Man From Barbarossa

DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT

It started to snow as they reached Kalinina Prospect, taking the slip road off Suvorovsky Boulevard. Flakes the size of silver dollars drifted sluggishly through the night air. Some hung motionless, for there was hardly any wind. Within a few minutes it began to thicken. The traffic moved slowly and bundled-up people trudged along the pavements, badly wrapped parcels silhouetted against the lighted shop windows. The scene had all the makings of a Christmas card.

Lyko drove. He said the snow would not last long. ‘The blizzards are over for now. This means it’s a little warmer, so it probably won’t freeze again until the early hours. The city soon gets back to normal once the blizzards are gone.’

Hard dirty snow packed the gutters and was piled against buildings, leaving only two-thirds of the pavements clear.

Sitting in the back of the old, souped-up Zil, James Bond tried to make sense of the day. Since they left the dacha, he had immersed himself in everything he had seen and heard, his mind circling, buzzard-like, trying to pounce on one fact that made sense. The windshield wipers lazily pushed away the buildup of snow while the inside of the windows started to steam. Lyko swept his open hand across the glass, clearing a view for a few seconds. The road ahead looked bleak, rather than romantic. To Bond, everything looked bleak. He could make no sense of any part of the operation in which he and Natkowitz were engulfed. There was no shape, no form, no logic whichever way he looked at it.

When Stepakov had revealed that Natkowitz was an Israeli and an officer of the Mossad, Pete simply sat back and laughed at him, his face looking even more like that of a gentleman farmer in an English pub. You could almost see the phoney horse-brasses hanging around imitation Tudor beams.

Nicki had moved, blocking the door, his dark face threatening. Alex pushed his Tweedledum figure from the wall against which he had been leaning. Henri Rampart looked at his shoes as if displeased with their shine. The lovely Stephanie Adoré seemed to be posed for a glamorous photograph, her head cocked and one jewelled hand poised under her chin, while Nina Bibikova sat very still, her dark eyes fixed on Boris Stepakov.

‘Look, Bory, I’ve always had great respect for KGB. What makes you think, because my true name is Natkowitz, I’m the Mossad?’

Stepakov guffawed. ‘Because, Pete Natkowitz, your handwriting has been on a hundred operations carried out by the Mossad, some of them against KGB. I know you. I have your dossier. In the Mossad you’re as famous as Bond in his Service. Come on now. We know who you are, and I’m not going to become difficult about it. If the Israelis want to be in bed with the Brits, that’s none of my business. My business is splitting open the Chushi Pravosudia, finding out what makes it tick. I needed two agents from British SIS. I now find I really need three, two men and a woman, but we can provide the woman. I’m not concerned if SIS send us one officer and a member of the Mossad. It’ll be a neat trio – SIS, Mossad, KGB.’

‘If you could provide a woman officer, why not the two men, Bory?’ Bond asked, a whole chain of questions forming in his head.

Stepakov sighed, put one large hand on the chair against which he had earlier leaned, turned it around and sat down, straddling it, his thick arms resting along the back.

‘James,’ his face looked pained, ‘do I have to explain the concerns we have about Chushi Pravosudia? It should be obvious to you that they are very well-organised. It doesn’t take a huge intellect to see them for what they are – hardline, old-guard extremists with a lot of pull. We look over our shoulders all the time. These people have admission through doors we can barely open these days. Have you not yet worked out what Russia is really like now, poised over the abyss of ruin, economically scuppered and with the Neo-Stalinists fighting to regain control? A year ago they said the Revolution had failed, now they tell us perestroika has failed. It’s chaos. The hardliners have agents within KGB, within the Central Committee, they have friends at court. I truly believe they’re everywhere.’

‘So you’re saying they probably hack into the computers at Dzerzhinsky Square and out in the Yasenevo complex . . .’

‘Exactly. I . . .’

‘So they will have all-relevant details of your department, the Stepakov Banda. This means they probably know about this dacha, they have names, dates, photographs, personalities . . .’

