by John Gardner
“So, is this GoldenEye? Does this mean GoldenEye actually exists?’ “Yes.
“Is there any chance this could be an accident?”
“Absolutely not, Ma’am, and this would explain the theft of the helicopter. It’s the perfect getaway vehicle if you wanted to steal a GoldenEye. You set the thing in motion, so that nobody can stop it. This, in turn, poses a problem. You have to get clear and wipe out all the evidence at the same time. i suspect GoldenEye is a unique triggering and guidance device. If you want to steal it, clean the place of any traces, you get out in something like Tigre.”
“So, you think its’s your wretched Janus Crime Syndicate?” There was just a trace of bitterness in her voice.
“Not necessarily.” Bond shook his head. “I’ve been inside that kind of Russian facility.” He peered at the screens. “The security is, as the younger generation would say, awesome. Voice-print activators only - which means you can keep the need-to-know down to a bare minimum.
You could even keep Yeltsin out of one of these places.
You would need two keys to fire the weapons; special access codes kept in a digital wall safe, the access to which is altered daily.” He paused, frowning. “There had to be an insider for this to work.” He asked one of the technicians to switch to infra-red.
“Now zoom in. No, to your right. A little bit more.
There.” The image left a lot to be desired, but a figure was climbing out of the wreckage around the base of the dish.
“As we can all see, someone is climbing out, which means that at least one person probably knows where the leak is; who it is.” Natalya was in the clear now, but the cold bit even through the layers of clothes she wore. She made herself go on, dragging one foot after another. The nearest village was at least twenty-five miles, but there was a small railway station twenty miles up the road. Trains were infrequent if she could make it that far.
She heard the dogs whining and barking before she saw them, disoriented and anxious pulling the wooden sled around in circles.
She thanked God, if there was a god. This could be her way out.
Maybe she would get to climb that apple tree again some day.
M was talking on the secure telephone when Bond arrived at her office. Moneypenny - usually keeper of M’s inner sanctum - had already gone off duty, but M waved him in, pointing to a chair in front of her desk.
“Sit,’ Bond thought. “Sit. Good dog.” He looked up at the wall behind her desk and wondered what the old M would have thought of the picture hanging there. In his day the old M had managed to get works of art on loan from the Ministry of Works. They were usually scenes of great naval battles or paintings of the sea.
The new painting was of different coloured rectangles, divided by triangles. “A daub,’ the Old Man would have called it. He would have hated it as much as he would have loathed the sterile atmosphere of the new office.
M finally completed her conversation with whoever had been on the other end of the line. The Prime Minister, Bond guessed as M lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke in a long thin stream.
“That can damage your health, Ma’am, but I’m sure you know that already.” ~ She gave him the fish eye but did not answer.
Instead she said, “The Prime Minister’s talked with Moscow.
They’re saying it was an accident during a routine training exercise.’ “No comment on the type of weapon, I presume?” He allowed a thin smile, looking directly at M, as she shook her head. He shrugged, “Governments change, but the lies stay the same.
M grunted, and for a moment, Bond thought he was back with the Old Man who used to grunt regularly to avoid commenting on some questions.
“Tell me what else we know about the Janus Crime Syndicate.”
“Very big in the arms trade. Good smugglers with contacts everywhere. Their headquarters are in St. Petersburg and they were the first people who managed to get new supplies into Iraq during the Gulf War. Their head man’s unreliably described - which means our sources are very uncertain. So far the woman, Onatopp, is our only confirmed contact among the top people that is.” M grunted again. “Would you care for a drink?” What was this? he wondered. A retreat from alienation?
“Well, thank you. Your predecessor kept a very good cognac..
“I prefer bourbon.” She got up and crossed to a drinks cabinet.
“Ice?”
“Perish the thought, Ma’am. One should never ruin a good glass of spirits with the abominable ice. Nasty habit.”
“Well, I probably have a lot of habits you wouldn’t approve of.” She handed him the drink and returned to her seat behind the desk.
“We pulled the files on anyone who might have access, or authority at the Severnaya Station.” Her eyes flicked up to the computer screen which was angled out of Bond’s sight.
“The top name on the list is an old friend of yours.
Leaning forward, she pressed a button on a key pad and the daub of a painting slid from sight, exposing a video monitor. It flickered on and there was Ourumov in full uniform, with data scrolled out beneath.
Almost in a whisper, Bond mouthed silently, “Ourmov, and they’ve made him a general.” Aloud, he said, “A better picture than the one that was there.”
“I agree, that thing is only to left foot people coming into the office for the first time. A simple psychological trick. Someone sits down and the picture is the first thing they look at. I am the second, but I will have had time to take a good look at them.” She gave him a smile that could easily be construed as an exchange of confidences. “Now, Ourumov. Yes, they’ve made him a general. More than that, he’s a high flyer these days. He sees himself as the next Iron Man of Russia. It’s mainly on this count that the analysts’ve ruled him out. He doesn’t fit the profile of a traitor. He’s a true son of Mother Russia. You know, the earth and the poppy seeds, all that kind of rubbish.”
