No Deals, Mr. Bond jb-21

by John Gardner

  No one spoke, so with a wry smile Chernov continued, ‘The five prisoners here already know what is to happen to them. They have been informed of their guilt and the reason they are to die. They know too the method of their deaths, which will take place at dawn tomorrow.’ He paused, as though savouring the thought. ‘As for Commander James Bond, Royal Navy, Secret Intelligence Service – as for him – well, the Department I represent has had an execution order hanging over him for many years now. Are you aware of that, Commander Bond?’

  Bond nodded, thinking of the many times he had outwitted and damaged the black heart of the KGB, once known as SMERSH.

  ‘Let us not underestimate Commander Bond,’ said Chernov, his face becoming serious. ‘He has proved himself a valiant enemy: resourceful, highly efficient and brave. It would not be in keeping with my department’s practice simply to dispatch him with a bullet, a knife or an injection of racin, the drug our Bulgarian cousins favour. Like the bullfighter, Commander Bond should be given a fighting chance.’ He turned with a sinister smile to Bond. ‘Commander Bond, do you know what a “puppet” is? In an operational sense, I mean?’

  ‘One who is easy to control?’ asked Bond.

  Chernov laughed aloud. ‘I am not being fair to you, James Bond. It is the Red Army’s Special Forces, the Spetsnaz, which we believe to be the equivalent to your SAS, who use the word “puppet”. “Puppets” are of great assistance during their training. They have been used in the USSR for more than fifty years now. Our noble ancestors, the Cheka, called them “gladiators”; then the NKVD spoke of them as “volunteers”, though they are hardly that. SMERSH, under all its different guises, has always called them by an English name, which is strange, eh? We call them “Robinsons”, Commander Bond. You may be familiar with them under that appellation. So, I ask you again, do you know what “Robinsons” are?’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours.’ He felt a tightening of his stomach at the word.

  ‘And you. believed the rumours?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You would be right to believe them. Let me explain. When someone is sentenced to death in the Soviet Union, it depends upon his place in the community whether he dies quickly or whether his death will be used to serve the state.’ Again the grim and chilling smile lit Chernov’s eyes like black ice. ‘Unlike the decadent British, who are so neatly delivering themselves into our hands by their self-indulgence, their laxity, their failure to see how we will finally take complete control of their politics . . .’ his voice rose to a slightly higher pitch, ‘. . . unlike the British who are too squeamish to use the death penalty any more, we use it to advantage. True, old men and women are executed almost immediately. Others go to medical centres; some to assist in the building and running of our nuclear reactors – to do the dangerous jobs. The stronger, fitter and younger men become “puppets” or come to us as “Robinsons”. It provides good training for our men. Until a soldier has proved he can kill another human being, one cannot be certain of him.’

  ‘That’s what I’d heard.’ Bond’s face felt paralysed, as though injected by a dentist. ‘We are told that they provide living targets on exercises . . .’

  ‘Not simply targets, Commander Bond. They can fight back, though naturally within limits. They know that should they try and escape or turn their weapons on the wrong people, they will be cut down like wheat. They are, for one exercise, real live opponents. They kill and get killed. If they are really good, they can survive for some time.’

  ‘Three exercises and they are reprieved?’

  Chernov smiled. ‘An old wives’ tale, I am afraid. “Robinsons” never survive in the end. They know they are under sentence so they fight harder if they think a reprieve will come after three ordeals.’

  Chernov inspected his fingernails. The room seemed charged with tension. Chernov turned and nodded to the pair of guards, who went out, carefully closing the door behind them.

  ‘When we heard that you, a man on our death list, had been assigned to the clearing up of Cream Cake, I made a request to Moscow Centre. I asked for some “Robinsons”, some very good men who had lasted for two exercises and thought they had only one more to win before reprieve. I asked for young men. Mr Bond, you should feel honoured. This is the first time our people have allowed “Robinsons” to operate outside the Soviet Union. Tonight, from midnight until dawn, you will be out on this little island with our four best “Robinsons” intent on killing you. They will be armed and we are allowing you to carry a small weapon as well. But for six hours, in the dark and on ground which you do not know and they do, you will be hunted. James Bond, I would like you to meet your “Robinsons”.’

