by John Gardner
Bond sat for a moment, waiting, deciding what else he might need, both to defend himself and render his own body useless to men like Yevgeny Yuskovich or Gleb Berzin. He was going to leave nothing to chance. The leather patches on shoulders, elbows and down half the back of the denim jacket contained a small hoard of items. He slid his arms from the parka, shivering as he took off the jacket and began to remove each of the items. Still holding the penlight in his teeth he ripped away at the stitching and thrust his fingers into the skilfully moulded hiding places, bringing out each new treasure and placing it on the floor. The collection grew and he put on the jacket again before moving the small items close to the far edge of the woodpile, slipping each addition between spaces in the logs where they could lie hidden for some time.
At last he put the parka on again and chose one thin, narrow plastic box. It contained three miniature hypos, one of which he took out and held gingerly. The pistol went into the zippered pocket, angled across the front of the parka, the notebook computer slid into the right front pocket. He switched off the penlight and felt his way towards the door, transmitter in his right hand, the hypo in his left.
If the worst happened, the juice inside the syringe would knock him cold for the best part of a day. When he had originally gone over the matter, the doctor said the effect would be instantaneous. ‘One second you’re there, the next you’ve gone. Out like a short course in death. You’ll feel no pain.’
If he did inject himself, nobody would even be able to bring him to interrogation for twenty-four hours. In the scheme of things, it was probably not long enough, but sufficient unto the day. Slowly he pulled back the door.
They were still searching. His eyes, retaining the ghost burn of the penlight, swept the area from far left, at nine o’clock, and as they came to noon, he held his breath. Some ten feet from the edge of the woodshed a figure stood, his back towards Bond. The man turned slightly and there was the glow of a cigarette as he sucked smoke into his lungs. Holding his breath, Bond stretched out his arm and pressed the ‘Send’ button on the transmitter.
The shadow moved again, a dark patch against the night, the edges blurred by what small light filtered in from the perimeter fence. He appeared to be wearing the coverall combat suit with light webbing. Bond was sure the pistol was holstered on his right hip.
Very gently he put the transmitter on the ground and transferred the hypo from left hand to right.
The man called out, a clear voice, but laced with an officer’s authority. ‘Keep sweeping the far right. We should really have the floods on, but the marshal says no. Keep sweeping. We must eventually find him.’
By the time the last words of the sentence had left his lips, Bond was behind him. The officer was almost exactly his own height and build and the outrageousness of the plan had not yet clearly formed in his mind.
The cap came off the hypo without a sound, though the man must have smelled, or sensed, him. At the final moment he began to turn, his right hand going for the holster, but it was too late. As he turned, the needle penetrated his neck and Bond squeezed the plunger. A heavy dose of Ketamine flowed freely into the man’s carotid artery. He went down without a sound. Bond thought he should tell the doctor that it worked, when he got back. If he got back.
He caught the Russian officer under the armpits and slowly heaved the dead weight back towards the woodshed door.
Once he had him inside, Bond went out again and retrieved the transmitter. What he was about to do revolted him, but he had already weighed the risks. There were a number of officers and men scattered around. The October Battalion would be completely familiar with one another, but the troops who had already been guarding the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre would probably not be known to the new arrivals. It might just work and give him time, even a few hours, and there were still two more hypos in the container.
As the possibilities raced through his head, Bond set about destroying the transmitter and micro. The sooner he scattered the pieces the better it would be. When it was done, he gathered the remains into a small pile. Then he set about undressing the unconscious man. He was a Spetsnaz lieutenant with badges of rank sewn on to the breasts of his combat suit. Bond thought it was like undressing a drunk. The body flopped around, but the limbs were pliable and the job was done more quickly than he imagined.
