Chapter Two
The corridors of the Hilton were near empty though many rooms heaved with summertime excess. The cleaner entered suite 14. As the door closed behind her the corridor was suddenly filled by three well built, shaven headed men. Their suits were similar in cut to that of their employer, Glenn Thorpe, ill-fitting black, brown and grey numbers. The tallest, in a peculiar brown tweed suit and navy blue T-shirt, knocked hard on the door of suite 16. "Room service," bellowed the quite obvious south London accent.
Lucille looked up from the laptop; "I'll be back in one moment James." She stood, tightened her robe and proceeded to open the door. Bond heard a thud through the ear-piece; a back-handed slap from the brown suited heavy had sent Lucille to the floor. All three men were now in the suite rummaging through all and sundry.
The tallest man pulled Lucille up by her short brown locks and dragged her to the laptop; "Mr. Barakov doesn't like being spied on." He turned to the shorter of his colleagues, "Work this thing, I don't think the girl's capable." He let go of Lucille's hair and her tear-stained face fell to the ground, unsure of how to respond to this ambush that was taking place. As the black suited shorter man checked over the laptop display Lucille leapt up and hit the escape key, the display vanished replaced by a password entry box.
"That was very stupid," the short yet stocky man with a Yorkshire drawl was not impressed and pulled a Colt .45 from the back of his trousers, "very stupid indeed."
The reception on Bond's ear-piece had subsided to nothing but he knew he had to remain where he was, the camera and microphone were still recording. But what was being said, thought Bond, then he heard Barakov's ringtone again. Suddenly a bullet ripped through the ceiling panel, then another and another. Bond scrambled around on the rafters, he knew the invaders at the Hilton must've seen enough on the laptop to give his location away. It was then that Bond's weight left the support rafters and transferred just too much onto a panel as he avoided another bullet. The panel couldn't support him and he tumbled into the private game room below, rolling onto his feet and producing his Walther in one swift movement. He instinctively aimed to his right as one of the three unidentified men left the room, slamming the door behind him. Next to the door the gunman who'd destroyed much of the false ceiling had little opportunity to aim as Bond put a bullet in the middle of the his forehead. It took Bond just a matter of seconds to notice the third unidentified man on his knees, Bond thought he must have knocked him as he came through the ceiling. He also noticed a pair of mounted shotguns but thought nothing of them, instead he turned to face Barakov, the Tudors and Thorpe who were all on the other side of the dust- covered billiards table. He aimed at Barakov's chest; the sweaty Ukrainian didn't even blink. "Who are you?" he spluttered.
"British Intelligence," Bond pointed the Walther at Barakov's head, "and your game is well and truly up."
"Well actually sir, I think it is your game that is up," a wry smile came across the Barakov's pasty face. Bond heard a clunk-click like sound and then felt the cold metal of one of the shotguns against his right temple.
"Drop it!" grunted the armed thug, Bond followed the instruction throwing his gun onto the table and raising his arms at the elbows.
"So," Barakov paused as he mopped his brow with a handkerchief he'd produced from his trouser pocket, "you're British secret service then, I am privileged." He seemed amused by this, thought Bond. "So near, yet so far, just like your French friend back at the Hilton." Bond's eyes narrowed.
"Leave the girl out of this, she's just part of my cover." Bond was trying to think ahead.
"Part of your blown cover." Barakov remained across the table whilst the Tudor brothers left the room. "We knew you were watching, we just didn't know who you were." Barakov looked at Bond with an almost snobbish sneer. "But now we know I have decided the girl could be of great use," he looked Bond dead in the eye, "the Tudors' will definitely have some use for her, I'm sure of it."
"You've forgotten two things though," Bond's risk assessment from the previous week came to mind, which doors led where, how to escape; he had to get Lucille. "Firstly my station officer will be expecting to hear from me," Bond checked Barakov's emotionless eyes.
"And the second?" The Ukrainian asked with a certain swagger.
"Well," Bond's shoulders relaxed, "nobody loads a mounted gun."
"They do in my club, and you sir are expendable," Barakov nodded to the gunman, this was something Bond's assessment hadn't considered.
