The seventh protagonist, the ‘someone higher up the ladder than Smolin’, unnamed by Norman Murray, threw a much darker shadow over the entire business.
Bringing his mind back to the present, Bond noticed the rain had gone, yet there was a chill in the air and gunfire-smoke clouds raced each other over the rooftops. They paused for the traffic lights and Bond caught sight of the black-bearded, tousled-haired Big Mick Shean at the wheel of a maroon Volvo. The Irishman showed no sign of recognition but Bond knew he would have already identified the parked car and he and Heather as they waited for the lights to change. They crossed the road on the green light and began to walk slowly. He had told Heather not to rush.
‘It should be the same routine you use when lighting a fuse on an explosive charge. Walk away. Never run in case you trip.’
She had nodded. She obviously knew something about explosives, so there had been some field training, he supposed. During the journey to Rosslare he would go through it piece by piece.
They did not cut across the Green but sauntered along the north side, heading for the east side where the car was parked. As they drew level with the Shelbourne Hotel, Bond almost froze. Glancing across at the famous hotel, he saw for only the second time in the flesh the precise, compact figure of Colonel Maxim Smolin, accompanied by two short, heavily built men. The three were descending the steps, looking left and right as though expecting transport.
‘Don’t look towards the Shelbourne,’ Bond muttered under his breath. ‘No, Heather, don’t look,’ he repeated, quickening his pace as she reacted. ‘Keep walking. Your ex-lover just came out of his cave.’
7
ACCIDENT
There was no point in trying to run. Smolin knew Heather clothed and unclothed, and Bond reckoned that Smolin would know him on sight as well. After all, his photograph was in the files of probably every intelligence agency in the world. All he could hope was that in the traffic and with Smolin’s obvious concern over his own transport, he would not have spotted them. But he knew the chances were slim. Smolin was trained to single out the most unlikely faces among a crowd of thousands.
Gently taking Heather’s arm, Bond guided her around the corner, almost imperceptibly increasing their pace as they walked towards the car.
He felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling around the back of his neck – like a dozen small, deadly spiders unleashed in the nape hair. It was not one hundred per cent accurate, but Bond was realistic enough to know the odds were very high on Colonel Maxim Smolin’s eyes watching their retreating backs. He was also probably smiling at the coincidence of catching sight of his former lover in the middle of Dublin. Or, Bond wondered, was it simply coincidence? In this business coincidence was usually a dirty word. M always maintained there was no such thing, just as Freud had once said that, in conditions of stress and confusion, there was no such thing as an accident. Once inside, Bond scanned the mirror as he twisted the key in the ignition and clipped on his seat belt. The traffic was heavy, but he just caught the flash of a dun-coloured Cortina passing behind them with a dark blue Audi close on its bumper. Already he had seen Big Mick at the wheel of the maroon Volvo, so all the cars were circling the Green. The trick would be to get out successfully and on to the road to the outskirts of Dun Laoghaire, then along the coast. The route would take them through Bray and Arklow, Gorey and Wexford, then down to Rosslare. A trick it certainly would be, for they might have to circle the Green more than once to get into position, and that meant passing the Shelbourne again.
Gently Bond started to back out from his parking space, waiting a little impatiently for a gap to appear in the traffic. When he saw the opportunity, he reversed the car very fast, slammed the gear into first and took off at some speed. Seconds later he was tucked neatly in behind the Audi.
They circled the Green once and there was no sign of Smolin and his two large companions outside the Shelbourne. The Cortina left them at that junction and went straight on towards Merrion Row and Baggot Street. By the time they reached the same point a second time, Big Mick was behind them so that the Saab was tightly boxed in, with the Cortina well ahead and out of sight as the forward scout. Glancing in the mirror, Bond saw Big Mick’s craggy face split into a grin at the successful link-up. In the back seat Heather’s shopping rolled around, slipping and sliding as Bond threw the car from one lane to another. He wanted to get out of Dublin as soon as possible.
