Bond - 29 - Goldeneye Read online

  He cried out as he reached his summit for the third time in two hours, and, as he did so, she made a quick subtle movement with her thighs, flipping him over so that he lay face downwards on the bed.

  With soft, soothing words she began to wrap her strong legs around his body, moving slightly so that eventually she held him in a scissors grip, her thighs wrapped around his chest, slowly loosening and tightening her hold in a manner which made him gasp with pleasure until she suddenly began tensing the muscles as though she were attempting to draw his entire body into hers.

  He gasped and cried out - Xenia No. I can't breathe I. No..

  It was doubtful if she even heard him as she flexed the muscles even tighter. This was the technique of a boa constrictor and she felt the bones crack in his chest, with half her mind registering the inevitable crunching horror of ribs crumbling.

  At the moment of his asphyxiation Xenia Onatopp cried out in her own final and conclusive orgasm - Yes Ahhhhh Yes! Yes! ...

  Yeeeessssss!" It was a technique she had used many times during her life, and her masters knew how effective she could be. A secret weapon like a spider who consumes its mate after the sex act.

  She swayed to and fro, still rubbing herself against his corpse, moaning and supremely satisfied in her moment of glory.

  She flicked the dead body onto its back, then slowly unwound herself, as though woken from a trance by the soft knock on the stateroom door.

  She opened up, unconcerned about her nakedness.

  A familiar figure stood in the doorway. "The spider and the admiral, huh?" the man said as he gently took her in his arms and rocked her as one will lull a child into comfort or sleep.

  Bond had already taken the small sailing boat along the coastline.

  Two days before, when M's representative~ Caroline, had demanded that he should show her his proficiency with the little craft which he had rented together with the tiny villa, right on the shoreline near Cap Ferrat.

  In the early hours of that morning, he prepared for another journey: showering first with scalding water and then with an ice cold needle spray.

  He towelled himself down roughly, and went through his exercises, the sit-ups and push-ups that were his normal routine first thing in the morning. The fact that he had been awake all night made no difference for tomorrow was now, and it helped his discipline to act as though he had just risen from a deep and long sleep. He had, in fact, taken a cat nap lasting for less than an hour. Over the years he had learned the art of sleeping, even on his feet, for an accurate amount of time: drawing from this a new energy as though he had taken a full eight hours of refreshment.

  He shaved and dressed - slacks, a white sea island cotton shirt, soft espadrilles and blazer - in his usual time, then went through the small living room into the tiny kitchen where he carefully cooked his normal breakfast, or near enough his normal breakfast - the best meal of the day, and the most important he always considered.

  the coffee was not his much beloved De Bry brewed in an American Chemex, but it was near enough and brewed in an earthenware jug. He had managed to lay his hands on Cooper's Vintage Marmalade, wholewheat bread for his toast and eggs very similar to the ones from French Marans hens. Unhappily there was none of the deep yellow Jersey butter, but he found the local variety very much to his taste.

  He took his time over the two cups of coffee, the egg boiled for exactly three and one third minutes and his slices of toast

  He sat for a full hour after eating. It was now almost four o'clock in the morning and the day ahead promised some action, though that niggling little worry remained hidden at the back of his head. He had returned to it time and again during the night, but it remained as elusive as a four-leafed clover.

  Before leaving the villa he packed and readied himself for a fast getaway, for he was reasonably certain that, whatever lay in store for him today, M was likely to summon him back to London before long.

  Eventually he went down to the short wooden jetty and made ready to cast off. He wanted his timing to be as accurate as possible for he planned to hide in plain sight among the other yachts and small craft which usually dotted the waters around Monte Carlo from first light.

  Joining the pleasure seekers and lotus eaters of the area, he would simply be one small craft among many.

  It was after five in the morning when he finally cast off and set a course out to sea, for he wanted to sail in a wide circle, coming inshore only at the last moment.

  The trip was uneventful, and, as expected, he found himself in the company of yachts, sail boats and motor launches by around nine-thirty.

