Raymond Benson - The World Is Not Enough

‘Just do it!’ She turned back to Elektra. ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible. Don’t leave your villa.’

Elektra nodded, holding back tears of relief. ‘Thank you.’ The connection was terminated.

‘Where the devil is Double-0 Seven?’ M demanded.

‘I’ll try to find him,’ Robinson said, jumping to his station. ‘M . . .’ Tanner began, but M cut him short.

‘I know what you’re going to say, Chief-of-Staff, and I don’t want to hear it,’ she said. ‘I'll take my bodyguard and Robinson. Miss Moneypenny, please make the necessary arrangements for immediate departure. I’d like to get to Baku before tomorrow. Tanner, you’ll be in charge while I’m gone. See if you can track down that transport plane. And if you find Double-0 Seven, you tell him that I’ll speak to him in person

Dark black and blue storm clouds gathered off the coast of the choppy Caspian Sea. The wind howled and rattled the rafters of the King villa, creating an unsettling atmosphere in an already rather dreary environment.

Elektra sat alone in her father’s study. As she worked by the halo of light from a single desk lamp, the room grew darker as the storm approached. She looked up from the latest geological reports from Turkey to relieve the strain on her eyes. A portrait of her father stared at her from the wall beside the desk. She felt a chill as the gale screeched outside. A window blew open, sending papers flying. Elektra got up, crossed the room, shut and locked the window. She stood there a moment, looking at the dark sky and the violent sea.

Inexplicably, Elektra thought of her mother. It happened, sometimes, especially when she was in this part of the world. Every so often, when these flashes of memory occurred, she could faintly hear the old lullaby her mother sang when Elektra was a little girl. The sad, haunting tune reminded her of a cold, unfriendly past. A more superstitious person might have believed that a ghost was singing the song, but Elektra knew better.

At times, though, Elektra swore that she could still hear her mother’s sobs as she lay dying in bed . . .

A loud thud from the library next door interrupted her reverie. She listened intently, but there was nothing else.

‘Gabor?’ she called.

She hesitated, then went to the study door and opened it. It whined on its hinges. She stepped into the large library, but it was pitch dark and deathly quiet. Pale light from three French windows that led to a balcony barely illuminated the room. Elektra walked a few paces towards a lamp, but the door slammed shut behind her. She whirled around to see Gabor, propped up behind the door, staring, eyes wide. He fell to the floor like a rag doll. A dark figure stood in his place.

‘Who’s there?’ she demanded.

The man stepped forward until the dim glow from the outside shone on his face. It was James Bond.

‘James!’ she cried. She couldn’t hide the shock and hesitation in her voice.

‘You sound surprised,’ he said.

She moved to Gabor, who was stirring and beginning to groan from the blow to the back of his head.

‘What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?’ she asked Bond.

‘A little,’ Bond said. ‘Does it matter? After all, ‘there’s no point in living if you can’t feel alive.’ Isn’t that right, Elektra? Isn’t that your motto?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Or did you steal it from your old friend Renard?’ Elektra wasn’t sure she heard him right. ‘. . . What?’

‘He and I had a chat. He knew all about us, he knew about my shoulder, he knew exactly where I’d been hurt. . .’ Bond said.

Elektra stood and began to tremble. ‘Are you saying . . . Renard is the man who’s trying to kill me? He’s alive?’

‘You can drop the act, Elektra, it’s over.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

‘I think you do.’ He walked toward her. His voice was laced with menace. ‘At MI6 we call it Stockholm Syndrome. It's common in kidnappings. A young impressionable victim. Sheltered, sexually inexperienced. A powerful kidnapper skilled in torture, in manipulation. Something snaps in the victim’s mind. The captive falls in love with her captor.’

At the word ‘love’ Elektra exploded. She slapped Bond across the face.

‘How dare you!’ she spat. ‘How dare you! That animal? That monster? He disgusts me! You disgust me! So he knew where to hurt you, is that it? You had a sling on your arm at the funeral! I didn’t have to sleep with you to find that out.’ ‘He used your exact words.’

‘What else have you learned while you left me all alone?’ ‘Your friend Davidov was in league with him.’

‘He’s dead, as you no doubt know. You probably killed him.’ She shook her head. ‘Do you really believe that I would . . . with Renard?’

Bond let her continue to vent her anger. ‘You knew,’ she said. ‘You knew all the time that he was out there, that he was coming for me, and you lied. Wait a minute . . . I see it very clearly now. It’s just like before. You used me. You and MI6 used me as bait, although a more accurate term might be meat.

Just like when I was kidnapped. MI6 sent its little soldier to protect me when in fact you were hoping Renard would get close enough for you to catch him. You even made love to me — what, to pass the time as you waited for him to strike?'

He had no answer to that. He couldn’t deny it.

Bond clenched his jaw. What if he was wrong? Could she be telling the truth? He had become suspicious during the long trip in Christmas’s car from Kazakhstan back to Baku. Along the way, something about Bond’s encounter with Renard bothered him. He replayed the events over and over in his head. It was something Renard had said . . .

When he made the connection, Bond felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. The wave of dread that passed over him almost made him physically ill. Christmas had looked at him and asked, ‘What’s the matter? You feel all right?’ Bond had nodded and replied, ‘I’m just beginning to see this thing more clearly, that’s all.’ For the remainder of the trip, Bond worked on purging his affection for Elektra King. He was certain that she was somehow connected with Renard’s plans. He hardened his heart and put up the familiar stone cold wall. It was painful, but it was not anything he hadn’t done before.

Now Bond looked at Elektra and questioned his assumption. If she was truly in league with Renard, then she was a terrific actress. She was very convincing. She was right about his shoulder - Renard could have learned about that in other ways. Could those words have been a coincidence? 'There's no point in living if you can't feel alive.

Bond rarely believed in coincidences.

The phone on the library desk rang, cutting through the tension. She stared at him as it rang a second time . . . then a third. Finally, she picked it up.

‘Yes?’

She listened for a moment. ‘I’m on my way.’ She hung up the phone and looked at Bond with daggers in her eyes. ‘He’s struck again. The pipeline construction site. Five men are dead’

She turned to leave, but he moved after her. ‘I'm coming with you,’ he said.

‘Do what you want. I need to call M back and tell her not to come here; she should meet me there.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, didn’t I say? I’ve already spoken to M once. She’s coming to take charge.’

That stopped Bond in his tracks. Elektra left the room, leaving him with Gabor, who was just managing to sit up. Bond sighed then helped the bodyguard to his feet.

M had flown from London to Istanbul, then used a Euro- copter EC 135 owned by the British military to take her to the pipeline control centre. She arrived early the next morning, not long after Bond himself had returned from Baku with Christmas Jones. As the helicopter landed, M looked out of the window at the site, her face set hard.