John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

‘You heard the doctor. He says twenty-four hours . . .’

‘I don’t need twenty-four hours. If we’re going to do this, we should move fast.’ He sat on the edge of the bed again. ‘Look, Bill, I’ve been down this road too many times of late. Last year, for instance, I went into a situation in the US posing as a member of another group, and look what happened. I don’t relish the idea of doing it in co-operation with KGB. But, if there’s no other way . . .’

‘I’m sure that if there was another operational course, M would take it. This simply appears to be the best Sunday punch.’

‘Tell him I want to do it now then.’ He looked steadily at his old friend. ‘I’d like to get myself cleaned up and organised. Can I go back to my place? He can get me there any time he wants.’

Half-an-hour later, Bond was back in his ground-floor flat off Chelsea’s King’s Road. Before even beginning to clean up, he packed a lightweight flight bag with things he regarded as necessary for a trip to Moscow at this time of the year. The gear was more utilitarian than modish – thermal socks, underwear and gloves, together with thick rollnecks and cold weather outer clothing – though he did include a couple of suits and several normal shirts. Who knew where he might find himself?

He made careful choices of ancillary equipment which included the ASP 9mm automatic and several clips of ammunition. Though the ASP was no longer being made, Bond had retained it as his weapon of choice. After all, he knew that similar pistols were in great demand, changing hands at between $3–4,000 a time. The new, bulky 10mm automatic, now being used by the American law enforcement and counterintelligence agencies was certainly a man-stopper of the highest order, though he considered it too bulky for him to carry in his kind of work.

He rechecked everything, then headed for the bathroom where he stood for a long time under a scalding hot shower, trying to ease the bruising from his shoulders. He followed this with a stingingly cold shower, then towelled himself down vigorously.

He was about to climb between the sheets when the secure, direct line from headquarters rang.

‘007?’ It was M’s gravel voice.

‘Sir?’

‘We’re sending a car for you at eight thirty in the morning. Chief of Staff tells me you’re anxious to get going. You feel fit enough?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

‘Good man. Bring anything you might require. We plan to get you off sometime tomorrow evening. I’ll give you all necessary updates in the morning.’

The Old Man had cradled the telephone at his end before Bond even had time to reply. He arranged an alarm call for seven, then turned out the light. He was asleep within five minutes.

Though all exit points from the United Kingdom were being watched by members of the Security Service and the police, nobody paid much attention to the tall girl with long jet black hair who boarded the first British Airways flight, BA 446, out of Gatwick airport to Amsterdam. That is, they did not pay any attention to her in the sense of security. Certainly, on this bitter morning, many a young officer’s blood was stirred, for she wore a pair of jeans designed, it appeared, as a second skin, and a very tight turtleneck sweater. She had a heavy camel-hair coat over one arm and carried only a small flight bag. Her British passport showed that she was Harriet Goode, thirty years of age and a senior executive of a small firm which dealt in precious stones, mainly diamonds, in Hatton Garden. She was polite and even flirted a little with the passport control officer who checked her through on to the air side.

The flight took off shortly after seven thirty, only ten minutes late. Mlle Stephanie Adoré ate the complimentary breakfast with obvious enjoyment – after all, it was the first food she had taken since the meal with Mr Boldman at the Café Royal. As she looked out across the grey desert of cloud, she thought it would be good to get into Amsterdam. For one thing she would be able to rid herself of the wig which was uncomfortable and hot. She would vanish as Harriet Goode, and that would be a relief. She also wondered how Henri Rampart was faring.

He was, in fact, surviving very well. Just as the British Airways Boeing 737 Stretch was starting its approach to Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport, Major Henri Rampart was calling a great deal of attention to himself as he boarded the 310 Airbus that was KLM Flight 118 at Heathrow. It was not the overtly sexual attention which had been afforded to Mlle Adoré at Gatwick, but rather the consideration reserved for the crippled or maimed.

Rampart had transformed himself into an elderly man requiring assistance from the airport authorities in order to board the flight. His height was camouflaged by the fact that he was in a wheelchair and by the more sophisticated magic of present-day disguise, his almost bald head had become a straggle of grey hair. On paper he was Robert Brace, a British citizen resident in Amsterdam who was returning, following a brief business trip to London, during which he had damaged his right leg in a fall. The leg was in plaster and Mr Brace was not in the best of moods. In fact he was downright bad-tempered and the personnel who had taken him down the jetway and on to the aircraft were relieved to see the back of him. They had also made certain that a message would go ahead to Schipol that he required some delicate and diplomatic handling.

It was, perhaps, significant that Mr Brace became charm itself once they were airborne, and nobody would need to be concerned about the arrival at Schipol for he mentioned that his daughter would be meeting him.

‘I wanted a word with you alone, before Mr Natkowitz joins us.’ M sat behind the big glass desk, looking tired and all of his years. He had greeted Bond warmly, enquiring about his health and again reassuring himself that his agent was quite prepared to undertake this mission. ‘The Chief of Staff tells me you want to get it over with, though you did mention to him that you’ve been used in this stalking-horse capacity maybe a little too often of late. Eh?’

Bond said he was merely making an observation to Bill Tanner. ‘I did say something about not being ecstatic about working with KGB.’

M grunted. ‘Well, we have no other option. You read the stuff about General Yuskovich?’

‘All of it, sir. You think he’s going to be involved?’

‘No idea, 007. No idea at all. But I wanted you to see all we had on him, if only to alert you to possibilities. If we know he is the war criminal, Josif Vorontsov’s cousin, then we can take it for granted that he is also aware, and that he’ll fight to keep Vorontsov, or anyone who is fingered as Vorontsov, out of the USSR. If he’s had any influence, he has already succeeded. You seen the papers this morning?’

Bond shook his head.

‘Well, I’ll talk about that when Mr Natkowitz joins us in a few minutes. What I wanted to say to you is that it is our object to settle this matter, one way or another, as quickly as we’re able. The business with Iraq might blow any time. I don’t for a moment believe that Saddam Hussein is going to blink, as they say. The American Secretary of State can make overtures, as can anyone, but I would stake everything on the unpalatable fact that this wretched dictator’s going to require a sharp lesson by force before the politicos can get down to real talking. I have no sides, because my job precludes me from being a political animal. I wouldn’t even want to suggest to you what I think should be done. But I am pretty certain I know what is going to be forced upon the coalition countries in the Middle East, and, when that happens, I’m going to need every experienced field agent I can lay my hands on. Understand?’