‘Why did he like to be called Wald?’ Bond asked suddenly.
They were now well away, approaching Bray in a steady stream of traffic, with its great church, looking almost French, dominating the small town.
Heather had been silent, allowing Bond to concentrate, while they had negotiated the pleasant, if crowded, roads that took them out of the city, past Jury’s Hotel and the anachronistic Royal Dublin Society in Ballsbridge. At his question she started in her seat.
‘Wald? You mean Franz? Jungle?’
‘I’m not talking about the Black Forest, old love.’
Bond’s eyes scanned the road ahead, the mirrors and instruments, making regular checks every thirty seconds. Yet his mind was balanced between driving and the interrogation he wanted to conduct. Heather was silent, as though she was preparing her answer.
‘It was odd. You’ve seen his photograph? Yes, well, he was so good-looking with his blond hair, clear skin, and so fit and slim, that he looked like those old photographs you see of Hitler’s ideal German – a true Aryan.’
‘So why did he like to be called Wald?’ he repeated a little impatiently.
‘He was vain.’
‘And what’s that got to do with it?’
They had stopped for some traffic lights. Bond’s car was close to the Audi’s rear, with Big Mick’s Volvo separated from them by two lorries.
‘About the work, he was vain. He said he could always hide from anybody. He had this idea that no one would ever find him if he didn’t want to be found. It would be like searching a dense forest. I think it was Elli who said we should call him Wald, and that pleased him. He is a little full of himself – is that the right phrase?’
Bond nodded. ‘Hence Jungle Baisley now. Looking for him would be like looking for a particular tree?’
‘That’s about it. Or like a needle in a haystack.’
Now Bond was even more concerned. ‘You say Elli gave him the nickname. You five met together regularly?’ That would have been almost suicidally bad security, he thought. But there were many things about Cream Cake that pointed towards bad security.
‘Not often, no. But there were meetings.’
‘Were they called by your controller?’
‘No. Swift saw us one at a time. We had regular meetings in safe houses; rendezvous in shops or parks. But you must understand that we all knew each other since we were children.’
Bond thought they were almost children when this monstrous plan was conceived. Two were dead for sure, the others had prices on their heads and their tongues. Smolin would not rest until they were all safely in their coffins. And what of Swift, their control? There had been a great deal about Swift in the files M had put his way. Swift was a street name, his real identity carefully hidden, even in the official documents. But Bond knew the man behind that name. He was a legend among case officers, one of the most experienced and careful people in the business. He had been given the name Swift because of the speed at which he worked on his clients: swift and sure-footed. He was not the kind of man to make errors. Yet if Heather had told Bond the truth about the way Cream Cake had ended, Swift’s judgment had let him down at last.
They passed through lush green countryside. A few cottages sent up drifting smoke from their turf-burning fires. It was a land that was tranquil, if untidy – untidy like Cream Cake. Quickly, Bond went through it again in his mind.
All five had parents who had been sleepers, handing over only the odd piece of useful intelligence. Yet all of them were very well placed. Bridget’s father was a lawyer, with some importa
nt officials among his clientele. Millicent’s parents were both doctors who had a number of intelligence community people on their lists. The other three came from military or para-military families: Ebbie’s father was an officer with the Vopos, Jungle’s and Heather’s were German officers working out of the Karlshorst barracks, which housed both intelligence buildings and the Soviet Headquarters in East Germany. It was easy to see how a few years ago those five young people had shone out when the Planners thought of compromising key targets in East Germany.
Bridget was to set her cap at a member of the East German Politburo and Millicent was to make herself available to one of the seven KGB officers serving under a paper-thin ‘advisory’ cover at Karlshorst. Ebbie had a Major of the East German Army in her sights. Jungle and Heather were in charge of the greatest prizes – Fräulein Captain Dietrich, the woman officer in charge of the civilian executive staff of the HVA, well known for her taste in younger men, and Colonel Maxim Smolin.
