John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

‘It was the last time I looked, sir.’

‘Good. There’s a possibility that you might have to go in and take a peep with the Israeli. Could be interesting, working for Moscow Centre after all these years of labouring in an opposing vineyard, so to speak.’

‘Distillery, rather than vineyard, I would have thought.’ Bond gave a quick smile, but saw that M was not amused. ‘Can you expand on the Israeli theory?’ He realised that he was asking questions just for the hell of it. The idea of being sent on attachment, as it were, to the KGB, together with a Mossad agent, was quite alien to Bond.

‘Not really. Only what’s in the file.’ M was scraping out his pipe with a metal reamer which seemed to have more tools attached to it than a Swiss Army knife. ‘They’re convinced, as you know. If they’re telling the truth, the Israelis have had Vorontsov under surveillance for the best part of three years, and he’s holed up in Florida. Again, if this is so, then these Scales of Justice people’ve picked the wrong man. The question is did they snaffle the wrong horse on purpose?’

‘Why would they do that, sir?’

M frowned and raised his hands in an untypically Gallic shrug. ‘How the hell would I know? Don’t have a crystal ball, don’t read the runes, don’t sort through the entrails, don’t dabble in ESP. Know as much as you do. Possibly the Mossad Johnny can tell us, but my gut feeling is that the people who really know are stewing in Moscow Centre. You’ll probably be able to get it out of them if you have a mind to. After all, they appear to know something about the Scales of Justice , which is more than we do.’

‘And our man from Mossad?’

‘Peter. Likes to be called Pete. Pete Natkowitz. Incidentally, don’t you think it’s a shade strange that KGB hasn’t brought the Yanks in? After all, this suspect, Penderek, was lifted right out of their bailiwick.’

‘Perhaps Moscow Centre prefer to play with us . . .’

‘Us and the Israelis. Strange bedfellows, what? Would’ve thought the US of A would’ve been called upon at some level.’

‘You can never be sure with KGB, sir. Never could. What about the Mossad man, Natkowitz? When do I get to see him?’

M was now reloading his pipe, lost in some obscure ritual. ‘Natkowitz? Any time you like. He’s been here for the past twenty-four hours. Chief of Staff’s been lookin’ after him. Babysitting him, as they used to say. Actually he’s had him down on the Helford estuary showing him how we operate in shallow waters.’ The Service still retained a small facility on the Helford estuary where trainees went through the rigours of scuba diving, clandestine water landings and all things connected with that kind of work. They had been there since the dark days of World War II and nobody had thought to close the place down.

‘Getting his feet wet?’

‘Who, Tanner?’

‘No, the Israeli. Tanner already has webbed feet. We did the course together more years ago than I like to recall.’

M nodded. ‘Yes, I think Chief of Staff said something about giving Mr Natkowitz the odd mouthful of seawater. Let’s see if they’re back.’ He began to operate the sci-fi telephone console as though he had read and understood the copious manual that obviously came with it. Leisurely M pressed a button, then spoke as though into an answering machine. ‘Chief of Staff,’ he said.

From the built-in speaker there came the ringing of an internal phone followed by a click and Bill Tanner’s voice saying a calm ‘Chief of Staff.’

M gave one of his rare smiles, ‘Tanner. M. Would you care to bring our friend up?’

‘Aye-aye, sir.’ Tanner was always inclined to use naval expressions around M. He had even been heard to refer to the Chief’s office as ‘the day cabin’, and the shrewd old Admiral was, as often as not, amused by what he considered to be Tanner’s peculiarities.

M continued to look at the phone. ‘Don’t like gadgets as a rule, but this is damned clever. You just say the name of the fella you want to talk with and the machine works it all out, dials the number and all that sort of thing. Clever as a performing monkey, eh?’

A few minutes later, Tanner himself stood in the doorway, ushering in a short, stocky man with sandy hair and bright eyes who, for some reason, reminded Bond of Rat in The Wind in the Willows .

‘Pete Natkowitz. James Bond.’ Tanner flapped a hand as he effected the introduction. Bond stuck his own hand out and received an unexpectedly firm shake that all but made him wince. There was nothing ratlike about Natkowitz close to. Just as there was nothing distinctly Israeli about the man’s demeanour or characteristics. His complexion was that of a ruddy gentleman farmer, as were his clothes – cavalry twill slacks, soft, small-checked shirt with a frayed tie which looked regimental and a Harris tweed jacket complete with double vents and a flapped side pocket. He would have passed for the genuine article in an English country pub, and Bond thought to himself that there is nothing so deceptive as cover which matches a man’s natural physical characteristics.

‘So, the famous Captain Bond. I’ve read a lot about you.’ His voice was soft with undertones of the drawl one associates with the British stockbroker belt – the kind of accent that is stuck halfway between East London and Oxbridge, a shade shy of the slur which pronounces ‘house’ as ‘hice’. The smile was warm, almost 100 degrees in the shade, with teeth as white as fake Christmas snow. After all the physical come-on, he added, ‘Mainly in top secret documents I admit, but it’s all been good. Delighted to meet you.’

Bond controlled the urge to play games and say something about access to the Mossad’s files already. Instead he merely smiled and asked if Natkowitz had enjoyed Helford.

‘Oh, there’s absolutely nothing like messing about in boats.’ Natkowitz gave Bill Tanner a sideways glance and Bond went straight for the million-dollar prize. ‘So, they want us to work for the Russians, I gather, Mr Natkowitz.’

‘Pete,’ he said, his face lighting up like Guy Fawkes night, or the Fourth of July, depending on which side of the Atlantic you are standing. ‘Everyone calls me Pete; and, yes. Yes, I’m told we’re going into the old badlands. That should be interesting.’

Bill Tanner coughed and gave M a quick look which said, ‘Have you told them the bad news yet?’

M made one of his harrumphing noises which were often the advent of unpleasant tidings. ‘Mr Natkowitz,’ he began, ‘I have no control over your decisions, but, for the sake of James, I must advise you both of the dangers, and your rights, in the matter we now call Fallen Timbers .’

The pause was long enough for Bond to register the fact that his old Chief had used his first name, always a prelude to fatherly advice, and usually a signal for him to beware of dragons.

‘James,’ M continued, looking down at his desk, ‘I have to say that this operation must be undertaken on a voluntary basis. You can step down and walk away at any point before we begin and nobody’ll think any the worse of you. Just hear me out on a couple of points, then give me your decision.’ He looked up, clamping his eyes directly on Bond. ‘It is our opinion that what we are going to ask of the pair of you could be damned dangerous. Also, Moscow is in an unconscionable hurry. Too quick off the mark if you ask me. But then, everyone has a right to be jittery. They’ve got the Baltic States. America and ourselves have the Iraqis – as indeed do you, Mr Natkowitz.’

Bond opened his mouth, frowning and puzzled, but M held up a hand. ‘Hear me out first.’ He made a grim little movement of the lips, half smile and half grimace. ‘We’ll tell you what we know, and Mr Natkowitz, here, will tell you what he knows. It’s not a lot, and it leaves huge blank spaces. Dead ground, as it were.’ Another pause, during which the only sound came from outside the building. An aircraft on approach to Heathrow. Bond’s mind suddenly filled, unbidden, with pictures of disaster, wrecks and bodies overlapped and floated vividly in his head. These near nightmarish images were so clear that he had to make an effort to pull his mind back to what M was saying.