Man From Barbarossa

began. Bill Tanner was passing photocopied sheets to both men. ‘You’ll note that the news appeared on the front pages of only two papers – the Express and the Mail. Everyone else carried it on page two. This should tell us that it is not being treated as a high-class priority in this country.’

Bond scanned the sheets Tanner had given to him. Most of the papers had simply reprinted a Foreign Office press report. The Kremlin had announced that they had now deliberated on the ultimatum given to them by the Scales of Justice regarding the so-called war criminal, Josif Vorontsov, and had decided that they respectfully reserved the right to deny this man’s extradition into the Soviet Union. The grounds were plain and straightforward. ‘Bearing in mind our own intelligence on Josif Vorontsov, we are not convinced that the so- called Scales of Justice has, in fact, apprehended the correct man. The State Organs, meaning KGB, have irrefutable evidence as to the condition and whereabouts of the real Josif Vorontsov.’

‘I need to tell you,’ M said, looking at Bond and then Natkowitz in turn, ‘the Kremlin has no information from us, and I presume, Mr Natkowitz, your people have been even less forthcoming.’

‘I spoke with Tel Aviv an hour ago, sir. They remain alert and are still searching for the man we know is Vorontsov.’

‘Good.’ M sat back. ‘The information you are reading was released at midnight, London time. That is, three a.m. Moscow time. There have been developments.’ He nodded to Tanner, who passed a typewritten sheet to each agent. ‘The paper you hold in your hands contains the response by the Scales of Justice. We don’t know what to believe, or whether they will attempt to carry out their threat. I want you to read and digest because it’ll bring you up to date. You will see the deadline is six o’clock, Moscow time. That’s three this afternoon over here, and by that time I hope to have the pair of you en route to Moscow.’

Bond felt a distinct nudge of concern as he read the terse print-out which was the Scales of Justice’s last message to the Kremlin.

Communique Number Two: We have received the negative response to our justified demands that the Kremlin take into custody the traitor and war criminal, Josif Vorontsov, who we hold against his trial in the Soviet Union for the reprehensible offences committed by this man on Russian soil during the Great Patriotic War. We ask the Kremlin to reconsider. At the same time, we are taking steps to make video recordings, which will be made available to many concerned countries, proving the case against Vorontsov. However, while we do this, we hope for a change of heart by the leaders of the homeland. To show that we mean what we say, if the authorities do not respond in a more positive fashion by six o’clock this evening, a member of the so-called State Organs, known also as KGB, will pay the penalty. So if we hear nothing of a change of attitude by six p.m. today, January 3rd, 1991, a senior member of KGB will be publicly executed.

As before, the communique was signed Chushi Pravosudia.

‘They mean it,’ Bond said flatly.

‘Course they mean it, 007,’ M grunted, as though he were addressing an imbecile. ‘Sometime after fifteen hundred hours, London time, they’re going to take out a visible KGB target. Agreed, Mr Natkowitz?’

‘I should imagine they have some kind of capability, sir, yes. They’ve done it once on the streets of Moscow; tried it within the Kremlin. Yes, I think they mean it. I also suspect that their next step will be to ask the Kremlin to prove their own theory by showing them the man they say is Vorontsov.’

‘And continue with terrorist attacks until they do,’ Bond interjected.

M gave a sage nod. ‘I would guess that, in the new spirit of freedom, they will approach your Service, Mr Natkowitz.’

‘It’ll be gall and wormwood in their mouths.’ Pete Natkowitz did not smile. ‘But they’ll probably swallow their pride and ask Tel Aviv.’

‘And Tel Aviv’ll have to tell them what?’ M’s face held the vaguest hint of a smile.

‘Tel Aviv will either lie to give us more time or tell them we’ve lost him.’ Natkowitz did not come a thousand miles near to a smile. ‘Personally, I think they will lie.’

‘And KGB officers, or members of the Central Committee, will go on being executed,’ M began to play with his pipe.

Bond nodded. ‘If Chushi Pravosudia have the means, or until KGB can get a handle on them.’

‘Well, gentlemen,’ M leaned back, ‘I suggest we get you into Moscow in double-quick time. The sooner you’re there, the quicker KGB will be able to explain matters to you.’ He held up one hand, palm facing outwards as though warding off a blow. ‘Here, I must give you a definite instruction, and, Mr Natkowitz, it’s an instruction I’ve cleared with your Chief also. If, once you’ve listened to KGB’s briefing, you conclude that what they suggest is no-go, then you are to decline and ask to be pulled out with no fuss.’ He paused for effect. ‘I have made this clear to KGB. Now, let me tell you what we’ve arranged. You leave London at fifteen hundred hours from Northolt in a Royal Air Force transport which has been cleared into the military airport outside Moscow. After you’ve landed . . .’ In all, M talked for the best part of an hour. There was another hour of questions from both Bond and Natkowitz, then another briefing by specialist officers.

On the stroke of three that afternoon, a Royal Air Force VC10, brought down from Lyneham, lifted off from the RAF base at Northolt, west of London. Bond and Natkowitz were on board.

Colonel General Viktor Gregor’evitch Mechaev, one of the three most senior officers attached to KGB’s First Chief Directorate, was on his way into Moscow from the FCD’s modern Finnish-designed Foreign Intelligence HQ building at Yasenevo, just off the Moscow ring road. It was exactly six thirty in the evening, Moscow time.

He was in civilian clothes and bundled up against the harsh weather. As his car bowled along the road towards Moscow, Mechaev worked on the papers he would soon be delivering to KGB Chairman at Dzerzhinsky Square.

They were in traffic now as they drew near the exit, and it was with surprise that the colonel general heard his cellular phone start chirping beside him. He picked it up and answered.

‘Mechaev.’

‘Comrade Colonel General,’ the voice was low and urgent, ‘there have been some disturbing events regarding the documents you are taking to the Chairman. This is Riuchev.’ Colonel Riuchev was one of the colonel general’s aides. ‘We are on the way, following you from Yasenevo now and I would respectfully ask you to pull over before the exit so that we can catch up with you.’

‘Must I?’ The colonel general looked at the traffic which, while not heavy by Western standards, was moderately thick.

‘I think it would be best, comrade, if we are not to look a little stupid.’

‘Very well. How far are you behind me?’

‘About five minutes, comrade Colonel General.’

‘I’ll pull over now.’ He leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder, ordering him to get into the slow lane, then off the road altogether. ‘Pull off before the Babushkin exit. Another car will join us,’ he said.

The driver nodded, signalled and started to move over. A couple of minutes later he stopped and glanced around. The colonel general did not even notice the battered old Zil which had drawn up behind him, but the driver saw it and smiled.

‘What are you smiling at?’ the colonel general snapped, seeing the round smooth face of the driver grinning at him.

As he glimpsed the pistol pointing over the driver’s seat, Mechaev realised he had been too busy to notice this was not his usual driver, but he hardly ever paid attention to the lower ranks who drove him, guarded him or saw to his necessary minor needs. As he threw an arm across his face as if to ward off a blow, he also thought to himself that it was not Riuchev’s voice on the phone.

Mechaev’s face was completely blown apart by the two heavy-calibre bullets with hollow points.

Later, when the investigation began, nobody came forward to report a uniformed KGB driver leaving an official car and entering a very dented, limping and ancient Zil.

At seven fifteen, the duty officer at Number Two Dzerzhinsky Square took a telephone call which was later traced to the Kosmos Hotel on Mira Prospekt. The unidentified voice simply gave him the location of Colonel General Mechaev’s car, then said, ‘Chushi Pravosudia have carried out the execution.’