Icebreaker

3

KNIVES FOR DINNER

After a warm shower and shave, Bond dressed carefully. It was pleasant to get back into a well-cut grey gaberdine suit, plain blue Coles shirt, and one of his favourite Jacques Fath knitted ties. Even in the depths of winter, the hotels and good restaurants of Helsinki prefer gentlemen to wear ties.

The Heckler & Koch P7, which now replaced the heavier VP70, lay comfortably in its spring-clip holster under the left armpit,and to stave off the raw cold, Bond reached the hotel foyer wearing his Crombie British Warm. It gave him a military air – especially with the fur headgear – but that always proved an advantage in Scandinavian countries.

The taxi bowled steadily south, down the Mannerheimintie. Snow was neatly piled off the main pavements, and the trees bowed under its weight, some decorated – as though for Christmas – with long icicles festooning the branches. Near the National Museum, with its sharp tower fingering the sky, one tree seemed to crouch like a white cowled monk clutching a glittering dagger.

Over all, through the clear frost, Bond could glimpse the dominating floodlit domes of the Upensky Cathedral – the Great Church – and knew, immediately, why film-makers used Helsinki when they wanted location shots of Moscow.

The two cities are really as unlike one another as desert and jungle – the modern buildings of the Finnish capital being designed and executed with flair and beauty, in contrast to the ugly cloned monsters of Moscow. It is in the older sections of both cities that the mirror image becomes uncanny – in the side streets and small squares, where houses lean in on one another, and the ornate façades are reminders of what Moscow once was, in the good old, bad old days of tsars, princes and inequality. Now, Bond thought, they simply had the Politburo, Commissars, the KGB and . . . inequality.

Paula lived in an apartment building overlooking the Esplanade Park, at the south-easterly end of the Mannerheimintie. It was a part of the city Bond had never visited before, so his arrival was one of surprise and delight.

The park itself is a long, landscaped strip running between the houses. There were signs that in summer it would be an idyllic spot with trees, rock gardens, and paths. Now, in mid-winter, the Esplanade Park took on a new, original function. Artists of varied ages and ability had turned the place into an open-air gallery of snow sculpture. From the fresh snow of recent days there rose shapes and figures lovingly created earlier in winter: abstract masses; pieces so delicate you would imagine they could only be carved from wood, or worked at with patience in metal. Jagged aggression stood next to the contemplative curves of peace, while animals – naturalistic or only suggested in angular blocks – squared up to one another, or bared empty winter mouths towards hurrying passers-by, huddled and furred against the cold.

The cab pulled up almost opposite a life-sized work of a man and woman entwined in an embrace from which only the warmth of spring could separate them.

Around the park, the buildings were mainly old, with a few modern edifices looking like new buffer states bridging gaps in living history.

For no logical reason, Bond had imagined that Paula would live in a new and shining apartment block. Instead, he found her address to be a house four storeys high, with shuttered windows and fresh green paint, decorated by blossoms of snow hanging like window-box flowers, and frosted along the scrollwork and gutters, as though December vandals had taken spray cans to the most available parts.

Two curved, half-timbered gables divided the house, which had a single entrance, glass-panelled and unlocked. Just inside the door, a row of metal mailboxes signified who lived where, the personal cards in tiny frames. The hallway and stairs were bare of carpet, and the smell of good polish mingled now with tantalising cooking fragrances.

Paula lived on the third floor – 3A – and Bond, slipping the buttons on his British Warm, began to make his way up the stairs. At each landing he noted two doors, to left and right, solid and well-built, with bell-pushes and the twins of the framed cards on the mailboxes set below them.

At the third turning of the stairs he saw Paula Vacker’s name elegantly engraved on a business card under the bell for 3A. Out of curiosity, Bond glanced at 3B. Its occupant was a Major A. Nyblin. He pictured a retired army man holed up with military paintings, books on strategy and the war novels – such a going concern in Finnish publishing – keeping memories alive of those three Wars of Independence in which the nation fought against Russia: first against the Revolution; then against invasion; and, finally, cheek by jowl with the Wehrmacht.

