by Steve Cole
It was Karachan standing in the doorway with a tray of food. Anya’s pointed foot knocked his wrist and the tray went flying. His face twisting with rage, Karachan grabbed a handful of Anya’s hair and hauled her outside; with her hands cuffed behind her back she was powerless to stop him.
James was scrambling up to help her when Mimic leaned in and slammed the door shut.
‘The view is suddenly so much better,’ Mimic called mockingly in James’s own voice.
James guessed he’d been right about the listening device in here – or just outside the door. Who needed a hidden microphone when you had a bug as big as Mimic? ‘Anya!’ he shouted, fumbling to close the flap on the backpack. ‘Are you all right?’ He heard her scream, scrambled up and kicked savagely at the door. ‘Leave her alone!’
‘All right,’ came Elmhirst’s hateful voice. ‘Let him look.’
Trembling, James stepped away from the door as it opened, the Beretta in his back pocket, afraid of what he might see. He felt helpless. If only his arms were free!
‘I’m all right, James.’ Anya was on her knees in the cramped, whitewashed corridor, bread and broken crockery on the floor around her. Karachan still held a big clump of her hair in one hand but her face was full of pride and defiance.
‘How long she stays all right depends on you,’ said Karachan.
Elmhirst came into sight and stood beside Anya. ‘I give you a chance to spill the beans between you, and what do you do? Talk about the good old days at Madame Up-Herself’s in belle Paris.’
‘All right, I’ll tell you.’ James’s eyes met Anya’s, dark and wide in her pale china face. ‘Tell you everything.’
‘Yes, you will,’ Elmhirst assured him. ‘Because, let’s be clear here. You’re St George, she’s the damsel – and I’m the dragon.’ He slapped Anya’s cheek with the back of his hand, and she gasped.
James felt anger flare. ‘I said I’d tell you—!’
‘So tell me.’ Elmhirst smacked her cheek again, harder. ‘Those relatives of yours in Jericho . . .’
‘My – my uncle Perry and aunt Kitty,’ James blurted, looking down at the floor. You can do this. Think. ‘There’s a funny-shaped flowerbed in their garden. When I was little, I thought it looked like a big gun, and when the flowers bloomed . . .’
‘That made the holster?’ Elmhirst surveyed him coldly. Then he nodded and Karachan pulled more tightly on Anya’s hair. Elmhirst took a handful and did the same. ‘I said, was that flowerbed—?’
‘Yes, that was the holster!’ James said quickly. ‘Let her go.’
‘Now tell me about Krakow. About J6, 14, 15 . . .’
James cleared his throat. ‘In The Trumpeter of Krakow, I remember the Hejnał was played four times each hour to each cardinal direction in turn, starting with the east.’ He swallowed hard. ‘So the numbers must fit the same code as the first treasure trail.’
‘Six steps east, fourteen west and fifteen north?’ Elmhirst sounded dubious. ‘How could your dad have hidden something in Jericho while he was in Moscow?’
‘I don’t know,’ James said, and wished he didn’t mean it. ‘He sent that postcard to Max; perhaps he sent one to my uncle and aunt in Jericho too? SIS could be asking them about it right now . . .’
Elmhirst said nothing for several seconds.
‘It is possible,’ Karachan conceded.
‘Yes. It’s just possible.’ Elmhirst heaved Anya to her feet by her hair. She whimpered with pain, but didn’t cry out.
‘I’m telling you the truth!’ James shouted desperately.
Elmhirst picked up the metal tray from the floor. ‘Remind me, which one is her good leg?’
‘Damn it, Elmhirst—’
James broke off as the agent swiped down savagely with the tray; the edge sliced into Anya’s left calf, just below the knee. She cried out with agony and Karachan let her fall to the floor. James started forward, but Mimic scurried in and shoved him back into the room. Then the door swung closed on him with a metallic boom.
‘Just a love tap. Like I said, Bond,’ Elmhirst called. ‘Leverage.’
