Chapter 7 – The Ski Lodge
Checking out of his hotel room in St. Petersburg very early the next morning, James Bond urgently drove to the headquarters of the Foreign Intelligence Service in Moscow at the insistence of M, who claimed that she had some important information for him. As he stepped inside the situation room where he had met his superiors before, he recognized M, sitting alone behind a desk, doing work as if she was in her own office at MI6.
"Good morning, Bond." M greeted, failing to look up as Bond entered and formally greeted her. She continued writing in a professional log. "First things first, 007, when was the last time you spoke to your contact?"
"Yesterday morning, M. Why? Is there a problem?" Bond sincerely asked as his brows furrowed. He took a seat in front of M's desk somewhat rigidly.
"I'm afraid he's dead, Bond," M uttered. As she finally looked up, their eyes met. "He failed to report last night. Russian Intelligence investigated and traced his last known whereabouts to a tavern in St. Petersburg. The owner declined comment, but it is believed that he got too close, too quickly. Some of Armonov's men frequent that particular bar," M informed, handing Bond a black and white portrait of a man in a black trench coat. Yuri Zorrovski's killer. "This man is Boris Pochenko. He's Armonov's right hand."
"Yes, I saw him speak to Armonov last night at the banquet," Bond remembered clearly.
"Pochenko's prints were found on the gun used to kill Mr. Zorrovski. Only…" M trailed off for a second or two. "There was no body. His blood was everywhere, though. Makes no sense."
"No body means he might still be alive," Bond countered.
"007, the gun was found in a pool of blood. We doubt he's alive."
Bond stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He scoffed instead. "Well, that's a smashing bit of detective work they did for their man. A gun in blood means the worse possible explanation? They're not even going to bother to look for him." Bond pronounced with insult toward Russian Intelligence. Hastily deciding he had heard enough, Bond stood and headed for the door.
"007, where are you going?" M asked harshly.
"To find Armonov, once and for all." Bond didn't look back as he headed for the door.
"Sit down, this meeting isn't over," M barked and rose from her chair behind the desk.
Bond sighed and clutched his hand into a fist. With a sigh, he relaxed his grip. "With great respect, M," he turned to face her, "let me go. I'm onto him. Armonov's invited me to stay at his ski lodge for the weekend. It all comes down to how I play my cards. And you know me, M, I never lose."
"What do you think he plans to do with you," M posed, standing up to further emphasize her irritation. "Play a game of chance on their turf with you as the bait? We all know of your adventures in Alpines and Himalayas, Bond, but this is the middle of nowhere in Russia. Every face you see will be loyal to Armonov." M sat down, calming herself in front of her agent, as she could tell nothing she was saying was getting through to the stubborn man in front of her. "Find the bazaar and stop that sale. The Russians want Armonov brought in, but you're a 00, with a license to kill. As always, do what's necessary," she informed soberly. "Well, don't just sit there. You know your mission." M snapped her fingers and nodded to the door. She had just concluded the meeting.
Bond said nothing but nodded his head in respect all the same. Without a second glance in M's direction as he walked toward the door, he left.
The Lotus moved erratically down a long stretch of uninhabited gravel road as snow fell heavily. Bond was paying more attention to the road map, which Armonov had given him, than the actual road. Driving all day after leaving Moscow, he was now approaching Armonov's lodge in Kursk.
White covered trees surrounded him on both sides and the gray sky loomed menacingly overhead. Yawning, he rubbed his neck to relieve a small cramp as he turned down a barely visible road on the right among the thick turret of trees. As the gravel abruptly became a smooth but icy thoroughfare, the winding path continued at a steady pace until entering a wide, snow-covered driveway that was slightly off to the right. The driveway was at least a quarter-mile in length. As Bond drove the Lotus to the end of the driveway, he pulled the vehicle up next to a massive edifice that qualified for high-style living, a hybrid of brick and steel. The picturesque building didn't resemble any other ski lodge he had resided at, but it was much larger than any resort he'd seen. More like a fortress than a ski lodge, the four story building was wide with ski lifts protruding from each corner of the roof.