‘No!’ Stepakov whip-cracked. ‘No, not quite all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the important aspects of what insiders call the Stepakov Banda are just not in the computer systems. We made it that way. We organised it in that manner because we consider ourself an elitist force. At the end of 1989 all our records were removed from the data bases. We regrouped, we reorganised . . .’

‘Then why no men? Why nobody who can successfully pose as a British camera crew?’

‘Because we have very few new agents available, James. People like Alex and Nicki, here, were never listed. They were never field agents. We’re long on executive personnel, but very, very short on field people. Those I have are men and women trained since November ’89, and they’re at full stretch. It took eight people to babysit Lyko in London and that was only one fragment of an operation. It hasn’t been easy. I have no spare male bodies, James. I do happen to have one, and only one, female who can do the job off the top of her head. I have Nina because she doesn’t appear on any lists. Nowhere. I told you about that. Even Washington doesn’t list her and as far as current KGB data’s concerned, she doesn’t show because . . .’ he paused, looking towards Nina Bibikova as though awaiting her permission to reveal something about which there was great secrecy. Bond just caught the small nod, the almost imperceptible jerk of her head, allowing Stepakov to continue.

‘She doesn’t show,’ he paused again, swallowing. ‘She doesn’t show . . . because she is dead.’ He was not smiling as he said it.

‘Shall I explain, Bory?’ Nina had the kind of voice that made Bond think of velvet and honey. A voice smooth and deep as a cello. The brief words they had exchanged above ground in the dining room had not prepared him for the instrument that was released now as Boris Stepakov nodded.

‘My father,’ she began, standing unselfconsciously and looking at each person in turn, ‘my father was Mikhail Bibikov, and that probably means nothing to any of you, for you all knew him under another name. Michael Brooks.’

‘Jesus!’ Contradictions, fears, all kinds of devils shrieked in Bond’s head. ‘The Michael Brooks?’ The name stuck in his throat.

‘Yes,’ she smiled, looking directly into his eyes. ‘The Michael Brooks. KGB never released his true name. Not even when he died. He returned to Moscow, followed shortly afterwards by my mother, in 1965. I was born later that year. I don’t know if you knew my mother, Captain Bond?’

‘Barely – as a young recruit.’ His throat was dry, and as he looked at Nina, he suddenly realised where her dark, wondrous looks came from. ‘I certainly remember all the pictures. Emerald Lacy was quite a lady.’

Nina gave him a tiny nod. ‘She was certainly a lady.’

In his mind, he saw the famous photograph of Emerald Lacy hanging in the Rogues Gallery at headquarters, the one used by the press and TV at the time – Emerald leaning over one of the copying machines, chatting to the other girls in the cryptography pool – dark hair, lustrous complexion and the smile old hands said would make you think you were the one person who interested her. Senior officers used to call her the jewel in the crown, she was so good. The whole story returned, complete and unadulterated in all its disturbing detail, an epic film played out on the wide screen of his mind.

Michael Brooks began his career with the Secret Intelligence Service working for the old Special Operations Executive during World War II. He had been a contemporary of Philby, Burgess, Maclean, Blunt and Cairncross – those Cambridge graduates who had so successfully penetrated the British secret world at the behest of their KGB masters – so effective that they were known in the corridors of Dzerzhinsky Square as the Magnificent Five. Michael Brooks’ name had never been associated with them, not even after his story came out – or that part of it which was allowed to be released and put under the public microscope.

Brooks had an incredibly successful war. He had run agents out of Lisbon, was parachuted into France and, much later, Jugoslavia. When the peace came he was a natural for the Secret Intelligence Service and spent some time on the Middle- and Far-East Desks before moving, in the early years of the Cold War, to the Russian Desk, flitting between London and Berlin – debriefing agents, running three networks which Philby’s final unmasking in 1964 caused to be closed down.

In the Secret Intelligence Service they said that should you write a history of operations from 1945 to 1965, Michael Brooks’ handwriting would turn up in every chapter. He was omnipresent, you could sense him everywhere, from Malaya and Hong Kong to Berlin and the Soviet satellite countries. More, he seemed unstoppable, this tall, lean man with the patrician nose and iron-grey hair matched by the colour of his eyes. Impeccably turned out, always a military man in mufti, in some ways an anachronism next to the sweaters and slacks brigade who looked like mad scientists or refugees.

