In London, M was closeted with Bill Tanner, examining the transcripts. They had Bond’s map reference and had pinpointed the place. ‘The Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre,’ Tanner mused. ‘The place they built on the site of the old Orthodox monastery, St Kyril of Antioch, or some such.’
M nodded, grabbing at the other flimsies, the radio traffic of the Red Army, monitored from a hundred outposts. Certain types of transmission had increased, notably signals between the place where Bond was located and October Battalion, Spetsnaz, the equivalent of one of 22nd SAS squadrons, always held in readiness in Hereford. The October Battalion consisted of some forty-five men. They were at constant alert, separated from other troops on a base near Leningrad.
M read the translated and decrypted signals carefully. ‘Only a spit and a stride from Blessed St Kyril’s,’ he muttered. ‘That is a Russian spit and a stride. Six or seven hundred miles. Looks like they mean business. Do we know who these people take their orders from?’
The Chief of Staff riffled through an annotated copy of the Russian High Command. ‘Direct authority is Berzin,’ he said, ‘Gleb Yakovlevich Berzin, General. A hawk. Member of the old guard. A thorn in the side of the new Kremlin. But he commands the Spetsnaz Training Base near Kirovograd. That’s the hell of a way from Leningrad.’
‘Heard about jet aircraft, Chief of Staff?’ M did not even pause as he read the signal. Then, ‘I think it’s probably time to speak with the PM.’ He rose. ‘It’ll be up to the Prime Minister, of course, but I would imagine he’d want a quiet word on the hush-hush line with the President of the Soviet Union. I’ll take all copies of that traffic.’
They were not to know, even at this hour, that as they spoke, Boris Stepakov was still on his way to meet and pass on instructions to General Berzin. In advance of his arrival at the training base, the fuse had been lit.
Before Natasha came with Pete Natkowitz to conduct them all down to breakfast and the day’s work, James Bond dressed more carefully than usual and took time to make sure Nina thought she was also prepared. The only other point Michael and Emerald had indicated was that something would happen quickly. Sooner rather than later. Whatever the truth about the Huscarl, he could not set the possibility to one side.
At the bottom of his backpack was a roll of wide duct tape and, standing naked in the bathroom with Nina, he carefully taped the useless P6 automatic pistol to her stomach and the extra magazines hard under her breasts. She winced, but silently assured him, with hands and eyes, that she could manage to move and keep the weapon well hidden under a heavy sweater.
When she had gone into the bedroom, Bond taped his automatic very low down on his stomach, the weapon at an angle so that he would be able to reach inside either his waistband or his fly and wrench the pistol out. Ripping the tape away would be painful, though not as painful as the idea of facing armed men with no means of protection.
He taped one of the spare magazines onto the small of his back. He then pulled on the long thermal underwear, in case he was called upon to leave the relatively warm, comfortable interior of the hotel.
He put on thick jeans, a heavy rollneck and the favourite denim jacket reinforced with leather patches. The very fact that he chose to put it on this morning was an indication of how seriously he took the impending threat. The leather patches hid a multitude of small items which might help him in any escape or survival situation, and the concealed objects would be very hard to detect, even in a close body and clothing search.
He was going to be warm under the hot lights on the sound stage, but he would at least be ready. Just before leaving, Bond rechecked his parka, winding back the tape and replacing it in the notebook computer against the possibility of having to make a rush transmission. He put both the transmitter and notebook computer back into their hiding places and was ready to meet the day head on. These preparations he did in secret, so that Nina saw neither computer nor transmitter.
While they were making ready, Bond and Nina carried on a flow of small talk – the weather, the video, how working for Chushi Pravosudia had proved to be more interesting and rewarding than they had ever thought possible. Most of this chat was vacuous and on several occasions they almost ruined things by breaking into laughter at the banal sentences they were able to produce. It was, Bond thought, the Guy and Helen show, and his stomach turned over when he thought of how his Helen had most probably betrayed him.
