POP GOES THE WEASEL
From his position on the balcony of the newly rented office, Bond could see the flat roof of the Russian embassy. Aerials poked up here and there like the last remaining bristles on an old hairbrush. In the centre of the roof stood a rough block housing an access door. Though guards regularly patrolled the embassy grounds, none had thus far visited the roof; Bond prayed they would stick to their routine. The street, four stories below, was almost clear of traffic. Bond watched the last tram of the evening clatter past, the pantograph sparks flashing blue in the increasing gloom. He knew that Elsa was waiting quietly in a darkened phone-box on the other side of the embassy square. Behind him, he could hear Price readying the equipment needed for the night's work. The Head of Station L had arrived clear-headed and on time; the difference in his demeanour was tangible. Showered, clean-shaven and motivated, Price looked younger and more alert. Bond was impressed by Price's no-nonsense manner; there was a pleasing sureness to his movements and his hands ran over the mini-mortar with an easy familiarity. Price slowly cranked the device's heavy spring catapult, having argued successfully that the mortar's explosive bolts would be too noisy to use. Bond's uniform for the evening consisted of black denims and a dark long-sleeved shirt. He turned away from the balcony, flexing his toes in a newly purchased pair of rubber-soled shoes and felt the weight of the rucksack snugly secured between his shoulders.
Price, breathing heavily, nodded that the catapult was ready. "Right, let's go through this one more time," he panted, standing up and kneading the small of his back. "I may have to make out a report on this little lark and I probably missed one or two details earlier today. If there's a problem I'll give three flashes on the torch - but once you're dangling over the side of the embassy you're on your own. Tell me again - why can't we use a directional microphone instead of you having to risk your neck?"
"It's impossible to get line of sight close enough to the window for us to hear anything. We have to use a direct link."
"And once you've completed your little jaunt and planted the device – assuming you haven't tripped any alarms or bumped into any guards – how do you propose to get back?"
"I'll use the hand grips to climb back along the rope."
Price frowned. "That's uphill and must be all of a hundred and thirty yards. You'll be tired and terribly exposed."
"I'll manage," said Bond, tugging the straps on his rucksack. "Let's move before you change my mind, shall we?"
"Hang on, Bond. What are you going to do about the line and grappling hook once you've returned? You can't leave them hanging there."
"We'll attach the other end of the line to a lead weight and this time fire for the far side of the roof. Most of the wire will end up on the roof and will hopefully be mistaken for a cable. We'll have to hope that the grappling hook won't be discovered for a while."
"I don't know. There's too much luck involved."
"Can you think of anything better?"
Price shook his head. "Not at such short notice."
"That's settled then." Bond picked up a slim, black metal tube from a nearby desk and carefully examined it. The radio microphone had to work perfectly or the whole mission would be a waste of time.
Price looked interested. "Looks like CIA issue."
"It is. We managed to 'borrow' one on a joint mission. Q Branch has improved the penetrative range."
Price took the microphone from Bond, gently span him round by the shoulders, and put it in the rucksack. "I wish they would do the same for me," he said ruefully. Bond laughed, grateful that the older man was trying to take his mind off what was to come. Price knelt once more and slid a steel grappling hook down the mortar's tube. Only the prongs of the hook were bare – India rubber covered the rest of the hook to lessen the noise of impact.
"I've set it at forty degrees for a low trajectory." Price gave a knowing smile. "You do realise if the hook falls short and the line hits the tram wires we'll have over 600 volts saying hello to us?"
"I've been meaning to work on my tan," replied Bond, squinting down the mortar's sights. He aimed for the left hand corner of the building, away from the aerials. In the far corner of the square he could make out the black silhouettes of pine trees swaying slightly in the skittish evening breeze. Bond adjusted the mortar a fraction and felt the first prickle of sweat on his skin. He took one last look along the sight and then pulled the firing lever. The mortar rattled like a box of marbles and a second later Bond caught sight of a black shooting star fizz out across the tram wires. The hook bounced twice on the embassy's gravelled roof and skidded to a halt a yard short of an aerial. Bond reeled in the wire hand over hand, working fast to take up the slack. As the curve of the wire straightened he slowed down and gently reeled in the hook until it disappeared behind the cornice. If the hook failed to take, it would be a disaster. The wire tautened and Bond blew out his cheeks in relief.
"Your luck's in," whispered Price, who secured the line to an iron stanchion he had found in the office's tiny lavatory. Bond clipped two handgrips to the rope and then nervously ran his hands over his trouser and shirt pockets, checking to see if he had forgotten any minor detail. His gun was a reassuring presence at his hip. Price joined him at the window and the two men stood silent for a moment. A sliver of moon crested a wave of clouds and washed the square in a weak grey light. The embassy stood foursquare, a black cube of malevolence on what was an otherwise pleasant summer evening. Bond was surprised to see Price proffer a hand.
