Man From Barbarossa

‘I have little choice.’ Natkowitz did not look unhappy. ‘I volunteered in Tel Aviv. Once you do that in the Mossad, it is not wise to back down.’

‘James?’ M asked.

‘I have no choice either. Not really, sir, as you well know.’

‘Mmmmm.’ M again made his all purpose yes-no-maybe sound.

‘Is there a full briefing, sir? You said they wanted us quickly. Tonight?’

M took his time answering. Then, ‘I think we might have to keep them waiting a little longer.’ His head bowed towards the Scrivener. ‘Brian, here, has to make up some new idents for you. Can’t have you going into Russia on the Boldman identity; you’ve used it too often. Also, we’ve taken on the chore of providing papers for Mr Natkowitz . . .’ He frowned, catching his breath, the words left unsaid.

‘Something else, sir?’ Bond could see it in the Old Man’s eyes.

M nodded slowly. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. A minor something came up when we broke for Mr Natkowitz to call Tel Aviv. Could be nothing, on the other hand, it might just be an opportunity for the pair of you to begin working together. One evening should do it. That give you enough time, Scrivener?’

Cogger did not talk much. It was said he believed words entrapped people. He had done it so many times on, and with, paper that he seemed to have lost the art of conversation. He nodded and added a handful of words which indicated he would need a half-hour with Pete Natkowitz. ‘Photographs, that kind of thing.’

‘Right.’ M rubbed his hands together vigorously, like someone going out into a cold morning. ‘Now to something completely different, as they say. It appears that we have visitors in town, or so Five tell me. Usually when our brothers-in-arms from other counterterrorist agencies come into the country, they tell us first, that is with the exception of your boys, Mr Natkowitz, no offence meant.’

‘None taken, sir.’

‘Well, this one’s very odd. Two French officers arrived in London this morning. One is a fairly senior member of GIGN; the other, a woman, is a field officer attached to DGSE.’³

‘We know both of them,’ M continued. ‘Henri Rampart, a major, and part of their quick deployment team, is a tough bird by any standard, a Russian speaker and no stranger to that country. The young woman, and she is young, 007, turns out to be Stephanie Adore.’ He gave another of his tight-lipped smiles. ‘That’s also her real name, not some crypto thought up by whoever runs PR for DGSE. She spent two years as head of the French Moscow station. Also served in the Middle East, I . . .’

‘Not a couple getting away for a little fling, sir?’ Bond asked with an innocent deadpan face.

‘Contrary to the rumours spread abroad by novelists, and possibly yourself, 007, most intelligence and security services do not encourage interservice affairs. No, Rampart is happily married, and Ms Adore, though attractive, has an exceptional record.’

‘Visit to their embassy, perhaps?’ Bond tried again.

‘No. There’s a strange connection. Neither of them have been in touch with the embassy. They arrived on different flights, Ms Adore using a field identity, Charlotte Hironde, Rampart, the name Henri Rideaux. They are both staying, in separate rooms, 007, at the Hampshire, very expensive, off Leicester Square.’

‘So what’s the supposition, sir? Has it anything to do with Fallen Timbers?’

‘We have no idea, but it would give you and Mr Natkowitz an opportunity to work together. Get to know each other’s handwriting as it were. Ms Adore visited the GIGN compound outside Paris for two days last week. It looked to our people like some kind of briefing. From another source we have information that their files on the Scales of Justice travelled up to the GIGN compound for that briefing. This very firm intelligence, coupled with these officers’ particular skills and their knowledge of Russia, indicates that they might just be thinking of hopping over to Moscow on a jaunt.’

‘A jaunt?’ Both Bond and Natkowitz spoke simultaneously.

‘For jaunt, read operation,’ M snapped. ‘I don’t think either of you would be happy about these people snooping around Dzerzhinsky Square while you’re there. They could be a real pair of flies in the ointment.’

‘Or Frogs in the ointment, sir.’

M gave Bond a withering look. ‘That is a racist comment, Captain Bond, and you know how I feel about such remarks. Now, would you like to take a look? Get close to them this evening? I hear the food’s awfully good at the Hampshire’s Celebrities Restaurant.’ M wrinkled his nose with disgust at the name. ‘You know it, 007?’

‘In a vague sort of way, yes, sir.’

‘Well, perhaps when the Scrivener’s finished with Mr Natkowitz, you might wander over. Prise them from their rooms, give them a bite . . .’

‘Eat them alive, if you like, sir.’ The corner of Bond’s mouth turned up in one of his more sinister smiles.

M nodded. ‘I’ll let you see the files. I’ll also clear it with Five who’re almost certainly going to be touchy if you just go barging in.’ Bond’s Service had, at one time, run a long and sometimes unpleasant feud with MI5. Nowadays things were better, but M never took chances.

After the Scrivener had taken Natkowitz away to do the necessary photographs, the meeting broke up, but Bond lingered behind.

‘You going to feel happy about this, 007?’ M asked.

‘When we’ve had the full and final briefing, I expect to sleep easier, sir.’

‘Wouldn’t if I were you. You trust friend Natkowitz?’

‘Do you, sir?’

M locked his cold grey eyes on to Bond. ‘I trust none of them. I don’t trust Natkowitz or his service; I don’t trust KGB; I don’t trust what we’ve been told about the Scales of Justice. I do, however, trust you, James.’ He laid an almost fatherly hand on Bond’s sleeve. ‘On the day John F Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, he said to Mrs Kennedy, “We’re going into crazy country.” That’s what you’re about to do, James. You’re going into crazy country, so you would do well to trust nobody but yourself. Now, sort these French people out, get to know Mr Natkowitz as well as you can and we’ll go over the essentials in the morning. Meanwhile, remember it’s crazy country over there.’

Bond was about to leave when M spoke again, very quietly, as though he was afraid of ears at the door. ‘One other point, 007.’ He motioned his agent back to his chair.

‘There is one piece of information I don’t intend to use in the final briefing, but I think you should know of it.’

Bond waited for M to continue. ‘You know of General Yuskovich, I presume?’

‘Naturally, sir.’ General Yevgeny Yuskovich was one of the most powerful senior officers in the Red Army. He had close ties with KGB and was known to be an old-time hardliner. He was also the most senior officer concerned with the Soviet nuclear deterrent and a man constantly at odds with the Kremlin throughout the slow and unsteady march of perestroika and glasnost.

‘We came across this during our routine check of the files on Vorontsov.’ His eyes broke contact with Bond’s. ‘It seems that Yuskovich and Vorontsov are related – something the general would certainly not wish to have paraded in public. The family tree goes like this . . .’ M continued to talk for ten minutes, and it was a more anxious Bond who left the office to do battle with the French.

5

PERADVENTURE

Stephanie Adore looked like a professional woman – a banker or corporate lawyer – and her dress sense was so in keeping with the image of a power-woman that men, though attracted by her undoubted beauty, were often intimidated by her, closing their minds before she even opened her mouth.

Mlle Adore’s hair was the colour of well-preserved copper. When she let it down, women in crowded rooms often gazed at her with jealousy, for it was the kind of hair that could go through a hurricane and yet, after the event, fall neatly into place without assistance. Usually she wore it in a somewhat mannish style, pulled straight back and tied in a great knot at the nape of her neck. When her mood was frivolous she decorated the knot with a velvet bow which always matched the tailored suits she wore with elegance.