The Spy Who Loved Me

by Christopher Wood

  Anya took his hand and pressed it against her breast. ‘Do not change the subject. I want to make love to you. Have I not made myself clear? I am not interested in the old men.'

  She tightened her grip round his neck. ‘Now kiss me and take me on the bed - the big bed.’

  In the circumstances, thought Bond, there is nothing in the world I would rather do. He had an animal longing to make love to this girl. To join her in celebrating that they were still alive.

  And then there was a discreet tap on the door. Anya slid her arms from around his neck and her lower lip pouted petulantly. She looked quickly towards the door and then back to Bond. He could sense what was going through her mind and shook his head gently. ‘We’d better answer it. That may be duty calling.’

  Anya rose up to kiss him swiftly on the lips. 'Yes, my duschka. We can wait a little longer. We have all the time in the world.’

  Her last words hit Bond like a blow across the face. That was what he had said to Tracy just before she was murdered. The words were heavy with premonitions of disaster and death.

  ‘No! ’ Anya paused, surprised, on her way to the door. Bond fought to appear calm. The spell was broken but perhaps only for him. He slipped the Walther PPK into his left hand. ‘You can’t be too careful. Stromberg may be returning our call.’ He opened the door, keeping the gun behind it, and stared into a large bunch of red roses. Behind the roses and practically obscured by them was one of the bell boys, whom Bond recognized.

  ‘Roses for the Signora Sterling.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bond parted with a note and bore the roses into the room. They looked normal enough.

  Anya looked at him questioningly. ‘James?’

  I’m not responsible, I’m afraid. They probably come from the management - delighted to find that we’re still alive to pay the bill.’

  ‘You are a cynic - and you look silly standing there with those roses. Give them to me and find a vase.’ She pronounced it ‘vaize' like an American.

  Bond handed over the roses but stood his ground. ‘I want to find out who they’re from. I’ve hardly laid lips on you and I have a rival already. It’s very disconcerting.’

  Anya crossed her arms across the roses and peeped round them coquettishly. ‘Please, James. There is a vase in the bathroom, I think. I will tell you about my lover when you come back.’

  ‘It had better be good.’ Bond turned on his heel. ‘I’m a Scorpio and we’re passionate and possessive.’ Behind the banter he was sad. Something had changed but he wasn’t quite certain what.

  Anya waited until Bond had left the room and quickly took a slim, square powder-compact from her bag. She pressed it open and then pressed another catch that released the mirror. Turning to the roses, she removed the white envelope tucked inside the cellophane and tore it open. She ignored the card it contained but carefully detached the serrated portion of thin lining paper that backed the face of the envelope. This fitted exactly into the space behind the compact mirror. Anya positioned the paper and snapped the mirror into place. In small but legible type a message was now revealed. She began to read as Bond came into the room.

  ‘I hope this is going to be all right. It looks more like a samovar than a vase. That’s not going to offend your principles, is it?’ Anya looked up at the vase in Bond’s hands as if momentarily wondering what he was doing with it.

  ‘No. It will do very well.’ She paused. ‘James, I have had an answer to my request for information on the Lepadns. It is very interesting.’ Her tone was businesslike. She was once more the prisoner of her profession.

  Bond put the vase down and smiled. ‘Red roses. I should have guessed.*

  Anya took his hand and squeezed it. ‘James. I do not have to say anything, do I?’ She gestured with the compact. ‘This is why we are here. This is the most important thing. We can wait.’

  Bond kept his thoughts to himself. ‘What does the message say?’

  Anya released his hand and turned away. ‘The Lepadus was launched eighteen months ago at St Nazaire and delivered four months later. Since that time there is no record of her having made a commercial voyage.’

  Bond frowned. ‘She couldn’t have been undergoing trials all that time. Perhaps there was some mechanical problem. She might have run aground or been in collision.’

  Anya shook her head. ‘If there was an accident then all the repairs were done at sea. There are only fourteen harbours in the world capable of receiving a tanker the size of the Lepadus and she has put into none of them.’

