Bond was no happier about his American counterpart on Icebreaker. Brad Tirpitz, known in intelligence circles as ‘Bad’ Brad, was a veteran of the old-school CIA and had survived the multitude of purges in his organisation’s headquarters at Langley, Virginia. To some, Tirpitz was a kind of swashbuckling, do-or-die, hero: a legend. There were others, however, who saw him in a different light – as the sort of field officer capable of using highly questionable methods, a man who considered that the end always justified the means. And the means could be, as one of his colleagues put it, ‘Pretty mean. He has the instinct of a hungry wolf, and the heart of a scorpion.’
So, Bond thought, his future lay with a Moscow Centre heavy and a Langley sharp-shooter who tended to shoot first and ask questions later.
The rest of the briefing, and the medical, took the remainder of that day, and some of the following morning. So it was not until the afternoon of this third day that Bond boarded the two o’clock TAP flight to Lisbon, connecting with one of the Boeing 727 shuttles to Funchal.
The sun was low, almost touching the water, throwing great warm red blotches of colour against the rocks, when Bond’s aircraft – now down to around 600 feet – crossed the Ponta de São Lourenço headland to make that exhilarating low-level turn which is the only way to get into the precarious little runway – perched, like an aircraft carrier’s flight deck, among the rocks – at Funchal.
Within the hour a taxi deposited him at Reid’s Hotel, and the following morning found him searching for either Mosolov, Tirpitz, or the third member of the Icebreaker group – the Mossad agent whom Dudley had described as, ‘An absolutely deadly young lady, around five-six, clear skin, the figure’s copied from the Venus de Milo, only this one’s got both arms, and the head’s different.’
‘How different?’ Bond had asked.
‘Stunning. Late twenties, I’d say. Very, very good. I’d hate to be up against her . . .’
‘In the professional sense, of course.’ Bond could not resist the quip.
As far as M was concerned, the Israeli agent was an unknown quantity. The name was Rivke Ingber. The file said ‘Nothing known’.
So now James Bond looked out over the hotel’s twin swimming pools, his eyes shaded by sunglasses, as he searched faces and bodies.
For a moment his gaze fell on a tall, arresting blonde, in a Cardin bikini, whose body defied normal description. Well, Bond thought as the girl plunged into the warm water, there’s no law against looking. He shifted his body on the sun lounger, wincing slightly at the ache in his now rapidly healing shoulder, and continued to watch the girl swimming, her lovely long legs opening and closing while her arms moved lazily in an act of almost conscious sensuality.
Bond smiled once more at M’s choice for the rendezvous. Reid’s remains one of the few hotels, among the package tour traps which run from Gran Canaria to Corfu, which has maintained standards – of cuisine and service – dating back to the1930s. The hotel shop sells reminders of the old days – photographs of Sir Winston and Lady Churchill taken in the lush gardens. Lath-straight elderly men, with clipped moustaches, sit reading in the airy public rooms; young couples, dressed by YSL and Kenzo, rub shoulders with elderly titled ladies on the famous tea terrace. He was, Bond considered, in ‘the Butler Did It’ territory; undoubtedly M’s cronies came to this idyllic time warp with the regularity of a Patek Philippe wristwatch.
As he lay there, Bond covered the pool and sunbathing area with carefully regulated sweeps of the eye. No sign of Mosolov. No sign of Tirpitz. He could recognise those two easily enough from the photographs studied in London. There had been no photograph of Rivke Ingber, and Cliff Dudley had merely smiled knowingly, telling Bond he would find out what she looked like soon enough.
People were now drifting towards the pool restaurant, open on two sides and protected by pink stone arches. Tables were laid, waiters hovered, a bar beckoned, and a long buffet had been set up to provide every conceivable kind of salad and cold meats, or – if the client so fancied – hot soup, quiche, lasagne or cannelloni.
Lunch. Bond’s old habits followed him faithfully to Madeira. The warm air and sun of the morning watch now produced that pleasant need for something light at lunch-time. Putting on a towelling robe, Bond padded to the buffet, selected some thin slices of ham, and began to choose from the array of colourful salads.
‘Don’t you fancy a drink, Mr Bond? To break the ice?’ Her voice was soft and unaccented.
