Man From Barbarossa

STONES AND BONES

Michael Brooks told them that he felt this phase of the operation was almost over, ‘If we’re right in our assessment.’ He spoke in a correct, near military form, as if making a verbal report to the Ministry of Defence. While he talked, he leaned across, touching his wife’s arm to include her in his deliberations. ‘If we really have got it right, they have to make a significant move into their next phase before January 15th when the United Nations’ deadline for Iraq to withdraw from Kuwait runs out.’ Personally he could see nothing for it but war.

‘The Americans will be forced to lead the coalition forces and probably demolish Iraq. It’s the only way they’ll get them out of Kuwait.’

They sat close on the floor, in a circle. Bond thought of it as a ring of conspiracy.

‘James?’ Brooks said, ‘You’re behind the camera and must have some idea of how the taping’s gone. How much more do you think they have to do?’

‘A day. Maybe two. Possibly the whole thing, with editing, can be wrapped up in three. Certainly not more. I’d guess less than three. Why?’

‘We should be ready for the end to come very quickly. If Emerald and I are right, they won’t want any witnesses left. I mean they won’t leave anyone who has taken part in, or assisted with, the making of this so-called trial video.’

‘Yes, I think you’re right.’

Emerald joined in. ‘Have you tried to count the number of armed troops they have on the spot?’

‘They come and go,’ Bond shrugged. ‘I don’t mean physically leave and return. They get changed around a lot. Today there seemed to be more around than yesterday.’ He went on to tell them what he had felt when they were outside.

Natkowitz agreed. ‘You get to sense things in this business,’ he began, then, ‘Sorry, you two know more about that than any of us. But out in the dark the other night, I was sure there were troops in the forest.’

Nina nodded her accord.

‘So how many?’ Brooks pressed.

‘Maybe fifty or sixty in the building.’ Bond’s voice was confident, though he was far from certain. Natkowitz and Nina agreed.

‘Heaven knows how many are out in the forest. Father, there’s no way we can take on this lot.’ His daughter was almost pleading with him.

‘It wouldn’t be a question of taking them on.’ Emerald spoke with authority so that they all turned to her, waiting, as though listening to a guru.

She wore a long, caftanlike, shapeless black garment. When she smiled it was as though the young woman of her past returned in spirit. ‘Michael and I have been doing little night forays. Reconnaissance. We put Natasha on to this room and there are other secret hidey-holes. Well, there would be in this kind of monastery, wouldn’t there?’

‘Why d’you call it that?’ Bond came back sharp and quick, as though Emerald had read his mind.

She gave her beautiful smile again. ‘You’re thinking, what’s this stupid old biddy know about this building? Right?’

‘No. It’s only the place has a feel to it. That and the architecture, if you can call it architecture.’

‘But that’s exactly what it is. A bloody monastery for soldiers. Or didn’t you know? We’re less than ten miles from the Finnish border and this clearing in the forest has been here for centuries. It’s the site of a very ancient monastery. We know all this because we worked for the buggers at Moscow Centre when they started to build this place – the Lost Horizon they call it now, because nobody really wants it. Originally it was going to be the nearest thing to religion ever seen in the Red Army.’

‘Religion?’

‘Well, sort of. It was to be a kind of grand hôtel-cum-monastery for the general staff of the Red Army.’ She pronounced ‘hôtel’ like the old school, ’ôtel. She paused. ‘You see, they found this place. This old site. Used to be revered by the Lapps. A holy place. When the building began they even found some remains. Stones and bones. Michael and I came up here, remember, darling?’

‘In summer,’ Brooks sounded far away. ‘Yes, they’d just cleared the site when we first visited.’ He took up the narrative, telling them it had been a sound military idea. Senior officers would spend time out in what would seem to be a wilderness. ‘Not far from civilisation really, but it’s stuck in the middle of a bloody great forest so they’d be corralled here; they’d feel apart from the world. For a week or so each year, the general staff of the Soviet armed forces would spend some time in silent contemplation of military affairs. The idea was to make them meditate, in strict silence, on the great writings of military tactics and strategy, much as monks and nuns reflect on the works of Saints Augustine and Ignatius. When they’d done their stint, they’d have some kind of a conference, share their thoughts with one another. Then, if I know the Russians, they’d all get pixillated and falling-down drunk. In the end, they built the place, poured a fortune into it, then decided against the “retreats” or whatever they were going to call them.’