  Bond digested the information. To build a tanker the size of the Lepadus must have cost a fortune - many fortunes. Not to put it to work seemed an act of insanity. Unless ... was it possible that the cost of the Lepadus was going to be recouped in other ways than by carrying oil?

  ‘Do you have any idea where she was when the Potemkin disappeared?’

  Anya nodded slowly. ‘The same thought occurred to me. Both vessels were in the North Atlantic. The Lepadus was one of the ships contacted in case she had picked up any wireless messages or seen wreckage.*

  Bond’s eyes narrowed. Anya was right. It was very interesting. Very suspicious, too. A huge, slow-moving VLCC tanker might be just the right cover. Nobody would expect it to have the capability to track and destroy a nuclear submarine. Yet it could stay at sea for long periods without exciting any interest and its enormous bulk could conceal a multitude of technical equipment and armaments.

  ‘When you saw the model of the tanker at Stromberg’s laboratory, was there anything unusual about it?’

  Anya paused reflectively before replying. ‘I don’t know how important it is but there was something strange about the bow. Most tankers have a bulbous bow - you know, pinched and concave to prevent pitching and maintain speed when in ballast.’ Anya read Bond’s quick nod and smiled apologetically. ‘But I forget. You know this. You were a commander in the navy.*'‘That’s right,’ said Bond. ‘In what way was the Lepadus different?’

  ‘The bow was straight.’ Anya shrugged. ‘It is probably not a thing of great importance Designs change all the time. Perhaps they have decided that this shape is better for such a huge tanker.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Bond looked out across the balcony and towards a distant light which was probably a steamer beating its way towards Bonifacio. ‘But I think we’d better take a closer look, don’t you? Maybe this time I can make the necessary arrangements.’ He reached across and traced a circle on Anya's wrist. ‘And then we can have dinner. I've been making my own modest researches and they suggest that the salsiccia seccata followed by agnello allo spiedo are all that’s needed to put new heart into us - washed down by a couple of bottles of Cannonau di Sorso, of course.'

  ‘Of course.’ Anya snapped her compact shut and looked up into the mysterious dark eyes now lit with a thin light of loving mockery. She wanted him to kiss her. Very hard and very long. But he did not sweep down toward her imploring mouth. Instead, he flicked his finger across the wine-red roses and tossed the card that had arrived with them into her lap. ‘What does it say? With love from the KGB?’

  She looked down because she did not want him to see the desire raging in her eyes. The thin, precise writing on the card was familiar. It emanated from the rough, sandpaper hand of Comrade General Nikitin. She had seen it many times, asking for information concerning officers who were about to be ‘evaluated’.

  ‘Well?’ said Bond. ‘Who is my rival?’

  Anya finished reading the card and crumpled it into a small ball. Her face hardened as if she had been forced to withstand a sudden spasm of pain. ‘Someone you will never see.’

  Bond nodded and felt the temperature in the room drop. He gestured towards the roses. ‘I’ll leave you to handle those. Flower arrangement has never been my strong suit.’

  Anya did not look at him and her grip tightened around the ball of paper in her hand. Would Bond ever realize that the message it contained had been his death warrant?

  'Anya. Beware! We have j
ust learned that Bond was responsible for the murder of Agent Borzov. Will expect you to take all measures necessary to defend yourself. N' '

  Dropping in on the Navy

  'That’s her down there, sir.’

  The pilot of the British Navy helicopter steadied his hand on the joystick and nodded to port. There was an edge of satisfaction in his voice but whether it stemmed from having made his rendezvous or nearly completed his tour of duty it was impossible to say. Certainly, the weather was turning nasty and the U.S.S. Wayne would not have been able to stay on the surface much longer. Bond twisted in his seat and looked down at the long grey cigar with the distinctive diving planes jutting out on either side of the twenty-foot sail. An angry, swirling sea was breaking over the hull and beating against the underside of the planes. So this was what a nuclear submarine looked like. Three hundred feet of death capable of turning Great Britain into a large-scale replica of Strom berg’s caldera.

  ‘Nice of them to wait up for us.’

  If the pilot found anything amusing in Bond’s remark he was discreet enough to keep it to himself. ‘They’re signalling for us to come in. You’d better get fastened up, sir. You and, er, the major.’

