Icebreaker

17

A DEAL IS A DEAL

Paula wore a heavy, well-cut officer’s greatcoat over the uniform Bond had last seen her in. The boots were visible under the coat, and to crown the effect she had added a military fur hat.

Bond glanced towards the bed that had lately contained Rivke. The plaster leg casts were obviously hollow frauds, bearing out Paula’s accusations. He was nauseated by the sight of the wall behind, spattered, like some surrealist painting, with blood and tissue. You could still smell Rivke in the room.

He turned away, picking up the officer’s fur hat, which Paula had provided for him. Throughout Operation Icebreaker, allegiances seemed to have swerved to and fro in a series of knife-edge uncertainties. He still couldn’t be sure of Paula’s true intentions, but at least she seemed serious about getting him away from the bunker. This meant putting distance between himself and von Glöda, which was a most appealing prospect.

‘As far as the guards are concerned, I’m acting on the Führer’s orders,’ Paula said. ‘There’s a standard pass for each of us.’ She handed over a small square of white plastic, like a credit card. ‘We don’t go anywhere near the main workshops or the arms stores. Just keep your head well down in case we run into anyone who’s seen you before, and stay close to me. Let me do the talking as well, James. The exit is through the small bunker, and the chances are well above average. They’re running around in one hell of a flap since von Glöda gave the movement orders – after you spilled the beans to Rivke . . .’

‘About that; I . . .’ Bond began.

‘About nothing.’ Paula spoke sharply. ‘All in good time. Just trust me, for once. Like you, I’m not in this for fun.’ Her gloved hand rested on his arm for a second. ‘Believe me, James, they caught you by using that girl, and I had no way to warn you. The oldest trick in the book as well. Shove a prisoner in with someone he trusts, then listen to the conversation.’ She laughed again. ‘I was with von Glöda when they brought the tapes. He leaped about ten metres into the air. Idiot – he was so sure that, because you’d survived his torture without saying anything, there was nothing for him to worry about. Now, James, stay close to me.’

Paula unlocked the door, and they stepped out into the passageway, pausing for a second while she relocked the door from the outside. The passage was empty, lined with white tiles – sterile with a hint of disinfectant in the air. Other small hospital wards led off to the left and right, and at the end of the passage – which lay to their left – was a metal door. If nothing else, von Glöda was well-organised.

Paula led the way forward towards the metal door. ‘Keep the gun out of sight, but ready for Custer’s last stand,’ she warned him. ‘If we get into a shootout, the chances are not so brilliant.’ Her own hand was thrust deep into her right pocket, where she had placed Rivke’s pistol.

The corridor, on the far side of the hospital wing, was well-decorated – the hessian covering, with some framed posters and pictures similar to those Bond had seen near von Glöda’s personal suite. From this alone, he guessed that they were deep within the bunker, probably parallel to the passages which ran down to the new Führer’s offices.

Paula insisted on walking slightly ahead; and Bond, his gloved fingers around the pocketed P7, remained in place, about two steps to the rear and slightly to Paula’s left, hugging the wall. Almost the standard position for a bodyguard.

After a couple of minutes, the passage divided. Paula turned right and climbed up carpeted steps. The stairs were steep and led to a very short stretch of passage, at the end of which a pair of double doors, complete with small mesh-covered windows, took them into what must have been an arterial tunnel. Now they were back to the rough walls, with the utility pipes and channels visible. Paula glanced back every few seconds to make sure Bond was with her. Then a left turn, and the simple act of walking told Bond they were on a slight upward slope.

As the slope became steeper, they reached a walkway on the right similar to the one by which they had first entered the bunker, complete with boards, to give a better grip, and a handrail. Here, as at the larger entrance, doors and passages led off on either side. For the first time since leaving the hospital section, Bond was aware of noise – voices, the click of boots, an occasional shout or the sound of running feet.

As he glanced into the tributary passages, Bond glimpsed all the signs of hurried, though controlled, activity. Men were carrying personal belongings, metal cabinets, boxes and document files; others appeared to be stripping offices; some even lugged weapons. Most appeared to be heading away towards the left, bearing out Bond’s sense of direction. He was now certain they were in the main tunnel, which would take them to the smaller bunker entrance.