As Natasha walked them down the corridor, she lowered her voice, muttering that she had heard they would be working late into the night. ‘They want to get the actual taping completed today,’ she said. ‘Looks like something’s in the wind.’
Natkowitz made a puerile remark about it probably having something to do with the stew, and Natasha giggled. Bond frowned, realising this was a sign of increased stress. Pete Natkowitz’s remark would normally have been met with either a sharp reprimand or groans.
After eating they made their way to the sound stage. The big wall made of the sliding metal doors was wide open though people were preparing for shooting. Clive stood near the camera talking to Yuskovich who looked ready to give the performance of his life.
‘Guy,’ Clive shouted, ‘be an angel and do hurry up, please. We really must get this opera started or the day will just disappear. We’re in the land that time forgot already.’
At a hint from Bond, Natkowitz excused himself, heading for the men’s room with Bond following. They both glanced towards the third door through which they had been taken on the previous night. It now seemed like a surreal dream.
The men’s room was empty, but the walls probably had ears. Bond grabbed at a bar of the rough soap supplied at the handbasins, broke a piece free and wrote quickly on the mirror, Natasha? How sure?
Natkowitz ran one of the taps and rubbed the soap from the glass. He then spoke in clipped, disjointed sentences, ‘Is it a plane? Is it a bird? I do not know.’ Then ‘Never seen anyone like her. Amazing. She knows all the tricks, but I wouldn’t trust her with money.’
It was enough for Bond. He gave Pete Natkowitz a half-minute of mime, to let him know the P6 automatic was probably useless.
‘It is,’ Natkowitz sang, tunelessly as he washed his hands, then broke into an equally discordant, ‘There is nothing like a dame; there’s not anything like a dame.’
Bond made some unrepeatable comments about his singing and the two emerged from the men’s room. As they crossed the floor towards the sound stage, Natkowitz grinned his gentleman farmer grin and said casually, ‘Been wanting to talk to you about the lady. A no-no if I ever saw one. Didn’t work it out for at least six hours.’
They both realised that, as long as they kept the conversation suitably cryptic, nobody was likely to pick up on it. ‘Would’ve been happier if you’d told me before, George old boy,’ Bond replied.
‘I didn’t think you cared.’
They passed onto the sound stage, the sliding doors rolled shut and the previous night’s labour and worry were almost forgotten in the long stint of work that followed.
They spent the morning doing reverses, the shots of people’s reactions – shock, sadness, anger – concentrating on the three officers who made up the panel of the tribunal; then the prosecuting and defending officers, followed by Yuskovich whose hammy performance was modified by the truly sinister aura which surrounded him. Last of all, they did Penderek, who obeyed every instruction.
Bond, watching him in close-up through the large viewfinder, would have sworn that nobody could have detected the influence of drugs, but the man’s reactions could only have been guaranteed by chemical persuasion. Unless they had managed to talk him into being an unwitting victim.
After the lunch break they went back to it and by late afternoon they had done the summing-up speeches of both prosecuting and defending officers. They took a break around five, then went to work again, taping a long, carefully prepared speech by Yuskovich, who proved to be as temperamental as any starlet. Again and again they had to retake
pieces of the speech because he was not satisfied with his own delivery. Everyone, including Clive up in his control room, became edgy. ‘You could cut the air with a piece of old rope,’ Natkowitz whispered, but it went out through his mike into the control room, and Clive blew up, commanding everyone to keep quiet unless they had anything really important to say. ‘I’ll come down there personally and sort you all out if there’s any more chitter-chatter.’
‘Slap on the wrist,’ Nina murmured, standing by Bond, working as his focus-puller.
Yuskovich’s speech was a clever mixture of political harangue and humanitarian plea. He spoke of the Russian leadership as ‘those who haven’t the spine to bring this terrible matter out into the open. They promised a new order with freedom and fairness for all. It should now be obvious that the freedom did not include the minorities.’ They had been afraid to act. Afraid because they had no intention of taking the Motherland into a new era. The current regime was bent solely on becoming another dictatorship. He went on, his voice calm and rarely raised, and all the more malign for that.