Bond pressed Paula’s bell, hard and long, then stood square to the small spy-hole visible in the door’s centre panel. From the inside came the rattle of a chain, then the door opened, and there she was, dressed in a long silk robe fastened loosely with a tie belt. The same Paula, inviting and as attractive as ever.

Bond saw her lips move, as though trying to speak words of welcome. In that instant he realised that this was not the same Paula. Her cheeks were drained white, one hand trembled on the door. Deep in the grey-flecked eyes was the unmistakable flicker of fear.

Intuition, they taught in Service training, is something you learn through experience: you are not born with it, like an extra sense.

Loudly Bond said, ‘It’s only me from over the sea’, at the same time sticking one foot forward, the side of his shoe against the door. ‘Glad I came?’ As he spoke, Bond grabbed Paula by the shoulder with his left hand, spinning her, pulling her on to the landing. His right hand had already gone for the automatic. In less than three seconds, Paula was against the wall near Major Nyblin’s door, while Bond had sidestepped into the apartment, the Heckler & Koch out and ready.

There were two of them. A small runt, with a thin, pockmarked face was to Bond’s left, flat against the inside wall, where he had been covering Paula with a revolver which looked like a Charter Arms Undercover .38 Special. At the far side of the room – there was no hallway – a large man with oversized hands and the face of a failed boxer stood poised beside a beautiful chrome and leather chair-and-sofa suite. His distinguishing features included a nose which looked like a very advanced carbuncle. He carried no visible weapon.

The runt’s gun came up to Bond’s left, and the boxer began to move. Bond went for the gun. The big Heckler & Koch seemed to move only fractionally in Bond’s hand as it clipped down, with force, on to the runt’s wrist. The revolver spun away, and there was a yelp of pain above the sharp crack of bone.

Keeping the Heckler & Koch pointing towards the larger man, Bond used his left arm to spin the runt in front of him like a shield. At the same time, Bond brought his knee up hard. The little gunman crumpled, his good hand flailing ineffectually to protect his groin. He squeaked like a pig and squirmed at Bond’s feet.

The larger of the two seemed undeterred by the gun, which indicated either great courage or mental deficiency. A Heckler & Koch could, at this range, blow away a high percentage of human being.

Bond stepped over the body of the runt, kicking back with his right heel. Raising the automatic, arms outstretched, Bond shouted at his advancing adversary, ‘Stop, or you’re a dead man.’ It was more of a command than a warning; for Bond’s finger was already tightening on the trigger.

The one with the carbuncle nose did not do as he was told. Instead he suggested, in bad Russian, that Bond commit incest with his female parent.

Bond hardly saw him swerve. The man was better than he had estimated, and very fast. As he slewed, Bond moved to follow him with the automatic. Only then did he feel the sharp, unnatural pain in his right shoulder.

For a second, the blossom of agony took Bond off balance. His arms dropped, and Carbuncle-nose’s foot came up. Bond realised that you cannot be right about people all the time. This was a live one, the real thing – a killer, trained, accurate, and experienced.

Together with this knowledge, Bond was conscious of three things going on simultaneously: the pain in his shoulder; the gun being kicked from his hand – the weapon flying away to hit the wall – and, behind him, the whimpering of the runt, decreasing in volume as he made his escape down the stairs.

Carbuncle-nose was closing fast, one shoulder dropped, the body sideways.

Bond took a quick step back and to his right, against the wall. As he moved, he spotted what had caused the pain in his shoulder. Embedded in the door’s lintel was an eight-inch knife with a horn grip and a blade curving away towards the point. It was a skinning knife, like those used to great effect by the Lapps when separating the carcase of a reindeer from its hide.

Grabbing upwards, Bond’s fingers closed around the grip. His shoulder now felt numb with pain. He crabbed quickly to one side, with the knife firmly in his right hand, blade upwards, thumb and forefinger to the front of the grip in the fighting hold. Always, they taught, use the thrust position, never hold a knife with the thumb on the back. Never defend with a knife; always attack.

Bond turned, square on, toward Carbuncle-nose, knees bending, one foot forward for balance in the classic knife-fighting posture.

Carbuncle-nose was familiar with the rules, but it did slow him down. Bond figured him as a knifeman who did not know much about guns. He certainly had knives taped: there was a similar weapon now in the large right hand. Legerdemain.

