John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“Okay.” Bond’s face was like stone. “Just do as he says. I don’t want to endanger Joe in any way.”

As he bent at the knees to place the Browning on the carpeted deck, he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his left eye.

Someone pressed against the bulkhead in the Russian section of cabins.

Around him the marines and Bruce Trimble also put down their weapons.

“Okay,” Hamarik whispered. “Now move away from the door.

I’m bringing the American out.”

Bond did not dare to even allow his eyes to flicker in the direction of the Russian section. He did not know which way this fake Woodward wanted to go, so he simply stood back against the far wall of the narrow passageway. “Do as I do,” he told the others. “Backs against the wall here.” They obeyed - a line of seven men against the wall, and a small arsenal of weapons on the deck. They frit stupid and there was not one of them who felt he should make some kind of move.

Bond sensed it and said loudly, “I don’t want any heroics. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Then, to Hamarik, “Where do you want to go?”

“Off this ship, but I would like to take another guest with me.

You have a girl called Deeley in custody, I think.”

“Yes.”

I will take her also, and you, Bond, will lead us.”

“Okay,” Bond shrugged. “If you want to get Deeley you’ll have to turn left out of the cabin door. You want me to lead you?”

“I want all of you in front of me. Move, the lot of you.”

“Do as he says.” It was a risk Bond had to take. Someone would now be behind the so-called Woodward, so maybe they could do something, even though, in the confined space, it would be a risk.

“Wait!” Hamarik snapped. “Just shuffle along the wall. When I’m out into the open, with Israel, I’ll tell you to turn and go in front of me. I shall want you in single file so you block off the entire passage ahead of me. Okay! Move!”

They shuffled along the wall, leaving the area in front of the cabin completely free. It made things easier for Bond for he now had an excuse to turn his head towards the cabin door, his eyes seeking the movement in the Russian section.

He had hardly moved his eyes when Hamarik pushed Israel in front of him and came into the open, turning left. As he came out, he glanced to his right and saw what Bond had already spotted.

Standing in the doorway separating the Russian and American quarters, was Nikki Ratnikov, her legs apart and a small automatic pistol held in front of her with both hands.

Hamarik gave a little curse, pushed Israel around, trying to get his body between himself and Nikki. Keeping Israel in a hard neck-choke he pulled in hard, pushing him to the left, and realising he had no option but to fire at the girl.

The shots crashed out, echoing like cannon blasts in the confined space. Both fired twice, and both hit their marks.

Hamarik’s left arm dropped from Israel’s throat as he cried out, took a pace backwards, tried to lift his pistol again, but was forced to clutch at his right shoulder which had suddenly spouted blood. He cried again, dropped the pistol and sank to his knees.

It was Bruce Trimble who got to him first, snatching his own weapon from the deck and holding it at arm’s length. “Stay where you are, you damned honky fraud!” But Hamarik was already unconscious, keeling over and sprawling onto the deck.

Bond moved forward towards Nikki. She stood like a statue in the doorway, pistol still extended, arms rigid, and feet apart. But the white roll-neck sweater she wore had turned crimson: a great, ugly spreading stain.

Bond was only two paces from her when he heard the ghastly rattle from her throat, saw the blood gush from her mouth and her body crumple to the deck. He knelt over the girl, his fingers feeling for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. “She’s dead,” Bond said, bleakly. He had liked Nikki, in spite of some suspicions, and all sudden deaths of young people were sad moments, particularly in this case, for Nikki Ratnikov had put her own life at risk for their lives.

“Well, this bastard’s still alive, and I reckon he can be patched up and made to talk.” There was no bitterness in Bruce Trimble’s voice as he walked towards the nearest bulkhead telephone to call the Sick Bay. Over his shoulder he said they would need a marine guard around the clock.

Bond got to his feet. “Take care of it for me, Bruce. I’ve got to see what’s going on.” Even in the few minutes of stand off and death, they were all aware that there had been some serious problem on the ship. The Tannoy had been active, and Sir John Walmsley, himself, had been issuing some orders. Bond made his way along the passage, turned the corner and climbed the companionway. Whatever else had occurred, he now had to break the news of Nikki’s death, and the fact that they had a second presumed terrorist on board.

Bassam Baradj scanned the sea with his binoculars. All being well, the operation would have started by now, and soon he expected to hear what course of action the Captain of Invincible would take.

He refocused the glasses on the freighter, Estado Novo, which was, at this moment, passing through the Straits of Gibraltar.

The large crate was still in place on the main deck, shielding the stolen Sea Harrier from view, and he knew the pilot, Felipe Pantano, was also aboard.

The freighter had followed instructions to the letter and Baradj had been in constant, ciphered, contact with the ship since it had made its short visit to Oporto. From there the Estado Novo had passed through the Straits and headed for Tangier, where, with much bribery and considerable ingenuity, Baradj had arranged for other cargo to be taken on board: mainly four AIM-J air-to-air Sidewinder missiles, and a large quantity of 10mm ammunition, belted and ready for installation for use by the two Aden guns already resting in their pods on both port and starboard of the Harrier’s fuselage. They had also taken on a considerable amount of fuel.

By tonight, Baradj thought, the freighter would be in place. If needed, the stolen Sea Harrier could be airborne, by using the vertical take-off technique, within five minutes of an order being received.

Baradj took one more look, then put the glasses in their case, turned and began to walk quietly back to The Rock Hotel. Earlier he had looked down on the airport to make certain his private helicopter had arrived safely. The pilot was to stay with the craft and Baradj knew it would take part in the final piece of his plan - the recovery of the huge ransom he expected to pick up from the sea. Of course the pilot had no idea that he was doomed,just as all members of his brainchild, BAST, were doomed, to the extent that they would have done the dangerous and difficult work with no reward. Twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours, Baradj smiled, after that he would have a veritable king’s ransom.

He would also have disappeared from the face of the earth. He actually laughed out loud, thinking of the fanatics who would have given their souls for an opportunity like this, and how they would have wasted the money on guns and bombs, bringing more danger to their lives. He, Bassam Baradj - or to be truthful, Robert Besavitsky would use it for a really decent purpose: his own pleasure and security. Not yet, but in a year or so, he would emerge, with a new face and identity. He would own houses, estates, cars, yachts, private jets, companies which might even do some good for the world. He would make gifts: a new library here, or a museum there; maybe even scholarships. Yes, that was a new idea. Some good things must come out of the great crock of gold that waited for him. This would only be fair.

The sun shone and Baradj was happy. The sun was set fair for Gibraltar, though the weather report for the rest of the Spanish coast was not so good. Never mind, it would be good enough to do what needed to be done.