The English henchman pulled the hammer back on the shotgun; Bond jerked, his right hand pushing the shotgun towards the hanging light above the billiards table. A loud bang was followed by a mighty crash and more ceiling dust. Bond raised his right leg backwards into the thugs groin, then as the man fell Bond put his right elbow into the mans' face pushing him to the wall behind. Bond darted towards the door, picking up his earlier victims' gun on the way.
As Bond stepped into the wide crème-carpeted corridor an ivory handled knife flew from the adjacent doorway into the oak panel next to Bond's right arm. It had pinned his sleeve to the wall, which in turn had forced the gun out of his hand. He grabbed at the ivory with his left hand and returned the knife to a snarling Madame Cheri as she went for a small pistol holstered to her left thigh. She fell, clutching the now red blade in her stomach, near the kidneys Bond thought. Bond strode over the hostess into the clubs third floor kitchen. A startled chef stood next to a large stainless steel oven. As the agent proceeded through the room one of Thorpe's security team entered the opposite doorway, the doorway Bond wanted. Bond went to his right, pushing the chef between himself and the leather baton-wielding assailant.
"Time for the spy to die," the thug sneered as he pushed the chef out of his path, the chef obliged by promptly exiting the room. The man then lurched forward at Bond who backed up against a sink. The thug made a grab for a pan on the oven and swung it in Bond's direction, Bond ducked and quickly rose to plant a right hook on the man's chin. The assailant responded by grabbing Bond with his left hand and swinging him across the room, from the sink towards a wall of steel door freezers. Bond's left shoulder took the brunt of the impact, though the pain radiated throughout. The thug then charged the agent.
"You need to chill out," quipped Bond as he smoothly opened a freezer door into the man's face. Bond put the unconscious man in the freezer and clicked the door shut.
Bond had to react quickly as the pan came towards him again, he raised his hands but to no avail as he tumbled to the kitchen floor. Another security worker thought Bond as he looked up, he wasn't wrong, it was the man with the shotgun from Barakov's room. The man threw all of his weight behind the pan as he went at Bond. Bond rolled across the floor making a grab for the previous man's dropped baton. Again the thug tried with the pan, once again hitting the cold hard floor as Bond rolled out of the way. This time though the agent made a move of his own as he sent a hard blow with the baton to the top of the man's right arm. The pan crashed to the floor, Bond jumped to his feet and felled the thug with another hard blow, this time to the back of the head.
"Why don't you share some bodily warmth," uttered Bond as he put the second man into the freezer.
He exited the kitchen as originally intended, leading through to another oak-clad, crème-carpeted corridor of private game rooms. The English agent knew he was on the front side of the third floor and headed towards the stairway to his left. But then he stopped and turned for a game room door as two burly shaven headed men bundled up the stairs onto the corridor. Fortunately for Bond the room was unoccupied apart from the identical furniture which had adorned both his and Barakov's room. The difference in this room was the balcony door at the far end of the room; Bond ran to it and opened it stepping out onto the small gantry. He closed the door behind him and observed the first floor balcony café which expanded some 50 foot to it's own edge, he noted the tramline which ran next to this edge. Bond put his left leg over the low railings followed by his right, then he knelt down looking for the starting point of the flowery bunting which hung underneath. He found it as the inside rooms' main door crashed open; he looked back to see Thorpe brandishing a shotgun. This was enough for Bond to take a chance; he swung underneath the balcony gripping the bunting. He fell in a staccato fashion as the bunting became unhooked every two-foot.
The shotgun fire missed Bond but not the waiters' teapot as the agent ran past. Thorpe reloaded and took aim as Bond scrambled over the first floor balcony ledge. Another shot hit the railings as Bond removed his hand and jumped onto a moving tram below. There was another shot, hitting the tram roof. Bond looked back and noticed Barakov pulling Thorpe away from the balcony edge. He fiddled with two wires above the moving trams doors. They opened, shutting almost instantly, leaving the agent just enough time to swing inside. A startled ticket attendant looked at Bond, slightly unsure of what she should say, her eyes wide in almost shock. Bond glanced at the tram map noticing it ended near to the Hilton. "All the way please," Bond offered the loose change from his trouser pocket.
