From Russia With Love

by Ian Fleming

Page 33

 

  Bond impatiently snapped his fingers for the waiter. Poor darling. She must be dead beat. Why hadnt he thought of the strain she was going through? He cursed himself for his selfishness. Thank heavens for Nash. Efficient sort of chap, for all his uncouthness.

  Bond paid the bill. He took up the heavy little bag and walked as quickly as he could down the crowded train.

  He tapped softly on the door of No. 7. Nash opened the door. He came out with his finger on his lips. He closed the door behind him. Threw a bit of a faint, he said. Shes all right now. The beds were made up. Shes gone to sleep in the top one. Been a bit much for the girl I expect, old man.

  Bond nodded briefly. He went into the compartment. A hand hung palely down from under the sable coat. Bond stood on the bottom bunk and gently tucked the hand under the corner of the coat. The hand felt very cold. The girl made no sound.

  Bond stepped softly down. Better let her sleep. He went into the corridor.

  Nash looked at him with empty eyes. Well, I suppose wed better settle in for the night. Ive got my book. He held it up. War and Peace. Been trying to plough through it for years. You take the first sleep, old man. You look pretty flaked out yourself. Ill wake you up when I cant keep my eyes open any longer. He gestured with his head at the door of No. 9. Hasnt shown yet. Dont suppose he will if hes up to any monkey tricks. He paused. By the way, you got a gun, old man?

  Yes. Why, havent you?

  Nash looked apologetic. Fraid not. Got a Luger at home, but its too bulky for this sort of job.

  Oh, well, said Bond reluctantly. Youd better take mine. Come on in.

  They went in and Bond shut the door. He took out the Beretta and handed it over. Eight shots, he said softly. Semi-automatic. Its on safe.

  Nash took the gun and weighed it professionally in his hand. He clicked the safe on and off.

  Bond hated someone else touching his gun. He felt naked without it. He said gruffly, Bit on the light side, but itll kill if you put the bullets in the right places.

  Nash nodded. He sat down near the window at the end of the bottom bunk. Ill take this end, he whispered. Good field of fire. He put his book down on his lap and settled himself.

  Bond took off his coat and tie and laid them on the bunk beside him. He leant back against the pillows and propped his feet on the bag with the Spektor that stood on the floor beside his attaché case. He picked up his Ambler and found his place and tried to read. After a few pages he found that his concentration was going. He was too tired. He laid the book down on his lap and closed his eyes. Could he afford to sleep? Was there any other precaution they could take?

  The wedges! Bond felt for them in the pocket of his coat. He slipped off the bunk and knelt and forced them hard under the two doors. Then he settled himself again and switched off the reading light behind his head.

  The violet eye of the nightlight shone softly down.

  Thanks, old man, said Captain Nash softly.

  The train gave a moan and crashed into a tunnel.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Killing Bottle

  The light nudge at his ankle woke Bond. He didnt move. His senses came to life like an animals.

  Nothing had changed. There were the noises of the train–the soft iron stride, pounding out the kilometres, the quiet creak of the woodwork, a tinkle from the cupboard over the washbasin where a toothglass was loose in its holder.

  What had woken him? The spectral eye of the nightlight cast its deep velvet sheen over the little room. No sound came from the upper bunk. By the window, Captain Nash sat in his place, his book open on his lap, a flicker of moonlight from the edge of the blind showing white on the double page.

  He was looking fixedly at Bond. Bond registered the intentness of the violet eyes. The black lips parted. There was a glint of teeth.

  Sorry to disturb you, old man. I feel in the mood for a talk!

  What was there new in the voice? Bond put his feet softly down to the floor. He sat up straighter. Danger, like a third man, was standing in the room.

  Fine, said Bond easily. What had there been in those few words that had set his spine tingling? Was it the note of authority in Nashs voice? The idea came to Bond that Nash might have gone mad. Perhaps it was madness in the room, and not danger, that Bond could smell. His instincts about this man had been right. It would be a question of somehow getting rid of him at the next station. Where had they got to? When would the frontier come?

  Bond lifted his wrist to look at the time. The violet light defeated the phosphorus numerals. Bond tilted the face towards the strip of moonlight from the window.

  From the direction of Nash there came a sharp click. Bond felt a violent blow on his wrist. Splinters of glass hit him in the face. His arm was flung back against the door. He wondered if his wrist had been broken. He let his arm hang and flexed his fingers. They all moved.

  The book was still open on Nashs lap, but now a thin wisp of smoke was coming out of the hole at the top of its spine and there was a faint smell of fireworks in the room.

  The saliva dried in Bonds mouth as if he had swallowed alum.

  So there had been a trap all along. And the trap had closed. Captain Nash had been sent to him by Moscow. Not by M. And the M. G. B. agent in No. 9, the man with an American passport, was a myth. And Bond had given Nash his gun. He had even put wedges under the door so that Nash would feel more secure.

  Bond shivered. Not with fear. With disgust.

  Nash spoke. His. voice was no longer a whisper, no longer oily. It was loud and confident.

  That will save us a great deal of argument, old man. Just a little demonstration. They think Im pretty good with this little bag of tricks. There are ten bullets in it–. 25 dum-dum, fired by an electric battery. You must admit the Russians are wonderful chaps for dreaming these things up. Too bad that book of yours is only for reading, old man.

