Light gleamed at the far end and, as they came closer, he deciphered a red notice in Russian which said NO ADMITTANCE.
INTELLIGENCE ARCHIVES LENINGRAD AREA.
“Someone not keeping up with the times,’ he muttered.
A very stout metal door with a big lock barred their way.
“Keep going!” he shouted back to Natalya, firing a burst from the hip which blew out the lock and set a siren wailing.
They crossed into the archive area and Bond slammed the door behind them. They were now in a passage leading to a larger well-lit section, and lined with a series of cabinets teetering and leaning in an obviously unsafe manner.
He wished, fleetingly, that he had more time. He would have liked to have a squint at some of the files which were piled in bulk in those units.
As soon as they reached the end of the entrance hallway, he motioned Natalya to stand clear and put his shoulder against the last cabinet. It toppled easily against the next structure and set off a domino effect so that the cabinets and shelving crashed down against the door. Swiftly he crossed the little passage, did the same with the cabinets on that side, then turned his attention to the main archives.
Bond and Natalya found themselves in the uppermost section of three huge circular galleries, with what appeared to be a glass rotunda directly above them. Here things were more orderly. To his right he saw a large round segmented window between the neat and solidly built bookcases that circled the gallery. From behind there was a pounding as Ourumov’s men tried to batter their way in.
Moving closer to the window, Bond glanced out to see a view of the military vehicle park far below. Too far. He craned closer to look straight down and wondered if what he had in mind was possible. Then he became aware that the pounding had ceased on the door behind them, making him even more alert. Crossing to the wooden balcony rails he peered over to see Ourumov, flanked by his men, coming onto the gallery below them.
He motioned Natalya to back off silently and get into the window opening, then he looked down again and saw, with a lurch to his stomach, that the floors of the galleries had been built with several layers of strong thick Lucite.
He could see to the circle below, and knew it was only a matter of time before Ourumov and his troops would spot them as they peered upwards through the transparent flooring.
As though his thought triggered the action, Ourumov shouted, pointing up at them and bullets began to plough their way into the glass-like floor, ripping and sharding the material.
“Run,’ he yelled at Natalya. “Follow me!” and they set off to circle the entire upper gallery, Bond wildly looking to see if there were any alcove or passage which would make them safer.
As they ran so the bullets stripped out the flooring like several pneumatic drills, following them around the gallery, making it impossible to turn back, for the thick Lucite was already shredding behind them.
Natalya stumbled, half fell, slowing her forward movement. No bullet hit her, but the floor gave way, tearing to pieces behind her, so throwing up her arms and screaming, she fell through the jagged hole, straight into the arms of the soldiers below.
Bond cursed, momentarily wondering if he should drop down and try to save her. She had a great spirit and had already shown that she had the guts and determination to keep going.
He hardly paused, knowing that he would be letting his heart rule his head if he stopped now, for the bullets continued to open up the floor behind him. He would soon be running out of space, for he had almost completely covered the entire ring of the gallery, but four strides ahead he caught a glimpse of a metal safe inlaid between the shelving, with room for him to climb on to it. They would have to blow the thing out from under him with explosives that would wreck the entire building if he could make it.
He judged the distance and then took off, going for a high jump, landing in a heap on top of the recessed safe as the fire from below removed the floor he had just left, and continued to stitch holes in what remained of the gallery.
He saw that he was now almost directly opposite the big circular window which looked down on the vehicle park. He took a few deep breaths, unbuckled the belt Q had given him, feeling for the safety catch and moving it to the off setting, twisting the belt around his right wrist
Lifting his arm, he aimed at what appeared to be solid stone on the far edge of the rotunda, high above. He took a deep breath, counted to three and pressed the firing mechanism on the buckle.
The belt bucked in his hand as the pine shot out, trailing its high tensile cord. It was over in a flash, but Bond felt it was all happening in slow motion as he held his breath, praying that the tiny piton would hold.
It hit the base of the rotunda with a solid thwack, and one quick pull on the belt told him that it was buried firm and deep into the stone.
Another intake of breath, and Bond took up the slack, then launched himself from the top of the safe, swinging in a wide arc, right across the gallery, straight towards the circular window.
He was aware of the strain on the belt and his arm; of the air cleaving as he swept through it; and, for a second, the long drop down through the other galleries below.
He struck the window in the centre, feet first, letting go of the belt and lifting his hands to cover up his face.
Then came the shattering crash as the window caved outwards and James Bond smashed through it, dropping over forty feet to the hard ground. As he went down, he thought of the many good things he had experienced in his life and the last face which crossed the screen of his mind was that of Natalya Simonova. Sadly, in a split second, he thought she might have been the best thing of all. Now he felt as insignificant as a tiny speck of dust floating through sunlight.
It was probably one of the heaviest bets Bond had ever wagered.
When he had stood by the big circular window after they had entered the top gallery of the archives, he had seen, parked directly below him, a military truck with its tarp in place. Nobody was in sight, so he worked out the odds on it having been moved as evens. If it had been driven away during the chase around the gallery, it would be a hard landing bringing at the least serious injury: more probably, death.
A confirmed gambler, he had weighed the odds and, having seen no sign of life around the lorry, had bet on it being in place. So, he came shooting out of the window in a shower of glass and, glancing down, saw he had won.
The truck was still in position. It was not the softest landing he had ever made, but it was safe enough and the most difficult part but for a couple of bruises - was getting down from the top of the tarpaulin to ground level.
Once there, on the hard paved walkway surrounding the Military Intelligence Headquarters, he melted into the shadows, making his way across to the vehicle park.
&he knew At some point, he knew, the main gate would have to be opened and he would just have to take his chance. He had very little ammunition left so it was a case of picking the right vehicle.
He softly moved up and down the lines, rejecting the small jeep-like scout cars, the APCs and the smaller BTU-152us with their open tops and room for some eight men.
There was movement coming from the main entrance, so he flattened himself against a cumbersome T55 tank, watching as Ourumov and one of the soldiers from the HO dragged Natalya towards a car and threw her roughly into the back. Ourumov sounded furious and had a weapon in his hand.
Natalya was making a lot of noise as she was pulled to the unmarked black car. She had already taken in the fact that Bond was not lying, crushed and broken, outside the building, so she clung to the hope that her new friend had somehow escaped and was already preparing a rescue. By the time they manhandled her into the car nothing had happened and her optimism began to fade.
Over in in the vehicle park, Bond turned and found himself looking at the rear of the T55 tank. He frowned and wondered, then made up his mind and moved.
Natalya could smell the sour, unwashed body of Ourumov, crammed next to her in the car. The soldier drove, heading for the main gate with its barber’s shop red and white poles. They slowed for only the minimum amount of time it took for the guards at the gate to identify Ourumov, then - with the general shouting for the driver to move as fast as he could - they shot out of the gate, rubber burning as the car fishtailed, skidding into a left turn, building up speed as they ran parallel to the wall of the vehicle park.
