Goldeneye

He swung around, unlocking her section of the canopy, reaching out to her - swiftly undoing the straps. “Come on. Let me help you out.” He spoke gently, though he later realised that he was probably shouting as his ears were popping from the G forces to which they had been exposed during the ejection.

The girl grabbed his arm and he helped her to the soft earth.

Almost as they touched the ground, she lashed out, kicking at his shins and trying to escape from him.

“Stop!” He was shouting by now.

“No! Let me go. Take your hands off me!” She clawed at him with her fingernails.

“I’m trying to help you. Stop it now.” They were still grappling when the white spotlights of two helicopters nearly blinded them from above. Near at hand they could hear the wail of sirens and a voice on a loud hailer unit in one of the helicopters told them in Russian to stay exactly where they were.’… If you move, you will be shot where you stand,’ the voice continued.

“I think it would be a good idea to pretend we’re one of these damned statues,’ Bond said, gently wrapping the trembling girl in his arms.

The headquarters of Military Intelligence for the St. Petersburg area lie behind high brick walls near what was once Red Army Student Street. Within the walls the army keeps a large number of vehicles ranging from APCs and the smaller open-topped BTU-152u Command Vehicles, to tanks. The headquarters building is of a dour red brick, in stark contrast with the rest of the city which sports some of the most beautiful buildings and views in the whole of Russia, if not the world. Of all Russian cities, St. Petersburg was rebuilt to closely mirror its former glory following the terrible siege of 900 days during the War.

Bond and Natalya were taken straight to an interrogation cell: bare and uncompromising - the metal door slammed and locked behind them immediately. An unshaded light bulb hung from the ceiling and the furnishings were a simple metal table and three metal chairs. The table and two of the chairs were bolted to the floor. The third, Bond immediately discovered, had been brought in recently and was not secured.

There was no point in even searching for bugs, for they would be invisible these days without an electronic sweeper and even that would not guarantee results. He would have to risk talking anyway, for he needed to work on the girl and coax her back to normal. At the moment she cowered in a corner, her eyes full of fear.

Moving towards her, he said quietly, “We haven’t much time.” She crawled along the wall, moving away from him, almost shouting, “Stay away from me. Don’t come near or I’ll scratch your eyes out. Just stay away.

In the end, he managed to grab her by the wrists and pull her towards him. “Now listen,’ he spoke almost in a whisper - not gentle but flat, urgent and cold. “I work for the British Government. So, you can either take your chances with me, or put your life in the hands of your fellow countrymen - the people who killed everyone at Severnaya.

“Where’s Severnaya? I’ve never been to Severnaya.

“Your watch has.” He twisted her wrist, reading off the frozen time. “Seven-fifteen and twenty-three seconds in the evening. The very moment the electronics everywhere in the vicinity were stopped by the GoldenEye blast”

“The GoldenEye ?” she began, and he saw that she was starting to relent.

“I’d put money on the fact that you were the one who climbed up the remains of the big satellite dish to get out.” It seemed an age before she gave him a little nod of agreement.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Natalya Fyodorovna Simonova. Yes, I am a Level Two programmer, and I know what happened.”

“Natalya, that’s a lovely name. Who was the inside man on this?”

“Boris. Boris Grishenko.”

“Russian Federal Intelligence - the old KGB - or military?”

“A brilliant computer programmer, but I think probably old KGB. He acts crazy but he’s quite exceptional.”

“Was there anyone else?”

“Inside? No.”

“What about satellites. Are there any more?”

“Just one moment. It’s my turn to ask questions.” She appeared to have gained confidence. “Who are you?

Who are you really?”

“James…” he began, then a key rattled in the metal door which was thrown open and an armed guard preceded the Minister of Defence, Viktor Mishkin, into the cell.

Mishkin looked suave in a long dark coat with a sable collar over his sober dark suit. In his right hand he carried Bond’s automatic pistol, and his smile was the smile of a tiger.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Bond.” He held the gun as a child might hold a small flag, wiggling it in the air. “Sit, both of you.” Bond immediately grabbed the metal chair that was not bolted to the floor, while Mishkin took the chair opposite.

“In case you do not recognise me, I am Viktor Mishkin, Minister of Defence.” He hardly paused for breath, putting Bond’s pistol on the metal table in front of him. “So, how shall we execute you, Commander Bond? The usual manner: the bullet to the back of the head? Quick, painless and straightaway, now, so we can deny any knowledge of you?’ Bond raised an eyebrow. “No small talk or chit-chat, Minister?You’re not going to do a proper sinister interrogation? Nobody has time for these things any more.

Interrogation’s a lost art.”

“This isn’t the time to be flippant, Commander. I have one question only. Where is the GoldenEye?”

“I assumed you had it, Minister.”

“No. All I have is an English spy, a Severnaya programmer, and the helicopter they stole… “You only have what one traitor in your government wanted it to look like.’ Mishkin’s hand came down heavily on the table. “Who is behind your attack on Severnaya? Who ordered it?”

“Who had the access codes?”

“The penalty for terrorism is death, and I regard the pair of you as terrorists.”

“What’s the penalty for treason these days, Minister? A slap on the wrist and banishment to a country dacha, like the traitors who bungled the coup in “91?”

“Some died.”

“Supposedly by their own hand. You have another traitor close to you, Minister.” Natalya suddenly spoke, loudly and with a very firm voice. “Stop it. Stop it, both of you. You’re like children squabbling over their toys.” Bond looked at her, a smile around the cruel corner of his mouth. “Didn’t you know, my dear? The one who dies with the most toys wins.”

“Stop it. You know the truth as well as I do.” She looked at Mishkin. “It was Ourumov. General Ourumov and that woman - the one like a snake.

Together they killed everyone and stole the GoldenEye.” Mishkin threw back his head and gave a one note laugh.

“Ha, why would Ourumov do that?”

“Because there’s another satellite. Exactly the same as the one they used to destroy Severnaya.” Mishkin’s smile turned itself off, as though someone had thrown a switch. “This is true?”

“Absolutely true. The second one is code named Mischa, and somewhere out there is a second control complex.

A commotion at the door stopped them short. General Ourumov seemed to cannon into the room, slamming the door behind him. He looked unkempt, tired, unshaven and as though he had slept in his uniform. Sweat dripped from his face as if he had been running through terrible humidity and was very out of condition.

“Defence Minister… I must protest.” he blurted, struggling for breath.

“General Ourumov..

“This is my investigation. You are out of order!”

“From what I’ve just heard, General, it is you who is out of order.” Ourumov leaned forward and picked up Bond’s pistol from the table. “I think I’ve seen this weapon before!”

“Put it down, General.”

“In the hands of our enemy. Do you even know who the enemy is, Viktor? Do you?” Mishkin made a gesture, as though he were knocking an insect out of the way.

“Guard! The General is under arrest Escort him to.

The guard, a young soldier in his early twenties, paused for a second, then began to unholster his machine pistol - too late, for Ourumov wheeled and shot him. The guard was thrown against the wall, his chest torn out by the Glaser round.

Bond grabbed Natalya and dragged her down to the hard stone floor, trying to protect her with his body, as Ourumov turned and took off Mishkin’s head with a second shot.

“This ammunition takes no prisoners, does it? What a terrible state of affairs. Defence Minister Viktor Mishkin is murdered by the cowardly British agent, James Bond…” He worked the slide on the pistol, flipped the magazine from the butt, pocketing the ammunition and tossing the gun to Bond as his hand went towards the weapon holstered at his hip.

In turn, Bond is shot while trying to escape.” He levelled his pistol and began to shout, almost hysterically - Guards… Guards.

Quickly.” The pistol came up in his hand, but Bond had already moved, diving for the unanchored metal chair and hurling it at Ourumov, who caught it across his chest, falling backwards, the pistol going off and a bullet ricocheting around the cell. As it happened, so Bond was on Ourumov, his fist catching the general on the side of the jaw so that his head lolled back, unconscious.

Bond dragged Natalya - and the one loose chair - to the wall behind the door just before it clanged open, and two soldiers, both with machine pistols, barrelled into the room, and stopped short, staring at the bodies, completely shaken by what they had found.

Before the pair had a chance to react, Bond leaped forward, swinging the chair - left and right, hard, smashing into the faces of the two men, then catching Natalya by the wrist, he hauled her out of the cell stopping only to scoop up a machine pistol which had fallen from one of the now bleeding and unconscious soldiers.

They were in a long passageway studded with metal doors, like the one belonging to the cell from which they had escaped. At the far end of the corridor, steps led upwards and, still pulling Natalya with him, Bond headed towards them, reckoning that stairs going up probably meant there would be stairs going down. He was wrong.

Damn, he cursed. People on the run in buildings normally go up and he had wanted to break that psychological fact by getting down to a lower floor.

At the top of this short flight of stairs, another long corridor led to an open plan office. Three soldiers stood at the ready in front of the office, and, as he glanced back, he could see Ourumov, puffing and blowing, his pistol unholstered and accompanied by three more men, beginning to follow the fugitives.

He put a quick burst in the direction of Ourumov, and then fired a long burst at the three men in front of the office. He saw one man go down, and another fall onto one knee as though wounded. The third ducked back into the office.

There seemed to be no way out, so he signalled to Natalya, making her flatten herself against the wall as he edged his way forward.

Three steps and they came to an archway on their left which appeared to be the entrance to yet another very dark and narrow corridor.

There was no option so he pulled the girl close and asked if she was all right.

“I will be if I live,’ she said with some spirit.

“Run like hell and don’t stop for anyone.” They set off at a sprint into the darkness.

Light gleamed at the far end and, as they came closer, he deciphered a red notice in Russian which said NO ADMITTANCE.

INTELLIGENCE ARCHIVES LENINGRAD AREA.

“Someone not keeping up with the times,’ he muttered.

A very stout metal door with a big lock barred their way.

“Keep going!” he shouted back to Natalya, firing a burst from the hip which blew out the lock and set a siren wailing.

They crossed into the archive area and Bond slammed the door behind them. They were now in a passage leading to a larger well-lit section, and lined with a series of cabinets teetering and leaning in an obviously unsafe manner.

He wished, fleetingly, that he had more time. He would have liked to have a squint at some of the files which were piled in bulk in those units.

As soon as they reached the end of the entrance hallway, he motioned Natalya to stand clear and put his shoulder against the last cabinet. It toppled easily against the next structure and set off a domino effect so that the cabinets and shelving crashed down against the door. Swiftly he crossed the little passage, did the same with the cabinets on that side, then turned his attention to the main archives.

Bond and Natalya found themselves in the uppermost section of three huge circular galleries, with what appeared to be a glass rotunda directly above them. Here things were more orderly. To his right he saw a large round segmented window between the neat and solidly built bookcases that circled the gallery. From behind there was a pounding as Ourumov’s men tried to batter their way in.

Moving closer to the window, Bond glanced out to see a view of the military vehicle park far below. Too far. He craned closer to look straight down and wondered if what he had in mind was possible. Then he became aware that the pounding had ceased on the door behind them, making him even more alert. Crossing to the wooden balcony rails he peered over to see Ourumov, flanked by his men, coming onto the gallery below them.

He motioned Natalya to back off silently and get into the window opening, then he looked down again and saw, with a lurch to his stomach, that the floors of the galleries had been built with several layers of strong thick Lucite.

He could see to the circle below, and knew it was only a matter of time before Ourumov and his troops would spot them as they peered upwards through the transparent flooring.

As though his thought triggered the action, Ourumov shouted, pointing up at them and bullets began to plough their way into the glass-like floor, ripping and sharding the material.

“Run,’ he yelled at Natalya. “Follow me!” and they set off to circle the entire upper gallery, Bond wildly looking to see if there were any alcove or passage which would make them safer.

As they ran so the bullets stripped out the flooring like several pneumatic drills, following them around the gallery, making it impossible to turn back, for the thick Lucite was already shredding behind them.

Natalya stumbled, half fell, slowing her forward movement. No bullet hit her, but the floor gave way, tearing to pieces behind her, so throwing up her arms and screaming, she fell through the jagged hole, straight into the arms of the soldiers below.

Bond cursed, momentarily wondering if he should drop down and try to save her. She had a great spirit and had already shown that she had the guts and determination to keep going.

He hardly paused, knowing that he would be letting his heart rule his head if he stopped now, for the bullets continued to open up the floor behind him. He would soon be running out of space, for he had almost completely covered the entire ring of the gallery, but four strides ahead he caught a glimpse of a metal safe inlaid between the shelving, with room for him to climb on to it. They would have to blow the thing out from under him with explosives that would wreck the entire building if he could make it.

He judged the distance and then took off, going for a high jump, landing in a heap on top of the recessed safe as the fire from below removed the floor he had just left, and continued to stitch holes in what remained of the gallery.

He saw that he was now almost directly opposite the big circular window which looked down on the vehicle park. He took a few deep breaths, unbuckled the belt Q had given him, feeling for the safety catch and moving it to the off setting, twisting the belt around his right wrist

Lifting his arm, he aimed at what appeared to be solid stone on the far edge of the rotunda, high above. He took a deep breath, counted to three and pressed the firing mechanism on the buckle.

The belt bucked in his hand as the pine shot out, trailing its high tensile cord. It was over in a flash, but Bond felt it was all happening in slow motion as he held his breath, praying that the tiny piton would hold.

It hit the base of the rotunda with a solid thwack, and one quick pull on the belt told him that it was buried firm and deep into the stone.

