by John Gardner
Bond guessed that roughly seventy yards of open sand separated him from the shadows at the foot of the bluff, fifty yards of which could be seen from the villa. Taking a deep breath, he sprinted forward, slowing down to a walk once he was in dead ground. The sand petered out and the ground rose steeply, covered with short, spiky grass. Settling the holdall’s strap more comfortably on his shoulder, Bond began the climb. The grass had no sweet smell to it, and its roughness scratched at his hands. Occasionally he felt a softness beneath, as though the whole promontory was nothing but an overgrown sandbank. It took him ten minutes of hard work before the steepness levelled off. He was now on shallow rising ground, still out of sight of the villa. As soon as the first outlines of the building appeared against the lighter sky, thirty yards on, Bond dropped on to his belly, adopting a crawl for about ten yards.
He was now only a few strides from the building. He lay for five minutes examining the target. It seemed to be a low white bungalow with a terracotta roof and a series of arches running along the side, making it look more Spanish than Chinese. It was set in a circle of garden, surrounded by a small wall some four or five bricks high. As he looked, it became apparent that the arches were a kind of cloister running around all four sides of the villa. The lights he had seen from below came from a pair of sliding glass doors on the side overlooking the bay. There was movement behind the glass, and Bond recognised Chernov himself walking to and fro, speaking to someone hidden from view.
Bond lay for some time judging distances and impressing the whole setting on his mind. To the left the ground ran upwards. Recalling the map, he knew that should he choose to go in that direction he would eventually find himself on a path that led back around to the harbour and passed the island’s famous temple on the way. He worked out that if he were pursued from the villa, it would take him about fifteen long strides from his present position to the point where he would disappear below the skyline. Then he would have to slow and stop, as a headlong dash would bring him to the steeply angled ground and probably a long, unpleasant fall down the slope to the beach below.
If Bond were to outwit Chernov, he needed to take precautions now. Carefully, he crawled back until he was well hidden from the villa and in the darkness he groped around, seeking soft earth. Eventually the palm of his left hand touched rock. It turned out to be a rough, circular stone about two feet across and a foot high, with an irregular surface. He shifted until he was lying directly behind it. He unslung the holdall and silently opened it, removing a small oilskin package secured with wrap-around tapes – carefully prepared by Q’ute and delivered to him in Paris. Mostly it contained back-up material, duplicating the equipment hidden in the belt around his waist or posing as everyday items spread through his clothing. Dealing with a man like Chernov, Bond did not intend to take chances. Digging into the sandy earth behind the rock, he deposited the oilskin package. He covered this emergency pack with the loose earth and eased himself forward again, taking bearings and hammering them into his head so that, should he have need of it, he could locate the package quickly. Only when he was certain of angles and distances did he retreat again, making the slow descent to the beach.
Some twenty minutes later he was back with Ebbie, who was well hidden in the shadows of the buildings fronting the harbour.
‘All set,’ he whispered without explanation. The less she knew the better.
‘Are they there?’ she asked, her voice just audible.
‘Well, Chernov’s there, and where he is I suspect we’ll find the others.’
He had one of the revolvers in his belt, the barrel slanting to one side. Softly, indicating that Ebbie should stay where she was, he padded over to the harbour wall and dumped the holdall into the sea. They were now both armed, with ammunition to spare.
‘We’re going to show ourselves,’ he told Ebbie. ‘We’ll just let ourselves be seen but avoid actual contact – Swift’s way, like a will o’ the wisp. Our job is to draw Chernov out. The house is quite small but difficult to assault. If he’s got a few good men there it would be madness for us to attempt any kind of attack. The ground around it is too exposed so it would be suicidal.’
‘Should we not send for the police? This is British territory. Couldn’t you have that terrible man arrested?’
‘Not quite yet.’ He did not want her to know that before Chernov was nailed for them someone had to die; that whoever was the traitor within Cream Cake must be disposed of. That had been implicit in Swift’s briefing. The double could not be publicly exposed if M was to be brought into safe waters again. What was it Swift had said? ‘M is still under siege . . . he won’t last if another double is found in his house, or even near to it.’ And now Bond’s only way of revealing the Cream Cake traitor’s identity was to offer himself and Ebbie on a plate.
