At ten minutes past the hour General Ourumov arrived, looking quite calm and carrying his omnipresent briefcase.
Mishkin wished him a brief and surly “Good morning,’ gesturing him to take his usual place at the table.
“Please deliver your report, General,’ he commanded before Ourumov had even got to his seat.
The General, in an act which was almost one of insubordination, slowly removed his greatcoat and opened his briefcase to draw out a shiny black file marked, in the Cyrillic alphabet, SOVERSHENNOE SEKRENTO. He then began to speak rapidly as though this were something he wanted said and done as quickly as possible.
“As this Council is aware, seventy-two hours ago, a secret weapons system code-named GoldenEye was detonated over the Severnaya Station. As head of the Space Division, I personally undertook the investigation, and have concluded that this crime was committed by Siberian Separatists seeking to create further political unrest” He paused, looking at each of the eight members of the Council in turn, holding their eyes in his before he continued.
“After killing all personnel, these criminals activated the weapon, destroying both the facility and any record of their identity.
“Regrettably, the peaceful work, together with the much needed hard currency earnings, of Severnaya has now been set back by several years. There is only one course of action left to me. I tender my resignation as of this moment.
The men sitting around the table shook their heads, some of them brought fists down hard on the wood, several cried “No. No.” When they had quietened, Mishkin turned to the General and looked him up and down, as though signifying that, as far as he was concerned, he would be delighted if Ourumov resigned. When he spoke, his voice was flat and showed no emotion.
“It would seem that the Council does not, after all, want your head, Arkady Grigorovich. Merely your loyal assurance that there are no other GoldenEye satellites.”
“I can certainly give you that assurance, Minister.”
“Good. Now what of the two missing Severnaya technicians?’ Ourumov looked flushed, frightened and stunned.
“Minister I — - I.” tripping over his own tongue. “I was only aware of one missing… er..
“Two.” The Minister sounded as though he were a teacher catching out some pupil in a lie.
“But, I.
Mishkin held up a hand to silence the general, then looked down at his papers. “Our people have searched through the rubble. Bodies have been identified - which was not a difficult task for they were all trapped in an enclosed area. Apart from the military guards, of course.”
“Of course, Minister. But.
“Everyone is accounted for except one technician.
Boris..
“Grishenko, Minister. I have his name here.
Mishkin glanced up, giving Ourumov a withering look.
“Boris Grishenko, and one other. A woman, it appears.
A very talented Level Two computer scientist Natalya Fyodorovna Simonova.
“Simonova?” Mishkin nodded. “As I say, a very talented young woman. Conversant in French, Italian, German and English….
“Would have made a good opera singer…” Ourumov sounded angry now.
“Also fluent in four different computer languages.
“Simonova?” Ourumov repeated.
“That is what the body count shows.” Ourumov took in a deep breath. “This is news to me, Minister, but I’ll investigate the matter personally and immediately.”
“Good.” Mishkin’s silky voice became a shade more threatening. “It would, I think, be presumptuous, General, to blame this incident on Siberian Separatists before the whereabouts of your own people are determined. Do you not agree?”
“Of course, Minister. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” Half-an-hour later, Ourumov sat in his office in the Winter Palace, once the show place of St. Petersburg. He spoke urgently on the telephone. Already he had alerted security forces, the police who controlled the area around Severnaya, plus the agency heads in all major cities. He had even managed to get a photograph of Natalya from the data base which he kept for his personal use. Now, he spoke to someone else, his voice dropping to a purring whisper.
“Her name is Natalya Simonova the one. You know her?” The voice at the other end of the line acknowledged that he knew the girl.
“If we run her to earth, I want you to keep her under control.
Kill her if necessary. You can do that for me?”
“Do it? It would be a pleasure, General.”
“Keep in touch. Remember this is very important to all of us.”
“I’m starting the hunt this very moment, General. It’s the kind of task I enjoy.” Yes. Yes,
that’s Wade’s Ten Cent Tour James Bond had visited St. Petersburg only once before, but that was in the middle of the Cold War when it was still Leningrad, and his memories of the city remained very clear. He recalled its beauty, the sense of history, for this place was founded by Peter the Great, had become Russia’s centerpiece, its “window on Europe’. It was also the cradle of the October Revolution, something a lot of people would now prefer to forget.
On his last visit he had come as an enemy; he knew the score and was aware that anyone could betray him. This time, on arriving at St. Petersburg’s international airport, he could almost smell the decay and the lack of direction which had come with the downfall of communism.
Like many others, he felt that had the changes come from within the Communist Party, Russia would not have been in the freefall, crime and drug infested bankruptcy which stemmed from the sudden collapse of a ruling government.
Instead of surveillance teams, Bond now kept a wary eye out for criminals.
The queue for taxis was made up mainly of well-dressed businessmen - the Western captains of industry trying to cash in on the needs of this emerging new Russia, and make themselves an honest penny on the way.
He spotted his contact just to the right, away from the queue: big, burly and reading a Russian gardening magazine.
As he walked up to the man, Bond smiled and spoke the contact phrase. “In London, April is a spring month.” The American accent was almost too obvious. “What are you? The weatherman?” Bond scowled, and the American continued. “Codes, cloak and dagger. That’s all gone, pal. C’mon, the car’s over there.” He led the way to a piece of scrap metal that had once been a Moskovich, but it was Bond who leaped to open the door with an “Allow me.
The American began to slide into the driver’s seat, a broad grin on his face until Bond trapped him between seat and door, his pistol carried onto the aircraft in the special briefcase which shielded it from the magic eyes and metal detectors - jammed into the man’s side.
“Now, talk to me.” His face had taken on the granite look of anger.
There was a long silence, then, “OK. In London, April is a spring month, while in St. Petersburg we’re freezing our asses off. That near enough?” Bond shook his head. “No. Show me a rose.
“Aw, Jesus H. Christ” He undid his belt and, while Bond shielded him from onlookers, the bulky American showed him a small tattoo of a rose on his right hip. Under the rose there was one word - Muffy.
“Muffy?” Bond asked, then went to the passenger door and slid in beside the American.
“Yeah, Muffy. Third wife.” The American stuck out his hand.
“Jack Wade. CIA.”
“Bond. James Bond, and you know where I’m from.”
“If I didn’t know, I would now. You guys never change.
Cold War’s over, yet you still go around with your codes, your cloaks, your daggers.”
“The idea is to remain as safe as possible. I thought the CIA still understood the meaning of tradecraft, and the fact that we’re all still in business.” Wade started the engine, which coughed and spluttered, then fired properly. It sounded like an old two-stroke lawnmower. “We do,’ he laughed. “I knew who you were.