Another intake of breath, and Bond took up the slack, then launched himself from the top of the safe, swinging in a wide arc, right across the gallery, straight towards the circular window.

He was aware of the strain on the belt and his arm; of the air cleaving as he swept through it; and, for a second, the long drop down through the other galleries below.

He struck the window in the centre, feet first, letting go of the belt and lifting his hands to cover up his face.

Then came the shattering crash as the window caved outwards and James Bond smashed through it, dropping over forty feet to the hard ground. As he went down, he thought of the many good things he had experienced in his life and the last face which crossed the screen of his mind was that of Natalya Simonova. Sadly, in a split second, he thought she might have been the best thing of all. Now he felt as insignificant as a tiny speck of dust floating through sunlight.

It was probably one of the heaviest bets Bond had ever wagered.

When he had stood by the big circular window after they had entered the top gallery of the archives, he had seen, parked directly below him, a military truck with its tarp in place. Nobody was in sight, so he worked out the odds on it having been moved as evens. If it had been driven away during the chase around the gallery, it would be a hard landing bringing at the least serious injury: more probably, death.

A confirmed gambler, he had weighed the odds and, having seen no sign of life around the lorry, had bet on it being in place. So, he came shooting out of the window in a shower of glass and, glancing down, saw he had won.

The truck was still in position. It was not the softest landing he had ever made, but it was safe enough and the most difficult part but for a couple of bruises - was getting down from the top of the tarpaulin to ground level.

Once there, on the hard paved walkway surrounding the Military Intelligence Headquarters, he melted into the shadows, making his way across to the vehicle park.

&he knew At some point, he knew, the main gate would have to be opened and he would just have to take his chance. He had very little ammunition left so it was a case of picking the right vehicle.

He softly moved up and down the lines, rejecting the small jeep-like scout cars, the APCs and the smaller BTU-152us with their open tops and room for some eight men.

There was movement coming from the main entrance, so he flattened himself against a cumbersome T55 tank, watching as Ourumov and one of the soldiers from the HO dragged Natalya towards a car and threw her roughly into the back. Ourumov sounded furious and had a weapon in his hand.

Natalya was making a lot of noise as she was pulled to the unmarked black car. She had already taken in the fact that Bond was not lying, crushed and broken, outside the building, so she clung to the hope that her new friend had somehow escaped and was already preparing a rescue. By the time they manhandled her into the car nothing had happened and her optimism began to fade.

Over in in the vehicle park, Bond turned and found himself looking at the rear of the T55 tank. He frowned and wondered, then made up his mind and moved.

Natalya could smell the sour, unwashed body of Ourumov, crammed next to her in the car. The soldier drove, heading for the main gate with its barber’s shop red and white poles. They slowed for only the minimum amount of time it took for the guards at the gate to identify Ourumov, then - with the general shouting for the driver to move as fast as he could - they shot out of the gate, rubber burning as the car fishtailed, skidding into a left turn, building up speed as they ran parallel to the wall of the vehicle park.

When it happened, Ourumov jerked and actually cried out in dismay.

The wall on their left seemed to disintegrate and the prow of the powerful T55 lurched through the debris onto the road directly behind them. It slewed from side to side, but still followed, at its flat out speed.

In the car there was a touch of terror in Ourumov’s voice as he shouted to the driver to move it. The fear which now came as a stench from the general was founded on an incident during the Afghanistan campaign when he had been in a tank, similar to the T55 that rumbled at their heels. Ourumov’s tank had taken a direct hit and the general was only one of two people to get out alive. In his darker dreams he could still hear the screams coming from the rest of the crew as the metal coffin burst into flames. He had shown a not unnatural fear of tanks from that time.

Bond had sighed with pleasure when he fitted himself into the driving seat of the T55 and switched on, pulling the small knob that controlled the starter, hearing the engine immediately rumble into life. He looked around and saw there was a fuel gauge showing full; the rest of his quick course in tank driving was one of trial and error, testing the long metal lever controlling the gears and the thick control column which, he discovered, turned the machine somewhat violently, slowing the tracks on one side and speeding those on the other so that it staggered to left or right. The brakes and accelerator were easy enough to find, and the only problem he faced there was that they were transposed from those of a normal car - brake pedal on a long stalk for the right foot and accelerator on the left.

He had no time to examine, let alone use, the array of electronics, but he did know that he could not drive the beast and fire the 100mm gun that sprouted some twenty-nine feet from the turret. There was a machine gun in reach alongside the driver’s seat. He could not use that while Natalya was still in the car, so he concentrated on a straight chase. With luck, if he could control the machine, he might just run Ourumov to earth - literally.

What he had not bargained for was the lack of vision through the forward slit. Somewhere within reach there was probably a periscope so that he could view the rear, but, for the time being, he needed all his concentration to learn how to handle a T55. It always looked so easy when you saw those tank battles in movies, but he had quickly discovered that unless you knew what you were doing, the tank had a tendency to drive you rather than the other way around.

He had also not taken in the noise factor. Inside the brute there was a bone jarring vibration from the tracks, and the noise was amplified by the interior which seemed to act as an acoustic chamber.

One of the first things he had done on hitting the street was to reach for the driver’s headphones and clamp them on, then hit the search button on the radio in the hope of locking on the police band. His Russian would probably be enough to follow any chatter concerning road blocks and the like. The rest was - in the words of an old sergeant major he had once known “Brute force and ignorance’.

As well as controlling the tank, dealing with the extreme noise and vibration, not to mention the limited sight lines, he had to watch for the unexpectedly high volume of traffic which was out in force this evening. Twice he had almost squashed a couple of cars, now he saw Ourumov’s car take a right and he followed, cutting the corner at an angle so that the tank’s hull lifted and there was an unpleasant buckling and crunching sound as he flattened a row of parked cars. As the hull came down again, Bond saw the car had hit an intersection crammed with traffic and was reversing rapidly, touching the sides of other parked cars as it went, sending sparks from the bodywork as it weaved backwards, then taking another right turn into an alleyway.

He gunned the motor and, this time, made a perfect right turn, tapping the brakes and hitting the accelerator with the control column hard over. Too late he saw that, while the alley was big enough for the car, it certainly gave no leeway to the tank. He was committed, though, so he straightened up and increased speed.

It was a bumpy ride as the alley was some six feet too narrow for the T55. This was where the brute force and ignorance came into play, and to his surprise, he found that if the alleyway were too narrow, the tank took care of it, cutting a swathe of brick, dust and rubble from the buildings on either side, jerking and heaving its way along the old cobbled narrow street, finally bursting out onto a wider road - a T-junction with a wide canal facing him.

There was nothing he could do but pull the tank around to the left, in a series of jerks and motor noise.

The car had squealed left, and then right, onto a bridge crossing the canal, turning right. He started to make the right turn onto the bridge when he realised that it was impossible. The T55 had carved its way through the alley without any problems, but he could now see, through the smoke and brick dust filtering through the narrow driving slit, the bridge was a delicate and beautiful structure, built to take normal traffic, but a serious hazard for the tank, the weight of which it could not possibly carry.

He was pointing in the wrong direction, the hull swivelled to the right several feet from the entrance to the bridge.

Aloud, he said, “Let’s see how you can manage a oneeighty,’ touching brakes, holding the control column far over to the right, then putting his left foot hard down on the accelerator.

It was like a fairground ride. The tank swung around on its own axis, doing a perfect 180 turn, and as it completed the manoeuvre, he saw that the military were already chasing him - a pair of the jeep-like vehicles and two BTU-152us, fully loaded with troops who seemed to be sitting to attention in the long open back.

The two little jeeps had no chance. Their drivers, blinded by the dust and smoke, could not even see as they shot out of the alley exit and ploughed straight ahead, seeing the canal too late. They both tried to fly, which is not a good option in small jeep-like vehicles.

They remained airborne for a few seconds, then smashed hard into the dirty water of the canal, their occupants leaping and scattering into the water.

The pair of BTUs made the left turns, very close to each other and were on top of Bond’s tank before they knew it. He tried to weave out of the way, but hit one of the BTUs head on, swerved and just touched the side of the other vehicle - which was enough to push the troop carrier aside. As he moved forward at full speed, Bond was aware of men yelling as they were thrown from their stricken six-wheeler.

“Road hog,’ Bond muttered, craning forward to see Ourumov’s car ahead of him, moving in the same direction, but on the far side of the canal.

Inside the car, the General was panicking. “For God’s sake it’s only a slow old tank. Outrun him.”

“I’m doing my best, sir.” The driver was about as happy as the general.

In the back seat, Natalya glanced through the rear window and saw that the tank was making steady progress, almost running parallel with them on the opposite bank.

She smiled with glee, then turned and gave Ourumov a wolfish grin.

The general caught her look, did a double take, his face crimson with anger. “Shut up!” he barked at her, then saw they were approaching another bridge to their right. “Over that bridge,’ he screamed at the driver. “Cut in front of him. Over the bridge and straight on. He won’t have time to turn quickly. We can lose him.” Natalya’s smile faded as she saw six police and military cars racing up behind the tank on the far side. The police cars were making no secret of their presence - lights flashing and sirens wailing. The military vehicles, Armoured Personnel Carriers (APCs), were bristling with weapons.

Bond saw Ourumov’s car pull right, onto the bridge.

He floored the accelerator but the tank seemed to be already at its maximum speed and he could see that he could not expect to catch the car before it exited from the bridge and, presumably, head on down a road to his right.

He knew other transport was chasing him, even though he could not see them. The wail of the sirens, though faint in his ears, was detectable and lord knew what else was out there: he pictured APCs with anti-tank missiles which could easily blow him to fragments.

The car shot off the bridge, straight in front of him.

Bond slowed, stick hard over and his feet moving between accelerator and brake. This time he had complete control and the tank turned accurately into the street. Ahead he saw the car, held up, waiting to traverse a roundabout in the centre of which stood a huge gleaming statue of Czar Nicholas on a great winged horse.

For a moment, Bond thought he was going to catch up and be able to ram Ourumov’s car, but as he approached, so the car made its turn into the traffic flow.

“He who hesitates.” Bond muttered and took the tank straight on and right across the roundabout. Inside his metal capsule, he clearly heard the scream of braking cars and trucks desperately trying to avoid hitting the tank, and he mouthed a curse when the right track sliced into the front of a beer lorry. Some of the load bounced in front of the driver’s slit and he wondered what the final damage might be.

But, by this time, he was across the middle of the roundabout and felt the crushing bump as the hull hit the base of the statue, depositing the Czar Nicholas, still astride his winged horse, neatly over the long muzzle of the 100mm main gun.

From the back of the car, Ourumov saw what seemed to be an avenging angel bearing down on him. For the first time in years the general made the Orthodox sign of the cross, his eyes wide with fear.

Back at the roundabout, beer cans littered the road a temptation which proved too much to many of the drivers and pedestrians who leaped into the street to indulge in a feeding frenzy, grabbing at the cans, filling shopping baskets, or using pullovers and skirts as makeshift bags to carry as many of the coveted beer cans as possible.

Traffic was at a standstill and the entire scene was filled with a cacophony of horns and shouts from frustrated drivers: including the police and military.

For a while, at least, Bond was free of the pursuing authorities, but it could not last More by his instinct than the sirens, he realised that, somehow, more police had got behind him.

If he could have seen the convoy from the air, he would have known that the T55 was close behind the general’s car, and three police cars were fast gaining on the tank.

Bond was getting more experienced at handling the machine with every minute. He took a long, wide bend to the left and glimpsed a low bridge directly in front of him, about fifty yards away, with Ourumov’s car putting on speed, just passing under it.

He tried for more power; saw the arch come up, heard the mighty crunch and the bang as the statue hit the overhang, rolling back into the direct path of the pursuit cars.

By now he was starting to pick up communications on the police band. There was talk of setting up a road block with anti-tank weapons and a lot of firepower, though he had no idea where this was being done. It was obvious that it had to be somewhere along the route of the general’s car, which he saw, too late, was making a fast right-hand turn.

He slowed, but was too late and rumbled past the street down which the car had now disappeared. They were on the city’s outskirts and the housing was starting to thin out, but he slowed, preparing to take the next right turn, hoping against hope that he would find himself running parallel to Ourumov’s car.

Piling on the power, listening to the instructions regarding the road block and trying to maintain control of the tank, Bond realised that the next intersection was coming up fast He slowed and turned right, anxious to see if he would be able to sight Ourumov’s car. As he took the right into a wide street, he saw to his frustration that this was a dead end. Facing him was a three-storey office block.

There were lights in the street level windows and he saw people moving behind them. At the last minute, people in the office complex heard the sound of the oncoming tank and began leaping for cover as the juggernaut crashed through, turning furniture to matchsticks, typewriters into squashed and mashed metal, and exploding computer screens.

He pushed the power to its maximum, and the tank went right through the building, like wire through cheese.

He emerged into a wide street, bursting out from the rear wall of the building, cursing the brick dust and pieces of stone pouring down from the turret. For a second, he had to pull his mind back to the direction he would have to go in order to catch the car. He hesitated, then pulled the machine right and found out exactly what the police chatter had meant.

Facing him was the barricade, complete with a large anti-tank gun and a lot of other firepower. An officer stood in a command car to the right, obviously waiting to give the order. The only problem he had was that Bond’s tank had broken through the wall behind the barricade.

For the first time, Bond reached for the handle and trigger of the forward firing machine-gun, squeezed and was relieved to find the weapon was fully armed and ready.