In the end, Brooks was just pipped at the post for Deputy Chief. Then, for a reason never revealed to either the public or his colleagues, he was suddenly cut adrift. Early retirement on pension and with no hint of dishonour.

A few weeks later, Michael Brooks disappeared. A fortnight after that the alarms went off. Emerald Lacy flew out to Bonn on a routine assignment, went missing, and reappeared, complete with photographs, at Moscow’s main Soviet wedding palace. The groom was Michael Brooks and it was only then that people began to wake up in horror, claiming the happy couple had been Moscow Centre penetrators, at it for years.

The story was played down. Brooks even issued a statement from Moscow. He had simply decided to live out his retirement in the Soviet Union. His political views had altered over the years.

The press kept it going as long as they could. Brooks’ name appeared in the so-called true espionage books. Accusations flew around, but only those with immense, stratospheric security clearance were allowed to peep into the hall of distorting mirrors which constitutes the real world behind the myth of modern espionage.

Within the deep paranoia which surrounds intelligence communities the world over, the name Michael Brooks became taboo. At the very mention of the man, cabinet ministers became tight-lipped; D-notices showered on to editorial desks and journalists who were heavy-handed and stupid enough to mention him found themselves out of the door before they knew what had hit them. Stories persisted. Rumours remained rife, even with the passing of time.

James Bond was one of those who had been Sensation Cleared, as the wags dubbed the Michael Brooks/Emerald Lacy case, cryptoed Brutus, for reasons best known to those who make the decisions on coding. Now Bond looked at the lovely Nina with a renewed interest.

‘I was educated in Russia and, later, England; my maternal grandmother took care of that side of things. I was passed off as her orphan grandchild.’ Nina had a disconcerting way of standing perfectly still. She did not emphasise anything by using her hands. It was as though her voice and a slight change in expression were enough.

‘When I was seventeen, it was a very good year.’ She gave a smile which lit up her face, her eyes alive, her mouth changing shape, showing the two small creases of laugh lines bracketing her lips.

‘I spent a year in Switzerland,’ Nina said, ‘then came back to Moscow and, given my father’s history, did the training and became an illegal. The Chairman wanted to keep my name off the official lists, and that was done. I spent two years in Washington with straight secretarial cover. I’ve never been blown because I’ve never been on an official KGB file.’ She bit her lip, just a tiny movement, quick as a finger snap. Again, Bond saw the photograph of her mother. The girl was a mirror-image, looking up from under her eyelids, a hair’s-breadth from flirting.

‘As you probably know,’ she was swallowing Bond with her eyes, ‘my father and mother were both killed in a car wreck in January 1989. I was just getting over the shock when Bory came to me. He came, as he always does, at night and very well guarded. Bory can get around the city and the country like a ghost. He wanted me for his department, but he wanted me in absolute secrecy. So, I died.’

Bond did not blink. ‘In a riding accident, I believe. I recall one of our more sensational tabloids carried an exclusive. The tragedy of Michael Brooks’ family. A curse on your house. Something like that. You’ve ceased to exist, then? Though I suppose, as far as KGB’s concerned, you’re really the daughter of the regiment.’

She gave him another smile, and he saw a gold light reflected off the taut, silky skin running from jaw to ear. ‘Something like that,’ she said, and sat down, flicking her blue skirt with the back of her left hand, as though to brush away stray crumbs. Bond recalled, from somewhere, that Brooks had been left-handed. Strange how trivia lodged itself persistently in the mind.

Stepakov still did not smile. ‘She was riding. Horseback. In the woods west of Moscow. The weather had been bitter. Earth like bricks. Treacherous. The horse bolted. Threw her. The body was missing for three days. Two foresters found her. She was frozen stiff as a board. It was in the papers, this terrible tragedy. Could have happened to anyone. Just bad luck it was her. As you say, James, the tragedy of the Bibikovs.’

