Truhkin appeared, his tall frame crouched over in the fuselage. He tossed a windbrcaker bearing the Russian logo at Bond.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘Ten minutes and we’ll be in Kazakhstan. And make sure you wear the ID.’
Bond nodded as the Russian went back to his seat up front.
Bond got up and went into the lavatory. He shut the door, then removed his wallet. He got Arkov’s ID out of his pocket and placed it on the counter. Next, he bent over and pried open the heel of his SIS field shoe. Inside were useful items such as a small pair of scissors, tape, a screwdriver . . . Bond took the scissors and tape and set to work.
He took out his Universal Exports ID card and carefully cut out his picture. He replaced the card in his wallet and put it back in his pocket. Using the edge of the scissors, he scraped Davidov’s new photo from the ID, revealing the face of the corpse he had found in the Land Rover. Bond affixed his own photo to the ID card with the tape and attached it to his shirt pocket. Well, he thought. Let’s hope that no one knew the real Doctor Arkov by sight wherever the plane was headed.
The plane entered Kazakhstan air space as Bond sat back down in the fuselage. A newly independent country, Kazakhstan was another former Soviet-controlled state that was struggling to keep on its feet. It seemed that all of the countries in the Commonwealth of Independent States had the same problems - rampant crime in the face of a new capitalism, ethnic disputes, and regular economic and political upheaval. Most of what Bond knew about Kazakhstan concerned the Russian-operated space launch facility, the Baikonur Cosmodrome, in the centre of the country. He also knew, though, that the country was rich in coal, oil and gas. He had to wait and see exactly what connection the Russian nuclear agency had with Renard, Davidov, and for that matter, King Industries.
The Cub landed at dawn in the western part of the country, in a place of desolation, salt basins and deserts. It was a vast region of strange rock formations and rough terrain. The sun’s heat was already elevating to a desert-like temperature.
Bond followed Truhkin to another Land Rover, again marked with the Atomic Energy Department logo.
I'll drive,’ he said. ‘First time in Kazakhstan?’
‘Yes,’ Bond said.
‘Lovely place,’ Trnhkin said sarcastically as they drove away from the makeshift airfield and onto a dirt road. They went through a rock valley that was decidedly alien in appearance, then eventually came upon a huge mesa with a huddle of low buildings beneath it. As they got closer, Bond could see trucks, Kazakhstani Army personnel carriers, soldiers, and other men in overalls at work.
An explosion off to one side startled them both. A cloud of dust rose from a detonation site five hundred yards away.
When he saw the trucks marked IDA, Bond knew where they were. It was a Russian nuclear testing facility. The IDA, or International Decommissioning Authority, was a United Nations-sponsored organisation that was responsible for managing the decommissioning of nuclear reactors and other radioactive facilities used for research and development in a safe and environmentally sensitive manner.
They got out of the Land Rover and approached the main building, the entrance of which was covered by a protective, inflated bubble. Bond could make out someone inside the bubble wearing a radiation-proof suit and tinkering with objects and tools.
A Russian army colonel was standing at the entrance to the bubble. When he saw Bond’s ID card, he smiled, obviously impressed.
‘Welcome to Kazakhstan, Doctor Arkov!’ he said in Russian. ‘I am Colonel Akakievich. I’m a great admirer of your research. It’s not often we see someone of your stature here.’
Bond replied, ‘I go where the work takes me.’
The colonel hesitated a moment. ‘You do have the transport documents . . .?’
Bond patted his jacket and found the envelope he had fortuitously placed there earlier. He handed it over, hoping for the best.
Colonel Akakievich gave the papers a once-over and nodded toward the bubble. ‘Good. They’re waiting for you below. It should be ready. Check with the IDA physicist.’
The figure in the white radiation-proof suit emerged from the bubble. The helmet came off, revealing a most attractive young woman with long light brown hair. She was sweating profusely and paused to take a cloth from a rack and wipe her forehead with it. Then she undid the suit and stepped out of it. She was wearing very short cut-offs, a khaki sports bra, heavy- duty boots, and a hunting knife. Bond guessed that she was an American.
She had an extraordinary figure. Her breasts bulged beneath the bra, and her legs were tanned sleek and shapely. Bond noticed that every man in the vicinity stopped what he was doing to gawk at her.
The girl grabbed a bottle of water and guzzled, letting the liquid dribble down her chin and onto her top. Next, she poured the bottle over her shoulders until she was soaking. The clothes clung to her tight body, and her hardened nipples could be seen plainly through the bra. Either she was an exhibitionist, Bond thought, or she just didn’t give a damn.
Bond’s eyes met the colonel’s. Akakievich nodded bitterly, then spat on the floor. He said, in English, so that she could hear, ‘Not interested in men. Take my work for it. We decommissioned four test sites this year . . . and not even a glimmer. ’
Bond offered a disappointed ‘tut tut’ as the colonel walked away.
The girl stepped up to Bond, wiping her rather wide mouth. She had amazing green eyes and sparkling white teeth. Bond guessed that she was probably in her midtwenties. He couldn’t help but notice the IDA tag on her belt and the incongruous peace-sign tattoo just above her hip.
‘Are you here for a reason?’ she asked. She gestured to the
colonel. ‘Or are you just hoping for a “glimmer”?’
Bond attempted a light Russian accent, but spoke English. ‘It would appear the nuclear weapons are not the only thing around here that need defusing.’
The girl frowned. ‘Nice try. And you are?’
‘Mikhail Arkov,’ he said. ‘Russian Atomic Energy Department. And you are — Miss —’
‘Doctor. Jones. Christmas Jones,’ she said. ‘And don’t make any jokes. I've heard them all.’
‘I don’t know any doctor jokes,’ he said.
She gave him a dirty look. ‘Give me the papers. Where’s the shipment going?’
‘The nuclear facility at Penza Nineteen/ Bond said. That much he had gleaned from a cursory scan. He handed them to her. ‘I apologise if my countrymen give you a hard time. I know they’re not all happy to see the International Decommissioning Authority here.’
Doctor Jones handed the papers back and said, ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a leaking titanium trigger to look after. I’ve just got through removing a sphere of cobalt blue plutonium from a corroding warhead. I lead a very exciting existence.’
Bond smiled and nodded, but quite obviously didn’t know where he was supposed to go.
She gestured to the building. ‘Take the elevator down the hole. Your friends are already down there.’
‘Don’t I need some kind of. . . protection?’ Bond asked. She looked askance, as if Doctor Arkov should know better. ‘Not unless there’s a leaking titanium trigger I don’t know about. Down there are fission bombs. Weapons grade plutonium. Low radiation risk. It’s not hot. Up here we’ve got hydrogen bombs - that your lab built - leaking tritium - which I’ve spent the last six months trying to clean up. So if you need any protection at all, it’s from me.’
‘Right,’ Bond said, sheepishly. ‘And here I thought we’d abandoned the doctrine of mutually assured destruction. Thanks.’