Draft:Dead is not enoug.

Dead is not enoug.

File:Dead is not enough.jpg English version of the cover.
Language	English
Series	James Bond
Genre	Spy fiction
Publication place	United Kingdom

James Bond 007: "Death Is Not Enough" is a screenplay draft that was adapted into a short novel after it became clear no film adaptation was forthcoming. It depicts a setting that is slightly futuristic and progressive, grounded in the Soviet Union's *glasnost* era and a modern Great Britain. Elements such as cars, space travel, and aircraft possess a modern vibe, even if they are not always depicted with technical accuracy. No specific date is ever mentioned. Nevertheless, the story features the romantic entanglements typical of previous Bond tales; here, alongside Bond's own affairs, the narrative culminates in an intimate encounter between the British Prime Minister and the Soviet President. The story is a classic Bond adventure, featuring technology, beautiful women, distinctive villains, and a variety of international locations.

Plot

DEATH IS NOT ENOUGH

PROLOGUE

The roar of steel beneath the whipping waves of the North Sea was deafening. Spray splashed across the wet deck of the burning oil rig, mingling with pitch-black crude oil and the acrid stench of burning jet fuel. James Bond dodged the massive hook of a pipe wrench by mere millimeters. The second terrorist pressed the attack with a combat knife, but Bond grabbed his wrist, twisted it outward with precise, lethal force, and kicked the back of the man's knee. A dry crack echoed across the deck, followed by a scream that was instantly swallowed by the roar of the storm. The third attacker raised a tactical shotgun. Bond didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second: He grabbed the groaning man in front of him, using him as a human shield against the blast of buckshot, and hurled him into the shooter. Before the gunman could re-aim, Bond closed the gap. Two targeted blows to the solar plexus and the temple sent the last terrorist unconscious onto the steel grid deck. Bond adjusted his tie, brushed his wet hair back, and stepped to the edge of the helipad. A dull, rhythmic thrumming cut through the wind. Descending from the low-hanging clouds was a bulky yet fascinating silhouette: a Dornier Do-31, the experimental VTOL transport aircraft. While the lift engines at the wingtips blew white-gray exhaust clouds into the spray, the massive rear cargo hatch opened mid-air. With a well-timed leap, Bond landed on the ramp, stepped into the shadowy cargo bay, and sat down on one of the aluminum benches. He grabbed the headset hanging from the bulkhead and slipped it on. Sitting opposite him was Agent 008. She checked her wristwatch, then looked up at Bond. “What took you so long to contact the extraction team?” she asked over the comms channel as the Do-31 slowly lifted off the helipad, swiveling its lift-thrust engines for forward flight. Bond didn't answer. His gaze drifted past her, out into the open air. Standing on the deck of the swaying platform was a young, attractive woman. Her jumpsuit was smeared with black crude oil. She slowly pulled her zipper up, looked at the hovering aircraft, and blew Bond a suggestive kiss. 008 followed his gaze, turned back to Bond, and kept a straight face. “You've got oil on your cheek.” Bond grabbed a cloth and casually wiped his cheek. The heavy cargo hatch closed with a hydraulic hiss. The Do-31 accelerated forcefully, pressing the occupants back into their seats as it climbed into cruise flight, speeding away from the oil rig over the dark Atlantic. “You do know,” 008 remarked dryly, “that she's the niece of our Minister of Energy?” Bond leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Yes...”