James turned away from the door, fighting to stay calm. What would Elmhirst do to Anya next? He’s playing mind-games, he told himself. He wants you to think you’re beaten. He fished the gun out of his pocket, felt for the safety catch on the back of the handle. Well, I’m not beaten just yet. When this journey’s over . . . He practised unlocking the gun. Eight bullets, but how many enemies? Under wartime conditions an ocean-going sub on patrol might have as many as eight officers and twenty ratings; there might be fewer for a one-off transport mission, but James had no way of knowing.
What he did know was that if you brought a gun to a confrontation, you had to be ready to use it. And was he? Could he shoot to kill, in cold blood?
‘Sleep tight, James,’ Elmhirst called from outside.
James felt the skeleton grip press against his sweating palm. ‘You too,’ he breathed. ‘While you can.’
23
Homecoming
IN THE CRIMSON gloom, James felt a sense of unreality as time washed past. He laid the gun next to him on the bunk; then, lying on his back, he was able – with some difficulty – to tuck up his legs and bring his bound wrists up and over his feet so that his arms were in front of him once more. He found his watch had been removed, presumably when the cuffs were fitted, so he had no way of knowing how long the voyage was taking.
He took the Beretta and placed it more comfortably in his front right pocket, got up and tried walking about. The handgun was so light and unobtrusive his clothes gave no hint that he was armed. It was the slightest of comforts.
Again and again he studied the map on the holster, trying to make sense of it. The defensive walls of Jericho were blown down by the repeated blasts of the trumpet – over six days, if he remembered rightly from the book of Joshua (J for Joshua? he thought), and the Israelites got inside to rout their enemies. What was the connection? James could only imagine it was flood walls – a plot to bring down those barriers that held the Thames in check, to devastate low-lying London. But who needed trumpets to bring down the walls when you had as much RDX as the enemy already did? All those years ago his father couldn’t have known just where the explosives would be stored, so what exactly did the map show?
He hid the chamois-leather holster in the backpack again, then wearily strained to get his arms back in place behind him. His hands throbbed and his wrists were raw, but somehow, between that, fear for Anya and his growling stomach, James actually managed to fall asleep; a natural, more replenishing rest than his earlier drugged oblivion.
He woke to find that the constant rush and hum of the engines had slowed to a sinister whirr. A heavy knock on the door. ‘Nearly there, Bond,’ Elmhirst called. ‘Thought you might like to come and see the view. Stand back from the door.’
So! James felt a tremor through his body. We’re close to land – and a chance to get free. He swung his legs off the bunk and waited while the door opened. Karachan stood beside Elmhirst, the Browning revolver clamped in his fist.
‘Where’s Anya?’ James demanded.
Elmhirst smirked. ‘Come on.’
With Karachan’s gun pointing at his head, James ducked through the doorway into the narrow corridor and quickly got his bearings. He realized he’d been locked in an officers’ mess in the sub’s forward battery, so called because below the floor panels were almost 150 batteries, the life force of the ship when travelling below the water – when the air-sucking diesel engines could not be used. He was led aft into the cramped main control room where a skeleton crew, led by a captain and an engineer, was running operations. Each square inch of wall was covered in cables, gauges, dials and instruments, piled in big boxy stacks. Key levers controlling the various vents, safety tank, gears and so on were crowned with different-shaped handles so they could be identified even in darkness should lights fail during an emergency.
The captain barked something in Russian and
the boat shuddered as the ballast tanks were blown, compressed air pumping out to displace the ballast water. Bow-first, the sub began to rise.
‘Periscope depth,’ Elmhirst announced. ‘No point having a fantastic view if you can’t appreciate it, eh?’ He stepped over to the periscope shears and raised them, moved himself and the stubby handlebars through 360 degrees, looking through the world above the water.
‘It’s Anya I want to see,’ James said. There was no sign of her, or Mimic, and he felt the bite of nerves. ‘Well?’
‘You don’t want to get too fond of that one, Bond. She’s the sort who’ll get under your feet.’
Looking down, James saw a perforated floor panel covering the crawlspace beneath: Anya had been crammed in there like a medieval prisoner into an oubliette. A gag had been placed around her mouth and her eyes were closed.