‘We’ll go in a minute,’ he said, putting his finger to his lips and heading for the glass telephone booth. He dug in his pocket for small change and then carefully dialled the number quoted in Swift’s note – 720302. He heard the ringing tone and then the instrument was picked up. Nobody spoke. He counted six slowly and then asked in Russian for General Chernov. It was Blackfriar himself who answered.
Very softly, Bond hissed into the telephone, ‘I’m close. Catch me if you can,’ and immediately cradled the instrument.
He returned to Ebbie and led her back along the lane towards the beach of Tung Wan Bay. This time he did not bother to take any precautions. Instead of keeping well in shadow, he steered Ebbie on to the beach itself. They walked slowly towards the promontory and began the upward climb much farther to the right than before. He wanted to keep Chernov’s people well away from the area he had already covered.
Eventually they reached the flatter ground and crawled together towards the house. They stopped only a few yards from the low wall, just hidden from view. All the lights were on now and the sky in the east had already started to lighten. In minutes daylight would make them completely visible. Turning on his side, Bond said he thought they should work their way around to the back.
‘We should do this soon, I believe,’ said Ebbie, her eyes clouded with concern. ‘The ground is very open here. I think they could see us easily from the house if they are looking out.’
A voice came from behind them. ‘We seldom sleep for long here on Tung Wan Bay. How nice of you to join us. Now I have the full set.’
Bond rolled, his revolver up and ready to fire.
There were three of them: Mischa and one of the men who had been with Blackfriar when they picked Bond up at the Newpark; the third man, dressed in a well fitting cavalry twill trousers, shirt and a dark jacket, was of course General Kolya Chernov himself, smiling at his triumph and pointing an automatic pistol straight at Bond’s head.
‘You invited me to catch you, Mr Bond, and I have graciously accepted your invitation.’
19
MEET THE ROBINSONS
Like many a safe house in Europe, this villa, set on its promontory with its incomparably beautiful view, was spartan inside. There were the usual signs of soundproofing. Heavy unnatural-looking wallpaper decorated the main living room, which they entered through the large sliding windows. The furniture was functional, the chairs made of bamboo, one table of heavy wood. No pictures adorned the walls; there were no ornaments on the mantelshelf.
Bond had dropped the revolver as soon as he knew the odds and turned to Ebbie, signalling with his eyes that she should keep silent. When he spoke at last, it was to Ebbie.
‘Ms Heritage, the gentleman pointing the gun at us has what we call star quality. May I introduce you to General Konstantin Nikolaevich Chernov, Hero of the Soviet Union, Order of Lenin. The list of his decorations is very long, but he is at present Chief Investigating Officer of Department 8, Directorate S of the KGB. The Department that was, at one time, known as SMERSH. I suspect the General would prefer it to be still called by that emotive name.’
Chernov gave him a pleasant smile, then, nodding to Ebbie, h
e instructed the men to take them into the villa. Inside, he spoke to Bond.
‘I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you again. I’ve also been looking forward to meeting your companion. By some stupid oversight we missed you in Ireland, Miss Heritage – or should I more correctly call you Fräulein Nikolas?’
‘Heritage,’ she answered calmly.
Chernov shrugged. ‘As you like. In any case, I am very pleased to see you too. This completes the ludicrous Cream Cake business. All the chickens have come home to roost – and make their final payments, eh?’
Bond had already decided on his strategy. He cleared his throat, coughed and said, ‘General, I am empowered to negotiate.’
‘Really?’ The shrewd eyes met Bond’s with an amused glitter. ‘You have bargaining powers?’
‘Within certain parameters, yes,’ he lied. ‘Certain exchanges can be offered for those you hold here, for Ms Dare, Ms Heritage, Maxim Smolin, Mr Baisley, and Fräulein Dietrich. I’m sure you would like some of your own people back. We have quite a number in stock.’
