‘Shut up,’ Davidov said, looking about. ‘Where the hell is he?’
The men stepped onto the hill and gazed at the held of flame, unsettled by the sound of hissing gas. They felt entirely alone and helpless, until . . .
‘Welcome to The Devil’s Breath, gentlemen,’ came the familiar voice behind them. Davidov turned to see Renard and an armed bodyguard step into the light. The flickering from the flames cast bizarre patterns on Renard’s bald head. The comer of his mouth on the bad side of his face turned down in an unintentional sneer. While his left eye blinked, the other one stayed open, frozen and eerie. Looking at Renard always gave Davidov the creeps.
‘For thousands of years, Hindu pilgrims have journeyed to this holy place,’ Renard said, his voice full of awe and respect. ‘To witness the miracle of the natural flames that have never been extinguished . . . And to test their devotion to God by holding the scalding rocks in their hands, as they said their daily prayers.’
Renard squatted and picked up one of the rocks from the fire. It sizzled in his hand. The flesh began to smoke, but Renard showed no emotion. He tossed it up and down, like a baseball, then moved to Davidov.
‘Tell me, Davidov. What happened on the mountains? You promised me your best men. Mister Arkov here supplied the latest weaponry . . .’
‘But Bond — Davidov began.
- was armed with ... a pistol.’ Disgusted, Renard nodded to the bodyguard, who put his gun to the base of Davidov’s skull.
Tm becoming just a litde annoyed with these MI6 agents who keep interfering with my plans. And you. Mister Arkov,’ Renard asked, ‘is everything ready for tomorrow?’
‘I have the authorisations and passes in the car,’ Arkov said. ‘And I’ve arranged for a plane tonight. But —’
‘But what?’
‘I think we should scrub the mission. I only borrowed the Parahawks. They were meant to be returned. They’ll be asking questions, even of me.’ Arkov indicated Davidov. ‘Because of his screw up — his incompetence — it’s too risky now. We’re bound to be caught. I have no faith that the mission is foolproof.’
Renard stepped to Davidov and looked at him, face to face.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘You’re right, Arkov. He should be punished.’ Renard stared into the frightened man's eyes. ‘Davidov, hold this for me.’ He shoved the burning stone into Davidov’s hand and held it there. The man screamed in pain.
‘It was wrong of me to expect so much of you,’ Renard said, relishing Davidov’s agony. He nodded to the gunman. ‘Kill him.’
But instead of shooting Davidov, the gunman quickly swung the pistol to Arkov and fired. The older man’s head exploded and the body slumped to the ground.
‘He failed his test of devotion,’ Renard said. He took the stone away from the whimpering Davidov, then tossed it from hand to hand again without even flinching. It was curious — every day he felt less and less sensation. He almost wished that he could feel the pain and torture of the heat. Anything would be better than . . . nothing.
With sudden rage, Renard threw the stone as hard and far as he could out into the burning field. He calmed down just as quickly and turned back to Davidov.
‘There, there,’ Renard said, patting the man on the shoulder. ‘You’ll take his place. Take his ID. And do be on time.’
Davidov could only nod, yes. He closed his eyes and dropped his head. He forced himself to open his eyes and examine his hand. It was seared, red and black.
A moment later, when he looked up, he was all alone — just himself, Arkov’s body, and the Land Rover.
07 - Pillow Talk and Passion
There were now two stacks of twenty $50,000 plaques on the table. The other players had quit, save for Elektra and Bond, but a large group of people was watching the charismatic couple. Whether it was their luck, a concept that Bond refused to take seriously, or the chemistry between the two players that attracted the audience, no one could say. The excitement of the game had brought the couple cheek to cheek, and the crowd could sense sex in the air.
Valentin Zukovsky stood nearby, a frown on his face. He took some comfort in the feet that the girl had distracted Bond from asking him questions. The Bull draped himself beside a neighbouring, unused blackjack table and watched with a detached, amused expression. He made a point, though, of sneering whenever his eyes met Bond’s. Gabor had also become curious and left his post at the front door to watch the game unfold.
