by John Gardner
The girl was screaming behind him, and he knew that his own mouth was open, but could not tell if it was wide in a silent scream, or if he was also shrieking with fear.
The capsule drifted down and hit the earth with a heavy, bone-jarring thud. It was several seconds before Bond realised that the jolt of the ejector rockets, combined with the thud of landing, had loosened the ropes. He struggled, pushing and pulling until, finally, his arms were free, then his hands, so that he was able to reach down and release his legs.
He popped the canopy and began to climb out and along to the rear compartment where the girl sat in shock, bewildered and white knuckled as she clung to the arm rests of the seat. She was held down by straps with buckles at the back; her arms were secured to the seat, and there was a tight strap around her ankles.
He swung around, unlocking her section of the canopy, reaching out to her - swiftly undoing the straps. "Come on. Let me help you out." He spoke gently, though he later realised that he was probably shouting as his ears were popping from the G forces to which they had been exposed during the ejection.
The girl grabbed his arm and he helped her to the soft earth.
Almost as they touched the ground, she lashed out, kicking at his shins and trying to escape from him.
"Stop!" He was shouting by now.
"No! Let me go. Take your hands off me!" She clawed at him with her fingernails.
"I'm trying to help you. Stop it now." They were still grappling when the white spotlights of two helicopters nearly blinded them from above. Near at hand they could hear the wail of sirens and a voice on a loud hailer unit in one of the helicopters told them in Russian to stay exactly where they were.'... If you move, you will be shot where you stand,' the voice continued.
"I think it would be a good idea to pretend we're one of these damned statues,' Bond said, gently wrapping the trembling girl in his arms.
The headquarters of Military Intelligence for the St. Petersburg area lie behind high brick walls near what was once Red Army Student Street. Within the walls the army keeps a large number of vehicles ranging from APCs and the smaller open-topped BTU-152u Command Vehicles, to tanks. The headquarters building is of a dour red brick, in stark contrast with the rest of the city which sports some of the most beautiful buildings and views in the whole of Russia, if not the world. Of all Russian cities, St. Petersburg was rebuilt to closely mirror its former glory following the terrible siege of 900 days during the War.
Bond and Natalya were taken straight to an interrogation cell: bare and uncompromising - the metal door slammed and locked behind them immediately. An unshaded light bulb hung from the ceiling and the furnishings were a simple metal table and three metal chairs. The table and two of the chairs were bolted to the floor. The third, Bond immediately discovered, had been brought in recently and was not secured.
There was no point in even searching for bugs, for they would be invisible these days without an electronic sweeper and even that would not guarantee results. He would have to risk talking anyway, for he needed to work on the girl and coax her back to normal. At the moment she cowered in a corner, her eyes full of fear.
Moving towards her, he said quietly, "We haven't much time." She crawled along the wall, moving away from him, almost shouting, "Stay away from me. Don't come near or I'll scratch your eyes out. Just stay away.
In the end, he managed to grab her by the wrists and pull her towards him. "Now listen,' he spoke almost in a whisper - not gentle but flat, urgent and cold. "I work for the British Government. So, you can either take your chances with me, or put your life in the hands of your fellow countrymen - the people who killed everyone at Severnaya.
"Where's Severnaya? I've never been to Severnaya.
"Your watch has." He twisted her wrist, reading off the frozen time. "Seven-fifteen and twenty-three seconds in the evening. The very moment the electronics everywhere in the vicinity were stopped by the GoldenEye blast"
"The GoldenEye ?" she began, and he saw that she was starting to relent.
"I'd put money on the fact that you were the one who climbed up the remains of the big satellite dish to get out." It seemed an age before she gave him a little nod of agreement.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Natalya Fyodorovna Simonova. Yes, I am a Level Two programmer, and I know what happened."
"Natalya, that's a lovely name. Who was the inside man on this?"
"Boris. Boris Grishenko."
