Fine, Bond thought. We’ll play it her way. She was terribly wound up and needed a release of some kind. Perhaps a public catharsis at the gambling table would do her good.
‘Personally, I like to get a feel for the game — what the other players are holding - before I commit anything,’ Bond said, lightening up. He had to admit that the scent and smoke and sweat that were a part of all casinos everywhere excited him. He was curious to see how she would handle winning and losing.
‘Then maybe I should let you play the first hand this time,’ she said, smiling now. ‘I don’t know how to play anyway. Perhaps you’d be more daring holding my fate in your hands. Come on, Mister Bond, show me how it’s done.’
She looked him straight in the eye and licked the edges of her front teeth.
‘All right,’ he said, giving in to her beauty and audacity.
Elektra had a black king showing and a four underneath. The dealer had a king showing.
‘Do we stand? Or do we play?’ she asked him.
‘Card,’ Bond said to the dealer.
The dealer dealt them a seven.
‘Twenty-one,’ the dealer announced. Bond and Elektra looked at each other triumphantly as the two other players passed. The dealer turned over his second card - an eight.
‘Eighteen,’ the dealer said. ‘Miss King wins.’
‘Shall we raise the stakes?’ she asked. -
‘It’s your game,’ Bond said. She was positively luminous.
‘Again,’ she said to the dealer. She pushed more plaques onto the table.
They called it the Field of Fire.
Some ten miles outside Baku, in the middle of a petroleum field, a Land Rover bearing the Russian Atomic Energy logo pulled to a stop at the top of a hill overlooking the eerie, hellish landscape. Natural gas seeped from holes in the baked earth, creating a gigantic, perpetual inferno. Against the night sky, the sight was like looking into a gas furnace that covered an area of half a square mile.
‘We’re here, Arkov.’
Sasha Davidov got out of the Land Rover with another man in his sixties. Arkov wore the Russian emblem on a photo ID attached to his overalls.
‘I’m telling you I have reservations now,’ Arkov said in a thick Russian accent. ‘I wouldn’t be doing this if my pension was halfway decent. You’re lucky you found someone in our organisation that was willing to help. But how I will explain about the Parahawks, I don’t know. This is crazy.’
‘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.