Icebreaker

18

THE FENCERS

There was silence for several seconds, then Mosolov spoke a few words to the groaning Niiles.

‘No need to let good food go to waste,’ Kolya Mosolov said softly. ‘I’ve told him to straighten that pot and stir up the fire. I don’t think he’ll try anything stupid. You should know that I have some of my men here, and they’ll already have taken Paula. So, I think the best thing . . .’ He stopped, in mid-sentence, with a sudden intake of breath.

The smoke thickened for a second, then quickly cleared as Niiles urged the fire into flame. Bond saw that Mosolov’s head was being forced back. A hand grasped his hair, while another fist held a glinting reindeer knife across his throat. The fire leaped into life again, and the evil face of Aslu became plainly visible behind Kolya’s shoulder.

‘Sorry, James.’ Paula was just inside the leather flap entrance to the kota, a heavy automatic pistol in her hand. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, but my boys spotted Kolya digging his way in here a couple of hours ago. You were my bait.’

‘It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d told me.’ Bond sounded acid. ‘I’m quite used to being a tethered goat.’

‘Again, sorry.’ Paula came right into the kota. ‘We had other problems as well. Comrade Mosolov brought some playmates. Six of them. Aslu and Niiles dealt with that little group once they saw Kolya safely tucked away in here. That’s why I’m a free woman and not a KGB prisoner . . .’

‘There are plenty more . . .’ Mosolov began, then thought better of it.

‘Do be careful, Kolya,’ Paula said brightly. ‘That knife Aslu’s holding to your throat’s as sharp as a guillotine. He could sever your head with one well-placed stroke.’ She turned to Niiles and spoke a few rapid words.

A grin crossed the big Lapp’s face, the expression appearing sinister in the flickering firelight. Holding his burned hand with great care, he moved over to Mosolov, took back his own machine pistol, removed the automatic and began to search the Russian.

‘They’re like a couple of kids,’ Paula said. ‘I’ve told them to strip him, take him into the woods and tie him to a tree.’

‘Shouldn’t we keep him with us until the last minute?’ Bond suggested. ‘You say he had men with him . . .’

‘We’ve dealt with them . . .’

‘There could be more. He has an airstrike coming in at dawn. Having already experienced Kolya in action, I don’t fancy letting him out of our sight.’

Paula thought for a moment, then relented, giving new orders to the Lapps. Kolya was silent, almost sullen, as they tied his hands and feet, placed a gag around his mouth and pushed him into the corner of the kota.

Paula gave Bond a nod, directing him towards the exit. Outside, she lowered her voice. ‘You’re right, of course, James. More of his men could still be around; it’s best to keep him here. We’ll only be really safe back in Finland. But . . .’

‘But, like me, you want to see what happens to the Ice Palace.’ Bond smiled.

‘Right,’ she admitted. ‘Once that’s over I think we can turn him loose and let his friends find him – unless you want to take his head back to London.’

Bond said taking Kolya Mosolov all the way with them could prove to be an encumbrance. ‘Better to get rid of him just before we leave’, was his final verdict. In the meantime they had work to do – Paula’s message to Helsinki and Bond’s to M.

In the radio kota Bond began to tap his pockets.

‘Are these what you’re looking for?’ Paula came close to him, holding out the gunmetal cigarette case and his gold lighter.

‘You think of everything.’

‘Maybe I’ll get to prove it later on.’ In spite of the presence of the Lapps in the radio kota, Paula Vacker reached up and kissed Bond gently; then again, with some urgency.

The radio kota contained a powerful short-wave transmitter, with facilities for morse and clear speech. There was also a fast-sending device, allowing a transmission to be taped, and then run through in a fraction of a second, ready for slowing, and decoding, at the other end. These messages often appear as a bleep of static in the earphones of the many listeners who monitor signal traffic.

Bond watched for a few minutes, while Paula organised her own message to Helsinki. There was no doubt in his mind that hers was a thoroughly professional set-up. Paula definitely worked for SUPO – something he should really have known about years ago, considering how far their relationship went back. Already he had asked for her field cryptonym, and was delighted to learn that – for this operation against von Glöda – she was known as Vuobma, the old Lapp word for stockade, or corral, in which reindeer are trapped and herded for breeding.