The game continued as the dealer dealt a king and a four to them. He had an eight showing. Elektra signalled for another card, which was a two. She hesitated, but Bond squeezed her waist gently, refuting his own rule to stand on sixteen or higher.
‘Another, please,’ she said. The dealer turned over a three.
‘Nineteen,’ he said.
Elektra stayed, and the dealer revealed his other card. A ten. They had won again.
She pushed another plaque onto the playing field and was dealt an ace and a jack — blackjack.
‘Miss King is the winner,’ the dealer announced.
‘Shouldn’t we —?’ Bond asked.
‘Let’s keep going,’ she said. ‘We’re on a roll, wouldn’t you say?’ She threw another plaque on the table and nodded to the dealer.
He dealt a six and a nine to them.
‘The player has fifteen,’ the dealer said, revealing his own ten. Elektra almost gestured that they would stay, but Bond placed his hand over hers and motioned for a card. It was a five.
‘Twenty,’ the dealer said.
The crowd held its breath as the dealer revealed his second card. A nine.
‘Nineteen,’ the dealer announced. ‘Miss King wins again/ There were murmurs around the table. Zukovsky popped two chewable antacid tablets into his mouth.
Elektra turned to Bond with desire in her eyes and said, ‘You seem to have an unusually lucky touch
‘— with the cards,’ he interjected. ‘But I think it’s time to call it a night.’
‘I prefer to press my luck.’ She looked at Zukovsky. ‘How much are we ahead?’
‘Mister Bond has doubled your initial investment/ Zukovsky said unhappily.
‘Then we'll play one more game. How about double or nothing,’ she suggested. ‘One card, high draw?’
The crowd gasped at the audacity. She might as well just flip a coin.
‘Elektra,’ Bond said gently. ‘Why not pay off your chit, and play with the winnings?’
‘I thought you’d understand by now,’ she said, looking at him hard. ‘For me, there’s no point in living unless I can feel alive.’
Til take the bet,’ Zukovsky said. He put Elektra’s million dollar chit on the table, then pushed the dealer aside. ‘And I’ll deal.’
She smiled. The Russian turned the card shoe toward her. Elektra patted it for good luck and drew a card. Zukovsky pulled the shoe back and drew his own. She turned hers over. King of hearts.
‘How appropriate,’ Bond said.
Zukovsky flipped his card The ace of clubs.
He smiled. ‘It seems I’ve beaten you with an ace of clubs/
‘How unsurprising,’ Bond said.
One of the dealers removed all her plaques as Zukovsky made a show of folding up her chit and putting it in his pocket.
‘Perhaps you’ll be luckier in love, my dear,’ he said. The crowd reacted noisily to that.
‘Perhaps I will,’ Elektra said. ‘Enjoy your winnings.’
She stood, dignified in defeat. ‘Shall we?’ she asked Bond.
‘Not your lucky night,’ he said, taking her arm and walking her toward the door. There was something strange about the exchange he had just witnessed, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
‘Who said it was over?’ she dared him.
Gabor was waiting for them near the front. He followed them outside and the three of them stood on the steps, waiting for the valet to bring Bond’s car.
‘What happened to Davidov?’ Bond asked.
&n
bsp; ‘I gave him the night off,’ Elektra said.
‘And where in Baku would a man like Sasha Davidov go for fun on a night off?’
‘I have no idea.’
Bond thought it might be a wise to find out. He was fairly certain that whoever the traitor was, he was very close to, if not part of, the King Industries’ inner circle. Perhaps he ought to have a look in the security office when he had the chance.
Neither Bond nor Gabor could see the two men on the roof of the opposite building. There was absolutely no illumination there, and they were dressed in black. One of them had a high-powered FN FAL sniper rifle. He had it trained on Bond and waited for the signal. When it didn’t come, he asked the other man, ‘What about Bond? Sir?’
