The second battery was operated like the first, though not held, for within seven seconds it exploded with almost twice the power of the old Mills hand grenade. Both batteries contained the untraceable plastique substances that so concerned the anti-terrorist organisations.
The third pocket held a six-inch knife blade fashioned from toughened polycarbon and thus again undetectable by airport security. The blade was protected by a scabbard, which doubled as its handle.
The fourth pocket was almost flat, containing a saw toothed garrotting wire; while the last held probably the most deadly weapon of all – a pen; but no ordinary pen. Made in Italy, it too had security men worried. With a quick twist, it became a small projectile-firing gun. A jet of compressed air would fire toughened steel needles that could kill if they entered the brain, throat, lung or heart from around ten paces. The pen could be used only three times.
Bond rehearsed in his mind where each of these items could be found in the open COAP, remembering the many times he had trained in the dark, using all the items by feel alone. He was comforted by the knowledge that he could have everything hidden on his person, or ready to use, within a minute. There was nothing like the threat of death, he thought – as many had done before him – to concentrate the mind.
Having gone through the positions in the COAP several times, he could only prepare himself mentally for the test. So he sat as before with his legs crossed and his eyes closed. But this time he went over his recollection of the map Richard Han had passed on from Swift. He knew where the house lay in relation to the rest of the promontory and within the hour knew what he would do. With luck and his expertise combined, he had a chance – though a slim chance – of winning.
They told him that it was eleven-thirty when they came for him. The guards spoke no English, but while one covered him with the machine pistol, the other raised his arm, grinning proudly at his brand new eight-function digital watch.
Chernov waited alone in the main room. The windows had been opened and a few lights twinkled from the cluster of houses around Tung Wan Bay. Across the water on the southern promontory, the Warwick Hotel’s lights blazed.
‘Come and listen.’
Chernov beckoned him towards the window and together they stepped outside into the warm night air. Bond thought, why not kill now with your bare hands, and be done with it? But that would serve no purpose. He would follow Chernov quickly to the grave, cut down by the man who had stayed in the room behind them.
‘Listen,’ Chernov repeated. ‘Hardly a sound. You realise that around forty thousand people still live on this little island, most of them on the junks and sampans in the harbour, yet after midnight few people stir. There is hardly any night life on Cheung Chau.’
As Chernov spoke, Bond took his bearings, and reciprocal bearings. Directly in front of them the ground sloped shallowly to the place where he had hidden the COAP during his first reconnaissance. He could, thank heaven, pinpoint exactly where he must cross the low wall. Below, the beach circled the bay, while to the right the ground sloped sharply upwards. He knew that once over that rise it was only a few hundred yards to a rough road which weaved down towards the central isthmus and the main village. On the way, it swept past the famous Pak Tai Temple, and on to the Praya, or waterfront, with its fish processing factory and hundreds of fishing junks.
Chernov slapped him on the shoulder. ‘But we’ll give them a little night life, eh, James Bond?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost time.’ He turned, shepherding Bond inside again.
‘Do I get a last request?’
Chernov looked at him, a worm of suspicion in his eyes. ‘That depends on what it is.’
‘I would like to say goodbye to my friends.’
‘I think not. It would be too distressing for them. They are well controlled – particularly the women. I would not like to risk unbalancing that. You realise it is not a pleasant job I have to do in this place tomorrow. It will be best if those under sentence bear the inevitability of death with fortitude. It will make the whole business easier for me. You do understand?’
Yes, thought Bond. The last thing you want is for me to see them now because, like as not, they are one short. The traitor will have been pulled out. Aloud, he said, ‘You’re a butcher, Chernov. Let’s get on with it.’
Chernov nodded, looking solemn. ‘You have my word that a full five minutes will pass before the “Robinsons” are unleashed on you. Come, the weapons are here.’
As though by magic the table was now littered with the deadly weapons. There were the three Luger pistols and the long gunmetal dagger – perhaps an inch longer than the old Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife – and the fighting iron. This had a wooden haft some two feet in length with a reinforced handgrip at one end and a sharp movable steel blade at the other. At the far end from the handle a short length of chain was attached. From this dangled a mace twice the size of a man’s fist and covered in sharp spikes. Chernov touched the mace and laughed.
‘You know what they used to call these?’
‘Morning stars, as I recall.’
‘Yes, morning stars, and . . .’ he chuckled mirthlessly, ‘and “holy water sprinklers”. I prefer holy water sprinklers.’ His hand hovered over the weapons, coming to rest on one of the Lugers. ‘This is yours, I believe.’ He slipped the magazine out before handing it to Bond. ‘Please ensure that it is in working order and that the firing pin has not been removed.’
Bond checked the weapon. It was well oiled and in good condition. Chernov held out the magazine.
‘Count the four rounds. I insist on fair play.’
As he followed the instruction Bond was aware that the guard with the machine pistol had stiffened in readiness and that the ‘Robinsons’ were being brought into the room behind him. He knew that the whole set-up was designed to break his nerve. Chernov was a good stage director and all this drama had point.
‘You may load the weapon and put the safety on.’ Bond did so, holding the automatic loosely in his right hand as Chernov continued to speak.
‘When we are ready, I shall take you to the window and count down from ten to zero. At zero the lights will be switched off and you will begin your run. Do not forget what I’ve already told you about tricks, James Bond. They will do you no good. I do promise you, though, on my word as an officer, that the “Robinsons” will not be unleashed for a full five minutes. Make the most of your time. You are ready?’
Bond nodded and to his surprise Chernov held out his hand. Bond just looked at it, then turned to face the window. Chernov paused for a moment, as though hurt by his refusal, before he began to count ‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’ until he reached zero.
The lights went out and Bond hurled himself forward into the darkness.
21
EMPEROR OF THE DARK HEAVEN
Bond judged the leap over the wall perfectly with a combination of skill and luck. Having done his calculations while standing outside with Chernov, he was able to count off the paces as he ran in what he knew to be the right direction. Taking the jump in his stride, he sprinted across the flat scrub until he came to the slope. He went down and rolled so he could not be seen from the house. He was certain he had landed within a few feet of his goal and began to feel the ground around him with the palms of his hands. After a couple of seconds of near panic, his left hand touched the rock. He rolled towards it, scrabbling the earth and dragging out the oilskin package.
On his feet again he turned left, and ran across the slope, aiming to get above and away from the villa as fast as possible. Throughout the run, he counted the seconds. He had given himself two and a half minutes. Wherever he was at that point, he would stop.