  For Gods sake stop calling me old man. When there was so much to know, so much to think about, this was Bonds first reaction to utter catastrophe. It was the reaction of someone in a burning house who picks up the most trivial object to save from the flames.

  Sorry, old man. Its got to be a habit. Part of trying to be a bloody gentleman. Like these clothes. All from the wardrobe department. They said Id get by like this. And I did, didnt I, old man? But lets get down to business. I expect youd like to know what this is all about. Be glad to tell you. Weve got about half an hour before youre due to go. Itll give me an extra kick telling the famous Mister Bond of the Secret Service what a bloody fool he is. You see, old man, youre not so good as you think. Youre just a stuffed dummy and Ive been given the job of letting the sawdust out of you. The voice was even and flat, the sentences trailing away on a dead note. It was as if Nash was bored by the act of speaking.

  Yes, said Bond. Id like to know what its all about. I can spare you half an hour. Desperately he wondered: was there any way of putting this man off his stride? Upsetting his balance?

  Dont kid yourself, old man, the voice was uninterested in Bond, or in the threat of Bond. Bond didnt exist except as a target. Youre going to die in half an hour. No mistake about it. Ive never made a mistake or I wouldnt have my job.

  What is your job?

  Chief Executioner of SMERSH. There was a hint of life in the voice, a hint of pride. The voice went flat again. You know the name I believe, old man.

  SMERSH. So that was the answer–the worst answer of all. And this was their chief killer. Bond remembered the red glare that flickered in the opaque eyes. A killer. A psychopath–manic depressive, probably. A man who really enjoyed it. What a useful man for SMERSH to have found! Bond suddenly remembered what Vavra had said. He tried a long shot. Does the moon have any effect on you, Nash?

  The black lips writhed. Clever arent you, Mister Secret Service. Think Im barmy. Dont worry. I wouldnt be where I am if I was barmy.

  The angry sneer in the mans voice told Bond that he had to
uched a nerve. But what could he achieve by getting the man out of control? Better humour him and gain some time. Perhaps Tatiana. . . .

  Where does the girl come into all this?

  Part of the bait, the voice was bored again. Dont worry. She wont butt in on our talk. Fed her a pinch of chloral hydrate when I poured her that glass of wine. Shell be out for the night. And then for every other night. Shes to go with you.

  Oh really. Bond slowly lifted his aching hand on to his lap, flexing the ringers to get the blood moving. Well, lets hear the story.

  Careful, old man. No tricks. No Bulldog Drummond stufFll get you out of this one. If I dont like even the smell of a move, itll be just one bullet through the heart. Nothing more. Thats what youll be getting in the end. One through the centre of the heart. If you move itll come a bit quicker. And dont forget who I am. Remember your wrist watch? I dont miss. Not ever.

  Good show, said Bend carelessly. But dont be frightened. Youve got my gun. Remember? Get on with your story.

  All right, old man, only dont scratch your ear while Im talking. Or Ill shoot it off. See? Well, SMERSH decided to kill you–at least I gather it was decided even higher up, right at the top. Seems they want to take one good hard poke at the Secret Service–bring them down a peg or two. Follow me?

  Why choose me?

  Dont ask me, old man. But they say youve got quite a reputation in your outfit. The way youre going to be killed is going to bust up the whole show. Its been three months cooking, this plan, and its a beaut. Got to be. SMERSH has made one or two mistakes lately. That Khoklov business for one. Remember the explosive cigarette case and all that? Gave the job to the wrong man. Should have given it to me. I wouldnt have gone over to the Yanks. However, to get back. You see, old man, weve got quite a planner in SMERSH. Man called Kronsteen. Great chess player. He said vanity would get you and greed and a bit of craziness in the plot. He said youd all fall for the craziness in London. And you did, didnt you, old man?

  Had they? Bond remembered just how much the eccentric angles of the story had aroused their curiosity. And vanity? Yes, he had to admit that the idea of this Russian girl being in love with him had helped. And there had been the Spektor. That had decided the whole thing–plain greed for it. He said non-committally: We were interested.

  Then came the operation. Our Head of Operations is quite a character. Id say shes killed more people than anyone in the world–or arranged for them to be killed. Yes, its a woman. Name of Klebb–Rosa Klebb. Real swine of a woman. But she certainly knows all the tricks.

  Rosa Klebb. So at the top of SMERSH there was a woman! If he could somehow survive this and get after her! The fingers of Bonds right hand curled softly.

  The flat voice in the corner went on: Well, she found this Romanova girl. Trained her for the job. By the way, how was she in bed? Pretty good?

  No! Bond didnt believe it. That first night must have been staged. But afterwards? No. Afterwards had been real. He took the opportunity to shrug his shoulders. It was an exaggerated shrug. To get the man accustomed to movement.

  Oh, well. Not interested in that sort of thing myself. But they got some nice pictures of you two. Nash tapped his coat pocket. Whole reel of 16 millimetre. Thats going into her handbag. Itll look fine in the papers. Nash laughed–a harsh, metallic laugh. Theyll have to cut some of the juiciest bits, of course.