“Very droll, James. That’s the place I was telling you about. Four o’clock this afternoon, the hearse comes in through those big wooden doors next to the shop. They do the business and the hearse is out in ten minutes. I can put the word out if I don’t hear from you by three.”
“Makes sense. Good insurance is hard to find.”
“Sure, hang on, we’ve got to take a left here, then your eyes’ll pop.” The battered old car swung into a broad alley and Bond saw a sight so bizarre he could hardly believe it.
Several expensive cars were parked along the street.
Handfuls of well-fed, very well-dressed, smooth-looking Russians leaned against the cars. Less kempt men stood against walls, their wares spread out at their feet. In the boot of every car, the back of every truck, and along the pavement, weapons were stacked, grenade launchers, hand guns, Uzi and H&K sub-machine guns; boxes of ammunition.
Jack Wade grunted, then assumed his role of tour guide.
“Welcome to the shopping mall of death. The wild East
This, for Russia, is capitalism’s finest hour. One size maims all, and everyone can make a killing. Kinda like East LA, right?”
“I’m happy to say I’ve never been to East LA.”
“Well, good for you, James.
Hang on, we turn right at the top of this nice little market place.
Zukovsky has a joint here, at the end of the street.” He pointed to what appeared to be the entrance of a night club. “By ten at night, this place is really jumping, but your old friend does his business by day.’ He turned right into the alley which seemed to be deserted.
“Your best way in is through any of the doors on this side. Just get in and follow the smell.
You’ll find him soon enough.” He pulled over to the kerb, and Bond was out of the car and into the shadow of a doorway long before Wade had even put the car in gear.
The wall, and the doors, made the place look like an abandoned warehouse, but he had seen many places like this: shells built around existing, well constructed places.
He reached for his wallet, and pressed hard on one of the metal protective edges. A secret compartment opened up to disclose an entire set of lock-picking tools. He wondered if Valentin Zukovsky was still as careful about locks as he used to be, back in the bad old days when he worked for the KGB. At that time, Zukovsky had a mania for unbeatable locks and the most sophisticated electronic alarm systems.
It seemed that his old adversary had lost his cunning.
Bond was through the door and making his way silently up the stairs in three minutes flat. Above, in the distance, he could hear someone singing just off-key enough to be grating on the nerves.
Valentin Zukovsky was big: tall, broad shouldered and with an elephantine girth. He had a moon face, so much so that people said he must be related somehow because he had all the craters and pock marks to go with it.
His club, which was simply known as Valentin’s, was luxurious in an old-fashioned, red plush, gold-fringed manner. At this moment there were several people sitting around obviously doing business of one kind or another.
Judging by the type of people talking as low as they could, the business was, if not criminal, certainly bordering on the breaking of laws.
Zukovsky wore a creased and crumpled white suit which looked a size too big for him until he stood up and revealed that its voluminousness was necessary for his bulk.
Half-a-dozen scantily dressed young women waited on tables and pointed out certain favours they could bestow if you ordered from the reverse side of the menu. The most innocent of these was a normal massage.
On a raised dais at one end of the room, another young woman, very attractive and clad in red sequins, battled with “Raining in Baltimore’ by Counting Crows, but she could not quite make the song come to life.
It was possible that, apart from being hampered by not being able to carry a melody, she did not understand the words.
Zukovsky had spent the past hour with a reedy-looking, ferret-faced Pakistani arms dealer of very doubtful provenance. They closed no deals, and the Pakistani was just about to leave when Zukovsky suddenly focused his attention on a small TV monitor, about the size of a playing card, set into the table where he always sat.
The monitor gave out a tiny beep and the picture came on. Zukovsky glanced down, then did a double-take as he saw who had entered by picking a lock to one of the side doors. He smiled as the picture followed the intruder slowly up the stairs, and his smile became almost benevolent.
Lazily, he gestured to a man who had the makings of a pair of gorillas, and said something to him. He then stood and walked with his lumbering limp towards a pair of red velvet curtains to the right of the dais where the singer was losing her battle with the song.
He passed through the curtains and showed no surprise when the muzzle of an automatic pistol was laid coldly on his neck, just behind the ear.
“Ah,’ he breathed as though in a kind of bliss. “I know only three men who have used that particular brand of firearm, and I’ve personally killed two of them.”
“That’s lucky for me, then, Valentin,’ James Bond whispered.
He did not even sense the other man until it was too late. A blackjack came down with a soft thud and Bond fell into the darkness of unconsciousness.
“No, not lucky for you, Mr. Bond,’ Zukovsky purred.
Coming back to consciousness was like dredging his way through mud. He was aware of someone talking, and knew what had happened long before he allowed his body to reveal that he was back among the living.
It was one of those tricks Bond had learned over the years. If you regain consciousness with your captors nearby, hold back; assess the situation before doing anything.
He heard Zukovsky giving orders, and decided there were at least four people in the room. In the background he could hear the off-key singer trying to get through “Memories He stirred, shook his head violently and looked around.
He was not restrained in any way, and sat in an overstuffed armchair that had seen better days.
Valentin Zukovsky straddled a chair in front of him and there were at least three of his men in the room. Away in the club, the red sequined girl was murdering LloydWebber.
Valentin’s face split into a wide and happy grin. “So, here we are, the great Mr. James Bond: dashing, sophisticated secret agent. I’m tempted to be melodramatic and say, so, we meet again.” He chuckled and his men followed his lead, taking their cue from the boss.
“The great James Bond,’ he laughed again, and the chorus joined in. “Shaken not stirred, Mr. Bond?” In the background, the singer hit a particularly terrible high note. “Who’s strangling the cat?” Bond asked.
Zukovsky’s initial response was to unholster a pistol and put a shot directly between Bond’s legs. A jagged gash speared through the leather upholstery, and dirty white stuffing flew into the air as Bond pressed himself back in the armchair.
“That’s my mistress, Irena.” Zukovsky halted the pistol as though tempted to put another shot after the first, but slightly higher.
“And a very talented girl she is, Irena.” Bond smiled innocently, and Zukovsky seemed to relent, raising his voice and shouting, “Irena!
Take a hike!” The warbling stopped, followed by a number of Russian obscenities and the sound of Irena’s shoes clicking off into the distance.
Zukovsky winced at the fast and angry tap of the footsteps. Then he turned his attention back to Bond.
“So, what is it that brings you into my neighbourhood, Mr. Bond?