‘Okay, Bory, so you’ve made your point.’ Bond was polite, but firm, casting the Michael Brooks legend to one side. ‘But there’re other things I’d like to know. Things about our comrades in arms. Our French friends. They claim to have snatched Josif Vorontsov. What did they do with him, and why are they still among us?’

Stepakov gave a small burp of laughter. ‘Don’t the British say the French are always with us, like the poor?’

‘Hadn’t heard it that way.’

‘Well, they are here, and they’re going to stay here until it’s over. In a way they’re a little bit of collateral, James. They’ve given us the real Vorontsov. Believe me, we have him, safe and secure. Mlle Adoré and Major Rampart are our guests, just as they are part of this operation, in case we need them again.’

As he spoke, Bond was conscious of a tiny electronic noise like a whining in the ears.

Stepakov nodded to Nicki who slid back the inner door and let himself out.

‘The little noise. The singing in the ears.’ Stepakov started to laugh as though to himself. ‘It is our alarm signal down here. We have no telephone, so there is this small sound to alert us in case there’s news or a message.’ The laugh welled up. ‘There’s an old joke we make about it. We say it is dogs blowing people whistles.’

Bond moved the questions in close again, fast before Stepakov could sidetrack them. He wanted to know many things from Vladimir Lyko. Did the professor have any idea if any other recruiters were working for Chushi Pravosudia in England? The professor was obviously impressed with their techniques – the concealment, communications network, the tradecraft. Could he point to any weak link in his dealings with them? Why did he have the impression that Operation Daniel was not a contract piece of terrorism? Why did he think they required the types of people he had told them about – trained electronic battlefield technicians, doctors, nurses? Why actors? Could he give any hint? Why, at this moment, did they need a couple of freelance British cameramen?

Lyko answered as best he could, but threw no new light on things. When Bond came to the last question the door opened again and Nicki returned carrying sheets of paper. ‘I think this might give you a hint, Captain Bond.’

Nicki did not even look in Bond’s direction but walked fast, full of self-importance with his street fighter’s swagger to where Stepakov sat and handed his chief the papers with a flourish.

Everyone waited, for Stepakov’s whole body seemed to shut down as he read. There was a silence so dense and concentrated you could hear the breathing of various people. You could almost identify individuals by the different rhythms.

Stepakov looked up, then stood, his right hand flicking the papers so that they made a distinct crack. ‘I must go and make some calls.’ He began to move. ‘Chushi Pravosudia have done it again. They’ve killed and issued another statement.’

He was out of the room before anyone could ask further questions.

There was an uncomfortable shuffling, broken at last by Natkowitz who asked, ‘Stephanie, am I reading Bory correctly? You’re staying here by choice? He made it sound like the Iraqis holding foreigners as human shields. Which is it? You never did tell us why you came back into this country via London.’

Henri Rampart gave a mirthless bark. ‘Let me.’ He touched Stephanie’s shoulder, but she shrank away from him.

‘No, I’ll tell him.’ She leaned forward as though trying to make some intimate contact with Bond. ‘James, chéri, you don’t think we’re that foolish, do you? My darling man, we knew what we were doing. Bory asked the Piscine direct.’ (They always called the DGSE headquarters La Piscine because of its proximity to the municipal swimming-pool on Boulevard Mortier. It was a vaguely pejorative term.)

Mlle Adoré talked on, her accent full of sparkle. Each word seemed jolly, even touched with sarcasm. When a Frenchwoman speaks good English, Bond thought, it takes on a new tune. It is either a merry jig or a dirge. Stephanie made it all sound terribly amusing, in the old Noël Coward sense. ‘La Piscine okayed it,’ she shrugged, ‘though you’d probably have some difficulty finding it in legible writing. It was not the easiest operation, but we did it or, to be correct, Henri’s people did it. Snatched the man from his doorstep. Waved magic wands and brought him out on a flying carpet. Turned him over to Bory’s people. But I’ve told you this already.’

‘Stephanie,’ Bond stayed cool and very correct. ‘I’ve only met you once, in London a couple of days ago. I’ve read your file. I know we’re in the same business, but we’re not bosom friends.’ He realised that, for some reason, he was distancing himself from her for Nina’s benefit. ‘Come on, Stephanie, what were you doing in London?’