Smolin, who had fallen for Heather hook, line and sinker, or so the record said. Bond recalled every detail of that file: ‘Basilisk set the girl up in a small apartment five minutes’ drive from the Karlshorst Headquarters, where he spent most of his off-duty hours with her. After any “business” trip abroad he brought back luxuries.’ There followed a list ranging from expensive hi-fi equipment to what the French term ‘fantasy’ gifts from Paris. Attributed to Swift, the list was outstanding for its detail. Dates and items were given in one column, the time Basilisk spent away in another, with a full account of his movements. It was the only list so itemised.
Fräulein Captain Dietrich also gave presents to Jungle but Swift did not appear to have such full intelligence about those. There was even less information about the relationships between the other three operatives and their targets. From the beginning Bond had wondered whether this was a complete operation, or whether only two people, Dietrich and Smolin, were really wanted, the rest being merely makeweights or even distractions. Bearing in mind the way Swift had misjudged the operation, he would have to sift the details again and again. As they were passing through a village of around five hundred inhabitants, which seemed to have a cathedral, twelve garages and twenty bars, he said, ‘Tell me about it one more time, Heather.’
‘I’ve told you all of it.’ She spoke in a small, weary voice, as though she did not want to discuss Cream Cake ever again.
‘Just once more. How did you feel when they told you?’
‘I was only nineteen. I was precocious, I suppose. I saw it all as a joke. It wasn’t until later that I realised how deadly the whole business really was.’
‘But you felt excited?’
‘It was an adventure, for heaven’s sake. If you were just nineteen and they told you to seduce a not unattractive woman older than yourself, wouldn’t you have been excited?’
‘It depends which way my feelings ran politically.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Her shredded nerves were showing now.
‘Were you a politically aware young woman when they approached you for this exciting adventure?’
She gave a long sigh. ‘If you really want to know, I was disenchanted with the whole scene. To me everyone talked rubbish: East, West, North, South, whatever – the Communist Party, the Americans, the British. Maxim used to say, “When it comes to politics and religion, it’s a fairground.” ’
‘Really?’ Bond was surprised at this sudden revelation about Smolin’s views on political matters. ‘And what did he mean by that, I wonder?’
‘He meant you paid your money and took your choice. But he used to say that once you’d taken that choice it bound you hand and foot. He said that Communism was the nearest thing in politics to the Roman Catholic Church. Both of them had rules from which you could not deviate.’
‘But you were trying to make him deviate. You were doing your best to make him a convert.’
‘In a way, yes.’
Bond grunted. ‘You had met him before?’
She sighed again. ‘I’ve told you. He was a regular visitor to our house.’
‘And he’d already shown an interest in you?’
‘Not particularly.’
She hesitated, then launched into a long speech. Colonel Smolin may not have been the greatest looking man around, but he was attractive. There was no real physical attraction at first sight but he had something. Then Smolin was made even more attractive to her when the matter was fully explained. First her father had said he was fighting against the powers that had split her country in two. Then the man she had come to know as Swift, her controller, had been more blunt.
‘He’s a bastard,’ Swift had said at her first briefing, ‘a grade A bastard who wouldn’t think twice about hanging his own mother with piano wire. He’s a professional spycatcher and spykiller who doesn’t mind if he’s wrong from time to time. We’re asking you to get yourself into his bed, make him rely on you, share his thoughts with you, share his fears, and, in the end, his secrets.’
‘Maxim wasn’t really as bad as Swift painted him.’
Bond had already sensed that she still clung to some hidden nostalgia about the affair with Smolin. ‘I expect the executioners’ mistresses at Auschwitz and Belsen said the same thing while they ate their Kirschtorte.’ He had no time for sentiment as far as men like Smolin were concerned.
‘No!’ Heather almost shouted. ‘Read my report. It’s all there. Maxim was an odd mixture of a man, but a lot of stories about him are just not true.’
‘So that’s why he’s got a team out now hunting down you and your friends? That’s why he’s tearing tongues out?’