He smelled the cordite in the cramped enclosed space of the T55, and saw the utter confusion in front of him.

Some of the tracers from the machine-gun were hitting, all of them were causing complete panic in the waiting military unit. He spotted one brave man attempting to swing the anti-tank gun and bring it to bear, trying to turn it to face the rear of the barricade, but the tank was already on top of them. He felt the whole mass of metal tip, heeling over to one side as the right tracks crushed the gun.

There were a few bullets as he moved away down the road, and one armour piercing round did hit the heavy plating on the rear, but he was home free. More than that, he had just caught a glimpse of Ourumov’s car crossing the road about two blocks ahead. He did not need to follow closely on its heels now, for he had recognised the neighbourhood. On Jack Wade’s tour of St. Petersburg, the American had brought him along this road intentionally. He now knew exactly where Ourumov was heading.

All he could hope for was that he could get there in time.

This was yet another of the remnants of the old Soviet military machine. It lay deep inside a large oblong cutting, the top of which was surrounded by a crumbling brick wall and razor wire. The buildings were already starting to break up, and there was a strong sinister sense of long gone power about the place.

It had obviously once been somewhere of tremendous strategic importance. You could tell that by the types of structures and the strongly constructed platforms, together with now rusting stubby cranes.

Bond lay in a gap in the wall, on top of the cutting, looking down on the panorama below him; the T55 stood at the end of the deep ruts it had made when climbing up the high sloping grass embankment, and he was relieved that he appeared to have arrived before Ourumov. That had not been difficult, for the car in which the general travelled with Natalya was forced to take normal roads, while the tank had been able to move away from streets, so slew off across open fields to get to this place.

He silently thanked Jack Wade for pointing it out to him on their long drive around on the day of his arrival in St. Petersburg. Later, when the gangster arms dealer Zukovsky had mentioned the rumours that Janus travelled in style on an armoured train, Bond had known immediately where that train was likely to be kept: here, the once Number One Strategic (Rail) Weapons Depot. The first real proof of what this place had been was in the number of long, strengthened, flatbed trucks, which had been the main transporter vehicles for NATO-coded Scapegoats, Savage, Sego and Scrooge nuclear weapons - the ICBMs and tactical nukes which were taken by rail to sites and silos, or even intended to be launched from these very trucks.

The track itself appeared to be in good order, as did the one train standing in the depot. A large diesel-powered, heavily armoured engine was set to pull three carriages.

Each seemed identical and was also armoured. The engine was already running at idle, and from its square nose a single, long, telescopic, steel buffer projected. At its foremost end was a circular plate, almost the same circumference as the front plate of the engine itself.

The buffer, he thought, would be enough to deter anyone attempting to get in the way of the engine. It would also act as an effective shock absorber should such an engine be pulling a nuclear lc~J.

He was thinking that the entire train had been well refurbished, when the car swept out of an underground tunnel to screech to a halt beside the platform.

He would make sure they were on board before he moved off, for it should take him no longer than ten minutes to travel below the ridge of the cutting, then down to the point where he planned once again to come face to face with Janus.

Ourumov dragged the girl from the back and turned to the driver.

Natalya cowered behind the general.

“Shall I wait, sir?” the driver asked.

Ourumov nodded. “1f you would. Wait for ever, please.~’ He shot him. Twice in the stomach and then once through the head - the coup de grace - as he lay dying on the ground.

Revolted, Natalya turned away, then jumped backwards in surprise, for Xenia Onatopp had silently come from the train and was standing directly behind her.

“Welcome, Natalya.” She gave a wolfish smile and wiggled her hips slightly. She wore a skin-tight one-piece black jump suit and highly polished calf-length boots. An Uzi hung from her shoulder. “Arkady.’ She leaned forward and kissed the general. “It’s wonderful to see you both here safely. Janus is going to be so pleased.”

“Not with what I’ve got to tell him.” Ourumov sounded surly.

“Never mind. Such romps we ll all have, and think of that wonderful sun. Come, little one.” She looked at Natalya as though she could eat her.

As they half pulled Natalya towards the train, Ourumov seemed to throw off his surliness. “Ah, I shall enjoy a little sunshine after the winter we’ve had.” Then he laughed an unpleasant cackle. “Natalya, you’ll be fine sport. I know you’ll have fun. Xenia is an extraordinary woman. She likes anything with legs. Rather exotic tastes, our Xenia has, yes.” Natalya found, on boarding the train, that it did not smell as she expected a train to smell - even a diesel.

There was none of that mixture of sweat, oil and grease she was used to. Instead she smelled flowers, roses, the air was sweet with them.

When they took her into Alec Trevelyan’s carriage she gasped at the opulence. She had seen photographs of the Czar Nicholas’s train, with its rich hangings, chandeliers, beautiful upholstered seats, fine mahogany panelling and polished tables. This seemed to be a replica.

Trevelyan sat at one of the tables which was laid out for breakfast That was the other thing Natalya could smell - fresh and rich coffee. The china on the breakfast table was like nothing she had ever seen: each cup, saucer and plate was ringed with a thin gold band sandwiched between two royal blue bands, while each piece also contained what seemed to be a royal crest: a blue shield on which there were two gold profiles, as though a face had been split in two. Like.

the man sitting drinking his coffee: the right side clear and unharmed, his left side scarred and terrible, with the eye socket pulled down out of alignment, and the mouth frozen at the corner. Between eye and mouth, the ruined flesh seemed like the skin of a reptile.

As he stared at her, Natalya felt movement. The train was beginning its journey, swaying slightly and gathering speed.

The man with the disfigured face, whom she took to be Janus, glanced at Ourumov and then his eyes switched to Natalya, looking her slowly up and down so that she felt he was mentally undressing her. It was a humiliating experience, and for the time this went on, she felt as though this strange man really had the power to see her body through her clothes. She would not look him in the eye, turning away her head in embarrassment.

Finally he spoke to Ourumov, “Either you’ve brought me this perfect gift for our long journey, General, or you’ve made me a very unhappy man.

Ourumov gave a shrug, as though nothing mattered either way.

“That idiot Mishkin got to them before I could.”

“What you’re really trying to tell me is that Bond is alive.” Another shrug. “He escaped.

The scaly and askew side of his face seemed to give a twitch.

“Good for Bond,’ he murmured. Then lifting his head, “But bad for you, General.” Xenia gave an unpleasant croaking laugh. “I told you that if I couldn’t get this man Bond, then you wouldn’t have any success either,’ taunting the general.

Trevelyan shook his head. “Bond has as many spare lives as a cat.

Now, bring her over here.” He motioned towards Natalya.

Ourumov put a hand on her shoulder and propelled her roughly towards Janus/Trevelyan, thrusting her down in the padded chair next to him.

“Just sit quietly, and be a good girl.” Trevelyan spoke softly, and she noticed that he had a very similar accent to that of Bond.

When he leaned forward, his face close to hers, she wanted to pull away. It was not the disfigurement as much as something about the man’s personality.

Not just unpleasant, but bordering on evil.

“You like my friend, James?” he asked.

She gave a noncommittal nod, just the slightest movement of her head.

“Well, my dear, James and I shared everything at one time.” When he smiled it was only with the right side of his mouth, and the left eye seemed to close, its reptilian eyelid sliding down very slowly.

The eye reminded her of a lizard or a chameleon.

As he came even closer she smelled a cologne and coffee, but something else. For a second she could not place it, then realised that it was the smell of burning flesh, and she did not know whether she was imagining this or not. Someone had once told her that when it rained in Berlin you could still smell the burning of that city: the hint of how it had smelled after countless bombings and the final bombardment that had taken place fifty years ago, during the war.

He must have sensed that she was trying to pull back from him.

“We shared absolutely everything, and you must understand that to the victor go the spoils.- You can make your life very pleasant. You can even live in luxury for some time. Eventually you will come to like me very much.” His lips brushed her neck, then he moved a hand, turning her face, lowering his lips to her mouth.

She allowed him to get close, then, like an unpredictable animal, she opened her mouth and snapped at his lip. She felt her teeth going in and saw, as he pulled back with a little cry of annoyance, that she had broken the skin.

Blood was running from the lip.

She did not see his hand come up to slap her hard, only feeling the sting of sudden pain as her head was pushed sideways. “You bastard,’ she spat at him.

“I like a spirited woman.” He gave his warped smile again. “A woman with your kind of liveliness is much more fun than some docile bitch who just lies there like a pillow.

I shall enjoy breaking you, Natalya Fyodorovna.

Her eyes opened wide with surprise. “How do you know my name?” The smile again, this time broader and, therefore, more sinister.

“You’d be surprised at what I know..

As he moved towards her again, there was a shrill, piercing alarm which seemed to surround them like some tangible envelope. She also saw red lights blinking on the roof of the carriage.

He pushed her roughly out of the way and spoke to Ourumov, telling him to stay and watch her. Then he was running fast towards the next carriage, Xenia, with the little Uzi at the ready, following him.

In the short time Bond had available, he had chosen the best possible point for his ambush on a mile length of straight railway track leading into a short tunnel.

The tank had nearly up-ended itself as he went down the embankment close to the place he wanted to use, but finally he manoeuvred the machine into position, lining up its tracks on the rails so that it faced in the direction from which Trevelyan’s armoured train would come.

He opened the hatch, climbed into the gunner’s seat and examined the shells in their racks. The T55 carried three types of shell for the 100mm gun: Smoke, High Explosive and Armour Piercing. Bond did not have to think twice. The gun was easy enough to load, and with the engine at idle, he could swing the turret and depress the barrel so that it was pointing directly at where the train would appear.

It was yet another calculated risk, for Trevelyan might easily play things safe and back up as soon as the tank was spotted: a move that could quickly take the train out of range. He was also gambling on Natalya being held somewhere in the rear of the carriages. He would only have one chance, one shell to take out the engine, and almost as soon as he had depressed the firing button it would be necessary for him to be up and away through the hatch.

Strangely, the only thing worrying him was the very small amount of ammunition in the machine pistol. He thought it would now be about six rounds, which were not enough to take out Trevelyan and his lieutenants.

Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. The Biblical quote came back to him together with familiar scents from the past, the smell of chalk and other boys; of damp grey flannel and the harsh penalties for flouting rules.

Pressing his eye to the forward sight, he saw that the train had already begun to move swiftly into view.

Trevelyan and Xenia had moved forward into the Communications Carriage, filled with state-of-the-art computers and communications electronics which would keep them in touch with the entire world if need be.

At the far end a monitor linked them with a camera set high at the front of the engine. When he saw the tank, stationary on the rails ahead as they closed fast, Trevelyan uncharacteristically sighed, then made a noise which mingled anger with a hint of admiration. “Only James Bond,’ he muttered.

“He’ll derail us. We must stop!” Xenia showed some panic in her usually calm and cool manner.

“No!” from Trevelyan.

“What do we do?” The question came from up front in the train’s cabin, and it was obvious that the driver and his engineer were already slowing slightly. The brakes had started to pump.

“Stop that.” Trevelyan had snatched at a small microphone attached to the wall. “Go for him. Full speed. Ram him.”

“But…” came the driver’s voice.

“Ram him, damn you. You have that damned great battering ram up front. Now’s the time to use it The words and confidence were easy, but the situation had certain very dangerous drawbacks. Trevelyan was experienced enough to know what was going on. He too was a gambler.

Whatever happened now, he thought, the train would be wrecked. Well, that was OK for he would have no difficulty finding an alternative method of transport. It was an irritation, a minor setback, but they would still get to their destination.

He looked up at the monitor and braced himself in his seat.

Opposite him, Xenia was also straining backwards in her seat, the Uzi held across her lap and her legs straight. Above them the monitor showed that they were rushing towards the tank at high speed. About six hundred yards to go and closing very fast

At around two hundred yards Trevelyan began to feel the first nip of fear in the back of his mind. Then there was a flash, followed by a great heaving as though the carriage were being shaken by an earthquake.

Bond had banged down on the firing button. The turret bucked under the recoil and the shell penetrated the front of the engine, exploding with a great sheet of flame which seemed to reach out as though trying to devour the tank.

He pulled himself up through the hatch, leaped to the left and rolled away towards the bank, almost at the moment the train’s engine hit the tank, the long telescopic buffer buckling under the impact.

Bond dug himself into the earth as the forward momentum of the engine pushed the tank, now on fire, back into the tunnel.

Then came the second explosion: a thunderous clap of noise and a searing heat which even Bond felt, lying on the ground a good distance away. He raised his head and saw the wide plume of flame and smoke coming from inside the tunnel, the mixture of fuel and explosives rising into the air, as though drawing a deadly question mark.

By the time that happened, Bond was on his feet, the machine pistol in his hand, running full tilt towards the carriages, looking for the easiest way in.

He saw the steps at the door linking the last and middle carriages and threw himself towards them, his hand touching hot metal, his heart set on finishing the business with Trevelyan once and for all.

In the Communications Carriage, both Xenia and Trevelyan had been thrown to the ground; equipment had detached itself from walls and desk tops. Xenia’s Uzi had skittered back along the aisle and, worst of all, they were plunged into darkness.

“Emergency generator!” Trevelyan shouted, and Xenia stumbled forward, feeling her way to the large wall switch which would give them power now that the engine had exploded taking with it their normal source of electricity.

She pulled down on the switch and, as the lights came back on “Just stay absolutely still.” The voice came from behind them.

Trevelyan, half sprawled across a table, did not even bother to look around. “James, why can’t you just die like any other normal person?’ he asked.