With all his equipment – except for the Heckler & Koch P7 – either gone, or still in the Saab at the Hotel Revontuli, Bond was without any method of ciphering his signal. While Paula worked at the transmitter, one of the two Lapps who had been in the radio kota for most of the time, stood close to her. The other was sent off to keep a watch on the bunker and its airstrip.

Finally, after a few dud tries, Bond composed a suitable clear-language message, which read:

VIA GCHQ CHELTENHAM TO M STOP ICEBREAKER BROKEN BUT OBJECTIVE SHOULD BE ACHIEVED BY DAWN TODAY STOP RETURNING SOONEST STOP MOST URGENT FLASH REPEAT MOST URGENT GET YOUR BEST BOTTLE OUT OF THE CELLAR STOP I WORK THROUGH VUOBMA ENDS 007.

The 007 would raise some eyebrows, but it could not be helped. His instructions to move the prisoner were fairly obvious. Not the best, but if any NSAA listening post picked up the signal, they presumably already knew where M’s prisoner was being held anyway. This message, if intercepted, would only alert them to the fact that he would be moved. At short notice, and without the facilities, it was the best Bond could do.

When Paula had completed her signal, she took Bond’s piece of paper, added a coding of her own to make certain that it would go on to GCHQ, Cheltenham, via her own Service’s Communications Department, and rattled it off on to tape, before zipping it through the small fast-sending machine.

When all this was done, they held a conference, Bond suggesting how best a continuous watch could be kept on the bunker. The dawn airstrike was uppermost in his mind; after that it would be necessary to get away as quickly as possible, dump Kolya Mosolov, and clear the frontier without undue hazard.

‘Can you find the way back?’ he asked Paula.

‘Blindfold. I’ll give you all the information later, but there’s no problem as far as that’s concerned. Except we’ll have to move from here, then wait to make the crossing as soon as it’s dark enough.’

Through Paula, Bond gave orders for the radio kota to be dismantled and packed away – the four Lapps had their large snow scooters hidden near at hand – and organised periods of rest, with one of the Lapps briefed to rouse them in plenty of time to strike the other kota before dawn.

‘Mosolov’s a liability, whatever,’ he declared. ‘But we’ll have to hang on to him for as long as possible.’

Paula shrugged. ‘Leave it to my Lapps and they’ll take care of Kolya,’ she murmured. But Bond did not want the Russian killed except as a last resort; so the arrangements were made, and the orders given.

While the radio kota was being dismantled, they trudged back to the remaining shelter. A blood-chilling howl was carried on the wind through the trees, long and drawn out, followed by another, similar sound.

‘Wolves,’ Paula said. ‘On the Finnish side, our border patrols have had a bumper year: at least a couple of wolves a week for most of them, and three bears since Christmas. It’s been a particularly hard winter and you mustn’t believe all you hear about wolves not being dangerous. During a bad winter, when food’s scarce, they’ll attack anything: man, woman or child.’

Niiles, his hand bandaged, had already fed Kolya, whom he’d propped in the corner of the kota. Previously, Bond had cautioned Paula that they should not, under any circumstances, discuss plans in front of him. They ignored the Russian, though there was always one armed Lapp near by making certain he was well-guarded.

Niiles’s reindeer stew proved to be delicious, and they ate with enjoyment – the Lapp nodding and smiling at their pleasure. In the short time spent at Paula’s observation post, Bond had acquired a great admiration for her tough resilient Lapp assistants. As they ate, Paula produced a bottle of vodka, and they drank a toast to final success, knocking the little paper cups together and chanting ‘Kippos’, the Finnish equivalent of ‘Cheers’.

After the meal, Paula settled down with Bond in one of the larger sleeping bags. Mosolov seemed to have dozed off, and soon the couple, after several tender embraces, also slept. Eventually, they were wakened by Aslu urgently shaking Bond’s shoulder. Paula was already awake and had been told by Aslu that there was some activity at the bunker. ‘And a good half hour to go before dawn,’ she announced.

‘Right.’ Bond then took charge. The kota would be dismantled here and now, after which one of the Lapps would stay – in the cover of the trees – to guard Mosolov, while the rest could gather at the observation point.

