no time to use hardware— this was climbing using brute strength and skill.
Chandra stood at the bottom of the wall and looked up at the figure who was already thirty feet ahead of him. He didn’t know if he could do it. His left hand was useless. How could he climb with only one good hand? Should he let the traitor go?
The mantra reemerged in the Gurkha’s head: It is better to die than be a coward.
With determination Chandra swung his ice ax at the rock, lodged it in tightly, and pulled himself up. His boots found edges in the rock to hold his weight as he hugged the wall. He pulled out the ax, almost losing his balance in doing so, but swung it back into the rock just as quickly. It was slow going, but he managed to ascend a few feet with every try. Marquis, on the other hand, was rapidly approaching the top of the ridge.
Chandra had climbed twenty feet when the air in the respirator noticeably changed. The oxygen canister was empty! He winced, spat the respirator out of his mouth, took a lungful of cold, biting air, and kept going.
He looked up at his prey and saw that Marquis was sitting on the ridge, watching him. The man had something shiny and metallic in his hand. Marquis let it go, and the tool fell straight for Chandra. It was a carabiner, and it struck the Gurkha on the shoulder. The surprise almost caused Chandra to let go of the ice ax.
He had to get down. He couldn’t climb farther or he would surely die.
Marquis extracted an ice screw from his pack, held it in the air, and dropped it.
The object struck Chandra on the head. He clung to the handle of the ax, hugging the wall, praying that his feet wouldn’t slip. He was breathing in gasps, and never knew that pain could be so severe.
A few seconds later, another ice screw struck him on the forehead, successfully disorienting him enough for him to lose his balance.
One foot slipped. He struggled to hold on to the ax handle, but it was wet and slippery now. He reached with his dead left hand, but this proved to be the fatal handicap. The other boot lost its footing as his hand slipped away from the ax. He fell backward into thin air and bounced off the edge of the cliff.
Instead of screaming, the Gurkha was aware of the words running through his head as he plummeted to the vast lower depths.
It is better to die t
han be a coward . . . it is better to die than . . .
Roland Marquis cursed the fact that Carl Glass had been carrying half of the diamonds. He didn’t know how much he had in his own pack, but it wouldn’t be enough to buy his way out of England and into a foreign country where he could hide behind a false identity and live out the rest of his life in splendor. That had been the plan, such as it was.
If only the Union hadn’t interfered. Nevertheless, this was still his show, and he wasn’t going to let anyone wreck it—not them, not the Russians, not the damned Gurkha, and certainly not James Bond.
He could still find a buyer for Skin 17. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps he could sell it to the Union! They wanted it badly enough. Their incompetent minion, Schrenk, had been unsuccessful in getting it. Perhaps they would pay him a handsome fee. After all, they had employed him before to help steal it in the first place. It was only a matter of finding the right person to talk to. He hadn’t known who Steven Harding’s contact was. When Harding had approached him several months before with the Union’s pitifully low offer, he could see that the doctor was a greedy bastard and could be turned. He had talked Harding into going along with the Union’s orders, but instead of delivering the specification to them, Harding and he would “lose it, sell it to the Russian Mafia, and make even more money together. Harding had been afraid of the Union, but Marquis was able to ease his fears. They had worked together. They had stolen the formula and were successful in diverting it from the Union. Now he had it and could name his price.
Would the Union seek revenge on him? Would they refuse to deal with him? He thought not. They wanted it too badly. They were probably the most likely buyers. The Chinese would offer too little. He didn’t know who was behind the Belgian team, but he didn’t care. They were probably being funded by a European consortium of some kind.
The trick would be contacting the Union before they found him. He wasn’t sure how he would do it, but he had plenty of connections. He would go back to Camp Five, keep the pacemaker under wraps, and try to avoid Bond at all costs, if he was still alive.
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