Steel-Plated Coffin Alec Trevelyan’s almost casual manner was meant to either anger Bond, or put him off guard. It did neither.

He remembered the many tricks Trevelyan always had up his sleeve back in the old days, when they were cold warriors together. Bond particularly recalled a seminar~ at which Trevelyan spoke of the need for the man in the field never to show any true emotion, and always to appear utterly uncaring about anything if caught out.

Much had obviously happened to Alec in the years between, but he had almost certainly never lost his old way of working. If he appeared relaxed after what had happened in the last few minutes, then he obviously had some surprises in store, so it was necessary to treat him with considerable care.

Both Trevelyan and Xenia stood with their backs towards Bond and a little too close to various switches and buttons that probably meant they could shut off the light, or open doors to go into the carriage forward of the middle one in which they stood.

The train’s engine had uncoupled itself from the three cars as it plunged into the tunnel, and he was uncertain whether Natalya was being held in the carriage forward of where his prisoners stood, or the one behind. He also needed a new weapon and, as the two prisoners remained facing away from him, Bond’s eyes flicked to and fro, finally alighting on a small hand gun - a Beretta, he thought - lying on one of the computer tables which had not suffered damage in the collision and blast

He stepped to one side, picked it up and cocked the mechanism.

The weight of the gun told him it had a full magazine, so working the slide ensured a round was chambered.

“Turn around, with your hands on your head,’ he ordered. “Both of you. Now!” As they obeyed, he saw Xenia’s eyes move towards her Uzi which lay on the floor about three feet away from her.

Kick that towards me, please, Xenia. We don’t want any accidents.

Now, both of you stand well clear of that door.” The Uzi slid towards him, and while his pistol did not waver, Bond caught the machine gun with the side of his foot, sending it under the seats to his right.

Trevelyan gave a mocking laugh. “James, you’ve always been lucky.

But by the same token you’ve always been foolhardy. You perform well under pressure but you never think ahead. You haven’t a chance here.

You have no backup and no escape route. You’re stuck here with us as your hostages. A poet once wrote, “The glass is falling hour by hour Bond continued the quote, ““The glass will fall for ever.

But if you break the bloody glass, you won’t hold up the weather.”

Yes, I know, Alec, and I’m quite aware that you probably have some earth-shattering plan already running..

“Earth-shattering is good. Very good, James. And, no!

No, you cannot stop it now. Unless you can find the source and remove that bad boy Boris within a couple of days, you’re done for, old son. Buggered and bitched. I am the only person who might possibly change the circumstances, but that’s pretty unlikely now. And I hold the trump card here. I hold the bargaining chip, so to speak.”

“Oh?”

“I have the beautiful Natalya.

“So?”

“What do you mean, James, so?”

“Why should Natalya be a bargaining chip?”

“Come on, James. I know you very well.”

“You do?

Where is she, then? Where is she if she’s such an asset?”

“I can get her for you, only you’ll have to let me use the microphone.” His head gestured to where the mike was hanging, attached to a wall mounting.

“I just need your permission to..

“Don’t do anything stupid, Alec. I really don’t want to kill you.

I want to take you home.”

“Oh, yes. Home. By which I presume you mean England, home and beauty?”

“No, I mean England, home and justice.’ Trevelyan gestured towards the microphone once more and Bond nodded, not moving his eyes, but keeping the pistol halfway between Trevelyan and Xenia.

“Ourumov! Bring her in here.” Trevelyan spoke into the mike and then returned it to the wall bracket. “A lovely girl. Tastes like Well, I think she tastes like strawberries. You always had a yen for strawberry-flavoured girls, James.”

“I wouldn’t know what she tastes like.”

“A pity. I know.” He was a clever actor, Bond thought.

In that simple line the man had conjured up a picture of countless nights spent in the arms of Natalya, of every possible kind of fleshly lust studied and practised with her.

The door behind him slid open and Natalya came hobbling in.

General Ourumov had one arm around her throat, pulling her back towards him, while his other hand held a pistol to her head.

Trevelyan laughed. Not simply a laugh of pleasure or mockery, Bond considered. That was the laugh of a madman. “Here we go again, James.’ Even Bond thought that the man was a shade too cool. There had to be something.

Trevelyan was far too relaxed for comfort.

“The good old Mexican standoff, James. Also, if you think about it, we’re back to where we started. You’ve got one choice. Either your little friend with Ourumov, or the mission to see what I have and where it’s hidden.” Keeping the Beretta trained on the other two, Bond turned his head slightly so that Ourumov would know he was being spoken to. “General, tell me, what’s this Cossack promised you?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see a twitch of uncertainty cross Ourumov’s face.

“Details. Details,’ Trevelyan murmured.

“You know, surely, General Ourumov? You know he’s a Lienz Cossack?’ “Long ago and far away. Like a playwright once said about fornication. “That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.”’ “This is true?” Ourumov sounded shaken.

“About another country?” Trevelyan gave a high, one breath, laugh.

“It’s true, Ourumov. He’s a Lienz Cossack and you know they all have long memories of the purges. He has no love for you or your kind.

He’ll betray you. Just like he’s betrayed everyone else.”

“This is true?” Ourumov asked again, and was cut off by Trevelyan.

“What’s true is that in forty-eight to seventy-two hours you and I will have more money and more power than God. By then, Mr. Bond here will have only a small memorial service, and I doubt if there’ll be many people left to attend it. Should there be, it’ll be Moneypenny weeping and a dozen or so restaurateurs worrying about their bank balances. But a lot of people’ll be worrying about their bank balances by then.” He paused for it to sink in. “So what’s it to be, James?

Two targets. Time for one shot.

Which way will you jump? The girl or the mission?” Bond shrugged.

“Kill the girl if you like. She means nothing to me.” Natalya let out a little moan which seemed to come from deep inside her.

“See you in hell, James.” He nodded his command to Ourumov to kill the girl, but the general was off his guard now and Natalya sucked in that extra adrenalin. She broke free and kneed him in the groin, diving away from him as she did so, leaving Bond a clear shot.

The pistol barked, sounding like a cannon in the enclosed space of the carriage and, as though in slow motion, the top of Ourumov’s head disappeared in a fine red mist

Bond ducked sideways, threw himself down near Natalya and came up shooting. His first two rounds went high, to the left. By the time he resighted, the door at the far end was open and Xenia, followed by Trevelyan, was through the gap. Two more shots splintered the woodwork, but they were out and away. As he reached the door, he heard the sound of bolts being thrown. Almost at the same time great thick armoured shields came clanging down over the windows.

“We’re in an armour-plated coffin,’ Bond said quietly.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you, James. Good of you to ask.”

“I’m sorry, but..

The one big computer, on the desk from where Bond had snatched the Beretta, suddenly beeped, and Natalya turned her head. Took one look and shouted, “Boris?”

“Where?”

“Somewhere out there.” She pushed him to one side and swung into the chair, her hands on the keyboard, rattling away.

“Natalya, what in hell’re you doing?”

“James, let me get on with it. Somewhere out there, in the real world, Boris is sitting at a computer. That’s where you’d expect him to be. He’s only alive when he’s at a computer. He could be anywhere - Timbukthree.

“Timbuktu.”

“Two. Right. Now, this is his programme. He’s backing up all his files and he’s reachable. If I can send a spike down the line, I could trace exactly where he is. Would that help?”

“Just a lot. “Good, then let me do it.” She growled at him, “Well, don’t just stand there, man, get us out of here.”

“Yes, sir.

Certainly, sir. Three bags full, sir.” He turned his attention to the floor, and removing a large Swiss Army knife from its hiding place in the waistband of his slacks, he began to cut away a wide section of the carpeting.

Outside, Trevelyan and Xenia had jumped from the train.

“I only hope to God that it wasn’t damaged in the blast” He sounded concerned now. “If it was then we can say goodbye to everything.” They stood back from the forward coach, the front of which looked a little charred and burned from the explosion.

Taking what looked like a small TV remote controller from his pocket, Trevelyan aimed it at the carriage and pressed.

There was a rumbling and the four sides fell away on hinges to reveal a sleek, black, little helicopter.

“We did it!” Xenia shouted as she and Trevelyan ran up one of the long, oblong sides and onto the flatbed truck, moving as a team, unclipping padded metal restraining locks from around the machine.

Seconds later, Trevelyan ducked underneath the middle carriage and heard the sounds of Bond at work. His hand slid up to a black box towards the front of the carriage, opened it and punched in some numbers.

By the time he reappeared, Xenia had the engine running and the rotors turning. A few seconds later the helicopter lifted off, with Trevelyan at the controls. He flew in a wide arc and then hovered over the centre carriage, speaking quickly into a sound system which magnified his voice.

Natalya was typing furiously, the read-out on her monitor flashing and changing: C:> CD SPIKE C:>SPIKE C:>SEND SPIKE ENTER She slammed a forefinger onto the enter key and the prompt came up: C:>SPIKE SENT She gave a wild war whoop. “Got him, I hope.” Then they both heard the disembodied voice of Janus, Alec Trevelyan, coming from above.

“Good luck with the floor, James. I set the timers for three minutes. The same three minutes you gave me back near Archangel. It was the least I could do for an old friend.” An intermittent beeping sounded from below them, and red lights began to flash above each door in the carriage.

“What does that mean?” Natalya sounded anxious.

“It means we’ve got exactly sixty seconds to get out.”

“Oh.” She went back to the keyboard, typing even faster.

Bond had the carpet stripped back to expose the metal floor. He pulled his watch from his wrist, turned the bezel so that two marks were aligned, then he pressed one of the buttons flanking the main stem. A thin, bright laser beam hissed out of the side. Lowering it, he began to slice through the steel, tearing it away and making a wide circle.

The watch was one of the most useful things Q had ever provided him with.

Natalya had typed in a further command: C:> FOLLOW SPIKE TRACE.

Her screen dissolved and a map appeared in its place. She followed the red line that traced itself across the graphics of the world, talking as it went.

“He’s not in Russia, Germany, Paris, Madrid, Rome, London.” Her voice became faster and faster as the line followed Boris, and the confusing route he had taken.

“New York, Washington, Miami, Key West

“Twenty seconds…” Bond shouted.

“Cuba. James, he’s in Cuba.

Bond thumped the centre of the laser tracing and a circular sheet of steel dropped to the ground below the carriage. “Fifteen,’ he yelled.

“Havana! Got him No. No, he’s out of there. To the north but still in Cuba..

“Near enough!” He yanked at the back of her shirt, dragged her from the chair and dropped her through the hole, following her with about five seconds to go.

They crawled out very quickly and he flung her down, covering her body, just as the three carriages went up with a roar, engulfed in flame.

Natalya sprinted up to the far side of the bank, Bond went after her, again ending up shielding her.

She smiled up at him. “Wow! Was it good for you?”

“A shade too close for comfort.”

“I don’t get it, James. What is it with you? Do you destroy every vehicle you get into?”

“It does seem to have become a kind of operating procedure.

“Well, I think I should make the arrangements for our trip to Cuba.’ “Our trip?”

“You don’t think I’m going to leave you to finish this on your own, do you? Anyway, do you know how to dismantle Mischa?’ “Actually, now that you mention it, no. We may need some help.”

“Can you find it?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“Good. Now, James, are there any other operating procedures I should know about?”

“Thousands.” He smiled at her, his lips drifting down towards her mouth. “Don’t worry, though. I only pay them lip service.”

“I can’t think of a better way,’ said Natalya Simonova as she lifted her face, and then her body, to his.

There were a lot of problems and the first, which should have been the easiest, proved to be the most difficult.

They were on foot, some six or seven miles from the centre of St. Petersburg. In these days of the new Russian democracy, it was not always a good idea to be without transport.

Bond also needed a telephone to accomplish the most essential hurdle: getting in touch with Jack Wade, his only backup.

They walked for several miles, happily unmolested but for a beggar who insisted on singing for them in a highpitched tuneless voice. From what Bond could make out, the words had something to do with, “Oh, my suffering brothers’. As the man sang, so he thought he heard the sound of a bell in the distance. The bell was also tuneless, like the snapping of a wire.

Against his better judgement, he gave the man a fortune - five dollars - and asked Natalya what it was all about.

“Oh, it’s an old revolutionary song, from before the Bolshevik days,’ she told him.

Finally, they reached a grubby little restaurant where the proprietor agreed to let them use his telephone for a price, and on condition that they had breakfast, paying for that as well.

Bond dialled the number Jack Wade had given him and got Wade’s voice telling him to leave a message and have a nice day. He told the CIA man where they were, that they needed transport and a lot of other favours.

The coffee was surprisingly good, and they also ate some smoked herring with black bread.

They had just finished eating when two police cars squealed to a halt outside.

“The game’s up,’ Bond whispered. “We’re in trouble.” The proprietor had other ideas. He was obviously a man who had some kind of grudge against authority in any shape or form. He came out from behind the counter like a greyhound unleashed.

Whispering in rapid Russian, the man quickly shepherded them through the back room, up a short flight of stairs and into a large cupboard which contained cans and boxes of prepackaged food and cooking oil. Black Market, Bond thought, then the proprietor put his finger to his lips and closed the door, leaving them in pitch dark.

Natalya’s hand came up to his face, her fingers exploring eyes, nose, mouth and chin.

Bond drew her close, leaned over and found her mouth with his. At first she did not respond as his lips caressed hers, then, like throwing a switch, he felt her body thrust against his, and she opened her mouth.

