‘Thought you might need help.’ Natkowitz stood in the doorway. He did not look at all like a gentleman farmer now. He seemed at last to have lost the look of innocence and the foolish smile had disappeared. ‘Damned good these PRIs,’ he said. ‘I think we should move. Bory was getting difficult. He wanted to be a hero.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ Bond was through the door, not even bothering about noise any more. If it came to a fire fight, they would have to take their chances. He followed Natkowitz along the deck, knowing they would have to use the gun in the aft turret. If they could hold off Yuskovich’s men for long enough, they might just be able to blow the infernal floating cargoes out of the water.
When they got down to the hold, Rampart was on the deck nursing his neck, and Stephanie looked on the point of screaming.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ Bond began.
‘Bory,’ she said, looking wild. ‘He’s trying to swim it. Said it was his country and his duty. Said he was in the Dynamo Sports Club!’
Rampart cursed. For the first time since they had met, Bond thought he even looked half-human. ‘He caught me by surprise. I’m sorry. The imbecile.’ The Frenchman shook his head and squeezed his eyes.
‘He’ll never last in that water.’ Bond started for the door. He knew the Dynamo Sports Club was KGB’s crack field and swimming team.
‘He just might.’ Stephanie was helping Rampart to his feet. ‘He said he’d been in KGB’s swimming team, and he’d done the course of cold water survival. He said he was 1988 swimming champion. He went on about very cold water slowing the heart rate, and if you stuck with it, you could ward off hypothermia for a long . . .’
The explosion was followed by a lurch. The ship’s deck seemed to move, and the klaxons began to howl almost immediately.
He heard Natkowitz revert briefly to his gentleman farmer mode, saying, ‘That’s torn it,’ and by the time he reached the deck there were two searchlights trained on the water behind the ship. As he looked aft, Bond saw the rearmost fishing boat overturned in the sea with the container on its side, the whole contraption wallowing and starting to sink.
My god, he’s done it, he thought. Then he felt the jerk and pull again, and realised his earlier prediction had been sound. The great weight of the rearmost pair of Scamps and Scapegoats was starting to pull at the next container. Already the bows of the second makeshift fishing boat were out of the water, disclosing the square bulk of the huge metal box beneath. If it continued, the total weight would draw the last container and then the minesweeper down with it.
For a brief and stupid moment, Bond considered using some of the DRX he had brought from the cache in his denim jacket. It would cut through the hawser like a child breaking a thread of cotton. Then he realised that what had happened would be best in the end. Let the Scamps and Scapegoats act as anchors to drag the whole diabolical crew to the bottom of the sea. It was almost poetic.
He turned to Natkowitz. ‘There are a couple of inflatables on each side,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to deal with the ones here. You rip up the pair on the port side.’
‘Never mind,’ Rampart was already running. ‘I have a knife.’
As Bond reached the forward of the two inflatables, the middle container exploded. A yellow flash, outlined in orange, as the oblong box with its boat hull on top tilted over, turning turtle and already starting to slide into the dark water.
There was confusion on the deck and shouts coming from among both crew and Yuskovich’s remaining troops as he ripped the thick rubber of one inflatable and turned his attention to the other. But Stephanie and Pete Natkowitz had it half over the side. He saw Pete tug at the lanyard and the black shape floated down, hissing as it filled with air.
Natkowitz grabbed Stephanie by the shoulders and hauled her up over the rail. ‘Jump! Get down there!’ he shouted at her, and she disappeared with a little squeal of fear. Natkowitz followed her a second later, and Bond, poised for the drop towards the inflatable, suddenly saw with horror that the searchlights from the bridge had both centred on one small circle of ocean.
There, in the middle of the silver puddle, Boris Stepakov swam with long, lazy strokes towards the nearest fishing boat, its submerged cargo container already coming out of the water as the other sinking Scamps and Scapegoats dragged at it.
It seemed as though the weapons were firing from a long way off and a lazy stream of tracer floated towards the little figure who was now so close to his final target. The water boiled around him and his body was lifted half out of the sea by the impact. But, in his last seconds, Stepakov continued to go through the motions of swimming and his right hand came up in a great arc, his left rising to meet it, then pulling away with the grenade’s pin.
The next burst of fire threw him against the metal side of the container, and at that moment the third grenade exploded, tearing a long gash in the metal. Stepakov disappeared in the smoke, water and spray.
As Bond fell towards the water, he thought sadly that the man was certainly a swimming champion now. The icy flow rushed up to meet him, then Pete Natkowitz’s hands were around his shoulders, hauling him into the boat. At the rear, Stephanie wrestled with the motor, and Natkowitz’s face was turned upwards, his mouth open, shouting to Henri Rampart poised on the rail above.
