John Gardner - No Deals, Mr. Bond

‘I’ll have eight rounds,’ thought Bond. Eight chances to kill, if he could put himself in the right position.

Chernov was still speaking. ‘We have provided you with one magazine half full. So you have four 9mm bullets, one for each of the “Robinsons”, should you be lucky enough to get within range before one of them is upon you. As you will have gathered, this team has been given a walk over the ground. As far as I know, you have not.’

‘What if they decide to make a run for it? Grab themselves a sampan and clear off?’

Again Chernov produced his tantalising smile. ‘You still do not understand do you, Commander Bond? These men have nothing to lose but their lives – which they keep once you are dead.’

‘They think they’ll keep their lives.’

‘Oh, Commander Bond, don’t try to spread dissension. It will not work, my friend. They cannot be turned. They will not run; neither will they believe any stories you may try to tell them – even if they were to give you the time.’

And you know I won’t run either, Bond thought. You think you know me inside out, Comrade General. You know I won’t run because if I can possibly outwit your deadly foursome, I shall return here and try to save the others. Indeed, Chernov knew him, for that was exactly what he would do. He wondered if Chernov also knew he would try to return in order to unmask the traitor among the other prisoners?

Chernov gave a signal and the ‘Robinsons’ were marched out, each one meeting Bond’s eyes as he turned towards the door. Was it imagination, or did he detect a bleak hatred in those four pairs of eyes?

‘You have a couple of hours to rest before your ordeal,’ said Chernov as he rose. ‘I suggest you make your peace with the world.’

One of the guards came back into the room, ready to lead Bond away, but Chernov took a step forward.

‘Let me say something else, just to ensure that you are familiar with the rules. Do not try to be clever. It is possible that you have thought of the obvious scheme, to drop below that little wall which encircles the house and pick off the “Robinsons” as they come out. We know that you are an excellent marksman but please do not even think of trying that. When you are given the order to run, then you run. Any other tricks and my two guards will cut you to ribbons. Should you, by luck or skill, manage to avoid or kill my “Robinsons”, I would advise you to keep running, James Bond; to run as far as you can. We shall kill you tonight, I am certain of that, but in the unlikely event that I am wrong, our time will come again and I shall kill you myself. My Department will never rest until you are dead. Do you understand?’

Bond nodded curtly and left with as much dignity as his churning stomach would allow. Back in the cell, he began to consider his chances. For a while, up there with the deadly ‘Robinsons’, he had almost allowed despair to reach him. Now, alone again, he began to plan. They were giving him a Luger Parabellum with four rounds of ammunition. Well, that was a start. But he would have more if he could reach the hidden back-up package.

The package, worked on by Q’ute and other members of the Service, was for use only in dire necessity in the field. It consisted mainly of lethal weaponry.

Constructed on the principle of the old-fashioned Royal Navy ‘Housewife’ – always pronounced ‘Hussif’ – the Covert Operations Accessory Pack, COAP, was a thick oblong package covered in oilskin, measuring one foot three inches by eight inches, with two long tapes running out from the left-hand side. These held the pack secure with a quick-release knot. Opened out flat, it contained five pockets, each tailored to hold a specific piece of equipment. On the far left were two objects that looked like stubby HP11 batteries. One of these was a powerful flare activated by the button masquerading as the battery’s positive nipple. Held at arm’s length, it would shoot a pure white-light flare to around twenty feet, illuminating an area of up to a quarter of a mile in radius. Fired at the right trajectory, the flare could also have a blinding effect.

The second battery was operated like the first, though not held, for within seven seconds it exploded with almost twice the power of the old Mills hand grenade. Both batteries contained the untraceable plastique substances that so concerned the anti-terrorist organisations.

The third pocket held a six-inch knife blade fashioned from toughened polycarbon and thus again undetectable by airport security. The blade was protected by a scabbard, which doubled as its handle.

The fourth pocket was almost flat, containing a saw toothed garrotting wire; while the last held probably the most deadly weapon of all – a pen; but no ordinary pen. Made in Italy, it too had security men worried. With a quick twist, it became a small projectile-firing gun. A jet of compressed air would fire toughened steel needles that could kill if they entered the brain, throat, lung or heart from around ten paces. The pen could be used only three times.

Bond rehearsed in his mind where each of these items could be found in the open COAP, remembering the many times he had trained in the dark, using all the items by feel alone. He was comforted by the knowledge that he could have everything hidden on his person, or ready to use, within a minute. There was nothing like the threat of death, he thought – as many had done before him – to concentrate the mind.

Having gone through the positions in the COAP several times, he could only prepare himself mentally for the test. So he sat as before with his legs crossed and his eyes closed. But this time he went over his recollection of the map Richard Han had passed on from Swift. He knew where the house lay in relation to the rest of the promontory and within the hour knew what he would do. With luck and his expertise combined, he had a chance – though a slim chance – of winning.

They told him that it was eleven-thirty when they came for him. The guards spoke no English, but while one covered him with the machine pistol, the other raised his arm, grinning proudly at his brand new eight-function digital watch.

Chernov waited alone in the main room. The windows had been opened and a few lights twinkled from the cluster of houses around Tung Wan Bay. Across the water on the southern promontory, the Warwick Hotel’s lights blazed.

‘Come and listen.’

Chernov beckoned him towards the window and together they stepped outside into the warm night air. Bond thought, why not kill now with your bare hands, and be done with it? But that would serve no purpose. He would follow Chernov quickly to the grave, cut down by the man who had stayed in the room behind them.

‘Listen,’ Chernov repeated. ‘Hardly a sound. You realise that around forty thousand people still live on this little island, most of them on the junks and sampans in the harbour, yet after midnight few people stir. There is hardly any night life on Cheung Chau.’

As Chernov spoke, Bond took his bearings, and reciprocal bearings. Directly in front of them the ground sloped shallowly to the place where he had hidden the COAP during his first reconnaissance. He could, thank heaven, pinpoint exactly where he must cross the low wall. Below, the beach circled the bay, while to the right the ground sloped sharply upwards. He knew that once over that rise it was only a few hundred yards to a rough road which weaved down towards the central isthmus and the main village. On the way, it swept past the famous Pak Tai Temple, and on to the Praya, or waterfront, with its fish processing factory and hundreds of fishing junks.

Chernov slapped him on the shoulder. ‘But we’ll give them a little night life, eh, James Bond?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost time.’ He turned, shepherding Bond inside again.