From below came the sound of argument, then laughter. After around twenty minutes they heard the proprietor’s footsteps on the stairs. He grinned as he opened the door.

“Some fools have been tampering with weapons and railway equipment.” He gave them a gap-toothed grin.

“The Police and Security Organs are looking for a man and a woman.

I try not to bother with these people so I told them I’d had no customers this morning. Good? Yes?”

“Very good.” Bond gave him money which made him even happier.

About half an hour later, Wade turned up, still in the battered old Moscovich, flashing a radiant smile. In the car, heading back to the hotel, Bond gave him a shopping list which included tickets on the first available plane to the United States, a valid passport with the right visas for Natalya, and some changes of clothes for the girl.

“This ain’t gonna be the easiest job in the world.” Wade’s voice was languid, as though it did not matter one way or the other to him.

“On the other hand it ain’t gonna be impossible.” He suddenly swung the car across the road, hanging a right into narrow country lane.

“There’s no room to pass anything.” Bond sounded irritable. “Why this farm track, Jack?”

“Because of the road blocks and their other games, James.

“Road blocks?” Natalya was getting edgy.

“Yeah, like cars, saw horses, cops, KGB…

“KGB doesn’t exist any more,’ Natalya bridled.

“Sure, that’s why everyone still calls it that, or the old name Cheka. Interchangeable, babe. If you don’t know that, someone’s been putting happy dust into your breakfast cereal. I don’t know a single Russian who calls KGB anything else but KGB - yesterday, today, forever, like the ads for that musical, Kittens.”

“Cats,’ Bond corrected.

“Whatever. Anyways, the outskirts are crawling with people looking to do dangerous things to you. I did a quick checkup, and for some reason they don’t seem to know where you’ve been staying, James.

They not take your passport at the hotel?”

“No. The booking was what in the trade is known as clandestine.”

“Our trade as well. Gee, we use the same words; and they say Britain and America are two countries separated by the same language.

After a pause, Bond asked if he understood Wade correctly. “What you’re saying is that nobody’s got the hotel under surveillance?”

“Clean as the proverbial whistle. No pack drill, no names, James.”

“So what else?’ “We can sneak around these lanes and the back streets.

Once we’re in central St. Petersburg there doesn’t seem to be a general alert. These people’re funny. I guess they figure that nobody would be stupid enough to come right into town.”

“And?”

“And that’s the good news. The bad news is that the train stations and airports are crawling with the secret squirrels. You’re both gonna need new passports, and I fear we’re forced to use some old-fashioned remedy, like disguise.” Bond hated disguises; never felt happy wearing them; found it difficult to take on some new role. He made a lame protest, saying he wasn’t going to wear fancy dress, not for anybody.

“Don’t worry, James. We’ll be subtle. We won’t put you in drag.

Just age you a bit, and Natalya can be aged down.

It’ll be cool. Don’t worry.

At the hotel, nobody challenged them. They showered and then waited, wondering if Jack Wade would really come up with the goods.

He was, in fact, surprisingly fast, and at around seven o’clock he arrived at their room with a case full of what he insisted on calling “goodies’ plus a pair of flight bags.

There was an American passport for Bond, complete with a new face which sported large heavy spectacles, grey hair and a chubbier face.

These last changes were simple: a grey rinse for the hair, and foam pads to go into his cheeks.

“Don’t try and drink anything while you’re wearing those in your mouth, James. They tend to suck up liquids so you spray everyone.

“I read that in an upmarket espionage novel somewhere.” He went into the bathroom, rinsed his hair with the special preparation, put the glasses on, and slid the pads into his cheeks. The change in his appearance was really quite remarkable, and he emerged into the sitting room to find Wade with a young schoolgirl he did not recognise.

“She’s meant to be around fifteen. Brit passport with the correct visa, and the school uniform really does exist” Wade gave her an almost lecherous look. “You have real passports for the onward journey.” He dumped a pair of old style British passports on the table.

“You all happy now’?”

“I like the - what do you call it? Gymslip?’ Natalya lowered her eyes, as though embarrassed.

“That’s correct.” Bond looked her up and down, the white knee socks did his libido a power of good.

“What I don’t like is the underwear. Thick, dark blue and feels like serge.

Bond smiled. “Standard uniform issue at British girls’ schools.”

“Only for the flight.” Wade put on an innocent look.

“There’ll be a bag of really nice clothes for both of you when you get to where you’re going. I took the liberty of working out your sizes. In the meantime you’ve got a flight bag each with one or two things that should help.” They separated at the airport where the security forces were all over the place. Bond presented himself at immigration as a crusty, no-nonsense, slightly eccentric ex-military type abroad. He found it worked wonders when he threatened to report an over zealous official.

On the air side his heart skipped a few beats when he saw two large female security officers take Natalya into a curtained off area.

Later, she told him it was the worst moment of her life. “I think there was something funny about them. Very aggressive, until I gave them some dollars. They stopped mauling me after that.” The flight took them to Paris where they had enough time to change back into near normal representations of themselves, and on the flight to Miami sat with each other.

There were no awkward questions on arrival, and they just made the connection to Puerto Rico where they were met by a young man who had CIA written all over him, and who took them through immigration and customs with a minimum amount of bother. The young man, who was stocky, built like a fireplug and answered to the name Mac, had their new luggage with him. He appeared to be very taken with Natalya.

He drove them to a luxurious beach house in an equally luxurious BMW which he said was for their use while they were on the island.

The following afternoon found them on the road, exploring the island, away from all the tourist haunts in San Juan.

“You don’t know what this means to me.” Natalya’s hair was ruffled by the warm breeze as they negotiated empty roads far off the normal guided tour routes. “You know, James, all my life I wanted to come to the Caribbean. I even had a picture of one of the islands - St. Thomas, think - at my work-station at Severnaya. Dreamed about it since I was a small girl, and I can’t believe I’m here.”

“I’m glad we had the opportunity of making your dreams come true.” Bond smiled at her. “I just hope we don’t end up in a nightmare.

She ignored the last remark, sighed, lying her head on his shoulder. “Here we are, on a beautiful island and not another human being in sight.” As she said it, so a loud beeping came from the radio panel.

“That could be our wake-up call.” Bond stabbed at one of the pre-set buttons on the radio and a panel dropped down to reveal a small radar screen with one green blip showing each time the sweep line circled the display. “It appears that we have company.” Bond’s brow wrinkled, and from far away, over the noise of the car, they both became aware of the sound of an approaching aircraft.

He saw it in the rear-view mirror, and Natalya turned to look back, giving a little squeak of surprise, ducking low down in her seat just as a neat little Piper Archer passed low over their heads, flaps fully extended, so that it could land on the road in front of them.

“You were saying?” Bond’s face showed nothing, but his hand slipped inside his blazer and he placed an automatic pistol on the console between them.

The Archer taxied on up the road and finally turned left, going through a gap in the trees and coming to a stop in an empty field.

“Do you work at attracting trouble with anything that moves?” Natalya looked puzzled.

“It’s my natural charm.” He still showed no emotion.

“That, combined with a weakness for causing mayhem and often a lot of violence.” He braked and turned into the field, drawing up close to the Archer which had the name Lord Geoff! stencilled on its nose.

As they came to a halt, Jack Wade clambered down from the passenger seat, carrying a small briefcase.

“Jimbo!” he greeted Bond.

“I told you never to call me that. And while we’re at it, what’re you doing here?”

“You wanted the job of finishing off Janus, and I bring tidings from your boss. She says you’re to go ahead.

Tomorrow, in fact. Oh, this is a present from what’s his name N? R? A?’ “That’s the one.” He handed over the briefcase, sniffing at the air. “Ah, Banyan trees.” He paused and then, “Incidentally, I’m not here, capish? The Agency has absolutely nothing to do with this.

No knowledge. Nothing to do with your insertion into Cuba. OK?” Bond nodded.

“I borrowed this little baby from a friend of mine in the Drugs Enforcement Agency. It’ll be waiting for you, all ready to go, at the private aircraft parking at San Juan Dominicci, first light tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll be there.” Dominicci is San Juan’s domestic airport at which shuttles depart and arrive all day from the outlying towns on the island.

“Just climb aboard and give your call sign, Smiley One.

Now…” He walked them to the door of the aircraft and took some papers from the seat. “We’ve covered you in every possible way.

Coast Guard, Federal Aviation Authority and Southern Military Command are all in the loop, and when I said first light, I meant it. You’ll be cleared at 06.00.” He handed over a large manila envelope. “This is the latest Satint from the Puzzle Palace. They say you should be OK as long as you stay at under six hundred feet.” Natalya’s hand shot forward, plucking the envelope from Bond’s hand. “Five hundred feet,’ she smiled like a nice, well brought-up Russian girl.

“Who is this?” Wade cocked his head on one side, looking quizzically at Natalya, as though he had never met her.

“I should’ve introduced you. You brought her clothes in Petersburg, remember?”

“Ah, yes, I remember it well. Natalya Simonova.

Natalya looked from under half closed lids as she ripped the envelope open and began studying its contents of maps and satellite photographs. I have been promoted. Now I’m a deputy sheriff of Mr. Bond’s posse.” She gave Wade an enormous smile. “You have a very weird taste in certain more intimate garments, Mr. Wade.”

“Oh, yes. I hope they were the right size.

“Perfect.” Bond looked at them with innocence written all over his face.

“This Russian girl here? You check her out?”

“From head to toe, Jacko.’ “Please don’t call me…” He stopped as he saw Natalya scrutinising the satellite maps. Leaning over her, he pointed.

“You’ll be looking for a satellite dish the size of a football field, I presume? Well, it just doesn’t exist

Nobody can light up a cigar in Cuba without the boys at the National Security Agency knowing about it. It just is not there.” Natalya gave him a cheeky smile. “Mr. Wade, I know it’s there. It’s an exact replica of the one at Severnaya.” Bond interrupted them. “What if we need backup, Jack?”

“There’s a transmitter in the plane. He indicated an area among the instruments in front of the pilot, who remained silent and did not even look in their direction.

“It’ll send a warning if the plane comes unstuck. Either way, if you’re in trouble, just squawk and I’ll send in the Marines.” For the first time, the pilot leaned down, gesturing to Wade to hurry up. “My chauffeur’s getting anxious.” He clapped Bond on the shoulder and kissed Natalya on the cheek. “Just hang a right at the end of the runway. It’s only a short ride to Cuba from there. Good luck. I’ll pick up the BMW at Dominicci in the morning.

“Well, try not to touch any odd buttons in it.”

“I was just going’ to bomb around in it for a while.

“Exactly.”

“James, you can take Janus out. I have all the faith in the world, because you know all that guy’s moves.”

“The problem is that he knows all of mine as well. We worked together for a very long time.’ “You’ll still take him, Jimbo.” Wade leaped out of the range of Bond’s closed fist and climbed back into the Piper Archer, which slowly began to taxi away.

That night, Bond checked out Q’s briefcase in the privacy of the beach house. It contained a new watch and six small magnetic charges which could be controlled by it.

He packed them away among the kit he would be wearing the next morning.

Outside, on the beach he sat down near the surf, wrapped in thought as he was lulled by the noise of the sea. He thought of all the years he had spent living in secret yet enjoying everything that his hedonistic life had to offer.

What had he become, he asked himself. Was he just a killing machine? Did his superiors let him get away with all kinds of excesses both on and off missions because they understood the kind of strain his work produced? He knew that some people turned a blind eye to certain aspects of his way of life, just as he knew that they paid him more than most of the regular officers of the Secret Intelligence Service.

He went back over so much of his life that he wondered if he were getting maudlin about things, like a drunk ready to cry into his beer.

He really had to snap out of this, it was not doing any good.

Natalya came barefoot across the sand, turning her face towards the sea breeze as she stood close to him. Presently she reached down and tousled his hair, but he did not move, and even seemed unaware of her presence until she spoke, squatting on the sand next to him.

“Janus was your friend, wasn’t he?” he asked.

“Several lifetimes ago, yes.

“And now he is your enemy. So tomorrow you’ll go and kill him.

It’s that simple, yes?”

“Yes.” She drew in breath through her nostrils.

The sound made him look at her and he saw the anger in her eyes.

“No, James. No, it’s not that easy.” She tried to get up from the sand, but he grabbed her arm and drew her back to him.

“I hate you,’ she spat like an angry cat. “I hate you. I hate all of you. Your kind’ve caused so much grief all over the world, with your guns and your instruments of death.” She began hitting at him, pummelling his chest He enveloped her in his arms, holding her tightly as her fighting became less violent and she began to cry softly. “So many of my friends,’ she sobbed. “My friends, members of my family. So many have died because of people like you.

“There have to be people like me.” He hugged her close.

“I do a necessary job. If I didn’t do it, someone else would.

I simply have to level things off so that one day there will be some true kind of peace in the world.” After a while, her sobbing stopped, and he helped her to her feet. Together they walked back to the house.

Inside, the air was cooled by two overhead fans; the lights were turned down to a pleasant dusk-like glow; the stereo was playing the late Miles Davis’ evergreen “Sketches of Spain’: the soft lush sound of the waves breaking on the beach outside counterpointing the music.

They stood close together, all senses merging, hands touching, their nostrils gathering up the pleasant smell of island flowers combining with faintly aromatic scents of the dish, which Bond had set to cook slowly in the kitchen.

