It was then that Besavitsky saw there could be a possible future in terrorism. He spent time with the PLO and learned a few tips, then went back to buying and selling-world-wide, under dozens of aliases, dealing in anything from stolen paintings to rare collectors’ motor cars. For many years he stayed well ahead of the law. But he was no fool. He liked a luxurious lifestyle and knew that it was possible the time might eventually come when they could catch up with him. Just as he knew that one really major killing could set him up for life and allow him to retire in exceptional luxury, and never have to look over his shoulder again.
This was in 1985: the year he decided to make international terrorism work in his favour. It was also the year when his name changed to Bassam Baradj, and it was as Baradj that he went out into the streets and hiding-holes of Europe and the Middle East in search of converts. He had links with a number of disenchanted terrorists and, in turn, they had other links.
Baradj had always had an unhealthy interest in demonology.
Now he used it to his own purpose and founded BAST, dragging into his net the three very experienced people who would act as his staff Saphii Boudai, All Al Adwan, and Abou Hamarik.
Bait for them was twofold. First, a blow of huge dimensions against the corrupt Superpowers, plus the United Kingdom.
Second, a very large financial gain which would, of course, assist the cause of true freedom everywhere. The Brotherhood of Anarchy and Secret Terrorism had a nice ring to it, but Baradj saw it as one of those meaningless titles that would draw a certain type of person.
His three lieutenants trawled the terrorist backwaters and, by the end of 1986, they had over four hundred men and women on their books.
The Viper - Baradj - gave them the first orders. No member of BAST was to take part in any terrorist operation until he had cleared it. He okayed several small bombings,just to get BAST’s name on the map. But as far as the overall plan went, there would be one, and only one, operation he would fund. This would take time to mature, but the returns would be enormous: billions, maybe trillions, of dollars.
Bassam Baradj, cheapskate, big-time fraud merchant, buyer and seller extraordinary, spent the next years gaining information with which he could prepare the plan he was about to play out on the international stage. When it was over, BAST could fall apart for all he cared; for Baradj intended to take the proceeds, run, change his name, paper and possibly his face, with a little help from a plastic surgeon. Now he was nearly at the most sensitive point in his operation, for he alone - outside of the tiny circle of Navy and intelligence officers - knew the secret of what they called Stewards’ Meeting. Apart from the dupe Petty Officer whom his men had enlisted, Baradj had at least two agents aboard invincible. One had provided the essential clue to Stewards’ Meeting, the other had people who would obey during the plot that lay ahead. Once the clock began to run on his operation, Baradj considered the entire business would take only forty-eight hours, maybe sixty at the outside, for the Superpowers would cave in very quickly. After that, Baradj would cease to exist, and BAST would be penniless.
When he had abandoned Northanger, Baradj had gone to Rome for a couple of days. From Rome he flew into London, Gatwick as a transfer passenger to Gibraltar. There, Abou Hamarik, “The Man”, waited for him at that British home from home, The Rock Hotel. For once the men did not exchange the BAST password, “Health depends on strength” - a password taken very seriously by all BAST members except Baradj who thought it to be gobbledegook, and did not, therefore, realise that it was one of the tiny clues that had leaked to Intelligence and Security services world-wide, who also took it seriously: to the point of analyzing variations on its possible meaning.
But, this time, for no other reason than laxity, the words were not exchanged, therefore none of the listening-post computers picked it up. The advent of a pair of high-ranking members of BAST went undetected in Gibraltar. If they had exchanged this profoundly nonsensical form of greeting things might well have been different.
James Bond saw Clover Pennington for the first time since their meeting over Christmas, in the wardroom of invincible. Certain sea-going regulations had been altered to allow the Wrens and their officer to do their job with ease, and First Officer Pennington was, as the bearded Sir John Walmsley put it, “A delightful adornment to our ship’s company.” Not one officer in the wardroom missed the slightly lascivious look in the Captain’s eyes as he gallantly kissed Clover’s hand and lingered over releasing it.