The searchlights fluttered down, along the rail, chased by a clatter of bullets which ripped into the French major, knocking him along for six or seven feet before throwing him sideways. As he hit the water, the noise of helicopter engines seemed suddenly to blast from the sky. It was like the unexpected arrival of a violent thunderstorm on a clear day.
Stephanie had the inflatable’s motor going, and they began slowly to draw away from the minesweeper’s side. Other searchlights probed the ship now and Bond at first thought it must be the Iraqi Mi-10s arriving early.
Then he heard the Russian voice through a loud hailer from somewhere above. ‘Heave to, Two-Fifty-Two. Cease firing and we will take you off.’ The voice repeated its message three times, but all it got for its pains was a stuttering snarl of fire from the starboard 25s.
Bond heard Pete yelling to Stephanie, telling her to open the throttles, and he felt the craft move and buck in the water. They were about sixty yards away when another helicopter came in from for’ard, hurling death from a pair of rocket launchers. The inflatable keeled over to one side, swung and bobbed back as the rockets hit and the ship seemed to burst like a great rose, a centrepiece of scarlet leaping from amidships. As it bloomed in vivid crimson, reds and then pink at the extremities, Bond could have sworn he saw the long shape of Marshal Yuskovich entwined with Nina Bibikova hurtling upwards in the very centre of the fire, as though new-born from chaos.
They felt the hot blast, and a rain of metal, wood and spray fell all around them. Then the first chopper was heading back, hovering over them, the detached Russian voice coming through the loud hailer ‘Is that the English? Good, is it the English and French?’
They waved weakly, not knowing what to expect. Then the voice called, ‘Is Captain Bond with you? He has an important meeting in Moscow.’
21
MINSK FIVE
They were gathered in M’s office. London was almost as cold as it had been in Russia. It was the afternoon of January 17th. Twenty-four hours earlier, the coalition forces, led by the United States, had launched their aerial bombardment on Iraq. They called it Desert Storm. Tornadoes, Harriers, F-15s, F-16s, A-6s, Wild Weasels, and Tomahawk Cruise missiles had blasted at targets throughout the country. There was no sense of glee or delight, simply the old numbness that comes when nations are forced to take action against another nation. Nobody would relish death on the new, untested, electronic battlefield.
Bond had returned after a longer than expected stay in Moscow, and now, with Bill Tanner operating the tapes, he had gone through a lengthy pre-debriefing with his old Chief. Throughout the afternoon, M had sat, pipe clamped between his teeth, listening, with some relief, to the minutiae of the operation.
They had covered almost everything, including the last things – from the seizing of the trial videos, the finding of the four graves near the second dacha, the luckless Guy, George and Helen, plus the war criminal Vorontsov, to Boris Stepakov’s posthumously awarded Hero of the Soviet Union.
‘So you’ll be getting Michael Brooks and Emerald back?’ Bond made it sound half-question, half-statement.
M made a gesture which indicated it could go either way. Eventually he said, ‘The idea of passing all those actors and people off as the true heart of Chushi Pravosudia might have worked.’
‘It certainly would, had Yuskovich been successful. Who’d have known the difference, sir? They’ve hidden politicals for years, some without trial, even done away with them.’
‘Back in the dark ages, yes.’ M frowned.
‘But you’re getting Michael and Emerald back, sir?’ This time it was a question. ‘The Soviet President seemed . . .’
‘Let’s say we’re negotiating. The Soviet President’s certainly had the whole lot released. We’re hopeful. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Then I can go, sir?’
‘Just one more thing, 007 . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What did Yuskovich have tucked away at the air base called Minsk Five?’
‘Minsk Five, sir?’
‘Come on, James. Your final signal was detailed enough. Caspian Sea, the cargo, how it was being carried, everything until you got to the bit about Minsk Five. Then you went vague on me. “Inform soonest and most urgent President USSR to search Minsk Five.” ’
‘You know what Minsk Five is, sir?’ An old-time drill sergeant would have called it dumb insolence.
M sighed. ‘James, my dear boy, I’ll read it after the full debriefing, so you might as well tell me now. I know it’s a military air base.’
‘It has been a long day, sir.’
‘You should have thought of that before you asked for extra time in Moscow. I gather you then went on to Paris. How is Mlle Adoré?’
Bond did not meet his eye. ‘She needed a little comforting, sir. Henri Rampart was an old and valued friend.’
‘I bet he was. Minsk Five, 007.’
This time Bond looked genuinely concerned. Since he had first heard it, outside the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre on the dark and cold night when he had ‘killed’ himself, Bond had tried not to think about the ramifications of Minsk Five. He sucked in air. ‘It was Yuskovich’s final gambit, sir. I could only put it to the Soviet President through you.’
‘Well?’
