No Deals, Mr. Bond jb-21

by John Gardner

  ‘We’ll be taking the direct route to Rosslare. I want one of you well ahead, let’s say the Cortina, with the Volvo and Audi close to me. Box me in if you can, Mick. Don’t make it too tight, nothing out of the ordinary. Flash me if we have any persistent company. Flash twice if you see a dark complexioned man with close-cropped hair and a square face who struts rather than walks . . .’

  ‘He won’t be doin’ much strutting in a motor.’ Big Mick sounded caustic.

  ‘He’s military; Germanic. That’s the only description I can give you,’ Bond said wearily, realising that a word picture of Maxim Smolin was not the easiest thing to produce over the telephone. He had seen the man only once, in Paris about three years ago; seen him once and been through his file a dozen times. There were seven covert photographs in the file but they did not help. Dragging his thoughts back to Big Mick Shean, Bond said, ‘See you tomorrow, and thanks, Mick. Will money from the usual place be okay?’

  ‘You’re a gentleman, Jack. Tomorrow, then.’

  He cradled the telephone and was about to go up to the room again when he thought of one more chore. Perhaps he was being over-cautious, but he could not help feeling most uneasy. On the way to the elevator he paused by the internal guest telephone and dialled their room number. He frowned as he heard the engaged tone. Heather had disobeyed him and the knowledge added to his present anxiety. When he reached the bedroom, Bond gave the Morse Code V knock twice, quickly. The door opened, and a pink and white figure scampered back to the bed. He closed the door, put on the chain and turned to look at her, lying there with a half smile on her face. On the bedside table the telephone was off the hook. He nodded towards it.

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled more widely, moving from under the bedclothes so that they dropped back, revealing a bare arm, shoulder and part of one breast. ‘I’m terrible with telephones, James. I can’t stand not answering them, so I took it off the hook.’ She replaced the instrument and looked at him from the bed, the sheet and blankets falling to reveal both breasts. ‘If you want to sleep here, James, I wouldn’t complain.’

  She looked so vulnerable that it took a great deal of will power for Bond to refuse the offer.

  ‘You’re a sweet girl, Heather, and I’m flattered. Exhausted, but flattered, and tomorrow’s another day. It’ll be a tough old day as well.’

  ‘I just feel so . . . so alone and bloody miserable.’ And, with that, Heather turned over, pushed her head into the pillow and pulled the sheets up.

  Bond quietly removed one of the spare pillows from the bed, and took off his jacket and trousers. He wrapped himself in the short silk robe from his getaway case and then in a blanket he found in the wardrobe. Then he literally stretched himself across the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the butt of his automatic pistol.

  Eventually he drifted into sleep.

  Suddenly he woke with a start. It was five o’clock and someone was gently trying the handle of the door.

  6

  BASILISK

  Silently, James Bond rolled out of his blanket, drawing the pistol as he did so. The door handle turned slowly, then stopped, but by that time Bond was at Heather’s side of the bed, shaking her naked shoulder with his gun hand. The other he pressed gently over her mouth. She made small grunting noises as he bent low and whispered that they had company, that she should keep silent and get on to the floor, out of sight. She nodded and he took his hand away. He returned to the door, keeping to one side. More than once he had seen what bullets could do to people through doors. Gingerly he slipped the chain, then, standing well back, sharply pulled the door open.

  ‘Jacko? Hallo there.’

  Even in the light from the corridor, he recognised Inspector Murray’s tall frame and the smiling shrewd face peering into the room.

  ‘What the hell!’

  Bond stepped behind him. In one fast movement he shut the door and snapped the lights on, pushing the Garda Special Branch man just hard enough to put him off balance. Murray stumbled forward, grabbing for the bed, but Bond had him in a neck choke, the ASP’s muzzle just behind the policeman’s right ear.

  ‘What are you playing at, Norman? You’ll get yourself killed creeping about like that. Or have you got an armed posse surrounding the hotel?’

  ‘Hold it, Jacko! Hold it! I come in peace – alone and unofficial.’

  Heather slowly appeared from the other side of the bed, her frightened eyes looking straight into the Inspector’s merry face.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, his mouth splitting into a friendly smile as Bond slightly relaxed his grip, ‘ah, and this would be Miss Arlington, would it, Mr Boldman? Or shall I call you Jacko B?’