Bond nudged his way in. ‘With respect, what’s this got to do with our present situation?’

Emerald’s eyes twinkled. ‘We were just trying to explain why you might have vibes here. It is a little odd. The Lapps always said it was haunted, but that’s probably because the land used to belong to Finland, and, by inference, them. The Lapps, I mean. The point is there are tunnels, hidden rooms, sliding panels – the kind of thing you find back home in old country houses. Priest’s holes, escape routes. And we’re both pretty sure none of the present inhabitants knows about them.’

‘Ah.’ Natkowitz nodded. ‘You mean we should lie up when it’s over?’

‘Something like that. Though unless we had food . . .’

‘And weapons.’ Bond added.

‘It’s an idea,’ Michael Brooks said the three words as though he really meant it was the only way any of them would get out alive. He bit his lip as though trying to make up his mind whether to tell them more. Then he said, ‘I’ll be honest. We’ve organised things. Not much, but enough for a few days if we’re forced to hide. This tunnel . . .’

‘You’ll show us the way?’ Bond again.

‘The truth, and the light, dear, yes.’ Emerald Lacy gave the impression she was enjoying this immensely. ‘I think we should all know exactly where to hide. Just in case the world caves in unexpectedly.’ She stopped for a moment, then looked at Bond again. ‘James, do you have any way of communicating with the outside world?’

‘Why?’ Bond’s suspicion would not allow him to share everything with these people.

Michael Brooks nodded. ‘It’s all right, James. We understand you.’

Emerald went on speaking, almost over her husband. ‘If you do have communication facilities, however primitive, try to keep them hidden and near at hand. Michael and I have the map co-ordinates for this place. You might wish to send them out.’ She gave him a quizzical, near comic look. ‘That is, if you have the means.’

Bond nodded, but remained silent, and Emerald rattled off a string of numbers – standard map reference coordinates. ‘Got it?’ She sounded like a severe teacher making certain her star pupil knew all the answers. Bond gave her a little flick of the eyes.

‘So what’s the time?’ Michael asked nobody in particular as he looked at his watch, a cheap Russian military affair, functional and probably accurate. ‘Almost two thirty in the morning. Right.’ Brooks looked at his wife, asking, ‘Shall we take them down?’

‘There’s time. Why not?’ She had remained remarkably composed. Bond wondered at the dangers this woman had faced in her life – almost three decades of being under cover, existing in secret with a hidden present, a sequestered future, yet at all times with the true knowledge of another person within her, someone who had lived a different kind of history, one to which she would like to return, but in all probability never would. She rose from the floor and began to instruct them in what was about to happen.

‘There are usually guards in the main foyer, but they don’t seem to be running patrols or even security checks anywhere else. The area close to the sound stage has never been guarded since we’ve been here.’ Her grin brought back the girl she once used to be. ‘Michael and I have spent whole nights roaming the place without interruption.’

‘Except when we’ve engineered it.’ For a second, Michael Brooks looked like a cold, hard and calculating operator.

‘Meaning?’ Natkowitz asked.

‘You’ll see.’ He gave a tight little smile. ‘We’re going to take you down to the tunnel which was here several hundreds of years ago. When the balloon goes up, I would suggest all of us try to make it to this place. It’s easy enough and near the sound stage. We’ll walk down.’

He cautioned them to remain silent and stay absolutely still if they encountered any of their Russian jailers.

They went in single file. You could feel their alertness, tangible in the dark, as they retraced their steps to the emergency stairwell, then down, right to the ground floor.

They exited near the elevators and crept along the passage leading to the sound stage. The huge sliding doors were open, and away to their right, the sound of voices floated from the main foyer, but they saw nobody.

Along the wall facing the sound stage doors were the entrances to rest rooms, marked by the usual simple men and women symbols. A third door seemed barred by an ‘absolutely no admission’ sign.

Michael Brooks winked, removed a key from his pocket and inserted it into a lock next to a solid-looking brass knob. The key turned silently and they crowded into what seemed to be a large closet, the kind of place that would normally store vacuum cleaners and other domestic requirements. It was empty and felt unused.

There was just enough room for the six of them to stand inside as Brooks relocked the door. Shelves ran around the entire space, and it was Emerald who, in sign language, told them to watch what she did.