  He shouted a command and the door was opened by one of the men outside.

  20

  ZERO HOUR

  At first sight the four ‘Robinsons’ looked docile enough. They were free from any form of restraint, watched only by the two guards with their machine pistols.

  ‘Come in,’ Chernov said in Russian, beckoning.

  If he had expected shuffling, cowed prisoners, Bond would have been disappointed. The quartet marched into the room, their bearing military, eyes fixed ahead. They were dressed in loose black trousers and shirts. They even wore black trainers and Bond reckoned that their faces too would be blackened before the ordeal. There had been no moon last night and there would be none tonight. The ‘Robinsons’ would become invisible outside in the darkness.

  ‘You see, Commander Bond, they are a good little team. They have worked together before and to good effect – once against a group of six Spetsnaz. Five are dead and the sixth will not walk again. Their second mission was against KGB trainees; man to man, four to four.’ He gave his habitual shrug. ‘KGB are four trainees fewer. Need I say more?’

  Bond stared at the men, sizing them up. All were well built, alert and clear-eyed, but one stood out from the rest, mainly because of his height. He was around six-five, towering over the others who were between six and six-one.

  ‘What were their crimes?’ he asked, trying to make the question sound casual, as though he were a racehorse dealer checking on pedigree.

  Chernov smiled, almost sphinx-like. The enigma in that smile produced a loathing in Bond that he had not before recognised in himself.

  ‘I have to think,’ Chernov said, his eyes running along the line of men who stood immobile before them. ‘The big fellow, Yakov, was condemned for raping six young women, girls almost. He strangled his victims after using them. Then we have Bogdan, also a killer, though not a rapist. Young men were his speciality. Bogdan broke their necks and tried to dispose of them by cutting up the bodies and spreading the pieces in woodland near his home. He’s a peasant, but strong and with no moral sense.’

  Bond stopped himself from blurting out the obvious: ‘Like you, Kolya. Just like you.’

  Chernov continued down the line. ‘Pavl and Semen are less complex. Pavl, the one with the bulbous nose, was an army officer who took to converting military funds for his own use. Five of his comrades discovered the truth over a period of two years. Four have never been found. The fifth managed to pass on the information. As for Semen, he is a straightforward murderer, on three counts: his lady friend, her lover and her mother. Very good with a meat cleaver, is Semen.’

  ‘All part of life’s rich pattern.’ Bond knew the only way to resist Chernov’s bullying was to make light of these four monsters who, in a matter of hours, would be out to kill him.

  ‘You say they will be armed?’

  ‘Of course. Two will carry hand guns – Lugers. One will be equipped with a killing knife similar to the Sykes-Fair-bairn Commando dagger, which we know is familiar to you. And one will be given a weapon which he likes, a type of short mace similar to the old Chinese fighting irons. It consists of a spiked steel ball hanging from a sharp blade, attached to the end of a two foot handle. It is unpleasant.’

  ‘And what about me?’

  ‘You, my dear Commander Bond? Well, we wish to be fair
. You will have a Luger pistol. Parabellum, in good condition, I assure you.’

  ‘I’ll have eight rounds,’ thought Bond. Eight chances to kill, if he could put himself in the right position.

  Chernov was still speaking. ‘We have provided you with one magazine half full. So you have four 9mm bullets, one for each of the “Robinsons”, should you be lucky enough to get within range before one of them is upon you. As you will have gathered, this team has been given a walk over the ground. As far as I know, you have not.’

  ‘What if they decide to make a run for it? Grab themselves a sampan and clear off?’

  Again Chernov produced his tantalising smile. ‘You still do not understand do you, Commander Bond? These men have nothing to lose but their lives – which they keep once you are dead.’

  ‘They think they’ll keep their lives.’