He piled the officer’s clothing and equipment carefully in the far corner, then began to undress himself. The whole business of exchanging clothes took around twenty minutes, including the transfer of the already hidden items Bond had removed from his denim jacket. He might need some of them now – the pick-locks, the three long tubes of RDX-based C-4 explosive, the most powerful in the world unless you got into things nuclear, the remaining two hypos, a small pillbox containing detonators, the coil of fuse wire – two types, the slow burning and the electronic – together with other useful pieces of hardware. He distributed them around his body. The P6 pistol and the magazines were jammed into the pockets of the parka. He had no use for them now, for the young lieutenant carried one of the latest PRI 5.45mm automatics with a fitted silencer, five spare magazines, a long killing knife and four high-explosive magnetic grenades. These last were dual-types which Bond had never seen before, but they were similar in appearance to the larger M560 ‘High Frag’ grenades used by the Americans. The only difference seemed to be the magnetisation. He thought that if you stuck one of these onto heavy armour, it would blow a small hole through which its shrapnel would be sucked to spread itself around among the occupants, or it could be used as a simple anti-personnel grenade in the normal manner.
He clipped on the light webbing equipment, securing the grenades and spare magazine in the ‘Alice’ pouches built into the combat suit. He had taken off the officer’s dog tags and deciphered them under the penlight. The poor fellow was called Sergei Yakovlevich Batovrin. If he got out of this, Bond had an idea that he might even write to the man’s family. No, he stopped the thought. On the battlefield there is nothing that so limits a soldier as a streak of kindness. Military men put their lives squarely on the gaming tables. If it had been a straight confrontation, Bond would not have hesitated.
As well as the hood on his combat suit, the lieutenant had worn a round fur hat with earflaps. The red star and his rank were clipped to the front. Bond finally put the hat on and then turned to the matter which had concerned him most from the moment his mind had decided on this foolhardy action.
Field men dislike disguises and Bond was no different from his colleagues. The art of make-up and disguise in tradecraft went out with the eccentric Baden-Powell. If disguise was necessary then it was best done with a change of clothing, a pair of spectacles, a different walk, a limp, a mannerism or the reversible raincoat. Yet they had insisted on the small flat tin with the contact lenses to change eye colour and the set of false hair – three moustaches of different shapes and sizes, cunningly woven from the agent’s natural hair and attached to a substance which, when pressed against skin, bonded the hair into place so tightly and seamlessly that you genuinely had to shave the hair from your lip and then apply a special solvent to remove any traces.
He did not like it, but it was necessary. There was no way he could walk back into the building without some form of disguise. The lid of the tin was made out of unbreakable mirror so he used the penlight and carefully rolled the moustache into place. He had chosen the flamboyant one with the long waxed ends for two reasons. If he had to use false facial hair then it was better to go over the top. Also, he had seen two Spetsnaz soldiers sporting moustaches which would have won prizes against those grown by fighter pilots in World War II.
Now, fully equipped, he went outside again, checking the distant shadows of the still searching men. He cast away the fragments of the transmitter and the micro, then went back to drag Lieutenant Batovrin on his last journey into the night.
The PRI 5.45mm automatic only made a faint popping sound, not commensurate with the destructive force of its bul
lets. Three tore great holes in the man’s chest. Blood whipped out and his body twitched once. Two more destroyed the face.
He walked, in plain sight now, back towards the entrance porch. The sight of the body had shocked him more than anything else he had seen in the many dangerous and death-ridden lives he had lived.
Looking at Batovrin had been like gazing at his own murdered body.
They had almost finished packing away the equipment. Nigsy only had to bring in the encryption receiver, set to Bond’s frequency. He had left it until last, just in case. Already the Lapp and Pansy Wright were astride the two Yamaha snow-scooters.
Nigsy was just reaching forward to unhook the receiver from the battery pack when he saw the needles flick and the tape whine.
‘Come on, Nigs! For heaven’s sake hurry up!’ Pansy shouted from the scooter.
Meadows detached the battery and began to pack the equipment into one of the panniers. He took the tape out and slipped it into the pocket of his warm snowsuit. They would get a playback and decrypt in the Helsinki Embassy.
