14

'Never Interrupt Your Enemy…'

The controls on the Rolex were fiddly. He closed his eyes to recall the sequence of commands for the harpoon: if he was lucky he had eight seconds and a window of no more than twenty metres. He pressed what he hoped was the right button then tried to control his descent by opening his jacket.

Three, four… Below him darkness: his eyes refused to adjust. Three seconds… four: a glint of light – rotor blades? Five, six… Then miraculously he saw a thin, silver strand annotating the copter to the rock. Spreading his arms the harpoon line approached like a knife blade and a second later it sliced into him.

He felt the line dip sharply as the little copter took the strain. He tri3d to grab hold but started to slide: not designed for passengers he just needed her to stay aloft. His arms clutched the line as it angled to the vertical. Stealing a glance beneath him he saw the copter swing towards the cliff and moments later heard the sharp impact above the wind announcing it had made heavy contact. A strong vibration ran up the line thumping him violently against the rock. The question now was whether the line would hold both their weight.

Bond clung on with his right hand while his other three limbs scrambled for purchase on the rock. Without climbing gear he was stuck; the harpoon entered the mountain some fifteen feet above his head – beyond that he just had to hope the rock was climbable. The line swung with its heavy pendulum intact. For now it was holding. In the darkness the wind whistled between his body and the freezing cliff. His gloveless hands numb he mentally isolated the pain along with the gash across his thigh. There were no lights above: he was quite reasonably presumed dead.

The climb to the top of the line was relatively easy and left him some hundred feet below the gaping hole through which he had been propelled. He found a foothold but it was sufficient only to enable him to take his weight off the rope. Wedging himself behind the line he managed to free both hands and with careful balancing started to haul himself up the helicopter's carcass.

It took him a full five minutes, twice nearly losing his footing. The wind blew a constant spray, soaking his clothing and amplifying the plunging temperature. Finally he grasped the dull carbon-fibre and what remained of Q's most sophisticated piece of surveillance equipment, and like a predator he started to extract from it what he needed.

Ten minutes later the harpoon fired its second shot, directly up at the car park over-hang a hundred and seventy feet above. He heard its fangs bite deep before tested it with two sharp tugs and then with his full bodyweight. With two other pieces of salvage strung across his shoulder and the rest of the craft discarded to the valley floor he began to climb.

At the car park the noise had subsided. German voices and vehicle movements suggested an evacuation. Peering over the parapet he saw four guards and three remaining vehicles: a large Volkswagen mini-bus, the hulked shape of the Bowler shunted unceremoniously to one side and a bright orange Koenigsegg sportscar brooding in the corner. He'd put money on this being the method of transport being taken by the terrorists being blackmailed into poisoning the reservoirs.

A scream diverted his attention. A door opened and through it came a small group headed by the familiar figure of the Barber holding Sophie across his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Next came the imposing frame of Smolenski, impeccably dressed as ever, who strode calmly across the dust chatting merrily to three middle-eastern men carrying large suitcases. The Barber was making for the VW bus whilst Smolenski was presumably preparing to send the men on their horrific mission. It was now or never.

From across his right shoulder he unhooked the bulky and irregular shape of Nelly's grenade launcher, gripping it with both hands like a shotgun. Flicking the control to 'arm' a series of LEDs lit up and a whine confirmed it had powered up. He fired.

A streak of flame burst from the muzzle and shot towards the bus. The recoil knocked him momentarily off balance. The white van lit up like a huge bulb before coming violently apart at the seams. Panels, tyres and glass showered the other vehicles and bounced noisily off the arching glass. Smoke filled the courtyard and billowed out across the valley.

The group panicked and for the first time Bond realised that trailing behind the others had been the two MI5 men, bound and led out by two other guards. The explosion caught one whilst the other ran for cover. He grabbed a weapon from his fallen comrade and shot at two guards running for cover.