"Good luck." They shook hands. Price's grip was firm and dry.
"Thanks for your help. About what I said earlier – "
Price shook his head. "It needed saying."
Bond nodded but said nothing, his mouth suddenly dry at the prospect facing him. The embassy roof was over a hundred yards away and beneath him was the now invisible web of tram wires. Was he doing the right thing after all? Price stood waiting silently, as though he knew the man next to him was having second thoughts. To hell with it. Bond perched on the window ledge, grabbed the grips hanging above him and shoved off. He kept his feet together and felt the air brush his face as he gathered speed. He was over the road now, past the wickedly spiked boundary fence, there was a quick flash of dark green below his feet and then the forbidding mass of the embassy loomed large. At the last second Bond squeezed the handgrips to slow down, raised his legs and felt the soles of his feet slap against the building. For a second he hung in the air, checking his body for any injuries, and then planted a foot in the elaborate egg and dart moulding of the cornice. A moment later he was over and crouching on the roof.
Bond saw now that the roof of the embassy was a mass of cables, like a carpet of roots trailing from the forest of antennae. It was a miracle that the grappling hook hadn't snagged a cable. He picked his way carefully between the aerials and sidled up to the central block, using it as a guide to make his way to the other side of the roof. Once past it, he crouched low and crept up to the building's edge. He judged the distance from the corner of the building to his current position to be about fifteen feet. The window should be below him. He loosened a coil of rope from his belt and felt the sharp prongs of the mini grappling hook at the end of it. Bond quietly wedged the hook under the stone balustrade and tugged hard, testing its grip. Running the rope through his fingers, he leaned backwards over the balustrade and gingerly descended, padding his way down the building a few feet at a time, constantly peeking though and around his legs to peer at the darkened wall beneath him. A stone pilaster provided a guide for his right shoulder, and Bond was just giving thanks for the cover it provided when his left foot grazed the top of a stone window frame. Nature's alarm bell, a thudding heartbeat, sounded in his ears - but thankfully no other sound. By swinging gently on the rope, he manoeuvred his way left and gratefully placed both feet on the extreme right of the ledge. He looked down and saw a white arc of light below his feet. There was no way of knowing if a radio operator was sitting right next to the glass, so placing a microphone directly on the window was out of the question. Any shadow falling on the glass would be a dead giveaway.
With infinite care, Bond reached behind him and retrieved the belly-buster from its harness. The hand-cranked audio drill had been aptly named by those agents unfortunate enough to require a silent drill for covert operations. Bond affixed a masonry bit to the chuck of the drill and braced himself between the top of the window and the pilaster to his right. He held the broad, flat base of the drill firmly against his stomach and placed the point of the drill bit in the gap between two of the wall's stone slabs. Offering a silent prayer to Q Branch, he slowly cranked the handle. The bit took a moment to gain purchase, and Bond checked that the debris was falling to one side of the window. The drill squeaked as it burrowed through the stone, forcing him to slow to reduce the noise. After only a few minutes, Bond's stomach ached cruelly and his clothes were soaked in sweat. The stone was proving infuriatingly durable. He held a pair of headphones to his ear and placed the microphone in the shallow hole. Nothing. He swapped the blunted masonry bit for another, conscious all the time of guards walking below him.
The occasional car sped past in the distance, but to Bond it was as the distant buzz of a fly. The world seemed to narrow to the point of the steel bit slowly grating its way through the stone. His stomach would be bruised black in the morning. The wheel of surveillance grindeth exceeding slow, thought Bond. Every few minutes he slipped the microphone into the drilled hole, praying that he would be able to hear something, and every few minutes a gentle hiss was his only reward. A Benzedrine tablet gave him new energy. The glowing green hands of his watch told him that two hours had passed already. The second drill bit had now given up the ghost, and Bond replaced it with his last sharp bit, well aware that he had drilled almost fourteen inches and that he could drill no more than a foot and a half. Another ten minutes of incessant grinding came and went. Bond's stomach had mercifully passed the point of pain and was now numb. He wondered if he would be able to stand up straight once he had finished. Again, he placed the microphone in the hole and again he heard nothing. Wait. Yes, there was something! Almost too low to pick up, Bond heard a subterranean murmuring. It was unclear, but it was definitely someone speaking. Bond slipped the headphones over both his ears and pressed the microphone firmly to the back of the hole. Despite the sweat stinging his eyes, Bond grinned and thought he had never heard anything so beautiful, so glorious, as the tinny, guttural Slavic tones of the Russian Embassy staff member on the other side of the wall.
" - the usual signals, sir, and a request to update the staff roster."
"These blasted bureaucrats. Looks like you're going to have to waste your time encoding what they already know. Anything else?"
"Not really, just that Centrale has verified Decima's information."
