The Spy Who Loved Me Read online

  He ran through the columns, screwing up his eyes against the pain. His back felt as if it was broken. The sun dazzled him. Through the hole in the wall and along the avenue of Sphinxes. Bond came up behind the passenger side of the van because there was less chance of being seen in a rear-view mirror and raised his hand to grip the door handle. A pause and he hauled it open. Anya was bent over the controls, fiddling with a couple of wires under the dashboard. The canister and the Beretta lay on the seat beside her. Bond lunged for them gratefully and slipped them in his pocket. ‘I didn’t know you were mechanically minded.' He held out the ignition key. ‘Why don’t you try this? You’ll find it easier.’

  With a noise like a bomb dropping, Jaws landed on the bonnet in front of them. He had jumped twelve feet from the wall. The bonnet buckled and Jaw’s head butted the windscreen sending out a radiating spider’s web of cracks. His face was bleeding through the dust and his eyes were mad.

  ‘Step on it!’ Bond relinquished the key and reached for the Beretta. As the engine leapt into life, Jaws rolled from the bonnet and snatched at the handle of Bond’s door. Bond locked it half a second before the fist formed round the metal and the handle was torn off. Anya fought the wheel round and the van leapt forward. Like a wounded buffalo, Jaws charged the vehicle and butted and kicked it. There was no easy escape route from the ruin. Anya had to reverse. She clawed at the wheel and accelerated backwards. Jaws threw his bulk to one side and the van crashed against the wall. He hurled himself forward and, tearing off a bumper, used it as a flail to belabour the box on wheels that was enraging him. It was how he had attacked the referee at the basketball match. Anya swung the van round but the lock was not tight enough. A block of stone barred their escape. Again she reversed and Bond momentarily lost sight of the mad giant.

  When he turned his head it was to see the great open mouth clamped around the moulded metal that divided the windscreen from Anya’s door frame. He was trying to bite his way into the truck! Bond felt his foot pressing down against the floor as he urged the vehicle forward. He heard the wheels spinning in the deep sand and fresh terror surged through him. Anya was biting her lips as she tried to concentrate on the engine revs. The metal of the frame was starting to buckle ... Bond reached across Anya and fired at point-blank range. There was a crash, a spark and a wild, humming whine. The bullet had ricocheted off the steel teeth. The huge head jerked back like a buffer and the wheels at last gripped the sand. The van lurched out of the trough it had dug for itself and began to gather speed. The coachwork groaned, creaked and rasped but there were no longer any sounds of attack. Bond expelled a deep sigh of relief and looked in the wing-mirror. The man was standing, immobile and still threatening, looking after them. Seen against the background of the ruin he seemed to belong to it, like Frankenstein’s mother to some turreted, vampire-haunted castle.

  Bond returned the Beretta to his pocket nearest the window and wondered what words were appropriate at such moments of deliverance. Anya had stopped biting her lips but there was still the same expression of grim determination. ‘Thanks for leaving me alone with Prince Charming,’ he said.

  Anya shrugged. ‘Every man and woman for himself. Remember?’

  ‘Still, I suppose you did intervene at a propitious moment earlier on.1

  Anya wrinkled her delicious nose. 'We all make mistakes.’

  Bond smiled and watched the track stretching away before them. With any luck he could be back in Cairo by the evening. And then? Probably best to get round to the fall-back address he had been given and hand over the merchandise. Not a good idea to keep it in a hotel room. He glanced towards Anya. The lady could make her own arrangements.

  Bond slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the canister. He expected a reaction from Anya but there was none. She continued to look steadfastly ahead, both hands on the wheel in the ten-to-three position approved by the British School of Motoring. Bond unscrewed the canister and tapped out the thin spool of film. A couple of inches of celluloid that could change the history of the world. How unreal it all seemed. He raised the film to the light and studied it. Anya changed gear and did not return her hand to the driving wheel. From the corner of his eye, Bond noticed it missing and glanced down. The slim hand nestled in a position of intimacy against his thigh. Bond looked towards Anya and she turned her face to his. The chin tilted and the beautiful eyes were full of bland innocence. Bland innocence laced with triumph.

