by John Gardner
‘So, what has all this really got to do with our being here?’ Bond snapped back. In the depths of his mind a cloud of concern rose, black and threatening.
‘Two reasons.’ The room was very still, as though those listening were about to be given some terrible sentence. ‘First, the long march of this our Motherland to a new, more open and free kind of society is under threat. There are those who would see us back in the dark ages of something akin to Stalin’s Great Terror. Second, the United Nations deadline to the Iraqis is getting very close. We have a hint that the Chushi Pravosudia have their fingers in both of those pies and, strangely, the entire business of this war criminal, Joel Penderek, is tied to each of these items.’
‘How?’
‘How?’ the Russian echoed. ‘I’ll leave that for you to discover first hand, Captain Bond. You and your colleague will have the opportunity of actually going out and, in all probability, meeting members of the inner circle of Chushi Pravosudia here in Moscow.’ He nodded to Alex who stood by the door. ‘Make sure he’s been brought over.’ Alex slid back the screen and hurried away.
‘We are very much on top of present events, and the man we have been running as a ferret within the Scales of Justice, Professor Vladimir Lyko, should be the one to brief you. He will be here in a moment.’
‘Then, if we have time,’ Bond was still not completely convinced, ‘are you yet prepared to tell us what our French friends are doing here?’
‘The question is really what have they done?’ The Russian treated them to one of his big smiles again. ‘We could have asked your Service, but I doubt if you would have done it; the Americans would certainly have said no; the Israelis have a vested interest. In the end, we asked the French, and they performed very well indeed. Stephanie, my dear, would you tell Captain Bond exactly why you’re here?’
Stephanie Adoré nodded elegantly, turning towards Bond. ‘Oh, yes, James, I’ll tell you. Our DGSE, in co-operation with the force to which Major Rampart belongs, ran an operation in the United States. We brought out the real Josif Vorontsov from right under the noses of the Americans and, I believe, an Israeli snatch team. It was a great success. We have Vorontsov safe, should the world require real evidence of his existence.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Bond nodded, glancing towards Pete Natkowitz who seemed to be amused by the whole business. As Stephanie Adoré hit them with the news that the French had abducted Josif Vorontsov from Florida, Natkowitz had simply thrown back his head, mouth open in a silent laugh.
The French girl had the knack of delivering tidings which were neither comforting nor joyous, like someone cracking a walnut with a sledgehammer. Her sweet, tinkling manner was the velvet glove surrounding a steel fist. Stephanie Adoré, the name went through Bond’s head. Stevedore, he thought automatically.
‘Where the hell’re you holding him . . . ?’ Bond began, edgy and annoyed. But Natkowitz’s amused restraint was a calming influence. Instead he smiled. ‘You obviously did very well. Forgive me, but, if you have Vorontsov safe, what’re you doing here? And why the visit to London?’
‘Because we had a problem here. With Vorontsov.’ Stepakov spread his hands as if to indicate that this answer was enough.
‘What kind of a problem?’
‘Okay.’ Stepakov inclined his head towards Stephanie.
‘You’re familiar with hostage-taking techniques?’ She was telling Bond, not asking him. ‘In the situation we had with Vorontsov it was essential to get his confidence. To begin with we had him doped up to the eyeballs. You see, we had no clandestine way to get him out of the country. He had to walk, come of his own volition. No restraints. Just like Adolf Eichmann with the Israeli snatch team in 1960.’
Bond recalled that when the Israelis had lifted Adolf Eichmann, one of the main instigators of the monstrous Nazi Holocaust, from Argentina to stand trial in Israel, they had persuaded him to walk out to an El Al scheduled flight disguised as a flight attendant.
‘Yes.’ He indicated that Stephanie should continue.
‘I don’t need to give you all the technicalities, but we drugged him initially. After that it was my job to be his friend, to reassure him and make certain he was not overanxious.’ She gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘This, of course, meant lying a great deal. Telling him that no harm would come to him. Making him totally pliable.’
