John Gardner (18 page)

“About another country?” Trevelyan gave a high, one breath, laugh.

“It’s true, Ourumov. He’s a Lienz Cossack and you know they all have long memories of the purges. He has no love for you or your kind.

He’ll betray you. Just like he’s betrayed everyone else.”

“This is true?” Ourumov asked again, and was cut off by Trevelyan.

“What’s true is that in forty-eight to seventy-two hours you and I will have more money and more power than God. By then, Mr. Bond here will have only a small memorial service, and I doubt if there’ll be many people left to attend it. Should there be, it’ll be Moneypenny weeping and a dozen or so restaurateurs worrying about their bank balances. But a lot of people’ll be worrying about their bank balances by then.” He paused for it to sink in. “So what’s it to be, James?

Two targets. Time for one shot.

Which way will you jump? The girl or the mission?” Bond shrugged.

“Kill the girl if you like. She means nothing to me.” Natalya let out a little moan which seemed to come from deep inside her.

“See you in hell, James.” He nodded his command to Ourumov to kill the girl, but the general was off his guard now and Natalya sucked in that extra adrenalin. She broke free and kneed him in the groin, diving away from him as she did so, leaving Bond a clear shot.

The pistol barked, sounding like a cannon in the enclosed space of the carriage and, as though in slow motion, the top of Ourumov’s head disappeared in a fine red mist

Bond ducked sideways, threw himself down near Natalya and came up shooting. His first two rounds went high, to the left. By the time he resighted, the door at the far end was open and Xenia, followed by Trevelyan, was through the gap. Two more shots splintered the woodwork, but they were out and away. As he reached the door, he heard the sound of bolts being thrown. Almost at the same time great thick armoured shields came clanging down over the windows.

“We’re in an armour-plated coffin,’ Bond said quietly.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you, James. Good of you to ask.”

“I’m sorry, but..

The one big computer, on the desk from where Bond had snatched the Beretta, suddenly beeped, and Natalya turned her head. Took one look and shouted, “Boris?”

“Where?”

“Somewhere out there.” She pushed him to one side and swung into the chair, her hands on the keyboard, rattling away.

“Natalya, what in hell’re you doing?”

“James, let me get on with it. Somewhere out there, in the real world, Boris is sitting at a computer. That’s where you’d expect him to be. He’s only alive when he’s at a computer. He could be anywhere - Timbukthree.

“Timbuktu.”

“Two. Right. Now, this is his programme. He’s backing up all his files and he’s reachable. If I can send a spike down the line, I could trace exactly where he is. Would that help?”

“Just a lot. “Good, then let me do it.” She growled at him, “Well, don’t just stand there, man, get us out of here.”

“Yes, sir.

Certainly, sir. Three bags full, sir.” He turned his attention to the floor, and removing a large Swiss Army knife from its hiding place in the waistband of his slacks, he began to cut away a wide section of the carpeting.

Outside, Trevelyan and Xenia had jumped from the train.

“I only hope to God that it wasn’t damaged in the blast” He sounded concerned now. “If it was then we can say goodbye to everything.” They stood back from the forward coach, the front of which looked a little charred and burned from the explosion.

Taking what looked like a small TV remote controller from his pocket, Trevelyan aimed it at the carriage and pressed.

There was a rumbling and the four sides fell away on hinges to reveal a sleek, black, little helicopter.

“We did it!” Xenia shouted as she and Trevelyan ran up one of the long, oblong sides and onto the flatbed truck, moving as a team, unclipping padded metal restraining locks from around the machine.

Seconds later, Trevelyan ducked underneath the middle carriage and heard the sounds of Bond at work. His hand slid up to a black box towards the front of the carriage, opened it and punched in some numbers.

By the time he reappeared, Xenia had the engine running and the rotors turning. A few seconds later the helicopter lifted off, with Trevelyan at the controls. He flew in a wide arc and then hovered over the centre carriage, speaking quickly into a sound system which magnified his voice.

Natalya was typing furiously, the read-out on her monitor flashing and changing: C:> CD SPIKE C:>SPIKE C:>SEND SPIKE ENTER She slammed a forefinger onto the enter key and the prompt came up: C:>SPIKE SENT She gave a wild war whoop. “Got him, I hope.” Then they both heard the disembodied voice of Janus, Alec Trevelyan, coming from above.

