John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

‘And me?’ Penderek asked.

‘You?’

‘You’re going to kill me, of course?’

‘Don’t be foolish, Joeli. Why would we do that?’

‘Because you won’t leave anyone alive. You won’t make the mistake of letting any of the players in this farce survive. You wouldn’t sleep peacefully in old Joe’s bed in the Kremlin if you knew there were people alive who could tell the true story, or at least provide a distinctive footnote to history.’

‘Bah. These people. These actors. I’m having them taken away, yes. But they don’t have to die. I’m not going to repeat Stalin’s only mistake, his Great Terror. There will be no purges. These actors are small fry. Nobody will listen to them. Not in the Gulag anyway.’ He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Joeli. You’ll live out the rest of your natural life with all the comforts I can provide. It’ll be lonely, of course, in a guarded dacha on the Black Sea, but you’ll be comfortable. Let’s do your big scene, eh?’ He strolled off towards Clive who was arguing with Pete Natkowitz about the set-up. Yuskovich’s adjutant stood nearby.

‘Major Verber,’ Yuskovich murmured to him, ‘will you see that the prisoner over there is very quietly disposed of as soon as we finish this. Do it quickly. No sadism. Just a fast, unexpected bullet. Then have him buried. I suggest you do that in the forest.’

The major nodded acknowledgement, and at that moment a young member of the Spetsnaz October Battalion came in with the news that Bond’s body had been discovered. An officer had called him over, with his partner, then told him to inform the marshal personally. ‘I left the officer with my partner to stand guard,’ he told Yuskovich.

The self-styled marshal swore mightily. ‘I wanted photographs of the British agents with . . .’ He stopped in time. ‘Never mind. The whole idea of bringing in these men was to implicate Britain. Damn it. I’ll have to settle for one. Not the pair of them.’

The officer had been with one of the squads which had guarded the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre from the start of the operation. He told the marshall he had almost tripped over the body during the search. ‘Some fool must have killed him out of hand,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard some muffled shots from this area half-an-hour ago, and I assumed it was simply to keep up appearances. We exploded cordite and guncotton charges all over the place when the October Battalion came in. I personally saw to it that things looked, and sounded realistic.’

‘You did well.’ Yuskovich returned the officer’s salute. ‘You come from Moscow, yes?’

‘Yes, comrade Marshal. Born and bred there. My parents are still in Moscow.’

‘Yes, I’d recognise a Muscovite accent anywhere. Your name?’

‘Batovrin, comrade Marshal. Sergei Yakovlevich, Lieutenant, Spetsnaz.’

‘You’re a smart man. I can do with smart officers. Report to my adjutant, Major Verber. Tell him I said you are now attached to my personal guard. Say that is my order. If you get any trouble, pass it on to me.’

‘Thank you, comrade Marshal.’ The lieutenant’s chest visibly puffed out with pride. His somewhat affected waxed moustache seemed to bristle in the freezing air as he went off to report to the adjutant.

They carried the body inside and laid it out in one of the little staff offices near what had originally been the reception area. After the taping was over, Nina and Natkowitz were brought in to identify the spy, James Bond.

They both nodded, not really looking at the shattered face. ‘That was what he wore when I last saw him,’ Nina said.

‘It’s him.’ Natkowitz, who had seen his fair share of death, quickly turned away.

‘Good,’ was all the marshal had to say.

Nina Bibikova caught up with Yuskovich in the passage as he headed back towards the sound stage. Yuskovich was feeling pleased with himself. Old Joel Penderek had given the performance of his life for the penultimate ten minutes of the video. They had shot the sentencing phase late the previous evening.

‘Comrade Marshal,’ Nina caught hold of his sleeve, and he stood, still as a rock, glaring down at her hand until she removed it.

‘Well?’

‘Comrade Marshal, I’ve come to plead for my parents’ lives.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they are old. Also because they are my parents. I have served you well, comrade Marshal. From the moment I was infiltrated into Stepakov’s Banda I served you and the Party. I did everything you told me. There was a suggestion then that you might spare my mother and father.’

‘They were long-term British penetration agents.’ He glowered at her and returned the salutes of Major Verber and Lieutenant Batovrin who had approached. ‘One moment,’ he gestured to the two officers to stand aside, then turned back to Nina. ‘As I say, British penetration agents. You informed on them yourself. What did you expect once we knew they had not died in that automobile accident? You expected us to give them a pension and a dacha?’

‘No, sir. I merely think they have acted well for this operation.’

‘My dear girl, they did not know they were helping us. From what I saw, they bumbled around in the night like two blind people. We even had to give them clues. Lead them. What is it that British writer said, “There is nothing worse than an old spy in a hurry,” eh? These were two old spies trying to break the sound barrier. Look, Nina, it is understandable for you to weep. Whatever they did wrong, they are still your parents. I see that, just as I know you have done well for us. You and the beautiful Natasha. Both of you kept the British comfortable and in a state of – what can I call it – cosy bewilderment? You also helped lead your aged parents a very merry dance, but you always understood it was a dance macabre. We even sacrificed people to them. Forget it now. You simply obeyed orders. You will be handsomely rewarded, I promise you that.’

Nina bowed her head. ‘Very well, comrade Marshal. Might I know what you intend for them?’

Yuskovich made an explosive noise of petulance, puffing his cheeks out and expelling air through his pursed lips. ‘Very well. They will be taken with the others. I have made arrangements for them to be processed at Perm 35. They will probably live there without undue hardship. They will die there.’

Perm 35 is one of the few remaining Stalin-era camps. It lies on the European side of the Urals, and, under the new President’s lenient release of political prisoners, its population of three hundred has dwindled to some fifteen – hijackers, military deserters and one CIA spy.

They buried James Bond the next morning, wrapping his body in sheets before placing it in the hard cold ground. Spetsnaz soldiers had hacked their way through the earth to make the grave which was marked by a piece of wood, carved overnight by one of their number. It bore the legend.

Here lies the body of a gallant British officer, thought to be Captain James Bond. Royal Navy. Died for his own cause January 9th, 1991.

Even Yuskovich attended the interment. He also allowed Natkowitz and Boris Stepakov to be present. A squad of four Spetsnaz fired a volley of shots over the grave, while another played the Last Post on an old bugle.

The surprise came from Stepakov who, when the last notes died away, stepped forward and spoke lines memorised from his beloved Shelley:

‘It is a modest creed, and yet

Pleasant if one considers it,

To own that death itself must be,

Like all the rest, a mockery.’

Natkowitz could have sworn there were tears running down the clownish face as the KGB general walked from the graveside.

All the actors and technicians who had been gathered together by Yuskovich’s fake Chushi Pravosudia were flown out in big Mi-12 Homer helicopters the next afternoon. They used three of the huge machines to shuttle the prisoners out to the nearest railhead. The monitors in Scandinavia reported that members of the arrested Chushi Pravosudia were being removed for trial.