Eventually, Clover escaped from the senior officers and came over to Bond, who was nursing a glass of Badoit, having forsworn alcohol until the operation had been successfully concluded. She looked fit, relaxed and very fetching in the trousers and short jacket Wren officers wore, for the sake of modesty, when on harbour or shipboard duty, and aircraft maintenance.
“You all right, sir?” Clover smiled at him, her dark eyes wide and stirring with pleasure, leaving no doubt that she was happy to see him.
“Fine, Clover. Ready for the fray?”
“I hope it’s not going to be a fray. I just want it all over and done with. I gather that I defer to you in all security matters.”
“That’s what the rules say. They also say it to the Americans and the Russians, though I really can’t see either of them deferring to anyone.
The Old Man tells me he’s going to make it plain to the whole lot.
They might well obey for the first part, but, when we come to Stewards’ Meeting, I don’t see them budging from their respective charges and telling me anything.” The cipher, Stewards’ Meeting, was, as far as invincible was concerned, known only to Sir John Walmsley, Clover Pennington,James Bond, the three visiting Admirals and their bodyguards, to whom the information was essential. Even when they got to that particular phase the present circle of knowledge would not be considerably widened. The entire ship’s company might see things, and guess others, but would never be formally told.
“We know who the minders are, Jame … sir?”
He nodded, glancing around as officers drifted in to dinner.
“Our people’re easy, just a pair of heavies from the Branch both ex-Navy and done up as Flag Officers; the Yanks’ve got their Secret Service bodyguards. Four of them. As for the Russians, almost certainly KGB, four in all, including a woman who’s described as a Naval Attache’.”
“Any names?”
“Yes. All unmemorable, apart from the Russian lady who’s called Nikola Ratnikov, a name to conjure with .
“I’ve already marked her card, sir.” Clover gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Whatever she’s like, I’ll think of her as “Nikki The Rat’.”
Bond allowed her one of his neon-sign smiles: on and off. “Let’s eat,” he said. “I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long hard night.” One of the Sea Kings hovered off the port bow. This was normal operational practice during flying operations. One helicopter was always airborne to act as a search-and-rescue machine should an aircraft end up in the drink.
From Flight Operations, high on the superstructure known to all as the island, Bond could see the helicopter’s warning lights blinking as it drifted forward keeping in station with the ship.
“Here they come.” The Commander in charge of Flight Ops snapped his night glasses up and swept the sky behind the stern.
“Our man’s leading them In.
You could see them with the naked eye - not their shapes, but the warning lights of three hells stacked from around five hundred feet, at a good thousand-yard intervals, up to about a thousand feet.
“Rulers of their own nay-vee-s,” Bond parodied the Gilbert and Sullivan song from HMS Pinafore.
A young officer chuckled, and, as the first chopper, another Sea King, came in and put down, taxiing forward at the instructions from the deck-handling officer, the Commander joined in, singing, “For they are monarchs of the sea.”
The second machine touched the deck, it was a big Mil Mi-i4
in the Soviet Naval livery
of white and grey (NATO designation Haze) making a din they could hear up on the bridge above Flight Operations. Bond repeated his line, “Rulers of their own Nay-vee-s,” adding, “I think that one really ha,s, brought along all of his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts.
As the rotors slowed to idle, so the final craft did a rather fancy rolling-landing, touching down right on the stern threshold.
This looked like an update of the Bell model 212, and carried US markings, but no designation and no Navy livery. Nobody in Flight Operations had seen anything like it. “I want those choppers off my deck fast,” the Commander barked at the young officer acting as communications link with the deck-handling officer. Then he turned back to Bond, “We’ve got two Sea Harriers out there, fully juiced and carrying operational equipment: real bangs, Sidewinders, tomm cannon, the works. Don’t know what’s behind it, but the Captain gave the orders. Round the clock readiness, with a four-minute ability to switch them for unarmed Harriers. Bloody dangerous if you ask me.”
