In one swift move, Bond grabbed the ice pick from the bartender, slammed it into the bar through the dp of the thug’s tie and kicked the stool out from under him. The brute fell and hung from the bar, gasping, strangled by his own tie. Bond reached inside the jacket, took the gun and placed it on the bar.
‘He tied one on,’ Bond said to the bartender.
A hand twice as large as the thug’s appeared and squeezed Bond’s right shoulder. Bond turned and was confronted by a seven-foot-tall, light-skinned muscular man.
‘Mister Zukovsky will be delighted to see you,’ he said. The man’s mouth was full of gold teeth. Bond recognised him immediately. Maurice Womasa, aka The Bull, aka Mister Bullion - hence, the teeth. A killer from Somalia, The Bull was wanted for genocide, among other unsavoury acts.
Bond smiled, removed his passes and motioned to the door. ‘After you . . . ’
‘I insist,’ the big guy said, shaking his head.
‘Of course you do.’ They left together through a door at the side of the bar. The other thug stood up and pulled the ice pick out of the bar, freeing himself. He placed the stool upright and sat down.
‘Tourists. . .’ he grumbled. The bartender refilled his glass and commiserated with him.
Bond hadn’t seen Valentin Zukovsky since the GoldenEye affair a few years ago. An ex-KGB official, Zukovsky had made a name for himself as a ‘freelancer’, mainly in the Russian Mafia, although he refused to call it that. Bond had a run-in with him before the fall of the Soviet Empire, giving the man his now-famous limp. Since then, the two men had reluctantly performed favours for one another, almost as if competing to keep the other indebted.
Bond found Zukovsky sitting with two gorgeous women on his lap. He was spoon-feeding them caviar. He was as elephantine as ever, and his moon face was red from alcohol and the attention he was getting from the girls.
‘BondJamesBond!’ he said, heartily. ‘Do come in! Meet Nina and Verushka.’
‘Lose the girls, Valentin,’ Bond said. He knew that he had to play it tough with Zukovsky, or else he’d never get anything out of him. He gestured toward The Bull. ‘And the toy bodyguard, too. We need to talk.’
The big man grunted.
‘Why am I suddenly worried I’m not carrying enough insurance?’ Zukovsky asked. ‘Chill out. Try your luck in my new casino.’
‘Only if you’re willing to place a bet on your knee — the one I didn’t shoot out.’
Zukovsky addressed the girls on his lap. ‘Do you see what I have to put up with? I'm out of the KGB ten years and —’
But a cold, no-nonsense look from Bond stopped him. Bond drew his gun and aimed for Zukovsky’s leg. ‘How is your knee. The good one, that is . . .’
The Bull drew his gun and aimed it at Bond’s head. Bond held his ground.
Finally, the Russian sighed loudly. ‘Okay, ladies. Scram. Beat it. I have business. It’s all right, Maurice.’
‘But Valentin,’ one of the girls whined. ‘You promised we could play!'
Zukovsky gestured to the big man. ‘Bull, give them an inch.’
The bodyguard peeled off a wad of cash and held it high. The two girls leaped off Zukovsky’s lap and jumped for the money like trained seals. They snatched it, squealed and ran out of the room.
‘And make sure they lose it in this casino!’ Zukovsky said to The Bull, who moved toward the door to keep watch on the girls. He turned back, smiling broadly to reveal the sparkling gold teeth. ‘I will see you later, Mister Bond.’
‘I can see you put your money where your mouth is,’ Bond said. The Bull flexed, ready to fight again, but Zukovsky waved him off.
‘Mister Bullion doesn’t trust banks,’ he said. ‘It’s all right, Maurice.’ The Bull made a face and left them alone. Bond holstered his gun.
‘You’ll have to excuse The Bull. He’s my chauffeur and —’ Zukovsky said, shrugging his stocky shoulders.
‘Yes. I know all about Maurice Womasa. Crushes men with his bare arms and gives them a bright smile at the same time. Not to be confused with the other wild beasts and upstanding citizens floating through your casino - the Russian Mafia, Chinese gangsters, Turkish war lords —’
‘And diplomats, bankers, oil executives, and anyone else who wants to do business in Baku.’ Zukovsky turned to the table and spooned some caviar onto a small plate. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Double-0 Seven, but I’m a legitimate businessman now. Care for some caviar? My own brand. Zukovsky’s finest.’
‘I want some information. About Renard.’
Zukovsky frowned. ‘Renard? Renard the Fox?’
‘How does a terrorist like Renard get his hands on the latest Russian military equipment? State-of-thc-art Parahawks?’ Zukovsky shook his head. ‘That is not possible.’
Bond produced the shred of parachute and showed it to him. ‘I think you know the characters. It's the Russian special services division of the atomic weapons branch.’
‘The Russian Atomic Energy Department. Where did you get this?’ Zukovsky asked genuinely curious about the fabric.
‘Off a Parahawk that was trying to kill Elektra King this afternoon. I want to know if Renard has an insider . . . who sold the weapons ... or if the Russian government itself wants her pipeline stopped. And I want to find Renard before he gets another chance to kill her.’
Zukovsky glanced over Bond's shoulder and started to chuckle.
‘What’s so funny?’ Bond asked.
‘Nothing . . . Except it would appear Miss King does not share your concern.’
Bond turned around to see a video monitor that was focused on the front doors of the casino. Elektra King had just entered.
She looked more vibrant and glamorous than Bond had ever seen her. She wore a sparkling dress that fitted like a second skin, her hair was full and tumbling and her eyes were fiery and wild.
The two men agreed to continue their conversation later. Bond left the alcove and returned to the main gambling hall. When she saw him approach, Elektra turned away defiantly, making her way to the blackjack tables. Bond followed her, and she moved away from him, cat-like, through the neon jungle. The energy and noise of the place accentuated her own intensity as she passed the Minimum $100 table, then $500, then $1000 . . . She finally stopped at the No Limit table, which was crowded with the nastiest and richest of the high rollers: Armenians, Turks, South Americans, Chinese, an American computer nerd and a Russian industrialist’s wife, heavy with jewellry and drink.
Zukovsky appeared and pulled out the centre scat for her. ‘Miss King. So nice to see you. We’ve kept your father’s chair free.’
‘And his account?’ she asked.
‘A million, US dollars. As always,’
A pit boss materialised with a chit. She signed it with a flourish as a waitress took her order.
‘Vodka martini.’ she said.
She was surprised to hear Bond’s voice beside her. ‘Two. Shaken, not stirred.’
As twenty $50,000 plaques were placed in front of her, Bond leaned in, smiling.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
She smiled right back at him. ‘If someone wants to kill me, I’d rather die looking them straight in the eye. Whoever was responsible for the attack on that mountain is surely watching. I want to show them that I’m not afraid. What’s your excuse? Wasn’t I enough of a challenge?’
‘If this little show is for my benefit, I'll take you home right now.’
‘You had your chance, James. But you played it safe,’ She turned to the dealer. ‘I’m ready. Deal.’ And, back to Bond, ‘You passed up a sure thing.’
She tossed two $50,000 plaques onto the felt; the whole table reacted. Energised gamblers placed bets and the dealer dealt the cards.