No Deals, Mr. Bond

13

BLACKFRIAR

‘Well.’ Bond looked straight into Chernov’s green-flecked eyes. ‘You’re a long way from your usual territory, Comrade General. It must be odd to be away from your comfortable office in the Square, or have they moved Department 8 out to that modern monstrosity off the ring road – the so-called Scientific Research Centre?’

A wisp of a smile appeared on Chernov’s lips. Anyone, Bond thought, could have taken him for an influential, wealthy businessman: the slim, powerful body under a beautifully cut grey suit; the tanned, undeniably good-looking features; the personal magnetism of the man, combined with his height – he was well over six feet tall – made him a commanding personality. It was easy to see how this man had become the Chief Investigating Officer of the erstwhile SMERSH.

‘You read the right books, Comrade Bond, if I may say so; the right kind of fiction.’ He lowered the pistol, a heavy Stetchkin, and turned his head in a slightly diffident manner to give a crisp instruction to one of the men behind him. ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled again as though he genuinely liked Bond. ‘I’m sorry, but your reputation goes ahead of you. I’ve asked my people to remove any toys you might be carrying.’

His free hand went up to brush one of the greying, thick wings of hair described so accurately on the file at Headquarters: ‘The hair is thick, greying at the temples, unusually long for a member of the Russian Service, but always well-groomed and distinguished by the wings that almost cover his ears. It is swept straight back with no parting.’ Bond knew most of the senior KGB and GRU officers’ profiles by heart.

One of Chernov’s men, obeying the order, caught hold of Bond’s shoulders and turned him around roughly. He ordered him in clumsy English to place his palms on the bedroom wall.

Chernov snapped another command, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bond. He was instructed to handle you more gently.’ His accent could easily have been acquired at one of the older British universities, his whole manner being near to deferential. The tone, usually quiet and calm, made him even more sinister.

The man conducting the body search was all too thorough. He quickly found the ASP and the baton; then the disguised weapons: the pen, the wallet and the precious belt which contained so many secrets. He felt the linings of Bond’s clothes and removed his shoes and examined them carefully before returning them. In minutes Bond was left only with the tiny ‘harmonica’ bleeper still attached to the top button of his jacket.

‘It’s interesting, isn’t it?’ Chernov said in his near languorous tones. ‘Interesting how our masters are always dreaming up new little pieces of technology for us?’

‘With respect, you’re one of the masters.’ Bond willed himself to show the same calmness, for Chernov would be like an animal who could scent fear at fifty paces.

‘So I am,’ he said with a low-pitched laugh.

‘One to be admired, so we are told.’

‘Really.’ He did not sound flattered.

‘Isn’t it true that you are practically the only senior officer to survive the 1971 purge, after Lyalin’s defection?’

Chernov shrugged. ‘Who knows about Lyalin? Some say that was a put up job to get rid of us altogether.’

‘But you did survive and helped to build the phoenix out of the ashes of your department. You’re to be admired.’ This was not mere flattery. Bond knew that a man with Chernov’s track record would never fall for such an obvious ploy.

‘Thank you, Mr Bond. The feeling is mutual. You too have been resurrected against much criticism, I gather.’ He sighed. ‘What a difficult thing our job is. You realise what must be done?’

‘The price on my head?’

‘There’s no price – not this time. However, you are on a list. Therefore I would be failing in my duty if I did not achieve your execution; preferably at the Lubyanka after interrogation.’ He shrugged again. ‘But unfortunately that could prove difficult. To dispose of you will not be a problem, yet my career demands that justice must be seen to be done. Your death has to be public, not in the privacy of the Lubyanka cellars.’

Bond nodded. He knew the longer he kept the man talking there in the hotel, the more chance Murray would have to come to his rescue. Bond had to telephone him. Official or not, Murray would certainly do all that was possible – did he not owe Bond his own life?

‘I’m glad you are philosophical about it, Mr Bond. You say you admire me and I would be lacking in honesty if I did not admit to having some respect for your qualities of ingenuity, speed and resourcefulness. You must understand that there will be nothing personal about your death. It’s just business.’