"Well, that's something anyway, but I'd like to - "
Bond felt a tickling sensation on his nose and his eyes jerked upwards, past a stream of dislodged brickdust, into the face of an embassy guard peering over the cornice. The guard silently mouthed instructions. The headphones! Bond cursed his own stupidity. He slowly removed the headphones, and this time the guard gestured with the barrel of his machinegun that Bond was to come up. Bond's mind raced and he considered the possibilities. Could he abseil down quickly enough to avoid a bullet through the top of the head? Unlikely. There was not enough time to reach the Walther nestling uselessly in his waist holster. Bond looked down and around in despair. He would have to come up. With a sigh of resignation, he grabbed the rope and looked up at the guard, only to see distant stars dotting the night sky. The guard had disappeared. What was he playing at? A large silhouette broached Bond's horizon, and he gasped. Price! The Head of Station L leaned nonchalantly on the cornice, holding his stubby gun by the barrel.
"Going my way?" he whispered, thrusting out a hand. Bond scrambled up the rope and allowed Price to drag him onto the roof. He tried to stand up, but bent double in pain as his stomach muscles cramped. The guard lay prone at his feet, a nasty bruise swelling above one eye. Bond acknowledged his thanks with a smile, but as he gathered in the wire and mini-hook a corner of his mind wondered why his right hand felt sticky. Price jammed his gun in his waistband and bent down to Bond's level. The sleeves of his shirt were ragged and torn.
"Elsa spotted something moving and rang the office phone. I saw this goon and, well, here I am," he whispered.
In the moonlight Bond realised why his hand was sticky: Price's palms were black with blood. He had slid down the wire using only his shirtsleeves for protection - the pain must be terrible. Price was breathing heavily. It had taken a huge effort for him to get to the roof and approach the guard silently.
"Get anything?" panted Price.
"Maybe. I don't know." The operation was a bust, and both men knew the roof of a foreign embassy was not the place for a debriefing. Bond watched Price remove the magazine from the guard's Kalashnikov and slip it between the grill of the roof drain. Price winked.
"I'd take it as a memento but it's too heavy," he murmured. They scampered to the thin parabola that was their escape route. Price turned to Bond and gestured for him to go first. Bond stayed back.
"You have the gen. Move!" urged Price. His face shone with sweat. Price was right. Bond had the information vital to the operation. But the older man had risked his life and Bond wanted him out of danger.
"No," hissed Bond. "You go first – it's uphill and you'll need the grips. I'll climb hand over hand." He smiled. "And the drinks are on me."
"You can't afford me," replied Price, grinning savagely. Bond recognised in him a comrade-in-arms, someone who was revitalised by the whiff of danger. He watched Price wince as the big man carefully placed his fingers around the two handgrips. With a nod to Bond, Price leaned out over the roof's edge and stepped off. The grappling hook creaked slightly and Bond watched with concern as the wire's curvature deepened as Price made his way across the chasm. Price's technique was good, but his burned hands and poor fitness meant that conquering the uphill gradient would be murderously tough. Bond felt the sweat on the back of his neck cool - at least the night's breeze was in Price's favour. Despite the pressing need to leave the embassy he dared not risk both their lives by traversing the wire before Price reached the sanctuary of the remote-looking office balcony. Instead he concentrated on breathing steadily and tried to ignore the crippling pain flooding his torso.
Bond willed on Price's efforts. He had found a rhythm and was making good progress, though the second half of the journey would be the hardest. The breeze on the back of Bond's neck dropped abruptly. He jerked around just in time to glimpse a black shape glint in the pale moonlight before the hurled machine-gun dealt him a stunning blow on the temple. As he sat dazed on the roof it seemed to Bond that the entire world had fallen silent. He dimly recognised the man with the bruised face who was now approaching him like a villain from one of the flickering silent movies his aunt had taken him to see several lifetimes ago. Bond laughed as his mind tried to make sense of the pain coursing through his body, and he giggled again while he stared at the ornate white frame that swam before him. The frame displayed a line of meandering letters that gradually coalesced into something that Bond's concussed mind could decipher – a simple message in capital letters: "THE GUARD!"
Instinct, driven by fear, took over. Bond tried to force his fingers to quick-draw his Walther but everything had taken on a dream-like quality, and his arm felt tremendously heavy. The guard seemed to be striding through deep water towards him, though Bond vaguely realised he must be sprinting for his life. Bond struggled to raise his gun-arm through the thick air. At last the barrel of his gun drew level with his assailant but a lethargic boot kicked it from his grasp, and he watched the weapon tumble slowly across the night sky and then disappear over the building's edge like a lazy raindrop. Bond rose unsteadily to his feet, staggered sideways a few yards and stumbled to his knees once more. He turned to face his attacker. The sole of the guard's boot filled his vision and all went black.