‘Miss Ingber?’ Bond did not turn to look at her.
‘Yes, I’ve been watching you for some time – and I think you me. Shall we have lunch together? The others have also arrived.’
Bond turned. It was the spectacular blonde he had seen in the pool. She had changed into a dry black bikini, and the visible flesh glowed bronze, the colour of autumn beech leaves. The contrast of colours – skin, the thin black material and the striking, gold curls cut close – made Rivke Ingber look not only acutely desirable, but also an object lesson in health and body care. Her face shone with fitness, unblemished, classical, almost Nordic – with a strong mouth and dark eyes in which a spirit of humour seemed to dance almost seductively.
‘Well,’ Bond admitted, ‘you’ve outflanked me, Ms Ingber. Shalom.’
‘Shalom, Mr Bond . . .’ The pink mouth curved into a smile which appeared open, inviting and completely genuine.
‘Call me James.’ Bond made a small mental note of the smile.
She was already holding a plate carrying a small portion of chicken breast, some sliced tomatoes, and a salad of rice and apples. Bond gestured towards one of the nearby tables. She walked ahead of him, her body supple, the slight swing of her hips almost wanton. Carefully placing her plate on the table, Rivke Ingber automatically gave her bikini pants a tiny hitch, then ran her thumbs inside the rear of the legs, setting them over her high, neat buttocks. It was a gesture, performed naturally and without thought countless times each day by women on beaches and around swimming pools; but, executed by Rivke Ingber, the movement became a tantalising, overtly sexual invitation.
Now, sitting opposite Bond, she gave her smile again, running the tip of her small tongue across her upper lip. ‘Welcome aboard, James. I’ve wanted to work with you for a long time –’ a slight pause – ‘which is more than I can say about our colleagues.’
Bond looked at her, trying to penetrate the dark eyes – an unusual feature in a woman of Rivke’s colouring. His fork was poised between plate and mouth as he asked, ‘That bad?’
‘Worse than that,’ she said. ‘I suppose you were told why your predecessor left us?’
‘No.’ Bond gazed at her innocently. ‘All I know is that I was suddenly whisked on to this, with little time for briefings. They said the team – which seems a pretty odd mix to me – would give me the detailed story.’
She laughed again. ‘There was what you might call a personality clash. Brad Tirpitz was being his usual boorish self, at my expense. Your man belted him in the mouth. I was a little put out. I mean, I could have dealt with Tirpitz myself.’
Bond took the mouthful of food, chewed and swallowed, then asked about the operation.
Rivke gave him a little flirtatious look, from under slightly lowered eyelids. ‘Oh,’ a finger mockingly to her lips, ‘that’s a no-no. Bait – that’s what I am. I’m to lure you in to the pair of experts. We all have to be present at your briefing. To tell you the truth, I don’t think they take me very seriously.’
Bond smiled grimly. ‘Then they’ve never heard the most important saying about your service . . .’
‘We are good at our task because the alternative is too horrifying to contemplate.’ She spoke the words on a flat note, almost parrot-like.
‘And are you good, Rivke Ingber?’ Bond chewed another mouthful.
‘Can a bird fly?’
‘Our colleagues must be very stupid, then.’
She sighed. ‘Not stupid, James. Chauvinists. They’re not noted for their confidence in work
ing with women, that’s all.’
‘Never had that trouble myself.’ Bond’s face remained blank.
‘No. So I’ve heard.’ Rivke suddenly sounded prim. Maybe it was even a ‘keep off’ sign.
‘So. We don’t talk about Icebreaker.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get enough of that when we go up to see the boys.’
Bond detected a hint of warning even in the way she looked at him. It was as though the possibility of friendship had been offered, then suddenly withdrawn. Just as quickly, Rivke became her old self, the dark eyes locking on to Bond’s.
They finished their light meal without Bond attempting to touch on the subject of Icebreaker again. He talked about her country – which he knew well – and of its many problems, but did not try to advance the conversation into her private life.
‘Time to meet the big boys, James.’ She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, her eyes darting up towards the hotel.
