by John Gardner
He slowed, but was too late and rumbled past the street down which the car had now disappeared. They were on the city’s outskirts and the housing was starting to thin out, but he slowed, preparing to take the next right turn, hoping against hope that he would find himself running parallel to Ourumov’s car.
Piling on the power, listening to the instructions regarding the road block and trying to maintain control of the tank, Bond realised that the next intersection was coming up fast He slowed and turned right, anxious to see if he would be able to sight Ourumov’s car. As he took the right into a wide street, he saw to his frustration that this was a dead end. Facing him was a three-storey office block.
There were lights in the street level windows and he saw people moving behind them. At the last minute, people in the office complex heard the sound of the oncoming tank and began leaping for cover as the juggernaut crashed through, turning furniture to matchsticks, typewriters into squashed and mashed metal, and exploding computer screens.
He pushed the power to its maximum, and the tank went right through the building, like wire through cheese.
He emerged into a wide street, bursting out from the rear wall of the building, cursing the brick dust and pieces of stone pouring down from the turret. For a second, he had to pull his mind back to the direction he would have to go in order to catch the car. He hesitated, then pulled the machine right and found out exactly what the police chatter had meant.
Facing him was the barricade, complete with a large anti-tank gun and a lot of other firepower. An officer stood in a command car to the right, obviously waiting to give the order. The only problem he had was that Bond’s tank had broken through the wall behind the barricade.
For the first time, Bond reached for the handle and trigger of the forward firing machine-gun, squeezed and was relieved to find the weapon was fully armed and ready.
He smelled the cordite in the cramped enclosed space of the T55, and saw the utter confusion in front of him.
Some of the tracers from the machine-gun were hitting, all of them were causing complete panic in the waiting military unit. He spotted one brave man attempting to swing the anti-tank gun and bring it to bear, trying to turn it to face the rear of the barricade, but the tank was already on top of them. He felt the whole mass of metal tip, heeling over to one side as the right tracks crushed the gun.
There were a few bullets as he moved away down the road, and one armour piercing round did hit the heavy plating on the rear, but he was home free. More than that, he had just caught a glimpse of Ourumov’s car crossing the road about two blocks ahead. He did not need to follow closely on its heels now, for he had recognised the neighbourhood. On Jack Wade’s tour of St. Petersburg, the American had brought him along this road intentionally. He now knew exactly where Ourumov was heading.
All he could hope for was that he could get there in time.
This was yet another of the remnants of the old Soviet military machine. It lay deep inside a large oblong cutting, the top of which was surrounded by a crumbling brick wall and razor wire. The buildings were already starting to break up, and there was a strong sinister sense of long gone power about the place.
It had obviously once been somewhere of tremendous strategic importance. You could tell that by the types of structures and the strongly constructed platforms, together with now rusting stubby cranes.
Bond lay in a gap in the wall, on top of the cutting, looking down on the panorama below him; the T55 stood at the end of the deep ruts it had made when climbing up the high sloping grass embankment, and he was relieved that he appeared to have arrived before Ourumov. That had not been difficult, for the car in which the general travelled with Natalya was forced to take normal roads, while the tank had been able to move away from streets, so slew off across open fields to get to this place.
He silently thanked Jack Wade for pointing it out to him on their long drive around on the day of his arrival in St. Petersburg. Later, when the gangster arms dealer Zukovsky had mentioned the rumours that Janus travelled in style on an armoured train, Bond had known immediately where that train was likely to be kept: here, the once Number One Strategic (Rail) Weapons Depot. The first real proof of what this place had been was in the number of long, strengthened, flatbed trucks, which had been the main transporter vehicles for NATO-coded Scapegoats, Savage, Sego and Scrooge nuclear weapons - the ICBMs and tactical nukes which were taken by rail to sites and silos, or even intended to be launched from these very trucks.
The track itself appeared to be in good order, as did the one train standing in the depot. A large diesel-powered, heavily armoured engine was set to pull three carriages.
Each seemed identical and was also armoured. The engine was already running at idle, and from its square nose a single, long, telescopic, steel buffer projected. At its foremost end was a circular plate, almost the same circumference as the front plate of the engine itself.
The buffer, he thought, would be enough to deter anyone attempting to get in the way of the engine. It would also act as an effective shock absorber should such an engine be pulling a nuclear lc~J.
He was thinking that the entire train had been well refurbished, when the car swept out of an underground tunnel to screech to a halt beside the platform.
He would make sure they were on board before he moved off, for it should take him no longer than ten minutes to travel below the ridge of the cutting, then down to the point where he planned once again to come face to face with Janus.
Ourumov dragged the girl from the back and turned to the driver.
Natalya cowered behind the general.
“Shall I wait, sir?” the driver asked.
Ourumov nodded. “1f you would. Wait for ever, please.~’ He shot him. Twice in the stomach and then once through the head - the coup de grace - as he lay dying on the ground.
Revolted, Natalya turned away, then jumped backwards in surprise, for Xenia Onatopp had silently come from the train and was standing directly behind her.