A section of six soldiers came down the slope at the double, well-drilled, their faces to the front, the NCO in charge ordering a salute to Paula and Bond.

Now, ahead, a small detachment stood guard on what seemed to be the final hurdle. The tunnel came to an abrupt end, closed off by a massive steel shutter. Near the roof, Bond could see hydraulic equipment for lifting the shutter, but there was also a small, heavily bolted door set low on the right-hand side.

‘Now for it,’ Paula muttered. ‘Look the part. Don’t hesitate, and for God’s sake let me do the talking. Once we’re out, move left.’

As they came nearer to the entrance, he saw that the detachment consisted of an officer and four men, all armed. Near the door stood a small machine – like a ticket-vending machine in an underground rail network.

Four paces from the exit, Paula called out in German, ‘Prepare to let us out. We’re under personal orders from the Führer himself.’

One of the private soldiers moved to the door, and the officer took a step forward, standing by the machine. ‘Do you have your pass, madam? And you, sir?’

They were close now.

‘Of course,’ Paula said. She produced the piece of plastic in her left hand. Bond followed suit.

‘Good.’ The officer had the sour and humourless face of an old army hand who did everything by numbers. ‘Do you know anything about this sudden movement order? We’ve only heard rumours.’

‘I know a great deal.’ Paula’s voice hardened. ‘You’ll all be told in time.’

They were right up to the officer now. ‘They say we have to be out within twenty-four hours. Some sweat.’

‘We’ve all been through sweat before.’ There was no emotion in Paula’s voice as she offered her card to be checked by the machine.

The officer took both cards, fed them, one at a time, into a small slot near the top, then waited until a series of lights ran their course, sounding a soft buzzer for each pass.

‘Good luck, whatever your mission.’ He returned their cards. Bond nodded. The private soldier by the door was already opening up the bolts.

Paula thanked the officer in charge, and Bond followed her lead, giving the Nazi salute. Heels clicked and orders were barked as the door swung back.

A few seconds later they were outside, and the biting cold hit them like a fine spray of ice. It was dark, and Bond – with no wrist watch – had lost all sense of time. There was no immediate way of telling whether it was late afternoon or near dawn. The complete blackness gave the impression that it was the middle of the long Arctic night.

They advanced to the left, following tiny blue guide lights which outlined the exterior of the bunker. Under the snow, Bond could feel the hard metal of the long strips of chain-link ‘roadway’ that must have been laid down around the Command Post. There would be similar wide strips for the runway on von Glöda’s airfield.

The main doors of the bunker towered, white, above them,and as they passed them, Bond realised where Paula was taking him – to the small concrete shelter where he had seen the snow scooters being stored. He could just make out the circle of trees to his right, and remembered how when Kolya first lured him to this outpost they had suddenly broken cover from those trees, to be bathed in lights.

Paula seemed to have forgotten nothing. As soon as they reached the small, low structure, built hard against the rock face, she produced a key ring on a thin chain.

The shelter smelled of fuel and oil, while the switch by the door produced only a dim light. The scooters were neatly parked, looking like giant insects huddled together in hibernation.

Paula made for the first one that suited her purpose – a big, long black Yamaha, much larger than those on which Kolya had led them over the border.

‘You don’t mind if I drive,’ Paula was already checking the fuel. In the poor light, Bond could only sense, not see, the cheeky smile on her lips.

‘And where’re we going, Paula?’

She glanced up, peering at Bond through the gloom. ‘My people have an observation post about ten kilometres away.’ Her hand waved towards the south. ‘It’s partly wooded, but on high ground. You can see the whole of the Ice Palace, and the runway, from there.’ She heaved at the scooter, pulling it into position so they could run it straight out of the door.

Bond’s hand closed around the butt of his P7. ‘You’ll forgive me, Paula. We’ve known each other a long time, but my impression is that you’re somehow tied up with von Glöda, or Kolya. This operation hasn’t been straightforward from the word go. Hardly anybody has been what they seemed. I’d just like to know whose side you’re on, and who your “people”, as you call them, really are.’