"Russian Federal Intelligence - the old KGB - or military?"
"A brilliant computer programmer, but I think probably old KGB. He acts crazy but he's quite exceptional."
"Was there anyone else?"
"Inside? No."
"What about satellites. Are there any more?"
"Just one moment. It's my turn to ask questions." She appeared to have gained confidence. "Who are you?
Who are you really?"
"James..." he began, then a key rattled in the metal door which was thrown open and an armed guard preceded the Minister of Defence, Viktor Mishkin, into the cell.
Mishkin looked suave in a long dark coat with a sable collar over his sober dark suit. In his right hand he carried Bond's automatic pistol, and his smile was the smile of a tiger.
"Well, good morning, Mr. Bond." He held the gun as a child might hold a small flag, wiggling it in the air. "Sit, both of you." Bond immediately grabbed the metal chair that was not bolted to the floor, while Mishkin took the chair opposite.
"In case you do not recognise me, I am Viktor Mishkin, Minister of Defence." He hardly paused for breath, putting Bond's pistol on the metal table in front of him. "So, how shall we execute you, Commander Bond? The usual manner: the bullet to the back of the head? Quick, painless and straightaway, now, so we can deny any knowledge of you?' Bond raised an eyebrow. "No small talk or chit-chat, Minister?You're not going to do a proper sinister interrogation? Nobody has time for these things any more.
Interrogation's a lost art."
"This isn't the time to be flippant, Commander. I have one question only. Where is the GoldenEye?"
"I assumed you had it, Minister."
"No. All I have is an English spy, a Severnaya programmer, and the helicopter they stole... "You only have what one traitor in your government wanted it to look like.' Mishkin's hand came down heavily on the table. "Who is behind your attack on Severnaya? Who ordered it?"
"Who had the access codes?"
"The penalty for terrorism is death, and I regard the pair of you as terrorists."
"What's the penalty for treason these days, Minister? A slap on the wrist and banishment to a country dacha, like the traitors who bungled the coup in "91?"
"Some died."
"Supposedly by their own hand. You have another traitor close to you, Minister." Natalya suddenly spoke, loudly and with a very firm voice. "Stop it. Stop it, both of you. You're like children squabbling over their toys." Bond looked at her, a smile around the cruel corner of his mouth. "Didn't you know, my dear? The one who dies with the most toys wins."
"Stop it. You know the truth as well as I do." She looked at Mishkin. "It was Ourumov. General Ourumov and that woman - the one like a snake.
Together they killed everyone and stole the GoldenEye." Mishkin threw back his head and gave a one note laugh.
"Ha, why would Ourumov do that?"
"Because there's another satellite. Exactly the same as the one they used to destroy Severnaya." Mishkin's smile turned itself off, as though someone had thrown a switch. "This is true?"
"Absolutely true. The second one is code named Mischa, and somewhere out there is a second control complex.
A commotion at the door stopped them short. General Ourumov seemed to cannon into the room, slamming the door behind him. He looked unkempt, tired, unshaven and as though he had slept in his uniform. Sweat dripped from his face as if he had been running through terrible humidity and was very out of condition.
"Defence Minister... I must protest."
he blurted, struggling for breath.
"General Ourumov..
"This is my investigation. You are out of order!"
"From what I've just heard, General, it is you who is out of order." Ourumov leaned forward and picked up Bond's pistol from the table. "I think I've seen this weapon before!"
"Put it down, General."
"In the hands of our enemy. Do you even know who the enemy is, Viktor? Do you?" Mishkin made a gesture, as though he were knocking an insect out of the way.
"Guard! The General is under arrest Escort him to."
The guard, a young soldier in his early twenties, paused for a second, then began to unholster his machine pistol - too late, for Ourumov wheeled and shot him. The guard was thrown against the wall, his chest torn out by the Glaser round.
Bond grabbed Natalya and dragged her down to the hard stone floor, trying to protect her with his body, as Ourumov turned and took off Mishkin's head with a second shot.