“I presume, Ma’am, that these are the same analysts who said that GoldenEye couldn’t exist?
Who said the helicopter posed no immediate threat, and wasn’t worth following?” She took another sip of her drink and a long pull at the cigarette. “I was appointed to this job because I’m an analyst, and a good one. I’m also a computer scientist, and have what the PM calls, a razor sharp mind.” M drew on her cigarette, then stubbed it out. “I worked for some time under the direct control of my predecessor and he assisted in my appointment. The problems are all too obvious. I understand the controls that have been ~ placed upon this Service by the Cabinet, so I understand the way around them.
She paused again, then looked him straight in the eyes.
“You don’t really like me, do you, Bond? You see me as a jumped-up pocket calculator, who’s far more interested in my numbers than your own instincts.” Bond simply nodded assent.
“Well, that’s fine by me, because I see you as a sexist misogynist dinosaur. You’re a relic of the Cold War.” She smiled. “It may surprise you to know that I believe very strongly in having people in the field, men and women, who can bore into the hearts and minds of any enemies.
I was put here to reorganise and make sure we come in under budget each year, and, by God, I’m going to do that. But to do it properly I know we have to send people out undercover, and some as recruiting agents. That, more than ever before, we need networks, agents working out there at the sharp end. So, if you think, for one moment, that I don’t have the balls to send a man out to die in some dodgy foreign field, then your instincts are dead wrong.
Bond had no reply to this impassioned speech. If anything, he did have a tad more respect for the new M, who had started to speak again.
“I have absolutely no compunction about sending you to your death, 007. But I certainly won’t do it on a mere whim - even with your cavalier attitude to life and death.” It was time for him to say something. “Ma’am, I’ve never forgotten that a licence to kill is also a certificate to die.” She gave him a curt nod. “Good, because
I want you to find GoldenEye. I want you to find out who took it - for I’m certain that someone took whatever is necessary to unlock the weapon, just as I’m sure there are more of those things drifting quietly around in orbit. So, you are to find out who stole it and what he, she or it intends to do with it.” She turned and pointed towards the monitor.
“And, 007, if you do happen to run across Ourumov, guilty or not, I don’t want you running off on some kind of personal vendetta.
Avenging Alec Trevelyan will not bring him back.”
“With respect, Ma’am, you didn’t get him killed.
“Neither did you. Don’t make this personal. Understand?” He paused, pictures of his old friend going through his head. He thought of the training they had been through together, and the operations.
For a couple of seconds he felt Trevelyan very close to him, as though he were standing by his shoulder. He saw the ageless face and the cheeky smile. Heard him whisper, “She’s right, James. It just isn’t worth it.” Then saw the man’s end, with Ourumov pulling the trigger as he knelt on the stone floor of the chemical and biological weapons facility.
“Yes, I understand, Ma’am.” He rose and began to walk towards the door. His hand was on the knob when she spoke again “Bond,’ she said, her voice a shade softer. “Come back alive.” There were two days of intensive briefing, and at the end of all that, he attended a special session, very late at night, with q. They met in one of the large test and firing ranges deep below headquarters, and Q had only a couple of items for him.
One was an ingenious belt which looked perfectly normal until he pointed out a small catch above the buckle.
“That’s the safety,’ Q told him. “Be very careful to keep it in this position at all times - until you need to use it He showed him how to take off the safety catch and how to aim the buckle so that, when pressed, the tine - which, in reality, was a neatly designed piton - would shoot out with force, carrying seventy-five feet of high tensile cord.
“That cord is strong enough to support you, James.”
“What if I need extra support?” Q had smiled grimly. “Then you’ll have to pray.
We’ve only tested it to your weight: but it does work and that little piton will embed itself in practically anything, and hold once it’s in.’ The other item was more lethal. What looked like an ordinary pen, but was, in fact, a grenade. Click the top once and you could write with it. Give it three clicks and the four second fuse was armed.
Within that four seconds, a further three clicks would disarm the thing.
O even demonstrated with a dummy which blew apart at the contained explosion from the device.
“The pen is certainly mightier than the sword, 007.” It was the nearest Q ever got to a joke, and Bond looked across at the shattered dummy, remarking that the writing was certainly on the wall.
He looked around to see that Q’s working quarters were, as usual, full of strange and exotic pieces of equipment. Eventually, he spotted an ornate silver tray on which there stood a large plate bearing six or seven inches of a French stick, cut in two and filled with tomatoes, onions and tuna.
“What’s that?” Bond cocked his head towards the tray.
“Quite interesting really.” Q always became animated when you asked questions about his more complex pieces.
“The tray?” he enquired as though for reassurance.
“The tray, yes.
“Ah.” Once more a smile for Q. “That’s really rather good. Put a small case on it, or an envelope containing a document, like the one you’re carrying.” He plucked the thick envelope from Bond’s hand, dropping it on the tray.
“Now, come over here.” He indicated that Bond should follow him to a wall monitor which showed the large circle of the plate with the sausage shapes of the French stick poking from each end. Now, you could also see the envelope. The latter was not simply a shape any more. It was possible to read the document that faced downwards.
