‘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.’
12 - Prisoner of the Past
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 sai
d, 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.
‘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.
Bond Movies 06 - The World Is Not Enough Page 13