“Welcome, Natalya.” She gave a wolfish smile and wiggled her hips slightly. She wore a skin-tight one-piece black jump suit and highly polished calf-length boots. An Uzi hung from her shoulder. “Arkady.’ She leaned forward and kissed the general. “It’s wonderful to see you both here safely. Janus is going to be so pleased.”
“Not with what I’ve got to tell him.” Ourumov sounded surly.
“Never mind. Such romps we ll all have, and think of that wonderful sun. Come, little one.” She looked at Natalya as though she could eat her.
As they half pulled Natalya towards the train, Ourumov seemed to throw off his surliness. “Ah, I shall enjoy a little sunshine after the winter we’ve had.” Then he laughed an unpleasant cackle. “Natalya, you’ll be fine sport. I know you’ll have fun. Xenia is an extraordinary woman. She likes anything with legs. Rather exotic tastes, our Xenia has, yes.” Natalya found, on boarding the train, that it did not smell as she expected a train to smell - even a diesel.
There was none of that mixture of sweat, oil and grease she was used to. Instead she smelled flowers, roses, the air was sweet with them.
When they took her into Alec Trevelyan’s carriage she gasped at the opulence. She had seen photographs of the Czar Nicholas’s train, with its rich hangings, chandeliers, beautiful upholstered seats, fine mahogany panelling and polished tables. This seemed to be a replica.
Trevelyan sat at one of the tables which was laid out for breakfast That was the other thing Natalya could smell - fresh and rich coffee. The china on the breakfast table was like nothing she had ever seen: each cup, saucer and plate was ringed with a thin gold band sandwiched between two royal blue bands, while each piece also contained what seemed to be a royal crest: a blue shield on which there were two gold profiles, as though a face had been split in two. Like.
the man sitting drinking his coffee: the right side clear and unharmed, his left side scarred and terrible, with the eye socket pulled down out of alignment,
and the mouth frozen at the corner. Between eye and mouth, the ruined flesh seemed like the skin of a reptile.
As he stared at her, Natalya felt movement. The train was beginning its journey, swaying slightly and gathering speed.
The man with the disfigured face, whom she took to be Janus, glanced at Ourumov and then his eyes switched to Natalya, looking her slowly up and down so that she felt he was mentally undressing her. It was a humiliating experience, and for the time this went on, she felt as though this strange man really had the power to see her body through her clothes. She would not look him in the eye, turning away her head in embarrassment.
Finally he spoke to Ourumov, “Either you’ve brought me this perfect gift for our long journey, General, or you’ve made me a very unhappy man.
Ourumov gave a shrug, as though nothing mattered either way.
“That idiot Mishkin got to them before I could.”
“What you’re really trying to tell me is that Bond is alive.” Another shrug. “He escaped.
The scaly and askew side of his face seemed to give a twitch.
“Good for Bond,’ he murmured. Then lifting his head, “But bad for you, General.” Xenia gave an unpleasant croaking laugh. “I told you that if I couldn’t get this man Bond, then you wouldn’t have any success either,’ taunting the general.
Trevelyan shook his head. “Bond has as many spare lives as a cat.
Now, bring her over here.” He motioned towards Natalya.
Ourumov put a hand on her shoulder and propelled her roughly towards Janus/Trevelyan, thrusting her down in the padded chair next to him.
“Just sit quietly, and be a good girl.” Trevelyan spoke softly, and she noticed that he had a very similar accent to that of Bond.
When he leaned forward, his face close to hers, she wanted to pull away. It was not the disfigurement as much as something about the man’s personality.
Not just unpleasant, but bordering on evil.
“You like my friend, James?” he asked.
She gave a noncommittal nod, just the slightest movement of her head.
“Well, my dear, James and I shared everything at one time.” When he smiled it was only with the right side of his mouth, and the left eye seemed to close, its reptilian eyelid sliding down very slowly.
The eye reminded her of a lizard or a chameleon.
As he came even closer she smelled a cologne and coffee, but something else. For a second she could not place it, then realised that it was the smell of burning flesh, and she did not know whether she was imagining this or not. Someone had once told her that when it rained in Berlin you could still smell the burning of that city: the hint of how it had smelled after countless bombings and the final bombardment that had taken place fifty years ago, during the war.
He must have sensed that she was trying to pull back from him.
“We shared absolutely everything, and you must understand that to the victor go the spoils.- You can make your life very pleasant. You can even live in luxury for some time. Eventually you will come to like me very much.” His lips brushed her neck, then he moved a hand, turning her face, lowering his lips to her mouth.
She allowed him to get close, then, like an unpredictable animal, she opened her mouth and snapped at his lip. She felt her teeth going in and saw, as he pulled back with a little cry of annoyance, that she had broken the skin.
Blood was running from the lip.
She did not see his hand come up to slap her hard, only feeling the sting of sudden pain as her head was pushed sideways. “You bastard,’ she spat at him.
“I like a spirited woman.” He gave his warped smile again. “A woman with your kind of liveliness is much more fun than some docile bitch who just lies there like a pillow.
I shall enjoy breaking you, Natalya Fyodorovna.
Her eyes opened wide with surprise. “How do you know my name?” The smile again, this time broader and, therefore, more sinister.