The secret lay in the third shelf from the ceiling. She ran her hand under the shelf, then stopped, telling them in mime to look. At the far right, hidden under the shelf close to the wall was a brass ring about an inch in diameter. She pulled on the ring and there was an audible click as the entire wall detached itself and swung slightly inwards. Only when they had all passed through did Emerald signal for them to watch her next move. She closed the wall behind her and reached down. There was another solid click as the wall locked back into place and the lights came on.

She spoke in a normal voice. ‘We’ve tested all this. It’s absolutely soundproof once you’re in. The light switch is right down here on the inner wall. You can find it easily in the dark and the other brass ring is here, on the inside.’ She showed them. ‘Familiarise yourselves with the mechanism and the lighting switch. One of the reasons we’re sure nobody’s used this tunnel since we’ve been here is that the actual light bulbs are old and some of them are dead. There are other things which indicate nobody’s been here for years.’

They were standing in a passage some ten feet wide and seven feet high, the walls covered with white antiseptic looking tiles which curved in an arch above them. The floor was made of simple concrete.

‘Come,’ Brooks led the way. The floor sloped sharply downwards, then after ten or eleven paces, the white tiles gave way to rough walls of large dry-stone blocks. There was no curve in the roof now. Instead the ceiling was of wood which looked very old, solid black beams laid sideways and covered in hard pitch.

There was no echo when Brooks spoke again. ‘Unfortunately there’s been a cave-in about half a mile down, but we presume this is an original vault. At one time it probably ran right off into the forest.’

The passage suddenly widened, forming a large chamber. It was cold, but not unduly so. ‘Look around,’ Emerald beamed. ‘This is where the monks buried their dead, or at least their important dead.’

There were long ledges cut into the stone walls and Bond felt Nina shiver involuntarily as she saw the bones stretched out in their last resting places, bones so old that some were starting to fossilise. There were other artifacts – metal crosses on chains, rusted and lying over ribcages – symbols of office.

‘We’ve managed to store a little food here.’ Michael Brooks spoke as though they had been doing this over a lengthy period. ‘Also, my dear wife carefully stole a small heater and a supply of paraffin. There are a few in the storerooms on each floor, presumably in case their generators go on the blink. Next, weapons. Are any of you armed?’

All except Natasha shook their heads.

‘I know about you, Tashinka,’ Brooks nodded, and explained that, as Natasha had been a long-trusted member of the Russian team, she carried a weapon. ‘We’ve managed to get three automatic pistols and a little ammunition. I suspect James, Mr Natkowitz, and you, dear,’ looking at his daughter, ‘should have these. He groped among the bones in one of the burial slots and retrieved three P6 automatics, each with the noise reduction system in place. The ammunition was non-standard 9mm which Bond recognised immediately as an offshoot of the British Research and Developments’ ‘Spartan’ rounds, designed for close-in fighting: bullets which break up on impact, do not overpenetrate or travel too far. Brooks showed them that all three weapons contained a full clip and he handed out another three clips apiece.

‘Where in . . . ?’ Bond began, and Brooks gave him a chilling look, lowering his voice. ‘I wouldn’t go too far into the tunnel from this point,’ he all but whispered. ‘The holy monks have company, but I don’t think we’ll be troubled by any nasty smells just yet. It’s much colder along there, near the point where a fall’s blocked us in.’

‘You mean?’ Bond raised an eyebrow.

Brooks nodded. ‘Yes. Can’t work out how they haven’t been missed. Emerald lured them into following her. I did the business. We did two the night before last and one last night. Should be a hue and cry, but they possibly get the odd idiot going over the wall here. Either that or their organisation’s porous.’

Bond did not recall the old expression, ‘porous’, for a moment, then smiled as it came back to him. Porous stood for ‘Porous piss’.

There were spare keys for the outer door, remodelled and fashioned from other keys which Brooks and his wife had filched. Enough for all of them. They went over the situation one more time. When the balloon went up, each person would be responsible for himself. ‘No hanging back, or heroics,’ Brooks said. ‘It’s better to get yourself down here than to lose out on a foolish rescue. We can do no more until something happens.’

They agreed to meet back at the room used earlier at three on the following morning if nothing occurred before then. Brooks obviously had a very clear picture of the building in which they were being held, so Bond did not try to intervene. As far as he was concerned, it was Michael Brooks’ operation now. All he had to do was try to get a signal out, if he could, and if anyone was listening.