Thump. Thump. Why, Bond wondered, wouldn't the blacksmith stop hitting that anvil? He was trying to sleep. Thump. Thump. Didn't these people ever stop? Bond forced open a swollen eye and watched the hammer hit the anvil once more. Thump. His other eye blinked awake and this time Bond recognised the hammer as it swung into view; it was the heavy boot belonging to the Russian guard, and its owner was busy kicking and stamping at the grappling hook. With a thrill of fear, Bond heard one of the prongs snap off as the hook scraped along the cornice. As though climbing a sheer wall, Bond somehow managed to roll onto his aching stomach and crawl along the roof to reach the edge. The anvil rang out once more and Bond heard another metallic scrape accompanied by the frenzied breathing of the Russian guard. Dreading what he might see, Bond hauled himself up to the cornice and rested his chin on the cold stone.
Price was barely halfway back, his body jerking with each effort to drive his handgrips along the wire. Unable to look behind him, he must have surely felt each blow at the grappling hook, each shudder adding to the knowledge that death gnawed at his lifeline. Bond tried desperately to think. The roof still swung drunkenly from side to side. He couldn't trust his aim with a throwing-knife. There was another awful creak from the hook and an almost comical "twang" from the complaining wire. Bond sprawled desperately, uselessly against the cornice, and he experienced a fresh stab of pain as the mini-hook jabbed into his hip. The hook! His thick, clumsy fingers groped to retrieve the mechanism. Precious seconds were lost while he strived to press the unlocking pin. Bond felt the hook jar in his hand as the three sharp hooks sprang out. He took aim and realised with a sickening feeling that he was too late. Bond's shout of dismay rang clear as the guard delivered one more vicious blow, and the remains of the hook sprang away into the night.
Price swung straight onto the tram wires. A blinding flash illuminated the surrounding buildings in monochrome like a photographic negative. An infernal buzzing rent the night air, and then a charred lump fell to the street amid a shower of sparks. Every streetlight shorted out, the road disappearing as though a black curtain had fallen across it.
Snarling, Bond stiff-armed the hook in the direction of the exultant guard. It looped over his left shoulder and Bond fell back, using his weight to jerk the line as hard as possible. The guard screamed as the barbs scraped and caught the side of his neck. With a cry of anguish and rage, Bond swung the off-balance man over the edge of the building and felt the rope surge through his fingers. A gurgling scream faded into the night and was abruptly silenced when the hooked prize jerked at the end of the line. Bond was jammed against the cornice once more and felt the rope tighten around his waist. Fighting waves of nausea, he grabbed a knife from his arm-sheath and cut the rope. The sudden relaxation of pressure unleashed a ring of pain around Bond's ribs and he retched, his forearms shaking with the strain as he knelt on all fours.
Bond tilted his head and let the cool air waft over his sweat-drenched face. His senses began to sharpen once more, driven by an acute sense of danger. He stood up and concentrated on getting air into his lungs. Far-off shouts prompted him to scan below for movement in the embassy grounds. Two armed guards had discovered their comrade. A light flashed from far away: Elsa. She was signalling with a torch. Bond waved her away. She couldn't help him now; no one could.
The rest of the square was a dark moat without a drawbridge. Bond took stock: he had one knife, a penlight, about sixty feet of rope and precious little else. He checked the guard's abandoned machine-gun, still sticky with Bond's blood. The action was smashed, and Bond tossed the gun aside with a curse. He was trapped like the proverbial fly in a bottle, and now a crabbing fear accompanied his aching stomach muscles and throbbing head. At night the embassy would have a skeleton staff – but most of them would be intelligence operatives. He would be entering a darkened, unfamiliar building containing God knew how many people waiting to put a bullet through him. He also had no idea how to get out of the building and across the street to safety, and if he didn't die in the attempt he would meet people only too eager to whisk him across Europe to Moscow's welcoming arms. Christ. The poison of panic threatened to overwhelm Bond, and he momentarily thought of surrendering and taking his chances with the embassy staff in the hope of making a later escape. It was a fantasy born of desperation. He fought to regain control of himself and held on tight to another strong emotion: his abundance of fury at Price's death. All right then, he would use that fury to fuel his energy and determination. Bond tightened his grip on the knife. He would take his chances. Every last one of them.
He approached the open door in the middle of the central block and saw steps etched in the moonlight. They probably led straight down to the Communications Office – and that meant someone was nearby. The rough stone steps disappeared into a black maw. Bond grimly reasoned that anyone standing at the bottom would have shot him by now. Leaning against the wall to present a narrow target, he quietly descended into the dark, forcing his eyes wide open to adjust to the poor light as quickly as possible. At length he could make out a wire-encased bulb almost flush with the ceiling. The power cut had affected the embassy too. There wouldn't be much time before power was restored; the building was sure to have an internal generator for use in time of war.
