‘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 once we knew they had not died in that automobile accident? You expected us to give them a pension and a dacha?’
‘No, sir. I merely think they have acted well for this operation.’
‘My dear girl, they did not know they were helping us. From what I saw, they bumbled around in the night like two blind people. We even had to give them clues. Lead them. What is it that British writer said, “There is nothing worse than an old spy in a hurry,” eh? These were two old spies trying to break the sound barrier. Look, Nina, it is understandable for you to weep. Whatever they did wrong, they are still your parents. I see that, just as I know you have done well for us. You and the beautiful Natasha. Both of you kept the British comfortable and in a state of – what can I call it – cosy bewilderment? You also helped lead your aged parents a very merry dance, but you always understood it was a dance macabre. We even sacrificed people to them. Forget it now. You simply obeyed orders. You will be handsomely rewarded, I promise you that.’
Nina bowed her head. ‘Very well, comrade Marshal. Might I know what you intend for them?’
Yuskovich made an explosive noise of petulance, puffing his cheeks out and expelling air through his pursed lips. ‘Very well. They will be taken with the others. I have made arrangements for them to be processed at Perm 35. They will probably live there without undue hardship. They will die there.’
Perm 35 is one of the few remaining Stalin-era camps. It lies on the European side of the Urals, and, under the new President’s lenient release of political prisoners, its population of three hundred has dwindled to some fifteen – hijackers, military deserters and one CIA spy.
They buried James Bond the next morning, wrapping his body in sheets before placing it in the hard cold ground. Spetsnaz soldiers had hacked their way through the earth to make the grave which was marked by a piece of wood, carved overnight by one of their number. It bore the legend.
Here lies the body of a gallant British officer, thought to be Captain James Bond. Royal Navy. Died for his own cause January 9th, 1991.
Even Yuskovich attended the interment. He also allowed Natkowitz and Boris Stepakov to be present. A squad of four Spetsnaz fired a volley of shots over the grave, while another played the Last Post on an old bugle.
The surprise came from Stepakov who, when the last notes died away, stepped forward and spoke lines memorised from his beloved Shelley:
‘It is a modest creed, and yet
Pleasant if one considers it,
To own that death itself must be,
Like all the rest, a mockery.’
Natkowitz could have sworn there were tears running down the clownish face as the KGB general walked from the graveside.
All the actors and technicians who had been gathered together by Yuskovich’s fake Chushi Pravosudia were flown out in big Mi-12 Homer helicopters the next afternoon. They used three of the huge machines to shuttle the prisoners out to the nearest railhead. The monitors in Scandinavia reported that members of the arrested Chushi Pravosudia were being removed for trial.
On that same afternoon, Marshal Yuskovich watched the grainy black and white video, now fully assembled by Clive. When it was over, he instructed Clive and his assistants to work until late in the night, making three hundred copies of the video. One officer and two men were left to watch over them.
The officer was given a list of all television companies. The tapes were to be taken out by him and his two soldiers, and he was to be certain they were dispatched immediately by the quickest method to the companies on the list.
‘And what of the director, Clive, and his men?’ the officer asked.
‘You are to dispatch them also.’ Yuskovich drew his forefinger across his throat, then went in search of Major Verber and the rest of his personal force.
They reported that the two French agents, Boris Stepakov and the remaining Briton already waited aboard the last helicopter.
‘Nina Bibikova?’ he asked.
‘She’s there with five of the men. We’ve sedated the prisoners. They’ll cause us no problems. A little something in their coffee.’
‘You have heard from Baku?’
‘It’s quiet, sir,’ Major Verber reported. ‘Cold, but everything is in place. We can be there by morning. The Scamps have been taken on board and we’re ready to sail. There’s even an icebreaker, just in case.’
‘The Scamps and the Scapegoats?’ Yuskovich snapped.
‘All six of them. Everything, comrade General. The crews as well.’
‘They are old weapons.’ The marshal sounded as though he spoke fondly of children. ‘Old, but still very effective. I have husbanded those Scamps and Scapegoats against just such a day as this.’
The Scamp is a Russian mobile launching system, now phased out. Its missile was the Scapegoat with a range of two thousand, five hundred miles. The Scapegoat nuclear warhead yields between one and two megatons. Six of these missiles, therefore, would be equal to almost three times the explosive power of all bombs dropped in World War II.