No Deals, Mr. Bond

21

EMPEROR OF THE DARK HEAVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bond had his own plan of campaign. If he could make the Pak Tai Temple, which was a good vantage point, he would wait there. Let them come to him.

His ears still sang from the explosion and he was aware that his clothes were stained with blood, but he reached the rough road without mishap, moving from the stony surface on to the softer grass at the side. He stopped running now and fast marched, taking great gulps of air in an attempt to regulate his breathing.

After ten minutes he thought he could make out the shapes of buildings ahead. Five minutes later he reached the edge of the village, cutting between dark bushes and feeling gently towards a stone wall he knew must be the temple. Working his way to the front of the building, Bond reflected on the fact that at least he had some gods he could pray to now, for Pak Tai is the Supreme Emperor of the Dark Heaven, and the temple in his honour also houses his martial gods, Thousand Mile Eye and Favourable Wind Ear. He could do with the help of all three tonight to detect the remaining two ‘Robinsons’.

The temple faced an open piece of land and for the first time since the flare and explosion, Bond felt his eyes adjusting to the dark. Within a few minutes he could make out the flat square and the shape of the temple steps guarded by traditional dragons. Gently he felt his way towards the top step. Having reached it, he retreated once more into the darkness of the temple doorway to his right. There he waited at a vantage point behind one of the two great stone pillars. Minutes filtered by, and he knew that the ‘Robinsons’ must also be taking their time, moving slowly and silently through the dark streets.

At least one hour passed. Then the best part of another. Self-discipline held him from even glancing at the luminous dial of his watch, as he conducted a careful, regular search from right to left, then left to right, moving his head and eyes very slowly, his body becoming cramped through immobility.

Finally he looked at the Rolex. Ten to five in the morning. Just over an hour before the game was up and Chernov would begin his butchery. Bond’s stomach turned over at the thought. As the horrific picture of Chernov at his work slid through his mind, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. It came from the far right of the square, close to the house. For a second, a fleeting figure, a shadow appeared against the lighter band of the sea.

Slowly Bond moved and lifted the Luger, his eyes riveted to the area where he had seen the shadow. For a moment he thought that he had imagined it. Then there it was again, hard against the wall, moving at snail’s pace, using the cover of darkness. He shifted position again, bringing the Luger up as the shadow detached itself from the wall and began to move nearer to the temple steps. It was then that, for all his training and experience, Bond made his first error of the night. Take him out now, said one part of his mind. No, wait, where’s the other bastard? That one second of indecision produced the ensuing terrifying minutes.

His training overrode all else: take him out now. He centred the Luger’s sights on the advancing shadow. His finger took up the first pressure, then his sixth sense warned of closer danger.

He was standing in the classic side-on position, both arms raised in the two-handed grip and the pain seared through his left arm as though someone had run a burning brand across it. He heard his own scream of pain and felt the gun drop from his right hand as he reached across to his injured arm. And as he swivelled he saw the ‘Robinson’ with the fighting mace poised for a second blow.

The reaction was automatic, but everything seemed to go into slow motion through the blur of pain spreading from his shattered left arm. He could not recall the man’s name, though for some obscure reason his mind wrestled with the problem. He though it was Bogdan, the one who had broken young men’s necks and then tried to dispose of them by cutting them up and spreading the pieces around the forest. He could hear Chernov’s voice quite distinctly: ‘He’s a peasant, but strong and with no moral sense.’ And all the time Bond was looking into the man’s eyes the mace was being lifted very slowly above his head. Then the big steel-spiked ball started to come hard down towards Bond’s skull. His right arm seemed to move very slowly, his right leg going back, his hand grabbing the butt of the Luger in the overall pocket. His finger felt for the safety catch. The spikes hissed through the air, coming nearer. The Luger stuck, then came free, Bond’s hand twisting, his finger curling. Then two sharp explosions – two shots just as they were all trained – and the scent of cordite. The sharp ting as spent cartridge cases clanged against the steps.

Instantly the slow motion ended and the tempo raced.

The two bullets lifted Bogdan off his feet, popping his arms into the air as though he were some grotesque jack-in-the-box. The fighting iron flew back and Bogdan’s body, shedding blood over Bond, fell against the door of the temple.

The pain shrieked back into Bond’s left arm and he heard a quick double crack and thump. Stone chipped off the pillar as the other ‘Robinson’ fired from the square.

Bond doubled up with pain, retching, his vision blurring. He almost keeled over, then saw the shape of the second Luger on the steps. He forced himself to turn, his gun, with two rounds still in the magazine, clutched in his right hand. Turning, he found himself losing his balance, reeling like a drunk with the shock and agony. A voice seemed to whisper near to his ear, ‘Get him. Take him out, now.’ Automatically, he squeezed the trigger, aware that the weapon was up and his right arm straight. Two shots at a ghost, he thought. Drop the gun and pick up the other one. He went through the routine as in reflex, acting by numbers. Just as he ducked down another bullet whined over his head. His hand caught the butt of the Luger, but he couldn’t straighten up.

He dropped on to one knee and raising his head, saw the other man standing over him taking careful aim. He was saying something in Russian and the Luger was huge in Bond’s vision.

Then the explosion came and what Bond imagined was his own last cry echoed around the pillared entrance to the Temple of the Supreme Emperor of the Dark Heaven.