Bond stretched out a hand and felt his way along a rough concrete wall until it ended abruptly: a corner. He waited, ears straining for the slightest sound. Nothing. A quick glimpse showed light seeping under a door about six feet along a dark corridor. Bond sidled to the door. His penlight illuminated a sign in heavy Cyrillic: Сообщение. Communications. He crept past and then thought better of it. Perhaps he could salvage something from the mess after all. He gently turned the cold doorknob. Locked. At the same time Bond heard a muffled stream of panicky Russian. He knew the voice; his friend the signals operator was no doubt following procedure in securing his bolthole – doubtless it was purely a happy coincidence that this meant not risking his neck. The voice carried on talking, but this time Bond heard the rattle of a telephone receiver lifting off its hook. If anyone were at the other end of the line they would soon be hurtling upstairs. Bond strode along the dark passageway, using the penlight to guide him until he came to a heavy oak door, which he pushed open without ceremony. A broad, thickly carpeted corridor studded with ornate lamps and oil paintings announced the start of the embassy proper. At least the carpet would soften his footsteps.
He had tiptoed only a few yards when a door opened ahead and to his left, sending a shaft of moonlight into the gloom. From it emerged a barefoot man dressed in vest and trousers, his braces hanging loose, who peered into the darkness. The man yawned and began to walk down the corridor, away from Bond, who guessed that he was probably one of the daytime staff awoken by the electrical flash. Bond heard a click and a grunt as the man tried a useless wall switch. He quietly sheathed his knife. He had no wish to kill in cold blood – but he wasn't going to pussyfoot around. Bond crept up behind his target and grabbed the man's left arm in an "Arm Lock Come-along", ramming his captive up against a wall. With the rigid edge of his right hand he chopped the back of the inviting nape and eased the slack body to the floor. Chalk one up to the Commandoes.
He continued his exploration of the corridor, all the time calibrating the delicate balance of speed versus caution. Bond froze. Someone was waiting in the dark. His torch flashed over an unmistakable profile. Bond swore under his breath as he recognised the face: Vladimir Ilyich to the life. The rather fine porphyry bust of Lenin kept lookout at the corner of a massive marble staircase that wound down into the dark. Bond's grim smile perished at the sound of distant footfalls approaching from below. He leaned over the thick stone banister and saw three torch beams circling like spokes in a wheel. The signal operator must have got through. Every instinct screamed: get out, get out! Bond hurriedly hitched the remains of his rope around the banister and wrapped the other end around his chest. His sweaty palms struggled to grip the pronounced cranium of Mother Russia's spiritual leader. Heady on adrenalin and benzedrine, Bond almost laughed out loud as he realised he was going to play a new form of Russian roulette. With a silent prayer, he unceremoniously chucked the bust down the staircase and jumped over the banister into the void. A tremendous banging rang around the stair shaft as the heavy lump of marble rolled and bounced down the steps. Bond heard a yell and dimly realised that Lenin had levelled one of his torch-bearing acolytes. He was free falling blindly – there was a surreal glimpse of a moon-washed portrait of Stalin – and then the rope snapped taut and Bond knew nothing but pain. The rope ripped out of his palms and he tumbled and rolled across a bare tiled floor, coming to rest on his back. Far away, lights strafed a huge chandelier directly above him. The guards had continued to the fourth floor. He had bought some time and now he had to spend it. A nearby shadowy doorway beckoned and Bond half-crawled, half-tumbled through it and down three steps onto a rough stone floor. The penlight showed a low curved brick ceiling. A cellar? In the dark Bond had misjudged the floors. Reflecting that he had been lucky not to be smeared all over the staircase, he slipped his knife from its sheath and explored his surroundings.
A row of dusty port barrels lined both sides of the ancient cellar. Bond's light illuminated a dark green metallic monster squatting in a corner near the stairs. A maker's plate proclaimed Pratt & Whitney. Made in Glasgow. The generator. He would have company sooner rather than later. Bond trotted to the end of the cellar in the vain hope that a service door might lead upwards to the outside world and away from the nightmarish maze he had entered. Footsteps pattered close by. Bond snapped off his penlight and ducked behind the nearest barrel just before a torch shone in the doorway like a miniature sun. His ears told him that he was now one of a pair. His nostrils filled with the musty smell of oak and wax; at his shoulder were rows of black jewels, vintage ports reclining gracefully in their twilight years. Bond licked his dry, cracked lips. So near, yet so far!
