Icebreaker

20

DESTINY

James Bond dreamed. It was a dream he often experienced: sun, and a beach, which he recognised only too well as the seafront at Royale-les-Eaux. It was the five-mile promenade as it used to be, of course, not the garish package-tour resort it had since become. In Bond’s dream, life and time stood still, and this was the place he remembered from both childhood and his younger years. A band played. The tricolour beds of salvia, alyssum and lobelia bloomed in a riot of colour. And it was warm, and he was happy.

The dream often came when he was happy; and that night had certainly brought happiness. Together Bond and Paula had escaped from the clutches of Kolya Mosolov, made their way to Helsinki, and there – well, things had gone even better than they themselves expected.

Paula returned from the bathroom dressed only in a see-through nightdress, her body glowing and her scent as seductive as Bond had ever known it.

Before showering, Bond tapped out a call to London – a number reserved especially for taped messages from M. If there was anything new – in answer to the cipher sent from the Saab at Salla – he would hear it now. Sure enough, M’s voice was on the line: a brief double-talk message which came quite near to congratulating Bond, and also confirmed that Paula was known to be working for SUPO. There could, Bond thought, be no more surprises.

Paula had taken the initiative, making love to him as a kind of hors d’œuvre; then, after a short rest, during which Paula talked and laughed about their brush with disaster, Bond started where she had left off.

Now there was peace, safety and warmth. Warmth, except for a cold spot developing on his neck, behind the ear. Still half asleep, Bond brushed at the cold spot. His hand came into contact with something hard, and vaguely unpleasant. His eyes snapped open and he felt the cold object pressed against his neck. Gone was Royale-les-Eaux, replaced with uncompromising reality.

‘Just sit up quietly, Mr Bond.’

Bond turned his head to see Kolya Mosolov stepping away from him. A heavy Stetchkin – made even more bulky by a silencer fitted around the barrel – pointed, out of reach, at Bond’s throat.

‘How . . . ?’ Bond began. Then, thinking of Paula, he turned to see her sound asleep beside him.

Mosolov laughed – a chuckle, almost out of character; but Kolya was a man of so many voices. ‘Don’t worry about Paula,’ he said, soft and confident. ‘You must have both been very tired. I managed to deal with the lock, administer a small injection, and move around without disturbing either of you.’

Bond cursed silently. This was so unlike him, to drop his guard and allow sleep to take over completely. He had done everything else. He even recalled sweeping the room for electronics the moment they arrived.

‘What kind of an injection?’ Trying not to sound concerned.

‘She’ll sleep peacefully for six or seven hours. Enough time for us to do what has to be done.’

‘Which is?’

Mosolov made a motion with the Stetchkin. ‘Get dressed. There’s a job I have to see completed. After that we’re going on a little journey. I even have a brand new passport for you – just to be certain. We leave Helsinki by car, then helicopter, and later there’ll be a jet waiting. By the time Paula can alert anyone, we’ll be well on our way.’

Bond shrugged. There was little he could do, though his hand moved unobtrusively to the pillow, under which he had placed the P7 before finally going to sleep. Kolya Mosolov reached inside his padded jacket, which he wore open, to show Bond the P7 tucked into his waistband. ‘I thought it safer – for me, that is.’

Bond put his feet on the floor. He looked up at the Russian. ‘You don’t give up easily, do you, Mosolov?’

‘My future rests on taking you in.’

‘Dead or alive, it would seem.’ Bond got to his feet.

‘Preferably alive. The business at the frontier was exceptionally worrying in that respect. But now I can finish what was started.’

‘I don’t understand it.’ Bond began to move towards the chair on which his clothes were folded. ‘Your people could have had me at any time in the past few years. Why now?’

‘Just get dressed.’

Bond began to do as he was told, but continued to talk. ‘Tell me why, Kolya. Tell me why now?’

‘Because the time is right. Moscow’s wanted you for years. There was a period when they wanted you dead. Now, things have changed. I’m glad you survived. I admit to using bad judgment in letting our troops fire on you – the heat of the moment, you understand.’