‘Of course.’ Bond hesitated for a moment. ‘May I ask what has happened to the lady?’

‘Don’t worry about the lady.’ Chernov smiled, inclining his head to one side in a condescending gesture. ‘Eventually she too must pay a penalty, together with the turncoat Smolin and the other traitor in this disgraceful business; Dietrich and her gigolo, Belzinger, or Baisley as he now likes to be called. My duty is to see justice done. You are a most delightful bonus.’ He looked around him at his lieutenants. ‘We should be on our way. There is much to be done.’

‘I’m ready when you are.’

Bond realised that he must have sounded a little too confident, and saw his error in the hint of suspicion that stirred in Kolya Chernov’s eyes. For a second the General looked at him, then turned on his heel, flicking his hand in a gesture commanding his men to follow with Bond. They took him along the corridor towards the back of the building and down two flights of emergency stairs.

Behind the hotel stood a large Renault and a sleek black Jaguar with darkened windows. Chernov walked straight towards the Jaguar and Bond was pushed in the same direction. The Renault was obviously either the trail or scout car. Bond was to travel in the comparative luxury of Chernov’s Jaguar. A man detached himself from the driving seat and strolled over to open the rear door. He wore a black rollneck and his head was bandaged. Even from a distance, Bond recognised Mischa, the killer who had made the abortive attempt on Heather’s life in London. The bandages made him look more piratical than ever, and he stared at Bond with an animated hatred.

General Chernov ducked his head and climbed into the rear of the Jaguar, while the men pushed Bond around to the far side. There was no sign of Ebbie. Another man climbed from the offside door, standing to one side as Bond was bundled in next to Chernov.

Chernov sighed. ‘The ride will not be so comfortable. I’m afraid it’s rather cramped with three people in the back.’

The guard climbed in after Bond so that he was sandwiched in the middle. Mischa returned to the driving seat, while one of the other men took the front passenger seat. Being a realist, Bond did not need to ponder what might happen if Murray were to miss his cue. Mischa started the engine and the Renault pulled away in front of them. It was to be a forward scout, thought Bond. That was exactly how he would have played it.

It soon became obvious that they were taking the road to Dublin. In a matter of hours they would be back at Three Sisters Castle. Mischa drove with almost exaggerated care, keeping a steady thirty yards behind the Renault. He did not look back at Bond but his malevolence hung in the air. The man next to Bond kept one arm inside his jacket and occasionally the butt of a pistol showed, grasped firmly in his hand. The General dozed but the man in front remained alert, occasionally turning around or watching Bond in the rear view mirror set in the sun shield.

Time dragged and Bond tired of the monotonous scenery, the views of lush greenery and the untidy towns and villages. Although his mind ranged through every possibility, he knew there was no way he could escape from the car alive. It would be certain death, even on the main roads of the Republic of Ireland. If only Murray would turn up, he kept thinking, there might be a way. For the present he had lost control over the situation.

They covered the miles without incident, finally passing through the narrow streets of Arklow. About three miles beyond, the Renault turned off to the left, up a very narrow road bordered by high trees and hedges and with barely space for two cars to pass comfortably. Clearly this was the road leading to the main castle entrance.

Chernov stretched and woke, telling Mischa he had done well and sharing a joke with him in Russian. Ahead the Renault turned a sharp bend and as they followed Mischa cursed roughly. Around the bend the Renault had been forced to pull up sharply. Two Garda cars were parked across the road and as Mischa applied the brakes Bond glanced behind to see an unmarked saloon covering their rear.

‘Stay calm. No weapons!’ Chernov ordered, his voice cracking like a whip. ‘No shooting, understand?’

Half a dozen uniformed Gardi were surrounding the Renault, and another four now approached the Jaguar. With a slow insolence, Mischa lowered the window and a uniformed officer bent to speak to him.

‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid this road is closed to all but the diplomatic traffic. You’ll have to get the car turned around.’

‘What appears to be the trouble, officer?’ Chernov leaned forward and Bond noticed that he and the other man in the rear had positioned themselves in a vain attempt to hide Bond’s face.