‘What was it you said about my mother?’ Bond growled, in better Russian than his adversary.

Carbuncle-nose grinned, showing stained teeth. ‘Now we see, Mr Bond.’

They circled one another, Bond kicking away a small stand chair, giving the pair a wider fighting arena. Carbuncle-nose began to toss his knife from hand to hand, light on his feet, moving all the time, tightening the circle. It was a well-known confusion tactic: keep your man guessing and lure him in close, then strike.

Come on, Bond thought, come on; in; closer; come to me. Carbuncle-nose was doing just that, oblivious of the danger of winding the spiral too tightly. Bond kept his eyes locked with those of the big man, his senses tuned to the enemy knife as it glinted, arcing from hand to hand, the grip slapping the palm with a firm thump on each exchange.

The end came suddenly and fast.

Carbuncle-nose inched nearer to Bond, continuing to toss the knife between his hands. Bond stepped in abruptly, his right leg lunging out in a fencing thrust, the foot midway between his antagonist’s feet. At the same moment, Bond tossed his knife from right to left. Then he feinted, as though returning the knife to his right hand as his opponent would have expected.

The moment was there. Bond saw the big man’s eyes move slightly in the direction in which the knife should be travelling. There was a split second when Carbuncle-nose was uncertain. Bond’s left hand rose two inches, then flashed out and down. There was the ringing clash of steel against steel.

Carbuncle-nose had been in the act of tossing his knife between hands. Bond’s blade caught the weapon in mid-air, smashing it to the floor. In an automatic reflex, the big man went down, his hand reaching after his knife. Bond’s knife drove upwards.

The big man straightened up very quickly, making a grunting noise. His hand went to his cheek, which Bond’s knife had opened into an ugly red canyon from ear to jaw-line. With another fast, upward strike from Bond, the knife slit the protective hand. This time, Carbuncle-nose gave a roar of mingled pain and anger.

Bond did not want to kill – not in Finland, not in these circumstances. But he could not leave it like this. The big man’s eyes went wide with disbelief and fear as Bond again moved in. The knife flicked up again, twice, leaving a jagged slash on the other cheek and removing an ear lobe.

Carbuncle-nose had obviously had enough. He stumbled to one side and made for the door, breath rasping. Bond decided the man had more intelligence than he had originally thought.

The pain returned to Bond’s shoulder and with it a sensation of giddiness. He had no intention of following the would-be assailant, whose stumbling, falling footsteps could be heard on the wooden stairs.

‘James?’ Paula had come back into the room. ‘What shall I do? Call the police, or . . . ?’ She looked frightened, her face drained of colour. Bond thought he probably didn’t look so hot either.

‘No. No, we don’t want the police, Paula.’ He sank into the nearest chair. ‘Close the door, put the chain on, and take a look out of the window.’

Everything seemed to withdraw around him. Surprisingly, he thought vaguely, Paula did as he asked. Usually she argued. You did not normally give orders to girls like Paula.

‘See anything?’ Bond’s own voice sounded far away.

‘There’s a car leaving. Cars parked. I can’t see any people . . .’

The room tilted, then came back into normal focus.

‘. . . James, your shoulder.’ He could smell her beside him. ‘Just tell me what happened, Paula. It’s important. How did they get in? What did they do?’

‘Your shoulder, James.’

He looked at it. The thick material of his British Warm had saved him from serious injury. Even so, the knife had razored through the epaulette, and blood seeped up through the cloth, leaving a dark, wet stain.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Bond repeated.

‘You’re wounded. I have to look at it.’

They compromised and Bond stripped to the waist. A nasty gash ran diagonally across his shoulder where the knife had cut half an inch deep into the fleshy parts. Using disinfectant, hot water, tape, and gauze, Paula cleaned and dressed the wound, telling her story at the same time. Outwardly she was calm, though Bond noticed how her hands shook slightly as she recounted what had happened.

The two killers had arrived only a couple of minutes before he himself rang the doorbell. ‘I was running a little late,’ she made a vague gesture, indicating the silky robe. ‘Stupid. I didn’t have the chain on, and just thought it was you. Didn’t even look through the spy-hole.’ The intruders had simply forced their way in, pushing her back into the room telling her what to do. They also described, in some detail, what they would do to her if she did not carry out instructions.

