James Bond: The Authorised Biography (29 page)

‘It looks as if my fears for you were justified, 007. I don't wish to alarm you, but we must be prepared. From a report we've just received it seems as if last summer's failure to destroy you caused a major incident in Smersh headquarters. Our old friend, Colonel General Grubozaboyschikov (M. pronounced the name with alarming fluency) ordered an inquiry and Oborin pleaded that there had been an administrative error. General G. was furious – I can understand how he felt – and at one point it looked as if Beria would be involved. Contrary to British practice, 007, a failed Smersh operator normally pays for failure with his life. But we now know for sure that Oborin is very much alive. I'd give a great deal to know why. I may be wrong, but it could be that Smersh is giving him one last chance to make good his mistake.’

The idea of becoming a special target for Smersh did not disturb James Bond unduly. Experience had given him a firm (and not unjustified) faith in his powers for survival. Besides, had he ever let the fear of personal reprisal from his enemies worry him, he would have left the Secret Service long ago. But he did start to take precautions – carefully garaging the Bentley at all times, avoiding fixed routines, and never going anywhere without the reassuring weight of the Beretta in his shoulder holster. Between assignments life went on as usual. Then something odd occurred. One of the Sunday papers carried a front-page story on the sinking of the
Sappho
. It was sensationally written and suggested that the British Secret Service was involved.

When Bond read it, he was in Berlin, checking on a threatened bomb attempt on British Military Headquarters. This had turned out to be a hoax, but with the British Foreign Secretary currently touring Germany, it could not be ignored. Bond and a group of highly trained personnel had wasted a lot of time and energy on the case. To read about the
Sappho
in such circumstances did not improve Bond's temper.

Back in London next day, Bond discussed this with the Chief of Staff, who, like Bond, was puzzled by the article. He had already seen the editor and warned him against carrying a big follow-up story. What disturbed the Chief of Staff was that somehow the paper had got hold of Bond's name and were all set to publish it, along with a photograph.

‘Where did the paper get its facts from?’

‘Nobody knows,’ replied the Chief of Staff.

There were more disturbing incidents. Now that the Chief of Staff was warned, he was able to cope with them. Newspapers are usually cooperative in helping to avoid trouble to the Secret Service. But it was clear that a campaign had started, to expose James Bond. His name was mentioned in the foreign press. There was a photograph, luckily not very good, in a German magazine. If this continued he knew his usefulness would soon be seriously curtailed. Knowing this, M. took good care to hold him back from active service for a while. The scare subsided.

It was late that autumn before M. summoned Bond again. Bond was excited at the prospect of a fresh assignment; M., on the other hand, appeared unusually subdued. He called him ‘James’ – always a bad sign, this – and spent some time digging at the bowl of his pipe with the tip of a naval-crested paperknife. Outside the rain was falling on the park. M. and the room were grey.

‘I am about to do what no one in my position ever should,’ he said at last. Bond wondered what was coming.

‘I am going to leave the decision over an assignment entirely to you. If you accept it – fine. If you refuse, we both forget and never mention it again.’

‘That sounds very fair,’ said Bond and looked at M. M. did not meet his eyes. When M. continued he spoke loudly and impersonally.

‘Four days ago we received a message via Station H in Finland. Apparently a Colonel Botkin of the K.G.B. is anxious to come over. I need hardly tell you how extremely rare it is to have a member of the K.G.B. make such an offer, so I told Station H to go ahead and arrange the terms. They arrived this morning. He wants the usual guarantees, money and so forth – nothing out of the ordinary – except for one thing. He insists that he will surrender to one person only – you.’

Bond lit a cigarette. This also was unusual in M.'s office.

‘Any reason?’ he said dryly.

‘He claims he met you in Berlin two years ago.’

‘He didn't,’ said Bond.

‘We know he didn't.’

‘So why so keen on me?’

‘I think we both know why,’ said M. ‘That's why it must be your decision.’

‘You think this so-called Colonel will be Oborin?’

