John Gardner (11 page)

In the women’s crowded changing room, she put on new clothes. Her fur coat, hat, gloves and the leather boots were acceptable, but she carefully checked her papers, moving them into the shoulder bag, together with things she would need. The remainder of her clothes, including those she had been wearing, went into the carry-on. As she was checking her papers, she remembered the official-looking document she had been given over a year ago when she had gone on special assignment to collect computer hardware. Until now, she had forgotten its existence. This could be useful.

She tied her hair back into a severe bun and looked at the general effect. It would work, she thought, as she was jostled by a couple of other women in front of the one long mirror. This pair was safe enough - fat officials’ wives out on a spending spree. They had eyed her too closely to be surveillance people, and she had caught the jealous look one of them had flashed at her when she stood half naked, revealing her slim firm figure.

Out on the streets again, in the Gostiny Dvor arcade the Merchants’ Arcade, St. Petersburg’s main shopping area - she window-shopped until she found a store selling computers. The window-dressing did not bode well. Out of date IBM’s and Apple Macs, with tiny hard drives, obsolete chips and a minimum of RAM took pride of place.

Natalya breathed deeply and walked into the store.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the manager looking her over and not putting her very high on the food chain. He hesitated as she looked at the primitive machines, then, as she moved a pace towards the door, he came up to her and asked “Yes?” in a tone he almost certainly reserved for menials.

She wrinkled her nose, as though indicating that both the manager and the wares on show were giving off the scent of spoiled fish. “Are these all you have?” she asked.

Sarcastically, the manager raised his eyebrows. “How many do you want?’ She dug her hand into the big shoulder bag, consulted the influential-looking document. “Well, twenty-four for the American school, eleven for the Swedish. They must be IBM compatible, with at least 500 megabite hard drives, CD-ROM and 14-4 modems. We have to keep them in line with the ones they already use.

The manager’s attitude switched from disdainful to fawning. “We are talking hard currency here, yes?”

“What other kind is there?”

“If madam requires a demonstration..

“Madam requires one demonstration model, and a quiet place to test it for an hour or so.

“Of course.” He snapped his fingers at a junior salesman and together they led her through to the back of the store where an up-to-date 486 was set up on a spacious desk.

“Just leave me alone. The order will depend on what I find here.

I need peace,’ booting up the machine as she spoke.

Almost before they were out of the room, her fingers started to fly over the keys. She was on-line and typing in TO [email protected] - URGENT YOU CALL NATALYA @ 3422-589836.

Then she waited. If Boris had lived following the disaster, he would have managed to get access to a computer by now. He was not a whole man unless he was surfing or listening out.

Nothing.

The minutes ticked away, and with them the optimism.

Her computer beeped and there he was, on screen - or at least a wild cartoon graphic of him. The screen cleared and the message ribboned out - THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD.

She smiled and could have wept with happiness as she replied OURUMOV KILLED EVERYONE. FIRED “PETYA’ AND TOOK GOLDENEYE.

It took a couple of minutes, but the answer slid back onto the screen - YOU AREN’T SAFE. TRUST NOBODY. MEET ME TOMORROW SIX PM CHURCH OF OUR LADY OF SMOLENSK.

She had a day to wait. Now all she had to do was find somewhere to sleep without being wakened by some cop putting handcuffs on her wrists.

“Do you ever stop talking, Jack?” Bond was fast becoming irritated with Jack Wade’s constant patter.

The Grand Hotel Europe had provided Bond with a good bedroom and decent food. There were also extras which he constantly turned down.

They even called his room on the in-house telephone. “You want a nice friend for the night?” most of them would say. Bond was very polite, but eventually took the telephone off the hook.

Wade had picked him up in the Moskovich promptly at nine. They had spent much of the morning touring the city and taking odd detours, many of which could prove helpful.

“Do I ever stop talking, James? Rarely. You needed the grand tour, so I’m giving it to you. St. Petersburg is an excellent example of a cross-section of the new Russia.

See, the homeless on the streets..

“Roughly matches that of your own inner cities in the States.”