Bond again made a little gesture to show he understood. Indeed he did. He knew the ways of hostage-takers and political kidnappers. You either scared the victim out of his wits or you made him feel at home. As a rule one person did exactly what Stephanie had been instructed to do, and should the victim have to be killed, it was usually the trusted one who did the killing. ‘So you did all that, obviously. You got him to do as you wanted.’
‘But of course. He even followed Eichmann’s footsteps. We all walked on to an Aeroflot jet dressed as flight attendants. It was very easy.’
‘So, why are you here now?’
‘There was a small problem. Bory . . . ?’ She appealed to Stepakov.
The exaggerated clown’s smile. ‘For obvious reasons we did not want to have Vorontsov sedated. Who knew when we might need him? Stephanie handed over her duties to Nina. Things didn’t work out.’
‘You see, it’s like a psychiatrist and a patient,’ Stephanie chimed in. ‘What do they call it . . . ?’
‘Transference,’ Bond supplied. ‘When a patient has so much trust in a psychiatrist that he becomes completely dependent. If it’s a difference of sexes, the patient often persuades himself, or herself, that he’s in love with the shrink.’
‘Right. Happened just like you say,’ Boris Stepakov sounded excited.
‘I was removed,’ Stephanie looked pleased with herself. ‘He pined for me, poor monster. Wouldn’t accept Nina. Even tried to attack her.’
‘Was very difficult,’ Stepakov made gestures with his hands as though miming a great physical problem. ‘Nina came to me. She couldn’t deal with it, so she suggested we bring Stephanie back.’
‘And Henri came for the ride?’
‘I came as muscle, Stephanie’s minder, as you’d say.’ Rampart did not even look in Bond’s direction.
‘Mmmm.’ Bond still did not sound completely happy.
‘James,’ Mlle Adoré’s voice dipped seductively. ‘It was a kind of contract operation. We were hired. Money in the bank.’
‘Mice,’ Bond muttered, and they all knew what he meant. Mice was the English acronym used by all intelligence communities to indicate the four principle motivations of espionage agents: Money, Ideology, Compromise or Ego. The French had been attracted to the operation by money. It was often the strongest motive these days.
‘Why London? Why did you . . . ?’ Bond began. But at that moment the door opened, the screen slid back and Alex returned with a short, thin-faced man who had dusty-looking hair and wore spectacles.
‘Come in, Vladi. Welcome.’ Stepakov pushed back the chair and opened his arms to embrace the newcomer.
9
LYKO’S LITTLE ADVENTURE
Stepakov’s effusive greeting and his previous description left none of them in any doubt that the man brought in by Alex was Vladimir Lyko. Indeed, he was almost a caricature of an academic: for one thing, his shabby jacket had leather patches on the elbows, the Western badge of office within the groves of academia. His whole appearance was untidy, a person divorced from the real world, small, cowed, a grey man. Yes, Bond realised, this was the archetypal grey man – the ideal spy – one who had difficulty in catching a waiter’s eye. That was the old definition of the perfect agent. So here he was, the immaculate dissembler, moving into the room.
As Stepakov embraced him, the professor seemed to shrink back as though embarrassed by this show of affection, and his eyes bore that restless quality associated with someone who has suddenly been released from the prison of a library, the jail of study, and is now blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight of the real world.
‘My former prisoner,’ Stepakov
boomed, all his heartiness up and operating at full strength, the lick of hair falling across his forehead, the long, clownish face frozen in a look of surprise, eyebrows arched and mouth split like a watermelon segment. ‘My former prisoner, now my long-term penetration agent within Chushi Pravosudia.’ He gave everyone the benefit of the major smile, ushering the small, nervous figure on to centre stage, talking as he did so. ‘Professor Vladi Lyko has much to say. You will be given a chance to question him afterwards, but you, Captain Bond, and you, Pete Newman,’ pause and a laugh, finger stabbing the air in their general direction, ‘you should realise his is the only true briefing you will receive. He has the answers, if you have the questions.’
