Man From Barbarossa

THE DEATH OF 007

Everyone seemed to be standing around in the wide lobby leading to the sound stage. The metal doors were rolled back and a couple of Clive’s assistants were putting finishing touches to the set. All the people who had played the part of witnesses had been coaxed into their make-up. They talked and laughed, drank coffee and smoked. Bond caught sight of Natasha standing with Michael and Emerald who appeared in their first guise as the very old Jewish couple. Natkowitz was fiddling with the sound equipment and Nina seemed to have disappeared.

Bond had gone into the men’s room on his way to the exit in the main lobby before taking his brisk walk to clear his head. He was just emerging when it began.

They would have heard nothing had they already been taping, for once the doors were closed the stage was admirably soundproof. As it was, the roar of massive engines pulsed down, throbbing and making the whole building shake.

For a second it was as though everybody was engaged in the childhood game of ‘statues’. A shocked stillness seemed to spread over the throng, laughing and talking one minute, stock still, turned to stone the next, cigarettes, coffee and soft drinks poised. The liquids seemed solidified in a click of time.

Bond stepped back inside the empty men’s room, unzipped his fly and dragged out the P6, thumbing the safety and zipping everything up again. He leant against the door to hear what was going on.

The stillness had passed and was replaced by confusion. Shouting, some screams, the noise of a herd of uncontrolled people moving in panic. Bond pulled on his thermal gloves and gripped the pistol more tightly.

From outside the building came the sudden distinct whoomp of exploding grenades followed by shots, the burp of automatic fire and the thump-thump of single rounds. Then the sound of people running. Heavy footsteps racing towards the lobby.

Bond pushed the door open a few inches and saw Boris Stepakov in a camouflage jumpsuit followed by a tall, hard-faced officer and a group of soldiers, six or seven, he guessed. They were all in combat gear, carrying an assortment of weapons. Stepakov held one of the latest PRI automatics close to his hip. The others bristled with AKS-74 rifles, grenades, long-bladed knives sheathed high on their right shoulders. He even caught sight of an R-350 radio, the kind with encryption and burst-transmission ability. Only Stepakov and the tall officer had the hoods of their jump suits down, the men who followed were muffled so that only their eyes could be seen.

As they approached, the crowd of witnesses and technicians began to back away, clearing a path. To his right, Bond saw Michael Brooks edging towards the door leading to the closet and tunnel. He placed his back against it and worked the key with his hands behind him. Glancing to his left, Brooks’ eyes met Bond’s and he shifted his head, a signal for Bond to follow him as the door silently swung back.

Bond just looked at him, making no move to follow as the renegade spy slipped out of sight into the closet. Then he heard Stepakov’s voice, loud, raised above the babble.

‘Silence! Stay exactly where you are!’

He imagined the clownlike face turning, sweeping the crowd as they backed onto the sound stage. The talking had stopped leaving a stunned silence in its wake as though the crowd was making way for Stepakov and his little group.

Bond wanted to push the door fully open, join Stepakov and watch the rout of the Chushi Pravosudia. But something, experience and intuition he supposed, held him back.

Again he caught movement to his right and through the crack of the open door, saw Emerald and Nina slip quietly into the closet. Nina had retrieved her pistol and held it, two-handed, low, the butt hard into her crotch as she backed through the doorway.

‘General Yevgeny Yuskovich!’ Stepakov’s voice almost broke as he shouted the name, the pitch rising, caught on a dry spot in his larynx.

‘Marshal Yuskovich.’ Bond had listened to the voice declaiming for most of the day. Now it had taken on a new arrogance.

‘Marshal by whose jurisdiction?’ Stepakov sounded as though he had complete control of both himself and the situation.

‘My own,’ Yuskovich snapped. ‘Marshal of the Red Army and soon secretary of the CCPSU, President of the Soviet Union.’

Stepakov laughed. ‘Yevgeny, I fear you’re no longer even a general. My friend, General Berzin here, has supported me in this operation on the direct instructions of the President of the Soviet Union. The building has been secured by the October Battalion of Spetsnaz. You should consider yourself under arrest together with any other troops you have suborned. We are to take you back to Moscow. Further resistance is . . .’

‘Really? How interesting.’ Yuskovich began to laugh, and another voice, Bond presumed it was the officer called Berzin, punctuated the laugh with a strange, chilling bark which sounded like a hyena.

‘Oh, Bory, what a mistake you’ve made.’ Then the crack of a command. ‘Berzin, take that damned pistol from him, he could do a mischief with it.’

