The panic deepened and she moved back up the aisle towards the west door. Halfway up the aisle she stopped, turning quickly. Was that a noise? Soft footsteps from behind? She saw the flames of votive candles in front of the icon moving, as though someone had passed by them quickly.
The fear gripped her again; she turned towards the door and began to run. Straight into someone who had slipped into the church.
“Natalya!” said Boris.
“Boris!” Her heart was pounding. “Boris, what’s…
He put a finger to his lips. “Quick. Come with me. There isn’t much time.” He grabbed at her hand, and for a second she remained uncertain, pulling away, then finally going with him, feeling his arm circle her shoulder as he led her towards a curtain to the right of the icon of Our Lady of Smolensk.
He still held her tightly as they pushed through the curtain, then stopped.
For a split second she could not believe it. She looked at Boris and then at the woman, Xenia Onatopp, who stood just inside the curtain, looking like some terrible harbinger of death.
She tried to shake herself free, felt the needle stab through her clothing into her right shoulder, saw the world spinning, and the terrifying face of Xenia, mouth open as though she wished to devour her. Then darkness.
Boris grinned at Xenia. “Silly little goose,’ he said.
“Let’s get her in the car. I’ve got another appointment,’ Xenia spoke with an undisguised relish.
There is a spa in the basement of the Grand Hotel Europe, designed in some way similar to those Turkish baths that used to be found in London and New York. The only difference was that this spa’s designers seemed to have dug into the roots of Russian decor, after the old style, rather than any approximation of Turkey.
In what was once the old Soviet Union, you only found one type of chandelier, in various sizes, as though the State had a monopoly on design - which, of course, was true. Those same standard chandeliers lingered on, elsewhere there were fluted pillars, beautifully carved marble, red plush seats and hangings. There was also an unusually high scent of chlorine in the air.
During the evening you could often find many businessmen swimming in the luxurious pool, or reclining in one of the big steam rooms. In spite of the chlorine it was an admirable place to relax and unwind after a long hard day.
Bond was glad that he had got in before anyone else.
He wanted to swim and steam away the day’s tensions on his own.
That was why he had carefully hung a Closed for Cleaning sign on the main door at the top of the steps leading down to the pool area.
There were other reasons. He wanted to be alone in the hope that Janus would take up the bait. To this end he had checked out the changing rooms and the steam rooms, particularly the big one decorated with beautiful tiling, the steam billowing and hot around him. As he knifed through the water, his mind began to focus on the events of the day, of his reunion with Zukovsky and the short telephone conversation he had initiated with Jack Wade. Zukovsky had taken up the offer regarding the explosives deal, the large amount of plastique was now in the hands of the authorities, and the money had safely reached Valentin. In turn, this almost certainly meant that Janus, by now, would have his sights on Bond, the tethered sacrificial goat.
He executed a fast racing turn and streaked through the water, breathing naturally and swimming with ease. He felt good. He felt even better as he emerged at the end of the pool close to the columned entrance to the big steam bath. The clouds of steam were moving, wafting, reforming as though a ghost had passed through.
Someone, he thought, had taken the bait and lurked within the steam. Time to open his pores and steep himself within that same steam.
He climbed out of the pool, shook himself, picking up the towel he had left at this end, rubbing it through his hair as he moved towards the archway and into the dense cloud, heading towards the alcove where he had left his robe.
Instinct was everything now. Someone else was here, in this place. Quite near and lurking with some unholy intent.
He felt the presence though he could not see, then the large pillar came out of the mist, just to his left. He had to pass it to get to his clothes, so he danced to the right, away from the pillar, his head turning left, eyes peering through what could just as easily have been dense cloud or smoke.
He knew, from a hundred experiences of surveillance work, from the countless times he had been a target, and the dozens of times he had searched for a target of his own. He turned left and pounced forward, going low in case his adversary carried a knife. A knife would be the weapon of choice in this kind of situation.
As his hand shot out, he felt his fingers touch flesh, then his entire hand was clasped around another human wrist
He jerked forwards and downwards, dragging whoever it was into the relatively clear air of the alcove where he had left his things.
Xenia Onatopp stood facing him, holding a towel in front of her.
A twist of her wrist and she was off balance and sprawled on the floor as Bond dived for his pistol, wrapped in the robe which lay on the small slatted bench.
By the time he turned, she had clambered to her feet.
She smiled and slowly allowed the towel to drop from her body.
Even though he sensed grave danger, Bond blinked the sweat from his eyes. Xenia naked was every man’s fantasy of the perfect woman.
“You don’t need the gun, Commander.” Her voice was throaty, almost pleading.
“That depends on your definition of. safe sex, Ms Onatopp.” She moved towards him. Two paces.
“That’s close enough.”
“Not for what I have in mind. She kept coming, lifting her hands to cradle his head. A second later she was kissing him as though she were preparing to slake an unquenchable thirst
He was unable to resist, her passion was so deep and almost violent. Slowly he pulled her back and, bending his knees, replaced the gun on top of his robe before he began to wind himself around her.
Then, in the deepest of kisses, she bit down hard on his lip. He tried to disengage himself and reach back for the pistol, but she caught him behind the knees with one leg and the ground fell out from under him.
This time she was on him like a lioness, ripping at his bathing trunks, tearing them from him, straddling him and whispering, “James, are you going to hurt me? Please, hurt me if you have to.” He struggled, but his body was at odds with his mind.
For what seemed to be a long time, they wrestled in an erotic sliding and slithering of wet flesh upon wet naked flesh. Panting.
Groaning. Grunting, like two animals, for this is what it was about, the animal instincts of two beasts.
Finally he was on top of her and could feel himself sliding and thrusting into her while she goaded him on -“Hurt me, James. When are you going to hurt me?” Somewhere in the back of his head he recalled Shakespeare’s definition of this - making the beast with two backs.
Appropriate. Then, the tiny alarm rang in his mind.
He knew they were not alone, and at that moment, Xenia’s legs slid around his upper body, pressing on his rib cage. He remembered the broken body of Admiral Farrel back in Monte Carlo a thousand years ago.
He turned his head slightly, starting to fight back as his eyes glanced at his watch and he saw a shape coming out of the steam, just reflected in the crystal.
Xenia Onatopp was squeezing harder now, her feet right up behind his neck, her thigh muscles tightening and relaxing.
“Oh, yes,’ she breathed. “Yes Yes… Yes.
He caught her as her legs relaxed slightly, shifting for a tighter grip. Quickly he used his own body to counteract her scissors hold, flipped over, taking her body with him then, sliding his feet under her, he kicked so that she was forced away, shooting backwards over his head. Her body was airborne for a moment, flying with a combination of her own force and Bond’s retaliation. Her heels caught the approaching man straight in the mouth, and he let out a gurgle as blood spouted from his nose and lips.