John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

Bond shrugged. He was taking his cues directly from her. It was quite possible that she had watched the tapes of the real Guy and Helen, locked away in the other dacha they heard so much about.

‘Remember when you forgot to tell me you’d left for the Hebrides?’

‘It was the Isle of Skye as I recall.’

‘Hebrides, you dolt. “Back in the morning, love,” and I’m sitting there like a lemon for three days.’

‘You knew what the job was like before you moved in. Love me, love my job. Never held out on you. Couldn’t afford to pass up work. Still can’t.’

They kept up a pretence of bickering while demolishing the bacon and eggs; then through the toast and coffee, Nina leading him like a dance partner, making sharp comments about their supposed London lifestyle, even accusing him of being in league with George, the sound tech.

‘I know George was covering for you when you were tripping the light fantastic with that dusky bit in Liverpool. George lied his head off for you. Lied to me – “He’s still working, setting up shots for the morning. Out with the director, Helen.” I know , Guy . . .’

‘There was no dusky maiden in Liverpool.’

‘No? Right. She was no maiden, Guy. But I forgave you, so you’re bloody lucky.’

Finally, she rose, leaned over and ruffled his hair, saying she was going to take a shower.

‘Well clean out your ears. That might help you to hear the truth for a change,’ Bond called out, and a few minutes later she shouted from the bathroom, asking if he’d like to scrub her back.

Naked, in the shower, they soaped each other’s bodies, standing very close. This was, possibly, the only place they could have some clandestine conversation as long as they both kept their heads turned towards the steaming tiles so that watchers could not lip read. Certainly sophisticated equipment could filter out running water which, in the old days, was a perfect foil for audio bugs, but if they whispered, there was a good chance that tiny amounts of information could be passed between them.

‘Any ideas?’ His lips brushed her ear and she shook her head, camouflaging the action as she washed away soap.

‘I don’t know where we are, but it can’t be good. The whole thing stinks.’ She had her chin resting on his shoulder, standing on tiptoe to accomplish it.

‘Really stinks?’

‘The entire operation. Bory never levelled with you. He certainly didn’t tell me everything, and my intuition says we’ve been measured for our coffins. I thought that from the moment they brought you in.’

They were able to talk like this by shielding their mouths, moving themselves so that it simply looked like lovers sharing a shower, allowing lips and ears to connect, then shift away. A couple of sentences and they would change position, soaping, turning their bodies to get the spray of the shower on one part or another. It was like a carefully choreographed, complex and strange surreal ballet.

‘You ever sit in on the interrogations?’ he asked.

‘Which ones?’

‘The real Guy and Helen – George.’

‘I didn’t even see them.’

‘Then we don’t know if they exist.’

‘I only know some of the things Lyko and Bory told me. I’ve been trying to feed you some of the audio. They let me listen to one tape.’

‘Like going to Saudi at a moment’s notice?’

‘That was on it. Bory said they argued about his work all the time. She was almost hysterically jealous. Didn’t trust him out of her sight. With good reason probably. That’s why she insisted on coming on this trip. That’s what he said. What Bory said.’

‘You offered to do the job – this job?’

‘More or less.’

‘How much more and how little less?’

‘It was a direct order, but there is another reason.’

‘What?’

She ran her face under the spray, then shook her head, allowing it to touch his cheek. ‘I want to be with my parents.’

So, he thought. Everything began to fit into place. It was as though fragments of a jigsaw, hidden away secretly in his head for years, had suddenly come together and formed at least part of a cohesive picture.

He stepped from the shower, towelled himself down, then went through to get his shaving gear from the backpack. Before leaving the dacha he had taken the usual precautions. Just before closing up the top of the pack he had lined up the rear pocket of a pair of thick jeans with a crease he had made, tacking the material lightly with cotton. There were also two thin threads, laid across one another, over the clothing.

The searchers had been careful. The threads were back almost exactly as he had laid them, but the pocket and the crease were a long way apart, and it could not have happened by accident as they were hefting the packs around.

He went to the louvred doors of a built-in closet and found his parka neatly put away on a plastic hanger. It looked as though the transmitter and notebook computer had not been detected. They were skilfully hidden. Unless you knew exactly where to get into the parka’s hood and lining, they were protected by the heavy windproofing of the garment. Nobody appeared to have played with the micro-transmitting button either. But he must assume someone had done so. At least he was not carrying a weapon. Stepakov was adamant that no weapons should be taken. Reluctantly he had left the ASP back at the dacha.

He heard the hairdryer come on in the bathroom. Certainly the Hôtel de la Justice complex was equipped with every convenience. Why, he wondered, as he pulled his toilet gear from the backpack, had they left the wood unfinished? Not enough time? Had the place been purpose-built, and the schedule had proved either too tight or was changed suddenly because of events? The questions would remain until they saw more of the building.

He paused by the window on his way back to the bathroom. Outside it was murky and dawnlike which meant they were far north, for it was almost nine fifteen. The room looked down into a kind of courtyard which had four trees set symmetrically, as though landscaped. All was covered in snow, and icicles dangled from the trees. They were some five storeys up, and the other three walls surrounding the courtyard, or garden, appeared identical. There were rows of tall arched windows like this one, sets of rooms and suites rising up to seven levels. The entire structure appeared to be wooden, carefully built on a great framework of thick beams. He could see, even in this light, that some of the beams were intricately carved. The entire exterior reminded him of something, though he could not reach over the horizon of his mind to grasp what it was. There was a familiarity about the building which he found disturbing.

Only at ground level did things change. Down there the windows were high and close, as if a wooden cloister had been preserved by glazing. There were tall arches joined along their vertexes by long carved struts. He could see lights behind these windows and caught sight of a group of people walking along a corridor – about ten men and women, carrying clipboards and talking to one another. Very normal, relaxed and civilised.

Nina was coming out of the bathroom, her hair in a towelling turban, as he went in. She stopped for a moment and put her face up to be kissed, then her arms went around him and she whispered, ‘We’re a very loving couple, I’m told.’

Twenty minutes later Bond emerged from the bathroom still wearing the robe, his face stinging from aftershave.

Nina sat at the dressing table, wearing only a clean change of underwear. She fiddled with her hair, oblivious that he watched her from the door. She was not a true beauty, he thought, but her face had incredible mobility. A lover would have to spend much time with her before he could accurately detect the sea-changes of her moods.