Bond drew in his breath as the sounds of a scuffle reached him.

‘What?’ He heard Boris explode. ‘What the . . .’

‘What indeed, Bory? I’m among friends. You, I fear, are alone. What about those two thugs he carts around with him?’

Berzin, Bond assumed it was he, made a sound like the ripping of cloth. ‘Both of them,’ he said. ‘My men snatched them as they came off the helicopter. Bory, don’t look so amazed. You know how these things work. You merely got yourself mixed up on the wrong side of a coup. You should have seen it coming. It’s business, comrade. The business of Russia. The business of the Party and the future.’

‘Yes,’ Yuskovich again. ‘You were an incredible subject, Boris. I’ve always said the way to deal with loyalty is through autosuggestion. You took the bait like a greedy fox instead of a shrewd one. I’d expected some doubts, but you gobbled up everything, even the stuff we fed to you through Lyko.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘The overthrow of the present regime. A return to normal.’ There was a short pause before Yuskovich continued. ‘We have a full regiment of Spetsnaz at our command. Who did you think carried out the Chushi Pravosudia executions, Bory? If you had thought it through, there was only one answer. Trained men who had the means to get anywhere, go anywhere, hit any target. Did you never consider Lyko was planted on you?’

Some of the answers began to unravel in Bond’s head. Some, but not all. He would have to move in a moment. Slowly he put pressure on the door, opening it wider as Yuskovich continued to speak.

‘This trial, you knew we were taping this trial? Of course you did, you even took the lure suggested by Lyko and brought in people from the French and British intelligence services to help out. Where are the French and the British, by the way?’

Bond sucked in his breath and slid sideways through the door. The actors employed as witnesses, together with the technicians, were in a packed semicircle facing the sound stage. Bory Stepakov had his back to the crowd, as did the tall General Berzin. Yuskovich faced them, his lean ascetic face calm, the eyes fixed on Stepakov.

As Bond sidled out close to the wall, Yuskovich raised his head, his eyes scanning the crowd. Bond dropped to his knees, his pistol ready as the self-styled marshal repeated, ‘Where are the French and the British? I have guards on the French, but the two British spies should be . . .’ His eyes remained on the crowd and he did not raise them to look beyond.

Bond moved slowly to his right, edging along the wall. He could reach the front of the hotel through the main lobby, and he would kill if he had to. Kill or be killed, it did not seem to matter a great deal any more.

He heard somebody reply, telling the marshal that one of the British crew was there, on the sound stage. He began to move faster, sliding along the wall, keeping his body low. Another few feet and he would be out of Yuskovich’s sight.

As he reached comparative safety, he heard the chatter of the Spetsnaz R-350 radio, then another voice, unheard before, cut in. ‘Comrade General Berzin, sir. Message in from the President. He insists we report if this facility has been secured. He also orders that we provide information on two British agents he knows are here.’

Yuskovich swore loudly, then rasped out, overriding Berzin, ‘Report the facility secured and members of Chushi Pravosudia under armed arrest. As for the British, how in hell did he know they were here? Tell him we regret they were killed in an exchange of fire. Wait. Say they died bravely.’

M had been away for hours. When he returned, he looked grey and drawn. Bill Tanner, who was summoned to his office within minutes of his reappearance, had never seen the Old Man with such a pallor. It was as though he had suddenly aged a decade; his skin was drawn tightly against the facial bones, his hair seemed more grizzled and the look in his eyes was vacant, as if he had been injected with some drug which removed all life from his brain, leaving only a half-functional body.

M sat slumped behind the big glass-topped desk. When he spoke, Tanner was reminded of biblical stories of men rending their garments, pouring ashes on their heads and mourning for lost sons or daughters. His voice had an unearthly, terrible quality to it. The words seemed to be covered with gum, sticking in his larynx, almost refusing to come out.

Tanner felt the shock wave hit him as M slowly recounted his news. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, then repeated, ‘I don’t believe it. Are you sure, sir?’

‘I was there. Presumably it has to be confirmed, but the news from the Kremlin seemed definite enough. It’s the kind of thing you get in wartime. You know that. Worse when there’s not even a cold war. I’ve been through enough wars to know it’s wrong to harbour hopes. He’s dead, Bill. That’s what the Spetsnaz general on the spot says. Anything to the contrary would be a bonus, though I expect nothing.’

M told him the Prime Minister was just as shocked by the news. He had read the transcripts taken to Number Ten by M. Then, as expected, he called the President of the Soviet Union, only to be told that he already had knowledge of the Chushi Pravosudia’s hiding place in the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre near the Finnish border. Troops would be on their way this night, and he would personally be in touch with the Prime Minister as soon as he had news.