‘We're pretty sure. Our information makes it clear that Smersh is giving him one chance to correct that mistake he made at Royale-les-Eaux.’

‘But isn't it too obvious? Isn't it clear that everybody here will smell a rat?’

‘Of course,’ M. said quietly. ‘That's what our friends in Smersh are counting on. Unless I'm very much mistaken, this is a private challenge issued from Oborin to you. That's why it must be your decision.’

M. wouldn't let James Bond reply immediately and Bond spent a sleepless night. On the one hand he knew the risks he would be running if he went to Finland. Smersh would not be leaving much to chance, nor would their killer. Bond would be facing almost certain death. On the other hand there was something to be said for meeting a challenge of this sort head-on.

Luckily Bond was not a worrier. He used to repeat a saying of his aunts', ‘Worry is an extra dividend one pays to disaster in advance.’ This he had no intention of doing, so finally he made his decision, closed his mind to it, and slept. Next morning he told M. that he was going.

M. nodded thoughtfully.

‘I thought you would,’ he said.

*

Bond enjoyed his first afternoon in Helsinki. He was expecting a drab icy little city. Instead he found that this whole portion of the eastern Baltic was enjoying its own version of an Indian summer. Birkin, the head of Station F, met him at the airport. He was a tall, much-decorated naval commander with a distinctly ghoulish sense of humour. He wore a monocle, a red cravat and sponge-bag trousers.

‘Well, old chap,’ he said, ‘I trust you've packed your bulletproof pyjamas. Looks as if you'll need ’em.’

‘It's definitely a set-up then?’ said Bond.

‘Frankly, the whole thing stinks. I told M. as much. Clearly he thinks the 00 section needs a little thinning out.’

‘And this man Botkin, from the K.G.B. – you've never seen him?’

Birkin shook his head and grinned.

‘Not on your life. We've just made contact through intermediaries. A lot of unofficial traffic passes in and out of here you know. No, I've not seen the bastard, but he is very anxious for a look at you.’

That evening Birkin insisted on taking Bond out to dinner.

‘Least that I can do in the circumstances. Could be your last good meal on earth. Besides, it'll be a chance to give you your instructions, if you're really going through with it.’

They went to Smourazi, traditionally the best Finnish restaurant in the city. It was just opposite the old cathedral, a prim grey building with a dome like a symmetrical bald head. The restaurant was crowded but the guests were mainly Swedes and somewhat solemn. Bond drank a lot of schnapps and found the clientele improving. Birkin insisted on traditional Finnish food –
kalakukko
(Finnish fish cakes), Karelian steak (beef and mutton roasted together), and
poronkieltä
(reindeer tongue). Bond found it disappointing. Birkin ate with relish.

‘The point of Finnish food is that it gives you stamina. You need it in a place like this. Pity you're not staying longer.’

Bond thought he would require something more than Finnish food to keep him in Helsinki.

‘Before we finish off the schnapps,’ he said, ‘just tell me how I contact Colonel Botkin.’

Birkin took his time explaining the arrangements. In the process he chewed reindeer meat, and drank still more schnapps. The plan was basically quite simple. Bond was to go to Kotka, a seaport and the last big town before the Russian border. There he would take a motor-launch – Birkin explained, at length, the trouble he had taken getting it – and sail for a tiny island some ten miles from the frontier. The rendezvous was fixed for four o'clock next afternoon. Botkin would be there – and, if all went to plan, Bond would bring him back – ‘or vice versa,’ Birkin said.

‘Exactly,’ Bond replied.

According to Birkin, the great virtue of getting drunk on schnapps was that it left no hangover. Bond found this theory optimistic but not accurate. He woke in his hotel feeling much the worse for wear. The only consolation was that Birkin looked even worse than he did after breakfast when he called to drive him off to Kotka.

‘Must have been that reindeer tongue, old boy,’ said Birkin. ‘Can't always trust it.’ James Bond nodded.

It was an impressive drive. Most of the way the road kept to the coast with views of pine woods, islands, and the pale blue sea. Birkin told him there were seven thousand islands between Stockholm and the Russian border.