  Keeping the pistol close to Murray’s head, Bond released him from the choke. With his free hand he found the Garda issue Walther PPK in a hip holster. He removed the gun, sliding it well out of reach across the floor.

  ‘For a man of peace, you come well prepared, Norman.’

  ‘Oh, come on Jacko, I have to carry the cannon. You’re knowing that as well as I – and what’s a wee gun between friends?’

  ‘It could be death.’ Bond sounded cynical. ‘You knew I was here all the time then? And Miss Arlington?’

  ‘Ach, man, of course. But I kept it to myself. We just happen to have a red alert on at the moment and your face came up at the airport. Lucky I was on duty at the Castle when it came in on the Fax. I telephoned the Brits’ chief spook, old Grimshawe, at Merrion Road and asked if he had any extra bodies over here, or if he expected any. Grimshawe tells me the truth. We work better that way. It saves a lot of time. He said no spooks and no extra-curricular activities, so I believed him. Then you rang me, and I got interested.’ His eyes twinkled as he turned back towards Heather. ‘You wouldn’t be Miss Larke’s friend, Miss Sharke, would you, dear?’

  ‘What?’ Heather’s mouth hung open.

  ‘Because if you are, then it’s bloody bad security, and not up to the standards we’ve come to know and love. Names like Larke and Sharke attract attention. They’re stupid, which we are not.’

  Bond stepped back. ‘Mark him well, dear, stupid he is not,’ he said, mimicking Murray’s accent, which was more lowland Scots than Dublin. As he always said, ‘I was born in the North, educated in the South, take my holidays in Scotland or Spain and work in the Republic. I don’t feel at home anywhere.’

  ‘It was rather stupid, Norman, to come trying my door handle at this time of night.’

  ‘And when else should I try it? Not in broad daylight, when I have to account for every movement I make.’

  ‘You could have knocked.’

  ‘I was going to knock, Jacko. Another thirty seconds and I’d have knocked. Tap, tap, bloody tap.’

  The men looked at each other, neither believing the other.

  ‘I’m not here for the fun of it.’ Inspector Murray produced his cheerful smile. ‘I’m here because I owe you in a big way, Jacko, and I always repay.’

  That was true. Four years ago, Bond had saved Murray’s life just on the Republic’s side of the border, not far from Crossmaglen; but that incident would remain buried in the secret archives of Bond’s Service.

  Heather pulled the clothes off the bed, wrapping them around her and trying to pat her hair into shape at the same time. It was an interesting and revealing series of movements which had both men gazing at her in silence. When she was decent, Murray sat himself on the bed, swivelling his body in a vain attempt to watch both Bond and Heather at the same time.

  ‘Look, girl,’ he said, ‘Jacko will tell you that you can be trusting me.’

  ‘Don’t even think about trust, Miss Arlington.’ Bond’s face remained impassive.

  Murray sighed. ‘All right. I’ll just be giving you the facts. Then I can get home to a cup of cocoa and my sleep.’

  They sat as though staring each other out. Finally Murray spoke again.

  ‘Your Miss Larke, now – the one that lent the poor young girl her coat and scarf . . .’

  ‘What . . .�
�� Heather began, but Bond shook his head imperceptibly, signalling that she should not react.

  ‘Well, your Miss Larke appears to have gone to earth, as they say of foxes.’

  ‘You mean she’s not . . . ?’ Heather began again.

  ‘Shut up!’ snapped Bond.

  ‘My God, Jacko, can’t you be the masterful one when you’ve a mind?’ Murray grinned, took a breath, then started to speak again. ‘There was a Dublin address.’ He looked around, first at Heather and then at Bond, his face a picture of innocence. ‘A nice little address in Fitzwilliam Square.’ He waited but received no comment so with a shrug continued: ‘Well, as they would say in London, somebody’s gone and turned over the drum.’

  ‘You mean this Dublin address given by someone called Larke?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Whose name is not Larke, I suspect, but Heritage. Ebbie Heritage.’

  ‘This woman, Larke or Heritage . . .’ said Bond.

  ‘Ach come on, Jacko, don’t play the goat with me. You know bloody well, if you’ll pardon me Miss . . . er . . . Sharke?’

  ‘Arlington,’ said Heather decidedly. She seemed at last to have got herself under control.