The corridors of the Hilton were near empty though many rooms heaved with summertime excess. The cleaner entered suite 14. As the door closed behind her the corridor was suddenly filled by three well built, shaven headed men. Their suits were similar in cut to that of their employer, Glenn Thorpe, ill-fitting black, brown and grey numbers. The tallest, in a peculiar brown tweed suit and navy blue T-shirt, knocked hard on the door of suite 16. "Room service," bellowed the quite obvious south London accent.
Lucille looked up from the laptop; "I'll be back in one moment James." She stood, tightened her robe and proceeded to open the door. Bond heard a thud through the ear-piece; a back-handed slap from the brown suited heavy had sent Lucille to the floor. All three men were now in the suite rummaging through all and sundry.
The tallest man pulled Lucille up by her short brown locks and dragged her to the laptop; "Mr. Barakov doesn't like being spied on." He turned to the shorter of his colleagues, "Work this thing, I don't think the girl's capable." He let go of Lucille's hair and her tear-stained face fell to the ground, unsure of how to respond to this ambush that was taking place. As the black suited shorter man checked over the laptop display Lucille leapt up and hit the escape key, the display vanished replaced by a password entry box.
"That was very stupid," the short yet stocky man with a Yorkshire drawl was not impressed and pulled a Colt .45 from the back of his trousers, "very stupid indeed."
The reception on Bond's ear-piece had subsided to nothing but he knew he had to remain where he was, the camera and microphone were still recording. But what was being said, thought Bond, then he heard Barakov's ringtone again. Suddenly a bullet ripped through the ceiling panel, then another and another. Bond scrambled around on the rafters, he knew the invaders at the Hilton must've seen enough on the laptop to give his location away. It was then that Bond's weight left the support rafters and transferred just too much onto a panel as he avoided another bullet. The panel couldn't support him and he tumbled into the private game room below, rolling onto his feet and producing his Walther in one swift movement. He instinctively aimed to his right as one of the three unidentified men left the room, slamming the door behind him. Next to the door the gunman who'd destroyed much of the false ceiling had little opportunity to aim as Bond put a bullet in the middle of the his forehead. It took Bond just a matter of seconds to notice the third unidentified man on his knees, Bond thought he must have knocked him as he came through the ceiling. He also noticed a pair of mounted shotguns but thought nothing of them, instead he turned to face Barakov, the Tudors and Thorpe who were all on the other side of the dust- covered billiards table. He aimed at Barakov's chest; the sweaty Ukrainian didn't even blink. "Who are you?" he spluttered.
"British Intelligence," Bond pointed the Walther at Barakov's head, "and your game is well and truly up."
"Well actually sir, I think it is your game that is up," a wry smile came across the Barakov's pasty face. Bond heard a clunk-click like sound and then felt the cold metal of one of the shotguns against his right temple.
"Drop it!" grunted the armed thug, Bond followed the instruction throwing his gun onto the table and raising his arms at the elbows.
"So," Barakov paused as he mopped his brow with a handkerchief he'd produced from his trouser pocket, "you're British secret service then, I am privileged." He seemed amused by this, thought Bond. "So near, yet so far, just like your French friend back at the Hilton." Bond's eyes narrowed.
"Leave the girl out of this, she's just part of my cover." Bond was trying to think ahead.
"Part of your blown cover." Barakov remained across the table whilst the Tudor brothers left the room. "We knew you were watching, we just didn't know who you were." Barakov looked at Bond with an almost snobbish sneer. "But now we know I have decided the girl could be of great use," he looked Bond dead in the eye, "the Tudors' will definitely have some use for her, I'm sure of it."
"You've forgotten two things though," Bond's risk assessment from the previous week came to mind, which doors led where, how to escape; he had to get Lucille. "Firstly my station officer will be expecting to hear from me," Bond checked Barakov's emotionless eyes.
"And the second?" The Ukrainian asked with a certain swagger.
"Well," Bond's shoulders relaxed, "nobody loads a mounted gun."
"They do in my club, and you sir are expendable," Barakov nodded to the gunman, this was something Bond's assessment hadn't considered.
