Standing directly in front of the dock, Yuskovich stared straight at the prisoner.
‘You know who I am?’ he asked.
‘I know only that you are General Yevgeny Yuskovich. That’s who I’ve been told you are.’
‘Do you imagine you
‘I don’t see how I should know you.’ Penderek’s Russian was suspiciously good. He even spoke with a Ukrainian accent.
‘Your parents. They were Alexander Vorontsov and Reyna Vorontsov?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you were born and raised in the city of Kharkov, where your father was a doctor? It was a good family?’
‘My father practised and taught anaesthesiology at the University Hospital, yes. My mother was a nurse. They were good people.’
‘And your mother’s maiden name – the name she was known by before she married your father?’
‘Muzykin. Reyna Illyena Muzykin.’
‘So. Do you recall any members of her family? Your maternal grandfather, grandmother, your mother’s sisters?’
‘Yes, very well. I remember my grandfather Muzykin, also my three aunts.’
‘Did any of the aunts marry?’
‘Yes, two were married.’
‘You recall their married names?’
‘One married a doctor called Rostovsky. The other took a husband by name Sidak. He was a soldier. An army officer.’
‘Good. Did they have children? Did
‘Yes, my cousins Valdik and Konstantin. They were by my Aunt Valentina Rostovsky. My other aunt’s husband was killed. They said it was an accident. In the thirties. I always wondered . . .’
‘You do not recall any cousin named Yevgeny?’
‘No, I had only two cousins.’
‘And you had no relatives who bore the name Yuskovich?’
‘That is your name.’
‘And that is why I ask you. I shall ask again. Did you know of any relatives by name Yuskovich?’
‘Never. No. None by that name.’
‘Good.’ He turned to the tribunal. ‘I have put these questions to the accused because it has been suggested by unscrupulous persons who do not hold the future of our beloved Mother Russia as something sacred, that, in some way, I am related to the accused. I would like the accused’s answers placed on the record so that, at no time in the future, can it be claimed I have any blood kinship with this wretched man.’
They broke immediately after this. The big doors were rolled back and Clive came on to the floor. He told them they only had one more long session to tape and it would amount to the accused’s confession and plea for mercy. ‘I really think we should try for a wrap tonight, dears. Go and get coffee, or whatever else you want. No wasting time or poodlefaking. We’ll start in three-quarters of an hour. Take forty-five, after that I want all the witnesses on the set. Understand? Every last one of them.’
‘Mind if I get some air?’ Bond asked.
‘You can take a balloon ride, go sledding, whatever, love, as long as you’re back in three-quarters of an hour.’ The director turned on his heel. ‘I’ll brook no arguments,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘Should be back at Stratford,’ Natkowitz yawned. ‘Off with his head. So much for Clive.’
‘You coming out?’ Bond was already strolling towards the elevators.
‘Too damned cold, and Guy, don’t say anything stupid, like “I may be a long time”, right?’
‘Back within forty-five minutes.’
He went up to his room, grabbed at the parka and put it on as he rode the elevator down. His head felt thick and his eyes ached, the result of being up half the night. The bitter weather outside would soon put him right.
Ten minutes later the roof fell in when the October Battalion of Spetsnaz arrived, coming in from the air with clouds of thunder.
17
THE DEATH OF 007
Everyone seemed to be standing around in the wide lobby leading to the sound stage. The metal doors were rolled back and a couple of Clive’s assistants were putting finishing touches to the set. All the people who had played the part of witnesses had been coaxed into their make-up. They talked and laughed, drank coffee and smoked. Bond caught sight of Natasha standing with Michael and Emerald who appeared in their first guise as the very old Jewish couple. Natkowitz was fiddling with the sound equipment and Nina seemed to have disappeared.
Bond had gone into the men’s room on his way to the exit in the main lobby before taking his brisk walk to clear his head. He was just emerging when it began.
They would have heard nothing had they already been taping, for once the doors were closed the stage was admirably soundproof. As it was, the roar of massive engines pulsed down, throbbing and making the whole building shake.
For a second it was as though everybody was engaged in the childhood game of ‘statues’. A shocked stillness seemed to spread over the throng, laughing and talking one minute, stock still, turned to stone the next, cigarettes, coffee and soft drinks poised. The liquids seemed solidified in a click of time.
Bond stepped back inside the empty men’s room, unzipped his fly and dragged out the P6, thumbing the safety and zipping everything up again. He leant against the door to hear what was going on.
The stillness had passed and was replaced by confusion. Shouting, some screams, the noise of a herd of uncontrolled people moving in panic. Bond pulled on his thermal gloves and gripped the pistol more tightly.
From outside the building came the sudden distinct whoomp of exploding grenades followed by shots, the burp of automatic fire and the thump-thump of single rounds. Then the sound of people running. Heavy footsteps racing towards the lobby.
Bond pushed the door open a few inches and saw Boris Stepakov in a camouflage jumpsuit followed by a tall, hard-faced officer and a group of soldiers, six or seven, he guessed. They were all in combat gear, carrying an assortment of weapons. Stepakov held one of the latest PRI automatics close to his hip. The others bristled with AKS-74 rifles, grenades, long-bladed knives sheathed high on their right shoulders. He even caught sight of an R- 350 radio, the kind with encryption and burst-transmission ability. Only Stepakov and the tall officer had the hoods of their jump suits down, the men who followed were muffled so that only their eyes could be seen.
As they approached, the crowd of witnesses and technicians began to back away, clearing a path. To his right, Bond saw Michael Brooks edging towards the door leading to the closet and tunnel. He placed his back against it and worked the key with his hands behind him. Glancing to his left, Brooks’ eyes met Bond’s and he shifted his head, a signal for Bond to follow him as the door silently swung back.
Bond just looked at him, making no move to follow as the renegade spy slipped out of sight into the closet. Then he heard Stepakov’s voice, loud, raised above the babble.
‘Silence! Stay exactly where you are!’
He imagined the clownlike face turning, sweeping the crowd as they backed onto the sound stage. The talking had stopped leaving a stunned silence in its wake as though the crowd was making way for Stepakov and his little group.
Bond wanted to push the door fully open, join Stepakov and watch the rout of the