‘It’s diplomatic trouble, sir. Nothing serious. There were some complaints last night, so we’re having to keep the road shut for a while.’

‘What kind of diplomatic trouble? I carry a diplomatic passport, as do my fellow passengers. We’re heading for the Russian Embassy property at the castle.’

‘Ah, well, that makes a difference, then.’

The man took a step back. Already Bond could see the cars ahead of them had been moved slightly to let the Renault through. He was also aware of men in civilian clothes close to the car. One of them now leaned towards the rear window, which Mischa had been forced to open. Bond did not recognise him, but he had the roving, relaxed eyes of a Special Branch man.

‘There were reports of shooting around here last night. You’ll understand that people get a bit nervous of that kind of thing. So I’ll have to see your credentials, sir, if you’d care to . . .’

‘Certainly.’ Chernov fumbled in his coat and pulled out a bundle of documents, including his passport. The Irish SB man took them examining the passport carefully.

‘Ah!’ He looked hard at Chernov. ‘We knew you had arrived, Mr Talanov. It’s your Foreign Ministry you’re from, is it not?’

‘I am Inspector of Embassies, yes. I’m here on the usual annual visit.’

‘Now, it wasn’t you who came last time, was it, Mr Talanov? If I recall correctly it was a short man. Now didn’t he have a beard or something? Yes, a beard and glasses. Name of . . . God love me, I’ll forget my own name next, so I will.’

‘Zuyenko,’ said Chernov. ‘Yuri Fedeovich Zuyenko.’

‘That’s the fella, now. Zuyenko. He’s not coming this year then, Mr Talanov?’

‘He is not coming anywhere.’ Bond detected a slight edge. Chernov, with his experience, would know that the garrulous Special Branch man was playing for time. He was obviously already annoyed. ‘Yuri Fedeovich died. Suddenly. Last summer.’

‘Lord rest his soul poor man. Suddenly, last summer, eh? Did you ever see that filum, sir? It had the lovely Katharine Hepburn in it, and Miss Taylor . . . you know she has a cottage hereabouts, did you know that?’

‘I really think we should be moving, especially if there has been trouble up the road at Three Sisters.’

‘Bit of something and nothing I should think, Mr Talanov. But, before you go . . .’

‘Yes?’ He sounded stern and his eyes were glittering with more than a hint of anger.

‘Well, sir. We do have to check all diplomatic credentials.’

‘Nonsense. I vouch for everyone in the car. They are all under my care.’

As Chernov spoke, Bond felt the hard metal of the guard’s pistol in his side. He could not risk making a fuss even though he knew Chernov did not want a killing incident on his hands.

Another face replaced the first. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Talanov, as you call yourself, but we’ll be taking that gentleman there.’ Norman Murray pointed to Bond. ‘You’re keeping bad company, sir. This man’s wanted for questioning, and I think you’ll agree he’s not a Russian citizen, and certainly no diplomat. Am I right, so?’

‘Well . . .’ Chernov started.

‘I think you’d better let him come quietly. Out of the car, you.’ Murray reached in across the guard and took hold of Bond’s jacket. ‘You’ll come quietly won’t you, me boyo? Then the other gentlemen can get on their way.’

‘Quits now, Norman?’ Bond did not smile at the Special Branch man. He could see that something had gone seriously wrong. He had seen it as Norman Murray had led the way to his private car and nodded for Bond to get in, leaving the Gardi and SB officers to see Chernov’s car through to the castle.

‘More than quits, Jacko. I’ll be for the high jump tomorrow, no doubt about that. There’s little I can do for you. I doubt if I could walk the length of my shadow for you and that’s a fact. There’s some very funny business going on, I’ll tell you.’

‘What’s happened?’ Bond knew Murray well enough to see the man was engulfed in a mixture of anger, frustration and concern.

‘It’s what didn’t happen. First, I was wakened before dawn with a message about your man Basilisk. Your friends across the water wanted him pulled in and delivered to them on the quiet, right? Seeing as how we do favours for one another, we sent a couple of cars to the Clonmel Arms where, we were reliably informed, Basilisk was staying with your young woman – the one I met at the airport.’

