Elektra hesitated again. Angry now, Renard leapt up and paced the floor. She sat up and pulled a silk robe around her.
‘Of course it’s what I wanted,’ she said, trying to salve his feelings.
He turned to confront her. ‘He was a . . . good lover?’
‘What do you think? That I wouldn’t feel anything?’
Renard leaned against her desk and closed his eyes, attempting to squeeze out the images. After a moment, he smashed his fist through the hand-painted wood. At the sound of her gasp, he looked at his hand. A huge splinter of wood was stuck in it He looked at it inquisitively.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel a damned thing.’ It was almost a whimper.
Elektra moved to him, took him by the arm and led him back to the bed. She gently pulled out the splinter, then reached into the ice bucket on the floor. She ran a piece of ice along the wound.
‘What about this?’ she asked.
She moved the ice on his cheek. He shook his head, tormented.
‘Nothing.’
Then, she rubbed the ice down her own neck. Water dribbled down between her breasts. ‘But surely . . .?’
Her fingers were wet now, and she touched and aroused herself with the ice-cold liquid. ‘. . .You can feel this?’
She moved the ice lower. Her lips opened as she clearly enjoyed the sensation. The half-smile on Renard’s face grew as she did something else.
‘Remember . . . pleasure?’ she asked, sensually.
They made love, if that’s what one could call it. Renard found his pleasure, to be sure, although it wasn’t by any traditional means. For her part, Elektra submitted to her desire for the man who was once her tormentor. She was a prisoner of her past, but for once, she was the one in control.
It was still later, as they lay naked together in each other’s arms, when the phone rang. She stirred from the post-sex malaise and answered it.
‘Yes?’ She listened as Renard’s one closed eye flicked open. ‘I see. Thank you.’ She hung up and said, ‘Bond is alive. He’s in Baku.’
* * *
Baku’s City of Walkways, a network of raised boardwalks and platforms constructed over the water near the shoreline, is a curious structure that provides docking areas for boats, as well as storage facilities, shops, bars and brothels for the seamen, fishermen and petroleum workers. It is square-shaped but spiral, like a multi-storey car park, with the lower levels connecting to the upper ones by means of slanted bridges. At first glance, the place resembles an M.C. Escher drawing, with walkways and bridges connecting here and there with no apparent rhyme or reason. In fact, it was practically and ingeniously designed long ago by using the boardwalks for support as well as walkways. These were now littered with petrol cans, crates of fresh fish, forgotten pieces of machinery, and other odorous items, but the strongest smell in the air was that of petroleum.
Valentin Zukovsky’s Rolls-Royce pulled up to the peculiar port, where his caviar factory sat on the top level. Guards piled out of the back and opened the door for him. Zukovsky, wearing a tuxedo, got out and scanned the horizon.
‘Wait here,’ he said to the men.
He limped toward the structure of walkways to his fishery, using a silver cane. Why did Dmitri, the foreman, insist that he come down to the factory immediately? What was the big crisis? ‘It’s always something,’ he mumbled to himself ‘First it’s the casino. Then it’s the factory. I’m a slave to the free market economy . .
Zukovsky’s chauffeur, The Bull, sat in the Rolls and watched his boss enter the building. His sharp eyes continued to survey the surroundings, looking for anything unusual. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the BMW Z8 parked behind a billboard in an obvious attempt to hide it from sight.
The Bull punched some numbers on his cell phone and made the call to Elektra King in Istanbul. After the exchange, he looked at his watch. It was time. He pulled the AK-47 from beneath the seat, held it under his jacket, and got out of the car.
Zukovsky paused at the door of his factory to admire — and straighten — a sign bearing his likeness - ‘ZUKOVSKY’S FINEST - WORLD WIDE HEADQUARTERS’. He opened the door, stepped inside and found himself staring down the barrel of a Walthcr PPK.
James Bond was holding Dmitri, a short man dressed in a caviar factory smock, by the collar. The man looked helpless and apologetic. Christmas Jones stood by, watching with interest.
Zukovsky sighed. ‘Couldn’t you just say “hello”?’
Bond released the foreman and said, ‘Beat it. Out the back.’ Dmitri scampered off, leaving Bond with his gun aimed at Zukovsky’s rather bulbous nose.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What’s your business with Elektra King?’
‘I thought you were the one giving her the business,’ he replied. He looked over at Christmas and smiled. She was a bit taken aback.
Bond continued. ‘She dropped a million dollars in your casino - and you didn’t even blink. What was she paying you off for?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, BondjamesBond.’
‘The million dollar chit which you so easily won with a rigged card deck. It was a payoff for services rendered. What were they?’
Zukovsky glanced at Christmas again and said, ‘If I were you ... a relationship with this guy? Don’t bet on it.’
With his free arm, Bond slammed Zukovsky against a vat of caviar. Wood split and roe spilled all over the floor.
Zukovsky was appalled. ‘That is five thousand dollars of Beluga! Ruined!’
‘Nothing compared to what a twenty megaton nuclear bomb would do.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The sound of an approaching helicopter outside didn’t deter Bond from pressing the gun against Zukovsky’s temple.
‘I work for the IDA,’ Christmas said. ‘We had a nuclear bomb stolen . . .’
Bond cut her off. ‘Renard and Elektra are working together.’
Zukovsky looked genuinely surprised and somewhat shocked. ‘I didn’t know!’ he pleaded.
‘What do you know?’
Zukovsky was about to answer when there was a loud crash. Wood splintered everywhere as the wall and roof tore open behind them. Zukovsky’s jaw dropped as they saw a Eurocopter Squirrel armed with giant, vertically-suspended circular saws rip through his shop.
Bond pushed Christmas and the Russian to safety, the spinning teeth barely missing them. The blades churned through the roof, spraying caviar everywhere.
Bond burst out of the building, pushing Zukovsky and Christmas ahead of him. Zukovsky’s guards were already firing at the helicopter. Zukovksy produced a TEC DC-9 semiautomatic handgun from inside his jacket and sprayed bullets into the air. Unfortunately, the helicopter kept coming, its deadly saws ripping everything in sight and making a deafening noise.
The Bull was there with his AK-47. He made a show of firing at the helicopter but deliberately missed.
‘Get back inside!’ Bond yelled to Christmas and Zukovsky. They were no better off out there As they ran back into the demolished factory, Bond made for the BMW, running down a flight of steps onto a lower walkway. Before he could make it to the landing, a grenade was thrown from a second Squirrel that appeared above him. It, too, was armed with the bizarre circular saws that hung below the aircraft. The grenade blew out the section of the walkway in front of Bond, knocking him back.
The fire and smoke trapped him. The only way out was along the pipelines. He ran beside a narrow section of pipe, then jumped down to another walkway. The pipes were now above him, but the second chopper’s relentless saws cut through them, releasing gas. Bond hurled himself up a stairway to get out of the way.
Inside the factory Zukovsky and Christmas watched in horror as the first helicopter continued to slice away more of the roof above them. As they ran for cover, Zukovsky yelled to her, ‘I told you he was a bad bet!’