  Bond’s hand dived towards his thigh, but it was too late. A wasp had stung him. He could feel his neck stiffening, his fingers locking. The film dropped to the floor. Against his leg, the needle still glinted evilly from the centre of the ring. How stupid of him. How typical of SMERSH. Have you so short a memory, James Bond? Do you not remember Rosa Klebb? Now he could feel nothing and the puppet strings that pulled his mind were being snipped one by one. There was only the soft female voice whispering to him like a chiding lover,

  ‘Remember, dear James Bond. Every woman for herself.'

  A Marriage of Convenience

  James Bond walked through the teeming Khalili Bazaar and felt a weariness near to death. Whatever poison the Russian bitch had pumped into him - and Bond favoured a relation of curare with its hatchet effect on the central nervous system - was still creeping through him like an anaesthetist in carpet slippers and there was no part of his bruised, tortured body that did not ache. But the ache that really counted was deep inside. Beyond reach of the most powerful electric current.

  It was the ache of failure.

  Bond was not used to crawling back with his tail between his legs and he did not relish the prospect of arriving at Station Y with nothing to show for his efforts but multiple contusions and a hideous, nagging fear that he might now be impotent.

  ‘This way, sah! This way! You want beautiful gold thing for your lady? We have it. I give you special price.1

  ‘Look, look! I showr you. Come, come. This real silver. Very old. I show you mark.’

  ‘You Engleesh? I like Engleesh! Engleesh very good friend of mine. I fight for Engleesh army. Because you Engleesh I show you leather work I never sell. It come down from my father. He also like Engleesh very much

  Bond felt like a man swimming against the tide. If anyone tried to sell him dirty postcards he might go under. And then he saw what he was looking for. ‘Khan Carpets. Tapis Khan*. A tall Arab caught his eye and swept towards him.

  ‘Good day, sir! We have the finest selection of carpets in Cairo.1

  ‘I am only interested in Persian carpets.1

  ‘Then we will be able to give you satisfaction, sir. If you come inside ..

  Bond listened to the exchange of recognition signals and felt that it sounded like a music-hall act. Perhaps it was because he was bruised in mind and body and not looking forward to his next appointment. ‘007’s on the slide, you know. Made a pig's ear of some caper in Egypt. Little Russky filly took him to the cleaners. Lucky to get away without a Court of Inquiry. I think they’re going to find him a staff job.’ He could hear the tittle- tattle reverberating around International Export. Oh well, what the hell. He’d had a good innings. But if he ever caught up with Major Anya Amasova again she’d have a darn sight more than a tanned bottom to remember him by!

  The dark, cool interior of the shop was like a labyrinth, with passages leading off in all directions. It was also open to another narrow, bustling street at the back. Very useful for comings and goings if one was being followed. The guide stopped in a small room that could be entered by either of two doors. The walls were hung with carpets. Bond noticed the Arab’s eyes darting around suspiciously before he spoke. ‘I think you will find that this is what you are looking for, sir.’

  He swiftly pulled aside a carpet and ushered Bond through the opening that was revealed. Bond nodded and passed into a narrow corridor. A second after the carpet had fallen behind him a light came on. The smell was like that of a house that has been closed for the winter: people pickled in cold and damp. Bond fo
llowed the corridor and came to a flight of stone steps. As he started to descend he heard a familiar sound - the tip-tapping of a typewriter.

  What he saw as he came into the low-vaulted room was less familiar. Sitting behind a desk was the secretary he had last seen in M’s outer office. She had a cardigan pulled round her shoulders and was leaning across the typewriter with a correcting rubber between her teeth. She finished adjusting the machine and made a shivering gesture. ‘Chilly, isn’t it?’ Bond nodded. ‘I think it’ll be all right if you go in.' She turned her head towards the door behind her and set to work briskly with the rubber. Bond took a grip of himself and stepped forward. What the devil was going on?

  He opened the door and found himself in a long whitewashed room, mercifully warmer than its antechamber - secretaries always had to suffer; that was one of the rules of the Civil Service. At the end of the room was a wide, polished wood desk with four wire baskets on it and behind the desk - a woman in the uniform of a Russian Army Major training a Walther PPK on him. Anya! Her eyes narrowed as he came in and her elbow advanced across the desk. The barrel was pointing at his heart. Was he going mad?