Mosolov and Tirpitz had probably been watching them from their balcony, Rivke said. They had rooms next to each other on the fourth floor, with both balconies giving good views of the gardens, and sight-lines which allowed constant surveillance of the swimming pool area.
They went off to separate changing rooms, emerging in suitable clothes: Rivke in a dark pleated skirt and white shirt; Bond in his favourite navy slacks, a Sea Island cotton shirt, and moccasins. Together, they entered the hotel and took the elevator to the fourth floor.
‘Ah, Mr James Bond.’
Mosolov was as nondescript as the experts maintained. He could have been any age – from mid-twenties to late forties.
‘Kolya Mosolov,’ he said, taking Bond’s hand. The handshake was neither one thing nor the other, and the eyes – a clouded grey – looked dull, not meeting Bond’s gaze with any certainty.
‘Glad to be working with you.’ Bond gave his most charming smile, while taking in what he could of the man – on the short side, blond hair cut with no style, but paradoxically neat. No character – or so it would seem – in either the man or his clothes: a short-sleeved brown check shirt, and slacks that looked as though they had been run up by an apprentice tailor on a particularly bad day, a face that appeared to change with moods, and in different lights, aging or shedding years.
Kolya indicated a chair, though Bond did not quite see how he did it – without gestures, or moving his body. ‘Do you know Brad Tirpitz?’ His English seemed flawless, even colloquial, with the slight hint of a London suburban accent.
The chair contained Tirpitz – a sprawled, large man with big, rough hands and a face chiselled, it appeared, out of granite. His hair was grey and cut short, almost to the scalp, and Bond was pleased to note the traces of bruising and a slight cut around the left side of the man’s unusually small mouth.
Tirpitz lazily lifted a hand in a kind of salutation. ‘Hi,’ he grunted, the voice harsh, as though he had spent a lot of time getting his accent from tough-guy movies. ‘Welcome to the club, Jim.’
Bond could detect no glimmer of welcome or pleasure in the man.
‘Glad to meet you, Mr Tirpitz.’ Bond paused on the Mister.
‘Brad,’ Tirpitz growled back. This time there was the hint of a smile around the corners of his mouth. Bond nodded.
‘You know what this is all about?’ Kolya Mosolov seemed to assume an almost apologetic mood.
‘Only a little . . .’
Rivke stepped in, smiling at Bond. ‘James tells me he was sent out here on short notice. No briefing from his people.’
Mosolov shrugged, sat down and indicated one of the other chairs. Rivke dropped on to the bed, curling her legs under her as though settling in.
Bond took the proffered chair, pushing it back against the wall into a position from which he could see the other three. It also gave him a good view of the window and balcony.
Mosolov took a deep breath. ‘We haven’t much time,’ he began. ‘We need to be out of here within forty-eight hours and back into the operational area.’
Bond gestured at the room. ‘Is it quite safe to talk in here?’
Tirpitz gave a gruff laugh. ‘Don’t worry about it. We checked the place over. My room’s next door; this one’s on the corner of the building; and I sweep the place all the time.’
Bond turned back to Mosolov, who had waited patiently, almost subserviently, during the slight interruption. The Russian waited a second more before speaking: ‘Do you think this strange? The CIA, Mossad, my people, and your people all working together?’
‘Initially.’ Bond appeared to relax. This was the moment M had warned him about. There was a possibility that Mosolov would hold certain matters back. If so, then he needed every ounce of extra caution. ‘Initially I thought it strange, but, on reflection . . . well, we’re all in the same business. Different outlooks, possibly, but no reason why we shouldn’t work together for the common good.’
‘Correct,’ Mosolov said curtly. ‘Then I’ll give you the information in outline.’ He paused, looked around him, giving a credible imitation of a near-sighted and somewhat vague academic. ‘Rivke. Brad. Please add any points that you think I have omitted.’
Rivke nodded and Tirpitz laughed unpleasantly.
‘All right.’ The transmogrification trick again: Kolya changed from the slow professor into the sharp executive; decisive, in control. He was a joy to watch, Bond thought. ‘All right. I’ll give it to you quickly and straight. This – as you probably do know, Mr Bond – concerns the National Socialist Action Army: a proven threat to my country and to your countries too. Fascists in the old mould.’