Bond considered that under the circumstances she had done the only thing possible. As far as he was concerned, however, there were questions that could be answered only through Service channels, which meant that, much as he might like to stay on in Finland, he must get back to London. For one thing, the very fact that the two men were inside Paula’s apartment only a few minutes before he arrived led him to think they had probably been waiting for his cab to stop in Esplanade Park.

‘Well, thanks for tipping me off at the door,’ Bond said, easing his now taped and dressed shoulder.

Paula gave a little pout. ‘I didn’t mean to tip you off. I was just plain frightened.’

‘Ah, you only acted frightened.’ Bond smiled at her, ‘I can tell when people are really frightened.’

She bent down, kissed him, then gave a little frown. ‘James, I’m still frightened. Scared stiff, if you really want to know. What about that gun, and the way you reacted? I thought you were just a senior civil servant.’

‘I am. Senior and very civil.’ He paused, ready to ask the important questions, but Paula moved across the room to retrieve the automatic pistol, which she nervously handed to him.

‘Will they come back?’ Paula asked. ‘Am I likely to be attacked again?’

‘Look,’ Bond said, spreading his hands, ‘for some reason a couple of hoodlums were after me. I really don’t know why. Yes, sometimes I do slightly dangerous jobs – hence the weaponry. But there’s no reason I can think of for those two having a go at me here, in Helsinki.’

He went on to say that he might find out the real answer in London and felt that Paula would be quite safe once he was out of the way. It was too late to catch the British Airways flight home that night, which meant waiting for the regular Finnair service, just after nine the next morning.

‘Bang goes our dinner.’ His smile was meant to look apologetic.

Paula said she had food in the house. They could eat there. Her voice had begun to quaver. Bond decided quickly that it would be best to start his questioning on the positive side before he tackled the really big problem: how did the would-be assassins know he was in Helsinki, and – particularly – how did they know he was visiting Paula?

‘Have you got a car near here, Paula?’ he began.

She had a car and a parking space outside.

‘I may well ask a favour of you later.’

‘I hope so.’ She gave him a brave, come-on smile.

‘Okay. Before we get down to that, there are more important things.’ Bond fired the obvious questions at her – rapid shooting, pressing her for fast return answers, not giving her time to avoid anything or think about replies.

Had she ever talked about him to friends, or colleagues, in Finland, since they had first met? Of course. Had she done the same in any other country? Yes. Could she remember the number of people to whom she had talked? She gave some names, obvious ones – close friends and people with whom she worked. Did she have any memory of other people being around when she had spoken about Bond? People she did not know? That was quite possible, but Paula could give no details.

Bond moved on to the most recent events. Had anyone been with her in the office when he had telephoned from the Inter-Continental? No. Was there any way the call could have been overhead? Possibly; someone could have been listening in at the switchboard. Had she spoken to anyone after the call – told anyone that he was in Helsinki, and picking her up at six-thirty? Only one person. ‘I was meeting a girl – a colleague from another department. We’d arranged to discuss some work over dinner.’

This woman’s name was Anni Tudeer, and Bond spent quite a long time getting facts about her. At last he lapsed into silence, stood up, crossed to the window and peered out, holding back the curtain.

Below, it looked bleak and a little sinister, the white frozen sculptures throwing shadows across the layer of frost on the ground. Two small fur bundles scuffed their way along the pavement opposite. There were several cars parked in the street. Two of them would have been ideal for surveillance: the angle at which they were parked gave good sight-lines to the front door. Bond thought he could detect movement in one of them but decided to put it out of his mind until the time came. He returned to his chair.

‘Is the interrogation over?’ Paula asked.

‘That wasn’t an interrogation.’ Bond took out the familiar gunmetal case, offering her one of his Simmons specials. ‘One day, maybe, I’ll show you an interrogation. Remember I said I may have to ask a favour?’

‘Ask, and it’ll be given.’

