by John Gardner
‘I’ll take whatever you have.’ Natkowitz stuck his head forward. With his red hair and gentleman farmer’s face, he looked for a moment like an expectant dog who has heard his master rattle a feeding bowl.
‘This is good. A wine from Fetjaska. Dry. A fresh dry white.’ The Russian showed no finesse, simply sloshing wine into two glasses and handing them to Bond and Natkowitz, while Alex and Nicki began to fill plates for them.
Here, Bond thought, one has to be careful. The notorious drinking habits of the Russians could rebound. M had said, ‘Beware socialising, 007. I don’t have to tell you no matter what favours we’re doing in a spirit of cooperation, those people are still an intelligence-gathering organisation.’ He did not really have to be reminded as he sipped the wine and began to dig into the plate overflowing with fish and meats.
‘We were obviously badly informed,’ Natkowitz took a large swallow of wine. ‘In the West we’re told that Russia is suffering from a dreadful food shortage this winter.’
Stepakov’s face split into a grin. ‘Yes, you will see that soon enough, but you are guests of the Party. As our President has rightly said, there is only one true way to perestroika, and that is through the Communist Party.’ He paused for a second, his eyes glistening with humour. ‘There is not so much difference between the ideologies of capitalism and Communism, you know. The difference is simple. Capitalism is the exploitation of man by man,’ a further pause, ‘and Communism is the reverse.’
Alex and Nicki did not laugh as hard as their boss. They had undoubtedly heard the joke many times before.
As they ate and chatted, Alex and Nicki stood apart, one at each end of the room, like bodyguards. Finally Bond asked, ‘Shouldn’t we start work, Bory? We’re here to do a job after all. I’d like to get at it.’
Stepakov turned his clownish face towards him with a look of sadness. ‘All too soon you will have work to do, my friend. I promise you that. But here we are in four walls. You know what this means. In Russian it is like your saying, walls have ears. To be frank with you, actually, we don’t like this. KGB operational training and all our instincts are against the use of safe houses. Briefings between four walls. But we have made a room here that is as safe as it can be. Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow morning, we shall start. I too need to hurry this along or things won’t work out as we wish. By tomorrow night you’ll both be out there in the cold of a Moscow winter. I promise you.’
Most large cities of the world have a particular smell or sound. With New York it is sound – that series of man-made caverns which distort traffic noises, and the wail of police or ambulance sirens echo as though they are in low, narrow rocky valleys. In Paris it is smell – a mixture of coffee and strong Gauloise cigarettes. The Irish city of Cork is identifiable by the aroma of fish which grows stronger the nearer you get to the docks. London, in the old days, before the Clean Air Act, had a special scent, sooty and distinctive. Berlin still has the tang of burning wood when it rains, a reminder of the terrible destruction at the end of World War II. Moscow, even in the freezing cold, smells slightly sour. This gets worse in summer and jokers have been known to say that Lenin’s body, lying in state in the Red Square mausoleum, is responsible.
Nigsy Meadows caught the scent as soon as he stepped off the plane from Berlin. He knew that within a day he would have got used to it. It had all been very fast. Fanny Farmer, his replacement, had come in within three hours of receipt of M’s signal. There had been quick exchanges of information, mainly of an operational nature, and an hour later, Nigsy was on a Lufthansa to Berlin, Tegel, and from there direct to Moscow, Sheremetievo.
The Russian passport control officer flicked through his large black book, then raised his head and smiled. ‘Nice to see you back, Mr Meadows,’ was all he said in Russian, but to Meadows the unspoken words were there. ‘Ah, Mr Meadows, British Embassy spook, what’re you doing back in Moscow?’
There was an embassy car waiting, and Owen Gladwyn, the number two to the SIS resident, sat in the back seat. He thrust out a large pugilist’s hand to greet him. ‘Bloody cold weather you’ve brought with you, Nigs. How’s tricks?’
‘Much the same. I hope there’s some spare winter clothing knocking around in the shop.’
‘Doubt it.’ Gladwyn had a battered face, the inheritance from rugby football. It made him look like a first-rate hoodlum, though in fact he was a quiet, unassuming man who always got on with the job and never complained. ‘Give the Centre a bell, they usually have plenty of hard-weather gear to spare. Number’s 91, though nowadays you might even get a Porsche dealer.’
