“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.