  ‘Oh, Commander Bond, don’t try to spread dissension. It will not work, my friend. They cannot be turned. They will not run; neither will they believe any stories you may try to tell them – even if they were to give you the time.’

  And you know I won’t run either, Bond thought. You think you know me inside out, Comrade General. You know I won’t run because if I can possibly outwit your deadly foursome, I shall return here and try to save the others. Indeed, Chernov knew him, for that was exactly what he would do. He wondered if Chernov also knew he would try to return in order to unmask the traitor among the other prisoners?

  Chernov gave a signal and the ‘Robinsons’ were marched out, each one meeting Bond’s eyes as he turned towards the door. Was it imagination, or did he detect a bleak hatred in those four pairs of eyes?

  ‘You have a couple of hours to rest before your ordeal,’ said Chernov as he rose. ‘I suggest you make your peace with the world.’

  One of the guards came back into the room, ready to lead Bond away, but Chernov took a step forward.

  ‘Let me say something else, just to ensure that you are familiar with the rules. Do not try to be clever. It is possible that you have thought of the obvious scheme, to drop below that little wall which encircles the house and pick off the “Robinsons” as they come out. We know that you are an excellent marksman but please do not even think of trying that. When you are given the order to run, then you run. Any other tricks and my two guards will cut you to ribbons. Should you, by luck or skill, manage to avoid or kill my “Robinsons”, I would advise you to keep running, James Bond; to run as far as you can. We shall kill you tonight, I am certain of that, but in the unlikely event that I am wrong, our time will come again and I shall kill you myself. My Department will never rest until you are dead. Do you understand?’

  Bond nodded curtly and left with as much dignity as his churning stomach would allow. Back in the cell, he began to consider his chances. For a while, up there with the deadly ‘Robinsons’, he had almost allowed despair to reach him. Now, alone again, he began to plan. They were giving him a Luger Parabellum with four rounds of ammunition. Well, that was a start. But he would have more if he could reach the hidden back-up package.

  The package, worked on by Q’ute and other members of the Service, was for use only in dire necessity in the field. It consisted mainly of lethal weaponry.

  Constructed on the principle of the old-fashioned Royal Navy ‘Housewife’ – always pronounced ‘Hussif’ – the Covert Operations Accessory Pack, COAP, was a thick oblong package covered in oilskin, measuring one foot three inches by eight inches, with two long tapes running out from the left-hand side. These held the pack secure with a quick-release knot. Opened out flat, it contained five pockets, each tailored to hold a specific piece of equipment. On the far left were two objects that looked like stubby HP11 batteries. One of these was a powerful flare activated by the button masquerading as the battery’s positive nipple. Held at arm’s length, it would shoot a pure white-light flare to around twenty feet, illuminating an area of up to a quarter of a mile in radius. Fired at the right trajectory, the flare could also have a blinding effect.

  The second battery was operated like the first, though not held, for within seven seconds it exploded with almost twice the power of the old Mills hand grenade. Both batteries contained the untraceable plastique substances that so concerned the anti-terrorist organisations.

  The third pocket held a six-inch knife blade fashioned from toughened polycarbon and thus again undetectable by airport security. The blade was protected by a scabbard, which doubled as its handle.

  The fourth pocket was almost flat, containing a saw toothed garrotting wire; while the last held probably the most deadly weapon of all – a pen; but no ordinary pen. Made in Italy, it too had security men worried. With a quick twist, it became a small projectile-firing gun. A jet of compressed air would fire toughened steel needles that could kill if they entered the brain, throat, lung or heart from around ten paces. The pen could be used only three times.

  Bond rehearsed in his mind where each of these items could be found in the open COAP, remembering the many times he had trained in the dark, using all the items by feel alone. He was comforted by the knowledge that he could have everything hidden on his person, or ready to use, within a minute. There was nothing like the threat of death, he thought – as many had done before him – to concentrate the mind.

  Having gone through the positions in the COAP several times, he could only prepare himself mentally for the test. So he sat as before with his legs crossed and his eyes closed. But this time he went over his recollection of the map Richard Han had passed on from Swift. He knew where the house lay in relation to the rest of the promontory and within the hour knew what he would do. With luck and his expertise combined, he had a chance – though a slim chance – of winning.

