007’s gone.’
They had discovered James Bond’s body, flat on his back, quite close to the wooden wall at the west of the building. There were three bullet holes in his chest and the face had been taken away by another burst of fire. But the clothes he was wearing were undoubtedly his – the khaki parka, thick jeans, denim jacket with leather patches and the rollneck. All were now soaked in blood from the ugly wounds which had torn his flesh and bone to pieces.
The search had gone on for over an hour. They had the two French agents and the man who posed as George. Yuskovich had stamped around on the sound stage. Initially, when they realised the British spy was missing, he had even gone outside with General Berzin to watch the men’s search for Bond, but as time passed he became more edgy, his nerves fraying. ‘We’ll have to get on. I want Vorontsov’s confession in the can and this whole project wrapped up tonight,’ he shouted at Clive.
‘Well, if it’s really that urgent, I’ll operate the camera myself. I mean it’s not my job, and the unions would play hell in England . . .’
‘You are not in England now,’ Yuskovich barked. ‘Unions are for organising, not for disrupting essential Communist Party work. You handle the camera. Then get on with the editing. I want copies of this ready for global release sometime tomorrow.’
Clive gave an irritable shrug, muttering, ‘All right, you great butch soldier, but I for one am going to have a nervous breakdown when this is over.’
Yuskovich strolled over to where Joel Penderek, posing as the infamous Josif Vorontsov, was sitting in the dock. ‘Well, Joeli,’ he gave the man a sideways look, ‘how have you enjoyed your trip back to Mother Russia?’
‘It’s been interesting. I’d given up all hope of ever being used.’
‘Yes.’ The marshal gave a curt nod. ‘Sleepers like you and Anna usually go past a point in their lives where they expect to be of value. I’m sorry your Anna is not here to see you perform this essential service to your country and the Party.’
‘She would’ve been pleased.’ The old man gave him a melancholy look. ‘What of your cousin? Your real cousin, Vorontsov?’
‘You have to ask?’
‘Not really. I presume he’s dead.’
‘Bory Stepakov really did have him tucked away in the other dacha. The French agents were very good. If we hadn’t been watching carefully, I doubt if even our people would have spotted them. Stepakov will be a great loss. We could have used him, you know.’
‘You’re confirming his death? Vorontsov’s, I mean.’
‘Of course.’ Yuskovich flapped his hand in an irritable gesture, like swatting away a troublesome insect. ‘Dead and buried. Just as he had to be. It wouldn’t have been wise for me to assume total power with
‘And me?’ Penderek asked.
‘You?’
‘You’re going to kill me, of course?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Joeli. Why would we do that?’
‘Because you won’t leave anyone alive. You won’t make the mistake of letting any of the players in this farce survive. You wouldn’t sleep peacefully in old Joe’s bed in the Kremlin if you knew there were people alive who could tell the true story, or at least provide a distinctive footnote to history.’
‘Bah. These people. These actors. I’m having them taken away, yes. But they don’t have to die. I’m not going to repeat Stalin’s only mistake, his Great Terror. There will be no purges. These actors are small fry. Nobody will listen to them. Not in the Gulag anyway.’ He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Joeli. You’ll live out the rest of your natural life with all the comforts I can provide. It’ll be lonely, of course, in a guarded dacha on the Black Sea, but you’ll be comfortable. Let’s do your big scene, eh?’ He strolled off towards Clive who was arguing with Pete Natkowitz about the set-up. Yuskovich’s adjutant stood nearby.
‘Major Verber,’ Yuskovich murmured to him, ‘will you see that the prisoner over there is very quietly disposed of as soon as we finish this. Do it quickly. No sadism. Just a fast, unexpected bullet. Then have him buried. I suggest you do that in the forest.’
The major nodded acknowledgement, and at that moment a young member of the Spetsnaz October Battalion came in with the news that Bond’s body had been discovered. An officer had called him over, with his partner, then told him to inform the marshal personally. ‘I left the officer with my partner to stand guard,’ he told Yuskovich.
The self-styled marshal swore mightily. ‘I wanted photographs of the British agents with . . .’ He stopped in time. ‘Never mind. The whole idea of bringing in these men was to implicate Britain. Damn it. I’ll have to settle for one. Not the pair of them.’
The officer had been with one of the squads which had guarded the Red Army Senior Officers’ Centre from the start of the operation. He told the marshall he had almost tripped over the body during the search. ‘Some fool must have killed him out of hand,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard some muffled shots from this area half-an-hour ago, and I assumed it was simply to keep up appearances. We exploded cordite and guncotton charges all over the place when the October Battalion came in. I personally saw to it that things looked, and sounded realistic.’
‘You did well.’ Yuskovich returned the officer’s salute. ‘You come from Moscow, yes?’
‘Yes, comrade Marshal. Born and bred there. My parents are still in Moscow.’
‘Yes, I’d recognise a Muscovite accent anywhere. Your name?’
‘Batovrin, comrade Marshal. Sergei Yakovlevich, Lieutenant, Spetsnaz.’
‘You’re a smart man. I can do with smart officers. Report to my adjutant, Major Verber. Tell him I said you are now attached to my personal guard. Say that is my order. If you get any trouble, pass it on to me.’
‘Thank you, comrade Marshal.’ The lieutenant’s chest visibly puffed out with pride. His somewhat affected waxed moustache seemed to bristle in the freezing air as he went off to report to the adjutant.
They carried the body inside and laid it out in one of the little staff offices near what had originally been the reception area. After the taping was over, Nina and Natkowitz were brought in to identify the spy, James Bond.
They both nodded, not really looking at the shattered face. ‘That was what he wore when I last saw him,’ Nina said.
‘It’s him.’ Natkowitz, who had seen his fair share of death, quickly turned away.
‘Good,’ was all the marshal had to say.
Nina Bibikova caught up with Yuskovich in the passage as he headed back towards the sound stage. Yuskovich was feeling pleased with himself. Old Joel Penderek had given the performance of his life for the penultimate ten minutes of the video. They had shot the sentencing phase late the previous evening.
‘Comrade Marshal,’ Nina caught hold of his sleeve, and he stood, still as a rock, glaring down at her hand until she removed it.
‘Well?’
‘Comrade Marshal, I’ve come to plead for my parents’ lives.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they are old. Also because they are my parents. I have served you well, comrade Marshal. From the moment I was infiltrated into Stepakov’s Banda I served you and the Party. I did everything you told me. There was a suggestion then that you might spare my mother and father.’
‘They were long-term British penetration agents.’ He glowered at her and returned the salutes of Major Verber and Lieutenant Batovrin who had approached. ‘One moment,’ he gestured to the two officers to stand aside, then turned back to Nina. ‘As I say, British penetration agents. You informed on them yourself. What did you expect
