by Steve Cole
The threat of a territorial world war should not blind us to the ideological struggle which will have to come one day . . . Russian cooperation with the Allies would be of great strategic value, but . . . Russia would be an exceedingly treacherous ally. She would not hesitate to stab us in the back the moment it suited her.
The uneasy alliance did indeed come about: Britain and the Soviet Union signed the Anglo-Soviet Agreement in July 1941. Each needed the other to help combat Nazi Germany, but when the war ended, the alliance soon broke down, and East and West became entrenched in an ongoing ‘cold war’.
The expansionist Soviet Union, feared and mistrusted from its inception and now armed with nuclear weapons, became the major enemy of the ‘free world’. Fleming’s pre-war fears had been fully justified, but he would go on to attack the Soviet Union in print in a very different way . . .
Fleming had begun work on Casino Royale, his first novel, just days after the death of King George VI and the succession of Elizabeth II, with patriotic fervour running high. During the writing of Casino Royale the government announced that Britain’s first atomic bomb would be tested by the end of the year, as the UK fought to keep her place at the vanguard of world powers. Into this brave and unsettling new world, and into Her Majesty’s Secret Service, steps James Bond – and, naturally, the most dangerous of the threats he faces are those from the USSR.
With typical style, Fleming shows his hero at first underestimating the dangers of Soviet communism, the better to emphasize this folly. When the French agent René Mathis tries to convince Bond of the dangers, Bond is only cynical. He tells Mathis:
Today we are fighting communism. If I’d been alive fifty years ago, the brand of conservatism we have today would have been damn near called communism and we should have been told to go fight that. History is moving pretty quickly these days and the heroes and villains keep on changing parts.
However, when the tragic events of Casino Royale have played out, Bond realizes that his easy-come, easy-go argument has ‘exploded in his face’. His professional mind can comprehend only too well the betrayal that double agents like Burgess and Maclean have committed:
. . . the covers which must have been blown over the years, the codes which the enemy must have broken, the secrets which must have leaked from the centre of the very section devoted to penetrating the Soviet Union.
It was ghastly. God knew how the mess would be cleared up.
Bond goes on to recognize the threat, but also the possible weakness of ‘the real enemy . . . working quietly, coldly without heroics’, and his analysis, chillingly informed, is surely that of Fleming himself:
It was the same with the whole Russian machine. Fear was the impulse. For them it was always safer to advance rather than to retreat. Advance against the enemy and the bullet might miss you. Retreat, evade, betray, and the bullet would never miss.
But now he would attack the arm that held the whip and the gun. The business of espionage could be left to the white-collar boys. They could spy, and catch the spies. He would go after the threat behind the spies, the threat that made them spy.
PARACHUTE TOWERS
Ian Fleming’s journalist brother, Peter, includes in his travel book, To Peking, an account of a stay in Moscow in 1934. He too stayed at the National Hotel, and presents a vivid and amusing snapshot of Moscow as seen by a privileged Western visitor. He notes that ‘Moscow is mad about parachuting’, and indeed there was a craze for aerial sports throughout Russia, with ‘parachute towers’ appearing in parks all over the country; all part of the culture of military training that permeated the Soviet Union in the 1930s. The parachute tower in Gorky Park was a particularly impressive and popular example, and in the first draft of Red Nemesis I brought James into contact with it:
His keenest attention was taken by an attraction in one corner of the park not so far from the entrance: a parachute tower. It was a kind of white-and-red helter-skelter some 130 feet high. Every two minutes a daredevil was carefully strapped into one of three parachutes attached by a cable to the top. They were launched from the top of the tower, and their whooping occupants hit the ground at some speed. As instructors released them from their harnesses at the bottom and sent them on their way, volunteers continued to press forward at the top, waiting for their turn. Lying on the grass, James grew mildly hypnotized by the perpetual motion. Under different circumstances he’d have had a go himself, but was not prepared to hand over his father’s backpack to anyone, even for a moment.
My original intention was to have the parachute tower feature in James and Anya’s escape from Karachan and Mimic after the murder of Ivan Kalashnikov. However, after writing the scene, I decided to cut it for reasons of pace.
The following scene originally closed Chapter 16, and came just after James and Anya watch the dance display in Gorky Park. They realize that their pursuers are still very much on their trail . . .