CHAPTER 1: THE FALL OVER ROME

The sky over the Eternal City was flawless blue, but Gleb Baumann felt the fires of hell beneath his feet. The GRU agent sprinted frantically across the cobblestones of St. Peter's Square. His suit was rumpled, sweat glistening on his forehead. With trembling fingers, he pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and dialed an emergency number. “This is Gleb,” he gasped into the microphone. “The situation is bigger than we expected. It's not just about the G8 Summit—” A short, metallic click interrupted him. Then a calm, ice-cold voice sounded from the receiver: “Anton, give up. Or should I call you Gleb? Come to us, or you won't survive this.” Gleb cursed, ripped the phone from his ear, and smashed it against the cobblestones, shattering it into pieces. He bolted, pulled a second, encrypted burner phone from the inner pocket of his jacket, and dialed the direct line to Moscow. “This is Gleb Baumann from the GRU!” he almost shouted as he charged up the steps of St. Peter's Basilica. “Relay this information urgently to my chief! The data is hidden at the agreed location in Rome. It's a new bioweapon. It's not just the G8 Summit in danger—it's humanity as we know it! It affects Great Britain as well!” Gleb rushed through a hidden door and bounded up the stairs toward the colonnades. He ran for his life between the giant statues of the saints. But behind him, a dark figure emerged: a massive, broad-shouldered man clad in black tactical gear. Gleb looked over his shoulder, stumbled—and before he could recover, the colossus was upon him. A powerful shove hurled Gleb over the balustrade. With a piercing, agonizing scream, the agent plunged into the abyss. His body struck the sun-baked pavement of St. Peter's Square with a sickening thud. Seconds later, a black, unmarked SUV screeched to a halt right next to the body. A woman in black tactical gear and a balaclava jumped out, reached precisely into Gleb's jacket pocket, retrieved a small document wallet, and climbed back in. The muscular gunman descended via a side staircase at a run, jumped into the passenger seat, and the vehicle sped away.

CHAPTER 2: SHADOWS IN THE ALTAI

Thousands of kilometers to the east, in the jagged crags of the Altai Mountains. Three men in heavy coats and traditional headwear stood on a rocky outcrop, scouting the sky through binoculars. “Outer space belongs only to Allah,” the leader grunted. “The infidels have no business up there!” “Allah u akbar!” his companions chanted in unison. High up on the horizon, the sleek silhouette of a Soviet Uragan-class space shuttle emerged, gliding down at a steep angle toward the runway of the secret cosmodrome. The spacecraft was flanked on its left and right by two prototype Sukhoi S-6 fighter-bombers. The terrorist leader hoisted a Stinger anti-aircraft missile launcher onto his shoulder and switched on the seeker head. The high-pitched tone of a target lock sounded. He failed to notice a figure sliding out from the shadows of the rocks behind them—a woman in an ultramodern, matte-black stealth suit. Before the second man could react, a blade flashed. With a silent slash, the agent slit his throat. Before his body even hit the ground, she snatched the second loaded Stinger launcher from his hand, aimed it directly at the remaining two terrorists, and pulled the trigger. “Stick in the Air! Podnyat' v vozdukh!” she shouted into the throat microphone hidden beneath her mask. The missile launched at point-blank range, shredding the terrorists in a fiery explosion. Up in the air, the Sukhoi pilots intercepted the radio transmission. The engines of the S-6s ignited their afterburners with a deafening roar. The two fighter jets pulled steeply upward away from the heavy Uragan shuttle, releasing hundreds of gleaming infrared flares to decoy any potential heat-seeking missiles. The Uragan shuttle landed safely on the tarmac, followed by the two S-6s, which made a sharp bank and touched down gracefully behind it. The black-clad agent pulled off her mask and strode onto the airfield. Stepping out from the cockpits of the two Sukhoi jets were two young female pilots—both wearing long ponytails: a tall, confident blonde and a slightly shorter brunette. Before the agent could reach them, a black, ultra-modern ZIL luxury limousine with a softly purring V12 engine pulled up directly beside her. The rear door opened. A man in the dress uniform of a Soviet general looked out. “Taya Butenko, come!” he called out. Taya froze in surprise. “Minister General Semyon Kocherov?” Kocherov shook her hand. “Well done, Taya. That was close. Fortunately, the cosmonauts and the escort pilots are unharmed... But that is not why I am here. Taya... Gleb is dead. He was killed in Rome.” Taya's expression hardened. “I have orders to transfer his mission to you,” Kocherov continued. “It is extremely serious. The order comes from the very top. Please, get in.” Taya entered the car and took a seat on the folding chair facing backward. Kocherov sat opposite her, beside an elegant, dark-blonde woman in her mid-forties.