The Barber dropped his burden and raised his free arm. His gun spat three rounds towards where Bond crouched but Sophie took him off-guard with a carefully aimed kick to the groin which would have felled a lesser man. Instead it just won her enough time to wriggle clear and scramble behind the inferno that had been the bus.

Bond shifting his position to the left and moved closer. Taking the second of the weapons he had retrieved from Nellie's armoury and discarding the now spent grenade launcher he leapt over the barrier under cover of the Bowler. Amid shouts and smoke he saw Smolenski dive back inside the building. The big Costa Rican loosed a volley of speculative fire then followed. The two MI5 men had got the better of the remaining guards helped by Sophie and an Uzi machine pistol.

Running footsteps alerted him to the escaping terrorists: he saw the pair reach the Koenigsegg and throw the cases into the makeshift boot.

'Freeze!' he shouted, and fired the long sub-machine gun at their feet. Instinctively they stopped as dust kicked over their boots. 'Turn round slowly: hands raised.' They did as instructed. He bent and retrieved a Heckler and Koch handgun and three magazines from one of the fallen guards. Then, to the MI5 men: 'Stay here and guard this lot – there's some nasty stuff in the car that mustn't get out. I'll go after Smolenski – he can't get far.'

'And what am I supposed to do, stay here looking pretty?' asked Sophie.

'Well it doesn't matter what I say – you're going to do exactly what you want anyway, aren't you?'

'Yep. Oh, and thanks.' For once her face looked sincere.

'I should bloody well think so. Right then – we'll go and get Smolenski, if that's alright with you dear?'

She grabbed the back of his head and kissed him firmly. 'You talk too much. Come on.' And with that she headed off to a side door and Bond followed.

They were in broad white corridor that ran the full length of the frontage. A series of windows let onto the exterior while five or six double doors opened on the opposite side. A rattle of gunfire greeted them from the left and they ducked for the cover.

'Nicely done – no wonder you got caught,' he hissed.

'There'll be time enough for sarcasm later.' He chanced a look around the wall and another burst of fire took the edge off the plasterwork above his head.

'That was random – they've ducked through an exit two doors along. Any ideas where that leads?' She thought for a moment.

'Well, based on my extensive explorations as a roughly manhandled captive…' she started, then: 'The first door's a stairwell – it's the one they brought me down. The clinic seems to be all on the front. That next doorway must go into the interior – living quarters possibly?'

'Or an alternative escape route. Come on.' Still carrying Nellie's cumbersome sub-machine gun he ducked round the corner, leading with a volley of fire into the empty corridor. He ducked into the next doorway and shouted for Sophie to follow. At the next doorway he paused.

'I'll lead, you stay low and follow.'

'Certainly, master,' she grinned.

Counting silently to three he kicked the door open and ducked back but nothing happened. Again chancing a look he established they were in some sort of hallway with a single door ten feet opposite. A sign on the door simply translated as 'Interior'. They repeated the manoeuvre and this time found themselves in an altogether different environment.

It was like walking into a fridge. An icy wind blew momentarily past them before air pressures equalised. Bond cursed his hesitation as they each ducked to one side in the semi-darkness, aware they were exposed in the doorway. They had entered a large cavern inside the mountain: the walls and floor were bare rock which glinted damply. Bare bulbs of varying colours cast a confused glow some way inside and indeed upward but then the vast depths seemed to devour their beams, the distance a gloomy pitch punctuated by occasional swirling vapours.

'Nice décor. Who's their interior designer – Gollum?' Sophie gazed round to get her bearings.

'No time to wonder. There are two paths,' he said looking down at two pairs of railings that penetrated the cavern's innards at slightly different angles. There was no other path and he was regretting the absence of a torch. 'It's a leap of faith - one each, come on.'

'Oh, that's reassuring,' her tone indicating nothing of the sort. She chose the left leaving him the right. Weapons outstretched they advanced into the darkness.

