‘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.’
13 - The Maidens's Tower
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.
M heard scuffling outside the door. She quickly got up, hurried to the stone cot and lay down.
The keys rattled in the door and Gabor stuck his head inside. Not noticing the stool, he looked at the prisoner and the condition of her cell. M’s eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. Nothing seemed amiss. Satisfied, he shut the door behind him and locked it.
After waiting a moment, M scrambled back to the floor, reached out and grabbed the clock. She opened the back and found two AA batteries. She took them out and set them on the stone cot. Next, she got her keys out of the handbag. She began to wedge the thinnest key into the top of one of the batteries. She chiselled until the terminal came off. She repeated the process with the other battery, except that she levered off the opposite end.
Now all she had to do was connect the batteries to the copper terminals on the locator card and she just might be in business . . .
Elektra King shivered slightly and put on a silk robe. Unable to sleep, she decided that she might as well get up.
The maiden of the tower paced her bedroom, pausing every so often to look out of the window at the night sky. In less than twelve hours, she thought, it would all be over. She would be safely back in England and would make a grief- stricken, compassionate statement to the media. She would pledge that she would do everything in her power to see that King Industries did its part in helping the world get back on its feet in the aftermath of the disaster.
Disaster . . .
It was a word that accurately described what was about to happen. She smiled wickedly at the thought. It was a brilliant plan! No one could possibly trace the catastrophe back to her. M would be dead. Her own people were loyal. It was too bad about Renard. . . but it was his choice to see the plan through to its deadly end. He didn’t have long to live anyway. She would miss him, but he was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. She couldn’t help it if the poor fool was in love with her. He had served his purpose. It would have been nice to have him around, but with his head injury . . . and lack of feelings ... he couldn’t satisfy her now in the way that other men — men like James Bond — could. Elektra had conflicting emotions about Renard. On the one hand he had kidnapped her ... on the other, they had shared an unparalleled intimacy . . .
And what about James Bond? He was the only unknown factor in all this. He was probably on his way to Istanbul. It had been wise of her to bring The Bull into her employ. Anyone could be bought, and he was no exception. The man with the gold teeth had his orders, so she put the MI6 agent out of her head as best she could. James Bond would never find her in time. He would die along with millions of others.
Elektra reflected on this thought for a moment. Millions of people were going to die. It was a terrible thing. Elektra clinched her fists and repeated to herself that millions of people had died over the centuries for all sorts of reasons.
Besides, with the wealth that she would amass over the next ten years, she could rebuild the entire country.
Maybe they would even make her their ruler . . .
She gazed at the stars in the sky and thought of her parents. Well, father? she silently asked. What do you think of your ‘little princess' now? Are you proud? Have I not shown initiative? If only you could be here to see the new global order as dictated by your daughter. Elektra King. . . Queen of the World. . . She liked the sound of that.
Then she heard it again . . . her mother’s lullaby. It was off in the distance, softly floating over the waters of the Bosphorus. Elektra began to rock from side to side with the music, singing it to herself.
litis is all for you, mother, she thought. I'm doing this for you.
Aren't you proud of your little girl? Smile, mother. Your daughter loves you.
As if on cue, the first sliver of morning sunlight struck the dark sky.
Renard took several men to the quay that had been fashioned beneath the ancient arched underbelly of a waterside building attached to the tower. The structure had existed for centuries, designed to protect ships when they were docked at the islet. When King Industries took over the property, all they had to do was install lights, a dock with a platform and steps, and they had a berth for a ship ... or a submarine.
He looked at his watch. 12:30. A little late, but not too bad . . .
The long black shadow of the SSGN could be seen beneath the waves. A mass of bubbles appeared as the huge vessel began to rise. Finally, the conning tower broke the surface and the submarine came to a halt.
Renard and his men stepped down to the platform and waited. After a moment, the hatch opened and a youthful captain emerged.
‘Captain Nikolai . . Renard said.
‘Sir,’ the captain replied. ‘Ready to load your cargo. We have only a few hours before we’ll be missed.’
