On this warm velvet night, a tourist group watched a mime performing in the square, while others gazed out at the twinkling, floodlit harbour. James Bond did more than gaze. He stood looking down on the harbour, feet planted apart as though he stood on the bridge of a warship, a large pair of night glasses glued to his eyes.
These were far from ordinary night glasses, but another product of Q Branch’s fertile imagination. Not only was the image quality enhanced to a point where, at this moment, he could have been standing next to the couple in his sights, but also the binoculars contained the ability to photograph the exact scene onto which he was zeroed - the resulting pictures stored immediately on a small computer disk within the centre section of the glasses.
Down among the berthed yachts, he had two people in close up. The slim and dark Xenia Onatopp and her admiral who, to Bond, looked incredibly like the long ago murdered Czar Nicholas.
Admiral Farrel was handing the delicious and mysterious Xenia into a motor launch. Bond pressed the camera button twice - once for the admiral and once, full face, for Onatopp~ then a third time for the insurance. He moved slightly to focus in on the stern of the launch, magnifying the name Manticore.
The launch, leaving a white trail of foam behind it, sped from the jetty, heading out towards a sleek and very expensive yacht at anchor in the harbour.
Bond waited a few minutes, examining the other ships visible inshore and in the harbour. Among them he noticed the lines of a French warship. This last had a long stern which was almost completely taken up by a large helicopter. 1n silhouette the machine looked dark and full of menace.
Something in the back of Bond’s mind stirred, half surfaced then again retreated from his memory. He pushed it away. If you cannot recall something immediately, it probably is not worth remembering anyway. Meanwhile he had things to do.
The walk down from the rock took him some ten minutes, so within a quarter of an hour he was behind the wheel of the DB5, growling out of Monaco again and heading high up into the foothills. Eventually he parked just below the ancient village of La Turbie, with its Roman ruins and monument. It was the place, they had told him, where he would get the best possible reception.
Turning on the radio, he quickly unloaded the little computer disk from the binoculars, slid it into a slit to the right of the CD player and pressed one of the preset radio buttons. There was an almost imperceptible whine as the data was read from the disk and carried to London via satellite.
It took ten minutes, almost to the second. The radio crackled and he heard the voice of Moneypenny who, in spite of her long association with the old M, had agreed to see the recently appointed Chief through the first difficult months in charge.
“Transmission begins.” Bond smiled as her slightly breathy voice came clearly into the car through its eight speakers, and at the same moment a fax began to emerge in full colour from the CD slot.
The first photograph was of Xenia. Moneypenny kept up her running commentary. “ID confirmed. Onatopp, Xenia. Former Soviet fighter pilot. Worked for a year, just before the “91 coup, as a general pilot for KGB. Current suspected link with the St. Petersburg Janus Crime syndicate.” Next came his shot of Chuck Farrel. “ID confirmed.
Rear Admiral Charles (Chuck) Farrel, US Navy. Distinguished career as an expert in the use of naval helicopters.
Career marred only by rumours of constant womanising.
Was cleared of several charges during the now infamous Tailhook scandal in 1993. Is in Monaco with a number of US Navy personnel gathering for a top secret demonstration.
Last came the name Manticore on the rear of the motor launch.
“Yacht, Manticore, is on lease to a known Janus corporation front.
M authorises you to observe subject Onatopp, but not - repeat not - to make contact without M’s personal authority. End transmission.” She had stressed the word “contact’ as though it were a code word for something more interesting. The Janus Crime syndicate was, he knew, the most ruthless of the organised Russian mafia families that had become more deadly than anything conceived during the last days of the Soviet Union. Janus was the scourge of the new Russia and one of the reasons why Bond held to the theory that, eventually, it would be business as usual within the shrinking borders of the once evil empire.
it was time, he thought, to pay a visit to this yacht, Manticore, something that was easier said than done.
The main stateroom of Manticore was overtly designed for physical pleasure. It was a relatively larger cabin with an en suite bathroom big enough to sport a Jacuzzi and wall fittings that contained colourful bottles full of brand name oils and unguents, including those sensual edible oils sold as sexual aids - the ones that come in various flavours which enable partners to lick them from each other’s bodies.
The walls were decorated with erotic paintings and drawings, ulminatin~ with a huge oil directly over the bed depicting in all its detail a modern view of a Roman orgy. The lights were dimmed and there was a scent of musk in the air, while from some hidden source came a soft lush melody played on what sounded like a thousand strings.
On the bed itself, late on this warm and luxurious evening, Xenia Onatopp coupled with Admiral Chuck Farrel who was slowly understanding that he had never had it so good. She had taken control almost before locking the door to the stateroom and telling him that nobody would disturb them.
She had stripped him, pushed him back onto the great bed and said -“For this one night, Chuck, I want you to enjoy me fully. Think of me as the ultimate pinnacle of your sexual dreams.” She had slowly undressed for him, gently revealing her body, not in the vulgar grind of a striptease artist, but with the flair and professionalism of a ballerina. Each movement seemed to have been choreographed just for him, and at last when she was totally naked she came to him, whispering in his ear, rousing him almost to a frenzy, helping him, instructing him as a perfect body slave until he became pliable, and left with a sense that he owed her a great sexual experience.
It was then that she began a true domination of him: straddling his body and riding him, goading him onwards until their sweat mingled and he was completely at her mercy.
He cried out as he reached his summit for the third time in two hours, and, as he did so, she made a quick subtle movement with her thighs, flipping him over so that he lay face downwards on the bed.
With soft, soothing words she began to wrap her strong legs around his body, moving slightly so that eventually she held him in a scissors grip, her thighs wrapped around his chest, slowly loosening and tightening her hold in a manner which made him gasp with pleasure until she suddenly began tensing the muscles as though she were attempting to draw his entire body into hers.
He gasped and cried out - Xenia No. I can’t breathe I. No..
It was doubtful if she even heard him as she flexed the muscles even tighter. This was the technique of a boa constrictor and she felt the bones crack in his chest, with half her mind registering the inevitable crunching horror of ribs crumbling.
At the moment of his asphyxiation Xenia Onatopp cried out in her own final and conclusive orgasm - Yes Ahhhhh Yes! Yes! …
Yeeeessssss!” It was a technique she had used many times during her life, and her masters knew how effective she could be. A secret weapon like a spider who consumes its mate after the sex act.
She swayed to and fro, still rubbing herself against his corpse, moaning and supremely satisfied in her moment of glory.
She flicked the dead body onto its back, then slowly unwound herself, as though woken from a trance by the soft knock on the stateroom door.
She opened up, unconcerned about her nakedness.
A familiar figure stood in the doorway. “The spider and the admiral, huh?” the man said as he gently took her in his arms and rocked her as one will lull a child into comfort or sleep.
Bond had already taken the small sailing boat along the coastline.
Two days before, when M’s representative~ Caroline, had demanded that he should show her his proficiency with the little craft which he had rented together with the tiny villa, right on the shoreline near Cap Ferrat.
In the early hours of that morning, he prepared for another journey: showering first with scalding water and then with an ice cold needle spray.
He towelled himself down roughly, and went through his exercises, the sit-ups and push-ups that were his normal routine first thing in the morning. The fact that he had been awake all night made no difference for tomorrow was now, and it helped his discipline to act as though he had just risen from a deep and long sleep. He