Bond grunted.

‘Now, as I said, things have changed.’ Mosolov continued. ‘We wish simply to verify certain information. First we’ll do a chemical interrogation, to clean you out. Then we’ll have a nice little asset to exchange. You’ve got a couple of our people who’ve done sterling work at General Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham. In due course an exchange will be arranged, I’m sure.’

‘Is that why Moscow went along with all this in the first place? The games played with von Glöda and his crazies?’

‘Oh, partly.’ Kolya Mosolov jerked his pistol. ‘Look, just get on with it. There’s another job to be done before we leave Helsinki.’

Bond climbed into his ski pants. ‘Partly, Kolya? Partly? Bit of an expensive operation, wasn’t it? Just to get me – and you damned near killed me doing it.’

‘Playing along with von Glöda’s wild schemes helped get rid of other small embarrassments.’

‘Like Blue Hare?’

‘Blue Hare, and other things. Von Glöda’s death is a foregone conclusion.’

‘Is?’ Bond looked up sharply.

Kolya Mosolov nodded. ‘Amazing, really. Wasn’t that some display our ground attack boys gave? You wouldn’t have thought anybody could survive. Yet von Glöda managed to get out.’

Bond found it difficult to believe. Certainly M had not known. He asked where the would-be leader of the Fourth Reich was now hiding.

‘He’s here.’ Mosolov spoke as though the information were obvious. ‘In Helsinki. Regrouping, as he would say. Reorganising. Ready to start all over again, unless he is stopped. I have to do the stopping. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, if von Glöda were allowed to continue his operations.’

Bond was now almost dressed. ‘You’re taking me out – back to Russia. You also intend to deal with von Glöda?’ He adjusted the collar of his rollneck.

‘Oh yes. You’re part of my plan, Mr Bond. I also have to get rid of friend von Glöda, or Aarne Tudeer, or whatever he wishes to call himself on his tombstone. The timing is good . . .’

‘What is the time?’ Bond asked.

Kolya, always the professional, did not even glance at his watch. ‘About seven forty-five in the morning. As I was saying, the timing is good. You see, von Glöda has some of his own people here, in Helsinki. He leaves for London, via Paris, this morning. I gather the madman imagines he can stage some kind of rally in London. There’s also the question of an NSAA agent being held by your Service, I think. Naturally, he wants to take his revenge on you, Bond. So, I consider it best to offer you as a target. He cannot resist that.’

‘Hardly,’ Bond answered crisply. Already he had felt a tidal wave of depression sluice over him at the thought of von Glöda being still alive. Now he was to be used as bait – not for the first time since all this began. Bond’s whole spirit revolted against the idea. There had to be a way. If anyone was going to get von Glöda, it would be Bond.

Mosolov was still speaking. ‘Von Glöda’s flight leaves at nine. It would be a nice touch if James Bond were to be seated in his own car, outside Vantaa Airport. That very fact should lure Comrade von Glöda from the departure building. He will not know that I have my own ways – old-fashioned perhaps – of making certain that you will sit quietly in the car: handcuffs, another small injection, a little different to the one I gave Paula.’ He nodded towards the bed where Paula still slept soundly.

‘You’re mad.’ Though he said it, Bond knew he was the one person whose presence could lure von Glöda. ‘How would you do it?’

Mosolov’s smile was sly now. ‘Your motor car, Mr Bond. It’s fitted with a rather special telephone, I believe?’

‘Not many people know about that.’ Bond was genuinely annoyed that Mosolov had found out about the telephone. He wondered what else the Russian knew.