Bond exited the car and walked toward the entrance, ignoring the heavy snowfall that saturated his jacket. Stepping inside an elaborately constructed screened-in porch, he shook off the cold snow on his shoulders with a pat of his hand before he knocked heartily on the large timber door. The door swung open a few moments later. Bond hid his surprise as a behemoth of a man in dingy, red attire greeted him.
"Yes?" the man grunted in a gruff whisper.
Bond eyed the man warily but kept his face clear of all emotion. "My name is Bond. I was invited by Armonov to accompany him here this weekend," he replied, a bit intimidated by the larger man.
"Come with me," the stout man simply uttered, stepping aside and allowing Bond entry.
As Bond walked in, his eyes widened at the luxury of the large sitting room branching off the small foyer. A large leather daybed was sandwiched in between two end tables, made of solid gold, in the center of the room. Large oak shelves encased in thick glass bordered the walls, displaying many skiing trophies. At the back of the room was an enlarged door that looked like it gave way to a basement of some sort.
As the large man grunted and nodded toward the winding staircase on the left, Bond obliged the man and walked the marble steps steadily, reaching the second floor.
To his right was an extensive but empty dining hall. A beautiful dining table made of rare marble, complete with tall dining chairs, occupied the center of the rectangular room. Overhead, a radiant diamond chandelier, surrounded by brilliant studio lighting, complimented the sparkling marble. The walls were painted in dark burgundy with gold trim. The back wall was bordered by a tall and elegant wine rack, while ornate sconces placed strategic throughout added a sense of Old-World culture.
From out of nowhere, Armonov appeared at the end of the dining hall. Bond was sure he wasn't standing there the entire time but he had no idea how the man appeared. Not dwelling on the thought, Bond paced confidently toward Armonov, shaking his hand.
"Impressive place you've got here," Bond complemented with a smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Bond." Armonov smiled genuinely, looking around at the grandeur of his dining room. He squinted slightly, causing the scar on his forehead to elongate. "It is lovely to finally have you here. I do hope you have come prepared."
"Yes, my skis are on the rack on my car," Bond told him.
"Excellent. I see you met Franco. Rather big isn't he?" Armonov laughed, referring to the bald man that greeted Bond at the door. "I raised him myself. He was an urchin that I adopted from a traveling circus in Prague. I gave him a home and he gives me protection. He is my personal bodyguard, as well as my servant."
"Interesting relationship," Bond quipped.
"Franco," he turned to his servant, "take our guest's coat." He spread his arms wide to encompass the large room, the colossal lodge fit for a sultan. Franco obeyed his master as Bond shrugged out of the fur. "Franco will show you to your room," Armonov then said with a smile. "Please make yourself at home and I will meet you back here at seven o'clock for dinner."
"That sounds delightful," Bond agreed as he followed Franco to the third floor where the living quarters were.
At dinner, Bond ate very slowly. He sat directly across from Armonov, who was at the head of the elongated, elliptical table. A fantastic spread of smoked herring with pickled and marinated vegetables and a side of kosher Borodinsky bread adorned the marble top. The spectacular Russian feast was in Bond's honor.
The meal passed with limited conversation, until, as the men were finishing up, Armonov suddenly spoke. "You're not one for conversation, Mr. Bond."
"I do apologize, I am rather hungry," Bond articulated, looking up from his plate.
"Do you know why I brought you here Mr. Bond?"
"I could guess," Bond replied, trying to play it cool.
"Warheads. You have had it out for my operation for a long time," Armonov uttered with a scowl.
"You're referring to Operation Forever," Bond casually replied, unsure as to why Armonov was being so forward.
"Excellent, Mr. Bond." He held eye contact with his guest, his beady eyes trying to intimidate Bond. "I know you're a spy, so there is no use in putting up with this charade any longer. Judging by your accent and prudish manner, I'd say you were British Secret Service."
"You figured it out," Bond muttered with a sarcastic grin.
"Oh and you've come to stop little old me?" Armonov laughed obnoxiously and tossed down his fork.
"I will stop you," Bond assured arrogantly, eating the last of his bread.