Within five minutes, Paula and Bond had, themselves, joined Niiles who lay among rocks and snow on the rise, scanning the view below through a pair of night glasses. Behind them, Paula’s other Lapps went quietly about the business of striking camp, and Bond glimpsed Kolya being hustled away into the trees – Aslu prodding him along with a submachine gun.

Bond was amazed at the sight, even in the gloom of half-light, which now heralded a dawn that would come in twenty minutes or so. From Paula’s observation post the view down to the small clearing among the trees, and the huge rocky area of the bunker’s roof, was unimpeded. It was plain now that the entrance to the Ice Palace itself was built into a rising wall of rock, like a giant stepping stone forming a rough crescent in the centre of a thick forest. The trees had been expertly cleared to allow only minimal open space in front of the main entrances, while other paths were cut – through trees, rock, and ice – as routes around the bunker to the higher, more open, ground above.

To the south, and above the huge spur of rock, the thick forest was broken by carefully prepared clear tracks, through which a wide runway pointed a long grey-white finger, disappearing into the heart of the surrounding forest. There was no sign of an aircraft. Bond presumed the Mystère-Falcon Executive Jet and the two light aeroplanes were tucked away in concrete pens, built into the rock which helped form the roof of the bunker itself.

In the present light, and at this distance, it was not possible to make an accurate calculation about the length of the runway. All Bond considered was that a take-off, among trees, left little margin for error. Yet von Glöda had already proved his ability in most things, so it was unlikely that the runway would present a genuine hazard, for landing or take-off.

Below them von Glöda’s private army was about to get under way. The floodlights were on under the trees, and the big doors, leading to the vehicle ramp running deep inside the Ice Palace, were open, sending a sharp-angled flood of light out over the trees.

Paula spoke a few words to Niiles, then turned to Bond. ‘Nothing’s come out yet. No vehicles or aircraft sighted, though Niiles says there’s a lot of troop activity among the trees.’

‘Let’s hope Kolya was specific,’ Bond replied, ‘and the Russians are going to hit them on time.’

‘When they do get here we’d better dig ourselves into the snow and pretend to be rocks,’ murmured Paula. ‘I think Kolya’s instructions would be accurate enough, but we don’t want to catch a stray missile up here.’

She had hardly said the words before the sound of a jet-whine became audible, a fair distance away – like a wail carried on the wind. Just then the sun glowed blood-red in the east. They looked at each other, and Bond lifted his hands, showing gloved fingers crossed for good luck. Shifting slightly, all three watchers tried to dig themselves deeper into the snow. Bond shivered. He had not realised how cold he was – the elements forgotten as he concentrated on the bunker far below, and about a kilometre away. Then, even that brief moment of discomfort was gone as a great double crump seemed to blast the air around them. Far off to the north-east there was a series of brilliant orange flashes, and a plume of smoke rose from the close-knit trees.

‘Blue Hare,’ Paula said loudly, as though she had to shout against the noise. ‘They’ve . . .’ Her next words were truly drowned. The supersonic shockwaves from the aircraft travelled ahead of the machines. A consuming, growling roar surrounded Paula, Bond and Niiles – a terrifying harbinger of what was to follow, in the new, clear dawn.

The first pair of strike aircraft came in level with the trees, crossing to the hiding trio’s right, neither firing nor dropping anything. They streaked through the cold air, little eddies of steam surrounding the wings, as the sub-zero temperatures produced contrails even at this low level. They looked like silver darts, precision-built arrows, with large box-like air intakes, high tails, and wings folded back into a delta configuration, joining the elevators to make one long, slim, lifting surface. As if controlled by one man, the two aircraft tipped noses towards the sky and screamed upwards in a terrifyingly fast climb until they were only tiny silver dots, banking away to the north.

‘Fencers,’ Bond breathed.

‘What? Fencers?’ Paula scowled.

‘Fencers. It’s the NATO code name for them.’ Bond’s eyes moved constantly, watching the sky for the next wave which, he knew, would bring in the first attack. ‘They’re Su-19s. Very dangerous. Ground attack fighter-bombers. They pack a nasty punch, Paula.’ In the back of his head Bond could almost hear the details of the Fencer clicking through, like a computer read-out. Power: two afterburning turbofans, or jets, of the 9,525 kg thrust class. Speed: Mach 1.25 at sea level; Mach 2.5 at altitude. Service ceiling: 60,000 feet; initial climb 40,000 feet per minute. Armament: one 23 mm GSh-23 twin-barrel cannon fitted on lower centreline, and a minimum of six pylons for a variety of air-to-air, and air-to-ground, guided, and unguided, missiles. Combat radius: 500 miles with full weapons. That all added up to a most efficient, and lethal, piece of warplane. Not even the most optimistic of NATO airmen could deny it.