“Taya Butenko... I presume I do not need to introduce you to the President of the USSR, Irina Vasilyeva,” Kocherov said. Irina Vasilyeva looked Taya straight in the eyes. “Agent Butenko, I shall come straight to the point. Your colleague was tracking a global threat. At first, we assumed it was an attack planned for the G8 Summit, which I am scheduled to attend. But Gleb was unable to contact us. Instead, he contacted MI6.” The President paused briefly. “The fact that the British want to cooperate with us means the house is on fire. As you know, the British aristocracy despises the Soviet Union. And to them, it is unfathomable how a girl from an orphanage, a former psychology student, could become President of the USSR.” Kocherov leaned forward. “You will fly to Zurich today on an Aeroflot Myasishchev M-53. Once there, rent a vehicle of your choice with Swiss license plates and drive to Rome to investigate. But not alone. When you have the car, pick up your partner at Zurich Airport. He holds all the information Gleb gave to the British. Commander James Bond of MI6.” Kocherov handed her a dossier. “Here is our file on him. Be careful—he is a... how shall I put it? A ladies' man.” The interior lighting in the back of the limousine was arranged so that Taya's face remained in shadow.

CHAPTER 3: IN THE HEART OF LONDON

The SIS Headquarters on the banks of the Thames appeared serene, but behind its reinforced glass windows, it was buzzing with activity. James Bond sat on the edge of the desk in M's outer office. Miss Moneypenny was casually typing on her keyboard before looking up and offering Bond a teasing smile. “Well, James? How was the oil rig? Did you strike anything interesting out there? Find a drilling hole?” Bond smiled charmingly. “Oh Moneypenny, I'll tell you all about it over dinner tonight.” The intercom on her desk chimed. Moneypenny pressed the button, listened briefly, and nodded at Bond. “You can go in. He has another guest, though. Mind your manners, my dear.” Bond winked at her and opened the heavy oak door. Standing inside the office was not only M behind his massive desk, but also British Prime Minister Rupert Millborn, who rose thoughtfully from a leather armchair. “007,” M greeted him solemnly. “The operation on the oil rig was nearly flawless. But we have something far more critical now. A GRU agent was murdered in Rome. Before he died, he managed to send an encrypted message to us.” The Prime Minister took the floor. “It appears someone is planning to test a biological weapon at the G8 Summit—where I will also be present. And it doesn't stop there.” M slid a file across the desk. “You fly to Zurich today aboard a Carreidas C-160. There, you will be picked up by a GRU agent named Taya Butenko. You will drive to Rome together to retrieve Gleb's hidden data.” “What do we know about the lady?” Bond asked. “No photograph,” M replied. “Just facts: highly linguistically gifted—Russian, Ukrainian, English, German, Italian, Spanish. Exceptionally punctual, an expert markswoman, and highly trained in martial arts. Apparently, she has a soft spot for classic cars. She hails from Western Ukraine. One grandfather fought for the Wehrmacht, the other for Stalin... not exactly a harmonious family tree.” The Prime Minister stepped up to Bond and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, 007. And stay focused on the mission. As you know... my Minister of Energy is a personal friend of mine. And I know precisely what transpired on that platform. You and my goddaughter...” Bond's face remained impassive. “I am always at the service of the Crown, Sir.”

CHAPTER 4: Q AND THE ZURICH LABYRINTH

Inside MI6's subterranean laboratory, the usual chaos of cables, screens, and dismantled prototypes reigned. “Hello 007!” Q called out without looking up. “Over there is your new Aston Martin. Armored, bulletproof, forward oil slick, missiles... but I don't need to explain any of that to you, because you are getting a rental car this time! Wonderful news for the British taxpayer.” Bond smiled faintly. “I knew you always had my best interests at heart, Q.” “Pay attention to this instead,” Q said, handing him an elegant wristwatch. “This watch can broadcast an emergency distress signal on the standard international frequency of 121.5 MHz—or a signal exclusively on our secret, globally accessible MI6 frequency. It also alerts you if there is an active jammer or a homing beacon nearby.” Next, Q handed him a simple silver ring. “A signet ring. Turn the stone to the right, and a compartment opens containing a powder. Mixed into a drink, it completely paralyzes the target: full consciousness, but zero muscle movement. Turn it to the left, and it releases an extremely fast-acting sleeping agent that leaves no medical trace whatsoever.” Bond nodded, impressed. His eyes fell upon a somewhat worn, brown teddy bear sitting on Q's computer keyboard. Bond reached for it. “And what does this little fellow do? Explode on voice command?” Q snatched the bear back indignantly. “That is my teddy bear! I need him so I can fall asleep!” Q clutched the bear close before his expression softened again. “007... take your gear. The Carreidas jet is waiting outside the hangar. Good luck. Take care of yourself, old boy.”