“Good luck with the floor, James. I set the timers for three minutes. The same three minutes you gave me back near Archangel. It was the least I could do for an old friend.” An intermittent beeping sounded from below them, and red lights began to flash above each door in the carriage.

“What does that mean?” Natalya sounded anxious.

“It means we’ve got exactly sixty seconds to get out.”

“Oh.” She went back to the keyboard, typing even faster.

Bond had the carpet stripped back to expose the metal floor. He pulled his watch from his wrist, turned the bezel so that two marks were aligned, then he pressed one of the buttons flanking the main stem. A thin, bright laser beam hissed out of the side. Lowering it, he began to slice through the steel, tearing it away and making a wide circle.

The watch was one of the most useful things Q had ever provided him with.

Natalya had typed in a further command: C:> FOLLOW SPIKE TRACE.

Her screen dissolved and a map appeared in its place. She followed the red line that traced itself across the graphics of the world, talking as it went.

“He’s not in Russia, Germany, Paris, Madrid, Rome, London.” Her voice became faster and faster as the line followed Boris, and the confusing route he had taken.

“New York, Washington, Miami, Key West

“Twenty seconds…” Bond shouted.

“Cuba. James, he’s in Cuba.

Bond thumped the centre of the laser tracing and a circular sheet of steel dropped to the ground below the carriage. “Fifteen,’ he yelled.

“Havana! Got him No. No, he’s out of there. To the north but still in Cuba..

“Near enough!” He yanked at the back of her shirt, dragged her from the chair and dropped her through the hole, following her with about five seconds to go.

They crawled out very quickly and he flung her down, covering her body, just as the three carriages went up with a roar, engulfed in flame.

Natalya sprinted up to the far side of the bank, Bond went after her, again ending up shielding her.

She smiled up at him. “Wow! Was it good for you?”

“A shade too close for comfort.”

“I don’t get it, James. What is it with you? Do you destroy every vehicle you get into?”

“It does seem to have become a kind of operating procedure.

“Well, I think I should make the arrangements for our trip to Cuba.’ “Our trip?”

“You don’t think I’m going to leave you to finish this on your own, do you? Anyway, do you know how to dismantle Mischa?’ “Actually, now that you mention it, no. We may need some help.”

“Can you find it?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“Good. Now, James, are there any other operating procedures I should know about?”

“Thousands.” He smiled at her, his lips drifting down towards her mouth. “Don’t worry, though. I only pay them lip service.”

“I can’t think of a better way,’ said Natalya Simonova as she lifted her face, and then her body, to his.

There were a lot of problems and the first, which should have been the easiest, proved to be the most difficult.

They were on foot, some six or seven miles from the centre of St. Petersburg. In these days of the new Russian democracy, it was not always a good idea to be without transport.

Bond also needed a telephone to accomplish the most essential hurdle: getting in touch with Jack Wade, his only backup.

They walked for several miles, happily unmolested but for a beggar who insisted on singing for them in a highpitched tuneless voice. From what Bond could make out, the words had something to do with, “Oh, my suffering brothers’. As the man sang, so he thought he heard the sound of a bell in the distance. The bell was also tuneless, like the snapping of a wire.

Against his better judgement, he gave the man a fortune - five dollars - and asked Natalya what it was all about.

“Oh, it’s an old revolutionary song, from before the Bolshevik days,’ she told him.

Finally, they reached a grubby little restaurant where the proprietor agreed to let them use his telephone for a price, and on condition that they had breakfast, paying for that as well.

Bond dialled the number Jack Wade had given him and got Wade’s voice telling him to leave a message and have a nice day. He told the CIA man where they were, that they needed transport and a lot of other favours.

The coffee was surprisingly good, and they also ate some smoked herring with black bread.

They had just finished eating when two police cars squealed to a halt outside.

“The game’s up,’ Bond whispered. “We’re in trouble.” The proprietor had other ideas. He was obviously a man who had some kind of grudge against authority in any shape or form. He came out from behind the counter like a greyhound unleashed.