‘Very amusing.’ Nigsy was really unhappy. ‘Is Jupiter at home?’ Jupiter was this month’s crypto for head of Moscow Station.
‘Never goes out. Got a light in the window for you, old boy. Can’t wait.’
An hour later, Meadows was seated across from Jupiter, a rather smooth young man who had come up in the world like a rocket and was known back in the UK as the whizz-kid, for he was certainly uncannily talented. His true name was Gregory Findlay.
They faced each other in one of the two bubbles, as the hygienic rooms were called, deep within the embassy, safe from electronic or any other surveillance.
‘So, I have an operation running on my turf with a big notice stuck to it telling me to keep out.’ Findlay did not sound as peeved as his words indicated.
‘Come on, you don’t have to keep out, Greg. You’ll know everything. I’ll go through you all the way. Fact is . . .’
‘Fact is, old darling, you can override me at any time. That’s what M says, and I presume he has a reason for it.’
‘Fact is,’ Meadows continued, speaking over him, ‘I’m bloody tired, not to mention bereft of any proper clothes for this climate. Also, you have to brief me. Fanny only brought in the rudiments.’
‘Don’t really know what it’s all about.’ Findlay now did sound riled. ‘I have a pile of “eyes only” signals for you and a long one for me which I have to pass on to you immediately on arrival, which is now.’
Meadows nodded.
‘Right. Operation Fallen Timbers. We have two men in the field. Cryptos Block and Tackle, which sounds a bit muddied. I gather, however, that Block is of great operational importance, and word has it that he’s a former 00 Section man. Could even be Bond, for all I know. They are working in close harmony with Centre, which sounds far-fetched but appears to be part of bloody glasnost which is emptying our ricebowls faster than a plague of locusts . . .’
‘It won’t last for ever, Greg. We both know it, so don’t carp. Just give me all the contacts, map refs, signals, words, the usual.’
It took over an hour for head of Moscow Station to hand over the long and involved list, then another hour for Meadows to unzip the ‘eyes only’ signals. None of it made much sense, except the part about Chushi Pravosudia, the Scales of Justice. Findlay told him they had picked up two signals on the previous evening leading them to believe a terrorist act had been threatened and then carried out. They even had the name of the victim, Colonel General Viktor Gregor’evitch Mechaev, ‘And it couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy,’ Findlay had said as though he had ice in his veins.
So that was that. Meadows was aware. Meadows simply had to wait. Twenty-four hours a day until they either told him he could go home or there was a sudden panic alert from the ludicrously cryptoed Block or Tackle. Nigsy Meadows, a man of great intuition, just did not like the smell of it. But, then, Nigsy’s nose had always been sensitive in Moscow.
James Bond dreamed he was reading a great encyclopaedia and had come across some odd reference to an ivory plaque which was handed from the monarch to a new head of the Secret Intelligence Service as a badge of office. When he woke, the dream was so vivid that he could see the entries above and below the ivory plaque paragraph. They were ‘Ivy League’ and ‘IZL’, and he knew what the latter meant. Irgun Zevai Leumi; the Irgun, the Jewish right-wing terrorist group active in Palestine in the late 1940s. The whole
thing was so real that he wondered if he were reliving an actual experience.
Alex, Tweedledum, had shaken him gently awake and told him there would be breakfast in half-an-hour. The room was light and airy, and he recalled standing in the dark by the window on the previous evening, noting the tiny wire mesh and the telltale plastic nipples of sensors on the glass. There had been enough light from outside where the area around the dacha had remained like day. Just beyond the edge of the light he had seen shadows moving regularly as though guards were walking the perimeter at timed intervals.
There was a bathroom off the bedroom, and he showered, shaved, and dressed in record time. Twenty minutes later, wearing slacks, a rollneck and soft leather moccasins, he went down the stairs and into the dining room where they had eaten so well the night before.
Natkowitz had beaten him to it and was sitting with Stepakov at a round table set in an alcove. Nicki gestured to the long table which now displayed an array of chafing-dishes containing bacon, eggs, kedgeree, ham, tomatoes and mushrooms. At the far end, there were large silver coffee pots and a dark-haired girl, who had not been on display the previous night, was making toast to order. She smiled at Bond, wished him good morning in English and was delighted to oversee the boiling of two eggs for exactly three and one third minutes.