The Aeroflot M-53 touched down on the tarmac at Zurich Airport. Shortly after, an imposing, black Monteverdi 475 Eco Speed Estate pulled up in the parking area outside the terminal. The driver—a tall, heavily muscled blonde man clad in black—stepped out and approached a waiting woman. “Did you order the private taxi service from Classic Car Rentals?” “Yes,” the passenger replied calmly and stepped into the back. The driver placed her luggage onto the front passenger seat and drove off. Within minutes, the woman in the back realized the car was turning into the dark concrete maze of the Zurich Y-highway tunnel network rather than heading toward the car rental agency. “This is the wrong way,” she said coldly. The driver remained silent. Then her eyes caught the padding of the driver's seat. Fresh, dark blood was oozing from the seam between the seat cushion and the backrest. Without hesitating, as the car slowed down inside the tunnel, the woman threw the door open, leaped onto the asphalt, and ducked through a green emergency exit into an escape tunnel. The driver slammed on the brakes. The Monteverdi's tires shrieked. The blonde colossus jumped out of the vehicle and gave chase. But the woman expertly navigated through the labyrinth of utility and subway shafts, crossing the tracks of the Zurich U-Bahn just seconds before an oncoming train blocked her pursuer in the dark.

Meanwhile, James Bond had been waiting at the airport pickup point for twenty minutes. A dark green, muscular Saurer F006 VIP luxury off-roader rolled up in front of him. A dark-haired woman at the wheel rolled down the window. “Bond? Pleasure to meet you. I am Butenko, your agent. Get in.” Bond examined the vehicle before opening the passenger door. “With pleasure. Though I must admit I expected you in a different car.” “Why?” she replied dryly as she pulled away. “This car is practical, luxurious, and inconspicuous.” As they entered the Hirzel highway tunnel, Bond broke the silence. “So, what do you Russians have? The KGB is tracking a major chemical weapons operation?” “Gleb told you where the information is hidden,” she answered without hesitation. “We evaluate the data in Rome, prevent the attack, and the world is safe again. You get a medal from MI6, I get one from the KGB.” Unnoticed, Bond held his mobile phone at chest level, snapped a crystal-clear photograph of the woman, and transmitted it securely to London headquarters. They left the highway and eventually parked outside the exclusive Hotel Ochsen in the city center. At reception, they booked a single suite for the night. Bond casually turned to the porter. “Do you have pike-perch on the menu?” “Yes, Sir. Which wine would you recommend with it?” “I shall inquire,” Bond replied, adding: “Please send a bottle of chilled champagne up to our room.” In the suite, both refreshed themselves. The waiter brought the champagne in an ice bucket and whispered to Bond: “With the pike-perch fillet, I recommend an earthy red wine. Our wine list is online.” Bond nodded knowingly. While the woman was in the bathroom, he turned his Q-ring to the left and poured the sleeping agent into her glass. When she emerged, they toasted and drank. A passionate encounter followed. Minutes later, the woman sank into a deep, dreamless sleep. Bond got dressed, stepped to the bed, and looked down at her. “Pike-perch is a freshwater fish, my dear. You drink white wine with fish, not red. You are not who you claim to be. You're neither KGB nor GRU.” He left the hotel, slipped through the night-bound old town down to the lakefront, and dialed the MI6 emergency number. “The wine list, please.” He was immediately connected to Agent 008. “James! That photo you sent—that isn't Butenko. It's Jazmin Rico, an Argentine national. Daughter of a junta sympathizer. She studied biology under Dr. José Méngdez. Méngdez was fired from the university for his racist theories and vanished with her without a trace.” Before 008 could finish, Bond saw headlights flash in the rearview mirror of a parked car. A red MOWAG T1+ SUV made an illegal turn toward the lakefront. A second, silver MOWAG T1+ van sped off toward Hotel Ochsen. Bond hung up. His retreat was cut off. Mercenaries were taking up positions outside the hotel. Approaching from the lake was the blonde colossus—a swastika tattoo clearly visible on his upper arm. Bond looked around. The only cover was a parked Geser food truck selling Hungarian specialties. Bond threw himself flat on his stomach and slid underneath the chassis. There, a small female dog with orange fur and black ears blinked at him sleepily.