The English henchman pulled the hammer back on the shotgun; Bond jerked, his right hand pushing the shotgun towards the hanging light above the billiards table. A loud bang was followed by a mighty crash and more ceiling dust. Bond raised his right leg backwards into the thugs groin, then as the man fell Bond put his right elbow into the mans' face pushing him to the wall behind. Bond darted towards the door, picking up his earlier victims' gun on the way.
As Bond stepped into the wide crème-carpeted corridor an ivory handled knife flew from the adjacent doorway into the oak panel next to Bond's right arm. It had pinned his sleeve to the wall, which in turn had forced the gun out of his hand. He grabbed at the ivory with his left hand and returned the knife to a snarling Madame Cheri as she went for a small pistol holstered to her left thigh. She fell, clutching the now red blade in her stomach, near the kidneys Bond thought. Bond strode over the hostess into the clubs third floor kitchen. A startled chef stood next to a large stainless steel oven. As the agent proceeded through the room one of Thorpe's security team entered the opposite doorway, the doorway Bond wanted. Bond went to his right, pushing the chef between himself and the leather baton-wielding assailant.
"Time for the spy to die," the thug sneered as he pushed the chef out of his path, the chef obliged by promptly exiting the room. The man then lurched forward at Bond who backed up against a sink. The thug made a grab for a pan on the oven and swung it in Bond's direction, Bond ducked and quickly rose to plant a right hook on the man's chin. The assailant responded by grabbing Bond with his left hand and swinging him across the room, from the sink towards a wall of steel door freezers. Bond's left shoulder took the brunt of the impact, though the pain radiated throughout. The thug then charged the agent.
"You need to chill out," quipped Bond as he smoothly opened a freezer door into the man's face. Bond put the unconscious man in the freezer and clicked the door shut.
Bond had to react quickly as the pan came towards him again, he raised his hands but to no avail as he tumbled to the kitchen floor. Another security worker thought Bond as he looked up, he wasn't wrong, it was the man with the shotgun from Barakov's room. The man threw all of his weight behind the pan as he went at Bond. Bond rolled across the floor making a grab for the previous man's dropped baton. Again the thug tried with the pan, once again hitting the cold hard floor as Bond rolled out of the way. This time though the agent made a move of his own as he sent a hard blow with the baton to the top of the man's right arm. The pan crashed to the floor, Bond jumped to his feet and felled the thug with another hard blow, this time to the back of the head.
"Why don't you share some bodily warmth," uttered Bond as he put the second man into the freezer.
He exited the kitchen as originally intended, leading through to another oak-clad, crème-carpeted corridor of private game rooms. The English agent knew he was on the front side of the third floor and headed towards the stairway to his left. But then he stopped and turned for a game room door as two burly shaven headed men bundled up the stairs onto the corridor. Fortunately for Bond the room was unoccupied apart from the identical furniture which had adorned both his and Barakov's room. The difference in this room was the balcony door at the far end of the room; Bond ran to it and opened it stepping out onto the small gantry. He closed the door behind him and observed the first floor balcony café which expanded some 50 foot to it's own edge, he noted the tramline which ran next to this edge. Bond put his left leg over the low railings followed by his right, then he knelt down looking for the starting point of the flowery bunting which hung underneath. He found it as the inside rooms' main door crashed open; he looked back to see Thorpe brandishing a shotgun. This was enough for Bond to take a chance; he swung underneath the balcony gripping the bunting. He fell in a staccato fashion as the bunting became unhooked every two-foot.
The shotgun fire missed Bond but not the waiters' teapot as the agent ran past. Thorpe reloaded and took aim as Bond scrambled over the first floor balcony ledge. Another shot hit the railings as Bond removed his hand and jumped onto a moving tram below. There was another shot, hitting the tram roof. Bond looked back and noticed Barakov pulling Thorpe away from the balcony edge. He fiddled with two wires above the moving trams doors. They opened, shutting almost instantly, leaving the agent just enough time to swing inside. A startled ticket attendant looked at Bond, slightly unsure of what she should say, her eyes wide in almost shock. Bond glanced at the tram map noticing it ended near to the Hilton. "All the way please," Bond offered the loose change from his trouser pocket.