At last, it seemed they had got it right, but Clive, speaking through the headphones, told Bond that the accused would be coming back. He had to prepare to do a short question and answer between Yuskovich and the supposed Vorontsov.
Later, Bond thought he should not have been surprised, but as the short exchange was being taped, he was shocked by the duplicity.
Standing directly in front of the dock, Yuskovich stared straight at the prisoner.
‘You know who I am?’ he asked.
‘I know only that you are General Yevgeny Yuskovich. That’s who I’ve been told you are.’
‘Do you imagine you should know me from the past? From your childhood, perhaps?’
‘I don’t see how I should know you.’ Penderek’s Russian was suspiciously good. He even spoke with a Ukrainian accent.
‘Your parents. They were Alexander Vorontsov and Reyna Vorontsov?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you were born and raised in the city of Kharkov, where your father was a doctor? It was a good family?’
‘My father practised and taught anaesthesiology at the University Hospital, yes. My mother was a nurse. They were good people.’
‘And your mother’s maiden name – the name she was known by before she married your father?’
‘Muzykin. Reyna Illyena Muzykin.’
‘So. Do you recall any members of her family? Your maternal grandfather, grandmother, your mother’s sisters?’
‘Yes, very well. I remember my grandfather Muzykin, also my three aunts.’
‘Did any of the aunts marry?’
‘Yes, two were married.’
‘You recall their married names?’
‘One married a doctor called Rostovsky. The other took a husband by name Sidak. He was a soldier. An army officer.’
‘Good. Did they have children? Did you have cousins?’
‘Yes, my cousins Valdik and Konstantin. They were by my Aunt Valentina Rostovsky. My other aunt’s husband was killed. They said it was an accident. In the thirties. I always wondered . . .’
‘You do not recall any cousin named Yevgeny?’
‘No, I had only two cousins.’
‘And you had no relatives who bore the name Yuskovich?’
‘That is your name.’
‘And that is why I ask you. I shall ask again. Did you know of any relatives by name Yuskovich?’
‘Never. No. None by that name.’
‘Good.’ He turned to the tribunal. ‘I have put these questions to the accused because it has been suggested by unscrupulous persons who do not hold the future of our beloved Mother Russia as something sacred, that, in some way, I am related to the accused. I would like the accused’s answers placed on the record so that, at no time in the future, can it be claimed I have any blood kinship with this wretched man.’
They broke immediately after this. The big doors were rolled back and Clive came on to the floor. He told them they only had one more long session to tape and it would amount to the accused’s confession and plea for mercy. ‘I really think we should try for a wrap tonight, dears. Go and get coffee, or whatever else you want. No wasting time or poodlefaking. We’ll start in three-quarters of an hour. Take forty-five, after that I want all the witnesses on the set. Understand? Every last one of them.’
‘Mind if I get some air?’ Bond asked.
‘You can take a balloon ride, go sledding, whatever, love, as long as you’re back in three-quarters of an hour.’ The director turned on his heel. ‘I’ll brook no arguments,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘Should be back at Stratford,’ Natkowitz yawned. ‘Off with his head. So much for Clive.’
‘You coming out?’ Bond was already strolling towards the elevators.
‘Too damned cold, and Guy, don’t say anything stupid, like “I may be a long time”, right?’
‘Back within forty-five minutes.’
He went up to his room, grabbed at the parka and put it on as he rode the elevator down. His head felt thick and his eyes ached, the result of being up half the night. The bitter weather outside would soon put him right.
Ten minutes later the roof fell in when the October Battalion of Spetsnaz arrived, coming in from the air with clouds of thunder.
