John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

‘As you probably know,’ she was swallowing Bond with her eyes, ‘my father and mother were both killed in a car wreck in January 1989. I was just getting over the shock when Bory came to me. He came, as he always does, at night and very well guarded. Bory can get around the city and the country like a ghost. He wanted me for his department, but he wanted me in absolute secrecy. So, I died.’

Bond did not blink. ‘In a riding accident, I believe. I recall one of our more sensational tabloids carried an exclusive. The tragedy of Michael Brooks’ family. A curse on your house. Something like that. You’ve ceased to exist, then? Though I suppose, as far as KGB’s concerned, you’re really the daughter of the regiment.’

She gave him another smile, and he saw a gold light reflected off the taut, silky skin running from jaw to ear. ‘Something like that,’ she said, and sat down, flicking her blue skirt with the back of her left hand, as though to brush away stray crumbs. Bond recalled, from somewhere, that Brooks had been left-handed. Strange how trivia lodged itself persistently in the mind.

Stepakov still did not smile. ‘She was riding. Horseback. In the woods west of Moscow. The weather had been bitter. Earth like bricks. Treacherous. The horse bolted. Threw her. The body was missing for three days. Two foresters found her. She was frozen stiff as a board. It was in the papers, this terrible tragedy. Could have happened to anyone. Just bad luck it was her. As you say, James, the tragedy of the Bibikovs.’

‘Okay, Bory, so you’ve made your point.’ Bond was polite, but firm, casting the Michael Brooks legend to one side. ‘But there’re other things I’d like to know. Things about our comrades in arms. Our French friends. They claim to have snatched Josif Vorontsov. What did they do with him, and why are they still among us?’

Stepakov gave a small burp of laughter. ‘Don’t the British say the French are always with us, like the poor?’

‘Hadn’t heard it that way.’

‘Well, they are here, and they’re going to stay here until it’s over. In a way they’re a little bit of collateral, James. They’ve given us the real Vorontsov. Believe me, we have him, safe and secure. Mlle Adoré and Major Rampart are our guests, just as they are part of this operation, in case we need them again.’

As he spoke, Bond was conscious of a tiny electronic noise like a whining in the ears.

Stepakov nodded to Nicki who slid back the inner door and let himself out.

‘The little noise. The singing in the ears.’ Stepakov started to laugh as though to himself. ‘It is our alarm signal down here. We have no telephone, so there is this small sound to alert us in case there’s news or a message.’ The laugh welled up. ‘There’s an old joke we make about it. We say it is dogs blowing people whistles.’

Bond moved the questions in close again, fast before Stepakov could sidetrack them. He wanted to know many things from Vladimir Lyko. Did the professor have any idea if any other recruiters were working for Chushi Pravosudia in England? The professor was obviously impressed with their techniques – the concealment, communications network, the tradecraft. Could he point to any weak link in his dealings with them? Why did he have the impression that Operation Daniel was not a contract piece of terrorism? Why did he think they required the types of people he had told them about – trained electronic battlefield technicians, doctors, nurses? Why actors? Could he give any hint? Why, at this moment, did they need a couple of freelance British cameramen?

Lyko answered as best he could, but threw no new light on things. When Bond came to the last question the door opened again and Nicki returned carrying sheets of paper. ‘I think this might give you a hint, Captain Bond.’

Nicki did not even look in Bond’s direction but walked fast, full of self-importance with his street fighter’s swagger to where Stepakov sat and handed his chief the papers with a flourish.

Everyone waited, for Stepakov’s whole body seemed to shut down as he read. There was a silence so dense and concentrated you could hear the breathing of various people. You could almost identify individuals by the different rhythms.

Stepakov looked up, then stood, his right hand flicking the papers so that they made a distinct crack. ‘I must go and make some calls.’ He began to move. ‘ Chushi Pravosudia have done it again. They’ve killed and issued another statement.’

He was out of the room before anyone could ask further questions.

There was an uncomfortable shuffling, broken at last by Natkowitz who asked, ‘Stephanie, am I reading Bory correctly? You’re staying here by choice? He made it sound like the Iraqis holding foreigners as human shields. Which is it? You never did tell us why you came back into this country via London.’

Henri Rampart gave a mirthless bark. ‘Let me.’ He touched Stephanie’s shoulder, but she shrank away from him.

‘No, I’ll tell him.’ She leaned forward as though trying to make some intimate contact with Bond. ‘James, chéri , you don’t think we’re that foolish, do you? My darling man, we knew what we were doing. Bory asked the Piscine direct.’ (They always called the DGSE headquarters La Piscine because of its proximity to the municipal swimming-pool on Boulevard Mortier. It was a vaguely pejorative term.)

Mlle Adoré talked on, her accent full of sparkle. Each word seemed jolly, even touched with sarcasm. When a Frenchwoman speaks good English, Bond thought, it takes on a new tune. It is either a merry jig or a dirge. Stephanie made it all sound terribly amusing, in the old Noël Coward sense. ‘La Piscine okayed it,’ she shrugged, ‘though you’d probably have some difficulty finding it in legible writing. It was not the easiest operation, but we did it or, to be correct, Henri’s people did it. Snatched the man from his doorstep. Waved magic wands and brought him out on a flying carpet. Turned him over to Bory’s people. But I’ve told you this already.’

‘Stephanie,’ Bond stayed cool and very correct. ‘I’ve only met you once, in London a couple of days ago. I’ve read your file. I know we’re in the same business, but we’re not bosom friends.’ He realised that, for some reason, he was distancing himself from her for Nina’s benefit. ‘Come on, Stephanie, what were you doing in London?’

She scowled, slightly taken aback, for she never imagined that James Bond, whose reputation was that of a gentleman, would speak to her like this. ‘What can you mean?’

‘We met once ,’ he repeated, ‘in London. And on that same night, after we had dined innocently at the Café Royal, you had a clandestine tryst with Oleg Ivanovich Krysim, known also as Oleg the Fixer, third Moscow Centre bandit in London. If it was all straightforward, why bother London?’

Her eyes cut towards Rampart, who twisted his mouth and said, ‘Tell him. Bory would tell him.’

Stephanie Adoré gave a nod, curt as a death sentence. ‘Simple. The Soviet Embassy in Paris . . .’ she trailed off as though still trying to make up her mind about revealing anything.

‘The embassy in Paris is leaky,’ Rampart supplied. ‘Bory would not go through them. Not at any point. Initially he came over himself to set things up in Paris. After that, our only contact was through Krysim, in London. He’s Bory’s man. We had a crash call from him, because of the Nina/Vorontsov business. So we came into London . . . You know the rest.’

‘I suppose we do,’ Bond said grudgingly, and at that moment Stepakov returned.

He went straight back to his chair again, mounting it like a horseman. A sad clown now, with the blond hair hanging over his forehead. ‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’ His voice was quiet and Bond could have sworn that the dark patches around his eyes took on the shape of the elongated stars used by so many clowns in their individual make-up. But it was only the way the light hit his face.