‘Mimic, the black boy,’ James breathed. ‘Eleven o’clock.’
Anya froze. ‘He has seen us?’
‘Not yet. But I doubt he’s alone.’ He put a hand on Anya’s shoulder. ‘How far are we from the main entrance now?’
‘It is the other side of the parachute tower.’
James looked over. Peeping above the sculpted parkland was the rim of the tower, lit up like a lighthouse now as the skies geared up for the slow summer sunset. The cheers and squeals of those watching and those jumping carried through the deepening haze.
Mimic made a strange kind of high-pitched birdcall – a signal of some kind; a direction or a warning – and then stalked away towards some large sideshow tents on the other side of the field.
‘Let’s go,’ James whispered, pulling Anya after him. He walked hunched over as if he’d dropped something and was now looking for it, and half-heartedly she did the same as the good-natured crowds parted about them.
James was beginning to think they might actually make it out when the thick tang of stale smoke caught in his nostrils. He straightened to find a tall bearded figure looming up in front of him.
Karachan whistled a piercing birdcall of his own, then swung a fist at James’s jaw. The blow brought black specks to James’s vision, but he clutched hold of Karachan’s lapels to stop himself falling, then kneed the man in the groin. Karachan cried out in pain, tried to grab James – but James landed both fists on the broad chest. Karachan went down, but James’s sense of triumph was short-lived. The fight had caused a commotion: people were turning to see it or to run – either way, it was as if a collective human arrow were pointing straight at him.
James pulled Anya away from the scene. They had not gone far when they saw Mimic again, perhaps a hundred yards away, hunched over, head tilted to one side, mimicking James’s pose with eerie precision.
‘Come on.’ James felt adrenalin burst through his bone-weariness, lending him strength as he turned and bolted with Anya, running wildly towards the parachute tower. His earlier visit had been a reconnaissance, and a wild plan was forming on the fly.
He was practically dragging Anya along now, with Mimic racing after them.
‘When we reach the tower,’ James panted, ‘hide behind it. Wait for me. I’ll come back for you.’
Even as he said it, James wondered if that sounded more like a threat than a promise. Anya said nothing.
Then all thoughts but those of survival, of how to win, were pushed aside. James knew he had to act recklessly so that they’d think he was making a mistake. When they reached the tower, he shoved Anna into its shadow, forced his way past the ticket collector and broke into the busy queue, pushing people aside as they waited their turn to make the slow shuffle up to the summit. They shouted indignantly as James barged past on his way to the top – then protested again moments later as Mimic smashed his way through in pursuit.
Somewhere down below an orchestra had started up, a driving, brass-heavy melody. James’s heart pounded its own percussive rhythm alongside it as he heaved his way upwar
ds, round and round the central tower. He heard angry voices close behind.
If I can’t pull this off, James thought, if my timing is wrong, they’ll be scraping me off the ground.
At last he reached the summit, where two operators strapped nervous customers into brightly patterned parachutes. There was no real danger if you were in a harness – the parachute was fixed to a system of ropes and cables so descent to the dropzone was controlled, and the parachute easy to winch back up to the top once its occupant had been released and sent on their way.
Without a harness, on the other hand . . .
James finally shoved his way out onto the jumping area. A dark-haired girl was making her way giddily towards the waiting operator. James dodged past her, pushed the operator aside, then grabbed hold of the parachute harness and climbed onto the parapet just as Mimic emerged behind him, sweating, panting, snarling a victorious smile.
James gave him a cheery wave and jumped off.
The blare of the orchestra’s brass mingled with the screams and shouts of onlookers as James plunged downwards, the parachute billowing above him. No one to leaven the drop, he realized. The operator’s flat on his back and—
There was a sudden jerk on the cable that almost threw James clear, burned his sore palms as he clung on, dangling perhaps fifteen feet above the ground. Had the winch mechanism jammed or had someone taken manual control? He glanced up and saw two operators struggling to keep hold of the maddened Mimic; while, below, Karachan was running over, ready to meet James as he dropped. Damn it! He groaned. The winch ropes lurched again. James felt nauseated as he plunged downwards at breakneck speed. Karachan was waiting, teeth bared in a welcoming smile, arms outstretched . . .
Then, in the confusion of his final drop, James heard a crack. Karachan pitched forward onto his knees, and James let go, twisting his body in mid-flight. He landed feet first on Karachan’s back, and went flying into an ungainly forward roll before skidding through the grass onto his side, panting for breath.
