Man From Barbarossa

MINSK FIVE

They were gathered in M’s office. London was almost as cold as it had been in Russia. It was the afternoon of January 17th. Twenty-four hours earlier, the coalition forces, led by the United States, had launched their aerial bombardment on Iraq. They called it Desert Storm. Tornadoes, Harriers, F-15s, F-16s, A-6s, Wild Weasels, and Tomahawk Cruise missiles had blasted at targets throughout the country. There was no sense of glee or delight, simply the old numbness that comes when nations are forced to take action against another nation. Nobody would relish death on the new, untested, electronic battlefield.

Bond had returned after a longer than expected stay in Moscow, and now, with Bill Tanner operating the tapes, he had gone through a lengthy pre-debriefing with his old Chief. Throughout the afternoon, M had sat, pipe clamped between his teeth, listening, with some relief, to the minutiae of the operation. They had covered almost everything, including the last things – from the seizing of the trial videos, the finding of the four graves near the second dacha, the luckless Guy, George and Helen, plus the war criminal Vorontsov, to Boris Stepakov’s posthumously awarded Hero of the Soviet Union.

‘So you’ll be getting Michael Brooks and Emerald back?’ Bond made it sound half-question, half-statement.

M made a gesture which indicated it could go either way. Eventually he said, ‘The idea of passing all those actors and people off as the true heart of Chushi Pravosudia might have worked.’

‘It certainly would, had Yuskovich been successful. Who’d have known the difference, sir? They’ve hidden politicals for years, some without trial, even done away with them.’

‘Back in the dark ages, yes.’ M frowned.

‘But you’re getting Michael and Emerald back, sir?’ This time it was a question. ‘The Soviet President seemed . . .’

‘Let’s say we’re negotiating. The Soviet President’s certainly had the whole lot released. We’re hopeful. Let’s leave it at that.’

‘Then I can go, sir?’

‘Just one more thing, 007 . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘What did Yuskovich have tucked away at the air base called Minsk Five?’

‘Minsk Five, sir?’

‘Come on, James. Your final signal was detailed enough. Caspian Sea, the cargo, how it was being carried, everything until you got to the bit about Minsk Five. Then you went vague on me. “Inform soonest and most urgent President USSR to search Minsk Five.” ’

‘You know what Minsk Five is, sir?’ An old-time drill sergeant would have called it dumb insolence.

M sighed. ‘James, my dear boy, I’ll read it after the full debriefing, so you might as well tell me now. I know it’s a military air base.’

‘It has been a long day, sir.’

‘You should have thought of that before you asked for extra time in Moscow. I gather you then went on to Paris. How is Mlle Adoré?’

Bond did not meet his eye. ‘She needed a little comforting, sir. Henri Rampart was an old and valued friend.’

‘I bet he was. Minsk Five, 007.’

This time Bond looked genuinely concerned. Since he had first heard it, outside the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre on the dark and cold night when he had ‘killed’ himself, Bond had tried not to think about the ramifications of Minsk Five. He sucked in air. ‘It was Yuskovich’s final gambit, sir. I could only put it to the Soviet President through you.’

‘Well?’

‘I know he had the place pretty well dry-cleaned, the President, I mean . . .’

‘What was there to find?’ M put on his patient voice.

‘Possibly a Boeing 747, sir.’

‘A special 747?’

‘Pretty special. It was in British Airways livery. According to the late Yevgeny Yuskovich, they had also made modifications. Extra fuel tanks and a bomb bay containing a very high-yield nuclear device.’

‘Go on.’

‘This is what I heard, sir. The Soviet President did not confide in me. According to Yuskovich . . . what he said to Berzin, anyway . . . it sounds ludicrous, sir, but in this day and age nothing is too ludicrous. From what I heard, the intention was that, on the day after a strike was launched against Iraq, and following Iraq’s response with the Scapegoats, they were going to decimate Washington.’

‘How?’

‘A mid-Atlantic intercept by fighters, refuelled en route, of course. Our usual BA flight to Washington. To start with, the BA flight would have all radio and radar jammed and the counterfeit 747 would transmit on their frequency, use their squawk numbers. The BA aircraft would then be blown out of the sky at long range. They would never see the fighters that did it. Their 747 would then become the BA flight. It could be done, sir. The aircraft would be off air for a couple of seconds, then back on again.’

M frowned. ‘Yes, of course it could be done. The general public are getting their first taste of what can be done even as we speak.’

‘When the flight came under Dulles control, it would go way off course. It would be all over before the Dulles ATC realised what was happening.’

‘Right over the centre of Washington?’ M sucked his pipe, and Bill Tanner drew in his breath.

‘Washington, large chunks of Maryland and Virginia and other adjacent areas. I should imagine the bulk of America’s politicians, generals, you name it, would have gone.’

‘And you really believe he was going to have this done?’

‘I have no reason to disbelieve it, sir.’

‘The mad, mad . . .’ M stopped, shaking his head.

‘No, sir, I don’t think Yuskovich was mad.’

M rose and went over to the window. Below, the park was almost empty. There was a long silence before he spoke. ‘No, I suppose not. The man had a faith. He had served a system in which he had absolute belief. He saw it slipping away and he already had great power. You’re right, and I can only presume there’re thousands like him. Believers. It doesn’t simply disappear overnight. There most likely will be others. It has not gone away.’

Bond did not reply. He pulled a slim square jeweller’s box from his pocket and laid it on the desk to which M had now returned.

‘I think you should lock this away, sir. The Soviet President gave it to me. The very fact that it’s still presented to people for services rendered should tell us something.’

M did not seem to have heard him. ‘I’m certain the Soviets want to play by different rules, but it is hard to break the mould.’ The old spy nodded to himself, then looked at the box.

‘With permission, sir, I’d like to leave.’ Bond stood up.

M nodded, smiled absently, and said a simple. ‘Thank you, James. Drop in tomorrow, would you?’

Bond nodded, returning the smile.

When the door closed, M reached for the box and opened it. There lying on a bed of silk was an oval medal attached to a red ribbon bordered by thin white stripes. In the centre, surrounded by a gilt frame of grain, Lenin’s face stared off to the left, moulded in platinum. The red enamel border was punctuated by the hammer and sickle, the red star, and the name ЛЕНИНin Russian script. M had never seen one before, except in photographs, and then usually pinned to the breast of celebrated Soviets, but he recognised it immediately. One of the highest decorations the Soviets could award – the Order of Lenin.