  Manticore rode at anchor in the same position as she had done during the previous evening so he circled the long sleek seagoing yacht at a distance, his eyes raking the ship for signs of life. By nine forty-five he saw the tender being readied on the starboard side - the side nearest the harbour exit to the sea. He also noted that Manticore had a second small motorboat, in the water, riding off the stern.

  Gently he manoeuvred his craft around to the port side, bringing her close in to the yacht which had a line draped over the side amidships, presumably to be ready should the tender or motorboat decide to come inboard on the port side.

  He grabbed at the line and took the strain. It was firmly secured on the deck and strong enough for him to climb with no difficulty, so he tied up his own little sailboat and heaved himself up the curving flank of Manticore, nimbly vaulting over the rail, stopping still and silent the moment his feet touched the deck.

  He could hear the sounds of orders being issued, and the grumble of the tender's engines from the starboard side. Whoever crewed the vessel was well occupied over there so he slipped forward, heading towards the main saloon.

  Inside, the saloon was decorated with style and its fittings and furniture were there for comfort - a long bar taking up the length of one side, deep leather armchairs scattered around the entire room which stretched the width of the ship. Paintings of obvious value were set under lights on the walls, and there was a wide passageway running from the saloon forward on the port side.

  Silently, Bond moved along the passage until he came to an ornate sliding carved wooden door. Gently he tried the handle. The door swung open, and he slipped inside, closing it behind him. He was in a bedroom given over to sensuality: a mirrored ceiling, erotica on the walls and the scent of death reaching his nostrils before he saw the shattered body on the bed.

  The ports were open, but the incoming breeze did nothing to disperse the odour he had smelled too many times in his life, and there, sprawled hideously on the bed, was the naked and broken body of Rear Admiral Chuck Farrel. In death his face was not in repose. The eyes were fixed on his reflection in the mirror above the bed, his mouth contorted in a wide open grimace as though he had died in some kind of revolting ecstasy.

  There seemed to be music drifting into this bizarre scene, and it took a moment for Bond to realise that it was floating in from the French warship he had noted both last night and on his way into the harbour that morning.

  He could see the ship dressed overall through one of the ports.

  He could also see Manticore's tender rapidly crossing the stretch of sea towards the French ship, and in the tender were two people: Xenia Onatopp and the admiral who lay dead in front of his eyes.

  The band on the French naval vessel was playing a selection of sea shanties and, as he peered out, he saw the outline of the helicopter.

  In that moment, the fact for which his mind had been searching since the previous night came into focus. He felt the blood drain from his face and his lips automatically formed one word - Tigre!"

  "Of course,' he whispered to himself as all the pieces slotted into place. "Of course, Tigre!" He did not even hear the door open behind him as his brain made several lightning calculations.

  The Tigre's A Wonderful Thing There were two of them, dressed like deck hands in striped T-shirts with Manticore across the front, black bellbottomed slacks and sof
t shoes. As Bond turned, he did not see them as deck hands. He recognised the type.

  Hoodlums. Trained hoodlums, the kind the bad old KGB used way back then, in their Boyevaya Gruppa - their "combat gangs' that dispensed broken legs and bullets through the backs of heads. One stood three steps inside the stateroom, the other took one pace inside, moving behind, and to his coMr.ade's left.

  In the back of his mind Bond baptised them. Tub o' Lard was three steps in, while Big Muscle was behind.

  "Come for the body, have you?" As he spoke, Bond feinted to the right, trying to bring Big Muscle forward.

  It had the desired effect and he came fast as Bond jumped to his left, sticking out his right leg, catching the oncoming man's ankle.

  Momentum carried Big Muscle forward so that he landed, at speed, head first against the foot of the bed.

  By this time, Bond had grappled with Tub o' Lard, a head shorter, heavier, fatter version of the same species as Big Muscle, going close in and grasping with both hands at the man's left wrist, bringing his left knee up hard into the groin so that the thug gave a gurgle of pain and doubled over.

  "Makes your eyes water, doesn't it?" He jerked with all his strength on Tub o' Lard's left arm, heard the bone crack out of joint in the shoulder, ducked under the now useless limb, bringing it up to the middle of the man's back, bending him even further forward and hoping to blazes that there were not any more like him within earshot because Tub o' Lard was now screaming with agony, great schoolboy bellows of pain interspersed with Russian oaths.