‘Anya? Are you all right?’ James started forward, but Karachan shoved him roughly away towards Elmhirst.
‘That’s close enough.’ Karachan unpinned the floor panel, reached inside the crawlspace, grabbed Anya by the hair and hauled her out. She stayed icy silent, eyeing her captor with undisguised hatred.
‘Come on, Bond.’ Elmhirst patted the periscope. ‘Distract yourself. I want to share that glorious view.’
James didn’t move.
‘Seriously? You don’t think you Bonds have put Anya through enough?’
Karachan let her fall to her knees. But as she looked up at James through her dark, lank hair, he saw strength in those blue eyes. She had been through hell, just so he could get hold of the Beretta, but how could he repay that sacrifice – how could he even draw the gun with hands cuffed behind his back?
Telling himself that the moment would come, James shuffled over to the periscope. Elmhirst checked the view first, twisted on the right-hand grip to flip different lenses over the ’scope, then on the left to choose a filter that would best suit the light conditions on the surface. ‘There, you see? Perfect.’
James put his eye to the eyepiece; he supposed the sub must be snorkelling, only its periscope visible as it swam slowly beneath the surface of the water like a watchful predator. He saw churning grey beneath an evening sky. The view swivelled to port and James felt a jolt jump through him.
The magnificent classical buildings of the Royal Naval College were sliding slowly past.
‘We’re in Greenwich.’ Slowly James looked up from the periscope. ‘We’re travelling right up the Thames.’
‘Breaching the mighty heart of London.’ Elmhirst nodded. ‘I thought you might like to see it. Because after tomorrow night, no one’s ever going to see it this way again.’
James was about to demand some answers when a cultured, effete voice behind him made him jump. It was the voice of the King, George V. ‘My subjects, a great calamity has befallen our proud nation . . .’ James turned to find Mimic standing behind him, the soft, curious face gazing his way. ‘The time it will take to rebuild London – and our lives – cannot yet be calculated . . .’
‘Why is he speaking like the King?’ James asked. ‘Don’t tell me he’s met His Majesty as well?’
‘He’s heard broadcasts like the rest of us. He’s the voice of them all!’ Elmhirst’s lips twitched, but the rest of him wasn’t smiling. ‘All right, Your Majesty, hope you slept well. You’re doubling as planesman today so take your seat.’ At once, Mimic seemed to shrink back into himself, nodded and hurried to his position. ‘We’ll be docking soon.’
‘Where?’
‘You saw Kalashnikov’s architectural plans.’ James hadn’t really expected a reply, but Elmhirst seemed happy to tell him. ‘At each site, a secret underground level has been built to accommodate the submarine pen and the storage holds.’
‘So that’s how you got the men and materials in to make the tunnels connecting Ivan Kalashnikov’s four buildings,’ James said. ‘Direct to the workplace by submarine.’
Elmhirst actually looked impressed as he nodded.
‘And those storage holds must be linked to the cellar where I found the explosives, as well as the under-Thames tunnels,’ James added. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘They link to all kinds of places,’ Elmhirst said. ‘Now, you’ll have to excuse us . . .’ He nodded to Karachan and spoke in Russian.
‘Take them to crew quarters,’ Anya translated.
The two of them were herded further aft to the forward battery. James was trying to picture the map on the chamois leather, wondering if it related to the submarine pens in some way. Was that what Ivan Kalashnikov had been trying to draw attention to, or was there something more?
Karachan pushed them through the door to the cramped crew quarters. With space at a premium, the bunks for the less-privileged ratings were three deep. The thick thrum of the generators filled the stale air, but James could still hear commands and answers firing from the control room in Russian. There was a sharp hiss as the ballast tanks were emptied of air and took on water, and the floor beneath them lurched; James imagined the hydroplanes outside, fore and aft, angling up to drive the sub downwards . . . downwards into a manmade channel of water that led to a hidden dock under the Thames, so craft could come and go in absolute secrecy. James marvelled, trying to imagine the sheer scale of the operation: how many tons of sand, aggregate, cement and timber had been diverted here? How many men had been forced to work the huge, heavy-duty machinery – excavators, pile drivers, cranes, floodlighting – worked to death, perhaps, their bones tossed into the foundations as a fresh intake came to build over the top of them . . . No wonder the Project had taken years!