‘I started to get a bad feeling about it, Bill.’ M stared at the glass top of his desk as though trying to summon up some vision which might mollify the news. ‘Couldn’t come back here. Phoned the duty officer. Said where I was if needed . . .’

‘Not like you, sir.’ Tanner knew that M had been toughened in the hardest school life offered. His byword was, ‘Life goes on. Work must continue.’

The Old Man sighed. ‘No, Bill – no, Chief of Staff. Not like me, but today’s not been an ordinary day. The PM was very good. Came back to Number Ten specially. Took the President’s call. Told me straight away.’ He gave another sigh and moved his shoulders like an aged dog shaking off rain. ‘At least they got the bastards. They’ll sweat ’em all right. It’ll be interesting to hear what their real objective was. I’ve never been happy with this business about compromising the Kremlin with this stupid trial.’

He was silent, staring again, then he looked up, his grey eyes still vacant as though he could not comprehend the full import of the news. ‘Better get Moneypenny in. It’s only right that I tell her, she was damned fond of James.’

‘Sir, if you like, I’ll . . .’

‘No. It’s my job. I’ll tell her James Bond is dead. You get in touch with the teams we’ve got monitoring along the Baltic and the ones on the Finnish border. I’m sure they can now be put to a better use.’ He clamped his mouth shut and Tanner stood for a second as though unable to leave. ‘Get out, Chief of Staff. Get out and send Moneypenny in. Damn it, she’s been my PA for more years than either of us likes to remember. I’ll tell her that 007’s gone.’

They had discovered James Bond’s body, flat on his back, quite close to the wooden wall at the west of the building. There were three bullet holes in his chest and the face had been taken away by another burst of fire. But the clothes he was wearing were undoubtedly his – the khaki parka, thick jeans, denim jacket with leather patches and the rollneck. All were now soaked in blood from the ugly wounds which had torn his flesh and bone to pieces.

The search had gone on for over an hour. They had the two French agents and the man who posed as George. Yuskovich had stamped around on the sound stage. Initially, when they realised the British spy was missing, he had even gone outside with General Berzin to watch the men’s search for Bond, but as time passed he became more edgy, his nerves fraying. ‘We’ll have to get on. I want Vorontsov’s confession in the can and this whole project wrapped up tonight,’ he shouted at Clive.

‘Well, if it’s really that urgent, I’ll operate the camera myself. I mean it’s not my job, and the unions would play hell in England . . .’

‘You are not in England now,’ Yuskovich barked. ‘Unions are for organising, not for disrupting essential Communist Party work. You handle the camera. Then get on with the editing. I want copies of this ready for global release sometime tomorrow.’

Clive gave an irritable shrug, muttering, ‘All right, you great butch soldier, but I for one am going to have a nervous breakdown when this is over.’

Yuskovich strolled over to where Joel Penderek, posing as the infamous Josif Vorontsov, was sitting in the dock. ‘Well, Joeli,’ he gave the man a sideways look, ‘how have you enjoyed your trip back to Mother Russia?’

‘It’s been interesting. I’d given up all hope of ever being used.’

‘Yes.’ The marshal gave a curt nod. ‘Sleepers like you and Anna usually go past a point in their lives where they expect to be of value. I’m sorry your Anna is not here to see you perform this essential service to your country and the Party.’

‘She would’ve been pleased.’ The old man gave him a melancholy look. ‘What of your cousin? Your real cousin, Vorontsov?’

‘You have to ask?’

‘Not really. I presume he’s dead.’

‘Bory Stepakov really did have him tucked away in the other dacha. The French agents were very good. If we hadn’t been watching carefully, I doubt if even our people would have spotted them. Stepakov will be a great loss. We could have used him, you know.’

‘You’re confirming his death? Vorontsov’s, I mean.’

‘Of course.’ Yuskovich flapped his hand in an irritable gesture, like swatting away a troublesome insect. ‘Dead and buried. Just as he had to be. It wouldn’t have been wise for me to assume total power with that skeleton in my cupboard. You know the original, the real, Chushi Pravosudia, were going to press for a public trial. Lucky we had them all sewn up from their inception. But I have to give them credit for conceiving the plot. With my real cousin, and with better organisation, they just might have made a relevant statement. And if they had – well, the true cause would have been submerged for a decade at least. No, Joeli my friend, now is the time to finish with this idiotic perestroika and glasnost. It has to be crushed now. Completely. I pray that the Americans really make good their threat against Iraq. It’s the only way we can obliterate them without the world becoming difficult.’