  While Bond blinked and stared and wondered if he was going to be shot dead or come to his senses, another actor entered the drama. He was dressed in the uniform of a Colonel General in the Russian Army and he had three rows of ribbons on his chest. Bond recognized him from his photographs. Colonel General Nikitin, head of SMERSH. He looked at Bond and then back through the door by which he had entered the room.

  The next entrant made Bond certain that soon men in white tunics would be leading him away to what was discreetly known as the service’s Rest and Recuperation Centre at Virginia Water. M, sucking on his pipe and sporting one of his infernally cheerful bow ties. He jabbed the stem of his pipe at Bond in greeting and moved behind the desk as Anya stood up.

  ‘Ah, 007. You’re here.’

  Anya turned the Walther round so that she was holding it by the barrel and advanced to Bond. Her smile was charming. 4I seem to have managed to lay hands on your gun - as well as other things.’ Bond took the proffered weapon and resisted the temptation to test-fire it immediately. He turned to M. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.’

  M waved everybody to seats. ‘There’s been a change of plan, 007. General Nikitin and his ADC, Major Amasova, are officially here as part of the delegation discussing defence matters with President Sadat. That doesn’t concern us - well, it does, but it doesn’t, if you know what I mean.’ Bond nodded briskly. He was not in the mood for M being light-hearted. ‘Their real business is rather more serious and immediate. You may not be aware of it but the Russians have also lost a nuclear submarine.’

  Bond’s pulse quickened. He did not know. He looked towards Anya, who gazed at him without expression. Only a slight widening of her eyes seemed to say, ‘Could you be so naive as to expect me to tell you all my secrets?’

  ‘To cut a long story short, our governments have decided, at the highest level, that our mutual interests would be best served if we worked together on this assignment. We have no knowledge as to who is responsible for the disappearance of our submarines and exhaustive inquiries amongst allies have revealed nothing. We are up against a completely unknown entity'

  ‘I see.’ Bond thought of the two men who had fastened the electrodes to his genitals. They would be his allies if they were still alive. Such opportunities for discovering new friends made the whole job seem worthwhile.

  Nikitin leaned towards Anya and spoke in Russian. His message completed, he sat back and smiled at Bond. The only sincere thing about the smile was that it revealed he wore false teeth and rarely bothered to clean them. In terms of genuine warmth it carried the same weight of feeling as the polar icecap. The mouth moved but the eyes levelled like the barrels of a twelve-bore.

  Anya became her master’s voice. ‘Comrade General states that we have entered into a new era of Anglo-Soviet cooperation. That is why, as a symbol of Russian good faith, he has made available the microfilm recovered from sources that I need hardly bother to remind you of, Commander Bond?’ Bond inclined his head with all the grace that he could muster and then straightened up. ‘I would also like to proffer another reason.'

  M took his pipe from his mouth. ‘Which is?'

  ‘On first examination, the microfilm appears to be useless, sir.'

  A glacial silence fell on the room warmed only by the glow from M's pipe. ‘Continue, 007.’

  ‘Well, sir. When I looked at the microfilm there appeared to be some tiny scratches on it. They suggested to me that key technical data on the blueprint had been scrubbed out. I’d say that the microfilm is merely intended to show that whoever we're dealing with really docs have the goods. In other words, as it stands, it’s of no use to anyone' - Bond returned Nikitin’s smile - ‘except, of course, as a gift.’

  The two off-white worms that were Nikitin’s lips dosed over the yellow teeth and the artificial fire behind the eyes was switched off.

  ‘Interesting.’ M turned from the silent Nikitin with the suspicion of a raised eyebrow. ‘In a moment we'll have the chance to see if your conjecture is correct, 007. I’ve asked for the microfilm to be put on the Magnoscope.’ M flicked a switch on his intercom. ‘All right, Belling. We’re ready when you are.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The lights in the room were lowered and a large screen slowly descended from the ceiling. A panel of light in the wall behind M’s desk showed where the projection room was located. Bond concentrated on the screen and felt the palms of his hands growing damp. He was going to look a damn fool if his supposition was proved wrong. The screen filled with symbols that Bond could easily have mistaken for the Dead Sea Scrolls. To his relief, he noted that there were several places where it looked as if material had been clumsily blotted out.