“You’d be surprised at what I know..
As he moved towards her again, there was a shrill, piercing alarm which seemed to surround them like some tangible envelope. She also saw red lights blinking on the roof of the carriage.
He pushed her roughly out of the way and spoke to Ourumov, telling him to stay and watch her. Then he was running fast towards the next carriage, Xenia, with the little Uzi at the ready, following him.
In the short time Bond had available, he had chosen the best possible point for his ambush on a mile length of straight railway track leading into a short tunnel.
The tank had nearly up-ended itself as he went down the embankment close to the place he wanted to use, but finally he manoeuvred the machine into position, lining up its tracks on the rails so that it faced in the direction from which Trevelyan’s armoured train would come.
He opened the hatch, climbed into the gunner’s seat and examined the shells in their racks. The T55 carried three types of shell for the 100mm gun: Smoke, High Explosive and Armour Piercing. Bond did not have to think twice. The gun was easy enough to load, and with the engine at idle, he could swing the turret and depress the barrel so that it was pointing directly at where the train would appear.
It was yet another calculated risk, for Trevelyan might easily play things safe and back up as soon as the tank was spotted: a move that could quickly take the train out of range. He was also gambling on Natalya being held somewhere in the rear of the carriages. He would only have one chance, one shell to take out the engine, and almost as soon as he had depressed the firing button it would be necessary for him to be up and away through the hatch.
Strangely, the only thing worrying him was the very small amount of ammunition in the machine pistol. He thought it would now be about six rounds, which were not enough to take out Trevelyan and his lieutenants.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. The Biblical quote came back to him together with familiar scents from the past, the smell of chalk and other boys; of damp grey flannel and the harsh penalties for flouting rules.
Pressing his eye to the forward sight, he saw that the train had already begun to move swiftly into view.
Trevelyan and Xenia had moved forward into the Communications Carriage, filled with state-of-the-art computers and communications electronics which would keep them in touch with the entire world if need be.
At the far end a monitor linked them with a camera set high at the front of the engine. When he saw the tank, stationary on the rails ahead as they closed fast, Trevelyan uncharacteristically sighed, then made a noise which mingled anger with a hint of admiration. “Only James Bond,’ he muttered.
“He’ll derail us. We must stop!” Xenia showed some panic in her usually calm and cool manner.
“No!” from Trevelyan.
“What do we do?” The question came from up front in the train’s cabin, and it was obvious that the driver and his engineer were already slowing slightly. The brakes had started to pump.
“Stop that.” Trevelyan had snatched at a small microphone attached to the wall. “Go for him. Full speed. Ram him.”
“But…” came the driver’s voice.
“Ram him, damn you. You have that damned great battering ram up front. Now’s the time to use it The words and confidence were easy, but the situation had certain very dangerous drawbacks. Trevelyan was experienced enough to know what was going on. He too was a gambler.
Whatever happened now, he thought, the train would be wrecked. Well, that was OK for he would have no difficulty finding an alternative method of transport. It was an irritation, a minor setback, but they would still get to their destination.
He looked up at the monitor and braced himself in his seat.
Opposite him, Xenia was also straining backwards in her seat, the Uzi held across her lap and her legs straight. Above them the monitor showed that they were rushing towards the tank at high speed. About six hundred yards to go and closing very fast
At around two hundred yards Trevelyan began to
feel the first nip of fear in the back of his mind. Then there was a flash, followed by a great heaving as though the carriage were being shaken by an earthquake.
Bond had banged down on the firing button. The turret bucked under the recoil and the shell penetrated the front of the engine, exploding with a great sheet of flame which seemed to reach out as though trying to devour the tank.
He pulled himself up through the hatch, leaped to the left and rolled away towards the bank, almost at the moment the train’s engine hit the tank, the long telescopic buffer buckling under the impact.
Bond dug himself into the earth as the forward momentum of the engine pushed the tank, now on fire, back into the tunnel.
Then came the second explosion: a thunderous clap of noise and a searing heat which even Bond felt, lying on the ground a good distance away. He raised his head and saw the wide plume of flame and smoke coming from inside the tunnel, the mixture of fuel and explosives rising into the air, as though drawing a deadly question mark.
By the time that happened, Bond was on his feet, the machine pistol in his hand, running full tilt towards the carriages, looking for the easiest way in.
He saw the steps at the door linking the last and middle carriages and threw himself towards them, his hand touching hot metal, his heart set on finishing the business with Trevelyan once and for all.
In the Communications Carriage, both Xenia and Trevelyan had been thrown to the ground; equipment had detached itself from walls and desk tops. Xenia’s Uzi had skittered back along the aisle and, worst of all, they were plunged into darkness.
“Emergency generator!” Trevelyan shouted, and Xenia stumbled forward, feeling her way to the large wall switch which would give them power now that the engine had exploded taking with it their normal source of electricity.
She pulled down on the switch and, as the lights came back on “Just stay absolutely still.” The voice came from behind them.
Trevelyan, half sprawled across a table, did not even bother to look around. “James, why can’t you just die like any other normal person?’ he asked.
