Bond nodded his understanding. ‘So what’s the score now?’
‘You heard the doctor. He says twenty-four hours . . .’
‘I don’t need twenty-four hours. If we’re going to do this, we should move fast.’ He sat on the edge of the bed again. ‘Look, Bill, I’ve been down this road too many times of late. Last year, for instance, I went into a situation in the US posing as a member of another group, and look what happened. I don’t relish the idea of doing it in co-operation with KGB. But, if there’s no other way . . .’
‘I’m sure that if there was another operational course, M would take it. This simply appears to be the best Sunday punch.’
‘Tell him I want to do it now then.’ He looked steadily at his old friend. ‘I’d like to get myself cleaned up and organised. Can I go back to my place? He can get me there any time he wants.’
Half-an-hour later, Bond was back in his ground-floor flat off Chelsea’s King’s Road. Before even beginning to clean up, he packed a lightweight flight bag with things he regarded as necessary for a trip to Moscow at this time of the year. The gear was more utilitarian than modish – thermal socks, underwear and gloves, together with thick rollnecks and cold weather outer clothing – though he did include a couple of suits and several normal shirts. Who knew where he might find himself?
He made careful choices of ancillary equipment which included the ASP 9mm automatic and several clips of ammunition. Though the ASP was no longer being made, Bond had retained it as his weapon of choice. After all, he knew that similar pistols were in great demand, changing hands at between $3–4,000 a time. The new, bulky 10mm automatic, now being used by the American law enforcement and counterintelligence agencies was certainly a man-stopper of the highest order, though he considered it too bulky for him to carry in his kind of work.
He rechecked everything, then headed for the bathroom where he stood for a long time under a scalding hot shower, trying to ease the bruising from his shoulders. He followed this with a stingingly cold shower, then towelled himself down vigorously.
He was about to climb between the sheets when the secure, direct line from headquarters rang.
‘007?’ It was M’s gravel voice.
‘Sir?’
‘We’re sending a car for you at eight thirty in the morning. Chief of Staff tells me you’re anxious to get going. You feel fit enough?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘Good man. Bring anything you might require. We plan to get you off sometime tomorrow evening. I’ll give you all necessary updates in the morning.’
The Old Man had cradled the telephone at his end before Bond even had time to reply. He arranged an alarm call for seven, then turned out the light. He was asleep within five minutes.
Though all exit points from the United Kingdom were being watched by members of the Security Service and the police, nobody paid much attention to the tall girl with long jet black hair who boarded the first British Airways flight, BA 446, out of Gatwick airport to Amsterdam. That is, they did not pay any attention to her in the sense of security. Certainly, on this bitter morning, many a young officer’s blood was stirred, for she wore a pair of jeans designed, it appeared, as a second skin, and a very tight turtleneck sweater. She had a heavy camel-hair coat over one arm and carried only a small flight bag. Her British passport showed that she was Harriet Goode, thirty years of age and a senior executive of a small firm which dealt in precious stones, mainly diamonds, in Hatton Garden. She was polite and even flirted a little with the passport control officer who checked her through on to the air side.
The flight took off shortly after seven thirty, only ten minutes late. Mlle Stephanie Adoré ate the complimentary breakfast with obvious enjoyment – after all, it was the first food she had taken since the meal with Mr Boldman at the Café Royal. As she looked out across the grey desert of cloud, she thought it would be good to get into Amsterdam. For one thing she would be able to rid herself of the wig which was uncomfortable and hot. She would vanish as Harriet Goode, and that would be a relief. She also wondered how Henri Rampart was faring.
He was, in fact, surviving very well. Just as the British Airways Boeing 737 Stretch was starting its approach to Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport, Major Henri Rampart was calling a great deal of attention to himself as he boarded the 310 Airbus that was KLM Flight 118 at Heathrow. It was not the overtly sexual attention which had been afforded to Mlle Adoré at Gatwick, but rather the consideration reserved for the crippled or maimed.
