Chapter 2 - The Rendezvous
As a midnight blue Lotus Esprit S2 Turbo sped down the streets of London en route to the Heathrow Airport, Bond checked his new watch. It was two o'clock, meaning his flight to St. Petersburg was scheduled to depart in two hours. Bond had spent most of the late morning and early afternoon at his London flat packing and was even able to catch a short nap.
Dressed in a warm but casual beige colored suit, he wore his shoulder holster empty, unable to board a plane as an armed man. As Bond pulled the Lotus up to the front of the airport lobby, an elderly man dressed respectably in all black, with the Heathrow logo on his blazer, waited for him. Bond hurried out of his vehicle and tossed the man the keys.
As the elderly airport clerk clapped his hands, two young bell-boys rushed to his side. Unloading three pieces of luggage from the trunk of the Lotus, a large suitcase, an oversized duffle bag and a medium attaché case were stored on a metal trolley. While his car was driven away by the first young man, and with his bags now in tow, Bond and the elderly clerk quickly entered the building to escape the blistering wind.
Reaching the lobby, Bond checked his ticket with one of the particularly attractive flight clerks from British Airways. As soon as everything checked out, Bond grabbed his attaché case. The rest of his luggage, being equipped with metal deflectors, devices that blocked all traces of metal, like guns, from being seen and scanned by video cameras and airport security systems, was stored on the plane.
Resting at a nearby airport café, he normally would never pull out a top secret dossier in public but, as far as he was concerned, he had some time to kill before his flight. Sipping on spiced, Indian-brewed tea and making small talk with the redheaded waitress who left her number on his check, he read the file in depth, which only built on the details that M had provided in that morning's briefing, as well as a picture of the target, Orrin Armonov.
Bond scowled at the ugliness of the man's profile: a heavyset, balding Caucasian with shifty green eyes and a jagged scar on his forehead. For the sake of the mission, this would not be a face that Bond would forget for a long time.
Hours had passed, and night had fallen, as Bond had fallen asleep on the flight, though he was suddenly awoken by a strident announcement from the British Airways flight captain.
"This is your captain speaking." A deep voice boomed over the plane's intercom. "We have arrived in Russia and are preparing to touchdown in beautiful St. Petersburg within ten minutes," the captain declared in a thick British accent, only to repeat himself in Russian.
Moments later, as the plane touched down, 007's fellow travelers in the first class section began to scramble for their belongings. Bond was a bit groggy as the headache that was setting in suddenly reminded him why he hated long flights. He removed his lone carryon item, the attaché case, from the overhead bunk and slowly began to depart from the plane behind the other passengers.
Bond moved quickly to the baggage claim area and, after retrieving his luggage, was approached by a short, stocky Russian man in black coveralls, with a small silver sword design embroidered on the collar, and a gentleman's cap.
"Mr. Bond, sir." The man spoke in a heavy Russian accent, his gaze shifting from Bond's baby blues to the attaché. "I am Mikhail Klein, sent to take you to the hotel."
"Yes, they said they would send someone." Bond half smiled, handing his suitcase and duffle bag to his new chauffeur, keeping the attaché with him.
Bond politely followed the man carrying his luggage outside, where a black sedan waited. The chauffeur hurriedly opened the trunk of the car and stored the luggage, before letting Bond into the car. As soon as the driver entered, the car roared into life, racing out of the back lot of the airport en route to the casino.
The darkness of night was calming to Bond as the compact black car eased down the brightly lit streets of St. Petersburg. Bond suddenly noticed the driver had missed a turn and was becoming curious. He knew that someone sent by MI6 would never make such an unprofessional mistake. He suddenly realized that if he let the driver continue, then the Taleon Imperial Hotel would certainly not be their destination.
"Who did you say sent you to pick me up?" Bond questioned.
Recognizing that the clever 00 agent may be on to him, the driver responded nervously. "Uh, yes Sir, umm, I was asked to pick you up by," the man's voice suddenly trailed off as he glanced into the car's rear view mirror and saw Bond pulling his Walther from the attaché case.
"Alright pull over at the next available side street," Bond ordered.
The car continued on a ways, then suddenly came to a gloomy, barely visible side street. With a hard right turn, it raced into the access and instantly stalled. The driver tensed up as Bond pressed the Walther hard against his neck.
"Now, get out," Bond demanded, motioning with his gun. "And no tricks."
The driver opened his car door cautiously, then removing his seat belt, slowly started to exit the car. Bond kept his gun locked on the man, watching intently to make sure he didn't try anything. The driver raised up keeping his hands in the air, then without warning he whipped around in a furious one-hundred-eighty degree turn, chucking the gun from Bond's hand. Bond kicked the back door into the driver, causing him to fall backward, then lunged on top of him. The two men rolled furiously on the ground, wrestling to overpower each other.
The driver punched Bond in the face, causing the poor agent to momentarily lose concentration. He then pulled a knife from out of his shoe and began straddling Bond, trying to cut his throat. Bond held the driver back with all his might, as the knife was inching closer and closer to his throat. In a final desperate attempt, Bond kneed the driver in the groin, causing him to lose the knife.
Bond threw the driver off of him and scrambled for the knife. Grabbing it, he rose to his feet, kicking the driver in the face multiple times until he was presumed unconscious. Bond got back in the car and began to start the engine, but from out of nowhere, the driver came again. Not taking any chances, Bond gripped the knife and stabbed the driver in the chest. With that the driver gasped his final breath and fell to the ground. Bond rolled his body behind a set of nearby bushes and returned to the car. Starting the engine, Bond turned out of the side road and began to drive toward the hotel.