‘Well, I do, and I have the details. The base unit for your car telephone needs to go through an ordinary phone, linking the system to that of the country in which you operate. For instance, the base unit can be fitted to the phone in this room. All we do is wire in your base unit here, and drive out to the airport. By the time we get there you will be handcuffed, and unable to move. But, just before we arrive, I use the car phone, call the information desk, and ask them to page von Glöda. He will receive a message – that Mr James Bond is outside, in the car park, alone and incapacitated. I think I could even leave the message in Paula’s name; she wouldn’t mind. When von Glöda comes out, I shall be near him.’ He patted the silenced Stetchkin. ‘With a weapon like this, people will think it’s a heart attack – at least to begin with. By the time they get to the truth we shall be well away. I already have another car standing by. It will all be very quick.’

‘No chance. You’ll never get away with it,’ Bond said aloud, though he knew there was every possibility of Mosolov getting away with it. This was the cool, audacious act which so often works. But Bond grasped at a straw. Mosolov had made one error – that of believing the Saab’s telephone required a base unit fitted to the main phone system. This would be a local call, and the electronics in the car had an operating range of around twenty-five miles. An error like this one was just what Bond needed.

‘So,’ Kolya hefted the Stetchkin in his hand, ‘just give me the car keys. We’ll go together. You can tell me how to get at the base unit.’

Bond pretended to think for a full minute. Mosolov repeated.

‘You have no alternative.’

‘You’re right,’ Bond said at last, ‘I have no alternative. I resent coming to Moscow with you, Mosolov, but I am also anxious to see von Glöda out of the way. Getting the base unit’s a tricky business. There are various routines I have to go through with the locks to the hiding place, but you can have me covered all the time. I’m ready. Why don’t we do it now, straight away?’

Kolya nodded, glanced at the prostrate Paula, then thrust the Stetchkin inside his jacket. He gestured for Bond to take out the car keys and the key to the room, then to go on ahead of him.

All the way down the corridor, Mosolov stayed a good three paces behind Bond. In the lift, he remained in one corner – as far away as possible. The Russian was well-trained, no doubt about that. One move from Bond and the Stetchkin would make its muffled pop, leaving 007 with a gaping hole in his guts. They went down to the car park, heading for the Saab. About three paces from the car Bond turned.

‘I have to take the keys from my pocket. Okay?’

Kolya said nothing, just nodded, moving the big pistol inside his coat to remind Bond it was there. Bond took the keys, his eyes darting around. Nobody else was in the car park, not a soul in sight. Ice crunched under his feet, and he felt the sweat trickle down from his armpits inside the warm clothing. It was fully light.

They reached the car. Bond unlocked the driver’s door, then turned back to Kolya. ‘I have to switch the ignition on – not fire the engine, just put on the electrics to operate the lock,’ he said.

Again Kolya nodded and Bond leaned across the driver’s seat, inserted the key into the ignition, and told Kolya he would have to sit in the driver’s seat to open the telephone compartment. Once more Kolya nodded. Bond felt the eye of the automatic pistol boring through the Russian’s jacket, and knew that surprise and speed were his only allies now.

Almost casually, Bond pressed the square black button on the dashboard, while his left hand dropped into position. There was a tiny hiss of gas, as the hydraulics opened the hidden compartment. A second later the big Ruger Redhawk dropped into his left hand.

Trained to use weapons with both hands, urged on by speed, Bond’s body turned only slightly, the flash of the Magnum cartridge burning his trousers and jacket as he fired almost before the big revolver was clear of its hiding place.

Kolya Mosolov knew nothing. One minute he was ready to squeeze the trigger of the silenced Stetchkin, hidden under his coat; the next moment a blinding flash, a fractional pain, then darkness and the long oblivion.

The bullet lifted the Russian from his feet, catching him just below the throat, almost ripping head from body. His heels scraped the ice as he slid back, turning as he hit the ground, and sliding a good one and a half metres after he had fallen.