Having spotted their target, the two leaders would call up the rest of their squadron – or even wing – and pass on the coordinates and instructions, probably tapping them out on a small keyboard. Already the pilots would have been briefed on the order of attack, and the fast reconnaissance assured it would come in a series of angled dives, around forty-five degrees – maybe from different directions, the pairs of aircraft vectored, and controlled, to come in with split-second timing, one after the other. Bond thought of the Soviet pilots – top men to be flying the Fencers – concentrating on their electronics, speed, height, timing, and angle of dive; priming their weapons; glancing constantly at the sky, sweating under their G-suits and helmets.

The first approach growl came from their left, followed, almost immediately, by a second from what seemed to be directly above. ‘Here we go!’ Bond saw Paula’s head turn as he looked up, and the twin streaks came tearing out of the now clear bluish sky to their left. He had been right. The Fencers came in pairs and with noses down in a classic ground-attack dive. Quite clearly they saw the first missiles flash away from the wings – long white flames shooting back, then the orange trails as the deadly darts ripped through the air. Two from each aircraft, all four catching the front of the bunker, boring in and exploding with wide orange blossoms of fire reaching their eyes before the heavy zoom and thud hit their ears.

As the first two aircraft whipped to the left, flick-turning away, so the second pair came down from Bond’s and Paula’s right. Identical plumes of flames shot out, then fire bloomed from within the target area. The missiles were digging well into the rock, steel and concrete before exploding. Bond watched, fascinated, trying to identify the weaponry. As the third pair came in, from the far right, he was able to follow the missiles through their complete trajectory – AS-7s, he thought, Kerries to NATO, and the Kerry came in several specifications, both guided and unguided. They also had changeable warheads – straight HE, or armour- and rock-penetrating delayed charges.

Below, after just three attacks – using twelve Kerry missiles – the Ice Palace looked ready to be broken in two. The thunder of the explosions still echoed, and through the inevitable pall of smoke, they could see the terrible crimson glow of fire begin to sweep out of the open main doors, up from the arms stores and vehicle parks.

Then a fourth and fifth wave of Fencers hurtled out of the cold sky, their rockets seeming to hang in the air for a moment as the aircraft turned away and lifted in a whining climb, before shooting forward – straight as ruled lines of fire until they disappeared into the smoke and flame, to explode, a few seconds later, with twin roars which seemed to grow louder with each rocket.

From their grandstand view, the Lapp, Paula, and Bond could not draw their eyes from this sight of deliberate destruction. The sky now seemed full of aircraft – one pair following another, with the accuracy of some crack air display team. Their ears were pounded with supersonic shock waves and their eyes with lightning strikes as the rockets found their marks again and again.

The bunker became almost invisible, its presence marked by the tower of black smoke and the constant crimson fists punching within the dark cloud. The attack, which could have taken only seven or eight minutes, seemed to go on for hours. Finally a pair of Fencers came in, from the left, at an unusually low angle of attack. The aircraft had exhausted their missiles and began to rake the smoke and flame with cannon fire.

Both aircraft pulled up short, their track taking them low and directly through the rising smoke. Just as they disappeared into the black cloud there was a great rumble, followed by an almost volcanic roar. At first, Bond thought the Fencers had touched wings and collided over the target; then the black smoke turned into a huge fireball, spreading outwards, growing in size, first orange, turning to white and, last, to a bloody crimson. The ground shook, and they could feel the snow and earth moving under them, as though an earthquake had, against all the laws of nature, suddenly been activated.

Heat scorched their faces as the fireball rose past them. Tongues of flame reached out for them or wound themselves around the trees. Then the updraught came like a twisting tornado, the whole engulfed by a colossal noise as the sound of the explosion hit them. Bond’s hand shot out, banging Paula’s head into the snow as he buried his face, holding his breath.

