‘Kilkenny. The Newpark Hotel. I think your friend and mine, Basilisk, has been lifted with the girl you saw at the airport. The rumour about Blackfriar is true. There’s a place called Three Sisters Castle . . .’
‘We know all about Three Sisters. We have no jurisdiction. It’s Embassy property. Bit of a fracas there, Jacko. Was that you, now?’
‘Some of it, but I’m here with the girl from the Ashford Castle Hotel. Got me?’
‘Right.’
‘We’re also due to be lifted. If you can . . .’
But Murray was way ahead of him. ‘I know all about Basilisk, and it’s a lash-up. I’ll do what I can, Jacko. Watch your back. Official now, you say?’
‘Very official and very dangerous.’
‘I doubt it, but get out and head for Dublin. We don’t have orders to lift you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We were lifting Basilisk and it’s gone sour. Now, will you get going?’
‘No transport.’
‘Well, you’ll have to steal something, Jacko. I hear you’re good at that kind of thing.’ Murray gave a quick laugh and rang off, leaving Bond looking at the dead telephone in his hand.
Ebbie, he thought: I must get her out, even if we have to hide in the hedgerows. As he turned to leave the telephone, another thought struck him. He should try the ‘harmonicas’ in the castle once more. He dialled the number and pressed the tiny plastic strip on to the earpiece. Suddenly it was filled with a confusion of sounds. Several people were talking in different parts of the castle. What he could hear made him tighten his grip on the telephone.
‘They’ve lost the traitor Smolin and his girl. Shit!’ This was in Russian.
There was a sinister laugh, then Ingrid’s voice. ‘The General’s going to be very happy.’
A clearer conversation in German probably came from the Communications Room.
‘Yes, message received and understood. Hans,’ the voice shouted loudly and an answer came from far away, then closer. ‘Hans, the team in Rome have tracked them down at last. Dietrich and the man Belzinger took a flight out last night. Can you get the Chief?’
‘He’s trying to locate the other pair – radio silence.’
‘Break it. Dietrich and Belzinger are headed for Hong Kong.’
‘God, I don’t believe it.’
‘Neither will the General, but get him. Get him quickly.’
Hong Kong, thought Bond. Jungle and Dietrich were really distancing themselves from Europe. The sooner he got Ebbie out the better it would be for all of them. He turned and took the stairs at a run. Reaching their room, he unlocked the door and headed straight for the bed.
‘Ebbie! Ebbie, wake up . . .’ His voice trailed off, for the bedclothes were pulled back and Ebbie was gone.
Before he could react to the prickle of danger, a voice whispered close to his ear, ‘Don’t even think about going for the gun, Mr Bond. You are of little use to me and I’d blow you away, now, in this room, if I had to. Hands on your head and turn around slowly.’
He had heard the voice once before on tape so he knew that as he turned he would be gazing into a face seldom seen in the West – the clean-cut, almost French-looking features of General Konstantin Nikolaevich Chernov, Chief Investigating Officer of Department 8 of Directorate S, KGB. Blackfriar himself.
‘A strange meeting, eh, Mr Bond? After following each other in office paper chases all this time.’
Chernov had a smile on his face and a large automatic pistol in his hand, while behind him three large men crowded in, like hounds gathered for the kill.
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