In the end, because of the weather and disruption to aircraft timetables, it was twenty-four hours before he reached the embassy.
There were further delays before the signal was passed on to the London office. After that it took M almost twenty-four hours to get hold of the Prime Minister who in turn had a little trouble raising the President of the USSR.
They spoke at length on the direct hotline between Downing Street and the Kremlin, just as the minesweeper was pulling its brood towards the Iranian coast.
‘For the want of a horse,’ M growled. He thought they were too late and was already preparing to speak with his opposite number in Langley, Virginia.
20
THE SWIMMING CHAMPION
As he worked on their handcuffs with the pick-locks, Bond told them the score, the global danger and the odds. He did not mince matters. They were outnumbered, and the cargoes had almost reached their destination. Between these whispered briefings he raised his voice, talking loudly in Russian, saying that they would, with the exception of Boris Stepakov, be expected to do as they were told.
‘The marshal says you are not co-operative, that you are being like stubborn children,’ he almost shouted, turning his face towards the door.
Stephanie rubbed her wrists, massaging the circulation back. ‘Please, James, don’t shout. You’re hurting my head.’ She gave a sad little smile. ‘You say . . .’ she began. Then Stepakov completed the question.
‘You say these containers lie below the waterline?’
He told them, yes, and then described the clever way the hulls of fishing boats had been bolted above. ‘They’re having a pretty rough ride. The things are bobbing like corks in a bottle.’
‘But if they were holed?’ Stephanie glared at Stepakov as though he had behaved very badly at the dinner table.
Boris took no notice. ‘And these things are attached to the minesweeper, this ship, by hawsers?’
Bond nodded, saying they were towing them in line astern.
Rampart asked what firepower was available on the ship.
‘Providing we got lucky and took over?’ Bond shrugged. He was working on Pete Natkowitz’s manacles.
‘But of course.’
‘They’ve got a couple of 45-mms fore and aft in turrets. Also two 25-mms on each side. Midships, port and starboard. Antiaircraft stuff.’
‘Then, technically, we could blow them out of the water with the 45s.’ Natkowitz nodded his thanks as his wrist came clear.
Bond reached inside the combat suit and took out one of the magnetic grenades. ‘This would be better. In fact, I believe if we managed to get off in one of the inflatables – I’ve counted four – we might be able to rig up some way of timing these things. I let Yuskovich go on talking the other night. The containers are vulnerable, being made of a light alloy. The sides are flotation chambers, with some simple mechanism for blowing out the water when they get them inshore.’ He hefted the grenade. ‘Put this on the side of the last in the line and we’ll probably upset the whole damned lot. The cargo’s bloody heavy. When one goes they might all go. Down among the dead men.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Boris assumed a clown’s look of innocence. ‘The cribbage effect.’
‘Domino,’ Stephanie sharply corrected.
Stepakov grinned and asked if he might see one of the grenades. Bond brought them all out and placed them on the deck.
‘Yes, these have a little delay mechanism at the base, so.’ He turned over one of the bombs, pointing to a knurled screw. ‘You can set them for up to five minutes, at one minute increments. No more. No less.’
There was the sound of a boot scraping against the metal deck outside. Rampart was immediately on his feet, making for the side of the hatch. Bond motioned to him, indicating that he would go out.
It was the soldier, back on duty after his smoke. ‘Are they suitably chastened, comrade Lieutenant?’ He smiled to let him know he had heard what Bond had shouted loudly for his benefit.
‘Not really. I know what I’d like to do with them.’
‘Maybe you’ll get the chance, sir.’
‘Oh, the fun will go to the big boils . . .’ He stopped at the sound of another pair of boots coming down the companionway.
‘My duty’s up,’ the soldier sighed, then greeted his replacement who saluted Bond.
‘All well?’ the new man asked.
‘They have to be put in a better mood.’ The guard winked at his comrade. ‘The lieutenant, here, has been telling them bedtime stories about dragons with big boils.’