She scowled, slightly taken aback, for she never imagined that James Bond, whose reputation was that of a gentleman, would speak to her like this. ‘What can you mean?’

‘We met once,’ he repeated, ‘in London. And on that same night, after we had dined innocently at the Café Royal, you had a clandestine tryst with Oleg Ivanovich Krysim, known also as Oleg the Fixer, third Moscow Centre bandit in London. If it was all straightforward, why bother London?’

Her eyes cut towards Rampart, who twisted his mouth and said, ‘Tell him. Bory would tell him.’

Stephanie Adoré gave a nod, curt as a death sentence. ‘Simple. The Soviet Embassy in Paris . . .’ she trailed off as though still trying to make up her mind about revealing anything.

‘The embassy in Paris is leaky,’ Rampart supplied. ‘Bory would not go through them. Not at any point. Initially he came over himself to set things up in Paris. After that, our only contact was through Krysim, in London. He’s Bory’s man. We had a crash call from him, because of the Nina/Vorontsov business. So we came into London . . . You know the rest.’

‘I suppose we do,’ Bond said grudgingly, and at that moment Stepakov returned.

He went straight back to his chair again, mounting it like a horseman. A sad clown now, with the blond hair hanging over his forehead. ‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’ His voice was quiet and Bond could have sworn that the dark patches around his eyes took on the shape of the elongated stars used by so many clowns in their individual make-up. But it was only the way the light hit his face.

‘At seven o’clock this morning, Anatoli Lazin, an Air Force colonel currently on the advisory staff to the President, came out of his office within the Kremlin. He always took a walk when the weather was clear. This morning he went into the Cathedrals Square. He was standing by the Queen of Bells, when someone shot him. Just once. Through the back of the head with a small calibre pistol. They have not captured the assassin. Colonel Lazin was a fine officer.’

‘Loyal to the ideology of perestroika?’ Bond asked, and Stepakov nodded. ‘Of course. Very loyal. Believed absolutely that an open market, free trade, the new aims were the only way to go.’

‘What of the KGB man who got himself killed yesterday?’

‘Colonel General Mechaev?’

‘Him, yes. What about his loyalty?’

‘In line with the President. Why?’

‘It makes sense if Chushi Pravosudia is really carrying out the assassinations, they’re not likely to take out hardliners. It’s about the only thing that does add up.’

Stepakov gave a little sideways nod. ‘It’s Chushi Pravosudia. No doubt of it. They’ve issued another communiqué, claiming responsibility. I should read it.’ It was not a question. Everyone waited for Stepakov to compose himself. Finally he read, in a flat, unemotional voice:

‘Communiqué Number 3: The governing body of the USSR remains adamantly stubborn. There has been no hint or sign that they intend to carry out our wishes and relieve us of the burden by taking the criminal Josif Vorontsov into custody and giving him a fair and open trial to show the world exactly how Russian people treat racial murderers. In our last communiqué we said we would place video recordings into the hands of the authorities proving our point beyond doubt. After much thought we have decided to take more drastic measures. We are now poised to carry out a trial under the current criminal laws of the USSR. This trial of the prisoner Vorontsov will be recorded on videotape and copied to every existing world television network. The trial will begin first thing tomorrow morning: January 5th, 1990. We still urge the authorities to accept our demands. Meanwhile, we will ensure our outrage is felt at the highest level. This morning, a member of this organisation executed Colonel Anatoli Lazin of the Red Air Force, a senior adviser to the President. This execution was carried out within the Kremlin walls to show that our reach is long and deadly. A member of the governing body or of the armed forces or the Secret Organs will die each day until the authorities remove the responsibility of Vorontsov from our shoulders. Long Live Truth: Long Live the Revolution of 1991.’

There was really no reason for Stepakov to add the signature Chushi Pravosudia.

‘And the Kremlin?’ Natkowitz asked.

‘Have replied.’ Stepakov hung his head, once more the sad clown. ‘They have refused. On the same grounds as before. That the man held by Chushi Pravosudia is not the real Vorontsov. It seems as though we will soon be required to produce the man you brought from Florida, Stephanie. It is also clear why they require a British camera crew.’