The heat receded at last. The two aircraft had gone. Disappeared. Above, they could see other planes gaining height and circling. It was when Bond looked down that the picture became clear.

Where the bunker had been there was now only a huge crater, surrounded by burning or bent trees. Fires spouted from deep down in the ground, and you could see the uncanny sight of odd pieces of masonry, steps and steel girders hanging free above a maze of open walls and broken passages. The wreckage looked like a bombed building that had been dropped into a chasm.

The explosions and fires, caused by the constant penetration of the Kerry missiles, had, eventually, detonated all the loaded ammunition, bombs, gasoline and other war matériel in one comprehensive explosion. The result was the total destruction of von Glöda’s Ice Palace.

Smoke billowed up and then drifted away; there was the occasional spurt of flame, mixed with fires already burning well. Apart from the odd crackling noise, though, there was no other sound. Only the terrible smell of devastation wafted up towards their perch, above what had once been a deep and seemingly impregnable fortress.

‘Kristos,’ breathed Paula. ‘Whatever else happens to Kolya, he’s had his vengeance.’ It was only when she spoke that they realised their own sense of hearing had returned.

Still slightly dazed by what they had witnessed, they made their way back to the site of Paula’s encampment, and Bond headed towards the point where Aslu was guarding Mosolov within the woods.

He spotted it before anyone else, reacting sharply with a quick order to the Lapps to fan out and get down. Dropping to the ground himself, he pushed Paula with him.

‘You stay here.’ Bond spoke quietly, all his senses now alert, and the P7 heavy in his hand. ‘Tell your people to cover me if anything happens.’

Paula nodded, her face pale even against the snow, as though she also knew something very terrible had happened.

Bond ran forward through the trees, crouching and ready for anything. The evil-faced Aslu appeared even more bizarre in death. By the marks in the snow, Bond reckoned that four of them had taken him, using knives for silence. The Lapp’s throat was slit, but there were other wounds, signifying this was only the final act in a struggle. Aslu had fought, even though taken by surprise.

Of Kolya Mosolov there was no sign, and even the most dim-witted person would quickly realise this was not the most healthy place to linger. As he made his way back to Paula, Bond wondered if the scooters had been left intact, and whether Kolya would launch his counter-attack straight away.

Later Paula was to tell Bond that Aslu had worked with her for many years, and had been one of her most loyal operators on the Russian side of the border. But now she passed the news to the others without even a shake in her voice. Only by looking closely could you see how badly Aslu’s death had hit her.

Bond issued the orders – quiet, fast, and clear. One of the Lapps was to check out the snow scooters. If they were still hidden and working, Bond decided the party would have to go for a fast getaway. The main, and obvious, fear was that the men who had rescued Kolya were still near by, and ready to pounce.

‘Make sure your boys are prepared to fight now – and I mean fight their way out if necessary,’ he told Paula.

Niiles went forward, returning in a matter of minutes with the news that the scooters were untouched, with no tracks to indicate they had been found.

Bond understood now why the Lapps had been such a formidable enemy against the might of the Russian army in 1939. They moved through the trees with speed and cunning, leapfrogging, covering each other as they went and becoming at times almost invisible even to Bond.

Paula stayed close, for she was to lead the party out. As Bond reached the scooters with her, the three Lapps were just starting the engines. The roar of four scooters seemed to shake the trees, and Bond expected bullets to rain in on them at any moment.

Paula was in the saddle of the big Yamaha – with Bond behind her – in a matter of seconds, and they were away, gathering speed, and zig-zagging through the trees, heading south. No trouble so far.

The ride took the best part of two hours, and Bond – even in the cold and uncomfortable position behind Paula – was aware of the three Lapps circling them, spreading out, moving forward, covering against ambush all the way. There was a moment, as they slowed through some particularly rough ground, when Bond imagined he could hear the sound of other engines – other scooters. Of one thing he was certain, Kolya Mosolov would not let them get away scot-free to Finland. He had to be following, near by, or already waiting for them, calculating at which point Paula intended to make the last long dash to freedom. There was, Bond presumed, even the remote possibility that Kolya would call up another air strike.

Finally they stopped, taking up station among trees above the great open valley which separates Russia from Finland, running like a dry artificial river from north to south.