They both laughed.
‘I’m coming back to give them more.’ Bond looked at the new man. ‘Expect me in a few minutes.’ He nodded and went up the companionway, stopping once he was out on the open deck, checking he could not be seen. Nobody else was about and the sentry just relieved began to come up the companionway, slowly as though tired, like soldiers the world over at the end of a boring guard duty.
Bond took him out with the long killing knife, similar in size and weight to the Sykes-Fairbairn he was used to. The point went into the man’s neck as though it were penetrating butter. He did not even have time to shout. There was a great deal of blood.
When he had dragged the body behind the aft gun turret. Bond went down the companionway again. He smiled cheerily as the sentry came to attention, so the man did not even see the knife coming.
‘There are weapons out there,’ he told Rampart once he was through the hatchway. ‘Pete, there’s a body littering up the deck behind the aft turret. Be a good fellow and move it. Then pass out the goodies. I’m going on a recce. Just to see where everyone’s got to. Then we’ll have a go at launching one of the inflatables. It’s dark enough. We might just be able to deal with the cargo. It’s worth a try.’
Back on the mess deck which Yuskovich had commandeered for his staff, Verber was playing chess with his cousin.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Bond asked, and Verber shook his head.
His cousin said the major never slept when there was about to be action.
‘We won’t get any action,’ Bond said. ‘We only have to watch them unload the weapons. Nobody’s going to start shooting.’
Berzin’s voice came from behind him, ‘Not unless you try something, Englishman.’
Bond spun around.
‘Ah,’ Berzin stood in the doorway, ‘so it is the Englishman. I was concerned. The moustache fooled me.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ Bond looked him straight in the eye. ‘Comrade General, you are accusing me of something? I don’t understand.’ He spoke as though the Russian had made some disgusting slander concerning his mother.
Berzin locked eyes with him, his slim, leathery face held no expression. It was as though he had been bled of all sympathy, humanity and compassion. ‘I just cannot place you, Batovrin. You worry me. Yes, I even think you might possibly be the dead Englishman. You believe in ghosts?’
‘No, General Berzin. The only kind of spooks I understand are KGB and GRU.’
‘Mmmmm.’ Berzin’s face did not alter and his eyes reflected not an ounce of feeling. ‘I have seen most of the current Spetsnaz officers through the training school, some of them even at the airborne school at Ryazan. I knew a Batovrin. Younger than you, and he had no moustache. It’s worried me since the marshal put you on to his staff. I know your name, but . . .’
Bond smiled. ‘You’re thinking of my young brother, Grigori, comrade General. I’m Sergei.’ As he spoke, he edged towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Verber and his cousin had stopped playing chess. They lounged back in their chairs, pretending to be mildly interested, but Bond could see the tautness of their muscles as they prepared to spring at a second’s notice. There was a new tension in the air. He could almost smell it, as an animal smells fear on a human.
‘Really, Batovrin? If it is so, you look nothing like your brother.’
‘He takes after my father’s side of the family.’
‘Really?’ Berzin repeated.
Bond laughed, ‘Yes, really, comrade General.’
The strap was still in place on Berzin’s holster, but now, at last, the eyes flickered. He was more certain of his ground. In a moment he would call Bond’s bluff again; after that it would not take long. Rampart and Pete would be armed by now, but the odds were with Yuskovich’s people.
‘So, your brother takes after my very good friend Colonel General Petros Batovrin. And you favour my equally good friend, the Colonel General’s wife, Anna Batovrin. Strange, they never mentioned that there was an elder son. And I was at the Frunze with Petros Batovrin.’
Bond turned sideways, hands on his hips, his right palm flat. He could reach the pistol quickly if necessary, but with three of them, there was little chance that he would get off the mess deck alive. ‘Where is the comrade Marshal, sir? I think he should be here. I am a true and loyal member . . .’ It sounded lame, like words put into the mouth of an actor in some bad film. But he did not have to complete the sentence.
