He clipped on the light webbing equipment, securing the grenades and spare magazine in the ‘Alice’ pouches built into the combat suit. He had taken off the officer’s dog tags and deciphered them under the penlight. The poor fellow was called Sergei Yakovlevich Batovrin. If he got out of this, Bond had an idea that he might even write to the man’s family. No, he stopped the thought. On the battlefield there is nothing that so limits a soldier as a streak of kindness. Military men put their lives squarely on the gaming tables. If it had been a straight confrontation, Bond would not have hesitated.
As well as the hood on his combat suit, the lieutenant had worn a round fur hat with earflaps. The red star and his rank were clipped to the front. Bond finally put the hat on and then turned to the matter which had concerned him most from the moment his mind had decided on this foolhardy action.
Field men dislike disguises and Bond was no different from his colleagues. The art of make-up and disguise in tradecraft went out with the eccentric Baden-Powell. If disguise was necessary then it was best done with a change of clothing, a pair of spectacles, a different walk, a limp, a mannerism or the reversible raincoat. Yet they had insisted on the small flat tin with the contact lenses to change eye colour and the set of false hair – three moustaches of different shapes and sizes, cunningly woven from the agent’s natural hair and attached to a substance which, when pressed against skin, bonded the hair into place so tightly and seamlessly that you genuinely had to shave the hair from your lip and then apply a special solvent to remove any traces.
He did not like it, but it was necessary. There was no way he could walk back into the building without some form of disguise. The lid of the tin was made out of unbreakable mirror so he used the penlight and carefully rolled the moustache into place. He had chosen the flamboyant one with the long waxed ends for two reasons. If he had to use false facial hair then it was better to go over the top. Also, he had seen two Spetsnaz soldiers sporting moustaches which would have won prizes against those grown by fighter pilots in World War II.
Now, fully equipped, he went outside again, checking the distant shadows of the still searching men. He cast away the fragments of the transmitter and the micro, then went back to drag Lieutenant Batovrin on his last journey into the night.
The PRI 5.45mm automatic only made a faint popping sound, not commensurate with the destructive force of its bullets. Three tore great holes in the man’s chest. Blood whipped out and his body twitched once. Two more destroyed the face.
He walked, in plain sight now, back towards the entrance porch. The sight of the body had shocked him more than anything else he had seen in the many dangerous and death-ridden lives he had lived.
Looking at Batovrin had been like gazing at his own murdered body.
They had almost finished packing away the equipment. Nigsy only had to bring in the encryption receiver, set to Bond’s frequency. He had left it until last, just in case. Already the Lapp and Pansy Wright were astride the two Yamaha snow-scooters.
Nigsy was just reaching forward to unhook the receiver from the battery pack when he saw the needles flick and the tape whine.
‘Come on, Nigs! For heaven’s sake hurry up!’ Pansy shouted from the scooter.
Meadows detached the battery and began to pack the equipment into one of the panniers. He took the tape out and slipped it into the pocket of his warm snowsuit. They would get a playback and decrypt in the Helsinki Embassy.
In the end, because of the weather and disruption to aircraft timetables, it was twenty-four hours before he reached the embassy.
There were further delays before the signal was passed on to the London office. After that it took M almost twenty-four hours to get hold of the Prime Minister who in turn had a little trouble raising the President of the USSR.
They spoke at length on the direct hotline between Downing Street and the Kremlin, just as the minesweeper was pulling its brood towards the Iranian coast.
‘For the want of a horse,’ M growled. He thought they were too late and was already preparing to speak with his opposite number in Langley, Virginia.
20
THE SWIMMING CHAMPION
As he worked on their handcuffs with the pick-locks, Bond told them the score, the global danger and the odds. He did not mince matters. They were outnumbered, and the cargoes had almost reached their destination. Between these whispered briefings he raised his voice, talking loudly in Russian, saying that they would, with the exception of Boris Stepakov, be expected to do as they were told.
‘The marshal says you are not co-operative, that you are being like stubborn children,’ he almost shouted, turning his face towards the door.
Stephanie rubbed her wrists, massaging the circulation back. ‘Please, James, don’t shout. You’re hurting my head.’ She gave a sad little smile. ‘You say . . .’ she began. Then Stepakov completed the question.
‘You say these containers lie below the waterline?’
He told them, yes, and then described the clever way the hulls of fishing boats had been bolted above. ‘They’re having a pretty rough ride. The things are bobbing like corks in a bottle.’
‘But if they were holed?’ Stephanie glared at Stepakov as though he had behaved very badly at the dinner table.
Boris took no notice. ‘And these things are attached to the minesweeper, this ship, by hawsers?’
Bond nodded, saying they were towing them in line astern.
Rampart asked what firepower was available on the ship.
‘Providing we got lucky and took over?’ Bond shrugged. He was working on Pete Natkowitz’s manacles.
‘But of course.’
‘They’ve got a couple of 45-mms fore and aft in turrets. Also two 25-mms on each side. Midships, port and starboard. Antiaircraft stuff.’
‘Then, technically, we could blow them out of the water with the 45s.’ Natkowitz nodded his thanks as his wrist came clear.
Bond reached inside the combat suit and took out one of the magnetic grenades. ‘This would be better. In fact, I believe if we managed to get off in one of the inflatables – I’ve counted four – we might be able to rig up some way of timing these things. I let Yuskovich go on talking the other night. The containers are vulnerable, being made of a light alloy. The sides are flotation chambers, with some simple mechanism for blowing out the water when they get them inshore.’ He hefted the grenade. ‘Put this on the side of the last in the line and we’ll probably upset the whole damned lot. The cargo’s bloody heavy. When one goes they might all go. Down among the dead men.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Boris assumed a clown’s look of innocence. ‘The cribbage effect.’
‘Domino,’ Stephanie sharply corrected.
Stepakov grinned and asked if he might see one of the grenades. Bond brought them all out and placed them on the deck.
‘Yes, these have a little delay mechanism at the base, so.’ He turned over one of the bombs, pointing to a knurled screw. ‘You can set them for up to five minutes, at one minute increments. No more. No less.’