‘I know he had the place pretty well dry-cleaned, the President, I mean . . .’
‘What was there to find?’ M put on his patient voice.
‘Possibly a Boeing 747, sir.’
‘A special 747?’
‘Pretty special. It was in British Airways livery. According to the late Yevgeny Yuskovich, they had also made modifications. Extra fuel tanks and a bomb bay containing a very high-yield nuclear device.’
‘Go on.’
‘This is what I heard, sir. The Soviet President did not confide in me. According to Yuskovich . . . what he said to Berzin, anyway . . . it sounds ludicrous, sir, but in this day and age nothing is too ludicrous. From what I heard, the intention was that, on the day after a strike was launched against Iraq, and following Iraq’s response with the Scapegoats, they were going to decimate Washington.’
‘How?’
‘A mid-Atlantic intercept by fighters, refuelled en route, of course. Our usual BA flight to Washington. To start with, the BA flight would have all radio and radar jammed and the counterfeit 747 would transmit on their frequency, use their squawk numbers. The BA aircraft would then be blown out of the sky at long range. They would never see the fighters that did it. Their 747 would then become the BA flight. It could be done, sir. The aircraft would be off air for a couple of seconds, then back on again.’
M frowned. ‘Yes, of course it could be done. The general public are getting their first taste of what can be done even as we speak.’
‘When the flight came under Dulles control, it would go way off course. It would be all over before the Dulles ATC realised what was happening.’
‘Right over the centre of Washington?’ M sucked his pipe, and Bill Tanner drew in his breath.
‘Washington, large chunks of Maryland and Virginia and other adjacent areas. I should imagine the bulk of America’s politicians, generals, you name it, would have gone.’
‘And you really believe he was going to have this done?’
‘I have no reason to disbelieve it, sir.’
‘The mad, mad . . .’ M stopped, shaking his head.
‘No, sir, I don’t think Yuskovich was mad.’
M rose and went over to the window. Below, the park was almost empty. There was a long silence before he spoke. ‘No, I suppose not. The man had a faith. He had served a system in which he had absolute belief. He saw it slipping away and he already had great power. You’re right, and I can only presume there’re thousands like him. Believers. It doesn’t simply disappear overnight. There most likely will be others. It has not gone away.’
Bond did not reply. He pulled a slim square jeweller’s box from his pocket and laid it on the desk to which M had now returned.
‘I think you should lock this away, sir. The Soviet President gave it to me. The very fact that it’s still presented to people for services rendered should tell us something.’
M did not seem to have heard him. ‘I’m certain the Soviets want to play by different rules, but it is hard to break the mould.’ The old spy nodded to himself, then looked at the box.
‘With permission, sir, I’d like to leave.’ Bond stood up.
M nodded, smiled absently, and said a simple. ‘Thank you, James. Drop in tomorrow, would you?’
Bond nodded, returning the smile.
When the door closed, M reached for the box and opened it. There lying on a bed of silk was an oval medal attached to a red ribbon bordered by thin white stripes. In the centre, surrounded by a gilt frame of grain, Lenin’s face stared off to the left, moulded in platinum. The red enamel border was punctuated by the hammer and sickle, the red star, and the name ЛЕНИНin Russian script. M had never seen one before, except in photographs, and then usually pinned to the breast of celebrated Soviets, but he recognised it immediately. One of the highest decorations the Soviets could award – the Order of Lenin.
Endnotes
1. GIGN. Groupement D’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale – the low-key, efficient, élite anti-terrorist unit.
2. DST. French security service.
3. DGSE. Direction Général de Securitée Extérieur, the equivalent of the British Secret Intelligence Service and the American CIA.
By John Gardner
Licence Renewed
For Special Services
Icebreaker
Role of Honour
Nobody Lives For Ever
No Deals, Mr Bond
Scorpius
Win, Lose or Die
Licence to Kill
Brokenclaw
The Man from Barbarossa
Death is Forever
Never Send Flowers
SeaFire
GoldenEye
COLD
John Gardner served with the Fleet Air Arm and Royal Marines before embarking on a long career as a thriller writer, including international bestsellers The Nostradamus Traitor, The Garden of Weapons, Confessor and Maestro. In 1981 he was invited by Glidrose Publications Ltd – now known as Ian Fleming Publications – to revive James Bond in a brand new series of novels. To find out more visit John Gardner’s website at www.john-gardner.com, or the Ian Fleming website at www.ianfleming.com
An Orion ebook
First published in Great Britain in 1991 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd
This ebook published in 2012 by Orion Books
© Glidrose Publications Ltd. 1991
The right of John Gardner to be i
dentified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
James Bond and 007 are registered trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4091-2726-0
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
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John Gardner, The Man From Barbarossa
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