‘It was Papa’s designs that made this possible.’ Anya was sitting on the lowest bunk, gingerly flexing her legs. ‘He had no choice but to follow the military’s plans, I know, but—’
‘He left clues behind as to how to sabotage those plans,’ James said quietly; ‘how to bring the walls tumbling down. And if we could only get hold of some of the explosives I saw stored at the Mechta Academy, we could make Jericho more than just a metaphor . . .’
‘Provided we could ever find the place he has marked,’ Anya added.
The sub manoeuvred its way slowly, carefully – a truly secret weapon, at liberty to strike right here in the precious heart of England. And if no one can stop them, it’s my fault, James thought dismally, because I trusted a man I thought believed in me. A man who tricked me with lies and half-truths and set me loose to betray my country – then brought me back to watch it burn.
James thought of the slim Beretta in his pocket and imagined pumping all the bullets into Elmhirst’s chest. The realization struck him, hard as lead: If I possibly can, I will kill you.
Over several noisy minutes, the rigmarole of surfacing and then docking unfolded: systems shut down, flywheels were turned, terse orders given. The door to the crew quarters was reopened, and Karachan beckoned out James and Anya at gunpoint. He ushered them back into the control room, which was lit up in Christmas red and green. Hatches had been opened and air let in.
‘We have returned to the Mechta Academy,’ Karachan announced, unlocking first James’s handcuffs and then Anya’s. ‘It ends for you, boy, where it started.’
Gingerly massaging his raw wrists, James didn’t bother to reply. He realized the cuffs had been removed so they could follow Elmhirst and Mimic as they scaled the ladder to the conning tower and from there through a hatch that led onto the bridge.
The submarine had risen up from black water into a shadowy concrete cavern. The sharp stink of sewage, diesel and paint turned James’s empty stomach; the stale air seemed more fit to be chewed and spat out than breathed in. The walls of the pen were rough, unfinished concrete, lit by comfortless lamps that seemed almost scared to shine in so bleak a space.
The rest of the crew stayed aboard – James supposed the submarine must have other trips to make – and Elmhirst led the way onto a kind of long stone jetty. James traipsed along beside the limping Anya, shivering and silent, appalled by the mere exist
ence of this underground abscess in London’s mighty heart. He thought of all the millions of people above him and wondered whether Aunt Charmian was all right.
The concrete walkway led to a set of huge blast doors, as heavy and cold as the atmosphere itself. Once through, James and Anya were led through a complex of stores and corridors carved crudely from the bedrock and embellished with steel. At last they reached a lift, its door a criss-crossed concertina of metal struts. They piled inside and Mimic stood disconcertingly close to James, staring at him.
‘What are you looking at?’ James growled.
‘Looking,’ came the uncanny echo, and a broad grin followed it. ‘Looking at.’
Anya placed her hand against James’s arm, in sympathy or comfort perhaps, until Karachan yanked it behind her back. She groaned as he fitted her with handcuffs once again. James gasped as his own red-raw wrists were seized by Mimic, and fixed once again with the iron shackles.
The lift slowed with a sickening lurch and Elmhirst opened the door onto what seemed like a different world: an ordinary bright corridor with whitewashed walls, frosted-glass windows and polished floor tiles.
If we could only get out somehow, James thought. Fetch help . . .
‘This way.’ Elmhirst turned left, boot heels ringing out as he strode towards a grey door set into the right wall. He turned a heavy key and pulled hard on the handle, then stood aside, gesturing that James should enter first.
As he did so, James started in surprise. The room looked like a boardroom, windowless and dominated by a long wooden table in its centre. A familiar needle-thin woman sat at the table’s head. Demir, the man he’d fought when he’d first broken into the Mechta Academy, was standing over her, his nose red and swollen, his eyes dark.
The woman watched James and Elmhirst approach, her dark eyes half obscured by her silver-flecked fringe.
‘Madame Radek?’ James frowned. ‘Then . . . they’ve got you too?’