They had folded down some of the seat backs, so that Bond had a good view of the radio, seeing that it was linked to the micro.
Holy appeared to be muttering to himself as he tuned to the frequency. Rahani watched him closely, like a warder, Bond thought.
General Zwingli was half-turned in his seat, giving advice. Both Simon and the Arab boy stood guard, the boy never taking his eyes off the pilot and Bond. Simon was leaning against the door, almost as though he were covering his masters.
Below them, the lakeside of Geneva slid into view. The airship slowed, tilted forward and turned gently.
'No playing around, Nick,' Rahani called in warning.
'Just do what you normally do. Then take her straight over Le Richemond.'
'I'm doing what I normally do. I'm doing it by the book,' the pilot said laconically. 'That's what you wanted and that is just what you're getting.'
'And what,' Bond called back, 'are we really doing, anyway? What is this caper that's going to change history?' Holy lifted his eyes towards the flight deck.
'We are about to put the stability of the world's two most powerful nations to the test. Would you believe that the ciphers directly transmittable to the emergency networks of the American President and the Chairman of the U.S.S.R. include programs to deactivate their main nuclear capabilities?'
'I'd believe anything.' Bond did not need to hear any more. M was right. The intention was to send the U.S. Ploughshare program, and its Russian counterpart, into their respective satellites, and from there into irreversible action. It was at this moment that Bond made up his mind.
His whole adult life had been dedicated to his country; this time he knew it would be forfeit. There was one Glaser slug in the ASP.
With luck, in the confined gondola it would blow any one of the men in half. But only one. So what was the use of a human target? Kill one, then be killed. That would serve no purpose. If he chose the right time, and the Arab boy could be distracted, the one Glaser slug, placed accurately, would blow the radio and possibly the micro as well.
He would die very soon after taking out the hardware, but for Bond this was as nothing compared to the satisfaction of knowing he would once more have smashed SPECTRE'S plans. Maybe they would try again.
But there were always other men like himself; and the Service had been alerted.
Geneva, clean, ordered and picturesque, now lay to their right, as Nick gently turned the ship. Mont Blanc towered above them. The airship began to descend to a thousand feet for its short journey along the lakeside.
'How long?' It was the first time Zwingli had spoken to the men at the controls.
Nick glanced back. 'To Le Richemond? About four minutes.
'Are you locked onto that frequency?' The General was now addressing Holy.
'We're on the frequency, Joe. I've put the disk in. All we have to do is press the Enter key, and we shall know whether comrade Bond has been true to his word.'
'You're activating the States first, then?'
'Yes, Joe.' Rahani replied this time. 'Yes, the United States get their instructions in a couple of minutes.' He craned forward to look from the window. 'There it is, coming up now.
Bond gently slid the safety catch off the ASP.
'Ready, Jay. Any minute.' Rahani did not raise his voice, yet the words carried clearly over the length of the gondola.
The luxurious hotel with its perfectly laid out gardens was coming up below them. Nick held the Europa on a true course which would take them straight over the palatial building.
'I said ready, Jay.
'Any second . . . Okay,' Holy answered.
At that moment, Bond, gripping the ASP, turned towards the Arab boy and shouted, 'Your window. Look to your window.' The Arab turned his head slightly, and Bond, knowing there was one chance, and one chance only, brought his hand up and squeezed the trigger. In the whirling engine noise, the solid clunk of the pistol's firing mechanism crashing forward obliterated everything.
For a second he could not believe it. Was it a misfire?
A dud round? Then came Simon's laugh, echoed by a grunt from the Arab boy.
'Don't think of throwing it, James. I'll cut you down with one hand. You didn't honestly think we'd let you on board with a loaded gun, did you? Too much of a risk.'
'Damn you, Bond.' Rahani was half out of his seat.
'No gunplay - not in here. Have you given us the frequency, or is that as false as your own loyalty?' The bleep and whir from the back of the gondola indicated that Holy had activated the cipher program.
He gave a whoop of joy.
'It's okay, Tamil. Whatever else Bond's tried, he has given us the frequency. The satellite's accepted it.' Bond dropped the pistol, a useless piece of metal. They had done it. At this moment, the sophisticated hardware in the Pentagon would be sorting the digits at the unbelievable rate of today's computers. The instructions would be pouring out to compatible machines the length and breadth of the U.S.A.
and to the NATo) forces in Europe. Now it was done, Bond felt only a terrible anger and a sickness deep in his stomach. What happened in the next few seconds took time to sink in. Holy was still whooping his joy as he half rose, stretching out a hand, fingers snapping, towards Rahani.
'Tamil, come on, the Russian program. You have it. I've locked on to their frequency . . .' His voice rose with urgency. 'Tamil!' Now shouting, 'Tamil! The Russian program. Quickly.' Rahani gave a great bellowing laugh. 'Come on, yourself; Jay. You didn't think we were really going to allow the Soviet Union to suffer the indignity of being stripped of her assets as well?' Jay Autem Holy's mouth opened and closed, like a dying fish. 'Wha. . .? Wha . . .? What do you mean, Tamil? What . . ?'
'Watch them!' Rahani snapped, and both Simon and the Arab boy appeared to stiffen to his command. 'You can begin the return journey, Nick,' Rahani said, so quietly that Bond was amazed he could be heard above the steady motor buzz.
'I mean, Jay, that long ago I took over as the Chief Executive of SPECTRE. I mean that we have done what we set out to do. I even gambled on the pawn, Bond, getting the EPOC frequency. Down Escalator was always intended simply to deal with the imperialist power of the United States, which we shall now be able to hand on a plate to our friends in the Soviet Union. You were brought in only to provide the training programs. We have no use for emotionally motivated fools like Zwingli and yourself. You understand me?' Jay Autem Holy let out a wail of despair echoed only by General Zwingli's roar of anger.
'You bastard!' Zwingli started to move. 'I wanted my country strong again, by putting Russia and the U.S.A. on the same footing. You've sold out - you. . . He launched himself at Rahani.
The Arab boy shot him, once, fast and accurately. He toppled over without a sound. While the blast of the boy's weapon continued in a long bell-like boom, echoing in the confined space, Jay Autem Holy leaped towards Rahani, arms outstretched to claw at his throat, his scream turning to a banshee wail of hate.
Rahani, with no room to back off' shot him in mid-leap, firing two rounds from a small hand gun. But Holy's powerful spring, strengthened by his fury, carried his body on so that he crashed lifeless on top of SPECTRE'S leader, the man who had inherited the throne of the Blofeld family.
'Get us down,' Bond rapped at the pilot. 'Just get us down!' In the confusion, he made for the nearest target, Simon, who, with his back to the flight deck, was moving towards the tangle of bodies piled across the seats. Bond landed hard on Simon's back, one arm locking round his neck, the other delivering a mighty chopping blow which connected a fraction below the right ear.
Caught off balance, Simon fell to the left. His hand, scrabbling for some kind of hold, hit the gondola door's locking device so that the door swung open, bringing in a sudden draught of air. As Simon went limp, the Arab boy fired at Bond, a fraction of a second late, for the bullet hit Simon's chest. At the moment of his death, a great power seemed to force itself through his muscles, so that he broke free from Bond's grasp, the body turning as it crumpled, the reflexes closing his hand around the grip and trigger of the Uzi machine pistol.
Half a burst of fire rapped out, cutting the Arab almost in two.
Simon did not let go of the gun, but merely fell backwards. His hands did not claw air, no sound came from his throat. He simply fell through the gondola door, through a thousand feet of clear air, his last long journey to hit