‘You slept well, James?’ The large Stepakov rose to greet him. ‘Pete, here, tells me he was off like a top. Yesterday must have been tiring for you.’ His face remodelled itself into a comical expression. ‘And if yesterday was tiring, wait till you get through today.’ His laugh reverberated through the room and Bond thought that, for all Stepakov’s friendliness and his vaunted brilliance in his particular field, the man could be exceptionally irritating.
He was just attacking his first egg when he saw the Russian look up towards the door. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘James, Pete, you haven’t met our other guests yet. Let me introduce them.’
They rose, and Bond turned towards the door.
‘Surprise. Mr Boldman’s an old friend of mine,’ said Stephanie Adoré as she approached the table. Behind her loomed the tall figure of Major Henri Rampart.
8
STEPAKOV’S BANDA
Bond had followed Stepakov’s lead of the previous evening and was wearing, in plain sight, his ASP 9mm tucked into his waistband behind the right hip. Now, as he turned, his hand flashed to the weapon, but Stepakov’s fingers were faster, clamping round Bond’s wrist like a mantrap.
At the same moment, Pete Natkowitz bent his knees, his right hand going to an ankle holster, but Nicki, the street fighter, was on him like a dog, freezing him in a powerful hold so that he remained in an odd, half-squatting position.
‘Nina!’ Stepakov’s voice cracked, like a sheriff in a Western, firing his old Buntline Special to gain attention.
Bond saw the dark girl who had boiled his eggs, flick at her skirt. There was a flash of exquisitely long leg and lace as the pistol appeared in her hand, jackdawed from a thigh holster. She moved with extraordinary grace and speed as though levitating across the room, the gun never wavering, held close to her left hip. She was beside Stephanie and the GIGN major, covering them.
It was impressive, Bond thought. All four of them had been neutralised almost in the time it took to snap a finger. The exits were covered and Stepakov appeared calm while still continuing the pressure on Bond’s wrist.
‘I feared something like this. The British and French were not my ideal partners, but it had to be, so I’m going to ask you to relax. I also want you to make your peace.’
‘The major, over there, tried to fly-swat me in London the night before last. Damned nearly did as well.’ Bond’s voice was level, with no hint of anger.
Stepakov grunted. ‘I thought fly-swatting went out in Berlin. Late sixties. KGB used it a lot until the bills came in. It was too expensive on cars.’
‘This was a very old car.’ It was the first time Henri Rampart had spoken. The English was good, and though the muscles on his face remained set, nobody could miss the undertow of humour.
‘Mlle Adoré also had me on a piece of string.’ Bond shook himself free of Stepakov’s hand, which, in effect, meant that the Russian had released him. ‘She lied and had us waltzing around London looking like idiots.’
There was a strained pause in which the invisible daggers passing between the injured parties like missiles could almost be heard.
‘This is the London incident about which you told me?’ The Russian glared at Stephanie.
She nodded.
‘Nobody said anything about attempts to kill or maim.’
Natkowitz had been allowed to straighten up. ‘Bet they didn’t tell you about the shooting either. We had a drama they’ll be talking about over little lunches in smart Kensington for the rest of the year.’
Stepakov growled, then nodded towards Rampart. ‘You wish to explain to Mr Betteridge and Mr Newman.’
Stephanie gave her tinkling laugh. ‘Is that what they’re calling themselves? In London your Mr Betteridge passed himself off as Mr Boldman, and he is, in fact, Captain James Bond.’
‘You think I don’t know this?’ Stepakov raised his eyebrows. ‘Just explain. Our arrangement didn’t call for hostilities in London.’
Henri Rampart took a step forward, looking from Bond to Natkowitz. ‘My sincere apologies to both of you. Captain Bond, I had no desire to kill you. I just wanted to rough you up a little . . .’
‘In a brick and metal sandwich?’
‘Maybe I’d have broken a few of your ribs. Things got difficult when your friend started shooting. At that moment I thought you were a junior member of the British Security Service. If I’d known . . .’ his voice trailed away like smoke on the wind.
‘Tell us about it.’ Bond stood his ground. ‘You mean if you had known you had the Secret Intelligence Service or the SAS on your back you’d have been more gentle?’
‘I think,’ Stepakov’s voice had completely lost its boom, retaining the crack of a whip or pistol shot quality. ‘I think we should let all this drop for the present. It’s sensitive and we’ll have time to put this incident into perspective in an hour or so. Time is precious. So, let us eat breakfast, then go into details. You all know it is against my natural training to be doing this here, in a moderately secure dacha, so I am also on edge. Now, eat.’