Footsteps approached. Bond pressed a warning finger to his lips, but his foot brushed against an empty Soproni beer bottle. The glass rolled loudly across the cobblestones. The footsteps stopped. “Hey guys, here is the bastard!” the muscleman yelled with a Southern American accent. Before he could reach under the truck, the small dog shot out, snarling and barking fiercely. “Fucking dog, piss off!” the man shouted, kicking the dog violently before shaking his head. “Sorry, it's not him! Let's go with Jazmin!” The mercenaries retreated. The dog limped back under the truck and affectionately licked Bond's cheek. Bond stroked her head gently. Suddenly, footsteps sounded again. But this time, the dog bounded out joyfully, wagging her tail and standing up against a woman's legs. “Ah, James,” a deep, calm voice sounded. “Have you found a new partner? So, are you coming to Rome or not?” Bond crawled out from under the food truck. Standing before him was a stylish woman with clear, intense eyes. “008 gave me your GPS location,” she said. Bond smiled. “Ah, the Russian KGB agent.” Taya Butenko glared at him. “I am from the GRU, not the KGB! And I am a Soviet citizen—and if anything, Ukrainian, not Russian!” Bond gave a charming smile. “Of course you are. Now I'm completely sure.” They walked over to a breathtaking, metallic-blue Monteverdi 375 Highspeed Estate. “Oh, a car from the seventies,” Bond complimented. “My nostalgic taste,” Taya replied. As they climbed in, the small dog sat a short distance away on the pavement, wagged her tail happily, and trotted peacefully back into the old town.

CHAPTER 5: THE TRAIL FROM ROME TO CUBA

In a safehouse in Rome, Bond and Taya analyzed the USB drive retrieved from Gleb Baumann's stash. The video file showed an exhausted Gleb. “If you are watching this, I am dead... Méngdez, Rexx Tiller, and Jazmin Rico are working together. Méngdez has completed his grandfather's research. It is a genetically conditioned bioweapon. It kills selectively based on ethnic genetic sequences—Slavs, Black people, Han Chinese... He intends to test the weapon at the G8 Summit. The laboratory is located on an uncharted island three hundred kilometers off Cuba. The island is protected by radar-guided air defenses and sonar...” “An airborne insertion is impossible,” Bond analyzed. “A submarine would be picked up by sonar.” Taya looked at the map. “If we can reach Cuba, we have a chance. The Soviet Navy has precisely what we need there.” Aboard an Alitalia Lockheed L-2000, the two flew supersonic to Mexico City and boarded a Baade-160 to Havana. At the secret Soviet naval base in Cuba, Taya assumed command of a massive A-90 Orlyonok Ekranoplan—an ekranoplan ground-effect vehicle—along with a BTR-80 armored personnel carrier and ten highly decorated naval infantrymen. Under cover of a starless night, Taya piloted the Ekranoplan to high altitude using all three engines, then cut the jet engines and let the Orlyonok glide at top speed powered solely by its turboprop engine. Below radar coverage. Three kilometers from the coast, she cut the turboprop as well. The ground-effect craft glided silently over the waves on its cushion of air, easing onto the sandy beach—completely imperceptible to sonar amidst the roaring surf. The marines poured silently from the cargo hold. Bond spotted the hulking Rexx Tiller standing in the doorway of a bungalow, drinking a stein of beer with a massive bowie knife strapped to his leg. Rexx set his beer down and stepped inside. Bond crept forward and poured the paralyzing powder from his Q-ring into the beer stein. Together, they breached the main compound. As they reached the sealed steel door of the laboratory, it unexpectedly opened. Jazmin Rico stepped out. For a fraction of a second, Jazmin and Taya locked eyes. Jazmin reached for her sidearm—but Taya was faster. With a lightning movement, she drew her combat knife and slit Jazmin's throat. As she collapsed, an uncontrolled shot discharged from Jazmin's pistol. The gunshot alerted the remaining mercenaries. A fierce firefight broke out. Bond and Taya dove inside the lab and slammed the heavy blast door shut behind them. Outside, the gunfire faded—the marines and mercenaries had wiped each other out. Inside the lab, they faced Dr. José Méngdez and his last remaining bodyguard. The bodyguard raised his SMG, but Bond and Taya fired synchronously. Two rounds shattered the guard's chest. The bullets passed through his body and struck Méngdez, who was standing right behind him, squarely in the lung. The doctor stumbled backward through an open glass door into a sterile testing lab filled with vials.