  They told him that it was eleven-thirty when they came for him. The guards spoke no English, but while one covered him with the machine pistol, the other raised his arm, grinning proudly at his brand new eight-function digital watch.

  Chernov waited alone in the main room. The windows had been opened and a few lights twinkled from the cluster of houses around Tung Wan Bay. Across the water on the southern promontory, the Warwick Hotel’s lights blazed.

  ‘Come and listen.’

  Chernov beckoned him towards the window and together they stepped outside into the warm night air. Bond thought, why not kill now with your bare hands, and be done with it? But that would serve no purpose. He would follow Chernov quickly to the grave, cut down by the man who had stayed in the room behind them.

  ‘Listen,’ Chernov repeated. ‘Hardly a sound. You realise that around forty thousand people still live on this little island, most of them on the junks and sampans in the harbour, yet after midnight few people stir. There is hardly any night life on Cheung Chau.’

  As Chernov spoke, Bond took his bearings, and reciprocal bearings. Directly in front of them the ground sloped shallowly to the place where he had hidden the COAP during his first reconnaissance. He could, thank heaven, pinpoint exactly where he must cross the low wall. Below, the beach circled the bay, while to the right the ground sloped sharply upwards. He knew that once over that rise it was only a few hundred yards to a rough road which weaved down towards the central isthmus and the main village. On the way, it swept past the famous Pak Tai Temple, and on to the Praya, or waterfront, with its fish processing factory and hundreds of fishing junks.

  Chernov slapped him on the shoulder. ‘But we’ll give them a little night life, eh, James Bond?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost time.’ He turned, shepherding Bond inside again.

  ‘Do I get a last request?’

  Chernov looked at him, a worm of suspicion in his eyes. ‘That depends on what it is.’

  ‘I would like to say goodbye to my friends.’

  ‘I think not. It would be too distressing for them. They are well controlled – particularly the women. I would not like to risk unbalancing that. You realise it is not a pleasant job I have to do in this place tomorrow. It will be best if those under sentence b
ear the inevitability of death with fortitude. It will make the whole business easier for me. You do understand?’

  Yes, thought Bond. The last thing you want is for me to see them now because, like as not, they are one short. The traitor will have been pulled out. Aloud, he said, ‘You’re a butcher, Chernov. Let’s get on with it.’

  Chernov nodded, looking solemn. ‘You have my word that a full five minutes will pass before the “Robinsons” are unleashed on you. Come, the weapons are here.’

  As though by magic the table was now littered with the deadly weapons. There were the three Luger pistols and the long gunmetal dagger – perhaps an inch longer than the old Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife – and the fighting iron. This had a wooden haft some two feet in length with a reinforced handgrip at one end and a sharp movable steel blade at the other. At the far end from the handle a short length of chain was attached. From this dangled a mace twice the size of a man’s fist and covered in sharp spikes. Chernov touched the mace and laughed.

  ‘You know what they used to call these?’

  ‘Morning stars, as I recall.’

  ‘Yes, morning stars, and . . .’ he chuckled mirthlessly, ‘and “holy water sprinklers”. I prefer holy water sprinklers.’ His hand hovered over the weapons, coming to rest on one of the Lugers. ‘This is yours, I believe.’ He slipped the magazine out before handing it to Bond. ‘Please ensure that it is in working order and that the firing pin has not been removed.’

  Bond checked the weapon. It was well oiled and in good condition. Chernov held out the magazine.

  ‘Count the four rounds. I insist on fair play.’

  As he followed the instruction Bond was aware that the guard with the machine pistol had stiffened in readiness and that the ‘Robinsons’ were being brought into the room behind him. He knew that the whole set-up was designed to break his nerve. Chernov was a good stage director and all this drama had point.

  ‘You may load the weapon and put the safety on.’ Bond did so, holding the automatic loosely in his right hand as Chernov continued to speak.