  Bond looked into Anya’s impassive face and wondered if there was any other woman in the world who could look appealing in a combat overall and a helmet. She looked like a twentieth-century Valkyrie, although this was not perhaps an altogether happy comparison. The Valkyrie, he seemed to remember, were given the job of selecting those who were to be slain in battle. Anya’s attitude of late had suggested that he would be a prime candidate for the first axe-blow. He tried to catch her eye but she moved towards the back of the cabin and the winching equipment. What the devil had been in that note to make her suddenly change into a block of ice? She had

  hardly spoken a word to him since she had read and destroyed it.

  'I'll be going down to thirty feet, sir.’

  Bond thanked the pilot and watched the ratings checking his harness and attaching the strop to the winching line. ‘If you sit on the floor and put your arms round each other, we’ll winch you down together, sir.’

  The beginnings of a smile exercised Bond’s features. Poor Anya. It must be like finding yourself opposite the most undesirable man in the room during a Paul Jones. Still, she deserved the experience. It might be a woman’s prerogative to change her mind but the speed with which Anya had made the change was an abuse of the privilege. Bond sank on to his side and extended his arms upwards. Half a dozen witticisms sprang to his lips but he suppressed them all. There was no need to goad Major Amasova. If he knew anything about women - and Russian women in particular - she would soon explode into a revelation of her natural feelings. Bond hoped that it would not be when she had a gun in her hand.

  The hatch cover sprang back and the sound of angry sea drowned the steady ‘thwack, thwack’ of the rotor blades. A cold wind filled the cabin and Bond watched the pilot’s neck muscles tighten as he juggled the controls to hold die chopper steady.

  ‘As soon as you like!'

  Anya had laid her body a yard from his, but at the pilot’s words she turned her head aside and wriggled her way forward into his arms. One of the ratings took up the slack on the winch.

  ‘Hang your feet over the edge and I’ll give you a push.’

  Bond did as he was told and felt the spray against the side of his boots. Below, he could hear the sea lashing the hull of Wayne. Anya’s head was against his and the smell of her scent found its way to his nostrils. That was the only proof that this was the same girl who had so wantonly and passionately thrust her mouth and body, against his, less than two days before. The same girl who had shown him a glimpse of something that he had thought he would never know again. Damn you! he thought as she clung to him without passion or feeling. What the hell are you playing at?

  Strong hands thrust him in the middle of the back and he was dangling in space with Anya in his arms and the harness digging in beneath his armpits. Wind and spray scourged them and the grey wasteland of white-ribbed ocean disdained all order as it poured over the bows of the submarine. Seen from above it seemed as if they were dropping into a maelstrom.

  ‘Okay, I got ’em.' Bond was glad to hear the American voice sounding so confident. An earthing pole steadied the wire above his head and his feet touched metal as a wave broke over the bridge. Seen from the sail the sea was a procession of angry white-topped mountains whipped by a near gale-force wind. A rating moved in and swiftly disconnected the strops. The winching line swung free and immediately began to snake back towards the helicopter. Bond waved and saw a hand return his salute as the hatch door closed and the machine lifted off and tilted away to starboard. Soon it would be back at its carrier home and the pilot and his crew quaffing hot coffee and munching their way through plates of ham and eggs. Bond thought of the dangerous mission that lay ahead and tried not to feel envious. It was not easy. Beside him, Anya looked about her with cold appraising interest. Her jaw was set and there was a ruthless, determined glint in her eyes. For the first time since they had left Sardinia, Bond was glad that she was with him. If her presence served no other purpose it would keep him on his toes.

  Bond liked Commander Carter the moment he set eyes on him. He was tall and rangy, almost gangling in the manner of Gary Cooper, and he seemed too big for his small cabin. He had wrinkled sailor’s eyes but the wrinkles could have come as much from laughter as from staring into bad weather. His hair was a brush of tawny gold and he had a long bony nose forming the mast to a wide thin-lipped mouth. He was the kind of man that women would have found attractive without being able to name one feature that could honestly have been termed handsome. His handshake was firm and dry and the hand reached out the moment Bond crossed the threshold of the cabin. ‘Wclcome aboard, Commander. And you, Major. It’s a -

  Bond watched the eyes narrow in puzzlement as they made contact with Anya. She nodded briskly and removed her helmet to shake out her hair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Carter. ‘I wasn’t expecting a woman.’