‘You didn’t say anything about that when I telephoned you.’

‘Because you said they had been lifted. I thought it’d be a nice surprise for you to know we had lifted them.’

‘You took the girl as well?’

‘We didn’t get either of them. They weren’t there. I had a call five minutes after you got in touch. The people at the hotel said “friends” had picked them up. But later they changed their tune. It appears that Basilisk made a lot of telephone calls during the night. Then they came down around three thirty in the morning, paid the bill and left.’

‘What about the girl I was with?’

‘There’s neither hide nor hair of her. There really were complaints about shooting and explosions at the castle, and one of our people spotted you being brought out of the hotel. But it’s a great chance I’ve been taking meddling with the fella you were with.’

‘None of this is good.’ Bond felt foolish at his understatement.

Murray laughed. ‘You’ve yet to hear the really bad news, Jacko. Your Service refused to make you official.’

‘Damn!’

‘You’re on leave. There’s no sanction for you to be in the Republic, operational. That’s what I got. On no account are you to give this officer assistance. On no account, Jacko. That’s what they said.’

‘In the event of anything going wrong we shall have to deny you, even to our own police forces.’ He heard M’s voice as they walked through the park. ‘Our own police forces’ implied everyone else’s as well. But why? M had held out on the turning of Basilisk, though that had now to some extent been explained. There had been contact between M and Smolin, probably through Murray, who was the most pliable Irish SB man the Service had on tap. Already Bond had run Smolin and two of the girls to earth. Why in heaven’s name would the old man go on denying him?

‘Norman, you realise who that was in the car?’

‘I know exactly who it was, Jacko.’

‘Then why didn’t you . . .’

‘Hands off. Those were the instructions from my people, and I gather they are in contact with your own Service. Take in Basilisk and deliver him to us but don’t touch Blackfriar. That’s what we were asked. Well, Basilisk’s disappeared, and . . .’

‘And the girls as well. The girls were my real responsibility, Norman.’

‘I don’t want to know.’

‘You’re not going to know. Except that I have to find those girls, and someone else.’

‘Well, you won’t be finding them here, not in the Republic. I’m to get you to a secure place we have at the airport and move you on – with a giant boot up the backside.’

‘What?’

‘You heard, Jacko. We don’t want you here. So off you go. Even your Embassy doesn’t want you here.’

Bond’s mind reeled with questions. ‘If we come to a telephone, will you stop for a minute, Norman?’

‘Why should I?’

‘For old times’ sake.’

‘We’re square.’

‘Please.’ He spoke gravely. Smolin and Heather had disappeared entirely and Ebbie had vanished in minutes from their room, to be replaced by Chernov. Nasty suspicions were starting to form in his head.

Slowly Murray nodded. A couple of hundred yards along the road they came to a telephone box and he pulled over. ‘Quickly as you can, Jacko, and no stupidity. We’ve enough trouble without you going walkabout.’

Bond had the plastic ‘harmonica’ bleeper unpeeled from the button before he reached the telephone box. By now Blackfriar would be back in the castle and he reckoned the General would immediately have the telephones checked. Indeed, he was surprised it had not already been done, for Chernov was obviously scrupulously careful. The bugs were nevertheless still in place and he heard the usual mixture of voices. He could make out very little and was about to replace the instrument when he suddenly heard Chernov’s voice, very clear. He must be standing right over one of the activated telephones.

‘I want every man we have on the streets of Dublin.’ His voice was calm and authoritative. ‘Bond and Colonel Smolin must be found and soon. I want them both. Understand? They took Bond from under my nose. Then we have the added trouble of those two German women, the damned Cream Cake business. What have I done to deserve such idiots?’

‘Comrade General, you had no option. It just couldn’t be helped.’ The conversation was in Russian. ‘Your orders have been obeyed to the letter. Once we run everyone to earth it will be simple. But the gunfight last night has caused almost a diplomatic incident.’

‘Diplomatic rubbish!’ shouted Chernov.