“See?” q nodded. “You can read it as plain as the nose on my face.’ There, quite clearly on the monitor was the first page of his flight tickets. Q read off the details - time of flight, number, number of Bond’s confirmed seat.
“That’s amazing.” Bond turned back to the tray and reached out for the French stick.
“Don’t touch that, for heaven’s sake!” Q all but shrieked.
Why, what is it?”
“That’s my lunch.” In all, it was nearly six days before Bond boarded a flight to St. Petersburg.
Natalya’s journey was a nightmare. At first she thought she had been lucky, a train for St. Petersburg arrived at the little country halt only an hour after she had got there and sold the dog team and sled to the official whose job it was to be present for every train that passed through.
There would not be another train for two days, he told her, and this one would not even have stopped if he had not been there to hang out the lamps and go through the usual procedures.
She did not haggle over the price of the dogs, selling them for just over the price of her ticket. At least she had no money worries.
Natalya was a great hoarder of cash, and as they were paid in hard currency - which meant dollars - she knew that she would be able to buy clothes and almost anything else she needed once the train arrived in St. Petersburg. A day later and she thought the train would never get her there.
It was crowded and stank of unwashed bodies. The older people seemed to make the best of it’ but some of the young people, she thought, were dangerous. They looked like street hoodlums so she remained for the most part in the one big car which had the most elderly people sitting out the endless uncomfortable trip.
She did not want anyone to see the hard currency, or even the official papers she carried which not only showed her rank as a computer scientist, but also the fact that she had been working at the Severnaya Station. While still on her way by dog sled, Natalya had come to the conclusion that she knew far too much for her own good.
She knew who had been behind what had happened - after all she had heard everything and seen the results.
Though much had changed in Russia, the authorities still had rights to search a suspected person, even to make an arrest without any warrant. They still spot checked hotels and rooming houses. When she reached St. Petersburg she would be able to buy clothes and other personal items. She would be able to eat, but she had nowhere to go, and it was going to be dangerous.
Natalya was more than certain that Boris had somehow survived. If he had come through the holocaust that had been Severnaya Station, he would be using his one main means of communication: a computer. Boris was not the most pleasant of men, but he did have a brain and he would undoubtedly be watching his own back.
She bought tea and some sausage with a piece of black bread from one of the carts which travelled up and down the train, then, after eating, she tried to blot out all her worries with sleep, but she dreamed of the general and the woman colonel she had glimpsed, pursuing her down endless tunnels.
Natalya could not know that early on the following morning her situation in St. Petersburg was to become more fragile.
A plenary session of the Russian Defence Council was due to take place, in the Winter Palace at ten in the morning, and the members, led by Defence Minister Viktor Mishkin, were gathered by five minutes to the hour.
Patiently they waited for the one missing member.
Mishkin was undeniably annoyed, pacing the huge room with its baroque ceiling and high windows, then going to the table again, drumming his fingers and constantly looking at his watch. As a rule, even senior officers did not keep the Minister of Defence waiting.
He thought about the big room as his eyes wandered around. At one time, he considered, the last Czar of all the Russias had walked in this room. His children had probably played here. Mishkin gave an involuntary shudder. The ghosts of murdered Czar Nicholas and his family seemed to be everywhere.
At ten minutes past the hour General O
urumov arrived, looking quite calm and carrying his omnipresent briefcase.
Mishkin wished him a brief and surly “Good morning,’ gesturing him to take his usual place at the table.
“Please deliver your report, General,’ he commanded before Ourumov had even got to his seat.
The General, in an act which was almost one of insubordination, slowly removed his greatcoat and opened his briefcase to draw out a shiny black file marked, in the Cyrillic alphabet, SOVERSHENNOE SEKRENTO. He then began to speak rapidly as though this were something he wanted said and done as quickly as possible.
“As this Council is aware, seventy-two hours ago, a secret weapons system code-named GoldenEye was detonated over the Severnaya Station. As head of the Space Division, I personally undertook the investigation, and have concluded that this crime was committed by Siberian Separatists seeking to create further political unrest” He paused, looking at each of the eight members of the Council in turn, holding their eyes in his before he continued.
“After killing all personnel, these criminals activated the weapon, destroying both the facility and any record of their identity.
“Regrettably, the peaceful work, together with the much needed hard currency earnings, of Severnaya has now been set back by several years. There is only one course of action left to me. I tender my resignation as of this moment.
The men sitting around the table shook their heads, some of them brought fists down hard on the wood, several cried “No. No.” When they had quietened, Mishkin turned to the General and looked him up and down, as though signifying that, as far as he was concerned, he would be delighted if Ourumov resigned. When he spoke, his voice was flat and showed no emotion.
“It would seem that the Council does not, after all, want your head, Arkady Grigorovich. Merely your loyal assurance that there are no other GoldenEye satellites.”
“I can certainly give you that assurance, Minister.”
“Good. Now what of the two missing Severnaya technicians?’ Ourumov looked flushed, frightened and stunned.