Tirpitz gave his unpleasant laugh again. ‘Mouldy old Fascists.’
Mosolov ignored him. It appeared to be the only way to deal with Brad Tirpitz’s wisecracks. ‘I am not a fanatic.’ Mosolov dropped his voice. ‘Nor am I obsessed by the NSAA. However, like your governments, I believe this organisation to be large and growing every day. It is a threat . . .’
‘You can say that again.’ Brad Tirpitz took out a pack of Camels, thumped the end against his thumb, extracted a cigarette and lit it, using a book match. ‘Let’s cut through it, Kolya. The National Socialist Action Army’s got you Soviets scared shitless.’
‘A threat’, Kolya continued, ‘to the world. Not just to Soviet Russia and the Eastern bloc.’
‘You’re their main target,’ Tirpitz grunted.
‘And we’re implicated, Brad, as you know. That’s why my government approached your people. And Rivke’s and Mr Bond’s governments.’ He turned back to Bond. ‘As you may, or may not, know, all the arms used in operations carried out by the NSAA come from a Soviet source. The Central Committee were informed of this only after the fifth incident. Other governments and agencies suspected we were supplying arms to some organisation – possibly Middle Eastern – which was, in turn, passing them on. This was not so. The information solved a problem for us.’
‘Someone had his fingers in the till,’ Brad Tirpitz interjected.
‘True,’ Mosolov snapped. ‘Last spring, during a spot inspection of stores – the first for two years – a senior officer of the Red Army discovered a huge discrepancy: an inexplicable loss of armaments. All from one source.’ He rose, walked across the room to a briefcase and took out a large map, which he spread on the carpet.
‘Here.’ His finger pointed at the paper. ‘Here, near Alakurtii, we have a large ordnance depot . . .’
Alakurtii lay some sixty kilometres east of the Finnish border, well into the Arctic Circle – about two hundred-plus kilometres north-east of Rovaniemi, where Bond had based himself during his recent expedition.
Kolya continued. ‘During last winter that particular ordnance depot was raided. We were able to identify all the serial numbers of weapons used by the NSAA. They definitely came from Alakurtii.’
Bond asked what was missing.
Kolya’s face went deadpan as he rattled off a list: ‘Kalashnikovs; RPKs; AKs; AKMs; Makarov and Stetchkin pistols; R
DG-5 and RG-42 grenades . . . A large number, with ammunition.’
‘Nothing heavier than that?’ Bond made it sound casual, an off-the-cuff response.
Mosolov shook his head. ‘It’s enough. They disappeared in great quantities.’
First black mark, Bond thought. He already knew from M – who had his own sources – that Kolya Mosolov had omitted the most significant weapons: a large number of RPG – 7V Anti-Tank launchers, complete with rockets that carried several different kinds of warheads – conventional, chemical, and tactical nuclear – large enough to wreck a small town and devastate a fifty-mile radius from point of impact.
‘This equipment disappeared during the winter, when we keep a small garrison at Base Blue Hare, as we call the depot. The Colonel who made the discovery used his common sense. He told nobody at Blue Hare, but reported straight back to the GRU.’
Bond nodded. That figured: the Glavnoye Razvedy-vatelnoye Upravleniye – Soviet Military Intelligence, an organisation linked umbilically with the KGB – would be the natural source to be informed.
‘The GRU put in a pair of monks – that’s what they like to call undercover men working in government offices, or army units.’
‘And they lived up to their holy orders?’ Bond asked without a smile.
‘More than that. They’ve located the ringleaders – greedy NCOs being paid off by some outside source.’
‘So,’ Bond interrupted, ‘you know how the stuff was stolen . . .’
Kolya smiled. ‘How, and the direction in which it was moved. We’re fairly certain that, last winter, the consignment was taken over the Finnish border. It’s a difficult frontier to cover, though parts are mined, and we’ve cut away miles of trees. People still come in and go out every day. That’s the way we believe the stuff went.’
‘You don’t know the first destination, then?’ It was Bond’s second testing question.
Mosolov hesitated. ‘We’re not certain. Our satellites are trying to pinpoint a possible location, and our people have their eyes open for the prime suspect. But the facts are still unclear.’
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