Raymond Benson - The World Is Not Enough

They had been fairly useless henchmen anyway.

Elektra had shown great courage when it came time to make it look as if she had been beaten. She forced him to hit her three times in the face, bloodying her nose and giving her a black eye.

‘There have to be signs of torture, Renard,’ she had told him. ‘Otherwise no one will believe me. It would have been too easy.'

She held out a pair of wire cutters and ordered him to cut her ear. Renard refused to hurt her again.

‘Come on, you do this kind of thing to other people all the time,' she taunted, but still he shunned the notion.

‘I cannot harm one hair on your head,’ he told her. The woman enraptured him, and he didn’t mind admitting it. There were times when he wanted to run in the streets of London and shout out that he was in love. He wanted to show his old schoolmates that he, too, could have a lover. If only his stupid mother and sisters could see him now . . .

‘If you won’t do it, then I’ll have to,’ she said.

‘It will hurt you,’ he said.

‘There’s no point in living if you can’t feel alive,’ she replied.

Without so much as a flinch, Elektra stood in front of a mirror, held the cutters to her ear lobe, then snapped once. The blood spurted everywhere. She didn’t cry out in pain. Renard couldn’t remember for certain, but she may have even laughed when she saw all the blood.

They bandaged her up, made certain that she looked the part and said goodbye. He left for Russia — she walked out of the cottage, leaving three dead bodies, and flagged down a lorry on the main road nearby.

The next step was to get rid of her father. Renard, with his connections in Russia, was able to set up the phony sale of the Russian Atomic Energy report to Sir Robert and arrange for a ‘refund’. He had rigged the money with explosives. They had agreed to wait a year before committing the crime. It was safer that way. Unfortunately, in the meantime, the M.I6 agent in Syria had wounded Renard in the head. Nevertheless, the murder of Sir Robert went off without a hitch.

The second step was to obtain a weapon so that they could steal some plutonium. He was able to hijack a Russian Army transport plane and steal an atomic bomb from under the noses of the military and the IDA. His reputation as ‘the Fox’ had come in handy in that regard. Elektra used her own influence to get hold of a Russian submarine. Everything had worked beautifully.

If only the damned MI6 agent hadn’t shot him in the head. If only he was still able to feel. If only he wasn’t on a one-way road to hell. Otherwise, he might be able to sit with Elektra on her throne of power once all of this was over. He might have been able to keep her love. He wouldn’t have had to let the bastard Bond have his way with her. Nevertheless, Renard looked at that episode as a token of his compassion for her. An offering. Since he was unable to give Elektra pleasure any more, why should he deny her needs? She was a very physical person. He knew that she was attracted to the British agent. That night after the casino ... he could have killed Bond then and there. But his love for Elektra prevented him from doing it. He wanted to give her a night of pleasure, even if it was with the enemy.

Now, he sat in the sub, ready to dive and finish what they had begun over a year ago, and all he felt was an overwhelming sadness. They had said their goodbyes, Elektra and he. He would never see her again. He would go down with the sub, hopefully preventing a possible painful death from the ever-present bullet in his brain. It was the ultimate sacrifice. He was doing it for love.

It was possibly the noblest thing he had ever done in his life.

Someday, after she had lived a long and fruitful life. . . they would reclaim their loving alliance in hell.

16 - Countdown to Oblivion

Bond chased Elektra up the triple spiral staircase leading to the minaret's balconies.

‘James. You can't kill me. Not in cold blood,' her voice echoed in the stone chamber.

Bond wasn’t wavering. He clutched Zukovsky’s bloody- wet gun and ascended in the semi-darkness. As he swung around a comer of a landing, he heard an unexpected but familiar voice.

‘Bond!'

He stopped and kicked at the door. The room was empty except for the barred cell at one end. M, looking tired, breathed a sigh of relief.

Bond shot at the lock on the cell door, blowing it to bits.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said, leaving her prison. ‘I just —

But Bond had already turned to go, heading upwards, after Elektra.

‘Go after the submarine!' M called after him. ‘Forget the girl! Bond!'

Elektra reached the uppermost balcony, which afforded a spectacular view of the Bosphorus and the city beyond. She stood there, looking out at the sea as the submarine pulled out of the quay. Bond stepped behind her; she had no escape.

'Call him off,’ he said, holding the walkie-talkie to her.

Elektra turned around to face him.

‘I won’t ask again. Call him off!’

She looked at him questioningly. Did he really mean it? Hesitantly, she took the radio and held it to her mouth.

This is your last chance, Bond thought. Save the city. Save yourself.

‘Renard . . .’ she said into the radio.

Bond waited.

‘You wouldn’t kill me,’ she whispered to Bond. ‘You’d miss me.’

Then her face broke into a perverted grin and she shouted into the radio, ‘Dive! Dive! Bond is —’

The force of the bullet knocked her back against the balcony rail. She dropped the radio and stared at Bond in disbelief that he could actually shoot her.

‘I never miss,’ Bond said.

Elektra King slumped to the floor, shocked by her mortality. Gasping for breath, she looked up at Bond. She was attempting to say something. Bond crouched beside her and listened, but he couldn’t understand the words. She was speaking — no, she was singing! — singing in a whisper. It sounded like a lullaby.

After half a minute, she choked once and shuddered. There might have been a hint of regret in her watering eyes, but this quickly vanished as a cold, dark shadow passed over her face. Whatever demons had been tormenting her were now gone. She attempted to complete the verse of the lullaby, but could only manage a final exhalation of breath.

Bond looked at the lovely face, now relaxed and in peace; he reached out and caressed her cheek, just once.

Behind him, in the doorway, M had seen it all. She hardened her heart to the swirling cacophony of emotions that yearned to cry out for the poor, tortured girl. Bond had done his duty, but M couldn’t help saying a silent prayer for the soul of Elektra King.

Bond stood, looked over the rail to see the nose of the submarine heading into the Bosphorus, half-submerged. The hatch was still open. He stepped onto the ledge and prepared himself. Without a second thought, he performed a flawless swan dive, one hundred feet to the water. He hit it like a knife and found it very cold. He surfaced near the sub, grabbed a ladder and pulled himself up. Splashing through the water that was flooding over the rail he appeared in front of the amazed sailor who was just shutting the hatch. Bond slammed the lid on the mans head, then got inside. He closed it and turned the wheel seconds before the hatch slid underwater.

Bond crept down into the dark vessel. Renard’s small crew was spread throughout the sub, so he knew the best tactic was silence. He peered into the control room and saw Renard and several men at various stations. Beyond them, on the other side, were the outer chambers of the machine room and reactor room.

He moved toward the bow and down a ladder to what appeared to be living quarters. He found one man working on a radio and smoking a cigarette. Bond’s gun barrel dug into the man’s temple.