Ruger Redhawk dropped into his left hand.
Trained to use weapons with both hands, urged on by speed, Bond’s body turned only slightly, the flash of the Magnum cartridge burning his trousers and jacket as he fired almost before the big revolver was clear of its hiding place.
Kolya Mosolov knew nothing. One minute he was ready to squeeze the trigger of the silenced Stetchkin, hidden under his coat; the next moment a blinding flash, a fractional pain, then darkness and the long oblivion.
The bullet lifted the Russian from his feet, catching him just below the throat, almost ripping head from body. His heels scraped the ice as he slid back, turning as he hit the ground, and sliding a good one and a half metres after he had fallen.
But Bond saw none of that. The moment he fired, so his right hand slammed the door closed. The Redhawk went back into its compartment, and the key was fully twisted in the ignition. The Saab burst into life, and Bond’s hand moved with calm, expert confidence – pushing the button to close the compartment housing the Redhawk. He slid the gear lever into first, clipped on his inertia reel seatbelt, released the brake, and smoothly moved away as his fingers adjusted the hot air controls and the rear window heater. As he pulled away, Bond got the merest glimpse of what remained of the Russian: a small huddle on the ice, and a swelling pool of crimson. He swerved the car on to the Mannerheimintie, joining the sparse traffic heading for the Vantaa Airport road.
Once settled into the road pattern, Bond reached down and activated the radio telephone – which had proved to be Kolya Mosolov’s fatal mistake. This was a simple local call, needing no base unit, for the resident agent, under whose control Bond officially worked, should be at a number situated less than ten miles from where the Saab sped towards the airport.
Bond punched out the number, by feel rather than looking down, for his eyes had to be everywhere now. In the handset he heard the number buzz at the far end. The buzzing continued, unanswered. In some ways Bond was pleased. The resident was away from his phone, but at least Bond had gone through the official motions.
He drove with care, watching his speed, for the Finnish police are extremely vigilant when it comes to the breaking of the speed limit. The clock on Bond’s dashboard, which had been adjusted to Helsinki time, said five minutes past eight. He would be at Vantaa by eight-thirty all right – possibly just in time to catch up with von Gloda.
The airport was crowded, like any other international terminal, when Bond entered. He had parked the Saab in an easily accessible place, and now carried the awkward Ruger Redhawk inside his jacket, the long barrel pushed into the waistband of his trousers and twisted sideways. Never, the training schools taught, imitate the movies and shove a gun barrel straight down inside your trouser leg; always turn it to one side. If there should be an accident, straight down would mean losing part of your foot, if you were lucky. An unlucky man would lose what one instructor insisted on calling his ‘wedding tackle’ – a term Bond thought oddly vulgar. Twist the weapon sideways, by the butt, and you would get a burn, though the unfortunate person beside you would catch the bullet.
The big clock in International Departures stood at two minutes to eight-thirty.
Moving very fast, elbowing through the throng, Bond made the information desk and asked about the nine o’clock flight to Paris. The girl hardly looked up. The nine o’clock was Flight AY 873 via Brussels. They would not be calling it for another fifteen minutes as there was a catering delay.
As yet there was no need to put out a call for von Gloda, Bond decided. If the man’s colleagues were around to see him off, there would still be a chance to corner him on this side of the terminal. If not, then Bond would simply have to bluff to get him back from the air-side.
Keeping behind as much cover as possible, Bond edged his way past the kiosks, trying to position himself near the passage on the extreme left of the complex which led to passport control and the air-side lounges.
At the far end of this section of the departure area, set in front of high windows, was a coffee shop – separated from the main complex by a low, flimsy trellis barrier covered with imitation flowers. To the left of it, very close to where Bond now stood, was the passport control section, each of its little booths occupied by an official.
Bond started to look at faces, searching through the crowds for von Gloda. Departing passengers were constantly moving through passport control, while the coffee shop was crowded with travellers, mainly seated at low, round tables.