She remained silent, staring ahead. Bond gave her a quick glance. He could have sworn that there were tears in her eyes.
‘And you just went out and caught him, netted him, bedded him and reported the pillow talk back to Swift?’
‘I’ve told you!’ She almost shouted at him. ‘How many more times, James? Yes, yes, yes. I hooked him. I even became fond of him. He was good to be with: kind, thoughtful, gentle and very loving. Too loving.’
‘Because you misjudged the moment of truth?’
‘Yes! Must I go through it again and again? I told Swift that I thought he was ready. God . . .’ She was indeed near to tears now. ‘Swift told me to bring him home, to lay the news on him.’ Bond concentrated on the road. ‘And what happened when you laid the news on Maxim Smolin?’
Heather took a deep breath and opened her mouth. At that moment they started to go into a bend leading on to a long stretch of open road flanked by scrubby hedges. Big Mick, a couple of hundred yards behind, flashed his lights and in the driving mirror Bond saw two cars squeezing in on the Volvo fast so that the road was filled with the three vehicles. Though he had not driven this route for years, Bond had an odd sense of déjà vu. In his mind there was a picture of an accident, flashing blue lights and police flagging them down. Even before seeing what lay ahead, he felt the fear tighten in his stomach. Behind, the two flanking cars appeared bent on squashing the Volvo.
Then they were round the bend and on to the straight road that was, just as he expected, littered with debris, warning signs and flashing lights. He shouted to Heather to brace herself. Ahead, there was a Garda car, an ambulance, the remains of a dun-coloured saloon that could have been a Cortina, and an Audi on its side crushing the hedge. There was also a heavy lorry, across the road. Bond was in no mood for lorries. He braked with his left foot and tried to spin the car, even though he knew that by now the road behind him would be blocked by a crushed Volvo – unless Big Mick had supernatural powers.
Heather screamed, the car slewed sideways and kept going, gathering speed in spite of Bond’s attempt to control it. Too late, he realised that the road surface had been covered with a thick slick of oil.
The scene of the crash was coming up with amazing speed. Bond fought the wheel, feeling the rear coming round much too fast and knowing there was no way to avoid collision. When it came, there w
as a sense almost of anti-climax. A grinding crunch brought them to a halt.
Bond automatically reached for his gun but was already too late. The doors were wrenched open and two men in Garda uniform pulled Heather and Bond out of the car, using an expert and very painful arm-lock. Dazed, Bond wondered where his gun had gone. He tried unsuccessfully to resist and became aware that they were being hustled into the ambulance, where four other men were waiting to take over.
For members of an ambulance team, they appeared far from concerned about injuries. By this time Heather was screaming loud enough to wake the dead. She was silenced by one man chopping her sharply on the side of the neck with the edge of his hand. She went down just as the doors closed and the ambulance began to move. The man who had hit her caught her falling body and hoisted it on to one of the stretcher beds.
From the front a fifth man appeared, yet they seemed in no way crowded. Later Bond realised that they were in a very large ambulance, probably a refurbished military vehicle. It picked up speed, its klaxon sounding. Above the wail the fifth man spoke.
‘Mr Bond, I believe? I’m afraid there’s been a minor accident and we have to get you away from the site as fast as possible. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but this is essential for everyone’s safety. I’m sure you understand. If you would just sit down and remain quiet we’ll get along nicely, I’m sure.’
There was no doubt about it. Colonel Maxim Smolin had a great deal of charm, even when it was laced with threats.
8
COCKEREL OR WEASEL
The ambulance swayed and bounced, slowed, swayed again, then accelerated. Bond reckoned they had very quickly left the main road and were probably doubling back. They could be edging up into the hills, even climbing through the wild and craggy Wicklow Gap. He glanced at Heather, who lay unmoving on the stretcher bed, and hoped that the force of the blow had not done her any serious damage.
‘She’ll be fine, Mr Bond. My men had orders not to kill, merely to render unconscious.’