Now there was another voice, close to Chernov. ‘We’ve just had a message from Hong Kong, Comrade General.’

‘Yes?’

‘They’ve tracked Belzinger and Dietrich. She’s opened up the GRU house on Cheung Chau Island.’

‘Dietrich’s an over-confident bitch. We shall have to move fast. Get a message to Hong Kong. Tell them to watch at a distance. I don’t want anyone going in there until I arrive.’

The line began to break up and Bond realised that now, more than ever, it was essential for him to take the initiative. Delving into his pocket he pulled out the few Irish coins that Chernov’s man had left him. He put the receiver down, then dialled the castle number again. When it was answered, he spoke quickly in Russian, asking for General Chernov by name.

‘This is most urgent! A life and death matter.’

Chernov was on in a few seconds, quietly cursing about secure lines.

‘We don’t need a secure line, Comrade General,’ said Bond in English. ‘You recognise the voice?’

There was a short pause. Then, Chernov answered, cold as ice. ‘I recognise it.’

‘I just wanted to say that I look forward to meeting you again, Blackfriar. Catch me if you can. North, south, west or east.’

He put the accent on east, goading Chernov. Replacing the instrument, he left the box and walked rapidly to the car. Chernov would know Bond was calling his bluff, and that Bond had a small advantage, with his knowledge of Chernov’s likely movements. M would probably have said the telephone call was an insane move, but M was also playing a devious game.

‘For a minute there I thought you were playing games with me, Jacko. They’ve been on to me from Dublin. What country do you want?’

‘What d’you mean, what country?’

‘You’re being deported, Jacko. Your own folk in London have said we can send you to the moon as far as they care. Even your old boss says you’ve to take the rest of your leave elsewhere.’

‘He used those words?’

‘Exactly those words. “Tell the renegade to take the rest of his leave elsewhere. Tell him to go missing.” That’s what the auld divil said. So where’s it to be, Jacko? Spain? Portugal? A couple of weeks in the Canary Islands?’

Bond glanced at him, but Murray’s face was expressionless, innocent of any knowledge about Jungle’s recent visit there.

‘Let me think for a minute or two, Norman. Wherever I choose, can you get me out really quietly?’

‘As quietly as ghosts. You’ll go so silently that not even the Dublin airport controllers will know.’

‘Give me a minute then.’

Already he knew exactly where he wanted to go, but first Bond had to think about M’s attitude. Controls always worked on the basis of need-to-know, so why had M decided from the outset that Bond should be told he was on his own? And why, when M must know two of the girls had been found and had then disappeared, was he still denying Bond had any rights in the field? Bond was never supposed to meet Smolin, so he did not need to know about him. Was this a case of Bond not needing to know something else?

He tried to reason out the succession of events, using his knowledge of elementary trade and fieldcraft. When would a control deliberately withhold some piece of vital information from his agent, even when it might put his man at a grave disadvantage? There was only one set of circumstances that justified this kind of risk, and already there had been a hint of it in the conversation overheard through the ‘harmonicas’. You withhold only one kind of information – that a trusted agent might be a double. You withhold that when you do not know who is the guilty person. Bring them all back, M had told him. All, which meant Ebbie, Heather or Jungle could be a double. It had to be the answer. One of the Cream Cake team had been turned and, knowing the way M’s mind worked, Bond had to include Smolin and Dietrich among the suspects.

They reached the outskirts of Dublin, weaving their way through the heavy traffic. Why deny him? It was simple. You deny a field agent when the Foreign Office and the politicians would be seriously embarrassed; or when his targets know he is getting no assistance. Damn M, Bond thought, he’s playing it very long indeed – long and dangerous. Any other officer would have called it a day, gone back to London with his spoils and laid them at M’s feet. But not Bond. M was putting all his money on Bond seeing it through; risking his man like a gambler, knowing the stakes had risen dramatically once Blackfriar had shown himself.

‘Is there a secure telephone at this place you have at the airport, Norm?’

‘I told you not to be calling me Norm.’ Murray sounded annoyed.