"Ah, yes, the hero has come to conquer the villain! That is a cliché I soon hope to destroy, along with you, Mr. Bond. Inviting you here for the weekend was only a ploy, but of course you already know that. I have no intention of letting you leave. You'll die here, Bond."
"You are going to let me finish my meal first?" Bond inquired mockingly.
He tapped his fingers. "You are very amusing. I've always admired that quality in a man. The quality that a man could laugh in the face of danger. But…" he trailed off and his hands open in invitation, "a dieing man is always granted his last request and a last meal. Enjoy," Armonov threatened with a sly smirk.
Bond nodded with faux graciousness and finished eating the mixed vegetables on his plate. "All right, Armonov, if you wish to get down to business, then we shall." He laid his fork down gently. "Where is the bazaar?"
"How may I ask did you know of the Iron Knights headquarters?"
"My government's full of surprises. Now, where is it?"
"Well you'll never find it," he arrogantly replied. "And you'll soon realize that I have a few surprises of my own, Mr. Bond. Your partner, for instance, realized sooner rather than later."
"Yuri?" Bond suddenly shouted, losing his calm façade. "What did you do with him?" He stood from the table in anger, swiftly drawing his gun from inside his jacket.
Armonov laughed at the heroic display before quickly sobering. "You'll rue the day that you threatened Orrin Armonov with a gun," he posed seriously, taking a drink. Standing to meet the threat, he backed away from the table with slow steps. As Armonov waved his hand, Franco appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Bond from behind.
Bond struggled but the brute strength of the man was too much for him to overcome. Franco held him in a clutching grip, almost effortlessly. Bond's weapon clattered on the floor.
"Take Mr. Bond to the dungeon," Armonov ordered. Approaching closer, he picked up the gun and examined it. "A Walther? I haven't seen one of these in a long time. Good choice," he complemented as they all left the dining hall.
Bond awoke suddenly as droplets of water touched the back of his neck. He couldn't see anything but the darkness was soothing to his pounding headache. Shackled to a wall by his hands and feet, it was the shackles that kept him upright and standing. Shirtless, a cold draft crossed his body and his skin erupted in shivers. At least he still wore his pants.
The last thing he remembered was fighting off that overgrown henchman, Franco. In a moment of sheer panic, Bond tugged on the chains restraining him, trying in vain to get free. The only times he liked being chained was when a buxom woman with sultry eyes knelt above him with a feather whip in her hand. Bond, even in the midst of trouble, smiled dashingly at those memories. He was such a scoundrel, a fact he prided himself on.
Bond suddenly halted his frantic jerks as he heard voices in the surrounding darkness. He had no idea where it was coming from but it was muffled and far away, through an air vent perhaps. Shockingly, he recognized what sounded like Yuri Zorrovski's voice. His partner was alive but, judging by the conversation he was overhearing, Zorrovski had defected. Armonov was instructing him to keep vigilant watch over Bond. He was leaving for the Ural Mountains.
Bond rattled his chains again in order to escape and resume his mission. The links were waning. Suddenly his right hand was free. He kicked and kicked to free his bound legs, but to no avail. He searched the cold, hard ground with his free hand to find something, anything, that could help him. He then remembered a certain gadget Q gave him. He knelt down, reaching desperately for his right shoe. Kicking the shoe off, he found the pen Q had given him, tucked away. With three clicks of the pen, the pitch blackness engulfing him was illuminated by a bright red beam. Bond waved the laser and, as the beam contacted the metal of his restraints, the shackles clanked harmlessly to the damp floor. Once he was finally free, he slowly made his way through the dimness to a large wooden door. The door was locked but, with a simple wave of his gadget, like a magic wand, the door split in two and swung from the hinges.
Up a jagged, rocky staircase, Bond creaked open a barely discernible door. It swung partially open as Bond crept into the luxurious sitting room on the first floor, the first room off from the foyer. He closed the dungeon's access and deactivated the laser-pen, storing it in his pocket. Inching slowly along the back wall, he noticed Zorrovski coming down the stairs and dove behind the large daybed. Unaware of the escape, Zorrovski strolled with harsh purpose across the expansive room. He thrashed opened the dungeon door and disappeared inside. Bond desperately wanted to know what happened to his friend and partner but there was no time. He had to stop Armonov.