‘So how do I find the one I'm heading for?’ said Bond.

‘Easy,’ he replied. ‘Just stick to the bearing that I'll give you, and you can't miss it. You'll know when you've arrived. A big German battlecruiser called the
Lublin
was sunk just by the island during the war. They've never shifted her and she's still full of dead Germans. She's on the main channel through to Leningrad. Her superstructure shows for miles.’

Kotka was reached by lunchtime. It was a small bright modern town clustering round a glass works and a mammoth paper mill. The air smelt resinous. It was a crisp autumn day; Bond felt revived. Birkin had screwed his monocle firmly into his eye and proudly showed James Bond the motor-launch that he had hired for him.

‘Cost us a dreadful lot of money. I only hope M. doesn't query it.’

‘I'm sure he won't,’ said Bond.

For Bond there was something of a schoolboy treat about the voyage. He was alone in charge of a small blue boat chugging its way across a tranquil sea. Behind him Kotka belched smoke from its paper mills. Ahead of him lay island after island with lonely buoys marking the sea-lane on to Leningrad. At first there was a yacht or two, and some of the islands seemed inhabited. But soon all sign of human beings ceased. He was alone except for the sea-birds and the impatient chugging of his engine.

The sun sank early and the dusk was gathering when he saw the
Lublin
. Her masts were standing like a far-away lopsided tree on the pale horizon. Bond steered towards her.

The island lay just half a mile beyond, a chunk of rock, crowned with a scalp of pines.

There were two wooden huts and a small jetty, but no sign of life. Bond steered towards the jetty, tied up and jumped ashore.

He was early and explored the island. It was empty, but, to his surprise, one of the wooden huts was open. He looked in. It had been roughly furnished – chairs, table, blankets on a trestle bed. Bond drew his gun and entered. There was no one there.

Time ticked by and no one came. Bond watched the sea for sign of Botkin's boat, then darkness fell. It started to get very cold. It was a temptation to move into the hut and wait. Bond resisted it. Instead he lit an oil-lamp, plumped up several cushions under the blankets to the rough shape of a sleeping man, then left the hut and hid up in the pine trees, gun in hand. It was the longest night of his life. The cold grew bitter, until his hand froze to the steel of his gun. A bell-buoy by the wreck tolled in the darkness. And all the time the light burned on in the deserted hut. Somehow Bond kept himself awake.

The luminous face on his watch showed nearly three when the men arrived. He counted eight of them. They had approached so silently that they had the hut surrounded before he realized that they were there. One of them called out in English, then they rushed the hut, firing as they went.

Bond had an advantage from where he was and fired at them from the rear, trusting in darkness and confusion to mask his movements. There were shouts, several of the figures seemed to fall and Bond dodged between the trees keeping to the shadows, then staying very still. Some of the men had flashlights, but they soon realized that there was no point searching for him in the darkness. Somebody shouted from the hut, and the men with flashlights moved towards it.

Dawn came late, and suddenly the island was thick with men. There was more shouting now, and Bond could hear the trampling of undergrowth. Then he saw the searchers – Russian sailors working across the island in a line. They found him easily. There seemed to be no point in trying to resist. Three of the sailors grabbed him and as they brought him to the jetty Bond saw a face he recognized, the ‘crag face’ he had glimpsed beneath its mask at Royale-les-Eaux the night that Chiffre was killed – Oborin, his private enemy from Smersh.

There was no sign of recognition in those hooded eyes, but there was a brief command. Bond spun round. Oborin's right arm lifted and a blow like a steel bar caught him below the ear. A fountain of bright scarlet jetted through his brain – then total blackness.

It seemed like centuries later when he woke. He was in a small, white painted room lit by a steel grille light screwed to the ceiling. There were no windows. The floor was iron. There was a steel bulkhead door. Bond tried it. It was firmly shut.

His whole body ached and the pain in his head caused him to faint. When he came to, the bulkhead door was open. For a while Bond lay where he was. Then a voice said, ‘Good morning, Mr Bond. It's good to see you.’