John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

As Bond sidled out close to the wall, Yuskovich raised his head, his eyes scanning the crowd. Bond dropped to his knees, his pistol ready as the self-styled marshal repeated, ‘Where are the French and the British? I have guards on the French, but the two British spies should be . . .’ His eyes remained on the crowd and he did not raise them to look beyond.

Bond moved slowly to his right, edging along the wall. He could reach the front of the hotel through the main lobby, and he would kill if he had to. Kill or be killed, it did not seem to matter a great deal any more.

He heard somebody reply, telling the marshal that one of the British crew was there, on the sound stage. He began to move faster, sliding along the wall, keeping his body low. Another few feet and he would be out of Yuskovich’s sight.

As he reached comparative safety, he heard the chatter of the Spetsnaz R-350 radio, then another voice, unheard before, cut in. ‘Comrade General Berzin, sir. Message in from the President. He insists we report if this facility has been secured. He also orders that we provide information on two British agents he knows are here.’

Yuskovich swore loudly, then rasped out, overriding Berzin, ‘Report the facility secured and members of Chushi Pravosudia under armed arrest. As for the British, how in hell did he know they were here? Tell him we regret they were killed in an exchange of fire. Wait. Say they died bravely.’

M had been away for hours. When he returned, he looked grey and drawn. Bill Tanner, who was summoned to his office within minutes of his reappearance, had never seen the Old Man with such a pallor. It was as though he had suddenly aged a decade; his skin was drawn tightly against the facial bones, his hair seemed more grizzled and the look in his eyes was vacant, as if he had been injected with some drug which removed all life from his brain, leaving only a half-functional body.

M sat slumped behind the big glass-topped desk. When he spoke, Tanner was reminded of biblical stories of men rending their garments, pouring ashes on their heads and mourning for lost sons or daughters. His voice had an unearthly, terrible quality to it. The words seemed to be covered with gum, sticking in his larynx, almost refusing to come out.

Tanner felt the shock wave hit him as M slowly recounted his news. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, then repeated, ‘I don’t believe it. Are you sure, sir?’

‘I was there. Presumably it has to be confirmed, but the news from the Kremlin seemed definite enough. It’s the kind of thing you get in wartime. You know that. Worse when there’s not even a cold war. I’ve been through enough wars to know it’s wrong to harbour hopes. He’s dead, Bill. That’s what the Spetsnaz general on the spot says. Anything to the contrary would be a bonus, though I expect nothing.’

M told him the Prime Minister was just as shocked by the news. He had read the transcripts taken to Number Ten by M. Then, as expected, he called the President of the Soviet Union, only to be told that he already had knowledge of the Chushi Pravosudia ’s hiding place in the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre near the Finnish border. Troops would be on their way this night, and he would personally be in touch with the Prime Minister as soon as he had news.

‘I started to get a bad feeling about it, Bill.’ M stared at the glass top of his desk as though trying to summon up some vision which might mollify the news. ‘Couldn’t come back here. Phoned the duty officer. Said where I was if needed . . .’

‘Not like you, sir.’ Tanner knew that M had been toughened in the hardest school life offered. His byword was, ‘Life goes on. Work must continue.’

The Old Man sighed. ‘No, Bill – no, Chief of Staff. Not like me, but today’s not been an ordinary day. The PM was very good. Came back to Number Ten specially. Took the President’s call. Told me straight away.’ He gave another sigh and moved his shoulders like an aged dog shaking off rain. ‘At least they got the bastards. They’ll sweat ’em all right. It’ll be interesting to hear what their real objective was. I’ve never been happy with this business about compromising the Kremlin with this stupid trial.’

He was silent, staring again, then he looked up, his grey eyes still vacant as though he could not comprehend the full import of the news. ‘Better get Moneypenny in. It’s only right that I tell her, she was damned fond of James.’

‘Sir, if you like, I’ll . . .’

‘No. It’s my job. I’ll tell her James Bond is dead. You get in touch with the teams we’ve got monitoring along the Baltic and the ones on the Finnish border. I’m sure they can now be put to a better use.’ He clamped his mouth shut and Tanner stood for a second as though unable to leave. ‘Get out, Chief of Staff. Get out and send Moneypenny in. Damn it, she’s been my PA for more years than either of us likes to remember. I’ll tell her that 007’s gone.’

They had discovered James Bond’s body, flat on his back, quite close to the wooden wall at the west of the building. There were three bullet holes in his chest and the face had been taken away by another burst of fire. But the clothes he was wearing were undoubtedly his – the khaki parka, thick jeans, denim jacket with leather patches and the rollneck. All were now soaked in blood from the ugly wounds which had torn his flesh and bone to pieces.

The search had gone on for over an hour. They had the two French agents and the man who posed as George. Yuskovich had stamped around on the sound stage. Initially, when they realised the British spy was missing, he had even gone outside with General Berzin to watch the men’s search for Bond, but as time passed he became more edgy, his nerves fraying. ‘We’ll have to get on. I want Vorontsov’s confession in the can and this whole project wrapped up tonight,’ he shouted at Clive.

‘Well, if it’s really that urgent, I’ll operate the camera myself. I mean it’s not my job, and the unions would play hell in England . . .’

‘You are not in England now,’ Yuskovich barked. ‘Unions are for organising, not for disrupting essential Communist Party work. You handle the camera. Then get on with the editing. I want copies of this ready for global release sometime tomorrow.’

Clive gave an irritable shrug, muttering, ‘All right, you great butch soldier, but I for one am going to have a nervous breakdown when this is over.’

Yuskovich strolled over to where Joel Penderek, posing as the infamous Josif Vorontsov, was sitting in the dock. ‘Well, Joeli,’ he gave the man a sideways look, ‘how have you enjoyed your trip back to Mother Russia?’

‘It’s been interesting. I’d given up all hope of ever being used.’

‘Yes.’ The marshal gave a curt nod. ‘Sleepers like you and Anna usually go past a point in their lives where they expect to be of value. I’m sorry your Anna is not here to see you perform this essential service to your country and the Party.’

‘She would’ve been pleased.’ The old man gave him a melancholy look. ‘What of your cousin? Your real cousin, Vorontsov?’

‘You have to ask?’

‘Not really. I presume he’s dead.’

‘Bory Stepakov really did have him tucked away in the other dacha. The French agents were very good. If we hadn’t been watching carefully, I doubt if even our people would have spotted them. Stepakov will be a great loss. We could have used him, you know.’

‘You’re confirming his death? Vorontsov’s, I mean.’

‘Of course.’ Yuskovich flapped his hand in an irritable gesture, like swatting away a troublesome insect. ‘Dead and buried. Just as he had to be. It wouldn’t have been wise for me to assume total power with that skeleton in my cupboard. You know the original, the real, Chushi Pravosudia , were going to press for a public trial. Lucky we had them all sewn up from their inception. But I have to give them credit for conceiving the plot. With my real cousin, and with better organisation, they just might have made a relevant statement. And if they had – well, the true cause would have been submerged for a decade at least. No, Joeli my friend, now is the time to finish with this idiotic perestroika and glasnost . It has to be crushed now. Completely. I pray that the Americans really make good their threat against Iraq. It’s the only way we can obliterate them without the world becoming difficult.’