John Gardner: No Deals, Mr. Bond

‘Do I get a last request?’

Chernov looked at him, a worm of suspicion in his eyes. ‘That depends on what it is.’

‘I would like to say goodbye to my friends.’

‘I think not. It would be too distressing for them. They are well controlled – particularly the women. I would not like to risk unbalancing that. You realise it is not a pleasant job I have to do in this place tomorrow. It will be best if those under sentence bear the inevitability of death with fortitude. It will make the whole business easier for me. You do understand?’

Yes, thought Bond. The last thing you want is for me to see them now because, like as not, they are one short. The traitor will have been pulled out. Aloud, he said, ‘You’re a butcher, Chernov. Let’s get on with it.’

Chernov nodded, looking solemn. ‘You have my word that a full five minutes will pass before the “Robinsons” are unleashed on you. Come, the weapons are here.’

As though by magic the table was now littered with the deadly weapons. There were the three Luger pistols and the long gunmetal dagger – perhaps an inch longer than the old Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife – and the fighting iron. This had a wooden haft some two feet in length with a reinforced handgrip at one end and a sharp movable steel blade at the other. At the far end from the handle a short length of chain was attached. From this dangled a mace twice the size of a man’s fist and covered in sharp spikes. Chernov touched the mace and laughed.

‘You know what they used to call these?’

‘Morning stars, as I recall.’

‘Yes, morning stars, and . . .’ he chuckled mirthlessly, ‘and “holy water sprinklers”. I prefer holy water sprinklers.’ His hand hovered over the weapons, coming to rest on one of the Lugers. ‘This is yours, I believe.’ He slipped the magazine out before handing it to Bond. ‘Please ensure that it is in working order and that the firing pin has not been removed.’

Bond checked the weapon. It was well oiled and in good condition. Chernov held out the magazine.

‘Count the four rounds. I insist on fair play.’

As he followed the instruction Bond was aware that the guard with the machine pistol had stiffened in readiness and that the ‘Robinsons’ were being brought into the room behind him. He knew that the whole set-up was designed to break his nerve. Chernov was a good stage director and all this drama had point.

‘You may load the weapon and put the safety on.’ Bond did so, holding the automatic loosely in his right hand as Chernov continued to speak.

‘When we are ready, I shall take you to the window and count down from ten to zero. At zero the lights will be switched off and you will begin your run. Do not forget what I’ve already told you about tricks, James Bond. They will do you no good. I do promise you, though, on my word as an officer, that the “Robinsons” will not be unleashed for a full five minutes. Make the most of your time. You are ready?’

Bond nodded and to his surprise Chernov held out his hand. Bond just looked at it, then turned to face the window. Chernov paused for a moment, as though hurt by his refusal, before he began to count ‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’ until he reached zero.

The lights went out and Bond hurled himself forward into the darkness.

21

EMPEROR OF THE DARK HEAVEN

Bond judged the leap over the wall perfectly with a combination of skill and luck. Having done his calculations while standing outside with Chernov, he was able to count off the paces as he ran in what he knew to be the right direction. Taking the jump in his stride, he sprinted across the flat scrub until he came to the slope. He went down and rolled so he could not be seen from the house. He was certain he had landed within a few feet of his goal and began to feel the ground around him with the palms of his hands. After a couple of seconds of near panic, his left hand touched the rock. He rolled towards it, scrabbling the earth and dragging out the oilskin package.

On his feet again he turned left, and ran across the slope, aiming to get above and away from the villa as fast as possible. Throughout the run, he counted the seconds. He had given himself two and a half minutes. Wherever he was at that point, he would stop.

He judged that the point he reached in the time was about thirty yards above the villa. There he fell to the ground and placed the pistol where he knew he could grab it. Then he threw the COAP on to the ground, slipped the tapes and unrolled the oilskin. By feel alone, in the darkness, he located each item and pulled it from its holder, distributing the weapons around his overall pockets but keeping the flare in his hand.

Breathing heavily, Bond held out his arm, angled the little battery-like object towards the house and pressed the firing button. At the same time he reached towards the Luger. He judged the flare would explode at five minutes twenty seconds since he had left the house. There was an open pocket on the right thigh of the overalls, and he jammed the Luger into it. Then, grabbing the second battery – the small grenade – he waited.

The flare gave a thumping kick against his hand, then went up in a dazzling white flash of light. Bond closed his eyes as the projectile left his hand but opened them immediately the first vivid flash was over. It was as though someone had bathed the villa and its immediate surrounding area in a floodlight, just as he had intended. There for anyone to see were the ‘Robinsons’, two heading up the rise towards him, the other two going down in the direction of the beach. One of the men coming in Bond’s direction threw up his arm to shield his eyes but they both kept going like automatons. Bond could see clearly that the second pair were not deflected from their progress towards the beach. He lay still and silent, clutching the tiny bomb. Already he could hear the men’s heavy breathing as they came on towards him, their shapes visible in the dying light of the flare.

This had to be judged to the second. If the grenade did not explode at the right moment, taking out both men, he might be forced to use the Luger, wasting at least one precious shot. The panting and heavy footfalls grew nearer, and now he had only his judgment to go by, for the flare had long gone. Bond prayed that he had their measure. He pressed on the nipple and aimed his throw at the path of the oncoming men.

He caught a quick glimpse of the pair – too close together – as the tiny cylinder packed with plastique exploded in the air directly in front of them. He ducked his head, feeling the burn and shock across his own scalp and the terrible ringing in his ears. Through the explosion he thought a scream reached him, but he could not be certain. Stumbling to his feet, he half-walked, half-staggered forward until his foot hit something. He bent to feel a soft wetness which he knew to be body and blood.

On hands and knees, Bond carefully felt around in the scrubby grass, straining through his buzzing ears for any sound, and trying to marshal that sense of danger so necessary for men in his profession. It was at least two minutes before he found the knife, and another two or three before he located the gun. The charge had, as he hoped, exploded directly between the men, and very close to them. Before his hand closed on the Luger it encountered unpleasant debris from the small bomb. Bond would never get used to the effects of explosions, particularly now that a very small amount of plastique could do so much damage.

His head started to clear, and with the original pistol still tucked into the overall pocket and the other weapon clasped in his right hand, he began to race westwards, heading for the road that would take him down to the Praya.

Chernov had made a point of telling him about the deadly experience of these four men. Now there were only two and it was reasonable to judge that, according to training, they would stick to their route and then probably separate at the village, hoping to catch their prey in the open, or among the buildings running the length of the Praya.