The cave sloped sharply upwards and both paths began to climb, a combination of slope and wooden steps. As their vision improved they could make out dim glows ahead or off to the sides which threw rock formations into relief, but as the paths diverged to either side of the cavern they could barely keep sight of each other. It was bitterly cold and Bond breathed to the side to stop valour blocking his vision.

There was a noise ahead and he crouched, eyes straining. The path ahead climbed to a ledge. As he started forward he realised the blue-green tinge the ledge appeared to have was not illusory: the surface comprised a solid ice floe that broke like a static wave between the two paths. To his right it formed a sheer silver slope across which the light played.

An echoing crack ahead was followed by a sudden explosion in the ice beside him. Without spikes he could not risk the ice so instead he dropped to the floor beside the path. The confused acoustics prevented his taking a precise bearing. No more shots came: a delaying tactic? They had to pick up the pace. From across the ice he heard muffled footsteps: Sophie had had the same thought.

He covered her with a burst from the machine gun – nearing empty - aimed in the direction of the last shot. The ice ledge threw up a snow shower. He followed - just in time: the loud 'crump' of a grenade coming immediately from behind. He sensed movement from the ceiling. Plummeting from the darkness came a mammoth ice formation at least twenty feet in diameter and twice that in height. He leapt for the short ladder which led to the ledge and swung behind it as he heard the monolith's shuddering impact.

'James!' Sophie called, and then a shot rang out. She screamed but scuffed footsteps indicated it had merely been surprise. Another shot, then she got the message and was quiet

Bond pulled himself onto the ledge to find two figures, distracted, looking for what they assumed to be the second of their victims. Nellie's gun fired its last as Bond took out the two assassins: one armed with an automatic the other with a grenade launcher. They fell and were still.

'Silver medal for the men's team this time.' He heard heavy breathing to his right.

'Dead?'

'Or phenomenally good bleeders.' She ignored the quip and re-armed herself with the automatic. 'Two down, two to go. The odds are improving all the time. Smolenski must be some way ahead – that was his stay-behind squad. Onward and upward.'

He discarded the bulky machine gun, checked the Heckler and Koch and moved forward with speed. The twin paths continued steeper than before – ahead the cavern sloped away for a hundred yards or more; still with no sign of Smolenski. There had been no other doors, no ladders. Where the bloody hell was he going?

They climbed half the remaining distance past numerous ice formations and outcrops, some artificially lit, before halting. Bond made out what must be the head of the cave but at the same time the two paths diverged: wooden steps continuing the journey, handrails silhouetted against the ghostly glow. Between them the ice floe fell to a lower level so they were suspended above the cavern floor. Bond was starting to feel very exposed but there was no alternative.

Mounting the steepest part of the climb they came to a level walkway. Ahead a dimly lit veranda stood on the edge of what looked like water: a smooth, black expanse that stretched into the unknown depths beyond. On Sophie's side a walkway joined and Bond could see a figure sprawled on the wood: Smolenski? Thirty yards away Sophie had also spotted it. She moved forward with admirable stealth, but he wanted to shout to her to stop. Instead he moved forward in parallel, watching the prone figure, gun drawn.

For the first time he heard his breath rasping, saw it white in the freezing air. A similar cloud hung near Sophie's face: a smaller one hung close to Smolenski.

The first he knew something was wrong was when the floor wasn't where he expected it. Ten yards from the veranda his left foot met air and he was falling. Hands clutched for a handrail no longer there. His trailing foot slid on the wooden edge giving him the vital half-second needed to grab the vertical struts supporting the last piece of rail before a section of the floor itself snapped and fell, twirling into the deep crevasse below. Between him and the veranda was nothing at all. Frantically clinging to the rough wood he saw that the walkway on Sophie's side was complete: like a children's puzzle only one side got to its destination.

'What…?' Sophie's puzzled question got no further.