The dusty-haired little professor cleared his throat, hands moving forward as though to arrange lecture notes on an invisible lectern. When he realised there were neither notes nor lectern, he dropped his arms and, for a few seconds, did not know what to do with his hands. He cleared his throat a second time, then started in with a confidence that seemed at odds with his appearance. He spoke in English, clear and precise, with the hint of a South London accent.
‘General Stepakov will have told you part of my story,’ he began, glancing up, his eyes almost glowering and challenging the assembled company. ‘I was a fool who wanted material gain offered to me by the Scales of Justice. When my folly was revealed, it became clear that my country, and the Party, would be best served by my working undercover.
‘Let me first explain what the general has probably hinted at. Chushi Pravosudia is a truly cunning group. In my time working for them, I have yet actually to meet another senior member of their controlling body face to face.
‘These men and women could have been trained at the greatest espionage schools in the world. During my many debriefings with General Stepakov, it’s become clear that they operate by rules so strict that the innermost cell of the organisation is always at arm’s length.’ He turned to look at Stepakov, asking if he had explained the initial recruiting methods used by the Scales of Justice.
Satisfied, Lyko continued. ‘My first duty with the organisation was, as you know, the collection and dispersal of funds, mainly in US dollars. It was during this phase that the good general showed me the error of my ways.’ Another little bow towards Stepakov.
Bond wondered how much of Lyko’s script had been written for him. In spite of his confidence, the professor seemed intent on making an apologia, a public confession which might even require a public penance.
‘I was able to carry out the duties given to me by Chushi Pravosudia very effectively, especially once the general took over my secret life. He made it easier for me to launder the funds which passed through my hands and I began to make a great impression. Within a few months, the leadership decided that I was ready to organise recruiting for them abroad. Because of my command of English.’ He gave a small self-satisfied smile and then bowed towards Nina Bibikova. ‘Not as brilliant as Nina, of course, for she has an advantage; yet I was good enough and they gave me most detailed instructions. My target would be the United Kingdom, and they were specific about the kind of people they wished to recruit. The most interesting aspect, you will probably agree, is that whenever I was required to go abroad, the necessary documents were always there for me. They were also genuine. Never first-rate forgeries. The passport and visas given to me, together with the other documents, were always the real thing. I have been out of Russia a number of times, but never with the freedom these people gave to me.
‘General Stepakov has rightly drawn attention to this. For it is another indication that Chushi Pravosudia either have powerful assistance from the authorities, or that members of the leadership are themselves high-ranking officers within the military and KGB. This concerns us greatly.’
He continued to talk for some twenty minutes on the type of persons targeted for recruitment in the United Kingdom. All were fervently left-wing in political outlook, and the accent was on assisting towards a better understanding of freedom within the Communist countries. It was also noteworthy that people with special skills were marked as high-priority objectives. Men with military experience, particularly those who had been trained for the modern electronic battlefield, also journalists, certain specialist doctors and nurses and people with experience of theatre – actors, make-up artists and designers. The reason for the inclusion of such a wide variety of specialists was hard to determine, and if the little professor was to be believed, he enrolled a fair-sized network, even though it was sprinkled with notional non-existent recruits – a trick as old as the trade itself.
‘None of us working within the general’s Banda could come up with reasons, or any logical scenario, which would call for people of such variegated abilities. However, we now stand at a most urgent point, for with the latest events there is a chance that, with your help, we can break through into the command structure and so discover the final aims of Scales of Justice. So far, the main objective, as you know, has been money – terrorist mercenary operations taken on and carried out solely for gain. You might not agree with me, but I have the distinct impression that, with this present action, we are seeing a change, a move towards some possibly ghastly end game.