‘And me?’ Penderek asked.

‘You?’

‘You’re going to kill me, of course?’

‘Don’t be foolish, Joeli. Why would we do that?’

‘Because you won’t leave anyone alive. You won’t make the mistake of letting any of the players in this farce survive. You wouldn’t sleep peacefully in old Joe’s bed in the Kremlin if you knew there were people alive who could tell the true story, or at least provide a distinctive footnote to history.’

‘Bah. These people. These actors. I’m having them taken away, yes. But they don’t have to die. I’m not going to repeat Stalin’s only mistake, his Great Terror. There will be no purges. These actors are small fry. Nobody will listen to them. Not in the Gulag anyway.’ He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Joeli. You’ll live out the rest of your natural life with all the comforts I can provide. It’ll be lonely, of course, in a guarded dacha on the Black Sea, but you’ll be comfortable. Let’s do your big scene, eh?’ He strolled off towards Clive who was arguing with Pete Natkowitz about the set-up. Yuskovich’s adjutant stood nearby.

‘Major Verber,’ Yuskovich murmured to him, ‘will you see that the prisoner over there is very quietly disposed of as soon as we finish this. Do it quickly. No sadism. Just a fast, unexpected bullet. Then have him buried. I suggest you do that in the forest.’

The major nodded acknowledgement, and at that moment a young member of the Spetsnaz October Battalion came in with the news that Bond’s body had been discovered. An officer had called him over, with his partner, then told him to inform the marshal personally. ‘I left the officer with my partner to stand guard,’ he told Yuskovich.

The self-styled marshal swore mightily. ‘I wanted photographs of the British agents with . . .’ He stopped in time. ‘Never mind. The whole idea of bringing in these men was to implicate Britain. Damn it. I’ll have to settle for one. Not the pair of them.’

The officer had been with one of the squads which had guarded the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre from the start of the operation. He told the marshall he had almost tripped over the body during the search. ‘Some fool must have killed him out of hand,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard some muffled shots from this area half-an-hour ago, and I assumed it was simply to keep up appearances. We exploded cordite and guncotton charges all over the place when the October Battalion came in. I personally saw to it that things looked, and sounded realistic.’

‘You did well.’ Yuskovich returned the officer’s salute. ‘You come from Moscow, yes?’

‘Yes, comrade Marshal. Born and bred there. My parents are still in Moscow.’

‘Yes, I’d recognise a Muscovite accent anywhere. Your name?’

‘Batovrin, comrade Marshal. Sergei Yakovlevich, Lieutenant, Spetsnaz.’

‘You’re a smart man. I can do with smart officers. Report to my adjutant, Major Verber. Tell him I said you are now attached to my personal guard. Say that is my order. If you get any trouble, pass it on to me.’

‘Thank you, comrade Marshal.’ The lieutenant’s chest visibly puffed out with pride. His somewhat affected waxed moustache seemed to bristle in the freezing air as he went off to report to the adjutant.

They carried the body inside and laid it out in one of the little staff offices near what had originally been the reception area. After the taping was over, Nina and Natkowitz were brought in to identify the spy, James Bond.

They both nodded, not really looking at the shattered face. ‘That was what he wore when I last saw him,’ Nina said.

‘It’s him.’ Natkowitz, who had seen his fair share of death, quickly turned away.

‘Good,’ was all the marshal had to say.

Nina Bibikova caught up with Yuskovich in the passage as he headed back towards the sound stage. Yuskovich was feeling pleased with himself. Old Joel Penderek had given the performance of his life for the penultimate ten minutes of the video. They had shot the sentencing phase late the previous evening.

‘Comrade Marshal,’ Nina caught hold of his sleeve, and he stood, still as a rock, glaring down at her hand until she removed it.

‘Well?’

‘Comrade Marshal, I’ve come to plead for my parents’ lives.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they are old. Also because they are my parents. I have served you well, comrade Marshal. From the moment I was infiltrated into Stepakov’s Banda I served you and the Party. I did everything you told me. There was a suggestion then that you might spare my mother and father.’

‘They were long-term British penetration agents.’ He glowered at her and returned the salutes of Major Verber and Lieutenant Batovrin who had approached. ‘One moment,’ he gestured to the two officers to stand aside, then turned back to Nina. ‘As I say, British penetration agents. You informed on them yourself. What did you expect once we knew they had not died in that automobile accident? You expected us to give them a pension and a dacha?’