When he kissed her, he tasted the aftermath of sweet fruit. When she kissed him back, her tongue sliced into his mouth, caressing the inside of his cheeks, coming away with the slight tang of the champagne he had sipped less than an hour before.

He took her by the hand and she followed him, eyes downcast as though she were completely innocent of men, which would have been a lie. In front of the bed they slowly undressed each other. She wore no bra under her T-shirt, and only the flimsiest garment was revealed as her skirt dropped to the floor.

She gave a little giggle and whispered, “More romantic than the schoolgirl pants, eh?”

“And softer on the skin.” The little white froth of nylon fell to the floor and she stepped forward, yanking at his belt and stripping the thin lightweight pants from his legs.

In the distance, she seemed to hear her mother, flustered, Natalya have you no shame when, years ago, she had caught her with a local boy.

She allowed him to turn her and lift her onto the bed.

He slid quietly on top of her, taking his weight on his forearms, and Natalya suddenly sucked in air as her hands enfolded him.

Embracing him with her fingers, she pulled him to her lips and kissed him, then pushed him back so that his manhood lay across her belly.

She felt his hands slide under her buttocks, pressing, stroking and kneading them as he bent his mouth to kiss first one breast and then the other. Her hands guided him down and he slid into her, thick and long so that she lifted her buttocks in his hands and let out a sharp breath of pleasure.

They had become one person, locked and moving slowly through the wonder of that great pleasure only woman can give to man, and man to woman.

Both of them had dreamed of nights like this from the first moment of meeting though neither would have ever admitted it, as they found the rhythm, lost it, then discovered a natural movement belonging only to them. Two people, locked as one.

She murmured something as he thrust deep into her a Russian expression for loving he thought - then their mouths closed on each other and they were swept away in that dance which neither ever wanted to end. Yet eventually it reached its peak in a kind of explosion and cleansing, sweeping them to the shore of some place beyond this planet, far from their previous experience.

In the sweat-soaked, pulsing, exhausting moment, their eyes locked, so they both knew that should this be the last time either was consumed in passion it did not matter, for they had tasted everything possible, good, lasting and memorable in physical love.

Later, in the afterglow, she clung to him.

“James. ?” Her voice husky.

“Yes?”

“On the train. When you told them to kill me, that I meant nothing to you, did you mean that?”

“Of course.

She propped herself on one elbow and looked at him, lines of concern raking across her brow.

Then Bond laughed. “Natalya, my darling girl, it’s a basic rule.

Always call their bluff.” She grabbed a pillow and swung at him with it, almost shouting, her voice high and full of joy -“You lying devil, James.” He fended off the pillow and drew her back to him for a long kiss which seemed to go on until their lungs reached bursting point.

Presently, she asked him if he knew this island well.

“Why?”

“Oh, I just had a feeling that you knew where you were going when we were out driving this afternoon.

He lay, silent for a moment. “I know it,’ he said softly.

“In some ways I have reason to hate it, but now there is a new reason for me to love it.”

“Something sad happened to you here?”

“Something I shouldn’t talk about, I’m afraid.” Once more a long pause.

“There was a woman, she said, bluntly. “It’s OK, James.

I’m not jealous about what happened before we met.”

“Yes,’ he heard the tiny kink in the back of his throat.

“Yes, there was a woman. She’s alive, but she may never walk again. We were dealing with a very bad man.”

“As bad as Ourumov?”

“On a scale of one to ten they’d come out about equal.” More silence and the foam surfing up the beach.

“Kiss me again, James. Please. Please take me again.

Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow.

His hands stroked her body, legs, thighs, belly, breasts, neck and shoulders. “This is the island I really want to know,’ he whispered.

“Then get to know it,’ she said. “And to hell with tomorrow.

They came in very low off the sea, crossing the coast and cruising just above the jungle. The lush greenery below looked impenetrable, but they could occasionally glimpse the odd small clearing. There was no sign of life.

“Turn ten degrees south and hold bearing one-eightfour.” Natalya had navigated all the way and brought them in right on track. She was just the kind of girl with whom Bond could have happily spent the rest of his life - smart, plenty of initiative, that sixth sense they called intuition, full of loyalty and a ferocious courage. She was not just a very attractive face and body, but a woman he could trust In a very short time, she had come to trust him.

They both knew well enough that their lives depended on each other. They also knew that, within the next few hours, they might die together.

Now, as they skimmed the deep green foliage, their heads and eyes were in constant movement as they searched for something that did not seem to be there even though Natalya insisted it was certainly very close to where they now flew.

He caught a flicker of light some ten miles further on, and headed towards it. As they drew closer he was sure the light was that of the sun reflecting on water.

Finally there, in the middle of the jungle, was a natural bowl, a huge inland lake, its water like glass, and so deep that you could see no trace of the bottom, except at its very edges where the water lapped against a thin strip of sand, before the ground rose softly into hills of vegetation.

He turned the Piper Archer as they reached the far side of the perfect circle of water, knowing it was inconceivable that this could be nature’s doing. The lake was too flawless, too geometric, to be anything but man-made.

He banked the aircraft within the bowl, one wing very low, almost reaching a rate five turn as he swung through three hundred and sixty degrees and then turned to follow through in the opposite direction.

The little plane lifted over the jungle once more.

“There’s nothing there. Absolutely nothing,’ Natalya said.

“Let’s give it another go. I’ll take her down very close to the drink. Keep your eyes peeled.” He extended the aircraft’s flaps to allow himself to fly safely at a slower speed, just over the water; curving around the complete circle, looking down on the wingtip which seemed to be only a foot or so above the smooth blue-green tint of the lake.

Still nothing. Maybe Wade was right, Bond thought.

He put on power, then retracted the flaps and climbed, crossing the lake diagonally, then, after gaining height, he pulled her round again and began another run.

“James! Look out! James!” she screamed.

He saw it at exactly the same moment as she shouted.

It came straight up from the deep water, breaking the placid surface with hardly a ripple, and his immediate reaction was that it was a largish fish. Now he pushed the yoke hard to the left, his feet firmly on the rudder pedals to keep the nose up in a desperate attempt to avoid what he thought was probably a 140mm rocket, and where there was one of those, more could easily follow as they usually came in distinctive seventeen rocket packs.

He had never yet heard of a launch of this type of rocket from underwater, but it would not be difficult, and the aircraft was probably being targeted electronically by computer even as he banked right, turning the Archer onto an opposite track as the first rocket passed harmlessly to their left.

“We’ve got to get out of here,’ he shouted, slewing the plane in the other direction. Wrong! Another rocket came hurtling from the water as he turned. It did not explode, but sheared off over half the span of his port wing.

The Piper was too low and everything seemed to happen in slow motion once more. Bond over-corrected and then went out of control.

He had the elevator, rudder, stabiliser and only one aileron. It was a matter of pure luck that, as he tried to correct again and bring the nose up, the belly of the aircraft struck the water.

Hitting water in any aircraft is as good as slamming into a brick wall. They went from around seventy-eight knots to zero in a fraction of a second. He felt the underside of the plane being torn away - a ragged and horrific cracking noise; then the nose went down, the prop churning water.

The shore line came up to meet them and what was left of the fuselage slid up onto the sand.

Natalya had screamed when they were hit. Now, as they rose up the strip of sand, Bond threw one arm across her and his other forearm over his own face.

Then the fire gushed from the engine.

He did not recall hauling her from the wreckage, but the next he knew was that he had carried her into the jungle foliage and had put her down gently in a clearing.

Her head lolled back, then her eyelids fluttered.

He spoke her name, urgently, several times, and finally she was awake. “You OK?”

“I think someone hit me with a hammer.” She raised herself from the ground and began to check that she could walk and move her limbs. Bond did the same. “I think we’re both in one piece.” He flexed his aching shoulders.

“Or at least the pieces appear to be joined in the right places.” She nodded and then lost balance again, collapsing in a heap.

Bond had been vaguely aware of something else going on in the background, but was still disoriented. Now he realised that a helicopter was hovering low over the clearing, a rope snaking from it and a figure rappelling down very quickly.

At first he thought Jack Wade had been very quick off the mark in sending help. It was not until he moved towards the rope that he knew he had made a grave mistake.

A boot lashed out and caught him in the face as Xenia Onatopp reached the end of the rope to which she was secured. He managed to get halfway to his feet before she lashed out at him again. Dressed in a tight combat suit with the omnipresent machine pistol strapped to her back, Xenia was on him like a wild animal, her legs closing around his chest, knocking the wind from him and clutching, causing great stabs of pain.

“This time, Mr. Bond, the pleasure will be all mine.” His reply “Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Onatopp.” - was almost certainly not comprehensible as she scissored his ribs, bearing down on him.

This time she had him. He could feel the crushing, and thought the bones would crack at any minute as he fought for breath.

She started to scream orgasmically -“Oh, yes Yes Yes…” and only stopped as an arm slid around her neck. Natalya was on her back trying to pull her from Bond, but Xenia threw her off with one arm, shouting, “Wait for your turn. You’re next.” She had lost some of her grip in dealing with Natalya; enough for Bond to reach up behind her and get a hand around the machine pistol. His thumb hit the safety catch and he squeezed the trigger.

He had no particular purpose, but the weapon sent a spray of bullets straight up, tearing into the side of the helicopter. The pilot was obviously caught off guard for he opened up the throttle and the machine moved rapidly forward, ascending as it did so.

The line to which Xenia was secured went taut, pulling her away from Bond, who flicked her into a spin as she was lifted, at speed, across the clearing, heading straight for a tangle of tree limbs, where she was suddenly trapped in a V formation of thick branches.

Above, the helicopter was dragged backwards by the anchor of Xenia’s body caught in the tree. The pilot tried to descend and regain control, but the tightness of the rope pulled the machine sideways, so that he suddenly lost it altogether. The machine tipped to one side at a dangerous angle, rapidly losing height and dropping into the trees.

There was a terrible rending, then the fireball leaped up into the air.

Natalya was beside Bond as he got to his feet, rubbing at his chest, still in pain and knowing that he had been only seconds from death. He looked at Natalya, and then at Xenia’s body, crushed, with her face contorted horribly in agony.

“She always did enjoy a good squeeze,’ he said.

Far below the lake, in a complex similar to the one at Severnaya, Boris sat in front of a bank of monitors, his eyes riveted to one of the screens, his hands obsessively playing with a pen.

This facility, unlike Severnaya, was built in three great tiers, walkways running around each section, screens and electronics everywhere.

The monitor in front of Boris was reeling off numbers, marked as CURRENCY TRANSFERS. The figures were so large as to be almost incomprehensible. Billions of dollars were being moved from the Bank of England into a series of accounts in France, Switzerland, Brazil, Argentina, and some huge sums were even being switched into American banks.

“Going well, eh?” Alec Trevelyan stood behind him.

“And they won’t know until tomorrow.”

“They will never know once we bring Mischa into play, my friend. What’s the status? Is the satellite in range?” Boris, looking more wild and unkempt than ever, pointed up at the long screen to his right which showed the orbit status with the red satellite symbol winking away above southern Africa.

“About six minutes.” Boris gave a little cackle.

“OK. Prepare the dish.” Boris slapped his hand onto the console and his lower lip jutted out. “No. Not yet. I am not ready.” But I am,’ Trevelyan snapped. “I’m taking no more chances. Prepare the dish, Boris, or you won’t live long enough to collect anything.” They waited in the clearing until they both felt recovered enough to explore the lake. “There has to be something here,’ Bond said. “Xenia wouldn’t have tried to use her bizarre skills on us unless we were near.

Breaking from the jungle and onto the beach, they stopped at the jaw-dropping sight in front of them. The water was moving, rippling, and from it rose three tall telescopic masts, joined together by steel cables.

“Should’ve come by submarine not by plane. Bond nodded to himself.

“No wonder we didn’t see anything.” Natalya had a hand up to her mouth.

Reaching their full extension, the masts locked into place.

Suspended between them, exactly over the lake, they saw a latticed triangular structure with a catwalk trailing from it at a shallow angle into the water. Then the lake started to recede and, emerging from where the water had been, there came a massive parabolic shape, hundreds of feet in diameter.

“Quite a large radio dish,’ Bond said.

“Is that the famous British understatement?” Natalya asked.

“Could be. Fancy climbing onto that thing? We can get up there by climbing that metal latticework.”

“After you, James.” Far below them, inside the circular control room, Trevelyan had opened his briefcase and taken out the GoldenEye. Holding it out to Boris, he said, “The world’s greatest cash card. I can only hope that it won’t be rejected.” Boris, watching the monitors, reported, “Mischa on line.” Far away, the satellite, disguised as a piece of space junk, began to reveal itself: a silvery ULF antenna slid out, extending itself to around a distance of half a mile.

Below the so-called lake, Boris asked, “Target coordinates, please.’ Trevelyan hesitated for one moment, then spoke like a commander on an electronic battlefield. “The target is London.” Boris started typing in sets of numbers to activate Mischa; and at that moment, Alec Trevelyan glanced behind him and caught sight of one of the external security screens. There he saw Bond and Natalya slowly climbing through the girders of the latticework, up onto the dish.

He sighed. “The man just won’t take a hint.” He turned to an armed uniformed guard. “Go. Take them out before this begins to get really stupid.” The Edge of Catastrophe Looking up from the rim of the dish, Bond saw that the superstructure in the centre, some five hundred feet above, had begun to rotate.

“He’s preparing to signal the satellite,’ Natalya warned him.

“How do we stop him?”