‘That’s rubbish,’ Bond said angrily. ‘If they have Penderek holed up somewhere, and are going to proceed with some farcical trial, they could use anyone. If all you’ve told us is true, it doesn’t matter a damn what nationality the camera crew is.’

‘Obviously it matters to them.’ Stepakov focused his baleful eyes on Bond. ‘Just as it’s clear they are determined to use you. Just as we are going to use you. I think we should now get our operational logistics together. We will all have to be very precise about what we do.’

They spent the rest of the day going through the nuts and bolts of the operation – telephone codes, hand signals, names and times to make contact should they get the opportunity. There were numerous telephone codes, seemingly innocent sentences and responses – all the safeguards and, sometimes ludicrous, tradecraft which, if used automatically and without thought, could turn individual intelligence agencies into microcosms of villages, where gossips tweak at lace curtains and watch with glee while lovers and petty villains go through sly charades, obvious for all to see. Tradecraft for the sake of tradecraft, an experienced instructor had told Bond years before, eventually becomes a nervous tic.

All the time, Stepakov maintained his people would have them covered. ‘However fast Chushi Pravosudia move with you, we will be there,’ he said. ‘I have all my people back in Moscow and within a hundred miles of the city now, at this very moment. There is nobody left abroad. Even the surveillance crew used to watch Vladi in London is back here. We will not lose you, and you will take us right into the heart of Chushi Pravosudia.’

During the late afternoon, while they were getting their various items of gear together, Bond, dressed in his outdoor cold-weather clothes, excused himself and made for the nearest bathroom.

He checked the place as well as possible, screening himself from any mirrors, examining walls and ceiling for any hint of the pinhole lens of a fibre optic camera. When he was satisfied, he unzipped the inner lining of his parka, found the hidden studs and opened the lining which contained a miniature shortwave transmitter, complete with a tiny tape recorder, all held in place by strong velcro straps. From the lining of the parka’s hood he removed a notebook-size computer, no larger than a deck of cards, and half the thickness of a packet of cigarettes. There was no form of disk drive in the notebook computer. All the programs were stored on tiny chips. There was, however, a space at the back which accommodated a minute tape recorder.

Sliding the minicassette into place, he switched on the battery-powered notebook, then carefully typed in a message, using his fingernails to hit the keys accurately. The tape slowly moved, copying his input. When he completed the message, he rewound the tape, returned the notebook computer to its hiding place and put the tape back into the transmitter, which he set to the required frequency before that was also slipped back into the parka’s lining.

He made a last check, to be sure his finger could reach the concealed transmitter. Then he went back to join the others.

They left at around four thirty, and it was only when they reached the suburbs of Moscow that Bond slid his hand into the parka. He pressed the transmit button as they passed through Vosstanya Square with the barbarous twenty-four-storey building, the Gastronome grocery store, lit but empty, with little on its shelves, the cinema with a dejected line of people waiting for the next performance. The Vosstanya, he remembered, had been one of the great sites for barricades during the Revolution. He wondered how the old comrades of 1905 and 1917 viewed this tawdry, ugly place now.

He was certain the range would be right as the sudden two-second squirt-transmission leaped silently and invisibly into the air, guided straight to the heart of the British Embassy. He wondered what good it would do, and whether anyone really cared.

‘We’re half-an-hour early, what shall I do?’ Lyko asked, sudden panic in his voice as they came up to the Dom Knigi, Moscow’s famous bookshop.

‘Keep on driving, Vladi,’ Nina snapped. She could have been talking to an unresponsive horse.

‘Someone’ll pick us up, if we just drive around aimlessly. I’ll let you out.’

‘Drive!’ she all but shouted. ‘But don’t drive aimlessly. Do what you’ve been taught. Do a couple of blocks to the left, then go west again another two blocks. God, Vladi, hasn’t Bory taught you anything?’

The professor hunched over the wheel and did not speak again until, at just before seven thirty, they drew up in front of the shop.