Renard, looking through binoculars, was mesmerised by the sight of Bond’s hand on the small of Elektra’s back. Watching their confident sensuality made him terribly ill at ease, but it gave him an idea. It meant a change of plans. Renard placed a hand on the gunman’s shoulder, indicating that he should relax.
‘Not now, my friend,’ he said.
Although the Syrian doctor had told him that he would feel nothing in the head wound, Renard often felt the bullet moving. He had come to think of it as a living thing with a mind of its own. He felt it now, throbbing, anxious to burrow itself further into his brains, like an earwig might tunnel through the soft tissues of the head and lay its eggs along the way. Renard put a hand to the fleshy mound at his temple and rubbed it. He couldn’t feel any sensation there.
The gunman removed the sight and stock from the gun when they saw the BMW pull around to the front of the casino. Renard watched intently as Bond held the passenger door open for Elektra.
Once again, the girl’s beauty affected him in ways he could not predict. Renard experienced a wave of confusing emotions — jealousy, desire . . .
The memory flashed into his head once more: the lovely young girl, bound in front of him, helpless . . . her skin, so soft . . .
‘Sir?’
Renard caught himself. ‘What?’
‘You said something.’
Had he been talking to himself?
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I was just going to say that we’ll let Mister Bond and Miss King enjoy each other for an evening. It’s all part of the change in plan. As usual, Mister Bond’s attention will be focused on the wrong thing, and he won’t go sticking his nose where it shouldn’t belong later tonight/ he said. ‘He’ll get his — and I’ll get him — in due time. Come. We have a plane to catch.’
They didn’t say a word in the BMW on the way back to the villa. Gabor followed at a discreet distance behind. They eventually pulled in through the gate, parked and walked to the front of the house. Anticipation was thick in the air. Bond opened the door for Elektra, and she swept through. She moved to the circular stairway and began to ascend. Bond lingered a moment in the open doorway. His eyes followed her up, looked on her magnificent body.
Elektra paused halfway up. She looked down at him. She hesitated, but he waited for her to make the first move. He knew that she would.
Slowly, she held out her hand to him. Her mouth parted, silently beckoning to him. Bond rushed up the stairs and joined her, their mouths meeting in a passionate kiss. She moaned and went limp in his arms, allowing him to take control. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.
The tension of the last few days had caught up with them. They pulled at each other’s clothes as the sound of heavy breathing filled the air. She ran her hands through his hair and lightly scratched his cheek as she kissed him. He broke the zipper at the back of her dress. She gasped when she heard the ripping noise, but this only seemed to excite her more.
She pulled him to the bed and bit his lower lip as he kissed her. She arched her back as his hands slid over her sleek body.
Her moans went from soft whimpers to throaty cries of passion.
They made love slowly, languorously. It was something that couldn't be rushed. The fire within them burned deeply, and together they coaxed it out of their bodies until sweat beaded on their skin.
After their first orgasms, they lay in each other’s arms and breathed steadily. Her hand traced the contour? of his torso, the fingers lingering on the bruised, left collar-bone.
‘I knew when I first saw you,’ she whispered. ‘I knew it would be like this.’
‘Shhhh,’ Bond said, kissing her neck.
Her hand dipped in an ice bucket beside the bed. She brought a sliver of ice up and down her chest, between her full breasts and across her swollen nipples. Elektra shuddered with pleasure as the cold penetrated the warm skin, sending bolts of delight throughout her body. It was a move Bond hadn’t seen before. Then she rubbed the ice against Bond’s sore shoulder.
‘You poor thing,’ she murmured. ‘Looks painful . . .’
She kissed the purple flesh and licked the water running off the melting ice.
‘. . . needs constant attention,’ Bond said, lapping the drips from the top of her right breast.
She slid her tongue back and forth along the groove above the tendon. She had already proved that she could do things with her tongue that most men only dreamed about, and this was no exception.
‘Enough ice for one day,’ Bond said, as he gently took the ice out of her hand and tossed it across the room.
The passion took over for a second time that night.