‘Oh come on, James. All our files on you say that 007 is one of Britain’s best field men. Sorry, you’re not officially 007 any more, are you?’

Bond slowly produced the P7. ‘Paula? My instincts tell me that you’re KGB.’

Her head tilted back and she laughed. ‘KGB? Wrong, James. Come on, we haven’t much time as it is.’

‘I’ll come once you’ve told me. I expect the proof afterwards – even if you are KGB.’

‘Idiot.’ A friendly laugh this time. ‘James, I’m SUPO, and have been since long before we first met. In fact, my dear James, our meeting wasn’t a complete accident. Your own Service has now been informed.’

SUPO? Maybe she was at that. SUPO was the abbreviation for Suojelupoliisi – the Protection Police Force. The Finnish Intelligence and Security Agency.

‘But . . .’

‘I’ll prove it within the next couple of hours,’ she said. ‘Now, for God’s sake, James, let’s get going. There’s a lot to be done.’

Bond nodded. He climbed on to the back of the scooter behind Paula as she started the motor, put the machine in gear, and gently eased it from the shelter. Once outside, she dismounted and went back to close the door behind them. Then, within seconds, they were away into the trees.

For a good minute, Paula did not even bother to turn on the large, broad-beamed headlight. After that, Bond simply clung on for dear life. She rode the Yamaha as though it were part of her body, zig-zagging with an accuracy that took Bond’s breath away. She had slipped goggles over her eyes and was well-muffled, but Bond’s only protection was Paula’s body as the wind ripped around them.

His arms were wound tightly around her waist. Then at one point – with another of her wonderful laughs drifting back on the wind – Paula took her hands off the controls and lifted Bond’s arms, so that his hands cupped her breasts through the heavy padding of the greatcoat.

Their route was far from easy. They skirted the bottom of a long rise through tightly packed trees, then made a lengthy run up the slope, swerving among the trees all the way. Yet Paula hardly slowed for anything. Holding the throttle open wide, she took the scooter side on through gaps in the trees, allowing it to ride dangerously, near a forty-five-degree angle on some banks, yet retaining control all the time.

At last she slowed, slewing from left to right at the crest, following what was certainly a natural trail. Then, quite suddenly, two figures rose from the side of the track. His eyes now well adjusted to the night, Bond caught the shapes of machine pistols against the snow.

Paula slowed and stopped, then raised an arm, and Bond found his hand searching for the P7. There was a short, muttered conversation between Paula and the larger of the men, who was dressed in Lapp costume and wore a huge moustache which made him look even more like a brigand. The other was tall and thin, with one of the most evil faces Bond had ever seen – sharp and weasel-like, with small eyes that darted everywhere. For his own sake, Bond hoped Paula had, at last, told him the truth. He wouldn’t have enjoyed finding himself at the mercy of either of these people.

‘They’ve been keeping clear of the two kotas we’ve got up here,’ Paula said, turning her head towards Bond. I’ve got four men in all. Two have gone in at regular intervals, to check the radio equipment and keep the fires going. It seems that all’s safe. The other pair are in the camp now. I’ve said we’ll go straight to the kotas – you’ll want food, and I’ve got to get a message off to Helsinki on the short wave. They’ll relay it to London. Anything you want to tell your boss – M?’

‘Only details of what’s been going on, and where I am. Do we know where von Glöda will head for?’

‘I’ll tell you after I’ve talked to Helsinki,’ she said, gunning the engine.

Bond nodded vigorously. ‘Okay.’ They advanced at a walking pace, the two Lapps taking station ahead and behind them. Bond leaned forward and whispered loudly, ‘Paula, I’ll shoot you where you stand if you’re taking me for a ride.’

‘Shut up and trust me. I’m the only one you can trust out here. Right?’

A few steps out of the woods, perched on the ridge, were two kotas. The reindeer skin which covered their wigwam-like structures loomed dark against the snow. Smoke drifted up from the criss-cross of forked poles at the top. From below, Bond thought, they would be difficult to spot against the tall firs and pines. Paula stopped the Yamaha, and they both dismounted.