“I know who you are...”, Méngdez gasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “James Bond... 007. Are you not tired of serving a Black Prime Minister as a white aristocrat?” Bond looked at him coldly. “The only thing that matters, Méngdez, is whether a man's soul is black. And Millborn's soul is not.” Méngdez turned desperately to Taya. “Taya... as an oppressed Ukrainian! Cast off Stalin's legacy! Your grandfather Oleksander fought on the same side as my grandfather... Méngdez is merely the Spanish adaptation of our true family name! Continue your grandfather's work!” Bond whispered softly: “Méngdez... Mengele.” Taya stared at the dying man with icy contempt. “I owe nothing to either of my grandfathers. Both died—one in a Gulag, the other in a concentration camp. My job is to protect every ethnicity from monsters like you!” She turned to leave. “Don't leave me here to die!” Méngdez pleaded. Taya turned around, raised her weapon, and shot out the glass vials lining the wall. The yellowish bioweapon liquid poured across the floor. Before sealing the airtight glass door, she met his eyes one last time. “Death is not enough.” She placed her backpack containing thermobaric explosives outside the glass door.

CHAPTER 6: THE CUBAN INFERNO

The explosion turned the laboratory complex into an inferno. The extreme heat incinerated every spore of the bioweapon without mercy. Bond and Taya sprinted back to the Ekranoplan on the beach. But as Taya powered up the engines, a figure charged out from the brush: Rexx Tiller! The paralytic agent had worn off. With a crazed look in his eyes, Rexx scrambled onto the roof of the Orlyonok and fired his automatic pistol through the hull into the cockpit. He missed the agents, but the control cables for the turboprop snapped. “I'll take care of it!” Bond shouted, climbing through the maintenance hatch onto the roof of the speeding vehicle. On the slick metal surface, a brutal martial arts brawl erupted. Bond dodged a crushing hook, landed a threepunch combination, and swept Rexx off his feet. The giant slid forward across the fuselage, crashed through the intake guard of the starboard jet engine, and was sucked inside. A violent explosion shook the craft. The starboard engine burst into flames. Bond scrambled back into the cockpit. “We're losing altitude!” Taya yelled. “The fire is eating through the hull. We're sinking!” “Where is Tiller?” she asked. “Rexx Tiller, the engine killer?” Bond replied dryly. “Dissolved into what he always was: hot air. We need to get into the BTR-80 in the cargo bay!” The Ekranoplan slammed hard into the waves and began pitching forward into the sea. Opening the front bow doors was impossible due to the water pressure. Bond leaped into the BTR-80, rotated the turret backward, and unleashed a full belt from the 30mm cannon straight into the rear bulkhead of the Orlyonok. The armor-piercing rounds shredded the aluminum hull. Taya slammed the throttle forward. The BTR-80 shot backward out of the sinking wreck into the sea, briefly submerging in a cloud of spray before surfacing. Taya flipped up the trim vane and engaged the water-jet drive. The amphibious vehicle chugged peacefully through the twilight. The tension of the past days evaporated. Taya looked at Bond, grabbed him by the lapels, and kissed him passionately. As the sun rose over the Caribbean Sea, the roof hatches of the BTR-80 were open. Bond and Taya looked up into the clear blue sky. “At ten kilometers per hour, we'll never reach Cuba,” Taya remarked. “No problem,” Bond said. He pressed the crown on his Q-watch. First the secret MI6 frequency. When nothing happened after an hour, he triggered the international emergency frequency on 121.5 MHz. A short while later, a deep roar echoed across the water. A Cuban Tu-91 swooped low over the amphibious vehicle, rocked its wings, and cycled its landing gear in greeting. Fifteen minutes later, the Tu-91 returned—escorted by a US Navy SH-60 Seahawk helicopter. Frogmen dropped into the water, attached Bond and Taya to the rescue winch, and hauled them aboard. The helicopter touched down on the deck of a floating colossus: the USS William Henry Harrison.