Whispering in rapid Russian, the man quickly shepherded them through the back room, up a short flight of stairs and into a large cupboard which contained cans and boxes of prepackaged food and cooking oil. Black Market, Bond thought, then the proprietor put his finger to his lips and closed the door, leaving them in pitch dark.

Natalya’s hand came up to his face, her fingers exploring eyes, nose, mouth and chin.

Bond drew her close, leaned over and found her mouth with his. At first she did not respond as his lips caressed hers, then, like throwing a switch, he felt her body thrust against his, and she opened her mouth.

From below came the sound of argument, then laughter. After around twenty minutes they heard the proprietor’s footsteps on the stairs. He grinned as he opened the door.

“Some fools have been tampering with weapons and railway equipment.” He gave them a gap-toothed grin.

“The Police and Security Organs are looking for a man and a woman.

I try not to bother with these people so I told them I’d had no customers this morning. Good? Yes?”

“Very good.” Bond gave him money which made him even happier.

About half an hour later, Wade turned up, still in the battered old Moscovich, flashing a radiant smile. In the car, heading back to the hotel, Bond gave him a shopping list which included tickets on the first available plane to the United States, a valid passport with the right visas for Natalya, and some changes of clothes for the girl.

“This ain’t gonna be the easiest job in the world.” Wade’s voice was languid, as though it did not matter one way or the other to him.

“On the other hand it ain’t gonna be impossible.” He suddenly swung the car across the road, hanging a right into narrow country lane.

“There’s no room to pass anything.” Bond sounded irritable. “Why this farm track, Jack?”

“Because of the road blocks and their other games, James.

“Road blocks?” Natalya was getting edgy.

“Yeah, like cars, saw horses, cops, KGB…

“KGB doesn’t exist any more,’ Natalya bridled.

“Sure, that’s why everyone still calls it that, or the old name Cheka. Interchangeable, babe. If you don’t know that, someone’s been putting happy dust into your breakfast cereal. I don’t know a single Russian who calls KGB anything else but KGB - yesterday, today, forever, like the ads for that musical, Kittens.”

“Cats,’ Bond corrected.

“Whatever. Anyways, the outskirts are crawling with people looking to do dangerous things to you. I did a quick checkup, and for some reason they don’t seem to know where you’ve been staying, James.

They not take your passport at the hotel?”

“No. The booking was what in the trade is known as clandestine.”

“Our trade as well. Gee, we use the same words; and they say Britain and America are two countries separated by the same language.

After a pause, Bond asked if he understood Wade correctly. “What you’re saying is that nobody’s got the hotel under surveillance?”

“Clean as the proverbial whistle. No pack drill, no names, James.”

“So what else?’ “We can sneak around these lanes and the back streets.

Once we’re in central St. Petersburg there doesn’t seem to be a general alert. These people’re funny. I guess they figure that nobody would be stupid enough to come right into town.”

“And?”

“And that’s the good news. The bad news is that the train stations and airports are crawling with the secret squirrels. You’re both gonna need new passports, and I fear we’re forced to use some old-fashioned remedy, like disguise.” Bond hated disguises; never felt happy wearing them; found it difficult to take on some new role. He made a lame protest, saying he wasn’t going to wear fancy dress, not for anybody.

“Don’t worry, James. We’ll be subtle. We won’t put you in drag.

Just age you a bit, and Natalya can be aged down.

It’ll be cool. Don’t worry.

At the hotel, nobody challenged them. They showered and then waited, wondering if Jack Wade would really come up with the goods.

He was, in fact, surprisingly fast, and at around seven o’clock he arrived at their room with a case full of what he insisted on calling “goodies’ plus a pair of flight bags.

There was an American passport for Bond, complete with a new face which sported large heavy spectacles, grey hair and a chubbier face.

These last changes were simple: a grey rinse for the hair, and foam pads to go into his cheeks.

“Don’t try and drink anything while you’re wearing those in your mouth, James. They tend to suck up liquids so you spray everyone.

“I read that in an upmarket espionage novel somewhere.” He went into the bathroom, rinsed his hair with the special preparation, put the glasses on, and slid the pads into his cheeks. The change in his appearance was really quite remarkable, and he emerged into the sitting room to find Wade with a young schoolgirl he did not recognise.