They were in open country now. No lights, just the impression of snow in tall banks, blown from the road to allow free passage of vehicles. Beyond the snowbanks the countryside remained blotted out by darkness. No moon or stars, just a blanket of black like a solid wall. They passed no other vehicles, only the occasional sign of life – a lonely single outpost or a huddle of houses and wooden shacks which made up some village, a small desolate community.
Bond remembered the first time he had driven in the American Midwest. He pictured the vastness of great fields of grain in the Midwest, rippling to the far skyline, knowing that the corn or wheat went on for miles, further than the eye could see. As one who had been born into an island society, he had not been prepared then for the sense of space, and here it was again, even in the darkness – the realisation of being in a country so huge that it could even swallow the vastness of the United States and tuck it away into one corner.
At last they started to slow down and there were signs of life. Buildings and pavements at the sides of the road. Lights, then darkness again. More lights and a sudden turn to the right, taking them on to a broad unmade path where trees suddenly swallowed them up. A security post of some kind and a stunning blast of freezing air as the driver operated his window, threw out a hand and passed a document to a uniformed figure with a submachine gun slung over one shoulder and his face masked against the weather.
They were waved on, and a pair of great metal gates opened ahead of them, leading to a well-made road twisting between trees heavy with snow and ice. The roadway, Bond noticed, was clear and free of ice. Just inside the gates he saw a dark, thick horizontal line signifying the presence of a hidden barrier, probably a tall steel wall which would leap up from the road to stop any attempt at further progress by unauthorised persons.
They drove slowly, the tall firs thick on either side, and through them an occasional wink of light. About a mile further on, another turn to the right, then, suddenly, they burst from the trees, the house appearing as though by some illusion.
It was large – a two-storey structure mainly of wood with a low overhanging roof and windows set well back. Broad steps led up to what appeared to be the main door, though the entire structure was surrounded by a wooden platform, the roof supported by carved wooden pillars, a porch on which to laze during summer.
The thick dark circle of trees, the ice and the snow painted a raw picture. Whenever they tried to capture a scene like this in films, even on a real location, Bond considered, they failed utterly. The reality was always harsher, for in spite of the beauty of this house in the large clearing of firs, the impact upon the eyes, and then the mind, was bleak.
To the right of the house three cars were already parked – two saloons and one that looked like a Range Rover, all with broad, studded winter tyres. The place was bathed in light from the windows and from hidden exterior bulbs, and Bond had to admire the way in which the dacha had been shielded from view until almost the final moment.
Natkowitz stirred and Stepakov shifted his bulk with a sigh. ‘We’re here. Wake up, Mr Pete, Mr New Man,’ he split the name in two.
‘Ah!’ Pete gave an imitation of a hibernating animal making its first stir after the winter. ‘This is it? We came all this way just to visit a ski lodge?’
Two men came down the broad wooden steps, opening the doors, taking their luggage from the boot, assisting them out and motioning them towards the door.
They walked from the freezing air into warmth from hidden heating and a large wood-burning stove in the great hallway. There was a smell of polish, wood and strong cigarette smoke. Bond’s first thought was of descriptions he had read as a boy, descriptions of hunting lodges in The Prisoner of Zenda, or books of adventure by Dornford Yates. It was all there, from the polished floor, the rugs, the trophies on the walls, to the deep leather chairs and the feeling of height and space. A wide uncarpeted staircase curved down from a gallery which traversed the entire hallway and great carved beams angled up to the steep roof.
The door closed behind them and for the first time they saw Stepakov clearly – a tall, big man, smiling happily as he unzipped his long padded coat. He nodded to the pair of men who had come down to the car.
‘These are my assistants.’ His voice boomed like a man with slight hearing loss who compensated by speaking too loudly. It was as though he were breaking some accepted behaviour, a boorish tourist talking stridently in a cathedral where people were worshipping. ‘Alex and Nicki.’ He introduced them, the two men coming forward and shaking hands without a hint of deference.
Alex was short and plump with a face straight from the Tenniel illustrations of Tweedledum and Tweedledee in Through the Looking Glass. Nicki was slim, dark, good-looking and muscular. He moved like a street fighter, and the same arrogance showed in his eyes. They were both dressed casually, and Bond instinctively tagged them as highly trained muscle, not knuckle-draggers but men with sharp IQs. They certainly worked as a pair, for their movements complemented one another and they seemed to hang on Stepakov’s words in unspoken loyalty.
‘Come, you’ll be hungry.’ Stepakov was now revealed to be dressed as casually as his assistants, in slacks, heavy sweater and a checkered shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. The slacks were baggy and crumpled as though he had slept in them – a man dressed for comfort, or action. The butt of an automatic pistol, tucked firmly into the small of his back, protruded from his waistband. He carried it as though the weapon was part of his body, a sign instantly recognisable to Bond. Now Stepakov led the way past the staircase to double doors which he flung open to reveal a long and wide room dominated by a table piled high with food.
Natkowitz’s eyes slewed towards Bond and he raised one eyebrow, for the spread laid out for them was enough to feed all five men for about a week – plates of pirogi, the glorious pies and pasties famous for their myriad fillings of egg, cabbage, sour cream, cucumber; large assorted plates of zakuski, salmon, herring, caviar, cold meats, salads, great loaves of black bread and salvers of blinis to eat with the smoked fish and caviar.
‘Come, eat and drink. This is the best way we can get to know one another.’ Stepakov strode to a separate table at the far end of the room, where serried ranks of bottles were ranged with military precision – wines from Moldavia to Armenia. ‘We prefer sweet wines, James and Pete. You, from my studies, seem to like a drier variety . . .’
‘I’ll take whatever you have.’ Natkowitz stuck his head forward. With his red hair and gentleman farmer’s face, he looked for a moment like an expectant dog who has heard his master rattle a feeding bowl.
‘This is good. A wine from Fetjaska. Dry. A fresh dry white.’ The Russian showed no finesse, simply sloshing wine into two glasses and handing them to Bond and Natkowitz, while Alex and Nicki began to fill plates for them.
Here, Bond thought, one has to be careful. The notorious drinking habits of the Russians could rebound. M had said, ‘Beware socialising, 007. I don’t have to tell you no matter what favours we’re doing in a spirit of cooperation, those people are still an intelligence-gathering organisation.’ He did not really have to be reminded as he sipped the wine and began to dig into the plate overflowing with fish and meats.
‘We were obviously badly informed,’ Natkowitz took a large swallow of wine. ‘In the West we’re told that Russia is suffering from a dreadful food shortage this winter.’
Stepakov’s face split into a grin. ‘Yes, you will see that soon enough, but you are guests of the Party. As our President has rightly said, there is only one true way to perestroika, and that is through the Communist Party.’ He paused for a second, his eyes glistening with humour. ‘There is not so much difference between the ideologies of capitalism and Communism, you know. The difference is simple. Capitalism is the exploitation of man by man,’ a further pause, ‘and Communism is the reverse.’