  Bond positioned the man so that his head pointed directly at his partner who had managed to get to his feet, dazed a little, but turning in on Bond as he grappled with the screaming, doubled up, incapacitated assailant. He let go of the wrist, stepped back and brought the hard leading edge of his right hand down in a heavy chop to the back of Tub o' Lard's neck. There was a whoof of pain which seemed to come from deep within his victim who crumpled up and would have collapsed onto the state-room floor if Bond had not caught him by his belt and the neck of his T-shirt, using him as a battering ram, hurling the body head first directly at Big Muscle's face.

  The bullet head caught Big Muscle, covering a large amount of territory. The various crunches came, Bond thought, from nose, right cheek-bone and mouth. There was quite a lot of blood. There was also loss of consciousness for both of them.

  "You should really try to stay ahead of the game, he muttered, turning and leaving the stateroom at speed. If this did concern the Tigre helicopter sitting on the pad which was the stern of the French vessel, he would have little time to spare.

  Manticore was obviously operating with a skeleton crew or some of her crew must be ashore, for there was nobody else on deck. Bond raced to the stern and pulled at the line which reached out to the motorboat he had seen on his way in.

  It took time to get the little craft inboard on the starboard side. Time and a lot of sweat, but eventually she was there and he was able to slip down the ladder and jump into the cockpit.

  The engine started immediately, at the first try, and he swung the boat away from Manticore, pointed it in the direction of the French ship, opened the throttle to full power and, with some relief, felt the craft leap forward and begin to bump across the water.

  As he came closer to the warship, he could make out the crowd gathering into a series of raked seats which had been arranged facing the stern and the helicopter. The machine looked like a larger and more chunky version of the old Cheyenne with a big bulbous nose, a long, sleek cockpit canopy and bigger stubby wings from which hung a very mixed bag of weapons - rockets mainly, though above the wing a couple of large calibre machine guns took care of any close-in firing.

  He should have thought about this sooner: the file had been on his desk before leaving for the evaluation in the field. The Tigre, still officially classified, France's advanced piece of flying hardware, was to be shown off to a load of bigwigs whom the French Navy were hosting at an all-expenses-paid junket in Monte Carlo.

  When he reached the side of the ship, Bond had to wait in line while two other tenders discharged officers and their wives.

  In the main they were in uniform and were obviously naval or air attach~s or visiting high~ranking diplomats.

  Finally, he climbed the ladder and flashed his official card at the young sub.lieutenant. "Commander Bond.

  Royal Navy Intelligence,' he snapped as though he would personally rip the nose off anyone who doubted him. The young officer did not even query him as he turned towards the quarterdeck and saluted.

  He was walking towards the stern, eyes everywhere looking for Ms Onatopp and her "Admiral', but they seemed to have disappeared, or were out of view on the port side. On the helicopter pad the Tigre's big engines started up, then were eased back into idle, the main rotor blades turning lazily as a ground crew member climbed down from the high canopy.

  He was about to find some way across when there was a familiar click from the public address system and a voice began an official welcome "Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin the demonstration of this extraordinary aircraft." The announcement was in French, rapidly repeated in English, German and Italian.

  Discreetly, Bond moved through the invited guests and managed to find a seat on the very edge of the viewing platform as the commentary continued "What you are going to see is a demonstration of Europes addition to modern warfare: the first working prototype of the Tigre helicopter. Uniquely manoeuvrable, the Tigre helicopter not only uses the latest in Stealth technology, but also it is the only helicopter to be hardened against all forms of electronic interference, radio jamming and electromagnetic radiation. Now, the Tigre's test crew are ready.

  Let me introduce you to Lieutenant-Commander Bernard Jaubert and Lieutenant Fran~ois Brouse." The band struck up "Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines', and two figures appeared from the crew room which was obviously situated somewhere to their right on the port side.

  They were already in flight coveralls, with helmets in place, and when they came into Bond's line of vision as they reached the helicopter, he felt a lurch of recognition.

