equipment.
Most sinister of all, Bond thought, were the occasional photographs and framed posters which broke up the line of the walls. The faces were well-known to Bond, and would have been to any student of the Nazi era.
In front of them was another set of metal doors, but once through they trod on deep pile carpet. Paula put up a hand. The little party stopped.
They now stood in a kind of ante-room. A pair of polished heavy pine doors were set at the far end, flanked by Doric pillars, and two men in dark blue uniforms, peaked caps with skull badges – boots gleaming, the red, black and white arm bands displaying the swastika, a smooth gloss shone on their leather belts and holsters; and the Death’s Head silver skull prominent on their caps.
Paula spoke quickly, in German, and one of the uniformed men nodded, tapping on the high doors, then disappearing into the room beyond. The other man eyed Bond with a twisted smile, his hand moving constantly to the holster on his belt.
The minutes ticked by, then the doors opened, and the first man reappeared, giving Paula a nod. Both men grasped the handles of the doors and swung them back. Paula touched Bond’s arm and they moved forward into the room, leaving their original guards behind them.
The only thing Bond saw on entering was Fritz Erler’s huge portrait of Adolf Hitler, towering over everything else in the room. It took up almost the entire rear wall and its impact was so forcefully shattering that Bond simply stood, staring for the best part of a minute. He was conscious of other people present, and that Paula had straightened herself to attention, raising an arm in the Fascist salute.
‘You like it, Mr Bond?’
The voice came from the far side of a large desk, neatly laid out with papers on a blotter, a bank of different coloured telephones, and a small bust of Hitler.
Bond tore his eyes from the painting to look at the man behind the desk. The same weatherbeaten countenance, severe military bearing – even when seated – and well-groomed, iron-grey hair. The face was not that of an old man; Count von Gloda was, as Bond had already noted at the hotel, a man blessed with ageless features – classic, still good looking, but with eyes which held no twinkle of pleasure. At the moment they were turned on Bond as though their owner were merely measuring the man for his coffin.
‘I’ve only seen photographs of it,’ Bond said calmly in return. ‘I didn’t like them, so it follows that, if this is the real thing, I don’t really care for it either.’
‘I see.’
‘You should address the Count as Fuhrer.’ The advice came from Brad Tirpitz, who sprawled comfortably in an easy chair near the desk.
Bond had ceased to be surprised by anything. The fact that Tirpitz was also part of the conspiracy caused him merely to smile and give a little nod, as though suggesting he should have known the truth in the first place.
‘You managed to avoid the land mine after all, then?’ Bond succeeded in making it sound matter-of-fact.
Tirpitz’s granite head made a slow negative movement. ‘You’ve got the wrong boy, I’m afraid, James old buddy.’
A humourless laugh came from von Gloda as Tirpitz continued, ‘I doubt you’ve ever seen a photograph of Brad Tirpitz. “Bad’’ Brad was always careful – like Kolya here – of photographs. I’m told, though, that in the dark with the light behind me, we were the same build. I fear Brad did not make it. Not ever. He got taken out, quietly, before Operation Icebreaker even got under way.’
There was a movement from the desk, a slapping of the hand, as though von Gloda decided he was being neglected.
‘I’m sorry,
‘I shall do the explaining – if there is need for any.’
‘Fuhrer.’ Paula spoke, her voice hardly recognisable to Bond. ‘The last consignment of arms is here. The whole batch will be ready for onward movement within forty-eight hours.’
The Count inclined his head, eyes resting on Bond for asecond, then flicking over to Kolya Mosolov. ‘So. I have the means to keep my part of the bargain then, Comrade Mosolov. I have your price here at hand: Mr James Bond. All as I promised.’
‘Yes.’ Kolya sounded neither pleased nor disgruntled. The single word stated only that some bargain had been fulfilled.
‘Fuhrer, perhaps . . .’ Paula began, but Bond cut across her.
‘Fuhrer?’ he exploded. ‘You call this man Fuhrer – Leader? You’re crazy, the lot of you. Particularly you.’ His finger stabbed out towards the man behind the desk. ‘Aarne Tudeer, wanted for crimes committed during the Second World War. A small time SS officer, granted that dubious honour by Nazis fighting with Finnish troops against the Russians – against Kolya’s people. Now you’ve managed to gather a tiny group of fanatics around you, dressed them up like Hollywood extras, put in all the trappings, and you expect to be called Fuhrer! Aarne, what’s the game? Where’s it going to get you? A few terrorist operations, a relatively small number of Communists dead in the streets – a minuscule success. Aarne Tudeer, in the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king. You’re one-eyed and cock-eyed . . .’
His outburst, calculated to produce the maximum fury, was cut short. Brad Tirpitz, or whoever he was, sprang from his chair, arm rising to deliver a stinging backhander across Bond’s mouth.
‘Silence!’ The command came from von Gloda. ‘Silence! Sit down, Hans.’ He turned his attention to Bond, who could taste the salty blood on his tongue. If he wasn’t careful, thought Bond, Hans, or Tirpitz, or whoever, would get a slap himself before long.
‘James Bond,’ von Gloda’s eyes were glassier than ever, ‘you are here for one purpose only. I shall explain to you in due course. However,’ he took a moment, lingering over the last word, then repeating it, however, there are things I wish to share with you. There are also things I trust you will share with me.’
‘Who’s the cretin disguised as Brad Tirpitz?’ Bond wanted to throw as many curves as possible, but von Gloda appeared to be unshakable, used to absolute obedience.
‘Hans Buchtman is my SS-Reichfuhrer.’
‘Your Himmler?’ Bond laughed.
‘Oh, Mr Bond, it is no laughing matter.’ He moved his head slightly. ‘Stay within call, Hans – outside.’
Tirpitz, or Buchtman, clicked his heels, gave the old, well-known Nazi salute and left the room. Von Gloda addressed himself to Kolya. ‘My dear Kolya, I’m sorry but our business will have to be delayed for a few hours – a day perhaps. Can you accommodate me in that respect?’
Kolya nodded. ‘I suppose so. We made a deal, and I led your part of the arrangement right into your hands. What have I to lose?’
‘Indeed. What, Kolya, have you to lose? Paula, look after him. Stay with Hans.’
She acknowledged this order with ‘Fuhrer’, took Kolya’s arm, and led him from the room.
Bond studied the man carefully. If this really was Aarne Tudeer, he had kept his looks and physique exceptionally well. Could it be that . . . ? No, Bond knew he should not speculate any more.
‘Good; I can now talk.’ Von Gloda stood, hands clasped behind his back, a tall straight figure, every inch a soldier. Well, Bond reflected, at least he was that – not the pipsqueak military amateur Hitler had proved himself to be. This man was tall, tough, and looked as shrewd as any seasoned army commander. Bond sank into a chair. He was not going to wait to be asked. Von Gloda towered over him, looking down.
‘To set the record straight, and get any hopes out of your mind,’ the self-styled Fuhrer began, ‘your Service resident in Helsinki – through whom you are supposed to work . . .’
‘Yes?’ Bond smiled.
A telephone number – that was all he had as a contact with the resident in Helsinki. – Though the London briefing had been precise about his using their man in Finland, Bond had never even thought of it, experience having taught him, years ago, that one should avoid resident case officers like the plague.
‘Your resident was – to use the term in vogue – “taken out” as soon as you left for the Arctic.’
‘Ah.’ Bond sounded enigmatic.
‘A precaution.’ Von Gloda waved his hand. ‘Sad but necessary. There was a substitute for Brad Tirpitz. I had of course to be very careful about my errant daughter, but Kolya Mosolov acted under my orders. Your Service, the