But Bond saw none of that. The moment he fired, so his right hand slammed the door closed. The Redhawk went back into its compartment, and the key was fully twisted in the ignition. The Saab burst into life, and Bond’s hand moved with calm, expert confidence – pushing the button to close the compartment housing the Redhawk. He slid the gear lever into first, clipped on his inertia reel seatbelt, released the brake, and smoothly moved away as his fingers adjusted the hot air controls and the rear window heater. As he pulled away, Bond got the merest glimpse of what remained of the Russian: a small huddle on the ice, and a swelling pool of crimson. He swerved the car on to the Mannerheimintie, joining the sparse traffic heading for the Vantaa Airport road.

Once settled into the road pattern, Bond reached down and activated the radio telephone – which had proved to be Kolya Mosolov’s fatal mistake. This was a simple local call, needing no base unit, for the resident agent, under whose control Bond officially worked, should be at a number situated less than ten miles from where the Saab sped towards the airport.

Bond punched out the number, by feel rather than looking down, for his eyes had to be everywhere now. In the handset he heard the number buzz at the far end. The buzzing continued, unanswered. In some ways Bond was pleased. The resident was away from his phone, but at least Bond had gone through the official motions.

He drove with care, watching his speed, for the Finnish police are extremely vigilant when it comes to the breaking of the speed limit. The clock on Bond’s dashboard, which had been adjusted to Helsinki time, said five minutes past eight. He would be at Vantaa by eight-thirty all right – possibly just in time to catch up with von Glöda.

The airport was crowded, like any other international terminal, when Bond entered. He had parked the Saab in an easily accessible place, and now carried the awkward Ruger Redhawk inside his jacket, the long barrel pushed into the waistband of his trousers and twisted sideways. Never, the training schools taught, imitate the movies and shove a gun barrel straight down inside your trouser leg; always turn it to one side. If there should be an accident, straight down would mean losing part of your foot, if you were lucky. An unlucky man would lose what one instructor insisted on calling his ‘wedding tackle’ – a term Bond thought oddly vulgar. Twist the weapon sideways, by the butt, and you would get a burn, though the unfortunate person beside you would catch the bullet.

The big clock in International Departures stood at two minutes to eight-thirty.

Moving very fast, elbowing through the throng, Bond made the information desk and asked about the nine o’clock flight to Paris. The girl hardly looked up. The nine o’clock was Flight AY 873 via Brussels. They would not be calling it for another fifteen minutes as there was a catering delay.

As yet there was no need to put out a call for von Glöda, Bond decided. If the man’s colleagues were around to see him off, there would still be a chance to corner him on this side of the terminal. If not, then Bond would simply have to bluff to get him back from the air-side.

Keeping behind as much cover as possible, Bond edged his way past the kiosks, trying to position himself near the passage on the extreme left of the complex which led to passport control and the air-side lounges.

At the far end of this section of the departure area, set in front of high windows, was a coffee shop – separated from the main complex by a low, flimsy trellis barrier covered with imitation flowers. To the left of it, very close to where Bond now stood, was the passport control section, each of its little booths occupied by an official.

Bond started to look at faces, searching through the crowds for von Glöda. Departing passengers were constantly moving through passport control, while the coffee shop was crowded with travellers, mainly seated at low, round tables.

Then quite unexpectedly – almost out of the corner of his eye – Bond saw his quarry: von Glöda rising from one of the coffee shop tables.

The would-be heir to Adolf Hitler’s ruined empire appeared to be just as well-organised in Helsinki as he had been at the Ice Palace. His clothes were immaculate, and even in the grey civilian greatcoat, the man had a military look about him – a straightness of back and a bearing that singled him out from the ordinary. No wonder, Bond thought momentarily, that Tudeer imagined the world was his destiny.

He was surrounded by six men, all smartly dressed – each one of them looking like an ex-soldier. Mercenaries, perhaps? Von Glöda spoke to them in a low voice, punctuating his words with quick movements of the hands. It took Bond a second or two to realise the movements were similar to those of the late Adolf Hitler himself.

The radio announcement system clicked and played its little warning jingle. They were about to announce the Paris flight, Bond was certain. Von Glöda cocked his head to listen, but he’d also apparently decided, before the jingle finished, that it was his flight. Solemnly he shook hands with each of his men in turn and looked around for his hand baggage.