Rampart had transformed himself into an elderly man requiring assistance from the airport authorities in order to board the flight. His height was camouflaged by the fact that he was in a wheelchair and by the more sophisticated magic of present-day disguise, his almost bald head had become a straggle of grey hair. On paper he was Robert Brace, a British citizen resident in Amsterdam who was returning, following a brief business trip to London, during which he had damaged his right leg in a fall. The leg was in plaster and Mr Brace was not in the best of moods. In fact he was downright bad-tempered and the personnel who had taken him down the jetway and on to the aircraft were relieved to see the back of him. They had also made certain that a message would go ahead to Schipol that he required some delicate and diplomatic handling.
It was, perhaps, significant that Mr Brace became charm itself once they were airborne, and nobody would need to be concerned about the arrival at Schipol for he mentioned that his daughter would be meeting him.
‘I wanted a word with you alone, before Mr Natkowitz joins us.’ M sat behind the big glass desk, looking tired and all of his years. He had greeted Bond warmly, enquiring about his health and again reassuring himself that his agent was quite prepared to undertake this mission. ‘The Chief of Staff tells me you want to get it over with, though you did mention to him that you’ve been used in this stalking-horse capacity maybe a little too often of late. Eh?’
Bond said he was merely making an observation to Bill Tanner. ‘I did say something about not being ecstatic about working with KGB.’
M grunted. ‘Well, we have no other option. You read the stuff about General Yuskovich?’
‘All of it, sir. You think he’s going to be involved?’
‘No idea, 007. No idea at all. But I wanted you to see all we had on him, if only to alert you to possibilities. If we know he is the war criminal, Josif Vorontsov’s cousin, then we can take it for granted that he is also aware, and that he’ll fight to keep Vorontsov, or anyone who is fingered as Vorontsov, out of the USSR. If he’s had any influence, he has already succeeded. You seen the papers this morning?’
Bond shook his head.
‘Well, I’ll talk about that when Mr Natkowitz joins us in a few minutes. What I wanted to say to you is that it is our object to settle this matter, one way or another, as quickly as we’re able. The business with Iraq might blow any time. I don’t for a moment believe that Saddam Hussein is going to blink, as they say. The American Secretary of State can make overtures, as can anyone, but I would stake everything on the unpalatable fact that this wretched dictator’s going to require a sharp lesson by force before the politicos can get down to real talking. I have no sides, because my job precludes me from being a political animal. I wouldn’t even want to suggest to you what I think should be done. But I am pretty certain I know what is going to be forced upon the coalition countries in the Middle East, and, when that happens, I’m going to need every experienced field agent I can lay my hands on. Understand?’
‘Only too well, sir.’
‘Good. This is a small sideshow. A small and undesirable sideshow, and the very fact we have the Mossad involved means you have to clean it up as soon as possible. I would prefer to have Mr Natkowitz back in Tel Aviv long before anything blows up in Iraq.’ He seemed about to carry on, when the buzzer sounded on the control panel and Moneypenny’s voice came through the speaker, saying that the Chief of Staff was there with Mr Natkowitz.
Natkowitz came in full of apologies, as
though blaming himself first for Bond’s predicament – what he called the ‘argument with Rampart’s car’ – and the second for the problems his own arrest had caused.
He was even oversolicitous regarding Bond’s physical health, until M closed him down with a rather harsh suggestion that they get on with the business in hand.
‘I want to draw your attention to small reports which appeared in most of the London morning papers,’ he began. Bill Tanner was passing photocopied sheets to both men. ‘You’ll note that the news appeared on the front pages of only two papers – the Express and the Mail. Everyone else carried it on page two. This should tell us that it is not being treated as a high-class priority in this country.’
Bond scanned the sheets Tanner had given to him. Most of the papers had simply reprinted a Foreign Office press report. The Kremlin had announced that they had now deliberated on the ultimatum given to them by the Scales of Justice regarding the so-called war criminal, Josif Vorontsov, and had decided that they respectfully reserved the right to deny this man’s extradition into the Soviet Union. The grounds were plain and straightforward. ‘Bearing in mind our own intelligence on Josif Vorontsov, we are not convinced that the so-called Scales of Justice has, in fact, apprehended the correct man. The State Organs, meaning KGB, have irrefutable evidence as to the condition and whereabouts of the real Josif Vorontsov.’
