John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

‘Nina!’ Stepakov’s voice cracked, like a sheriff in a Western, firing his old Buntline Special to gain attention.

Bond saw the dark girl who had boiled his eggs, flick at her skirt. There was a flash of exquisitely long leg and lace as the pistol appeared in her hand, jackdawed from a thigh holster. She moved with extraordinary grace and speed as though levitating across the room, the gun never wavering, held close to her left hip. She was beside Stephanie and the GIGN major, covering them.

It was impressive, Bond thought. All four of them had been neutralised almost in the time it took to snap a finger. The exits were covered and Stepakov appeared calm while still continuing the pressure on Bond’s wrist.

‘I feared something like this. The British and French were not my ideal partners, but it had to be, so I’m going to ask you to relax. I also want you to make your peace.’

‘The major, over there, tried to fly-swat me in London the night before last. Damned nearly did as well.’ Bond’s voice was level, with no hint of anger.

Stepakov grunted. ‘I thought fly-swatting went out in Berlin. Late sixties. KGB used it a lot until the bills came in. It was too expensive on cars.’

‘This was a very old car.’ It was the first time Henri Rampart had spoken. The English was good, and though the muscles on his face remained set, nobody could miss the undertow of humour.

‘Mlle Adoré also had me on a piece of string.’ Bond shook himself free of Stepakov’s hand, which, in effect, meant that the Russian had released him. ‘She lied and had us waltzing around London looking like idiots.’

There was a strained pause in which the invisible daggers passing between the injured parties like missiles could almost be heard.

‘This is the London incident about which you told me?’ The Russian glared at Stephanie.

She nodded.

‘Nobody said anything about attempts to kill or maim.’

Natkowitz had been allowed to straighten up. ‘Bet they didn’t tell you about the shooting either. We had a drama they’ll be talking about over little lunches in smart Kensington for the rest of the year.’

Stepakov growled, then nodded towards Rampart. ‘You wish to explain to Mr Betteridge and Mr Newman.’

Stephanie gave her tinkling laugh. ‘Is that what they’re calling themselves? In London your Mr Betteridge passed himself off as Mr Boldman, and he is, in fact, Captain James Bond.’

‘You think I don’t know this?’ Stepakov raised his eyebrows. ‘Just explain. Our arrangement didn’t call for hostilities in London.’

Henri Rampart took a step forward, looking from Bond to Natkowitz. ‘My sincere apologies to both of you. Captain Bond, I had no desire to kill you. I just wanted to rough you up a little . . .’

‘In a brick and metal sandwich?’

‘Maybe I’d have broken a few of your ribs. Things got difficult when your friend started shooting. At that moment I thought you were a junior member of the British Security Service. If I’d known . . .’ his voice trailed away like smoke on the wind.

‘Tell us about it.’ Bond stood his ground. ‘You mean if you had known you had the Secret Intelligence Service or the SAS on your back you’d have been more gentle?’

‘I think,’ Stepakov’s voice had completely lost its boom, retaining the crack of a whip or pistol shot quality. ‘I think we should let all this drop for the present. It’s sensitive and we’ll have time to put this incident into perspective in an hour or so. Time is precious. So, let us eat breakfast, then go into details. You all know it is against my natural training to be doing this here, in a moderately secure dacha, so I am also on edge. Now, eat.’

‘At least you should tell us why the French are here,’ said Bond. ‘This is something quite unexpected, something never mentioned. The Secret Intelligence Service has sent us to assist. We have the right to know why the DGSE and GIGS are involved.’

Stepakov sighed. ‘Captain Bond, all in good time. You will be told everything at our special briefing. Enough.’

End of story for now. Bond realised that, while his first view of the Russian in the semi-darkness of the car at the military airport had been of a powerful man, his guard had dropped during the journey to the dacha. Now he saw clearly that Stepakov was indeed a very tough, uncompromising man, his physical attributes complementing a very high IQ – a person used to giving orders and one who was normally obeyed.

‘A man of awesome knowledge,’ Bill Tanner had said. Bond believed it as the Russian gave him a wide smile as though embracing him.

He went back to his eggs which were all but spoiled, and the look on his face must have betrayed him, for the dark girl Stepakov had called Nina came over and asked if she could do him two more. ‘You are fussy about the way your eggs are cooked, I think.’ She smiled at him, looking him in the eyes as though testing him.

He nodded and thanked her. She gave him another hard look, as though trying to see which one of them would blink first, then turned away. She wore a crisp blue dress not unlike a nurse’s uniform and he realised that his eyes hardly left her as she walked back to the big table. He could sense the way in which her body moved inside the material which crackled as she walked, and his mind filled with that tiny glimpse of the long, stockinged leg and the hint of lace as she had drawn her pistol.

He picked up his coffee cup and saw Stepakov’s eyes on him, smiling as though they shared a secret.

‘Nina Bibikova,’ he said, low and almost confidentially. ‘A handful, I tell you, but one of my best. She worked in the Washington Embassy for two years and the Americans never made her. Secretarial cover, and I know for certain they didn’t even keep a dossier on her. Both your Service and the Americans have the idea that our only employment for a woman is as lastochka , for honey traps.’ He used the Russian word for ‘swallow’, KGB slang for the prostitutes or skilled seductresses they used for entrapment, an old speciality of their service.

‘But, you see, they’re wrong. Nina is very special.’

‘Yes.’ In the back of his head Bond saw the girl’s large black eyes, the small crescent scar to the left of her mouth, the high cheekbones and now, her long slim fingers as she placed a plate with two freshly boiled eggs in front of him.

Again their eyes met, and he felt a distinct frisson of challenge. Unsummoned, his mind screened a clear picture of Nina’s face above his, her lips descending on to his mouth. For a moment, he was filled with an almost tangible sense of yielding flesh.

‘Thank you, Nina.’ He wondered if his look betrayed the lust that had stirred at the winking centre of his manhood.

Her lips parted in an expression of acknowledgement and, though she did not speak, the quick sliding of her tongue over her lips and the signal in her eye came directly from that all too human lexicon Bond already knew by heart.

There was very little conversation over the rest of breakfast. Stephanie Adoré tried to make it clear to everyone that she had enjoyed an evening at the Café Royal with Bond, hinting that this had been more than just a simple meal. Natkowitz made two remarks about the Scales of Justice , framing them as questions directed towards Stepakov who simply parried them and again made it clear that he would not be drawn. Henri Rampart ate three rolls, dry, with not even butter or a film of jam. When the Russian expressed surprise, he simply said that the doctor at his unit outside Paris maintained people should eat more dry bread. ‘It is better for you than all the high-fibre diets the Americans hurl at you.’ He lit a Gauloise, drawing hard on it, and continued to talk. ‘The Americans are obsessed with diets, health, cholesterol and smoking. This is so crazy. At one time you had the simple choice, you smoked or you did not smoke. Now you cannot smoke for fear of people getting secondary inhalation. If this were so serious they should look to newsprint and books. Printers’ ink is dangerously full of the same carbons they fear from cigarettes. So what do you do? Burn the books? Ban newspapers? Wear respirators in the streets to ward off all those fumes from the internal combustion engine? I guarantee that two hours reading a book will do as much harm as walking through a cloud of secondary smoke.’ He spoke like a fanatic, and with some anger. Nobody commented. This was a well-worn monologue, the diatribe of one who wanted to defend the indefensible.