‘What you’re saying is that Kolya’s going to fail?’ Bond turned, looking Tirpitz full in the face.
‘He’s not only going to fail, he’s going to make sure the next shipment gets out. After that, it’ll look as though Comrade Mosolov got himself killed among all this snow and ice. Then guess who’s going to be left holding the bucket?’
‘Us?’ Bond suggested.
‘Technically us, yes. In fact, the plan is for it to be you, friend Bond. Kolya’s body’ll never be found. I suspect yours will. Of course Kolya’ll eventually rise from the grave. Another name, another face, another part of the forest.’
Bond nodded energetically. ‘That’s more or less what I thought. I didn’t think Kolya was taking me into the Soviet Union to watch arms being lifted just for the fun of it.’
Tirpitz gave a humourless smile. ‘Like you, buddy, I really have seen it alclass="underline" Berlin, the Cold War, Nam, Laos, Cambodia. This is the triple cross of all time. You need me, brother . . .’
‘And I suspect you need me too . . . er, brother.’
‘Right. If you play it my way, do it the way I ask – as the Company asks – while you’re playing snowman on the other side of the border; if you do that, I’ll watch your back, and make sure we both end up in one piece.’
‘Before I ask what I’m supposed to do, there’s one important question.’ Bond had ceased to be bemused by the conversation. First Rivke had wanted a favour from him, now Tirpitz: it added a new dimension to Operation Icebreaker. Nobody trusted the next person. All wanted at least one ally, who, Bond suspected, would be ditched or stabbed in the back at the first hint of trouble.
‘Yeah?’ Tirpitz prodded, and Bond realised he had been distracted by some newly arrived guests who were being treated like royalty by the waiters.
‘What about Rivke? That’s what I wanted to ask. Are we leaving her in the cold with Kolya?’
Brad Tirpitz looked astounded. ‘Bond,’ he said quietly, ‘Rivke Ingber may well be a Mossad agent, but you do know who she is, I take it. I mean, your Service must have told you . . .’
‘The estranged daughter of a Finnish officer who went along with the Nazis, and is still on the wanted war criminals list? Yes.’
‘Yes and no.’ Tirpitz’s voice rose. ‘Sure, we all know about that bastard of a father. But nobody has any real idea about which side of the line the girl stands – not even Mossad. The likes of us haven’t been told that part, but I’ve seen her Mossad PF. I’m telling you, even they don’t know.’
Bond spoke calmly. ‘I’m afraid I believe she’s genuine – completely loyal to Mossad.’
Tirpitz made an irritated little noise. ‘Okay, believe away, Bond; but what about the man?’
‘The man?’
‘The so-called Count Konrad von Glöda. The guy who’s behind the arms shipments and is probably running the whole NSAA operation – correction, almost certainly running the whole NSAA Reichführer-SS von Glöda.’
‘What about him?’
‘You mean nobody at your end gave you the full picture?’
Bond shrugged. M had been precise and detailed in his briefing, but stressed that there were certain matters about the mysterious Count von Glöda which could not be proved. M, being the stickler he was, refused to take mere probability as fact.
‘Brother, you’re in trouble. Rivke Ingber’s deranged and estranged Papa, SS-Oberführer Aarne Tudeer, is also the Ice King of this little saga. Aarne Tudeer is the Count von Glöda: an apt name.’
Bond moistened his lips with coffee, his brain racing. If Tirpitz was giving him correct information, London had not even suggested it. All M had provided was the name, the possibility that he was behind at least the arms running, and the fact that the Count almost certainly arranged staging posts, between the Soviet border and the final jumping-off point, for the arms supplies. There had been no mention of von Glöda being Tudeer.
‘You’re certain of this?’ Bond refused to show anything but nonchalant calm.
‘Sure as night follows day – which is pretty fast around here . . .’ Tirpitz stopped abruptly as he looked across the dining room, his gaze resting on the couple who had come in to such an enthusiastic welcome.
‘Well, what do you know?’ The corners of Tirpitz’s mouth turned down even further. ‘Take a look, Bond. That’s the man himself. The Count Konrad von Glöda, and his lady, known simply as the Countess.’ He gulped some coffee. ‘I said it was an apt name. In Swedish, Glöda means Glow. At Langley we gave him the cryptonym Glow-worm. He glows with gold from old Nazi pickings, and all he must be raking in now as Commander of the NSAA; and he’s also a worm. I am personally going to bottle that specimen.’
The couple certainly looked distinguished. Bond had seen the heavy and expensive fur coats borne away when they had arrived. Now they even sat as though they owned Lapland, looking almost like a Renaissance prince and his lady.
Konrad von Glöda was tall and well-muscled. He held himself straight as a lath. He was also one of those men whom age does not weary. He could be an old-looking fifty or a very young seventy, for it was impossible to calculate the age of a man whose face and bone structure were so fine and bronzed. He sported a full head of iron-grey hair, and as he talked to the Countess he leaned back in his chair, using one hand for gestures while the other was draped over the chair arm. The brown face, glowing with health, had about it an animation which would not have been out of place in that of a thrusting young executive, and there was no doubt, from the glittering grey eyes to the aristrocratic sharp chin and arrogant tilt of the head, that this was a man to be reckoned with. Glow was the word.
‘Star quality?’ Tirpitz whispered.
Bond gave a small nod. You had only to see the man to know he possessed that sought-for quality: charisma.
The Countess also carried herself with the air of one who had the means, and ability, to buy or take anything she wanted. She was, despite the impossibility of guessing the Count’s age, obviously much younger than her partner. She too had the look of a person who prized her body and its physical condition. She gave the impression of one to whom all sport, and exercise, came as second nature. Bond observed the woman’s smooth-skinned beauty, the svelte grooming of her dark hair, and the classic features and reflected that this would certainly include the oldest of indoor sports.
Bond was still covertly watching the couple when a waiter came hurrying over to the table. ‘Mr Bond?’ he asked.
Bond nodded.
‘There’s a telephone call for you, sir. In the box by the reception desk. A Miss Paula Vacker wishes to speak to you.’
Bond was on his feet quickly, catching the slightly quizzical look in Brad Tirpitz’s eye.
‘Problems?’ Tirpitz’s voice appeared to have softened, but Bond refused to react. ‘Bad’ Brad, he decided, should be treated with a caution reserved for rattlesnakes.
‘Just a call from Helsinki.’ He began to move, inwardly bewildered that Paula could have found him here.
As he passed the von Glödas’ table, Bond allowed himself a straight, seemingly disinterested, glance at the couple. The Count himself raised his head, catching Bond’s eye. The look was one of near tangible malice: a hatred which Bond could feel long after he had passed the table, as though the Count’s glittering grey eyes were boring into the back of his head.
The receptionist indicated a small, half-open booth containing a telephone. Bond was there in two strides, lifting the receiver and speaking immediately.