‘I need to tell you,’ M said, looking at Bond and then Natkowitz in turn, ‘the Kremlin has no information from us, and I presume, Mr Natkowitz, your people have been even less forthcoming.’
‘I spoke with Tel Aviv an hour ago, sir. They remain alert and are still searching for the man we know is Vorontsov.’
‘Good.’ M sat back. ‘The information you are reading was released at midnight, London time. That is, three a.m. Moscow time. There have been developments.’ He nodded to Tanner, who passed a typewritten sheet to each agent. ‘The paper you hold in your hands contains the response by the Scales of Justice. We don’t know what to believe, or whether they will attempt to carry out their threat. I want you to read and digest because it’ll bring you up to date. You will see the deadline is six o’clock, Moscow time. That’s three this afternoon over here, and by that time I hope to have the pair of you en route to Moscow.’
Bond felt a distinct nudge of concern as he read the terse print-out which was the Scales of Justice’s last message to the Kremlin.
Communiqué Number Two: We have received the negative response to our justified demands that the Kremlin take into custody the traitor and war criminal, Josif Vorontsov, who we hold against his trial in the Soviet Union for the reprehensible offences committed by this man on Russian soil during the Great Patriotic War. We ask the Kremlin to reconsider. At the same time, we are taking steps to make video recordings, which will be made available to many concerned countries, proving the case against Vorontsov. However, while we do this, we hope for a change of heart by the leaders of the homeland. To show that we mean what we say, if the authorities do not respond in a more positive fashion by six o’clock this evening, a member of the so-called State Organs, known also as KGB, will pay the penalty. So if we hear nothing of a change of attitude by six p.m. today, January 3rd, 1991, a senior member of KGB will be publicly executed.
As before, the communiqué was signed Chushi Pravosudia.
‘They mean it,’ Bond said flatly.
‘Course they mean it, 007,’ M grunted, as though he were addressing an imbecile. ‘Sometime after fifteen hundred hours, London time, they’re going to take out a visible KGB target. Agreed, Mr Natkowitz?’
‘I should imagine they have some kind of capability, sir, yes. They’ve done it once on the streets of Moscow; tried it within the Kremlin. Yes, I think they mean it. I also suspect that their next step will be to ask the Kremlin to prove their own theory by showing them the man they say is Vorontsov.’
‘And continue with terrorist attacks until they do,’ Bond interjected.
M gave a sage nod. ‘I would guess that, in the new spirit of freedom, they will approach your Service, Mr Natkowitz.’
‘It’ll be gall and wormwood in their mouths.’ Pete Natkowitz did not smile. ‘But they’ll probably swallow their pride and ask Tel Aviv.’
‘And Tel Aviv’ll have to tell them what?’ M’s face held the vaguest hint of a smile.
‘Tel Aviv will either lie to give us more time or tell them we’ve lost him.’ Natkowitz did not come a thousand miles near to a smile. ‘Personally, I think they will lie.’
‘And KGB officers, or members of the Central Committee, will go on being executed,’ M began to play with his pipe.
Bond nodded. ‘If Chushi Pravosudia have the means, or until KGB can get a handle on them.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ M leaned back, ‘I suggest we get you into Moscow in double-quick time. The sooner you’re there, the quicker KGB will be able to explain matters to you.’ He held up one hand, palm facing outwards as though warding off a blow. ‘Here, I must give you a definite instruction, and, Mr Natkowitz, it’s an instruction I’ve cleared with your Chief also. If, once you’ve listened to KGB’s briefing, you conclude that what they suggest is no-go, then you are to decline and ask to be pulled out with no fuss.’ He paused for effect. ‘I have made this clear to KGB. Now, let me tell you what we’ve arranged. You leave London at fifteen hundred hours from Northolt in a Royal Air Force transport which has been cleared into the military airport outside Moscow. After you’ve landed . . .’ In all, M talked for the best part of an hour. There was another hour of questions from both Bond and Natkowitz, then another briefing by specialist officers.