  M spoke into the intercom. ‘Well, Belling. What can you tell us?’ The earnest, intense, grammar-school voice came back almost immediately. Bond could almost see the man straining towards the microphone.

  ‘Well, sir. It’s good stuff as far as it goes. All the gen seems, er, very genuine. Trouble is, it’s missing out the vital bits. There’s nothing there we don’t know already. It whets the appetite though.’

  Bond peered at the seemingly incomprehensible jumble of figures and symbols. ‘Is there anything to suggest where the blueprint was drafted?’

  ‘I was just going to come on to that.’ Belling sounded slightly peeved by the interruption. ‘We think it might have been done in Italy. The paper size is in pro to Venetian Octavo and the script has an Italianate flavour to it. There’s a slight upwards stress on the transversals.’

  ‘Is is not possible to get the definition better?’ asked Anya. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss. Whoever shot this microfilm didn’t take a lot of care about it. The lighting is very bad. You can’t blow up what’s not there in the first place.’

  ‘If it’s been done badly, it’s probably because it had to be done quickly,’ said M. ‘It fits in with our impression that somebody was indulging in what might be described as industrial espionage.’ Bond leaned towards the screen. Was that a smudge in the bottom right-hand corner or could he make out the very, very faint outline of lettering? He walked towards the screen and pointed.

  ‘Could you enlarge this section, please?’

  ‘Try for you, sir. Can’t guarantee you’ll see much.’

  The screen went blank and then flashed a series of giant close-ups as the projectionist homed in on the wanted segment. Bond glanced towards Anya. She was gazing raptly at the screen. Her chin tilted forward on the heel of her hand. She looked like a keen student attending her first lecture. There was something natural and unforced about her pose that was beguiling. She was a strange girl. There was not that coldness and remoteness that permeated most of the Russian spies he had come across.

  Nikitin saw Bond glance at Anya and felt the cold snake of jealousy crawl across his belly. Bond’s appetite for women was well
known to SMERSH and had twice nearly been his downfall. Perhaps, on this occasion, it would be third time lucky. It would be interesting to see Anya’s reaction when she learned that Bond had murdered her lover. He would continue to conceal the news for now but, later on in the operation, it might be advisable, from all points of view, to tell her the truth. When a sound lead was established on the tracking system Bond would immediately become expendable. Anya could eliminate him and then, and then - Nikitin thought of the films of Anya’s love-making that had been sent to him from the Black Sea course and stewed the thin gruel of saliva behind his death-mask lips. What delicious possibilities existed! He would harness himself to her and drive her like a Cossack. And while he rode the soft, white flesh he would think of the hated British spy she had killed. It would be almost as perfect as having Bond to himself, strapped face downwards on the interrogation table beneath the palace of death that was No. 13, Sretenka Ulitsa ...

  ‘Hold it there!’ Bond felt a sense of mounting excitement as he looked at the screen. There was a diagonal line running from top to bottom which marked the edge of the blueprint and on its right some shadowy lettering lacking the blunted hardness of the symbols on the blueprint. When the blueprint was photographed it must have been lying on something and that something had crept into the right-hand corner of the microfilm. Bond strained to read the lettering. O-R-A-T-O-R-Y. There was also a symbol.

  ‘Oratory.’ M read the word out. ‘What do you make of that, Belling?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. It looks like the right-hand corner of a letter-heading. You can see the outline of the paper. The blueprint must have been resting on it when it was photographed.’ Bond was glad to hear his hypothesis confirmed. ‘An oratory is a small chapel, usually a private one. Used to be the name of a small Catholic public school, as well.’

  ‘They must have had a remarkably advanced science sixth if they were inventing submarine tracking systems,’ said M drily. ‘I know the Jesuits are reputed to be damn clever but —' He shrugged and turned towards Anya who was biting a lip as she stared at the screen.