Bond moved closer to the trelliswork. There were too many people in the coffee shop to risk taking von Glöda there, he decided. The best place would be as the man walked clear of the coffee shop towards passport control.

Still maintaining cover among the constantly changing throng, Bond edged to the left. Von Glöda appeared to be looking around him, as if alerted to some danger.

The jingle died away, and the voice of the announcer came from the myriad speakers – unusually loud and clear, almost unbearably so. Bond felt his stomach churn. He stopped in his tracks, eyes never leaving von Glöda, who also stiffened, his face changing at the words:

‘Would Mr James Bond please come to the Information Desk on the second floor?’

They were on the second floor. Bond quickly looked around, eyes searching for the Information Desk, aware that von Glöda was also turning. The voice repeated, ‘Mr James Bond, please go to the Information Desk.’

Von Glöda turned fully. Both he and Bond must have spotted the figure, standing by the Information Desk, at roughly the same moment – Hans Buchtman, whom Bond had first known as Brad Tirpitz. As their eyes met, so Buchtman moved towards Bond, his mouth opening, words floating, lost in the general noise and bustle.

For an instant, von Glöda stared at Buchtman, scowling, incredulous. Then, at last, he saw Bond.

The whole scene appeared to be frozen for a split second. Then von Glöda said something to his companions. They began to scatter as von Glöda grabbed for his cabin baggage and started to move quickly from the coffee shop.

Bond stepped into the open in an attempt to cut him off, aware of Buchtman elbowing his way through the crowd. Bond’s hand touched the Redhawk’s butt as Buchtman’s words finally reached his ears: ‘No! No, Bond! No, we want him alive!’

I’ll bet you do, Bond thought, as he hauled on the Redhawk, closing towards von Glöda who was crossing in front of him, moving rapidly. There was no stopping Bond now. ‘Halt, Tudeer!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll never make the flight. Stop now!’

People began to scream, and Bond – only a few paces from von Glöda – realised that the leader of the National Socialist Action Army held a Luger pistol low in his right hand, half screened by the small case in his left.

Bond still hauled on the Redhawk, which would not come free from his waistband. Again he shouted, glancing back to see that Buchtman was bearing down on him from behind, thrusting people out of his path. In the midst of the panic erupting around him, Bond heard von Glöda shouting hysterically as he turned full on towards Bond.

‘They didn’t get me yesterday,’ von Glöda yelled. ‘This is proof of my mission. Proof of my destiny.’

As though in answer, the barrel of the Redhawk came free. Von Glöda’s hand rose, the Luger pointing towards Bond, who dropped to one knee, extending his arm and the Redhawk. Von Glöda’s hand and the Luger filled Bond’s vision as he called again, ‘It’s over, von Glöda. Don’t be a fool.’

Then the spurt of flame from the Luger’s barrel, and Bond’s own finger squeezing twice on the Redhawk’s trigger.

The explosions were simultaneous, and a great hand seemed to fling Bond sideways. The passport control booths spun in front of him and he sprawled across the floor while von Glöda twisted and reared like a wounded stag, still screaming, ‘Destiny . . . Destiny . . . Destiny . . .’

Bond couldn’t understand why he was on the ground. Vaguely he caught sight of a passport control officer diving for shelter behind his booth. Then, still sprawling, he had the Redhawk zeroed in on von Glöda, who seemed to be trying to aim again with his Luger. Bond squeezed off another shot, and von Glöda dropped the Luger, then took one step back as his head disappeared in a thick red mist.

It was only now that pain began to overtake Bond. He felt very tired. Someone held his shoulders. There was a lot of noise. Then a voice: ‘Couldn’t be helped, Jimmy. You got the bastard. All over now. They’ve sent for an ambulance. You’ll be okay.’

The voice was saying more than that, but the light ebbed away from Bond’s eyes, and all sound disappeared, as though someone had deliberately turned down the volume.