John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

‘Then, technically, we could blow them out of the water with the 45s.’ Natkowitz nodded his thanks as his wrist came clear.

Bond reached inside the combat suit and took out one of the magnetic grenades. ‘This would be better. In fact, I believe if we managed to get off in one of the inflatables – I’ve counted four – we might be able to rig up some way of timing these things. I let Yuskovich go on talking the other night. The containers are vulnerable, being made of a light alloy. The sides are flotation chambers, with some simple mechanism for blowing out the water when they get them inshore.’ He hefted the grenade. ‘Put this on the side of the last in the line and we’ll probably upset the whole damned lot. The cargo’s bloody heavy. When one goes they might all go. Down among the dead men.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Boris assumed a clown’s look of innocence. ‘The cribbage effect.’

‘Domino,’ Stephanie sharply corrected.

Stepakov grinned and asked if he might see one of the grenades. Bond brought them all out and placed them on the deck.

‘Yes, these have a little delay mechanism at the base, so.’ He turned over one of the bombs, pointing to a knurled screw. ‘You can set them for up to five minutes, at one minute increments. No more. No less.’

There was the sound of a boot scraping against the metal deck outside. Rampart was immediately on his feet, making for the side of the hatch. Bond motioned to him, indicating that he would go out.

It was the soldier, back on duty after his smoke. ‘Are they suitably chastened, comrade Lieutenant?’ He smiled to let him know he had heard what Bond had shouted loudly for his benefit.

‘Not really. I know what I’d like to do with them.’

‘Maybe you’ll get the chance, sir.’

‘Oh, the fun will go to the big boils . . .’ He stopped at the sound of another pair of boots coming down the companionway.

‘My duty’s up,’ the soldier sighed, then greeted his replacement who saluted Bond.

‘All well?’ the new man asked.

‘They have to be put in a better mood.’ The guard winked at his comrade. ‘The lieutenant, here, has been telling them bedtime stories about dragons with big boils.’

They both laughed.

‘I’m coming back to give them more.’ Bond looked at the new man. ‘Expect me in a few minutes.’ He nodded and went up the companionway, stopping once he was out on the open deck, checking he could not be seen. Nobody else was about and the sentry just relieved began to come up the companionway, slowly as though tired, like soldiers the world over at the end of a boring guard duty.

Bond took him out with the long killing knife, similar in size and weight to the Sykes-Fairbairn he was used to. The point went into the man’s neck as though it were penetrating butter. He did not even have time to shout. There was a great deal of blood.

When he had dragged the body behind the aft gun turret. Bond went down the companionway again. He smiled cheerily as the sentry came to attention, so the man did not even see the knife coming.

‘There are weapons out there,’ he told Rampart once he was through the hatchway. ‘Pete, there’s a body littering up the deck behind the aft turret. Be a good fellow and move it. Then pass out the goodies. I’m going on a recce. Just to see where everyone’s got to. Then we’ll have a go at launching one of the inflatables. It’s dark enough. We might just be able to deal with the cargo. It’s worth a try.’

Back on the mess deck which Yuskovich had commandeered for his staff, Verber was playing chess with his cousin.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Bond asked, and Verber shook his head.

His cousin said the major never slept when there was about to be action.

‘We won’t get any action,’ Bond said. ‘We only have to watch them unload the weapons. Nobody’s going to start shooting.’

Berzin’s voice came from behind him, ‘Not unless you try something, Englishman.’

Bond spun around.

‘Ah,’ Berzin stood in the doorway, ‘so it is the Englishman. I was concerned. The moustache fooled me.’

‘What’re you talking about?’ Bond looked him straight in the eye. ‘Comrade General, you are accusing me of something? I don’t understand.’ He spoke as though the Russian had made some disgusting slander concerning his mother.

Berzin locked eyes with him, his slim, leathery face held no expression. It was as though he had been bled of all sympathy, humanity and compassion. ‘I just cannot place you, Batovrin. You worry me. Yes, I even think you might possibly be the dead Englishman. You believe in ghosts?’

‘No, General Berzin. The only kind of spooks I understand are KGB and GRU.’

‘Mmmmm.’ Berzin’s face did not alter and his eyes reflected not an ounce of feeling. ‘I have seen most of the current Spetsnaz officers through the training school, some of them even at the airborne school at Ryazan. I knew a Batovrin. Younger than you, and he had no moustache. It’s worried me since the marshal put you on to his staff. I know your name, but . . .’

Bond smiled. ‘You’re thinking of my young brother, Grigori, comrade General. I’m Sergei.’ As he spoke, he edged towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Verber and his cousin had stopped playing chess. They lounged back in their chairs, pretending to be mildly interested, but Bond could see the tautness of their muscles as they prepared to spring at a second’s notice. There was a new tension in the air. He could almost smell it, as an animal smells fear on a human.

‘Really, Batovrin? If it is so, you look nothing like your brother.’

‘He takes after my father’s side of the family.’

‘Really?’ Berzin repeated.

Bond laughed, ‘Yes, really, comrade General.’

The strap was still in place on Berzin’s holster, but now, at last, the eyes flickered. He was more certain of his ground. In a moment he would call Bond’s bluff again; after that it would not take long. Rampart and Pete would be armed by now, but the odds were with Yuskovich’s people.

‘So, your brother takes after my very good friend Colonel General Petros Batovrin. And you favour my equally good friend, the Colonel General’s wife, Anna Batovrin. Strange, they never mentioned that there was an elder son. And I was at the Frunze with Petros Batovrin.’

Bond turned sideways, hands on his hips, his right palm flat. He could reach the pistol quickly if necessary, but with three of them, there was little chance that he would get off the mess deck alive. ‘Where is the comrade Marshal, sir? I think he should be here. I am a true and loyal member . . .’ It sounded lame, like words put into the mouth of an actor in some bad film. But he did not have to complete the sentence.

‘Where do you think he is, Englishman? He’s with his little whore. The lovely Nina. Or didn’t you know, like every Spetsnaz officer, that the marshal and Nina were . . .’

Bond hardly heard the three pops. He smelled the cordite before the noise registered in his ears. Berzin’s eyes widened and his arms went up, hands scrabbling for his back before he crumpled.

Bond was aware of Verber and his cousin moving. His hand went down to his own holstered pistol, but the adjutant and his doomed relative had simply been slung back against their chairs by the force of the bullets.

‘Thought you might need help.’ Natkowitz stood in the doorway. He did not look at all like a gentleman farmer now. He seemed at last to have lost the look of innocence and the foolish smile had disappeared. ‘Damned good these PRIs,’ he said. ‘I think we should move. Bory was getting difficult. He wanted to be a hero.’

‘Oh, Christ.’ Bond was through the door, not even bothering about noise any more. If it came to a fire fight, they would have to take their chances. He followed Natkowitz along the deck, knowing they would have to use the gun in the aft turret. If they could hold off Yuskovich’s men for long enough, they might just be able to blow the infernal floating cargoes out of the water.