The cellar resounded to a rapid, annoyed clicking of another dead light switch, in tandem with what sounded like a stream of extremely vulgar Russian. Bond heard a metallic clank and scraping. The low ceiling above him was thrown into deep relief, and he guessed that the guard had carefully placed his torch on the generator's control panel. He inched upwards until his eyes were just above the dark barrel. Before him was a scene from an Old Master – a hulking figure bent in supplication, the whole illuminated by the single torch that cast inky shadows from its perch atop the hateful machine. With a gun in one hand, the burly guard began to pump a hand crank to energise the starter motor. Bond evaluated the situation. He was still too groggy to throw his knife with any certainty. It was too far to rush his opponent – even a jaded guard would drop him before he got halfway. When faced with a gunman, the defenceless man enters a binary relationship: with a gun he is One; unarmed, he is Zero.
Bond knew the game was up; his luck was all played out. He could hear the death rattle of the little white ball bounce and settle in the green slot numbered (what else?) zero. There remained only to hear the whispered "Pas de credit, monsieur. Désolé," and the inevitable would follow – the gentle pressure under the elbow to lead the bankrupt member between the tired huissiers and newly arrived cleaners, out and away to contemplate a ruined existence in the bleak light of early morning. Any second now the generator would flood the building with light and he would have had it. The House wins. Désolé indeed.
The arc of light flickered. The guard stopped pumping and swore softly. There was a second flicker and the splash of white light turned brown. Bond silently cheered on the failing torch battery. Die, you bastard, die! The torch's owner picked up the light and shook it into further exertion. The bulb burned once more, brighter than before, and then expired. A further curse, this time vehement, sounded from the dark. Lady Luck had palmed Bond a card. Reaching to his left, he eased a heavy bottle from its resting place. He heard the unmistakable rattle of a box of matches. Bond readied himself, his knife in one hand, the bottle in the other. A match rasped into life and the guard's ghoul-like face floated in the murk. Bond hurled the bottle at the guard, missed, and rolled to his right across the cellar floor. The guard dropped the match in shock and the room vanished once more. Absolute silence reigned. Neither man could move for fear of betraying his location. Many moons ago, Bond had hunted lobsters and black sea-eggs in one of the few bays on Jamaica's North Shore suitable for snorkelling. A careless poke with his three-pronged spear had startled a dozing squid and plunged him into a cloying inky cloud. He had nearly drowned while trying to work out which way was up. The cellar was almost as bad – at least the floor was steady beneath his feet – but this particular bay housed something much more dangerous than a startled squid.
It was a stand-off. Seconds passed during which Bond seemed to hear his opponent creep behind him, beside him, around him. The fatal blow might come from any angle. Nightmarish forms loomed out of the darkness, and Bond almost shouted his fear. A coppery taste between his lips brought him back to himself. Blood. He wasn't dead yet, dammit! Let the other man stew. His patience was rewarded with two deafening gunshots, white flowers crumpling in the gloom, the blotches staining his retinas. Bond felt bullets pass overhead. Left and right, both high. What was that noise? A sour smell drifted around him. One of the barrels must have taken a hit. Port was gushing out and the floor would soon be sticky with it. Bond knew his foe's colleagues would arrive soon; the deadly pas de deux had to end now. There was a crunching sound to his left – as instinct took over Bond realised the guard had trodden in the remains of the shattered bottle – and Bond span and charged. By the time he had taken three paces, he had twice slashed with his knife and hit nothing. His target was a vital, lethal yard further away than ideal, and he had already slowed in alarm when at the last moment the two men bumped into each other.
A supernova exploded near Bond's left shoulder as the gun discharged, giving him a stark close-up of a snarling monster, low of brow and out for blood. He felt the hot gunpowder sear his neck and, by chance rather than judgement, grabbed the hot gun barrel. Ignoring the pain from his burning palm, Bond forced his fingers to translate the gunmetal braille and managed to jam his little finger behind the trigger. A huge hand clamped down on Bond's knife-arm and dug in, and he gasped at the monstrous strength of his enemy. His fingers went numb and the knife slipped from his grasp. Bond kicked out blindly, and the two men banged against a barrel and fell to the ground in a heap, the gun skittering across the wet stone floor into oblivion.
The two men battered each other blindly using the time-honoured arsenal of the desperate: feet, knees, elbows, fists and forehead. Each man tightened his grip on the other, drawing nearer in an attempt to gain a decisive advantage. Bond had once gazed on the mating ball of a python – had seen the act of love transformed into a death grip – and now, on the rough stones of the cellar, his opponent coiled as close as any lover. The guard's hot breath and gnashing teeth edged towards Bond's straining neck in an obscenely intimate nuzzle. Bond heard the voice of the ogre who lived in another basement. Soft tissue, Mr Bond, sir. Eyes and balls. His fingers scrabbled in the darkness, climbing over the guard's belt buckle towards his target, where he clenched as hard as he could. He heard a distinct 'pop' and a shriek of pain. The Russian's grip loosened, and Bond swung his forearm at the yell. There came a gurgling, choking sound not so very different from that of the ruptured port barrel. He must have crushed the man's Adam's apple into his windpipe. Bond rolled away in shock and fear, his aching ribs coming to rest painfully on top of a small, unyielding object. Too exhausted to move, he lay listening to the dying man's heels drum on the floor. The cellar door swung open to reveal the blinding silhouette of a man framed in the doorway. The guard saw Bond, hair spiked with blood and port, chest heaving under his sodden clothes, rise from the mess like some primordial creature and raise an accusing hand. The hand looked misshapen, elongated; only when it seemed to burst did he realise that the creature had fired a bullet at his heart.