“Oh, been to London lately, James?”

“Yes, and New York, also DC. I think you have the edge on the homeless situation.”

“Look more carefully, friend. The Russian Federation has the real edge. As well as the homeless and hungry, you can see a kinda blurred mirror image of the West

The expensive cars, suits, dresses. On one level these people have learned a lot.”

“They do seem to have learned about the unacceptable face of capitalism, I’ll give you that.”

“They’ve also learned about the unacceptable crime of capitalism. It may be bad in the States, but here it is really a going concern. I did tell you how I got into gardening, didn’t I?”

“Several times, Jack. Now how about showing me what I really came here to see?”

“It’s OK, James.” He turned into a side-street in which even Bond would hesitate to walk alone at night.

“Very pretty.” He saw the dismal faces and hungry eyes staring from doorways and windows. At the end of the street, a couple of whores made to approach the car as it slowed down. Jack Wade shouted a fast line of Russian abuse at them and they jumped back quickly.

“I know those words,’ Bond smiled. “Only I haven’t heard them spoken before.”

“Very necessary, James. Now pay attention, we’re coming to an interesting area. As we make a right here, take note of the building on your left.” Bond sat back, his eyes flicking towards the sign above the doleful-looking shop, reading aloud, “Kirov’s Funeral Parlour. I suppose you’re going to tell me this is the dead centre of St. Petersburg.”

“Very droll, James. That’s the place I was telling you about. Four o’clock this afternoon, the hearse comes in through those big wooden doors next to the shop. They do the business and the hearse is out in ten minutes. I can put the word out if I don’t hear from you by three.”

“Makes sense. Good insurance is hard to find.”

“Sure, hang on, we’ve got to take a left here, then your eyes’ll pop.” The battered old car swung into a broad alley and Bond saw a sight so bizarre he could hardly believe it.

Several expensive cars were parked along the street.

Handfuls of well-fed, very well-dressed, smooth-looking Russians leaned against the cars. Less kempt men stood against walls, their wares spread out at their feet. In the boot of every car, the back of every truck, and along the pavement, weapons were stacked, grenade launchers, hand guns, Uzi and H&K sub-machine guns; boxes of ammunition.

Jack Wade grunted, then assumed his role of tour guide.

“Welcome to the shopping mall of death. The wild East

This, for Russia, is capitalism’s finest hour. One size maims all, and everyone can make a killing. Kinda like East LA, right?”

“I’m happy to say I’ve never been to East LA.”

“Well, good for you, James.

Hang on, we turn right at the top of this nice little market place.

Zukovsky has a joint here, at the end of the street.” He pointed to what appeared to be the entrance of a night club. “By ten at night, this place is really jumping, but your old friend does his business by day.’ He turned right into the alley which seemed to be deserted.

“Your best way in is through any of the doors on this side. Just get in and follow the smell.

You’ll find him soon enough.” He pulled over to the kerb, and Bond was out of the car and into the shadow of a doorway long before Wade had even put the car in gear.

The wall, and the doors, made the place look like an abandoned warehouse, but he had seen many places like this: shells built around existing, well constructed places.

He reached for his wallet, and pressed hard on one of the metal protective edges. A secret compartment opened up to disclose an entire set of lock-picking tools. He wondered if Valentin Zukovsky was still as careful about locks as he used to be, back in the bad old days when he worked for the KGB. At that time, Zukovsky had a mania for unbeatable locks and the most sophisticated electronic alarm systems.

It seemed that his old adversary had lost his cunning.

Bond was through the door and making his way silently up the stairs in three minutes flat. Above, in the distance, he could hear someone singing just off-key enough to be grating on the nerves.

Valentin Zukovsky was big: tall, broad shouldered and with an elephantine girth. He had a moon face, so much so that people said he must be related somehow because he had all the craters and pock marks to go with it.

His club, which was simply known as Valentin’s, was luxurious in an old-fashioned, red plush, gold-fringed manner. At this moment there were several people sitting around obviously doing business of one kind or another.

Judging by the type of people talking as low as they could, the business was, if not criminal, certainly bordering on the breaking of laws.