About an hour later, Bond pulled the black sedan into a spacious parking lot that was overlooked by an impressively luxurious lodge, The Taleon Imperial Hotel. The regal fountains out front were outdone only by the elegance of the bright illuminations of the place. At first glance, one knew that the Taleon was surely one of St. Petersburg's finest lodging establishments.
From out of the car Bond came, removing his bags from the trunk with great force. As he walked towards the entrance of the hotel, holding tightly to his luggage, he was greeted by one of the concierges, a large man in a finely pressed tuxedo with tails.
"Hello, my good man," Bond greeted, handing over the luggage. "Take care of that for me, will you?" he finished, handing the man some Russian currency.
Entering the spacious, clean and nearly empty reception hall, through a pair of stylishly massive brass doors, Bond approached a crow of a woman that was sitting behind an elaborate oak desk in the center of the hall. Bond mumbled something to her in Russian and as she responded, she gave him his room key. Placing it inside his suit jacket, he wandered toward the end of the hall, to an elevator that was surrounded by large marble sculptures on either side. Entering, he rode the lift up to the second floor and momentarily hunted to find room 212.
As he came upon his room, he slid the room key into the corresponding electronic slot and entered. The room was the typical luxury suite, with a roomy personal bathroom to his left, complete with Jacuzzi, a big screen television set in the front of the room and an elegant King-sized bed in the center that held the freshly delivered luggage. Bond sighed to himself, opening the attaché case, followed by the oversized duffle bag and then his suitcase to check for evidence of tampering. Everything seemed in order, so he quickly took off his suit jacket, tossing his gun from its shoulder holster onto the bed. He removed a cigarette from its black gunmetal case and lit it, proceeding to undress.
From out of the suitcase he pulled his tuxedo. Hanging the neatly compacted suit on the bathroom door, he then entered the bathroom to wash his face. It was almost time to meet his contact, the Russian agent that was to help him on his mission. Instructions said to meet him in the casino at precisely ten o'clock pm. Bond checked his watch, nine thirty. He knew he had to get a move on. Splashing water on his face, he brushed his jet black hair and poured himself a glass of the hotel's complimentary brandy before getting dressed.
The casino's bustle could be heard from the reception hall next door. As Bond entered the grandeur of this private club, he gazed around the Baroque styled hall. From the crowded Baccarat tables in the front to the Poker and Blackjack tables in the center, and even the giant sized Roulette boards and video machines near the back of this magnificent establishment, this was one of the finest casino's that Bond had ever visited.
He strolled casually over to one of the poker tables and took a seat. Across from him was a tall and voluptuous, curly haired brunette in an elegant red dinner dress. Bond was dealt his cards and the woman hers. They were playing three rounds of a simple five card draw. After laying the first hand, a small crowd that had formed around the table became excited as the lovely woman apparently won the first round.
The second hand was dealt as the crowd grew quiet. Bond discarded three cards, and the woman two. Picking up their alternates, the cards were finally played. The crowd moaned in awe as Bond had won this round. Bond flashed a handsome smile to his opponent, who scoffed in anger at Bond's victory.
As the final hand was dealt, the crowd grew especially tense. This was in fact the deciding round. Bond laid his hand down, as the crowd grew nervous waiting for the woman's hand. Bond had a full house. The woman laid down her hand, cursing in Russian as she only had a diamond flush.
"Diamonds are forever," Bond said arrogantly.
The woman stormed away from the table, taking solace at the bar at the left side of the casino. Bond quickly arose from the table, following her. When he arrived at the bar, the bartender was preparing a glass of spiced vodka for her.
"So, come here often?" Bond joked.
"You are very good at poker, Mr.?" The woman acknowledged flirtatiously.
"My name is Bond… James Bond. And you are?"
"A very busy woman Mr. Bond," she stated casually, taking her glass of vodka and leaving the casino.
"I'm sure you are," Bond chuckled to himself, as the bartender approached him.
"Something for you?" the bartender spoke in Russian.
"Ah, yes, a medium dry vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred," Bond replied in a brisk Russian dialect, while sampling a raw goose foie gras from a tray at the bar.
The bartender began to prepare the drink, while a tall, built, balding, freshly shaven man in a white tuxedo approached the bar. He stared Bond up and down, shooting him a suspicious look, then finally speaking.
"Russian nights are cold," the man uttered.
"But Russian women are warm," Bond replied surprised, having found his contact man. "Yuri Zorrovski I presume?"
"The same. And you are James Bond. I watched your little encounter with the woman. Impressive Mr. Bond, but you are meeting me a bit late. We were to meet at ten o'clock. It is now ten twenty-five."
"I looked for you when I came in Yuri," Bond countered, sipping his fresh martini as the bartender handed it to him.
"Ah, yes, but perhaps your eyes were blinded by that charming woman you were besting in poker. Am I right Mr. Bond?" Yuri Zorrovski laughed.
Bond smiled, putting his hand on Yuri's shoulder. "Perhaps comrade, we should find a more private setting to talk things over," Bond proposed, downing the last of his martini in a furious gulp.
"I couldn't agree more," Yuri consented, as the two men walked out of the casino to find some place to talk.