On the stroke of three that afternoon, a Royal Air Force VC10, brought down from Lyneham, lifted off from the RAF base at Northolt, west of London. Bond and Natkowitz were on board.
Colonel General Viktor Gregor’evitch Mechaev, one of the three most senior officers attached to KGB’s First Chief Directorate, was on his way into Moscow from the FCD’s modern Finnish-designed Foreign Intelligence HQ building at Yasenevo, just off the Moscow ring road. It was exactly six thirty in the evening, Moscow time.
He was in civilian clothes and bundled up against the harsh weather. As his car bowled along the road towards Moscow, Mechaev worked on the papers he would soon be delivering to KGB Chairman at Dzerzhinsky Square.
They were in traffic now as they drew near the exit, and it was with surprise that the colonel general heard his cellular phone start chirping beside him. He picked it up and answered.
‘Mechaev.’
‘Comrade Colonel General,’ the voice was low and urgent, ‘there have been some disturbing events regarding the documents you are taking to the Chairman. This is Riuchev.’ Colonel Riuchev was one of the colonel general’s aides. ‘We are on the way, following you from Yasenevo now and I would respectfully ask you to pull over before the exit so that we can catch up with you.’
‘Must I?’ The colonel general looked at the traffic which, while not heavy by Western standards, was moderately thick.
‘I think it would be best, comrade, if we are not to look a little stupid.’
‘Very well. How far are you behind me?’
‘About five minutes, comrade Colonel General.’
‘I’ll pull over now.’ He leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder, ordering him to get into the slow lane, then off the road altogether. ‘Pull off before the Babushkin exit. Another car will join us,’ he said.
The driver nodded, signalled and started to move over. A couple of minutes later he stopped and glanced around. The colonel general did not even notice the battered old Zil which had drawn up behind him, but the driver saw it and smiled.
‘What are you smiling at?’ the colonel general snapped, seeing the round smooth face of the driver grinning at him.
As he glimpsed the pistol pointing over the driver’s seat, Mechaev realised he had been too busy to notice this was not his usual driver, but he hardly ever paid attention to the lower ranks w
ho drove him, guarded him or saw to his necessary minor needs. As he threw an arm across his face as if to ward off a blow, he also thought to himself that it was not Riuchev’s voice on the phone.
Mechaev’s face was completely blown apart by the two heavy-calibre bullets with hollow points.
Later, when the investigation began, nobody came forward to report a uniformed KGB driver leaving an official car and entering a very dented, limping and ancient Zil.
At seven fifteen, the duty officer at Number Two Dzerzhinsky Square took a telephone call which was later traced to the Kosmos Hotel on Mira Prospekt. The unidentified voice simply gave him the location of Colonel General Mechaev’s car, then said, ‘Chushi Pravosudia have carried out the execution.’
7
FOUR WALLS
Their aircraft landed a few minutes before eight forty-five local time at Moscow’s central military airport. The Scrivener had provided both of them with British papers. Bond was James Betteridge, the managing director of a firm which dealt in farming machinery, while Pete Natkowitz, with a stroke of the pen, had become Peter Newman, an accountant.
As soon as they were parked with engines stopped in a far corner of the facility, away from executive buildings, two cars drove out accompanied by the maintenance van, halting near the steps which had been manhandled into place by a Russian ground crew. One of the cars was a long black Lincoln with tinted windows and big snow tyres.
Two plain-clothes men came on to the aircraft first, smiling and nodding, approaching Natkowitz and Bond with reassuring gestures.
In English they asked for passports in which they quickly stamped entry visas. ‘When you are ready, please come straight down to the Lincoln,’ one of the men nodded to Bond. ‘He’s waiting for you. Oh, and wear your gloves and parkas. Don’t leave skin uncovered. This is very much Russian winter.’ Another broad smile and a cheery nod.