‘I’m going to use the radio straight away.’ Paula pointed to the right-hand kota, and Bond could just make out the aerials among the poles at the top. ‘My other two boys are in there. I’ve told Aslu to stay on guard outside.’ She indicated the evil-looking Lapp. ‘Niiles will go with you to the other kota, where there’s food cooking.’

The Lapp with the large moustache – Niiles – grinned, nodding encouragement. His machine pistol pointed towards the ground.

‘Okay, Paula,’ Bond said. The smell of woodsmoke reached him before they got to within six paces of the kota, and Niiles went forward, lifted the hide flap, and peered inside. When he was sure everything was safe, the Lapp waved Bond towards him. Together they entered the kota, and immediately Bond felt his eyes sting as the smoke hit him. He coughed, wiped his eyes and looked around. The thin fog of smoke gradually made its way towards the outlet at the top of the tent. Mingled with it was a strong, pleasant cooking smell, and quickly Bond’s eyes adjusted enough to make out mounds of sleeping bags, blankets and plates carefully stored within the tent.

Niiles put down his weapon and motioned for Bond to sit. He pointed at the pot bubbling over the fire, burning in a square trench cut into the earth. Niiles then touched his mouth. ‘Food.’ He gave a pleased nod. ‘Food. Good. Eat.’

Bond nodded back.

Niiles took a plate and spoon, went to the fire, bent over it and began to fill the plate with what looked like some kind of stew.

The next moment, the Lapp was sprawled, yelling, in the fire. His feet had been kicked from under him. One of the blankets seemed to take on a human shape, but before Bond could retrieve his pistol, Kolya’s voice came quietly from the other side of the fire.

‘Don’t even think of it, James. You’ll be dead before your hand touches the butt.’ He then said something in Finnish to Niiles, who had rolled clear of the fire, and now sat nursing his hand.

‘I should’ve known.’ Bond spoke as quietly as Kolya. ‘It was all too easy. Paula’s certainly led me a dance.’

‘Paula?’ Kolya’s face was clear for a moment in the glare from the fire. ‘I’ve just told this bandit here to pass me his machine pistol. I will kill him if he tries anything. Personally, I’d like to be better armed when Paula comes in here. You see, James, I’m on my own. Outnumbered. But I have friends waiting, and I don’t intend to go back to Moscow empty-handed.’

Half of Bond’s mind began to work on the immediate problem – should he try to warn Paula? How could he deal with Kolya Mosolov, here and now? His eyes moved carefully around the gloomy interior of the kota as Niiles – in a state of some agony – gently pushed the automatic weapon towards Kolya with his foot.

‘From that, I presume you’re taking me with you.’ Bond peered through the haze.

‘That was the deal I had with that Fascist pig, von Glöda.’ Kolya’s laugh was genuine enough. ‘He really thought he could get away with running a Nazi operation from inside the Soviet Union.’

‘Well, he has run it. All his terrorist operations have been successful. He’s used Russian weapons, and now he’s getting out.’

Slowly Kolya shook his head. ‘There is no possible way that von Glöda can get out.’

‘He was taking me. By air. May even have left already.’

‘No. I’ve been watching and listening. His beloved little private jet hasn’t left the runway, and won’t even try to get off before dawn. We have a couple of hours left.’

So, it was now only two hours before dawn. At least Bond now had some idea of time. ‘How can you stop him?’ he asked blandly.

‘It’s already in motion. Von Glöda has a military force on Soviet soil. They will be blasted at dawn. The Red Air Force will turn that bunker into a boiling kettle.’ Kolya’s face changed in the fire glow. ‘Unhappily our base at Blue Hare will also be taken out. An unfortunate error, but it solves all problems.’

Bond thought for a moment. ‘So, you’re going to decimate von Glöda and his whole little army. Breaking your part of the deal, but keeping his?’

‘My dear James – a deal is a deal. Tough, sometimes it doesn’t work out for one of the participants. How could I let you go, my friend? Especially as my department – which you used to know as SMERSH – has tried to catch you off balance for so long. No, my deal with von Glöda has always been slightly one-sided.’