Zukovsky wore a creased and crumpled white suit which looked a size too big for him until he stood up and revealed that its voluminousness was necessary for his bulk.

Half-a-dozen scantily dressed young women waited on tables and pointed out certain favours they could bestow if you ordered from the reverse side of the menu. The most innocent of these was a normal massage.

On a raised dais at one end of the room, another young woman, very attractive and clad in red sequins, battled with “Raining in Baltimore’ by Counting Crows, but she could not quite make the song come to life.

It was possible that, apart from being hampered by not being able to carry a melody, she did not understand the words.

Zukovsky had spent the past hour with a reedy-looking, ferret-faced Pakistani arms dealer of very doubtful provenance. They closed no deals, and the Pakistani was just about to leave when Zukovsky suddenly focused his attention on a small TV monitor, about the size of a playing card, set into the table where he always sat.

The monitor gave out a tiny beep and the picture came on. Zukovsky glanced down, then did a double-take as he saw who had entered by picking a lock to one of the side doors. He smiled as the picture followed the intruder slowly up the stairs, and his smile became almost benevolent.

Lazily, he gestured to a man who had the makings of a pair of gorillas, and said something to him. He then stood and walked with his lumbering limp towards a pair of red velvet curtains to the right of the dais where the singer was losing her battle with the song.

He passed through the curtains and showed no surprise when the muzzle of an automatic pistol was laid coldly on his neck, just behind the ear.

“Ah,’ he breathed as though in a kind of bliss. “I know only three men who have used that particular brand of firearm, and I’ve personally killed two of them.”

“That’s lucky for me, then, Valentin,’ James Bond whispered.

He did not even sense the other man until it was too late. A blackjack came down with a soft thud and Bond fell into the darkness of unconsciousness.

“No, not lucky for you, Mr. Bond,’ Zukovsky purred.

Coming back to consciousness was like dredging his way through mud. He was aware of someone talking, and knew what had happened long before he allowed his body to reveal that he was back among the living.

It was one of those tricks Bond had learned over the years. If you regain consciousness with your captors nearby, hold back; assess the situation before doing anything.

He heard Zukovsky giving orders, and decided there were at least four people in the room. In the background he could hear the off-key singer trying to get through “Memories He stirred, shook his head violently and looked around.

He was not restrained in any way, and sat in an overstuffed armchair that had seen better days.

Valentin Zukovsky straddled a chair in front of him and there were at least three of his men in the room. Away in the club, the red sequined girl was murdering LloydWebber.

Valentin’s face split into a wide and happy grin. “So, here we are, the great Mr. James Bond: dashing, sophisticated secret agent. I’m tempted to be melodramatic and say, so, we meet again.” He chuckled and his men followed his lead, taking their cue from the boss.

“The great James Bond,’ he laughed again, and the chorus joined in. “Shaken not stirred, Mr. Bond?” In the background, the singer hit a particularly terrible high note. “Who’s strangling the cat?” Bond asked.

Zukovsky’s initial response was to unholster a pistol and put a shot directly between Bond’s legs. A jagged gash speared through the leather upholstery, and dirty white stuffing flew into the air as Bond pressed himself back in the armchair.

“That’s my mistress, Irena.” Zukovsky halted the pistol as though tempted to put another shot after the first, but slightly higher.

“And a very talented girl she is, Irena.” Bond smiled innocently, and Zukovsky seemed to relent, raising his voice and shouting, “Irena!

Take a hike!” The warbling stopped, followed by a number of Russian obscenities and the sound of Irena’s shoes clicking off into the distance.

Zukovsky winced at the fast and angry tap of the footsteps. Then he turned his attention back to Bond.

“So, what is it that brings you into my neighbourhood, Mr. Bond?

Still working for the Secret Intelligence Service? Or have you decided to drag yourself into the twenty-first century?” The moon face looked almost friendly. “Incidentally, I hear that your new boss is a girl.

She send you to see me?”

“No, I came to you to ask a favor.” Zukovsky chuckled again and turned to his bodyguards “He wants me to do him a favor.