17
THE DEATH OF 007
Everyone seemed to be standing around in the wide lobby leading to the sound stage. The metal doors were rolled back and a couple of Clive’s assistants were putting finishing touches to the set. All the people who had played the part of witnesses had been coaxed into their make-up. They talked and laughed, drank coffee and smoked. Bond caught sight of Natasha standing with Michael and Emerald who appeared in their first guise as the very old Jewish couple. Natkowitz was fiddling with the sound equipment and Nina seemed to have disappeared.
Bond had gone into the men’s room on his way to the exit in the main lobby before taking his brisk walk to clear his head. He was just emerging when it began.
They would have heard nothing had they already been taping, for once the doors were closed the stage was admirably soundproof. As it was, the roar of massive engines pulsed down, throbbing and making the whole building shake.
For a second it was as though everybody was engaged in the childhood game of ‘statues’. A shocked stillness seemed to spread over the throng, laughing and talking one minute, stock still, turned to stone the next, cigarettes, coffee and soft drinks poised. The liquids seemed solidified in a click of time.
Bond stepped back inside the empty men’s room, unzipped his fly and dragged out the P6, thumbing the safety and zipping everything up again. He leant against the door to hear what was going on.
The stillness had passed and was replaced by confusion. Shouting, some screams, the noise of a herd of uncontrolled people moving in panic. Bond pulled on his thermal gloves and gripped the pistol more tightly.
From outside the building came the sudden distinct whoomp of exploding grenades followed by shots, the burp of automatic fire and the thump-thump of single rounds. Then the sound of people running. Heavy footsteps racing towards the lobby.
Bond pushed the door open a few inches and saw Boris Stepakov in a camouflage jumpsuit followed by a tall, hard-faced officer and a group of soldiers, six or seven, he guessed. They were all in combat gear, carrying an assortment of weapons. Stepakov held one of the latest PRI automatics close to his hip. The others bristled with AKS-74 rifles, grenades, long-bladed knives sheathed high on their right shoulders. He even caught sight of an R-350 radio, the kind with encryption and burst-transmission ability. Only Stepakov and the tall officer had the hoods of their jump suits down, the men who followed were muffled so that only their eyes could be seen.
As they approached, the crowd of witnesses and technicians began to back away, clearing a path. To his right, Bond saw Michael Brooks edging towards the door leading to the closet and tunnel. He placed his back against it and worke
d the key with his hands behind him. Glancing to his left, Brooks’ eyes met Bond’s and he shifted his head, a signal for Bond to follow him as the door silently swung back.
Bond just looked at him, making no move to follow as the renegade spy slipped out of sight into the closet. Then he heard Stepakov’s voice, loud, raised above the babble.
‘Silence! Stay exactly where you are!’
He imagined the clownlike face turning, sweeping the crowd as they backed onto the sound stage. The talking had stopped leaving a stunned silence in its wake as though the crowd was making way for Stepakov and his little group.
Bond wanted to push the door fully open, join Stepakov and watch the rout of the Chushi Pravosudia. But something, experience and intuition he supposed, held him back.
Again he caught movement to his right and through the crack of the open door, saw Emerald and Nina slip quietly into the closet. Nina had retrieved her pistol and held it, two-handed, low, the butt hard into her crotch as she backed through the doorway.
‘General Yevgeny Yuskovich!’ Stepakov’s voice almost broke as he shouted the name, the pitch rising, caught on a dry spot in his larynx.
‘Marshal Yuskovich.’ Bond had listened to the voice declaiming for most of the day. Now it had taken on a new arrogance.
‘Marshal by whose jurisdiction?’ Stepakov sounded as though he had complete control of both himself and the situation.
‘My own,’ Yuskovich snapped. ‘Marshal of the Red Army and soon secretary of the CCPSU, President of the Soviet Union.’
Stepakov laughed. ‘Yevgeny, I fear you’re no longer even a general. My friend, General Berzin here, has supported me in this operation on the direct instructions of the President of the Soviet Union. The building has been secured by the October Battalion of Spetsnaz. You should consider yourself under arrest together with any other troops you have suborned. We are to take you back to Moscow. Further resistance is . . .’