  ‘Yes.’ Murray clearly did not believe a syllable of the name. ‘I’ve told you, the address provided by Miss Larke really belongs to a Miss Heritage. Both are missing. The apartment in Fitzwilliam Square’s been done over.’

  ‘Was it burglary? Vandalism?’ asked Bond curtly.

  ‘Oh, a bit of both. It’s one hell of a mess. I’d say a professional job dressed up to look like enthusiastic amateurs. The interesting thing is that there’s not a single piece of correspondence in the place. They even ripped up floorboards. Now what d’you think of that?’

  ‘You’ve come out here at dawn just to tell me this?’

  ‘Well, you showed interest in the Ashford Castle business. I thought you should know. Besides, me knowing what kind of work you’re engaged in, I thought there was something else I should put your way.’

  Bond nodded for Murray to continue.

  ‘Did you ever hear of a fella called Smolin?’ Murray asked with supreme disinterest. ‘Maxim Smolin. Our branch in London, and I presume the people you work for as well, have him under the stupid code name of Basilisk.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Bond grunted.

  ‘You want this joker’s life history, or do you know it already, Jacko?’

  Bond smiled. ‘Okay, Norm . . .’

  ‘And don’t you be after calling me Norm, either, or I’ll have you in the Bridewell on some trumped-up charge that’ll ban you from the Republic for life.’

  ‘Okay, Norman. Maxim Anton Smolin; born 1946 in Berlin of a German lady, Christina von Geshmann, by a Soviet General, called Smolin, whose mistress she was at the time. Alexei Alexeiovich Smolin. Young Smolin took his father’s name but his mother’s nationality. He was educated in Berlin and Moscow. His mother died when he was only a couple of years old. Is that your man, Norman?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He entered the military via one of those nice Russian schools; I forget which one. It could have been the 13th Army. Anyway, he was commissioned young, then sent to the Spetsnaz Training Centre – for the lite, if you like that kind of élite killer. Young Maxim found his way by invitation into the most secret arm of the Military Intelligence, the GRU. That’s the only way you get into the GRU, unlike the KGB who’ll take you off the streets if you make them an offer. From there by a series of postings, Smolin came back to East Berlin. And he returned as a highranking field officer of the HVA, the East German Intelligence Service.

  ‘He’s everything, our Maxim: a mole within a warren of moles, working with the HVA, which has to work with the KGB, yet all the time doing little jobs on the side because he’s really a member of the GRU.’

  ‘You have the man to a T.’ Murray beamed at them. ‘You know what they say about the GRU? They say it costs a rouble to join, and two roubles to get out. Almost an Irish saying, that. It’s very difficult to become a GRU officer. It’s even more difficult to jump over the wall once you’re in because there really is only one way out – in a long box. They’re very fond of training foreigners, and Smolin is only half Russian. They tell me he holds great power in East Germany. Even the KGB men there are in awe of him.’

  ‘Well, Norman? Have you something new to tell us about him?’ asked Bond.

  ‘You know, Jacko, the whole world thinks that we have only one problem on this divided island, the North and the South. They’d be wrong and I’m sure you’re aware of it, so. Your man Basilisk arrived in the Republic two days ago. Now, Jacko, when I heard of that terrible thing at Ashford Castle, I recalled there’d already been two just like it over the water, and a little quotation came to mind.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘There’s something most pertinent been written about your Soviet General Staff Chief Intelligence Directorate – your GRU. The fella was a GRU defector, name of Suverov. He was writing about people who can’t keep quiet, who leak secrets. He wrote, “The GRU knows how to rip such tongues out!” Interesting, Jacko?’

  Bond nodded, looking solemn. The historians of the intelligence services tended to dismiss the GRU as having been swallowed by the KGB. ‘The GRU (Soviet Military Intelligence) is completely dominated by the KGB’, one writer had maintained. Another had written, ‘It is an academic exercise to consider the GRU as a separate entity’. That was wrong on both counts. The GRU fights hard to keep a separate identity.

  ‘Penny for them, Jacko?’ Murray was making himself comfortable on the bed.

  ‘I was only thinking that the cream of the GRU are richer and more deadly than their opposite numbers in the KGB. Men like Smolin are better trained, and have no scruples at all.’

  ‘And Smolin’s here, Jacko and . . .’ He paused and the smile vanished from his face to be replaced by a hard look, ‘And we’ve lost the bastard, if you’ll pardon the language again, Miss Dare.’