Bond decided they should immediately take up defensive positions. He stayed, with Paula, beside the big Yamaha while the three Lapps disappeared further into the trees, forming a triangle around Paula and Bond. There they would wait until it was dark enough to make the run back into Finland.

‘You’re confident about making it?’ Bond asked Paula, smiling, testing her own nerve and will. ‘I mean, I’d rather not end up by going over a mine.’

Paula was silent for a few seconds. ‘If you want to walk it by yourself . . .’ she began, with an edge to her voice.

‘I’ve every confidence in you, Paula.’ Bond leaned over and kissed her. She was trembling, but not from the cold, and James Bond knew well enough how she felt. If Kolya was going to act while they were still on the Russian side, it would be soon.

Slowly the light began to go, and Bond felt the tension starting to build within him. Niiles had settled himself into a high point among the branches of a pine tree. Bond could not see him – indeed had not even spotted him making the ascent – but knew only because the Lapp had told Paula exactly where he was going. Try as he would, straining his eyes, Bond could not see the man, and the fast-fading light made it constantly more difficult. Suddenly, the ‘blue moment’ was on them – that blue-green haze reflected off the snow, changing perspective.

‘Ready?’ Bond turned to Paula and saw her nod.

In the second his eyes left the pine in which he knew Niiles was hidden, they heard the first shot. It came directly from the pine tree, so the Lapp had got in before Kolya’s men. The sound still echoed in the air when the next shots followed. They seemed to be coming from a semi-circle to the front, within the trees: single rounds followed by the lethal rip of machine-gun fire.

It was impossible to gauge the enemy strength, or even if they were making progress. All Bond knew was that a fire fight of some vigour appeared to be developing to their front.

Though the ‘blue moment’ had not entirely dropped them into darkness, there was no point in waiting. Paula had already said that the Lapps were prepared to hold off anything Kolya sent in, while they tried to make their escape. Now was the time to put the promise to the test.

‘Go,’ Bond shouted at Paula.

Like the professional she was, Paula did not hesitate. The Yamaha’s engine fired, and Bond was up behind Paula as she slewed the machine diagonally into the open, and down the bare icy slope towards the valley, naked of trees, that would lead to safety.

The gunfire was louder, and the last thing Bond saw, through a fine spray of snow, was a figure falling, toppling from the branches of the pine. It was not the right moment to tell Paula that Niiles had joined his friend Aslu.

By the time they had covered half a kilometre, darkness surrounded them, and the noise of firing still came from behind. The last two Lapps were putting up a strong fight, but Bond knew it would only be a matter of time, and a great deal depended on Kolya Mosolov’s strength. Would he try to follow on high-powered scooters? Or, as a tactician, would the Russian prefer to spray the valley with fire?

The answer came as they neared the valley floor, with three or four kilometres of hard riding to go before they reached the far slope and the safety of the trees. Above the engine noise Bond detected a sound high above them. Then the terrain was lit by a parachute flare, throwing an eerie, dazzling light across the packed snow and ice.

‘Is it safe to zig-zag?’ he yelled in Paula’s ear, thinking of the minefields.

She turned her head back, shouting, ‘We’ll soon find out,’ hauling on the handlebars so that they slewed violently sideways, just as Bond heard the ominous crack of bullets breaking the air to their left. Again Paula heaved the handlebars, working with a strength drawn from those hidden reserves people find in desperate moments. The scooter skidded and swerved, sometimes zig-zagging, then moving broadside on, then straight, with throttle wide open.

The first flare was dying, but the bullets still cracked around them, and twice Bond watched the long, almost lazy lines of tracer falling in front of them – reds and greens – first left, and then to their right.

They both automatically crouched low on the scooter, and Bond felt an odd sense of mingled anger and frustration. It took him a moment to detect the cause, then he realised his instincts had been to stay on the Russian side of the ridge and fight Kolya Mosolov instead of running. His head buzzed with the old jingle, ‘He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day’. But it was not natural to Bond’s character to run from a fight. Deep inside him, though, he was aware that it was necessary. Both Paula and he had a job to complete – to return safely – and this was their only chance.