“Look, right up there, below the superstructure, there’s a maintenance room. If we can get in there, we can take out the transmitter, just above the antenna.” Then the shooting began.

They could not see where the fire came from, but out there, clinging to the rim of the dish - a massive bowl where the lake had been - with the huge superstructure above its centre, they were sitting targets.

Bullets clanged into the metal around them. Natalya flinched and lost her footing on the slippery dish, slick with water and algae.

Bond tried to make a grab for her and failed, losing his own balance at the same time.

They both slid down the basin, right to the centre, which was the stump of the dish, like a large blockhouse with a sealed hatch on their side. The waterproof seal, Bond guessed, could be activated from either side for there was a heavy spoked wheel in the middle.

Presumably, he reasoned, there was an air lock behind the hatch for the use of any maintenance staff.

He grasped the wheel and began to turn, keeping his head down, expecting another fusillade of shots at any moment. There was a hiss as the hatch swung open, and he helped Natalya inside what appeared to be a chamber large enough to take two people. Another hatch with a wheel lay at the far end, so this had to be some kind of way in or out when the dish was below water.

A minute later, they were through the other side of the hatch, making their way down a rungged ladder which, in turn, led to a pillared catwalk, circling the control room.

He thought of the archives back at the Military Intelligence Headquarters. This circular control room was built on the same principle, but on a larger scale and with insulated metal, tiles and walls that held monitors, together with other complex electronics.

To their left were five or six long, high cylinders which presumably provided fuel for internal generators.

Below, on the bottom level, they could see Trevelyan and Boris seated at the firing console, and Trevelyan’s voice came floating up to them -“On my count, Boris.

Both men had their hands on the firing keys. “Three Two One.” They turned the keys and lights on the console started to wink from green to red. The display above read Weapon Armed. Time to Target 00:2132:26.

Natalya and Bond seemed to be rooted, horrified, to the catwalk, watching helplessly as Trevelyan uncovered the firing button and punched it, then laughed -“God save the Queen.” Now, with a surge of anger, Bond knew that Trevelyan had targeted England. Almost certainly London. He began to move, but Natalya caught his arm and pointed down to the middle level. A door had opened and a technician, wearing a parka with a fur hood and gloves, emerged from what they could see was a large room.

“The mainframe computer,’ Natalya whispered. “They’ll have a cooling system in there. It’ll be like a big refrigerator.” She had hardly got the words out when they saw uniformed, armed men heading up the steel staircase towards them. Bond pushed Natalya back into comparative safety behind a pillar when the section of guards began to open fire as they reached the upper level.

He fired two shots, and the first man on the catwalk spun around, grabbing air, and then the man behind him so that the pair slid back down the stairs.

Other uniformed men scrambled up the stairway and began to lay down withering fire. Bullets smashed off tiling, hit the fuel tanks or ricocheted from the walls. Bond attempted to return fire, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. He glanced round to assure himself that Natalya was all right, but she had gone. He peered around and thought he saw a figure somewhere below the catwalk, dangling and moving hand over hand directly underneath.

Natalya had quietly run from behind the pillar, taken a peep at the underside of the catwalk and seen that a series of rungs ran directly along it. Now she was hanging from them, reaching out and grabbing, moving from rung to rung, heading towards the door that led to the mainframe computer room.

Staying as close as he could to the wall, Bond ducked behind the first long fuel tank, slid his hand into a pouch on his belt and drew out one of the small magnetic mines Q had sent in the briefcase. Fuel was dripping from the bullet holes, and he dodged back, loosing off another couple of rounds, then attaching a mine to the next tank.

He continued, firing and retreating, giving himself time to place the electronically controlled mines under the tanks.

This continued until Bond realised that his pistol was empty and he would have to take the chance that Natalya was about to do something very constructive. Hopelessly outnumbered, he threw his automatic out onto the walkway, placed his hands above his head and walked out to face the knot of troops, hoping they at least had the discipline to cease firing.

As he moved out, he caught a glimpse of Natalya dropping from the underside of the catwalk and landing by the door which led into the mainframe computer room. He took his eyes from her for a second and faced his captors.

When he glanced down again, she had disappeared.

Her breath immediately condensed in the freezing atmosphere of the mainframe room. Natalya glanced around.

Without protective clothing she could only last for a few minutes in this place, so she hurried over to the long plastic keyboard, grabbing at the chair set in front of it.

Immediately her fingers touched the metal on the chair they froze and she had to pull them off, ripping skin from her hand as she did so.

Behind her she glimpsed the large stainless steel vats, each bearing the international Do Not Touch symbol with a ~200o mark.

Liquid nitrogen, she thought, the coolant for the mainframe, keeping it at a steady, very low temperature.

Carefully, Natalya seated herself at the plastic keyboard and began to work.

On the highest walkway, the section of troops to whom Bond had surrendered were frisking him: making him lean with his hands flat against the wall. From this position, he could clearly see the mines he had set under the fuel tanks, their little red lights winking to show they were armed and would detonate once he used the watch on his left wrist He tried to distract the men patting him down by keeping up a stream of abuse and turning his head away from the tanks.

They found no further weapons on him, so eventually Bond was frog-marched down the two flights of steel stairs and up to the console where Trevelyan worked with Boris.

“James!” Trevelyan turned in his chair, speaking in almost a jovial manner. “What a damned unpleasant surprise.”

“I always aim to please, Alec.” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s the difference between us. I aim to kill.” His eyes hardened.

“Where’s the girl?”

“We’re not seeing each other right now.

“Really? My people said she was with you.” He turned to the guards. “Find her. She has to be in here somewhere.” Two of the men left quickly, the other two remained with Bond, placing the contents of his pockets on the console in front of Trevelyan. As they did so, Bond carefully scanned the monitors. He took in the long scrolling line of transfers from the Bank of England to various banks throughout the world. Then he felt his stomach lurch as he saw the global screen with satellite Mischa over Spain, on a direct course for London. The countdown clock kept going, standing at the moment at TIME TO TARGET He had around a quarter of an hour to stop what would undoubtedly be the greatest catastrophe ever to befall his country.

With this kind of urgency, there was only one thing he could do.

Without being too obvious about it, he let his right hand drift over to his left wrist If he activated the mines under the fuel tanks, everyone would die and the satellite would eventually drift down and burn out without firing its nuclear bomb to produce an electronic pulse of the capital.

He took in the fact that an elevator stood, with doors open, to the far left of the console, next to a technician who was monitoring the guidance system.

Trevelyan was sorting through the pocket litter on the console.

Keys, money clip, pen, coins. He gave the pen a quick examination, even clicking it once, scribbling with it on a pad before clicking it off again. Bond was relieved when he put the pen back on the console.

A few more clicks and he would not even have time to activate the mines.

Trevelyan’s hand suddenly shot up to Bond’s left arm.

“The watch please, James,’ yanking it from his wrist, then examining it with an indulgent smile. “How is old Q doing these days?

Up to his usual tricks, I suppose. I see you have the new model.’ Slowly he turned it over to reveal a tiny red pinpoint winking on the underside. “I still press here, do I?” He pressed the stem and then the small button to the right. The red light immediately stopped winking, and Bond knew that the arming devices in the mines themselves would also blink off and revert to their deactivated mode. He wondered how much fuel was still leaking from the tanks and reckoned that it would be a fair amount running down the catwalk, dripping all the way down to this, the lowest level.

In the mainframe computer room, Natalya, shivering with cold, typed as rapidly as she could and had all but completed her instructions when the two guards burst in on her. She managed to hit the Enter key, banging it hard, before they dragged her from the chair and led her off, down the stairs to where Bond stood under guard, and Trevelyan sat smiling happily. Boris continued with his work on the keyboard. Above, the global screen showed Mischa gradually moving closer to its target, and Bond looked from the screen to Natalya being brought across the floor. To his pleasure he saw the guards’ boots left damp stains as they marched towards him. The fuel must be spreading both ways.

Before the little party reached the console area, Bond relaxed.

“interesting little set-up you have here, Alec. I see that you break into the bank via computer and then make certain large sums of money are transferred - I presume just seconds before you activate GoldenEye which, of course, erases all records of transactions, together with the entire target. Very ingenious.”

“Thank you, James. High praise indeed, coming from you.

Bond gestured with his head. “Still nothing but petty theft, Alec. In the end you’re nothing more than a bank robber. A common thief. A common murderer also.”

“Hardly, James. You always did have a small mind. You see, it’s not just a question of bank records.” His eyes, now like a stormy sky, scanned Bond’s face. “It’s everything in every computer in greater London. Tax records. The stock market.

Credit ratings, land registries. Even criminal records…” He looked up at the countdown clock. “In eleven minutes and forty-three no two… one seconds, the United Kingdom will once more enter the Stone Age.”

“Followed by Tokyo, Frankfurt, New York, Hong Kong. A world-wide financial meltdown.” He looked as though he pitied Trevelyan. “All so that mad little Alec can settle a score with the world fifty years on. So you can settle an injustice done to your ancestors.”

“Oh, please, James, spare me any Freudian analysis. I might as well ask you if all those vodka martinis ever silence the screams of all the men and women you’ve killed…” He looked past Bond to the guards bringing Natalya towards them. “… Or do you find your forgiveness in the arms of all those willing women?” He slammed his hand hard onto the console. “England is about to learn the final cost of betrayal.’ Natalya had been brought close to them now.

“Welcome to the party, my dear Natalya.” Boris, hearing her name, swivelled his chair and saw her. “Natalya?” He sounded shocked.

“This isn’t just one of your games, Boris. Real people are about to die, you contemptuous little bastard.” She shrugged free of her captors and took a step forward, her palm hitting him hard on the left cheek and then a backhander to the right.

They roughly pulled her back and, in the tiny skirmish, the pen, given to Bond by Q, rolled onto the floor. Boris slowly reached down, picked it up and began to click it on and off.

Bond watched him, fascinated by the clicks. “Click-click’ one more and the device would be armed. But Boris merely started to roll the pen between his fingers.

“Where did you find her?” Trevelyan asked her guards.

“She was in the mainframe, sir.” Trevelyan scowled, then snapped at Boris, “Check the programme.” Boris chuckled. “She couldn’t put a bug in a simple game, let alone damage us. She’s a moron. A second level programmer. Anyway, she doesn’t have access to the firing codes.

All she knows about is the guidance system.

As he said it, Boris seemed to slow down, slurring the final words and, at that moment, an alarm began to beep, as though someone had tried to break into a car.

A technician, sitting at the far monitor, all but shouted, “Retro-rockets firing.” It was time for Natalya to smile, but Bond kept his eyes on Boris who now resumed clicking the pen. Three - the pen was armed. A further three times, disarming the pen.

Boris leaped across to the technician: hammering at the keyboard with his right hand. “She’s at ninety-seven miles and falling. I can’t regain control.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Trevelyan was up on his feet and moving towards Boris and the technician who looked bewildered.

“We’ll have re-entry in thirteen minutes,’ as he reached forward to set a re-entry clock. The timer flashed on in brilliant red digitised figures, and the Time to Target now read, Aborted. Time To Re-entry:

13:24.

In the stunned silence, Natalya spoke. “It’s going to burn up somewhere over the Atlantic.”

“You little bitch.” Boris was still trying to regain control from the technician’s keyboard. He moved his head up to speak with Trevelyan. “She’s changed the access codes.” As he spoke, Trevelyan, his face a rage, pulled his gun and stuck it in Boris’ ear.

Natalya giggled. “Go ahead, Janus. Shoot him, he means nothing to me.

Bond gave her a look of pleasure and muttered, “Standard operating procedure.”

“I can break her codes, move that damned gun away, Alec.’ Boris flapped at the pistol as though it were an insect, then turned back to the technician. “Load the guidance sub-routines. Now.

Quickly.” Then he started playing with the pen again.

Click-click Click -click Then a whole series of clicks so that Bond lost count, just as Trevelyan took his pistol from Boris’ ear and turned it onto Natalya. “Tell him. You hear me, girl? Tell him.” Boris was out of control, whirling and screaming at Natalya, “Give me those codes. Natalya, GIVE ME THE CODES.” Bond had no idea of the status of the pen that the crazy little computer specialist was waving in Natalya’s face. He lashed out with one arm, sending Trevelyan’s gun up and out of the man’s hand. He then brought his foot up in a kick boxer’s stance, kicking Boris’ wrist and sending the pen arcing into the air. For a precious second it seemed to remain stationary in mid air, then dropped, exploding just as it hit the spreading pool of fuel.

The explosion and sudden leap of fire around them made hands and arms come up: all trying to cover their eyes from the sheet of flame which shot up the stairs and wall back to its original source.

The first fuel tank exploded. As it did so, Bond grabbed Natalya by the arm and pulled her towards the elevator on their left. As he banged the door closed, they both almost felt the thud of bullets hitting the sliding doors.

“Can he really break your codes?” Bond asked. He was aware of the urgency in his own voice.

“It’s possible,’ she said almost casually.

“Then we’ll have to destroy the transmitter.” His head tilted up, watching the numbers rise. He could only presume this would take them right to the top of the damned thing.

“That would be natural.” She lifted one eyebrow. “By the way, thank you, I’m fine.”

“Good.” The elevator stopped at the base of the catwalk which led to the transmitter cradle they had seen as the whole structure rose from the lake. An armed guard turned towards the opening doors and saw the woman slumped on the floor. He immediately ran in to her, dropping his machine pistol on the way in his hurry to help her. As he began to kneel down beside the unconscious body, Bond dropped from the roof, where he had lodged himself, using shoulders and feet, like a climber in a chimney rock formation.