En route to his room on the third floor, he entered the bedchamber and snatched his suitcase out from under the four-poster bed. From the case, he grabbed an ivory-colored shirt. Wrapping it around his chilled torso, he quickly buttoned it up to his neck and shrugged on his fur coat that Franco placed in the closet earlier. Tossing his duffle bag over one arm, already stocked with anything and everything he might need to defeat a mastermind, he snuck quietly from his ornate bedchamber for the fourth floor.
On the fourth floor, Bond passed Armonov's private study and entered a massive parlor room. He moved to a set of balcony doors, shielded with heavy red draperies. Softly opening one door to step outside on a large, deluxe landing, he heard helicopter blades far overhead. He was determined to not let Armonov escape. Taking the steps on a nearby access ladder, he climbed the ladder and peeked out over the top to see Armonov and Franco talking several feet from a private chopper. Armonov boarded the aircraft only seconds later. The chopper took off. Bond was too late.
In a final desperate attempt, Bond leapt onto the circular landing pad of the chopper and raced toward the fanning blades. Throwing a small tracking device toward the back of the aircraft, the device struck the tail securely and latched on like an adhesive. The aircraft continued upward. Bond slowed his hurried run once the device connected to the metal of the mechanical bird.
Bond noticed Franco just in time. As the stout man stampeded across the landing pad, he smiled a crooked grin, and like a charging rhino, he grunted and heaved. Bond smoothly bolted out of the way and jumped from the landing, grabbing a hold of the ladder and sliding down the long silver poles until his feet collided hard with the balcony. He bit back a small grunt of pain from the collision and quickly leapt back into the fourth floor's parlor room. Slamming the door shut behind him and locking it, he hurried out of the room and past the locked study, stopping abruptly at the top of the stairs. He stared down the barrel of a gun.
It was Yuri Zorrovski.
"Yuri," Bond exclaimed, breathing heavily. He held up his hands as if in peaceful surrender. "It's me, James." He stared into his eyes and ignored the silver gun glinting his friend's hand. "You've been brainwashed, Yuri. You're loyal to your Mother Russia, as I am to my country of Great Britain and to my beloved Queen. Your mission was to stop these men, not join them."
Zorrovski sneered at Bond with contempt, ignoring his every word. "Back up, back into the parlor room," he ordered, keeping the revolver steady on his target.
Bond quickly glanced around the hall. There was nothing he could use for an advantage. He obeyed the order and backed slowly into the parlor. Franco was waiting on him, hunched over like a prowling beast hell-bent on attacking for his next meal. And from the looks of the behemoth, he could easily swallow Bond whole. Bond desperately sought for a way out. The balcony doors were splintered at the mahogany frames and the glass panels were cracked and shattered. The draperies were slightly torn. It appeared as if Franco had charged in without a care.
And now that Bond looked at the man closely, he noticed a few cuts of blood on Franco silk shirt and a slice across the top of his shaven head. The blood trickled close to his left eyes but failed to hinder his vision. Overall, he looked better than expected. The man was nearly invincible, to crash through glass and barely be harmed.
Bond slowly moved across the room, both men coming at him from opposite sides. Trailing past the vacant fireplace that took up the bulk of one wall, he quickly grabbed a brass fire poker near the rock mantle and hurled it at Zorrovski for distraction. As the man ducked, Franco charged. Bond ran toward the balcony doors and lunged out, grabbing the draperies as he crashed through.
With Franco hot on his tail and Zorrovski firing a shot that ricocheted off the wall, Bond leapt onto the railing of the four-story balcony and looped the fabric through its spokes. He gripped the draperies with both hands and lunged into the air, falling for what seemed like minutes. As he hit the ground, Bond fell forward and rolled, grunting loudly in pain. Forcing his body upright, pain skewered him once he got to his feet. Hobbling around the courtyard and over a short-standing picket fence, he raced to the Lotus as gunshots and angry shouts echoed behind him. It was now time to track Armonov to the weapons bazaar and end this madness once and for all.