‘You came with a skeleton crew?’
‘That’s all we can afford these days!’
‘Of course ... We have brandy and refreshments for your men.'
Nikolai beamed as two of Renard’s men came forward with baskets of goods.
Renard was pleased. The deal Elektra had made with the captain’s uncle paid off. From what he knew of Valentin Zukovsky, the captain bore a strong resemblance. The young Russian shared his uncle’s thirst for money, for it didn’t take a lot to persuade him to ‘borrow’ the submarine from the Navy for a few hours. After all, if a captain of a nuclear submarine decided to go on silent patrol, who was to stop him? It wasn’t unusual for subs to be out of touch for a period of time.
Nikolai and his men would prove to be very useful indeed. They were strong, eager, and hungry. They would obey orders without question.
It was too bad they would all have to die.
Eski Istanbul, or the Old City, woke up to the dawn with the usual hustle and bustle of street vendors moving their carts into place at the Grand Bazaar. It is here where remnants of Turkey’s colourful history manifest themselves in a single place. Eski is the ancient Byzantium/Constantinople/Istanbul of centuries past, and it is here where the great palaces, mosques, hippodromes, churches, monumental columns, and the markets are located.
Not far from the Grand Bazaar is a very old power station. It was closed down during the Second World War and was never demolished, supposedly for some historical reason. The locals generally ignored it, as if it wasn’t there. The truth, as Valentin Zukovsky explained it to James Bond and Christmas Jones as they arrived after the overnight trip from Baku, was that it served as a KGB safe house during the Cold War.
‘Now it’s the FSS,’ he said. ‘Federal Security Services. Same old friendly service. New name.’
The building was full of Soviet generators, out-dated electric typewriters and computers, copiers, and surveillance equipment ranging from ten to forty years old. Men and women were busy at various terminals as if the Cold War had never ended.
Zukovsky led the
couple to a radio operator. The Bull, carrying a brown briefcase, followed not far behind.
‘Did you raise him?’ Zukovsky asked.
'Nyet. Nothing,’ the operator replied.
‘Try scanning the emcrgcncy frequencies,’ Bond suggested.
‘Are you sure you have no clue what kind of cargo your nephew agreed to transport?’ Christmas asked.
‘No, I swear,’ Zukovsky said. ‘All I know is that he was being paid a million dollars, minus my commission, of course, to borrow a Russian Navy boat, come to Istanbul from the Black Sea, and pick up some stuff. I have no idea what. He could get away with it, you see, because he is a captain.’
They moved on to a large map of the Bosphorus and the Black Sea, complete with scattered multi-coloured pins.
Zukovsky sighed. ‘A tragedy. In the old days, we had a hundred places where a submarine could surface undetected.’ Bond put a hand on Zukovsky’s arm. ‘A submarine! Why didn’t you tell us?’
Zukovsky shrugged. ‘Didn’t I? I assumed you knew. My nephew is captain of a submarine.’
‘What class is your nephew running?’
‘Charlie class . . .’
‘Nuclear.’ It all came together for Bond. ‘Valentin, your nephew didn’t borrow the boat to load cargo. Renard wants the sub itself.’ He looked at Christmas. ‘They want to use the reactor.’
‘That’s it!’ Christmas concurred. ‘You put weapons grade plutonium in that sub’s reactor and you get instant, catastrophic meltdown. The submarine becomes the bomb.’ ‘And it’s made to look like an accident,’ Bond said.
‘But why?' Zukovsky asked.
He pointed to the map. ‘Because all of the existing pipelines from the Caspian Sea go to the north, to here — where the oil is put on tankers and shipped across the Black Sea to Istanbul. The explosion would destroy Istanbul, contaminating the Bosphorus for decades. There’d be only one way to get the oil out of the Caspian Sea.’
‘Through the south . . . the King pipeline,’ Christmas said. ‘Elektra ’s pipeline.’
Bond Movies 06 - The World Is Not Enough Page 14