The tracer still kept coming, even though the flare had gone out. Then another small explosion heralded a second flare, and this time the guns ceased firing. Instead came the terrifying noise of a fast-approaching express train: at least that was what it sounded like until the mortar bomb landed, well behind and to their left. It made a solid, ear-ringing crump, followed by a second and third: all behind them.

Paula was taking the Yamaha to its limit, still using avoiding action, but relying on the straight runs for speed. There were moments, as Bond clung to her, when he thought they would leave the ground completely.

The screech of mortar bombs came again; this time to their right and ahead – three violent orange flashes played havoc with the eyesight in the dark, the dazzling after-flash lingering on the retina.

The thing that worried Bond most, was the placing of the mortar bombs. First they had fallen behind; now they were in front. It meant only one thing: that Kolya’s men were bracketing their target. Chances were that the next bombs would fall at least level with them, unless Paula could outrun the range: she was certainly doing her best: throttle wide open, the Yamaha skimming ice and snow, flat out.

Through the white gloom, the far rise – into the trees and Finland – was already becoming visible.

There was one more nasty moment as they heard the distant thump, and the hiss of falling bombs for the last time. But Paula’s burst of speed had given them the lead. There were half a dozen explosions this time, but all were behind, and well off line. Unless the scooter hit a mine – and there had already been plenty of opportunity to do that – they would make it.

While Paula and Bond were making their desperate dash for the Finnish border, two men climbed from the rocks to the left of the flaming ruins of von Glöda’s Ice Palace. There was no one to observe them in the gathering dusk.

Since the horrors of that morning’s attack, the men had worked frantically in the only tiny fragment of the bunker that had remained, miraculously, intact – one steel and concrete pen housing a small, grey Cessna 150 Commuter, with ski attachments on its tricycle undercarriage. As the light failed, so they finally managed to swing the buckled doors free.

The aircraft seemed undamaged, though the runway ahead had been gutted and strewn with débris. The taller of the men gave a few friendly instructions to his companion, who had worked so hard. Willingly, the man trudged out on to the runway, shifting what he could, clearing a few hundred yards of makeshift pathway in front of the Cessna.

The plane’s engine started with a sporadic cough, then settled down to warm into its comfortable hum.

The other figure returned, climbed in beside the taller man, and the little aircraft gingerly moved forward, as though its pilot were testing the strength of the runway beneath him. Then the pilot turned to his companion, giving him the thumbs-up sign, and pushed down the flap control to give maximum lift. A second later, he gently opened the throttle. The engine rose to maximum revolutions, and the Cessna bumped forward, gathering speed, the pilot craning, slewing the aircraft from side to side to avoid the worst sections of the runway. With a bump, the Cessna hit a short, straight patch of ice, seemed to snatch at an extra few kph of ground speed, and began to skim the rough surface.

Trees loomed ahead of them, growing taller by the second. The pilot felt that moment of response from his craft as the weight transferred safely to the wings. Gently he eased back on the yoke. The Cessna’s nose came up. She seemed to hesitate for a second, then thrust forward, balanced only a short distance from the ground but gaining airspeed with every second. The pilot eased back a little more, his right hand pushing the throttle fully open, then winding back on the trim to give the aircraft a shade more weight in the tail. The propeller grabbed at the sky. The nose fell slightly, then the propeller grabbed again, clawed at the air and sent it barrelling back over the flying surfaces until the small plane was stable, nose up and climbing. They cleared the top of the fir trees by a matter of inches.

Count Konrad von Glöda smiled, set a course, and headed the Cessna towards his next goal. This day might have been a defeat, even a crushing one, but he was not through yet. There were men, legions of men, waiting to come under his command. But first, there was one score to be settled. Gratefully, he nodded at the craggy face of Hans Buchtman, whom Bond had known as ‘Bad’ Brad Tirpitz.

Paula and Bond reached the Hotel Revontuli at two o’clock in the morning, and Bond went straight to the Saab to send a carefully worded cipher back to M. When he got to Reception there was a note waiting for him. It read:

We are in suite No. 5, my darling James. Can we sleep in please, and not leave for Helsinki until the afternoon? All love, Paula.

P.S. I’m not really all that tired at the moment, and have ordered champagne and some of this hotel’s rather excellent smoked salmon.

With a certain amount of satisfaction, Bond remembered Paula’s hidden delights and particular expertise. Spryly he walked to the lift.