First his feet hit the guard’s back, then he chopped viciously at the man’s neck which gave off a horrible cracking sound as he fell, spread-eagled, to the floor.

Natalya was on her feet again as Bond removed the guard’s pistol and threw it to her. He picked up the machine pistol, and, as he did so, they both heard the rumbling of explosions from far below.

“You know how to use one of these?” Looking at the gun he had handed to Natalya.

She nodded, checking the slide movement, ejecting the magazine and making sure it was full. “Yes,’ she said.

“Good. Just keep out of sight and get off the dish. I’m going to scupper that antenna. That will do the trick, won’t it?”

“Just get up there to the maintenance hatch. There’s probably a simple chain device which works the mechanism to turn the antenna. The best thing for you to do is remove all the fuses from the maintenance room. Go. Go now.

Quickly.” From below, more explosions rattled the dish and the superstructure as Bond kissed her on the cheek and started the long climb up to the maintenance room high above the antenna.

The climb was daunting, and by the time Bond reached halfway, he could make out the structures more clearly.

When he was some forty feet up, he glanced down and saw Natalya making a dash up to the edge of the dish, climbing over the latticework to the ground and running into the protection of the jungle.

Originally he had intended to stop at the catwalk which crossed the triangle some ten feet above the big metal maintenance room which, in turn, was set directly above the housing from which the long icicle of the antenna reached down, ending around ten feet from the dish. Now he saw that there was another large chamber, high above, set into the very apex of the triangle. Cables and wires sprouted downwards from this room, and he began to get the whole picture of how the antenna was operated.

The wires and cables, leading from the top of the triangle, undoubtedly had a part to play in the way the great silver finger was moved. Some went directly down, through the maintenance chamber and from there into what could only be the true mechanism for repositioning the antenna, yet there seemed to be another set of thicker cables.

These went over a series of pulleys and wheels.

He was thirty feet from the top of the structure when he saw that these wires ran to the far side of the dish and supported a cable car which could be taken from dish level up to the catwalk.

He cursed, wishing he had known about the cable car for it would have cut precious minutes off his journey.

From far below, he still caught the sound of occasional explosions coming from deep within the earth beyond the dish.

In the control complex, the fuel tanks were still exploding.

sending balls of fire up to the roof above the top section.

Guards raced back and forth with CO2 extinguishers, but nobody was in doubt that the roof was starting to weaken.

Tiles and pieces of insulation had already begun to fall, and Trevelyan’s men kept their eyes on this danger point, as though trying to divine the moment when they would have to give up and evacuate the complex.

The only person who seemed oblivious to the dangers was Boris who sat at his keyboard, focused wholly on the job of regaining control over the satellite.

Trevelyan stood over him, watching his every move as the younger man worked, almost feverishly, at the programme.

“How long’s it going to take?” Trevelyan was looking around and starting to take in the possible hopelessness of the situation.

Boris snapped back that it was nearly done. “Two minutes three at the most” Trevelyan suddenly frowned, remembering Bond who could blow out the all important antenna if he had a mind to. If he knew Q, and if Bond still had explosives with him, he might find a way of overriding the electronic remotes. He turned to the guard who was standing beside him. “Watch him,’ he pointed to Boris. “If he moves, shoot him.

He was away and running towards the exit, pushing firefighters out of the way, heading for the cable car that would take him as far as the catwalk above the maintenance room.

Within a couple of minutes he was in the little cage and beginning his slow ascent up the structure.

In front of Boris the countdown clock read Time to Re-entry: 09:41.

As Trevelyan began the journey to the catwalk, so Bond had reached the chamber at the top of the framework.

It had been fashioned into a square, metal room, and Bond was forced to move carefully between two different sets of machinery. On one side, he could see, there was a series of large, cogged wheels around which cables ran out and downwards. As he entered, the wheels began to move, the mechanism starting up. Someone was in the cable car, which meant he had little time left.

Immediately beside the door was a great oblong structure which pulsed with sound. There seemed to be no way into it, but it did not take much imagination for Bond to realise that this was the generator and probably the first stage in controlling the antenna.

During the climb, he had already thought of trying to use the last of Q’s mines. These were strictly remote controlled units, but there was a way he could set them on a timer. His real problem was that the timer could only be set to detonate the mine with a five-minute delay.

He pulled the black circular object from his pouch, together with a small screwdriver, and began to release the screws on the underside.

He worked calmly. When dealing with explosives he knew there were inherent dangers in rushing things.

Halfway through the process, the cable car mechanism stopped with a lurch. Whoever was in the car had already reached the catwalk.

Inside the mine, he removed the remote timer-a small microchip the size of his thumbnail. Below it was a small dial with a moving pointer like the large hand on a watch.

Using the screwdriver he carefully turned the pointer, swinging it around to its furthest setting. The mechanism began to click as the pointer slowly moved backwards.

Placing the mine below the generator, he swung himself out of the room, preparing to make the climb down to the catwalk.

He had descended three rungs when two bullets whined past him. 1n one movement, Bond slid the machine pistol from his shoulder and looked down.

Trevelyan stood in the middle of the catwalk, his right hand holding an automatic pistol, raised, ready to take another shot.

Turning to the inside of the structure, Bond fired a fast, unaimed burst in Trevelyan’s direction. The shots went wide, but Trevelyan ducked, throwing himself to the end of the catwalk nearest the small cage which was the cable car.

Bond scrambled down and fired another burst He could see sparks shooting off the metal, but his target had disappeared. The catwalk was now only around twelve feet below him. He hesitated for a second, which almost cost him his life, for two more shots came from the direction of the cable car, whanging against the metal near his head.

Swinging inside the triangular lines and girders, Bond pushed off and dropped to the catwalk which began to sway crazily as he landed, firing a long burst into the cable car.

It took a second for him to realise that the car was empty, and he turned just in time to see that Trevelyan had somehow worked his way to the other side of the catwalk, and so positioned himself behind him.

The man who was Janus gave a smile of pleasure as he raised the automatic.

“Goodbye, James,’ he mouthed, and squeezed the trigger. The firing pin came down with a click that Bond seemed to hear as though it were amplified in an echo chamber. Trevelyan shouted an oath and flung the empty pistol straight at Bond who had already raised his weapon, bringing it to bear.

The pistol grazed the side of his head, knocking him to one side, just as he fired. The burst went wide. It also ended with a loud click and the mechanism of the gun locked. He was also out of ammunition.

Slightly dizzy from the blow, he barely had time to dodge as Trevelyan rushed him. He side-stepped and brought his fist up, aiming at his one-time friend’s jaw.

The blow connected with the side of Trevelyan’s head and sent him sprawling and milling over the catwalk.

Bond looked down, seeing that it was a ten-foot drop to the ~op of the maintenance room below. This time he did not hesitate, but vaulted over the catwalk, landing heavily on the roof.

He scrambled to one side, and let himself down to the entrance.

As he climbed in, there was a whining sound and the whir of an electric motor. Someone was repositioning the antenna.

Down under the earth, Boris was making wild war whoops, almost dancing around, shouting, “I’ve done it.

Yes. I am invincible!” as he typed the final command SEND COMMAND: ABORT RE-ENTRY.

The countdown clock read Re-entry: 07:45.

Then the screen cleared and scrolled out the message.

STANDBY: ANTENNA REPOSITIONING.

The sound Bond heard in the maintenance room was that of the mechanism beginning to operate and reset the coordinates, swinging the long, tapering spike of the antenna to the correct point to regain control of the satellite. He looked around, searching for a fuse box of some kind, but all the equipment in the maintenance chamber was sealed: a large grey metal box took up most of the space, and cables originating from the mechanism in the apex of the structure were encased in protective plastic covers.

As he stood, searching for a way to deal with the electronics, a heavy thud shook the whole room, leaving him in no doubt that Trevelyan had also leaped down from the catwalk.

He expected the mine to detonate at any minute now, but that could fail and he still wanted to make certain the antenna did not aim itself correctly. Outside, he looked down and dropped, landing on the housing that he knew contained the final stage of the mechanism.

There was a hatch into this great circular housing, and he was quickly inside, knowing that Trevelyan was at his heels.

There was little room, for a huge wheel like that of some great clock took up the bulk of the space. But he spotted two other things immediately - a long, oblong fuse box and a telescopic ladder, attached to the wall and directly above a steel trapdoor. This, he was sure, would be the way the engineers were able to get right down to the antenna. He also knew that from this point to the dish itself there were some eighty or ninety feet.

As his mind raced, so he unscrewed the butterfly bolts on the fuse box, flipped it open and began smashing the fuses out in groups of five and six at a time until they were all gone and the whir of machinery stopped.

Trevelyan was close now, he could almost smell the man, just as he could smell his own fear. Leaping towards the telescopic ladder, he unclipped the safety bolts to allow it to fall.

As Trevelyan appeared in the hatchway, so Bond stamped hard on the trapdoor, his hands on the bottom rung of the ladder.

The trapdoor gave way and the ladder uncoiled, ratchetting down through some forty feet and coming to a sickening halt at its fullest extension only a few feet above the top of the antenna.

He thought his arms were about to be ripped from their sockets, but he held on grimly, the ladder swaying and creaking above him as Trevelyan’s face appeared in the trapdoor.

“Need some help getting down, James?” he shouted.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” Easing himself through the opening, Trevelyan began to make a slow descent as Bond attempted uselessly to pull himself back up the ladder.

Natalya moved into the jungle following the noise she had just heard. She had no desire to look at what she had seen from the edge of the thick trees and fronds - James struggling at the end of a long swinging ladder, some forty feet from the bottom of the dish and directly above the antenna. She moved slowly towards the noise, and came to a halt as she reached a man-made clearing. In the middle of this glade stood a helicopter gunship, its rotors gently idling.

Below ground, in the control complex, Boris stared unbelieving at the screen which now read out, ANTENNA MALFUNCTION. He began to scream and stamp, yelling unintelligible obscenities.

Above Bond, the ladder was swaying as Trevelyan came down, rung by rung. Two rungs above Bond, he took one hand from the ladder and pulled a small throat microphone from inside his shirt, speaking into it rapidly.

In the jungle clearing, Natalya saw the pilot alone in the cockpit. The helicopter gunship began to move, its engine spooling up, ready to lift off. Taking a deep breath, she ran towards the rear door of the machine.

“Now, James, it’s time for our last goodbye, I think.” Trevelyan stepped down to the rung directly above Bond and raised his booted foot to bring it down on Bond’s hand. As he did so, the rung gave way with a sharp crack.

He felt Trevelyan’s body brush against his as he dropped. In a reflex, he grabbed with one hand and caught Trevelyan’s left wrist

The man looked up at him, sweat and terror on his face.

“James,’ he called, his eyes pleading. “Haul me up. For heaven’s sake … for old times’ sake, haul me up.”

“Go to hell!” Bond shouted and released Trevelyan who hit the antenna and, screaming, dropped all the way down to the dish.

At the same moment the apex of the triangle blew out.

The mine had detonated, and the entire structure swayed, pieces of metal and wiring beginning to detach themselves and fall.

Over the noise, Bond thought he could hear a helicopter. Hanging precariously, he saw the gunship, heading straight for him, and as it hovered as near as was feasible, his eyes widened.

The pilot was manoeuvring the gunship closer and closer. Behind him, Natalya stood with her pistol pushed into the side of the terrified man’s head. He was acting under her instructions, which, because of the skeletal edifice they were approaching, were not always practical.

After a minute’s jigging from side to side, he brought the craft’s port landing skid to a point just in front and below where Bond hung.

It was his only chance, for everything appeared to be collapsing around him. He swung himself out and grabbed hold of the skid at the moment the chopper backed off and started to move away.

In the centre of the dish, Trevelyan regained consciousness. His eyes opened and the pain that swept over him, combined with the blood in his mouth, told him that he was near death.

He heard the noises coming from above, cracks, creaks, the clank of falling metal. Looking up, the last thing he saw was the long silver spike that was the antenna detach itself and come hurtling down to impale him.

In the control complex, Boris still raved, but realised that most of the guards were either dead or had disappeared. He seemed to be the only one left alive, and he rushed up to the middle gallery. As he reached the mainframe room, so the liquid coolants suddenly exploded, sending a freezing white mist flying through the shuttered doors.

For a second, Boris knew what was happening as the mist enveloped him, then he felt himself seizing up. After that he died, standing, a frozen statue inside the doomed building.

The gunship came down gently into the clearing. Bond dropped thankfully to the ground and stretched out, his eyes closed.

Inside, Natalya spoke in rapid Russian, telling the pilot that if he tried no tricks, he could leave, then she ran back and jumped from the main door onto the earth next to Bond.

The gunship, with a thankful pilot at the controls, lifted off as she spoke softly. “James ? James ? Are you OK? James, oh please speak to me.” He opened one eye and pulled her down to him. “Yes, he said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You devil,’ she laughed and he pulled her close so that their mouths touched and he rolled on top of her.

“James, no. Not here, James, somebody might see.”

“Don’t be silly, Natalya.” He looked at her lovingly.

“There’s nobody left to see anything.” He only had eyes for Natalya, so could not see Jack Wade rise from the bushes, nor the forty or so marines, in camouflage, appear from the jungle to stand smiling with pleasure.

From far away came the sound of Marine Cougar helicopters bringing in reinforcements.

Bond needed no backup at this particular time.