Waiting on the flight deck was a broadly grinning man in CIA gear. “James! You old dog! London misses you!” “Hello Felix,” Bond grinned. “Thanks for the taxi.” Felix Leiter shook his hand. “That's not all. Two F/A-18D Super Hornets are prepped to fly you to the mainland... And who is this lovely lady?” “Taya Butenko of the GRU. Taya, this is my old friend Felix Leiter of the CIA.” Felix beamed at her. “Welcome aboard the USS William Henry Harrison! But the quarters here are small... I could show you mine!” he winked playfully. “First, though, grab a real American hot dog in the officers' mess!”

EPILOGUE

In an opulent hotel conference hall, French President Claude Poutifard stood at the podium. “Dear friends,” he spoke into the microphone. “The first day of the G8 Summit was intense. But the historic collaboration between Great Britain and the Soviet Union has proven that together, we can overcome any threat. Thank you, Irina. Thank you, Rupert!” The delegates filed out of the hall. In the corridor, President Poutifard bent down to tie a loose shoelace. Through the gap, he spotted the feet of Soviet President Irina Vasilyeva and British Prime Minister Rupert Millborn walking down the hallway together. “The cooperation between our agents was very fruitful... and intense,” he overheard Irina say. “We should expand on this in a private conversation.” “Yes, absolutely!” Millborn responded enthusiastically. “We could do that right now in my room... I have some excellent Scotch whisky with me.” “Oh Rupert,” Irina chuckled softly. “You do realize I hold a black belt in karate?”—followed by the distinct slap of a hand landing on Millborn's rear. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them. President Poutifard straightened up, smiling warmly. At that moment, the US President approached him nervously. “Claude! Have you seen Rupert or Irina? My aircraft carrier isn't on the course it's supposed to be on! And Felix Leiter from the CIA just told me to go ask Rupert or Irina!” The French President placed a reassuring arm on the US President's shoulder. “My dear Ross, come, let me show you the hotel bar—they have exquisite cognac and cigars.” Poutifard offered a sly wink and added softly: “Cuban cigars.” Poutifard gently guided the US President in the opposite direction from Millborn's room. As they strolled down the hallway, the French President merrily whistled the tune of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow”.

POST-CREDITS SCENE

The interior of the pitch-black, heavily tinted luxury limousine was dimly lit. A man dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit leaned back into the leather seats. On the glowing screen of an ultra-modern tablet, he was watching a high-definition surveillance feed. The camera footage came from the secured laboratory on the island: it showed the dying Dr. Méngdez, writhing in agony behind the shattered glass wall as the bio-agent ran its course. With a smooth gesture, the man swiped the video away, picked up an encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a short speed-dial code. “Bond and the Russian woman crossed our plans,” he said in a deep, calm voice devoid of emotion. “Méngdez is dead.” He paused briefly, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. “Very well,” the man continued. “Then I suppose we shall have to initiate Operation 'Pyramid'. We will discuss the details tomorrow... I have a meeting in Whitehall now.” He hung up. The scene slowly pulls back through the car window and rises into the air. The black limousine pulls up directly before the historic gates of the British Parliament buildings in Whitehall, London. The rear door opens, and the silhouette of the man steps out.

James Bond will return in : Operation Pyamid.

The End.

Locations

Locations where the book takes place include:

• North Sea UK
• Rome Italy
• Altai Mountains Russia, Sovietunion
• London UK
• ZurichSwitzerland
• Mexico City Mexico
• Cuba
• Évian-les-Bains France

See also

• Outline of James Bond

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Categories:

• James Bond books