Mischa laughed quietly, while Chernov gave a throaty chuckle.
‘Everyone connected with Cream Cake, eh? All of those under sentence of death.’
‘Yes.’
Mischa laughed again. ‘So, what do we do first, Comrade General? Deal with the traitors and spies or put your tame puppets to the test?’
‘Well, there’s plenty of time, Mischa. Relax. This is a pleasant place. Today will be hot. When the sun goes down we’ll put the puppets to work. When that is finished, we can perform the little ritual you seem to long for. With all of them confined here we can take our time. They deserve to go slowly. They wanted us to take Smolin and Dietrich back to Moscow but that could be a little difficult.’ He sighed, then looked slyly at Ebbie. ‘Now the Nikolas girl here could provide me with a morsel of pleasure before we extract her tongue and dispatch her.’ He turned to Bond. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I wouldn’t know what I’m agreeing to.’
‘Really? Let’s have some coffee and rolls and I’ll explain. Mischa, has the amah arrived with today’s provisions?’
‘Yes, but I’ve sent her away again. Today I felt we had no need of outsiders.’
‘Quite right, Mischa. Some coffee, then, and rolls with preserves?’
‘You should have brought your servant, General.’
‘Perhaps. One of these fellows will help you.’
He nodded to the man who stood impassive by the door and at another who had materialised near the window. Both held machine pistols at the ready. Mischa tapped the arm of the one by the door, and spoke to him in Russian. He shouldered his pistol by its strap, and was about to follow Mischa out when Chernov intervened.
‘He can help you, but first I think the young lady should be escorted to join her companions. They probably have a lot to talk about. You should make the most of it,’ he said, smiling at Ebbie. This time there was an unmistakable chill in his eyes.
Mischa called her over, and the guard prodded her with his pistol. Ebbie nodded and uncurled herself from her chair. She looked first at Bond and then at Chernov. Then she went up close to Chernov and spat full into his face. He reeled back in disgust, but reacted so quickly that even Bond did not see his hand come up to slap Ebbie’s left cheek and backhand her right. Ebbie hardly made a sound, taking the blows without even putting her hand to her face. Both guards sprang forward, but she merely turned and meekly followed the frowning Mischa from the room. One guard was behind her, the other returned to his place by the window. Chernov was wiping the spittle from his face.
‘Foolish girl,’ he muttered. ‘I could have made the inevitable a little easier for her.’
‘For all your veneer of sophistication, you’re really a coldblooded bastard, Chernov, aren’t you?’
His dossier at the Regent’s Park Headquarters adequately described his devious ruthlessness but could not reflect his degenerate nature. Chernov could clearly be equated with the most callous and perverted KGB head of all time, the infamous Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria.
‘Me?’ Chernov’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Me, cold-blooded? Don’t be stupid, Bond. These little girls were used by your own coldblooded operations planners. Presumably it was explained to them what risk they were taking.’ He gave a snort. ‘You and I know that Cream Cake was about securing the defection of the highly trained and experienced officers, Smolin and Dietrich. To muddy the waters your people added two extra targets. Well, that worked. But KGB and GRU could not leave the matter there. Two of the girls have been disposed of. It would be unfair to let the rest off with a caution. The intelligence communities of the world must see that we retaliate to such treatment.’ He gave another shrug. ‘In any case, I have orders from my Chairman to carry out summary executions. The bodies are to be left as a warning, with special marks: a kind of ritual. You understand?’
Chernov spoke calmly, as though the murders of Heather, Ebbie, Jungle, Dietrich and Smolin were of as much consequence as the imposition of a speeding fine.
‘We cannot negotiate, then?’
‘You cannot negotiate with dead people.’
‘And what of me, General?’
‘Ah!’
He turned, the finger of his right hand pointing at Bond, but before he spoke there was a tap on the door and the guard came in carrying a large tray with a coffee pot, cups, a basket of rolls and jars of preserves. He was followed by Mischa who held the man’s machine pistol. Clearly he would not act as butler for anybody, not even General Chernov.