They left in pairs, and once back in their room, Bond took his parka from the clothes closet and went into the bathroom. There he committed a message to tape from the notebook computer, then rewound the tape and put it into the transmitter. Half-an-hour later, he slipped from the room and went up the wooden staircase, working his way right to the top and out on to the roof.

The air was bitter and there seemed to be light snow drifting across the forest which spread out all around him. He calculated the direction, held the little transmitter away from his body and pressed the ‘send’ key. For the second time in four days a tiny fragment of signal leaped, invisibly, on to the airwaves. All he could do was pray that someone was listening.

Boris Stepakov left the dacha just after three in the morning with his bodyguards. He also took Stephanie Adoré and Major Rampart with him. They drove to the secret airfield where the crew of his Antonov An-72 had already filed a flightplan to the Spetsnaz training base just outside Kirovograd on the River Ingul in the Ukraine.

Because Spetsnaz are trained there, the base is one of the most securely guarded in the whole of Russia. The secrecy is so great that even those living in nearby towns and villages are unaware of its importance, for Spetsnaz are the very best troops in the world, easily ranking above the British SAS or the US Delta Force and Navy Seals.

Here, and at other secret bases, these special forces undergo what is possibly the most rigorous military training known anywhere. The men chosen to serve as Spetsnaz are often hand-picked even before they enter the Red Army. The recruiting officers go out and search for suitable material while young men are still in school or at universities, for these troops are brought to perfection not only in the most secret military arts, but also in the darker arcane callings which make them ideal for covert operations.

The GRU – the Red Army’s equivalent of KGB – have been known to make use of these men by infiltrating them into foreign countries to work under cover for long periods. They certainly take on a much more sinister role than their counterparts in SAS or Delta.

At Kirovograd – they call the base after the great industrial city even though it is situated some fifty miles from city limits – the Spetsnaz soldier risks his life every day. The training exercises are carried out with live ammunition, and sometimes with the added danger of deadly chemicals and real explosives. Because of this there is an allowed percentage of training deaths – just as there was among the British Commando training units during World War II.

They first learn the normal skills of soldiering, but with an accent on leadership and tactics, so that any member of the force can take over battlefield command from the highest staff officer should the occasion arise.

Following this stringent induction, the Spetsnaz soldier goes on to more specialised work. They study the customs and languages of possible target countries; survival techniques; the tradecraft of deep cover and disguise, so that they can pass themselves off as tourists, businessmen, members of trade or diplomatic missions, even as cultural groups or sports teams. For instance, a Spetsnaz officer was the winner of two Olympic silver medals in pistol shooting: in Melbourne and Rome. Because of his sporting activities, this man travelled freely throughout the world. He did not move alone, but always had two more officers in attendance, and is thought to have picked up valuable information from the West – just by being a crack shot.

Intermingled with these diverse crafts, future Spetsnaz men are taught sabotage of every feasible kind, and with every possible device: they also become proficient with all known weapons, in hand-to-hand combat and silent killing. Even while doing this distinctive training, they are constantly practising the normal skills of parachuting, skiing, mountain climbing and the basics of flying. Many active Spetsnaz troops could handle large civilian aircraft in an emergency, and most could fly a helicopter.

They are truly the cream, the best-paid and the most feared of Soviet forces. They have no special uniform, except that they are normally seen wearing the dress of the airborne and special assault forces, though, unlike the airborne, Spetsnaz do not wear the coveted ‘Guards Unit’ badges. There are times when they will wear only civilian clothes for months at a time.

Stepakov felt he had entered a distinctive environment as soon as he left his aircraft, dogged as ever by Nicki. Alex was left on the aircraft with the crew and the French couple. The men on this base were clear-eyed, moved with more confidence, carried themselves in a more doughty manner than even the Red Army’s other crack regiments. Trying to define this odd, uneasy sensation, Stepakov had long since realised that, when he was among Spetsnaz, he lived in the shadow of exceptional soldiers who could, if they chose, be ruthless killers.

General Gleb Yakovlevich Berzin – whom he had called a son-of-a-bitch – stood by the window of his austere office. He was tall with the figure of someone in peak physical condition. When he moved, the splendid muscle tone could be detected through his well-cut uniform. Like all Spetsnaz officers, Berzin took great pride in his appearance. As he turned to greet his visitor, the hard leathery face showed no sign of camaraderie. The eyes, like broken crystal, bore down upon Stepakov as though asking why a member of the KGB dared show his face, let alone his entire body, in this elect corner of the country.

