Carte Blanche

your weapon and stay inside with your grandmother.”
    He sprinted hard across the street as the man fled up a narrow alley leading toward Signal Hill, through the deepening dusk.

Chapter 51
    The man had a ten-yard lead but Bond began closing the distance as they pounded up the alley. Angry cats and scrawny dogs fled; a child with round Malaysian features stepped out of a door into Bond’s path and was instantly jerked back by a parental hand.
    He was nearly fifteen feet from the assailant when operational instinct kicked in. Bond realized that the man might have prepared a trap to aid his escape. He glanced down. Yes! The attacker had strung a piece of wire across the alley, a foot off the ground, nearly invisible in the darkness. The man himself had known where it was—a shard of broken crockery marked the spot—and had stepped over it smoothly. Bond wasn’t able to stop in time but he could prepare himself for the fall.
    He twisted his shoulder forward and when his own momentum swept his legs out from under him, he half somersaulted onto the ground. He landed hard and lay dazed for a moment, cursing himself for letting the man get away.
    Except that he wasn’t escaping.
    The wire hadn’t been intended to hinder pursuit but to render Bond vulnerable.
    In an instant the man was on him, exuding the stench of beer, stale cigarette smoke and unwashed flesh, and ripped Bond’s Walther from the holster. Bond launched himself upward, gripping the man’s right arm in a lock and twisting his wrist until the weapon fell to the ground. The attacker kicked the gun, which flew far from Bond’s reach. Gasping, Bond kept hold of the man’s right arm and dodged vicious blows from his other fist.
    He glanced back, wondering if Bheka Jordaan had ignored his advice and come after him, armed with her own weapon. The empty alley gaped at him.
    Now his assailant eased back to deliver a forehead blow. But, as Bond twisted to avoid it, the man rolled away, in a virtual backward somersault, like a gymnast. It was a brilliant feint. Bond recalled Felix Leiter’s words.
    Man, the SOB knows some martial arts crap . . .
    Then Bond was on his feet, facing the man, who stood in a fighter’s stance, a knife in his hand, blade protruding downward, sharp edge facing out. His left hand, open and palm down, floated distractingly, ready to grab Bond’s clothing and pull him in to be stabbed to death.
    On the balls of his feet, Bond circled.
    Ever since his days at Fettes in Edinburgh, he had practiced various types of close combat but the ODG taught its agents a rare style of unarmed fighting, borrowed from a former (or not so former) enemy—the Russians. An ancient martial art of the Cossacks, systema had been updated by the Spetsnaz, the special forces branch of GRU military intelligence .
    Systema practitioners rarely use their fists. Open palms, elbows and knees are the main weapons. The goal, though, is to strike as infrequently as possible. Rather, you tire out your opponent, then catch him in a come-on or takedown hold on the shoulder, wrist, arm or ankle. The best systema fighters never come into contact with their adversary at all . . . until the final moment, when the exhausted attacker is largely defenseless. Then the victor takes him to the ground and drops a knee into his chest or throat.
    Instinctively falling into systema choreography, Bond now dodged the man’s assault.
    Evade, evade, evade . . . Use his energy against him.
    Bond was largely successful but twice the knife blade swept inches from his face.
    The man moved in fast, swinging his massive hands, testing Bond, who stepped aside, sizing up his opponent’s strengths (he was very muscular and experienced in hand-to-hand combat and was psychologically prepared to kill) and his weaknesses (alcohol and smoking seemed to be taking their toll).
    The man grew frustrated at Bond’s defense. Now he gripped the knife for thrusting and began to move in, almost desperate. He was grinning demonically, sweating despite the chill in the air.
    Presenting a vulnerable target, his lower back, Bond stepped toward his Walther. But the move was a feint. And even before the man lunged, Bond reared back, pushed the knife blade away with his forearm and delivered a fierce open-palm slap to the man’s left ear. He cupped his hand as he made contact and felt the pressure that would damage if not burst the attacker’s eardrum. The man howled in pain, infuriated, and lunged