‘Well, is there?’

‘It’s as safe as you can get.’ He glanced towards Bond with a large smile. ‘We may even let you use it if you’ve decided where you want to go.’

‘Can you get me into France, as near Paris as possible?’

Murray laughed loudly. ‘You’re asking for miracles, so. You know what the DST is like. Non bloody co-operative.’

‘You live in a country of miracles, Norman. Me, I’d rather be going back across the water to the good life. You know, the click of willow against a villain’s head, the roar of the riot, the scent of new-mown grass snakes.’

‘Lord love you, but you’re turning poetical, Jacko. Thank heaven the blessed St Patrick rid us of snakes.’

‘Did he?’ Bond returned the grin, knowing he was about to have all his requests fulfilled.

The secure quarters were inside the airport itself, in a small walled compound, which hid the car and its passengers from any possibility of being watched. Ostensibly, Dublin has one of the most open airports in Europe. In fact, it boasts discreet and powerful security, mostly hidden from public view. When they reached the approach road, Bond realised there were more than the usual number of Garda patrols around.

Inside there was a comfortable waiting room with armchairs and magazines. There were also a couple of plain clothes men who showed some deference to Norman Murray.

‘There’s a soundproof booth over there with one of the most secure telephones in Ireland,’ said Murray, pointing. ‘Use it now while I set up your flight.’

‘Not until I’m certain you can get me into Paris by tonight,’ said Bond coolly.

‘It’s as good as done, Jacko. You do your telephoning. You’ll be on your way with nobody the wiser within the hour.’

Bond nodded. Norman Murray was a very convincing officer.

Inside the booth he dialled a London number. The woman who answered asked straight away if they were scrambled, and he said probably, but that the line was secure in any case. Q’ute had offered help when he last saw her. Bond had known then that it was no idle remark. Just before he left she had said,

‘If you need anything from here, just call and I’ll bring it to you myself.’

He was calling now, with a long shopping list and an almost impossible delivery time and place but Q’ute took it in her stride.

She merely said, ‘It’ll be there. Good luck,’ and rang off.

Murray was waiting for him, a set of white overalls in his hand. ‘Put these on,’ he said to Bond, ‘and listen carefully.’

As Bond complied, Murray continued, ‘The passage through that door leads to the flying club. You’re going on a spot of cross-country with an instructor. The flight plan is filed. Permission has been given for you to overfly northern France; they do it all the time from here. This time you’ll have a little engine trouble near Rennes, which is your turning point. You won’t be able to make an airfield, so your instructor will put out a Mayday and you’ll glide into a field: not any old field, but a particular one. There’ll be a car and someone to take your place in the aircraft for when the gendarmes and customs arrive. It’s got to go like clockwork. Do as you’re told and it should be okay. But if you’re asked, I had nothing to do with this. You follow?’

Bond nodded. ‘Thanks, Norman.’

‘The aircraft’s directly in front of the building, with the engine running and cleared to taxi. She’s a nice little Cessna 182. She would take four at a pinch. Good luck, Jacko.’

Bond shook Murray’s hand warmly, knowing that somehow M was still with him, for a reason best known to the old man himself.

The aircraft was drawn up close to the building, and Bond kept his head well down as he walked quickly towards it. He ducked his head under the wing and climbed up beside the instructor, a young, happy-looking Irishman who grinned at him, shouting that it was about time.

He had hardly strapped himself into the pupil’s position to the instructor’s left before the Cessna was taxiing towards the short runway on the far side of the field. They waited for a few minutes as an Aer Lingus 737 came in from London, then the instructor opened up the engine and the light aeroplane took to the air almost of her own accord. They turned out to sea and began to climb. At two thousand feet the instructor levelled out.

‘There we are,’ he shouted, ‘all set for the fun and games. I’ll be turning on course in five minutes.’ He moved his head. ‘Are you okay back there?

‘Fine,’ replied Bond.

He looked around and saw Ebbie’s face peering over the back of his seat, where she had been hiding.

‘Hallo, James. Are you pleased to see me?’

She planted a kiss on his cheek.