Chernov’s finger came down. ‘Ah!’ he repeated. ‘Breakfast.’
Mischa left with the other guard. Bond noticed that the big man at the window eyed the food with some envy.
‘You were saying, General?’
‘Oh, after we’ve eaten, my dear Bond. Enjoy my hospitality while you can.’
And with that, he refused to enter into any further conversation. In fact, it was the last he was to say about Bond’s future for many hours, for as soon as they had eaten, Chernov issued a series of commands. The other guard came back into the room and with no warning both men took Bond by the arms and hauled him outside and down two flights of stone steps. They opened a stout door and threw him into a small cell, which was completely bare but for a light covered by a metal grille recessed in the ceiling. There were no windows or furniture and only enough space for a man to stand and spread out his arms. Mischa appeared in the doorway.
‘Mr Bond,’ he said, displaying for the first time an effeminate lisp. He held a bundle of clothes, which he threw on to the cell floor. There were dark blue overalls, nylon socks, underwear and a pair of cheap moccasins. ‘They’re your size, Mr Bond. We checked with Moscow. The General would like you to strip and put these on.’ He gave a toothy smile. ‘You have a reputation as a bit of a magician – tricks up your sleeves and so on. The General felt it would be safer this way. Change now, please.’
He had no option. As slowly as possible, Bond discarded his own clothes, together with the precious concealed equipment. He climbed into the overalls, feeling foolish. Mischa took his clothes and slammed the door. Bond heard a heavy deadlock fall into place.
For a while he took stock. There was a tiny hole no larger than a pencil set over the door. He was almost certainly being observed by a monitoring system using minute fibre optic lenses. The cell was obviously located deep in the ground, under the villa. There was no way of escape. His only chance was to get to the back-up equipment hidden in the earth outside the house. Knowing that it might nevertheless be of no use to him he crossed his legs and sat impassively, emptying his mind of all thoughts and anxieties, preparing himself by centring his whole being on a kind of nothingness.
He did not know how much time passed before the two guards came again with more food, which he refused. The men accepted this with ill grace but withdrew.
As time passed Bond controlled both body and mind, knowing that whatever trial the General had in store for him he
would need all his experience and mental and physical courage to combat it and even turn it to his advantage, if he was to save the Cream Cake team and himself from death.
Instinctively he felt the waning of the day and at last the door was unlocked and the same men dragged him out and up the stairs to the main room where he had last sat with Chernov. This time the place appeared smaller and it was full of people. He saw outside the long slash of white sand turning blood red in the sunset.
Looking around him, Bond saw Chernov sitting on a bamboo chair in the centre of the room. The others were chained together and he realised there were two new faces. He recognised the man as Franz ‘Wald’ Belzinger – otherwise Jungle Baisley. The face was certainly the one he had studied on photographs during that first afternoon, following the lunch with M at Blades. The surprise came when he saw that Baisley was a huge man. He must have been well over six feet tall and broad in proportion. He looked even younger than his twenty-seven years, possibly because of his shock of unruly red hair. He grinned broadly at Bond, as though welcoming him.
‘I think you know everybody except Fräulein Dietrich and Mr Baisley, as he likes to be called,’ said Chernov.
Susanne Dietrich was a slim woman, older than he expected and with light-coloured, untidy hair. She gave him a frightened look, as Jungle tried to rise grinning an American college boy grin.
‘Hi, Mr Bond. I have been hearing much about you.’
The voice had German undertones, but more in the syntax than the accent, and he certainly was not going to let anyone know he had an ounce of fear in him.
Bond nodded and smiled, trying to be reassuring. He looked along the line at Maxim Smolin, Heather and Ebbie. Heather smiled back, Smolin winked and Ebbie blew him a kiss. It was good to know they were going to face their fate with dignity. He asked if they were okay. They said nothing but nodded firmly.
‘So, I call this meeting to order,’ said Chernov, laughing as though he had cracked the joke of the century. ‘Or should I call it a court rather than a meeting?’ he asked.