Anya was standing over him, trembling, holding a thick broken branch in both hands. ‘You are insane.’
‘You are welcome,’ James muttered, getting shakily to his feet, ignoring the jeers and babble from the crowds around him. His left leg hurt, and he found he was limping like Anya as he ran for the cover of the trees. They had to escape the park quickly – before Mimic got back down from the tower.
‘Why did you help me?’ James asked her as they stumbled and ran.
‘Because I am not the stone I try to be,’ Anya said, ‘and so I am afraid.’
You and me both, James thought.
He took her hand and led her onwards. By the time they’d left the Park of Culture and Rest and limped across the busy steel congestion of the Krymsky Bridge, Anya was holding his hand too.
It is that simple image of the wounded James Bond, with the resourceful heroine at his side, strength and resources pushed to the limit as he attempts to escape his enemies’ snare, that for me encapsulates the essence of Ian Fleming’s indestructible hero, across all media. Fitting, then, that I get to leave him there as this collector’s edition concludes what has been, for me, a most extraordinary assignment . . . and the most extraordinary fun.
Steve Cole
February 2017
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks to Caroline Hamilton, Dance and Costume Historian, for her research and advice on Anya’s early dancing life, and also to Julia Creed, Head of Collections at the Royal Opera House, for backstage detail.
Further thanks to Elizaveta Karmannaya, Moscow Correspondent, and to Craig Marshall and Gemma Gray at Fettes College, Edinburgh, for their kind support.
Couldn’t-do-it-without-you editorial thanks to Sophie Wilson, Ruth ‘Prima Ballerina Assoluta’ Knowles, Mainga Bhima, Philippa Milnes-Smith, Corinne Turner and Josephine Lane.
A shout out too to Annie Eaton, Harriet Venn, Jasmine Joynson and all the team at Penguin Random House, to Jonny Davidson and all at Ian Fleming Publications Ltd, to Jonny Geller, Alice Dill and Catherine Cho at Curtis Brown and to Georgie Gillings and company at TBS.
To Fergus Fleming, Diggory Laycock, Jessie Grimond and Marek Pruszewicz of the IFPL board for empowering me to take Young James Bond on this run of adventures.
And, of course, to Ian Fleming and Charlie Higson, without whom . . .
About the Author
Steve Cole is a bestselling children’s author and lifelong fan of Ian Fleming’s James Bond. His other book series include Z. Rex, Thieves Like Us, Doctor Who and Astrosaurs, with collective sales of over three million copies. In other careers he has worked as an editor of books and magazines for readers of all ages.
Also available in the YOUNG BOND series
Written by Steve Cole:
Shoot to Kill
Heads You Die
Strike Lightning
Written by Charlie Higson:
SilverFin
Blood Fever
Double or Die
Hurricane Gold
By Royal Command
Danger Society: Young Bond Dossier
www.youngbond.com
www.ianfleming.com
Also available by Steve Cole:
The Z. Rex Trilogy
Tripwire
LIGHTS.
CAMERA.
MURDER.
James is caught up in a sinister plot that goes way beyond any Hollywood movie. And now he must find a way out.
Or die trying.
James’s Cuban holiday has become a nightmare mission to save an old friend from a villain who has perfected 1,000 ways to kill.
With corrupt cops and hired assassins hot on his heels, James must travel through Havana and brave Caribbean waters to stop a countdown to mass murder.
Fates will be decided with the flip of a coin.
HEADS OR TAILS. LIVE OR DIE.
A flash of lightning illuminates a horrific sight. What his school claims was a tragic accident James Bond suspects was murder.
In search of the truth – and revenge – Bond risks his life to learn of a new secret weapon that could change the course of history. The trail leads across Europe to a ruthless warmonger who stands ready to unleash hell upon the world.
To survive, James must brave traps, trials and terrifying experiments – and triumph over his most powerful opponent yet.
RHCP DIGITAL
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RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
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First published Red Fox, 2017
This ebook published 2017
Text copyright © Ian Fleming Publications Limited, 2017
Cover artwork copyright © blacksheep-uk.com
Male figure image copyright © Getty Images
Tower image copyright © Shutterstock
The moral right of the author has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–448–19376–9
All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
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