Their boats were now only yards away from the Millennium Dome. A crowd of people was gathered around the balloon, which was apparently about to launch. She skidded her vessel to a stop at the nearby pier and quickly scrambled out.
A flamboyant, wealthy celebrity was preparing to climb into the basket of the balloon. He waved to the crowd and smiled for the cameras, but Giulietta pushed through and leapt into the basket.
‘Hey!’ the man shouted, but she shoved him away. In one swift move, she cranked open the gas nozzles and the balloon rose with surprising speed.
Bond steered his craft toward a slipway adjacent to the pier, punched a button, and shot into the air. The crowd below watched with open mouths and unbelieving amazement.
The Q Boat sailed through the air just beneath the rising balloon. With split second precision, Bond reached up and grabbed one of the ropes dangling from the balloon. The boat fell away, hitting the ground and erupting into a ball of flame. The crowd screamed and began to disperse. Few, though, could take their eyes off the man who was now being carried precariously through the air.
The balloon soared higher and higher. Giulietta pulled a Beretta from a holster at her side and fired over the side of the basket. Bond swung back and forth underneath, like a pendulum, avoiding the bullets and praying that she didn’t get lucky. He strained to pull himself upward as the arc of his swing under the basket provided cover.
Giulietta continued to fire but stopped when she heard the rumbling noise approaching the balloon. Looking up, she was terrified to see three Westland Lynx police helicopters closing in on her.
Bond was getting closer to the bottom of the basket.
Giulietta pulled a knife from a sheath on her ankle and considered going for Bond’s rope. Instead, since the helicopters were looming, she decided there was only one alternative.
Bond’s arm appeared over the rim of the basket. He looked up just in time to see the girl slash one of the gas hoses. A loud hiss drowned out all other noise as the balloon filled not with hot air, but with gas. As she put her hand on the flame regulator valve, Bond realized what she was planning to do.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Don't! I can protect you!’
The brunette beauty simply looked at Bond and gave him a sad smile.
‘Not from him,’ she said.
She pulled on the regulator. Bond pushed himself away from the basket as a four foot lick of flame shot up into the balloon. He plummeted downward as the balloon exploded in a massive fireball, taking Giulictta the cigar girl with it. The police helicopters swerved out of the way just in time, avoiding further disaster.
Bond fell with a spectacular thudding bounce onto the roof of the Millennium Dome, landing hard on his left shoulder. He slid uncontrollably down the slope of the dome as scraps of the burning balloon rained down all around. A gutter eventually broke his fall.
Sitting up, he winced in scaring pain and held onto his injured shoulder. He gazed at the massive smoke cloud in the sky, cursing the foolish girl and his own failure to stop her from destroying herself.
Bond also swore silently at the mystery man behind the blatant attempt to attack MI6 on its home turf. This time, he had gone too far.
03 - Elektra
The memorial service was held at Sir Robert King’s massive country estate near the shores of Loch Lomond, the largest freshwater lake in Britain. Located eighteen miles north of Glasgow and the River Clyde and straddling the geological fault that separates the Highlands from the Lowlands, the lake’s beauty has attracted celebrated writers down the centuries.
On this sad occasion mourners from all over the world were drawn to Loch Lomond. They were the mighty and the powerful, the rich and famous ... all dressed in black.
A nineteenth-century chapel in the grounds of the estate was the site of the service. The funeral was a grand, solemn affair, complete with bagpipe lament, sincere tributes by friends and associates, and even a message from the Queen.
James Bond, his left arm in a sling, was slightly late arriving. He had driven his Aston Martin DB5 to Scotland at breakneck speed, was waved through the heavily guarded checkpoint at the front of the estate, and arrived just as the mourners were filing out of the chapel. He slipped into the throng and moved a few steps behind Miss Moneypenny, who was with Bill Tanner and Charles Robinson, M’s Chief of Staff and top analyst, respectively.
When the breathtakingly beautiful young woman appeared in the doorway of the chapel, all eyes were drawn to her. She
was tall and shapely, had shoulder-length brown hair, piercing brown eyes, and a pouty, soft mouth. Bond was immediately mesmerised by her. although he had seen photographs, he had never viewed the girl in person. She walked through the crowd, head high, like a young Jacqueline Kennedy, dispensing solace and consolation to those around her. She was clearly the centre of attention.
Robinson, a young black man who had joined MI6 only two years ago, whispered to Moneypenny, ‘I couldn’t help but notice that young woman during the service.’
Bond moved next to him. ‘King’s daughter. Elektra.’
Robinson’s expression said it all. She was indeed beautiful.
Elektra King was in her late twenties, but she had the manner of a woman who was ten years older. Behind the brown eyes was a sense that she had been to hell and back and lived to tell about it. There was a profound sadness there, and Bond knew that this was not just because she had lost her father.
He couldn't keep his eyes off her as she went from person to person, kissing a cheek, accepting a hug . . . and when she embraced M, Bond felt a sense of responsibility and pain.
M put her arm around Elektra and began walking with her, just the two of them. As M had been close to Sir Robert, it seemed only natural that she was protective and something of a maternal figure to the girl, who had lost her own mother years ago to cancer.
Bond watched them move toward the shore of the lake. Inexplicably, the feeling of guilt gave way to one of apprehension, and he didn’t know why.
That afternoon, the entourage from MI6 drove to Castle Thane, SIS’s remote operations centre in Scotland. Originally built in 1220 by Alexander II as a defence against the Vikings, the castle subsequently became a stronghold of the Mackenzies of Kintail (later the Earls of Seaforth) who installed the
MacRaes as hereditary keepers. It had been destroyed in 1719 whilst acting as a garrison for Spanish troops fighting for the Jacobite cause on behalf of the 5th Earl of Seaforth, and restoration work wasn't performed until two hundred years later. Shortly after the old M’s retirement SIS purchased a wing that was now off limits to tourists, complete with a private, heavily guarded entrance. The current M felt a certain kinship with Scotland and had spearheaded the deal with the government. As she had settled in to her job as head of MI6 over the last few years, M exerted more and more authority over the way things were done at headquarters. One of the recent changes she had made was establishing the ability to be mobile. She had grown weary of London and had on many occasions looked for excuses to be elsewhere. Now, with the remote operations centre in Scotland, she was free to come and go as she pleased, dragging her staff with her.
M had called the briefing for the afternoon of the funeral, knowing full well that if SIS were going to act on Sir Robert’s assassination, they had to do it quickly. Every available Double-0 agent was present, including Bond, as well as Tanner, Robinson, Moneypenny, and other important members of staff. They sat in a vast stone room that was dominated by a huge, sparkling chandelier, as well as electronic equipment that looked decidedly out of place in the historic building. Every agent in the room, save for Bond, had a briefing packet on the desk in front of them.