Then quite unexpectedly – almost out of the corner of his eye – Bond saw his quarry: von Gloda rising from one of the coffee shop tables.
The would-be heir to Adolf Hitler’s ruined empire appeared to be just as well-organised in Helsinki as he had been at the Ice Palace. His clothes were immaculate, and even in the grey civilian greatcoat, the man had a military look about him – a straightness of back and a bearing that singled him out from the ordinary. No wonder, Bond thought momentarily, that Tudeer imagined the world was his destiny.
He was surrounded by six men, all smartly dressed – each one of them looking like an ex-soldier. Mercenaries, perhaps? Von Gloda spoke to them in a low voice, punctuating his words with quick movements of the hands. It took Bond a second or two to realise the movements were similar to those of the late Adolf Hitler himself.
The radio announcement system clicked and played its little warning jingle. They were about to announce the Paris flight, Bond was certain. Von Gloda cocked his head to listen, but he’d also apparently decided, before the jingle finished, that it was his flight. Solemnly he shook hands with each of his men in turn and looked around for his hand baggage.
Bond moved closer to the trelliswork. There were too many people in the coffee shop to risk taking von Gloda there, he decided. The best place would be as the man walked clear of the coffee shop towards passport control.
Still maintaining cover among the constantly changing throng, Bond edged to the left. Von Gloda appeared to be looking around him, as if alerted to some danger.
The jingle died away, and the voice of the announcer came from the myriad speakers – unusually loud and clear, almost unbearably so. Bond felt his stomach churn. He stopped in his tracks, eyes never leaving von Gloda, who also stiffened, his face changing at the words:
‘Would Mr James Bond please come to the Information Desk on the second floor?’
They were on the second floor. Bond quickly looked around, eyes searching for the Information Desk, aware that von Gloda was also turning. The voice repeated, ‘Mr James Bond, please go to the Information Desk.’
Von Gloda turned fully. Both he and Bond must have spotted the figure, standing by the Information Desk, at roughly the same moment – Hans Buchtman, whom Bond had first known as Brad Tirpitz. As their eyes met, so Buchtman moved towards Bond, his mouth opening, words floating, lost in the general noise and bustle.
For an instant, von Gloda stared at Buchtman, scowling, incredulous. Then, at last, he saw Bond.
The whole scene appeared to be frozen for a split second. Then von Gloda said something to his companions. They began to scatter as von Gloda grabbed for his cabin baggage and started to move quickly from the coffee shop.
Bond stepped into the open in an attempt to cut him off, aware of Buchtman elbowing his way through the crowd. Bond’s hand touched the Redhawk’s butt as Buchtman’s words finally reached his ears: ‘No! No, Bond! No, we want him alive!’
I’ll bet you do, Bond thought, as he hauled on the Redhawk, closing towards von Gloda who was crossing in front of him, moving rapidly. There was no stopping Bond now. ‘Halt, Tudeer!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll never make the flight. Stop now!’
People began to scream, and Bond – only a few paces from von Gloda – realised that the leader of the National Socialist Action Army held a Luger pistol low in his right hand, half screened by the small case in his left.
Bond still hauled on the Redhawk, which would not come free from his waistband. Again he shouted, glancing back to see that Buchtman was bearing down on him from behind, thrusting people out of his path. In the midst of the panic erupting around him, Bond heard von Gloda shouting hysterically as he turned full on towards Bond.
‘They didn’t get me yesterday,’ von Gloda yelled. ‘This is proof of my mission. Proof of my destiny.’
As though in answer, the barrel of the Redhawk came free. Von Gloda’s hand rose, the Luger pointing towards Bond, who dropped to one knee, extending his arm and the Redhawk. Von Gloda’s hand and the Luger filled Bond’s vision as he called again, ‘It’s over, von Gloda. Don’t be a fool.’
Then the spurt of flame from the Luger’s barrel, and Bond’s own finger squeezing twice on the Redhawk’s
