Raymond Benson - The World Is Not Enough

This is where the King Industries entourage went the morning after the attempt on Elektra and Bond’s lives. Elektra insisted that the work must go on. Elektra, of course, flew in her private jet. Bond drove the BMW east, over the mountains, with Gabor driving a careful distance behind him.

During the trip, Bond pondered the situation and what had happened on the mountains. Renard the Fox was assuredly the man behind the attack. It had been an expensive, daring operation, and one that only a man of his means and connections with Russian agencies could have organised. There was no question that Renard wasn’t sparing any expense to see Elektra King . . . and him . . . dead.

Bond didn’t enjoy dangling the bait in front of such a killer. Elektra, for all her bravado and stubbornness, was still very much a victim in the whole mess. She was a bird with a wing down, albeit a majestic one; and Bond found her irresistible. The side of the girl that he had seen when they were buried in snow was probably something few people ever witnessed. She knew it, too. It would be interesting to see how their relationship progressed.

The sun was setting and the sea was calm and quiet when he got to the villa. Gun-toting security men roamed the perimeter of the place, their watchful eyes patrolling the roads for anything suspicious. Dead tired, he walked in on an argument between Elektra and her Head of Security. Davidov was furious at Elektra for putting herself in danger on the mountains, but there was not much he could do about it. Once the oil heiress was back in the safe confines of her role as CEO. she had re-assumed her authority. Bond knew, though, that underneath it all Elektra was scared, although she was doing her best not to show it.

After she had refused to eat dinner, Davidov insisted that a doctor examine her. Bond waited with him and Gabor in the villa’s drawing room while the patient was seen upstairs in her room.

‘I still don’t understand how we could have lost you,’ Davidov said, pacing the floor. ‘One minute you were at the top of the mountain, the next —’

‘You found us, that’s what matters,’ Bond said, sitting in a large wooden chair and nursing a glass of bourbon. He was exhausted. The meal of beef Wellington, new potatoes, asparagus and beets, although delicious, had done little to recharge his batteries. He had to will himself to get a second wind soon, for he was not going to sit idle that night. Bond knew people in Baku.

‘I still think we should have gone after that plane,’ Gabor said.

‘The first priority was Elektra,’ Davidov said.

‘I have an idea where we might find some answers,’ Bond said.

‘Oh?’ Davidov asked. ‘Are we going hunting?’

‘We aren’t. This is something I have to do alone.’

They heard a door close upstairs, followed by footsteps. The doctor, a rather large man of Armenian heritage, waddled down the circular stairway that dominated the room.

Davidov looked at him expectantly.

‘She’s fine,’ the doctor said. ‘Some cuts and bruises, but otherwise fine.’ He gestured toward the men. ‘She wants to see you.’

Davidov bolted for the stairs, but the doctor stopped him. ‘No, not you.’ He pointed at Bond. ‘Him.’

Bond and Davidov shared a look, then Bond pulled himself out of the chair and walked up the stairs.

Elektra was sitting at her ornate bedroom window, looking at the sunset over the sea. She was dressed in a thin lace nightgown. Bond closed the door and walked over to her.

‘Arc you all right?’

‘I need to ask you something,’ she said. ‘And I want you to tell me the truth. Who is it? Who’s trying to kill me?’

Bond didn’t want to get into this. ‘I told you. I don’t know. But I’m going to find him -’

‘That’s not good enough,’ she said. Bond struggled with the desire to take her in his arms, tell her everything . . .

She turned to the window again and said, ‘After the kidnapping, I was afraid. Afraid to go outside, afraid to be alone, afraid to be in a crowd . . . afraid to do anything at all, until I realised . . .’ She turned back to face him. There were tears in her eyes. ‘ . . I realised I can’t hide in the shadows. I can’t let fear run my life. I won't'

Bond moved closer to her and hesitantly touched her shoulders. ‘After I find him, you won’t have to. Now listen to me. I’m going to a casino in Baku tonight to speak with some . . . friends. I have an idea they might know where he is. I want you to stay put You’re safe here.’

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. He could read exacdy what she wanted. ‘Don’t go,’ she whispered. ‘Stay with me.’

Her hand came up to caress his cheek. Bond looked from her hand to her face and saw the hint of promise and passion. He wanted her badly.

‘Please . . .’

Bond slowly removed her hand. ‘I can’t.’

‘I thought it was your job to protect me,’ she said.

‘You’ll be safe here.’

‘I don’t want to be safe!’ she said, fiercely. She moved away from him, stinging from the rejection. Bond could see that

Elektra King was a girl who was quite used to getting what she wanted, and didn't like it if she didn't.

Bond looked at his watch. If he was going to go, he needed to get moving.

‘I'll be back as soon as I can.’ He strode toward the door and opened it.

‘Who’s afraid now, Mister Bond?’ she asked, under her breath but loud enough for him to hear. He stopped.

Was she right? Was he afraid of what he might feel if he gave in to his desire for her?

Without looking back at her, Bond coldly headed out of the door.

The Casino L’Or Noir represented the elegant and mysterious world that Baku had become. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the city had metamorphosed from a simple industrial port to a modern-day equivalent of the long gone international centres of intrigue and exotic ambience, places like Tangier or Casablanca, Macau or Hong Kong. SIS estimated that more than half of Azerbaijan's illegal activities originated in Baku’s nightspots, and the new casino was the most popular and well attended. The city’s shadowy figures gathered there at night, deals were made in back rooms while money was won and lost in public. The wealthy liked to be seen there, as it was the place for the powerful and beautiful in this part of the world.

James Bond wore a sharp Brioni tuxedo and Q’s X-ray sunglasses, with which he could clearly make out every concealed weapon in the room. All sizes of pistols were underneath jackets, even the odd grenade. An added bonus to the glasses’ features was the feet that Bond could see through clothes as well.

He walked around the perimeter of the main room until he found the curtained off alcove he was looking for. Two beautiful women crossed in front of him before he could enter. One turned back to look at him and smile, unaware that she was totally on display. Her friend turned to look at Bond, too. He smiled back, nodding hello. The second woman had a pistol concealed in her bra.

Bond slipped through the curtains and found a small, private bar where a bartender was chopping ice with a pick in the sink under the counter. A large thug in a suit and tie sat on a stool across from him. Through the X-ray glasses, Bond could see that the man was a walking arsenal — guns, knives, and a cudgel were all underneath his jacket. He was Bond’s kind of guy.

He walked up to the man and stood next to the bar. Nonchalantly, he said, ‘I want to see Valentin Zukovsky.’

The thug took a sip from his drink but didn’t look up. Then, turning menacingly to Bond’ he said, ‘This is a private bar. There is no Zukovsky here. So hit the road.’

‘Tell him James Bond is here.’