The three helicopters were discharging their passengers with speed, each machine being met by a senior officer, a bosun, and several ratings: the senior officer to salute, the bosun to pipe the admiral aboard, and the ratings to secure any luggage. Admiral of the Fleet Sir Geoffrey Gould; Admiral Edwin Gudeon, United States Navy; and Admiral Sergei Yevgennevich Pauker, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy, together with their staffs and bodyguards were aboard invincible.
Half an hour later, Bond was ushered into the Captain’s day cabin.
The three admirals were standing in the centre of the cabin, each nursing a drink, and Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley greeted Bond with a smile, turning to the assorted brass from the Royal Navy, United States Navy and the Soviet Navy. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Captain Bond who is in charge of your security arrangements while you’re aboard invincible. Bond, this is Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Geoffrey Gould.” Bond stood to attention in front of the smooth-looking, impeccable officer. “Captain Bond,” Gould had a voice which matched his looks: he was one of those people who always look neat and freshly barbered.
“I’m sure we’ll all be safe in your care. I have two Flag Officers who have had experience in these matters . .
“Gentlemen, Captain Bond is to meet your personal start’ as soon as I’ve introduced him to you,” Walmsley broke in quickly.
“I must stress that while you are guests aboard my flagship, your people will take their orders directly from Captain Bond. This is essential to your well-being, and the safety of those who will, eventually, be part of Stewards’ Meeting.”
“Sure, if that’s the way you want to play it. But I’ve got four guys with me,” Admiral Gudeon’s voice was the unpleasant growl of a cantankerous man who always liked his own way, and was never wrong. “I guess they’ll be able to look after me without you doin’ much to help them.” Bond did not know if the Admiral meant to be rude, or whether it was merely a long-cultivated manner. “Bond? Bond…?” the American continued. “I knew a Bond, way back at Annapolis. You got any American relatives?”
“I think not, sir. Many friends, but no relatives - not as far as I know, anyway.” Rear-Admiral Walmsley moved a foot, kicking Bond’s ankle sharply. But Gudeon seemed oblivious to the tongue-in-cheek answer.
“And,” Walmsley quickly pushed Bond along the line, “our most senior officer here. Admiral Sergei Pauker, Commander-in -Chief of the Soviet Navy.”
“An honour, sir.” Bond looked the man straight in the eyes.
Pauker had the rosy cheeks of a Mr. Pickwick, but there the likeness ended. The eyes were grey and cold, showing no emotion.
Dead eyes, overhung by frosty eyebrows. He had a small mouth, but it did form itself into a surprisingly friendly smile. The main feature of the face, ruddy cheeks apart, was a huge aquiline nose.
“Bond,” he pronounced it “Bound”. “I think somewhere I have heard the name before. Have you, perhaps, served in your embassy in Moscow?”
He spoke excellent English.
“Not exactly in the embassy, sir.” Bond gave an almost imperceptible smile.
“But you are known there, I think. In Moscow, I mean.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, sir.”
“Good. Good.” The humour disappeared from his face and the eyes glazed over.
There was no offer of a drink, and Rear-Admiral Walmsley ushered Bond out of the room, like a farmer getting an errant sheep into a van.
“The security people are in Briefing One,” he whispered.
Briefing One was Qe primary Air-Group Briefing-Room on the port side, amidships and two decks below the officers’ quarters. It had been cleared for an hour, so that the security teams could get together, and Bond entered it quickly, going straight into his prepared routine. “My name’s Bond, James Bond. Captain, Royal Navy,” he began, then stopped abruptly. The one woman among the ten large men, was enough to stop anyone or anything.
She also spoke before anyone else. “Captain Bond. I am First Naval Attache to Admiral Pauker. My name is Nikola Ratnikov.
My friends call me Nikki. I hope you are to be my friend.
