John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

‘At seven o’clock this morning, Anatoli Lazin, an Air Force colonel currently on the advisory staff to the President, came out of his office within the Kremlin. He always took a walk when the weather was clear. This morning he went into the Cathedrals Square. He was standing by the Queen of Bells, when someone shot him. Just once. Through the back of the head with a small calibre pistol. They have not captured the assassin. Colonel Lazin was a fine officer.’

‘Loyal to the ideology of perestroika ?’ Bond asked, and Stepakov nodded. ‘Of course. Very loyal. Believed absolutely that an open market, free trade, the new aims were the only way to go.’

‘What of the KGB man who got himself killed yesterday?’

‘Colonel General Mechaev?’

‘Him, yes. What about his loyalty?’

‘In line with the President. Why?’

‘It makes sense if Chushi Pravosudia is really carrying out the assassinations, they’re not likely to take out hardliners. It’s about the only thing that does add up.’

Stepakov gave a little sideways nod. ‘It’s Chushi Pravosudia. No doubt of it. They’ve issued another communiqué, claiming responsibility. I should read it.’ It was not a question. Everyone waited for Stepakov to compose himself. Finally he read, in a flat, unemotional voice:

‘Communiqué Number 3: The governing body of the USSR remains adamantly stubborn. There has been no hint or sign that they intend to carry out our wishes and relieve us of the burden by taking the criminal Josif Vorontsov into custody and giving him a fair and open trial to show the world exactly how Russian people treat racial murderers. In our last communiqué we said we would place video recordings into the hands of the authorities proving our point beyond doubt. After much thought we have decided to take more drastic measures. We are now poised to carry out a trial under the current criminal laws of the USSR. This trial of the prisoner Vorontsov will be recorded on videotape and copied to every existing world television network. The trial will begin first thing tomorrow morning: January 5th, 1990. We still urge the authorities to accept our demands. Meanwhile, we will ensure our outrage is felt at the highest level. This morning, a member of this organisation executed Colonel Anatoli Lazin of the Red Air Force, a senior adviser to the President. This execution was carried out within the Kremlin walls to show that our reach is long and deadly. A member of the governing body or of the armed forces or the Secret Organs will die each day until the authorities remove the responsibility of Vorontsov from our shoulders. Long Live Truth: Long Live the Revolution of 1991.’

There was really no reason for Stepakov to add the signature Chushi Pravosudia.

‘And the Kremlin?’ Natkowitz asked.

‘Have replied.’ Stepakov hung his head, once more the sad clown. ‘They have refused. On the same grounds as before. That the man held by Chushi Pravosudia is not the real Vorontsov. It seems as though we will soon be required to produce the man you brought from Florida, Stephanie. It is also clear why they require a British camera crew.’

‘That’s rubbish,’ Bond said angrily. ‘If they have Penderek holed up somewhere, and are going to proceed with some farcical trial, they could use anyone. If all you’ve told us is true, it doesn’t matter a damn what nationality the camera crew is.’

‘Obviously it matters to them.’ Stepakov focused his baleful eyes on Bond. ‘Just as it’s clear they are determined to use you. Just as we are going to use you. I think we should now get our operational logistics together. We will all have to be very precise about what we do.’

They spent the rest of the day going through the nuts and bolts of the operation – telephone codes, hand signals, names and times to make contact should they get the opportunity. There were numerous telephone codes, seemingly innocent sentences and responses – all the safeguards and, sometimes ludicrous, tradecraft which, if used automatically and without thought, could turn individual intelligence agencies into microcosms of villages, where gossips tweak at lace curtains and watch with glee while lovers and petty villains go through sly charades, obvious for all to see. Tradecraft for the sake of tradecraft, an experienced instructor had told Bond years before, eventually becomes a nervous tic.

All the time, Stepakov maintained his people would have them covered. ‘However fast Chushi Pravosudia move with you, we will be there,’ he said. ‘I have all my people back in Moscow and within a hundred miles of the city now, at this very moment. There is nobody left abroad. Even the surveillance crew used to watch Vladi in London is back here. We will not lose you, and you will take us right into the heart of Chushi Pravosudia .’

During the late afternoon, while they were getting their various items of gear together, Bond, dressed in his outdoor cold-weather clothes, excused himself and made for the nearest bathroom.

He checked the place as well as possible, screening himself from any mirrors, examining walls and ceiling for any hint of the pinhole lens of a fibre optic camera. When he was satisfied, he unzipped the inner lining of his parka, found the hidden studs and opened the lining which contained a miniature shortwave transmitter, complete with a tiny tape recorder, all held in place by strong velcro straps. From the lining of the parka’s hood he removed a notebook-size computer, no larger than a deck of cards, and half the thickness of a packet of cigarettes. There was no form of disk drive in the notebook computer. All the programs were stored on tiny chips. There was, however, a space at the back which accommodated a minute tape recorder.

Sliding the minicassette into place, he switched on the battery-powered notebook, then carefully typed in a message, using his fingernails to hit the keys accurately. The tape slowly moved, copying his input. When he completed the message, he rewound the tape, returned the notebook computer to its hiding place and put the tape back into the transmitter, which he set to the required frequency before that was also slipped back into the parka’s lining.

He made a last check, to be sure his finger could reach the concealed transmitter. Then he went back to join the others.

They left at around four thirty, and it was only when they reached the suburbs of Moscow that Bond slid his hand into the parka. He pressed the transmit button as they passed through Vosstanya Square with the barbarous twenty-four-storey building, the Gastronome grocery store, lit but empty, with little on its shelves, the cinema with a dejected line of people waiting for the next performance. The Vosstanya, he remembered, had been one of the great sites for barricades during the Revolution. He wondered how the old comrades of 1905 and 1917 viewed this tawdry, ugly place now.

He was certain the range would be right as the sudden two-second squirt-transmission leaped silently and invisibly into the air, guided straight to the heart of the British Embassy. He wondered what good it would do, and whether anyone really cared.

‘We’re half-an-hour early, what shall I do?’ Lyko asked, sudden panic in his voice as they came up to the Dom Knigi, Moscow’s famous bookshop.

‘Keep on driving, Vladi,’ Nina snapped. She could have been talking to an unresponsive horse.

‘Someone’ll pick us up, if we just drive around aimlessly. I’ll let you out.’

‘Drive!’ she all but shouted. ‘But don’t drive aimlessly. Do what you’ve been taught. Do a couple of blocks to the left, then go west again another two blocks. God, Vladi, hasn’t Bory taught you anything?’

The professor hunched over the wheel and did not speak again until, at just before seven thirty, they drew up in front of the shop.