‘Stepakov.’ He barked in acknowledgement that his brother officer was in the room.

‘Berzin,’ the KGB man nodded, turning the full power of his own unreadable clown’s face on the Spetsnaz man.

‘Moscow said this was important. It had better be. I haven’t time to waltz around with people from Centre.’

‘This is very important, comrade General.’ Stepakov did not raise his voice. ‘I bring you special orders, under seal, most secret, from the President himself. The President wishes these orders to be carried out with urgency.’ He thrust the heavy envelope into the general’s outstretched hand.

Berzin ripped open the orders and began to read. Halfway through he glanced up, looking at the KGB officer with what might have been construed as a new interest. Finally he folded the paper and gave a little laugh, like the yap of a dog.

‘The President really wants me to do this?’

‘If you read the orders carefully, you’ll see that he not only wants you to do it, he commands you. He also orders you to carry out this action with me as your joint commander.’

Berzin laughed. ‘You must be joking, General Stepakov. Why should I even take you along for the ride?’

‘Oh, I think you will.’ When Stepakov smiled, the already upturned corners of his mouth seemed to rise higher on his cheeks. This sometimes gave the bizarre impression that someone had taken an old cutthroat razor and slashed it across his mouth. ‘I bring another, even more secret, message.’

‘Oh?’

‘A verbal communication, comrade General. I was told you would answer me, and it comes with greetings. “And all I ask is a tall ship . . .” ’

For a fraction of a second, light appeared to flare behind the cracked crystal of Berzin’s eyes. It could have meant anything from fear to elation, for the man was virtually unreadable. He stood, statue still, studying Stepakov. Then, in a low voice muttered, ‘And a star to steer her by.’ He turned away to look out of the window again. Even though Berzin’s back was towards Stepakov, the KGB man sensed that he was looking far away, past the rows of hutments and wooded training areas, back to another life.

‘It’s been a very long time coming.’ He still spoke softly. ‘You must have dubious connections, my friend.’

‘I don’t know what that message means, comrade General. I only know that the man who told me to pass it on is also most anxious for you to do this thing. We are also to take two French officers with us. They wait in my personal aircraft.’

Berzin began to laugh. First a chuckle, then a full-blown cascade of mirth. He turned, and though he laughed, his face showed no humour or merriment. It was as though an animal was baying for no particular purpose, except to make a sound meant to convey drollness. ‘Who said that life is a comedy, Stepakov?’

‘I think . . .’

‘I don’t need an answer, you fool,’ Berzin snapped. ‘Of course I’ll do what is asked. In fact, I’m delighted to do it. Nothing would please me more. Come. Come and lunch with my officers. We will set things in motion immediately after we’ve eaten. We have a long way to go before this day is out.’

Nigsy Meadows had done as M instructed. Now he camped with another agent and a Lapp guide, high in the Arctic Circle where they monitored radio signals from Russian military units on the far side of the border. They were one of five groups spread out as secret listening posts from the Baltic to the far North.

In the Lapp’s tent they set up the sophisticated portable electronics which grabbed signals and telephone calls from the air. The other agent’s name was Wright, always known as ‘Pansy’, for his affectation of wearing that particular flower in his buttonhole when it was in season, which for Pansy Wright seemed to be the year round. He even had a bedraggled specimen inside his cold-weather clothing now.

Nigsy also had a portable Model 300, set, as the one in Moscow had been, to pick up Bond’s homing device. On top of this, he had lugged along another piece of portable electronics. A reduced unit which would duplicate squirt signals, such as the one they had grabbed from the air at the Moscow Embassy. Like the Model 300, this would only talk to Bond’s transmitter.

They took it in turns to monitor the equipment, and Nigsy was on duty, listening to radio telephone communications which seemed to be coming in to a location some twelve miles distant in the dense forest within the Russian border.

He heard the tiny crackle of static and his eyes just caught the flick of the needle as the telescoped transmission flashed in.

A minute later he was shaking Pansy Wright, bringing him out of a dream which featured a carpet of wild flowers and a young woman by the name of Marge.

‘This had better be good,’ Wright swore at him. ‘I’ve been after this wench for a long time and I nearly had her tonight.’

Nigsy did not know what he was talking about, but he did have the co-ordinates which would pinpoint Bond.