  The pilot was slightly built, but he could identify the walk anywhere: the cat-like tread of Xenia Onatopp.

  There was a pause of maybe three seconds as the two figures swarmed up the ladder taking them to the long domed canopy. They were about to settle into the cockpit and electronics station when Bond leaped to his feet and lunged forward, heading straight towards the helicopter.

  There were a couple of screams and some shouts.

  Bandsmen were scattered, and he had almost reached the edge of the pad before several brawny Naval Police grabbed him.

  "Stop them!" he yelled. "They're not your crew! Stop !" He was thrown to the deck struggling, while the police held him down. He sucked in air and began to shout again, but was drowned out by the Tigre's engines.

  An officer had joined them and was mouthing something at him, but his hearing was blanked off by the thunder from the chopper.

  He threw one of his captors off and battled his way to his feet, still restrained by the other three as he watched the machine take off, lifting very fast and then going into an almost impossible Rate Fiv turn, something you did not see helicopters do as a rule. There was a scatter of applause from the assembled dignitaries as the helicopter pointed its nose towards the sky and climbed with a speed that seemed to match some jet fighters, then it fell away, doing a perfect Immelman Turn, and at that moment a white-faced naval policeman came running up, almost babbling at the officer -"They're dead." He was breathless.

  "In the crew room, sir. The flight crew're dead. The Lieutenant Commander's been shot. Lieutenant Brouse has had his throat cut!" The officer looked around him, as though he were searching for some way to reverse the facts he was hearing.

  In the distance the engine noise of the Tigre was getting fainter.

  "You are part of some plot." He stubbed a finger into Bond's chest "Who are you?"

/>   "Commander Bond, Royal Navy. Intelligence. I was trying to warn you.

  "But who the hell.. ?"

  "Janus,' Bond mouthed, his eyes hard and his face set as though carved in hard stone. "The Russian Janus Crime Syndicate."

  "So, the Janus Crime Syndicate?" M raised an eyebrow and looked across her desk at Bond.

  M's office had changed beyond belief since Bond's old Chief had retired. There was no rich smell of his pipe, no soft leather chairs, no hint of the Old Man's brilliant career in the Royal Navy. The new M had brought with her the sterility of the current technocracy. The furniture was almost a parody of high tech office fittings. There was a Scandinavian influence: posture improving chairs, her own chair which was not a chair but something into which you appeared to contort your body.

  The black desk held no clutter but for the very large computer monitor and a moveable lamp plus, naturally, several colour coded telephones. M glanced up at Bond and fixed him with a long serious look. She wore a severe black business suit, her hair was styled very short, almost a thin cap on her scalp, at her neck was one piece of jewellery: a single white on blue cameo brooch, clasped high on her blouse.

  Looking at her eyes, Bond thought of the old joke about the bank manager with one glass eye. People could always tell which was the glass one because it was the eye that showed compassion.

  "So, you say Janus?" She was all business, even brusque.

  "I think it follows, ma'am. A known Janus confidante, Ms Onatopp; a yacht belonging to a known Janus front. A disappearing American admiral. --"Who you say is dead."

  "I saw the body. He was very dead."

  "It's a shade too pat for my liking."

  "You mean Janus is a little ham-fisted, leaving their pawmarks all over the place?"

  "Precisely. The yacht had long gone before any authorities could get near. Gone, Bond. Vanished, Bond, as though it had never been.... "But there is a harbour record that it was there. The criminal organisations of the new Russia are not known for their subtlety, Ma'am." She looked up at him to see if he was being frivolous, but his face did not betray his thoughts. The woman could take nothing at face value. He found her constantly querying undeniable facts. Perhaps this was her background, for she was an analyst at heart; a wrangler; a detector of deceit through columns of figures. Since she had taken over, almost everyone within the Service spoke of her as the Evil Queen of Numbers and many said she should really have been assigned to the Inland Revenue Service's Special Office. Within two days of her appointment, Bill Tanner the old M's faithful Chief of Staff - had almost resigned when his title was changed to Senior Analyst