  ‘I have the rank of a Major in the Russian army,' said Anya, coldly. ‘Please treat me accordingly. My sex is immaterial.’

  For a moment it looked as if Carter was going to disagree. Then he nodded. ‘Just as you say, Major. Anyway, you’re both here, that’s the main thing. I was getting worried about you. It’s going to be nasty up there for a while.’

  ‘We’ve been fighting to keep on schedule since we left Sardinia,’ said Bond. ‘How long do you think it’s going to take us to make contact with the Lepadus?’

  Carter pulled down a chart of the North Atlantic. ‘If she’s where we think she is and we can maintain a speed in advance of twenty-five knots we should be in range within ten hours.’ Bond smiled to himself. Carter was certainly understating the top speed of his Los Angeles class submarine. He wondered if it was only for Anya’s benefit. ‘And then we order her to heave to.’

  Anya’s precise voice chipped in. ‘Under what pretext?’ ‘Leaking oil,’ said Carter. ‘The US Government is becoming increasingly alarmed by the number of accidents involving tankers and the long-term, wide-scale damage caused by oil pollution. The risks involving a tanker the size of the Lepadus arc fantastic. Ten million gallons of crude oil have been spilled into U.S. coastal waters this year, the Torrey Canyon disaster in the English Channel resulted in thirty million gallons of oil being leaked. Do you know how much oil a tanker the size of the Lepadus can carry? Over half a million tons.'

  ‘I think you’re building up to a persuasive argument,’ said Bond.

  Carter looked serious. ‘I have authority from the US Government to stop and examine any vessel which we believe may constitute an environmental or other threat if it enters American coastal waters.’

  Anya appeared unmoved. ‘What happens if the Lepadus refuses to heave to?’

  Carter started to roll up the chart. ‘I don’t think that situation will arise, Major. We are equipped with conventional
armament. When the Wayne surfaces and they see who we are, I don’t believe they're going to give us any trouble.'

  Anya shrugged, unimpressed. Bond felt his own tremors of unease. 'I have a certain sympathy with Major Amasova’s wariness,’ he said. ‘We have had some contact with this man Stromberg and he is ruthless and resourceful. I don’t believe he’ll give up without a fight.'

  ‘Then he can have a fight.’ Carter’s jaw set. ‘My orders are are quite explicit. I am going to put a boarding party on that tanker - by force if necessary. You haven’t seen the men I’ve assembled for this detail, Commander. They are extremely capable.’

  ‘I’m certain they are,’ said Bond. ‘I’m not trying to criticize the US Navy. I’m just saying that we are up against a formidable adversary.'

  Carter looked at Bond levelly. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Commander.’ He turned towards Anya and his manner relaxed. ‘Now, I’m certain you’d probably like a shower, Major. You can use the one in my cabin if you like.’

  Anya's nostrils flared. ‘It is not necessary to show me special favours, Captain Carter.’

  Carter smiled wryly. ‘All the same - I think it might be better if I did.’ He turned to Bond. ‘I'll have you shown to your quarters. I think you’ll find that you’re sharing with the Major but I guess she takes that all in the line of duty?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Bond.

  Bond soon found that if you were a crew member of a US submarine there was no danger of starving to death. The food was excellent and the cheerful atmosphere of informal efficiency that pervaded the ship, endearingly American. Not for the first time, Bond thought that Britain was lucky to possess such allies. He was introduced to the boarding party that had been selected for him and agreed with Carter’s assessment. They did look ‘extremely capable'. Their leader, particularly, Petty- Officer ‘Chuck’ Coyle. A face misassembled from chunks of weather-beaten granite, a build like Mount Rainier and a voice like a foghorn with laryngitis. ‘What flag docs this tub carry, chief?’ he had asked.