"This ammunition takes no prisoners, does it? What a terrible state of affairs. Defence Minister Viktor Mishkin is murdered by the cowardly British agent, James Bond..." He worked the slide on the pistol, flipped the magazine from the butt, pocketing the ammunition and tossing the gun to Bond as his hand went towards the weapon holstered at his hip.
In turn, Bond is shot while trying to escape." He levelled his pistol and began to shout, almost hysterically - Guards... Guards.
Quickly." The pistol came up in his hand, but Bond had already moved, diving for the unanchored metal chair and hurling it at Ourumov, who caught it across his chest, falling backwards, the pistol going off and a bullet ricocheting around the cell. As it happened, so Bond was on Ourumov, his fist catching the general on the side of the jaw so that his head lolled back, unconscious.
Bond dragged Natalya - and the one loose chair - to the wall behind the door just before it clanged open, and two soldiers, both with machine pistols, barrelled into the room, and stopped short, staring at the bodies, completely shaken by what they had found.
Before the pair had a chance to react, Bond leaped forward, swinging the chair - left and right, hard, smashing into the faces of the two men, then catching Natalya by the wrist, he hauled her out of the cell stopping only to scoop up a machine pistol which had fallen from one of the now bleeding and unconscious soldiers.
They were in a long passageway studded with metal doors, like the one belonging to the cell from which they had escaped. At the far end of the corridor, steps led upwards and, still pulling Natalya with him, Bond headed towards them, reckoning that stairs going up probably meant there would be stairs going down. He was wrong.
Damn, he cursed. People on the run in buildings normally go up and he had wanted to break that psychological fact by getting down to a lower floor.
At the top of this short flight of stairs, another long corridor led to an open plan office. Three soldiers stood at the ready in front of the office, and, as he glanced back, he could see Ourumov, puffing and blowing, his pistol unholstered and accompanied by three more men, beginning to follow the fugitives.
He put a quick burst in the direction of Ourumov, and then fired a long burst at the three men in front of the office. He saw one man go down, and another fall onto one knee as though wounded. The third ducked back into the office.
There seemed to be no way out, so he signalled to Natalya, making her flatten herself against the wall as he edged his way forward.
Three steps and they came to an archway on their left which appeared to be the entrance to yet another very dark and narrow corridor.
There was no option so he pulled the girl close and asked if she was all right.
"I will be if I live,' she said with some spirit.
"Run like hell and don't stop for anyone." They set off at a sprint into the darkness.
Light gleamed at the far end and, as they came closer, he deciphered a red notice in Russian which said NO ADMITTANCE.
INTELLIGENCE ARCHIVES LENINGRAD AREA.
"Someone not keeping up with the times,' he muttered.
A very stout metal door with a big lock barred their way.
"Keep going!" he shouted back to Natalya, firing a burst from the hip which blew out the lock and set a siren wailing.
They crossed into the archive area and Bond slammed the door behind them. They were now in a passage leading to a larger well-lit section, and lined with a series of cabinets teetering and leaning in an obviously unsafe manner.
He wished, fleetingly, that he had more time. He would have liked to have a squint at some of the files which were piled in bulk in those units.
As soon as they reached the end of the entrance hallway, he motioned Natalya to stand clear and put his shoulder against the last cabinet. It toppled easily against the next structure and set off a domino effect so that the cabinets and shelving crashed down against the door. Swiftly he crossed the little passage, did the same with the cabinets on that side, then turned his attention to the main archives.
Bond and Natalya found themselves in the uppermost section of three huge circular galleries, with what appeared to be a glass rotunda directly above them. Here things were more orderly. To his right he saw a large round segmented window between the neat and solidly built bookcases that circled the gallery. From behind there was a pounding as Ourumov's men tried to batter their way in.