‘At least you should tell us why the French are here,’ said Bond. ‘This is something quite unexpected, something never mentioned. The Secret Intelligence Service has sent us to assist. We have the right to know why the DGSE and GIGS are involved.’
Stepakov sighed. ‘Captain Bond, all in good time. You will be told everything at our special briefing. Enough.’
End of story for now. Bond realised that, while his first view of the Russian in the semi-darkness of the car at the military airport had been of a powerful man, his guard had dropped during the journey to the dacha. Now he saw clearly that Stepakov was indeed a very tough, uncompromising man, his physical attributes complementing a very high IQ – a person used to giving orders and one who was normally obeyed.
‘A man of awesome knowledge,’ Bill Tanner had said. Bond believed it as the Russian gave him a wide smile as though embracing him.
He went back to his eggs which were all but spoiled, and the look on his face must have betrayed him, for the dark girl Stepakov had called Nina came over and asked if she could do him two more. ‘You are fussy about the way your eggs are cooked, I think.’ She smiled at him, looking him in the eyes as though testing him.
He nodded and thanked her. She gave him another hard look, as though trying to see which one of them would blink first, then turned away. She wore a crisp blue dress not unlike a nurse’s uniform and he realised that his eyes hardly left her as she walked back to the big table. He could sense the way in which her body moved inside the material which crackled as she walked, and his mind filled with that tiny glimpse of the long, stockinged leg and the hint of lace as she had drawn her pistol.
He picked up his coffee cup and saw Stepakov’s eyes on him, smiling as though they shared a secret.
‘Nina Bibikova,’ he said, low and almost confidentially. ‘A handful, I tell you, but one of my best. She worked in the Washington Embassy for two years and the Americans never made her. Secretarial cover, and I know for certain they didn’t even keep a dossier on her. Both your Service and the Americans have the idea that our only employment for a woman is as lastochka, for honey traps.’ He used the Russian word for ‘swallow’, KGB slang for the prostitutes or skilled seductresses they used for entrapment, an old speciality of their service.
‘But, you see, they’re wrong. Nina is very special.’
‘Yes.’ In the back of his head Bond saw the girl’s large black eyes, the small crescent scar to the left of her mouth, the high cheekbones and now, her long slim fingers as she placed a plate with two freshly boiled eggs in front of him.
Again their eyes met, and he felt a distinct frisson of challenge. Unsummoned, his mind screened a clear picture of Nina’s face above his, her lips descending on to his mouth. For a moment, he was filled with an almost tangible sense of yielding flesh.
‘Thank you, Nina.’ He wondered if his look betrayed the lust that had stirred at the winking centre of his manhood.
Her lips parted in an expression of acknowledgement and, though she did not speak, the quick sliding of her tongue over her lips and the signal in her eye came directly from that all too human lexicon Bond already knew by heart.
There was very little conversation over the rest of breakfast. Stephanie Adoré tried to make it clear to everyone that she had enjoyed an evening at the Café Royal with Bond, hinting that this had been more than just a simple meal. Natkowitz made two remarks about the Scales of Justice, framing them as questions directed towards Stepakov who simply parried them and again made it clear that he would not be drawn. Henri Rampart ate three rolls, dry, with not even butter or a film of jam. When the Russian expressed surprise, he simply said that the doctor at his unit outside Paris maintained people should eat more dry bread. ‘It is better for you than all the high-fibre diets the Americans hurl at you.’ He lit a Gauloise, drawing hard on it, and continued to talk. ‘The Americans are obsessed with diets, health, cholesterol and smoking. This is so crazy. At one time you had the simple choice, you smoked or you did not smoke. Now you cannot smoke for fear of people getting secondary inhalation. If this were so serious they should look to newsprint and books. Printers’ ink is dangerously full of the same carbons they fear from cigarettes. So what do you do? Burn the books? Ban newspapers? Wear respirators in the streets to ward off all those fumes from the internal combustion engine? I guarantee that two hours reading a book will do as much harm as walking through a cloud of secondary smoke.’ He spoke like a fanatic, and with some anger. Nobody commented. This was a well-worn monologue, the diatribe of one who wanted to defend the indefensible.