You could feel the unsettling tension spark through the room, and it was obvious that Nikola Ratnikov had been showing the cold-shoulder to the rest of her colleagues, which must have been irritating to say the least. Comrade Attache’ Ratnikov would have given a tweak to the loins of even a devout monk, and it would not matter whether the monk was Roman Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, or Russian Orthodox. She had that indefinable quality about her manner, features and body which made all heterosexual men turn to look twice, and, possibly a third time, if they had the energy left.
Nikki Ratnikov wore a well-tailored Soviet Naval Woman Officer’s uniform, which is not flattering to all. There again, Nikki could have made sackcloth and ashes look like Dior. When she moved towards him, hand extended, even Bond felt his knees tremble slightly. She had short, ash-blonde hair, cut in what used to be called a pageboy style, but, from where he stood, it looked like a tempting golden helmet, framing a face of classic beauty.
It was not the kind of face that Bond usually went for. He preferred slightly blemished good looks, but Nikki’s eyes held his for almost a minute, and it was longer before he let go of her hand.
“Hallo, Captain Bond, we’ve met before.” It was one of the Special Branch men, all done up in a Lieutenant’s uniform, complete with the gold trimmings of a Flag Officer. “Brinkley,” he added.
“Yes, of course. Yes, I remember you. Ted Brinkley, right?”
“On the button, sir.” The Special Branch man looked for all the world like a Special Branch man in fancy dress, as did his partner, Martin - “My friends call me “Moggy”’ - Camm.
He did the rounds of the other security men. Few had resorted to the bad disguises of the Branch men, and they looked like a very heavy team. The Americans introduced themselves as Joe, Stan, Edgar and Bruce. Bruce was a very tall black officer with an exceptionally bone-crushing handshake, and looked as though he could probably stop a tank with his chest. Joe and Stan seemed to be made-to-measure, off the peg, standard issue “bullet catchers”. Edgar - “Call me Ed” - was in a different mould: lean, mean, tense with obvious staying power and taut muscles, he had the battered good looks of one who had seen plenty of action in his time. Bond had him down as the brains of the outfit.
The other three Russians were simply Ivan, Yevgeny and Gennady.
Three nice boys. The kind of nice boys you saw popping in and out of KGB facilities, looking after more senior officers.
Bond had once seen a trio like this coming out of a building after six men had died - none of them through natural causes.
He tried to engage all of them in polite conversation, unveiling a plan that had been set up on an easel, showing exactly where they were to be stationed, in relation to their charges. Outside, three Petty Officers stood by with cards giving details of the several decks, and their geographic relationship to those par
ts of invincible tagged for the visiting VIPs and the bodyguards. Bond explained this to them, went through the emergency drills, making certain the Russian-speakers understood, then wished them a good night’s rest, and began to hand them over to the POs.
A light hand rested on his sleeve, “I think, me you take to my quarters, Captain Bond?” Nikki stood beside him, close enough for him to catch the hint of Bal de Versailles she wore.
“You, I think, get special treatment, Comrade Attache’ Nikki.”
She gave him a glittering smile and he noticed her perfect teeth and the inviting mouth. “Yes, you’re quite near my quarters as it happens. I have to hand you over to one of the lady officers we have on board, but it’s a nice little walk up to my cabin.” He turned.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, sir.” Clover Pennington stood by the door, her face looking like the wrath of God. “I have instructions to escort the Comrade Attache’ to her quarters. Show her the ropes, sir.
“Which ropes?” Nikki s voice sounded as though she was genuinely puzzled.
“An English saying. Means she’s going to show you the way around the ship. This is First Officer Pennington, Nikki. She’ll see that you’re well looked after.”
“Oh, but Captain Bond, I was thinking you could look after me.”
“Not in a million years,” muttered Clover so that Bond could hear.
“Best go with her, Nikki. Protocol, really. Perhaps we can talk later on.
Win, Lose or Die Monarchs of the Sea “I also would like that. In your cabin, maybe, yes?” Reluctantly, she allowed Clover to guide her towards the companionway. Nikki looked back and smiled invitingly.
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