Moving closer to the window, Bond glanced out to see a view of the military vehicle park far below. Too far. He craned closer to look straight down and wondered if what he had in mind was possible. Then he became aware that the pounding had ceased on the door behind them, making him even more alert. Crossing to the wooden balcony rails he peered over to see Ourumov, flanked by his men, coming onto the gallery below them.
He motioned Natalya to back off silently and get into the window opening, then he looked down again and saw, with a lurch to his stomach, that the floors of the galleries had been built with several layers of strong thick Lucite.
He could see to the circle below, and knew it was only a matter of time before Ourumov and his troops would spot them as they peered upwards through the transparent flooring.
As though his thought triggered the action, Ourumov shouted, pointing up at them and bullets began to plough their way into the glass-like floor, ripping and sharding the material.
"Run,' he yelled at Natalya. "Follow me!" and they set off to circle the entire upper gallery, Bond wildly looking to see if there were any alcove or passage which would make them safer.
As they ran so the bullets stripped out the flooring like several pneumatic drills, following them around the gallery, making it impossible to turn back, for the thick Lucite was already shredding behind them.
Natalya stumbled, half fell, slowing her forward movement. No bullet hit her, but the floor gave way, tearing to pieces behind her, so throwing up her arms and screaming, she fell through the jagged hole, straight into the arms of the soldiers below.
Bond cursed, momentarily wondering if he should drop down and try to save her. She had a great spirit and had already shown that she had the guts and determination to keep going.
He hardly paused, knowing that he would be letting his heart rule his head if he stopped now, for the bullets continued to open up the floor behind him. He would soon be running out of space, for he had almost completely covered the entire ring of the gallery, but four strides ahead he caught a glimpse of a metal safe inlaid between the shelving, with room for him to climb on to it. They would have to blow the thing out from under him with explosives that would wreck the entire building if he could make it.
He judged the distance and then took off, going for a high jump, landing in a heap on top of the recessed safe as the fire from below removed the floor he had just left, and continued to stitch holes in what remained of the gallery.
He saw that he was now almost directly opposite the big circular window which looked down on the vehicle park. He took a few deep breaths, unbuckled the belt Q had given him, feeling f
or the safety catch and moving it to the off setting, twisting the belt around his right wrist
Lifting his arm, he aimed at what appeared to be solid stone on the far edge of the rotunda, high above. He took a deep breath, counted to three and pressed the firing mechanism on the buckle.
The belt bucked in his hand as the pine shot out, trailing its high tensile cord. It was over in a flash, but Bond felt it was all happening in slow motion as he held his breath, praying that the tiny piton would hold.
It hit the base of the rotunda with a solid thwack, and one quick pull on the belt told him that it was buried firm and deep into the stone.
Another intake of breath, and Bond took up the slack, then launched himself from the top of the safe, swinging in a wide arc, right across the gallery, straight towards the circular window.
He was aware of the strain on the belt and his arm; of the air cleaving as he swept through it; and, for a second, the long drop down through the other galleries below.
He struck the window in the centre, feet first, letting go of the belt and lifting his hands to cover up his face.
Then came the shattering crash as the window caved outwards and James Bond smashed through it, dropping over forty feet to the hard ground. As he went down, he thought of the many good things he had experienced in his life and the last face which crossed the screen of his mind was that of Natalya Simonova. Sadly, in a split second, he thought she might have been the best thing of all. Now he felt as insignificant as a tiny speck of dust floating through sunlight.
It was probably one of the heaviest bets Bond had ever wagered.
When he had stood by the big circular window after they had entered the top gallery of the archives, he had seen, parked directly below him, a military truck with its tarp in place. Nobody was in sight, so he worked out the odds on it having been moved as evens. If it had been driven away during the chase around the gallery, it would be a hard landing bringing at the least serious injury: more probably, death.
A confirmed gambler, he had weighed the odds and, having seen no sign of life around the lorry, had bet on it being in place. So, he came shooting out of the window in a shower of glass and, glancing down, saw he had won.