'…is happening?' Smolenski completed as he looked over the guard rail. The Barber stood suddenly at Sophie's side and deftly removed her weapon. 'A trap, Ms. Laguardia – and not a very tricky one, truth be told,' he adjusted his cloak. Bond angled his body and started a pendulum swing, sure of what he had to do.

'The reservoirs – I know about the reservoirs – the information got out, I transmitted it out… My people have all the information,' he struggled to get his angle of swing correct, the darkness making it a judgement call. 'All the names - all the contacts. They're blown, Smolenski.'

Smolenski paced slowly along the veranda, cane in hand.

'Possibly, possibly. But you forget I still have the information - that is not corrupted. I still have my pockets stuffed with a sparkling stock of gems, Mr. Bond, and I intend to distribute them liberally over a wide area… for a price. Come Christmas every nation, guerrilla army and terrorist cell; every intelligence outfit and cult group will have exactly what it wants. Information: the information it has been waiting for; the information it imagines will give it an edge. The irony being, of course, that it won't – ultimately it will all cancel itself out.' Bond heard the smug grin. He swung more vigorously, caught one boot on the planks but then lost purchase.

'You see, they'll be back again next Christmas, just like the children they are, imagining that the rocking horse in the toyshop window will really make them happy. But as we know these pleasures fade.'

'You're just a street-trader, Smolenski, hawking your wares…'

'And that from a nation of shopkeepers, as Napoleon succinctly put it! Really Mr. Bond, you are clutching at straws now.'

He was right. Bond hung, arms around the rail support, legs flailing in the darkness. Smolenski continued his diatribe.

'No, I am the ultimate middle-man, Mr. Bond; giving evolution a helping hand, that's all. I'm just the entrepreneur in the right place at the right time.'

'With the right lack of scruples. How many people will die in your evolutionary acceleration, Smolenski?' One boot on and wrapped around the spindle. Smolenski was pacing up and down; The Barber had dropped to the back of the veranda presumably with Sophie.

'Oh for God's sake Bond, you don't really believe that. You of all people know that the death of an individual is sometimes deemed necessary for a cause.'

'We're not talking an individual or a cause.'

'Exactly! I am talking all individuals and all causes… the principle is exactly the same, it's just a matter of scale. All these people – the terrorists, the freedom fighters; the lunatics and dictators… they all think they're right! Look at organised religion – the worst insular thinkers around! Look at how many wars they've created. I could argue by accelerating all this there's actually less loss of life…!'

'Except…' he swung once more, 'that you acknowledge… they'll be back for more from you eventually…' he was afraid his exertions would give him away '...so you accept the bloodshed will continue.'

Smolenski laughed.

'You may have me there, Mr. Bond. But who knows? In years to come maybe I will be seen as a revolutionary: the first to see another path for the human race.' Bond crouched in the darkness, gun raised. A whining noise suddenly began high up above him. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

'Oh, they're blanks – planted for you to find. I'm very disappointed you fell for it, but as you so rightly said, "never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake", Mr. Bond. I thank you for that. Nice gadgets by the way – you really must let me have the name of your toy-maker.'

From the ceiling a slim shaft of moonlight pierced the interior gloom. Bond looked up and saw a circular platform descending suspended on a thick steel cable. It came to rest upon the veranda.

'Forgive me not killing you myself: time is very much of the essence. And why get a dog and bark one-self?' Bond heard the rattle of gunfire from lower down the cave. 'Now if you will excuse us, we must fly.' And with that Smolenski, The Barber and a painfully restrained Sophie stepped onto the circular platform which began a rapid ascent towards the hole in the cavern roof. Through it Bond saw the night sky and thought he heard the rhythmic thump-thump of powerful rotor blades. Looking desperately across the ten-metre void he scanned for anything which would help him but found no solution: he was trapped weaponless while his foe literally flew away. Behind him he heard voices and the rattle of more automatic fire.

He remembered the reservoir poisoners – if they were no longer prisoners there was more work to be done. As for Smolenski, he vowed he would track him down.