‘It started,’ he told them, ‘with what Chushi Pravosudia designated Operation Daniel. The prime object was to shame the Soviet President and the Central Committee into mounting a full-scale war crimes trial similar in nature to the Eichmann case. When Adolf Eichmann was finally tried in Israel back in 1961/62, the world applauded, and saw the trial and subsequent execution as true justice. It was put to me in very clear terms,’ Lyko continued, ‘that the arrest of Josif Vorontsov, formerly a Russian citizen, and his return to the Soviet Union would force the Kremlin to conduct a fair and absolute trial against a war criminal who was guilty of committing appalling crimes against Russian Jews during World War II. The very fact of a trial would signal to the world that the Central Committee – the Government of the USSR – was serious, and that its attitude of active and passive anti-Semitism had changed. For me, it began when I was informed, in a message brought to me at night, that the criminal Vorontsov was about to be arrested and brought back to Russia. This was a week before Joel Penderek was abducted in America.’
Carefully, Lyko went through the various stages of Operation Daniel. The abduction, followed by Chushi Pravosudia’s demand and deadline. ‘Naturally, I knew nothing of the operational arrangements,’ he told them. ‘But, from the moment they alerted me to the impending kidnap, I was told to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Even before the facts were made known to the world, I was equipped with documents and tickets so that I could travel to London, make contact with two of my recruits and bring them into Helsinki prior to seeing them safely transported to Moscow. They gave me the code word Optimum. As soon as I received this word, I was to follow rigid procedures.’ He looked closely at Bond and then turned his eyes on Natkowitz. ‘I received Optimum on the day after the deadline was delivered to the Kremlin, and there are two impressions which have remained vividly in my mind. I stress that they are only impressions and I cannot back them up with any hard facts. First, I am ninety-nine per cent certain that Chushi Pravosudia is not being paid to carry out this Operation Daniel. In other words, this is not another piece of contract terrorism but something devised solely by the organisation. It is as though much of the money made from previous acts of terrorism is now being used solely for a long-term plan. Secondly, I believe that the inner circle of leadership fully expected their demands to be rejected by the Kremlin. That rejection, as you all know, came yesterday. It was followed at great speed by a political assassination. General Stepakov agrees with me on these points and we both await a further act of terrorism in the name of the Scales of Justice – probably within the present twenty-four hours.
‘Now, it is very important for you to understand that at this moment, as far as my controllers in Chushi Pravosudia are concerned, I am not in Russia, but sitting in the comfort of the Hotel
Hesperia in Helsinki, waiting for our British contacts to join me.’ For the first time he smiled in a way which indicated that inside the reserved, serious, somewhat self-important shell, there was humour in the man.
‘The British recruits are, in fact, hidden not far from here. Yet, when Chushi Pravosudia contact me, as they do practically every day, they firmly believe that I am still in Finland.’ He gave them a bold, conspiratorial wink. ‘Naturally, we have to thank General Stepakov for these clever deceptions, and I should tell you what has happened in some detail, for your own lives might well depend on the things we have done and the lessons that have been learned.’ He paused as though suddenly short of breath.
‘So, I went into London on Friday, December 28th last year, two days after Joel Penderek was snatched from Hawthorne, New Jersey . . .’
James Bond’s concentration did not waver. His mind, trained to seek out key words at briefings like this, had automatically picked up and logged the serious facts. In some ways he had leaped ahead and could already divine a few of the things that had happened. He listened with all his senses to what Vladimir Lyko now said, as though living the little professor’s adventure with him.
Vladimir Lyko had received a thick envelope, dropped through the letterbox of his apartment sometime during the dark hours of Christmas night. He had not made any attempt to watch for the messenger, though he knew that one of Stepakov’s Banda was probably keeping the block under surveillance. They had done so before, and to little effect. Those who carried messages for Chushi Pravosudia were usually picked off the street, or from a bar. They were people chosen at random, like winners in a sweepstake, their prize a few roubles and the assurance that they were not breaking the law. Stepakov’s people had yet to hit a jackpot of hard information concerning the random communications network. No courier was ever selected twice, and should the messages arrive by telephone, the conversation always lasted for less than two minutes. With the wire-tapping facilities of KGB, coupled with Moscow’s telephone service, a good five minutes plus was required to trace the source of an incoming call.