So, now here they were, Guy, George and Helen, a British camera crew, climbing from Lyko’s car. Thanking him in Russian, laughing among themselves, they waved goodbye as they lugged their backpacks towards the Dom Knigi bookshop where they would purchase a copy of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s classic novel, Crime and Punishment. Bond wondered what irony lay at the heart of that choice by Chushi Pravosudia: the tale of Raskolnikov’s demonic self-will, the murder he commits out of contempt for his fellow men and his redemption through the prostitute, Sonya.

Inside, the shop was warm, though the assistants looked bored, and only half-a-dozen people browsed among the books – two men and four women, dressed well enough in furs. He saw the flash of diamonds on the hand of one woman as she readied forward to take a foreign language espionage novel from the shelves.

The men, he thought, would be the ones to make contact. But the two quiet, studious-looking men took no notice of the trio. One was in his early twenties, the other old with straggling hair and bottle-thick glasses.

They spent almost ten minutes deciding on the copy of Crime and Punishment they would buy, and it took a further fifteen minutes for the listless saleswoman to stir herself, take their money, check the copy and wrap it for them.

So it would be the fall-back, Bond thought. The Arbat restaurant at nine o’clock. They had a lot of time to kill in the cold outside. But, as they left the shop, close together, turning right, looking as though they had a purpose in their walk, three young women closed in upon them from the street. One wore a magnificent fur with the collar turned high, the others had long, waisted coats, also with high collars. They looked like film extras from Anna Karenina. All of them wore fur hats and they giggled as they jostled close. Their black leather boots seemed to send sparks showering from the snow. Three girls out for a good time.

Natkowitz first thought they were high-class whores. Bond saw light-coloured curls peeping from under one of the fur hats. Then, between the giggles, the girl closest to them muttered, ‘Turn right and keep walking until a car reaches us.’ She spoke in English with no trace of an accent. The girls dropped back a little, still laughing and bumping shoulders. For a second, Bond and Nina were separated from Natkowitz, and Nina slid her hand through Bond’s arm, nudging close and whispering, ‘Trust nobody. Please trust none of them, not even Bory. We must talk . . . later.’ Then she just hung on as the long black car pulled up in front of them, doors opening and two men on the pavement barring their way, stopping them gently, urging them to get in. The trio of girls was close behind, crowding in, pushing them into the car, laughing and giggling as though it were a great lark. The car resembled a stretch limo.

‘Come. Fast,’ one of the men, who looked like a tough bouncer for an illegal nightclub, hissed at them in bad English. ‘Fast. You must be fast.’

‘Quickly,’ one of the girls cried, between giggles. ‘Wake up! Quickly! You haven’t got all night!’

‘Listen to the sergeant major,’ another of the girls said, and they all thought this was real wit.

The interior of the car smelled of garlic and cheap wine. Bond had hardly seated himself when they pulled away and he felt all reality spinning into a whirl of darkness. The last thing he remembered was Nina Bibikova’s head falling towards his lap.

Professor Vladimir Lyko drove straight on after dropping the three at the bookshop. The snow was not too bad and he peered towards the pavement, looking for the familiar figure he knew would be there. Never had he let him down. When he said he would be at a certain spot, he would inevitably appear, like a genie.

There he was. Lyko would have recognised the walk anywhere. He pulled the car over towards the pavement, leaned across and opened the door for him to get in.

‘There,’ his passenger said brightly. ‘There was no need to worry. Like clockwork, Vladi. I’m like clockwork.’

‘Where do I go?’

‘Keep driving. I’ll show you. I’m your guardian angel, Vladi. You know that, don’t you?’

The little professor nodded energetically as he concentrated on driving, following his friend’s directions. As they neared the Moscow State University buildings, the streets became deserted.

‘Pull over here,’ the guardian angel told him, and Lyko had scarcely put on the handbrake when the bullet took off his face. The car filled with the smell from the pistol and from Lyko’s bodily reaction. There had been no sound, only the light plop from the noise-reduction device on the gun.

Lyko’s guardian angel had performed his last service. He stepped from the car and vanished quickly into the snowy Moscow night.