Bond took the second guard's torch, ripped out a bundle of wires from the generator and tottered out of the cellar without much of an idea of what to do next. He looked around the stairwell in something close to despair, and at the last moment spotted a door hidden in the darkness under the staircase. The after-effects of Benzedrine were a terrible fatigue and emotional low; added to the fear and exertion of the night's work, it was all Bond could do to aim himself at the door and hope to God that no-one saw him. It took him three attempts to grab the doorknob. He found himself looking up at narrow stone steps hemmed in by whitewashed walls: a service staircase. He slumped on the iron banister bolted to the wall and pushed himself up the stairs to a door on the ground floor landing. Locked. Again. The stairs twisted ever upwards. It seemed to Bond that he had known nothing all his life but stairs, endless, winding stairs that led to nothing but more stairs. He found himself facing another door without knowing how he had got there. Must have blacked out. Fatigue clawed at him and threatened to pull him down the hungry steps waiting below his unsteady feet.
He placed both hands on the door and leaned forward like a sleepwalker. Mercifully, it gave way and he slunk in. His torch illuminated ghostly armchairs, a large desk, lampshades, tall red curtains hanging on two walls – the room was an empty set waiting for the next act. Bond turned unsteadily. He had come through a false bookcase door. He was in a corner office, and an important one judging by the well-appointed furnishings. A prism of colours flashed from a nearby side table, and Bond almost sobbed in relief. The decanter sparkled and flared in the torch's wavering beam. Bond swigged the brandy straight from the decanter, not caring that his raw throat protested at the sudden influx of strong alcohol. He caught his breath and felt a wondrous warmth seep through his body. His legs steadied. Another swig, and Bond noted in passing that the diplomat whose office he had borrowed had provided just the one glass. Taking one last mouthful to toast the unknowingly generous miser, Bond hurried to the tall windows, thankful for the thick carpet that muted his movements.
Standing well to one side, Bond gently drew back one of the heavy velour curtains. A crowd had formed at the ornate main gates, a growing circle of sensation-seekers grouped around what was left of Price. Two men bearing pistols stood inside the gates, scanning the crowd for accomplices. Bond hoped that Elsa had had the good sense to stay out of sight. A bone-white ambulance, its absurd little klaxon clamouring to be noticed, forced the crowd to part. All attention was split between the grisly tableau on the road and the two ambulance men who busily squeezed their way through the ghoulish onlookers.
The entire building was now in an uproar. Bond could hear muffled yelling. Doors slammed like distant gunfire. Footsteps paced quickly overhead. He moved quickly to the far window away from the commotion outside. This side of the building was closer to the side street. Bond eased open the windows and crouched forwards onto a large balcony. The first birdcall of the morning mingled with the hubbub at the embassy gates. Weak dawn light glimmered on the spiked rolls of the fence a few yards below, its waiting iron teeth just far enough away to pin any frantic escapee like a despairing butterfly. Bond backed into the room and wrenched the heavy velour curtains from the window. He frenziedly tied a large knot in one end, bundled the curtains in his arms and hopped onto the balcony wall. In his haste he almost overbalanced, and consequently spent a nasty second wobbling on the edge. He unravelled the curtain, took aim and flung the carpet, knot-first, towards the railings. The knotted end fell over the other side of the fence and dragged the rest of the carpet across the top, where it spread like a bloodstain over a yard or so of the now neutered spikes. Bond gingerly made his way back to the embassy wall and gathered himself. This was going to hurt like hell. Well, win or lose, he was going via the red carpet.
A door crashed open close by and Bond heard shouts from inside the room. Go! He sprinted along the narrow balcony wall and leapt for dear life, folding his body into a tight ball. There was a splash of red, a jarring blow and Bond heard the whir of the spikes as they threw him hard across the pavement into the gutter. Years later, Elsa was at his side hissing, "Please, James! Get up!"
Somehow Bond got to his feet and the two of them lurched over the road and around the nearest corner. Over Bond's shoulder Elsa saw a policeman approaching from across the street.
"Come on, darling, let's get you home," called Elsa, giving a knowing smile to the nearing policeman.
"Good girl," whispered Bond. "She's a good girl, senor," he bawled at the policeman, who had no wish to enter the cloud of port fumes surrounding Bond for any longer than necessary. With a curt order to Elsa he turned on his heels and returned to help the departing ambulance force its way through the crowd.