There was luggage at the hotel, Bond told her, and he had to get to the airport. Could he stay in her flat until about four in the morning, then drive himself to the hotel in her car, pay the bill and get out ‘clean’, before going on to the airport? ‘I can arrange for your car to be brought back here.’

‘You’re not driving anywhere, James.’ She sounded stubbornly serious. ‘You’ve got a nasty wound in your shoulder. It’s going to need treatment, sooner or later. Yes, you stay here until four in the morning; then I’ll drive you to the hotel and the airport. But why so early? The flight doesn’t leave until after nine. You could make a booking from here.’

Once more, Bond reiterated that she wouldn’t really be safe until he was out of her company. ‘If I get to the airport in the early hours you’ll be rid of me. Also, I’ll have the advantage. There are ways of positioning yourself in a place like an airport concourse so that nobody can give you nasty surprises. And I’m not using your telephone for obvious reasons.’

She agreed, but remained adamant that she would do the driving. Paula being Paula, Bond conceded.

‘You’re looking better.’ She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Drink?’

‘You know what I fancy.’

She went off into the kitchen and mixed a jug of his favourite martini. It was over three years ago, in London, that he had taught her the recipe – one which, because of certain publications, had become a standard with many people. After the first drink, the throbbing in his shoulder seemed less intense. With the second, Bond felt he was almost back to normal. ‘I love that robe.’ His mind began saying things to his body, and, wound or not, his body answered back.

‘Well,’ she gave a shy smile, ‘to tell you the truth, I’ve already got dinner organised here. I had no intention of going out. I was ready for you when those . . . when those brutes turned up. How’s the shoulder?’

‘Wouldn’t stop me playing chess, or any other indoor sport you might name.’

With a single movement she pulled the tie belt, and her robe fell open. ‘You said I knew what you fancy,’ she said lightly, then, ‘that is, if you feel up to it.’

‘Up to it is the way I feel,’ Bond replied.

It was almost midnight when they ate. Paula set a table with candles and produced a truly memorable meal: ptarmigan in aspic, glowfried salmon, and a delicious chocolate mousse. Then, at four in the morning, now dressed for the fierce cold of dawn, she allowed Bond to lead the way downstairs.

With the P7 unholstered, Bond used the shadows to creep into the street and make his way across the road, slick with ice, first to a Volvo, then an Audi. There was a man in the Volvo, asleep, his head back and mouth open, far away in whatever dreams bad surveillance men fall prey to during the night. The Audi was empty.

Bond signalled to Paula, who came, very sure-footed, across the pavement to her car. It started first time, the exhaust sending out thick clouds in the freezing air, and Paula drove with the skill of one used to taking a car through snow and ice for long periods each year. At the hotel, the pick-up and check-out went without a hitch; and there was no tail on them as Paula headed north towards Vantaa.

Officially Vantaa Airport is not open until seven in the morning, but there are always people about. At five o’clock it had that look you associate with the sour taste of too many cigarettes, constant coffee, and the, tiredness of waiting for night trains, or planes, anywhere in the world.

Bond would not let Paula linger. He assured her that he would ring from London as soon as possible and they kissed goodbye affectionately.

There were people sweeping the main departure concourse where Bond chose his spot. His shoulder was starting to throb again. Several stranded passengers tried to sleep in the deep, comfortable chairs and quite a number of police walked around in pairs, looking for trouble that never materialised.

Promptly at seven the place became alive. Already, Bond had taken up a stance at the Finnair desk, so as to be first in line. There was plenty of room on Finnair’s 831, due out at 9.10.

The snow began to fall around eight o’clock. It had become quite heavy by the time the big DC9–50 growled off the runway at 9.12. Helsinki quickly disappeared in a storm of white confetti, which soon gave way to a towering cloudscape below a brilliant blue sky.

At exactly 10.10, London time, the same aircraft flared out over the threshold of Heathrow’s runway 28 Left. The spoilers came in as they dumped lift, the whining Pratt & Whitney turbofans wailed into reverse thrust, and the aircraft’s speed was gradually killed off as the landing was completed.

An hour later, James Bond arrived at the tall building overlooking Regent’s Park which is the Headquarters of the Service. By this time his shoulder throbbed like a misplaced toothache, sweat dripped from his forehead, and he felt sick.