Later, after they were spent, Bond opened a bottle of vintage champagne and the pillow talk began again. As he caressed her naked back, tracing the curve of her spine, she asked him about his life. He revealed what he told most lovers, concentrating mostly on the world’s trivialities that interested him. They talked of food and drink, travelling, and about the thrill of sport. They shared a love for skiing and the rush of adrenaline it provided. They listed what they loved and hated about London. She spoke of music and art, and he expressed an admiration of Eastern philosophy. They discussed sex and what they each found desirable. She admitted that none of her former lovers had come near satisfying her the way Bond had.
She told him of her dreams and goals, and how she wanted to make her lather’s company a world player. ‘When I was a little girl,’ she said, ‘I played “princess” a lot. My father spoiled me. He used to call me his little princess. He would tell me that when I grew up, I really would be a princess. It sounds horrible, but I suppose I’ve always believed that. It inspired me to work at it, though. Even though he spoiled me, I never took it for granted. I miss him.’
‘I was under the impression that you and your father didn’t get along,’ Bond said.
She laughed. ‘Who told you that? Davidov, I would imagine. That’s only because he had the pleasure of seeing us when we did quarrel. I said my father was good at quarrelling: well I think I inherited that attractive trait from him. We could get into furious fights over business decisions, but it didn’t mean we didn’t love each other. I respect my father and he respected me. I earned my place in King Industries. I worked hard at university. And he knew I had what it took.’
‘My superior at MI6 thought very highly of him,’ Bond said.
‘Dear M,’ Elektra said. ‘What a lady. She is very maternal toward me.’
‘Tell me about your mother,’ Bond said.
‘She was very kind, but quiet and shy. Introverted. She spoke very quietly, almost in a whisper. She came from a very cultured family that wasn’t very smart in business, I’m afraid. My father, well, he saved their business, but he had to take it from them to do it. My mother died when I was six years old. It was one of those cancers that hit unexpectedly and spread rapidly. I don’t remember a lot about it except that it was a very painful time in my life. To tell the truth. I don’t remember too many happy times before then, either.’
‘Why is that?’
‘My parents . . . they quarrelled. A lot. It’s practically the only thing I remember about their relationship. Come to think of it, I think they mostly quarrelled about me. Sometimes I
wonder why they got married. Oh, I’m sure they loved each other, but they were very different people. Two different cultures. Even so, my father was constantly at her side during the illness, and she died in the hospital, holding his hand.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I look back and I realise that I don’t have too many memories of my mother. After all, I was young when she died. I remember a lullaby that she used to sing to me. It’s one of the few pleasant memories I have of her,’
She began to sing, slowly and softly, a haunting melody. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘The first words have no meaning. The rest is “Calves entered the vegetable garden; gardener, drive away the calves, don’t let them eat the cabbage . . . Sleep my baby sleep, sleep and grow up, drive away the calves, nenni my little sweet baby nenni.” I never really got to know my mother. I don’t know why. She was afraid ... of something. I don't know what. Of life, perhaps.’
After a moment’s reflection, she continued. ‘As I grew up, I was the exact opposite. I couldn’t get enough out of life. I was my father’s princess. He promised me the would and I guess I got it before I thought I would.’
‘You seem to be doing a fine job running the company.’ ‘Thanks. You don’t know how passionate I am about finishing the pipeline. It’s something that will make history, I know it. I owe it to my father to finish it, certainly, but you
know what? I owe it to my mother more. If it hadn’t been for her family’s oil company, and their land that my father developed early on ... we wouldn’t be here today. My mother’s ancestors clung to their oil for years. It’s a matter of honour.’
She put into words what Bond found attractive about her. It was the passion she embodied — whether it was for her work, for sport, her love for her parents, or for the fervent sex that she so thoroughly enjoyed.
As he rubbed the muscles in her shoulders, Bond focused on an unusual jewel in her earlobe. It was the ear he had seen bandaged in the kidnappers’ Polaroid. The base of the diamond was wide, covering something on the skin.
Bond Movies 06 - The World Is Not Enough Page 8