Bond didn't clearly recall how he found himself lying on a sofa and didn't really care. It was enough that they were safe and that Elsa was bandaging his hands. His watch told him that, incredibly, it was not yet four in the morning. The room was sparsely decorated with Austerity furniture, a few potted plants and a reproduction Degas above the dormant fireplace. Elsa followed his gaze.
"My pay won't stretch to Lalique or Wedgwood, I'm afraid." Bond liked the simple décor and said so. Elsa gave him a reproachful look. "The taxi driver won't thank you for redecorating his car. It was a miracle finding one in the first place, and after your display he threw us out three streets away."
Bond stroked her hair. "Poor Elsa. I'll make it up to you."
"Hardly likely. Now I'm going to have a shower. There's some chicken salad and some beer on the kitchen table." She pushed him back down to the sofa as Bond tried to sit up. She smiled. "I shower alone."
Bond watched her disappear through a bead curtain with muted regret. Truth be told, he ached so much he was almost glad Elsa had turned him down. With more effort than he would have liked he reached for the phone from the nearby coffee table.
"Hallo, operator? Universal Export, please." Bond listened to ghostly whistles and clicks as the phone line forged across Europe to a still sleepy London.
"Universal Export, how may I help you?" The voice was distant and non-committal. Probably a tired operative coming to the end of an untroubled night shift, surmised Bond. A background hum told him that a monitoring device was in use. Good. He wouldn't have to repeat himself.
"Morning, this is the Portuguese rep. The line is bad. This is the seventh time I've tried to ring you tonight." Bond hoped the London contact would understand that Bond was using an open line. "Sorry to ring you at this hour, but I thought you should know that consignment 214 is no longer in stock."
"How did that happen?" said the contact, the tone now crisp and businesslike.
Bond swallowed. "I'm afraid our Eastern European competitors damaged the goods. I made a serious complaint and received two apologies. But I may have come up with a new advertising slogan."
"Understood. Can we contact you at this number?" Bond recited the number on the telephone dial and replaced the receiver. He seated himself at the tiny kitchen table, opened a lukewarm bottle of Sagres and swore long and loud.
About 800 miles to the north, the now wide-awake Front Desk would contact Operations. "007 says 214 has been killed. He's scrubbed out two goons and thinks he might have some useful information." The Duty Officer would look up the number. "Price? I didn't know he was still out in the field." How many people in the building would know the name? Hell, what a mess. Bond rummaged in Elsa's handbag and found a packet of Gitanes. He thought back over the evening's events. Price should have stayed put – a younger, fitter man might have made it back in time. But if he hadn't crossed to the embassy, Bond would be dead or captured by now. He swigged the weak beer to combat the acrid tasting Gitanes, but all the beer in the world couldn't assuage the nagging voice that murmured Guilty. Bond ground the cigarette into his half-eaten meal and tried to master his feelings. Damn it all, Price knew what he was doing! Elsa returned wearing a towel wrapped around her wet hair.
"You look like Ali Baba," said Bond.
"And you smell like the Forty Thieves." She pointed to the bathroom. Bond obediently made his way to the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower. A brief examination of his body told the tale of the evening - his stomach was already turning black. By the week's end the bruising would explore all the colours of the rainbow. His left eye was almost swollen shut, and he would be lucky not to lose the nail on his left hand's little finger. Scratches, cuts and yet more bruises sent tiny distress signals from all parts of his body.
Bond stood under the steaming shower until there was no more hot water. Still he did not move. He leaned his forehead against the cold tiles. Each time he closed his eyes the blinding flash of the tram wires returned to haunt him. Had he been too hard on Price? Was his scheme foolhardy? A man had died for the sake of one word: Decima. What on earth did that mean? Was it worth a man's life? Eventually the freezing water drove such thoughts from him and he returned shivering to the living room to find that Elsa had erected a camp bed below the window. Without a word she ushered him to the bed. Sleep intercepted his mumbled thanks.
Bond awoke to sobbing and screaming. He sprang out of bed and ran through the unfamiliar flat, tracing the screaming to Elsa's bedroom. She was having a nightmare, the sheets wound round her, her hair spread in disarray across the pillows. Bond gently woke her. Her eyes were wet.
"Oh, James! I was dreaming about Daniel, and he kept falling and falling and I couldn't catch him and there was a flash and the smell, oh the smell – "
Words failed her, and her shoulders shook, dislodging the white cotton sheet from around her neck. Bond tenderly drew the sheet back up to her collarbone. Her hand stopped him. Their eyes locked, her lips parted and Bond marvelled how quickly the animal instinct took over. They were both alive. His fingers slowly traced their way from her damp cheek to her bare, smooth shoulder. The calloused edge of his right hand brushed a proud nipple. Elsa's breath caught, and Bond took her in his arms and decided not to let go for a very long time.