‘No, sir. I merely think they have acted well for this operation.’

‘My dear girl, they did not know they were helping us. From what I saw, they bumbled around in the night like two blind people. We even had to give them clues. Lead them. What is it that British writer said, “There is nothing worse than an old spy in a hurry,” eh? These were two old spies trying to break the sound barrier. Look, Nina, it is understandable for you to weep. Whatever they did wrong, they are still your parents. I see that, just as I know you have done well for us. You and the beautiful Natasha. Both of you kept the British comfortable and in a state of – what can I call it – cosy bewilderment? You also helped lead your aged parents a very merry dance, but you always understood it was a dance macabre. We even sacrificed people to them. Forget it now. You simply obeyed orders. You will be handsomely rewarded, I promise you that.’

Nina bowed her head. ‘Very well, comrade Marshal. Might I know what you intend for them?’

Yuskovich made an explosive noise of petulance, puffing his cheeks out and expelling air through his pursed lips. ‘Very well. They will be taken with the others. I have made arrangements for them to be processed at Perm 35. They will probably live there without undue hardship. They will die there.’

Perm 35 is one of the few remaining Stalin-era camps. It lies on the European side of the Urals, and, under the new President’s lenient release of political prisoners, its population of three hundred has dwindled to some fifteen – hijackers, military deserters and one CIA spy.

They buried James Bond the next morning, wrapping his body in sheets before placing it in the hard cold ground. Spetsnaz soldiers had hacked their way through the earth to make the grave which was marked by a piece of wood, carved overnight by one of their number. It bore the legend.

Here lies the body of a gallant British officer, thought to be Captain James Bond. Royal Navy. Died for his own cause January 9th, 1991.

Even Yuskovich attended the interment. He also allowed Natkowitz and Boris Stepakov to be present. A squad of four Spetsnaz fired a volley of shots over the grave, while another played the Last Post on an old bugle.

The surprise came from Stepakov who, when the last notes died away, stepped forward and spoke lines memorised from his beloved Shelley:

‘It is a modest creed, and yet

Pleasant if one considers it,

To own that death itself must be,

Like all the rest, a mockery.’

Natkowitz could have sworn there were tears running down the clownish face as the KGB general walked from the graveside.

All the actors and technicians who had been gathered together by Yuskovich’s fake Chushi Pravosudia were flown out in big Mi-12 Homer helicopters the next afternoon. They used three of the huge machines to shuttle the prisoners out to the nearest railhead. The monitors in Scandinavia reported that members of the arrested Chushi Pravosudia were being removed for trial.

On that same afternoon, Marshal Yuskovich watched the grainy black and white video, now fully assembled by Clive. When it was over, he instructed Clive and his assistants to work until late in the night, making three hundred copies of the video. One officer and two men were left to watch over them.

The officer was given a list of all television companies. The tapes were to be taken out by him and his two soldiers, and he was to be certain they were dispatched immediately by the quickest method to the companies on the list.

‘And what of the director, Clive, and his men?’ the officer asked.

‘You are to dispatch them also.’ Yuskovich drew his forefinger across his throat, then went in search of Major Verber and the rest of his personal force.

They reported that the two French agents, Boris Stepakov and the remaining Briton already waited aboard the last helicopter.

‘Nina Bibikova?’ he asked.

‘She’s there with five of the men. We’ve sedated the prisoners. They’ll cause us no problems. A little something in their coffee.’

‘You have heard from Baku?’

‘It’s quiet, sir,’ Major Verber reported. ‘Cold, but everything is in place. We can be there by morning. The Scamps have been taken on board and we’re ready to sail. There’s even an icebreaker, just in case.’

‘The Scamps and the Scapegoats?’ Yuskovich snapped.

‘All six of them. Everything, comrade General. The crews as well.’

‘They are old weapons.’ The marshal sounded as though he spoke fondly of children. ‘Old, but still very effective. I have husbanded those Scamps and Scapegoats against just such a day as this.’

The Scamp is a Russian mobile launching system, now phased out. Its missile was the Scapegoat with a range of two thousand, five hundred miles. The Scapegoat nuclear warhead yields between one and two megatons. Six of these missiles, therefore, would be equal to almost three times the explosive power of all bombs dropped in World War II.

‘Well, if all goes to plan, we’ll have them in Iraq within three days. Right under the noses of the Americans, British, French: the entire lot.’ Yuskovich nodded brusquely and led the way out to the waiting helicopter.