  ‘Arlington,’ Heather mumbled without conviction. Bond saw that she looked both nervous and a little sad.

  Norman Murray lifted his hand and tilted it. ‘Dare, Wagen, Sharke, so who’s counting?’ He yawned and stretched. ‘It’s been a long night. I must away to my bed.’

  ‘Lost him?’ Bond asked sharply.

  ‘He did the vanishing trick, Jacko. But Smolin’s always been good at vanishing – he’s a proper Houdini. Talking of Houdini, Smolin’s probably not the only one that’s on the loose in the Republic.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost the Chairman of the Central Committee as well?’

  ‘It’s no time to be joking, Jacko. We’ve had a small tip off. Nothing elaborate, but a straw in the wind.’

  ‘A straw to clutch at?’

  ‘If it’s the truth, you wouldn’t be after clutching at this one, Jacko B.’

  ‘Well?’ Bond waited.

  ‘The word is that someone much higher up the ladder than Smolin is in the Republic. I’ve nothing firm but the word’s strong enough. There’s someone here from the top. Now that’s all I can give you. I’ll be saying goodnight to you both, then. And sweet dreams.’ He rose, walked to the corner of the room and retrieved his Walther.

  ‘Thanks, Norman. Thanks a whole bunch,’ said Bond, walking him to the door. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Ask away. There’s no charge.’

  ‘You’ve lost sight of Comrade Colonel Smolin . . .’

  ‘Yes. And we haven’t even had a sniff at the other one – if he’s here at all.’

  ‘Are you still looking for them?’

  ‘We are, in a way, of course. Manpower’s your problem, Jacko B.’

  ‘What would you do if you cornered either of them?’

  ‘Put him on an aeroplane to Berlin. But those fellas would complain and dodge into that den of iniquity in Orwell Road. You know, the one that’s got about six hundred pieces of aerial and electronic dishes on the roof. Bit of an irony, isn’t it? The Soviets having their Embassy in Orwell Road, and
building a forest of communications hardware on top of it. That’s where your man would hide.’

  ‘And he’s not there at the moment?’

  ‘How would I know, so? I am not my brother’s keeper.’

  They came into St Stephen’s Green from Grafton Street, with Heather clutching bulging carriers from Switzers and Brown Thomas. Bond walked two paces behind her and slightly to the left. He carried one small parcel and his gun hand hovered across the front of his unbuttoned jacket. Ever since Norman Murray had left the hotel he had been increasingly uncomfortable about the way things were turning out. Heather had been furious that he had not told her Ebbie was alive.

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me? You knew how I felt. You knew she was alive . . .’

  ‘I knew she was probably alive.’

  ‘Then why couldn’t you have the decency to tell me?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t certain, and because your precious Cream Cake strikes me as having been a lash-up operation from the start. It’s still a lash-up.’

  He stopped himself from saying more, for his humour was rapidly fraying at the edges. In theory Cream Cake had been a good operation, but if Heather was typical of the five young people chosen to carry it out, the Operations Planners were criminally at fault. There would never have been time to train them properly. Yet the fact that their parents were in place was considered to be enough.

  Their names ran repeatedly through Bond’s mind like a gramophone record stuck in a groove: Franzi Trauben and Elli Zuckermann, both dead, skulls crushed and tongues neatly removed; Franz Belzinger, who liked to be called Wald; Irma Wagen herself and Emilie Nikolas, who should be in Rosslare. He asked himself why Franz liked being nicknamed Wald. But no, he told himself, he must start thinking of them by their English names, though much good they had done them. He must think of the dead Bridget and Millicent and the living Heather and Ebbie; of the presumably living Jungle Baisley.

  While he thought about these five characters, Bond was conscious of the other dark figures, especially Maxim Smolin, whom he had seen so many times in grainy surveillance photographs and jumpy films, distorted through fibre-optics lenses, and – only once – in the flesh, as he came out of Fouquet’s on the Champs Elysées. Bond had been sitting almost opposite at a pavement café with another officer and even at the distance provided by that wide street with the distractions of its traffic, the short, tough, military figure of Smolin had a profound effect on him. It may have been the way he carried himself like a professional soldier, but exaggeratedly so; or perhaps it was his look, the eyes never still, and his hands held with one fist clenched, the other flat making a tough cutting edge. Smolin appeared to radiate energy and a malevolent power.