Raymond Benson - The World Is Not Enough

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.’

The urgency of the situation finally hit home with Zukovsky. ‘We've got to find Nikolai and warn him!’

Tve got something!’ the radio operator called. He hurried over with a piece of paper. The Bull leaned in close to overhear what the man had to say.

‘On the emergency frequency. Two six digit numbers, cycled every fifteen seconds.’

‘A GPS signal,’ Christmas observed. The Global Positioning System could pinpoint the exact location of an object and was mostly used for navigation on the high seas. ‘What could that be?'

Bond had one of those rare eureka! moments. ‘It’s M! The locator card! I gave it to her at the construction site. That’s got to be her.’ He grabbed the paper and compared it to the big map. He pointed to the coordinates.

‘Here.’

‘The Maiden’s Tower,’ Zukovsky said. ‘Kiz Kulesi.’

‘Do you know it?’ Bond asked.

He turned to Zukovsky, and out of the comer of his eye noticed The Bull slipping out the door. The brown briefcase he had been carrying was sitting on a chair.

‘We used it during the Afghan war . . .’ Zukovsky began, but Bond sensed something was very wrong.

‘It’s a very old place,’ Zukovsky continued, ‘I think it was built in —’

But Bond didn’t let him finish. ‘Bomb!’ he shouted as he grabbed Christmas and pulled her behind the cover of some old generators just as a tremendous explosion ripped the place apart. In half a second, the air was thick with dust and smoke.

Coughing, Bond stood and waved the debris away. Christmas was stunned, but okay. Others in the room were dead; others knocked unconscious — including Zukovsky.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Bond said to Christmas. He took her hand and rushed outside.

The street was clear, but smoke was pouring out of the building. A siren could be heard in the distance. They ran to the comer and rounded it, only to come face to face with Gabor and several heavily armed men.

On instinct, Bond reached for his gun, but he heard the sound of a round being chambered in a firearm directly behind him.

‘Drop it,’ a familiar voice commanded.

Bond turned to see The Bull holding an AK-47. The chauffeur smiled, coldly, and added, ‘I insist.’